Rising Fire (10 page)

She made soft sounds against him as he suckled on her tongue, driving him mad and making him ache to take all of her. Her hands crept up along his and yet he did not stop. Then she leaned in to him, the heat of her body igniting his desire even more. He slid his hands along her neck and shoulders and then down to her waist. He eased them around her and cupped the globes of her bottom, pulling her up hard and tight against his raging flesh.

And never for a moment did he release her mouth from his. When she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, he kissed her until she was breathless and then moved his mouth over the gentle skin of her neck, kissing and nipping down to the place where her gown lay low on the swell of her breasts.

He should stop. He knew he should. He planned to. But her hands slid into his hair just then, her fingers tangling in the curls and pulling his head down. He let his desire flow, loosening the ties of her gown and chemise with one hand while his mouth played its way along her skin. Tugging the edges lower, he licked the stiff peak of her breast and drew it in his mouth.

Her legs gave way then, and he guided them down, first to a kneel and then onto the ground. Holding her gown away, he kissed the soft mounds and caught a tip once more, this time worrying it with his teeth and licking the pink bud of it as she gasped. Her body lay next to his, writhing and rubbing against him in the way of an innocent who did not know the pleasure before her. William caressed her body and placed his hand over her belly and then lower, grazing his fingers over that place where he knew she ached, even if she did not understand it.

An innocent.

The word and its meaning finally sank into his passion-riddled mind, as did the lesson he'd wanted to teach her about being caught alone. Instead she'd taught him about his own weakness when it came to her. A weakness that could be deadly in the danger that was coming.

He stilled then and lifted his head, releasing her lovely breast. She panted, breathing shallow and fast, under him. Her eyes were closed and her head tossed back in pleasure. A sight he would never forget. William waited a moment to catch his own breath before speaking the words that would drive her away from him and hopefully keep her safe. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, he nodded.

“And that is how fast a man could have you beneath him, taking your favors and your honor, if you get caught alone.”

He knelt and then stood, grasping her hands and pulling her with him. She swayed on her feet, the rosiness of her breasts now hidden by the garments she tugged back into place. The blush on her cheeks faded, replaced by
the paleness of shock. Brienne turned her back on him to finish tying her laces and then ran her fingers through the length of her now-loosened and tangled hair.

Facing him, she began to speak several times and ended up saying nothing. Then, damn him, those amber eyes filled with tears. His heart tore apart at the sight of her distress and humiliation. All he wanted to do was hold her. Tell her that he reacted this way because she was driving him mad with worry and the need to protect her and keep her safe . . . and that he knew he could not.

“Brienne, I . . . ” He paused, for what could he say now that he'd turned his honest desire for her and her naïve, new desire for him into something tawdry? She shook her head and began to leave. “Wait, I pray you,” he said. She hesitated, and he took the chance it gave him.

“Something strange and dangerous is going on. The king has asked me to seek the reasons. Everything points to your lord. Now more strangers are arriving each day, and I . . . worry that you will not be safe as you make your way through your errands and chores. Not as safe as you might think you are. Have a care and stay close to your father.” Her eyes widened the tiniest amount, but he still noticed it. “He can protect you best.” She crossed her arms over her body and rubbed her arms as she nodded. He stepped back to allow her to pass and added the final warning: “Even from me.”

Without another word and whether she heard his last warning or not, Brienne ran off, back toward the village and—he hoped—safety.

Now she might think before wandering off and putting herself in danger. And mayhap his rude behavior
would keep her from him and break the hold, the draw, the connection they had with each other. She must go back to her life and he to his. Pacing himself to stay far enough behind her not to be seen, he wondered if he would wake up on the morrow and discover that this strange journey on behalf of the king had just been some kind of nightmarish dream.

Ignoring the painful protest of how much his body disagreed with his honor's actions, William strode back to his men, intent on finishing their plan and on riding into Yester Village and castle and meeting with Lord Hugh. Those good intentions, like so many that lined another path, evaporated when he was about fifty yards from the camp.

For Brienne screamed out his name in terror.

T
urning around and around, he could neither see nor hear her. But . . . he
had
heard her. Roger must have been watching, for he and Gautier came running to his side.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, holding his hand to his brow to shade his eyes. “Did you hear her?”

“I heard nothing but you,” Roger answered.

“You speak of the girl?” Gautier asked. “Is she nearby?”

Drawing his sword, he closed his eyes and saw her being half dragged and half carried through the forest by three men. A gag in her mouth, her hands bound now, she seemed unaware of herself and her surroundings. Worse, the image in his thoughts went completely and utterly black then, as though she'd lost consciousness.

“Aye, she is,” he said. “Or was. I can sense nothing of her now.”

William saw them staring at him as though he had three heads instead of the one and realized he needed to tell them more about . . . more about . . .

“I warned her not to be alone outside the village,” he tried to explain, but the dark feeling of her loss tore at him.

“You warned her, Will?” Gautier asked. “You saw her again.”

“She is in danger now.” It was becoming hard to speak. The muscles in his neck and shoulders and back tightened, and his vision began to glow red like the coals left in a fire. “Come.”

