Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03

by Heart of the Dragon

  Yet he was a better man for having met her. She brought out a side of himself he’d thought lost forever, a trace of the idealistic youth he’d once been. And he no longer saw himself as the sole savior of Llywelyn’s plans.

  Let the prince scheme and plot as he would; he did not always need the Dragon to enforce his law.

  Let some other poor fool take up that thankless chore.

  Ian had other tasks, more dear to his heart than even his beloved Wales.

  The weather turned nasty as they got closer to home.

  Gwal Draig stood surrounded by forest and rugged terrain, and the rain and fog that had descended upon them from the mountains made the going slow.

  Impatient now that he was nearly there, he could have snarled in frustration.

  They were almost to the village when the attack came out of nowhere, startling their mounts and catching them foolishly unprepared. Their attackers were on foot, and outnumbered them, from the sOUnd of it—‘twas difficult to see—so the men split up and joined the battle.

  “Hurry!” Ian shouted to the others.

  “They’re attacking the town!” He spurred his horse along the track.

  “Follow me!”

  A muted cry echoed through the trees, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel against steel. Some of their men had gone on ahead; clearly, they’d already met with trouble.

  Hoofbeats pOUnded as the two rear guards rushed past them. Rain flung from the sodden branches whipped at their faces as they raced through the trees toward the sounds of battle.

  A woman ran past, her gown torn and scarcely covering her nakedness.

  “Twas all Ian needed to see. Leaping from the saddle, he shoved past Rannulf, racing over the uneven ground to the pair writhing on the grass.

  Leaping the last few yards, he hit the man square in the back, sending him flying.

  Roaring his rage, Ian grabbed the churl by the tunic and jerked him to his feet. The man didn’t even have a chance to straighten before Ian planted a fist in his face, forcing him to his knees. Ian grinned at the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles.

  “Get up, you coward,” he snarled, motioning with his hands for the man to stand.

  “I’ve not even started with you.”

  Breathing noisily through his crushed nose, he lurched to his feet and, clasping his hands together, swung them at Ian’s head. Ian evaded the blow easily, taking advantage of the other man’s momentum to knock him to the ground again.

  There was no challenge to this, Ian thought, disgusted by the whimpering sounds stealing through his opponent’s lips. He waited impatiently for him to regain his feet, then stalked him around the clearing.

  “Fight back, damn you,” he growled.

  “Or do you only hit women?”

  His body swaying, he simply stood and stared at Ian, his only response to the insult the fire flaring in his eyes.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do to you, you miserable son of a bitch? Once I’ve beaten you bloody, I’m going to rip off your—” Snarling, teeth bared in a terrible grimace, the other man dived at Ian.

  Finally, Ian thought, the exultation of battle rushing through him. There was no challenge–or honor—in pounding on a pulling craven who wouldn’t fight back.

  But now he felt the honest satisfaction of defending the innocent. This churl would die today, one way or another, for the things he’d done.

  Hands at each other’s throats, they rolled across the rocky ground, their straggle punctuated by grunts and moans.

  Finally, Ian felt the man go limp beneath him. Leaving him lying there, Ian grabbed the reins and swung back into the saddle, heading for the village.

  He discovered a group of men on the road leading away from the village, loaded down with their ill-gotten gains.

  A ragged band of fighters ran from the trees and joined their fellows, their crude weapons at the ready.

  They attacked immediately, reaching to pull him from the saddle. He looked about for any help, but none of his men were near. No matter. He could manage on his own.

  Slashing about him with his sword and kicking out at the cudgels raised against him, Ian sent several men to their knees, blood streaming from their wounds. He swung his sword in a wide arc and sent a subtle command to his mount. The stallion reared up, hooves flailing out to strike at the men before him.

  A bolt of fire shot through his shoulder. Sucking in a deep breath against the pain, he stared at the arrow piercing his flesh. Damnation, but it hurt!

  His attention faltered, and the stallion lowered his hooves to the ground.

  Before he could urge the horse to a gallop, the group moved in to attack again. He could not beat back this assault. Ian cursed as they pulled him from the saddle and continued to rain blows upon him, despite his struggles.

  They finally pinned him to the ground. He felt a sharp blow to the head, making his body jerk and his vision dim.

  His last thought before the darkness claimed him was of Lily.

  When Ian regained his senses, he lay flat on his back, soaking-wet and shivering with a bone-deep chill. The icy moisture soothed his aching body, bringing him back from the darkness still muddling his mind. He rolled onto his side, groaning when he hit the arrow in his shoulder. He had to get up. His attackers seemed to have left him alone for the moment, but they might return to resume their assault.

  He shifted and lifted his uninjured arm, surprised at how unsteady he felt.

  Where were Nicholas and Rannulf? he wondered. Had they managed to survive this, or were they, like him, lying wounded somewhere?

  He struggled to sit up, a sharp pain in his right leg telling him he’d been hit by another arrow. He reached down and felt the shaft, just below his knee. He didn’t think the wound was bleeding, but it certainly would make it difficult to walk.

  Head pounding, he straggled to his feet, ignoring the way his stomach churned. His sight wavered and blurred.

