The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

  “Vast,” she repeated.

  His head dropped back.

  “Oh. Verra well. ’Twas uncontrollable. But...with a bit of rest. I may be able to hold back long enough...to at least undress next time.”

  “Oh, you may, may you?”

  He gave the same growl she’d heard him use with his men. It was endearing. The timbre echoed through his chest when she rested her head on it. His hand brushed strands of her hair aside. Cassandra had never felt more secure. Protected.

  And loved.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Where are you going?”

  Cassandra had a leg out, preparatory to rolling from him. His hand snagged her thigh almost instantly, stopping her. She’d seen his reflexes. They were still surprising. Especially when she thought he slept.

  “To...wash.”

  “Wash.”

  The word reverberated through the chest she lay atop.

  “I—. It’s...sticky. Unclean.”

  He grunted and lifted his hand from her leg. She rolled from him, wincing slightly at the tenderness of her woman-area. Her legs were shaky, her fingers felt odd. Her shift and kirtle slid into place down her legs as she stood, stooping slightly. She had to hold her bodice together. A quick peek showed he wasn’t watching. He was still focused on the canopy above him.

  There was a pitcher of water in the main chamber. Cassandra poured some into a mug and tiptoed into the wardrobe room. It looked vacant and austere and cold without her clothing. There was a pale yellow ensemble still there, however. And a night-rail hung from one hook.

  Heaven-sent.

  That’s how the garment looked. Once she’d shed the beautiful blue dress, white and silver kirtle, and shift, washed every trace of blood away, and had donned the nightgown, she knew it was heavenly. It not only covered her, it hid all the blushes. Especially over the small dark spots at her hips that looked like finger marks.

  She fashioned a loose braid with her hair to keep tangling to a minimum. Opened the door. And nearly slammed it shut again.

  Rhoenne looked up from the fireplace. He was crouched, poking at logs. His hair was unbound, hanging to mid-back, spilling over massively muscled shoulders. His side was to her, and there wasn’t but a small towel or some other nondescript bit of material about his hips. He rose slowly and turned to face her. Firelight glanced off him, highlighting one side, while the other was hidden in shadow. He probably heard her sigh and assigned the correct meaning, if the way he glanced upward and turned a bit rosy was any indication.

  He lifted arms then, pulling his hair back as if he’d tie it. The gesture put definition to both arms as well as all the roping of muscle through his torso. It also reflected on a thin trail of blood oozing from his knife wound. Cassandra was at his side moments later, without a hint of how she’d gotten there.

  “Oh, Rhoenne. Your wound? We broke it open?”

  He gave a half-smile. “If we did, ’twas totally worth it.”

  “It doesn’t hurt?”

  “I did na’ say that.”

  “So, it does hurt.”

  “I did na’ say that, either.”

  Her shoulders fell. She gave him a deadpan look. “What did you say?”

  “I said if what we did broke my wound open, it would have been worth it. Actually, we could have broken open all these scars, and it would have been worth it, lass.”

  “You have a lot.”

  “Scars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Comes with the territory, lass.”

  “Fighting?”

  He shrugged. All kinds of muscle moved throughout his frame. That was visual and stirring and altogether interesting.

  “You should have been more careful.”

  “You didn’t see the damage to my opponents.”

  Her brows lifted. “What is this one from?” She reached out. Hesitated for a moment, and then traced a line that undercut one of his nipples.

  “Blade,” he answered.

  “And this one?”

  He had a stripe along his upper left arm. It followed the line of muscle, as though it needed definition. The scar was large. Jagged.

  “Hand axe,” he replied.

  “Oooh.”

  His lips twisted as if he hid a smile.

  “And this one?” He had a line across his belly. It was a lighter shade than his skin.

  “Sword.”

  “How about this one?” She touched a “v”-shaped one just beneath his elbow.

  He smirked. “Fish hook.”

  “Fish hook,” she repeated.

  “I was na’ born an expert fisherman. Such a thing requires trial and error.”

  “Oh. I see. What about this one?”

