His attention shifted as a shout went up. The sail lowered and the oars took over, steering the little ship with more precision through the thickening mist. Turi shifted his bow higher on his shoulder and braced his legs. A short while later, the ship’s flat stern grated against the pebbled shore of Melcombe’s harbor and the vessel lurched to a halt.
A mumble arose behind him as the other passengers readied themselves to disembark. For most, it meant utilizing a small, rope ladder that hung from the side, near the bow. Turi, however, bid the ship’s master farewell with a nod and used the side of the small ship to vault onto the beach.
There, he paused for a moment and took stock of his surroundings. Despite the fog, he could see that the village had grown. As his feet crunched up the pebble beach, one thing in particular drew his eye. Situated at the far end of the small harbor, the inn, with its lime-washed walls and thatched roof, was a welcome sight. In apparent defiance of the dreary weather, the door to the inn stood half-open and a faint glow of lantern light spilled out. It served as an enticing beacon to those who sought shelter and sustenance.
And if the light had not been visible, a lost traveler might still be guided by the elevated voices of drunken men, gales of raucous laughter, and shouts of exasperation. The usual tavern clientele.
Eager to shore up his sagging spirit with a skinful of wine and, hopefully, a worthy wench, Turi made a beeline for the place. A brief hush fell over the crowd when he crossed the threshold. An expected response, for Turi cast an impressive shadow. His cloak of gray wool hung to one side, leaving his sword and bow visible. He never wore mail. He had no need of it. He knew he had an intimidating appearance, one that made most men think twice about challenging him. As was his intent.
Ignoring the curious glances and needing wine to help quell the noise in his head, Turi headed for the bar with a purposeful stride. The proprietor, a small reed of a man with a bald head and a brown moustache, gave him a wink.
“We’ll ’ave no trouble, lad.”
“As you wish.” Turi’s gaze swept the room. “If anyone starts it, I will end it for you. But my services do not come cheap.”
The man’s mouth curved into a smile. “Ale?”
“Wine.”
“Food?”
“Nay.”
“Female company?”
Turi tossed some coins on the bar. “Recently bathed, with firm breasts and good teeth.”
The man chuckled, scooped up the silver, and gestured with his chin. “There’s a vacant table in the corner by the door. Have a seat.”
Turi settled himself and cast a probing gaze around the dimly lit room. He sought information. All humans spoke a common language that had little to do with words. Facial expressions, stance, habitual movements. A man could learn much from a simple study, and Turi liked to know about those who shared his space. He could always pick out the cats from the mice.
Or the rats.
Being a harbor tavern, most of the patrons appeared to have some affiliation with the sea. An elderly couple sat by the window. A fisherman and his wife, Turi guessed, the latter obviously flaying her husband with her tongue. The man’s face wore a mask of resignation. Boredom, even. He’d apparently heard it all before.
A group of what looked like merchant seamen, seated at a large table by the back wall, was immersed in a boisterous game of dice. One to keep an eye on. They did not appear to be dangerous men, but mixing drinking and gambling was always an unstable combination.
At another table, an arm wrestling contest was underway. Cordial and good humored, judging by the friendly back slaps and bursts of laughter. In a shadowed corner, a man and a shapely tavern wench explored their physical differences in a subtle and consensual fashion. Harmless.
A fellow propped against the far end of the bar drew Turi’s attention. Ruddy faced, with a thick neck and thicker legs. A roughly-shorn head, a few days’ growth on his chin, and a dagger at his waist. Not a knight, but a military build, nonetheless. Between swallowing mouthfuls of ale, the man would cast surreptitious glances at the amorous couple in the corner. Then, like a starving dog might when eyeing a bone, he’d lick his lips.
Turi’s mouth quirked slightly.
Movement to his side caught his eye and he raised a brow at the sight of the lass headed his way. Her smile was all there. So was her chest, most of it trying to escape from a robe that appeared to have been made for someone smaller. The wench studied him with obvious and equal interest through wide, dark eyes. Almost as dark as her hair, which hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. A comely lass, indeed. And, better yet, she was clutching a good-sized flagon and two goblets.
