Lord of Vengeance (3 page)

“He's not dead,” the knight drawled from behind her. “Though I cannot fathom why the thought would cause you such distress when it seemed clear the cur held little regard for your well-being.”

Raina glanced up at the source of that dark, velvet voice. The knight had retrieved his sword from the bracken and now stood at her side, his broad shoulders and large torso blocking the sun as he resheathed the blade. A scowl that seemed borne more of annoyance than concern wrinkled the center of his wide brow as he stared down at her.

He was striking to be sure, a study in black, from his windswept, shoulder-length hair to his somber tunic, hose, and boots. From where he stood in shadow, even his eyes looked to be a potent midnight hue.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, and she realized he likely thought her dazed or simply dull-witted by the way she had been blinking up at him.

“Nay,” she replied quickly, “though my pride is grievously wounded to admit I had to rely on the kindness of a stranger to save me from someone I consider a friend--more, at times a brother.”

The knight held out his hand, indicating with a slight inclination of his head that she take it. “His intentions toward you just now were aught but brotherly,” he said as he helped her to her feet.

Raina found the large, warm cradle of his palm against her fingertips such a keenly intriguing sensation, she nearly didn't hear what he had said. More intriguing were this man's eyes: a deep brown, so fathomless that upon first glance they seemed almost black.

Unreadable as they were to her, their piercing stare seemed to penetrate her thoughts with ease. Feeling exposed, Raina pulled her hand away from his grasp, silently cursing the heat that now infused her cheeks.

The knight's scowl deepened and he brushed past her to where Nigel lay. “How old are you, girl?” he asked as he hefted Nigel's dead weight up over his shoulder and draped him, prone, over the saddle of his white destrier.

“I-I'm ten and eight,” she stammered, then added proudly. “We marked the day of my birth just last week.”

She thought her newly-advanced age made her sound mature and worldly. He, however, didn't look the least bit impressed, merely gave a grim nod that may as well have been a shrug. “Old enough to know better than to ride alone, particularly when the countryside is swarming with restless tourney competitors.”

“I wasn't alone,” she replied hotly, resenting the implication that he found her lacking good sense.

“
This
was your escort?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Nigel's prostrate form, which from this angle provided a less than reassuring picture.

Raina bit her lip and the knight chuckled. “Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men are wolves,” he advised, taking up both mounts' reins as he walked toward her. “I would have thought a girl as comely as you might have learned that by now.”

She felt fairly certain he hadn't meant to compliment her, but the effect of his appraisal was nonetheless pleasing. She masked her reaction with an upward tilt of her chin, but when he moved closer to her, she was helpless to contain the little tremor of excitement that shot through her veins and left her trembling in his shadow.

“Did your parents teach you naught of men and women? Or is it rather your practice to beguile men then plead the innocent when they expect more than just a friendly kiss?”

Outraged, Raina drew in her breath and straightened her spine until it felt strained with the effort. “My mother is dead,” she informed him tightly. “And aye, my father has taught me much. I should think he'd throttle me if he saw me alone in the company of a rogue like you.”

“Rogue?” He looked duly offended...or perhaps surprised, she couldn't tell and at the moment, she didn't much care. “'Tis rather haughty thinking for a bedraggled maid like yourself,” he replied, his expression as wry as his tone of voice. “I should think your poor papa would be only too eager to push you into a knight's arms, rogue or nay.”

She came within a hair's breadth of informing him that she was Lady Raina, daughter of Baron Luther d'Bussy of Norworth, and that her father would sooner see him flogged for his impudence than wed to his only heir. But she spoke the truth when she said her father had taught her much, and she had endured countless lectures about the dangers of her title, the hazards of being a wealthy baron's daughter in lawless times.

This bold knight thought her lacking sense, well, she would prove him wrong here and now. Let him believe her a peasant; better that than delivering herself into the arms of a potential ransomer. “I suppose then, you would have me think you a prince among these wolves simply because you came to the service of a lowly maid.”

