Wrath of Lions (51 page)

“Matthew, you’re scaring me,” Catherine said, letting the blankets fall, exposing her body from the waist up. Even after birthing five children, she was a resplendent woman. Her chestnut hair was wavy and as smooth as satin, her flesh almost flawless, her gray eyes hauntingly beautiful. The only parts of her that bore the signs of childbirth were her sagging breasts and long, slender nipples; five children sucking vehemently on them for sustenance had taken its inevitable toll. Matthew hummed quietly as he looked down at her.

“Worry not, my dear,” he said, tying his belt tightly around his waist. “All will be well. I simply have business to attend to.”

“You
always
have business to attend to.”

Bren chuckled behind him.

“The price of marrying a merchant,” Matthew said with a grin. He waved his hand at Bren, and the bodyguard left the chamber. Matthew followed closely behind him, his fingers dancing over the hilt of the dagger wedged into his belt. He knew the blade would be useless to him—his true talents resided in other areas—but the feel of its cold steel helped reassure him nonetheless.

The sound of wailing reached his ears the moment they began to descend the stairwell. By the time they reached the ground level of the estate, three floors down, the sound was akin to the shrieks of a feral cat defending its alley.

Bren led him around the corner and into the foyer. His six personal guards stood before the great bookcase on the northern wall, their faces awash with confusion. They kept peering at the bookcase cloaking the secret passage. Down here in the foyer, the wailing was so loud that it was as if the wailer were in the next room. He silently cursed himself for not packing cotton around the hidden entrance to the Brennan Estate’s underground refuge.

“What’s happening, sir?” asked one of the guards, a young, blond man named Curtis. “What’s behind the bookcase?”

“None of your damn business,” snapped Bren.

Matthew placed a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder.

“Calm down, Bren.” He turned to face the other guards. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “and you have not heard a sound. All went as usual, there were no disturbances, and you heard no pained cries. Understood?”

All six nodded, though they still appeared confused.

“Uh, boss?” said Bren.

“The foyer is to be the last stop each of you make. Do not return for an hour. I want the rookery thoroughly examined, and I want
my bedchambers ransacked for potential threats. And please make sure to hang heavy drapes over all the windows to ensure that any possible sounds are dampened for those outside.”

“Boss!”

Matthew turned on Bren.

“What?” he barked.

Bren gestured with his chin, and Matthew followed his gaze. He froze at the sight of a spent-looking Moira dressed in wrinkled nightclothes, her dyed hair matted on one side and sticking up on the other. Penetta, one of Matthew’s maids, lingered behind her, looking just as sleepy-eyed as the former Lady Crestwell did. Penetta’s sheer gown was crumpled and damp, her auburn hair disheveled. Matthew wondered what they were doing together at this time of night, but discarded the question nearly as soon as he thought it. That Moira was standing in the foyer while the screeching issued from behind the bookcase made any other consideration moot.

No one said a word, and Moira’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze shifted from Matthew to Bren, to the guards, and then settled on the bookcase. She took a deep breath, puffing out her chest.

“Go upstairs,” she whispered. Penetta shuffled from side to side as if she hadn’t heard. Moira turned to her, grabbed her by the front of her threadbare nightclothes, and pulled her close.

“Go…upstairs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the petite young woman replied. She curtseyed, though the pleasantry looked ridiculous given her outfit, and then disappeared around the corner. Her soft footfalls could barely be heard beneath the wails, which were now coming in shorter spurts.

Matthew held Moira’s gaze.

“You all have your instructions,” he told his guards. “Now get to it.”

The guards hustled from the room, heading in opposite directions. Bren remained where he was. Matthew could hear the
clink
of the guards’ chainmail, but he dared not take his eyes off Moira. When all fell silent save for the tormented cries, he finally blinked.

“What…is that?” asked Moira as yet another wail echoed off the thick stone walls.

Matthew swallowed hard, trying to remain strong. “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Moira. Go back to your room with Penetta. Do whatever it is you do with her.”

