The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

  It was time to leave.

  Turning down the alley toward the docks, he stopped dead when a large man, dressed in black, emerged from the shadows. As he’d walked, night had descended, and he hadn’t given it much thought. There were few who dared target him, with his twin blades at his waist, his well-honed body, and giant stature. He used his size to his advantage, but the advantage was lost when he was careless.

  His right hand on his sword hilt, he spread his feet, his body thrumming with the need for action.

  It had been too long since his last, good, bloody fight.

  A sound behind from behind him made him tense, his ears pricking as the hairs on his neck shot upward. He could not look to his back, though, as the man in front of him was moving closer, a sneer on his face.

  “Brendan Rees…” the man drawled.

  “Aye,” Brendan admitted, refusing to cower before a lesser man.

  The man hummed. “I thought you would be bigger.”

  Behind him, someone chuckled.

  An accomplice, then. Two on one. No matter to him. He had two blades, two hands, and a whole hell of a lot to live for. His thoughts immediately flew to Rio, alone in their room, no doubt wondering where he was, if he would be returning to her.

  And he damned well would!

  “Size is not everything, eh, Le Noir?” the man behind him said, snickering, his voice familiar.

  Le Noir? Never heard of him.

  Mind him, he has the look of death about him.

  The man’s face was hard, his cheeks sunken, but his eyes were bright with an unholy light, light fed by the souls he’d destroyed.

  “What is your business with me?” Brendan asked just as a deep, heavy sensation flooded him. It was the sensation of dread, and he’d never felt its like before.

  He needed to get back to Rio.

  There was scraping behind him, but he still didn’t look. The man behind him spoke to Le Noir as a minion would, which meant he would not act without his leader acting first.

  One problem at a time, Brendan. He could bolster himself all he wanted, but it did nothing to lessen the crawling fear.

  “La Revanche would like a word with you,” the man named Le Noir intoned, his voice like gravel on glass. “He thinks there is something you have that belongs to him.”

  That damned letter. Of course this was about the letter. The letter he’d already read. The letter with Rio at the inn.

  Damn!

  “I may have,” Brendan admitted, wanting the men to focus on him, here and now. “If La Revanche wants to speak with me, I am willing to go.” The longer he stood there, the more his anxiety tightened around his chest like a rope dragging an anchor.

  Le Noir grinned, his eye teeth sharp and wicked.

  “Bon. Come then,” Le Noir said curtly before turning to walk down the alley leading toward the middle of La Rochelle.

  Behind him, the man grumbled under his breath, then muttered, “…want to hurt that bitch.”

  Anger blazed through him before he could bank it, and he turned, reaching out to grab the, until now, unseen man, by the throat.

  Recognition slammed into him, winding him. Ricki.

  “You bastard! What have you done with Rio?” he growled, his large hand squeezing the traitor’s throat. “Tell me!”

  The sharp edge of a knife slid under his chin, making his breath catch. Hell! He’d lost sight of his enemy and now his enemy had him by the gullet.

  “We do not want to hurt the girl…but we will. And we will enjoy it far more than you will, watching us enjoy ourselves with her.” There was far too much pleasure in the man’s voice, and it pierced deeper than his knife would.

  “I will go with you, but you cannot touch her,” Brendan demanded, knowing full well that he had no power to demand anything. If they truly had Rio, he would go with them wherever they led, and he would do whatever they wanted.

  He couldn’t lose her.

  “How do I know you have her?” he asked, keeping his voice tight even though he felt the world around him spinning.

  Dropping the knife from Brendan’s neck, Le Noir snickered evilly. “She smells of sweet strawberries, but she is tart to the taste.”

  Again, rage erupted, and it took all the beautiful good he felt for Rio to keep his hands to himself.

  The striking quiet of the night was broken by the screech of a bird. A bird he had never heard before…in alleys in France. No one else seemed to notice the sound, only focusing on him. As they should.

  Pulling his shoulders back, he glared down at the smaller man with a much deadlier weapon; the threat against Rio’s life.

