"If things get crazy, they'll probably be coming at us from both sides."
He didn't argue. "We'll put the table against that one, then."
He put out the lamp and set it in the corner with the blankets and the bucket, the can of lamp oil and the bag of feed. They positioned the table, legs out into the room, against the lean-to door. It wasn't big enough to reach the top of the door frame—but, hey, they had to make do with what was available. Once the table was in place, they spread their bedrolls before the fire. They sat, backs against their saddles, to eat their dried meat and oatcakes.
"Shh," Eric said a while later. "Listen."
Had he heard boots in the snow? Brit felt a shiver, like ice water trickling down her spine. She whispered, "I don't hear anything."
He saw her wide eyes and smiled. "Easy. I only meant the wind has died. The storm is passing. We'll have a clear day tomorrow, I'd lay odds on it, and no more than six inches of snow on the ground. It should be passable."
She let herself slump against her saddle. "And not a peep from Jorund and crew."
"The night is young."
She stared into the dancing flames of the fire. "I suppose, if they're out there, the smoke from our chimney will lead them right to us."
He gave her a wry look. "That is the idea…"
"So we … keep our weapons close and our eyes open?"
"Well said." He had his rifle beside him. "They'll fall on us—or they won't. We'll live. Or we'll die."
A licking warmth tingled through her—and not from the fire. At last he was accepting her as an equal, someone he trusted to be ready, willing and able to fight at his side. She could almost get starry-eyed. "Be ready," he said softly.
She sent him her best come-and-get-me smile. "I will."
He reached across the distance between them, wrapped his warm hand around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Their lips met in a hard, hungry kiss. He whispered against her mouth, "I would like nothing better than to drive you wild with pleasure tonight—and increase the odds you might be forced by your own vow to marry me."
"Hmm. We're back to the breeding issue again, are we?"
He let out a long, aggressively rueful sigh. "But, alas, one should never get undressed when under the threat of being set upon by traitors."
"Oh, I don't know. It sounds kind of … exciting."
"Too exciting. And distracting. Plus, it's discouraging to be attacked while naked."
"Happened to you before, has it?"
He chuckled. "Not recently, no."
"I have to admit I'd rather die with my boots on."
"Then keep them on. And get back into your jacket."
"I suppose next you'll say I have to keep my shoulder rig on, too."
He nodded. "You want to be ready to defend yourself—and ready to run, too. And that means you'll need—"
"Outerwear. All of it."
"That's right."
Another thought occurred to her—a not-very-pleasant one: the Freyasdahl signs.
Ho-boy, now there was an issue she really should have considered last night.
The Freyasdahl signs had been named by her father, when her mother, who had been a Freyasdahl, experienced them, though the signs came down through the women in her family…
Which got way confusing and wasn't the point. The point was, when a woman in her family got pregnant, she also got the signs within twenty-four hours. First, she threw up, and then she fainted and then a bright red rash would appear across her chest. Brit had been there when it happened to her oldest sister, Liv.
But really, the chance that might be happening to her in the next few hours had to be minimal, didn't it?
Yeah, right. Ask Liv about that. She'd gotten pregnant after one wild night with Finn Danelaw…
Eric was watching her. He read her too well. He knew something was wrong.
Why, oh, why hadn't she thought of this last night?
Well, hey, last night she hadn't realized that tonight she'd be holed up in the Helmouth Pass waiting for a gang of traitors to bust in the door.
She didn't want to tell him. It was one more thing to worry about, and there were far too many of those already.
But if the signs did put in an appearance, they could be grossly inconvenient. He needed to know there was a remote possibility that she'd be throwing up and fainting in the middle of the part where they were fighting for their lives.
"Ahem," she said.
He regarded her for a moment. "I fear that doesn't sound encouraging."
"Well, it's like this…" She told him, in as few words as possible. When she was done, she added sheepishly, "I just … thought of it and realized you should know."
