Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He was inescapable; she needed no reminder. With a shake of her head, she dispelled her geomancy and continued up the steps.

  “Marquis Tregarde.” Gran’s grave-cold voice. She stood in the stairwell’s entryway, flanked by guards, and nodded to Rielle.

  Air hissed out of Brennan.

  Good. Then he wouldn’t follow.

  She hurried up to the Red Room.

  Chapter 43

  In the Red Room, by the light of a candelabra, Jon pulled off the ruined doublet and threw it on the bed. Beneath it, the immaculate white of his shirt was also stained red. Wincing through the pain, he picked up some spare gauze on the nightstand and tucked it into his shirt, pressing it against his reopened wound while he gathered all of his things.

  All of his things.

  With a bitter laugh, he glanced at the lot of them: Faithkeeper, the sword of an oath breaker; a set of desecrated arcanir armor; and a coin purse half-full of argents and cuivres. It was as much as he deserved for being such an idiot.

  And for all his desire to place some distance between himself and the man he ached to kill, he couldn’t even find his own clothes. Simple and rough spun, they had disappeared, probably taken away and discarded to be replaced with frippery.

  Replaced with something superior in every way.

  The barest of necessities—he would take the barest of necessities from the wardrobe. When he opened it, a length of white silk caressed his skin. Rielle’s nightgown.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  The man who will ultimately stand at her side will be forged in fire. If you burn easily, don’t even bother. Terra have mercy, Leigh had known it all and warned him.

  Jon exhaled lengthily. He’d loved her even then. Blinded by it, he’d been a fool.

  A noblewoman like her would be betrothed. She’d kept it from him and that stung, but he’d been stupid not to think of it.

  And while paramours weren’t uncommon, it just wasn’t in him to accept her someday sharing that man’s bed. No, the very contemplation of it imbued his shoulders with tension so keen it ached.

  But he loved her. Fire or not, there was no turning back... And yet, in his position, he had nothing to offer.

  He had to get to Monas Amar and see what awaited him, the reason for his honorable discharge. There, he would set everything right and focus on Gilles and knighthood. At least then, he’d be more than nothing. Never Rielle’s equal, like Tregarde, but more than he was now. More that he could offer her.

  As he buckled his sword belt, the door creaked open behind him, and quiet footsteps stopped just past the doorway.

  He didn’t turn to face her. He wouldn’t. Not now.

  “Jon,” she said. Soft. Apologetic.

  He didn’t reply, selecting some of the simpler clothes from among the luxurious collection.

  “I was going to tell you.”

  With a heavy sigh, he paused and anchored a hand on his hip, crushing a shirt in the other. He was angry with Tregarde, but the woman he loved had lied to him, deceived him. Deliberately. “How stupid you must find me.”

  “Don’t say that.” She took a quiet step nearer.

  He stuffed some clothes into the knapsack. “I threw away all I ever knew to be with you, Rielle. You could have mentioned you were betrothed.”

  “I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  “The right time? You’ve had weeks.”

  “Was I to open with it, then? ‘Nice to meet you, I’m betrothed’?” Her tremulous voice rose in volume. “There was no reason to tell you at first, and later, it’s not as though we had a discussion before we kissed. Bringing up potential impediments to marriage so soon is more than a little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

  He took a deep, calming breath; she was being facetious, and all the more frustrating. “Spare me. A betrothal to another man is important enough to merit a single conversation.”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke, the words sounding heartfelt, if abrupt. “I love you.”

  Terra have mercy, how good it felt to hear those audacious words, even now. He finished packing and fastened the knapsack.

  He had no right as a forsworn paladin and commoner to request that she reject Tregarde—none at all—and yet it lingered on the tip of his tongue. He needed to get to Monas Amar as soon as possible. Perhaps then, he could resolve everything, one way or the other.

  His head hurt.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  He had to, lest he meet Tregarde again, murder him, and end up in the hangman’s noose.

