Savage (Bad Boy Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  She took a breath and settled down, ready to watch as her last hopes of survival floated away. It was strangely calming, knowing that her entire life relied on a man who thought that losing use of his shield would save him from a faster, younger, bigger man.

  At least she knew what to expect. He had a plan, and it was going to come down to whether or not his plan worked. Valdemar had seen it as well. She could see him, measuring the chances of Gunnar's trap succeeding. It was strange to see men so willingly gambling with their lives.

  Compared to the prisoners they had taken, it was a difference of night-and-day.

  Valdemar circled a bit more, hoping to have an instant-long opening on Gunnar's flank, but the smaller man left nothing to chance, turning slowly as he kept the distance exact. Just long enough for the point of a blade to touch if either man took a long step.

  It was over in an instant. Valdemar's sword whirled around, but Gunnar was inside the arc in an instant. As if he'd predicted it. His sword thrust, straight and true, and it dug into Valdemar's chest.

  Only, it didn't. Instead, Valdemar brought his own blade up in a wicked-looking arc, a loud metallic slap echoing through the halls. A sword lay in the dirt, and Gunnar dipped his head, trying to take Valdemar with his bare hands.

  The fight did not last long, after that. A few hammering blows on the back of Gunnar's head, and he was down on the ground. He looked as if he were napping, but Deirdre knew well enough that if he could have kept fighting then the fight would still be on.

  The onlookers shook their heads, separating. Valdemar seemed to consider his options for a moment, looking from the sword in his hand to Gunnar's body, and then he tossed it aside. He looked strangely… deflated, Deirdre thought. As if he were disappointed about something.

  She wasn't about to ask him what was bothering him. She came up to him, making sure that Gunnar was unconscious. "I gave you what you wanted. Now that you're in charge, let me go. That was the deal."

  Valdemar took a seat, one that let him watch Gunnar as he laid. As soon as he began to stir, Valdemar would know it. Deirdre hoped that he had no plans for Gunnar.

  "The deal was that I let you go when he is dead, if I don't recall. There he is, lying in the grass. He still breathes. Even as we sit here, the cuts I gave him heal up before my eyes." He turned toward her. "You are lucky that I let you continue breathing. Each and every one of you prisoners is another mouth to feed, and of dubious value. You've proven yourself useful, but your use is not at its end."

  "I don't understand."

  "We could use someone like you, around here. Someone capable with medicines. There are two wounded men in the party. Men who would very much appreciate medical attention."

  "And if I choose to help them, then I can go?"

  "No." Valdemar turned back to the body, watching it steadily. "Of course, if you had some better idea how you might be more use to me out of the band than with it, or some reason I shouldn't cut you down to save on food costs—" He craned his head toward her, his eyes pointedly on her low-cut neckline. "Or if I were to have fonder feelings toward you—"

  "There's not a chance of that."

  "Why not? You did it for Gunnar, and you hardly knew him a week."

  She slapped him without thinking, and the moment that she felt the sting in her palm she regretted it. He had been absolutely right about one thing. He held her in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing he couldn't do to ruin her life. Valdemar was not the sort of person that she wanted to get on the bad side of.

  Then she saw the smile on his face. Victorious, the complete opposite of what she'd seen in his expression after he won the fight with Gunnar. As if he had found something in that slap that he hadn't been able to get from the duel.

  "Good girl! I always heard that you English were spirited, I'm glad to finally find one of these mythical English women." He turned to her, standing from his perch. Up close, he towered over her. She was thankful when Gunnar began to stir, taking Valdemar's attention away from her, and putting it on the man lying face-down in the dirt.

  "We'll continue this later," he called over his shoulder.

  Then he said something to one of the men walking past, and she was taken away and tied back in place on the wagon, the eyes of every prisoner on her. What had happened? She didn't want to say, and aside from their curious staring, they thankfully didn't ask.

  What was she going to do now?

  They wouldn't assassinate Gunnar, she decided. It wasn't going to happen. Yet, at the same time, could Valdemar afford to have him running free? He had shown through his own actions what a man could do if he were committed to taking control of the band.

  What would happen if the man who did it were essentially unkillable? How long would it take for that man to retake control? She didn't have to ask herself the question, not seriously. It would be impossible to keep him out of power, even if he had to kill every member of the party who tried to stop him.

  He had, after all, all the time in the world. No, they would either have to find a way for him to die and to stay dead, or they would have to accept that a free Gunnar was in control of the party.

  She saw out the rear flap a pair of men carrying Gunnar, still mostly-limp from the beating he had taken, toward his tent. If they were going to do something to stop him from taking power, they would need to do it soon.

  But, she realized with a shiver, it didn't matter all that much who was in power. It was a matter of time until Gunnar realized the ruse that she had used on him. She wasn't going to be free from this prison, she feared, until she died.

  Every opportunity she had, she'd missed.

  Gunnar didn't remember what had happened. He'd been so sure that he would succeed. Clearly Valdemar had seen his attack coming, and had acted to ensure that he won the fight. But then he'd seen red and that was the last that Gunnar could remember.

