by Jillian Hart
Rage reddened the mercenary’s face. “Mayhap the legends are right. You’re not the weakling I once knew.”
Malcolm easily parried Rees’s next thrust. His rage grew colder and more deadly. He swung with lethal power and Rees’s sword met his, stroke for stroke. “I will enjoy collecting the bounty on your head.”
“You will not live to count it.” Rees’s blow ricocheted hard up Malcolm’s arm.
“I say I will.” He returned a blinding blow and was pleased to see the flash of pain upon the mercenary’s face. Malcolm lunged and drew the first blood. “I have not yet grown deadly. Surrender now.”
“Not upon my life.” Rees swiped the blood from his cheek with his free hand. “I hear Edward gave you an insult for a bride. Not a beautiful wife any man would die to possess, but a hellish witch who tried to kill you. Is that how the great king rewards his most loyal knight? You give your life for him every day, and yet he values you so little. How angry you must be.”
“If I were you, I would not waste my breath on harmless insults.” Malcolm lunged again. Rees’s sword was swift and mighty, but Malcolm’s was faster. More blood flecked the traitor’s face.
Malcolm struck swiftly, once and twice, drawing blood each time. But he felt the weakness growing. Elin had been right. He would weaken as more blood sluiced from his wound.
Rees chuckled. “You nearly tripped on your own feet, le Farouche. Put down your sword, and I’ll not separate you from your head. I will pay you well to fight for me.”
“You think I would trust you?” Malcolm circled quickly to hide his wound from his enemy’s sight. “Gold cannot tempt me. It gleams like heaven’s light and drives men to dark acts.”
“There is power in that brand of darkness.”
“I choose death, then. I’ll not be swayed from my loyalties. I would rather die by your sword.” Malcolm raised his blade.
When blow met blow, he felt the hot burst of blood pour from the wound in his back. He thrust fast and hard, landing strike after strike, feeling the life bleed out of him.
If he died, then by the rood he would take this whoreson with him.
Riveted by the sight of power and rage, Elin could only stare into the chamber where the two men fought. A single taper tossed weak light over the aggressors. The candle’s flame twisted and writhed as if in pain, losing its battle to the darkness.
Still the men fought with great strikes of their broad-swords, clashing with enough power to vibrate the mortar and stone. She spied the sheen of blood staining the back of her husband’s hauberk. Sweet Mary, how could she best help him?
“Remain silent,” Justus whispered, standing a hairs-breadth behind her. “To distract him now would be to cause his death.”
“But he’s bleeding.” Badly. She clutched the sword to her chest. She could fight, but she was not strong enough to defeat that mercenary. She’d never seen battle like this before. The sheer might of muscle drove each powerful strike. ’Twas as if two unearthly powers clashed and struggled for victory. Both men, as enormous as myth, circled and thrust and thrust again.
She shoved her broadsword into Justus’s hands. “Malcolm’s men occupy the castle. Stop this fight. The battle is won.”
“Nay, the Fierce One fights for far more. Rees is his greatest enemy, the man responsible for his capture and torture by those Saracen dogs.”
She studied the deadly mercenary. “There are no legends of the great le Farouche chained in a dungeon.”
“Some acts of courage are too painful to be told. They make for unpleasant stories.” Justus pressed the sword back into her hands. “The Fierce One must face his enemy.”
Was Justus mad? More blood sluiced down Malcolm’s back. He could not go on without weakening or fainting. “Look how he’s injured. His blood stains the rushes.”
“Aye, but the deeper injuries, the ones that will never heal, pain him more.”
Elin felt Justus’s sorrow whip through her, leaving a crushing sadness she couldn’t bear. She wanted to throw down her basket, rush out into the chamber with her crossbow and sword and aid the great knight. Her hatred of le Farouche felt petty now. He was injured and suffering, like any man did.
The battle turned fierce when the enemy’s sword struck Malcolm’s fighting arm. ’Twas a blow of strength and steel, and she clamped a hand to her mouth to cover her gasp of horror. She saw that Malcolm’s armor had broken, and blood stained those chains, too.
