Angie Arms - Flame Series 03 Read online

  He couldn’t allow himself this luxury, not with so many things to do. He got back to his feet and turned toward her where she had sank to a sitting position, her legs folded underneath her, her hair hanging about her shoulders with the richness of spun gold. “Until this castle is entirely in my control you will remain here. There will be a guard at your door, but do not speak to him or even stick your head outside this chamber. If you do it may not end well for you. Do you understand me?” His voice was hard, and he saw their effect on her.

  She only nodded, but her eyes were wide with the fear in the knowledge she must obey him. He turned and strolled from the room, closing the chamber door behind him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Ryann remained for what seemed like hours waiting for news, whether it was from a servant or her future husband. But no one came, and all remained quiet outside her chamber. She worried for her guards, especially Christopher, had they killed him? Were they hurting her people, destroying her home, the homes of her people? Worry finally over took her and she strode purposely to the door and opened it. Two large men stood just on the other side. Both turned in surprise at the disruption, then both broke into wide smiles that made her nervous.

  “I must see to matters,” she said boldly, striding past them. She had no reason to believe they wouldn’t let her pass, after all, they were put at her door to guard her. Surely they could do that following her as she went about checking on what she needed to.

  The hand that came out to stop her disabused her of that notion in an instant, but instead of stopping her flight the strong arm pulled her back against a broad chest, and the man chuckled with glee. She tried to pry the arm away, but he brought his other arm up to lock her forehead back, and likewise immobilized her arms. “I am Countess Ryann of Kilkenny,” she warned them.

  “That’s what makes it all the sweeter,” the second man said, advancing on her. Both his hands came at her, to the neckline of her tunic, and in the blink of an eye he ripped it down the front. Her body went cold in fear, as his beady blue eyes locked onto her bared skin. He came at her then, his fetid breath washed over her as he bent to lick her neck, his tongue felt like a wet worm wiggling against her skin. His hands came up to stroke across one of her bared breasts while the other man bent to lick the back of her neck, nipping at the small hair on the back, pulling them and tears sprang to her eyes, not from the pain but the fear.

  “You both have one chance to take your hands off her.” The voice of her husband was cold and deadly. It did not have the slightest inflection of anger or emotion, but she heard the certainty in his statement. She could never remember a time being so afraid it felt as if her bladder was close to bursting, but his voice made it so.

  “Not this time,” the man in front of her laughed as his head dipped lower, and she felt she might faint. She heard the Bastard’s sword leave its sheath and she felt herself freeze to her very core. The man holding her pushed her toward the man in front. His sword came out too, but before she could ascertain who might be the victor, she was slammed into the floor and her senses reeled uncontrollably for a moment.

  Then she was being lifted and she knew immediately it was Garrick without having to see him, the hands were strong, the arms solid and unyielding. He carried her back to the chamber. Over his shoulder she saw the other two men. She began to shiver at the speed with which this man took their lives. She saw a man enter the corridor and glance sharply at Garrick’s retreating back. “Take care of them, Marcus,” Garrick demanded, before he kicked the chamber door closed with his foot.

  When he deposited her on the bed it was none too gently, and then he moved away.

  She sat up quickly, searching for him in the large room. “I told you not to leave this chamber,” his voice was deceptively calm as he began to pace like an enraged animal by the hearth. “I told you it would not end well for you.”

  “I didn’t know what you meant,” she stammered in response to his anger, as she unwound her legs and began to stand up.

  “It doesn’t matter!” he stated with rage edging his voice, as he strode toward her. He was no less intimidating without his armor, perhaps even more so, because he looked just as undefeatable. His anger distracted her, so he was upon her before she had time to move. She felt the blood drain from her body as he leaned over her, his scarred face inches from her own. She could feel his warm breath fan over her face, feel the heat of the rage in his eyes. She feared her disobedience was the cause, and not his murder of his men.

  Her fear was immobilizing. He grabbed her by her shoulders and jerked her off the bed, she sagged into him, her knees trying to gain purchase on the mattress. “You obey me,” he shook her, her head lolling back and forth. He shoved her away from him and she sprawled backward onto the bed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  When Garrick turned away from her he did so for her own safety, so he would not hurt her in his anger. He moved toward the hearth, stopping with his back to her. “Come here.” He waited for her to get off the bed, finally, his patience dangerously close to snapping, he heard her feet hit the floor and she slowly came toward him. He remained facing the banked fire, feeling her stand just behind him. He could hear her rapid breaths and he braced himself, reluctant to feed off her fear. Finally, he turned toward her. Her eyes were downcast and he took the moment to look at her. The gown he first saw her in was torn from the neck to the waist, and only her hands afforded her modesty as she held it together. Across the front he had smeared her attackers’ blood. It had also splattered on her cheek at the time of the kill, and was drying as he looked at her. It was such a contrast, not just the blood on her fair skin, but the violence she was a part of because her appearance was of gentleness and warmth. His anger exploded from its dark recess and he reached up, grabbed the material from her hands and ripped the tunic the rest of the way off her. He never glanced her way, to do so would have left him vulnerable, to what he did not know because he was not a man to give over to lust. Instead he turned away, throwing the blue material into the fire.