  “Take me to her.”

  The gag in her mouth tasted of sour body, making good on its name. She fought the urge to retch, which would only make things worse for her.

  The room where she was being held was much more opulent than she had expected when the man slammed through the door and snatched her, naked, off the bed where she’d been sobbing her heart out. He’d been dressed as a dreg, a man of the street, in black, and with a smile that could peel an onion. And when he’d threatened to kill Brendan if she didn’t come with him, she immediately fell in line.

  She would go anywhere and do anything if it meant keeping Brendan safe. Little did she know that Brendan wasn’t here; she was alone in the elegantly appointed room, lying on the floor with her hands tied behind her back. She hadn’t been gagged at first, but then she’d bitten that bastard, Ricki, when he’d tried to tweak her nipple. They’d dragged her from the room with only a blanket thrown over her, leaving her body bare to their gazes once they had her in the carriage, and then in the house, and then in the room.

  Rio felt like rubbish; humiliated, disgusted, and she hated them for it. With Brendan, she’d felt beautiful, adored, sensual. Those men had stolen that bliss from her.

  You stole it from yourself when you pushed him away, making him believe that you do not trust him.

  Non! She trusted him with her life. Even now, she trusted that, wherever Brendan was, he was looking for her. He was coming for her. He would save her.

  Why? You are the lying whelp who stole his satchel and became a thorn in his side. He is better off without you.

  As the words rang through her mind, the tears began to burn at the back of her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. And, she would let them, if she wasn’t naked, terrified, and enraged on the floor of some nobleman’s house.

  She hadn’t had much time to see the house before she’d been thrust inside, but the house was one of the better she’d seen, though it wasn’t as gaudy as some of the wealthier houses in Calais. Whoever lived here was a rich man.

  La Revanche.

  The longer she lay there in the dark on the plush carpet, the more she thought on her circumstance. She wasn’t one to believe in coincidence, and she certainly didn’t believe in fate, so she knew that whatever the man wanted with her, it had to do with what she knew about his plans with La Mariposa and the silver.

  How does he even know what you know?

  And that was the crux of it—he couldn’t know what she knew, not unless all of this was just him showing his hand, panicking. Cutting off the dead ends of his plan so that it would flourish. It wouldn’t matter if she were a deaf mute who had the memory of a gnat, he would kill her simply because she’d been discovered in Brendan’s room.

  Brendan.

  Her chest tightened. He had to be safe.

  The sounds of heavy footfalls moved toward her from the other side of the locked door. She lifted her head, trying to see the door from where she was curled into ball beside the bed. With her hands tied behind her back, it was difficult to maneuver into a better position, so when the door opened, the only things she could see were three sets of booted feet.

  A growl rent the air.

  She gasped behind her gag. Rio knew that growl anywhere. Her heart thudded loud enough for her to hear it in her own ears.

  He was there! He was safe!
>
  For now!

  Struck by that truth, she closed her eyes, praying that whatever Brendan did in that moment, it wouldn’t get him killed. She would kill him herself, once they were out of there safely.

  “Why is she on the floor?” Brendan demanded. She flinched, the rumble in his voice making her body respond instinctively. “And why the hell is she naked?”

  There was scraping then a grunt, then Brendan fell to his knees before her, landing hard. He stayed upright, his chest heaving, but she couldn’t move her head to look into his face.

  Rio knew he was angry, was rippling with the violence of the Beast of Blades, but he was tempering it.

  Closing her eyes again, she listened.

  Another set of boots clicked down the hallway before stopping just inside the door. These boots were supple, hand-tooled leather. Expensive.

  La Revanche.

  “I see you could make it, Monsieur Rees,” the man drawled, his tone mocking.

  Brendan grunted then spat, and Rio saw several drops of blood land on the carpet before her.

  He was bleeding! She struggled against her binds, the need to get up, to get to him, pounded through her, a horrifying sensation of helplessness that sucked the reason from her mind. She kicked, trying to move, to scoot toward him, but the blanket they’d so carelessly thrown over her was wrapped around her thighs, effectively trapping her.

