Sharon Schulze (25 page)

Steffan met her stare with a blithe smile. “How do you like my little love nest? It’s been ready for you for weeks, but those idiots who attacked you botched my plans completely.”

Catrin struggled to contain her outrage while he ambled to her side.
He
had been responsible for the deaths of her men—just as much as she. More so, for their lives didn’t matter to him. A cleansing wave of relief flowed through her. Although she was still accountable, her sin had been unintentional. But she harbored no doubt that Steffan had ordered his lackeys to kill her guard.

She could do nothing yet, but she’d find a way to send this fiend to hell if it killed her. Swallowing her rage, she stood silently while he traced his fingers down her neck, sliding them into the neckline of her gown. “They told me you were dead. But I knew they were wrong. You cannot die before I’ve had my vengeance on you.”

He turned his gaze toward Gillian. “And you are an extra prize. I didn’t know if I could get my hands on you, but fate has been most kind. I may gain l’Eau Clair after all.”

“Not likely,” Gillian snarled with surprising vigor. “Do you believe my husband will allow that? You’re not fit to walk through the gates, let alone rule in my place—or Rannulf’s.”

Steffan’s face darkened. “He’s a man like any other, capable of dying. I care not whose body I step over to claim what is rightfully mine.”

“You are mad,” Gillian cried, pushing herself to her feet. “Whatever made you believe you have a right to l’Eau Clair? ’Tis a Norman keep, built by a loyal Norman

lord. You delude yourself, Steffan. My father would never have approved you as a suitor for my hand.”

Gillian crossed her arms over her breasts, a slight look of discomfort on her face. Catrin had no doubt that by now Gillian’s body ached, more than ready for her to suckle her child.

“Do you think I care what your father intended?” Steffan sneered. “I know ’tis my due. Once you’re rid of FitzClifford you’ll see I’m right. And if you don’t, I don’t really care, so long as I’m master of l’Eau Clair—and you.”

Grabbing a blanket from the bed, Steffan tossed it at Gillian. “You might as well sleep. You’re of no use to me yet.”

He turned to Catrin and seized the rope binding her wrists together. “But I do have a need for you,” he said, jerking her close. His eyes glittered viciously in the candles’ glow. “All our lives you’ve taunted me with your beauty, then spurned me when I honored you with my attentions. Arrogant wench!” He dragged her toward the bed. “And you ruined my plans to gain l’Eau Clair with your meddling ways.”

Catrin’s mind went blank when he tossed her onto the bed and swiftly tied her ankles to the bed frame. ’Twas the nightmare of her past repeated.

She didn’t know if she had the strength to withstand it all again.

But she’d be damned before she allowed that slimy worm to have his way with her. She’d tear out his throat with her teeth if necessary.

Steffan climbed atop her, his body pushing her deep into the soft mattress. His eyes eager, he pinned her wrists to the pillows above her head with one hand and crushed his engorged manhood into the cradle of her hips. She
bucked beneath him, but she couldn’t throw off his weight.

Her stomach heaved with revulsion. Gathering herself, she thought to try for one burst of strength to push him away. But before she could make the effort, Gillian moved quietly behind him, her still-bound hands clutched around the base of a candelabra.

She brought it down on Steffan’s head with a sickening thump. His eyes rolled back and he slumped over Catrin with a groan.

“Thank you,” Catrin whispered, her voice scratchy and faint. She squirmed out from beneath him while Gillian rolled him aside.

“Is he dead?” Gillian asked.

Catrin could hear him breathing. “No, unfortunately he’s still alive.”

“I’ve got his knife.” Gillian tugged it from his belt. “Should we tie him up?”

“Let’s not waste any time,” Catrin said. “You hit him hard. He’ll be sleeping for a while.” She tried to sit up, but was brought up short by the bindings about her ankles. “Hurry, cut the ropes,” she cried, frantic to get away. Gillian sawed through the cords and Catrin scrambled off the mattress. Pausing only to cut their bonds, they hurried to the door.

Catrin heard a faint sound behind her. Before she could yank the door open, Steffan grabbed her from behind.

S
teffan’s trail had been easy to find. Nicholas, Rannulf and Ian wasted no time before setting out. Considering what both Catrin and Gillian had endured of late, neither woman was in any condition to be dragged through the woods by a lunatic.

