by Lynn Lorenz
They slipped through the door.
»»•««
Hugh lounged in the chair as he watched the scullery maid remove the remains of the meal he’d shared with Will. It had gone well, he supposed, but not well enough. He’d hoped to have Will in his bed this night.
Somehow, Will had gotten the best of him, left him aroused with no relief in sight. Well, at least not from Will.
He followed the old woman from his room. At Jon’s room, he opened the door without knocking and went inside. Hugh looked around. The room was empty. The bed had been slept in, or at least that was how Jon had left it.
It was unlike Jon not to be in his room, waiting there until Hugh called for him. He might be having his dinner, but it was late for that. Hugh shrugged, backed out, and shut the door.
Perhaps with a little more persuasion, Will might be more amiable. Hugh went to Will’s door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again and waited.
Opening the door, he looked in. “Will, are you there?”
The room was empty. Hugh’s eyes narrowed. Both Jon and Will gone at the same time? If they’d wanted to fuck, surely they could have done it in either room. Why leave? Something tapped at Hugh’s memory, something he’d said to Will.
Do you still like your men big and strong?
Hugh swore and bolted from the room, down the hall, and back into his room. Snatching up his sword, he dashed to the stairs. As he charged down the steps, he was a vision of black death. His eyes burned, teeth gritted, and his hair flew out like a black cape behind him. With the steel of his sword flashing in his hand, even the poor maid flattened against the wall in terror as he passed her in the great hall.
Jackson heard the two guards as they lumbered down the dank hall. With each step he heard the precious water sloshing from the bucket as that careless fool carried it. His mouth puckered at the thought of the drops lost, now seeping into the cracks between the bricks.
The other man would be holding the crossbow with the arrow meant for Jackson. The footsteps stopped in front of the thick wooden door and muffled voices came through as they conversed.
“Your turn to carry his slop bucket.”
Jackson grinned. They had the same argument every time they came to the door.
“I did it yesterday. It’s your turn.”
“Be careful with that, it’s set to go off.”
Jackson tensed. For a moment, he’d forgotten this was the day he’d chosen to die.
“Afraid I’ll shoot you?” Laughter floated through the wooded door.
“Aye, except you couldn’t hit a cow.”
Too bad. Jackson would be much closer than a cow in a field. The last thing he wanted was to be wounded and have to continue in this hellhole.
“Just shut up and get the key.”
He heard the sound of the bucket being dropped on the ground and winced at more water lost. Then he remembered in a few moments he’d be dead and wouldn’t need it. Still, it would be so nice to have his throat cooled before he died. Jackson snorted.
The sound of the metal key in the lock grated.
Will rushed down the stairs in the dark and came to the last step. The hall beyond was dimly lit. He stuck his head around the corner and peered down the hall.
Two guards stood at a door. Well, now he knew which door Jackson was behind.
“Stay behind me, Jon,” Will whispered over his shoulder.
He stepped out and strode down the hall toward the men. At the sound of his boots on the stones, they turned toward him.
“Hold! What are you doing down here?” The man with the crossbow raised it.
“Freeing the rightful Duke of Baymore.” Will pulled his sword and held it in striking position.
Jon darted out from behind Will and the man with the crossbow took aim.
“Shoot him!” yelled the other guard. He stepped back and pulled his sword.
“I said get back!” Will snapped at Jon who seemed to be dancing around behind him.
The crossbow bobbed and swayed as the man tried to track Jon. He fired and the bolt screamed past Will, missed Jon, and hit the wall behind them, clattering to the floor.
Will charged. Catching the bowman with nothing to protect him but his empty bow and no time to cock and load it, Will swung. His sword scraped the wall of the narrow corridor, but still managed to find its mark. With gritted teeth and a cry, Will buried the blade into the man’s neck, almost taking off his head. Hot blood sprayed across the wall and droplets of it splattered Will’s clothes. Heart pounding in his chest, he advanced on the other man who’d pulled his blade. Jon scrambled against the wall behind Will, staying out of the way as best as he could manage.