One black brow lifted sardonically. “Admittedly, I am no prince, but do you reckon a wolf would rescue a lamb only to set her free?” He smiled lazily, revealing a row of straight, white teeth and for an instant Raina wondered if she were about to be devoured where she stood. Heart fluttering, knees trembling, she didn't dare move when he reached out and hooked a tangle of hair behind her ear. She might have swooned if not for the presence of her mare, grazing at her back. “Don't look so stricken,” the knight said with a knowing wink. “I've come on business, not pleasure.”

And then his large hands were at her waist, his grasp warm and strong, the line of each finger pressing through her bliaut and against her skin. Raina sought his shoulders for support as he lifted her off the ground and placed her on her mount as if she were no more cumbersome than a feather bolster.

He circled round then to Nigel's mount and, with a light smack to the stallion's rump, sent it off at a canter. Nigel began to stir with the jostling ride, his moans carrying back to where Raina sat, staring down at her dark deliverer, captivated by his gaze.

“Get thee gone, little lamb,” he commanded in a low growl, “before this wolf rethinks his charitable mood.”

Masking her startlement at his bold remark would have been impossible. She gasped, feeling the flood of heat fill her cheeks as she wheeled her mare away from him. With trembling hands, she gripped the reins tightly and started for the edge of the woods, very aware of the dark gaze fixed on her as she fell into place behind Nigel's destrier.

Logic screamed for her to flee, to send her mount into a gallop and count herself fortunate to have escaped the day with little more than rattled nerves and a skittering pulse. But, like Lot's wife, no warning would have been stern enough to keep her from venturing a glance back to what might have spelled her doom.

To him.

She pivoted in her saddle and found him watching her, the increasing distance between them seeming scant inches under the power of his gaze. Even as her mount forged on and the space between them grew, it seemed as if he were close enough to hear her racing heartbeat, to feel the shiver of excitement coursing through her. Close enough to touch her. Heaven help her, but at that moment, if he had beckoned her back, she might have gone.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

His grim observation rippled through her memory, dousing her foolhardy, wayward thoughts and setting her body into action. With a swallowed shriek of fright, she forced her attention back to her mount.

Heart pounding, breath hitching, she sped past Nigel, out of the woods and toward the keep as if the devil himself were at her heels.

Chapter 2

From his seat high in the tournament loges the next morn, Baron Luther d'Bussy was impossible to miss. Proud as a peacock and nearly as colorful in his expensive silk garb, he lorded over the tournament crowd and competitors with the regality of the king himself. More than a few passersby whispered behind their hands of the baron's audacity to sport on his balding pate a crown of braided gold. If people stared at his outward display of wealth, the baron feigned no modesty. He had spent his youth achieving the status he now enjoyed; to his way of thinking, he had every right to flaunt it.

“An impressive turnout, milord.”

The baron grunted in acknowledgment and cast a brief, sidelong look at Nigel; then he turned away, taking a bite from a leg of mutton to discourage further conversation. For reasons he preferred to leave unexamined, Nigel's voice--and indeed the very thought of him--always had the ability to grate on the old man's nerves.

Evidently, Nigel had recently had the same effect on another man--one with less tolerance than the baron and a powerful right arm, judging from the sorry condition of the young man's face. His left eye was swollen shut and rimmed with a black-and-blue circle the size of a large fist, but Nigel's pride seemed no worse for wear. He stood beside the near-empty loges astride his destrier, taking in the gathering crowd of spectators and competitors.

When he spoke, an air of pomposity well beyond his rank or appearance filled his voice. “Pity King Stephen is occupied with affairs of state at present and unable to see Norworth's political weight so magnificently displayed, milord.”

“Indeed,” the baron murmured through a mouthful of food. He waved away a swarm of hungry gnats that had begun attacking his meal. If only he could as easily dismiss this greater nuisance in chain mail.

“Of course,” Nigel continued, “a prudent politician might take the king's absence as an opportunity to gain support for his own. Particularly during this time of sovereign unrest.”