“Looks to be a promising night,” Turi murmured, as she drew near.
“Good eve to you, milord,” she said, releasing a breath as she placed the goblets and flagon on the table. “I am called Edyth.”
“A pretty Saxon name.” Turi smiled over a familiar and ancient thrust of resentment. Whether he liked it or not, the Saesneg were now stitched into Britannia’s violent tapestry. He fingered the end of the woman’s braid that dangled before him like a lure. She was dark for an Englishwoman. “I am Turi.”
Edyth fluttered her eyelashes and filled the goblets with practiced ease. “A fine name for an ’andsome man.” She edged her backside into the chair beside him. “Are you a knight, then?”
The lass smelled of stale ale and tallow smoke, sweetened with a hint of musty lavender. Turi took a swig of wine and rolled the liquid around his mouth for a moment before swallowing. An austere flavor. No matter. Three or four more goblets and the shadows that always clung to him would loosen their hold a little. “I am a knight in all the ways that matter, my lady.”
“My lady?” She giggled and stroked a hand down his thigh. “God’s truth, no one ever called me that before. You ’ave a sweet tongue, milord.”
He regarded the voluptuous expanse spilling over the top of her robe. “So I’ve been told.”
Edyth giggled again and slid her hand between his legs. Turi threw more wine down his throat as his groin tightened.
“I’ve been told to look after you.” Her breasts pillowed against his arm as her hand wandered ever higher. “I would know, then, of your preferences and your pleasure.”
“The night is not yet born.” Turi drew breath as she cupped him. “We have time to explore many options.”
“And I am yours to command.” She gave him an intimate squeeze and flicked her tongue at his ear lobe. “God’s bollocks, ’tis a fine weapon you ’ave, milord.”
“Setantii steel,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t talkin’ ’bout your sword.”
“Neither was I.”
Turi’s goblet paused halfway to his mouth as he locked eyes with the thick-necked man at the bar. The soldier shifted his gaze away, licking his lips as he did so. Turi gripped his goblet a little tighter and took another gulp.
“There’s a cozy little room out back,” Edyth said, her busy hand adding thickness and length to Turi’s cock. “We’ll not be disturbed.”
“Not yet.” Turi placed his hand atop Edyth’s, halting its ministrations. The lass had obvious talents and Turi didn’t doubt he’d enjoy her, but he had no desire to rush. Besides, the wine needed time to smooth out his ragged edges.
A predator, he thought, still watching the soldier. Turi recognized the creature that lingered behind the man’s leering eyes. It was a common enough demon among mortals. A dangerous beast of prey, hungry for something other than food.
Edyth’s breasts lifted off his arm. “Do I not please you, milord?”
The childish petulance in her voice drew Turi’s attention. He set the goblet down and met her gaze. “Do you have other clients awaiting your pleasure tonight, Edyth?”
“Um, nay. Only you. For now, anyway.”
“Then I see no need to rush the pleasure I’m certain we’re bound to share.” He stroked his knuckles across her cheek. “And yes, my lady, you please me greatly.”
At that moment, a shape appeared in the open doorway and a cloaked figure swept past. Small and slightly built, it moved swiftly and with purpose, straight to the bar. A lull crept over the crowd and the proprietor’s brows lifted in apparent surprise as he regarded this new patron. Turi frowned, noting the fine embroidery edging the cloak and the scuffed, but well-made leather shoes visible beneath the skirts. A woman, and obviously high-born. She stood out like a butterfly in a meat market.
Turi glanced at the doorway, expecting to see an escort or chaperone of some kind. But the threshold remained empty and Turi’s curiosity stirred as did his instincts. Something was amiss.
As the woman conversed with the proprietor, at least a dozen pairs of eyes regarded her, all asking the same question. Edyth voiced it as she filled Turi’s goblet again. “Wonder what she wants? No place, this, for one such as ’er.”
Equally intrigued, Turi leaned forward, straining to hear the conversation. The shared words were beyond earshot, but the nods and gestures told him enough.
