Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls (2 page)

Not ever.

With no time left to find a safer route, she started down the steep slope before her. A flicker of motion caught the edge of her vision. Vivienne moved faster. She aimed herself at a large boulder and charged down the slope, catching herself against the immense rock just before she fell. Her hands smacked onto the rough surface, cold even through her gloves, and the force of the collision jarred her whole body. Turning, she caught sight of the wolf pack, cresting the ridge behind her. Fear choked her throat as she redirected herself towards another boulder and kept going.

The speed at which she ran, the slope of the hill, the unsteady footing-all made her momentum deadly. When she tripped just before the next boulder her body flew forward, headed for a calamitous impact with the unyielding surface of the the rock. She slammed her hands against the stone to keep her head from smashing against the craggy face, and heard a sharp crack. Her right arm flared in agony, and Vivi screamed through her gritted teeth. She used her left arm to shift her weight off the boulder and stumbled a few steps before running again. Each step was torturous to her injured arm, but she used her good hand to clutch it close to her chest and kept going. She ran for the next boulder, throwing her left shoulder against it to check her momentum. Stopping would see her brought down; she would just have to deal with the pain.

Her feet stumbled and lurched, but kept moving ever faster. The wind caught at her skirt and jacket, whipping her hair to lash her face. The speed would have been exhilarating, if the chance of mishap, injury, and subsequent consumption by wolves hadn’t been so high. She needed her breath to run, but still a hysterical laugh escaped her lips, born of adrenaline-spiked terror. Around her she heard the wolves howling again, sounding out the joy of the hunt.

She shot past the final boulder. Now she was pelting straight downhill, keeping her right arm clutched close to her chest. She was flying down the slope, taking giant bounds over the snow, moving with reckless abandon. Vivienne had always been good at committing herself when it came down to an all-or-nothing gambit. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw the dark shapes of the wolves, flanking their quarry, and fear spurred her on. Two hundred feet remained of the perilous incline, one hundred, only fifty… She reached down into reserves she’d never known existed, and put on an extra burst of speed. The valley floor lay smooth before her, and now it was just a race to the walls of the keep.

Then the ground gave way beneath her.

Her feet crashed through the thin crust of ice and snow that had hidden a small stream, running along the foot of the hill. All her momentum was floating away though its swirling eddies, as the icy current drenched her garments and slowed her feet. Around her the giant canines leapt easily across the narrow brook. Her waterlogged skirts tangled on driftwood as she struggled back onto solid ground, and her boots slipped on the icy rocks that lined the banks.

The gates were close, so close, but she would never reach them without the wolves bringing her down. They had circled around and were slinking towards her with the unhurried pace of a predator that has its prey well and truly cornered. Great shaggy coats of brown and grey steamed in the cold night, and great red tongues lolled out, laughing at her predicament. She knew they needed to eat, knew they chased her for survival, knew they would do the same to a deer or elk or horse, but in that moment it felt personal. Bending down, she tried to wrap her hands around a sizable branch that had been frozen in place on its journey down stream, but when she moved her right arm shooting pains brought her to her knees. As she sank into the snow, she knew there was no chance for any kind of defense. The best she could hope for was that it would be quick.

I’m not giving up,
she thought to Max, wishing he could hear her.
I am accepting reality. It’s not the same thing at all.
Tears filled her eyes and hovered on her lower lid, blurring her vision. Her arm throbbed in agony, and her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. Her desperate flight had temporarily warmed her, but now that it was over, the insidious chill crept back in. She shivered in terror, and pain, and the unrelenting, merciless cold. Max would understand. He would know she had tried her best. After all, he knew her better than anyone else.

Vivienne waited, wearily turning her head from side to side, trying to watch the whole pack. They sat on their haunches, yipping and growling, but otherwise making no move to threaten her. What was going on? Her exhausted brain could make no sense of these unnatural wolves, who chased a woman instead of a horse, and then sat there watching her instead of attacking. She watched in bewilderment as one of the wolves, a huge beast with black fur and grey tips on his ears, detached himself from the rest and padded slowly up to her on what seemed like monstrously large paws. Then he sat in front of her, within arm’s reach, and cocked his large, shaggy head to one side.

Vivienne began to seriously consider that she had gone mad in the woods, and was imagining this whole thing.

The grey-tipped wolf turned his muzzle and yipped a greeting, and Vivi became aware of a dark, blurred shape headed in her direction. When she raised her eyes she saw a heavily bundled man astride a horse, bearing down on her from the direction of the keep. He reined up just inside the circle of wolves.

“What have we here?” The deep voice was shocking after so long alone. At least, that’s what Vivi told herself. It was the only excuse she could think of when, after trudging across half a mountain on foot during a blizzard, and trying to outrace a pack of wolves on a wild madcap flight downhill, her brain finally surrendered to the inevitable and let the blackness of oblivion sweep her away.

Fain MacTíre stared at the lump on the bed with annoyance. When the first report had reached him that the wolves had cornered someone right outside the walls, he had been concerned, alarmed even. He’d wasted no time in riding out to retrieve the intruder, but he’d been shocked by what he found.

It was a woman. An apparently wealthy, obviously young, exceedingly lost woman. In other words, a complete mystery. She wore riding attire, but there was no horse in evidence. She carried practically nothing on her, but her money pouch held coins minted in Albion, not Toldas. How had a wealthy woman from Albion ended up horseless in his mountain range?

He’d told Marlplot to take her to a room and get her warm. Of course, like an idiot, he hadn’t specified which room, and Marlplot, who really
was
an idiot, had promptly left the lass in Fain’s very own chamber. In Fain’s very own bed. Underneath Fain’s very own covers. He wouldn’t normally have minded finding a lass left in his bed, especially a dark-haired beauty like this one, but the circumstances here were hardly normal.

