Lord of Vengeance Read online

  The argument she had overheard never did make much sense to Raina, and fearful to admit she had been eavesdropping, she'd never had the nerve to question her father on what was clearly a painful, private matter.

  And now, she had to face the very real possibility that she might lose him, too. Weary and full of dread, Raina curled up in Rutledge's proffered blanket and gave in to the impulse to cry. Sometime later, in the hours that passed during his absence, she drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Seated at a trestle table inside a musty waddle-and-daub hut, Gunnar drank from a cup of wine and stared into the flames of a now-glowing brazier positioned at the center of the single-room living space. The warm, orange light illuminated the lined and aged face of the man sitting across from him, infusing fiery color into the healer's long white mane of hair and chest-length beard.

  “I know this is not the first time you've been here,” Merrick said, filling Gunnar's empty cup for the fourth or fifth time in half as many hours.

  “Oh?” Gunnar prompted mildly, the wine having mellowed him into a comfortable lethargy that even this surprising admission could not rattle.

  “Aye,” Merrick nodded. “I saw you once in the woods several years ago, and again, this past spring.”

  “You didn't approach me.”

  “Nay...I could see from the look in your eyes as you stared up at the keep that you had no wish to be seen.” Merrick drained his cup then let out a wheezy sigh. “And, as well, I knew one day you'd come to me, when you'd had time enough to work out your hatred and begin living again.”

  Gunnar pursed his lips and looked deep into his cup, preferring not to meet the old man's wizened gaze and suddenly glad he hadn't divulged his real purpose for stopping at Wynbrooke for the night. Merrick, a God-fearing, gentle man, hadn't understood Gunnar's unquenchable need for vengeance then; he certainly wouldn't understand it now.

  “And,” Merrick continued, pushing himself up from his seat to lumber across the room, “because I knew you'd return, I saved this for you.”

  As the old man reached for a simple pottery container and emptied an object into his palm, something inside Gunnar suddenly clenched tight as a bowstring. His chest felt constricted, heart thudding heavily beneath the crush of wary anticipation as Merrick returned to the table and began to unfold a small square of fabric.

  “You had this near you when I found you that day.” He held a thick band of gold that embraced in its center a bold, blood-red ruby.

  Staring at his father's signet ring, Gunnar felt the color drain from his face. Palms sweating, he clenched his cup so tightly it should have crumbled in his fist.

  Damnation, how many times had he cursed himself over that ring? First, for having been given it by his mother, for her thinking him worthy, for entrusting it to his care...and then, for his losing it as a result of his failure.

  His cowardice.

  “Take it, lad,” Merrick prompted when Gunnar could only stare at it mutely. “I reckon I should have given it to you all those years ago, after you'd healed well enough and I sent you north to live with my brother at Penthurst.” He shook his head slowly, frowning in pensive reflection. “But you were so full of anger then, so consumed with thoughts of revenge, I feared this ring might only add fat to the fire. I had hoped the rigors of farm life would give you a means of working out your rage, but nothing seemed enough to cool your hatred.

  “My brother thought me crazed for sending you to live with him,” Merrick continued. “A demon, he called you: black-hearted, drinking to excess, seeking out new fights before the bruises and scrapes from your last had healed. I waited to hear that you had died, certain you would meet your end in violence, but that news never came. Then, some seven years ago now I reckon, my brother sent word that you had left Penthurst, sobered up and simply walked away. 'Twas the last I heard of you until you came through these woods a few years past, and now here you are before me again. Seeing the man you are today makes me glad I kept this ring for you. Take it now, my lord. It belongs to you.”

  Gunnar wanted to pitch the ring across the room, forget he'd ever seen it.

  More than anything, he wanted to cast away the obligation that accepting the ring again as a man carried with it. Instead he took the precious memento from Merrick's outstretched hand and curled his fist around its weight.

  I will avenge you, he silently vowed. I will make you proud.

  “It shames me to admit it now,” Merrick said, “but often I wondered if I had made a grave error in coming to your aid that day. If perhaps my brother was right, that you might have been better off...” He cleared his throat suddenly. “Bah. Foolish talk from a foolish old man, eh?”

