Destined for a King (2 page)

She reached up and pulled the black leather skullcap from her head. A cascade of thick, dark curls fell to her waist, incongruous against her gear. “My betrothed is not present here.”

“Pity.” He took a step forward, and regretted the action when pain shot down his leg. He forced his voice to remain light and steady as he went on. “I'm sure he'd find your current garments amusing. Is this the latest in ladies' fashion in this part of the Eastern Strongholds?”

A wash of pink stained her cheeks. “He would commend me for shooting at you.”

“No doubt, no doubt, although he might chastise you about your aim.” Not to mention placing herself in such danger. “If you meant to kill me, you missed.” Although the way his thigh plagued him, she still stood a chance of accomplishing the deed.

Her gaze trailed down his leg, and he could nearly feel it like a flame burning through mail and padding. “What makes you think I was aiming for your heart?”

A buzz of laughter filled the hall. Even the austere-faced Kestrel's lips quirked. Torch placed a hand on his chest and bowed to her, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Well answered.” How he would love to trade barbs with her—of the verbal sort now that the fighting was over—but not until someone saw to his leg. A trickle of warmth coursed along his thigh—blood, beginning to seep through the binding. “But given my intent to wed you, perhaps you ought to aim for my heart next time. Only in place of a crossbow bolt, use your tongue.”

She gasped, and her cheeks went purple.

“Oh, dear, and now I've shocked you.” He would have answered with his most roguish smile, one that he'd used to charm women of all stations, from chatelaine to serving wench, but his vision clouded once more. An odd shiver crept along his spine, and his legs turned to water. He'd seen men go white and bloodless, but he never thought to actually feel the color draining from his face. He was sure it was happening though—just as sure as the blackness around the edges of his vision encroached, until he could see nothing more.

His knees buckled, and he fell.

Calista had never seen swords drawn so quickly. One moment, she'd been trading jibes with an utter rogue, and the next five deadly blades pointed at her heart. The other Blackbriar guards all stood, unarmed and facing steel. Across the dais, a black-haired man had pinioned her father from behind. Torchlight glinted along the shining edge of the dagger that now dug into his throat.

Her hands shook as she raised them, weaponless. “Please,” she whispered.

How she wished her voice carried to the back of the hall. Her mother had raised her to be a proper lady with the expectation of making a suitable match. She'd never been trained to bear arms or shoot crossbows, any more than she was meant to stand at sword point and boldly hold her chin high in defiance.

“You would ask mercy?” said the man who held the knife on her father. His blue eyes glittered like cold sapphires. “Then see to your lord.”

She glanced at the body of the brigand who had taken the keep. A youth, no doubt someone who passed for the man's squire, knelt at his side, patting his cheek. Blood seeped from a bandage that covered the place where she'd shot him.

A handbreadth inward, and the bolt might have been fatal. If she'd so much as nicked the large artery that ran down the inner thigh, he'd have bled to death. But this was merely a flesh wound. He might yet sicken from it, should infection set in, but there was no reason it should fell him now.

Unless that bolt had carried a poison…Her heart slammed into her throat. If any of the defenders had treated the points of their quarrels, she'd been unaware. Slowly she raised her gaze to the Brother who held her father and read suspicion in his eyes, his expression, in his very posture.

“What would you have me do?” They had no way of knowing of her healing skills, and she saw no reason to tell them.

“You inflicted the wound. You can treat it.” The man tightened his grip on her father and the dagger dug into his throat. A trickle of blood welled along the blade. “As Torch fares, so does your father.”

Her hands turned to ice, and her knees wavered. If she wasn't careful, she'd join Torch on the flagstones, in no position to assure his survival. But a thread of relief wove itself through the fear. Based on all the tales noised about, she'd have expected one of the Brotherhood to slice her father's throat outright and put the entire keep to the sword.

“If you would ensure his healing,” she said through a thick throat, “my lady mother has a great deal more learning.”

“Then ask for her advice, but you will bring him through.” His eyes were hard and determined. This man might be a stranger to her, but she was familiar enough with authority that she knew better than to buck his. And he wasn't even their leader.
He must be their commander, though, second only to their lord.

And who would have believed brigands such as these—bastards, younger sons, landless knights, mercenaries, if not simple outlaws—would follow such an accepted structure? For they were brigands. They had the look of men hardened to the wild, men who had seen too much destruction, and who lived a desperate existence that might end at any moment.

