Taming the Barbarian (12 page)

Firelight flickered at ancient beams. A weanling lunged out of a nearby stall, flames dancing in her white limned eyes as she pivoted away from the door to circle with the others.

The flames spewed higher, consuming the chaff.
Fille
quivered against the wall, her legs never still as she danced in frantic terror.

Fleur turned back toward her. “Run!” she croaked and lifting her night rail, flapped it madly in the mare’s face. Terrified by the fluttering fabric, the horse plunged for the door. Fleur leapt after, but at the last instant,
Fille
wheeled back into the stall.

Her shoulder struck Fleur, spinning her sideways. She tried to catch her fall, tried to yell, to stay afoot, but the wall rushed toward her. Her head struck something solid.

Someone yelled her name. Sparks seemed to fly in her head. Noise clattered around her, disjointed and chaotic, then darkness fell, deep and quiet and unforgiving.

K
illian sat atop the hillock and gazed out over the land below. The night was as black and silent as the days of yore. But even now there was a difference, a newness. Beneath him, the dark stallion arched his tremendous neck and gazed out over the moon-shadowed valley.

There was no way of knowing how they had come together once again, no way to be sure if it was fate or foolish luck that had brought Killian to Treun at that precise moment on the strange streets of London. But they were now reunited. The dark knight and his devil’s steed as they had once been called.

Oh yes, he remembered that much and more, but each wee tidbit of information was slow in coming, slow and wrapped in misty uncertainty. For naught made sense. It seemed that he had come to this place from another time. But that was certainly foolishness. More likely by far was that he had simply been riding from Hiltsglen to London and during the journey had been attacked by brigands. They had knocked him unconscious, and when he came to all seemed addled and strange.

He scowled. But if such was the case, why was his sporran still filled with coin? Why were there no bruises on his skull? How had Treun ended up in the hands of an aging lord who failed to realize the value of a renowned destrier, and—

A crackle of noise sounded in the forest behind him. Killian jerked about, sword in hand, but Treun only arched his great neck. He flickered his ears toward the noise but remained unmoved. Even when the wolf trotted from the underbrush, he stood immobile.

Killian narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip, and the wolf, tawny and large, lifted his snout, testing the scents before moving forward to sit not far from Treun’s iron-shod hooves.

“What’s this then?” Killian murmured, but memories were already streaming in, dark and ancient and unchecked.

“Good Christ,” he breathed, for the reminiscences struck him like a blow to the chest. Hard and ferocious and unyielding, they came, like a dark horde on tireless horses. He winced as they rolled over him, then closed his eyes, but the thoughts remained. There was no logic, just facts, and he would accept them, for there was naught else to do. Still, it took some time to do even that. Thus he sat very still, letting the memories envelop him, letting the truth be felt in the very marrow of his ancient bones.

The wolf stirred restlessly. Killian looked down at him, scowling at the force of his own memories.

“So,” he rumbled, “we are gathered once again, the three of us.”

The wolf glanced up at the sound of his voice, almost grinning, but in an instant he was distracted and rose nervously to all fours. His ears strained forward and he lifted his muzzle, catching unknown mysteries on the slightest breeze. A growl rumbled in his chest.

“What is it?” Killian asked, tensing.

The animal trotted forward a half dozen steps, then halted again, nose raised. Beneath Killian, Treun flared his wide nostrils, shaking his heavy crest and mincing nervously.

Then suddenly the wolf bounded forward.

For a moment Killian tried to deny, tried to disbelieve, but the stallion was pulling at the bit, and there was nothing he could do but live the life before him.

Loosening the destrier’s reins, he leaned over the heavy mane and gave the animal his head.

The stallion charged forward, his dark hooves churning up moldering leaves. Branches whipped past Killian’s face. From deep in the woods, a stag leapt away. The forest floor slanted downward, but neither the wolf nor the stallion slowed.

They hit the road at a dead run, then careened to the right; and then Killian smelled it.

Smoke. He cursed in silence and urged Treun forward, but the stallion was already running flat out, his hooves pounding like battering rams against the curving road. Briarburn’s lane appeared as nothing more than a glimmer of gray in the darkness. They sped around the corner. Killian could hear the shouts, the frantic screams of panicked horses.

