Salome at Sunrise (8 page)

Five dark green rings traveled up one ear and hung on to what had been a shoulder. He had no feet, the leg bones protruding like sticks from putrefying flesh. The elements had assisted the scavengers, and others parts of his body were missing, gaping holes that oozed maggots and worms. He’d been castrated and fed his severed member, his shriveled balls resting on his chin.

Everyone gave wide berth to the corpse left on display in the eastern road, except for Bryton. He strode to the body, lifting the blackened hand. Small numbers were visible on the mottled skin. It came off in his grip. He dropped it and stood in the center of the street, fists clenched. Breath charging like a destrier, he shook with murderous rage. White lined his mouth and vehemence flushed his cheeks. Salome could not summon sympathy for the man swinging from a thickly knotted rope. Her every thought was for her charge.

A swirl of lilac placed her before him, uncaring who saw. He ripped his gaze from the Skullman and gripped her head, jerking her to his chest. His hands in her hair trembled. The deep thud of his heart echoed against her cheek.

“Don’t look, Salome. It was poorly done. It’s not a sight for gentle eyes.”

“I saw.” Winding her arms around his shoulders, she embraced him tightly. “’Tis not a sight for angry eyes, either. Come away, Bryton, please.”

For one long moment, he held her, fingers wrapped in her hair, running his palm along her spine, pressing her face to his shoulder. His chest expanded with a deep breath and he stepped back, reaching for Jester’s reins. Vaulting into the saddle, he righted himself and his confused gaze raked her from top to bottom. “Why are you dressed like the serving wench?”

“You said my chiton was not appropriate and it was the only gown that came to my mind.”

His jaw firmed and he held out a hand. “She’s for sale. You are not. Now get up here before someone offers me a half-copper and I take it just to get you out of my hair.”

She put her hand in his, hiked up her skirt and used his foot for a step. He pulled her up and plopped her on his lap, then set Jester at a fast trot. The roadway was mostly empty although the storefronts bustled with patrons. Children waved from the doorways but Bryton did not slow.

The unfamiliar gait combined with his hard thighs beneath her spun her thoughts like a whirlwind. Her feet hung loosely, her coarse green skirt spread over his leg. The pommel bit into her hip and she clutched his forearm. One arm snaked around her waist, hefting her close and keeping her from bouncing off.

“Would it not be easier if I were to ride astride as you do?”

A growl warmed the side of her face and he snapped the reins, quickening Jester’s pace. “Salome, keep your voice down. You’re dressed like a whore. Don’t offer to spread your legs as well.”

Horses were stunning animals but Salome decided she preferred flying. Jester’s hooves beat the hard road, jarring her teeth and shaking her bones. Her eyes flashed with summoned power but she stopped and pushed the magic away. Bryton was holding her.

He’d pulled her close, stroked her back and cupped her head. He might have thought he’d been protecting her from the ugliness of the hanging man, but he deceived himself. He’d taken her embrace and deepened it. He’d put her before him when she’d never ridden, when she could be airborne in a blink. He’d wanted her touch. His spirit reached out, aching to be comforted even as his honor fought it.

Every curve of her body relaxed, leaned into him and basked in his hold. Firm muscles in his thigh flexed under her bottom and the forearm around her waist held her tight. Salome rubbed her cheek into his chest and let him support her, the soothing melody of his heart lulling her. The earthy scent of pine and leather permeated her senses. It tickled her nose and she sucked in a covetous breath. Bryton smelled exactly like what he was, a creature of nature and man, raw power and control.

A thought curved her lips. For more than half his life, he’d been a protector. It was his arm, his back, his quiet support, that others looked to in a time of need. Bryton needed to be needed. It gave him purpose, let him focus on something other than his hate.

His heartbeat slowed and he matched the horse’s step to it. The rhythmic canter didn’t bash her bones together or threaten to spill her off his lap but he did not release her. Salome didn’t mind at all.

The wind had trailed her hair over his arm and he used his guiding hand to smooth it over her shoulder, never letting go of her. She lost count of the time that they traveled. All her mind was centered on Bryton and his arms around her.

The sun ducked behind darkening clouds and a fizzle sharpened the air. With low, calming words, he drew Jester to a halt near a copse of trees. “We’ll make camp early here. Rain’s coming, I can feel it.”

