Destined for a King (16 page)

The mattress dipped as he knelt beside her. “I want to taste every corner of you. Every crevice.”

That last statement caused all manner of wicked images to flit through her mind, and her cheeks flamed even hotter. Surely, he couldn't mean…

He leaned over her, running his hands from her shoulders and down her arms, the touch innocent enough yet fraught with intent. His lips settled into the angle where her neck met her body. Slowly, with teeth and tongue, he traced a path downward, lingering over each nipple in turn, while his palms eased along her hips and thighs.

She moved restlessly beneath him as the pulse between her legs became more insistent. One knee and then the other pressed her thighs apart, and he settled between them, sitting back on his heels, watching his hands as they skated up and down and up again. He was looking right
there,
in her most secret place. She ought to be embarrassed, but his heated gaze made her quiver.

His head dipped. She watched its descent, and the light from the fire danced in red reflections through his hair. His palms pressed behind her knees, lifted before tracking up the backs of her thighs. His thumbs converged at her very center, and he parted her willing flesh. At the same instant, his tongue swiped through the space he'd made for himself.

“Oh.” Her back bowed. By the Three, this was a sensual revelation of the highest order. What he was doing—where he was kissing—should have shocked her, but her body had moved beyond shock to demand. Need. It wanted more, and urgently, but she didn't have to give voice to that desire.

Again and again, he returned to just that spot—the sensitive knot of flesh his fingers had shown her the other night. His hair brushed against the softness of her inner thighs, a softness all its own. The moist heat of his tongue delivered infinitely more pleasure as it circled, teasing, but always coming back to where she needed him.

He slipped a finger into her, and the sensation redoubled. With a relentless rhythm, he drove her up and up, coaxing her body to that point where it would soar. The rush was near. Her internal muscles clenched about his finger, drawing him in. Her breath came in rapid puffs. A ripple passed through her thighs, and then her entire being was convulsing along with the world.

He remained with her, pushing her through the peak, only easing off when she collapsed to the mattress, limp and panting. When she opened her eyes, Torch was leaning on his elbows, looming over her. Grinning. Smug was the only possible descriptor for his expression. She ought to cuff that smile right off his face, but for some inexplicable reason, she only wanted to wrap him into an embrace and kiss him. Or perhaps divest him of his breeks and complete this joining. To take him into herself, all of him. As he said, to brand her flesh with his, within and without.

She reached for the laces at his waist.

His grin widened. “So eager, are you?”

Then his fingers grappled with hers. As one, they tore at the fastenings. With a violent series of kicks, he shucked the remaining barrier between them.

Once again, he rose before her on his knees, but this time his erection strained toward her. She touched a fingertip to the silken head, and he shuddered, a rippling wave across the muscles of his chest and thighs.

She extended her hands, recalling the feeling of supple skin sliding over a steely core, but his fingers circled her wrist in an iron grip.

“Not tonight, sweetling.” Lust darkened his voice to something rough and haunting. “I'll never last. Not after watching you come apart so sweetly for me.” He gathered her hips and lifted her to him. Her shoulders and upper back pressed into the mattress. Suddenly he was probing at her entrance. “Look at me.”

She had no choice but to obey. She anchored her gaze to his, and he slipped into her, one smooth stroke that demanded she succumb. Her body stretched to accommodate him, and she wrapped her legs about the only support offered her in this sensual world—him, her husband.

He pulled back and, with a groan, surged once more, a single powerful thrust that found him fully seated. No pain accompanied the movement, only the pleasure of her reawakening nerves.

“Look at me,” he muttered again.

Slowly, he began to move, and as he moved, she watched. With every thrust, some of the smugness melted from his expression, giving way to a private tenderness that transformed him. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest. The familiarity of Torch, his confidence, his cocksure arrogance yielded to something beautiful.

A man, to be certain, one with the very highest of hopes and dreams, but who wasn't at all sure he'd achieve any of it. One who'd experienced both love and deep, abiding loneliness. One who wanted to attain that love again. That air of vulnerability floating about him revealed a face he must never show to anyone. But he was demanding she witness it, now, when she was one with him.

She reached for him, gently this time. Her fingers skimmed the straining muscles of his back as she met every last stroke.

“Josse,” she whispered, knowing it for the truth. This fragile vision, this private side of him was Josse.

He answered with a deep groan. His eyes fluttered shut, as if he could no longer stand to face the raw emotion building between them. He picked up the pace, each successive thrust deeper, more insistent, more demanding than the last. But still she watched, even as she moved with him. Even as he drove her toward another shuddering climax.

His brow furrowed in concentration. His chin lifted. His breath emerged on a hiss, then a grunt. How fascinating to watch pleasure transport this man. How beautiful. The backs of her eyes burned with the feeling.

