by C. A. Szarek
The men—as well as the three lads—watched raptly. Men-at-arms and personal guardsmen alike not sparring lined the fence surrounding the large training area, including their captain and Lord Jorrin. If he had to guess, wagers were going back and forth amongst their brothers and the newest group of castle men-at-arms.
Alasdair flashed a feral grin, daring his fellow knight. “Come at me, brother. Or has marriage made you soft?”
Roduch hunkered his huge frame down and feigned right, letting loose a deep chuckle. “Nay, brother. Marriage could never make me soft. Now I have something to protect. Something that’s mine forever.”
Even across the yard, he could see the man’s eyes shine with love for his lass.
Alasdair dodged, but his stomach clenched. His friend hadn’t meant to fling a barb, but one lodged deep anyway. He rushed the knight.
Their swords crashed together with a clang. His arms wobbled when Roduch shoved him back. Alasdair scrambled and jumped to the left in lieu of falling on his arse in the dirt. His brother wasn’t the biggest member of the guard for nothing. He was strong, damn strong. But Alasdair was faster.
“Get him, already!” Lord Jorrin called from the sidelines.
Leargan shook his fist high, and Lord Tristan leaned in on the top rung of the fence, wringing his hands together eagerly.
“Oh I will!” Alasdair and Roduch called at the same time, eliciting rumbles of laughter and chuckles from their watchers.
They rounded each other, parrying, avoiding and coming together with clang after clang, clash after clash. Everyone watched, frozen; their own weapons resting against thighs, or laying on the browning grass. No one except him and his brother moved.
Horses neighed and shifted in the periphery, as if they too felt the tension of the match rising.
Alasdair felt his own power and aggression steadily rise every passing moment Roduch avoided his attack. His shoulders screamed, he held them so tightly. The fine tremor in his arms and legs was becoming more pronounced. He opened and closed his fingers on the hilt of his sword. Couldn’t afford to let his grip slip, even though this was practice.
He wasn’t fighting for his life.
His brother arched a straw-colored eyebrow. “Alas, are you all right?” He didn’t lessen his hold on his huge weapon, or back away from their spar.
“Be better when you’re on your arse.”
One corner of Roduch’s mouth shot up before he bared his teeth. “Come at me, then.” He put his palm up, gesturing. “I know you’re not a coward.”
Alasdair lunged.
They came together, sword to sword, but Alasdair pushed, until they were almost chest-to-chest and Roduch had to struggle to keep him at bay.
“Relax, you’re losing control,” Roduch bit at him through clenched teeth. “Wasn’t your point to the lads to never lose control? Breathe. Back up and come at me without being reckless.”
Reckless?
Alasdair’s vision clouded. Red. All he could see was crimson. Anger surged up from some place deep down. He growled low. “I. Never. Lose. Control.”
His longtime friend’s crystal blue eyes widened as he scrambled to fend him off. Locked his arms higher.
Metal slid down metal and screeched.
Alasdair plunged even closer, pushing harder and letting out a bellow so loud his throat scorched and his temples throbbed. He knocked the bigger man down, onto his back, raking his sword down Roduch’s chest.
The ties on his friend’s tunic were decimated and the tan fabric split in two down to his navel. Revealing a broad defined chest sprinkled with sparse fair hair.
Blood bloomed from an angry slash. The cut was shallow, but more than a mere scratch. And it was long, almost to Roduch’s waist.
His brother stared up at him, eyes even wider than before, mouth half-agape. His sword fell limply to his side and the knight made no effort to hide shock or gain his feet to attack.
The crowd gasped. Someone cursed.
Boots rushing toward them took Alasdair’s attention. His shoulders slumped, his head woozy, but he avoided anyone’s direct gaze as best he could.
Lord Tristan knelt at Roduch’s side, laying a hand on the big man’s chest despite Roduch’s protests that he was fine.
“You cut him?” Leargan shouted. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Sheathe your sword,” Lord Jorrin ordered. He was much calmer than the captain.
