Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by K. J. Jackson

  { Chapter 4 • Worth of a Duke }

  The thumping was odd. Odd enough that Wynne stopped walking and cocked her head, waiting for it to repeat.

  Silence. And then another thump. It started in front of her and echoed twice behind her. Or at least that’s what she thought.

  She took three steps.

  A groan—almost a grunt. But this one seemed to start behind her and echo in the front.

  She looked around the hallway she was in. Same grey stone that had been twisting and turning her in circles for hours. For the past two days, bored and waiting for the paints to arrive, she had been trying to make sense of the maze that was this castle.

  Wynne knew she was currently on the third level, unless she had counted the landings wrong when she was on the last tight, spiraling staircase. Possible, for how dizzy it had made her.

  A grunt. A true grunt. A grunt like someone was in trouble.

  She took a guess and turned around, walking back along the hallway she had just started down. Passing the staircase that had delivered her to this level, she heard another thump. Louder in front of her this time, and the echo now seemed to be more of a whisper behind her.

  Passing by an arched wooden door, Wynne stopped to open it. The door stuck, so she kicked it. Once. Twice. It cleared the jam, but she still had to lean on the wood to get the door to swing inward.

  Peeking her head past the door, she was surprised to see a mostly empty room. Warped plank floors. An old wooden bureau leaning crooked with a missing foot. An enormous tapestry lining the far wall, the scene of wine and women faded to almost blankness. One wooden chair, its tall back carved with scrolling leaves. But no noise. No thumping.

  A low growl brought her back into the hallway.

  Two more doors forced open, and Wynne still had not found the source of the sound. But she was getting closer. The thumping was louder.

  The hall turned in front of her, and at the corner, another arched door sat in the middle of a rounded wall. It looked like it led to a corner tower of the castle.

  This door opened with ease.

  She gasped. “Hell and damnation.”

  Rowen turned his head to her, his shaking arms straining at the movement. His head, shoulders, and arms sticking straight out were the only things she could see of him.

  The rest of his body disappeared through a gaping hole torn in the wood floor.

  “Stop. No. Stay back.” The order was barked harshly, even as Rowen shook with the strain of holding his body from falling through the floors.

  “I can help.” She made one step into the circular room.

  “No, Wynne. Stop. The floors are rotted. You’ll break through.” His mouth pulled back as he sucked in a hard gasp.

  “But Rowe, you cannot get out. I have to help.” Taking a step back, Wynne gripped the doorframe, going to her toes as she leaned in, trying to see down the hole past Rowen’s body. “What is below?”

  “Nothing. Nothing for three levels.” His left hand slipped, and he sank a notch, grunting as he stopped the fall. Only sheer arm muscle kept him from dropping through. “I am trying to swing my legs up without crashing down. I can’t reach the beam below. Get help. Get help now.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Wynne. Go.”

  Frantic, Wynne stepped away from the door, looking down both hallways she could see. Barren. Just like everywhere else she had been. She turned back into the room. “No, Rowe. There is no one. I have not seen a soul in the past three hours. And I do not know how I got here or how to get back.”

  A half growl, half yell from Rowen made her jump.

  “Just go, Wynne. Go. Now. Quick.” His arms shook with even more intensity.

  Wynne slapped the stone next to the doorframe in frustration. She couldn’t leave him. There was no way she could find her way back to the main living area, get help, and be back before Rowen fell through that hole—and plunged three stories.

  She looked around, searching. Searching for any way to help him, to get him out of the hole. Nothing in the room. She stepped back into the hall, spinning. Empty. No way to help.

  It hit her in a flash, and she ran back down the hallway she had just come from, stopping at the first room she had looked in. The door still ajar since she couldn’t re-wedge it closed, she kicked it open and ran straight to the tapestry on the far wall, yanking free her grandfather’s knife from the rope sheath she had fashioned around her waist and buried in her skirts. Thank goodness her life was still in such unrest that she felt the need to keep it on her person.

