Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (7 page)

But he refused to let her go.

His newfound conscience squawked, calling him selfish. He conceded the point, but the fact he enjoyed having Afina and the little one around changed naught. His logic was sound. He’d taken them for a purpose. He required a healer, and she, his protection.

Vladimir was power hungry, a warlord with serious ambition. Promise to Bodgan aside, instinct told him the bastard would hurt Afina if he managed to capture her. Xavian’s hand tightened around the wooden block. Nay, he wouldn’t allow it. Drachaven was her home now, and he, her overlord. ’Twas his duty to ensure she thrived, and hers to serve him well.

The trick would be in breaking her willfulness without damaging her spirit. He didn’t want her broken, just tamed a wee bit. Eyes narrowed, he flipped the knife into the air, watching it rotate end over end while he went over his plan. The old oak
he sat beneath swayed above his head and a whisper of sound ghosted from his left.

Without looking away from the arc of the blade, he asked, “Where is she?”

“At the stream, bathing the little one.” The voice came from the opposite side of the tree.

Catching the knife hilt midturn, Xavian fingered the grip’s worn leather. “Who’s trailing them?”

“Razvan.”

“Out of sight?”

“Aye,” Cristobal said, rounding the enormous trunk. Standing between the oak’s gnarled feet, he propped a shoulder against the rough bark. “Afina has no idea we are tracking her movements. Razvan will let us know if she makes a break for it.”

“Good.” Xavian tossed the weapon again, fighting an unpleasant sensation as it banded around his chest.

Light from the setting sun flashed on the blade while he banished regret. She required a lesson. One he hated to deliver but knew was necessary. When she found the courage to run, he would follow...close enough to protect, far enough to make her believe she’d succeeded before he showed himself. He wanted her to understand she held no chance of escape. The only way to accomplish that was to hand her hope then take it away.

He scowled, dreading the moment she realized she’d failed. He imagined her hazel eyes filled with anger, then hurt. ’Twas the hurt that almost changed his mind. Almost, but in the end logic tamed emotion, and he said, “Make sure she is watched at all times. I mean to give her some room to run, but not so much that I lose her.”

Cristobal nodded, his expression pensive as he flicked an acorn with the toe of his boot. Xavian recognized the look.
’Twas one that always appeared before his friend called him on his behavior. Preparing for Cristobal’s rebuke, he wiped his carving blade on his trews and searched the tree line at the lip of the clearing. Afina had been gone too long. Had she given his man the slip? Was she already on the run?

The thought barely registered when he heard Sabine giggle. Awareness flickered, and his body tightened, knowing wherever the little one went Afina followed. His focus fixed on a break in the shrubbery, he heard Afina’s voice, tone soft with coaxing. A moment later Sabine came charging out of the underbrush, a stick clutched in her wee fist. With a bellow to rival a knight on a battlefield, she raised the small branch and roared toward the other side of the clearing.

Preparing their evening meal at fireside, Qabil ducked, avoiding decapitation as the little one sped past, her gaze fixed on Kazim. The warrior hit his knees, grabbed his own stick from beneath the fallen leaves, and met Sabine’s downswing. She shrieked with laughter when Kazim growled and parried another thrust, seemingly thrilled by his reaction.

Xavian shook his head. Jesu, mock battle with a two-year-old. His lips curved, enjoying the melee and Sabine’s enthusiasm as she struck again. Amazed by his men and their willingness to not only protect but play with the girl-child, he flinched when she swung left and thumped Kazim on the shoulder.

He glanced at Cristobal. “Bloodthirsty little thing.”

Dark eyes agleam with good humor, his friend shrugged. “The healthy ones usually are.”

Xavian snorted. How the hell did Cristobal know so much about children? ’Twas a mystery that intrigued him more than it should, but he refused to pry. His men deserved their privacy, had earned the right to their secrets. And so had he.

“Sabine!” Afina’s voice rang across the clearing.

