Destined for a King

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Even though she’d viewed him on numerous occasions—and in less—her mouth went dry at the sight. Tanned skin, sprinkled with hair and marred by scars, covered solid planes of muscle. She spread her fingers and placed her palms to his chest to map the terrain. Rough and sleek at once, but above all, warm. Alive. Vital. Hard.

  Her lips followed as she took her first taste of the salt of his flesh and breathed in his clean scent. He wrapped her hair in his fist while his other hand smoothed down her back, over her hips, to cover her derriere. Against her belly, the length of his erection rose in a solid ridge.

  He flexed his hips, pushing into her, a foretaste of the coming pleasure of their joining. An answering current pulsed between her thighs. He pressed more firmly, with his entire body, hardened chest to her breasts, until he forced her to take a step back.

  Her feet tangled in the remains of her gown, and she wobbled. Strong arms steadied her, lifted, and then she knew the heady sensation of him cradling her body against his. How easily he bore her weight.

  She touched her fingers to the smoothness of his clean-shaven cheek, and he dipped his head to sip from her mouth.

  “The bed,” she whispered against his smile.

  “As you command.” He laid her out before him, and tugged at the tangle of her gown until it gave way and slipped down her legs. Stiff gold fabric slid to the floor as he straightened.

  He emitted another invocation to the Three on a hiss. “I said ‘perfection’ before, but there is no word to describe your beauty. I doubt a poet could find the right term.”

  A rush of heat flushed up her chest. “Your reputation as a flatterer precedes you.”

  “This is no flattery. It is but the truth. A flatterer would invent some pretty phrase or another without thought because it would be a lie. You blank my mind and rob me of the words to charm.” Despite his claims, he was doing quite well, for his words settled into her heart and stole any possible notion of resisting him. She lay before him, boneless and completely open to his will.

  The mattress dipped as he knelt beside her. “I want to taste every corner of you. Every crevice.”

  That last statement caused all manner of wicked images to flit through her mind, and her cheeks flamed even hotter. Surely, he couldn’t mean…

  He leaned over her, running his hands from her shoulders and down her arms, the touch innocent enough yet fraught with intent. His lips settled into the angle where her neck met her body. Slowly, with teeth and tongue, he traced a path downward, lingering over each nipple in turn, while his palms eased along her hips and thighs.

  She moved restlessly beneath him as the pulse between her legs became more insistent. One knee and then the other pressed her thighs apart, and he settled between them, sitting back on his heels, watching his hands as they skated up and down and up again. He was looking right there, in her most secret place. She ought to be embarrassed, but his heated gaze made her quiver.

  His head dipped. She watched its descent, and the light from the fire danced in red reflections through his hair. His palms pressed behind her knees, lifted before tracking up the backs of her thighs. His thumbs converged at her very center, and he parted her willing flesh. At the same instant, his tongue swiped through the space he’d made for himself.

  “Oh.” Her back bowed. By the Three, this was a sensual revelation of the highest order. What he was doing—where he was kissing—should have shocked her, but her body had moved beyond shock to demand. Need. It wanted more, and urgently, but she didn’t have to give voice to that desire.

  Again and again, he returned to just that spot—the sensitive knot of flesh his fingers had shown her the other night. His hair brushed against the softness of her inner thighs, a softness all its own. The moist heat of his tongue delivered infinitely more pleasure as it circled, teasing, but always coming back to where she needed him.

  He slipped a finger into her, and the sensation redoubled. With a relentless rhythm, he drove her up and up, coaxing her body to that point where it would soar. The rush was near. Her internal muscles clenched about his finger, drawing him in. Her breath came in rapid puffs. A ripple passed through her thighs, and then her entire being was convulsing along with the world.

  He remained with her, pushing her through the peak, only easing off when she collapsed to the mattress, limp and panting. When she opened her eyes, Torch was leaning on his elbows, looming over her. Grinning. Smug was the only possible descriptor for his expression. She ought to cuff that smile right off his face, but for some inexplicable reason, she only wanted to wrap him into an embrace and kiss him. Or perhaps divest him of his breeks and complete this joining. To take him into herself, all of him. As he said, to brand her flesh with his, within and without.

  She reached for the laces at his waist.

  His grin widened. “So eager, are you?”

  Then his fingers grappled with hers. As one, they tore at the fastenings. With a violent series of kicks, he shucked the remaining barrier between them.

  Once again, he rose before her on his knees, but this time his erection strained toward her. She touched a fingertip to the silken head, and he shuddered, a rippling wave across the muscles of his chest and thighs.

  She extended her hands, recalling the feeling of supple skin sliding over a steely core, but his fingers circled her wrist in an iron grip.

  “Not tonight, sweetling.” Lust darkened his voice to something rough and haunting. “I’ll never last. Not after watching you come apart so sweetly for me.” He gathered her hips and lifted her to him. Her shoulders and upper back pressed into the mattress. Suddenly he was probing at her entrance. “Look at me.”

  She had no choice but to obey. She anchored her gaze to his, and he slipped into her, one smooth stroke that demanded she succumb. Her body stretched to accommodate him, and she wrapped her legs about the only support offered her in this sensual world—him, her husband.

