The Heart of the Phoenix (34 page)

Useless to think of him. He’d never consider Lord Fulk might attempt to leave the country. Not with the entire court speculating on the outcome of tomorrow’s confrontation. Stephen was likely reviewing the facts he’d present to the king—or he was drinking with his friends. To have come so far together, he and his men had forged a bond of steel. They called themselves the Brotherhood of the Phoenix.

That last night at the manor, Macsen had told her the Eastern myth of the large bird that was consumed by fire but rose from its ashes stronger than before. All these men who had acted as her guards the past days, even the unlikely “Brother” Claude, had risen from the flames of tragedy to become one of the most respected bands of mercenaries in King John’s army.

Now she understood what Lady Joan had meant.

The sluggish
ushing
of gentle waves reached out in dubious welcome. Ahead, a shuttered ship’s lantern sat on the ground near the wooden planking that faced the river. Lord Fulk grabbed it, lifted a side of the metal door shielding the flames inside, and swung it in an arc, then back again. He set it atop a nearby wooden container. Rancid straw spilled out from the spaces between the slats along the crate’s side.

Then she heard the voice.

“Planning a sea voyage, d’Ambrosie? The king will be distressed if you miss our meeting.”

Stephen.

“Step aside, damn you,” Lord Fulk said. “It’s none of your concern if my bride and I choose to wed at my family’s home in Normandy.”

“You may go wherever you please, but you’ll leave Lady Evelynn here. She is not to be a part of the enmity between us. Release her.”

“No. We’re boarding my ship and sailing from England. You will not stop me if you value her safety.”

“You wouldn’t harm her. Did you not just say you needed her family’s influence?”

Evie gripped her lips between her teeth. Stephen had been listening to the conversation, which meant he’d followed them a good distance. She didn’t understand how he came to be here, but she knew now that God answered prayers.

“I will not allow her to leave.” Stephen watched d’Ambrosie step back slowly, cautiously, as if he thought that imperceptible movement wouldn’t be noticed. Behind him, a lone light flickered from the deck of a boat at anchor nearby.

“She is my betrothed. Poor Sir Stephen. You simply can’t protect any of your ladies, can you? We are going to board that vessel, and you will allow it. Or I will slit her throat.”

The very flatness of d’Ambrosie’s tone told Stephen he was serious. His tone and his history. He killed women, children—the man had no compunction. If it came to a choice between his own safety or Evie’s life, d’Ambrosie wouldn’t hesitate to carry out the threat.

Stephen eased toward the pair, into the meager light from the unshuttered lantern that sat at d’Ambrosie’s shoulder. The lord dragged Evie backward, grabbed the lantern, and threw it as Stephen ran toward them. He ducked, and the light crashed onto the planks, the thick tallow candle inside jutting from the open shutter, then rolling toward the crate, into the scattered straw.

A tiny flick of flame skipped, disappeared. Stephen didn’t have time to go back, make certain the fire was out. D’Ambrosie took advantage of the distraction to disappear into the dark mass of stacked cargo along the quay. Stephen charged after.

Sounds muffled ahead, in the direction of the vessel where a few lights bobbed on deck. He only hoped the soldier Macsen picked to stand guard at their own ship had noted the unexpected commotion and sent word to the inn.

Stephen moved among the barrels and crates. All sounds had stopped. “D’Ambrosie,” he shouted, “you can’t escape. Stop now before anyone is harmed. You don’t want to face the consequences if the lady is injured.”

A laugh rose up from the darkness in front of Stephen, a darkness that seemed more intense—because of a glow behind him. He glanced back, saw flames flickering, heard a crackle rising. So, the candle hadn’t extinguished after all. He had to find Evie fast, before the whole dock became an inferno.

A scuffle came from the left, and he swung around, sword at the ready. Damn! He’d allowed himself a distraction.

“No-o-o-o!” Evie’s cry cut through the air. A flash of white moved in the dark and ended in a thud. The sounds of a struggle reached him.

Dear God. What had she done? He dashed into the blackness that quickly became much lighter. The fire had found a home. Gleefully, the blaze leaped into crate after crate, painting the dock and its contents in fiery chiaroscuro.

At least now he could see better, but there was nothing visible among the cargo littering the area. Had d’Ambrosie ducked away, carried her aboard already? Behind him, the fire began to rage as it found more food in the wooden containers and goods within.

