Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

  The sweet smell of bread tickled her nose, and her stomach rumbled, reminding her why she was out of bed at such a late hour. The glow grew stronger; light spilled over the threshold of the kitchen. A burst of laughter stopped her in her tracks. Brynn approached, edging her head around the corner.

  Sitting around a large table were the four Archaean warriors. They drank freely from wine goblets and munched on the bread and meats set aside for breakfast. One leaned in close and spoke several words, causing the others to lean back into their chairs, roaring with laughter. One tossed a chunk of bread in the jokester’s direction, hitting him in the face. The jokester grabbed the bread and stood, reached across the table and attempted to stuff it down the other’s throat. The wounded warrior kicked his feet up onto the table, chuckling.

  Lowering to her hands and knees, Brynn crawled through the door and hid behind a bench-style counter laden with fruits, vegetables, and cheeses — she needed only to reach up and grab what she could. With one hand in front of the other, she moved along the floor, keeping a wary eye on the men through the counter’s legs. She didn’t see the errant cart, misplaced by the kitchen servants. When she crashed into it, bowls and cups clattered to the floor.

  Brynn tangled in the excess fabric of her robe. They had spotted her and would now slice her through or… worse. The injured one had already expressed interest in wanting her. Fear of what he wanted to do to her raced with frantic thoughts. Reaching above, Brynn dug her fingers into the counter and hoisted herself from the floor. She sprinted for the door before the Archaean’s had a chance to contemplate the situation. The element of surprise had worked in her favor before.

  As Brynn turned, one of the men was upon her. Instead of slipping over the threshold, she collided into the arms of an Archaean warrior. She screamed, somehow wriggled free from his grasp, and bolted for the door. Her fingers grazed the cold metal latch, and she seized it, pulling with all her might, but it would not budge. She tugged again, praying it was simply stuck. The latch popped and she yanked the handle. The door remained firm — locked from the outside. “No!” she sobbed, continuing to pull the door. Giving up, she sought a new exit.

  Two men chased her, yelling and waving their hands, but she didn’t understand their words. As Brynn wheeled around the table, her robe caught on the corner. The sharp edge of the table dug into her flesh as she dodged the reach of an Archaean. Brynn dashed for the door through which she’d first entered, terrified she wouldn’t make it the short distance.

  One of the men intercepted her path and lingered near the opposite end of the table, watching her every move. Brynn paused and glanced at the man and the doorway to freedom. Before she could react, powerful arms wrapped around her torso, pinning her against the solid chest of a man. She did her best to fight back, kicking and squirming until the Archaean returned her to her feet. Brynn covered her face with her hands, shielding herself from the blow she was sure would follow. The warrior could knock her farther than her old father could; his sheer muscle mass would rip her in two.

  “Please don’t hurt me, I beg of you.” Then, realizing he didn’t understand the plea, Brynn looked for the warrior Marek. “Please.”

  Marek approached his comrade then shoved him away from Brynn.

  Released, she recovered her footing and then made her escape over the threshold.

  Brynn slowed to a fast-paced walk when she was sure no one followed. Drying her cheeks with the sleeve of her robe, she sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. The abrasive stone of the manor walls was cold and familiar against her palms as she slid her hands over the rough surface. The corner stone beneath her fingers indicated she had reached the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Her voice shook as she counted. “One. Two. Three.” She stopped to listen.

  Silence.

  She took another step. “Four. Five. Six. Seven.” Brynn thought she heard the rustling of fabric and paused. Narrowing her eyes, she scanned the stairwell for the disruption. A cool breezed passed through a window and blew a wall hanging. The tapestry flapped with the current. She needed to calm herself before she became sick. Brynn took a step and then another, counting each as her feet touched the cold stone, bringing her closer to the safety of her bed. “Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two…”

  On step twenty-three she heard the rustling again, this time very near. Within an instant, Brynn felt a strong pressure against her chest. Flinging her hands to the sides, she struggled to keep her footing. Brynn called out to the shadows. “Show yourself!”