“She’s lost,” Turi said, more to himself than Edyth. “Asking for directions.”
His gaze then centered on the thick-necked soldier. The man had sidled closer to the woman and kept casting sideways glances at her. Turi’s jaw tightened. Had the predator spotted a potential prey? So far, he had not licked his lips. Perhaps he, too, was merely curious. Maybe the woman was past her prime. Or less than pleasant to look upon. Since she wore a hood, Turi had not seen her face.
At last the woman gave a final nod. Then she turned and headed for the door with as much purpose in her step as she’d shown earlier. A pale hand held her hood in place and shielded her features as she disappeared into the fog. Turi caught a fleeting glimpse of russet hair and the profile of a feminine chin. Mere moments after she left, the noise in the room resumed its previous level.
Turi turned his gaze back to the bar, hoping his growing apprehension was unfounded.
“I have not heard of Setantii before.” Edyth’s hand drifted back to Turi’s thigh. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Aye.” An easy answer and close enough to the truth. The soldier at the bar assumed a nonchalant posture and emptied the contents of his tankard down his throat. Turi shifted in his seat and kept watching.
Edyth’s fingertips brushed across Turi’s groin again. “It’s the name of your village?”
“Aye.”
“Where is it?”
The soldier banged the empty tankard on the counter and ordered another ale. Turi released a cautious breath of relief, finished the contents of his goblet, and turned his attention back to Edyth.
“North.” A familiar warmth had at last begun to filter into Turi’s tormented brain. Wine, he thought, was surely a creation of the gods. So were women’s breasts. He grazed a hand over one of Edyth’s ample blessings and felt the nipple harden. “’Tis in the north. A long way from here.”
She hummed and leaned into his touch. “Men like my tits,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I’m not surprised. They are very –”
The soldier finished his ale in a couple of impressive gulps, released a loud belch, and licked his lips. The air moved as he brushed past their table on the way out. He left a stench of rotten breath and sweat in his wake. Turi’s gut clenched.
Shite.
Edyth sniffed. “Very what?”
Turi sat back and reasoned with himself. His leaving doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The man might have a home to go to. Maybe the lass wasn’t alone. Maybe she had an armed escort waiting outside. Maybe my instincts are wrong.
“Milord?” Edyth nuzzled his ear. “What were you goin’ to say?”
Turi uttered a curse in a dialect no longer heard anywhere in the world. His instincts were thirteen centuries old. They were never wrong. The real question lay in why he felt compelled to rush to the aid of a noblewoman he’d never even met. It was a profound and startling compulsion, one he could not deny. A belated moment of redemption, perhaps?
“Forgive me, Edyth.” He dug into the purse at his belt, drew out two pieces of silver, and pressed them into her hand. The lass, he knew, wouldn’t make that much in a month. “You’re a fine woman and I wish I could stay, but I have to go.”
“Go where? I don’t…” Her eyes widened as she studied the coins. “God’s bollocks.”
“I have to take care of something.” Turi grabbed his bow, rose to his feet, and then bent to kiss Edyth on the cheek. “And your tits are very beautiful.”
Anticipation thrumming in his veins, Turi disappeared into the fog.
Chapter Two
Cristen clutched her cloak at her throat and swallowed against her mounting fear. She could barely see her feet through this cursed fog, let alone the cobbles beneath them. And now night was falling, too.
Up the cobbled rise, the innkeeper said. Turn left at the stone cross and follow the clifftop trail for nine or ten miles.
Nine or ten miles? It might as well have been a hundred.
Cristen felt the telltale prickle of hot tears behind her eyes. Nay! She gritted her teeth. She would not sink into a bog of self-pity. By God’s good grace, she had come this far. She would endure. She swiped a treacherous tear from her eye, slowed her step, and tried to grasp some clear thought. Choices. She had them.
Maybe she should return to the inn for the night. Since she didn’t have a penny to her name, however, she’d have to throw herself on the innkeeper’s mercy. She had not yet been obliged to beg for charity, but was not beyond doing so. The mere thought of going back there, though, made her stomach churn.