****

Evie watched d’Ambrosie creep into the pile of crates, a long, curving dagger clutched in his fist. She struggled against the strip of linen that immobilized her hands. Nothing. No matter what she did, the bindings remained firm. She’d tried to prevent his securing her wrists, but he’d pressed a knee against her chest, obstructing her breath. Where had he even gotten the fabric?

Dragging her face against a crate’s edge, she finally succeeded in dislodging the rag he’d tied around her mouth. She brought her hands to her mouth, tried to loosen the knot at her wrists with her teeth.

Too late. The sound of muffled footsteps came to her. It must be Stephen. She had prayed he would come. But not like this, not with his mortal enemy lying in wait to catch him unaware. He had come to save her. She couldn’t let him die. Pushing to her feet, she searched the shadows for d’Ambrosie. There. A shadow blacker than the rest. No time to creep, for Stephen must be close. Closer than she’d thought. D’Ambrosie was raising his weapon. Oh, no, no. “No-o-o-o.” Evie launched herself at d’Ambrosie.

The blow knocked him off balance, and together they fell to the rough planks.

“You stupid wench,” growled d’Ambrosie. “I’m tired of your interference. Get out of my way.” He pushed her aside and rose.

From the sound of steps pounding their way, Evie knew she had one last chance. She struggled to her knees and batted her head against d’Ambrosie. He struck out to push her away, using the hand holding the dagger.

She felt the blade enter just before her side went numb. He stabbed her. Odd that it didn’t hurt, but she couldn’t seem to remain upright. Stephen’s shout told her he had arrived.

The sound of the battle was reassuring, for Stephen could best anyone. So long as the attack wasn’t an ambush. She blinked at odd spots of black and white that dotted her vision. A chorus of crickets sang in her ears. How had they come to the river?

Goodness, but she was tired. Perhaps she’d lie down now, wait for Stephen to find her.

Evie sank back. She must have found a bit of a puddle; her gown was growing wet.

Her side began to throb, and she closed her eyes. The throbbing took on the beat of her heart. Above it she heard the rumbling sounds from her nightmares. Curious. Had she fallen asleep? In the dark behind her closed eyelids, light flickered.

She sucked in a breath. Smoke. Her eyes flew open. The place was on fire.

Fire!

This was the blaze from her recent dreams. At Rosemont. On the trail from Normandy. This was the blaze that outweighed her childhood terror with one agonizing difference.

This blaze trapped Stephen.

And she couldn’t reach him.

She tried to lift a hand to swipe her hair from her eyes, but her arm refused to move. Turning her head to the side, she strained to see what was happening beyond the piled crates. Nothing. But the sounds of grunts and scuffles slipped beneath the growing crackle of the blaze.

Squeezing closed her eyes again, Evie prayed.

****

As Stephen blocked d’Ambrosie’s swing, part of his thoughts placed the path of the fire. The flames were growing, spreading as they gobbled more crates, more debris. He had to finish here, find Evie. He’d heard her scream but hadn’t seen her run. She could be trapped.

The idea spurred him. He would not fail another woman he loved. D’Ambrosie muttered something, but Stephen didn’t hear, didn’t care to understand what was said. No longer did it matter that the Dragon wouldn’t face justice before the King. Wouldn’t face public execution, stripped of every honor for which he’d murdered innocents.

Only Evie mattered, and he had to find her.

Stephen took a dagger jab to his upper leg, blocked the pain as he twisted to the side, and shoved a crate at the Dragon.

“I will kill you,” he said, pitching his voice above the growing rumble of the flames. “I’m only sorry it will be a quick death.”

D’Ambrosie pushed aside the crate with one swipe. “You’ve always thought better of your ability than it deserved. Your vaunted band of mercenaries are but foolish cocks, strutting around a barnyard already stripped by eagles.
My
soldiers.”

“Don’t you mean murderers? Soldiers fight wars.” Stephen leaped toward d’Ambrosie, slashed his dagger across the man’s wrist, surprising a cry from him. “Murderers prey on the weak, the defenseless.”

“The weak are fools,” d’Ambrosie taunted. “They deserve to be relieved of their belongings.” He circled, keeping Stephen in view.

“Did Hawksworth?”

Bellowing in answer, d’Ambrosie leaped forward, knocking Stephen to the ground.

