Only Brand had been stronger than that fear.
"Alina…"
He would touch her. Her eyes caught the brief blur of gold as his hand moved. His protection. Like heaven's blessing. No longer hers. She jerked away before he could reach her. Instinct, pure, fast and unstoppable in its strength. She could not let him touch tainted flesh. Not with so much guilt on her. Not him.
"No, I will be well, perfectly well. It was a shock. I did not know—" She swallowed bile.
"How…how…" She tried to soften the question but she could not find the words. Probably because there were none. No acceptable way to ask the man you loved how he had come to kill the foul creature you had been given to, sold to.
But she had to know. If there was more harm, if there had been—
"How…"
"You want to know how I killed him?"
"Yes. I want to know how it was."
How you set me free.
She straightened. But that meant she found the deep honeyed-amber of his gaze, so strong, purer than melted gold. Hot. For a fractured moment, the heat of that gaze scorched through everything, every bitter, ugly catastrophe, so that only the pureness was left.
But then the moment broke because it could not live between them. The shadows claimed all.
She had not meant it to be so. None of it But life took no account of intentions. Only of what was.
"Then I will tell you what happened to Hun. But not now. Not here. Come. We are wasting time."
"Wasting—"
"Time." He moved, her dream creature, sliding his weight smoothly from the rough-hewn support of the wall and there was nothing left either in his eyes or his body but the warrior.
"It is a long ride to Bamburgh."
"Bamburgh? You cannot mean to take me back to Northumbria, to Bernicia, after all? Hun is dead. It…it is all over—"
"All over between us?" He leaned over her, holding her captive just with his size, big hands on either side of her head flat against the wall. "No. It is not. Not yet." Her heart clenched.
Vengeance.
She could see the width of his shoulders and the sleek, muscled fullness of his body.
But she could also see his eyes. She would look at nothing but his eyes. He had never harmed her.
But never before had she caused an unjust death.
"You will not take me. There is no reason to."
"What a defective memory you have."
She flinched. He did not move. There seemed nothing of joyous, impulsive, high-hearted man who had taken her before. The man whose heart was capable of pity.
His eyes scored straight through the defence of her plain nun's clothing, straight through to her skin, making her burn, even though there was nothing of the lover in that look, only the predator.
The strength in that warrior's body was absolute. She knew it. There could be no mercy in it. There was no reason for any.
She held his gaze. Tried to think, to work out what she could say.
"If Hun is dead, then it is finished. Done. There can be no reason to want me—"
"What a fool you must think me."
Lethal muscle gathered itself. His hand moved. She had one glimpse of his remorseless face.
His grip was like a band of tempered steel. Inescapable.
"I will not go with you."
Her arm, her whole slight body was wrenched against him. She thought she had known his closeness. She thought she was quite familiar with the measure of his strength. She had not even begun to realize.
He was huge. She could feel him breathe, feel the faint edge of his breath touch the delicate skin of her face, like a mockery of the lover's caress that had once been theirs. But now it was the breath that fed his rage, the overwhelming power of his strength. The fire.
His grip on her arm hurt. She did not think he even realized. The fire burnt too strongly.
She gritted her teeth. She would not make a sound.
But he knew, quite suddenly. The realization came and the terrible grip on her arm abruptly relaxed. So abruptly that her shaking legs would have let her drop. Except that he still held her. Very close. And although his grip no longer hurt her, she knew that she would never break it.
She forced words.
"Do not make me do this." Their breath, wildly uneven, was shared, so that her senses span out of control. Because of his nearness.
"Do you truly wish to stay here?"
She raised her head. The ugly wimple, jammed against his arm, tore, unleashing a swath of heavy, tangled hair. Dark, not Saxon blond, jet-black against coarse white linen.
There was nothing she could do. She could not move.
She watched his gaze fasten on the embarrassing display of what should be kept hidden, and the fire in his eyes took on a different edge. She should be afraid. She was.
Yet the fierce heat in him found its echo in her, the way it always had, unbidden, quite beyond her control.
He knew that. The flare of recognition, of hunger, in his eyes was quite familiar to her. Neither of them had ever been able to disguise it, whatever they wanted.
His hand slid down her arm.
His touch was as unsteady as his breath, heated and not quite controlled. But that did not diminish his strength. He would take her hand, touch her as though—
She jerked away from him. But it was not allowed. His grip fastened on the thin bones of her wrist.
"We made our choices, Alina. Now we must abide them."
Her hand was engulfed by his, buried in his heat. His fingers closed over her flesh and his touch was…gentle.
It was that which took her resolve, and her strength, all of it, so that her body swayed toward him as though she would fall. But he did not let her fall. His hands slid round underneath her arms, supporting her, smoothly, with the expert touch that belonged only to him. Only his touch could make her begin to melt from the inside so that her body seemed to dissolve, helpless against his.
