The Loyal Heart (34 page)

Ethan was on him the second he turned and he barely had time to lift the sword in a defensive stance before the clang of metal against metal and Ethan’s grunting anger crashed over on him. He countered by sweeping his sword around and attempting a blow at Ethan’s side, his own fury bubbling in the form of strength and energy. Ethan deflected his blow and countered with another to Crispin’s side. Their sword blades locked. Crispin growled as Ethan pushed against him. He held his ground, pushing back.

“I want you dead, Huntingdon!” Ethan bared his teeth.

“The feeling is mutual, Derbywood.” Crispin used the length of his legs to his advantage and planted a foot in Ethan’s gut, pushing him.

Ethan careened off balance. Crispin strode towards him, rage pumping through him, and as he raised his sword Ethan matched the motion and fought off the glancing blow. He punched Crispin’s face and knocked him sideways.

Crispin saw stars and stumbled. He recovered enough to slash his sword up and across Ethan’s body. Ethan jumped backwards in time to avoid most of the blow, although his tunic was ripped near the shoulder. He used all of his strength to slice at Crispin, was parried, spun around and came at him from the other direction. Sparks flew as their equal strength crashed their swords together.

Crispin grunted as he tried to thrust at Ethan’s neck, unthinking, unfeeling, just acting. Decades worth of battle instinct overrode any sense or memory of the promises he’d made to Aubrey. Ethan dodged and hit his sword away. Crispin steadied himself and brought another heavy blow crashing down which Ethan was only just able to fend off. Their swords locked again. This time Crispin was faster. He brought the butt of his sword up into Ethan’s nose, causing it to spurt blood.

Ethan stumbled back and wiped his face on the side of his sleeve. “When you’re dead,” he circled Crispin, sword at the ready, “then Windale will be mine again. And Aubrey will be mine too.”

Hearing Aubrey’s name returned a thread of sanity to Crispin’s mind and heart. “Aubrey,” he repeated the name.

He dared to glance over Ethan’s shoulder to find Aubrey standing in front of the dais, Jack holding her back. She was pale with terror. His chest constricted. Ethan took advantage of his lack of concentration and struck out at him again. This time his slash hit its mark as Crispin leapt out of the way too late. He cried out in pain and frustration and swung his sword to pound on Ethan’s again, sparks flying from the strength of the blow. He forced his mind into the battle ignoring the searing pain in his side. Aubrey was his now, his.

With renewed strength he launched another attack on Ethan, coming at him first from the right and being parried and then from the left. Ethan lost his balance as he defended. He came back at him and attempted to spear him. This time when their swords locked the force of Ethan’s momentum caused both blades to go flying out of their hands. Ethan didn’t hesitate before switching to his fists, pummeling Crispin first in his injured side and then hard across the jaw.

Crispin flew backwards and landed on the ground with a hard thunk that knocked the wind out of him. He barely recovered in time to catch Ethan when he lunged, his hands reaching for his neck. He rolled Ethan to his back and punched him across the face once, then again. Anger propelled Ethan to lash out with a snarl and push Crispin off of him.

Both men struggled to their feet and Ethan, still burning, charged at him and tried to land another blow to his stomach with his shoulder. Crispin dodged and grabbed hold of Ethan’s shoulders, using his momentum to toss him to the ground. Ethan crashed on his arm with a grunt of pain. He rolled around, out of breath and aching.

Wild with fury, Crispin spotted one of the swords in the grass near his feet and lunged for it. He sprinted to Ethan and kicked him in the gut as he struggled to his knees. Ethan crumpled and landed splayed on his back. Crispin knew he’d won. He crouched over Ethan, sneering in rage, and drew his sword up, holding it in both hands over Ethan’s neck. All he needed to do to kill the man was to thrust.

Instead his eyes flicked up and sought Aubrey. She had run several steps forward onto the grass of the arena, her face white as snow. He sighed out a ragged breath as their eyes met. She looked at him, not at Ethan. His strength melted as his heart filled with love for her.