He is going to lose. She dropped to her knees and felt the sting of tears hot on her cheeks. Already, in her heart, she knew how this contest would end. She’d seen evil men triumph too many times in her life. Malcolm was now twice injured, and he stumbled, weak from blood loss. The red-faced monster of a man raised his sword for a deathblow.
Nay! She felt her heart rend with the knell of the ringing blow. She could not bear to see Malcolm killed. She buried her face in her arms and wept. Silence vibrated in the chamber. The battle was over.
Footsteps scraped upon the stone floor. “You cry for the mercenary, dove?”
Could it be? She looked up the thick, muscled columns of his legs to the broad glory of his chest. His rugged face was lined with soul deep fatigue and stained with blood.
“You live! I cannot believe…” By what miracle had he won? Yet he stood before her, victorious and real. “Look how you bleed. ’Tis another miracle that you can stand upright. Let me see the wound to your arm.”
“No need to feign concern.” Weary eyes studied her and condemned her. He swung away. “Justus, I want this body taken to Edward.”
“Aye, I’ll take Orson with me.”
“Good choice. Let our king see the man who betrayed him to the enemy, who would still take his life for enough pieces of gold.” Shoulders strong but head hanging, Malcolm limped across the chamber, eased down upon a sturdy trunk in the far corner and buried his face in his hands.
Should she stay? He did not seem to want her. Yet how could she go? Her heart still pounded with the sight of him fighting for vengeance. In victory, he was even more a man of dark strength and great power. She’d never seen the like, and both fear and awe filled her being.
Elin’s every instinct told her to run, to put as much distance as she could between herself and this bringer of death. If he could destroy a man of his own strength, then what would he do to a woman a third his size? And yet…
Not even to save her own life would she run. Malcolm the Fierce had tried to save her brother in the Outremer. He’d suffered untold tortures to free Edward from his Saracen captors. He risked his life every day out of loyalty to his king.
He was a man of honor. Elin dared to cross the room, her soft leather boots whispering upon the soiled rushes. She forced down the tears that ached in her throat and burned in her eyes.
He did not look up at her approach. “Go away, dove.”
She knelt at his side, tears brimming in her eyes.
“Leave me be. ’Tis a mortal wound.”
“I must do what I can.”
He would not meet her gaze. “Spend your talents on the other knights, the ones who fought for your castle.”
“They fought by your orders, not mine, and for your castle.” Elin dug through her basket and laid out the wrapped tools. “Justus, send for boiling water immediately. I’ll need someone with a steady hand to assist.”
Malcolm’s giant fists clenched. “Elin! Heed my orders and leave me to die in peace.”
He was not even afraid of death. Tenderness flamed within her chest for this man of such greatness. And sympathy for him brought more tears to her eyes. “You want peace?”
“A moment of it would be nice.”
“’Tis my job as your wife to vex you, so abandon all hope for a peaceful death.” She hid her tears behind her sharp retort and turned to her basket. “Besides, you’re now too weak to argue with me. I could push you over with my little finger.”
“Justus, take her from the room.” Fury crashed in his voice like thund
er over a valley.
Justus hesitated in the threshold. The respect he held for his commander shone in his eyes. “Nay, my friend, this is one order I will not obey.” Then he disappeared, intent upon fetching the water.
“This is your fault.” Malcolm turned to her, rage staining his voice. “Twice this night my men have disobeyed my commands.”
“Not from my example.” She set out the mortar and pestle, the bowls and new bandages, on a fresh piece of linen. Her fingers trembled. “Mayhap these men respect you so much they want you to live. I cannot fathom why.”
“They’re good and true knights.”
“No doubt made that way by your example, le Farouche.” Sentiment lodged like a hard ball in her throat, refusing to budge. She didn’t like this man, truly.
So why was her heart aching? Why did tears burn her eyes and blur her vision? “Scoundrels they are, every last one of them. Now remove your armor.”
Again he covered his face with his hands. He turned his back to her, his steel-covered chest and shoulders burnished by the flickering persistence of the candle’s light.
