Destined for a King (3 page)

He dreamed of a woman's hands on his cock, but somehow the touch brought no pleasure. A spot on his thigh the size of a gold sovereign burned as if someone had jabbed him with a hot poker and melted the skin. He fought the sensation, unable to cry out, his neck and back arched, his mouth a grimace.

“Easy.” The light, feminine tones floated from somewhere nearby. “It'll all be over soon.”

Had the hands touching him so intimately been hers? By the Three Gods, he hoped so. If only his thrice-damned leg would stop plaguing him, he'd pull her down on this mattress and show her a few other uses for his staff.

Over? And what was she talking about? The fog in his brain lifted to thin shreds of mist. It couldn't be. He couldn't have come this far only to die in this weak excuse for a stronghold that he'd taken with less than half his men. He couldn't die before he reclaimed his throne.

“No.” Somewhere through the fleece that stuffed his brain, he found his voice. “No, it can't be over.”

The hands lay something cool and soothing on his forehead. “Lie quietly and let me work.”

The voice was equally cool and soothing and light. Real. More real than the tendrils of his dream, which were even now unraveling in his mind. Damn it, the dream had been better.

With an effort, he lifted his lids. “What—”

“Hush.” A pair of gray eyes blinked down at him.

Familiar eyes. He'd seen them before. Without thinking, he reached for the Scrying Stone at his neck. It warmed to his palm. Yes, he'd seen them there. Ages and ages ago when he'd first come across the Stone as a youth. Those eyes had haunted his dreams ever since.

“Do not try to speak.” Her fingertips glanced along his lower lip. No doubt she'd meant the gesture to quiet him, but it only made him want to capture those seeking fingers between his teeth.

“Where—”

The fingers returned, the pressure firmer. “Are you always so contrary?”

If she thought the gesture would shut him up, she was sadly mistaken. As long as it meant she'd keep touching him, he'd gladly jabber like a magpie.

“Worse.” The sound emerged cracked and desiccated. By the Three Gods, could he manage no more than monosyllables?

Lush lips stretched into a smile for a fleeting moment. Then the mattress shifted beneath him. She had been sitting on his bed, damn it all. But now she was gone, gone to bring relief in the form of a water-soaked cloth pressed to his mouth. When she pulled it away, he craned toward it.

“More,” he croaked.

“I can only give you so much.” The mattress sagged once more as she sat. A hint of roses wafted to his nostrils. “You're not yet fit to sit and drink from a cup.”

He pressed his lips together, his tongue seeking every last bit of the cool paradise she'd offered. Then he struggled to hoist his torso into a sitting position.

“No.” She laid a firm hand against his chest, her palm burning against the bare skin. “I said you were not yet fit.”

“Water,” he insisted, and a warm sort of satisfaction settled over him to hear the command return to his voice. He had that, at least. And as soon as his strength returned, he'd have more. He'd have her on this bed with him. Beneath him.

She sighed and shook her head. Her dark curls tumbled about her shoulders with the movement, and he let himself think of what those tresses might feel like trailing over his bare chest.

“Try this.” She offered him a vial, and he clamped his lips shut. “It will make you sleep.”

“Don't need sleep.” Or anything worse. Poison was ever a woman's weapon. “How long?”

“You've been in my care three days now.”

Three days. Ah, that explained the sour smell that overpowered the roses. He was damned lucky she deigned to come this close. “Care?”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Images flitted through his mind. A long march, a ram breaking through a stout oak gate, victory. And a bolt from a crossbow. His thigh gave a throb of agreement. “You shot me.”

“That I did.”

By all that was holy, Calista Thorne. His intended. He'd innocently let her offer him water. And asked for more. Worse, she was offering him some nameless potion. “If you think I'm about to allow you to administer any more of your care, think again.”

At least his ability to speak more than a few words at a time had returned.

“You've been in my power for the past three days.” Her brows lowered. In another moment, she'd have her hands on her hips. “If you're going to come over all suspicious now, you're rather late.”

