by Beth Mikell
Darrius’s expertise toward each mission proved useful, a lucrative approach he had devised to ferret out all criminals for the sake of the crown.
The distraction.
The ruse.
The betrayal.
Otherwise known as his mission code. He would position himself as the distraction by taking Gunther’s place. The ruse would be to marry Lady Brenna of Carthmore, though she would be an innocent prop for the assignment. Her unsuspecting participation in Darrius’s plan would make the mission more believable.
By freeing Lady Brenna from the bounds of a hellish marriage, her dowry would be available for the king to marry her to someone more worthy. It was assumed that Brenna’s father was in league with Lord Gunther, but again, with no evidence to support such a claim, the king expressed his unwillingness to propagate a public charge. Carthmore lands also bordered Dorling and the threat of unrest remained.
The betrayal would be the defining moment for the Imperial Arm. In his role as Gunther, Darrius would gain intimate knowledge of his deplorable brother’s affairs and bring down any-and-all suspected individuals by whatever means. Death bloomed optimal—even guaranteed.
The order of alignment was set. What a glorious day it was for a wedding. Darrius planned to take everything from his debauched brother, beginning with his identity, his bride, and his secrets.
The Imperial Arm gave the order to his men. “It is time!”
Chapter 2
Rowan the McLeod met Darrius as he sauntered through the lower bailey, the Imperial Arm’s most faithful knight, and also his cousin. He was tall of stature with long, black hair pulled back in a leather tie. His light brown eyes twinkled, and his shadowy beard gave him the appearance of an outlaw, but he was far removed from such criminal activity.
Because Rowan knew Gunther and claimed cousinship, the task had fallen to him to serve as Darrius’s teacher, instructing him in all manner of his brother’s character, habits, and vices. He could quite easily gain the unsuspecting lord’s confidence with little notice.
The McLeod folded his arms in front of him as his eyes roved up and down Darrius, carefully assessing his pupil. “You look like him.” He nodded his head, his gaze narrowing at Darrius’s ratty long hair and unkempt beard.
“Yer dressed like him,” he commented, patting Darrius’s middle, a dust cloud danced in the air. Rowan shrugged, studying his genius vision from all angles.
Darrius pursed his lips as he waited for Rowan’s critical assessment, aching to plant his fist in his face, happily of course. His cousin leaned forward and sniffed, but he threw up an angry hand, forestalling him. “Not. One. Word.”
The faithful knight dissolved into hearty laughter.
Damn Rowan. “It was hell enough, I went without a bath for two months, but there was no way I would wear those lice infested rags you smuggled to me. What were you thinking, pray?” As another bark of laughter abounded from Rowan’s lips, Darrius grimaced. “Does Gunther truly smell this bad?”
“Worse, but you will pass for yer brother.” As the last effects of his amusement died away, an easy smile dimpled the McLeod’s cheeks.
Deep, blue eyes narrowed at the reference of Gunther as his brother. The word implied family, and as far as Darrius regarded, the Lord of Dorling was nothing to him. Horse dung held a higher purpose. “We share the same father and mother, but the similarity ends there.”
Rowan instantly sobered and bowed. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Ignoring his cousin, Darrius removed a rolled parchment from under his black mantle. “Rowan, take this message directly to King Henry,” he commanded, handing over the missive.
“Aye, my lord,” the McLeod said with a twinkle in his eye.
****
The siege concluded before it started.
The Imperial Knights strode for the heart of the keep, the lord’s chamber. As they approached the door, a sentry rested face down across the threshold. Darrius nudged him with his booted foot to check his condition. Out cold.
He entered the chamber and stopped.
The word, disgraceful came to mind followed by pigsty. Dishes were scattered among strewn clothing, an overturned table boasted ill-use, and a chair lay in pieces fit for kindling. The tattered curtains hung from the bed frame, pooling on the floor, yet part of the material was woven around a woman’s ankle?
Three naked bodies slept snug upon the bed—two were women—and the other his prey. Gunther laid sprawled unconscious between the hags. The odor of stale coupling, unwashed bodies, and vomit also solicited a salutation to the Imperial Arm.