  Ian lurched across the uneven ground, managing only a few stumbling steps before his knee gave out.

  He landed hard on his side, his head swimming giddily for a moment. Sweat ran down his face and neck as he rolled onto his good knee and tried to rise again.

  Ian pushed himself upright, shoving wet hair out of his face with a shaking hand. He scanned the area. The fog, combined with his headache, lent an eerie glow to the landscape. Though he knew he could only be a few leagues from Gwal Draig, nothing looked familiar.

  Nothing moved. All was silent save for the steady drip of rain off the trees:

  He should move, look at the bodies laying along the trail. He knew he’d recognize the victims—they were his people, after all–but he doubted Rannulf or Nicholas would be among them. He hoped not. He already dreaded the tally of carnage from this day’s work.

  He staggered along the road, clutching his shoulder and dragging his right leg. Before he’d gone twenty yards, his leg collapsed under him and he fell to the ground.

  Though he struggled against it, darkness claimed him once more.

  Rannulf spurred his horse back along the trail, Nicholas riding hard beside him. It had taken a while, but they and their men had managed to help the villagers beat off the attack. Casualties among the villagers appeared high, but nowhere among the bodies strewn throughout the area around the town had they found Ian.

  No one had seen him since he’d leaped back onto his horse after beating the rapist into the ground. It had been too hectic for them to keep track of each other in the fray.

  They’d search every inch of the forest if they had to, but find him they would. Rannulf had no intention of going to Gwal Dralg without him, or of telling Lily her husband was dead. Ian was alive, and they would find him.

  They nearly rode right over Ian’s prone body where he lay sprawled in the middle of the road. Even the thundering hoofbeats of the horses hadn’t seemed to rouse him.

  Nicholas jumped from the saddle and ran to Ian, carefully easing him over on
to his back.

  “An arrow in the arm, another in the leg, and bruises about the head,” he said as he examined him.

  “Look at his leg.” Rannulf pointed toward Ian’s knee, twisted at an odd angle below the arrow.

  “At least he still lives,” Nicholas said.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get him home.” Together they picked him up and moved him to the side of the road.

  “It’s not far to Gwal Draig from here.” Rannulf sat back on his heels and pondered the situation. ““Twould be best to get a hurdle. Some of the townspeople—or we–can carry him there.”

  “Aye. With the lumps on his head and the fact that he hasn’t awakened, we’d better not try to move him with a cart or horse. He shouldn’t be jostled about. There’s no telling what shape his head is in.”

  It took a while, but eventually they found two able-bodied young men who were very willing to do what they could to help their lord. Rannulf sent a boy running ahead to Gwal Draig with a message for Lily, warning of what had happened. She would surely need to prepare medicines, or some such.

  Lily and Gillian waited impatiently in the courtyard for the men to arrive with Ian. The guards stood ready to throw open the gates as soon as they got there.

  From the moment the messenger arrived, Lily’s stomach had been trying to rebel. How could he get so close to home, after being gone for so long, and be attacked in his own village?

  It made no sense.

  But she refused to consider that they might not save him. She would not let him die. She loved him too much, and she wanted the chance to show him.

  She met them as soon as they entered the bailey, directing the men where to take him. She was vaguely aware of Rannulf and Gillian exchanging a hurried embrace before they joined Nicholas to follow the procession up the stairs.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “When we got to the outskirts of the village, we saw that it was under attack,” Nicholas told her.

  “Outlaws, apparently.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t come here, as well,” Rannulf added.

  “Although they weren’t well armed. But there were a number of them—a large band, from the look of it. As soon as you get Ian settled here, Nick and I will take some of your men out to find the bastards.”!

  “There’s nothing you can do here,” Gillian said, her attention on Ian as they transferred him from the hurdle to the bed.

  “Go find the men who did this.”

  Rannulf dropped a kiss on his wife’s lips, then placed a comforting hand on Lily’s shoulder before he and Nicholas headed out the door.

  Lily wasn’t certain where to start. Ian looked terrible, streaked with blood and dirt, the arrows still sticking out of his shoulder and leg. His leg was badly swollen.

  “Sit down,” Gillian told her, moving her to a stool beside the bed.

  “I’m used to this kind of thing, and I can see You’re not. When I need you to help me with anything, I’ll tell you.” She began cutting off his leggings.

  “You sit there and talk to him, let him know he’s home with you.”

  Lily maintained a steady stream of conversation as Gillian ministered to Ian’s injuries. It terrified her to see him lying there so still, pale but for the bruises discoloring his face.

  Gillian paused beside her.

  “Will you be all right here, alone? I’m going to get you something to eat and see if I can discover what Rannulf’s found out.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lily whispered.

  “Is there anything I should look out for?”

  “Just don’t let him move about too much if he should awaken.” Gillian placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  Lily moved closer to Ian, leaning over the bed to softly kiss his lips. She nearly jumped when she felt him respond with a weak kiss of his own.

  “Lily?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

  “Aye, sweeting, ‘tis Lily.” She carefully sat on the edge of the bed.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I tried to dance with Mouse,” he said with a shaky laugh.

