Princess Avenger - Brightcastle Saga Book 1 (8 page)

All seemed to
be in order in her rooms. Her bed was undisturbed. Had it been
searched, the covers would have been hauled back. Alecia hid her
remaining knives in the wood box then pulled on her nightgown. She
jumped into bed and drew the covers over her head, determined not
to think about the events of that night.

But as soon as
Alecia stopped moving, a spasm struck her body and she trembled so
violently that her teeth chattered. She curled into a tight ball
around the frost in her core, hugging herself. Through the thin
silk of her nightdress her fingers were icy and she couldn’t feel
her toes.

She closed her
eyes and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. The dead eyes
of the Devil intruded; his blood again spilled across her chest in
a warm, sticky puddle. Nausea swept through her and her eyes shot
open. She pulled herself to the edge of the bed and vomited into
her chamber pot until the violent spasms produced nothing. She was
left weak, her stomach muscles sore.

Alecia’s hands
shook; hands that had taken the life of another being. The sharp
scent of his blood stuck to her skin. She bounded from the bed to
her washbowl and plunged her hands into the cold water, scrubbing
them with the pumice stone until they were red raw. The ritual of
cleansing pushed her past the panic but she could not hope to
cleanse her soul in the same way. Somehow she would have to live
with what she had done. Perhaps live with more than one death on
her conscience.

Tears spilled
down her cheeks. Some warm milk might help her sleep. Her mother
had always said so. What would Princess Iona think of her daughter?
Would she be proud? Or would her gracious, gentle mother condemn
Alecia and her murderous plans? She raised her eyes to the large
portrait of Iona that hung by her bed and sank to her hands and
knees on the rug, hit by the memory of her mother’s death.

She stood at the foot
of the bed, her mother’s rasping breath the only sound in the room.
It took all her strength to look upon the still, withered form
under the gold-embossed coverlet. Her father knelt by the bed, his
hand clasping his wife’s skeletal fingers, his lips moving in
prayer. Alecia closed her eyes, trying to recall her mother’s face
as it had been: rosy-cheeked, smiling, beautiful, full of life. The
longed-for image would not come.

“
Alecia.”
It was not the sweet musical voice of yore but the whisper of
death. “Come to me.”

Alecia’s heart
thudded. She could hardly draw breath as her mother’s faded gaze
trapped her and pulled her closer.

“
Alecia… I
must leave you soon. I have not the strength to fight…” Iona’s
words were lost in a coughing fit.

“
Gracious
Mother,” Alecia began, forcing her voice to be strong, “hold the
hand of my mother and lead her through her trials to your reward.
Look down on your daughter --”

“
Alecia!”

Her head
snapped up, the prayer lost in the sharpness of Princess Iona’s
voice.

“
This is
not the time for prayers. I do not have long.”

Alecia leaned
closer to catch the words as the momentary strength drained from
her mother’s voice.

“
Daughter,
I have loved you as I have loved no other. You are my joy and my
future. Soon I must leave this life, but I will live on in you. Be
brave and hold these words deep in your heart. Always be true to
yourself and your beliefs. You hold within yourself so much that I
have lost.” She paused for breath and another coughing fit. Each
bout left her paler, the shadows deeper beneath her eyes. “I know
you will never fail as I have. Hold firm to what you know is true
and always remember you are princess by privilege, not right. I
love you, my darling.”

“
I love
you, Mother.” Tears cascaded down Alecia’s cheeks. She could force
no more words past the lump in her throat but grasped her mother’s
hand, willing strength to the frail body. As she watched, Princess
Iona’s eyes closed and her chest no longer rose and fell with the
agonising effort that Alecia had become used to. The skeletal
fingers relaxed and Alecia knew her mother had left her.

Always be true to
yourself and your beliefs. In the four years since Iona’s death,
those words had never been far from Alecia’s thoughts. They
motivated her to right the wrongs of her father; to save the
condemned, to feed the hungry. He had never been the same after the
loss of his beloved wife. Was it grief, or the words Iona had
spoken to Alecia that had wrought the change? Did he harbor
resentment towards the daughter who had been his wife’s greatest
love?