They
would make camp? Salome hid her smile as he slid her to the ground and dismounted, tossing Jester’s reins over a low branch. Tingles and zings shot through her legs and her knees wobbled. He gripped her arm. “Careful. Stomp your feet, get the blood moving.”

She’d never made a camp and felt silly marching in place while he untied a canvas roll. Still, feeling foolish was better than falling on her face. It also gave her time to appreciate the cut of his breeches, the way they clung to his calves and skimmed his thighs. Her gaze slid higher, over the curve of his buttocks, the tight pull of his belt at his waist and that damnable sword that blocked her view of the rest of his back.

Thunder rumbled, far away but with a rolling song that warned of a coming storm. Bryton doubled his speed. He pitched a small tent under a thick swag of branches in just a few minutes. The leather saddle, his bedroll and pack were tossed in the tent without a backward glance. His labrys and bow were handled much more gently. Salome hurried to help gather deadwood, which they piled under an oiled cloth. The first fat drops of rain struck the ground with patters and plops. A fractured thread of blue light scored the sky and the heavens opened.

Bryton pushed Salome into the tent. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

The canvas flap slapped down before she could protest. Rain beat on the tent, sharp rolling drumbeats that blended into a soothing tempo. Her hand rested on his pack. Although she had never camped herself, she had seen him, knew what needed to be done in the small darkened confines. The labrys was top-heavy, the rounded dual edges honed to deathly precision. Along the handle, a carved word sucked in her breath—
Justice
.

His axe was Justice, his sword Salvation and his dagger Mercy. Salome frowned. Could she whittle the word
Peace
into his soul?

She slid the axe blade down close to the tent edge and situated his bedroll beside it. He had but one blanket and she smoothed it across the top, inhaling the rich fragrance of pine and leather. His pack became a pillow and his saddle her backrest. There was nothing more to do but wait. Wait for her charge. Wait for the storm that did not carry rain but tears.

Salome lifted the flap, searching the gray forest, but saw no signs of him. Water ran off the sloped tent, streaming downhill to pool several yards away. The tree canopy held much of the downpour away. Across the field, the rain bounced in misty sprays against the ground. The cooling scents of rain and earth mingled, dotting her cheeks and dampening her lashes. A splash opened her eyes. Bryton ducked into the tent, his hair wet and his tunic plastered to his shoulders.

“It’s a cloudburst. It’ll be furious for a while but will slow soon. Still, it’ll be too dark to hunt so it’s dried beef for dinner.”

His smile did not reach his eyes and he could not hold her gaze. He scooted backward on his pallet, opening his pack then briskly rubbing his face and hair with a cloth. The leather tie hit the bedding and she reached for it, fingering the supple restraint. His belt landed across the saddle. Wool whispered on skin as he pulled the drenched tunic over his head. Salome drew a deep breath.

The small tent shrank inside. The smooth bare expanse of chest made the blackened mark more menacing, more prominent. Her fingers clenched to prevent them from stroking the raised edges. How easy it would be to trace it, allow her touch to slide down over the brawny plane and glide along the ridged muscles of his stomach. Savory lust filled her mouth. Nature’s instincts had a powerful lure, a call which hummed deep in her hips, aching with need.

He tugged a soft gray shirt on and she licked parched lips. Hunger had not been appeased. The broad lines of his shoulders beckoned her touch and she tucked tightly fisted hands beneath her legs. His bow became a clothesline in the cramped space.

“Now what do we do?”

Bryton shrugged, running his hand through damp copper and black hair. “We wait.”

Silence filled with the cadence of rain, the brush of leaves and tap of his fingers on his crossed arms. Salome said nothing. Arms loosely clasped around her knees, she stared with empathetic eyes the shade of dusk. He couldn’t handle her pity, her compassion, right now. He jerked his pack from behind him, digging into the outside flap. With sharp, precise movements, he pared the end of a charcoal stick to a point. A single creased parchment unfolded with a soft rustle.

His finger traced the letters, smudging the line. The list held hundreds of names and prison numbers of all the rabid animals the monarchy’s enemy had unleashed on Eldwyn. Most had a thick line through them. Bryton drew a single stroke through an unmarked name, number 4332.

Bryton was doing his damnedest to send them all to the pits of hell.

