Angie Arms - Flames series 04

by The Strongest Flames

  “Is that your plan, to treat me kindly?”

  Halvor nodded seeing the hope flash in her eyes, before it was replaced with skepticism. Perhaps it was having so many sisters who could end up in a situation such as hers. He knew Jillian had no one else in the world to look after her. At least his sisters had him to execute swift punishment to their future husbands for harming so much as a hair on one of their heads. “I will never raise a hand to you. You’re body is yours. I will not touch you unless I have your permission to do so.”

  She stared at him, as if suddenly he was speaking a foreign language.

  “I give you my oath you are safe with me.”

  Jillian looked away, shifted her position, smoothing down the fabric across her bulging abdomen. “So what do you see this marriage being? What are the rules?” She pinched a wrinkle of the cloth between her fingers, before looking nervously at him.

  Halvor shrugged. “I have not thought of it in those terms. I guess it would be for us to be friends, and make the most of this marriage. You have done well running this land, there is so much more that can be done with it.”

  “I heard you plan to refurbish the mill,” Jillian said, and she was like a tentative rabbit sticking its head from its burrow, sniffing the air for danger. “I think that will be beneficial to everyone. It needs so many things, can we…,” she stammered. “Can you afford it?”

  “Without your former overseer lining the pockets of himself and his worthless friends, we can afford it.” Halvor was sure to put emphasis on the “we.”

  A small smile creased her lips. It quickly faded, and he watched the muscles in her face tighten in a wince, and then suddenly she was bent over with a gasp. Halvor was on his feet and standing over her, dropping to a knee, he watched the pain subside, and he was staring closely into her frightened eyes.

  “Have you spoken to someone of this?” he asked, as she pulled away to sit back in the chair.

  “Who would I speak to?”

  “A midwife perhaps? Anyone who might help you with your pain.”

  Jillian’s eyes studied him intently. “I have spoken to many with experience of their own. They do not know.” Jillian looked away. “What do you know of me Sir Halvor?”

  Halvor rose and walked to the hearth, studying it intently for a moment, though he did not see it. He saw Jillian’s tears, the way her mouth fell along the corners, and her fear widened and darkened her eyes. That was all he needed to see so long ago to feel responsible for this woman. He felt it now, in his chest, she was his, and he was proud to have such a brave and strong woman to share his name. He felt warmth knowing her husband would never harm her again.

  “I know this was your family’s keep,” he said turning to face her. “For many generations.” He hesitated, but decided he wanted an open and honest relationship with this woman. “I asked around that night, because I was going to take you with me.”

  How could anyone’s gaze pen him to the spot as hers did? He felt an intensity radiating from her. Was it anger because he had not, and left her to endure the years with Bruce?

  “I thought perhaps it was best not to ask, because of your ties to Hawknest.” A long silence spread discomfort in Halvor. He stepped forward with his hands spread open at his sides in a placating manner. “Please say something.”

  “I often thought of running away, but I knew I never could. I let my people suffer while Bruce and his men did what they wanted, I couldn’t abandon them all together.”

  “I know, that’s why I did not ask. To be honest I don’t know a lot more about you,” he said, taking his seat again.

  “I know nothing of you.”

  “I am the son of Sir Roger Blakemore and I fostered with Lord William Sudbury and served him during Henry’s Crusade. I earned my spurs and was honored to become commander of Lord Garrick’s army.”

  "You went on the Crusade with Richard?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you do it for glory?" she asked.

  He remembered his earlier statement. "No, I did it for Lord Garrick."

  "How did you come to serve a man such as the Fenton Bastard?"

  "Sir Marcus Kinsey was fostered with Sudbury, along with me and Bruce. When Lord Garrick needed a commander, Marcus talked Lord Garrick into choosing me, and the rest, as they say, is history,” Halvor said with a smile.

  "Did Garrick find his glory?"

  "No, he found his title and gained a wife for his service."