  He chuckled, but Gunnar knew there was more truth than jest to Merrick's statement. He had been a danger to everyone around him then. Perhaps he still was. But something had sobered him that year he left Penthurst, something that made him realize with sudden, potent clarity the folly of blind anger and unrestrained violence.

  He had been drunk, brawling in a tavern with another man over some nameless, faceless woman he'd just met. In fact, the woman had little to do with Gunnar's desire to fight. Something in the way the man looked at him--the way he carried himself--reminded Gunnar of d'Bussy and left him with an instant, overwhelming urge to tear the knight to bits, with or without cause. The man had the poor judgment to wink at the whore on Gunnar's lap and it was all the excuse Gunnar needed. He flew into action.

  He was so caught up in his misplaced rage that he didn't hear the tavern fall into a hush a few moments later as a nobleman entered with his entourage. Nor did he hear the wager placed against him while this nobleman enjoyed his meal just a few paces from the brawl.

  It wasn't until the knight lay beneath him, bloodied and begging quarter, that Gunnar was able to still his punishing hands and quell his anger. He heard the jingle of a purse full of coins hitting a table, the scrape of a bench, the slam of the tavern door.

  By then it was too late.

  Someone clapped him on the shoulder and thrust a tankard at him. “This one's on d'Bussy.”

  Gunnar spun around, certain he could not have heard right. “Wha--”

  “Baron d'Bussy,” the tavern keeper confirmed. “Said ye looked to 'im like a man with a death wish and 'e wagered against ye. Twelve deniers 'e lost to me. Wasn't any too 'appy to forfeit his coin, I can tell ye that--”

  But Gunnar wasn't listening. He shoved the tankard away and ran to the door, throwing it open and dashing out into a driving, midnight rain. He was too late. The hoof beats of d'Bussy's riding party were distant, scarcely discernible amid the storm.

  His enemy had been within arm's reach and now he was gone. An opportunity missed, perhaps never to be realized again.

  In that moment, the rage-filled animal Gunnar had been was swiftly brought to heel. Now it was a distant memory, a beast kept under tight rein, for to be enraged meant to feel, and to feel meant to be weakened, to be vulnerable to error.

  And so Gunnar no longer felt anything. Emotional numbness was his master now.

  At least that was what he repeated in his head, over and over again, as his father's signet ring bit into the flesh of his clenched fist.

  Merrick was staring at him when Gunnar finally looked up and met his gaze. His tone had turned reflective, sympathetic. “Losing your family, your home...it could not have been easy for you, particularly at so young an age.”

  It hadn't been. But Gunnar didn't want to think about that now. He didn't need a reminder of the weak, sniveling boy whom d'Bussy had met at Wynbrooke that day, or the fool who had let him slip through his fingers not once, but twice: in the tavern and then again at the tourney. “The past is...”

  He was about to say the past was over, but in truth, it was far from over. It wouldn't be until d'Bussy's life was over. “The past is the past,” he amended briskly, then downed his cup of wine in one gulp and pushed away from the table, ready to take his leave.

  Merr
ick sent him off with a large wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread for his journey come the morn. Seeing his father's ring had suddenly sobered Gunnar, so he accepted the old man's offer of a skin of wine without a moment's deliberation. It wasn't until he stood up that he realized that despite his mental lucidity, his body had had its fill of drink.

  On uncustomarily wobbly legs, Gunnar bade his thanks and farewell to Merrick then untethered his destrier. With a bundle of kindling wrapped in his mantle and strapped to his mount, his cache of viands tucked under his arm and the ring safely hidden in a pouch fastened to his baldric, he rode back up the hill to the keep and his waiting captive.

  Cedric was awake and came to his feet without a sound when Gunnar reached the top of the keep stairwell. Of the dozen men in his employ, Gunnar found Cedric to be among the most dutiful, never failing to carry out an order, where others--and one in particular, by the name of Burc--seemed to take exception to every command he issued when it did not directly serve their interests. Cedric was the only man with him at the moment in whom he would have entrusted Raina's custody.