Servants? Apparently nonexistent. Soap? A rare commodity. Morals? A gnat’s portion by far.
Colin the Loyal stepped close to his lord and the other knights known as the Imperial Elite filed in behind. “Seems he enjoyed himself,” he mumbled under his breath.
Darrius cocked his head to the side, surveying the repulsive sight. Cradled between lush breasts, Gunther snored. “Undoubtedly,” he whispered with a curl of his lip.
The Imperial Arm signaled his knights toward the bed with a curt nod, but Gunther shifted. Darrius’ hands flew out, and everyone froze, eyeing the trio on the bed. The Lord of Dorling rolled over on his side, muttering incoherently in his sleep, hitching a leg up and over a female thigh. His precarious position allowed an ample view of his man-parts, and he emitted a rumble of flatulence so loud it could sound a war party in Scotland.
Darrius scowled. A soft, harmonious groan chorused through his men.
“Did Rowan cover that in your lessons?” Colin shot his lord a glance, the corner of his lip lifting into a wry grin.
The Imperial Arm merely folded his arms, annoyed.
Colin shrugged. “Never hurts to ask, my lord.” He stifled a snort with a little cough.
Simon the Clever leaned over to his lord. “I have seen some grim things in my life, my lord,” he stated, fighting a smile. “By God, that is beyond distasteful.”
Dugan the Bloodsword nudged him in the arm, frowning. Simon flashed a grin toward the over-sized warrior and the Bloodsword reached to cuff the young knight’s head, but missed as he ducked out of the way.
“Remove him,” Darrius said with disdain and three knights carted Gunther off and left for the dungeon deep beneath the keep.
Darrius contemplated the two whores sleeping inside sexual bliss, and an amusing thought came to mind. “Colin? If I’m not mistaken, there was a manure cart near the stable as we arrived, correct?”
A sly smile of understanding lifted on the knight’s face. “Indeed there was, my lord.”
“How fitting,” he mused, considering the cur he found them with.
****
Colin returned to the chamber after dumping Gunther’s bedmates. “The whores are nestled snuggly in their new bed, my lord,” he reported. “The men have assembled and we are preparing to leave until the wedding feast.”
Darrius instructed his men to leave and return later in the day. He did not want to arouse suspicion among the keep with new knights present. Such an error could ruin his perfect plan.
“Is there any further instructions, my lord?” Colin asked.
The Imperial Arm kicked aside a pile of clothes with his booted foot. “Besides a fire? Awaken the servants and have them begin work on Hell’s throne.” He could not contain his disgust. “I will also require a bath.”
Colin laughed and Darrius raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, lord. You must admit your… slovenly appearance is a work of artistry. Even Lord Gunther never looked so… well.” He cleared his throat, attempting to hold back his laughter.
Darrius huffed a hard breath. “I am sure that Rowan felt this disguise necessary, but considering we had Nyle of McLeod prepare a sleeping draught for the ale, I marvel at my cousin’s demented instructions.”
The knight inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord.”
The servants grumbled at the earliness of the hour, but went about their duties, fearful of their lord’s tem
per. Darrius was in no humor to pacify the complaints of his “new” servants when they arrived to find their lord awake and calling for his bath.
Colin reappeared for his final update before leaving. “My lord, Lady Brenna is awake and her handmaiden attends her, but no curiosity follows. Gunther’s most loyal men have also received new accommodations. As you can see, other than servants, all is quiet.”
Darrius inclined his head, numb to everything around him. When his mother had named his natural father, Lord Robert of Dorling and his supposed dead brother, Darrius’s heart could not be settled. The desire to know where he came from burned deep, tearing at his guts. The need became an obsession, so relentless and passionate—he could not yield in his pursuit. However, as the ugly truth of Lord Robert and Gunther had come into light, Darrius’s heart hardened. A painful bitterness shrouded him from everything he knew as pleasure, filling him with a want of retribution.