  His head hurt, and the gouge in his side, previously numbed from Deirdre's ministrations, now hurt worse than it had before the fight. He'd definitely torn it back open from what healing he'd managed to get.

  He tried to sit up, but the pain that shot through him managed to convince him to lie back down. Looking around, he was alone. He should have died. He hadn't won the duel, that much was certain. Why had Valdemar let him live after?

  Rain was coming, he had known it before the raid that morning. It was merely a matter of time before they were all soaked through, so a march in the morning was unlikely.

  That would be enough time, he reckoned. Enough time to let his wounds close up, enough time to reclaim control of the band. Valdemar had beaten him, though, with what seemed to be every advantage. With a weapon he rarely used, he'd been faster, been stronger, been smarter than Gunnar. He'd had the edge in defense, in offense, in strategy.

  How could Gunnar beat him, if they were to face each other again? He wasn't suddenly going to grow seven inches, nor grow twenty pounds. He wasn't getting any younger, either. Now that he had lost his ability to heal from wounds—

  He touched the tender spot beneath his arm, where Valdemar's blade had cut him, feeling the smooth skin. What could that mean? The ache of the wound in his chest told him without needing to check that it still stayed with him, but he hadn't kept a single wound from the duel.

  Even his head was beginning to clear. He had to think clearly, and he'd never been able to do it on his back. Gunnar pushed himself up with what little remained of his strength, crawled over to the box that he used as a table.

  He tried not to remember the sight of Deirdre, sitting on the box. The distraction of thinking about her was unwelcome, when he wanted nothing more than to think about getting his revenge.

  No, he wouldn't be able to become stronger than Valdemar. There was no chance of that, regardless of how much time he had. Quickness, he had always had. If he weren't injured, Gunnar thought, then he might have been able to take the berserker in a straight fight.

  But that wasn't what had happened, and he had chose
n the time of the duel himself. There were no excuses to be made, he'd lost a fair duel.

  He'd have to have a plan, and it would have to account for time to heal his wounds. How long that would be, he wasn't sure. But it would be enough to make sure that he did heal. Sitting up might not have been the best course of action, with the way that the strain had screamed through his entire body.

  He couldn't afford to kick the can down the road any further, though. He needed a plan, and a plan that he could start working on now.

  Gunnar tried to think through the situation. The bad news, well, he'd already figured out. Valdemar had always been a physical specimen. Had always insisted on trying to take power, too, Gunnar noted silently.

  He was injured, and unlike most of his wounds it continued to hurt after hours upon hours. If this was what most men felt when they took injuries, they could keep it. He didn't want it.

  What were his strengths? He was quick, and he was experienced. He could take dangerous wounds, as it seemed Deirdre's miracle cure must have only worked as he chewed the bitter herbs.

  Then again, Valdemar had always been like a hungry wolf, going further and further in his quest for power. He'd never had control before, and now that he had it, where could he go from there? He would be complacent, and that was where Gunnar could find his advantage.

  He was the one who was hungry, now. Victory would make Valdemar soft. Had already made him soft, Gunnar noted, or he wouldn't have woken back up in his tent. He'd have woken in Hel or Valhalla, but he wouldn't have stayed here on earth.

  No, he needed Gunnar, for something, though he wasn't sure what. That was Gunnar's other strength, he decided. No matter what happened, he had something Valdemar needed. Something that he wouldn't let Gunnar die so he could have.

  If he needed Gunnar, then he had all the time in the world. He could afford to pick his battles, to pick his moment. There would be time to heal, and then he could challenge again for control, right when the moment was right.

  Turn for turn, it would hardly be improper to challenge Valdemar when he was hurt. Everyone had seen Gunnar accept a challenge wounded, it would be sheer cowardice to refuse to reciprocate.

  The opportunity would come. More than one. If he waited long enough, they would return to Denmark, and it wouldn't matter. He'd be able to organize another raid, and then it wouldn't matter what Valdemar did.

  Time was on Gunnar's side, he reminded himself. Time was absolutely on his side, so there was no reason to panic. As long as he waited, the opportunities would come to him. Until then, he needed to rest, to make himself useful, and to let Valdemar think that he wouldn't be any threat.

  Valdemar would think that he had complete control, and that Gunnar posed no threat. Gunnar wanted to let him think that, wanted him to lull himself into a false sense of security. The more that he relaxed, the more that Gunnar could take his time. The more that opportunities would present themselves.

  The flap of his tent stirred, and Valdemar stepped inside. He had cleaned himself, changed out of his clothes. He looked put together, almost. Changed clothes, and a changed man. Things couldn't have been going more according to plan.

  "Well fought," Gunnar said from his seat in the dirt.

  "I wish it had been under better circumstances, my friend." The expression on Valdemar's face wasn't what Gunnar had expected. He had expected pride, or happiness. Perhaps even mockery. The last thing that he had expected was disappointment.

  "You won it fair. Command is yours."

  Soothe his ego. Make him think that he had nothing to fear.

  "And that's how I intend to keep it," he said softly. "Ragnar, Erik, come in here."