“The last thing I need is more sleep.” Not only had his speech returned, he'd rediscovered his ability to growl. So much the better. He shook the final cobwebs from his mind. “Where is my squire?”

“Owl? He's barely left your side.” She glanced behind her. “It looks as if his guard duty has finally caught up with him, though.”

Ignoring the pain simple motion brought, he craned past her shoulder and spotted the boy curled on a pallet in the corner. “So you've nothing to lose by feeding me something unnatural now.”

She muttered under her breath, but he caught her meaning well enough. He even picked up a few of her words.

He let himself smile. “Arrogant, I will allow. Perhaps pigheaded. As for intolerable, I reserve the right to prove you wrong at some point in the near future.”

She let out a sigh. “I could have done for you anytime, but if you insist.” Then she uncapped the vial and raised it to her lips.

“Not you.”

She hiked her brows.

“You could have taken the antidote already.”

“For the love of—” She broke off, and her glance shifted to Owl, still snoring softly on the pallet.

Exhausted, the poor lad, but Torch would teach him the true meaning of the word as soon as he was up and about. Guard duty allowed for very few slips, and this was an outright spill. Still, it didn't warrant the lad acting as his personal taster. “Don't even think it. Do you not have a maid?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, unless you think I've given her the antidote as well.”

“Summon her.”

Calista turned for the door, but she didn't even get a chance to cry out. A younger girl, somewhere about sixteen, bustled in, her considerable bosom preceding her into the chamber.

“The commander's on his way, me lady.” She dropped a quick curtsey.

A smile that bode no good at all stretched Calista's lips. “Excellent.”

“Kestrel?” Torch made another attempt at raising himself on his elbow, but his damned body was too weak to support his own weight. “What do you need him for?”

“To preside at my trial when you die a painful death by hemlock.”

The maid giggled. “Will ye be needin' me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I'll need you to drink some of this and prove to my lord that I'm not trying to do him in.”

The girl turned her head to the side and eyed the vial. “What's in it?”

“Elixir of poppy. For pain. Don't take too much, though. I don't have any more left, and we may be needing it before he's healthy again.” A smug sort of satisfaction rang through that statement. It portended as much ill as her smile had.

The maid took the vial and sniffed before raising it to her lips. Clever thing. She pulled a face and handed it back. “Foul.”

Calista crossed her arms and tapped the fingers of her free hand against her elbow. “You'll let us know if you're about to keel over.”

Her stance drew Torch's eye to her breasts—nowhere near as large as the maid's but magnificent in their own way. Enough to fill his hands and more. His palms itched with the desire to test their weight. As soon as he was strong enough to stand before the altar, he'd have a right to them—and the rest of her. Sharp-tongued she may be, but he'd show her better uses for that particular bit of her. Gods, yes.

The maid showed no sign of collapsing any time soon, but still Calista waited, until Torch suspected she was drawing out the production on purpose. Before he could comment, a scratch sounded at the door, and the maid admitted Kestrel.

His commander advanced into the room, looking as dour as ever. “My lord, you're awake.”

“You don't sound particularly happy about that.” Kestrel, damn the man, would doubtless sound just as bleak on his own wedding day.

“On the contrary, it's been a tense few days.”

“What news?” Torch didn't need to specify more than that. Kestrel would understand.

“None to be had.” Kestrel's glance shifted to the chain at Torch's throat. “Now that you're awake, perhaps you can divine something.”

Despite the note of irony behind his commander's words, Torch fingered his Scrying Stone. It warmed to his hand, but his mind remained as blank as when he'd first awakened. And all he recalled of his dreams while he lay insensible was nothing of his commander's affairs. As useful as the Stone was, it was annoyingly contrary about deciding when to reveal information. At the moment, it might just as well have been the ordinary rock it resembled.

He shook his head. “And what of the keep?”

“Everything in order.” Kestrel kept his tone low. “When you fell, I locked Belwin in a cell, but it looks as if we might let him out as long as you continue to heal properly.”

“Have we lost anyone?”