  "What did you gain?"

  "Knowledge," Halvor replied after some thought.

  "Knowledge is a very powerful thing. What knowledge did you gain?"

  Halvor had the sudden urge not to share with her where his mind went, but his wife was no fragile flower that could never take the truth of his life. "The knowledge of war, and death."

  "A powerful thing indeed, for a powerful knight such as you."

  Halvor could not help the crooked smile that came to his face. "What makes you think I am a powerful knight?"

  "You are here, and not buried deep within the ground somewhere else."

  Halvor tilted his head in acknowledgement of her reasoning as Tate arrived with their trenchers piled high with the food of the evening meal.

  Chapter 2

  Cairo, Egypt

  Anger twisted the man’s face, his hatred was mirrored in his eyes, and terror filled Alena’s body. She was exhausted after her weeks of travel. Most of it she spent bound, to insure she did not escape before fate saw her back here, facing the man who held her prisoner for four years. The men carried her into the opulent room, with its rich fabrics and lush furnishings. They roughly threw her onto the floor, cut the rope that bound her feet, but left her hands bound in front of her. When the door in the back of the room opened, the men bowed and quickly left the room, and she was left alone to face Ghalib.

  The fist slammed into the side of her head, and her ear immediately began to ring. The pain in her jaw made her afraid he broke it. She staggered under the blow, but kept her feet. She could not let him see her fear. Alena wanted to tell herself she never let him see her fear, but she knew she was never that strong. This time would be different. She straightened, raised her hands, and moved her black hair from her face with her bound hands.

  “Who did this?” he demanded, grabbing her face and turning it toward him, so he could see the scarred side. His fingers bit into her chin, and she saw the anger was directed at her for the burn scars, and the deeper scars from cuts she received in a fall from a horse. “You had no right!” he yelled at her, turning her face back so she was forced to look at him. His grip was like iron, and her chin felt as if he could rip it off if she dared moved the slightest. He was asking as if she had a choice in either. She had the choice that led up to them, and that was likely what angered him the most. With him, she never had a choice about anything.

  She forced her fear down and called forth her disdain for this man. This time would be different. This time she was not a kid to be ruled by her fear. She was a warrior, and she would not be cowed by him. “Damien was supposed to have killed you.”

  He sneered at her. “Damien is it? Did you think that man would be able to destroy me?” He shoved her away, wrenching her neck and jaw.

  She staggered, straightening to glare at him. It was then she saw it in his eyes. He did not know what to do with her. He expected her to return unblemished, and be that frightened little girl he stole so long ago. She raised her head a notch, confident now he would kill her, and not keep her prisoner. She was okay with that. So many times she was ready for death, to take her away from her suffering. She wasn’t going to be frightened of it now.

  Quick strides carried him to her, and his fist slammed into the side of her head. She staggered, then tripping over her own feet, fell to the floor. He moved to stand over her and before she could move, the heel of his foot pressed down on her neck. Instinctively her hands came up to try to push him off, but his weight was too much. She gasped, but nothing would get passe
d the pressure that kept her from inhaling or exhaling. Panic so powerful ran through her she knew she was fooling herself. She did not welcome death. She had a taste of freedom, and she would have it again. Some way.

  Alena awoke to the sound of chaos. She lay in a bed, but it was not her bed, the smells were different, the bed was different, her body felt different. Her eyes snapped open and she immediately saw Ghalib, in his last preparations of getting dressed. She denied the fear of her own death, but now a deeper more raw fear took root. He took her again, while she lay unconscious. She did a quick assessment, and though she felt violated, she could not tell how many injuries she might have received, after her body already ached from the weeks of travel and bondage. Things weren’t different. Despite her scars, he was still going to do what he did before, and she felt her soul shrivel.

