Angie Arms - Flame Series 03 (2 page)

He ca
me a long way, and Countess Kinnard was the woman he chose, not just because she held a title, but she was a descendent of ancient royalty that was rooted deep in the land.  Maybe not his children’s generation, but perhaps his great-grandchildren would be able to drop the stigma of having him in their bloodline.  If he wanted to leave his children a legacy, he had to have the Countess.  Death had no meaning for Garrick when he was younger, but as the years stacked up around him, it began to weigh on him.  He had built an empire.  He wasn’t after the wealth, even the power held no appeal these days.   But if he had a child to pass it to, an heir, then it would be worthwhile.  There would be someone who would outlive him and who he would have something to give upon his death, instead of a title of the bastard of a whore.

He found himself in the main bed chamber, her chamber.  A glan
ce behind him showed no one followed.  He gave a heavy sigh as he looked around the chamber, his eyes fell on the bed.  The amount of blankets and pillows seemed absurd.  It looked the epitome of pampered luxury.  Walking to the bed he wrapped his arms around the Countess and slid her off his shoulder, down the front of himself, and onto her knees.  She knelt on the bed, her hair a wild disarray, tumbling over her shoulders in a thick blanket, her eyes, darkened by the shadows in the room, looked up at him filled with fear.  He felt his body jump alive.  He worried it was because of the fear he saw, he could fuel it, build it to a mighty flame.  Victory thundered in him, driving him, compelling him to grab the Countess and take her now.  He could do what he chose with her and it was a heady feeling, an over powering feeling.  No one would disturb him. 

He looked down at the Countess, Ryann he remembered suddenly, and marveled that she would have been the one he would pass his eye over.  He liked tall, warrior like, not this short young woman. 

His armor was the only thing that kept him from taking Ryann right there.  He could have managed, even had her to help him, but he had things to do.  He had a castle to secure before his men grew anxious about lose ends left untied, and tried to do it themselves.  His hand whipped out and had a handful of her soft blonde hair twisted in his fist before she could draw away.  She hadn’t cringed which told him she was never abused, but he could feel her panic building. 

He be
nt toward her until his lips were only a breath from her ear, the tight grip kept her head in place.  “Shhh.”  She continued to try to pull away, he even felt her begin to put her hands up between them.  He tightened his grip, bending her head back, he moved in closer, hearing her gasp, every part of his body went hard.  “Shhhh,” he commanded again, giving a quick tug on her hair.  Her hands fell away and her head no longer pressed into his palm when he eased his grip.  He inhaled the scent of her hair, the skin of her neck.  He wanted to bury his head there, to have his armor off and feel her pressed against him.  Instead he rose slowly away, watching her face change from fear to relief.  He let his hand slide from her hair, onto her neck, to her shoulder, down her arm and he took her hand in his own, sinking awkwardly onto the bed.  He sat there, sighed again, feeling her softness wanting it to envelope him even through his armor.  He let his head sink forward slightly, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments.  How would he ever keep from breaking this young woman beside him?  Her hands were so small and delicate in his big one he felt as if he would break each of the bones.

He couldn
’t allow himself this luxury, not with so many things to do.  He got back to his feet and turned toward her where she had sank to a sitting position, her legs folded underneath her, her hair hanging about her shoulders with the richness of spun gold.  “Until this castle is entirely in my control you will remain here.  There will be a guard at your door, but do not speak to him or even stick your head outside this chamber.  If you do it may not end well for you.  Do you understand me?”  His voice was hard, and he saw their effect on her.

She only
nodded, but her eyes were wide with the fear in the knowledge she must obey him.  He turned and strolled from the room, closing the chamber door behind him.

~ ~ ~ ~

Ryann remained for what se
emed like hours waiting for news, whether it was from a servant or her future husband.  But no one came, and all remained quiet outside her chamber.  She worried for her guards, especially Christopher, had they killed him?  Were they hurting her people, destroying her home, the homes of her people?  Worry finally over took her and she strode purposely to the door and opened it.  Two large men stood just on the other side.  Both turned in surprise at the disruption, then both broke into wide smiles that made her nervous.

“I must see to matters,”
she said boldly, striding past them.  She had no reason to believe they wouldn’t let her pass, after all, they were put at her door to guard her.  Surely they could do that following her as she went about checking on what she needed to.

The hand that came out to stop her disabused her of that notion in an instant
, but instead of stopping her flight the strong arm pulled her back against a broad chest, and the man chuckled with glee.  She tried to pry the arm away, but he brought his other arm up to lock her forehead back, and likewise immobilized her arms.  “I am Countess Ryann of Kilkenny,” she warned them.

“That’s what makes it all the sweeter,” the second man said
, advancing on her.  Both his hands came at her, to the neckline of her tunic, and in the blink of an eye he ripped it down the front.  Her body went cold in fear, as his beady blue eyes locked onto her bared skin.  He came at her then, his fetid breath washed over her as he bent to lick her neck, his tongue felt like a wet worm wiggling against her skin.  His hands came up to stroke across one of her bared breasts while the other man bent to lick the back of her neck, nipping at the small hair on the back, pulling them and tears sprang to her eyes, not from the pain but the fear.

“You both have one chance to take your hands off her.”  The voice of her husband was cold and deadly.  It did not have the slightest inflection of anger or emotion
, but she heard the certainty in his statement.  She could never remember a time being so afraid it felt as if her bladder was close to bursting, but his voice made it so. 

“Not this time,” the man in front of her laughed as his head dipped lower
, and she felt she might faint.  She heard the Bastard’s sword leave its sheath and she felt herself freeze to her very core.   The man holding her pushed her toward the man in front.  His sword came out too, but before she could ascertain who might be the victor, she was slammed into the floor and her senses reeled uncontrollably for a moment. 

