The Mercenary's Marriage (15 page)

“What are you doing here?” Darius demanded
the moment she appeared.

Caught between the overwhelming delight of
finally finding him and concern because he was obviously irate,
Brice found she could barely manage to speak. “Trying to make a
bed,” she finally managed. “I found the old maid’s cot behind the
wardrobe in the bedroom and was trying to pull it out.”

Darius grimaced. “Leave it there. You won’t
need it. Come.” Holding out his hand, palm up, he waited for her
hand. “I went to my new rooms expecting to find my wife waiting,
and found she was not there. I don’t know why you are here, but you
are coming with me.”

“I thought you wanted me here.” Brice did not
take his hand. Instead, she watched his face. “Your steward said I
was to come here. I looked for you, but no one would tell me where
you were, so, I assumed you wanted me here.”

Darius dropped his outstretched hand with a
sigh. His face did not relax, but he was no longer grimacing.
“Brice, you are my wife.” His voice was deep and thick with accent.
“That makes you more valuable to me than any position, property, or
servant. I can always get another steward—in fact, I have already
set my mind on it—and I can live happily without lands and title.”
He pinned her with his eyes, “You, on the other hand are not
replaceable and I want no other wife.” He paused and watched her
for a moment. “I don’t know how to say it more clearly,” he said
softly and dropped his eyes.

“I love you, too,” Brice whispered.

His head snapped up at the words and then
slowly he smiled. Brice could not help smiling in return. Darius
did not wait this time, but crossed the space in a few strides and
enclosed her within his arms.

His embrace was painfully tight and Brice was
almost smothered in the folds of his tunic, but she found she did
not want him to stop. Finally, after a moment, he stepped back.
“Come, I am hungry and I am sure you have not found much to eat in
this mess. I left a wonderfully smelling meal and a soft bed to
find you. Will you come share my meal and my bed?”

“Aye, my lord,” Brice answered and Darius
laughed.

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.

Labren is in a bad spot. Injured and losing
blood with a patrol on his tail and a price on his head, he begins
to wonder if he should just give up. After all, he tried to run.
Or, maybe that was the fever speaking.

Eve faces a decision. Help the severely
injured stranger she stumbled upon in the depths of a Braulian
forest or return home to her slave master on time and possibly
avoid a beating.

Her choice will change both of their lives
forever.

Excerpt
from The Crown of Anavrea
–

Eve continued to cover her head and crouch
low in the raspberry patch. She concentrated on not making a sound.
The blare of the horn and the cries of the hunters faded. Lowering
her hands, she strained her ears. Not even the echo of their
crashing in the distance remained. The birds were silent in the
trees, but considering the recent ruckus, they might have all
fled.

A groan broke the unnatural silence.

She froze and listened, heart in her throat.
A pained, male grunt came from about three feet to her left.
Cautiously she turned her head. A stranger stared at her through
the tangle of bushes between them.

A wild mess of brown hair fell over his dark
blue eyes as he regarded her in alarm. Sweat plastered his hair to
his forehead. He observed her with more of a feverish glaze than
true understanding. Pain etched lines about his eyes.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then
shook his head. Falling forward, he then rolled onto his back and
laid still.

Eve hurried to untangle the thorns from her
tunic.

Free at last, she crept out of the patch and
approached him, crawling. Fear and instinct screamed she should
flee. Instead she paused. If she stopped to help him, she would be
beaten. Her master ordered her to stay away from the king’s
men.

Well, the king’s men or not, the pursuers
were gone. As their prey, he could hardly be one of them. Was he
worse?

She inched forward and a twig snapped under
her knee.

“Go away and leave me be,” he ordered.

“What will become of you?” she asked.

He stared into the sky above the trees. “My
pursuers return.” His chest still heaved from his recent exertion.
“I die.” Restlessly some of his limbs moved about as though urging
him to rise up and run.

“I know of a place where you can hide.” She
watched his lean form for a reaction. “It is nearby.”