One name and number drew his eyes as it had daily for over a summer. Karok—2173. That son of a bitch he would enjoy killing. If he could, he was going to draw it out and make that painted bastard beg like a dog for death. Then he’d make it hurt more.

He jammed the parchment carelessly into his pack.

“Was that the hanged Skullman’s name?”

Salome’s voice soothed, as gentle as a summer breeze, but he was too raw, strung too tight, to appreciate the dulcet tone. “Yeah, that leaves less than twenty alive.”

“Penna said no man was a match against five others. How will you face so many more?”

Bryton didn’t answer. Her scrutiny blistered his skin. Could she read his thoughts? Did she know, truly know, the horrors inside him? Why had he pulled her onto Jester, onto his lap? She could have just flown away. She should have. He’d forgotten for just one brief moment she wasn’t human and allowed her embrace, sought her touch to ease the ache in his soul. Shame churned from his belly with a rancid taste. He had no right to touch her so casually.

Tension knotted behind his eyes and he rubbed at the ache. Wondering what a magic spell did or how she thought was like pounding his head into a stone wall—would give him nothing but a headache.

The shadows of the secluded tent couldn’t mask the concern in her eyes. Cool slender fingers touched his arm, pushing his sleeve up until she could better see his kill marks. He held his breath, watching her. Her fingertip traced each rough, raised point. Two different rows each held four old marks, a lone fresh point sat below, but all nine were a dark discoloration not found in nature.

“What are these?”

“Scars.”

“Manmade, not accidental.”

He didn’t want to tell her. He wanted, for one minute, to be as pure, untouched, as she was, unstained and unburdened. But he wasn’t. Snow-soft, his whisper brushed across her brow. “They’re captain’s marks. Kill marks. One point for every time I’ve done my duty as a bodyguard and lived to tell the tale.”

A lump in his throat made him swallow and her hand slid higher. He didn’t move as she stroked his shoulder, his collarbone. The tie at his neckline loosened with her tug and her fingers dipped beneath the fabric to touch his full dagger mark. A subtle trembling knocked her hand against his chest.

“This too has meaning.” Honey-brown brows arched like wings and poised over almond-shaped eyes.

“For killing an assassin.” He gripped her wrist in a gentle hold, pulling her hand from his shirt. “I told you there is ugliness in my soul. This is part of it.”

“How can valor be ugly? How can honor be ugly?”

“When you fail when it’s most important.”

He didn’t resist when she tugged her wrist away. He couldn’t move as her hand went to his hair. From the time his voice changed, women had loved to run their fingers through his hair. He’d long grown used to it. But Salome didn’t stroke and murmur pretty compliments. She caressed the pitch-black streak, starting at the root and threading her fingers to the tip.

“And this?”

“A reminder that I’ve a debt to pay.”

“Or that you’ve had harm done to you?”

Humiliation twisted his gut. She could think what she wanted, he knew the truth, every drop of bitter, ugly truth. He turned from it, and from her, his grip tightening on his dagger. On the hilt, the word
Mercy
dug into his skin. It never went deep enough. There was no mercy for him in this life.

Duty could be glorious and purposeful or it could choke like the noose around the Skullman’s neck. Never, not even when his own death was a hairsbreadth away, had Bryton ever felt the strangled clutch of his vow. Now he could barely breathe for the pinch of invisible fingers. He knew what his destiny was supposed to entail. But Kat had died before they had a second child, a daughter to one day serve as queen and mate for the prince named as his godson.

Unlike his best friend, he had no mystic line above his heart, was not bound by the magic of heartmates. In theory, he could give a child to any woman. He’d learned at a tender age to use thin sheaths with each encounter unless he wanted copper-haired bastards roaming the countryside. His marriage had erased that worry and put a joyous slant on pregnancy. After Katina’s death, he’d taken risks with the barmaids, deliberately not using sheaths and shamefully wishing for conception. But whores protected themselves with herbs and powders. No child had been created to fulfill his cruel fate.

Destiny was a bitch. A snort ripped from him. He couldn’t father a queen without a woman and there was none in his life. He wanted no one but Katina. His gaze drifted to Salome. She was the first female since his wife who had stirred his desires but she wasn’t really a woman. Salome wasn’t real, or at least not of this world. Taric’s struggle had been in making Myla real to carry his heir. A king had had to die for that to happen. Salome couldn’t carry. Even if he did bed his peacemaker, there was no chance for a child.