Through A Dark Mist Part 9

"Should I feel grat.i.tude then, that you have spared me this long?" she cried, her body beginning to tremble so badly, she would have crumpled to her knees if not for the support of his arms ... arms that tightened further, forcing her to rise up on tiptoes and bring her face within a scant few inches of his.

"You should feel grat.i.tude that I am not my brother," he said thickly. "Were our positions reversed, I have no doubt he would have had you chafed raw by now, merely for the pleasure of knowing he had been there before me."

Tears that had been collecting in s.h.i.+ny crescents along her lower lashes, splashed free on a horrified gasp and streaked wetly down her cheeks. Her chin quivered and her limbs shook like young saplings. The shock of contact was sending her senses reeling farther and farther from the bounds of reason and logic. She no longer cared who he was by name, she only knew ...

"You are the Devil! Let me go!"

"The Devil?" he rasped, taken aback enough to grin sardonically. "So now you think I am the Devil?" "Yes!" she cried. "Yes! Yes!"

For the longest moment, the ardent desire to shake her into oblivion was foremost in his mind, but then he saw the wide, wet path of her tears, and felt the fear, as vibrant within her as the trembling of a lamb being led to slaughter. The anger began to drain out of his hands, and the vengeance to fade out of his eyes, and he recalled the look on her face when she had seen his scarred body that morning.

"The Devil," he mused. "Deformed and maimed, capable of conjuring ghouls and grotesques ... even elfin demons elfin demons at the snap of a finger. Yes ... I suppose the comparison is a fair one." at the snap of a finger. Yes ... I suppose the comparison is a fair one."

Servanne could not answer. She could not think think for the scalding ribbons of fear, apprehension, and ... antic.i.p.ation that began to twist through her belly, circling, swirling, rus.h.i.+ng to tauten the skin everywhere on her body until her flesh was so rigid, she feared the slightest movement would shatter her like gla.s.s. for the scalding ribbons of fear, apprehension, and ... antic.i.p.ation that began to twist through her belly, circling, swirling, rus.h.i.+ng to tauten the skin everywhere on her body until her flesh was so rigid, she feared the slightest movement would shatter her like gla.s.s.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

Servanne opened her eyes, unaware she had sealed them tight against unwanted intrusion. The vast, dark breastplate of his chest filled her view; the heat of intimacy was like a flame, scorching and searing her through the layers of her clothing.

"Look at me, d.a.m.n you." at me, d.a.m.n you."

She shook her head, and kept shaking it until he caught her face between his hands and forced it to tilt upward. Her eyes were slower to obey, climbing by halting fractions from the broad, strong column of his neck, to the angular savagery of the uncompromising jaw. Driven by dread from the blatantly sensual mouth, she found herself drawn into the deep, merciless centres of his eyes, and a smothered gasp sent her fingers clawing into the thick fur pelt of his vest. A surge of wildness rose within her-a wildness that changed, between one heartbeat and the next, from an all-consuming terror, to a sudden, terrifying desire.

"I am only a man," he insisted quietly, his words pa.s.sing over her skin like velvet gloves. "I feel pain and I bleed like any other mortal man. I have scars, yes, and deformities hideous enough to be an offense to eyes as ... innocent, and ... as lovely ... as yours. Yet you have seen them and survived. If you touched them, you would not burst into flame or see the bones turned to ash on a devil's curse. Here. You say you seek the truth-"

He released one cloudy fistful of her hair and pushed aside the shoulder of his vest and s.h.i.+rt. He took her hand and pressed the ice-cold fingers over the healed ridges of scar tissue that serrated his flesh, and, while he would not have admitted it, nor expected it, the shock of contact was no longer hers alone.

Servanne stared at her hand where it lay against his flesh, then at the strong, lean fingers that remained curled around her wrist. She was was melting. She melting. She was was on fire. But the heat came from within, not without, and the flames were spilling down, pooling heavily in her loins, causing her to suffer stark, bold images of two naked bodies fused together, gleaming as they writhed under the mist and moonlight. on fire. But the heat came from within, not without, and the flames were spilling down, pooling heavily in her loins, causing her to suffer stark, bold images of two naked bodies fused together, gleaming as they writhed under the mist and moonlight.

His hand moved again, traveling the miles from her wrist to her chin, drawing her so close her neck was arched and her hair dragged almost to her knees. His mouth was but a breath away, then it too conquered the seemingly interminable distance, claiming hers with a gentle pressure, shaping her lips to his, challenging her to seek what further proof she needed.