  He pulled back and, with a groan, surged once more, a single powerful thrust that found him fully seated. No pain accompanied the movement, only the pleasure of her reawakening nerves.

  “Look at me,” he muttered again.

  Slowly, he began to move, and as he moved, she watched. With every thrust, some of the smugness melted from his expression, giving way to a private tenderness that transformed him. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest. The familiarity of Torch, his confidence, his cocksure arrogance yielded to something beautiful.

  A man, to be certain, one with the very highest of hopes and dreams, but who wasn’t at all sure he’d achieve any of it. One who’d experienced both love and deep, abiding loneliness. One who wanted to attain that love again. That air of vulnerability floating about him revealed a face he must never show to anyone. But he was demanding she witness it, now, when she was one with him.

  She reached for him, gently this time. Her fingers skimmed the straining muscles of his back as she met every last stroke.

  “Josse,” she whispered, knowing it for the truth. This fragile vision, this private side of him was Josse.

  He answered with a deep groan. His eyes fluttered shut, as if he could no longer stand to face the raw emotion building between them. He picked up the pace, each successive thrust deeper, more insistent, more demanding than the last. But still she watched, even as she moved with him. Even as he drove her toward another shuddering climax.

  His brow furrowed in concentration. His chin lifted. His breath emerged on a hiss, then a grunt. How fascinating to watch pleasure transport this man. How beautiful. The backs of her eyes burned with the feeling.

  —

  Torch never wanted to leave this bed, the haven it represented, a refuge separate from the world without. He’d hardly been aware of how much he’d longed for solace, and yet he’d found it with Calista.

  She drowsed in his embrace, her hair spread across the pillow in a hopeless tangle. He picked up a dark tendril and let its silk flow through his fingers. The flush of passion still lay pink on her chee
ks and breasts.

  Josse. While he’d been buried to the hilt in her, she’d called him by his right name, as if she’d seen into his soul. Not only seen but accepted him for his true self, a wedding gift none other could match.

  He tightened his arms about her. The warmth of her breath wafted in an even rhythm against his shoulder. In, out, steady and dependable, in the midst of a life where nothing was predictable.

  Damn it all, and he was about to let the world intrude. Just a little longer, that’s all he needed. A few more moments where he could drift and forget and pretend he’d won all the things he’d set out to achieve—the throne that was his by right, but most of all, vengeance.

  Gods, what was it about this woman that she gave him just what he needed? Without thinking, his fingers wandered to the Stone at his throat. Like his wife, it lay cool and slumbering beneath his touch.

  It had shown him. It had led him here. A heady sensation akin to triumph exploded in his chest. Surely if he kept on this path, all he wanted might yet be attainable.

  How had Brother Tancrid termed it? The blood of the earth that linked all to all. Even now the Acolyte lay secreted away in another chamber, seeking visions, questing for the hidden knowledge that would further Torch’s cause. One more step on the path to the throne.

  Perhaps Torch ought to try as well. With Calista beside him, could he direct the power of his Stone to show him what he wanted? Even the lost secret to creating Adamant from ice?

  But even as the thought floated through his mind, a far more horrific image took its place. Once again, cruel steel bit through his chest and erupted out his back in a spout of blood and agony. Was it only two nights ago he’d experienced the death of his brother as if it were his own?

  That reminder had him reaching for the clasp at his nape to do something he’d never done since his youth—remove the Stone from his person. For just one night, he wanted utter peace and uninterrupted sleep. No horrors, no secrets, no promises of future power. Only the same simple rest the lowest cottar was granted.

  A series of heavy thuds outside the chamber stalled his hand. What in the name of…? It sounded like someone was kicking at the door.

  “What is it?” he called. At his side, Calista muttered and rolled over. “It’s my wedding night, damn your eyes.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Heavy oak muffled the reply. Owl, which explained the kicking. The boy’s hands were still bound in bandages. “Hawk sent me to warn ye. A scout’s come in. Th’ Ironfist’s army’ll be on us by the morrow.”

  Chapter 19

  From atop the walls, Torch squinted into the rising sun. Under the cover of darkness, the Usurper’s armies had approached from the east; even now they were arraying themselves in the field below. If they wished to take advantage of the angle of the morning sun, the assault would come soon.

  Torch turned to Owl. The boy’s hands still bore bandages, rendering him useless for all but running messages—and just when Torch needed all the loyal swords he could get. “Fetch me Thorne.”

  “Yes, sir.” Owl cast a glance between the crenellations, and his complexion took on a greenish tinge. He hadn’t feared battle when the Bastard Brotherhood had taken the keep, but the king’s army was another prospect altogether.

  Before Torch’s eyes, they formed disciplined ranks beneath their banners. To the right, the charging bull of the Tarrs of Kinwood Keep floated on the morning breeze next to the wild boar of the Brinmars, and in the center, the king’s arrow. To the left stood the Blackbriar thorn. Belwin Thorne’s own men, the ones he’d sent off at the king’s summons to meet Griffin’s diversion, and now they were preparing to attack their own keep.

