Lord of Vengeance

by Lara Adrian

  Gunnar shot his squire a silencing scowl. “The sun was in my eyes,” he grumbled.

  “Oh,” Raina said, and went back to her stitching. When she spoke again, her tone was insightful, teasing. “You must be more careful in future, my lord. And Alaric, you'd do well to learn from this. My father always said that a knight can ill afford to lose his concentration on the battlefield.”

  “Nay, milady,” Alaric mumbled.

  “The both of you may cease your babbling now,” Gunnar interrupted. “Boy, fetch me a cup of ale. I grow thirsty and powerful tired of your presence.”

  * * *

  Alaric rose and hastened out the chamber. The door closed behind him, leaving Gunnar in uncomfortable seclusion with Raina. He watched her work on his wound; her touch so gentle, her every concentration on causing him no greater discomfort.

  If she only knew the greatest discomfort came from her nearness and the lightness of her touch. It took great control for him not to seize her tiny hand and place it where her touch would do his body the greatest good.

  If she but looked at him now, he knew it would be impossible not to take her. If, in those green-brown depths he saw a hint of surrender, he would surely be lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying she would finish quickly so he could get as far away from her as possible.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  He found Raina's face tilted up at him, her eyes boldly searching his. Fearing what she would find there, his gaze dropped to her mouth. That was a mistake. Her lips were moist and supple as her tongue darted out to wet them.

  God, he wanted to taste of that mouth.

  “Nay,” he finally managed to croak, the word just as much a command to himself as it was answer to her innocent question. Aye, she was hurting him he reckoned. The pain she caused was the sweetest kind, a longing unlike any he had ever felt in his life. A pain he was certain only her kiss could cure.

  “I'm finished,” she whispered, mercifully turning her attention back to his gashed arm. When she dipped her head to bite off the thread and her lips brushed his skin for the briefest moment, he nearly bolted off his seat.

  She looked up at him, her eyes registering surprise. Then she smiled. “Did you think I would bite you?”

  He wanted to shoot back a clever remark, but to his infinite bewilderment, his voice was nowhere to be found. Instead he could only look at her, wanting nothing more than for her to flee, yet willing her to stay this close.

  Closer.

  She started to move away, and, seemingly of its own accord, his hand reached out to take her wrist. She hesitated, slowly lifting her head to face him, so close he felt her warm breath fan his skin. Her lips parted in silent protest but the invitation was clear in her eyes, in the way her arm relaxed in his grasp.

  Before he could stop himself he was leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers. Christ, their softness far surpassed his memory. A groan curled up from his throat; his loins tightened in response to her pliancy, and he pulled her to his chest, his kiss growing hungry with want to consume her the way she had been consuming his every waking thought. When her hand came up to cradle his nape and bring him closer, he pressed into her, fighting the urge to take her where she sat.

  The kiss deepened, rendering him near senseless with desire. He groaned and shifted on the stool, trapping her between his thighs.

  God's wounds, he wanted her so badly....

  A soft knock on the door went unanswered, then Alaric's tremulous voice sliced through the delicate veil that shrouded them from the rest of the world. “Milord? I bring your drink.”

  Raina broke free of the kiss first, her eyes downcast as she hastily moved away from him to the far corner of the room. Gunnar gazed at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched, angered at the interruption and willing the boy away.

  When Raina pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, he knew the moment had passed. “Enter,” he barked, his voice gruffer than he intended, roughened by passion unquelled. He shifted uncomfortably as Alaric opened the door and walked in with the requested ale.

  The silence in the room was palpable, and Gunnar knew the boy would have to be a fool not to realize something had happened. “Forgive the intrusion, milord,” Alaric mumbled as he set the cup down beside Gunnar and cast a quick glance to the corner where Raina stood. “Is there aught else you require?”

  Gunnar dismissed him with a curt wave and a shake of his head. When the door closed, he stood and examined his arm. “You make a better seamstress than laundress,” he said, offering a lame attempt at humor.

  She did not reply. Nay, she would not even look at him. He had taken liberties he had sworn not to, had plundered her mouth and nearly forced himself on her despite his pledge to keep his distance.

  Now he was trying to make pleasant conversation, jests.

  She must despise him.

  “Ah, what's the bloody use,” he muttered and turned to quit the chamber.

  It was then he heard her gasp behind him.

  He knew without turning around what caused her revulsion. Knew, because he got the same response from everyone who chanced to spy his back.

  His scars.

  He reached for the door, anxious to be away, not wanting to see the expression of horror on Raina's face.

  “Gunnar,” she called softly.

  He couldn't recall her ever using his Christian name. The sound of it, so tender on her lips, sent a tremor through him that he felt as surely as a bolt to the heart.

  She wouldn't always speak his name with tenderness, he reasoned. The day would come, and soon, that she would spit it with the self-same hatred he once felt for Luther d'Bussy. He couldn't change what had happened, couldn't change who he was.

  And he wouldn't allow himself to think of what could be. He clenched his jaw, refusing to turn around.

  “Gunnar, what happened to you?”