The doors of the stable were thrown open, spewing forth smoke and the harsh crackle of flames, but Killian pressed Treun straight for the entrance.

A white-gowned servant rushed from the barn, nearly colliding with the stallion. Treun reared in the doorway, then landed, his feet striking the earth with a crash of power.

Inside, the fire had spread nearly the width of the aisle. Horses milled frantically at the far end. Off to their right, a servant yelled at the fractious herd, but it was the sight of a woman that speared Killian’s attention. She was in a stall, just now staggering to her feet, her face as pale as the filthy night rail that fluttered around her. And though Killian could not see her clearly, there was no doubt about her identity, not a shadow of a question.

“Get out!” he roared, but even as he said it he knew his words were wasted, for she was already reaching for the mare’s head.

He swore in earnest and spurred Treun past the flames and into the bay’s stall. The mare pivoted away, nearly colliding with Fleurette, but Killian was already reaching for her. She screamed when he snatched her off the ground, but he dragged her facedown over the pommel, and she was not so foolish as to remain there. Instead, she scrambled upright, straddling the saddle in front of him. Her legs, bare to midthigh, gripped the stallion, and her face, smeared with grime, turned frantically toward him.

“Drive her out!” she ordered, waving at the mare. “Get them out!”

But he was already turning Treun toward the door, toward fresh air, toward safety. Reaching down, Fleurette grabbed a rein and hauled the stallion about.

“Save the horses!” she gritted, eyes ablaze in the firelight. “Or leave the task to me.”

He almost argued, almost yanked the rein from her hand, but every moment lost was a life compromised, thus he turned Treun toward the milling mob at the back of the stable.

The horses crowded aside, scrambling to escape both the fire and the charging stallion, but there was nowhere to go, and the huge destrier was already amongst them, squeezing them aside, breaking a path in their midst. Turning on his haunches he bared his teeth and struck. A chestnut squealed and bolted away, but another careened frantically into her hip, throwing her off-balance. She stumbled to her knees.

“Juliet!” Fleur screamed, but the mare was already struggling to her feet. A gelding bolted forward, trampling her. She skidded onto her side and into the flames. Fleur screamed again. The smell of burning hair stung Killian’s nostrils. The mare scrambled shakily to her feet and tried to return to the others, but the wolf had arrived.

Legs spread wide, it stood between the chestnut and the others, teeth bared as it snarled a warning. The mare trembled in terror and braced herself to leap, but the hound sprang first, flying at the mare’s head. She spun about, quivered in uncertainty, then leapt the fire and raced through the open door.

The herd flinched and quivered as it watched. Treun tore at the nearest steed’s haunches. It tucked its tail and bolted through the melee. Flames shimmered on its hide as it leapt the burning fodder and disappeared after the mare.

Ears flickered as the others watched, and suddenly they were moving as a herd, bumping and straining as they broke for the door. Nostrils flared, hooves skittered in panic, but they were galloping, careening toward safety.

Fille
watched them go, then, in the last second, dashed after them, firelight dancing in her terrified eyes as she joined the herd outside.

Killian felt Fleur sob with relief as Treun leapt after the others. Curling his arm across her face, he felt the heat of the flame sear his elbow and thigh, but in a moment they were safely outside the confines of the smoke-clouded stable.

Beneath them, Treun pranced with manic energy. His ears flickered, his nostrils flared as he searched the breeze for scents and sounds of the escaping herd.

The lady coughed and tugged at Killian’s arm.

He turned his attention irritably toward her.

“What the devil are ye about now?” he growled.

“Let me go.”

He tightened his grip. “What foolishness have ye got planned?”

Somewhere in the dark a horse whinnied. The noise sounded frantic and lonely in the night.

“Foolishness!” she hissed and twisted toward him. Flames danced like madness in her devil’s eyes.

“Aye, foolishness,” he growled. “What the hell are ye planning? To run them down in yer bare feet and bed clothes? Ye’ve servants to tek care of such—” he began, but suddenly she was scrambling to free herself.

He tried to hold her, but she was like water in his hands, slipping relentlessly away. Her night rail caught on Treun’s pommel. The sound of tearing fabric rent the night. She struck the ground with an audible grunt.