  Odds were, they’d retake it as well. Magnus’s army had come on too quickly. Another day or so, and Torch might have devised a better defense. He’d have had time to fortify the trenches they’d dug for the new walls. He might have turned them into hidden traps for the unwary, given the manpower.

  Too late, but clearly Magnus had marched quickly. He hadn’t come for a protracted standoff. No siege-towers rose above his troops. Only ranks of bowmen, forming up to cover the men bearing ladders and grappling hooks. At the rear, his mounted cavaliers waited in reserve, to ride in with naked blades once the gates were breached.

  Torch reached over his shoulder to unsheathe his sword, raising it so the sun’s rays would catch on the edges, giving the cunning illusion of flame. A show of bravado, to be certain, but it let Magnus know a true Vandal heir still lived to challenge him.

  Below the walls, a bowman nocked an arrow. All along the parapet, Torch’s Brothers tensed, bows at the ready.

  “Hold your fire,” Torch ordered. “You’ll have chance enough when the attack begins in earnest.”

  Below, one of the enemy archer’s fellows shoved him before he could loose the dart. Torch could almost imagine the admonition not to waste ammunition, since he stood out of bow shot. Some young pup out for glory, no doubt. Torch waved his sword in salute. Soon now, this game would be on.

  Another stir among his archers tore his attention away from the enemy’s preparations. A new figure, smaller, slender, by all appearances a youth no older than Owl, made its way down the parapet. A highly familiar figure, crossbow in hand, the feathers of her quarrels rising above her left shoulder. Calista wore the same boiled leather and mail as the day Torch had claimed this keep.

  “By the Three, you will go back,” he ordered the moment his wife was within shouting range. His wife—married less than a day, yet her presence here chilled his heart.

  “I wish to serve, and you need all hands.”

  Though her hair lay concealed beneath a skullcap, he took her by the arms and pulled her beyond the enemy’s sight. No matter the outcome today, he wanted no rumors reaching Magnus’s ears that Calista had taken part in the impending battle. Nor did he wish her to become a target.

  “You will take shelter in the keep with the servants and other women.” He fought to gentle his tone, but the morning promised to be ugly, and he did not want her to be any part of it.

  You made her part of it when you married her. He thrust that voice aside.

  “Only yesterday,” he went on, “I swore you protection. I would keep you from harm’s way, not place you in the midst of it.”

  “I can help you,” she insisted. “Kestrel is gone. Owl cannot fight. Half your men are scattered between here and Landsdowne Crossing.” She glanced over the battlement. “You are clearly outnumbered. Even I can see that.”

  Stubborn female.

  “All the more reason to keep you safe. Does the keep have a bolt-hole?” Damn him for not thinking of it sooner, but too much had happened.

  “No. Even if it did, I would not cower in some burrow to await my fate like a scared rabbit.”

  No, and she hadn’t done that the first time, either. She’d met the threat he posed straight on, armed and armored. Still, he studied her expression, searching for the lie.

  The muscles about her eyes tightened. “If we had a bolt-hole, you can be sure my father would have sent me to hide when you appeared outside our walls.”

  “He should never have let you take part in the defenses. This is no game.”

  “It wasn’t the last time, either.” Reaching over her shoulder, she unslung her quiver and shoved it at him. “At least take these.”

  “My men do not lack for bolts, only the ready arms to fire them.”

  “I found these hidden in the stillroom. I believe they’ve been treated with Kingsbane.”

  She watched him closely, obviously expecting him to make some connection. The word Kingsbane meant nothing to him, even if the implication was apparent. “You’re saying they’re poisoned.”

  “Kingsbane is one of the deadliest. How can you not know it?”

  “Is this what you shot me with?”

  A hint of color rose on her cheeks. “I did not know my bolt was treated when I shot you.”

  He let his lips stretch into a smile. “As a means of
dispatching me, it wasn’t very efficient.”

  “It was an experiment. Had there been Kingsbane in your food, you wouldn’t have lasted until the end of the meal. And yours was a flesh wound, yet you fell ill.”

  He plucked one of the quarrels away from its fellows and inspected the tip. Nothing at all off about it—not that he actually expected to find anything. Frowning, he looked from Calista to the arrow and back. To the Faceless One with it, he’d been in her power. She’d possessed something that deadly, yet never used it—although he’d held her father as insurance.

  But now…

  Torch might have married her, he might have spent one of his pleasantest evenings in recent memory with her, he might have shared the sorrow and grief of his brother’s death with her. But none of that meant he should trust her blindly.

  Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  He had to remember that and not let any softer emotions command him against all reason. Yet she’d come to him now and freely admitted the existence of this substance. She’d come ready to help defend the keep.

  It’s her home, the only one she knows.

  He slipped the bolt back into the quiver. “I will keep these, and you will go see to the other women. Make certain your lady mother remains in safety.”

  “For once, I agree.” Torch looked beyond his wife to find her father approaching. And here was someone else whose loyalties, despite oaths taken before the gods, were even less certain. But Torch had no choice but to trust him. “Go look after your mother.”

  Calista pressed her lips together. “Yes, Papa.”

  When she had gone, Belwin Thorne addressed Torch. “You wished to see me.”