  At that moment, he wanted to hurt her, to drive her away with a word if he could and spare himself the memories...the hope.

  “Tell me,” she prodded gently, “who did this to you?”

  “Your father,” he replied bitterly, then he opened the door and walked out without even so much as a backward glance.

  Chapter 15

  If he sought to wound her, he had done so with expert aim. As if struck by a physical blow, Raina dropped to her knees in the center of Gunnar's chamber. Painful as it was, she supposed she needed a reminder of just what had brought her to this place, to his arms.

  Her father...his supposed crimes.

  Though she wanted desperately to deny Gunnar's claims, she knew now that he was not the sort of man to carelessly fling accusations. Whoever was responsible for the havoc wreaked on Gunnar's back, and indeed his soul, was the worst sort of monster.

  Heartless, unconscionable.

  She understood now why Gunnar hated with such vehemence, for she felt her own rage churn at just the thought of what he must have suffered. And to have lost his family...to be so alone.

  But her father?

  What Gunnar said simply could not be true. It could not.

  Acknowledging her father's involvement in something so heinous would mean admitting that her entire life had been founded on treachery and lies.

  It would mean that her father--the gentle, doting man who'd held her on his lap when she was a little girl, who'd kissed her childhood scrapes and soothed her tears all those nights when she wept for the loss of her mother--was in fact, a stranger. A deceitful impostor. And she could not credit that no matter how the doubt niggled her.

  Besides, Gunnar was young at the time of the siege--what had he said it had been, some thirteen years past? Perhaps his child's view had clouded reason. Surely that had to be it.

  And though her father had been unwilling to discuss his involvement or even his awareness of the crime with her before, perhaps having had time to think on it, he could now explain.

  If only she could convince Gunnar to give him the chance to be heard.

  * * *<
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  Gunnar avoided facing Raina for the remainder of the day, even going so far as to organize a hunt with Alaric and his men despite the persistent threat of rain, so that he might be away from the keep for a number of hours. Fool that he was, he thought time away would keep his mind from wandering to her, from the thought of her in his arms.

  But he saw her face at every turn, felt her softness in the brush of summer air, smelled her essence in the waft of heather rolling off the hills. The sound of his name on her lips lingered in his mind, fiercely stirring his loins with the promise of hearing her say it again, her velvet voice husky with passion. She was under his skin and in his blood, and he could not deny it.

  More than once he had not heard his men speaking to him, and they had to repeat themselves. More than once his arrow went awry, and he missed the opportunity to fell easy game. Gunnar's mind was elsewhere, as it had been for the past few days, and finally abandoning the hunt to his men, he reined in his destrier.

  He reached into a small satchel he wore tied to his baldric and withdrew the ring he had taken from Raina that first eve at the keep. So delicate yet strong. Beautiful and true. Like her...

  His mother.

  Gunnar's every memory of his mother had her wearing this ring. Often she told him the story of how she had come to have it, and how much it meant to her. His father had given it to her as a token of his devotion before he left for war, a promise that he would carry her love with him every day, a vow that he would return to dedicate his life to loving her and their son. And he had, she would tell young Gunnar with a wistful smile.

  What he wouldn't give to look upon her gentle face again.

  He enveloped the ring in his fist, holding it and her precious memory close to his heart. Luther d'Bussy had stolen the ring from her lifeless hand that day and then had the temerity to offer it to his daughter. He had taken a symbol of goodness and honor and attached to it a legacy of treachery and deceit. Not that Raina could be held responsible for the deed; she wore the ring with the same pride Gunnar's mother had, clearly treasuring the ring for its meaning to her, rather than its value.

  Gunnar had reacted harshly when he'd spied the ring again after so many years, taking it from Raina without explanation, without apology. In truth, he had scarcely been able to think, let alone speak, when he realized he had reclaimed it at last. For so long he had alternately cursed and cherished its rugged mate, the ring his mother had fashioned for her husband upon his return home. The ring she had given to Gunnar upon his father's death and the one Merrick had returned to him just a few days ago.

  The ring Gunnar would never allow himself to wear, nor could he bear to, until he had avenged his parents' murders.

  It was unfortunate that in so doing, Raina would lose a father she so clearly adored. It pained him to think of her feeling any measure of the anguish he felt at losing his family. She would hate him for it, and rightly so.

  But how she felt about him could have no bearing on his actions. It might have influenced him to repair his hall and respect her virtue, but this was different.

  This was about collecting on a debt owed for too long, and he would not be swayed...least of all, by his emotions. Still, she had a right to an explanation, an apology.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, drawing Gunnar's attention to the fast-darkening sky. Through the canopy of trees, heavy drops of rain splattered his face as the clouds rolled in. Placing the ring back in his satchel with the other, Gunnar stood in his stirrups, narrowing his eyes to search the woods for his men. In the distance, he heard Alaric's short whoop of victory and he headed in that direction.

  The men were combing the bushes with their swords, and none looked overly enthused.

  “Ye missed 'im, lad,” Cedric muttered.

  “Nay,” Alaric protested. “Did you not hear it squeal?”

