Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (8 page)

Wulfson stepped forward, and as he came closer to her, his eyes traversed her face and form. His body warmed more the closer he came to her, and a sudden sense of familiarity stung him. He halted next to her and cocked his head, his eyes taking in every aspect of her. Even her voice sounded familiar. He smiled slowly, and watched a soft flush of pink tinge her cheeks.

Making a short bow, Wulfson huskily introduced himself. “I am Wulfson of Trevelyn.”

She made a shallow curtsy. Wry amusement twisted her full lips. “I am Lady Tarian of Dunloc.”

“So I have heard.” He stood staring down at her, unable to comprehend her beauty and the air of sensuality that was as much a part of her as those remarkable eyes. “My lady?” He extended his arm as a noble would to his lady. Tarian’s eyes narrowed, but she reached out and placed a firm hand on his arm. He drew her around and as they walked to the lord’s table, Wulfson asked, “Now, tell me, of which scourge do you speak?”

As he set her down in the space beside him, Tarian forced back a shiver. The potion had been potent, but he suspected. She saw the spark of recognition in his deep green eyes. Panic sprang up out of nowhere, seizing her belly and twisting it. But she calmed herself and played it out. What panicked her more was her unexpected reaction to him, so strong in the light of day. Her body warmed the instant he turned those brilliant eyes of his upon her, and the way he raked her with those eyes made her feel as if she stood naked before him. She knew well what crossed his mind. Her cheeks warmed again. The same thought crossed
hers. She’d held her breath, watching him closely for the slightest sign of recognition of her, and when she heard his question she held her breath again. He seemed, though, to second-guess himself. Which was well. She could not afford for him to rethink.

“Why, sir knight, you of all people should know of whom I speak,” Tarian said sweetly.

Wulfson grinned; his teeth were white and straight. “Let us see how the day plays out before I give my oath.”

The knight took the seat beside her, and as he reached for his table knife he paused and looked at her through surprised eyes. His nostrils flared, and for a moment she thought he had caught her perfume. But she had prepared well. Last night’s rose scent was not her usual, the honey-violet scent she wore now. She prayed he would not recognize her.

She raised a brow. “Sir? Do you sniff your prey like a wolf before you slay it?” The low noise at the table quieted at her words. Tarian stared up at him, her look fierce. “I would know now your plans for me.”

Wulfson grabbed his knife from the table where it stuck in the wood. He brought it close to his chest and turned the sharpened tip toward her. Her breath caught in her throat but she did not dare move. In a light caress, he placed the flat side of the tip to the bend of her jaw; then slowly he drew the blade down to her throat and lower still to the full swell of her breasts. Tarian sat rigid, yet oddly warm. Did he mean to do the deed here? Now? Gareth might die trying to save her, but her captain and her men, who had all turned at her entrance, were seasoned warriors and well weaponed. More than her head alone would roll if she were murdered. Would the Norman sacrifice a few of his men
to do the deed now, in public, when he could bide his time and spare the lives of many?

She breathed in a deep breath; the blade pinched her soft skin. Her gaze caught his, and she was not sure what she read in those emerald depths. Fire, to be sure, but was it the fire of the chase, the anticipation of total domination over one’s prey? Or was there more to it then that? For he was a hunter of the most violent kind, and she knew all too well that his passion was as fierce as his fighting skills—for which he and his men were renowned.

Long seconds dragged out; she did not so much as flinch. Instead, she pressed herself into the blade. “If you have come to see me planted beside my husband, do it now and save us all the anxiety of the hunt.”

His lips quirked. “You do me grave injustice, Lady Tarian.”

She cocked a brow in question.

“You have given up the chase before it has really begun. I would think a warrior of your ilk would be champing at the bit to prove herself.”

Tarian smiled, and pressed her hand to his thigh. He hissed in a breath. “Oh, but sir knight, that is where you are most incorrect. I have been engaged since the day I was born.”

His eyes narrowed as if mayhap he realized he was not the one in control. She took advantage, and pressed more firmly against the blade tip.

Though his hand held steady, moving neither forward nor away from her, when the tip broke the sensitive skin on the swell of her breast from the pressure she exerted, Lord Alewith slammed his fists down on the trestle top. “Enough! Do not harm her! She is my ward and I would see her safely back to Turnsly.”