Proof? It was there-as she should have known it would be-in the unholy thrills that a.s.sailed her with the deliberateness of the caress. It was there when his tongue probed for resistance, found none, and effortlessly breached her lips to demand and win full possession of her mouth. And it was there, flaring hotter and brighter, when she heard herself moaning softly, helplessly in wondrous submission.

His a.s.sault became bolder and she could feel herself dissolving, liquefying everywhere-b.r.e.a.s.t.s, belly, thighs. Unthinkable urges and desires began to flood her senses, defying her not to respond as her mouth was plundered, held captive with a ruthless tenderness her young body was not prepared to defend against, nor any too eager to repel.

She was powerless beneath that mouth, surrendering everything he asked-and more. When his hand dared to skim under the woolen edge of her cloak, it was all she could do to curl her arms more desperately around his shoulders, all she could ask for to cling to the drugging surety of his embrace. His hand moulded purposefully around the aching tautness of her breast, and she could have screamed from the pleasure. Yet it was the Wolf who made an indistinguishable sound deep in his throat.

He found the nipple a proud, hard bead, surrounded by flesh that was warm, supple, and lush with promise ... and for the first time in too long to remember, he wanted to know where that promise led.

The questing fingers, not surprisingly, took her ragged little cries to mean she shared his awakening appreciation, and they traced a route of quivering invitations downward to the silky V at the juncture of her thighs. For all of two ... three disbelieving gasps, Servanne welcomed the exquisite pressure of his hand, even s.h.i.+vering her limbs apart so that he might find some way to ease the incredible throbbing ache that was blinding her.

But somewhere in the growing shame of her need and his impatience, the spell was broken. Their mouths were pulled apart by feverish necessity and she saw him reaching for the clasp that held her cloak fastened around her shoulders. The ingrained response to such a liberty was to strike out ... and she did. Her hand flew up and the palm caught him fully on the bronzed plane of his cheek, the crack of flesh on flesh sounding like the breaking of a quarterstaff.

The slap had no less a devastating effect on the tension strung between them. The Wolf jerked back, too stunned to do more than repress the trained response to return the blow. Servanne stumbled back as well, still shaken by the emotions he had unleashed within her, still burning, trembling, aching with the need for a.s.surances she knew were beyond his ability-or desire-to offer. Her lips felt bruised, her body violated. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth as if she could remove the taste and feel he had left branded upon them, but her hands were themselves victims of his overpowering maleness and could not be trusted.

"I should kill you for that," he said hoa.r.s.ely, his face still turned away, his fists still clenched against the need for violence. "I may not be the demon you would take me to be, but in all good sense, madam, I would tell you to go. Now. Run back to the warmth and the light before I forget who I am and become what you would make me."

Servanne's eyes were two s.h.i.+mmering discs of moonlit tears as she whirled and ran along the broken path, her cloak belling out behind her, her haste startling small corkscrews of mist to whorl together in her wake.

Sparrow, stopped on the path by the sound of voices ahead, was nearly bowled top over toe by the sobbing figure who ran past. He had barely finished setting himself aright when an explosive curse, followed instantly by the fractious meeting of a fist against a hapless tangle of ancient grape vines, sent the wary fellow inching cautiously forward again.

"Is it a man or a wild boar loose in these gardens?" he queried hesitantly.

The Black Wolf wheeled around, the expression on his face rivaling the blackness of the night. His one hand was clasped about the wrist of the other, and, as he recognized Sparrow's diminutive form, he released the wrist with a savage oath and shook the spasms of pain out of the sc.r.a.ped fingers.

"I trust it is not a sudden dislike of grapes that makes you want to deny them further longevity," Sparrow remarked, wafting out of the fog like a faerie gnome.

"It is not the grapes I would deny longevity," snapped his glowering companion after a moment.

"Ahh." Sparrow puckered his lips thoughtfully. "Such pretty pieces usually do end up being more troublesome than appearances would imply."

"Troublesome?" The word was raked past gritted teeth. "You do the word an injustice. Vipers are troublesome. She-cats are troublesome. That That one ... !" one ... !"

"Tut tut. You like vipers and she-cats well enough when your thoughts are not occupied elsewhere."

"Well then, thank the good Christ they are are occupied. Saints a.s.soil us-!" occupied. Saints a.s.soil us-!"

"Here, give it to me, you great heaving lummox," Sparrow said, reaching up to catch the flexing hand. His stubby fingers prodded and probed the thicker, more heavily calloused ones and decided nothing was crushed or bent out of shape. "You might at least have put a foot to a rock instead of a hand through a wall of vines. Better still, a fist to the jaw that caused such an outbreak of distemper. A fair beating would have tamed her to your purposes soon enough, I warrant."