Not even sparing a glance to Ethan he tossed the sword aside and stood straight, stepping over Ethan and walking away, towards Aubrey.

Throughout the battle Aubrey was mad with fear. Each blow that was landed bruised her heart. The hatred that sizzled between the men pushed every memory, every dream she’d ever had to the surface. Ethan as the golden-haired idol of her youth. Crispin as her tormented champion. Every spark of their swords smashed the certainties she had clung to her entire life. The loneliness of always having to fend for herself, the pain of watching her brother fade with no one to help, the bitterness of a thousand little betrayals curled around her.

When Crispin found the sword and charged Ethan, when he held the sword over his throat ready to kill, she felt as though she were the one about to die. And when Crispin looked up at her, when he dropped the sword and came towards her, she blazed to life again.

And she knew. All of the promises and lies, all of the hopes and dreams, everything in her heart boiled down to the discarded sword and the passion burning in Crispin’s eyes. He had kept his promise.

She loved him. Her whole body, heart, and soul trembled with the force of that love.

When Ethan struggled to his feet behind Crispin as he strode towards her, when he reached for the sword that Crispin had dropped with nothing but hatred in his eyes, Aubrey sprinted forward before she could think.

“NO!” She shot past Crispin as he realized in a flash what she was seeing and spun. Ethan had raised the sword above his head in both hands and was ready to thrust with the full force of his weight when she pushed herself between them, holding her arms wide and shielding Crispin with her body.

Ethan was so close to thrusting the sword into Crispin’s heart that he lost his balance as he tried to stop himself and stumbled. Panting, bleeding and still full of anger he glanced up into Aubrey’s eyes. “Get out of the way, Aubrey! Let me kill him!”

“No!”

“Let me kill him and we can be together!”

“You will not kill the man I love!” She yelled at him with the full force of everything her tumultuous heart felt.

Ethan staggered back, his mouth working without words. Blood and sweat stung at his eyes and he had to squint at her, but what he saw made him drop the sword as if it were a stone. He swayed and shook as he stood, his breath coming in short gasps.

“We are enemies then,” he growled, his face contorting.

“No, Ethan. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“It wasn’t a question. We are enemies.”

She clenched her jaw, too disappointed to be angry. He simmered with resentment, livid as a child. She shook her head. He stepped backwards once before snapping his eyes away and sprinting off to the fence that marked the boundary of the arena. And she didn’t care.

She whipped around to face Crispin. He stood behind her, his arms limp at his sides, his chest heaving with exhaustion and emotion.

“Get him!” Buxton’s shrill cry shattered the moment. Neither Aubrey nor Crispin had heard the cheering and shouting of the crowd. The noise of the arena filled both of their ears now as they focused on the moment at hand. For Crispin it gave him time to gather his mind back into one piece after the shattering realization that Aubrey had been given a choice between him and Ethan … and she had chosen him.

She loved him.

The hope and joy of her words and actions brought hot tears to his eyes.

“Huntingdon!” Buxton shrieked as he marched across the field towards them. “Get after him! You’re letting him get away!”

“My lord,” Crispin panted, a dark, damp patch leeching through the side of his tunic. “I-”

“Oh never mind.” Buxton waved his hand at Crispin when he saw his injuries. Instead he turned to Jack, who had sprinted up to the three of them. “You! Go after them!”

“Yes, my lord.” Jack nodded in his best Crispin imitation and ran off into the crowd.

“You let him get away, Huntingdon!” Buxton made a fist and was about to strike when he realized how dirty Crispin was and stepped back with a grimace. “You’ll pay for this.” He spun to Aubrey. “Yes
you
will. Crispin would have killed him if you hadn’t stuck your stubby little nose into things.”

“No he wouldn’t have!” Aubrey rounded on Buxton.

“That’s what you think, is it?” Buxton glanced from one to the other with a furious sneer. “Huntingdon! Control your bitch or I will control her for you!”

“My dear Buxton! What a magnificent show!” Pennington’s drawl as he strode up to them and thumped Buxton on the back doused the mounting danger.