  Another direct push.

  Brynn scraped her fingernails against the stone and strained to keep upright. She could see herself falling. Strange visions flashed before her eyes — running after her brothers as a child, her mares, a yellow-haired man in the darkness. She shrieked, smacking the stairs below. Her head collided with the wall as her legs tumbled over her front. A jagged edge of stone jarred deep into her spine as she toppled. Brynn’s shrill scream pierced the darkness as she desperately tried to grab onto something — anything. With one last attempt to stop before facing certain death, she rammed into a man’s broad chest.

  He grunted on impact and wrapped his arms around her middle, clutching her tight. He, too, was now helplessly falling. The pair tumbled down the rock together, coming to a stop at the end of the stairwell. Brynn’s head lay motionless on his chest.

  His heart raced beneath her ear. A familiar woodsy scent clung to the thin tunic acting as a barrier between them. Marek. Her head moved with the rise and fall of his lungs as he sucked in shallow breaths. She stirred, attempting to roll from his body.

  Marek raised an arm and slung it over her, pinning her to his chest. He groaned, muttering incoherently.

  Too exhausted to move, Brynn lay still. Her body burned. Every muscle lashed out in protest. A warm trickle of blood reached her trembling lips. Marek cradled her, drawing her closer in his delirium. He mumbled something she couldn’t understand; as she listened to his smooth voice, the reverberations of people running through the hall swept through her. Darkness disappeared as torchlight filled the room. Her shrieks and thuds had brought the manor to life.

  Brynn shut her eyes as the footsteps came to a halt. She knew exactly who approached by the distinctive clacking.

  “By the gods, what have you done?” her father whispered.

  Marek still clung to her protectively; her head still propped on his beating heart. Her life had come to an end. One way or another, she would die that very night.

  Murmurs and accusations echoed off the walls, making the room seem as if it were a broom closet. Finding her strength, Brynn peeled away from Marek. She stood, faced her father, and watched as his face reddened to a deep scarlet. He scanned her body, noticing the torn garment, her tangled hair, and the Archaean laying on the floor.

  Brynn wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and stared at the earl, trying to keep upright. She couldn’t stop her swaying long enough to think of a rational explanation.

  “You filthy whore!” Bertram spat, approaching. “You unclean, dirty, impure little bitch! And you…” He glared at Marek. “How dare you come into my home and lay your hands upon my betrothed daughter! Who are you, Archaean? Get up off my floor! You’re… bleeding all over it!” Bertram balled his fists.

  Marek rose, distancing himself from Brynn. “My name is Marek. I am not here under false pretenses. I have told you no lies. Your daughter… fell down the stairs, and I merely saved her from an untimely death. I meant no harm, and I assure you she has not been violated in any way.”

  Brynn stared at the Archaean. Her situation didn’t at all look promising. How was he to explain following her to her bedchamber? That in itself was enough to condemn her. She looked to him for help — for safety — but he only stared back.

  “You will pay for this, girl. You will never marry from this family, as you are no longer worthy of a dowry! You are a whore, and so you shall be treated like one!” Bertram raised his hand to her cheek, cracking t
he corner of her lip with the back of his palm.

  She didn’t weep, even though her body screamed to fight back. “I was pushed, Father, I didn’t shame you! Please don’t disown me. This place — you — are all I have.”

  “How dare you speak to me?” Bertram made a fist and released his anger on Brynn, finding a patch of bloodied scalp. Red dripped from Bertram’s fingers as he brought his arm back to his side.