And who knew what he might do to them?

Nicholas wondered what would happen once they caught up with Steffan. Although he had no doubt they’d free the women, the question of who would deal with Steffan had yet to be answered. They each had ample reason to challenge him.

Unfortunately, it probably wouldn’t go that far. From what he’d heard, Steffan had managed to evade battles for most of his miserable life, the craven bastard. When faced with three bloodthirsty warriors, Steffan would probably slit his own throat, Nicholas thought with disgust.

The trail narrowed. Rannulf halted his mount and got down to examine the ground. After poking around a bit, he made a sound of triumph and raised his hand. He held a scrap of cloth in his fist. “Gillian was gagged—this cloth has her hair caught in it. Two horses took that
trail—” he pointed to a steep, barely discernible path “—and one horse carried a double load.”

He leapt back into the saddle. “We’re getting close,” he said, determination glowing in his eyes. “Come on.”

The sun set soon after. Nicholas hoped Steffan hadn’t left the path, for they’d never know it. It was all they could do to keep going as the way narrowed in front of them and they had to dismount and walk single file between the thick growth of trees.

“Let me go!” Catrin twisted her body in a vain attempt to break Steffan’s grip.

Gillian flew at him from the side, his knife clutched in one hand, the fingers of the other outstretched to claw at his face. Her fingers connected first, and she raked her nails across his cheek, gouging him from cheekbone to chin.

As the blood ran down his face, he screamed and disengaged one hand from about Catrin’s waist. Striking out, he caught Gillian in the side of the head with his fist. The force of the blow spun her around before she sank to the floor.

“It’s your turn now, bitch,” he growled, yanking Catrin by the arm and reaching toward her with his free hand. She evaded his grasping fingers, crying out at the wrenching pain as he twisted her arm again. “There’s nothing like battling a woman to fire my blood,” he said, his eyes wild with lust. “Perhaps once I sink my rod into you, you’ll know your place.”

His words sent panic crawling up Catrin’s spine. Redoubling her efforts, she fought him as he tried to drag her across the floor to the bed. Somehow she had to break free of him before they reached the bed, for she knew
she’d be no match for his strength and weight once he had her pinned to the mattress.

Despite her resistance Steffan pulled her ever closer to the bed, past where Gillian still lay in a crumpled heap. The sight roused Catrin to greater fury. She kicked out, her foot jarring hard against his thigh, but she couldn’t reach high enough to hit him in the vitals.

The blow had made him flinch, however, so she tried again. She battered at his legs with her foot, making her toes throb, and continued to struggle against his hold. In desperation, she sank her teeth into his hand.

Ignoring the way her stomach heaved, Catrin held on like a terrier with a rat, the taste of blood and sweat on her tongue making her gag. Steffan roared with pain, but she held on. With one last, frantic kick, her toes connected with his manhood. When he folded at the waist, hands dropping to cradle his injured parts, Catrin backed away and raced to Gillian’s side.

Startling her with his resiliency, Steffan lurched to his feet and lunged for her again. Catrin had no choice but to abandon Gillian and lure him outside. Perhaps then she could hide and club him with a stick or a rock—anything to stop this madman.

She ran out of the hut into the moonlit clearing, Steffan hot on her heels. Shivering as much from fear as cold, she hastened into the shadows beneath the trees, frantically searching for anything she might use as a weapon. Her fingers closed around a broken branch just as Steffan caught up with her.

She struck out at him with the jagged end of the stick, poking him hard in the chest. “Come to me,” he screeched, the sound terrifying. The moonlight washed the color from his face, making him a ghostly nightmare brought to life.

Panting, her heart pounding in her ears, she feinted with the stick, hoping he’d lose his footing. Instead he dived beneath her guard and carried her to the ground. The momentum of his body sent her skidding painfully over the rocky soil on her back, his weight atop her driving the air from her lungs.

Tiny spots of light flashed before her eyes against the night sky. She couldn’t draw a breath. Her mind spinning, she felt consciousness slipping from her grasp. She groped alongside her for a rock—anything. But she found nothing.