“None but a few of Belwin's men. Both the dead, whom we gave a proper burial, and the others.”

“What others?” Although Torch knew.

“Those who preferred not to fall under your command.” Those who would run straight to Magnus Ironfist, in other words.

“And those who remain? What of their numbers?”

“Enough have remained, more than have left.” Kestrel forked his fingers through his curling black hair. “But I believe they wait to see what their lord does once he is released.”

“I am their new lord. Will they swear oaths of allegiance?”

“It remains to be seen. We must take care, though. We'll need all the men we can gather.”

True enough. They'd chosen Blackbriar because its position and defenses made it the most vulnerable of the Strongholds. For years, Thorne had relied on strong allies to shield him. But Magnus could take the keep back just as easily unless they built improvements and quickly. Fixing the broken gate was the least of their worries; Kestrel knew that as well as he. Torch trusted his second in command to take the appropriate measures. And one minor fortress was more fortress than they'd possessed a fortnight ago.

Kestrel turned a piercing blue gaze on Calista, who had retreated to a corner with her maid. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, you can change Owl's orders.”

“The boy is merely loyal. What would you have me do? He insists on standing guard.”

“He must learn to obey his betters. Make certain he takes his training in the yard. I will not have him fall behind while I lie here. And tell him to take a bath. It would do him some good to smell of something other than horse dung for a change. It might even change his luck.”

“His luck?”

“His disposition, at least. I don't suppose you can order it, but if you could convince the maid to make a man of him, things might be rather more pleasant around here.”

Kestrel shot a glance at Calista. “Am I to surmise you've put your trust in Thorne's daughter?”

She stood near the fire, deep in discussion with her maid. If she'd paid any heed to their exchange, she showed no sign.

“I have and you know it.” Torch touched the Stone at his throat. “I've seen…”

Kestrel held up a hand. “Save me from your superstitions. Even if I were to believe in such, you know better than to trust every vision you see.”

“I am willing to trust this one.” But if Kestrel questioned that assertion, Torch could not have explained why. A feeling, nothing more, and Kestrel would be just as fast to dismiss a mere feeling, even one that originated in the gut. “As long as I'm here, we can hold her father as a guarantee to her good behavior.”

“Are you quite through?” Calista asked from her corner. “We need to get on with the procedure.”

At Torch's raised brows, Kestrel inclined his head. “My lady summoned me here.”

Calista stepped closer, that bloody vial still clenched in her fist. “I think you might take your elixir now.”

He couldn't help it. He looked at the maid, who stood there, roses blooming in her cheeks, the very picture of health. “Will it put me back to sleep?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then before I take it, I should like to order a bath. Your maid can see to the task, surely.”

Calista firmed her lips before turning and poking at something in the fire. “I think you'll want to wait for the bath,” she said over her shoulder. “And you really ought to take that potion.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to close your wound.”

Kestrel moved to the side of the bed, and pressed something into Torch's hand—a length of clean linen wrapped tightly over itself to form an unbending cylinder. “You'll want that between your teeth, my lord.”

Calista turned back from the fire, brandishing a poker wrapped in a length of cloth. Its tip glowed red hot.

The wrong banners were flying over the castle. In place of the Blackbriar rose with its foot-long thorns, a blue field emblazoned with a raptor floated in the sky. A Black Kerrick, a bad omen, if the tales Calista's grandmother told were true.

Why would anyone take such a symbol to himself? Calista shivered in spite of the sunlit day. Best not to consider, whatever her suspicions. The man wished to inspire fear in his foes, certainly, but the black birds could well draw misfortune to the Bastard Brotherhood.

No matter. She still had a job to do. Tearing her eyes away from the flags that floated from each of the corner towers, she turned her attention to her surroundings. Except for her father's imprisonment and the families who mourned their dead, life at Blackbriar Keep had renewed itself.

