Through a Dark Mist (43 page)

She jumped out of the boat and screamed Nicolaa’s name. Too late, she realized she had set aside her longbow to pull Servanne’s hand free, and, for lack of any better weapon to use against the falchion that turned eagerly in her direction, Gil paused to scoop up a fallen crossbow. She released the trigger only to hear a wet snap as the string refused to respond. Nicolaa’s fleeting moment of panic gave way to grinning delight and as the slender, red-haired archer ran closer, she clasped her shortsword in both hands and drew it back for the killing stroke.

Something black, salty, and gritty struck her stingingly across the face. The muck was in her eyes and in her mouth, and Nicolaa was repulsed into breaking her stance as well as her grip on the hilt of the sword. Alaric threw another handful of wet sand, but by then she had turned away, cursing and scraping the stuff from her face in time to see the blurred fury that was Gil Golden slam into her chest and send them both crashing into the surf.

Alaric doubled over onto his elbows and knees, his head bowed forward with the pain. Gil and Nicolaa became a rolling, thrashing mass of arms and legs beside him; Lucien and Etienne stood a dozen paces away, their swords unsheathed, their footsteps bringing them together in an ever-decreasing circle of crouched wariness. Nicolaa’s falchion lay in an inch of water, a body length away, but before Alaric could drag himself over to it, a mail-clad boot kicked it a hopeless distance away. Almost too weary to expend the energy to do so, Alaric looked up, seeing his death in the eyes of the mercenary who braced himself to deliver a hacking blow across the back of Alaric’s neck.

Fff-thunck!

The mercenary stiffened, his back arched against the brutal force of a six-inch arrow fired from an odd, harp-shaped arblaster. Two longer, thinner ashwood arrows, tipped in steel, fired simultaneously from raised longbows, thudded into the guard’s back and shoulder, skewering through leather armour and Damascan chain mail as if it was soft cheese. The knight toppled forward, his arms spread wide, his sword splashing harmlessly into the shallow water beside Alaric.

Sparrow’s gleeful cry brought a wall of black and gold clad knights surging out from behind the tumble of boulders. Calmly, coolly, half of them dispatched a spray of arrows into the ranks of De Gournay’s surprised mercenaries; the rest, led by Sir Roger de Chesnai and Sir Richard of Rouen, poured out onto the beach, their throats roaring an unmistakable challenge.

The Dragon saw his men falling back, retreating under the onslaught of flashing swords.

The Wolf smiled and felt a resurgence of energy burn away the fatigue and despair that had nearly claimed him.

“And so, it comes down to just you and me, Etienne,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “With honour as our judge and God our witness.”

Etienne’s blue eyes glittered his response and, in ankle-deep water, the Wolf and the Dragon brought their blades slashing together. Lucien, his black shirt and leggings shading him like a dark wraith against the sparkle of the sea, lunged and spun away, his hair shedding bright droplets of salt water into the breaking sunlight. Etienne blocked the thrust and countered with a strength-shattering one of his own, the muscles across his back and arms bulging beneath the quilted blue silk of his surcoat. Steel bit into steel, the swords screaming as loudly as the gulls who spiraled down from the roosts on the cliffs, attracted by the fresh scent of blood.

Each driving stroke of arms and legs was evenly matched. Both men had suffered bruising and earned wounds in their earlier meeting on the tournament grounds, but this was a new battle, the final battle, and neither spared a thought or grimace for the aches or fatigue. They attacked like rampant lions, blow upon mighty blow staggering first one, then the other. Their swords slashed and hacked without grace or deliberation, each cut searching for a hidden weakness, probing for an unguarded flaw—some imperfection in skill or speed that could reward a bloodthirsty blade.

They fought their way onto the sand where the footing was not sucked out from beneath them, but where the weight and drag slowed their turns and lengthened the time needed to recover. The droplets sprayed from Lucien’s hair were tinged red from the wound on his temple, and the front of his shirt became splashed with sand and gore. Etienne’s arm and thigh were gashed, the links of his mail unable to withstand the tremendous power behind each of the Wolf’s blows.