Alasdair swallowed. Did as he was told. His heart thundered and his head spun even more, stealing his breath. He sucked in air, but it didn’t help. Numbness washed over him and his legs refused to hold his weight. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground so hard dust floated up. Pain shot into his thighs.
“Alasdair?” Now Leargan’s expression held concern. His captain squeezed his shoulder.
They made eye-contact. “I’m sorry,” Alasdair croaked.
Leargan spat a curse word or two.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Cuts and bruises are the reality of sparring.” Roduch’s dusty brown breeches filled his vision, quickly replaced by a huge calloused hand as his friend offered to help him to his feet.
Alasdair was grateful the blond giant had spoken before Leargan could command an explanation. He let Roduch pull him up, but he had to lock his knees so he wouldn’t slip back into the dirt. He wobbled in his boots, dizzy physically and mentally.
Niall, the second-in-command of the personal guard quickly dispersed the rest of the gawking men-at-arms and whatever knights of the guard were there. He organized sparring matches and shouted orders.
“I need to get back to my lesson with the lads,” Alasdair said quietly.
“Nay, you’re done for the day.” Leargan crossed his arms over his chest.
Alasdair clenched his jaw and avoided the dark eyes of his captain. Somehow his gaze landed on Roduch but his stomach flipped at the concern—and sympathy—his brother regarded him with.
Roduch couldn’t know what was…wrong.
Could he? When he finally had the bollocks to look at Leargan, his captain’s expression dared him to argue. Lord Jorrin stood next to the captain, silently staring at Alasdair.
Chills raced down his spine and his heart stuttered.
The duke was an empath.
He’d have little choice in the matter if the half-elfin lord saw right through him.
Dammit.
“I’m sorry, Roduch.” His lips moved in a jumble. After he’d spoken, he registered that he’d already apologized, but his cowardice in how he’d ended their match deserved two apologizes anyway. Maybe three or four.
All he received from his brother was a curt nod, but it was enough.
The knight hadn’t deserved his anger. Roduch stating he’d lost control wasn’t a jibe; it’d been fact as the man had seen it. It hadn’t been meant like a gut shot, no matter how Alasdair had felt.
He was right, at any rate. You’re weak.
Alasdair bit down hard. Until his teeth smarted.
Fleeing the training grounds was new desire, but he wanted nothing more at the moment.
Roduch stepped forward and gripped his forearm. He wanted to yank away from the show of forgiveness and solidarity, but he couldn’t insult his friend more than he already had. However, he couldn’t look at the big knight.
“Take a breather. You fought hard.” Leave it to Roduch to be the one praising when Alasdair had been in the wrong.
He studied his dirty boots, feeling about two inches tall.
“Why don’t you return to the castle and check on your charge?” Lord Jorrin asked, but it wasn’t a true suggestion.
Alasdair swallowed and forced a breath before he could answer his liege lord. He fought the urge to close his eyes. He’d just been dismissed.
Like a lad.
“Aye, my lord.” He couldn’t manage more of an agreement. Because checking on his charge was the last thing he needed.
His charge, after all, was the problem.
* * * *
They’d fought their way through two meals together, but this one was worse than midday meal that afternoon.
She’d glowed, her new bondmate at her side. And ignored Alasdair for much of the time today.
He admittedly deserved that, after the way he’d been treating her over the last two sevendays. Not to mention the way he’d left things—left her—in her rooms the night before.
He’d fled.
Alasdair grimaced and shoved his piece of roast around on his plate. It smelled delicious and was juicy, just like he liked it, but he had no desire to eat. The meat, along with potatoes and spiced greens, had long since gone cold.
“Alas, is something wrong?” Lord Tristan Dagget’s soft question made Alasdair stiffen.
Lady Elissa froze at his side. She didn’t look at him.
“Nay.” He forced a smile and met the younger man’s hazel eyes. They were different from Lady Elissa’s, despite the similar hue. He preferred the lass’, with her gold flecks.