Memory of his foster father falling to attack from behind, from a relative, someone he trusted, sent another storm of anger through Stephen. He slammed a knee upward. It missed the mark, but it connected with his opponent’s knee. D’Ambrosie cursed and rolled away. Toward the edge of the wharf.

The fire had grown into a thunderous wall of heat and sparks, lighting the night. Stephen gained his feet, clenching his teeth against the pain in his leg from the earlier wound. He leaped toward d’Ambrosie who struggled to regain footing. The impact carried them along the edge, d’Ambrosie’s back cracking against a wooden post along the pier. The impact sent Stephen’s dagger flying from his hand.

“Hawksworth—was a fool,” d’Ambrosie gasped. “Wanting mercy for the enemy.”

“They were prisoners.” Stephen slammed a fist into the other man’s jaw. “They had surrendered.”

D’Ambrosie flipped Stephen onto his back, ground an elbow against his throat. “I only regret—not making certain—the puling little bastard who tried to stop me was dead.” He paused, lifting his head to peer into Stephen’s eyes beneath him. “Or not realizing the identity of the one who pursued me and my men all these years. I’ll remedy the oversight now.”

Rearing back, d’Ambrosie sat up, one knee securing Stephen’s shoulder against the wooden planks while he reached for the dagger. “Don’t you appreciate the final twist of fate that led us here? Now I can be certain you are dead.”

Stephen stilled. “Do you recall that raid? That massacre—”

“The one where your little Infidel died? I only wish I did. I wish I had known it was your woman I killed. I could have prolonged the end, to extend the enjoyment. Just know I will savor marriage to your English whore. Think of that as you die.” His fingers curled around the dagger and brought the blade high.

The words were a mistake. Stephen saw a blackness that blotted out the raging fire. With a shout that obliterated the advancing inferno, Stephen wrenched his shoulder free and flung his hand up to catch d’Ambrosie’s wrist. The rope, looped tight around his other arm, prevented him from rolling away.

D’Ambrosie paused at the unexpected movement. The slight halt was all Stephen needed. He reared up, twisted the other man off, and in a blink reversed positions.

The Dragon’s end came quickly in the heat and flames of the burning wharf. A precursor to the way the bastard would spend eternity, Stephen hoped as he wrenched the dagger from d’Ambrosie’s hand and buried in his throat. Blood pulsed out as Stephen shoved away from the body. He didn’t bother to watch him die.

Where was she?

“Evie?” If his damned heart didn’t beat so loudly, he might be able to hear her. Or to see her in the flames. My God, the flames! He remembered her fear of fire, her dreams on the road from Normandy. She must be terrified.

Through the crackle of the blaze, a small cry reached him from behind the crates where d’Ambrosie had hidden. Surely the bastard hadn’t left her there? The flames had eaten into the stack.

“Evie,” he shouted, praying she could hear his voice, which had grown hoarse. “Evie, I’m here.” He beat out a flame that caught on his sleeve and forged ahead.

Stumbling among the debris, he finally saw fabric—clothing. It was her, crumpled in a heap.

“Evie. Evie, sweetling. Can you hear me?” He turned her and slid an arm beneath her head. Swearing beneath his breath, he cut the band around her wrists. When he pulled the strip free, her hands fell aside, and he saw. A patch of darker material against her stomach.

Fear sharper than any he’d known gripped him. He touched the black splotch. Blood.

D’Ambrosie had stabbed her. For a moment he wished he could kill the bastard again.

A short moan slipped from her clenched lips, and he leaned in. “Evie, love, I’m here. You’re going to be all right.” He only hoped his voice sounded more convincing to her than it did to his own ears.

The long strip of fabric he’d taken from her wrists he folded and pressed against her side, arcing his body to protect her against the sparks now spurting through the air.

He gathered her in one arm, careful of the wound that fast drenched the make-shift bandage. “Stay with me, love,” he muttered. “Let’s see some of that determination. Come now. Rail at me for taking so long to find you.”

“Stephen.” If her hoarse whisper hadn’t told him she’d awakened, her trembling body would have. “It’s my dream. The fire.” She clutched both hands around one of his forearms. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never again,” he vowed. Cursing, he mashed out a spark that landed on the hem of her—chemise?

Why was she not dressed properly?
Save those questions for later
. “We’re leaving. Hold on.”