  Brynn crumpled from the agony, collapsing to her knees and weeping.

  ~~~~

  Could he trust his eyes? Was the man she called Father going to beat her senseless in front of everyone?

  Like hell he was.

  “Stop this. She has done nothing wrong!” Marek looked about the room. Surely one of the men would interfere on her behalf, but not a single one stepped forward. How could these people stand idle while this Engel accused his own daughter of such things?

  Cowards.

  Marek reached for his side but realized too late he was unarmed. He’d left his weapons with his men when he chose to go gallivanting on a spying mission after his late night meal had been so very wonderfully interrupted by the beautiful girl.

  The earl turned to Marek. “Gather your men and get out of my village. I knew you would be trouble the moment I set eyes on that disgusting hair of yours. Your kind is all the same. Big and brawny but ill-bred. Never a smart man among you.” Bertram motioned to his guards with a flick of his finger. “Take her away.”

  Marek fumbled over the Engel’s words as the room stirred. “What are you going to do with the girl?” he blurted.

  “‘Tis none of your concern,” replied Bertram.

  Two men approached Brynn and took her by the arms.

  “Although it should be, as you are the one who made her do this unspeakable act. Perhaps you should be punished together. I could arrange it.”

  “I told you…” Marek’s temper flared as the men lifted the innocent girl. It took all of his inner strength not to strangle the earl where he stood.

  Her sobs and desperate screams echoed through a distant hallway as she pleaded for mercy. After a few tense moments the screaming ceased and all was quiet.

  Marek approached Bertram. He positioned himself as close as he could without touching the fat old man. Leaning toward the earl’s ear he growled, “We will meet again, you and I.”

  Fear glazed over the grey coloring of Bertram’s eyes.

  Marek turned on his heels and stormed from the entrance hall in search of his men. He would make this right… somehow.

  Chapter Three

  Punishments

  Marek found his men dozing in the stables content with full bellies. Kicking the nearest boot, he roused them. “Wake up, you dogs.”

  His brother, Ronan, rolled away. “Let a man sleep, ye bastard.”

  “Get up. We have a problem.”

  “You mean you have a problem, eh?” Ronan pushed himself up from his makeshift bed in the hay.

  “Aye, I’m fucked.” Marek stretched his arms over his head and sighed, pacing the floor. “Come on, wake your asses up.”

  “But we just settled down!” Gavin protested in a drunken whine.

  “You can sleep later. Remember that servant girl we were chasing ’round the kitchen?”

  “Aye, the feisty tart. How could we forget her?” Gavin answered.

  The men snickered amongst themselves.

  “We’ve been dreaming of her rump all night.” Gavin grinned, winking at Marek. “We took bets while you were gone. The lad to beat down everyone else gets first go at pillaging the servants.”

  Marek’s conscience tugged at his insides. “She is that Engel bastard’s daughter, Gavin.”

  “Och,” crowed Ronan. “This means we are heading on then, eh?”

  “Is that where you’ve been off to then? Did you get caught indulging on that piece of tart?” Gavin flashed Marek a wide grin, dimples puckering his cheeks.

  Marek’s jaw twitched as he took a deep breath. Slowly releasing it, he clenched his fists tightly by his sides. “Don’t make me flog you, boy.”

  Gavin raised his hands in defense. “’Tis nothing wrong with tarts, Marek. I rather enjoy them from time to time.”

  “Just shut your mouth for a moment.”

  “Fine.” Gavin sat back with a huff.

  “I followed her up some stairs, and she came tumbling down. Someone pushed her, and she landed flat on me in a rather… compromising position. I didn’t really make much of it — I was a bit delirious.” He rubbed his head with his palm, recalling the scene. “Her father found us on the floor together and said something about her being a whore. My translation is weak when Engels babble on like babies.”

  Ronan stood, leaning close to Marek’s ear. “You really are fucked, brother. You have had nothing but girl troubles since we were old enough to chase them. And this time, all on your own.”

  “As soon as we’re gone, she’ll be dead. I know it.”

  “Let the rich man take care of his own whore problems,” replied Ronan.

  “She’s not a whore, Ronan. She’s just a girl, and I won’t have her death on my conscience. You didn’t see her eyes.” That sullen blue would haunt him the rest of his days. The anguish and fear was unmistakable. She’d sought him — a dangerous stranger — for help, and he’d done nothing but watch as she was beaten and dragged away.