He stopped moving. Finally, as though sensing
she would not leave, he spoke. “Come over here. I want to see you.”
She crept to his side. As soon as she drew close, she could see the
source of his pain. A shallow gash ran across his left arm above
the elbow and an even more serious injury marred his right leg
above the knee. The leggings, torn and caked with a combination of
dried and fresh blood, trailed filth in the wound. The damage to
his arm appeared very recent. She was calculating how she could
slow the bleeding when he commented.

“You are only a child.”

She brought her eyes to his face and bit her
tongue. This was not the time to argue her age. She returned to
assessing his injuries.

“If you are wondering whether or not I am
able to walk, stop.”

“I will help.” She met his eyes with a cool
determination that left no room for doubt.

After a moment, he broke from her gaze and
returned to staring at the sky.

“What if I want to die?”

She was still thinking about the best reply
when she grew aware of his scrutiny. Their eyes met. “Why would
you?”

His lips compressed as he swallowed his
reply. Instead, he offered, “I understand I do not have a
choice.”

He resisted as she reached for his wounded
arm.

“You need to promise me something first.”

She frowned and didn’t reply.

“If we are spotted or do not make it into
hiding, you must kill me.”

She looked away from the pleading and pain in
his eyes. “I promise.” Her voice was barely audible, but he seemed
satisfied. Thankfully he did not ask her to say it again. She
concentrated on ripping strips from her petticoat. It made her
nervous to repeat a promise she didn’t intend to keep.
Kurios,
don’t make me keep the promise,
she prayed.

She bound his leg and arm. After numerous
false starts, they managed to gain their feet. He towered over her
by a good foot. His leg threatened to give out, but otherwise he
could easily support himself on his other limb despite the obvious
loss of blood. The weight he draped over her shoulders made it
clear she wouldn’t have been able to budge him on her own.

Conversation reduced to grunts of pain or
effort, Eve began to consider the seriousness of her decision.
Mridle wasn’t going to allow her to nurse this man and no possible
way to do it without his knowledge. Escaping her master would be
the only way she could care for this man. And if he persisted in
his fatalistic outlook, she might not succeed. She shook the
thought away.
He must live, Lord. He must live.

The usual three-minute walk took them
forever. Dusk dimmed the sky when they finally reached the
broken-down door of the old shed.

The last steps were brutal. A few feet from
the door, his good leg gave out. Eve could not carry all his
weight. She stumbled under the sudden shift, tripped, and came down
painfully on her knees in the mud. Realizing that he might crush
her, the man rolled to the side and landed on his back in a small
patch of grass. After his stifled cry of anguish, they fell silent.
She waited until her knee ceased throbbing before she crawled over
to where he lay.

“I will go in and clear a place for you to
lie down before we try to move you again.”

He nodded his agreement. He had no breath to
speak.

She moved as fast as her sore muscles allowed
and stumbled inside. A hermit’s shack, the one-room structure did
not offer much comfort. A fireplace took up most of the right wall.
A small cupboard-like lean-to added for storage hid behind a
rickety door to the left of the hearth. Leaves and bugs littered
the floor and swaths of spider webs rustling with carcasses filled
the room. Movement among the clutter and the rotting window
coverings did not help her first impression. The only thing
resembling a bed crouched along the length of one wall. In essence
it was a wooden shelf with an old straw mattress on it. She pulled
off the decaying mess and, using her skirt, she brushed off the
bugs. Now came the harder part.

Upon returning outside, she almost cried at
the sight of him. He managed to prop himself against the wall. In
this position, he dozed. Every line of his body screamed
discomfort.

Gently, Eve woke him. Together they got him
to his feet and through the door. He fell onto the hard pallet. She
winced as his face contorted in pain. She knelt near his shoulder
to work on making him more comfortable. The gash in his arm needed
stitching, which required thread. She glanced at the single window.
Twilight veiled the sky and there was much to do.

“What is your name?” His voice wavered so
weakly she barely heard him. She met his eyes, dark and glassy with
pain and fatigue.

“Eve.”

With a shallow, bitter laugh, he said, “How
ironic.” Then, as if the strength to fight unconsciousness drained
from him, his eyes closed, and his head rolled to one side.

For a frantic moment Eve feared she had lost
him, but his weak pulse reassured her. She watched his chest rise
and fall and tried to decide what to do next.