by Betina Krahn
Her host helped her to her feet, then continued to hold her hand, too tightly, as he stared at her with ill-disguised hunger. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded, drawing herself up straight and trying, unsuccessfully, to remove her hand from his. “Where am I?” Her eyes flickered around the sumptuous tent.
“Ah, permit me to introduce myself, my lady.” Her host smiled, reaching for her other hand and capturing it, despite her obvious reluctance. “I am Drustane Canard, Duc de Verville.” As she looked up, directly into his face, she felt a strange chill. He was a stunningly handsome man, with strong aquiline features, large deep-set eyes and a broad sensual mouth. But there was something about his eyes . . . a mirrorlike quality to their darkness that she found unnerving.
“And this,” he gestured to the tent and beyond, “is my camp. This is my captain, Scallion.” He waved a hand to the tall, whey-skinned soldier by the door. “He rescued you and brought you to me. A most fortunate happening, my lady . . . or should I say Princess?”
She stiffened. “You know who I am?”
“But of course, Princess. Though I do not know your proper name. I have only heard your traders refer to you as ‘princess,’” he said smoothly. He had indeed asked one of her traders her name . . . that afternoon, in fact, and with the aid of a red-hot iron to ensure he received the truth. But the wretch was unable to answer satisfactorily for his miserable screams. “Indeed, the chance of meeting you is one of the very reasons I have made this journey.” He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t he squeezed her hands to encourage her.
“Thera of Aric,” she answered, stiffening and suppressing her rising anxiety. Her traders would never speak of her outside Mercia, she was sure of it. And he was squeezing her hands much too hard, stopping just short of pain. Her heart began to pound. Something was very wrong here.
“Thera.” He breathed it out as if it were a sigh, and the tension in his hands and countenance eased. “Princess Thera. I welcome you and make you my guest. You must be fatigued . . . perhaps thirsty after your ordeal?”
“I would prefer, Duc, that you allow me to take my horse and leave. I’ m sure my family will be most worried.”
“Nay. Princess, I could never let you go out into the night alone. It is much too late. I will send a message on the morrow. Nay—I have a better plan. My men and I will escort you home. I am most anxious to see your lovely kingdom.
“Come and sit, my beautiful Thera of Aric.” He pulled her toward a wooden chair and squeezed her hands until she complied and sat down. “And tell me all about your home. . . .”
* * *
Saxxe and Gasquar had ridden from one end of the valley to the other, posting sentries and arranging for signals. When they left the east passage, they swung back through the city itself, to see how things were progressing, and were unexpectedly detained at the forge. Randall requested they look over the surprising cache of weapons he had managed to collect, to judge their battle worthiness.
Thus, it was well past Compline, several hours past dusk, when they finally reached the western pass. It was dark and quiet as they surveyed the stone formations and positioned their sentries. By the time they returned again to the city and palace, it was deep night and all but an occasional torch had been extinguished in the halls. Saxxe washed and took a little wine, thinking of Thera, wondering if she would come to his chambers and worrying that his bold action might have driven a new wedge between them. He had hoped to make this night their seventh, and the sweetest yet.
He waited and paced, feeling in his marrow that this last night had to be given freely on her part. He needed to know that if she came to him again and they were thus wedded, it was because she truly wanted him and trusted that he was right for both her and Mercia. He wanted no mistaken intentions, nothing that would later cause her to regret her choice or the way it was made.
Tension and fatigue gradually claimed him, and he lay down on the bed with his arms propped behind his head, staring up into the darkness. He must have slept, for he wakened to the sight of dawn light streaming in the garden doors. He rose, feeling little refreshed by his oblivion, and paced again. Perhaps she had simply fallen asleep. Perhaps she was waiting for him to come to her. Or perhaps she was furious with him.
Another hour went by, then two. It was well past Prime when he left his chambers and strode along the corridor, through the Great Hall, and down the colonnade to Thera’s apartments. His fine resolve of the night before had worn thin and now he intended to ask her straight out to marry him . . . and put an end to his misery. He tried the door. It was latched, and he banged on it, calling her name. There was no answer, and he banged harder.
