“Pretty.”
“Aye, well, pretty is as pretty does and you’re going to have your hands full with that one,” Arbra told him.
“Worth it,” the tortured man said and his eyes crinkled a second or two before he was plunged back into darkness.
* * * * *
“The bastard son of King Larrion?” Baron Demas Blackthorn shouted at the top of his lungs. “That is the man to whom she is bonded?”
“Not yet,” Arbra said. “She did not touch him. I sent her away as soon as she told me she wanted to put her hands on him.”
“Argh!” Antonia’s father bellowed, pulling his hair with both hands. “How could this have happened?”
“’Tis the goddess’ will, husband,” Lady Maripose Blackthorn informed him. “Do not blame either your daughter or the Crimson Lord for the pairing. ’Tis none of their doing. Sibylline, Herself, made the match.”
“I will send her to Galrath!” the baron stated.
“You’ll do no such thing,” his wife denied. The thought of her lovely daughter consigned to the infamous convent on Serenia sent shivers down her spine. “You will not interfere, Demas.” She turned her exquisite porcelain features to Arbra. “And neither will you. It’s bad enough you already have.” She shook her finger at him. “You’d best pray the goddess does not take Her anger out on you for interfering, Dobryn Arbra!”
“She’s not my goddess,” Arbra said, his chin in the air. “I worship Alel and there is no other god—”
“Shush!” Lady Maripose hissed at him. “Do not tempt Her to prove to you that you are wrong!”
“I would listen to my Lady-wife if I were you, Dorbryn,” the baron warned. He gave his wife a tender look. “Where is Tonia now?”
“Hiding in her room with the covers drawn over her head. Quaking and mumbling like a little coward,” Lady Maripose answered with disgust. “You know how she fears cats.”
“An irrational terror,” her husband grumbled. “Lord Garrick is Panthera, a respectable species.”
“He is also a Vampire,” Lady Maripose pointed out. “That trumps Panthera.”
“Why would King Lorrian send his bastard son in the place of the commander of the Modarthan army?” Lord Alyxdair Clay asked from the hearth where he was standing with an arm braced on the great oaken mantle. He was the commanding officer of the Volakisian guard.
“There can be only one reason,” the baron said. “The Crimson Lord is now in charge of the Modarthan forces.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Lord Alyxdair said with a sharp frown creasing his brow.
“Not for us it isn’t,” the baron mumbled. “We dare not continue with our plan under the present circumstances.”
“For such smart men, the two of you have so little foresight,” Lady Maripose said. She plumped the skirts of her gown around her and shifted more comfortably in her chair.
“How so?” her husband inquired. He had long known his Lady-wife was a much better strategist that he.
And much more coldblooded.
“This warrior is your daughter’s Chosen whether we like it or not. There is nothing we can do about it,” she replied with a look at the fingernails of her right hand. “He will be bound to her in ways we can use to our advantage.”
The eyebrows of all three men shifted upward.
Lady Maripose smiled. “Do you see where I am going with this, Demas?”
“Indeed I do, love,” her husband agreed. He lifted his head and looked toward the bedchambers where their guest had been taken. The room was on the opposite side of the keep from his daughters’. “He owes her his life.”
“Aye, he does,” Lady Maripose agreed.
“I don’t like this,” Lord Alyxdair said. “Not one bit.”
“That is because you always hoped it would be you who would be Tonia’s Chosen,” Lady Maripose said. “Did I not tell you long ago that was not the case, Alyx?”
“Aye, milady, but I prayed you were wrong. I had hoped she would grow into her need for me as her Life-mate.” The young man ran a hand over his face. “She is my heart.”
“That is most unfortunate,” Lady Maripose said with a sigh. “But neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things.”
“You will give her hand to this barbarian?” Alyx queried.
“What choice do we have?” the baron asked. “We cannot hold the Crimson Lord captive and interrogate him as we planned with General Richar. The Modarthan forces would invade as soon as the king’s spies learned the warrior is taken.”
“That will eventually happen anyway,” his wife warned. “War is inevitable. Is that not what our people have been training for?”
“We’ve been training to throw off the yoke of the goddess-be-damned Modarthan rule,” Alyx said. “What if he won’t accept Tonia to wife?”
“He will,” Arbra grumbled.
“How do you know?”
“Because he says she’s pretty and when I told him he would have his hands full with her he said it would be worth it,” Arbra replied.
Alyx groaned, squeezing his eyes closed for he knew the woman he had hoped to have as his was now out of his reach.
“He is honor-bound to accept her. She saved his life,” Lady Maripose said. “To a Panthera, that is like catnip.”
* * * * *
Striding along the corridor that led to the armory, Alyx was angrier than he had ever been in his twenty-six years. Not even his older brother’s death at the hands of the Modarthan militia had caused as much rage in the Volakisian lord. He ached to put his fist through a wall but all around him was solid stone and the petrified wood columns of Castle Blackthorn. By the time he reached the armory, he had worked himself into such a state his vision was tinged with red.
Moonlight flitted through the arrow loops and a light breeze wafted through. The air was turning chill for it was almost October.
