The Dark Crusader

by Jackie Ivie

It was Henry. In Rhoenne’s room. For what reason, he didn’t know.

  “I can have any man I want.” Aileen answered with snide tones Rhoenne had never heard from her before.

  “You can na’ have me.”

  “Who wants an old man?” Aileen answered. And then she’d laughed.

  “You can na’ have the laird, either.”

  “Surely that’s for him to decide.”

  “I ken what you are, Mistress,” Henry replied.

  “Oh really? And what am I?”

  “A serpent. Of Satan.”

  Rhoenne didn’t hear Aileen’s reply. Rage and anger sent fuel to his limbs. He’d reached the chamber swiftly, approached Henry, demanded an apology, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he’d slammed a fist into Henry’s jaw. Followed up with a challenge to meet on the list. The very next day, he’d given Henry his first defeat.

  And Aileen a clear field.

  That’s when she’d come to Rhoenne in his tower. Arriving one night when he’d been sleepless, just lying atop his bed, watching where the ceiling slats joined to form the vaulting. Her presence had startled. She’d brought a lantern. Set it high on his wardrobe. And she’d approached, opening her robe, and dropping it, revealing feminine perfection he’d never imagined. He’d gotten to his feet before she reached him. Stood looking down at her in disbelief, shock, and a horrifying stab of desire, which, since he slept with just a plaide draped about his hips, hadn’t gone unnoticed. And then she’d touched him, right in the belly, just above his groin.

  The contact hadn’t sent anything lustful. Far from it. Her fingers sent a cold wash of shivers. He’d felt physically ill. He’d run from her, taking the tower steps two at a time as if pursued by a banshee of Scot lore. A swift swim in the loch hadn’t cleansed him. Nothing did.

  The episode started his sleep-walking again, too. He’d taken to barring himself in his tower with the bolt down. Tied to the bed. Suffered all manner of fitful trouble. Dealt with lust that wouldn’t quench no matter how long he swam the coldest part of the loch, or how many trips he took to town, and how many women he paid to tupp. That’s the reason he’d been outside the chieftain door one night when the lock clicked. He’d barely stepped into a shadowed doorway when clansman Lachlan MacDuff came through the portal, turning to kiss and fondle the same naked form that was turning Rhoenne’s life into a whirlpool of craven desire. MacDuff had adjusted his attire and jauntily strode down the hall barely missing Rhoenne’s hiding spot.

  The bile was difficult to swallow. The disgust was impossible.

  She’d bedded Lachlan MacDuff? A stable hand of low birth? The man had the odor of horse manure permanently attached to his frame. He was rough-mannered Unkempt. Barely civil. And the next night it was a different gent. And the next. And the next... And a fortnight full of them to convince, then revile. It conquered every emotion for her save disgust. But then she’d accosted him in the chieftain study. Alone. Wearing little. He knew now she went without underclothes in order to tempt and titillate. And stoke jealousies and rages. Working her wiles and spinning a web. Henry had been wrong. She wasn’t a serpent.

  She was a spider.

  Cassandra stirred, jerking him from the insanity of such recollection and introspection. It was his wedding night. He’d been blessed beyond imagination. He’d wed a truly amazing woman. Beautiful. Chaste. Trustworthy. He didn’t deserve her love. Nor did he deserve to love her. But that didn’t stop it. He’d never felt anything like this. Ever.

  Rhoenne shook his head slightly, lowered his lips to hers, and kissed her until she stirred. Stretched. And finally opened her eyes. She gazed up at him with such emotion within her glowing golden eyes, his heart thudded in response. She smiled sleepily. And the earth moved.

  I...thought I’d dreamt you. And...this,” she whispered. She was nestled against him, her palm flush to his chest. And then she blushed.

  Rhoenne tensed and looked up rapidly, blinking at moisture that hovered atop his eyes for long suspense-filled moments before it dissipated. He couldn’t disguise the tremble, however. He should tell her of his love. And someday - if he deserved it - he would. But, not now.

  “I have na’ been called a dream afore,” he remarked finally.

  “Yes. I know. I heard all about your accolades.”

  “Accolades? I guess I was na’ succinct enough.”

  “I am still looking for the emotionless part you claim.”

  Rhoenne grunted a non-answer.