His body trembled and shook with each step, and then his legs lengthened, and his trews, tunic, and gown felt tight, too small for his body. Tremors moved along his arms until his grip around the hilt of his sword changed, his flesh becoming one with the metal and leather.

She was in danger.

He ran, faster and farther than the others, down into the valley, across the stream, and up into the hillside. He paused only to gain her scent in the air, noticing the signs of a struggle in the broken plants and furrows in the moist earth, and then he followed.

She was in danger.

The red washed over everything in his sight and colored the world in a different way; the sky, the trees, everything bore a scarlet tint to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the others trailing behind.

His . . . friends . . . no danger there.

He gained the top of the hill and saw the small gathering of tents and people and smelled her there. Rushing toward her scent, he watched as they scattered out of his way. He did not find her among the tents, but knew she was beyond them.

He broke through the trees and saw her. The gag was off and her hands had been freed of their bounds. She faced him, staring at his face and shaking her head.

He would tear them apart for touching her, for scaring her. No one did that and lived. He reached for the one closest to her, the one holding her arm, and grabbed for him, but she stepped in front of him, placing herself between him and the one he would kill . . . first.

“Sir William?” Her voice shook, and she spoke as though she did not know him. Was that his name? Is that what she called him?

“William,” she said again softly, leaning closer as she spoke. He sniffed her face and hair and knew she was his.

He wanted to push her aside to get to the ones who needed to be destroyed, but she reached out and put her hand on him. Looking down at it, so soft, so small, so hot on his skin, he did not recognize the body it was touching. Blue as the sky with markings swirling over the skin she touched as though moved by the wind. Muscular and strong enough to fight off all these puny men at once, with shreds of clothing hanging over his shoulders and around his waist. And with an arm that held—no, an arm that
was
his sword.

This close to her, he could smell that the terror had eased and the danger was gone. Still he waited on her word.

“There is no need to fight them,” she said, stroking his chest. “I am well. I am safe.”

He looked around. No one was near her now. A few men stood scattered around them watching, and one man, an older man, nodded at him. Had he given the orders to touch her? Did he need killing?

“William, it is over now,” she said in a whispering singsong tone that made him want to let go of the fight. “Come back to me.” Her smile eased the terrible need to kill that bubbled within him. “That is good. It is over.”

He could feel his body changing, shivering and convulsing as it had before, until he could drop the sword from his hand and fit within his skin once more. He felt himself sliding back into control. The red in his vision melted away until he could see her in all her colors, even though the others paled next to her.

William turned as Roger and Gautier reached his side and read the confusion in their gazes and on their faces. Roger grabbed the sword from the ground and held it. Glancing around the group, he noticed that the others wore expressions of horror and terror. He looked back at the only one who did not turn away from his gaze.

“What happened? Brienne, are you well? I heard you screaming.”

“I am not hurt,” she said. Before she could say more, another man spoke.

“Sir William de Brus? I think we should speak.” The older man watching him spoke in a calm voice.

“You did this? You took her? Why?”

When the older man did not deny it, William looked at her for his reply. She held the key. She was the key.

“Let Brienne sit over with the women while we do,” the man offered. “She will come to no harm here, sir.”

When Brienne nodded her agreement, a young woman escorted her away. Though she still glanced from him to the others, he allowed it. Seeing the same shock filling Roger's and Gautier's expressions, he nodded at her.

“Stay near her,” he ordered quietly. Although they did as he said, he could tell it was more from rote than from agreement. Then he walked after the other man until they stood away from the rest.

“Has that happened before, Sir William?” the man asked.

“Who are you and what are you doing on Lord Hugh's lands?” he asked back. Studying the man, he noticed several things. He was older, he wore no weapons and, from his accent, he was a foreigner.

“We seem to be at a stalemate,” the man said with a slight laugh. “I am Marcus of Far Island, and these are my kin.”

“Far Island? I have never heard of it. Where is it?”

“'Tis a small island, holding a small community, off the west of Scotland.”

“A small community” made it sound like they were priests, but none wore the tonsured hair of monks or the vestments of priests. That women traveled with them did not say aye or nay, for many holy priests were known to enjoy the company . . . and beds of women.

“A religious community? You do not have the look of priests,” he said. “So why are you here?”

“Sir William, we are priests of the old gods, not the Christian one.”

Part of him wanted to call out “Blasphemy!” at such a claim, but the part of him seeking answers about what was happening to and around him pressed on.

“I see your disbelief,” Marcus said with a nod. “The old gods are not gone, only forgotten. We keep to the old ways and worship and remember them still.”

It was not unusual for fanatics and heretics to spring up out of the wild and secluded places, and William
guessed that this was some cult. Even the old Celtic Church and their outdated practices existed out in the Highlands and islands, regardless of the Roman Church's and several kings' efforts to stamp them out. But why were these people here now and what did they know?

“We were led to you, Sir William. And to the girl.” He gestured over to where Brienne sat talking with a young woman. “We are traveling on the same journey now.”

“I know not who you are, but I travel on the king's business.”