Her eyes again
sought those of the portrait and she thought she knew the reaction
her mother would have had to tonight’s events. It did not matter.
Her mother was not here to disapprove.

Holding onto
the realisation that she could choose her own path, knowing no one
alive could judge her more harshly than she herself would, Alecia
drew her cream satin robe over her nightgown. The sight of her raw
fingers as they tightened the sash was almost her undoing, but she
pulled together the shards of her composure and stepped into the
hall.

The
flickering candle she held did little to dispel the dark. Anything
could lurk in the shadows. Was the captain watching? She recalled
the glowing eyes in the alley. Something had witnessed the death of
the Devil
--
the
murder
. She had to face
the reality that she had murdered the man. Revenge had drawn her to
the inn and she was not sorry the mercenary was dead. She really
was not.

Alecia
steps had stalled at the top of the stairs and she took another
deep breath. Nothing lurked in the shadows.
I am safe
. The whisper of her bare feet on the
stone was the only sound as she descended the staircase and crossed
to the hall that led past the kitchen. It must be two or three in
the morning by now.

A low moaning
from further down the passageway made the hairs stand on the back
of her neck. It must be some poor soul in the grip of a nightmare.
She would just stoke the fire and warm her milk and be away before
the owner of the voice woke. When she came level with the kitchen,
her eyes were drawn to a door that stood ajar at the end of the
hall.

She
raised her candle. Deep gouges marred the wood of the outer panel
of the door. She inched forward, the light flickering with the
trembling of her hand.
Have I not had enough excitement for one
evening?
She stifled an
hysterical laugh.

Alecia
drew level with the damaged door. The moaning had ceased but she
was certain it had come from this room. She reached out and pushed
the door with her fingertips. The barrier swung aside. Vard Anton
sat on the floor, head resting in his hands
-- and he wore not a stitch of clothing.
It was as if all his soft edges had been scraped away by a
sculptor’s tool. Alecia could not move; could not breathe. All she
could do was stare at lean buttocks, muscular thighs and calves and
a ridged stomach. And then he looked at her.
Goddess!
Alecia’s gasp seemed loud in the quiet
room. The captain’s eyes were no longer yellow-flecked but full
gold that reflected the light of her candle.

She took
a step backwards. He stood and pulled on snug-fitting breeches but
not before Alecia glimpsed what lay within the curling dark hair of
his lower abdomen.
I shouldn’t be seeing him like this.
She took another backward step, ready to
bolt.

“Princess.”
His voice held a faint tremor.

Alecia cleared
her throat. “I should not be here,” she said, unable to get the
sight of his manhood from her thoughts. “I will leave you
to…whatever it was you were doing.”

He laughed. It
had a bitter sound. “Perhaps that’s best.”

Alecia froze
at the note of vulnerability and paused to study his face. “What is
wrong?”

“It hits me
sometimes.”

“What hits
you? Say something I can understand.”

He
reached out and drew her into the room. His skin burned against
hers with such intensity that Alecia’s question flew from her
mind
-- all she could
focus on was his heat and her frantic heart. He stared down at her
as though trying to memorize every feature. Too late, Alecia
remembered she had good reason to avoid his scrutiny. She dragged
her gaze from his scorching eyes and looked instead at his chest.
That did not help at all. Her fingers itched to stroke the bronzed
skin of his shoulders. She clenched her hands into fists at her
bosom.

He placed a
finger under her chin to raise her face to his. The gesture was one
of gentleness but the heat had not left his gaze.

“Your eyes,
Captain,” she said, heart pounding.

“I won’t hurt
you.” He stared at her then drew her to the lone chair in the room.
“Sit and we’ll talk.”

Alecia sat,
her knees shaking and breath short as though she had run to
Brightcastle Town and back.

“Am I not the
last person you would wish to talk to?” She recalled their near
kiss and something low in her abdomen stirred. “The role of
protector has been forced on you. You cannot enjoy it.”