The two crashed together, locking swords, their eyes blazing at each other over the crossed shanks of steel. Lucien saw nothing in the icy blue gaze to jar the memories of happier times that had softened him before; he saw only hatred and twisted jealousy, and the arrogance of greed and unchecked corruption. He saw more. He saw his father’s face and the agony of the betrayal he must have felt knowing his son had condemned him to a traitor’s death. He saw Eduard lying spread-eagle on the torturer’s rack, and he saw Mutter and Stutter, Robert the Welshman, and all the faces of all the good men who had given their lives over the past twenty hours. And he saw Servanne …

Lucien surged forward with a roar, breaking the tension in Etienne’s arms. The Dragon fought to retain his balance, doing so at the last possible split second, and was able to angle his sword down, ready to block the anticipated stroke his instincts screamed would come at him from the right. He committed his sword and his eyes followed the stroke …
but it came from the left
, not the right, and the enormity of his error flickered across his face even as Lucien’s blade carved into the exposed rack of ribs and sliced its way through silk and leather, mail and muscle, flesh and sinew and wildly beating heart.

The Dragon sagged forward, a groan of incredulous agony pulling him down onto his knees. He dropped his sword and reached frantically for support, but Lucien had already taken a broad step back, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. The Dragon looked down in disbelief at the blood gushing onto the sand. He clasped his hands over his chest as if to keep any more from spilling from the wound, but he was already dead, and he fell facedown, his flaxen hair glittering against the crimson sand like tarnished gold.

Lucien barely had time to collect his senses before a woman’s piercing scream drew his gaze to the shoreline. He spun around just as Gil, her hands gripped around the hilt of a knife, thrust her weight forward to plunge the blade deep into Nicolaa de la Haye’s chest. The scream was cut short as Nicolaa’s body went rigid with the pain. Her green eyes blazed wide through a moment of shocked recognition as Gil Golden’s face turned into the sunlight, but the only sound that came from her lips was the gurgle and hiss of a dying breath.

Servanne, trembling like a leaf in the heart of a storm, stood in the midst of the carnage, her wounded hand cradled to her breast. She saw Gil run over to kneel by Alaric’s side, and she saw Sparrow leap into the surf with several other men to retrieve Eduard before he was dragged out to sea again. Sir Roger and another tall, noble-looking knight were talking to Lucien but he gave them only the briefest of acknowledgments as he cast a swift, smouldering glance along the beach and found Servanne.

He seemed to need a deep breath to steady himself before he started staggering slowly toward her. His gloriously handsome face was streaked with blood, his shirt was cut in a dozen places and clung to his flesh like a wet black sheath. But he had never looked more wonderful to her. Servanne had never felt such happiness, such love, such pride before in her life.

He stopped within arm’s reach, his eyes a paler gray than ever she had seen them, and filled with more emotions than she would have dared hoped or dreamed. He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze moving over her soft curves, pausing at every scratch and bruise as if offering a silent pledge to atone for each and every one. There was a breathless little silence between them and her knees turned to jelly. She knew if he did not say something soon, or take her into his arms, she would melt into the sand and be washed out to sea on the next tide.

They must have been sharing the exact same thought at the exact same instant, for her half-sobbed cry was lost beneath the heartfelt oath he murmured as his mouth came crushing down over hers. His arms went around her, clinging to her so tightly she became moulded to the muscles of his body. His kiss was deep and ravaging and might have frightened her with its demanding intensity if her own lips were not just as eager, just as frantic to become a part of him.

“Ahh-hem.”

The discreet cough behind them made no impression.

“Ahh-hem. My lord?”

Sparrow happened by and chuckled dryly. “I warrant you would have better luck winning a response from a tree trunk, Sir Richard of Rouen. These two shall not move again until hunger, thirst, or body needs lay them by the heels.”

Lucien’s mouth lifted from Servanne’s with a grudging sigh, but he made no move to release her from his arms.

“Sir Richard … were you not supposed to be well on your way to Hull to rendezvous with the queen’s ship?”

“There is gratitude for you,” Sparrow chirped, earning a scowl from Sir Richard in return.

“As it happens, my lord, as soon as we were out of hailing distance of the castle, my men lost patience with the louts sent to escort our troop to Lincoln. We laid them by in short order, then set off in the direction of Hull, but bedamned if my steed did not pull up lame and require the services of a farrier. In all conscience I could not risk the safety of Princess Eleanor over such a trifling matter, and so I sent her on ahead with the bulk of the men, retaining only a few good lads to, ahh, aid me in my search for a smithy.”