  “No trouble?” Gunnar asked.

  “None, milord.” The tall, kindly-faced knight lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “I heard her snufflin' soon after ye sent me up, but she's been quiet as a mouse fer hours now.”

  Dismissing his man, Gunnar opened the door and entered the chamber, closing the panel behind him and stepping inside with surprising stealth, given his current condition. Raina, curled up on his blanket like a babe, slept undisturbed as he crouched down before the brazier with his gathered kindling and watched her from the corner of his eye.

  Her sleep had been restless; he could tell from the way her bliaut had twisted and worked its way up her legs, baring her pale, delicate ankles and the supple curve of one shapely calf. Her single, discarded slipper lay off to the side of her makeshift pallet and Gunnar marveled that even her feet were lovely, slender and fine-boned like her hands, which were pressed together and tucked under her cheek.

  Her serene expression made her look to him like an angel in repose. So lovely, so innocent. So unlike the demon who had sired her.

  He could almost see how a woman like this could gentle a man. How a proud, loving daughter like her could temper even a man as evil as d'Bussy.

  D'Bussy.

  Damnation, but his thoughts should be on the man, not his tempting daughter.

  Scowling furiously, Gunnar lit the fire and sat back on his haunches, jaw clenched as he stared into the rising flames.

  He should have left the woman. Saints' blood, what was he thinking in capturing her? Granted, she was his best, most certain means of getting close to d'Bussy, but would that she had been a hag, a soured, mean-spirited wench, and not this...lamb.

  Would that she had been anything but this strong and beautiful woman who had intrigued him from the moment he first laid eyes on her. Bewitched him with a pure and simple kiss at the tourney. Tempted him now, even in sleep.

  Gunnar cursed silently, raking an angry hand through his hair. He had to remember his mission, had to remain focused. Had to distance himself from her and remove his distractions, beginning with the one that had been vexing him from the moment he'd received it.

  Unfastening the drawstring of the leather pouch tied to his baldric, Gunnar withdrew one of the two treasures secreted inside, one that had proved nearly as troubling to his peace of mind as the token Merrick had returned to him this eve. But whereas his father's ring was heavy and cool, this prize was whisper soft, light as a feather and the precise color of a pale blue summer sky.

  Gunnar brought the swatch of silk to his face, tempted to feel it against his skin as he had done privately, guiltily, in the nights that followed the tournament. Before he had the chance to torture himself with the pleasure once more, he crushed the fabric in his fist and released it into the brazier, turning away as the flames caught its edges and quickly devoured it.

  He placed the satchel of bread and cheese beside Raina, along with the wineskin, then took his place at the wall opposite her, propping his back against the stone and resting his elbows on his drawn-up knees.

  A weariness settled in his bones almost immediately, weighing down his shoulders and dragging his chin to his chest, beckoning him toward sleep.

  The nightmare started the moment his eyes drifted closed.

  Chapter 8

  Raina awoke to the soft hiss and snap of the fire, and the yeasty aroma of bread and smoked cheese wafting over from somewhere near her head. Drowsily, she opened her eyes to mere slits in the quiet, dimly illuminated chamber, watching as the blaze cast flickering shadows on the wall. A draft of air from the window across the room fanned her backside, the coolness racing up her legs a clear sign that her skirts, bunched up and twisted around her knees, no longer covered her from view.

  Rest had not come easily, she recalled, and wondered how long she had been sleeping. How long Rutledge had been away and where he had gone. She knew he was in the room now, could feel his presence even before she heard the deep breathing of a man sound asleep.

  She rolled over to face him and sat up quietly, her body stiff and achy but not too terribly kinked, thanks to Rutledge's blanket spread beneath her. He slept sitting up, his back pressed to the wall near the window, his thick forearms propped on his knees and his chin slumped into his chest. He hadn't made personal use of his mantle; it lay next to the hearth with a small bunch of kindling atop it. He must have started the fire, too, and left her the supply of food and a skin of wine.