  He had a puckered circular one on his lower belly, a hand-span lower than the one from the ship attack. He stiffened slightly as she touched the circular one, as if it still pained. Cassandra glanced up at him. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking over her head. And his jaw looked locked.

  “Arrow.”

  “Oh my. That one must have really hurt. Is there another wound...where the arrow...exited?”

  She went around to the back of him, searching. Exploring. Skimming her hand along even more scars. She didn’t ask their cause. They appeared mostly like the sword or knife ones. The main reason she stayed silent was because his skin lifted with goosebumps beneath her fingers, and that was a truly divine sensation.

  “Oh. Here it is. This is the hole. From the arrow. Yes?”

  He nodded.

  The other arrow hole was just above his waist. Same side.

  “Is this where the arrow exited?”

  “Nae.”

  He was definitely tense. Cassandra traced the puckered scar with a concave center. “I don’t understand.”

  “I was shot in the back,” he replied tersely.

  Cassandra came back around him. Stood before him. Waiting for him to look down at her. Establish eye contact. He glanced down at her, then away. He was definitely tensed. Every striation of muscle was prominently displayed.

  “In battle?”

  “No. Far worse. But ’tis na’ something we’ll be discussing. And definitely na’ in the midst of our wedding night. With a large bed awaiting us. And completely privacy.”

  Cassandra regarded him for long moments. “You are very good at avoiding questions, Rhoenne.”

  “You...overly tender?” he asked instead.

  She stepped closer. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

  He bent his head to look at her, lifted his eyebrows, and speared her with the intense blue of his gaze . “Plenty.”

  “Well. In that event...” Cassandra went onto tip-toes to wrap her arms about his neck. Reach his lips with hers. “I think we can work with it.”

  And the next moment she was in his arms.

  Cassandra truly was a beautiful lass.

  Rhoenne smoothed a lock of hair from her face and off her shoulder, regarding her at some length. He reclined on his uninjured side, his head propped with a hand, watching his new wife sleep. She’d rolled and changed positions at least thrice without waking. At the moment she was snuggled at his side, breathing deeply and rhythmically against his chest. He was naked. She again wore her night shift tied clear to the neck.

  She looked incredibly young. Innocent. Ethereal. No one would guess she was a tigress. He had a couple of scratches to add to his collection now. From her fingernails raking him along his shoulders and upper arms. They weren’t deep enough to scar, although he wouldn’t have minded.

  Rhoenne smirked. He’d been protective and possessive of her before. Now, she’d be lucky to seek her privy without him hovering. He was a very lucky man. This woman was so beautiful. So sweet. So loving. So wild. So intense.

  So different from Aileen.

  Damn it.

  He wished Cassandra hadn’t gone over his scarring. Bringing up anything from his past was not a good idea, especially with so many dark hours ahead of him. D
ark, quiet hours made the memories harder to stifle. Especially Aileen.

  Aileen was a beautiful woman...but she’d pale in comparison.

  He still remembered his first look at her. He’d been sixteen. Spoiled as only the eldest son and heir to an earldom could be. Tall. Raw-boned. Not yet the stature or weight of the fourth earl, however everyone had known he’d reach - if not surpass - his sire. Rhoenne was the image of Caillen Ramhurst, save for their eye color. Caillen had the usual Ramhurst brownish-green eyes. Rhoenne was a throwback to their ancestor, the first earl. The Norman – his namesake.

  His mother had come from the Balliol clan. He’d never known her. She’d died at his birth. His first step-mother perished almost three years later at the birth of Rhoenne’s half-brother, Bhaltair. Bhaltair took after his mother. She’d been MacDougall clan. He’d had a mop of burnt-orange-colored hair. Lots of freckling. Was short, and prone to fat.

  After his second widowing, their sire, Caillen put his time and energy to protecting his fief, extending and enlarging his castle, and training his two sons. Along with their cousin, Grant, Rhoenne and Bhaltair spent their days on all manner of masculine pursuits. Hunting. Fishing. Riding. Fighting. Combat. Weapons training. Rhoenne was mentored and trained by the clan champion, Henry FitzHugh. At sixteen he was already a force on Castle Tyne’s list, nigh unbeatable by any except his father’s Honor Guardsmen. The nights were devoted to study. Caillen had to continually hire and replace tutors from Edinburgh as his son, Rhoenne outpaced them. Grant kept up with the physical pursuits, but avoided most lessons. Rhoenne’s half-brother, Bhaltair failed at just about everything.