  “That’s what I thought,” she told him.

  “Are you...tender, sweet?” he asked.

  “And if I am?”

  Rhoenne cocked his head. “Well...” He sighed heavily, moving her with it before continuing, “It is my wedding night. I suppose I could forego—.”

  “Oh. Just you dare try.”

  She interrupted him with words, then pulled his head down for honeyed kisses that stopped any thought of speaking words. Her nightgown was reverently lifted over her head as she rolled back and forth to make it easier. Her body displayed for his adoration. Her skin responded to every touch. Each kiss. When he entered her, it was with gentleness and care. Each stroke lengthy and slow. His body poised and primed, and ready, but working only to pleasure her. At length. And multiple times. Until he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

  The bed rocked and creaked with each thrust. Her legs clung. Her arms hugged. Her sighs sounded. And fulfillment brought more than pleasure and release.

  It brought sobs.

  All this time, Rhoenne thought the act between a man and woman was evil. His needs were base and savage, and undeserving of tenderness. He hadn’t known love made all the difference.

  Well.

  He knew it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The knock was slight. Barely a tap. Rhoenne was on the floor, his sword in his right hand, tunic in the left, and at the chamber door before the knock came again.

  “My laird!”

  The words were hissed through wood but still audible. Rhoenne lifted the bolt, opened the door a crack. Henry slid through. Slammed it behind him. He was breathing hard. Rhoenne pulled the tunic over his head. Down his torso.

  “The duchesse?” he asked.

  “Worse. Greek nobles...with anger in the blood.”

  “Greeks?”

  “These are difficult times. Crete is a conquered land. The Greeks...do na’ take kindly to...Venetian overlords. I do na’ blame them. I feel...the same about the Sassenach.”

  “’Tis a revolt?” Rhoenne grabbed up his trews. Rapidly slid them on. Knotted his crotch tie. Pulled on socks. Shoved his feet into his boots.

  “Aye. Without one hint of warning. ’Tis na’ the first one, either...although the last ended badly.”

  “Would that they’d waited just one more day!” Rhoenne remarked.

  “Where is your lady?”

  “She sleeps within.” Rhoenne gestured with his head toward the bed chamber.

  “No, I don’t. I’m right here.”

  Cassandra spoke from right beside him, slipping her hand into his. Rhoenne glanced down. Imprinted her needs in an instant. She wore her nightgown. She was barefoot. She’d need a covering. Transportation.

  “How many do we face?” Rhoenne asked.

  “Countless.”

  “Armed?”

  Henry nodded.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Aboard ship. I told you, there was not a hint on the street for warning! ’Tis verra well planned. And executed. Why...if I hadn’t heard a strange bit of words earlier and pondered it through, I’d have missed it completely. They’ve taken the night guards out. The halls are besieged as we speak.”

  A swell of sound filtered through the door as though cued.

  “We fight?”

  “They are na’ taking prisoners,” Henry retorted.

  Rhoenne nodded. “Verra well. You have a plan for my lady?”

  “Of course. I was na’ chosen as commander of your Honor Guard
sman simply for my good looks. Emin awaits without.”

  “By himself?”

  “Amazing fellow. He blends in well. We, unfortunately, will not. We do na’ look like conquered impoverished Greek nobles. We do na’ even look Greek. And we reside in the Venetian palace they attempt to overtake.”

  “The duchesse Zecchino?” Rhoenne asked.

  Henry nodded.

  “Get Emin.”

  “Oh, no. No. Please. You are not sending me to her,” Cassandra objected from his side.

  “We need a cover. And her jewel bag,” Rhoenne spoke to Henry before pulling Cassandra into a hug. He held her close as he whispered in her ear. Snuck in a kiss. “’Tis only a precaution, my love. We will be right behind you. I swear.”

  “Then why can’t I stay with you?”

  “I can na’ risk it. You are too precious.”

  “Please?”

  “I can na’ keep you safe and fight at the same time. We would both perish.”

  “Rhoenne—.”

  “You promised to obey me,” he stopped her.

  “That’s unfair,” she replied.

  “Who mentioned fairness? Perhaps I should add that to my list. I am the Dark One. I maim. Kill. I am emotionless. And unfair.”