Lucien’s gaze had not broken from Servanne’s, nor had the heat in his body grown any less threatening to her composure.

“And? Did you find a smithy?”

Sir Richard ignored Sparrow’s rolling eyes and nodded quite seriously. “Aye, my lord, but by then it was broaching dusk and so misted on the forest roads we could scarce see our hands before our faces. Imagine my surprise when the road we took brought us back to the moor instead of away to Hull.”

“Imagine,” the Wolf mused, his embrace tightening around Servanne, the movement rippling along the muscles in his arms and chest.

“And then the further surprise of stumbling across the camp occupied by our own men! We were naturally pressed into lodging there the night and—”

“And just happened to still be there when I arrived,” Sparrow interjected, “although I am sure, had I been a wink later in gasping my way out of the moor, Sir Richard and his men would have departed for Hull.”

“No doubt they would,” the Wolf murmured, his mouth lowering to Servanne’s with a warm, devouring passion. “Well, my lady? What do you think of such a tale?”

“I think it heroic and brave,” she whispered. “Sir Richard has obviously been in your service long enough to have learned by example.”

“The devil you say, madam.”

“The devil you are, my lord,” she sighed, and stretched up on tiptoes to ensure he did not speak again.

EPILOGUE

Servanne ran the palms of her hands reverently over the warm bulge of male flesh beneath her. Discovering the two raised beads of his nipples, her lips formed a moist pout and leaned brazenly forward to claim their prize. Lucien groaned and raked his fingers into the silken mass of her hair, but that was a mistake too, for it freed her hips to move at their own impudent pace, and he could feel himself being drawn deeper and deeper by muscles that were becoming just too damned proficient at undermining his authority.

He skimmed his hands down to the firm, pearly skin of her breasts and took some satisfaction in hearing a faintly rasped warning. She was just as close as he was, but twice as determined to squeeze every delicious shudder of pleasure from his body before she relinquished the reins of passion.

Bowing to the demands of chivalry—not to mention the sharp nip of her teeth—Lucien moved his hands away. He curled his fingers tightly against the rivers of heated sensation her swirling, suckling tongue and lips were drawing from his flesh and pressed his head back into the soft pillow of moss. Staring up at the phosphorescent greens and blues that sparkled on the ceiling of the grotto, he watched the eddies of steam whorling above them and wondered if either of them would have any skin left on their buttocks, backs, and knees. Probably not, he grinned. Why should this excursion be any different from the dozens they had taken before? A day spent in the secluded privacy of the Silent Pool and the grotto usually left them both so chafed they were forced to sleep on furs for the next few nights.

Lucien closed his eyes and tried not to think about her hot, sliding flesh, but that was like not thinking at all. Not breathing. Not living …

Servanne felt the powerful shudder that gripped his body and she slowed the rhythm of her hips to hardly more than an insistent throb. She pushed herself upright and saw the gray eyes open a sliver, but she only smiled and trailed her fingers down onto his hard, flat belly, marveling that she never failed to discover new areas of sensitivity. The chiseled beauty of each muscle and sinew was branded into her mind and on her body. The texture, taste, and scent of him was as much a part of her as her own skin. He was her love and her life, and even after six months of wedded bliss, their hunger for each other was as insatiable as it had been the first hour after their rescue on the beach.

Bloodmoor was Lucien’s now, but there were too many memories haunting the gloomy towers and battlements to keep a smile on his face too long. He had destroyed the cell on the eagle’s eyrie and scorched the donjon to the bare walls before sealing the cavernous death chamber behind block and mortar … but it was not enough. The Wardieu crest was emblazoned everywhere with its depiction of the dragon and the wolf locked in eternal combat. Lucien had proudly reclaimed his name and birthright, but there was too much of Etienne in every room, every court, every uncertain eye that followed him from hall to bailey.

Moreover, Prince John—who had been only too eager at the time to put his seal to the documents Lucien had handed him at the point of a bloody sword—had had those same six months to stew over his embarrassment and humiliation. Having to admit publiclly to Etienne Wardieu’s duplicity and declaring Lucien to be the rightful heir of the De Gournay titles and estates had sent the regent away from Bloodmoor in a state of mortified rage. Sooner or later he would exact his revenge. The fact he had even waited this long before showing signs of doing so was a credit to the lords and barons who had come forward in Lucien’s support. Their names were undoubtedly marked for future consideration as well, but for the time being, they were King Richard’s men and safe enough from John’s machinations.