He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. He did have the softest lips in the world. "Put it from your mind."
Hah. "Sure."
"It's only one dire possibility among so many."
He had it right there. "Eric?"
"Yes, my only love?"
"How many would you guess there are going to be?"
"It depends on how good they think they are. There could be only one or two—trained and experienced assassins—to slip in on us and cut our throats. Or perhaps the six, from the crash site…"
"And what about my friend, Agent Sorenson?"
"Ah yes, possibly Agent Sorenson as well. They'll have horses, perhaps leave one to tend them. And they could leave another one or two outside, to stand guard."
"So what you're really saying is, you haven't a clue how many there'll be."
"Yes. That's what I'm really saying."
"Are we crazy to be doing this?"
"Oh, yes. Beyond the darkest shadow of a doubt."
* * *
At a little after midnight Eric told her to try to get a little sleep.
Great idea. Get some sleep. Be fresh when the assassins arrive. "What about you?"
"Later. I'll wake you and you can have your turn on guard."
"Goody."
"Sleep."
"I can't bear not to ask … we do have backup, don't we?"
He answered with a wide smile. "We do."
"I guess I don't get to ask who?"
He only looked at her and softly repeated, "Sleep."
To be a good sport about it, she settled against her saddle and shut her eyes.
* * *
Unbelievable. She must have actually dropped off.
Because the next thing she knew, Eric's hand was on her shoulder. "They come…"
There was a clattering noise—the chair at the door.
Brit sat bolt upright, going for the SIG.
Eric had already turned and shouldered his rifle. His first shot exploded, deafening in the small space, as the chair gave way and the door flew inward.
A man, his features covered by a ski mask, fell half into the room. Another came after him. Eric fired and he fell back, out of sight, into the darkness beyond the doorway.
There was silence—one awful, endless second of it. And then a voice from the back door said, "Drop your weapons or die."
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
« ^ »
There were two men at the back door, one with a rifle and one with a combat pistol. They'd used the confusion of the frontal attack to open the door and get themselves in place. The table, smaller than it should have been and still right where she and Eric had put it, covered them both to chest height. Like the others—the man who lay, too still, in the doorway and the one who had fallen back—they wore ski masks over their faces.
"Set your weapons on the floor. Do it now."
Eric sent her a glance, an almost-imperceptible nod. Together they crouched and set their guns down.
"Now stand up. Hands high."
They obeyed. Brit's heart pounded as if it had plans to escape from her chest. She hadn't gotten off a single shot. And why the hell hadn't she had sense enough to cover the other door? Things had happened too damn fast. Next time—if there was
one—she'd know better.
And hey, wow. At least she wasn't throwing up and fainting. She did kind of have that whoopsy feeling in her stomach. But the Freyasdahl signs had nothing to do with it.
That was pure terror talking.
It was her first gun battle. Her performance? Far from impressive. But at least she and Eric were still breathing—for the moment, anyway. She glanced at the fallen man in the front doorway and knew a twinge of regret—mostly that she couldn't help being glad he was probably dead.
"Safe to enter, sir," said the man with the rifle trained on them. About then the man in the front doorway pushed himself up, groaning. Not dead, after all, though he didn't look too healthy. His face had a bluish cast and things looked real bad at about belt level. Gut shot. She'd seen a lot of action movies. Gut shot was not a fun way to go.
He fell backward, groaning, into the night behind him.
Another man—about five-seven and powerfully built—appeared from the darkness and came through the wide-open front door. He stood opposite Eric and aimed his pistol right at him. Yet another, taller and leaner, followed after him, crossing behind him to take a position opposite Brit. Both, like the two in the back doorway, were armed.
Four men, in combat boots and camo, ski masks covering each face. Four guns, all trained on Brit and Eric. Brit's pulse showed no signs of slowing down soon.
The short, beefy one—whom Brit had already recognized by his height and build and the confident way he carried himself—reached up and yanked off his mask to reveal his shaved head.