The Wolf reclaimed his hand with a scowl and sucked on a bleeding knuckle. "It would take more than a beating to tame that one, and a bigger fool than me to want to try."

Sparrow sighed expansively. "You have been lurching about the forest like a p.i.s.sed newt since she first crossed your path. If the wench is proving to be so resistant to your overwhelming charm, why not just toss her on her backside and have done with it? It will not be the first time you have persuaded a reluctant pair of thighs to spread, nor the first time you have won a reluctant pair of lips over to singing sweet and long after a night in your bed."

"I doubt if rape would win her as a friend to our cause," came the dry response.

"You do not have to win her. Only unbalance her so that there is room for doubt. She could prove a useful ally, not to mention a useful pair of eyes and ears to have inside the Dragon's lair."

"You place too much store in my abilities between the bed sheets."

"Not so much so as I have not seen you send a filly from your thighs as bright-eyed and addled as a drunken maybug. What is more: A woman who fights the hardest also falls the farthest. To my mind, our quivering little peahen appears more than ripe and ready for a steep tumble ... and if not by you, then surely by her l.u.s.ty bridegroom. I warrant he'll have no reservations about taming her."

Sparrow saw, by the Wolf's grimace, that his bolt had struck home, and did not know whether to be pleased or worried. Their leader bore heavy burdens on his shoulders, that much was indisputable, but would a dalliance with Servanne de Briscourt remove some of the pressure, or add to it? As it was, it had taken the strength and sheer brute force of a dozen stout men to keep the Wolf from going berserk when he had first learned his brother was alive and well and living in secluded luxury at Bloodmoor Keep.

Hearing of the impending wedding might have been the final straw-indeed, everyone in camp had braced themselves for an eruption of monumental proportions, for it did not take a scholar's wit to trace the blame for the Wolf's indifference to women (other than wh.o.r.es) to an event in his mysterious past. But to their surprise, he had taken the news calmly and coolly. He had even devised this clever plan to unsettle the Dragon and possibly open a breach in the impenetrable defenses surrounding Bloodmoor Keep.

Who would have thought a chick-pea with yellow hair and frosty blue eyes could have turned the tables and penetrated the armour around the Wolf's heart instead?

"Bed her," Sparrow advised sagely. "By rape or by charm, it makes no matter, for 'tis a certainty the Dragon will expect it. Would he do otherwise in your place?"

"I am not my brother," the Wolf growled, p.r.i.c.ked by the need to defend himself a second time that night.

"No, but you have aspired to put his bowels in a pinch. What better way than to molest, ravage, or even marry his bride from under him if it should suit your mood or purpose?"

"What if choking her suits my mood and my purpose?"

"Then I would hold her ankles for you while you did so," the little man said with a shrug. "Bedding her would bring more pleasure to you, however."

"I am not come in search of pleasure."

"Revenge, then."

"I have it already, whether she leaves here bruised or not."

"You mean ... he will not believe her to be untouched, whether she is or not?"

"Would you?"

Sparrow pondered it a moment. "No. But would you condemn her to all the pain and none of the enjoyment?"

"She takes the greater enjoyment in her own chast.i.ty and purity. If anything, I should endeavour to give her a deal more over the next few days. As much as she can bear in maintaining those lofty heights of unblemished virtue. Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I should send her away from here believing she is a far better person for having frustrated me at my l.u.s.ts and perversions."

"And when the Dragon affixes hot irons to her toes to crimp the truth from her?"

"A few heartfelt screams should convince him of her righteousness," he said evenly. "It will also convince her of my my purity and purity and my my selfless sacrifice for her honour. Furthermore, he will not be alive long enough to crimp anyone's toes. Nor would he attempt such a thing until the nuptials have been witnessed and blessed, and the deeds to the dower estates locked in his strongbox. She should be safe enough behind her protestations until then." selfless sacrifice for her honour. Furthermore, he will not be alive long enough to crimp anyone's toes. Nor would he attempt such a thing until the nuptials have been witnessed and blessed, and the deeds to the dower estates locked in his strongbox. She should be safe enough behind her protestations until then."

Sparrow sighed. "It would be easier just to rape her. And far less of a strain on your own state of health."

"My health is fine," said the Wolf gruffly. "I would hasten to say yours might be in some jeopardy, but my own is fine, thank you very much. And now, if you have no more dilemmas to solve, or wisdoms to dole out, I suggest you fly on up to your nest and put your nose to sleep for the night to save it being wedged beneath someone's boot."