  Wynne grabbed the bottom edge of the tapestry, stabbing the tip of the blade into the fabric, and ran the length of the room, cutting loose a wide, long strip. Running before the last threads separated, she yanked the strip free as she escaped out the door.

  Breathless, she almost skidded into the tower room as she bolted back to Rowen. Still holding on, his head was down, chin on his chest, and his fingertips curled on the wood, nails digging in.

  “Rowe—here—watch. I’m going to throw this to your left hand.”

  His head swiveled to her. Sweat covered his brow as he winced with the movement. “Dammit, Wynne. You cannot pull me out of here—I will drag you in.”

  “I can. Trust me. I will try to get it on your hand.” She balled the end and threw it at his fingers. It missed by a wide swath. She re-gathered the strip and whipped it back into the room, and it landed on the back of Rowen’s hand. “Grab it, Rowe. Grab it and give me just one moment.”

  “No. I am not dragging you down, Wynne.”

  “Trust me. Rowe, look at me.”

  His dark eyes met hers.

  “Grab it. Trust me. You will not pull me down.”

  It took an agonizing moment, but Rowen finally flipped his hand, his wrist holding him up, and he awkwardly wrapped the fabric around his palm.

  “Wait.” She stepped back, twisting the fabric for strength, then wrapped it behind her hips and threaded it around both of her forearms.

  Sitting, she wedged her feet onto the stone on either side of the doorframe and locked her legs straight. She leaned slightly forward, her arms wide to place her palms on the stone and brace her upper body.

  “I am ready. Put your weight on it slowly and pull yourself up.”

  “No, Wynne.” He grunted, slipping another notch. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. My legs are locked and I will lean back as weight is added. But do not look up my skirts.”

  A grimaced smile overtook the strain on his face. “I will resist.”

  Achingly slow, he wrapped the fabric further around his left hand and then his wrist. The weight pulled her, and Wynne leaned back, letting the angle of her body take the pressure. It worked. She was able to hold steady against half of his mass.

  “You will not fall? You are sure?”

  “Yes. Go. Grab it and pull yourself over here.”

  Rowen nodded, and in a quick move, his body dropped as he swung his right hand over to grip the fabric. It jerked Wynne forward, the line digging into her hip bones and arms, but she held her anchor.

  At that moment, the wood splintered and cracked beneath Rowen, rough planks dropping to the depths of the tower. Rowen fell fully through the floor, swinging on the tapestry rope.

  For an instant, he was weightless, and Wynne thought she lost him. But then a harsh yank pulled her forward, and she had to fight to straighten her legs, grunting, and leaned back even further. The fabric cut into her arms until bone felt like it was cracking, but she managed to keep her elbows locked straight.

  Rowen dangled below her. Safe for the moment, but she knew, even with her leverage, she could not hold his weight much longer.

  “Climb, Rowe. Climb, dammit.”

  The first tug came. Then the second. Hands moving up the fabric. She could not see him past the ripped wood of the floor in front of her, but she felt every notch he made up the rope, his weight ripping her muscles.

  And then his right hand made it to
the line above the wood, his fingers scraping underneath the strained fabric for grip. Another intense growl, and he yanked himself up over the lip of the wood.

  Hand over hand, he pulled himself to Wynne, not stopping until he was between her legs and his chest was on the hallway floor.

  Finally—thankfully—the line went slack and Wynne fell backward, her head hitting the stone wall behind her.

  She quickly unwrapped the tapestry rope cutting into her arms, letting blood flow back into them, and then rolled over, trying to remove her legs and skirts from around Rowen’s head.

  Landing flat on her back, she panted as she swung her head to look over at Rowen. He was still on his belly, not moving, his head turned away from her on the floor.

  “Rowe?” She propped herself up on her elbows and poked him with the toe of her boot. “Are you injured?”

  His body did not move, but he managed to flop his head so he could see her. It looked like it took immense effort. White sleeves rolled up, she could still see the lines of muscles on his forearms quivering.