Revenge was a fleeting emotion to Darrius, foreign and worthless. It was justice he sought. As the king’s emissary, he retained a powerful use of control over his character—nothing was left to chance and his every move calculated and meaningful. He was prepared to use all his skills to bring down his less than humane brother.
Gunther’s crimes, thus far exceeded debauched wenching and the rearrangement of furniture. Darrius witnessed firsthand the deadly greed the Lord of Dorling was renowned for, and he no longer considered him his brother. To this day, Darrius would never forget the first time he encountered Gunther’s vicious destruction under the disguise of pleasure. When Darrius was but a royal guard, the king’s party stumbled upon a village under attack.
Billowing black smoke had filled the air, while men, women, and children ran in every direction, or lay dead in their own blood. Their innocence had been stripped. That was quite an introduction to the infamous Gunther of Dorling Castle, a callous cur out to inflict torture on his vassals.
That night, the dark locust had ravished the defenseless village under the alleged protection of Dorling lands, but nothing could be proven. Gunther had walked away innocently, yet Darrius found a survivor. A young girl of about fifteen. She had been beaten, raped, and left for dead. When he had asked who dishonored her, she had named Gunther. She had died sometime later, taking away the proof Darrius needed.
Justice was the Imperial Arm’s whore. He would bury Gunther of Dorling at any expense.
****
Dusk fell and Brenna prayed for death. Her tormented thoughts plagued her. She gained a secure place for Linnea down in the kitchen with Maude’s help. She hoped to keep her out of sight from her father, yet privacy claimed uncertain. Any servant could prove disloyal for the right price.
“Maude? Is everything ready?”
The young girl bowed. “Aye, my lady. Your father directly comes.”
“And my sister?” Worried concern lit her eyes.
“Hidden and resting, my lady.” Maude’s gaze shifted to the door, fear lurking in her expression.
Dressed in her mother’s wedding gown, Brenna personified elegance. The white gown was molded to her slender body, a gold chain fastened around her trim waist, falling to the floor. A gauzy, white veil and gold circlet hid her dark hair, cascading down her back to her waist in soft waves. Everything about her appeared a woman of high station and beauty, yet her insides were twisting. Gunther would dishonor her, shame her, and she was trapped. She would be forced to submit to him for the sake of matrimony, thereby honoring her family and king.
Duty came at such a high price.
Sir William paused in the doorway with an air of haughtiness. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, casting his daughter a cursory glance.
Brenna swallowed hard, choking back veneration. Her limbs were shaking, and her heart raced with fear. If he discovered her nervousness, he would only sneer at her weakness. “Yes, father.”
Sir William escorted her toward the bonds of hell, a marriage of convenience to Satan’s puppet, while her father pulled the strings. Only one perilous item kept Brenna from shoving a dagger in her heart: Linnea… sick and helpless. In good faith, she could not leave her sister, no matter her own fate.
The beauty of the crisp, winter morning did not register in Brenna’s mind, nor the natural garland with flowers lining her path. The spirit of the Dorling people was high, but she sealed her thoughts from everything, seeing nothing.
Upon entering the chapel doorway, Brenna took in the vision laid out before her eyes. The simplicity of the building was filled with honored guests, knights, and the vassals of Dorling to bear witness to her doom.
Gunther waited at the end of the aisle.
Her chest tingled, bleeding out into her arms and feet. Iciness condensed through her body, making her shake harder. A sour taste mingled over her tongue, willing herself not to vomit as she drew closer to the man she would soon call husband. Everything about him chilled her with terror.
As she approached Gunther, she stumbled, her feet stiff and awkward until dizziness nearly consumed her. Her father jerked her close, shooting her a warning glance. Brenna took a deep breath, fighting her fear.
When Gunther finally turned to face her, she found herself reflected in the depths of his deep, blue eyes and his indifference unsettled her. She had expected him to look as disgusting as he had these last few days. She expected Gunther to leer at her and blow his putrid breath down into her face with crude comments, but oddly, she did not feel threatened. She winced inwardly with a measure of self-disgust at her thoughts and glared at him.