Then she was being lifted and she knew immediately it was Garrick without having to see him, the hands were strong, the arms solid and unyielding.  He carried her back to the chamber.  Over his shoulder she saw the other two men.  She began to shiver at the spe
ed with which this man took their lives.  She saw a man enter the corridor and glance sharply at Garrick’s retreating back.  “Take care of them, Marcus,” Garrick demanded, before he kicked the chamber door closed with his foot.

When he deposited her on the bed it was none
too gently, and then he moved away.

She sat up quickly, searching for him in the large room.  “I told you not to leave this chamber,” his voice was deceptively calm as he began to pace like an enraged animal by the hearth.  “I told you it would not end well for you.”

“I didn’t know what you meant,” she stammered in response to his anger, as she unwound her legs and began to stand up.

“It doesn’t matter!” he stated with rage edging his voice
, as he strode toward her.  He was no less intimidating without his armor, perhaps even more so, because he looked just as undefeatable.  His anger distracted her, so he was upon her before she had time to move.  She felt the blood drain from her body as he leaned over her, his scarred face inches from her own.  She could feel his warm breath fan over her face, feel the heat of the rage in his eyes.  She feared her disobedience was the cause, and not his murder of his men.

Her fear was immobilizing.  He grabbed her by her shoulders and jerked her off the bed, she sagged into him, her knees trying to gain purchase on the mattress.  “You obey me,” he shook her, her head lolling back and forth.  He shoved her away from him and she sprawled backward onto the bed. 

~ ~ ~ ~

When Garrick turned away from her he did so for her own safety, so he would not hurt her in his anger.  He moved toward the hearth, stopping with his back to her.  “Come here.”  He waited for her to get off the bed, finally, his patience dangerously close to snapping, he heard her feet hit the floor and she slowly came toward him.  He remained facing the banked fire, feeling her stand just behind him.  He could hear her rapid breaths and he braced himself, reluctant to feed off her fear.  Finally, he turned toward her.  Her eyes were downcast and he took the moment to look at her.  The gown he first saw her in was torn from the neck to the waist, and only her hands afforded her modesty as she held it together.  Across the front he had smeared her attackers’ blood.   It had also splattered on her cheek at the time of the kill, and was drying as he looked at her.  It was such a contrast, not just the blood on her fair skin, but the violence she was a part of because her appearance was of gentleness and warmth.  His anger exploded from its dark recess and he reached up, grabbed the material from her hands and ripped the tunic the rest of the way off her.  He never glanced her way, to do so would have left him vulnerable, to what he did not know because he was not a man to give over to lust.  Instead he turned away, throwing the blue material into the fire.

“Go cover yourself.”  Her feet quickly retreated back to the bed.  Looking down at himself he saw the blood of his men on his shirt.  With a heavy sigh he reached down for the hem and drew it over his head
, and tossed it onto the floor.  He leaned his elbows onto the hearth’s mantel, and let his head sag for a moment.  He could never dream taking a wife would create such chaos inside his own head. 

He knew the Countess watched him, probably with horror, he could feel the heat o
f her gaze.  The wound that laid open his face, his lip and chin had also laid open his chest, the scar running in line with that on his chin, before the blade of the sword ran out of flesh to slice through, its wielder cut down just a moment afterward by Marcus.  He owed his life that day to his dear friend, as well as on the day the dagger slicing down his throat was halted at the last moment.  He had another scar on his back where a dagger was stabbed into him, luckily missing anything that would kill him, but immobilized him for some time none the less.   It was Marcus who stopped a further attack that would have easily ended his life, as he lay on the floor of a hall, bleeding, unable to move a finger let alone an arm to defend with.  But that scar could not be discerned from the scars that lay across his back from the time he was nearly whipped to death in a Saracen prison.

He pictured his soon to be bride in his head.  Her blue eyes wide with the horror of his marred flesh, her mouth open slightly in shock.  He pictured the softness of her skin
, and with a groan he barely stifled, could also picture it without a stitch of clothing on it, because he had a glimpse of her perfection.  One fleeting look before he turned away.  He itched to touch his wife, to feel her body tight against him, a part of him.  Maybe that desire was fueled by his fear of hurting her.  That was one thing that did not set well with him, he could never remember concern for another, and he knew that was what was fueling his anger.  That initial fear when he came into the corridor to find the small creature being man handled by two of his men. 

The pounding on the door made him grind his teeth in frustration.  He was not happy in the least when he opened the chamber door and saw Marcus on the other side.  “What is it?” he snapped
, propping one hand on the door frame, the other on the edge of the open door, baring his way into the chamber.

“We have a small situation.”

“If it’s small can’t you take care of it?”

As soon as he snapped at Marcus he regretted it.  Marcus was his only friend in the entire world, the only man he could trust.

“We have an uprising on our hands and the men want to kill the leaders.”

“Kill them,” he said
, turning his back to Marcus, dismissing him to walk back toward the bed.  “Her guard is getting to be troublesome.”

“It’s not her guard,” Marcus said quickly
, following him into the chamber.

Garrick saw
Ryann was wrapped tightly in a fur blanket, looking small and frightened.  The entire situation made him look like an animal, the blood on her, her nakedness with fear flashing in her eyes.  It appeared as if he violently raped his wife to be. 

“I said kill them!” Garrick hissed, despite their friendship
, even Marcus didn’t question his orders.

“It’s the children.”

“The children?” Ryann asked, flying out of the bed, the fur she held clasped tightly in both hands to her breast.  Garrick was treated to a glimpse of thigh and hip as it hiked up to her waist, in her rush to get off the bed.  As she neared, he saw Marcus also saw and was still enjoying the view of her bare legs, when Garrick turned to head her off.