  Ghalib turned quickly and fled the room. That’s when the sounds came back to her, the noise of attack. She rose, her body screaming at her. She took one look down at her nakedness and fled the bed quickly, to the potted plant next to the window, and emptied her stomach onto the soil. The sound of the door slamming open, banging against the wall, brought her head up out of the foliage, and that was how Ghalib found her. But he didn’t look at her, he tried to push the door closed, but it exploded inward, knocking him off his feet. She watched the man fly backward, and land with a grunt several paces inside the room.

  Alena jumped to her feet, unsure what peril she faced, as she turned to the door. Marcus!

  ~ ~ ~

  Alena! Dear God I found her. Relief flooded him so quickly he felt his knees grow weak with it. She was the most beautiful sight he ever saw, the glow of the sun coming through the window lit her hair, illuminating all its black richness. Her face held bruises, as well as her neck, and as he realized she stood naked, his fear seized the heart within his breast, before the anger swept in and took all reasoning from his mind. His eyes left hers and landed on the man struggling to get up from the floor. He touched her again, forced her to his will, and hurt her.

  In two strides he was upon the man, seized him by his lapel, and slammed a hard fist into his face with as much force as his arm had in it. Again and again Marcus landed blow after blow, but none of them relieved his mind. None of them took away the image of Alena standing in the room, frightened and hurt. None of them made his journey faster, so he got to her before the Emir.

  His knuckles were on fire, but still he slammed it down on the man as his other hand held him close, so there was no give to the punches. He wanted to take it back. To stop him, and save her. He wanted to go all the way back to when she was a child. Back before he ever laid his vile hands on her. Back before her pain, and all her loss. Never could he go back. She would always have the memory of his hands on her, and she would know Marcus did not stop it.

  His blows ended and he took the unconscious man’s lapel in both his hands, intent on strangling him, but he needed the man to suffer. He needed it so bad he felt he could not breathe as he stared down at the Emir’s bloody face.

  “We have to go,” Roland’s voice came from the doorway. He sounded as if he was far, far away. He would take the Emir with them, and force him to walk behind their horses, until he fell from exhaustion. But it wouldn’t be before his mouth became so dry with his thirst, his tongue would stick to the roof of his mouth, and his lips would be cracked and bloody. But they wouldn’t stop. Not even when his feet would refuse to move any more. Then he would drag him until all the skin was drug from his bones. If the man still lived, he would cut his bonds and trample him with the horses, until he was nothing but a bloody carcass for the vultures to pick clean.

  “Marcus.” It was Roland again. Marcus did not know how long he crouched there, staring down at the Emir whose eyes were beginning to flutter. He felt Alena’s hand, her gentle touch, as she laid it upon his shoulder. He immediately let the Emir fall back to the floor and covered her hand with his own, the knuckles bloody, and a testament to the anger that seemed no less intense, though he felt exhausted and lost. If he felt that way, how must Alena feel? To have survived the man once, think he was dead, only to be brought before him again. To be hurt by him again. He wanted to pound the man’s head into the floor until his blood flowed, and his skull was crushed.

  He lowered his hand to do just that, but instead it went to the knife at his waist. Marcus pulled it from its sheath, and shakily climbed to his feet. He cast a glance to Roland, who still stood in the doorway expectantly. They only killed those in the three rooms surrounding the Emir’s. It would not be long before someone would happen upon the bodies, and they would have an entire army to face.

  His eyes fell back to Alena, who had wrapped a blanket about herself. He handed the knife, handle first, to Alena. She stared at it, and then her eyes darted to Roland, as if he had an answer, then back to Marcus.

  “Finish it,” he whispered.

  He looked at her and saw hope so raw, it tore at his heart.

  The man he held pinned to the floor beneath him tried to writhe, but a kick to his side stilled him with a cut off moan.

  She shook her head tentatively, and looked back to the man on the floor. She slowly took the knife in her hand. She looked at it, twisting it in her hand. “Finish it so you know it is done.”