“Thera, open your door! I need to talk with you. Thera . . .” He waited and banged again. “Thera, don’t be stubborn!”
“What is it? What’s happened?” Lillith’s voice startled him and he whirled to find her standing behind him with her eyes heavy with sleep, her lips love-swollen, and her hair hastily plaited into a rope over one shoulder. Behind her he glimpsed the reason for her exceptional dishabille . . . Gasquar, wearing only hose, boots, and an indecently satisfied smile. Saxxe gave him a wry nod of surprise.
“She won’t open the door,” he said, taking a deep breath.
“Did you quarrel?” Lillith demanded, scowling at him.
“We did not cross words,” he protested. “Is she angry I was so late last night?”
“I don’t know,” Lillith said, her eyes widening. “I was busy myself last ni—Wait—you mean she was not with you?”
“Nay, I have not seen her since yesterday midafternoon. I waited for her—”
“Lord help us,” Lillith said, reddening at this unforgivable lapse of duty. She had very nearly counted a night that hadn’t counted! “After last night, I just assumed she would . . . you would . . .” She stiffened and drew herself up straight. “Wait here. I’ll go through the garden doors.”
Moments later, the doors to Thera’s apartments were flung open and Lillith greeted them with a frantic expression. In the background they could see old Esme, Thera’s servant, wringing her hands. “She hasn’t slept in her bed, and Esme said she hasn’t seen her since she went to look for you . . . to tell you about the traders.”
“The traders?” Saxxe looked at Gasquar and frowned.
“Yea, the traders . . . yesterday evening when she rode out to the pass to tell you about the ambush and the black-clad soldiers in the foothills.”
“She rode out after us? But we never saw her—” Saxxe grabbed Lillith’s shoulders. “Black-clad soldiers in the hills? Bon Dieu—what news is this? Tell me!”
Lillith repeated the traders’ story of the ambush and recounted Thera’s fear that the black-clad soldiers in the hills might know about Mercia, since one of their number had been camped in Mercia’s hills, and they might be headed for the valley.
It was exactly what he had feared, but the confirmation still slammed through Saxxe like a battering ram. And the fact that Thera had gone riding off into the night after him pushed his concern to towering proportions.
Saxxe set Lillith to questioning the palace staff for word of Thera’s whereabouts, and sent Thera’s page for Cedric and Elder Hubert to help her. He and Gasquar rushed back to their quarters for their cross braces, daggers, and swords, then exploded from the palace to search the city. They found no trace of her and so mounted horses and rode up and down the entire valley, rousing plowmen and shepherds to ask after her.
When they reached the sentries at the eastern pass, they learned Thera had been there at sunset, looking for them. They had sent her to the western pass . . . and had seen her take the high path along the rim of the valley. They pointed out the barely visible path, and Saxxe and Gasquar struck off along it. When they reached the softer ground of the great trees on the far western slopes, they spotted fresh hoofprints, then followed until they came to a place where there were a number of tracks and a few flattened bushes.
That alarming trail l
ed straight toward the western pass itself. But when they reached it, they found their sentries, alert and vigilant.
“Where could she be?” Saxxe worried aloud as they raced back through the valley toward the city. They had just reached the palace and dismounted when a sentry on horseback came hurtling through the streets, calling for them.
The rider reined up beside Saxxe and handed him a rolled bit of parchment, panting out an explanation. Hearing the commotion, Cedric and the other elders who had been waiting for word of Thera came pouring out of the palace onto the portico.
“Not long after you left . . . a rider came and threw this down . . . at the entry to the pass. Then he wheeled and rode off before we could challenge him.”
Saxxe swallowed hard and ripped open the wax seal on the parchment. As he scanned the words, his face seemed to drain of color beneath his sun-browned skin.
“What is it?” Cedric asked anxiously. “Read it, sir!”