“No.” She breezed past him and Bren, heading straight for the bookcase. He made no move to stop her. The woman might be small and unarmed, but the way she carried herself made her seem deadlier than a lion’s jaws. Even Bren, big and rough as he was, gave her a wide berth.

Moira stopped before the bookcase, running her fingers over the tomes stacked within. She then stepped to the side and rapped on the wall. A dull
thud
sounded each time her knuckles struck the wood.

“It’s hollow,” Moira said. The iciness in her voice made Matthew shiver. He had met her sister Avila on a couple of occasions—
Karak’s bitch
as many called her. Right then Moira sounded very much like her.

“It is,” said Matthew.

“What’s behind it?”

“A staircase.”

“
Who
is behind it?”

“I’d rather not say. You should go back to bed.”

She glared at him, her dyed hair hanging in front of her blue eyes.

“Open it.”

Bren tried to protest, but Matthew simply shook his head and stepped forward. The secret was out, and there was nothing the two of them could do about it. He went to the side of the bookcase and wrapped his fingers around the back ridge. Finding the catch, he slid it down. A loud
clank
sounded, and then he pressed his shoulder into the massive wooden obstruction and shoved. It slid
along the wall before coming to an abrupt halt, revealing a three-foot-wide black portal. The screams from down below heightened twofold.

Moira went to shove past him, but he gathered enough courage to stop her, placing a palm firmly against her chest. “I go first,” he said.

She stared at him blankly, making no response. He turned away and descended the dark stairwell.

The estate refuge had been built by his father, Elbert, thirty-eight years ago in the aftermath of Karak’s departure from Neldar, when corruption and thievery were on the rise. The refuge had been intended as a safe haven for his family should the rambling packs of wrongdoers band together and attempt to use violence and murder to purloin the family’s wealth, a possibility which had thankfully never been realized. It was a single large room, as wide as the estate itself, with a hatch beneath it leading to an underground stream that dumped directly into the ocean. In theory, those who were holed up inside could use the stream as a last resort to flee from danger, but in practice it had been used for the opposite purpose. Over the years Matthew had used the underground stream as a way to have young maidens snuck
in
, so he could enjoy their carnal pleasures in private. He thought about how the screams from the refuge could be heard throughout the estate’s first floor and cringed. Had Catherine been able to hear his trysts?

Fuck me sideways,
he thought, leading Moira farther down the stairs.

The refuge’s current resident had been snuck in three months ago. She had lived down there in relative luxury, while the rest of the world went on above her as if she didn’t exist. How Matthew wished that that were still the case.

He came to the bottom of the stairwell, where a pair of torches bordered a thick oak door, and rapped five times. He felt Moira
lingering behind him, her breath on his neck. It would have been easy for her to plunge a knife into his back if she had one on her. The screams came once more, bouncing off the narrow stone walls on either side of him, and he jumped.

A series of scratching sounds came from the other side of the door, like rats scurrying in the walls. In reply Matthew knocked twice more, then ran his fingernails across the wood, ending with two more knocks. The heavy
clunk
of a bolt being undone came next, and then the door to the refuge swung open.

He walked into an expansive and elegantly furnished space, well lit by a great many torches and candelabras. The floor was adorned with brightly colored rugs. To the left, there were a table and chairs, a washbasin, and a series of shelves displaying stylish glassware and plates. To the right, concealed by a curtain, was the privy, which dumped into the stream below. On the far side of the room, opposite the door, was a hearth with a lit fire, its smoke disappearing into the estate’s main flue. In front of it was a line of five beds, a huge four-poster one in the center. There, atop the bed, lay the source of the incessant screaming.

Matthew heard Moira gasp behind him, but the three individuals surrounding the wailing woman did not turn toward the sound. They were too intent on the task at hand.

He took a few steps closer, studying the naked, sweating body of Rachida Gemcroft. Her breasts were huge and her midsection even more so. Rachida’s eyes were closed, her face awash in agony. The young man propping her up brushed back the sodden clumps of her curly black hair, while the two in front of her, an older gray-haired woman and a girl who looked no older than fifteen, each braced one of her knees on her shoulder. The older woman was Gertrude Shrine, but Matthew knew the other two only by their first names: the young man was Raxler and the young woman, Shimmea. He had brought them in to care for Rachida months ago, and they’d lived in this refuge with her ever since.