“Let me help you.” She knelt to untie a protective plate from his shoulder.
He refused to look at her. She could see the hard, clenched line of his jaw and feel the great remorse in his soul. Her hands fumbled with the unfamiliar pieces, and yet he did not stop her. She grabbed the hem of the mailed hauberk and began hefting it up his abdomen.
Steps came from behind and a pail of steaming water dropped to the floor at her knee. “You do it wrong.”
“Fie!” It was not likable Justus, but foul Giles who brought the water. “I am no squire.”
“You may have saved Hugh that night, but we’ve still not heard if he survived all your poisonous brews.” Giles jerked the chain mail from her fingers and worked the armored shirt off, careful of the wounds.
Malcolm’s eyes squeezed shut, and he didn’t so much as groan in pain. The amount of blood that stained his quilted hauberk made her heart weak.
“Fetch some wine,” Malcolm ordered in that voice as deep as the night. He did not sound like a man in great pain.
“I shall send for it.” Giles’s gaze met Elin’s, full of grief. He rolled off Malcolm’s last protective garment, his face haggard with concern for his commander.
Elin gasped. A horrible wound rent Malcolm’s perfectly shaped back. He twisted to look up at her, and her limbs weakened. His bronzed skin drew all the light from the room. The wondrous stretch of his muscled shoulders and chest gleamed like pure gold.
They called him the Fierce One, but he was not. She could see this now. He was hewn of a strength so great it only seemed fierce.
A knight raced into the chamber. “Your wine, sir.”
“My thanks.”
As Elin knelt to study the wound in his back, she realized his greatness. No man could fight to the death, walk across the room and sip wine with this manner of injury. No one except Malcolm the Fierce.
She refused to let him die. “Hand me that goblet.”
When Malcolm did not heed her, she grabbed her leather sacks of herbs and sprinkled the correct dosage into the dark liquid he held.
“Hold your potions, dove.” He sounded harsh, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he was not.
“You no longer give the orders, le Farouche. I do.” She held the goblet firm, her hands covering his stronger ones, and pressed the golden rim to his lips. “I’ve an army of knights ready at my command.”
“Your command?”
“Aye. I wager these men would do aught to save your life. All I have to do is say the word.” She watched his lips brush the goblet’s rim. She was so close she could see the stubble of whiskers on his chin and the fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Nay, he was no legend, but a man of flesh and bone.
“I’m not worth your ministrations, dove. Tend to those who are.”
“You intend to die, then?”
But he smiled, actually smiled—a gentle curve of his hard mouth. “Dying is the only way to escape our marriage.”
“’Tis a good plan.” Her throat aching, she sprinkled more medicine into his wine, then pressed the goblet to his lips again. “But Giles here will no doubt turn me in as a traitor for not trying to save you, so grant me this one favor.”
“I thought we agreed upon no favors.”
“Then I ask a boon of a dying man. Live, and help me to look good before the king.”
A wry grin quirked the corner of his mouth. “I’ve noticed you were a woman much concerned with appearances.”
“Aye, that is why I married the greatest knight in the land.”
“Stop with this teasing. You make me laugh.” He coughed. “How that hurts.”
“Well, ’tis a better fate than being poisoned.” She guided the goblet to his lips one last time, then took it from his beautiful hands. “Come, lie down. I want to inflict what pain I can while you’re awake to suffer.”
“Now we get to the truth of things.” But he stood and ambled to the bed, refusing all offers of help. He was strong and proud, even now. He bit back a moan as he settled upon the mattress. “Glad I am that this is now my bed. ’Tis soft.”
“What? A soft bed will not make you suffer.” She let her voice tease, to hide her growing fear that this husband of hers would soon make her a widow. “Mayhap Giles will bring up bricks for a bed.”
“Pray, do not make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Good. I must repay you for your treatment of me. Be glad I’ve decided not to chain you up in the dungeon.”
“I said, do not make me lau…” He fell silent, his great body still.
“Oh, my lord.” Giles fell silent.