Wulfson looked past Tarian to the man who had raised her. She slid her hand down his forearm to rest upon his fist that held the knife. It was the same knife he had pressed to her throat last night. Wulfson’s nostrils flared, and the entire hall watched with bated breath his next move. She felt more than saw Gareth off to her right, and she knew that unless she gave him the signal he would not impede her strategy. He had learned many years ago that what might look like a foolish deed was often well planned, and the wiles of a woman could do more damage to an unsuspecting foe than any blade.

But Sir Wulfson of Trevelyn was not any such man. His eyes caught hers, and he cocked a dark brow. In her gut, she knew he was there to dispose of her; why, exactly, she was not sure, but if she gave him the lead he would take full advantage of it. “I am lady here, and as such I have the right to know what business your king has with Dunloc.”

“I am here to see to your welfare—among other things.”

She moved away from him and turned back to the trencher she was to share with him. “I am well, as you can see. Please leave, and take that scourge Rangor with you.”

Wulfson shook his head and stabbed a chunk of meat from the bowl of pottage. As he chewed, he looked at her, his eyes ravishing every inch of her. He was beyond bold. His arrogance was unsurpassed, and when she looked up and down the trestle top she recognized he was but the twin image of his men. She nearly snorted in contempt, and felt disgraced that she had sought a Norman’s bed. Despite her impression of him in the light of day, she had relished him last eve. When she had slipped from the bed, she felt a sense of loss she could not put a name to. When she made it back to her room, Edith sat in her chair with
her distaff in her hands, a pile of wool in her lap and a knowing smile lighting up her face.

Tarian awakened several times in the night to the illusion of hot lips and strong hands stroking her body. Frustrated by her passion for the Norman, she admitted she wanted to experience it again. For it had been nothing like any encounter in her life. Yet she felt that there was more to it. Her body ached and she knew not how to ease it. Instinctively, she knew the answer to lie with the knight down the hall. Each time she flung the covers from her and sat up in the bed, her pulse racing and her breaths heavy, Edith looked on, that smug smile still plastered across her face. Tarian threw her pillows at the old woman and commanded her to cease looking and see to her pallet.

This morn, she could not look her nurse in the eye, and dressed with amazing speed, nearly bolting from the room into Gareth’s chest.

Her body warmed. And despite her frustration, she cast the dark knight a sideways glare from beneath her lashes, and could not deny that he was a most remarkable specimen of a man.

Her earlier hunger was overrun with anxiety and excitement, and Tarian only picked at her meal. The Normans devoured every morsel in sight. Whilst they dined, Tarian decided to leave the argument that was to come, to after the breaking of the fast. She wanted to be mobile, not seated between two hulking Normans with her men out of reach. She would plead her case and see to it that Rangor and Alewith returned to their respective manors.

She was not a woman who needed a man’s protection, not even from these Normans.

“How came you to learn our tongue?” Tarian casually asked Wulfson.

“My mother was Saxon. I spent time in Dover with her brother as a young lad.”

“Why not with your dam?”

Wulfson scowled a warning. Tarian immediately understood and retreated. Byblow that she was herself, she could well understand a mother’s scorn for an unholy child.

“Are you with child?” Rangor blurted out from down the table. Tarian stiffened, as did the knights flanking her.

Heat rose in Tarian’s cheeks. Heat not of embarrassment, but of indignation. He had no right to ask her such a question. But when she looked to Alewith for support, she saw only quiet questioning in his eyes. She swallowed the lump of bread she had just chewed and straightened.

“Time will tell.”

Rangor stood and turned to peer down the trestle top to her. “If there is no heir, then you have no claim here.”

More than irritated at his relentless demands, Tarian stood as well. She would put his incessant claims to rest once and for all. “I have claim here because Malcor gave me all in his will.”

“A fraudulent document, no doubt! He would never leave his estates to a woman!”

“Where is the document, Lady Tarian?” Wulfson asked as he too stood.

She looked up at him and glared. “In a safe place where no devious hands can touch it.”

Wulfson nodded, but pressed. “I would see it.”

Tarian cocked a brow. “You can read?”

Wulfson nodded. “Well enough.” He returned a cocked brow. “And you?”

“Better than well. ’Twas the only way the monks at Turns Abbey could keep me from causing more disturbances.”

Satisfied with her answer, Wulfson looked past her to Rangor. “The document will be produced and examined for its validity. My decision will be final.”

Rangor came around from the men and approached, a long sniveling sneer twisting his thin lips. “Even if the document proves authentic, if there is no heir, by our law
she must relinquish the earldom, and the lands and title that go with it, to the next living male in the line. I am that male. The
only
one.”