  “The only squeal I 'eard came from yer lips,” Burc grumbled, slicing the head off a blossoming weed. “At best, ye might 'ave clipped the boar's arse.”

  Gunnar rode up to the group and reined in. “You men can finish the hunt without me,” he said. “I'm heading back to the keep.”

  “Aye,” Wesley, his archer, agreed, securing his bow to his saddle. “The rains are coming and I've no desire to soak my bones chasing after phantom boars.”

  “Nor do I,” Burc replied.

  The opinion drew quick support from the majority of the men and they prepared to abandon the hunt.

  “My mark was true,” Alaric maintained, “and I'm not coming in without that boar.” He looked to the crowd of knights. “Who is willing to wager I'm wrong? Surely there's one among you who isn't afraid of a few drops of rain?”

  An insulted murmur traveled the group and Gunnar had to grin, for if his squire's aim with bow and arrow fell short, the lad knew precisely where to strike with his wit.

  Alaric drew himself up in his saddle and went for the kill. “God knows, most of your ugly arses could do with a bit of water.”

  “Is that so?” Cedric said, unwittingly taking up Alaric's challenge. “I, for one, would very much like to see the look on yer face when ye see that yer boar is naught but a bunny. Or, mores the like, a puny rat, skewered with your arrow.”

  Another man laughed along with Cedric, agreeing that he too would like to witness the lad's humiliation.

  With a knowing smirk in Alaric's direction and a slight shake of his head, Gunnar wheeled his mount around and rode out of the woods with Burc and several other men at his heels.

  * * *

  The foul weather had moved in quickly, carrying with it an uncustomarily cool wind. Rain slanted in through the open window of Gunnar's chamber, wetting the ledge and the floor beneath it before Raina hastened to push the shutters closed. Shivering from the dampness in the air, she stood before the fireplace, warming her hands as the door creaked open.

  Gunnar entered softly, his hair wet, his mantle spotted with rain. “Are you cold?” he asked as his gaze lit on her. At her faint nod, he removed the cloak and cast it to the bed, then retrieved a log from the pile beside the fireplace and placed it on the hearth.

  Dark, rusty-colored blood stained his sleeve where the cut in his arm had bled through, but he did not favor it as some might have. He seemed to take every adversity in stride, no pain seemed significant enough to give him any pause. Raina wondered what it must be like to keep all that pain bottled up inside. “How fares your arm?” she inquired softly.

  He turned then, glancing over his shoulder to face her, as if startled to hear her voice. He shrugged. “Well enough, thanks to your expert mending.”

  The room was dark, save the now blazing firelight, which danced in Gunnar's eyes as he stood beside her, his striking features cast in shadows that lent him a mythical quality. Strangely, in that moment, Raina could see the boy that Gunnar may have been, his fathomless eyes seeming to reflect the void of living alone, living without love.

  She longed to place her palm against his cheek, to feel the rugged plane of his face, the crisp growth of whiskers peppering the jaw of the man whom that wounded boy had become.

  He cleared his throat. “About this morning,” he said, a remorseful scowl suddenly furrowing his brow. “I...I'm sorry.”

  Raina shook her head mutely. “There's no need to apologize.”

  “Aye, there is.” He took her hand and led her to the bed.

  Raina sat beside him, stunned at his gentle treatment of her, the way he traced his finger along the back of her hand so gingerly. She held her breath while he seemed to struggle finding his.

  He spoke at last, looking into her eyes. “I wish to apologize to you for many things, not the least of which being the way I have treated you since you've been here.”

  Raina didn't need an apology; she understood. But there was one thing she simply had to know. “Gunnar, those scars--”

  He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “They are unsightly and no doubt turned your stomach.” He chuckled, but it was a forced sound. “The
y are inconsequential.”

  “But you said my father was responsible...Gunnar, you must be mistaken.”

  He stood sharply and paced away from her. When he spoke, his voice was cool and flat, like the edge of a blade. “There is no mistake. It may not have been at his hand, but 'twas by his command.”

  “'Tis impossible for me to believe--”

  “You call me a liar, then?”

  “I don't doubt that you believe my father responsible. 'Tis just that the man who could have done what you say he's done, has to be the worst sort of villain. Not at all like the man I call Father.”

  “That doesn't mean he is innocent of the crime.”

  “Perhaps not, but what if your memory is cloudy of that day? You said yourself 'tis been thirteen years. You could have only been a young boy then. Children's memories are often exaggerated--”

  “What more do you require to convince you?”

  “I don't need to be convinced,” she said, “but mayhap if you were to tell me what happened...exactly...I could help you to make sense of it.”

  “It will never make sense,” he snapped, scowling furiously at her. He exhaled deeply and fixed his attention back on the fire. “I no more wish to dredge up the details than you will want to hear them.”

  “Then perhaps if you had some proof--” she blurted.

  Gunnar spun to face her, his expression screwed with affronted incredulity. “Proof? Proof that I was there and saw with mine own eyes how your father, Luther d'Bussy, sliced my mother nigh in two with his blade when she refused to become his whore? Proof that I was cut down by your father's man and left to die of my wounds?”