Brenna choked on swearing before God her fealty to such a loathsome demon. She wished to prolong the ceremony, if only to delay her fate in the marriage bed. The thought of Gunther touching her threatened a terrible burning in the back of her throat and her jittery nerves to spike without submission.
But her fate was sealed.
****
As his bride joined Darrius, her gaze burned against his profile. He remained aloof, listening to the priest. A twisting sense of right and wrong leeched through him. Honor should be his first priority, but he closed his mind to the hammering censure, reminding himself of his mission. He would finish it to the end. However, when he faced his new bride, an unarmed force smacked him, and he drew in a sharp breath. Blood rushed to his head, clouding all his male reserves. Her gentle beauty smashed through his tight control, deafening the priest’s words.
The whiteness of her gown presented her innocence, the darkness of her hair, a sweet blaze of thick richness. He ached to sift his hands through the mass. From her flashing green eyes to her plump, full lips—she jolted him out of a foggy haze. So serene and sleek, he felt himself respond hard. Lady Brenna was delicate, barely reaching his shoulder, but every bit a lady, so unworthy of Gunther or the king’s plans. She did not deserve her pawn like station, and a strange ache to ease her fears shimmied through him. It was if her spirit touched his in a slight brush of awareness.
No woman had ever affected him in such a way.
By her reaction, he was aware that Lady Brenna held as much distaste for Lord Gunther as he did, and frankly, he admired her bravery. When the priest asked him to take her hand, she trembled within his grasp, her fear was evident. Her cool, stiff replies to her vows were forced through clenched teeth, but Darrius was bumped off balance by her resistant demeanor to the point of compassion.
Chapter 3
Impressive debauchery studded the great hall with flowers and handwoven streamers, announcing the wedding feast on a luxurious scale. A musical score sang the happiness of the Dorling vassals, their laughter mixing over the notes. Every variety of meat, succulent fruit, and delicate cake spilled over the decorated tables fit for a king, or in this case, Lord Gunther with his predilection toward the extravagant. The best wine and ale flowed with ocean consistency for everyone to glutton their bellies and drunken their minds. The keep shuddered under joy, offering hearty praise for the lord’s marriage and the new bride.
Darrius sat with relaxed conf
idence at the high table as a castle leman sifted her fingers through his overlong hair. Gritting his teeth, he ached to swat her away. Her irritating strokes rubbed him into annoyance, but the pretense of acting like Gunther propelled him to have her near. The woman smelled ‘used’ with unwashed skin—exactly what he hated. Any woman he bedded was required to bathe. His rule was not negotiable. He had standards.
Yet, his aggravation was soon forgotten as he looked upon his new bride.
He could not take his eyes off her.
Lady Brenna sat rigid, watching everything around her, frowning. Her luscious lips were drawn tight, her hands twisting her wedding dress in her lap. There was an unspoken tension wafting off her stiff composure. Darrius knew she suffered under her present circumstance, and he had an unexpected desire to make her smile. What would she look like?
He leaned forward and grasped the wine bottle from a servant’s waiting hand. Darrius crowded her space, offering to pour. “More wine, my lady?”
****
Startled, Brenna’s eyes met his, her shock evident. “Yes. Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, grabbing her goblet without thinking. She tried to look away from him, but she could not. The depth of his gaze held her captive. Her eyes traveled downward, entranced by the impressive strength oozing from his body. He made her tremble. She knew she should feel a measure of familiar disgust, but heat swarmed her cheeks and she looked away.
He refilled her goblet. “Please do not be nervous, little one. I mean you no harm,” he said with a soft tone.
Brenna’s eyes met his again, her grip tightening on the stem of her forgotten vessel. His words were so gentle, she thought she imagined them, and found herself speechless. Her awareness tilted her dizzy. Gunther was so close, she could smell his earthy, fresh scent, so unlike the other men around her. She fought a deep inhale, but breathed him in slowly. Musky cleanness swarmed her senses, shifting her closer to the edge of insanity. She instantly hated her reaction, her teeth clamping together.