Temporarily stunned, she sat for a second, but by the time Killian had dismounted beside her, she had bounced to her feet and spun toward the herd.

Barely thinking, he grabbed a fistful of her gown and reeled her back. She twisted toward him like a cat. Perhaps he should have realized she was about to strike. Perhaps he should have been able to prevent the blow, but pain exploded in his eye, nevertheless.

Shocked and blinded, he stumbled backward; but battle instincts honed long ago flared up. He was reaching for her even before his vision cleared. His fingers closed on something soft and he yanked her back.

Through one functioning eye, he saw her glare at him.

“Who are you?” she rasped.

Damn it to Hades! He had forgotten pain. “I am vengeance,” he rumbled, and, loosing her hair, grabbed her arm.

She stumbled back a step.

“What do you want?” Her voice was little more than a hiss in the darkness. Her eyes were as bright and round as an autumn moon in her soot-streaked face. “Why have you come?”

He said nothing, but watched her. Fear and caution glowed in her eyes, but suddenly she threw herself at him.

“What do you know?” she shrieked.

He caught her arms. She gasped at the bite of his fingers. Her gaze lifted to his, then she was falling.

Stunned and uncertain, he swept her into his arms and drew her against his chest. Her breasts were as soft as down pillows against his flesh. Her eyes were as wide as a doe’s.

“My… my lady?” someone stammered. She glanced in that direction, seeming dazed, but Killian turned to the servant with a snarl, and the man stumbled back.

“Yer lady has all but been kilt,” he growled. “What is yer purpose if na to protect her?”

The manservant’s lips moved, but no sound came.

“Fetch the steeds,” Killian snapped. “I will see to yer lady’s well-being.”

The other muttered something, but Killian took a single step toward him, and he bolted away, nightshirt fluttering.

“You’ve no right to speak to my manservant in that…” Fleur began, but he lowered his gaze to hers with a snarl.

“Manservant!” he mocked. ” ‘Tis na man a’tall what would let a wee maid fend for herself while the stable burns down about her—”

“I am no wee maid!” she snapped, but she was suspended like a swallow’s nest in his arms, and there seemed little need to point out the foolishness of her words.

Instead, he strode across the courtyard toward the house. Her breast pressed more firmly against his chest. He gritted his teeth against the velvet impact and managed to skim his arm beneath the soft curve of her bottom and open the door.

“I am the baroness of Briarburn,” she insisted, as if she were lecturing a green lad instead of lying, weak and exhausted, in his arms. “Lady of these—”

“My lady!” gasped a maid, wide-eyed and wild-haired. “My lady, are you—”

“Why did ye na keep her safely inside?” Killian snarled.

The maid’s jaw dropped. “I… We…” she began, but Killian had no time for foolish stuttering.

“Where is her bedchamber?”

The maid bent backward, her eyes wide with terror. “Up. Up the…” she began, but he was already moving, taking the steps three at a time as he bore her to the top. The first door stood open. An ornate lantern of sorts was lit and suspended by a brass rod that protruded from the cloth-covered wall. Its light glowed on polished wood and gilt mirrors.

He felt Fleurette’s tension even before he looked into her eyes. Anger was there, and pride. But there was something more. Something he could not quite fathom. He jerked out of the massive chamber and bore her away to the end of the hall. The door was open there also. Stepping inside, he glanced about. Light from the hallway issued softly into the room, illuminating rich oils and simple fabrics. A hound peeked out from beneath the mattress.

Killian glanced down at the woman in his arms. Uncertainty danced like flames in her unearthly eyes. “If I leave ye here, will you stay?” he asked.

The fear was gone from her face, replaced by a dozen swirling emotions he could not define. “Who are you?” she asked again, but her voice was quiet now, and low.

His own emotions filtered down a little. All was well. The stable would need repair, but no lives had been lost.

He paced toward her bed as the dog scooted backward. Its nose disappeared just as he seated himself on the edge of the mattress. Fleurette’s buttocks, barely contained by the sheer weight of her night rail, pressed with fresh intimacy against his balls. He gritted his teeth and tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry with longing. The very thought made him angry.