“It is from one who calls himself Drustane Canard, Duc de Verville. He claims Thera is his guest . . . and that he will personally escort her home in two days’ time. And he expects Mercia to prepare a proper welcome and—” Saxxe halted, his face like stone and his fists clenched. Cedric lifted his widened eyes and finished it for them.
“And a wedding feast for Princess Thera and her new husband, the Duc de Verville.” He halted and held out the parchment with a look of horror. “A wedding feast? But that cannot be—Princess Thera is six-sevenths married to you!”
A hush fell over the elders as Saxxe turned to the sentry and grabbed his shoulders. “What color was his armor—the one who delivered this?”
When the fellow answered, there wasn’t a person present who didn’t understand the significance of his reply.
“Black . . . it was black, sir.”
Saxxe turned on them with the new fire of certainty in his eyes. “They have her. This ‘dark horde’ . . . they got into the valley somehow and secreted her out.”
As anguished confusion broke out among the elders, Saxxe signaled Gasquar and turned to go. Cedric caught Saxxe’s arm.
“Prithee, sir, where are you going?”
“Where else?” Saxxe said with flinty determination. “To get her back.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You are not drinking your wine, Princess,” the duc said, standing above Thera in the heavily perfumed warmth of his tent, watching her toy with her goblet.
“I am not thirsty,” Thera said, setting the cup down and trying to control both her anxiety and anger.
“Then perhaps you are hungry,” he said, making it sound like a command. He clapped his hands and issued a terse order to a harried-looking servant. Within moments, a tray of food appeared . . . figs and raisins, almonds, sweet wafers, and a pitcher of warm spiced wine. The sight of them made her stomach quiver.
“I am not hungry.”
“Not hungry?” he said, a bit too sharply, then softened his tone and added a smile that was utterly charming but still managed to make her skin prickle. “You wound me, Princess. I have searched for you everywhere. One sweet glimpse of you was all that was required to set my heart aflame.” He fastened his dark eyes on her and she saw them slipping to her breasts. “Sweet God . . . how I have burned for you.”
Thera felt his heated maleness crowding her like the cloying and oppressive scent of incense in the air. She stiffened and suppressed a shudder.
“When did you see me, Your Grace?” she said in the same carefully modulated tones she would use to pacify a snarling hound.
He sank gracefully onto one knee by her chair, so that his chest leaned across the arm. His face was darkening and his eyes now had an odd luster about them. But it was his words that pushed her anxiety a notch higher.
“In Nantes. I saw you in the street one night . . . facing a vile pack of barbarians. I sent my men to rescue you, but you had disappeared. I tore the city apart searching for you. Since that moment, I have devoted my life to finding you, Princess. I have followed you halfway across France and Brittany.” His voice was smooth and cultured, his words courtly . . . so much so that it took her a moment to collect the full meaning in his words.
Nantes? He had seen her in the market square that hideous night?
“And now I present myself before you on bended knee . . . here to woo and win you for my own, fair Princess.”
And he abruptly leaned into her, trapping her against the far side of the chair and pressing a hot kiss on her mouth. She reacted belatedly, jerking her head away. “Nay!” He grabbed her wrists and held them, panting a laugh as he raked her with his eyes.
“Nay?” He seemed amused. “You would deny me a gallant suitor’s reward for your rescue this night?” He lapsed once more into courtly poetry, only this time it seemed a mockery. “One sweet kiss . . . I’ll drink the dew of your lips and thirst nevermore. One kiss, one caress of your sweet breast to see me through the long night?” He released her wrist, only to clasp her breast before she could push his hand away.
Her expression spoke a royal fury she had little experience at hiding. It might have proved disastrous for her, but the duc was too intent on savoring the sight of her body so near to take umbrage.
“I see you will require wooing,” he said, withdrawing and rising to his feet. “Fair enough . . . there is royal pride to consider. I shall pay you court, Princess . . . as long as you do not make me wait too long. You will come around. I can be a most generous and persuasive man. I will make you a noble and attentive husband.” He swept a hand around him with an expansive gesture. “Tonight, I shall give you my tent, my very bed . . . as well as my adoration.”