  “Neither the House Physician nor Gran will let you leave until you’re healed. It would be irresponsible. You have a few days until the arcanir poison leaves your system. And then, I will still—whether you like it or not—escort you to Monas Amar. It is my mission, after all, but you’ll only have to... to... endure my presence a few days more.”

  He would gladly endure it for the rest of his life.

  A shuffling came from behind him. He turned to see her gathering her belongings in the shadows. “What are you doing?”

  She threw her hairbrush into a bag. “You stay here in the Red Room.” She continued to pack. “All your medicine, your things are here. I’ll go.”

  As she bent to retrieve her toiletry bag, the candlelight illuminated her face—her scratched, bleeding face.

  A trick of the light. A mistake. It had to be.

  He grabbed the candelabra and approached, holding it up to get a better look.

  No.

  The front of her gown was snagged and dirty. Her hair disheveled. Her chest and face scratched, like she’d taken a nasty spill onto a stone floor. And her wrists... Hand-shaped red marks ringed them.

  His chest grew so tight he could hardly breathe.

  She turned her marred, tear-streaked face to him, but upon meeting his gaze, peered down at herself.

  Paling, she raised her hand to her scratched cheek.

  He already wanted to kill Tregarde, but—“Did he do this?”

  “Well—yes, but it’s—”

  He slammed the candelabra onto the vanity table, checked for Faithkeeper at his side, and then stormed out of the room.

  His hands quaking with pressure, he forced them into fists. He would have no relief until Brennan Karandis Marcel answered for pain with pain.

  A chambermaid passed in the hallway.

  He grabbed her arm, and she yelped. “Marquis Tregarde. Where is he?”

  She cowered.

  He gave her a shake, and she gasped.

  “The Black Room, directly downstairs... on the Sonbaharan garden.”

  With a curt nod, he let her go and made for the stairs, Rielle’s echoing steps chasing after him.

  “Jon, don’t do this!” She seized his arm and yanked; he dragged her futile weight behind him. “Nothing happened!”

  Nothing? She called that nothing? Why did she defend that monster? What about his cruelty years ago?

  No matter. Nothing would stay his hand now.

  At the stairs, she released him but bounded down after him.

  He reached the ground floor and stalked down the hall, fixated on the door to the room below his own. The Black Room.

  “Listen to me, please!” she called behind him. “He’s dangerous! He’ll kill you!”

  The door opened to Tregarde’s surprised face. Jon smashed his first and second knuckles into his nose. Cartilage crunched.

  A large man, Tregarde staggered to the floor, dazed. He brought his hands to his bleeding nose. In the glow of the sconces, his stunned gaze finally found Jon. His countenance darkened, contorted.

  “Rielle, get him out of here,” Tregarde snarled, his voice low and rumbling as he rose. She rushed through the doorway and threw herself between them.

  “Stop! Please, just—” she cried out to Jon.

  He nudged her aside as he approached Tregarde. “You dare raise a hand to her? Rise. You will answer for that now.” H
e headed to the garden doors and kicked them open, shattering a glass panel. “Outside. Now.”

  He stepped out into the garden, and Tregarde followed, Rielle scrambling behind them.

  Tregarde’s eyes turned a glassy amber in the darkness, the bones of his face appearing to shift beneath his flesh—

  Not possible.

  Rielle slammed her palms on Tregarde’s bare chest. “Control yourself!”

  Tregarde’s hands still covered his nose and most of his face, but—

  No, it couldn’t be—his fingernails elongated to claws.

  “No,” Tregarde said from beneath his hands, pure menace in his voice as he eyed Rielle contemptuously. “Let us see your lover’s answer.” His voice, an eerie harmony—

  She pounded Tregarde’s chest. “Damn you! Stop this right now!”

  The muscles of Tregarde’s arms and shoulders bulged, twisted, rearranged. Tregarde moved his arms to his sides, revealing his face—monstrous and disfigured, long and sharp teeth protruding from his mouth.

  Magic? Dark arts of some kind?

  Black fur burst from his skin to cover his enlarged body.

  What? Jon reached for Faithkeeper. He surveyed the garden—dark but spacious. Enough room to maneuver.