Sparrow scrambled prudently aside as the Wolf strode past him on his way back to the pilgrims' hall. His feathers ruffled, he muttered to himself as he followed a discreet distance behind, wondering why there was so little appreciation in the world for people who saw other people's problems so clearly, and could have resolved them so easily if allowed.

"Fine," he grumbled to the darkness. "Your shoulders are overburdened? Fine. Let her go to the Dragon with her fear of you still wet on her lashes. Let him him warm her thighs with sympathy and compa.s.sion and see how long it takes her to decide that warm her thighs with sympathy and compa.s.sion and see how long it takes her to decide that he he is the real Lucien Wardieu, and is the real Lucien Wardieu, and you you are the impostor! are the impostor! Paugh! Paugh! Great heaving lummox," he finished querulously. Great heaving lummox," he finished querulously.

He emerged from the arbor of tangled weed and clinging vines and stopped dead in his tracks. Only his head and shoulders rose above the thickest layer of mist, making him look like just another of the stumps dotting the edge of the garden.

For a full minute ... three ... five ... he remained utterly motionless, and was on the verge of cursing the fog for having raised the hackles on his neck, when he saw another flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Someone else had been waiting, frozen against the shadows, questioning his instincts. It was not the Wolf, who, despite his size could slip about with enough stealth to cause bulk in a man's drawers over the suddenness of his appearance. It was was someone who did not want to be observed, however, but because his patience had run out a split second before Sparrow's, was seen clearly as he melted from tree to tree and eventually ducked furtively through the gap in the outer stone wall. someone who did not want to be observed, however, but because his patience had run out a split second before Sparrow's, was seen clearly as he melted from tree to tree and eventually ducked furtively through the gap in the outer stone wall.

"h.e.l.lo?" Sparrow murmured under his breath. "Who are you and where might you be sneaking off to this time of the night?"

Nowhere necessary, he decided, since the privies and the stream were both on the other side of the grounds.

Sparrow debated sounding the alarm, but dismissed the idea as swiftly as it had formed. An alarm would send the men out into the woods, but he had seen nothing more than a blurred outline, thus the quarry could easily blend in with the searchers and return to Thornfeld, his secret intact.

What secret? secret?

The sentries were not due to be changed for several hours yet. There were no villages close by, no wh.o.r.es with open thighs to lure a man and his coin into breaking trust with the camp-certainly not this way. Besides, the men had, for the most part, been together for several years; their needs and appet.i.tes were well known and always taken care of. Only Gil Golden and Robert the Welshman were recent recruits, but both had proven themselves above reproach.

Or had they?

Heedless of the Wolf's warning to guard his nose, Sparrow checked to see his bow was slung securely over his shoulder, and his quiver was full of arrows. He wasted no more time on his conscience, but moved quickly toward the same dark opening through which his quarry had disappeared.

Whoever he was following was very good; there was no telltale crackling of twigs, or crunching of leaves to betray the path he had taken. Then again, he was not as good as Sparrow, who climbed hand over foot into the nearest tree and took his first marker from the disgruntled hoot of an unsettled owl.

It did not take him long to identify the prey he stalked, nor, after two hours of carefully trailing the Judas, was there any doubt the path they were taking led directly to the Dragon's camp at Alford.

10.

The Dragon was not a man. He was not human, decided Onfroi de la Haye as he fidgeted nervously on his stool, his eyelids squinting alternately between the belligerent countenance of his wife Nicolaa, and the distracted, self-absorbed features of the Baron de Gournay. Nicolaa had arrived in camp several hours after the others, her palfrey lathered and blowing hard to suggest she had striven valiantly to keep apace with Wardieu and his mercenaries. But a palfrey was no match for a warhorse, and true to his warning, Wardieu had neither stopped nor given in to her outlandish demands to be provided with a stronger steed. Venting her temper in the wake of such a humiliating failure, had cost one of her personal servants a severe whipping, and her groomsman a broken arm.

Onfroi, knowing better than to interfere or to stay her hand, had kept well away from the shrieking Fury until sheer exhaustion had rendered his wife more amenable to human companions.h.i.+p. Even then, he kept a prudent distance from the small, wickedly knotted leather lash she used to emphasize her words and gestures.

A wooden trestle table had been erected in one of the larger tents. A late supper had consisted of cold mutton and hard cheese purchased from the dour monks at Alford. Conversation had been limited to a few perfunctory words exchanged between Onfroi and his wife; Wardieu had remained gloweringly silent throughout the long evening. Onfroi knew the look well enough, and did not like what it forebode. No, he did not like it at all.