The sound of hammers striking iron hurried his footsteps. He needed to speak to the smithy who had crafted the iron bands that had been used on the Modarthan. That the bands had not been welded closed infuriated Alyx. It should have been impossible for anyone to simply pry the bands apart as Arbra had. His only consolation was in knowing the removal of the bands had caused the Crimson Lord immense pain.
Entering the smithy’s shop, Alyx motioned for the burly giant to come to him. Long leather apron slapping against his legs, the blacksmith hurried over.
“What happened?” Alyx demanded in a low voice. He cast his gaze about for prying eyes and ill-timed ears. “Why were the bands not fired to his flesh?”
“We were interrupted before we could finish the job, Your Grace,” the smithy said. “A patrol passed close by us. We held our breaths hoping they wouldn’t find him before the Sun rose.” The smithy bowed his head. “I am deeply aggrieved he did not die as you planned.”
“And because he did not,” Alyx said through gritted teeth, “he has further caused me trouble.”
“I heard,” the smithy said. He looked up. “Tell me what I can do to remedy this.”
Alyx started pacing, confident there was no one to overhear. “We will need to bide our time for now but I’ve a plan to rid ourselves of him and the Modarthan yoke that is ever tightening around our necks.”
“Give me leave and I will take his head,” the smithy said. “I swear my loyalty to you and the cause, Prince—”
“Shush!” Alyx hissed. “Never, never call me that!”
* * * * *
“An alliance between the house of Blackthorn and Warwyck,” Lady Maripose told her husband the next morning, “would be most beneficial.”
They were taking their daily constitution upon the battlements, looking out over the hundreds of acres upon which Castle Blackthorn sat. Her arm was laced with his, a parasol in her other hand to shield her from the harsh sunlight.
“Except for one thing, milady,” the baron said. “We will soon be at war with Modartha.”
“Straddling both sides of the fence could b
e advantageous, don’t you agree?” his wife queried. “We would have a foot in each camp and no matter the victor, we would be protected.”
“True,” he said, tapping his thumbnail against his front teeth as was his habit. “And I really don’t have any options considering Antonia’s attraction to the warrior. Curse that goddess-be-damned prophecy.”
“The added advantage being the warrior is also the much loved bastard son of the Modarthan king,” Lady Maripose pointed out.
“There is that,” the baron agreed with a grunt.
“It is—as the Serenians say—a win-win situation,” she stated. “But…”
“But?” her husband countered.
“He will need to take up residence here and not take our daughter to Modartha. Having him here would serve two purposes. We would not lose our daughter to that barbaric horde and he would be where we could watch him.”
“Where Alyxdair can watch him you mean,” the baron corrected with a smile.
“Have you put him in charge of finding out who staked the warrior?”
“I did, although he did not seem all that eager to do so,” her husband replied. “Already he has taken a very strong dislike to the Modarthan.”
Lady Maripose shrugged. “I feel sorry for the lad. His hatred for all things Modarthan was bad enough before now. If Antonia weds the warrior—”
“She will,” the baron said. “Whether it is to our liking or not.”
“Well, I—for one—am pleased with the match for the reason I stated before.”
“Then why say ‘if’?” her husband asked.
“Someone tried to murder the warrior. Do you not think they will try again?”
“Egad, I hope not,” the baron said. “Leastways not at Castle Blackthorn. Not on my watch. The Modarthan king would destroy us! He would bring the very stones of the keep down around our ears should something happen to his son while he is in our care.”
“Then we must see to keeping the warrior safe,” she said.
“Indeed,” her husband replied.
* * * * *
Waking to a brutal headache with which he was all too familiar, Garrick slowly opened his eyes. For a moment he was completely dumbfounded for he had no idea where he was or how he got there. Above him was the canopy of an ornate bed and beneath him the softest mattress upon which he’d ever lain. Fanning his palms across the sheet made him sigh for the fabric was silk and cool to the touch.
He eased himself up in the bed until his back pressed against the headboard so he could survey the room. The draperies were closed but a very faint strip of light showed at the top of the drapery rod. It was daylight beyond and he shuddered. Sunlight was deadly to his kind. He should be where no light at all showed at this time of day. Should someone throw open the draperies he would be blinded.
Or worse.
He shuddered again as something pushed at his aching mind but he couldn’t grasp it. Instead, he shifted his night-honed eyesight about him.
Nothing in the room was familiar to him. The opulent surroundings belonged to a rich man—or woman—but he had no idea who. Putting a shaking hand to his throbbing head, he realized he was naked beneath the silken sheet.
“Woman,” he said, thinking he had to be in the bedroom of some woman whose body he’d conquered before the migraine came calling.
Or he was in a brothel. He had intimate knowledge of such places but not one such as this if, indeed, that was what it was. The room was luxurious, tasteful, and he felt completely out of place there.
Perhaps he was in the bedchamber of a very influential courtesan. That made more sense but then he wondered what Lord he might be forced to fight over the woman’s fickle affections.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He flung the sheet back and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The room cantered away from him for a moment forcing him to dig his fingers into the edge of the mattress to steady himself. Nausea bubbled up his throat and he barely had time to grab the wastebasket beside the nightstand before he puked.