Xavian watched emotion tumble across her face, bafflement combined with dismay. Hopping over a fallen tree trunk, she hustled toward the impromptu battlefield, all lithe curves and swaying hips. He swallowed, unable to keep himself from absorbing every detail—from the rippling length of her dark hair and flushed cheeks to the enticing curve of her breasts. His blood heated, nudging the traitor below his belt.

He clenched his hand around the figurine, trying to douse the lust as Andrei intercepted her halfway across the clearing. Xavian stilled, aggression swimming in his veins, and waited. If his man touched her, a little too long or a little too much, he would enter the fray; something the Frenchman would regret afterward. Lucky for him, Andrei did naught but stand in her path and talk. The smooth sound of his French accent drifted, the soft cadence designed to soothe Afina’s fear for her child.

After a moment, she backed away and glanced at him, a clear question in her eyes. His heart turned over. Hell, she looked to him for reassurance. The realization made him feel unaccountably good—proud that she trusted him to keep her daughter safe. Fighting the tightness in his throat, he nodded, letting her know ’twas naught but a game. No cause for alarm.

The tension holding her shoulders square softened. She nodded in return then cringed when Sabine whooped and struck. And struck again, the crack of wood echoing as she brained Kazim with her makeshift sword.

The warrior chuckled.

The girl-child grinned, and Afina shook her head as she turned to join Qabil by the fire.

Cristobal shifted, placing his back flat against the oak. Arms crossed over his chest, his gaze settled on their new healer. “How long will you let her run?”

“A day, no more.”

“She’ll exhaust herself,” his friend said, concern in his tone.

Xavian glowered at the knife hilt, guilt infecting him like a disease. Why did he react to her this way? Jesu, ’twas baffling. He was a hard man, an intelligent one not given to flights of fancy. How was she able to tie him in knots when naught else did? The answer escaped him, but self-preservation warned he needed to get whatever ailed him under control...now, before he lost himself in hazel eyes flecked with green and gold.

“Aye,” he said, shaking vulnerability off like a wet dog did water, “but the lesson will be learned and not easily forgotten.”

“Tonight then...when all is quiet.” Cristobal rubbed against the rough bark, chasing an itch.

“More likely on the morrow, at the bazaar.”

“She knows we are stopping there before heading into the mountains?”

“Aye.”

Xavian had made sure of it. Had told Qabil to let their destination slip in an attempt to stall her escape and keep her out of the woods. He didn’t want her running through swamps, tangling with dense underbrush and the assortment of wildlife that called them home. Hell, he wanted to teach her caution, not kill her.

“So while you play shadow, we will gather what we need.”

Straightened away from his knees, Xavian rolled his shoulders, stretching stiff muscles. “Take only what we require to get through the winter. And only from those who can afford to have their carts and purses lightened.”

Cristobal snorted. “Assassins with a conscience.”

“Ex-assassins,” he said, well aware of the inherent duplicity in his plan. He wanted a new life, one built on integrity, not theft. But with Afina in the fold, the promise of Vladimir’s coin dried up along with the ability to buy provisions for Drachaven. His newfound standards would have to wait. The lads in his care needed to eat this winter along with everyone else in his new keep.

“
Ex
...past tense,” Cristobal murmured, the low rumble of his voice tinged with more than simple agreement.

He glanced sideways at his friend, recognizing the emotion in his tone. Xavian felt it too. Gratefulness. A profound sense of gratitude mere words could never express.

With a slow indrawn breath, Xavian tipped his head back, searching for solace in the give and take of the oak’s great canopy. Tree limbs swayed, their gentle murmur a cozy haven for the birds above. They chattered, talking to one another just as the silence engulfing him and Cristobal spoke, telling stories, reminding them both of what had been.

After a time, the painful hush grew too great, and Xavian broke through the quiet. “’Twill be on the morrow. She’s quick and will use the crowded marketplace to cover her tracks.”

“Mayhap.” Cristobal cleared his throat then raised a brow. “Care to wager?”

“’Tisn’t a game, my friend,” he said, his voice soft with warning. His comrade’s gaze narrowed on him, no doubt wondering why he refused to take the bet. He and Cristobal always wagered. ’Twas their habit, one they both enjoyed, but Xavian didn’t want to play this time. It didn’t sit well with him. He disliked making sport of Afina, trivializing what would cause her pain. “She will suffer before she accepts us and her new life.”

