The Darkest Flame
Angie Arms
©2013 by Angie Arms
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-for example, electronic, photocopy, recording - without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Author’s Note
As an avid reader I greatly enjoy historical romance novels. However, the best way I can describe the romance genre of my parents’ and grandparents’ generation, is soft. I think this reflects a great deal on the generations, much like television has changed over the years, so have novels. A great deal of the drama in older romance novels comes in the form of lack of communication, misunderstandings and so forth that leaves the characters feeling sorry for themselves. I don’t think this accurately depicts the medieval times. Therefore this series may not fit into the traditional romance genre, and is not for the faint of heart.
Please, if you do not have the stomach for violence and war, this series is not for you. I tried to reflect accurately the life some people may have faced, and it was not a time truthfully known for fairytales and happy endings
I am aware this series is dark and violent. Some have criticized this in a romance novel, but I see a wave of change in other current authors as well. Some characters may seem overly weak, while others, overly violent. Again, if you are looking for the traditional boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy but doesn’t know how he feels, so the book drags on for chapters as they struggle to communicate effectively, you will not find it here.
I wish all those who continue beyond this point, happy reading.
- Angie Arms
Chapter 1
November 1194 Kilkenny Castle, England
She heard the approach of feet and she steeled herself, forced her hands from the folds of her tunic, pressing her palms flat, willing them to stop shaking. She must not show how afraid she was. They tried to bluff Garrick Fenton, but he came prepared to fight for what he believed to be his, so she surrendered. To fight would be a senseless loss of life, because no one could withstand a siege from the Fenton Bastard. Some people said not even the King himself. The man had a dark reputation, even evil. How else could a whore’s bastard become the King’s strongest, wealthiest land holding knight?
He had to be a heartless man, she thought fleetingly, before she forced her eyes closed for a moment as she drew in a breath to calm herself. His army left devastation wherever they went, leveled castle walls, destroyed fields, raped, killed. And now they were here. Her eyes flew open, drawing in another breath she forced her mind quiet. She caught the blue gaze of her guard and the terror ripped through her again. Quickly she looked away. There was one thing power and wealth still could not attain for The Fenton Bastard, a title and a lineage for his heirs. But he found a way to obtain that too, through her, and nothing could save her from his clutches.
Countess Ryann Kinnard was born a pawn to her father. When she was five she was given to Lord Lenox to wed. Though he was beneath her station, her father was able to free himself of paying a dowry, while his strong ally would be forever in his debt, because he would gain the title upon his death. Lucky for her Lenox had no desire to be saddled with a child, so he sent her to Kilkenny to be a prisoner there until her fifteenth summer. When she had not begun her monthly flows, the wedding was postponed a year. She was able to bluff until her eighteenth year and her secret was discovered. Before she could travel to wed Lenox, Fenton overran his lands and killed him.
Ryann never grieved the man she never met and was 40 years her senior. She did not given it much thought at all until a messenger arrived from Fenton. He demanded she present herself to wed him, the new Lord of Lenox. She ignored it. So he came to retrieve her.
The door to the chapel opened and soldiers flooded in. They were a dirty, wild looking lot, several were without armor, but all carried their weapons at the ready. The man who led them was tall and broad across the chest. Was he really that large, or did the man’s armor add bulk. The man’s features were hidden behind his helm, but he was larger than any man she had to protect her, as were all the men who followed in his wake. Her hands began to shake and she quickly gripped the fabric of her tunic so they wouldn’t see her fear. Was this man her husband? He looked fierce, but no more than the rest of them. She realized she was being ridiculous. She could not tell if this man was fierce or not. The man advanced on her, reaching for her arm. But her shadow Christopher was there, grabbing the hand that threatened her. Christopher was immediately faced with swords pointed at his chest, prepared to run him through. He released the man’s wrist, but placed himself as a barrier between her and all the men.
“Please, he is my guard, he only protects me,” she said, her voice sounding far calmer than she felt, as she stepped around him. Christopher edged closer to her and she looked up at him. He was a handsome man, probably old enough to be her father. His brown hair had begun to be taken over along the edges by the gray but he still had the brown, droopy almost hound dog like eyes that gave his handsome face a gentle quality. When she was younger she had childish fantasies about being loved by him. Now that she was older and had come to know Christopher a little better she found him to be a man she could never love in the romantic way because she loved him in an entirely different way.
The knight in his helm tried to move toward her again, but Christopher refused to let this man take hold of her, positioning himself in front of her again. The man before her stopped, straightened to his full height, and his head swiveled toward Christopher. Could she really feel the man’s anger? It seemed she was not the only one, because Christopher’s hand went to the handle of his sword.
Surely they would spare her people here, she thought in a panic. Not her people, she reminded herself. They all belonged to Fenton. She felt a stab of guilt, she had no thought Christopher would come out the winner of a fight.
“Very good Countess, but I will have him run through if he doesn’t stand down.”