By the time he lifted his weight off her chest, her fingers had begun to go numb. She gasped, air burning its way into her lungs.

Steffan sat back on his heels, straddling her, one hand holding both of hers above her head while the other tugged at her clothing. “I must have you now,” he muttered, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

He jerked her skirts up, bunching them at her waist. Raising his weight off her, he forced her legs apart and fumbled with his own clothing.

The searing heat of Steffan’s manhood against her skin was the final indignity. Bucking, shrieking, Catrin fought with every bit of strength she could conjure up. She’d geld him before she was through, she vowed, if she had to use her bare hands to do it!

It seemed they’d been plodding along for hours, the night black as pitch, when Nicholas’s horse began to whicker low in his throat. “They must be up ahead,” Nicholas whispered, groping for a sturdy tree and wrapping the reins around it. “We’d better go on without the horses.”

Stumbling over the uneven ground, they climbed up the
track. “Are you sure there was only one man?” Ian asked Rannulf.

“Aye. And I doubt there’s an army waiting for us up ahead, either,” he said wryly. “It’s too remote. Who in their right mind would come out here?”

A scream split the darkness, bringing to a sudden end the muffled nighttime sounds. Nicholas could have sworn his heart stopped beating for a moment.

Moving as one, they raced up the path, slipping and scrambling for purchase on the weatherworn rocks. They burst out into the moonlit clearing as another shriek arose.

His mind working furiously, Nicholas took in the scene in an instant. The dark outline of a man’s torso was silhouetted against the backdrop of the moonlit sky. He struggled with someone pinned beneath him, his victim’s legs flailing wildly.

’Twas all Nicholas needed to see. He shoved past Rannulf, toward the pair writhing on the grass.

Leaping the last few yards, he hit the man—Steffan, he noted without surprise—square in the back, sending him flying.

In the brief moment before Steffan sat up, Nicholas stared down at Catrin. The silvery light washed the color from her face and highlighted the fear. Her clothes were nearly torn to shreds.

It was all he needed to stir him to a blood lust such as he’d never felt before.

Roaring his rage, he grabbed Steffan by the tunic and jerked him to his feet. Steffan didn’t even have a chance to straighten before he planted a fist in his face and forced him to his knees. He grinned at the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles. “Get up, you coward,” he snarled, motioning with his hands for Steffan to stand. “I’ve not even started with you.”

Breathing noisily through his crushed nose, Steffan lurched to his feet and, clasping his hands together, swung them at Nicholas’s head.

Nicholas evaded the blow easily, taking advantage of Steffan’s momentum to knock him to the ground. There was no challenge to this, he thought, disgusted by the whimpering sounds stealing through Steffan’s lips. He waited impatiently for Steffan to regain his feet, then stalked him around the clearing. “Fight back, damn you,” he growled. “Or do you only hit women?”

His body swaying, Steffan simply stood and stared at Nicholas, his only response to the insult the fire flaring in his eyes.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, you miserable son of a bitch? Once I’ve beaten you bloody, I’m going to rip off your—”

Teeth bared in a terrible grimace, Steffan dived at him.

Finally.
Nicholas smiled, the exultation of battle rushing through him. There was no challenge—or honor—to pounding on a puling craven who wouldn’t fight back. Steffan would die tonight, one way or another, for the things he’d done to Catrin.

Their hands at each other’s throats, they rolled across the rocky ground, their struggle punctuated by grunts and moans.

Catrin stifled a whimper when Ian helped her to her feet. She absently tugged the remnants of her clothing over her nakedness, for she couldn’t tear her gaze from Nicholas. Rage tautened his features, giving him the face of an avenging angel.

She wanted Steffan to pay for his sins, but she’d seen enough violence done tonight—and she didn’t want any harm to come to Nicholas. She couldn’t bear it if he should be hurt

“Can’t you stop them?”

“It’s his right,” Ian said. “Don’t expect me to interfere—unless it looks like Talbot needs the help.”

Rannulf looked around, his expression frantic. “Where is Gillian?”

Catrin grasped his forearm. “She’s inside. Steffan punched her,” she called after him as he raced toward the cottage.