The longer he sat and glared at the lump keeping him from his own bed, the more suspicious he grew. What were the chances that anyone here would have a pouch full of Albian gold on their person? The majority of the inhabitants of this region wouldn’t have
any
type of gold on them, even the Toldan nobility wouldn’t generally carry this much. A noble of Albion might be in possession of a pouch like that, but the chances of an Albian noble straying across the border into the untamed wilderness alone were small indeed. When you added to that the fact that the person in question was a barely grown woman… no, it just wasn’t conceivable.

On the other hand, a woman showing up alone outside a keep in winter would almost always be given shelter inside. And money from a foreign kingdom would make it far less likely that any would suspect her of being sent from Toldas.

Which could mean that she was a spy.

Fain scrubbed at his face with his hands. Gods above, he was getting to be a suspicious man. He was going to feel like the worst kind of rascal if the lass turned out to be just what she had appeared to be when he scooped her up from the snow: lost, frightened, and utterly alone. He couldn’t take the chance, though. This wasn’t just about him anymore; this was about all his men, and their families as well. So he stood up, wiped all sign of reluctance from his face, and strode over to the bed to yank the covers off and slap the woman awake.

Her eyes-a vivid shade of violet-were open.

He was startled for a moment, but covered it with a scowl. He waited for her to say something, some sad, pitiful thing that would wring his heart, the kind of thing that a lass lost and alone would say. The kind of thing a spy would say, to worm her way in.

Instead she started giggling.

“Point four!” the woman tittered, “You neglected to mention that, if rescued at all, it would be by scowling, terrifying men who stare at you in your sleep!”

Maybe she wasn’t a spy. Maybe she was a deranged lunatic, instead. Clearly she was on the verge of hysteria. She couldn’t seem to stop snickering.

“Look…” he wasn’t sure what exactly he was planning on saying, but she waved him off by flapping one hand at him, even as tears began to roll down her face and her laughter took on a panicked edge. He felt a surge of pity, but quashed it ruthlessly. He wanted answers, damnit, and she was going to give them to him, not sit there cackling like a loon.

“See here…” He sat down forcefully next to her on the bed. Her laughter abruptly cut off, and she turned white as a sheet.

“Could you… get off… my arm.” The words were gasped out. Fain leaped from the bed and threw the covers back, and then cursed foully. Her arm was obviously broken between wrist and elbow; he didn’t know how he’d missed it before. It should have been set while she was still unconscious; now she would have to go through it awake. Whether she was a spy or not, he wasn’t a monster. He cringed inside at the thought of any lady suffering through what was to come, but he knew it had to happen. Sticking his head out the door, he found one of the lads on duty.

“Fetch Connelly, and be quick about it.” The man dashed off, and Fain returned to the room. The lass hadn’t fainted, and that was a pity. Still, he had to admire her guts. She sat, calmly inspecting her arm-still white, but completely composed.

“It’s broken, isn’t it?” The words were spoken with nary a tremor or tear. There was none of the weeping or cringing he’d expect from a lady of quality.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Have you sent for a doctor?

“In a manner of speaking.” That earned him a sharp look. Not crazy, not delirious with pain, not hysterical-or, at least, not because of the injury; maybe she was a spy after all. “Connelly isn’t precisely a doctor, but he can set a break easily enough.”

“What, precisely, is he, if not a doctor?”

“One of my men.” Again the sharp look. Not prying, just… vigilant. As though the giver of the look were intelligent and recognized a non-answer when she heard one. “He dabbles in medicine. Rest assured, I’ve seen him set many breaks, several far worse than this, and all have healed clean. Let’s get that sleeve off so he can have a look. You’ll be fine.” Fine after she stopped screaming from having the bone reset, that is.

“Hmmmm…” She eyed him while he gently cut the lower sleeve away from her arm, as though carefully gauging how much trust she wished to afford him. Whatever conclusion she drew remained hidden behind her violet eyes. Fain wondered if he was looking at her the same way. He wondered if he was hiding his thoughts as well as she hid hers. Maybe those heavy lashes she had helped keep in her secrets.

Her voice interrupted his musings. “Have you any brandy?”

“Pardon?”

“Brandy, whiskey, wine… have you got any?”

“You want a drink?” He was baffled. Obviously it was good manners to offer a guest an aperitif, but now was hardly the time to be following drawing room manners.

“I want several. I’ve seen bones set before.”

Ah, well, that made more sense. The lass was quite right, the more alcohol he got down her throat the better. Grabbing a bottle of rotgut from the cabinet where he kept his personal things, he handed it to her. Quickly she gulped down several mouthfuls, and then stuck her tongue out and made a sound Fain had never heard before.

“GlaghaaAhhhgh. Blehh.”

“Are you all right?”

“That is… really foul.”

“Mostly we mix it with things.”

“I imagine almost anything is an improvement.” The dark beauty gave the bottle a skeptical look, but she resolutely swallowed more. Fain was impressed. He’d seen grown men who couldn’t handle more than a mouthful of the stuff.

“That’s probably enough. It’s strong.” She opened her mouth, and her eyes glinted with combative fire. The door opened and Connelly came in, but the lass ignored it.

“I am quite capable of making that decision for myself, thank you very…” Her voice petered out as she finally caught sight of Connelly.

Their medic was a peculiar looking man. He was short, and slight, and his features were gnarled and… odd. He wasn’t hideous or deformed, but Fain had spent many an evening gazing at him over an open fire, trying to figure out what it was about him that looked so wrong. It could have been his teeth, which were just a touch too small, or his nose, which was just a bit too big, or his hair, which grew low on his forehead and close on his cheeks, and was perpetually snarled. Whatever it was, he had the kind of face that people’s eyes slid away from.