But it wouldn't end now, not when they'd just secured themselves a foothold on respectability.
Their lord wants to buy his respectability through a marriage alliance. He wants to legitimize himself through me.

And who was she to stop him, even if he were in her hands now? She might possess the means to ensure he died of his wound, superficial though it may be, but only at the cost of her father's life. The price was too high. She would comply—for now—and once he was healed, she'd find a way out of a marriage contract with him.

With Torch.

By all accounts a bastard, a marauder, a merciless pillager.

She met the gaze of the man holding a knife on her father and nodded. “As you will. Have your Brothers bring him to my chambers. And I work far better when I don't have a sword threatening to run me through.”

Never had Calista's chamber felt so small as when Torch filled her bed. Even stripped of his gear, his naked shoulders seemed to span her mattress. Those thickly muscled shoulders, strong and dangerous like the arms lying atop the coverlet. As no doubt the rest of him beneath. Tall and menacing, a threat, but not in the manner she'd supposed. Bare toes protruded from under the linen sheet, and she curled her fingers against a desire to cover them.

She'd have to remove that sheet soon enough. Worse, a wicked part of her wanted to study the makeup of such a well-formed man. The baser part of her nature prodded her to bare him to her gaze, to view taut flesh over honed muscle and sinew.

Danger. He is dangerous to you, to Father, to the keep and all its inhabitants.
Perhaps if she reminded herself often enough, she'd come to believe it. Why should danger come wrapped in such an appealing package?

“Ye'd best get t' work.” The broad accent of the Freeholds infused the speech of a gangly youth, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. No older than sixteen, he bore the same mismatched gear as his lord. A black ravenlike bird adorned the patched tunic he wore over a mail shirt.

“Yes, sir.” The desire to needle him for his serious manner was so strong, she nearly dipped into a curtsey. “What should I call you?” she added. “I prefer to address my guards by name.”

Dark eyes narrowed behind a curtain of stringy hair. “Owl.”

She raised her brows. “Am I to believe your mother looked on you the day you were born and called you Owl?”

“O' course not, but that's what ye're t' call me.” Naturally. Given his friends' reputations, no doubt they all terrorized the countryside under false names. “ 'S what ever'one calls me. Now best ye see t' th' lord.”

Her mother's appearance in the doorway to her bedchamber saved her from having to reply to the boy's insolence. Amara took one look at Owl and raised her nose. “Off with you.”

Owl crossed his arms and did his best to stare her down. If he remained at the keep long enough, he'd eventually learn he had no hope of winning that particular contest. Many other servitors, older but certainly no wiser, had tried. “I'm t' guard th' lord, see.”

“You can do your guarding outside the door, then,” Amara replied briskly. “I've no need for boys dirtying up the sick room with their foul manners and fouler odors and generally getting in my way.”

But Owl refused to be persuaded. “I ain't t' leave th' pair of ye alone w' th' lord, and that's orders. Ye has a problem, ye takes it up wit' Kestrel.”

“And where might I address my complaints?” Mama stared down the length of her nose, fine traces of her native accent creeping into her speech. “Should I seek him in the mews?”

“Kestrel's commander.” Commander, yes. The very man who had held a knife to her father's throat. “He's in charge till th' lord wakes.” The rest of his threat hung unspoken in the air. If Torch didn't wake up, Calista's father would meet the same fate. Kestrel was holding him under guard in one of his own dungeons.

“You want your lord to wake up in a timely manner, you'll stay far out of my way,” her mother replied in the voice of a woman who expected immediate obedience. “I don't need some young upstart telling me what to do.”

“I've been ordered to do all the healing,” Calista replied low. “I'm certain this Owl person is on hand to make sure that happens.”

“That an' nothing unnatural happens t' th' lord,” Owl replied from near the door.

The Faceless One take it. And how were she and her mother to exchange any confidences with that scrawny boy listening to every word they said? Even if they resorted to Mother's tongue, Owl would only insist they use language he understood.

Her mother gave a curt nod. “They've told me the conditions.”

Calista glanced across at Owl and lowered her voice even further. “Have you any idea what might have made him succumb to such a superficial hurt so quickly?”

“From what I heard, you shot that quarrel,” her mother replied between her teeth. “If you've been putting potions on the tips of your bolts, shouldn't you know the answer to that?”