If Will didn’t kill the guard, he wanted Jackson to know he’d at least come this far for him.
“Jackson!” Will shouted.
Jackson crept to the door, listening to the ruckus in the hall. What the hell was going on? The distinctive sound of steel on steel echoed and he straightened.
“Jackson!”
His mind deceived him. Will’s voice called to him. He’d gone insane in this cell. Hot tears blossomed in his eyes as he went to the door and leaned his ear against it to hear.
“Jackson! I’m here!”
It was Will. Jackson’s hands clawed at the door to get to him, but his fingers couldn’t fit in the crack.
Fisting his hands, he beat on the door and bellowed, “Will!”
Will advanced and the man backpedaled, his sword held out. Will kept coming, spurred by Jackson’s shouts. Jon stepped around the pool of blood and closed his eyes as he passed the partially severed head, its eyes staring and mouth open in a cry.
The man swung. Will blocked it, steel meeting steel. With a twist of his wrist, he knocked the man’s arm to the side and thrust, catching the guard in the chest. Will’s blade sank in, past bone and organs and exited the man’s back. The weight of the guard as he collapsed almost pulled Will’s sword from his hand.
“Get the key!” Will shouted at Jon. “Open the door!”
Jon rushed to the door, the key still in the lock.
Hugh rounded the corner. “Jon! Get away from that door.”
Jon froze, cringing like a whipped dog at his master’s angry voice.
Will stepped past Jon and readied his sword. “Stay behind me, Jon.”
Hugh kept coming. “What are you doing down here?”
“Freeing Jackson, you bastard,” Will growled.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen, William.”
“I know you killed your father.”
“Jon, have you been telling tales?” Hugh’s eyes narrowed, spilling hatred toward the young man who now cowered against the wall near the body of the last guard.
“And I know your father named Jackson as rightful heir of Baymore.” Will raised his sword to striking position and took several cautious steps forward.
Hugh raised his sword in response. “So, instead of ruling Baymore with me, you choose to die.”
“I choose to live with Jackson. Baymore be damned.”
Hugh lunged, his arm outstretched, leg extended, but Will knocked the sword away. Hugh recovered and then advanced with two quick steps. Will held his ground and swung. Their swords met in several quick ringing arcs, then parted. Will blocked Hugh’s next attack, but Hugh forced him back.
“Will, watch out for the blood!” Jon cried.
Will stepped into the dark red pool and slipped. He went down hard on the stones and his cracked ribs gave him a sharp reminder they had not fully healed. Sprawled on the floor, Will struggled to get upright and defend himself.
Hugh took advantage and advanced. Swinging, he caught Will’s blade and with a twist of his wrist sent Will’s sword flying.
“Now, I’m going to kill you and that stupid little whore.” Hugh’s face was a hideous mask. Or had the mask dropped and what Will saw was Hugh revealed? All the hatred, the hurt and the poison of his soul reflected on his fierce countenance.
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Jon unwound from his crouch, swept up the guard’s sword and leapt over Will. “Get back, Hugh. I swear, I’ll kill you!”
“Jon, no!” Will cried, but Jon threw himself into Hugh’s reach.
With a careless lunge, Hugh impaled Jon. Will watched with horror as Jon’s small body seemed to lift from the floor, the steel blade erupted through his back, and he collapsed to his knees. His hand spasmed open and the sword fell, clattering onto the floor.
Hugh sneered, placed his boot on Jon’s chest, and shoved him off his blade. He toppled onto the floor. Will looked down into Jon’s face. It was beautiful, calm as if he slept. All the fear and terror that had gripped his young soul had left him, leaving only his true beauty.
“You’re next,” Hugh growled as he turned on Will.
Will’s hand reached to his boot and grasped the hilt of his hidden dagger. With a great roar and flourish, Hugh’s arms rose above his shoulders in a two-handed swing meant to take Will’s head off. Will pushed off the floor, lunged forward, and drove his blade hilt-deep into the center of Hugh’s chest.