"For pity's sake, Onfroi, stop squirming like a blistered worm," Nicolaa said, snapping the handle of the lash against the tabletop. She had regained most of the energy she had expended on the long, hard ride, and felt as tense in the unnatural silence as a bubble about to burst.

"Forgive me, my dearest. I was not aware I was ... ah, squirming."

"Squirming, twitching, sweating-Mon Dieu, but you reek of a cesspool. Can you not go out and ... and see if those lazy wastrels have groomed my poor Arabella properly? If not, if they have ruined her, I swear I shall whip the lot of them until the flesh is shredded from their miserable hides. I shall hang them by their entrails and-" She stopped and glanced up as Wardieu stood. "My lord?" Her voice was instant sweetness. "You have hardly touched a morsel of food. Will you not have more ale? Some grapes, or an apple perhaps?"

In lieu of answering, the golden-haired knight ducked through the opening of the tent and strode out into the darkness. He walked the length of the camp and came to a halt on the knoll that overlooked the slope of the valley. The lowlands were m.u.f.fled under a pale blanket of mist, but high above the blackened crust of trees were thousands of pinp.r.i.c.ks of starlight, and behind him, hung against the velvet sky like a gleaming sickle, was the thin, silvery rim of the moon. There were no lights showing from the windows of Alford. It was past midnight, and the monks, being frugal as well as bone-weary after toiling long hours in their daily duties, wasted no candlewax past the hour of Compline.

"What the devil can be keeping De Vere?" he muttered aloud. "He has been in that accursed forest for hours."

"You set him a difficult task, my lord," said Nicolaa, coming quietly up to stand beside him. She touched the sleeve of his chain-mail s.h.i.+rt and ran her fingers possessively onto the quilted thickness of his surcoat, sighing as if she found herself having to explain the very obvious to a petulant child. "It was already dusk when you sent him into the forest; he could hardly be expected to search in the dark."

"De Vere could track an ant through a meadow on a moonless night. A two-legged wolf should present no great problem."

Nicolaa lifted a brow delicately. It was not unlike Wardieu to be cross and impatient in the face of inefficiency, nor to become tense and intractable with too many hours of physical inactivity. Some of their more memorable trysts, in fact, had taken place between bouts of a tourney, with him still splashed with the blood of one opponent, and waiting feverishly to split the bones of another. The challenge of rooting out this Black Wolf of Lincoln should have had a similar effect on his carnal urges, and was one of the more prurient reasons why Nicolaa had insisted on accompanying him to Alford.

Yet this was no ordinary tension she could sense thrumming through the finely honed body. Something was distracting De Gournay, tempering the voracious appet.i.te of her prize stallion to the point where he had not glanced in her direction once all evening-an affront to her vanity she could not be expected to entertain in good humour.

"Lucien?" Her hand drifted downward, skipping over the wide leather belt strapped around his waist, and cupped suggestively around the slashed V where his chausses met beneath the hem of his surcoat. There was no response at all. Not even a flicker on the angular planes of his face to show he was aware of the invitation.

"Lucien! For the love of G.o.d-" She lowered her voice to a throaty rumble. "You are acting like a man possessed. One would think you would be grateful to this Black Wolf for providing you with a solution to your problem. The marriage contracts have been signed; you are as good as wed to the little b.i.t.c.h now. No court in the land would deny you your right to her estates simply because of the interference of a blood-l.u.s.ting outlaw."

Wardieu turned and stared wordlessly.

"It is perfect perfect, do you not see? Let him have her. Let him keep her. Send him your blessings as well as a sharpened blade to do the carving!"

He continued to stare, his gaze so cold and hard Nicolaa felt a corresponding rush of anger surge through her veins.

"First you claim she means nothing to you," she hissed between clenched teeth. "Now, suddenly, you are acting as if she means everything! I warn you, I will not be played the fool, Lucien. Not again. Not by you, or any man!"

"Was it you?" he asked in a disbelieving whisper. "Was this your poor idea of a jest, Nicolaa?"

"Was what what my idea of a jest? Kidnapping the girl? Good my lord, were it my idea to take her and hold her to ransom, it would not have been her finger I had carved from her!" my idea of a jest? Kidnapping the girl? Good my lord, were it my idea to take her and hold her to ransom, it would not have been her finger I had carved from her!"

"Then tell me ... how did he get the ring?"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded archly. "What ring?"