  “Go cover yourself.” Her feet quickly retreated back to the bed. Looking down at himself he saw the blood of his men on his shirt. With a heavy sigh he reached down for the hem and drew it over his head, and tossed it onto the floor. He leaned his elbows onto the hearth’s mantel, and let his head sag for a moment. He could never dream taking a wife would create such chaos inside his own head.

  He knew the Countess watched him, probably with horror, he could feel the heat of her gaze. The wound that laid open his face, his lip and chin had also laid open his chest, the scar running in line with that on his chin, before the blade of the sword ran out of flesh to slice through, its wielder cut down just a moment afterward by Marcus. He owed his life that day to his dear friend, as well as on the day the dagger slicing down his throat was halted at the last moment. He had another scar on his back where a dagger was stabbed into him, luckily missing anything that would kill him, but immobilized him for some time none the less. It was Marcus who stopped a further attack that would have easily ended his life, as he lay on the floor of a hall, bleeding, unable to move a finger let alone an arm to defend with. But that scar could not be discerned from the scars that lay across his back from the time he was nearly whipped to death in a Saracen prison.

  He pictured his soon to be bride in his head. Her blue eyes wide with the horror of his marred flesh, her mouth open slightly in shock. He pictured the softness of her skin, and with a groan he barely stifled, could also picture it without a stitch of clothing on it, because he had a glimpse of her perfection. One fleeting look before he turned away. He itched to touch his wife, to feel her body tight against him, a part of him. Maybe that desire was fueled by his fear of hurting her. That was one thing that did not set well with him, he could never remember concern for another, and he knew that was what was fueling his anger. That initial fear when he came into the corridor to find the small creature being man handled by two of his men.

  The pounding on the
door made him grind his teeth in frustration. He was not happy in the least when he opened the chamber door and saw Marcus on the other side. “What is it?” he snapped, propping one hand on the door frame, the other on the edge of the open door, baring his way into the chamber.

  “We have a small situation.”

  “If it’s small can’t you take care of it?”

  As soon as he snapped at Marcus he regretted it. Marcus was his only friend in the entire world, the only man he could trust.

  “We have an uprising on our hands and the men want to kill the leaders.”

  “Kill them,” he said, turning his back to Marcus, dismissing him to walk back toward the bed. “Her guard is getting to be troublesome.”

  “It’s not her guard,” Marcus said quickly, following him into the chamber.

  Garrick saw Ryann was wrapped tightly in a fur blanket, looking small and frightened. The entire situation made him look like an animal, the blood on her, her nakedness with fear flashing in her eyes. It appeared as if he violently raped his wife to be.

  “I said kill them!” Garrick hissed, despite their friendship, even Marcus didn’t question his orders.

  “It’s the children.”

  “The children?” Ryann asked, flying out of the bed, the fur she held clasped tightly in both hands to her breast. Garrick was treated to a glimpse of thigh and hip as it hiked up to her waist, in her rush to get off the bed. As she neared, he saw Marcus also saw and was still enjoying the view of her bare legs, when Garrick turned to head her off.

  He looked down at her, the fear for the children of her keep clearly written on her face. He had the urge to punch Marcus for seeing her like this, but that would not make him unsee. He also did not want either to know how angered he was that his man saw what was his. Never had he experienced jealousy before. He reached out, closing the blanket more securely around her, thus concealing her more fully, before turning back to Marcus.

  Marcus’s eyes were on the Countess when he continued, and Garrick felt his patience slip a notch further. “The kitchen boy and stable boy demanded to see the Countess. When their wish wasn’t granted, they talked the other children into revolting as well. They are not only getting in their parents’ way, but holding up anything that needs to be done in the castle. This includes preparing a meal for the hungry men.”

  Garrick shot a glance to Ryann. “Let me talk to them,” she demanded.

  “No,” he started for the door, but she darted in front of him. Where was the frightened little thing from just a moment before, he wondered irritably.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, picked her up and sat her to the side. As soon as her feet touched the ground and he released her, she darted back in front of him. He reached down and closed the robe again, grinding his teeth in frustration, and fighting a desire like no other he ever felt. “I will deal with this.”

  He made to go around, but she stopped him, “Winford and Daley are just concerned for me. They’re just boys.”

  He grabbed her by her hands holding the blanket, and yanked her against him. “You will obey me or I will beat you,” he said calmly into her face, but every muscle screamed to release the tension that was building in him. He wanted to feel her lips against his, taste those succulent breasts that were pressed into his chest. There must be no dissension in the ranks here, no question as to who was in charge.