Suddenly the men parted and a man stepped forward that made her heart leap and her stomach twist. Christopher had stood beside her and kept her safe since her arrival at Kilkenny, yet she was afraid. There was nothing soft in this man’s face, his eyes were as black as night, his strong jaw was set, and his broad brow was furrowed in a scowl as he came to stand in front of her. She could see the blood of slaves that ran through this man’s veins, he was darker than any free man she ever saw. His face was chiseled from granite, his jaw strong and at one time she suspected he was handsome, but marring his left cheek was a scar that ran from his cheekbone downward at an angle, catching his lip, and further across his chin. On the same side of his face was another scar running from just below his ear, below his jaw line, across toward the front of his throat and ending just shy of the mark that would have killed him. For a fleeting moment she knew him for the human he was, a man who hurt, a man who bled. The vision was fleeting for it was the famed Bastard who stood before her, she knew this as surely as she knew her own name. She grew up isolated, but even they heard the stories of the Fenton Bastard and the blood he spilled. She saw this in the eyes of the man who stood before her. He was a barbarian and she wanted to scream, to flee, to do anything but face this demon who would be her husband. She quickly admonished herself. He was not Lenox, and she was not some little idiot who would faint or dissolve into hysterics. She was Lady Ryann
Kennard, and it was her future that stood before her. It struck her fleetingly that this moment was set in place at the time of the signing of the betrothal papers with Lenox. It was fate that led Lord Garrick to her door.
“If you value the lives of your people, order him to release Halvor.” His voice was deep, calm because he was a man used to being obeyed.
“We have surrendered my lord, there is no need for bloodshed now,” she said.
She wished she hadn’t spoken, because those hard devil’s eyes were on her. They bore into her, so cold, so frightening she felt herself begin to quiver. It flashed in her mind she would soon be lying under this man, and she had to push it away, because she felt the panic try to take control.
“Very good Countess, but I will have your man run though if he does not stand down.”
The man’s eyes narrowed on her as she remained mute and then, as if he was telling his man to squash an ant, he said, “Halvor, kill him.”
Without hesitation she slipped between the man that was raising his sword and Christopher. In that same instant, one of Garrick’s other men made the mistake of reaching for her, and in one motion Christopher shoved the man named Halvor to the floor and was reaching for the one who was intent on laying his hands on his lady, when Garrick stepped in, doing some shoving of his own. She noticed how his men stepped back, their actions verified their leader was one they respected, and believed well capable of handling the situation. Any situation, she thought to herself.
“Put your swords away,” Garrick commanded, easily plucking his soon to be wife from the crush of soldiers, who were ready to shed Christopher’s blood.
As soon as his hands fell on her she felt their strength as he took her wrist in his iron grip. Her attempt to pry his vise like fingers from around her delicate wrist was futile, as he redirected his attention to his men and her guard. She felt as if he could crush her with his bare hands. She thought she was afraid of the idea of a new betrothal, but it was nothing to the fear she felt building within her chest being near this man.
“You will release her at once,” Christopher said, taking a bold step forward.
“I will beat her, so what will you do?” From this day forward she was under his control. There would be no one who would ever gainsay him, no one could protect her from him. He was all powerful. Not even Christopher could protect her. A loud humming began in her ears, building in intensity. She had to concentrate on her guard’s face to remain in control of the wild tremors that threatened. One look at his face told her plainly he too was aware of the sudden shift in power, and he could do nothing to protect her.
“I will protect her with my life,” he stated boldly, proudly. Ryann cringed at the words.
“Do you think you will be successful in that?” Garrick’s tone said plainly he would not. “I am not a patient man, put him with the others.” His attention fell back to her and he yanked her none too gently against himself. From the corner of her eye she saw Christopher lunge toward her, his sword in hand.
“Let me go,” she ordered of Garrick. Perhaps not the best route to take, considering his grip tightened on her. Her body was pressed painfully against his armor, the coldness of this man seeped through the fabric of her clothes. She knew without his armor, this man’s body would be just as hard, honed from the battlefields and horrors he created. “Put down your sword,” she frantically called to Christopher. Behind her she heard steel meet steel and she felt her blood turn to ice. Christopher protected her over the years, but never from the likes of these men, these savages. Every one of them lived up to their reputation, and her guard did not have a chance of survival. A small part of her felt guilty for losing faith so quickly before he had a chance to prove himself. But to stand against this man who held her within his iron grip would be suicide.
“He only protects me,” she yelled up at the man who still held her. He never took his eyes from the battle, but only hesitated a moment, before thrusting her away and into the arms of another of his men, as she heard him draw his sword. She was too quick, instantly sidestepping the hands that came out to catch her, then she was running ahead of Garrick and turned just as Christopher’s body collided with hers. She braced her feet against him, refusing to move.
Her heart seized in her throat when the Bastard continued his advance and raised his sword ready to strike her down. The stories were all true, she thought in panic as she steeled herself for the blow. But it was a big hand that came down on her to shove her away, just before the hilt of the sword connected with the back of Christopher’s neck. The man instantly crumbled to the floor and lay motionless.
~ ~ ~ ~
Garrick tried to quell the fight inside him. He came prepared to shed blood to get to the Countess. Neither he nor his men took a life, and only a few minor wounds were inflicted, the worst being to the back of her guard’s head. He turned quickly to see two of his men closing on the Countess, and he quickly stepped to her. Picking her up, he threw her over his shoulder and gave the order to place Christopher with the Countess’s other guards, then left the chapel.
