His warrior instinct demanded revenge. Normally, the urge to spill blood would’ve been impossible to ignore until Carina’s eyes ensnared him and encouraged him to disappear within the tender depth of the woman whose smile lifted his soul.
He shook his head. Damon was right. There was much he needed to learn about women, or rather, this woman. As king, he’d become so used to people with hidden motives, who wanted something from him, or simply liked him because of his status that he’d grown suspicious. Could she be true? Someone who liked him for who he was just as a man and not because of his crown or what he represented?
Her long lashes shielded her eyes as she dipped her head to hide her face. Amid the flutter of lantern light, she looked like an angel surrounded by pillows in her white, lace gown with her hair falling about her face in soft waves. He was completely taken with her.
“You want me to stay?” He spoke in a rough whisper, lacking the control of a king, displaying the needs of a man.
“At least until I fall asleep.” She glanced up, hopeful.
He didn’t have the strength to deny her and could only manage a brief nod to show his consent. Her resulting smile blinded him. She unfurled herself and placed her head on a pillow, then watched with inquisitive eyes as he kicked off his boots and lay beside her. If not for the bruising to act as a reminder, he would’ve had a hard time controlling his need for her.
She smiled again, bathing his heart in the warmth of her light. She touched his face, caressing his stubbly jaw with her fingers until her cheeks flamed. If possible, her blush deepened when she realized that he’d noticed her crimson giveaway, and she turned away from him.
Relief flooded his body. His Carina, the one he’d grown so fond of, was gradually peeking out of the safe place she’d retreated to—Sampson hadn’t broken her spirit.
Unwilling to let her slip out of reach, he squeezed his arm underneath her pillow and moved in close until the delicious length of her pressed against his body. Thoughts of revenge vanished in the wake of lustier wants. Afraid to hurt her bruised ribs, he rested his hand on her hip and fought the impulse to let his fingers roam. She trembled at his touch. He clenched his teeth and quelled the urge to kiss the long curve of her exposed neck.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head on the pillow knowing that lying beside her would be an exquisite torture testing his restraint, and one he would welcome the entire night.
31 – NEW BEGINNINGS
Carina awoke to an awareness that her protective wall of muscle had slipped out of the covers. She had slept soundly knowing he held her, keeping the nightmares about Sampson at bay. She could hear him dressing and her body warmed at the thought of him. With a tentative stretch to assess her sore body and a loud yawn, she turned to find him. Her smile disappeared when she noticed the bleak look in his eyes as he strapped on his sword and two dirks.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice shaky with concern.
He sat on the bed and reached for her hand. Morning light streamed in from the window, bathing him in a soft glow. Although he tried to hide his anger, she could hear the undercurrent in his voice.
“I must find Sampson.”
“What are you going to do?” she whispered, lowering her eyes to watch his hand holding hers.
“What he deserves.”
He spoke with a quiet, unquestionable resolve. Without a doubt, she knew Sampson was about to depart this world. A ripple of approval flowed through her veins, but a flood of guilt chased behind it. Sampson and Marek had grown up together. How could she live with herself knowing Marek had killed his best friend in order to defend her reputation? Kernels of doubt clouded her mind, whispering that a mixed blood wasn’t worthy of such an honor. A few weeks ago, she would’ve listened to those insecurities, letting them fester and grow. But something had happened since she’d left her father and Brookshire. She’d learned something about herself. A strength she never realized lived within her. She was no longer an insecure, timid girl willing to be a victim, but a fighter with the tenacity to protect herself when cornered. Either by arrows battling Tiwan warriors or her fists fending off Sampson—whatever the injustice, she would fight.
No one, not even a mixed blood, deserved the treatment she had endured yesterday. And with this realization, a sense of peace filled her with acceptance of who she was—a woman with an inner power fed not only by courage, but surprisingly, by compassion too. And this newly discovered understanding told her that Sampson shouldn’t die by Marek’s blade.