  “How the hell did you know to do that?” His voice was ragged, breathless.

  She chuckled at the sheer disbelief on his face, still trying to catch her own breath. “A pig.”

  “What?”

  She took a moment to get air deep into her lungs. “My grandfather made me save a pig like that once. It had gotten out of the pen and fell down the side of a cliff,” Wynne said, rubbing the sweat from her brow. “The nearest trees were too big for how much rope we had, so he wedged me between two boulders with a rope around me, like I just was, and he went down after it.”

  “Did you save it?”

  “We did. It squealed the whole time. And I figured if I could hold a pig up like that, I could hold you up like that.”

  A full smile came to his lips, crinkling his dark eyes. “Are you comparing me to a pig?”

  She laughed. “I suppose I am. Your weight is similar.”

  Rowen groaned. But this was a laughing groan, not the desperate, struggling-for-life groan of a few minutes ago. “So your grandfather did not yield to possible death or injury merely to save a pig?”

  Wynne chuckled. “My grandfather did not yield to anything. Plus, he liked his pork meat. He was not about to give up a pig if he could help it. Especially one already fattened for winter.”

  Head still on the floor, Rowen smiled, his eyes focused on her face. “You miss him.”

  “I do.” Wynne nodded. “I know it has been a while since he passed, and that I have already grieved, but in my mind, not but three days ago, I thought he was alive. So it is hard.”

  “I am trying to imagine him. What did he look like?”

  “He was huge, and one never knew what he really looked like because he had a burly, crazy, mountain man beard.” She smiled, shaking her head. “He was so very different from my father. My father was refined—dignified. Grandfather was the opposite. I was afraid of him for a long time when we moved to the mountain.”

  “Afraid he would hurt you?”

  “Oh, no. Goodness no. He would never hurt me—he would die before harm came to me.” She pushed herself to sitting and scooted back to lean against the wall. “No, I was afraid because I came to him on the mountain very much like my mother. Docile and sweet. Fragile. Needing to be taken care of. He had raised her like that. But that was not to be my fate.”

  “No?”

  “No. He saw more in me. Grit—that was the word he liked to use. He saw that I could be more—and he expected it of me. Would not let me cower from all he needed to teach me. He demanded that I be much more than what my mother was. That I knew how to survive.”

  “Then I now have an enormous debt to your grandfather—no ordinary woman could have done what you just did.” Grunting, Rowen rolled onto his back, bringing up his knees and kicking himself backward so his body was fully on the hall floor. He arms still stayed limp at his sides.

  “Rowe—your leg.” Wynne knelt forward in full alarm.

  Rowen's dark buckskin breeches were ripped wide open on the side of his thigh and quickly turning a bright red from what looked like a deep gash in his leg.

  Lifting his thigh to see the wound, he shrugged. “Not too deep. It will be fine.”

  His leg went down and he looked at her. “Wynne?” His eyes went wide. “Wynne, you are turning pale.”

  She could feel her head start to float away from her. She tried to grasp it, bring it back down to her body, but she could not catch it. “Blood—it is just the blood…I cannot…”

  Her head started to sway, spin, and she slapped both her hands to her forehead to try and gain solidity. Solidity that fleeted away.

  “Wynne…”

  Rowen's voice faded. She tried one last time to fight against it, but lost.

