Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  But as she spoke, Vadim’s hand moved slowly down the back of her arm. His fingers cupped about her elbow, supporting her arm, keeping the sword upright. It was a relief to share the burden. The feel of his body, pressed so close to hers made her flesh tingle. His nearness boosted her flagging reserve of strength, which was just as well. She wasn’t hopeful that Vadim would be switching into alpha mode anytime soon.

  As the earl moved his sword backward, preparing to take a swing at her, the second hand of time switched to slo-mo. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Martha took a deep breath. Everything was sharper, more intense somehow. She was aware of Harold hovering somewhere behind her shoulder, close enough to hear his heavy breaths. He’d help them if he could. She wasn’t alone anymore.

  Trust them.

  The earl smirked. “Farewell, you infuriating bitch.” His sword swung at a terrifying speed, aimed at her head. Vadim shoved hard on her elbow, forcing the sword upward. With a deafening clang, she deflected the earl’s blow. Every muscle and sinew in her arms and hands quivered, vibrating painfully with the impact.

  Before she had chance to exhale, the earl took another swing, lower this time. Vadim let go of her arm, and gravity did the rest. Martha clung grimly to the sword’s handle as the blade plummeted in a fast downward arc. It knocked the earl’s weapon from its intended target, almost taking it from his hand at the same time.

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  Harold intervened. Shoving Martha to one side, he deflected the earl’s next blow, then he lashed out, forcing His Evilness to hop backward.

  Martha puffed out her cheeks, expelling a huge breath.

  Vadim’s fingers curled around the handle of his sword and he took it from her sweaty hands. She was glad to give it back to him. Her arms still trembled with the aftershocks of using a sword. Her fingers felt numb. Never again.

  She looked up at Vadim. Their earlier quarrel receded into nothingness. They were both alive. Every problem and misunderstanding was fixable.

  She held his face in her hands. “Are you all right?”

  Vadim nodded. A light flickered in his dark pirate’s eyes.

  “Really?” She didn’t believe him. His skin had an unhealthy gray tinge. “How’s your arm? Is it still bleeding?” When she made to take his hand and look, he gently set her aside.

  “Later.” Standing unsupported, he turned to watch Harold’s fight with the earl.

  Both men were still beating the crap out of each other, their swords a blur of motion. But even to Martha’s untutored eyes, Harold held the advantage. The earl was wounded and limping, it was all he could do to stay on his feet as he struggled to deflect his opponent’s tireless sword.

  She stared at Vadim’s solemn profile. “W-what are you going to do?” Surely he wasn’t thinking about fighting again?

  “I must… finish this.” Lowering his head, he placed a gentle kiss on her brow.

  Martha closed her eyes, imperceptibly swaying toward him. She clutched the ties on his hauberk, inhaling his intoxicating warm man scent. It had a lethal affect on her senses. When he touched her this way, the other stuff didn’t matter. Every irritation, every hurt, faded into nothing.

  Vadim disentangled her fingers from his clothing then pressed a brief kiss onto the palms of each of her hands in turn. Martha shivered. The softness of his lips contrasted fiercely with the sharpness of his stubble as it moved over her skin. And all the time, his dark eyes held her captive, piercing her heart, daring her not to love him.

  Without another word, he released her. Using the wall to steady himself, he headed toward Harold and the earl on an intercept course.

  When Vadim arrived, Harold stepped aside, readily relinquishing his position. He backed away slowly and came to stand at Martha’s side.

  She glanced at his stony profile, his heaving chest, his sword still poised for battle. She’d badly misjudged this man. The bottles of wine had fooled her, but Harold was no drunken sot. He’d fought too well. Now, steely-eyed and motionless, not a trace of his former drunkenness remained. Perhaps the Chuckle Brothers’ apparent intoxication was nothing more than a physical manifestation of euphoria at having survived battle?