A handful of mail-clad men traded blows with blunted blades, sweating beneath their helms. A flock of maids tittered in one corner, sneaking glances and exchanging whispers. An overflowing basket of damp sheets lay neglected in their midst. Nan, the fat old cook, marched out from the kitchens, wooden spoon in hand. At her shout, the giggling girls dispersed to their duties, leaving only the clank of metal and the distant throb of pounding hammers.

From the steward to the stable boys, Torch had set all the menservants who could be spared to work at repairing their broken gates, for time pressed. Magnus would not long stand for Torch's insolence.

Calista tore her eyes away from the scene and hurried to the herb garden. Torch and the other wounded had depleted her supplies. At her feet stretched neat rows of green plants—brambles of dragon's bane, the green garlic spears, rosemary needles, fresh-scented thyme coming into its clustered spikes of purple blooms.

At the far end, a riot of deep pink marked the plant that gave the keep both its name and fame. Blackbriar roses. Fine soap-makers and perfumers demanded the blooms for their delicate scent, yet their beauty masked treacherous thorns stronger than steel. Had the fletchers run out of arrowheads, they might well have been tempted to raid the gardens for the plant. But its true use was the swollen haws that grew once the flowers faded. Their healing qualities were many, and she needed them now, for Torch's injury still plagued him.

Two days ago, she'd thrust a hot poker into the puncture left by her quarrel. He'd bit down on a rag, Kestrel pressing him to the mattress while his back bowed and the cords stuck out in his neck. Despite his efforts to contain his scream, he'd ended up succumbing to the pain.

Even now, her heart pounded at the memory of that agonized cry. The scent of burnt flesh rose sharp in her mind, overpowering the gentle fragrance of the gardens. She'd given him an extra dose of elixir of poppy and prayed to the All-Mother to heal him.

The fever had overtaken him in the night. She'd woken on her mean little pallet in the corner, the place Tamsin usually slept, to deranged mutters. Torch's head turned on the pillow, his arms thrashed, and his skin burned unnaturally hot beneath her fingers.

“It's all to be expected,” she said to herself for the hundredth if not the thousandth time. She'd cleaned that wound as best she could, changed the poultices faithfully, but the fever had still taken him. “Part of the healing.”

She had to believe it, because her father was still imprisoned. Kestrel refused to release him until Torch rose from the sickbed under his own power and unlocked the man himself.

Donning a pair of elbow-length leather gloves, she set to work, carefully nudging the roses aside to look for the swelling beneath where the flowers had already spent themselves. Gathering the deep purple haws without impaling herself on the spikes was painstaking work, but thankfully her mother had shown her years ago how to harvest them.

“How fares our lord today?” At the lightly accented words, Calista turned to find her mother behind her, basket in hand.

“Still insensible, still uttering nonsense.”

Twin furrows above the bridge of Mother's downturned nose deepened. “If the fever does not break soon on its own, you will have to break it yourself.”

Calista knew this. She'd come to the garden in hopes that another dose of Blackbriar tea, spooned sip by painful sip through Torch's burning lips, would help her avoid that very thing. “I'll give it until this evening.”

Perhaps by then she could work up the courage to strip the linens from him and sponge his entire body with cool water.

“You may not have that much time. You know what happens if a fever is allowed to continue too long. Old Brand nearly boiled his brains last winter.”

“Yes, I recall. I was there.” Old Brand hadn't been right in the head to begin with, though. Or so Calista told herself. At his age, it was only natural his mind weakened. Surely someone as strong and vital as Torch wouldn't allow himself to be felled by a fever.

It's not the fever, so much as the bolt that caused it.
Hers, and it was only fitting she be the one to cure him of the ill.

“But it's not the same thing, is it?” she asked. “The fever doesn't have the same cause.”

“With a wound, it's even worse.” Her mother's black eyes glittered with concern. “It's a sign of infection. Have you checked to make certain there are no streaks of blood beneath the skin?”

She nodded. “The dressings have all been clean. Not an off smell about them.”

Her mother pressed her lips into a line. “I don't like this.”

“Could the men have put something on their bolts?” Sometimes they dipped their quarrels in a slops bucket to ensure fatality one way or another. A clean shot to a vital spot was a far pleasanter demise.