His hands held her, slid across her waist, the small of her back, took her weight so that the sensation of floating intensified. His hands were warm and his strength was complete. He would never let her fall. He never had. His touch had been the only thing she had had in the world to put her trust to. His strength, his warmth could hold her. Against everything.
If she would let it.
"Were you afraid? Is that why you could not go through with it, living an exile's life with me? Is that why you came south instead?"
Oh, the seduction of that voice, no longer burning with such anger. Brand's voice. Laced through with the priceless possibility of understanding.
How easy it would be to say yes. She had been afraid of everything, even her love.
She could just admit her fear, here in the shelter of his arms, and perhaps he would forgive her. Perhaps it would open the door on the bright light of the present, the greater lightness of him. That light surrounded her. Her sight dazzled against the wild brightness of his hair that seemed to attract every shard of golden sunlight in the room, against the far greater wildness and brightness of his eyes.
Eyes like that lived. It was the only way to describe it. They saw through things. They knew and accepted all the passions and the hopes, all the inadequacies and the contradictions that had been poured into the creation of human beings. Perhaps they would even understand that other fear, the one she could hardly find words for: the fear she had of love, just as great as her longing.
To win that complete acceptance, to have it offered like the most generous of gifts, would be like wound balm over deadly hurts.
Touching him and looking at him, she could believe he would give it, even though he could no longer love her. If she had ever truly won his love. Such a thing did not seem possible to her.
But what then, if he did understand, if he did forgive her? Because he had such a finely balanced sense of honour the burden would begin all over again.
She could not allow that.
The shadows that lay b
ehind the brightness and the strength in his eyes had been put there by her.
She watched him, and his warmth seeped through her bones.
"Aye. I was afraid," she drawled, "but not of Hun. I understood him and I should have stayed with him. The thing that made me afraid was the criminal folly of what I had done with you."
He did not say a word. Did not move. The eyes just stared at her, with a keenness that would draw blood.
"I…" But her voice stopped. Suppose he did not believe her? Even now? Suppose those eyes that saw so much could see through her deception?
She cast about frantically in her mind for something to say, something that would convince him. Something to show why he had found her cowering in an inadequately endowed Wessex abbey. Wessex. Hun.
"I came south to meet Hun." The slow, mocking sound of her voice formed the lie that would seal her fate. "And to get away from you."
The eyes shut off, closing her out. The gift, the possibility of understanding, was gone. All that was left was the frightening strength, the power that scorned all earthly restriction and would take everything.
He said nothing more. Just turned her around bodily and pulled her towards the door. His heavy booted feet scuffed the packed earth floor so that the meagre rushes flew. Her clumsy skirts, her feet, her whole weight dragged after him.
She fought him.
It was the only thing left, a matter of life-preserving instinct. She fought with a single-minded force that did not belong to her but to some maddened wildcat. She burst his grip. She actually burst his grip because she had surprised him and because there was a small and breathless instant when he held back.
She struck out with all the force that she had and his left arm slammed against the wall. It brought a sound of surprise, or pain. Pain. She had hurt him, more than she had thought. It was now. Now or she, he, would be lost.
The wildcat hit him again, beat against the arm she had damaged, lunged for the door. She would make it. Her hands scrabbled for the heavy iron latch, the last of her once carefully tended nails breaking.
He caught her. He was so fast. Lightning fast. She twisted desperately, lurched against the table. The table… Her scrabbling fingers found the sword. The snake hilt slid into her right hand. She could not, would not, use it because it was lethal. But neither would she give in.
Because it was not her safety at stake. It was his.
She hefted the blade, but it was overlong, unwieldy and she was jammed into the confined space between the table and the wall bench. She could not make the blade obey her.
"Do not touch me," she yelled with all the strength that she had. But she was a fool and more than a fool to think she could stop a fire spirit like Brand with a mere sword.
"Leave it, woman. Put it down. You will injure yourself—"
But she would rather do that than injure him. She turned for the door, unbalanced, swaying, her feet clumsy in the ill-fitting borrowed shoes. Her arm and her shoulder hit the wall and the blade sliced through the air, falling, falling toward her. The steel-bright edge was in front of her face, filling her vision. She could not stop it because she was falling, too.
This is how warriors die, she thought, just like this. Bright steel and no escape. Just as she hit the ground, something knocked her sideways.
There was silence. Deep. No movement except hers. She tested out each muscle like a terrified animal. She was not hurt, not really—no movement except hers. She gained her feet fast, in one lithe surge, because she was not hurt, only bruised.
There was blood. It oozed out in a small, thin trail from beneath the heap of expensive clothing jammed against the wall.
CHAPTER TWO
He was dead.
He had to be dead because she had seen the keenness of the sword blade, right before her eyes.
Just before he had knocked her aside.
She had killed him and the cycle of destruction was complete.
She dropped to her knees beside the motionless form. She was too terrified to touch him. Then she saw it, like a streak of flame in the rushes. The sword he had knocked out of her idiotically dangerous grip was lying on the floor, close to his hand, as though it wished to return to its owner.