  Vadim stumbled, reclaiming her full attention. He almost fell, but managed to right himself at the last moment, blocking the earl’s sword with a sickening screech of metal. Martha flinched. Vadim’s footwork was clumsy and uncoordinated. There was no fluid grace in the strokes of his sword. Wounded in their different ways, he and the earl were now evenly matched.

  It was close, too close to call. Her heart pounded in her throat as she reached into her pocket and gripped Anselm’s knife, curling her fingers about the handle. If Vadim needed her, she’d be ready.

  The earl attacked Vadim with renewed ferocity. With a bone-chilling cry, he lashed out, forcing his opponent into a hasty retreat.

  Taking hold of Martha’s arm, Harold dragged her away from the oncoming danger. “Go,” he said, shoving her through the narrow doorway that led outside.

  The rain had not let up. If anything, it was worse than before, hammering down in hard bullets from the lumbering black clouds. Harold took her arm again, guiding her away from the doorway. Then they stopped. Waiting.

  Martha shivered, willing Vadim to appear. Her teeth set off chattering uncontrollably—a combination of cold and a bowel-clenching fear. The sound of clashing swords advanced. At any moment, he could be taken from her. One well-placed thrust of metal, and he’d be gone.

  Please don’t let him die. Without making a sound, her lips shaped the words of her heart’s constant mantra as if by doing so she could keep him safe.

  The two men stumbled out of the door, locked in a deadly embrace. Their swords were silent now, pressed together like the hands of a supplicant, pointing heavenward. Clinging to one another, they wrestled to take the advantage. Suddenly, they stumbled. Still entangled, they crashed to the ground, hitting a large puddle with a tremendous splash.

  Martha sought Harold’s arm, digging her scagged fingernails into his leather arm brace.

  Vadim lay on his back, straining to push the earl away. The older man pressed nearer, grimacing like a gargoyle, rainwater pouring from his snarling mouth like neverending drool. While his sword hand pressed down on Vadim’s throat, his free hand reached for something on his belt.

  Martha gasped. Another weapon?

  She pulled Anselm’s knife from the pocket of her gown. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing. But Harold forestalled her, seizing her arm as she made to leave.

  “Let me go!” She struggled to pull free. “I have to help him.”

  But Harold clung on. “Be still, lass,” he said without looking away from the fight. “’Tis a matter of honor. Do not interfere. He would not thank you for it.”

  She almost laughed. That bloody word again. “I don’t give a sh—Oh!”

  Vadim reared up, smashing his head into the earl’s face. With an agonized howl, the older man rolled away, his free hand clamped over his bloody nose and mouth.

  Martha stopped struggling and exhaled. Oh, thank God!

  Vadim scrambled to his feet and shook his head a couple of times, strands of long black hair flying wildly about his face. Without hesitation, he advanced on his enemy.

  Stooped and bent, the earl staggered for the battlements, the point of his precious sword trailing carelessly on the ground.

  Martha and Harold followed after them.

  “Where’s he going?” Martha wasn’t aware she’d spoken aloud until Harold answered:

  “To his doom.”

  His Evilness was up against the stone ramparts. There was nowhere left to hide. Blinking against the hard rain, Martha swiped her wet sleeve over her face. Earlier today, almost in this very spot, the earl had tried to throw her from the battlements. She frowned. Had it only been today? It felt like a decade ago.

 
; “Do you yield, m’lord?” Vadim lowered his sword and paused before the cowering figure of the earl.

  “To you, pigfilth? I think not.” Using the wall to support himself, the earl stood upright. Fresh blood streamed from his nose and mouth, the red dissipating to pink as the rain washed it from his face.

  “’Tis over. Lay down your sword and—”

  “Never!”

  The earl might have been beaten physically, but there was nothing wrong with his mouth. Well, apart from a few missing teeth, Martha noted with satisfaction.

  “If you surrender, by my word I shall do you no further harm.” Vadim was unruffled, a patient parent speaking to an unruly child. How could he be so calm?