Blood erupted from the wound and Hugh’s mouth. The sword slipped from his hands, clattered onto the floor behind him, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell to his knees. Clutching the hilt of the dagger as if to pull it out, he slumped to the floor. The gurgle of blood in his throat echoed in the hall, then stopped.
“Will!” Jackson’s muffled voice came from behind the door.
“God’s tears!” Will picked up his sword, sheathed it, and lurched around the bodies to the door. Fumbling with the key, he twisted it, the lock clicked, and he pulled the door open. “Jackson!”
Jackson fell forward into Will’s arms. Together, they slid to their knees, hands buried in each other’s hair. Will’s forehead pressed against Jackson’s as they clung to each other. He’d never thought he’d hold Jackson in his arms again and he couldn’t seem to speak, only hang on to the man whose brother he’d killed in order to save him. Only strangled gasps came from Jackson’s parched throat.
“I’ve got to get you out of here.” Will pushed to his feet, dragging Jackson with him. Will turned, his arm wrapped around Jackson’s waist.
Four guards stood in the hall, weapons drawn.
Chapter Sixteen
Will stepped forward, drawing his bloodstained sword. “Halt!” The men held at his command. “Take another step and your bodies will be added to those already littering this floor.” His fierce look and blood-splattered clothing must have convinced them, because they didn’t advance any farther. “This man is Jackson Baymore, eldest son of Morris and the rightful Duke of Baymore.”
One guard stepped forward, blade still raised. “Where is Lord Hugh?”
“He lies dead with my dagger in his heart.” Will pointed to the body. “He killed his father, Withers, the poor lad Jon, and imprisoned his brother. God knows who else he’s slain.” If he could convince these men, Will could have Jackson settled as Duke of Baymore before the hour was over. If they didn’t believe him, he’d kill them.
The man looked at Hugh’s body and his eyebrows rose, but he didn’t seem very unhappy. “How do I know your claim is true?”
“Bring your master of arms here. I will prove it to him.”
The guard gave him a wary look, then turned to the others. “Hold here. Don’t let them move from this hall.” Then he dashed up the stairs.
Jackson’s legs shook but he kept them locked. He stared at Will, who supported him with an arm wrapped around his waist. Strong and secure, Will wouldn’t let him fall. Jackson had come far too close to death. He smiled for the first time in days. God, had it been only days since he’d arrived here? It had felt like eternity.
But Will had come for him and killed Hugh. Now, Will claimed Baymore for him, something he’d never dreamed of doing. He looked at the dead strewn on the floor of the hall. Will’s father’s blade protruded from Hugh’s chest. The two guards and the young man who had watched Hugh beat Jackson lay in pools of now drying blood.
Had Will killed them all? Jackson would have liked to have seen Hugh slain and regretted he had missed the chance to do it himself. He knew the taste of revenge could turn bitter, but thoughts of killing Hugh had sustained him.
Still, this death would do.
The last time Jackson had seen Will, he had been weak, tired, and too injured to do much. Now here Will stood, magnificent and strong, steel in his blue eyes and the flush of battle still covering him.
Not like Jackson. He was filthy, his clothing shredded, his back a mass of sores. Exhaustion threatened to take him. Every part of his body hurt and his thirst had not been slaked. He swallowed and felt darkness well in him. He was half blind and had been no better than a creature in that cell, used for Hugh’s perverted amusement. Jackson’s head hung with shame for the rest of it.
Beaten and raped. He could barely think it. How could he ever manage to speak of it? And to Will, who’d had such hopes he would be the one Jackson would give himself to? Jackson shuddered at the thought of being penetrated, of the memory of Hugh’s hands on his skin, the stench of his dark cell as he relived the pain and shame of it.
How could he ever find pleasure in that act? Or in the taking of Will, fearing to hurt him as Hugh had hurt him?
Perhaps he should have died with an arrow in his chest.
Jackson licked his cracked lips and cast a look over his shoulder to the bucket sitting against the wall. “Will. I need water.”
Will grunted. “You there. Guard. Fetch His Grace that bucket of water. He thirsts.”