Conversation at the head table died down, and he felt the stares of the lords and ladies—as well as his captain. Alasdair prayed none of the men would mention what’d happened on the training grounds today.
The healer accepted his one word answer with a slight nod, but the duke studied him with what appeared to be interest—and concern?
Damn empathic magic.
He made sure not to meet Lord Jorrin’s deep blue eyes, but Alasdair couldn’t sit still.
“Lord Aldern.”
Lady Elissa’s voice made him want to sit taller.
“Aye, my lady?” The duke smiled for her.
She cleared her throat. “Do you have time for me in the morning? I must discuss something with you.”
Lord Jorrin exchanged a look with his wife before he looked back at Lady Elissa.
Alasdair clenched his fists on his lap. There was no doubt what the something was. More than likely, Lord Jorrin knew of Lady Elissa’s plans. The duke and duchess probably shared everything. It was no secret the couple adored each other, not that Alasdair was envious.
“Aye, Lady Elissa.” The half-elfin duke nodded, shifting his shaggy black hair past a long tapered ear. “Come to my ledger room after you break your fast.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Her words shook, but it didn’t give Alasdair any satisfaction.
His heart sank with the finality.
She’d chosen another man.
She wanted to wed the Duke of Dalunas.
Alasdair swallowed as anguish consumed his chest. He straightened his shoulders and pushed into the back of the ornately carved chair. The solid wood supporting him didn’t make him feel stable—or any better. He wanted to stab something—or someone. A certain someone with fair hair and more status than himself.
“Then to the duchess solar for a bondmate lesson?” Lady Cera asked Lady Elissa.
The lass’ face lit up. “Aye, my lady, I look forward to it.” Lady Elissa looked down at the wolf cub who’d not left her side.
Mischief scooted closer, resting his head on her lap.
She didn’t chide him, despite the headwoman’s dislike of beasts in the great hall, let alone on the dais. Lady Elissa stroked his silver head, regarding her new bond with a tenderness Alasdair would’ve given his left arm—no, his whole body—to have turned in his direction.
He wanted to leave the table, the dais, the great hall. Immediately.
Coward didn’t leave a good taste in his mouth, but that didn’t alter his urge to flee.
The duchess laughed and the other ladies joined in conversation about bonding, bondmates, and shared stories of their own experiences.
Their voices faded in and out as Alasdair watched Lady Elissa soak everything in with obvious eagerness. The lass balanced on the edge of her chair, leaning into the table, and firing off questions whenever she could.
Soon the bards mounted the stage and started singing. People floated to the dancing area, moving to lively tunes and slow ballads alike.
Alasdair escaped to the personal guard’s table as soon as it was socially acceptable. He sat on the tabletop itself, watching his brothers laugh and listening to them throw quips at each other. It was foreign not to be leading the charge in that regard, for his jesting and witty barbs were usually the first slung back and forth.
Bowen teased Teagan—one of the youngest of his brothers—about a tavern lass. The lad’s face went red, but he grinned from ear to ear and jested right back. Padraig grunted something about not being proper as there were lasses at the table, but his wife soon dragged him to the dance floor, her cheeks as pink as Teagan’s. The roundness of her belly didn’t hamper her movements.
Alasdair watched Laith dip his wife, Meara, in a dance, and tried not to frown at her resounding giggle of delight. Roduch held Avril close as they swayed to a slow song. Dallon was charming a lass at a nearby table, and Niall danced with his wife, Lyde.
Even the reclusive Artan—who’d been burned very badly as a lad by his own fire magic—danced with a pretty blonde lass.
His brothers were happy—married or not.
Alasdair’s stomach turned, threatening to revolt and toss what little he’d managed to eat for supper.
Lady Elissa laughed, and his eyes found her against his will. He knew her laugh, whether near or far. She danced with Lucan, and the lad held her loosely as they moved together to a slow love ballad.