Alewith stood as well, and moved around to stand beside Tarian. He took her cold hands into his. Before he could utter a word, Rangor strode closer demanding, “It has been a month since Malcor’s death. Have you missed your courses?”

Tarian’s cheeks flamed. Every man, woman, and child in the hall waited for her answer.

“Rangor!” Alewith hissed. “Mind your manners!”

Sword drawn, Wulfson extended his arm, the razor-sharp tip of the blade pointed at Rangor’s heart. The Saxon slowed to a halt several steps from Tarian. Wulfson’s men slowly stood, surrounding the belligerent Saxon and drawing their swords as well. Tarian’s heart beat high in her throat at the deadly display. Her gaze rose to catch Gareth’s, and she read his respect and awe for these knights of William.

“Since the conquest, there is no room here for courtly manners, Alewith,” Rangor sneered. “We hang onto our land by our fingernails.” He turned back to Tarian. “Answer me!”

Tarian remained silent, her face set.

“Tell us, child,” Alewith urged softly.

For him, a man who had been more generous than he needed to be, despite the small fortune that was entrusted to him for the royal byblow, Tarian could never deny Alewith anything. Slowly she shook her head, and lied. “Nay, sir, I have not.”

Rangor threw his hands up and spun halfway away from them. His narrow shoulders hunched over, he seemed to be deep in thought. Then he straightened and whirled around. “It matters not. The midwife explained how inconsistent a
woman can be, especially with strife swirling about. There is still time.”

“I see no significance either way, Rangor,” Alewith said, “I have no reason to doubt Tarian and the validity of the will.” He looked up at Wulfson, who still held his sword extended toward Rangor. “Does William uphold our laws and customs, or is he bent on destroying those as well?”

“William is a fair man. He is also loyal to those who are loyal to him.”

Alewith, Rangor, and Tarian stood slack-jawed at the absurd statement. Tarian turned on him. “How can you say such a thing? He killed our king and most of the nobility and untold freemen of this nation. Harold’s brothers, my uncles, along with many of my cousins, fell that day. Your duke had no right to come here: the Witan voted unanimous that Harold should be king!”

Wulfson sheathed his sword—an insult in light of the heated conversation. “William was promised the throne by Edward. That is as binding as a will.” Wulfson’s eyes narrowed. “How would you feel, my lady, should we all at this moment vote to give Rangor this place? Does it make it his? Or does the last will and testament of the former lord hold sway?”

“’Tis not the same,” Tarian defended.

“It is the same, and if you will not do what is best for you”—he looked up and sneered at Rangor—“nor what is best for your illustrious uncle, I am here to see to William’s interests, and so to that end, it will be those that will be best served.”

“I will not be a pawn in any man’s game, not even a king’s!”

Wulfson leaned toward her and warned, “The game has
just begun, my lady, and do not for one moment think I crossed that miserable Channel and wore down the hooves of my horse for naught.”

“I will not be forced from my home!”

“That is yet to be determined, but—” His eyes narrowed and a small smile twisted his cruel lips. “If you are with child, your chances of surviving here may improve. If you are not, then seek a husband immediately, for you will need one.”

“I have made a bid for her hand,” Rangor said, stepping forward. Tarian could barely swallow. It had taken every shred of willpower and guts she had to bed with the Norman, but Rangor of Lerwick? His wet lips, pale eyes, pockmarked face, and clammy white skin made him as undesirable to bed as a slippery eel. She would go to the convent before she would lie with him.

“I have told you, I am not interested in marriage with you.” Her eyes narrowed and she fondled the hilt of her sword. “Will you trick me again, Rangor, and throw me down the steps to the dungeon now?”

His face paled to the shade of curdled cream. “Coward,” Alewith hissed. “I did not believe the messenger when he told me such a tale.”

“I meant her no harm. ’Twas only a way to turn her to my wishes,” Rangor defended.

“I would have died before bedding with the likes of you, Rangor,” Tarian spat.

Rangor’s pale eyes iced. “You are
nithing
, as was your sire. No man will have you!”

Tarian gasped and slapped the Saxon lord. Rangor grabbed her hand and yanked her hard away from the Norman. He turned her around and moved to draw his sword.
But Wulfson anticipated the move. With lightning speed, he reached past Tarian and clasped the lord around his throat with both hands. Shaking him loose from Tarian, he lifted Rangor clear off the floor. Rangor’s men came together but the Normans held them back.

“You sorely try my patience, Saxon,” Wulfson gritted.