Torch never wanted to leave this bed, the haven it represented, a refuge separate from the world without. He'd hardly been aware of how much he'd longed for solace, and yet he'd found it with Calista.

She drowsed in his embrace, her hair spread across the pillow in a hopeless tangle. He picked up a dark tendril and let its silk flow through his fingers. The flush of passion still lay pink on her cheeks and breasts.

Josse.
While he'd been buried to the hilt in her, she'd called him by his right name, as if she'd seen into his soul. Not only seen but accepted him for his true self, a wedding gift none other could match.

He tightened his arms about her. The warmth of her breath wafted in an even rhythm against his shoulder. In, out, steady and dependable, in the midst of a life where nothing was predictable.

Damn it all, and he was about to let the world intrude. Just a little longer, that's all he needed. A few more moments where he could drift and forget and pretend he'd won all the things he'd set out to achieve—the throne that was his by right, but most of all, vengeance.

Gods, what was it about this woman that she gave him just what he needed? Without thinking, his fingers wandered to the Stone at his throat. Like his wife, it lay cool and slumbering beneath his touch.

It had shown him. It had led him here. A heady sensation akin to triumph exploded in his chest. Surely if he kept on this path, all he wanted might yet be attainable.

How had Brother Tancrid termed it? The blood of the earth that linked all to all. Even now the Acolyte lay secreted away in another chamber, seeking visions, questing for the hidden knowledge that would further Torch's cause. One more step on the path to the throne.

Perhaps Torch ought to try as well. With Calista beside him, could he direct the power of his Stone to show him what he wanted? Even the lost secret to creating Adamant from ice?

But even as the thought floated through his mind, a far more horrific image took its place. Once again, cruel steel bit through his chest and erupted out his back in a spout of blood and agony. Was it only two nights ago he'd experienced the death of his brother as if it were his own?

That reminder had him reaching for the clasp at his nape to do something he'd never done since his youth—remove the Stone from his person. For just one night, he wanted utter peace and uninterrupted sleep. No horrors, no secrets, no promises of future power. Only the same simple rest the lowest cottar was granted.

A series of heavy thuds outside the chamber stalled his hand. What in the name of…? It sounded like someone was kicking at the door.

“What is it?” he called. At his side, Calista muttered and rolled over. “It's my wedding night, damn your eyes.”

“Sorry, sir.” Heavy oak muffled the reply. Owl, which explained the kicking. The boy's hands were still bound in bandages. “Hawk sent me to warn ye. A scout's come in. Th' Ironfist's army'll be on us by the morrow.”

From atop the walls, Torch squinted into the rising sun. Under the cover of darkness, the Usurper's armies had approached from the east; even now they were arraying themselves in the field below. If they wished to take advantage of the angle of the morning sun, the assault would come soon.

Torch turned to Owl. The boy's hands still bore bandages, rendering him useless for all but running messages—and just when Torch needed all the loyal swords he could get. “Fetch me Thorne.”

“Yes, sir.” Owl cast a glance between the crenellations, and his complexion took on a greenish tinge. He hadn't feared battle when the Bastard Brotherhood had taken the keep, but the king's army was another prospect altogether.

Before Torch's eyes, they formed disciplined ranks beneath their banners. To the right, the charging bull of the Tarrs of Kinwood Keep floated on the morning breeze next to the wild boar of the Brinmars, and in the center, the king's arrow. To the left stood the Blackbriar thorn. Belwin Thorne's own men, the ones he'd sent off at the king's summons to meet Griffin's diversion, and now they were preparing to attack their own keep.

Odds were, they'd retake it as well. Magnus's army had come on too quickly. Another day or so, and Torch might have devised a better defense. He'd have had time to fortify the trenches they'd dug for the new walls. He might have turned them into hidden traps for the unwary, given the manpower.

Too late, but clearly Magnus had marched quickly. He hadn't come for a protracted standoff. No siege-towers rose above his troops. Only ranks of bowmen, forming up to cover the men bearing ladders and grappling hooks. At the rear, his mounted cavaliers waited in reserve, to ride in with naked blades once the gates were breached.

Torch reached over his shoulder to unsheathe his sword, raising it so the sun's rays would catch on the edges, giving the cunning illusion of flame. A show of bravado, to be certain, but it let Magnus know a true Vandal heir still lived to challenge him.

Below the walls, a bowman nocked an arrow. All along the parapet, Torch's Brothers tensed, bows at the ready.

“Hold your fire,” Torch ordered. “You'll have chance enough when the attack begins in earnest.”

Below, one of the enemy archer's fellows shoved him before he could loose the dart. Torch could almost imagine the admonition not to waste ammunition, since he stood out of bow shot. Some young pup out for glory, no doubt. Torch waved his sword in salute. Soon now, this game would be on.