  “Rielle.” He needed to get her away—now.

  Tregarde’s arm swiped, and fabric tore; she rose, clutching the front of her dress, and rushed to Jon. He swept her behind him.

  She grabbed his left arm. “Jon, you have to get out of here. Please.”

  “Go.” He took a step back, pushing her toward the open doors.

  Hunched, Tregarde rumbled an animal snarl, his muscles aligned to aggression.

  Instinct took over. Left foot leading, Jon drew Faithkeeper.

  Sparks shot from Tregarde’s claw strike as Jon parried. He pulled back and raised Faithkeeper, tip pointed at Tregarde’s throat.

  The beast’s throat.

  With the length of the blade between them, the claws and teeth the beast relied on for close-range attack would be useless unless the gap was bridged. The beast’s movement arced and angled. But Jon followed with perfect footwork and distance.

  There was no telling whether he faced a man or a beast. But whatever the Marquis of Tregarde was now, he was prepared to fight him to the death.

  Chapter 44

  Frozen, Rielle stood several paces behind Jon, giving him the space he needed to maneuver in the garden. Divine, this was all wrong. Although over the years Brennan had become increasingly malicious, she’d never expected anything like this. And Jon, afflicted with arcanir poisoning, risked death if he was gravely injured here.

  She needed to do something, a spell—

  And yet, tipping the balance now had risks. Unforeseeable risks. Changing the field of battle could end up hurting Jon. But she had to stop them somehow... without getting him killed.

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek.

  Right shoulder forward, Jon faced Brennan in profile. At the point of his sword, Brennan menaced in man-beast form in the dark, circling, Jon matching step for step. The sheen of moonlight fled along the blade.

  Brennan moved to the right—No, lunged.

  A slash—evaded—and Brennan closed swiftly, his jaws wide. The sword was between them again as Jon stepped back and off line, covering, the five-foot span dividing them.

  The men traded strikes, Jon working to stay covered, sword ready, avoiding the close range of those jaws, those fangs.

  Brennan means to bite him.

  A werewolf’s bite transmitted a fatal sickness that claimed its victims, if the violence of facing a werewolf didn’t. However, when coupled with the blood of the Wolf, the bite could transmit the sangremancy curse, leaving the bitten victim to the same terrible fate. Or the victim could take fever and die.

  Great Divine, Brennan must have believed her, that she’d never give him what he wanted. When he’d believed he could win her over, he’d been more reasonable.

  But now, he would force her hand by afflicting Jon. If Brennan succeeded in transmitting the curse to him, the only cure would be a breaking of the blood bond between her and Brennan.

  Leverage.

  But if he bit him and failed to afflict him, Jon would be dead.

  Her fingers quaked with the need to be useful, but what use was she here but to potentially worsen the risks?

  Brennan lunged for Jon’s head—

  A parry with the middle of the blade, his claws beaten wide to Jon’s left as he passed to the right. Jon cut him from jaw to knee, blood, a thrust to the chest—

  Bleeding, Brennan receded, dark eyes narrowing, and dropped to all fours, met with a low guard. When he lunged again, Jon struck—the sword caught mid-strike.

  He broke away—but not fast enough. Brennan raked his claws across Jon’s chest, deep enough to bleed.

  Her breath caught in her throat, every inch of tension in her body drawn together to a fine point.

  Jon pulled back, the blade spattering blood.

  Divine, she needed something, anything—flowers, curtains, goblet... On the flagstones, there, lay glass. The remnants of a shattered panel from the door.

  She scrambled for the largest shard, tore a strip of fabric from the skirt of her dress, and wrapped one end to hold. What to do, what to do? She followed their every move, every strike, every evasion. Everything she knew about blood bonds was useless here. Blood bonds, blood bonds, blood bonds—

  Blood.

  Brennan needed her blood. Brennan needed her.

  Leverage.

  A feint and an upward thrust of the sword, between Brennan’s ribs. A killing blow—

  For any mortal man.