“I ran out of bolts, so I took one from a guard.” She shuddered at the memory of the man lying facedown. She still didn't know which of Blackbriar's men had fallen in her defense; had she seen his face, she'd have immediately assigned a name to the lifeless body. “He no longer needed it.”

“That gives me a notion, then. Once you've cleaned the wound, a poultice of dragonwort, tansy, and blackbriar haws will draw out the poison. You must renew it faithfully every eighth-day. And with each change, also cleanse the wound with boiled ice wine.”

She paused and passed a shaky hand over her mouth, her brisk demeanor dropping in a trice. “If we don't see any improvement by the morning, things will not go so well for your father, I'm afraid.”

Amara Thorne was not a woman to let her emotions get the better of her, at least not in front of the servants—which included Owl now—but the tremor in her voice spoke as much for her battered emotions as if she'd screamed and burst into tears. She'd come to Blackbriar a score and five years ago as a prize of war, but bright-eyed. Some of the older servants whispered that Amara had chosen her captor. Despite the passing of years, she still loved her lord husband.

Calista nodded with assurance, though her hands had turned to ice. Somehow she must make her suddenly stiff fingers work for her, for her father's sake.

“I can stay if you wish,” her mother added, her tone soft and soothing. The sort of tone a mother would use to comfort a child who'd just awoken from a nightmare.

“No.” They wanted her to do this on her own, and she would. Her mother had passed on much of her lore, and Calista felt ready to prove herself now. She was a woman grown. Let this be her test. “I will call you if necessary.”

“Send Tamsin if you must. I will not be far, seeing to our own wounded.” Calista understood what her mother had left unsaid.
Save this miscreant, and so save my husband.

With her mother's departure came time to focus on her task. Owl had tossed his lord's gear in a haphazard pile next to the bed, a tooled black leather scabbard topmost. From one end protruded a steel hilt, the pommel carved in the likeness of a raptor. That sword had seemed to blaze over Torch's head like a beacon as he'd rallied his men to sack Blackbriar, but its flame was doused now. If she drew it, would it come to life? She didn't dare. Not with Owl watching, and not with the blade's owner at hand, even if he was insensible.

Briefly, she scanned her basket of supplies: water of life, clean swaths of linen bandaging, needle and thread, vials of herbal preparations, her mother's special potions, mortar and pestle.

Torch reclined quietly, the hardened muscles of his bare arms idle, calloused hands folded over his chest. He almost looked as if he'd already passed on to the next world, his body laid out for the final farewells. Calista shook herself. No, she mustn't think that way.

As Torch fares, so does your father.

Simple enough justice and only to be expected.

Still, she paused for a good look at the man rumor painted as a ruthless plunderer, a maimer of the innocent. Some would claim him to be the Faceless One incarnate. Only, as he slept, the harsh planes of his face eased into almost boyish lines. Thick lashes formed crescents against high cheekbones. Some women might even deem that handsome.

Torch, indeed. His name supposedly derived in part from his red hair, but the unruly mop that tumbled about his forehead and shoulders was a shade closer to chestnut. The dancing fire on the hearth picked up glints of red in the tangle, and the day's growth of stubble on his squared chin glowed ruddy, a subtler flame than the one his name evoked.

She clenched a fist against the temptation to test its texture with her fingertip, lest she burn herself. How could she ogle him like some silly young chit mooning over the cavaliers in the king's court, when she had a job to do? She'd best get about healing him before he succumbed.

With a spate of impatience, she jerked the sheet back from his legs—only to drop it as if it had suddenly caught fire. Her cheeks flamed. Owl had removed even his lord's smallclothes. As an unmarried woman, she shouldn't have to contend with a naked man, especially not one so wholly masculine. Even out cold, his presence on her mattress made her feel somehow vulnerable. Something inside her melted and simmered.

This would never do. If she meant to prove herself, she'd have to grit her teeth and do her duty. Her father's life depended on it.

Picking up the edge of the sheet with a thumb and forefinger, she eased it back just enough to expose his wound while preserving his modesty. She could ignore the bulk of his muscled thigh, surely. Yet, she must touch it to unwind the bandaging his squire had swaddled him with. Fresh blood stained the white linen.

Thank the All-Mother. The wound must remain open if she were to expel the poison.

With a firm jaw, she reached for the water of life and a clean cloth. With an equally firm hand, she dabbed away the blood to expose the angry flesh beneath.