“’Tis only a sleeping draught I gave him.” Elin bowed her chin so the knight couldn’t guess her foolish sentimental feelings. “Pour some water into that basin.”
Giles jumped to comply. “Have you treated this manner of wound?”
“Not an injury like this.” She sat on the bed to study the gash. “Look, the blade sliced through his lower ribs and into his vitals. Ask Florie, the woman in the kitchen, to send for the old wise woman. I’ll need her help to save Malcolm’s life.”
“’Twill be done.” Giles barked orders at one of the men in the room.
Only then did she notice that a hundred knights had crowded into the solar. They now ringed the bed, keeping silent vigil over this man they honored.
Dawn came and still the soldiers remained. Elin rubbed her eyes, gritty and dry with exhaustion, and found another candle for old Tamassa. A peach glow glossed the windows and radiated into the room. But the first light of day did not touch the man on the bed. He lay motionless, with only the slight lift of his chest to show that he lived.
“He’s a strong man.” Tamassa pressed salve to the stitched wound in his arm. “If he does not succumb to a deadly fever, I wager he may be awake and grumbling by noon.”
“This man? Nay.” Elin lit the fresh candle with the stub of the old, then exchanged them. “He’ll be in a sword fight by then.”
“If not two,” Malcolm moaned from the bed. He didn’t move, but his gaze fastened upon hers. For a heartbeat they seemed connected, and she read his thanks. Her chest hurt with the silent gesture. Truly, he was not so terrible of a man.
The hundred knights still crowded into the solar and a hundred more in the corridor all fell to their knees in thanksgiving. The clang of steel striking stone resounded like a thunderclap.
“You’re a hard man to kill.” She laid her hand to Malcolm’s brow and felt his body’s heat. His dark hair tumbled across her fingers like roughly textured silk. “We feared you would not live.”
“So did I. I lost far too much blood.”
“Aye, ’tis why you must not move now.” There was no fever, and it was not merely gratefulness she felt. “Lie still, Fierce One. Your enemies are all subdued. For now.”
His hand covered hers. His grip was weak and yet, to her, he was
still a knight of myth and legend.
“Here. Drink.” She held a cup to his lips.
He sipped until the goblet was empty and closed his eyes. But his fingers remained curled around hers, the need in his grip never waning.
She sat by his side. Sunlight moved through the room and faded with twilight, and she did not leave. The full moon peeked into the chamber to worship him with its magical light, and still she would not leave this man of power and might.
Nightmares were etched upon his lids—dark, hopeless images of pain and torture he swore would kill him. Yet he lived, so they made him a slave. They worked him like a dog in the brutal desert, and he labored and sweated and bled beneath a relentless sun.
Malcolm opened his eyes, and the images faded. Dawn glowed in the chamber, glinting on the windows and casting a golden hue across the floor. Grateful he was that the hard night was past.
“My hopes are dashed. You live.” She sat at his side, exhaustion harsh upon her delicate face, a face that was soft with concern. “I cherished grand hopes of being a widow with no man to rule me.”
He could not stop his grin. “Edward would have you married again. I recommended Giles.”
“Giles!” Elin reached for a goblet. “Why, I think he would make a terrible husband. Too sentimental. He’s been crying and praying and having the priest give him penance. He blames himself for that wound to your back.”
“Ian, then?”
She wrinkled her nose and pressed the cool rim of a goblet to his lips. He drank as she spoke. “Ian is decidedly handsome. Mayhap the most comely of the lot, but he is far too arrogant. I would have to teach him humility.”
Malcolm sputtered, nearly choking on the spiced wine. “I believe he would suffer too much, married to you.”
“Then Justus, mayhap. He is at least pleasing. And absent. He raced with that dead man’s body to Edward like Lucifer was on his tail. I like absence to be a trait in a husband. Yet now it matters not. You live.”
“More’s the pity.” He swallowed both his chuckle and his wine. He had to be careful. Elin had earned his admiration with her courage, and she might win more with her sense of humor. He had work to do. He struggled to sit, despite the pain. “Does Ian command the men?”