He seemed to
consider her words, and Alecia watched a myriad of feelings chase
each other over his face, saw the torment he struggled to hide. His
eyes burned into hers and she could not look away. I should not be
here, she thought again.

He opened his
mouth to speak and suddenly she feared to hear the misery of his
gaze put into words.

“I must go.”
She rose and started for the door. The captain reached it first,
his broad shoulders forming a barrier she could not slip past. He
did not touch her this time and the glow of his eyes had dimmed to
the familiar specks. Had she imagined his earlier wildness? “I
cannot stay here.”

Vard Anton
seemed not to hear her words. “Do you ever doubt yourself, even for
a moment?”

The inquiry
pulled her up short. She closed her eyes, remembering the events of
the last two days. “Once I did not, but now …” Alecia opened her
eyes to find his intense gaze upon her. Why was he so desperate?
“You cannot mean to imply that you know doubt?”

For a brief
instant, pain flared in the depths of his eyes but it was fleeting,
replaced by the familiar granite stare. “Go.”

Wherever the
vulnerability had come from, it had been exchanged for the chill
she knew well. The sudden transformation unnerved her. He stepped
aside and Alecia fled through the doorway. She ran all the way to
her room without a backward glance and was in her bed before she
remembered the milk.

She sat, the
thick covers bunched up around her chin, and recalled the exchange
with the captain. What had happened to him? What had he wanted from
her? Outside a cockerel crowed. Soon it would be light. She lay
back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Her last thought was for a
hard man with one very vulnerable, painful stain on his soul.

Vard hadn’t slept. He’d
left his room at dawn in search of a distraction. Now he faced six
of the more skilled swordsmen in the prince’s personal guard. They
stood warily, even though the practice swords would be unlikely to
kill. Ramón was not among them. The squire was still abed after his
wounding the day before. Vard quashed a flash of remorse over the
injury. The squire had put himself forward as the Princess’s
protector despite errors in his technique. Better for the lad to
discover them now than to lose his life or that of another through
ignorance.

The swordsman
with the flaming red hair launched an attack that had Vard on the
back foot, scrambling to defend himself. He cursed his inattention.
Or perhaps it was lack of sleep that betrayed him. The events of
the night had struck his core, shaken the foundations of his
identity and left him cowering like a wounded animal. Vard still
couldn’t believe he had so little control that he’d failed to carry
out a simple task. And then to expose his anguish to the princess…
Her pity wouldn’t last long if she knew what he had attempted last
evening. Transformation hadn’t washed away his distress; had only
added to it. This time, his fragile hold on humanity was more
tenuous and even his Defender core was not sufficient to anchor
him.

Vard fought
off the onslaught and returned a flurry of blows that engaged the
redhead as well as the black-bearded combatant to the right. There
was no point in rehashing the night’s adventures. He had to regain
some control over his mind, and that meant calm concentration. That
was why he had sought the practice field this morning. But the
bearded man struck a chord in his wolf memory. Perception was
altered when anything was viewed during a transformation. He saw
flashes of another black-bearded man in combat with a youth and
then that same bearded man dead in the street. The eyes of the
youth resonated with the human memory of his rescue of the lad and
the chamber-pot incident.

Black-beard
got inside his guard and scored a blow to Vard’s ribs. The breath
whooshed out of him and he forced more air back in so that he
wouldn’t go down. It was a trick that had saved him more than once.
He scored an answering blow to the side of his opponent’s head and
black-beard dropped into the dirt. Dust rose as the five remaining
shuffled backwards.

Vard didn’t
allow them the break they needed, dancing forwards, his practice
sword moving with blistering speed. Three of the soldiers lay
groaning in the dirt before they had a chance to more than half
raise their swords. The man with the flaming hair and the weapons
master stepped apart to place their opponent at a disadvantage.
Vard backed up, drawing on his ability to focus in two different
directions as his opponents advanced from opposite sides. He scored
a blow to the ribs of the weapons master and ducked under a savage
slice from the redhead, then turned to find the redhead had
launched another attack. The two met, their practice swords
thwacking upright between them. The man was of matching height and
strength but his breath had the sour smell of ale.