  She heaved, her breathing ragged, and the men still standing were laughing. Brendan remained silent, but she could feel his eyes on her, his gaze pouring into her telling her to be calm, be still, trust me.

  And she did.

  She stopped, closing her eyes against the rise of tears.

  “Now that she has worn herself out, we can get down to business, Monsieur Rees,” La Revanche intoned. Suddenly, Brendan was jerked to his feet, and she could no longer see any part of him.

  Be calm. Be still. Trust him.

  “What business have you with her? Let her go. It is me you want. I was the one who stole your letter.”

  La Revanche tsked. “My business with her is my business with you; you were both in possession of my letter long enough to have read it, realized my plan, and have also devised a way to ruin my plan.”

  Brendan snorted. “The plan to steal the silver from the Demonios ship and then lay the full blame for it on the Van Rompays so that war breaks out between the French and Spanish factions?” Brendan asked derisively. “That plan?”

  There was another loud thud and grunt, and Rio knew they’d struck Brendan again.

  “You know little about the devices of greater men, Rees, just as you know nothing about my true plan.”

  Rio wanted to scream, to tell him to be quiet—she didn’t want to hear his true plan, because once she knew, once they both knew, they would certainly die.

  You will die anyway.

  Non! She had to hold out hope that they would survive, that she would get the chance to tell Brendan that she was sorry for not trusting him, that she should have known his true character when he’d first offered her treasure instead of punishment for her theft. Rio desperately needed the chance to tell Brendan how she felt about him, how she wanted him to feel the same about her.

  “Non!” she screamed through her gag, but they ignored her.

  “I will save you the trouble of trying to understand what I mean by just killing you both now.” The three bastards chuckled, their laughter scraping along Rio’s back like a bear’s claw. “Though, it would be a shame to not tell you that I plan to tear down Calais, brick by brick, and lay the foundation for my own empire.”

  Brendan, the arrogant arse, spat. “How do I know you even have the bollocks to do what you say? You look like a walking cock, and not a man’s either—”

  Another thud and grunt, then deep, mocking laughter.

  Why was Brendan taunting their captor? Did he mean for them to die here?

  Non, that could not be it. She had to trust that Brendan was preparing for something, that he had things well in hand. If she were untied, she’d be able to help him, she could reach a weapon, could give him the distraction he needed to draw his blades.

  Did he even have his blades?

  Damn! She could not see anything save the weave in the rug.

  “I would take him seriously, Rees,” another voice chimed in, and she recognized it easily. Ricki, a sailor on the Torriwr. “He killed Gallway without so much as a blink.”

  Who was Gallway, and why did La Revanche kill him?

  Rio groaned, her mind whirring with all the voices, the tension, and fear—not for herself, but for Brendan.

  “Tell me now, Rees, what have you done with the letter?”

  “I did exactly as you think I did, I warned Fernandez,” Brendan admitted, making La Revanche curse.

  “For that, Rees, you will watch her die first,” Le Revanche snarled, just before two hands grabbed her, hauling her to her feet. Before she could get her feet beneath her, the blade at her throat made her scream. But the gag in her mouth muffled her terror even as the first prick of pain tore through her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brendan roared, throwing his considerable bulk against Le Noir, who dropped the blade from Rio’s neck, stumbling back to hit the wall behind him.

  Ricki was there before Brendan could right himself, throwing an arm around Brendan’s neck in a sloppy attempt to hold him.

  No one holds a beast.

  Using his size, he leaned back, his weight making Ricki stumble. Using that moment to his advantage, Brendan turned, swinging a fist into Ricki’s face. The crunch of bone was satisfying, but not as satisfying as when Ricki’s unconscious body slumped to the floor.

  “Get him, you fool!” La Revanche bellowed, reaching for a sword that was not there. His eyes widening in surprise and then narrowing in terrible realization, La Revanche began circling the room, headed for the open door.

  The fool had come unarmed.