“But you know not why he sent you to Lord Hugh, do you?” William crossed his arms over his chest and considered this man. “And the changes that are happening to you make no sense to you, do they?”

“And you know these things? Who are you?” His fingers itched for his sword, but this man offered no threat that William could see. The rest of these people gave no indication of danger. He could also see Brienne speaking with that young woman across the clearing, and she seemed at ease.

“I am the chief priest for the old gods. I have trained most of these”—he gestured to the small group standing around the tents and in the clearing—“in the ways of prophecy and scrying. We are here to help you to carry out the task set for us.”

“And what task would that be?” he asked.

He wanted to leave. He fought the urge to turn his back on this man and the lunacy he spouted, but something in the man's face and voice made him listen. He wanted to return to the time and place where he knew himself and before he had embarked on this task for the king.

“To claim your blood rights and keep the evil one away.” With that, William shook his head, refusing to accept this.

“I carry out the orders of my king. I answer to none but him.” The words rang hollow, but he clung to them.

Having made his point and his allegiance clear, William turned to walk away. He would return Brienne to the village and set his men to prepare for his meeting with Lord Hugh. On the morn, he would seek out the king's counselor and discover the truth of the man's loyalty and plans. This lunacy, these weird and inexplicable events, would cease as soon as he returned to the king and received his grant of lands. By then this would all seem like a nightmarish dream.

“Sir William,” Marcus said before he even took a step away. “There are several different bloodlines, descended from the ancient ones. Each one carries their power in their blood and is marked by it.”

Facing the man, he noticed the sleeve of Marcus's tunic had dropped away from his wrist. There on his arm was a raised red area just like the one William had. He could not take his eyes from it. He reached for Marcus's arm and pulled him closer.

“The mark of my bloodline,” he said. “We are priests. We stand for humanity before all the gods.”

Simple words, but William could not comprehend it. The area on Marcus looked like a stick figure of a man while William's . . . He lifted his own arm to take another glance at it, but dropped it instead, not willing to reveal that he carried one, and shook his head. He wanted no parts of talk of heresy or deviltry. He wanted only to fulfill the king's request and get his lands.

“You are a warblood,” Marcus explained. “Your
marking is in honor of Sucellus and his abilities as a warrior. A sword mayhap? Or a battle-ax or hammer?”

William could not stop himself from clutching the place on his arm where the skin bore exactly that. How did this man know? Before he could argue, Marcus spoke again.

“We have been raised with knowledge of the old gods and their ways, but you have not. You are a practiced warrior with the experience and knowledge that we lack. We need you, Sir William, as our leader. Someone to organize us and lead us in the coming battles.”

“Do you know how mad you sound, with this talk of gods and the rest? 'Tis blasphemy or treason, or both!” he whispered harshly to the man who made such outrageous claims. “I am no leader in whatever your endeavor is. I serve only the king. I see to his orders now.”

He ignored the recent things that had happened to him and turned to leave, convinced that his mind was playing tricks on his judgment. He could not let this get in his way.

“William,” Marcus warned just before he stepped back. “Tell her nothing you do not want Lord Hugh to know.”

William narrowed his gaze, studying the man. So Brienne was linked to Lord Hugh? He'd seen the fear in all the villagers' eyes and knew they feared their lord. Nay, they lived in terror of him. He'd thought this young woman would be no different.

“Roger. Gautier.”

He walked over and held out his hand to Brienne to help her up. In spite of his recent rude behavior, she accepted it without hesitating and nodded to the woman sitting with her. They'd gone only a few paces back into
the middle of the tents when the soft voice called out to him.

“Sir William?”

“She is called Aislinn,” Brienne said as he stopped and faced the young woman.

Aislinn's green eyes grew bright as she approached, her long red hair worn in one long braid that swayed from side to side as she walked. A pale white light outlined her body. Her voice, when she spoke this time, seemed to come from farther away.

“Your father is in grave danger, William. Only by completing your part in this quest can you hope to save him.”

“My father? Aislinn, my father is happily ensconced in his lands, drinking fine wine and eating heartily. He is in danger only if my mother discovers his newest leman.” He laughed, or tried to, but her voice deepened and echoed, and her face changed into someone much older right before him.

“Your father will die, Warblood. 'Tis time to accept your destiny. Come to us. Come with us.”

She held out her arm, and he watched as the crescent moon–shaped mark reddened and burned, as his did. He resisted clamping his hand down on it, but William noticed Brienne's hand move to her own arm. Did she have a mark as well? What was this?

“We must leave,” Brienne whispered to him, sliding her hand into his. “I pray you, now.”

He nodded to his men and they departed, walking to the hilltop and down, crossing the stream and reaching the main path to the village. When they did, Roger and Gautier continued on, leaving them alone.

“Go,” he said softly. “I will wait until you are down
the path before leaving.” He wondered if her mind was as full of thoughts and doubts as his was now.

Brienne began to walk away, but she turned and came back to his side.

“Do you think your father is in danger?” she asked.

In that moment, he realized that Aislinn had not been referring to his mother's husband but to his real father—the king. A cold, icy finger ran down his spine, and he fought against shivering.