  “And he tripped.”

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, resting her cheek on his uninjured shoulder as, against her will, the tears began to flow.

  “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Hush, love. Don’t cry. It would take more than this to kill me. I won’t leave you, I swear.

  I’ve waited too long for us to be together.”

  Lily stretched out beside him, taking comfort from the heat of his body next to hers.

  “I’ll hold you to your promise,” she said, reassured that he meant what he said.

  It took more than this to kill a dragon.

  Epilogue

  Inn Sat in state in his bedchamber at Gwal Draig, his leg propped on a footstool. Lily had ensconced him there, refusing to allow him to do much of anything until he recovered completely from his injuries. This was the first day in over a week he’d even been allowed out of bed.

  He wouldn’t have minded so much, especially after his long absence, if his wife had joined him there. But she’d not yet felt he was up to it.

  Ha! She couldn’t possibly have missed noticing just how ready for her company he was.

  But how could he complain? If his lovely wife wished to treat him like a king, he’d not say her nay. Wasn’t that a husband’s duty, after all, to be treated like a king?

  He was an obedient creature, he thought with a snort.

  Obeying his liege, however reluctant he’d been to leave Lily to do it, had given him his heart’s desire, without fear that she’d be taken from him. He knew Llywelyn would not go back on his word in this. Especially since Inn had the backing of two powerful marcher lords, he thought with a chuckle. If he hadn’t gone to London about

  Llywelyn’s business, he and Lily would likely be living in the forest somewhere, part of an outlaw band straggling to stay alive.

  Like the men who had attacked the village. Rannulf and Nicholas had run them to ground without much difficulty, loaded down as the miscreants had been with loot from his village.

  There was certain irony to the situation, he thought.

  First, that such a large group of renegades should have chosen his forest for their lair. They’d known he was seldom home, being as busy as he was on Llywelyn’s business.

  And he found it particularly ironic that, in the times he’d been attacked when he was outlawed, no one had come as close to killing him as these ill-equipped men.

  But still he couldn’t regret going to London. Without making his bargain with Llywelyn, he’d probably have wound up dead eventually, and Lily married to some idiot of Llywelyn’s choosing.

  And if he hadn’t met Lily, he would still be a blind, emotionless fool.

  How could he have known he needed a woman like Lily, to awaken the heart of the Dragon? Courageous and loving, fearless enough to match him word for word, passion for passion. Powerful enough to hold the Dragon’s heart in her hand.

  For though far from tame, he was not the man he’d been when he met her. And he thanked God he was not.

  That poor fool had been so blinded by his goals, his duty, that he’d forgotten how to be a man with compassion, as well as fire.

  In Lily he’d found the perfect mate. Now all he needed to do was convince her of the fact.

  He smoothed his hand through his hair, then twitched at the cuffs of his shirt. Why hadn’t Lily gotten here yet?

  Today, of all days, she’d kept away from their chamber.

  He’d sent a servant to bring her to him, for his injured leg made it difficult for him to walk yet. He hadn’t been out of this room since Rannulf and Nicholas carried him up here more than a week ago.

  His leg throbbed in remembered agony. The journey back to Gwal Draig was a long, pain-filled blur in his mind. But he’d recovered quickly. Though his head s
till pained him on occasion, his shoulder was healing nicely.

  He felt much better now, ready for any confrontation.

  Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, he thought, sitting up straight as the door opened.

  Lily’s face brightened when she saw him, those delectable lips curving in a smile.

  “You must be feeling better,” she said, crossing the room and sitting beside his foot on the stool. She felt his forehead for fever, then poked gently at his knee, eliciting a mock grimace of pain.

  “There’s not enough room for you there,” he said, nudging her off the seat with his foot.

  “Come sit up here with me.” He patted his good leg. ““Tis a far more comfortable chair.”

  She had no choice but to stand; otherwise, she would have landed on the floor.

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  she asked primly.

  “Come here,” he growled, tugging her onto his laP.

  She landed sprawled over him. She squirmed into a more settled position, the movement sending shards of pleasure through him.

  He wrapped his arms about her tightly and held her for a moment, savoring her warmth and sweet scent. Lily’s arms slipped about his waist and, sighing, she nuzzled the base of his throat. His arms tightened about her.

  “I’ve missed you. I hope I am never away from you for so long again.”

  “Aye. This is wonderful, don’t you think? We’ve had so little peace since we wed,” she murmured.

  “I never realized I wanted it, but sitting here like this makes me complete. I have you, and a family. And there’s more,” she added, sitting up to gaze into his eyes. He couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell him, but it seemed to be something good.

  “And what might that be?” He pressed a kiss to her throat.

  “I find I’m feeling quite content, myself. And I like it,” he said, surprised to find it true.

  “You’ve been too ill to notice the change, perhaps. But I’ve grown in the time you were gone.”

  Grown?

  If by that she meant that her body had become more rounded, he had noticed. A certain lushness about her breasts—making his mouth water for a taste—and a sweeter curve to her hips. Tonight, perhaps, he’d finally be up to the challenge of reintroducing his wife to passion.