He smiled as if recalling something pleasant, then strode to the far side of the tent and dragged a modest-sized trunk to the middle of the floor. “You will need something to wear . . . a change of clothing, perhaps.”
Thera’s eyes widened as he threw the lid open and she glimpsed white inside it. Her breath stopped as he pulled out a whisper-thin silk chemise and dangled it between him and the candles, leering through it.
“I have dreamt of you in this,” he said, mostly to himself. “And you are even more beautiful than I imagined.” Then he dropped it across the chair and seized her hand, kissing it with exaggerated courtesy. “A good night to you, Princess.”
When he was gone, she took two steps toward the trunk and her knees buckled, bringing her down onto the carpet beside it. It was a moment before she could bring herself to touch the garments inside. They were hers. She dug into the chest, pulling up one familiar garment after another, seeking some grounding in their tangibility as her mind raced.
He had seen her in Nantes, that night in the market square, as the barbarians and black-clad mercenaries were invading the city. And he had in his possession the clothes the dark horde had taken from her. He wore black . . . his captain wore black . . . The separate elements finally came together in her mind.
He was their leader. The dark horde was his army! The thought sent a violent shudder through her, and her first impulse was to flee. She ran to the tent opening, listened, then slipped outside . . . straight into the restraining arms of two black-clad soldiers. She struggled, but when it was apparent she was outmatched, she went still.
She did manage to get a glimpse of the camp to which she’d been carried before they put her back inside with a snarled, “Stay there.” There were several large tents, carts, and makeshift corrals for horses . . . and a field full of campfires glowing vile yellow in the night. There were men milling about in reflected firelight . . . dark, savage-looking men, some in armor, some in furs and skins . . . barbarians! The barbarians who had abducted her were obviously part of his force.
She stumbled back across the tent and wrapped her arms around her waist, staring at the beautiful furnishings, realizing they were probably the plunder of dozens of castles, houses, and villages. She suddenly understood her odd reaction to him. Beneath his handsome face and smooth manner lay a venomous spirit that bu
rst through that veneer of nobility at the slightest provocation. He was the dark lord of a hideous, destructive force that had swept across the countryside . . . a force that was molded in his image . . . capricious, cruel, and dangerous.
The blood stilled in her veins.
A dark lord. A dark prince of destruction.
In one blinding moment of insight, she saw it all clearly. Events and prophecy were joined link by link to forge a chain of understanding. The second prophecy was being fulfilled . . . had been fulfilled since that first night in Nantes! Her abduction by the barbarians . . . the soldiers searching the city afterward . . . they had been searching for her. And when they found her, they would have taken her to the duc if it hadn’t been for Saxxe.
I tore the city apart, searching for you. . . . I have followed you halfway across France and Brittany. She heard again that vile boast meant to flatter her. He had combed the countryside for her, leaving in his wake a trail of terror and destruction. Then he had followed her home; she had unwittingly led him to Mercia’s door. The thought weakened her knees and she collapsed onto a chair. What had she done?
Through the next few hours she wrestled with the devastating knowledge that she, who was charged with defending and upholding Mercia, was now responsible—however innocently—for the danger Mercia now faced. Her personal peril paled by comparison. But as the candles guttered out and she sat in darkness, she began to understand that for all the danger she had faced, she had come through unscathed. And Saxxe Rouen was responsible. He had been there to rescue her again and again . . . with no reason but the goodness of his heart and no reward but unending suspicion and aggravation.
Saxxe wasn’t the destroyer of Mercia; the knowledge both relieved and embarrassed her. The fact that she had ever suspected him now humiliated her. And she could only pray that he would prove Mercia’s rescuer . . . even as he had been hers.
* * *
Saxxe lay pressed against a huge boulder on a craggy hillside far below Mercia, peering through the early dawn light into the invaders’ camp. He had been there for more than an hour, waiting for the sun and watching for some hint of where Thera was being held. He stretched his limbs, trying to stay alert and prepared. A great deal rested upon this rescue mission . . . the fate of the woman he loved and of the people who had claimed him as their own.