  She regarded him for heart-stopping moments. “You will be right behind me? You promise?”

  “Only death would prevent it, sweet.”

  “You die, and...” Her voice stopped. Her eyes filmed over with moisture that made the golden color glow. “I cannot finish the thought.”

  Rhoenne swallowed. His throat was too tight to speak.

  Henry walked back into sight, tossed him the bedcover and the jewel-filled bag. Rhoenne handed the bag to Cassandra. She took it automatically, and held it to her belly. He started swaddling her, just like he had back in Egypt. A glance told him she had the same thought.

  “Why didn’t those fools in the harem teach me something of value? Swordplay, for instance! That would have been useful.”

  “Well. I, for one, do na’ rue anything. Your lessons did na’...ahem. Go to waste,” Rhoenne teased.

  “Wretch,” Cassandra replied.

  “Excellency?”

  Emin materialized behind Cassandra. Henry held the door open a gap. Sounds of fighting were easily heard and deciphered. Swords clanged. Thuds resounded. Groans and cries split the gloom, interspersed with blood-curdling screams.

  “If we separate, you must get my lady to the duchesse Zecchino.”

  “The grandmother. Yes, Excellency. I shall see it done.”

  Rhoenne bent his head to Cassandra. Matched his forehead to hers for the smallest moment.

  “Cassandra?”

  “Yes?”

  I love you.

  He almost said it. She nodded and smiled through her tears as if he had spoken aloud. Then Emin hefted her over his shoulder, and settled her, looking like he’d pillaged castle property. It was reminiscent of when the man had first toted Cassandra into Rhoenne’s life. Only now, it looked like he was toting her from it. Rhoenne shoved the thought aside.

  “We wait. Or storm?” he asked Henry.

  “Unlike you, I have na’ had a good fight in some time,” Henry replied.

  “Storm,” Rhoenne agreed.

  They didn’t get the chance. Armed men raced into the hall, filling the space with bodies. Emin’s first attempt to leave got pushed back, into Henry. Rhoenne roared, and started hacking. He’d always had lightning reflexes. He used them, cleaving a way through adversaries, hacking through combatants with his sword arm, while shoving others aside with his left fist and elbow, and more than once, his shoulders. The attackers were all smaller men. Less well-trained. And his ferocity sent more than one man running from him.

  He reached a wall. Rhoenne smacked into it, and pushed off, missing a head blow by a hairsbreadth. That assailant lost his arm. Rhoenne kicked him aside and watched Emin dance over the falling body without losing footing. Rhoenne caught a glimpse of the eunuch’s back as he raced around a corner, then had to rejoin the fight. Henry went down. Rhoenne shoved and hacked and sliced and killed his way to his man. And from the other direction, enforcements finally arrived. Heaven-sent. Fresh. Trained. And disciplined. The new men forced the angry melee down the hall in the direction Emin had taken, leaving fallen bodies and a lot of blood and gore behind.

  Henry had taken a blow to the lower belly. His tunic was gashed and bloodied. The man groaned and tried to stand. Fell back to his haunches. Rhoenne crouched beside him, pulled Henry’s arms and legs over his shoulders, took a deep breath, and heaved to his feet.

  “You are na’...carrying me,” Henry complained.

  “Hold your tongue. For once.”

  Rhoenne tried to jog the entire way. The castle was built on the hillside making it a downward trek. Streets were deserted for the most part. A slight wind ruffled his hair. Moonlight gave him the path. No one would have guessed the turmoil happening in the palace behind him. But it took forever to reach the docks. Henry wasn’t speaking, or groaning, or giving indication that he still lived. That added impetus to Rhoenne’s every step. He didn’t stop. He didn’t flag. His chest was on fire, every breath labored. His legs and arms and belly joined the fray, but finally he reached the dock.

  He had to stand huffing, grabbing enough breath to yell at someone to assist. Iain was on duty.

  “Ramhurst...clan!”

  Rhoenne’s shout wasn’t loud but Iain heard him. The man lowered the gangway and raced down it.

  “Is that Henry? What happened?”

  “Get a bottle of whiskey. And Ida! Tell her to bring her needle and thread.”

  “Ida? And her needle?”