Another stir among his archers tore his attention away from the enemy's preparations. A new figure, smaller, slender, by all appearances a youth no older than Owl, made its way down the parapet. A highly familiar figure, crossbow in hand, the feathers of her quarrels rising above her left shoulder. Calista wore the same boiled leather and mail as the day Torch had claimed this keep.

“By the Three, you will go back,” he ordered the moment his wife was within shouting range. His wife—married less than a day, yet her presence here chilled his heart.

“I wish to serve, and you need all hands.”

Though her hair lay concealed beneath a skullcap, he took her by the arms and pulled her beyond the enemy's sight. No matter the outcome today, he wanted no rumors reaching Magnus's ears that Calista had taken part in the impending battle. Nor did he wish her to become a target.

“You will take shelter in the keep with the servants and other women.” He fought to gentle his tone, but the morning promised to be ugly, and he did not want her to be any part of it.

You made her part of it when you married her.
He thrust that voice aside.

“Only yesterday,” he went on, “I swore you protection. I would keep you from harm's way, not place you in the midst of it.”

“I can help you,” she insisted. “Kestrel is gone. Owl cannot fight. Half your men are scattered between here and Landsdowne Crossing.” She glanced over the battlement. “You are clearly outnumbered. Even I can see that.”

Stubborn female.

“All the more reason to keep you safe. Does the keep have a bolt-hole?” Damn him for not thinking of it sooner, but too much had happened.

“No. Even if it did, I would not cower in some burrow to await my fate like a scared rabbit.”

No, and she hadn't done that the first time, either. She'd met the threat he posed straight on, armed and armored. Still, he studied her expression, searching for the lie.

The muscles about her eyes tightened. “If we had a bolt-hole, you can be sure my father would have sent me to hide when you appeared outside our walls.”

“He should never have let you take part in the defenses. This is no game.”

“It wasn't the last time, either.” Reaching over her shoulder, she unslung her quiver and shoved it at him. “At least take these.”

“My men do not lack for bolts, only the ready arms to fire them.”

“I found these hidden in the stillroom. I believe they've been treated with Kingsbane.”

She watched him closely, obviously expecting him to make some connection. The word
Kingsbane
meant nothing to him, even if the implication was apparent. “You're saying they're poisoned.”

“Kingsbane is one of the deadliest. How can you not know it?”

“Is this what you shot me with?”

A hint of color rose on her cheeks. “I did not know my bolt was treated when I shot you.”

He let his lips stretch into a smile. “As a means of dispatching me, it wasn't very efficient.”

“It was an experiment. Had there been Kingsbane in your food, you wouldn't have lasted until the end of the meal. And yours was a flesh wound, yet you fell ill.”

He plucked one of the quarrels away from its fellows and inspected the tip. Nothing at all off about it—not that he actually expected to find anything. Frowning, he looked from Calista to the arrow and back. To the Faceless One with it, he'd been in her power. She'd possessed something that deadly, yet never used it—although he'd held her father as insurance.

But now…

Torch might have married her, he might have spent one of his pleasantest evenings in recent memory with her, he might have shared the sorrow and grief of his brother's death with her. But none of that meant he should trust her blindly.

Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

He had to remember that and not let any softer emotions command him against all reason. Yet she'd come to him now and freely admitted the existence of this substance. She'd come ready to help defend the keep.

It's her home, the only one she knows.

He slipped the bolt back into the quiver. “I will keep these, and you will go see to the other women. Make certain your lady mother remains in safety.”

“For once, I agree.” Torch looked beyond his wife to find her father approaching. And here was someone else whose loyalties, despite oaths taken before the gods, were even less certain. But Torch had no choice but to trust him. “Go look after your mother.”

Calista pressed her lips together. “Yes, Papa.”

When she had gone, Belwin Thorne addressed Torch. “You wished to see me.”

“Yes, I want you to tell me what we're facing.”

Thorne stepped nearer the wall and peered over. “Enough power to take this keep more easily than you did.” He nodded at the skeletons of the uncompleted trebuchets and poked his chin toward the newly shored-up gate. “Despite the attempts at improvements to the defenses.”

“If I'd had more time, I could have made something of this place.” An accusation there, but so be it. Thorne had had years to build a better wall.

“I'll admit I've relied on my neighbors' strength too long.” Thorne met Torch's gaze steadily, and Torch understood. If Belwin Thorne had seen to his own defenses, Torch would never have taken this keep in the first place.

“And yet you will fight for your home.” A statement—an order, really—not a question.

“I will fight for my home as I ever have. I will not see it destroyed while two factions quarrel over it.” An honest reply, if an enigmatic one.

“You swore by the Three,” Torch reminded him.

“That I did.”

“I want you and Blackbriar's men to man the main gates.”

“Sir?” Surprise was evident in Thorne's tone.

Torch was taking a risk, perhaps, but a calculated one. “You would not be so bold as to throw open your main gate to my enemy. In any case, my bowmen have orders to keep watch and shoot anyone who opens the gates—from within or without.”