  The fear was back on her face. “Stay here,” he emphasized, shaking her slightly.

  He turned only to find her blocking his path again. He itched to strike her for her blatant defiance, for that was what was done to defiant children and women. Not that he had to deal with any defiance since he himself had been a child. He reached for her. “Do you plan to go bare chested?” she asked. His hand dropped away and he stared at her. No one had ever been concerned whether he was bare chested or not. He offered a smile, but realized it came out more as a grimace, for he was not a man used to smiling. He turned and led Marcus from the chamber.

  “Where are these little rebels?” Garrick asked. The tension of the day was barely contained in him, and he knew Marcus heard the evidence of this in the edge of his voice.

  “The kitchens.”

  When Garrick strolled through the door the babble one would expect from a group of children and the adults trying to bring them into line, immediately ceased. A pin could be heard landing on the stones.

  “Who is responsible?” Garrick demanded, as he scanned the faces all turned toward him in rapt wonder or fear, he cared not which.

  “I will not play this game. Winford, Daley, the Countess said you two might be responsible.”

  “That’s a lie!” one boy exclaimed, stepping forward. In the blink of an eye Garrick drew his dagger, grabbed the boy, and had him pinned with the blade at his throat.

  “Please my lord,” a woman said. “Winford is my son.” She was being held to the side by one of Garrick’s soldiers. He was surprised and pleased that none who were trying to quell this situation had gone against his wishes, and were raping and pillaging. For if any of the women in the keep were as attractive as this one, not much would stop his men. She was tall and willowy, her black hair was thick framing a pale angelic face that appeared even paler with the dark brown, nearly black eyes peering out at him.

  The boy he held looked to be the male, adolescent version of her. “The boys are only being foolish,” she pleaded.

  “It’s not foolish,” a young man said, stepping forward. He was tall, nearly as tall as Garrick, his hair was pitch black, but his eyes were such a pale blue they looked white against his darkly tanned skin. He was a handsome young man, and Garrick took and immediate liking to his loyalty and bravery. “It is our duty to see to the safety of the Countess. If her guard cannot then we must. We demand to see her.”

  The anger jumped in him. He pushed Winford toward Marcus and had his sword in his hand held to the boy’s throat, unwaveringly close to ending his life. Only Garrick’s pledge before riding into the keep to his men kept him from releasing his anger with this impertinent boy’s blood.

  “I would like your name before I spill your blood.”

  “Daley, my lord,” he squeaked out.

  “What is your purpose here?” Garrick asked, his voice was strained as he struggled for patience.

  “My purpose is to insure the Countess’s well being.

  “No, your purpose. What do you do to earn your keep?”

  “I work in the stables.”

  “You are mighty bold for one of your position.”

  “Is it not our duty to see to her safety?”

  “You think you would withstand me if I wished to do her harm?”

  Daley’s eyes dulled for a moment, before flaming back to life with his stammered declaration, “But I don’t stand alone.”

  “But you will be the first to die. And your friend will be second. Who will stand up to me then?”

  “Please spare them my Lord,” this from the black headed woman.

  “I see no reason to spare them,” he snapped at her, wondering what was wrong with the women in this place. They did not know how to keep their mouths shut. For that matter, the children seemed to be unruly as well.

  “Winford is all I have. I will do anything if you spare them?” the woman pleaded.

  Garrick dropped his sword, resheathing it, and turning strolled toward the woman. He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and dragged her away from his man. “Disperse immediately or I will begin by killing your mother,” Garrick hissed, as he passed Marcus who had a hand clamped around Winford’s arm. He was passing through the doorway when the vision before him brought him up short, and he released the woman’s arm, forgetting her.

  Chapter 2

  Ryann paced back and forth in the chamber. What was taking Garrick so long? Was he slaying the children of the keep? Her heart tightened at the prospect. So many of them were orphans that she lost track long ago, but to have them die by a blade before ever reaching their potential made her
close to panic at her own uselessness. She would be damned, she thought angrily as she threw the fur off her and crossing to her chest, grabbed the first tunic on top and threw it on. It was a nightgown, the fabric was a gift, from whence it came she did not know, but the texture was silky and the cloth itself was woven so delicately, it was all but transparent. This she did not think about as she hurriedly yanked it over her head, already moving toward the door. Getting out of the chamber was another matter all together. She did not doubt if the guards left outside her door didn’t try to accost her, they would definitely not allow her to go after Garrick. Her best course of action she decided, was to throw the door open, and bolt.

  Would Garrick really beat her, she wondered as she faced the door, ready to yank it open. It did not matter it took her no time to decide. She would rather take a beating than let her children die. She felt hysterical laughter threaten, her a virgin, had countless children she considered her own. This would surprise her husband at one point or another, either that she had so many children, or that his wonderful gift for their wedding night was still intact. The thought sickened her, frightened her, and sparked anticipation for what she had waited her entire life for. With a scowl she pushed those thoughts away.