Mother looked around them carefully. Not a soul in sight, except for Torch's men on the walls and a lone figure poised at the edge of the gardens. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, grave of expression. Watching. Kestrel.

From far off echoed the clank of swords meeting shields and the thump of hammers.

“This remains between us,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I do not wish you to take the blame should things go ill.”

“They will blame me no matter what. I shot that bolt.”

“Yes.” She dropped her tone to a whisper. “But if they learn what was on that bolt, they could make your punishment worse.”

Great beyond. If Torch did not recover, they'd kill her father. They'd most likely demand her head as well. What could possibly be worse? “What was on that bolt?”

“Kingsbane.”

Calista's heart slammed into her ribs. “Where did you come by such?”

She hardly dared voice the rest of her thought. Why was Torch still alive? Kingsbane killed within minutes of ingestion. Torch might well ask her to make Tamsin taste anything she gave him if he knew they kept such a thing in their stores.

Mother reached into the blackbriar and cut a stem laden with darkening haws, the movement so practiced and precise she did it without gloves. A clean scent cut through the air, briefly masking the heavier odor of damp earth. “I made it.”

“
You
made it? Why?” It wasn't as if they might rid themselves of an infestation of rats, and should something so toxic fall into the wrong hands…If someone wished to wipe out the entire castle and quickly, a few drops at the main meal of the day would suffice.

As if they always discussed deadly poison while gathering the necessary antidote, Mother continued to harvest the fruit of the blackbriar. “Your father wished to see if it would be as effective on arrow tips as it is in a man's dinner. He thought of it as a secret weapon—something we can use, as easily as the keep was taken.”

Calista placed a hand at her throat, but even that gesture was insufficient to calm her racing heart. “Clearly, it isn't.”

Her mother's eyes darted to one side. Kestrel hovered, closer now, at the edge of the first plantings, well out of earshot for as quietly as they conversed, but still a presence, a reminder, a threat. “And you may be thankful for that. Poison works the same as any cure. It depends on dosage and the manner of ingestion.”

“Did Papa suspect we might come under attack?” she asked faintly. “He must have.”

“Attack is an ever-present danger when our lands are not well situated.” As much a truth, that statement, for Torch as it was for the Thornes. Even with the gates repaired, Magnus would have an easy go of retaking the keep.

“Mother.” She put a hand on her mother's forearm, stopping her from cutting another bough. “If you've Kingsbane left, they cannot be allowed to find it. If any of them catches us with it…”

Her mind whirled with the possibilities. Even if her father had yielded the keep in due form, they might still rid themselves of these invaders.

“I know.” Once again, her eyes drifted to Kestrel. “They do not trust us yet. They see to their own meals, and they watch. They know your bolt contained something, and they must not find out what. But we've hidden it away. No one will find it or the recipe.” She reached for another stem. “Faceless One take it.”

One of the thorns had cut a deep scratch along Mother's forefinger. Blood welled along the line, and her mother popped the finger into her mouth.

“I don't like this,” she added after a moment, “you shut up alone with that stranger for so many days.”

Calista well understood her mother's worry. Torch out of his mind with fever was barely a concern, but once he'd recovered his strength…She recalled his reputation and shuddered. “We're not alone. His squire stays with us when he's not training. He claims I still may try to do his lord harm.”

“All the same, be on your guard. He's planning something. He's already claimed he'll marry you. As if Magnus will stand for it on top of his claiming this keep. But if he can take you, with or without your leave, we'll have no choice but to admit the marriage.”

She knew. Oh, she knew, although she didn't quite see how marriage to Magnus would be so much better than a union with Torch. Both were essentially strangers, and she'd have to submit to either man. “Yes, Mother, but I still have to make sure he recovers.”

“You are destined for a king. Make certain you remember that, always. Now take this.” She thrust her basket of haws at Calista. “You'll have more need of this than I. As long as they hold your father, we must comply with their wishes.”