  “Wait.” Aiden sat in the shadows, listening. “How can an Archaean girl be the daughter of an Engel earl?”

  “She cannot,” Marek said dryly.

  “Are you sure you speak of the same girl? The one from the kitchen? The one who fixed Ronan?”

  “She clearly called him father. I know that word… and he mentioned her being his betrothed daughter, so I would believe that as her being the same one, yes.” Betrothed. Marek understood why the earl overreacted. He lost his marriage profit. Her father should be grateful he caught her, not condemning her to punishment. Fucking Engels. The daftest race amongst which he had ever had the displeasure of walking.

  “So what is it you plan on doing, then?” Ronan sighed.

  “I need to think, but pack your gear and ready the horses. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  ~~~~

  In a forgotten storage room, Brynn curled up in a corner behind a few sacks of grain, trying to warm herself. A cool breeze seeped through the cracks of the crumbling stone that imprisoned her. Despite her best efforts to bury them, her thoughts spun out of control. She had hidden behind the truth for too long. She couldn’t come to terms with her fate. Her father had been waiting for the chance to rid himself of her for years. He just hadn’t been presented with the right opportunity.

  Why ever did the gods curse her so? Why had she not been born a boy? Brynn was the last child; her mother had died shortly after giving birth. Bertram had not taken another wife. Brynn’s brothers had raised her. They had shared their lessons in secret, teaching her various things about the world. They showed her the way of a sword and bow, taught her how to read, write, and count numbers. Her eldest brother, Marcus, had shown her how to ride a horse. Magda had once told her in bitter confidence that she suspected foul play surrounding Brynn’s birth and her mother’s death shortly thereafter. The nursemaid told her Bertram chased her mother in a mad fury one evening after a heated argument, and she never returned. No one spoke of it.

  Brynn’s head throbbed and a dull ache seared up her spine. Someone had pushed her down those stairs. Pushed her on purpose, she was sure of it. Who would do such a thing? Those stairs were the only set leading to and from the bedchambers, and no one had used them after she had fallen. Whoever pushed her had to be — a lump rose in her throat — in the guest suite.

  Meredith. She’d been absent during the incident. Only the men had entered the hall, and all too quickly. Surely, the women must have heard her scream. It had awakened the rest of the manor. Why not the guest suite?

  The storage room door burst open, abruptly sidetracking her accusation
s. Michael entered and shut the door behind him, as if being seen was at high stakes. Lowering himself to one knee, he looked her over in the candle light, examining her wounds. Michael took her chin in his palm and inspected the bruise on her cheek, clucking his tongue.

  Rather unexpectedly, he blurted, “There is no other way to put this, Brynn. Father is in one of his moods and has decided a most terrible fate for you. I haven’t been able to convince him otherwise, but I will still try. He declared you must leave the manor to surely freeze when the snow falls, for no one in Galhaven shall be allowed to house or feed you — or you can repent, take your punishment, and continue to stay here… not able to marry for the rest of your days. Of course, you can also dedicate your life to serving the gods, but that would mean a life of solitude at the temple of Eris. I believe you deserve more than what the gods can give you. The choice is yours, and he requires your answer by sunrise.”

  Could she be trapped in some horrid dream? What she was hearing couldn’t possibly be true. Brynn tried to sort it out. “But I haven’t wronged him, Michael. I was pushed, and I believe I know by whom. If only you could speak for me. You could reveal the truth and remedy this. That Archaean, he only caught me. He saved me — does that not count for anything?”

  “I believe you, Brynn, but the situation seems terribly suspicious to the others. You were out of bed in your night robe, and this man — who was not even allowed in the manor — was underneath you on the entrance hall floor at the bottom of your chamber stairwell. It doesn’t look favorable.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t look promising at all, but I honestly did nothing wrong. I didn’t even have impure thoughts!” Brynn hid her face in her hands.