Buxton beamed and laughed. “Did you like it? Didn’t think the ending was a little, mmm, gauche?”

“The ending was brilliant!” the emissary gushed. “So dramatic. Well done.” He raked an appraising glance over Aubrey. “Well done. ‘You will not kill the man I love’,” he repeated her heart-felt entreaty with a laugh. “Nearly brought a tear to my eye. You can’t buy entertainment like that in London.”

“Yeah, she’s a gem,” Buxton ground through clenched teeth. “Now you should really see the spread in the Great Hall.” He slid his arm around Pennington’s back and steered him off. Pennington laughed and gave Aubrey one last lascivious look before going on to join the nobles returning to the castle. Buxton wheeled on Aubrey and Crispin. “Oh, you just got
so
lucky.” A sick smile spread across his face. “Now get out of my sight!” He turned and marched towards the castle.

For a long moment Aubrey and Crispin stood where they were, catching their breath. The sun was going down and the air was growing crisp. Aubrey turned away from Buxton and the insanity of the dais and looked at Crispin. His face was covered in blood and bruises. His shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he swayed on his feet.

It was the damp spot at his side which concerned her the most. The pain flared to Crispin’s awareness as she reached out and pulled his tunic up and his shirt out of his chausses. He tensed and muffled a groan. The pale skin of his torso was littered with angry bruises and blood seeped from a long cut against his ribs on his left side. Aubrey raised a shaking hand to touch it.

“It’s just a flesh wound.” She sighed in relief, gasping through the tears that began to choke her. Her hands went numb as she shook. “It’s hardly more than a scratch!” Sobs wracked her and she came apart. In spite of the jolt of pain it caused, Crispin crushed her into his arms. She clutched his filthy tunic, sobbing against his chest, her whole body shaking in his arms.

For the first time in years Crispin felt strong. “It’s nothing.” He smoothed a scraped hand over her hair, trying in vain not to get blood on her. Her arms held him as though she would never let go. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the top of her head as joy coursed through him.

When she stopped sobbing and shaking and just leaned against him, breath returning to normal as the sunlight faded from the field, he set her on her feet and looked into her swollen, red eyes. “Take me to the castle and clean me up.”

She nodded, understanding that it was a request, a plea, not an order, and took his hand. The townsfolk and peasants were beginning to gather on the arena and a group of musicians was setting up on the dais that the nobles had vacated. The people cleared a path for them as they walked hand in hand from the battle scene and through the city, bowing and deferring to them with respect that neither of them had ever seen before.

They remained silent through the celebrating city, the bustle of the castle courtyard. The main hallway of the castle was crammed with nobles and their retinues, but as they mounted the stairs to the High Tower the noise and chaos faded until they reached the hush of the top floor and Crispin’s room.

Aubrey dropped Crispin’s hand as he shut the door and rushed to the small table that held his washing bowl and pitcher and a towel. She poured water into the bowl as Crispin winced through the pain and leaned against the bedpost. He watched the soft lines and curves of her body as she dropped her cloak to the floor and dipped the towel into the water.

“Come here,” she ordered him.

He obeyed, stepping to the table and sitting against the edge. “How many times are you going to have to tend my wounds?”

“Never again if I have my way.” She glanced up to him and flushed when their eyes met. “Take your shirt off.”

He shrugged out of his tunic then reached down and began to pull his shirt up and over his head. He slowed almost to a stop with a grunt when his bruises and sore muscles made it next to impossible for him to lift it any higher. Aubrey grabbed hold of the shirt and pulled it the rest of the way over his head.

She sucked in a breath when she saw his torso in the light of the fire, bruised, gashed, scarred, masculine. It was hard to know where to begin, hard to know how to touch him without causing him pain. She started with his forehead, cleaning the grime with the damp towel, then followed the line of his hair across his ear and along his cheek. She switched hands and held the side of his face while washing him. Her heart pounded in her chest as the river of liquid fire pooled between her legs and spread through her limbs. He closed his eyes and turned his face in her hand, his lips pressing against her palm.