To Jackson, Will’s voice seemed to have magical properties because the man obeyed, sheathing his sword as he slowly moved toward them. With a quick look into Jackson’s face, he slipped by, stepped over bodies, and retrieved the bucket.
Will leaned Jackson against the wall. Taking the ladle, Will scooped water and offered it. Jackson, hands trembling, poured the cool liquid down his throat. After three more ladleful’s, he dropped it back in the bucket.
“My thanks, soldier.” Jackson nodded to the guard who lowered the bucket to the floor and returned to his comrades.
There was some noise and then the men parted. The master of arms had arrived and he advanced, sword drawn, into the hallway.
“What is this? Is it true Lord Hugh is dead?” He glared at Jackson and Will, but kept his distance.
“Are you Baymore’s master of arms? Captain of his men?” Will asked.
“I am.” His sharp eyes flicked from Will to Jackson.
“I assume you can read?” Will dug in his vest and pulled out a paper.
Jackson’s lips parted. Dear God, how had Will gotten the paper? If they ever got out of this, he’d have to hear the story of Will’s adventure. God knew he dreaded having to tell his side.
“I can.”
“And you know His Grace Duke Morris’s hand and seal?”
“Aye. I have read his orders these last three years.” He nodded.
“Then read this. Confirm it is written in the old duke’s hand, it bears his seal, and what it says.” Will moved to him and held out the paper.
The master scanned it, his eyes tracking as he read. Other than an “hmm” and “I see,” he was silent. Then he folded it and handed it back to Will. Turning to his men, he gave them a hand signal and they sheathed their blades.
“This is Baymore’s heir, men. Jackson, is it, Your Grace?”
Jackson gave him a nod. Could it be that simple? With a letter and a few words, he was duke?
“And you, my lord? Lord William of Holcombe, is it?” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you to His Grace?” He gestured to Jackson.
“I am his dearest friend and companion.” Will straightened as if daring the man to say something. “Now, if that is settled, His Grace needs tending to. He’s been beaten and left without food and little water.”
“Of course.” He gave a nod and stepped aside. “Men, clear these bodies.”
As the captai
n took over the mess Will had left in the hallway, he reclaimed his grip on Jackson and headed to the stairs. They took them slowly and it was a tight fit, but Jackson couldn’t have done it without Will’s help.
The next thing Jackson knew, they had entered a room and were making for the bed. He was lowered onto the edge as Will kneeled and removed his boots. In short time, he had been stripped of his tattered and filthy clothing and stretched out on his belly on the bed, his back too damaged to lie on. The rest was a blur as he fell in and out of consciousness.
His only constant, Will’s soft voice, his tender touch, and the soft pillow his head rested on.
Will pulled the covers up to Jackson’s waist and turned to the captain.
“What is your name?”
“It’s Marcus, my lord.” He gave Will a curt nod.
“You don’t seem too upset about Hugh.”
“Hugh was a demon straight from the gates of hell and needed to be stopped.” He shrugged. “Besides, I gave oath to Morris, not his son.”
“And will you give oath to this man?” Will nodded toward Jackson, asleep in the bed.
“He is rightful heir.” He sounded unsure. “What do you know of him?”
“He’s spent most of his life as a mercenary, and you won’t find a better, more noble and honorable man.”
Marcus walked to the bed and looked down at Jackson’s large, battered body.
“He’s been badly treated. I’m sorry for that. I was told he’d come to the castle and tried to force the duke to give him money and that he killed Withers in the attempt. Of course, in Hugh’s story, Hugh was the hero that overpowered him.”
“You could not have known the truth. I have sent for the duke’s physician. Until he arrives, I’ll see his wounds are cleaned.”
“What do you need of me?” Marcus asked.
“Return Baymore’s signet ring to me, Hugh wore it. And my dagger. Hugh wears that also. Do what you do. Keep Baymore secure.” Will walked him to the door. “And I would have you gather all of Morris’s masters and captains. I’ll see them in one hour in the great hall.”
“Aye, my lord.” Marcus opened the door and left.