Thorne nodded, a single sharp jerk of his head. They understood each other, then. “And what of the postern?”

“Yes, I've arranged to have it covered as well.” Torch had learned of its existence thanks to Calista's little visit to the Acolyte cloister.

“It cannot be opened from without. The Blackbriar men know that.”

Truth? Or a stratagem to trip him up? Torch gestured to the hordes lined up at their feet. “Tell me who we face. Surely Magnus does not lead his own troops.”

“It is well known he does not take the field.” He never had in all the years since he took the throne.

“Then who has he sent us?”

Thorne studied the ranks about the king's banner. “From the armor, it looks like the king's justiciar.”

“Justiciar,” Torch scoffed. “That's no more than a vaunted term for executioner.”

Calista narrowly missed colliding with Tamsin on the stairs as the white-faced girl clattered down from the keep's upper reaches. At the last moment, Calista pulled up short, and Tamsin jumped back, one hand to her heaving breasts.

“Have you seen Mama?”

“I've not seen anyone.” Tamsin's reply was weak-voiced. “Beyond the enemy massed at the walls. Do you think—”

“No.” Best to cut off that line of query before it started. To someone like Tamsin, Blackbriar was home, and anyone who attacked was the enemy. Torch's men had treated her well, but any army tended to have a fearsome reputation when it came to girls of Tamsin's standing.

Or even the higher born.

Calista shook herself. Such dark thoughts would do her no good, either, but she also knew it would take a miracle for Torch's men to hold the walls.

“Go on,” she added more gently. “Get belowstairs.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find Mama.”

“I told you no one's up there.”

But Mama hadn't retreated to the relative safety of the kitchens, either. Nor was she in the stillroom taking stock of what medicines they would surely need before the day ended. Or the great hall. “Let me check, and I'll be along.”

Calista rushed upward, pointedly ignoring the windows she passed. She was already too well aware what the view would offer. Magnus's soldiers standing in rank upon rank outside the walls, awaiting the order to attack.

The upper stories lay under an almost unnatural, muffled silence, like the heavy air before a summer storm, broken only by Calista's panting breaths and the rush of blood in her ears.
They're coming. Magnus is coming to take back the keep. And then he will wish to claim you. What will he do when he learns you gave yourself freely to his enemy? As for Torch…

No. She lengthened her stride in hopes of outrunning her train of thought. Door after door crashed open beneath her hands. Behind them, the bedchambers lay empty and silent—hers, her parents', the closed-off room reserved for guests.

Tamsin was right. No one here.

Only one door remained, at the far end of the passage, the entrance to a tiny chamber meant for a guest of little standing—or the servants of some more distinguished visitor. Hopes fading, Calista raced toward it.

She thrust open the heavy plank to a darkened chamber. An overheated blast of air gusted over her. A fire roared on the grate. But why in an empty room?

“Mama?”

She ventured into dark stillness. Heavy draperies blocked the light, but she knew a bed dominated this chamber. She put out a hand and touched velvet. The hangings were drawn. For all the world, the arrangement reminded her of a sickroom, but no one was ailing.

Were they?

She nudged aside the bed-hanging. In the flickering firelight, she could just make out a reclining figure, hands folded over his chest, still as death. A sour stench of sweat and unwashed body filled her nostrils. A pair of bare feet poked from beneath rough robes.

An Acolyte. And how did he come to be here?

Turning, she pulled the drapery from the windows. The man's face came into focus as her eyes adjusted. She gasped. “Brother Tancrid. Oh my goodness.”

She laid a hand over his, the flesh beneath her warm and living. His chest rose and fell, the movement nearly imperceptible. Cool relief washed through her.

“Brother Tancrid, wake up.”

No reaction. Not even a hitch in his shallow breathing.

“Please, Brother Tancrid. You must wake up before we're attacked.”

The Acolyte slumbered on undisturbed.

Cautiously, she felt for the pulse at his wrist. Even though he was breathing, she might discern something from the speed of his heart. The gentle throbbing came even and steady, though oddly slow, as if his blood ran sluggishly through his veins at half the usual rate.

She turned his hand over in hers. The unusually long nail on his forefinger was edged in grime. He slept on, clearly unaware of her touch.

“You must wake up,” she tried again. “I have to get you to safety.” Or as safe as they could be under the circumstances.

She leaned in and studied his lined features. Two days' growth of graying stubble roughened his chin. His nostrils were red-rimmed and swollen as though he'd been suffering a cold. Carefully, she raised a thumb and rolled an eyelid back to reveal pure white.

Outside, shouts echoed from the walls. Damn. She had to get him out of here.

Taking his shoulder in hand, she gave him a firm shake. “Brother Tancrid.” Fear sharpened her tone. “Wake up. Urgently.”