  Rowen and the hallway disappeared into the abyss of blackness.

  ~~~

  Wynne cracked her eyes. Something hard underneath her, but not the floor. A bench? The smell of wet wool hit her nostrils, and she realized a musty blanket was on her body.

  Rowen's voice, low, greeted her immediately. “You passed out when you saw the blood, Wynne.”

  She opened her eyes fully, only to see Rowen leaning over her, worry creasing his brow.

  Instant hot embarrassment flooded her cheeks. “I do that.”

  He nodded, solemn. “I will remember that.”

  “You carried me in here?”

  “I did.”

  “Then I am embarrassed you needed to do so.”

  Rowen straightened, giving her space as she pulled her hand from under the scratchiness of the wool blanket, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips.

  “You will be fine?” The worry on his brow had not eased.

  “I will be. I am.” Just to prove it and to erase his worry, she sat up, her palms resting on the wooden bench. “It does not affect me past the initial blackness, and I will be fine as long as I do not look at your leg again.” Her eyes unwittingly flickered down his torso.

  “Then you need to not look down at my leg.” He turned his body so the blood on his buckskin breeches wasn’t visible to her. His arms were motionless, limp, at his sides. “I find it entirely odd that you can stomach squirrel guts but not the blood of man.”

  “They are very different things. I have always been this way around human blood.”

  “Which is truly why you did not go after that thief with your knife?”

  “Possibly.” She pointed at his arm. “I am sorry you had to carry me into here—you did not know, but I would have woken in short order. Your muscles must be torn into a thousand pieces.”

  “No apologies. You just saved me from what could have been a slow, torturous death with a broken neck at the bottom of that tower. So I was not about to leave you in that cold hallway.” He let a half-smirk slide onto his face. “Besides, I tossed you over my shoulder, so it was not so difficult. You are light.”

  “Aaah," Wynne said, rubbing her middle as she looked down. "That explains why my ribs hurt. I thought it was from the rope.”

  “I have hurt you?”

  She shook her head, pushing the blanket from her lap. “No. I am fine.”

  “Wynne, look at me.”

  She tilted her chin up to him. The worry had reappeared on his brow.

  “Have I hurt you?”

  “No, Rowe. Truly, I am just sore. It is of no consequence.”

  He stared at her for a moment, judging whether to believe her words. His face relaxed slightly, but Wynne could still see the concern around his eyes.

  “Even if it is of no consequence, I would never wish to injure you, Wynne. I will take care to carry you properly the next time you faint.”

  Wynne’s breath caught, her chest tightening at his earnest words. She had to be very careful around this man. His dark eyes were still watching her intently, and Wynne started to squirm under his gaze. She wasn’t quite sure it was just concern in his eyes. Curiosity? That would make sense. She was
the curious sort.

  Even under his scrutiny, she had a hard time looking from his striking eyes. Long dark lashes, flecks of silver light in the almost black of his eyes. Dark and haunting, they looked like they just barely kept bridled a power he was not about to let her see—like they could steal her soul and hold it captive for all eternity.

  Careful. Very careful, lest she lose her soul.

  Rowen looked into her mind too easily with those eyes—she already knew that about him. And she also already knew she didn’t mind so much that he looked into her so easily.

  If only he could see what she couldn’t remember. What happened to her. Where her mother was.

  Wynne wasn’t quite ready for it, but she stood, just to avoid squirming more under Rowen’s continued stare. “Thank you, but I do not plan on fainting again in the near future.”

  She immediately swayed, and his arm went around her instantly, his hand supporting the small of her back as he set her down on the bench.

  “Too soon,” he said, his eyes still searching her face.

  She forced a light chuckle. “My plan did not work so well.”

  “No.” He shook his head, the right side of his face holding a smirk. “Sit for a moment. Get your legs about you.”

  “Only if you will sit with me. Your body must still be exhausted as well—more so. How long were you holding yourself up?”

  “Too long.” With a sigh, Rowen sank to the bench beside her, his arms having gone back to limp jelly.

  Wynne looked about the room. It also looked like a long-abandoned room—cobwebs in the corners, a few stray pieces of marred furniture, two small tables, a plain wooden chair, and this bench. “Where are we?”

  “Not too far from that tower. This was as far as I could take you without collapsing myself.”

  “We are a pair of messes, are we not?”

  He laughed. “That is an apt description, yes.”

  His smile came so easy it surprised Wynne. She had not thought it of him the other day. She shifted, turning more to him on the bench. “I know I was lost, so just wandering aimlessly in these hallways, but what were you doing in the tower?”