  And then her carriage had arrived.

  Rhoenne’s experience with the fairer sex was a bit of play with hoydenish lasses who chased him for kisses, and a few stolen moments behind the stables with the head groom’s oldest daughter that had to be followed by a brisk swim across Tyne Castle’s loch. He hadn’t known women existed that looked like his second step-mother.

  Father had given them a fortnight to prepare. He’d come back from a trip to London-town, after spending several months there. He told them of the young woman he’d met. How he’d fallen instantly in love. He’d returned home by himself, but they’d been told she would soon follow. Her name was Aileen. She was from the south, the daughter of a baron. The earl was a score and sixteen. Aileen was half his age. His da had described her as delicate. Lady-like. Her hair as brown as Scots Pine bark, her eyes as mercurial green as a pond on a mist-filled day.

  Rhoenne had just given a hearty blow to a man from his father’s Honor Guard when her carriage and two baggage carriages complete with outriders had entered the inner courtyard, stopping at the stables. It was a rain-filled day, the castle grounds sodden and slick. The list was a quagmire of mud. He’d been covered in muck. Hair plastered to his skull. Muscles heaving. The castle chamberlain rushed out along with a battalion of servants to meet the carriage. Rows of menservants held lengths of wool plaide over her path. A step-stool had been hastily brought and plunked down.

  Aileen had stepped out, a vision in pink garments. She’d looked over the mass of males in the vicinity. Lifted her chin. Jaws were dropping, his included. He’d also dropped his sword and his guard. And ended up on his arse from a blow that took his breath as well.

  He didn’t meet her until days later. Father told them the reason. Aileen was Sassenach. English. Her constitution was frail. She hadn’t taken well to the journey. Or her marital status. Or her new home. Or the clime. Or the lack of feminine companionship...

  The list was lengthy.

  It had been a family sup. At Castle Tyne that meant it included the earl; Tevin, his younger twin-brother by a half-day, and the lads; Grant, Rhoenne, and Bhaltair. Rhoenne had dressed with particular care, as had the others. He’d walked into the Great Hall. Aileen had been wearing a pale green ensemble. It set off her beauty. She’d been holding to her new husband’s arm. And the moment she’d looked up into Rhoenne’s eyes, he’d been knocked sideways. Completely smitten.

  He’d also been damned.

  But he didn’t find that out until later.

  He took to swimming almost daily. The loch never froze, but at times ice crusted the waves near shore. Breaking through them actually helped with the emotions. He fought and trained with a vengeance. Rode every horse they owned, while breaking in new stock. He was working through the frustration, as was right. Rhoenne hero-worshipped his father. He’d never dishonor the elder Ramhurst. That meant his feelings were unrequited and they always would be. It was his secret. He’d drafted love poems to Aileen, only to burn them all in the fire. Composed songs, and sang them to flocks of sheep, herds of horses. Occasionally a salmon-filled burn composed his audience.

  A year went by. Another. Jealousies and odd rages flashed through the ranks of the men throughout the castle. He didn’t know then why. Life-long friends would challenge and fight as though bitter enemies. Rhoenne got stronger. Harder. Tougher. During the same time frame, Aileen’s temperament grew more mercurial, her womb remained barren, their retainers became surly and unhappy, and the earl took to drinking heavily. Rhoenne didn’t know anything about the last four issues. He avoided anything to do with the countess and her household.

  And if only he’d tied himself to his bed that fateful night, things might have progressed naturally!

  It hadn’t seemed necessary. He’d rarely sleep-walked. He’d thought the episodes a childhood issue – a malady that he’d outgrown. He’d gone to his chamber late, collapsed on his bed, every muscle spent and sore. And the next thing he knew, Aileen was unclothed, screeching and crying, pointing and accusing, and his father was screaming with rage.