  Brennan’s eyes widened, met Jon’s, but his claws clasped Jon’s sword hand. By the Divine—

  Jon twisted the blade. Jaws snapped shut where his shoulder should have been.

  “Brennan!” She clenched her teeth and plunged the glass shard into her belly.

  A cry tore from her lips. Ripping, jagged agony doubled her over.

  Jon yanked his sword free. Blood spurted from Brennan’s ribs and hands. Jon ran to her side, dropped the sword to the flagstones.

  As her balance failed, he caught her, carefully bringing her head against his bleeding chest.

  Brennan crumpled, a violent roar tearing from beastly lungs. He turned his wolf-head to her, his amber eyes wide, wild.

  The front of her dress was wet, stained. Blood seeped from her wound. Divine...

  She held his gaze. Keep redemption alive or lose it right now.

  It had come to this—to protect what she loved, forcing Brennan to choose. She had a short window of time to heal in which she needed him to agree to her terms.

  As she gripped the shard, Jon’s hand hovered just above hers.

  “Rielle—what have you done?” he asked, his voice raw.

  Pain twisted in her gut, sharp, burning.

  Behind Jon, Brennan knelt, fell to his hands, writhing. He curled his hulking shoulders inward, his face frozen, wide eyed, gaping. “Heal yourself. Now.”

  Even as she trembled, she shook her head. “Divine take me,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Brennan scoffed. “You don’t have it in you to—”

  With an anguished cry, she shoved the shard in deeper. It hurt, it hurt, hurt—

  His mouth fell open.

  “Rielle.” Jon shuddered, his face drained of color, brows drawn tight. “Stop this. Stop...” He rocked her on his knees.

  Too many people had already died on her account. Papa, Mama, Liam, Dorian, Viviane, Dominique, the Laurentine household. Sir Bastien.

  Not. One. More.

  She wouldn’t lose anyone else. Ever again. Not if she could help it.

  Still, as the weakness spread, she began to question the merit of this particular course. But she’d gone too far to turn back without a vow.

  Beastliness melting away to humanity, Brennan crawled toward her, covered in cuts, bleeding, his gaze ro
ving over her bloodied dress.

  A chill settled over the garden, or over her.

  Jon grabbed his sword but didn’t let her go. “Touch her, monster, and Terra help me, I will see you dead.”

  Eerily still, Brennan stared at the blade. A night wind bent all in the garden to its will but for his immovable amber stare. “If she dies, then just do it, commoner, or a mob will beat you to it. Without her control, how long before the locals come bearing torches and pitchforks to kill the monster?”

  That stare turned to her. Glassy, ghostly. Faded to hazel. Softened. “You would die just to spite me?”

  So tired. She was so tired.

  Brennan fixated on the wound with feverish eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

  White shapes floated across her vision, twirling, transforming, dancing. Beautiful. Surreal. Jon’s face brightened until she almost couldn’t see the hollow darkness in his eyes.

  “Promise you’ll never hurt the people I love,” she said to Brennan, “or me... or anyone, in order to influence me.”

  A cold frown. “I promise,” Brennan hissed.

  “Release me from the marriage contract.”

  A rustle. He moved closer. “I can’t. You and I are only terms in an agreement between our parents,” he said, swallowing, “but, for my part, I will never force you.”

  Her grip weakened. She yanked out the glass with an anguished cry and tossed it. Cold. She shivered—or thought she did.

  “Rielle—” Brennan began.

  Jon forced her face to meet his scowling, over-bright eyes. “Enough of this.”

  Cruel. She was so cruel. Forcing Jon to watch her do this. Depriving Brennan of his redemption. But no reasonable option had presented itself.

  She inched her hand toward her wound, dipping her fingertips in blood. It should have felt warm, but it didn’t. Life seeped from her body. She had gone too far to...

  “I won’t lie to promise something that I can’t deliver.” Lips pressed in a paling line, Brennan watched her.

  No, he could not, in honesty, promise her what was beyond his control. And she couldn’t die for it.

  She wouldn’t.

  Although... she had the agreement she needed: his word that he wouldn’t hurt Jon or anyone she loved.