Baron d'Bussy stopped chewing. He had long ago given up on posturing and conquest, and had intended the tourney be naught but sporting summer's entertainment. However, old habits died hard and the politician in him found an irresistible measure of intrigue in Nigel's intimation of potential gain. Loath to encourage the young man's advice, however, he tried to appear merely conversational. “What make you of this
unrest
, lad?”

Nigel grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. “I'm certain I needn't tell you, milord, that Stephen's greater barons--many of whom I recognize here today--have been talking of securing England from France's rule upon the imminent death of our dearly-loved king.”

The baron harnessed a smug grin. Stephen was despised by many and revered only by the minority preferring his brand of lax rule. Loyal first to himself, Baron d'Bussy made sure to maintain ties in both camps. “Would this security not be accomplished when Stephen names Eustace heir to the throne?”

Nigel scoffed. “Stephen's son is a weak man with an even less robust reputation as a leader. The Church has already refused to back him and Stephen's allies grow fewer by the day. The barons will likely try to place one of their own as king long before they allow Eustace or Matilda's son, Henry, to destroy everything England has become. 'Tis merely supposition, but I reckon no one is eager to embrace the rigid order young Count Henry has pledged to enforce should he come to power.”

The baron stroked his grizzled jowls, letting out a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his seat. Nigel was indeed abreast of political affairs. A notable feat for the bastard son of a peasant wench, but then, Nigel had never been one to ignore an opportunity to better himself. D'Bussy took a certain pride in the lad's ambitious nature and thus he smiled.

“Ah, you see, my lord, we think very much alike.”

Nigel's comment, and his knowing grin, chased away any trace of the baron's admiration. He didn't care for his bold tone. He certainly did not appreciate the suggested comparison. “Mind your place, Nigel,” the baron growled, “and guard your tongue. For what I am thinking is that you speak of treason and I'll have no part of it.”

With that, he pitched his half-eaten shank of mutton to the ground to indicate the end of both his patience and the conversation. Returning his attention to the lists, the baron picked some meat from between his teeth then wiped his hands on his voluminous robes.

“Go,” he ordered with a curt wave of dismissal when Nigel hesitated to take his leave. “Speak no more of this nonsense. Endeavor instead to find my daughter and send her along to join me for the start of the tourney.”

The baron waited for a challenge from his insolent young knight, but Nigel said nothing. Jaw set, he wheeled his mount about and left the loges, riding negligently--and, the baron was certain, quite deliberately--through the freshly-raked lists in the direction of the ale tent.

* * *

Gunnar stalked the gaily-colored avenue astride his destrier, feeling like a ghost among this gaudy, churning throng of life. He felt none of the excitement, none of the apprehension he saw reflected in the eyes of the men around him. He scanned the dozens of faces, looking past the fresh, hungry expressions of the younger knights to the older men who had come to compete. Of those who met his stare, only a few held it for more than a heartbeat; then they, too, glanced away, letting him pass without taking issue.

He searched in vain for a pair of cold blue eyes that had haunted his dreams almost nightly; a round, pock-marked face and a scarlet, bulbous nose that bespoke too much drink. He would know that face anywhere, could still see the cocksure stance of a man with unchecked power, and the line of pebble-like, yellowed teeth bared in a malevolent smile.

But while the blue and gold of d'Bussy's standard fluttered from the lances of nearly every fourth knight in attendance, the baron himself was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he'd imbibed too much wine and had not yet risen from his bed, Gunnar thought. Nay, more likely, the stout little rooster was being pampered in his castle, waiting until everyone had gathered so he could make a grand entrance onto the field.

Gunnar hoped to make his own entrance to the melee without fanfare, intent that d'Bussy have not even a hint of his presence until Gunnar had his blade poised at the devil's throat. To wit, his chain mail armor hung from his shoulders, polished but unadorned; his lance and shield bore no standard.

For all of the last seven years, he had served no one, save himself. Alone by choice this day as well, he had instructed the handful of mercenaries in his employ to remain behind at his keep. Only Alaric, his over-eager young squire, knew Gunnar's true purpose for attending the tourney and the potential consequences should he, or should he not, accomplish his goal.