  And Rhoenne was in their bed.

  He hadn’t been fully awake before the earl started beating him. He hadn’t any chance to defend, even if he’d wanted to. Caillen thrashed Rhoenne nearly to death, and would have if Henry hadn’t stopped it. The man had discovered him missing, mounted a search throughout the castle and out into the grounds. It was Henry who’d slammed through the doors of the chieftain’s bedchamber, got between father and son, and held Caillen back long enough for Rhoenne to crawl from the room.

  He’d left a blood trail. It hadn’t gone to his tower. He’d gone to the stable, taken a Clydesdale, somehow mounted it, and ridden out into the night. Directionless. To hide. And heal. And hate.

  The last one was directed inward.

  He’d gone missing three days. If he hadn’t been so gravely injured, he’d have left Tyneburgh and all it meant. It was Henry who found him. Rhoenne had holed up in a cave near the standing stones erected by ancients. Henry was the man who gave him the tidings. His father had suffered a seizure that same night. He’d never awakened.

  Henry was his support. The shoulder he needed to cry on. And his nursemaid. The man was his conscience as well. It took a fortnight to heal enough to move without an assist. Throughout, Henry pleaded with Rhoenne to go back to the castle. Assume the title. Tyneburgh was his responsibility and his birthright. Rhoenne couldn’t leave administration of the Ramhurst clan to his uncle Tevin, or his cousin, Grant. Tevin had always coveted the title. Giving him such power fomented discontent and revolt. Nor could he hand it to Bhaltair. His half-brother was barely fifteen, the lad ignorant and inept. And Henry begged Rhoenne not to leave it to that malevolent termagant Caillen had brought into their midst with his third marriage.

  Those words were Henry’s. He only said them one time because Rhoenne only warned him once. Rhoenne thought he knew the truth. Aileen wasn’t wicked. She was the innocent here. This was his fault, and his alone. There was no loch deep enough to hide in. No place dark enough to mute the guilt. The remorse. The regret.

  And the utter shame.

  Rhoenne hadn’t known he had a dark side until then. He was a man who could ravish his own step-mother. Cause his father’s death. Fracture the core of the Ramhurst clan. There was no penance with enough breadth for what he’d done.

&nbs
p; But he’d returned.

  From that moment on, Rhoenne was changed. He no longer composed anything, poem or not. He ceased singing. He didn’t josh and tussle with the others. He kept his own counsel. His manner became withdrawn and introspective. His mood pensive. He didn’t move from his lone tower, either, refusing to take over the chieftain’s rooms. Despite how Henry counseled against it, Rhoenne was not sleeping in his father’s bed. Such a thing felt unsanctified and wrong. He didn’t care if Aileen stayed there. He rarely sought sleep anyway. And out on the list, he was a true terror. Few men walked after a challenge. Most weren’t conscious. He was rarely at any castle function, especially if it included women. Those, he avoided completely. It was in the tower that he fought sleep, training himself to achieve a state of wakefulness he could maintain.

  Each day followed the next. Became weeks. Then months.

  He’d reached his nineteenth year when Aileen started showing up in unexpected places. She’d cross his path as though inadvertently, and walk away giving him glances over her shoulder. Those looks didn’t look afraid. Or prudish. They sparked interest that wasn’t just wrong, it was evil. Her every move fomented a lust that just added weight to his penance. Once, when he’d been roaming the halls at night, she’d stepped from her chamber. She’d worn a simple robe. Nothing beneath. And she’d tipped her shoulder to make the garment gap, allowing a peek into the well of shadow between her breasts. Rhoenne had turned away and stalked off.

  And then came the eve she’d visited his tower chamber.

  Rhoenne had annihilated two Honor Guardsmen, swum the loch, and done a jog back around it. Exhaustion accompanied his steps to slog up the wheel stair, hoping he’d reach the tower room before his legs gave out and dropped him. And then he heard them.

  “...any man in the castle. But keep your hands off him. I’m warning you. I’ll toss you in a bog. They’ll never find you.”