Servanne had suspected something was afoot when Lucien had sent Alaric and Gil to Brittany two months ago, ostensibly to check on his lands and estates in Normandy. The glowing reports of prosperity had come swift on the heels of letters from Queen Eleanor, who thought it churlish and disloyal of him to remain in a country that had treated him so badly. For his part in winning the safe return of the little princess to Brittany, the dowager had rewarded him with a barony in Touraine, and was anxious to know what further bribes he would demand of an old woman’s heart before he deigned to return to her court, where he belonged. Sir Richard of Rouen made a fine captain of the guard, she added, but she missed her black wolf’s sharp wit and brooding strength.

A second clue was Eduard’s sudden interest in geography. He had recovered—some said miraculously—from his wounds, and now served Lucien as squire. He grew more and more like his father every day, in appearance and in manner, causing more than one startled head to turn and gape after them in awe. They made a breathtakingly handsome pair of rogues together, and had grown close enough in their relationship to make anyone doubt they had ever been strangers. In another few years, however, Eduard would be seeking ways to earn his own gold spurs, easier done from Brittany with its ready access to the richest tournaments in France and Italy, than from a remote and wind-swept castle on the English coast.

Biddy was her fiery, imperious self again. She had, by one means or another, convinced herself she had been responsible for the way everything had turned out … which was, of course, vastly different from Sparrow’s interpretation of the events. At least once a day Biddy could be seen chasing the diminutive aggravation about the halls of the castle, a broom or fire poker in her hand, and at least once a day, she found her cap swiped off with a flying arrow, or her apron pinned to a wooden door.

As for Lucien, his visible wounds had healed rapidly enough, adding but a few more scars to a body that already boasted far too many to count. He was healing inwardly as well under Servanne’s tutelage, and, as Robert the Welshman had predicted, had begun to laugh again. He could easily remain at Bloodmoor Keep, he reasoned, and face the wrath of Prince John … but to what purpose? He had already fought one dragon and won his right to peace and prosperity; John was England’s dragon and it was up to her to find some way to defeat his greed and ambition. Lucien had no regrets about leaving. Brittany had become his home and he could return there quite happily to grow very old and very sedate with his beautiful new bride by his side.

“The only thing I will truly miss is this place,” Servanne murmured, her eyes gazing dreamily around the grotto. “Have they anything half so … inspiring … in Touraine?”

Lancets of fire were bursting in his loins, fragmenting his senses, making it difficult for Lucien to think, let alone speak through the increasingly violent shivers.

He managed to nod, however, and gasp out an assurance. “We will find one, I swear it.”

Servanne sat straighter and the undulant motion of her hips caused the curling ends of her hair to sweep and drag across the tops of his thighs. She lifted her hands off his belly and smoothed them over her own, smiling at the burgeoning evidence of the new life growing within her.

“Sparrow says our child will be charmed. He is convinced these magical waters cannot help but have aided in conceiving a man of some great future destiny. He feels so strongly about it, he says he may have to take the babe under his wing to insure he learns how to make the most of his powers.”

“Madam … there is only one thing I feel very strongly about at the moment.”

“Oh? And what might that be, my lord?”

Lucien reached up and brought her mouth down to his for a plundering caress. His lips and tongue silenced her soft laughter as effectively as the proud thrust of his flesh brought about an explosive end to their sensual odyssey. He held her and braced her as the heat of ecstasy flared along the length and breadth of their bodies. He surged within her, again and again, blinded by the fury of their passion, humbled by the consummate purity of their love.

Beyond the wall of lush green ivy, the sweeping boughs of the mighty oaks began to rustle and sigh with envy. The sun danced in a more sprightly way over the surface of the Silent Pool, keeping tune with the bubble and gurgle of the tiny stream that chuckled its way over the rocks and drew the attention of a curious doe and her fawn. Soft, velvety ears pricked forward, for there had never been such a chorus of sounds in the sunlit glade before. It was as if a spell had finally been broken and the forest had come alive again, teeming with life, and hope, and joy.