It was not tangled up with the crushed remains of his body.
But there was blood.
She touched his face. It was warm. One fingertip moved with delicate, fear-streaked, sense-tingling slowness toward the faintly parted lips; felt the soft, moist-dark warmth of him. Breath.
Her own breath, bundled up in one horrible constricted tightness that scored her throat, came out in a rush that stirred the bright tangled gold of his hair.
A single, light gossamer strand slid across his closed eyes. He did not feel it.
He did not feel her touch.
But he was alive. Her hand rested on warmth. She could feel the smooth texture of skin under her fingertips, the rough line of his jaw under her palm.
Her hand shook. Not just from the aftermath of panic but because she had never touched him so, had never touched any man so.
It had all been of his doing before. And she had let him because she had been spellbound. Because she had been ignorant and desperate and unskilled, and he had been the opposite. He was the only one who had not realized the truth others had known since her birth. That she was not good enough.
She had wanted him to the point of madness.
She still did.
Her fingers traced their way back very, very slowly over the unmoving flesh, caressed the pure, fierce outline of the Northumbrian Brand's face. She brushed the soft threads of his hair aside. The seductive warmth was there, under her fingertips. It pene-, trated through the frail barrier of her skin, up her arm, and then inside her in a small swift rush, tingling, melting. Real.
His warmth had a generosity that overwhelmed. Even now, she could sense it. It was something that called to her, even though she had never been able to give it fair return and had now given away even the chance to. Nothing could stop her yearning for his warmth. It had a power that both exhilarated and frightened. Something clenched deep inside her with a force like pain. She snatched her hand away.
It was Saxon wiccecrceft, the man heat that lived in her Northumbrian lover. It possessed absolutely. Witchcraft.
He did not move, was lost in that otherworld of darkness. But he lived. He was strong. He would be well. The blood had stopped. She should leave him, now, before she did a harm that was worse than this.
But she could not.
Not after what he had done. He must hate her and he could have left her to the consequences of her own dangerous folly with the sword. He could have let her fall and that would have been the end. It would have solved everything.
But he had not.
Because of that, she could not leave him.
She could not leave him because he was Brand and though her love was like a thing maimed, she was bound to him by a cord she could not break, whatever she did.
At least she had to help him out of this.
She touched his shoulder. It was massive. Her hand settled round the familiar-unfamiliar shape. She knew him so well and yet she did not know him at all. They had touched as yet so very little and yet when they had, it had threatened to plunder sense and every feeling and every emotion. She had felt alive in his arms, all at once, in one intense, dizzying, life-consuming rush. Just for a moment. A moment that could not last.
He had kissed her. Once. That was all she had had of him in return for breathless, willing abduction and terrified flight and all the bitter consequences of pursuit. It was probably all she could give him.
He had wanted to wed her.
"Brand."
Her hand on the massive shoulder tightened, the damaged and useless second finger tangling in his tunic. He lay in a twisting uncomfortable heap on his left side. She could not see where the wound was, where the blood came from. She could not move him. He was too big, too heavy, and she was terrified of making th
e damage worse.
"Brand."
Helplessness, fear for him, twisted through her belly. She bowed her head over his. "Brand…" Her breath shivered across the heat of his skin, across the clear rise of his cheekbone.
His face was the comeliest she had ever beheld.
Her hand moved round from his shoulder, sliding upward, burying itself in the wild tangled mass of his hair, seeking the strong curving line of his skull, cradling his head.
"I will not leave you to be alone." The words came out of nowhere, raking through the thick heavy silence of the room. The last words she had any right to say. She bit her Up and tears sprang stinging against the backs of her eyes.
She should not still be with him, but some things, some feelings, admitted no reason.
Her lips trembled, a breath above his flesh, because being with him, holding him was wrong. He was not hers, just as she could never be his and yet— Her mouth touched him, her touch so light that it would scarce have been felt had he been conscious. It was next to nothing. Could be counted so.
But she could not be content with that. She kissed him.
Because this was the only way she could, when he did not know, when he could not feel the uselessness of what she did. Could not respond.
He would not want to respond.
But she could not stop herself. Her mouth fastened on his skin with a desperate greed that held nothing of grace, only the measure of her despair.
Then she felt it, what she should have felt before through her touch if she had not been so frantic to sense his living warmth. His skin scorched her mouth.
It was so hot it burned. He burned.
She drew back in terror.
"Brand…" Her voice was no longer a pleading whisper. It shouted. Her hand slid down, seizing the great bulk of his shoulder.
"Brand, you must wake up. Otherwise I shall not be able to help you. You must hear me. You must wake."
She swapped her damaged left hand for her right and shook him.
He did not respond. Her unsteady fingers moved to touch his brow. It burned under her hand, as though all the fire that lived inside him would scorch through the finely-wrought covering of his skin.
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