In need of direction and with the fog thickening, Cristen had initially been drawn to the light leaching from the inn’s doorway. She had never before been in such a place and had lingered outside for a while, summoning up the courage to enter. She didn’t want to bring unnecessary attention to herself. Then again, none of her pursuers would think to look for her in this corner of England. Would they?
When she finally found the nerve to step over the threshold, she noticed the sudden lull and felt all eyes upon her. Something about the scrutiny made her skin crawl. She felt vulnerable. Exposed. It was akin to being in a foreign land, penniless and unable to speak the language.
Going back there would probably not be a wise choice.
But would her attempt to reach Abbotsbury on this filthy night be less perilous? What dangers, lurking unseen, might be out here in this mess? No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a figure emerged from the gloom and almost collided with her. Cristen gasped as her heart dropped into her shoes.
“My pardon,” a man mumbled as he sidestepped her and went on his way.
Trembling, Cristen caught her breath and paused to look back the way she’d come. A short time earlier, she’d skirted past a solitary building, its weathered, wooden walls barely visible in the murk. A barn of some type. Or perhaps a stable. Maybe she could take shelter there. Sneak into a stall for the night. The idea, while not entirely appealing, seemed like a reasonable and safer solution. Decided, she turned and set off.
She took but three steps.
It came from the right. A massive, black shape bearing down on her with startling speed. Before she could even draw breath to cry out, a large, callused hand clamped over her mouth. An arm, thick and solid as iron, locked around her neck. It pulled her back against the muscled slab of a chest and something sharp pierced the thin flesh beneath her ear.
Cristen’s terrified scream grated the back of her throat as her hands tore in vain at the muscled arm holding her. Her first thought was that Ralph had found her. But how could that be possible?
“Keep quiet,” a man’s voice said, “and keep still. Or I’ll slit your pretty throat.” It was not Ralph. Not his voice. For a heartbeat, Cristen entertained a ridiculous sense of relief. Then terror returned in full force. Not Ralph, but a demon nonetheless, and perhaps more evil yet.
Mother of God, help me.
Whoever held her steered her into a side alley and pinned her hard, belly first, against a wall. Cristen’s breath rushed from her lungs, its escape hindered by the hand over her mouth. Winded, she closed her eyes against a swirl of dizziness and sucked a desperate gasp through her nostrils. The man’s arousal pressed against the small of Cristen’s back. Her stomach heaved and bile scorched her tongue. The man lifted his chokehold, but his suffocating hand stayed clamped over her mouth. His vile breath came hot and fast against her ear as he fumbled with her cloak and skirts, hoisting them up around her waist. As chilled air brushed over her naked flesh, another gagged scream scraped over her throat. She scratched at the massive hand covering her mouth and then reached back, trying to claw at the man’s face. With a grunt, and using his knee, the man forced her legs apart and thrust his hand between them.
A feeble cry died in the back of her throat as Cristen struggled in vain against his vicious assault. Hardly able to breathe, her next cry of helplessness was little more than a squeak.
“Hush, now,” the man murmured, “this won’t take long. You might even like it.”
A moment later, his arousal jabbed at the cleft between her buttocks. Cristen froze in absolute fear and closed her eyes.
Then, over the frantic hammer of her heart, she heard a muffled thud. The man’s body went rigid against her and he gurgled as if choking on mud. From somewhere off to the left, she heard a distinct voice. A man’s voice, speaking words in a language she did not recognize. Her captor exhaled a single, rattling gasp and dropped like a sack of stones. Still caught in his gagging grip, Cristen fell with him. As they hit the ground, his hand slid away from her mouth and Cristen drank in a desperate lungful of air.
Moments later, another man appeared above her and shouldered a bow that had been dangling from his hand. Numb with shock, Cristen stared up at him, unable to make sense of what had just occurred. She couldn’t speak. Was she even alive? A tear leaked from the corner of her eye and trailed across her temple. She felt its heat and managed a whimper.
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 3