“The baby is crowning, my dear,” said Gertrude. She pressed harder against Rachida’s leg, stretching her nethers as she forced it back. Rachida hollered in pain.

“You’re hurting her!” cried a desperate voice.

Matthew didn’t have time to turn around before something slammed him from behind, nearly knocking him to the floor. Moira darted past him, rushing to Rachida’s side. She grabbed Shimmea by the hair and yanked her back, then drove Gertrude away with an open palm to the chest. Next she turned on Raxler, fist drawn back as taut as a bowstring.

“My love,” Rachida said through clenched teeth. “Stop, now.” If she was surprised to see Moira, she didn’t show it.

“But—”

“But nothing, my love. It’s coming. Our baby is coming. It’s
comiiiiing
!” She threw back her head and screamed.

Gertrude shoved Moira out of the way, taking her place once more.

“Dear, we know what we’re doing. Please stand aside.”

She was joined by Shimmea, who hesitantly returned to her position.

“It will be soon, milady,” Gertrude said. “Breathe deliberately, in and out, in and out, and wait for the next one to come.” Rachida did as she was told, while the two women pushed against her legs. Soon the contraction came, and Rachida screamed louder than before, her every muscle tensing. Her face flushed red, the muscles in her neck and jaws so tight that Matthew feared she might somehow injure herself. When she calmed down, her eyes opened, and her gaze immediately found Moira. She reached out the hand that was not busy squeezing Raxler’s fingers. When Moira cautiously approached, Rachida took her hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it before another spasm began. Leaning against the bed, Moira fell to her knees, her expression one of surprised alarm.

“Disgusting,” Bren said, staring with wide eyes at Rachida’s crotch.

“Then don’t watch,” Matthew told him. “I never did for my five, and for good reason.”

Bren grunted. “Just look at that bed,” he said. “Blood all over it. Looks like the mattress will need replacing.”

“Now you’re disgusted by a bit of blood, eh, Bren? To think I hired you for your skill at spilling blood.”

Bren waved him off.

“This is different and you know it. I’m going upstairs for a drink. Come get me when it’s over.”

An hour later, the room was filled with the gurgling of an infant. A baby boy with a thatch of curly red hair emerged into the world, screaming just as his mother had been. The birthing chord was cut, the afterbirth expelled, and afterward Gretchen, Raxler, and Shimmea set about cleaning the mess, dropping soiled blankets into a canvas bag, and mopping up the afterbirth. Rachida and Moira reclined together on the red-streaked bed while the new mother fed the infant from her swollen nipple. As he watched the scene unfold, in a moment of ill-timed humor Matthew thought the child might be the luckiest male in all of Neldar.

Matthew sat at the table, fidgeting. Feeling like an invader, he tried not to watch. The two women were so enamored with the babe, he thought he could leave without either noticing him.

Just then Moira glanced at him, and it seemed as though a whole new person took over her body. She rolled off the bed as if fleeing a fire and raced toward him, snatching a sharp and wicked-looking instrument from Gertrude’s bag. Matthew lunged from his chair, but Moira was a raging ball of hate, her shoulders rising and falling, her eyes throwing invisible daggers of death as she stalked forward. Gertrude, Raxler, and Shimmea backed against the wall.

Moira stopped a few feet in front of him. “I trusted you,” she said, her voice barbed. “She was here, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” Matthew insisted, his heart pounding.

“Bullshit!”

“I’m not lying. Telling you would have meant risking everything I’m hoping to gain.”

Moira’s hands shook with her anger.

“Gain?” she asked. “What did you hope to gain by keeping me from her? Tell me, you bastard!”

“I’m not the right target for your anger,” Matthew said, trying to keep calm. “These were Petyr’s orders—
strict
orders, I might add. I’m sticking my neck out by hiding her here, and you as well. Try and remember that before you stab me.”

Moira looked back and forth between him and Rachida. The other woman looked exhausted, only halfway aware of what was taking place.