Her wolf was close, staring as if he wanted to be a part of the dance. Her face held the same radiance it had all day, and it just made him feel worse.
Why wasn’t she miserable like him?
“You’re looking at her as if you’ll devour her.” Leargan intentionally bumped shoulders with him and Alasdair cursed, barely suppressing the urge to jump.
His captain had surprised him. He’d not heard or sensed Leargan’s approach. Not something that happened often. Alasdair didn’t want to show it.
When he had the bollocks to look at his longtime friend, Leargan had an eyebrow arched and his arms crossed over his chest. His posture was relaxed as he leaned against the table next to Alasdair. But that dark gaze was keen, belying his nonchalance.
“What?” Alasdair cleared his throat.
“Lady Elissa.”
Instead of disagreeing, he averted his eyes.
“After what happened today, I knew something was up. But never in a million turns did I think it was that.” Leargan’s tone was conversational.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The bark of laughter had Alasdair glaring toward his brother.
Disbelief reflected in his eyes now. Leargan tipped his head, a smile playing at his lips. “All right.”
Alasdair frowned. Didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
“I never thought I’d see it, that’s for sure.”
“See what?” he barked.
Leargan chuckled and shook his head, making his ebony hair dance across his shoulders. “You have feelings for her.”
His gut told him to issue a quick denial. That’d only make it worse. He cleared his throat, but he couldn’t look at the captain—again. “She’s a fine lass.”
“Aye, that she is.” Leargan paused, then narrowed his eyes. “What’re you going to do?”
“About what?”
“Lady Elissa.”
“She’s to marry Lord Cam. Did you not know?” He couldn’t look toward the dance floor. Didn’t want to see her laugh as another male twirled her around, even if it was just Lucan. It was a good thing the Duke of Dalunas was already on his way to his home Province. If he’d been dancing with her right then, Alasdair might’ve run him through. He met Leargan’s gaze again, even though he didn’t want to do that, either. “She chose him,” he spat, then fought a cringe.
Leargan stared.
Alasdair shifted on the table top.
“You know the king well, do you not?”
He startled. That was the last thing he’d expected his c
aptain to say. “Aye.”
“Then you know that King Nathal wants her to marry for love.”
“And?”
“No one is blind to the way she looks at you, Alas. She’s chosen the duke because she thinks she has to. You are of a rank with her. There’s no reason you cannot be her match. And if she resides in Greenwald, she can still be safe from those who mean her harm. Along with your protection, Lucan is here. King Nathal won’t oppose it, if it’s what you both want.”
“You’re wrong.”
Leargan sighed. “For someone who gives such great advice, you’re a fool, my friend.”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He slid to his feet and growled, leaning into the shorter man. “I’m not a fool. And I won’t discuss this any further.” He made a fist and whirled away from Leargan.
He took one step, then another. Before he’d realized it, Alasdair had stalked across the hall and out into the corridor.
People stared.
He didn’t give a shite.
Chapter Twenty-five
It was taking too long.
Despite absorbing the water mage’s powers, Drayton’s strength wasn’t going to last as long as he’d like—as long as he needed, not if he kept using his magic like he was. Although he was likely to drive himself crazy for worrying about it.
The filthy half-breed watched the castle in Greenwald, but was it the right castle? Could his lass really be ensconced inside?
It made sense, in a way.
He’d known the castle where he’d first encountered the child was one of a lord.
Drayton just hadn’t confirmed if the lass was noble or servant. Where he’d found her in the castle suggested either. Her clothing hadn’t lent clues either—she’d been a toddler and dressed in a simple ivory sleeping gown—which had ripped when they’d attacked each other. The fabric hadn’t been particularly rich or obviously poor.
He’d killed anyone he’d come into contact with, servants and nobles alike, so it wasn’t as if he’d stopped to ask questions.
Perhaps he should have. Then he’d have her name, at least. But surely who’d ever rescued her would’ve changed it. They’d hidden her all these turns.