Gareth strode angrily toward them, his hand on his sword, his face red and blustery. “
You
are
nithing
, Rangor,” Gareth seethed, “Say that word again to my lady and I will slit your throat from ear to ear.”

Rangor’s pale eyes bulged out of his head, his feet kicked, his hands frantically grasped at Wulfson’s locked around his neck. He made pitiful noises as Wulfson continued to hold him in the air. Wulfson’s knuckles whitened as they closed tighter around the noble’s neck, and sharp wheezing sounds erupted from the closed throat.

Tarian, along with every other person in the hall, stood in silent awe. The Norman’s great strength and his indifference to the life he was snuffing out was as terrifying as it was shocking.

As a warrior, Tarian recognized a mortal enemy when she saw one, and she knew in her gut that Rangor would go to the ends of the earth to posses Dunloc and her. In that, she should keep silent and let nature take its course; or, as in this case, let the Norman do what Normans do best: kill. But she was also a woman who saw the consequences that would follow in the wake of Rangor’s murder. His Welsh relatives would not only hold the Norman accountable, but word would spread that she’d done nothing to stop it, and therefore she would be an accomplice. And that she could not have. She needed her allies to the west if she were to have any leverage against Norman usurpation.
The choice to save Rangor’s life was not made because she was a woman and a nurturer; it was made because she was a woman and a warrior who had no qualms about playing both sides against the middle to hold what was hers by marriage.

When Rangor’s body went limp in the Norman’s hands, Tarian stepped forward and pressed her hand to Wulfson’s. “Please, sir knight, spare him.”

Wulfson’s piercing gaze speared her. “I will give you my oath that should I allow him to live this day, he will be a constant source of irritation to us both.”

Tarian nodded, and pushed against his hand to lower Rangor. “I can handle him.” She smiled at the fearsome knight. “Can you?”

Wulfson’s hands opened and Rangor fell to the floor with a dull thud. Tarian calmly regarded the Norman. His cool gaze and deadly energy sent a chill of fear along the back of her neck and down her spine. When the time came for this man to snuff out her life, he would do it as easily and as indifferently as if he were flicking a flea off his hand.

Ignoring Rangor’s gasping form on the floor, she looked over the gathered throng for Rangor’s manservant, but did not see him. Instead, the whiny Ruin, her late husband’s revolting manservant, hung back like the coward he was behind several other servants. “Ruin, get your carcass over here and see to Lord Rangor.” Tarian looked up at Wulfson and curtsyed. “I have been abed too long, and seek fresh air. If it is permissible, I would see to my horse and exercise him.”

Wulfson stared down at her for a long moment before he extended his arm. “Allow me to escort you.”

Tarian cocked a brow. “Do you not really mean, allow you to walk with me as my jailer?”

He shrugged his great shoulders and smiled a twisted half-smile. “It matters not how you interpret my offer. It stands as it is. Should you refuse, you will while away the hours this day in this smoky hall. The choice is yours.”

She nodded her head ever so slightly, and said, “’Tis obvious your mother did not raise you. You have the manners of a boar.”

The color blanched from his face and his lips pulled tight into a harsh line. “’Tis more than I can say for your sire, Lady Tarian.”

She curbed the impulse to slap him as she had slapped Rangor. She did not doubt she would suffer brutally at his hand, and while her mettle was strong, she could not bear the humiliation he would cause her in front of her people. She trod on a winter pond where the ice was parchment-thin, and if she made one false move she might find herself drowning in its icy depths.

“Touché, my lord knight. Never was there a more loving pair than your dam and my sire. May they rest in peace.”

Wulfson cocked a brow. “I never said my dam lived or died.”

Placing her hand back upon his brawny forearm, she softly said, “I could see she was dead to you in your eyes. Whether she is actually in the ground or buried in your heart, she will glean no love from her son.”

Her response did not require an answer, and he offered none. She turned then to face the still stunned crowd. Her eyes touched on Alewith, then on the silent but ever alert Brighid, and finally on her guard, whom she warned off with her gaze. She would test the Norman waters on her terms, and with no intrusion.

“Should I not return in a reasonable amount of time,
Gareth, alert the Welsh—and Rangor, should he come to.” While her voice held a serious note, her lips quirked into a small smile when she looked up at the arrogant knight. He stared down at her, a spark of amusement in his dark eyes. If she could not overpower him with sheer force, she would wheedle her way in with guile. She cocked her head toward the great double doors. “Shall we?”

He moved her through the throng that parted like the Red Sea.