  “By your own admission, you would not need to,” the earl sneered. “Your upstart of a king would gladly do it on your behalf.” A sudden calmness transformed his wild eyes. “I would not give you the satisfaction.”

  Vadim made no attempt to deny it. “Then what will you do, m’lord?” he asked softly. “Shall we stand here in the rain until they come for you?”

  Slowly, the earl shook his head. A curious expression of warmth entered his pale blue eyes. It almost looked like affection. “You remind me of Lissy,” he said, at last. “You are not so beautiful, of course, but the resemblance has unnerved me all these long years.”

  A shiver raced up Martha’s spine, a sudden premonition. Even Harold must have sensed it, for he resheathed his sword and clung to her arm a little more tightly.

  Vadim’s expression softened. “She loved you well, m’lord. Perhaps better than any of us.”

  Nodding, the earl wiped his hand over his face. “I know it, but all the same, I thank you for your words. They comfort me. And in return, I give you this.” He twisted the ruby ring from his little finger and tossed it. “You may as well have it.”

  Vadim snatched the ring from the air and kept it clenched within his fist, his expression indecipherable.

  The earl glanced over at Martha. “There is one thing I would ask you before the end. Why her?” His nose wrinkled in apparent disapproval. “The fair ladies of court frequently twittered over your exploits, Lord Hemlock. Any one of them was ripe for the plucking had you troubled yourself to attempt it. Why ever did you fall for this… drab little bird?”

  Cheeky fecker! Indignation flared in Martha’s breast. Why did he keep going on about her appearance? Granted, she wasn’t exactly looking her best right now, but who would after the day—

  Vadim glanced over his shoulder, silencing her with the tender look in his eyes. “She makes me smile,” he said simply. “I thought I had forgotten how.”

  The earl nodded. “I see.” He gathered his tattered purple cloak about him. “A sound enough reason. I envy you, Hemlock.” Without another word, the earl clambered onto the battlement and hurled himself over the wall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Vadim ran to the wall and stared down into the ditch. Far below him, the earl lay shattered and lifeless, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. The murky waters were already claiming his body, slowly sucking it down between the jagged chunks of masonry.

  After so many bloody years, their partnership, unholy as it had been, was at an end, the final tie with the past severed.

  Harold looked over the parapet. “The crafty beggar escaped the noose, just as he wanted.”

  That he had. But Vadim experienced no joy in his enemy’s passing, only a peculiar sense of melancholy.

  Martha touched his arm, her lovely eyes clouded with pity as if she understood the conflicting emotions of his heart. He sheathed his sword and reached for her hand. Without a word, she entwined her cold little fingers with his and did not let go. Even without knowing it, she did him good.

  In silence, they watched as the unwholesome water swallowed the earl’s corpse. For a time, they continued to stare at the spot where it had vanished, each lost in a private remembrance until a loud crunching intruded on Vadim’s morbid reverie.

  Martha was starting on yet another piece of rock wafer.

  The baby. He had almost forgotten.

  A hard knot formed in his stomach, but he exhaled, forcing the tension away. Whoever had sired the child, it was innocent in all this. It had not asked to be born. He turned away from the wall and looked at Martha, studying her intently. She stood at his side, drenched to her skin, her body wracked with violent shivers. A continuous trickle of rainwater ran along the tangled strands of her hair like hot wax running down the wick of a candle. She met his gaze, and her lips curved into a smile. The sight of it drove the air from his lungs.

  Despite all the hardships she had suffered these past months, both with and without him, she was still here, standing in her rightful place at his side. Their time apart had not diminished the warmth of her eyes. Her presence humbled him. What had he done to merit such loyalty?

  He stroked the pad of his thumb over the fullness of her lower lip, removing the stray crumbs of wafer sticking to it. As he did so, her eyes darkened, betraying a darker, needful, emotion. In that instant, the snakes of jealousy loosened their coils about his heart and slithered away to torment some other poor fool. In their absence, he saw her clearly again.