  Ten

  Deirdre barely registered what was happening as the boy started walking her back to the prisoners' wagon. She had been so close, little more than a few minutes away from being able to walk out a free woman. If Gunnar had only said the words to her, made the promise, she knew that one of the others present would have enforced it.

  The way that they looked at him, she was incredulous that they hadn't just stepped in and prevented Valdemar from taking power the way that he had. Something about being strong, powerful men had stopped them, no doubt.

  Damn them for that.

  She was given more slack than before, presumably at the instruction of Valdemar. No doubt she was supposed to start making herself useful as a healer-woman. It was something she was good at, so at least she had that in her favor.

  But on the other hand, the more that she healed these men, the more who would die by their hands. It put her in the uncomfortable situation of needing to decide, how far was she willing to go in the pursuit of the ideals that she'd learned?

  She had to accept the reality now, if she was going to change it. That was the first thing that she'd learned, the only thing that really stuck with her through her training in reading entrails and tea leaves and the weather.

  The future isn't written in stone—but you had to accept what the prevailing wind was before you could divert it. Otherwise you were just lying to yourself.

  Deirdre wasn't going to be let free. That much was clear from the outset, they had no intention of ever letting her go. Either they would kill her, or they would keep using her to heal their wounded, but she had little hope of being let go under Valdemar's rule.

  Saying the words to herself, even in her head, sent a shock of electricity up her spine. Words, thoughts, they all had power. Not necessarily the magical power that some seemed to attribute to her. Not the power of sorceresses and warlocks that they told about in the stories.

  But certainly, they had the power to change men's minds, to poison their hearts. To incite terror and love at odds. To push them to think things that would never have occurred to them, ideas they would have pushed away… if not for the right words, at the right time.

  She looked at the younger man, checking his body for wounds. He hadn't opened his eyes more than a few moments at a time for the entire time that he had been in the cart. If nobody intervened, she suspected that he didn't have long in this world.

  The thought was strangely numb, and mixed in with the rest of her thoughts as if they were all one and the same. The realization that his death might be so near… yet, she didn't care either way. If she could save him, then she would, but if she couldn't, what would it change?

  Would it make her free? Would it grant her some glory in the eyes of their barbaric Gods? Would the church suddenly welcome her with open arms?

  The only wound she could see was in his leg, a deep gouge. The entire thing was red and puffy, and though he appeared to be asleep, when she touched it lightly, the boy writhed and groaned in pain.

  An infection that bad could kill him, regardless of what she did for him. If she was going to do anything—the best time would have been days ago. The second best was immediately.

  "Alcohol," she called out of the wagon, and she was surprised when someone poked his head in an instant later, quizzical. "Get me some alcohol, now. Go!"

  He ducked back out and only a moment later, a bottle of something clear in his hand. She pulled the cork, and smelled—the strong medicinal smell came straight through. That was the right stuff.

  She poured a generous amount, halfway enjoying the writhing agony that it seemed to send the boy into. She shook the thought out of her head. She had to think, and she couldn't afford to act like a shrew. She had to be smart, now, not emotional.

  If she wanted to get away, how was she even going to do it? They were surrounded by two-score men, at least five of them standing guard around the camp at any time from what she could see.

  The rest of them were looking around nervously, constantly at attention for something coming. It was easy for Deirdre to forget that they were soldiers in enemy territory. Clearly, for them, it wasn't nearly so easy, and it showed in the way that they made every effort to protect themselves from attack.

  Sneaking past them would be impossible, and so would fighting. No, she'd have
to try again to work her way into the group's good graces and earn her way out of here. Now that it was Valdemar instead of Gunnar, she was starting over.

  Only, he seemed to be much more interested in her utility moving forward, and that meant that she needed him to be extra-fond of her. How on earth she was going to do that, she couldn't have begun to guess.

  After all, she hadn't even been close to her teacher. The townsfolk had shunned her before she'd even begun living with the witch, and then they hadn't even spoken to her.

  It was pure luck that Gunnar had taken a shine to her, according to him because of her "magic." She wasn't going to get that chance again, but she could at least make herself useful.

  Once the wound was cleaned out with the alcohol… she looked closer. It wasn't to the point of going to rot, yet, thankfully for him. She spread the bundle of herbs out in front of her. There weren't nearly enough to tend to the entire band with what she had, but she could at least work on this one boy.

  The tools she would have ordinarily used were a hundred miles away, tucked into their individual shelves in her hidden little cottage. She would have to make do without them, or else trust in the Gods to heal the man where she hadn't even bothered to try. Deirdre knew better than that.

  She took a deep breath, then set about trying to crush the herbs against the wooden base of the wagon, using the half-full alcohol bottle as a grinding stone, until she had a finely-shredded and mangled pile of herbs.

  Then she tore a bit of his shirt away, packed the herbs into the wound, and tied it shut. Without a needle and thread to close the wound herself, it would have to do.

  As she continued working, though, it became clearer and clearer that she was horrendously ill-equipped to do any of this. She might be able to convince someone to find tools during a raid, but who on earth would listen to her long enough, or humor her?