A bullet of a man, she'd thought the first time she saw him. Compact and deadly—but with such a winning smile. Weeks ago, which seemed like centuries now, she'd sat across from him at Loki's Laughter, the homey neighborhood pub near the Bureau offices that the agents liked to frequent. With a tall glass of sweet Gullandrian ale on the scarred oak table in front of her, she'd told him her theories about what might have happened to her brother, tickled pink with herself to have been so clever as to cultivate a connection with him.
"Hello, Jorund."
Special Agent Sorenson grinned, showing straight white teeth and a lot of friendly laugh lines. "Your Highness. So good to see you again—though I'm certain you're not pleased to see me. But then, it's your own fault. You should have killed Hans here when you had the chance." The man beside him took his left hand from his rifle just long enough to drag off his mask and let it drop to the floor. Good old Hans Borger.
Hans wasn't smiling. He had her in his sights again, just waiting for the order to blow her head off—the order that, she had a sinking feeling, would be coming very soon.
Jorund had more to say. "Fortunately for me, Princess, you are too softhearted. You let Hans live. And, once he was through babbling nonsense about a legend come to life, he remembered that you had seen him that first day you visited my office and thus would be … oh, how to put it? 'On to me,' now. And with you 'on to me,' well, I knew that it wouldn't be long before the king's soldiers came knocking at my door. I found it expedient to come looking for you before you had a chance to speak with your father." Jorund indulged in a little cheerful chuckling. He appeared to be having a very good time. 'A legend come alive?' He must mean the Dark Raider. Valbrand must have paid Hans a visit after she and Eric left him yesterday.
Jorund turned his ice-blue eyes to Eric and clucked his tongue. "Radio messages … so easy to intercept." He gestured at the two still-masked agents waiting at the back door. "We'll take over here. Stand guard." They lowered their weapons, backed into the shadows and were gone.
Brit really hoped that the backup Eric had mentioned would be showing up shortly. In the meantime, well, nothing ventured… "Who do you work for, Jorund?"
Jorund found her so amusing. He chuckled some more. "Questions, questions. Your Highness has always asked far too many questions. And what good will the answers do you now—on the night of your death?"
"Hey, you know, just wondering…"
Jorund tipped his head to the side, considering. "Well, and then again, why not? A tidbit or two—before Hans dispatches both you and Prince Greyfell. This is really too, too good. To be rid of you both in one night. Together, you know, you represent a very large threat to the plans of certain important people. Should you be allowed to live and perhaps to marry, and thus unite your two houses…" He shook his head. "Disaster. Prince Greyfell, here, would in that case most assuredly be named our next king."
Brit shrugged. She was proud of that shrug. It was cool and offhand and spoke nothing of the way her stomach twisted and her pulse raced. All she had to do was not look at Eric, not let herself even think that in a few minutes he could be dead. If she didn't look at Eric, she could do this. "But then again, if we're dead, we can't get married."
Jorund indulged in another jovial chortle. "Your Highness, you astound me with the brilliance and clarity of your powers of deduction. You've cut right to the heart of the matter."
"These important people you just spoke of—they want the throne?"
Jorund was clucking his tongue again. "Well, now, someone has to claim the throne when the next king-making occurs. Sadly, both Thorson princes are dead. After tonight, there'll be no Greyfell to step forward. Someone must take over. And the kingmaking could come at any time—some would say, sooner than you'd think…"
Brit used her brilliant powers of deduction. "You're planning to assassinate my father."
"Not to worry. That won't happen for a while yet. He'll have time to suffer and mourn some more first—over another child gone forever. How very, very sad."
"Valbrand? You're responsible for that, too?"
Jorund heaved a big, fake sigh. "So unfortunate. Lost at sea. Just as you and Prince Greyfell here will be lost, vanished forever in the Helmouth Pass." He gestured at Hans, who had his rifle pointed at Brit's heart. "Ready?"