  In essentials, Martha had not changed. Except for the baby, she was remarkably unaltered by her time in Edgeway. Despite everything, her heart was constant. He knew beyond doubt that she loved him. Her valiant actions of the day had proved it.

  Whether his foster brother lived or died no longer mattered. Anselm was not a threat.

  If he desired a glimpse of the man with the power to ruin it all, he need only look in a mirror. His future happiness with Martha depended on his ability to make the right choice now.

  The baby was not only Anselm’s. It was Martha’s too. He stroked back a strand of hair from her face, staring deeply into her questioning eyes. A line from their wedding vows echoed in his mind:

  The storms of life shall only strengthen our bond.

  Had they? Their married life thus far had been afflicted with some particularly inclement weather. Yet here they were, standing outside on a gusty rooftop, enduring some of the foulest weather imaginable, and on the bloodiest of days. But their hands were still entwined, and he had never loved her more.

  The earl’s death had disoriented him, temporarily robbing him of a sense of purpose. But as the fog in his mind lifted, Vadim discovered a new one, a better one. The past was gone, and the future held much more promise. In the end, it was an easy decision. Unworthy as he might prove to be as a father, the baby had secured his love and protection. One thing was certain, the child would never call Anselm Father. He would see to that.

  “Come.” Vadim squeezed Martha’s hand. “Let us find you some dry garments, my love.”

  A small frown puckered her brow. “B-but what about… A—”

  “Anselm?” Speaking his name no longer wounded him. “You commanded my men to deliver him to the infirmary, did you not?” He arched his eyebrows at Harold.

  “That she did, m’lord, and with all the authority of a true captain.” The bearded man grinned. “Have no fear, m’lady. Your friend will be under the leech’s care by now.”

  “Leeches?” Martha frowned. “What good’s that going to do him? The last thing he needs is to lose more blood.”

  Harold burst into laughter at her blunder, and it took all of Vadim’s self-mastery not to do the same though, secretly, the thought of Anselm beset by blood-sucking pond life amused him a good deal.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  As they approached Anselm’s chambers, Martha’s cheeks were still burning. How the hell was she supposed to know that leech was another name for physician? She could still hear Harold snickering to himself as he walked behind them. Vadim hadn’t laughed—fortunately for him—but his shining eyes and twitching lips had given him away when he’d explained her mistake. Even now, he coul
dn’t meet her eyes.

  She wasn’t cross, not really. It was good to see him more cheerful. He’d looked gutted earlier after His Evilness had jumped from the battlements. Seeing him so lost tore at her heart. At least they were finally rid of the hateful man. Maybe now Vadim’s hidden wounds might have a chance to scab over. Not that they’d ever completely heal.

  They reached the heavy oak door of Anselm’s rooms. She couldn’t wait to get out of her wet things. Although she’d lost her small bundle of possessions somewhere along the way, she still had a couple of gowns stashed away in the trunk in her bedchamber.

  Vadim tried the latch. “’Tis locked. Do you happen to know if—” His perfect jaw dropped as she raised her skirt, fumbling beneath the heavy folds of wet wool.

  Harold hastily averted his gaze and began studying a nearby wall hanging with a sudden rapt interest.

  Ha! They weren’t thinking about leeches now, or laughing at her.

  Vadim cleared his throat and raked a hand through his tangled hair. “W-what are you…”

  “Ta da!” She produced her stolen key on its length of ribbon, and waved it at him. “Problem solved.”

  “He actually gave you a key?” Vadim asked. More than a little sourly, she thought.

  Martha grinned. “Not exactly, no.” She stuffed the key into the lock, turning it until it gave a familiar heavy click. She lifted the latch and stepped inside, but neither man followed her. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked, sticking her head back out into the hallway.

  Vadim shook his head. “I must check on the others first, love, and make sure Fergus is safe.” He came closer and covered her hand with his as it rested on the door frame. “Lock the door behind you,” he murmured against her ear. “Harold will stand guard outside until I return.”