She sat up and clasped both of his hands, bringing them into her lap. She intertwined her fingers within his and marveled at how hands that displayed such strength could be so gentle.
“Will you please not kill him?”
Although she remained focused on their interlocked hands, his entire body stiffened. After a long moment, his curt response buffeted her like a cold wind.
“As king, I choose how to handle those who’ve sworn allegiance to me.”
She glanced up to confront the uncompromising clench in Marek’s jaw. She almost wilted at his determination, but somehow continued. “I can’t have his blood on my hands.”
Marek shook his head. “And you won’t. His blood will be on mine.”
“But he was your best friend. You grew up together. If you kill him, I fear it will leave a wound upon my soul that will never heal.” She squeezed his hands, hoping he could feel the passion of her request, and stared into his hardened eyes, pleading for him to reconsider.
He met her gaze with an iron will. But when she refused to back down, he yielded, exposing the anguish eating him. She gasped at the vulnerability he shared, which made her more determined that he not kill Sampson. He fought to stay composed, but glanced away.
“I don’t know if I can let him live knowing what he did to you.” He stammered. “Knowing that he touched you…” His voice trembled, raw with emotion.
She pressed her hand against his cheek and forced him to look at her. “He didn’t do anything that won’t heal in time. I’m still yours. That hasn’t changed.”
He sighed, wavering.
“Please, Marek. Please, do this for me.”
He reached for her hand and kissed the back of it. “I can’t promise you, but I’ll consider it.”
She smiled and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, enjoying the comfort of his strong arms wrapping around her.
32 – JUDGMENT DAY
Marek stepped out the door into the early morning sunshine. Summer was but a memory as the harvest season took center stage with brilliant yellow, brown, and orange colors transforming the countryside. He had a special fondness for this time of year as plants and animals hunkered down, anticipating the season of rejuvenation. The cooler weather energized him. Often he used this time to enlist his men in strenuous training regimens, repair buildings, and improve Stirrlan in some way before the snows lured life into a sleepy listlessness.
Today, however, his usual excitement eluded him as he inhaled a deep breath. The crisp air chilled his blood and dulled his spirit. His blades lay cold and heavy against his body, feeling burdensome and oppressive. He moved with a fluid confidence, coiled and ready to unleash his anger on a man he once considered a brother.
He had lain awake most of the night watching Carina sleep, marveling at the smallest details—the flutter of her eyes as she dreamed, the soft curl of her eyelashes, her lips mumbling his name when he stroked her hair, and the gentle beat of her heart. At first, he stared in fascination. Then, he noticed her darkening bruises and the rage inside him stretched. And when a movement caused her pain forcing a small moan to slip from her mouth, the rage unsheathed its talons. By the time the sun threatened to burst above the horizon, he could barely contain his anger. And the more he thought about Sampson touching her, the more the rage blazed through his bloodstream, finally driving him from Carina’s side.
The housing quarters for unmated soldiers were to the west of the main house. Sampson had a cottage next to the barracks. Marek’s feet crunched on the gravel as he rounded a corner of the castle. The pop and snap of the pebbles beneath his boots reminded him of bones breaking in battle. He flexed his fingers, anticipating his fist connecting with Sampson’s jaw. He had told Carina that he would consider leniency, but he’d made no guarantee as to the quality of Sampson’s life if the man lived.
Carina’s image scattered the violent thoughts swirling inside his mind. He still couldn’t figure out how she’d convinced him to consider sparing Sampson’s life. She had just seemed so vulnerable and grief-stricken that he would’ve promised anything to ease her pain.
He smiled despite the situation. He might be in trouble if Carina ever realized the power she wielded when she gazed at him with those brown, searching eyes. Not much of a king when his mistress could make him to do her bidding with just a few well placed glances. Somehow though, such control over him didn’t sound like a bad thing.