  A gurgling noise came from the man at Marcus’s feet. “Manal,” it was the name he gave Alena many years ago, and Marcus knew how she detested it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Manal! Manal! Manal! The name kept repeating itself inside her head. No! She was no one’s possession. She would rather die than be here again, at his mercy. She would rather die than feel his hands on her. She would slit her own throat before she would want to feel his hands forcing her legs apart. In the turmoil of her own mind she felt his hands, she felt him entering her. She heard his grunts, his praise, as if she would take pride in it.

  Manal! Manal! He was the one that would not let her go. He was the one who always hurt her. It was him. He killed her parents. He tortured the men who rescued her. He was the one.

  She looked from the man on the floor to Marcus. Her beautiful Marcus. He travelled so far to come to her rescue again. She did not doubt if Ghalib lived, he would come for her again, and again. But next time Ghalib would know he needed to be rid of Marcus, and thus it would be done. The Emir would destroy him, as surely as she watched him destroy others. A sob escaped her at the thought, and without another moment’s hesitation, she used all her weight to plunge the knife into Ghalib‘s chest.

  The blade pierced his heart, it was a blow that killed him, yet Alena’s fear or hatred for him, made her lift the knife and plunge it into the man again. She felt his hands, heard his voice. Manal! Again she lifted the knife and drove it into him. She felt his breath on her neck. She lifted the knife again, and brought it down. She heard him panting. She heard him close to his climax. She felt him driving into her. She felt his hand over her mouth, so he would not have to hear her cries. She heard him tell her she would always be his favorite. Again and again, as she sobbed for the life he took from her, and she would never regain, she drove the knife into his body.

  Alena lost track of the number of times she brought the knife down on him. She became aware the knife became slick, the chest the palm of her other hand lay upon was crimson with his blood. The blanket she was wrapped in was sodden with it, as she knelt beside him. Horror began to take over, and the knife fell from her hand, and she stared at the body, the stab wounds. What kind of person am I? What kind? No! No! No!

  Her mind was in a panic. She had fought before, learned to defend herself very well. She accepted that she would have to kill, but never like this. Never! She reached for the knife again. How could she live with herself knowing this was who she had become? She picked the slippery weapon up in her hand and turned, gazing at its perfection.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus knew terror like never before when Alena lifted the knife, the blade pointed at her own chest. From the corner of his eye he watched Ro
land rush into the room toward her, at the same time he set his own feet in motion. It was a small struggle that ensued, but Marcus would never forget Alena’s screams as Roland used his body to press her down in the floor, while Marcus twisted the knife from her hand.

  Roland left her pinned to the floor as he watched Marcus slide the blood soaked weapon back into the sheath at his waist. Once it was safely attached to his belt, Roland raised himself off her. The wild cat turned her fury on him, biting and scratching, using her legs to kick at him. Helplessly Marcus watched as Roland grabbed her once again. Alena was in a fury, her screams were those of a mad woman, as Roland tried to subdue her. Marcus took a step forward to stop Roland, but the woman had just tried to kill herself. What else could they do?

  ~ ~ ~

  Roland had seen a number of tragedies in his lifetime, but never did he witness the madness that took hold of Alena. There was no reasoning with her, no consoling, nothing either one of them could do to get through to her mind. He did not know if there would ever be anything anyone could ever do that would release her from the torment, but now they did not have time to contemplate. Avoiding her teeth and claws, Roland released one hand, and aiming for her temple, punched her so her head snapped sideways, and her screams subsided. Casting a quick glance Marcus’s way, he bent, and with ease that mirrored his strength, he swung her up to dangle over his shoulder in one quick movement.

  “Go,” he grated out, as he began moving forward. Whatever trance held Marcus immobile, he came out of it seeing Roland on the move. With Alena’s weight slung over his shoulder, he followed Marcus from the palace, along the same route they had taken to enter. When they reached the horses, Marcus mounted and without a word spoken, Roland took Alena to him, he pulled her from his shoulder, and settled her in his lap. Roland mounted, and they rode quickly away.