Catrin gasped as Steffan rolled Nicholas toward the open edge of the clearing, where the earth dropped away into a steep ravine. She started forward, only to be brought up short by Ian’s hand on her arm. “Let them go. Don’t you have any faith in him?”

She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t look away. Every time Steffan landed a blow, which fortunately wasn’t often, Catrin winced as if she felt it herself.

Steffan’s hands closed about Nicholas’s throat. Nicholas pried them off, then grabbed Steffan and flipped him away. Instead of coming back toward Nicholas for more, Steffan scrambled to his feet and suddenly backed away from him toward the ravine.

The moonlight showed Steffan’s fear, and utter madness writhed in his eyes. As he stepped ever closer to the edge, Nicholas dropped his hands, offering no threat.

Steffan began to babble, disjointed phrases that made no sense, his voice rising with each word until he shrieked like a madman.

“Come away from there,” Nicholas shouted, slowly drawing nearer to him.

Steffan’s tirade abruptly ceased, the last shriek echoing wildly through the hills. “You’ll never take me,” he said, voice calm. He looked back over his shoulder as though judging the distance.

“Don’t!” Nicholas leapt the few yards separating them as Steffan, arms flailing, stepped to the brink.

“Nicholas!” Catrin screamed. The two men lost their balance and pitched over the edge.

Her heart thrumming with dread, Catrin rushed to peer into the ravine, Ian at her side. The earth and rock had crumbled away, leaving a sparse fringe of vegetation hanging above the abyss.

Moonlight glowed eerily on Steffan’s body, sprawled at an odd angle over the rocks jumbled at the bottom of the gully. He didn’t move. But Catrin saw no sign of Nicholas.

A moan rising out of the shadows dappling the cliff face drew her attention. She lay on her stomach and leaned out farther, her fingers gripping tightly to the dead weeds hanging from the edge. She scrutinized the shadows. There—something moved, a mere trace of dark-on-dark motion halfway down the steep embankment

“I think he’s alive,” she called to Ian.

Sliding carefully to the side, she made room for her brother to join her. “Nicholas,” she called.

She inched forward to improve her view, then rolled back quickly when the earth began to crumble away beneath her. But the brief glimpse had convinced her ’twas indeed a man’s shape draped over a narrow ledge far below.

She grabbed Ian’s arm. “I see him. But I don’t know how we’ll get him up the cliff. Did you bring any rope?”

Ian crawled out for another look. “Back in my gear—” He gauged the distance. “But I don’t think it’s long enough.” He rolled away from the edge and to his feet in one smooth movement. “I’ll get Rannulf and the rope. You talk to Talbot, see if you can get him to answer,” he said, heading for the cottage.

“Nicholas, can you hear me?” she called, crawling on her hands and knees to peer down again. “Answer me, damn you.”

“If you don’t move away from the edge,” he replied, his voice rising faintly out of the darkness, “I’ll wallop your backside when I get up there, woman.”

“I just might let you,” she replied, earning a weak chuckle.

She heard Ian and Rannulf behind her. “He’s alive,” she said, relief making her shake suddenly. She grinned. “He’s well enough to threaten me.”

His back pressed against the cold, damp rock, Nicholas pulled himself upright, dragging his right leg. He clutched it just below the knee, grimacing at the shafts of pain radiating from the joint. ’Twas only by God’s mercy he’d been able to detach himself from Steffan’s grip and grab the clump of bushes growing out of the rocks to slow his descent.

He’d stopped rather quickly, though, he thought with a grim smile, his leg twisting hard beneath him as he grabbed the bushes and swung onto the narrow ledge. But he didn’t believe it was broken—it just hurt like hell.

“Ian’s getting a rope,” Catrin called. “Are you hurt?”

“Not enough to matter. Get me a rope and I’ll be up there before you know it.”

He heard the muffled sound of her voice as she conferred with the others, then the blessed slap of a rope hitting the cliff. “Can you reach it?” Ian asked.

Nicholas inched away from the wall and looked up. The end of the rope swayed enticingly five or six feet above him.

“It’s close enough.” He’d scaled sheer castle walls fully armed. He’d manage this.

Bracing against the rough stone, he stood slowly, trying to shift most of his weight to his left leg. When he looked down and saw Steffan, his body broken on the rocks, he didn’t care how his knee felt.