A twig snapped an instant before Damon stepped from the shadows of a small stand of poplar trees, their leaves still green despite the cooler temperatures. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and he stifled a yawn as he approached.
“You’ve watched him all night?” Marek asked.
“Aye.”
Marek appraised Damon. Damon had always fought with an unwavering sword, ready to step into the toughest battle. His quiet manner had a calming effect on younger, inexperienced soldiers, and he was always eager to teach what he knew to those willing to listen. As if looking at Damon for the first time, Marek realized he’d underestimated this man. In his attempt to step from his father’s shadow, he’d ignored someone who could’ve been—and still could be—so much more than just a soldier.
He gripped Damon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I cannot command you to go find your wife’s bed…at least not yet.” He ran a hand through his hair before explaining. “I’m afraid I might’ve made Carina a promise that will be hard to keep.”
Damon nodded. “Women can have that power.”
Marek’s lips curved upward in an understanding smile. “Then let’s get this over with so we can return to them.” He strode down the gravel path with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Damon fell into step behind him.
A young soldier emerged from the barracks just as Marek approached Sampson’s cottage. The lad looked crisp, well rested, and ready for the day. Marek recognized him as the blacksmith’s son.
“Stefen,” Marek yelled, and smiled when the startled boy stood at attention.
“Go saddle Reeza and bring her here.”
Stefen saluted and clicked his heels before racing toward the barns.
“Where am I going?”
Just hearing Sampson’s voice turned Marek’s blood cold. He watched Sampson step off the porch, and noticed the long scratches running from Sampson’s left eye down the entire length of his face. Although Marek had seen the marks yesterday, Sampson’s accusations about Carina had blinded him from recognizing the meaning of those jagged wounds. Even though his chest swelled with pride because Carina had fought hard, the dark rage freed its cage and burst forth with such hunger that his fingers twitched at the thought of driving his blade deep into Sampson’s gut. He clenched his teeth, gripping the rage on a tight leash.
If not for Carina, Marek would’ve surrendered to the rage and Sampson’s blood would be pooling beside his severed head. But because of her—knowing he still had to go back, look into her eyes and tell her what happened—he forcefully held it simmering underneath his skin. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from the calming comfort of his steel.
“I have questions about yesterday.” As king, his voice remained controlled, but the man inside struggled to contain a rising inferno.
“Don’t worry, Sire. We’ll search the town this morning and find the coward. I promise you.” Sampson nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
Marek fisted his hands while the muscles in his arms bunched from self-imposed restraint. “What did Carina tell you yesterday when you found her?”
Sampson waved a hand in the air as if batting away an insect. “Oh, she tried to deny it.”
“And you didn’t believe her?” Somehow he rediscovered his claymore. The cool, smoothness as his fingers wrapped around the hilt encouraged the rage.
Sampson frowned, either from not understanding Marek’s question or from a realization that he might be in trouble. When he answered, some of his blustery confidence had dissipated. “No, I didn’t believe her. She’d obviously just bedded a man.”
“But what led you to that conclusion?” With two broad steps, Marek stood in front of Sampson.
“She couldn’t even button her shirt,” Sampson blurted.
“Did Carina tell you that she’d been swimming?”
Sampson’s face burned red with anger. “Of course she did. She got caught and would’ve said anything.” Sampson shifted from one foot to the other.
Noting Sampson’s discomfort, a strange quiet settled over him. Rage coursed through his veins, but he channeled it and used its energy to provide the restraint he needed to avoid killing the man standing before him.
Aware of Damon standing silent and watchful, Marek had no doubt Damon would come to his aid, if necessary. “Yet when Damon returned on DarkStar and they found nothing, you still didn’t believe her?” He took another step forward, forcing Sampson to stand motionless with just a warning glare.
Fear flashed in Sampson’s eyes and Marek’s body rippled with satisfaction. Sampson tried to diffuse the situation by placing his hand on Marek’s shoulder, and Marek resisted the urge to break every finger on that hand.