  How hospitable, she thought, for a kidnapper. Lord, she hated to accept any more of his kindnesses, scant as they were, but she was hungry. Dreadfully so. She cast a sidelong glance at the bundle of food and clutched her growling midsection.

  Just to quiet the noise, she reasoned, unwrapping the pack. She broke off a corner of the cheese and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing the chalky morsel as she tiptoed to the window and, pressing herself flat against the wall, peered over the ledge to where Rutledge's men had posted camp. Not a one moved, all of them snoring like some strange, nocturnal chorus.

  An anxious quiver sent her heart racing.

  Good heavens, she was nearly afraid to think it...nearly afraid to hope. With everyone asleep, she could escape. Thwart Rutledge's horrible trade by simply walking out the door and riding off on one of the horses.

  Back to Norworth, back home, to her father.

  Seizing the opportunity, she crossed the chamber on light feet and stopped at the door, reaching for the iron latch and ready to take her flight when Rutledge's voice rumbled from behind her.

  “N-No...”

  It was a groan more than an order for her to stay, but nevertheless, her hand stilled. Her feet stopped moving. The murmured entreaty came again, this time louder, more pained. Slowly, Raina glanced over her shoulder.

  Rutledge's head had lolled onto his shoulder, his eyes closed, but his brow was pinched, his mouth alternately quirking and grimacing. He drew a sharp breath and his body jerked. This time his voice was an anguished whisper. “Please...oh, God, nooo...”

  Catching her lip between her teeth, Raina turned away from him at once, squeezing her eyes closed and trying not to feel a bit of sympathy for him. If he suffered from night terrors, let him. They were likely born of his own cruelty and certainly no concern of hers. Her only concern should be getting as far as she could from this hateful, slumbering monster and back to the haven of her father's arms.

  Steeling herself against the troubled sounds of Rutledge's thrashing, his distressed moaning, Raina curled her fingers around the cold metal ring on the door and opened it. Behind her, his breathing had become labored, panicky.

  Go, her mind pleaded. Go, and forget him!

  A moan turned to a strange-sounding whimper, then: “Nay, Mother! Oh, God, nay! Mur-murderer...d'Bussy.”

  Raina couldn't move. Dieu, she could scarcely breathe.

  She stood stock-still in the doorway of that chamber, heart th
udding, stomach clenched in a tight ball. Mercy, but even in his dreams he accused her father of murder. It simply could not be true. But the pain, the terror in his voice was undeniable.

  It was impossible simply to walk away from it.

  Hesitantly, she pivoted on her heel, and when her eyes lit on him, she was powerless to stop the wave of sympathy from crashing over her. This behemoth of a man, this heartless warrior, now lay there crumpled against the wall, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, bested by a bad dream.

  Abandoning her plan to escape and cursing herself as a fool for doing so, Raina stepped back into the chamber.

  * * *

  The images flew at Gunnar in rapid succession behind his closed eyelids: the rumble of siege; terrorized screams and thick, black smoke drifting up from the bailey and into the window of the chamber; heavy, booted footsteps coming to a halt outside the door, followed by an order to open it; his mother's arms around his shoulders in a protective embrace, her steady heartbeat at his back as she whispered soothingly that everything would be all right, that he should not be afraid.

  God, but he was afraid! Gripped with terror and so very, very frightened. But still, he moved out of her arms to pick up his father's heavy sword, trying to ignore the aching strain of the weapon in his small hands.

  And then, the chamber door burst open.

  Garbed in chain mail and armed for war, Baron Luther d'Bussy stood at the threshold, smiling malevolently as he swiped back his mail coif, his red-rimmed eyes ablaze with murderous intent.

  “My lady, you insult me,” he drawled. “I come to offer my condolences for the loss of your husband and you greet me with locked gates and barred doors.” The baron pinned Gunnar with a chilling blue gaze. “Now what am I to make of this?”

  “Leave us be,” Gunnar cried. “As lord of Wynbrooke, I demand you go!”