  “Aye. She’s got a patient. And get my cabin prepared.” Rhoenne shuffled Henry’s weight and started up the ramp.

  “Where is your lady? And the eunuch?”

  “Later,” Rhoenne answered.

  The cabin had been furnished for a voyage with a lady onboard. Now it was turned into a sick room. Henry hovered between life and death for five days after Ida sewed his innards back into him. Alternately fevered. Chilled. Incoherent. At one point they thought they’d lost him. Rhoenne had taken to napping on the floor. Ida woke him with a sharp smack to his shoulder. Grunted and pointed to the bed he’d bought for Cassandra to sleep in. Henry was tossing and mumbling, his skin hotter than ever. Ida ran for another bucket of water to bathe him with while Rhoenne shook his man.

  “FitzHugh!”

  “Rhoenne.” The invalid’s lips were cracked and dry. The voice croaked.

  “Do na’ speak!”

  “Nae!” The man grabbed his arm. Opened eyes that looked wild and disoriented. And intent. Focused on Rhoenne. “These are...my last words on earth.”

  “Do na’ say that!”

  “Listen to me! Guard your back...Ramhurst. Always.”

  And Henry had collapsed.

  “Oh, nae! You are na’ dying on me!”

  Fear drove Rhoenne’s actions. He shook Henry, yelled at him, and then gave the man a blow to his chest that made Ida screech from behind him. And then he did it again. Tears blurred his vision. He was poised to hit him again before Henry gave a cough, a series of moans, and grabbed at a slight and labored breath. And then he took another. And one after that. And more. Rhoenne stood. Strode past Ida. Shoved his upper body into the rail, leaned on his hands, and gave vent to the sobs.

  No one saw. No one would ever know.

  For the full five days the ship stayed at anchor, Ida and Rhoenne alternated duties; bathing Henry with water when he fevered, covering him with blankets when he shook. Ida even shared body warmth, holding the man through the worst of his shudders. They spoon fed him water and then broth. His breathing grew less labored, but the fever wouldn’t relent.

  Throughout, the revolution continued, turning Sitia into a smoke-wrapped city. It hovered in pockets as the palace and other structures were sacked and burned. The destruction reached the marketplace. Then they
even torched the tavern district. Rhoenne’s every moment was filled with thoughts of Cassandra. Worry.

  And yearning.

  He wanted her back...at his side and in his arms. But Henry hovered too near death. Rhoenne daren’t leave.

  And that’s why he sent his cousin, Grant to fetch her.

  Grant snuck back onboard ship in the midst of the night. Silent. Surreptitiously. As if Rhoenne wasn’t awake and alert, and watching from atop the mizzenmast as he awaited that very thing. The man was alone.

  “Where is she?”

  Rhoenne swung down into the space in front of Grant. Rose from his crouch and took a heavy step forward. His posture was intimidating, poised for violence. And Grant wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Rhoenne heart stalled. “I asked you a question.”

  “My laird. I—” He stopped. Blinked rapidly.

  “Where is my lady wife?”

  “Rhoenne. I—” The man flicked a glance at him, then looked out toward the open ocean again. He shook his head.

  “What is it? What?”

  Rhoenne grabbed his cousin and shook him.

  “’Tis...na’ good,” Grant managed to reply.

  “What?” Rhoenne opened his hands, releasing the man. He’d experienced terror. Fear. Rage. And panic before. Never like this. And never in this combination.

  “She is na’ there.”

  “What?! Nae!”

  Rhoenne’s cry brought the Ramhurst clansmen out of the bowels of the ship and two of their hired seamen. He could hear a reaction on the waterfront, as well, as shouts and yells answered his outburst.

  “I do na’ ken how to say it differently. You...heard me.”

  Rhoenne was shaking. His hands knotted into fists. His heart rupturing. His entire frame tensed and ready to erupt. Each breath came hard and fast. Grant backed from him.

  “What? What happened? What did you say?” Euan said.

  Euan was taking command?

  “I was sent to the dragon’s palace. To fetch her.”

  “Cassandra?”

  “Aye. And she is na’ there. No one has seen her.”

  “Oh, no. No,” Euan answered. “Somebody. Go. Check.”

  “You can’t. No foreigner can walk the streets at night without being accosted. They’d spot you at a glance.”