He did not know what to think about his future bride. Obedient she was not. Soon she would learn that his word would be obeyed. As he strolled through the castle’s corridors he saw the faces of his men. If he had not given the order to take only the lives that threatened their own, so many would have died this day. He was prepared for battle, but hoped he would not have to hurt the Countess’s people, his people he reminded himself. Thus far, things went better than he hoped. He could see it on his men’s faces however, that need to spill blood, to fight, to conquer, and he hoped they could remain in control of themselves. Despite the reputation he had, his men were only loyal to themselves, many mercenaries with black hearts far worse than his own.
At first glance she looked timid, which would be good, a timid woman was a submissive woman, but a timid woman would not have ignored his summons. She would be a challenge, of that he didn’t doubt. She looked unremarkable when he first glimpsed her standing among his knights, other than small, her blonde hair looked dull and her stature appeared at a distance to lend her a body of a child. As he drew closer, he saw the gold reflecting in her hair from the flame of the candles. The same glow lit up her eyes, reflecting the blue of her gown and as she faced off with him, the flames in her eyes seemed to jump to life. He was appalled by the perfect heart shaped face, the unflawed skin, his wife was perhaps the most beautiful petite creature he ever lay eyes upon. As soon as he touched her, he knew this was no child. Her body was small but lean, and fit perfectly against him, her breasts were fully rounded, her hips flared ready to bare his children. Carrying her, his arm wrapped around the back of her legs he felt she was afraid. He could feel the tenseness in her as he would feel it in Malik, his horse, before a battle. She had every right to fear him, he became a monster a long time ago. He was more than willing to take her to the altar, he would force her if need be. He didn’t want to have to force her for an heir, he didn’t know if he could. He had killed and maimed in battles and after the battlefield had grown quiet the rage that allowed him to survive still thundered through his veins so he enjoyed the comforts of whores who he did not have to be gentle with. But the spoils of war never included women, especially the unwilling maidens who screamed in terror at the mere sight of him.
He came a long way, and Countess Kinnard was the woman he chose, not just because she held a title, but she was a descendent of ancient royalty that was rooted deep in the land. Maybe not his children’s generation, but perhaps his great-grandchildren would be able to drop the stigma of having him in their bloodline. If he wanted to leave his children a legacy, he had to have the Countess. Death had no meaning for Garrick when he was younger, but as the years stacked up around him, it began to weigh on him. He had built an empire. He wasn’t after the wealth, even the power held no appeal these days. But if he had a child to pass it to, an heir, then it would be worthwhile. There would be someone who would outlive him and who he woul
d have something to give upon his death, instead of a title of the bastard of a whore.
He found himself in the main bed chamber, her chamber. A glance behind him showed no one followed. He gave a heavy sigh as he looked around the chamber, his eyes fell on the bed. The amount of blankets and pillows seemed absurd. It looked the epitome of pampered luxury. Walking to the bed he wrapped his arms around the Countess and slid her off his shoulder, down the front of himself, and onto her knees. She knelt on the bed, her hair a wild disarray, tumbling over her shoulders in a thick blanket, her eyes, darkened by the shadows in the room, looked up at him filled with fear. He felt his body jump alive. He worried it was because of the fear he saw, he could fuel it, build it to a mighty flame. Victory thundered in him, driving him, compelling him to grab the Countess and take her now. He could do what he chose with her and it was a heady feeling, an over powering feeling. No one would disturb him.
He looked down at the Countess, Ryann he remembered suddenly, and marveled that she would have been the one he would pass his eye over. He liked tall, warrior like, not this short young woman.
His armor was the only thing that kept him from taking Ryann right there. He could have managed, even had her to help him, but he had things to do. He had a castle to secure before his men grew anxious about lose ends left untied, and tried to do it themselves. His hand whipped out and had a handful of her soft blonde hair twisted in his fist before she could draw away. She hadn’t cringed which told him she was never abused, but he could feel her panic building.
He bent toward her until his lips were only a breath from her ear, the tight grip kept her head in place. “Shhh.” She continued to try to pull away, he even felt her begin to put her hands up between them. He tightened his grip, bending her head back, he moved in closer, hearing her gasp, every part of his body went hard. “Shhhh,” he commanded again, giving a quick tug on her hair. Her hands fell away and her head no longer pressed into his palm when he eased his grip. He inhaled the scent of her hair, the skin of her neck. He wanted to bury his head there, to have his armor off and feel her pressed against him. Instead he rose slowly away, watching her face change from fear to relief. He let his hand slide from her hair, onto her neck, to her shoulder, down her arm and he took her hand in his own, sinking awkwardly onto the bed. He sat there, sighed again, feeling her softness wanting it to envelope him even through his armor. He let his head sink forward slightly, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments. How would he ever keep from breaking this young woman beside him? Her hands were so small and delicate in his big one he felt as if he would break each of the bones.
Angie Arms - Flame Series 03 Page 1