"Yes, sir." Hans spoke flatly, still sighting, finger ready on the trigger. This close, Brit was going to have a very big hole in her chest. The irony was perfect. It was just as Eric had predicted.
She'd spared the agent's life—so he could be the one to kill her.
"And now, Princess, I'm afraid it's time to bid you fare—"
Something thudded against the north wall of the shack. Both Jorund and Hans glanced back toward the sound.
It was all the opening they needed. Eric dived for Jorund. Brit went for Hans.
Weapons fired and shots went wild—ricocheting off the stone fireplace. Brit managed to knock the rifle out of Hans's grip as it fired. He let it go—and dealt with her.
It was a fight she knew she couldn't win. Sure, she'd had a few self-defense lessons. But Hans was bigger and stronger and combat trained. Hand-to-hand, he would take her. She tried to kick him where it mattered, but he was ready. He jerked his hips away and then threw a leg over her, trapping her beneath him. In a split second he was looming above her. His fist connected—hard—with her jaw.
Spots spun and danced before her eyes. He hit her again. Her head bounced against the floor.
She saw double—Hans shifting and fading in and out of himself, two right fists coming at her at once. She knew she was done for.
And then a sound like the world coming apart—a shot.
Hans had a red hole in the center of his face. Blood was spraying everywhere. He collapsed on top of her, his ruined face smacking the floor above her bad shoulder a few inches from her head, sending more blood spattering. Dazed, bloodied, her suddenly limp would-be murderer pinning her to the floor, she saw Eric standing a few feet away, her own trusty SIG in his hand.
She blinked, because everything still kept going double, and behind Eric…
Valbrand—minus the Dark Raider's mask, his poor face as she remembered it, a horror on one side—in the doorway. Valbrand had a gun, too. He had Jorund in a neck lock, the gun pointed at his head. Valbrand was backing out, dragging Jorund with him.
"Brit." Eric filled the world as he crouched beside her. He pushed the limp m
an off her. She looked up into his face, her head spinning, her heart aching—but aching in a good way, really. Because he was alive and she was alive, at least so far. Because she'd just seen her brother, alive, too, and not hiding behind a mask.
She blinked as she heard a sudden soft roar. She lifted her head, blinked again. What was this?
The fire had … escaped. It was a bright ribbon, eating up the floor, sizzling out from the fireplace. How could that be?
"Come. Now." Eric held out his hand. She put hers in it. He pulled her up.
She swayed on her feet. The room went round and round and the flames…
They were licking at the old, dry boards of the floor, creeping ever closer. Smoke curled up, billowing. She coughed as Eric wrapped a strong arm around her and half dragged her to the open door.
They stumbled over the sill. She fell—but he caught her and dragged her up again, up and away from the flames, out to the snow-thick trail.
At last. Safe. She sucked in a great breath of the cold, fresh night air. Eric's strong arm was tight around her, holding her up. She clung to him, so tight. They watched the shack burn.
Her dizziness slowly faded. She looked at Eric. His eyes blazed, reflecting the flames. "The fire … how?"
"The lamp oil. I kicked it over when I grappled with Sorenson. The lid must have come off."
"Hans…"
He gave her a dark scowl. "Dead. You saw his face. His blood is all over you. Don't you dare ask me to go in there and pull his body out."
"I'm not. I promise." She huddled against his warmth and shook her head, trying to clear it, to understand it all. Then she turned enough to gape at the empty doorway beyond which the bright flames danced. "The two men you shot … when they first burst through the door?"
A voice from behind her said. "Wounded but alive. One might even survive. The other, shot in the belly, most likely not."
Eric released her. She swayed a moment, then steadied. She turned, slowly, her heart kicking hard against her ribs, knowing that voice though she'd heard it only once, when she was so ill. "Valbrand." Her brother nodded.
The Marriage Medallion Page 18