Retching violently, it barely registered with him that someone had come into the room until he felt a cool hand on his brow, anchoring his head as he relieved the sour bile.
“Oh my goodness!” he heard. The voice belonged to a woman—a young woman—and the tone held both wonder and shock.
The hand on his forehead held him while she put another hand to his back, stroking in a soothing manner as he continued to heave. Minutes passed and then he sagged against her hold. She stepped closer until his head was resting against her belly.
“All done?” she asked.
“Aye,” he managed to whisper.
“Then lie back now.”
For a reason he could not understand, he didn’t want to lie back. He wanted to continue pressing his forehead to her softness. She smelled of gardenias and though the scent should have made his stomach roil, it did not. It soothed him in ways that completely perplexed him.
“Go on,” she said sternly. “Lie back.”
This was a bossy little lady’s maid and he half smiled.
Closing his eyes to the motion, for the very act of pulling away from her sent horrific stabs of pain from temple to temple, he allowed her to help him lie down. The coolness of the sheet as she pulled it over him was soothing.
“I’ll get a cold cloth,” she told him.
He wanted to wedge one eye open to look at her but it took too much effort. He was hurting so badly he thought the top of his head would explode. When she came back and laid the washcloth across his brow, he wanted to throw his arms around her in gratitude.
“Algés,” he whispered.
“Of course,” she said.
He heard the door open and close and the silence was deafening.
And he desperately missed her presence in the room with him. By the time she came back—with a man who smelled strongly of tobacco—he was all but crawling up the walls with anxiety.
“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he asked, prying one eye open. “Never again.”
“The Lady Antonia cannot stay in your room with you, milord,” the man said. “That is not permitted.”
“Lady?” he questioned. The man was hovering over him and the glint of metal told him he held a vac-syringe.
“Turn your head, milord.”
Garrick craved to see her but she was hidden behind the one he realized was a healer and one who had very little patience. Instead of allowing him to turn his head in his own time, the healer simply pushed his face to the side. The hot sting of the algés entering his vein made Garrick yelp.
“Don’t hurt him,” he heard her say. “He’s been hurt enough.”
Those words brought back the memory of the sun with stunning clarity and he remembered the agony of being staked, the gentle eyes that had saved him, and he knew where he was.
“Castle Blackthorn,” he whispered.
“Aye, that is where you are,” the healer said. “Now let the drug take effect. Lady Antonia, come with me.”
“No!” he said, struggling to raise his hand but already the painkiller was wrapping its arms around him. His eyelids closed though he strove hard to keep them open.
“It is all right, Healer Frye. He is my Chosen,” the woman he knew was named Antonia said. “I will stay with him until he falls asleep.”
“Then I too will stay,” the healer said in an angry tone.
He felt the bed dip and knew she had sat down beside him. The drug had him now. Movement of any kind was out of the question. He felt her hand on his brow—easing aside a lock of hair.
“Sleep,” she said.
As he began to tumble into the darkness he heard the healer mumble something.
“Aye,” she said. “He may be our enemy but he is my Chosen whether that pleases me or not.”
* * * * *
Antonia could not get the image of the warrior out of her mind. When she had found him sitting on the edge of the bed—his naked body twisted to the side a
s he threw up—her gaze had gone of its own accord to the juncture of his muscled thighs. What she had seen nestled there had shaken her. She was not ignorant of male anatomy but she had never seen a man’s appendage before.
And certainly not up close and personal as she had the warrior’s.
Her face flamed as she remembered that long, thick shaft. Though the room was dark, the warrior—because of the Vampire side of his DNA—was pale. His flesh stood out in the dim light against the black silk sheets.
As did his shaft.
“Sweet Sibylline,” she said, putting a trembling hand to her lips.
He was huge, she thought. Surely such a thing could not fit between her own legs. Could not enter her body without a great deal of pain or at least much discomfort.
A hard shudder ran through her.
Though her mother had given her The Talk when she came of age, Antonia had learned more from Cherise, her Serenian lady’s maid, than from her sedate, embarrassed mother.
“A man’s cock is a delightful thing, milady,” Cherise told her. “It’ll do things to you that will curl your toes right out of your slippers! Gain dominion over his cock and you’ve gained dominion over the man.”
If she hadn’t feared him before she sneaked into his room, she certainly did now.
* * * * *
“I am Baron Demas Blackthorn,” the middle-aged gentleman stated. He was a portly man with a shock of thick white hair that curled around his head like a fleecy cloud. In the light from the bedside lamp his eyes were bloodshot and hooded. “I hope I have not come too early of the eve.”
“I’ve been awake for an hour or so,” Garrick replied.
“I hope you are feeling better,” the baron said.
“Much, thank you,” Garrick replied. He was uncomfortable lying naked in bed while the owner of the keep stood at his bedside. It was a weak position and carried with it a degree of embarrassment at being almost defenseless save for his fangs and claws.
“My men are out searching for the miscreants who tried to do you in,” his host said. “Unfortunately they have covered their tracks all too well.”
“I’ll find them,” Garrick vowed. “Have no doubt of that.”
“Just so,” the baron said. “That is certainly your right and when you do, we will—”
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