  Brendan’s quick glance of the room told him that his own blades were not there, which meant he would have to deal with Le Noir and La Revanche with his bare hands.

  His body thrumming, his blood singing, he relished the idea of getting his hands bloody, ripping them into tiny pieces, one piece for every second they’d held Rio captive.

  Le Noir, now on his feet, raised his sword, holding it as a skilled swordsman would.

  His plan to defeat Le Noir had hit a snag, but he was not bested yet.

  Grabbing the stool from beside him, he lifted it, easily hefting it into the air, straight at La Revanche’s smug face. The man ducked, squealing. Sputtering, he turned his gaze to Le Noir who was noticeably wary of the other stool within Brendan’s reach.

  “Kill him, Le Noir. Then kill the girl. There are three hundred livres for you when you are finished.” The weasel hadn’t even finished his command before he was fleeing the room.

  “You heard him, Rees. I will get a small fortune once you are dead. And your whore, too,” Le Noir said before licking his lips, a surreal bloodlust turning his expression almost…worshipful.

  God, the cur was a piece of shite wrapped in man’s clothes and left out to bake in the sun.

  Unable to stop himself, his gaze slid to where Rio was lying, unmoving, at Le Noir’s feet.

  The dog sniggered. “Worry not about her just yet, I want to take my time with her…once you are slowly bleeding out and unable to stop me.”

  Like hell!

  Brendan prepared himself to fly across the room and pound Le Noir into dust, but something glimmered, catching his eye.

  As if by divine appointment, a sword appeared, sliding across the floor from the open doorway. He could see no one there, but he wasn’t look down at the gift of a weapon.

  Having caught sight of the blade, Le Noir screamed, “No!” He lunged for Brendan, hoping to cut him down before he could arm himself, but Brendan dropped down, missing being skewered by mere inches. Rolling, he reached the sword, grasping it and raising it in time to deflect L
e Noir’s downward strike.

  Brendan kicked out at Le Noir’s knees but Le Noir sidestepped, making Brendan’s hit a glancing blow. It was enough, though, to make the other man move back into a more defensible position.

  His agility as honed as his strength, Brendan maneuvered to his feet in a single twist, landing with his feet spread.

  “Come for me, Le Noir. Show me that you are more than just threats and posturing,” Brendan taunted, using the man’s arrogance as a sharp and ready weapon.

  Le Noir snarled, his thin lips peeling back to reveal crooked teeth.

  “And what will you show me, Rees?”

  Without hesitation, Brendan replied, “Why they call me the Beast of Blades.”

  Lunging, Brendan made Le Noir raise his sword to block, parrying when Brendan struck again. Le Noir slashed at Brendan’s chest but Brendan narrowly missed being sliced. Anger pouring into him, he allowed his instinct to drive him, thrust, parrying, slashing, dodging, until he had Le Noir retreating backward, away from Rio’s vulnerable form.

  That bastard will never get near her again.

  Protect her. Punish him!

  Roaring, Brendan allowed the white-hot rage to course through him, to drive him. Raising his sword, he went to work, using his reserves of strength and stamina to drive Le Noir into ever sloppier attacks.

  “You think you can win just because you are bigger than me? I am Le Noir, I cannot be bested by a brute!”

  Brendan snarled, relishing the man’s words. Aye, he was a brute. A beast. A man who would tear apart of the world to keep his beauty safe. Renewed by his thoughts, he began his attacks anew.

  Le Noir’s face was pale, sweat sliding down his cheeks, and his breathing was ragged. His sword arm couldn’t hold the sword high enough to block Brendan’s attacks to his chest, and Brendan landed blow after blow, piercing Le Noir’s shoulders and upper arms, then aiming lower, taking small, deliberate slices from his belly and his legs.

  No one hurt what was his. No one dared to take what belonged to him. No one would ever touch her again.

  He would kill them all.

  With a sideswipe of the blade, Brendan made an opening in Le Noir’s throat, effectively cutting off the man’s chance to say his last prayers.