Cristobal’s brow rose a fraction, his silence as deafening as the clash of wooden swords in front of them. Unease pricked Xavian’s spine, senses honed by years of stealth and death balking at the thorough examination. He understood the calculated hush well. His friend wanted an explanation—wished to know why he cared about Afina’s feelings. He stayed silent. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

His friend straightened away from the oak. “I will inform everyone of the plan.”

“Cristobal.” He glanced away from the basswood block and met his friend’s gaze. “Stay sharp. The closer we come to Drachaven, the greater the danger.”

Cristobal cursed. “Halál.”

“Aye. He’s sent two, and failed twice.”

Frowning, Xavian turned the figurine over in his hand and cut the outline of a leg along its flank. A canny old goat, Halál had the instincts of a raptor—a bird of prey so vicious it took apart its prey while still alive. He refused to become his next meal, regardless of the power that sat behind the old man. The Teutonic Knights could go to hell, along with Al Pacii, the covert death squad they financed.

“The next will be more skilled and better prepared.”

“No doubt,” his friend said, sighing as he tipped his head back. “Henrik, mayhap?”

Jesu, he hoped not. “’Tis possible.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Xavian nodded but said naught, the idea of fighting Henrik riding him hard. Of equal skill, the fight would be difficult in more ways than one. His heart wouldn’t be in it.

Hell, ’twas an understatement.

He had no desire to kill a man he considered his brother. But reality came knocking. Halál wanted him dead for deserting Al Pacii. The old man hated the fact he hadn’t broken him, couldn’t control him. The defeat signaled weakness, something Halál never accepted. The bastard would send assassin after assassin until they accomplished their mission—took his head and those of his men.

His brow furrowed, Cristobal crouched and picked up an acorn. Staring at the nut, he rolled it on the pads of his fingertips. “One other thing...’tis about the woman.”

“She is not to be touched.”

“Your interest has been noted. None of the men will bother her.” Balanced on the balls of his feet, a smile tugged the corners of his friend’s mouth. He lobbed the acorn over a shrub and into the forest. “The question then becomes...will you?”

The traitor in Xavian’s trews twitched, relishing the suggestion.

The tip of his knife stilled against wood and his attention strayed to Afina. Jesu, he would love to bother her, each morning and every night. He swallowed, an image of her under him, legs wrapped around his waist, spine bowed in supplication while he suckled her nipples ripped through his mind. A fine tremor rolled through him, his arousal so strong he ached to lay her down and love her into oblivion. Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from the beauty across the clearing and, reaching for self-mastery, drilled Cristobal with a glare.

“Why not, Ram?” he asked, his brow raised in challenge. “You deserve happiness.”

He shook his head. Nay, he didn’t. No one knew that better than Cristobal. They shared the same curse, the one that blotted the soul, leaving a stain so dark ’twas impenetrable. Too much
blood had been spilled, and no amount of wishing would wash his hands clean. Afina deserved better than a man God would never forgive.

“Xavian,” Cristobal said, his quiet tone pushing for an answer.

“Happiness belongs to other men. ’Tis too late for that...for me.”

“
Ma rahat.
That’s yak shit, and you know it.” Dark eyes intent, Cristobal pushed to his feet, his attention on Afina. He watched her stir the pot perched over the fire, helping Qabil prepare their meal. “If you will not do it for yourself then consider this...take a woman of your own and the men will follow suit. Drachaven needs families, not assassin-monks if it is to become what you want. Lead by example, my friend, and the rest will follow.”

Xavian tensed as the comment struck. Jesu, a direct hit. He wanted Drachaven to be something different...something more. He longed for a home; a place where children played and laughed. Where they were safe, not brutalized by war, tortured by others, or forced to kill to survive.

He raked a hand through his hair, struggling to banish the memories. One by one, he forced taut muscles to unlock, vowing to make his dream a reality.

Cristobal was wrong. The men would do as he said, not as he did.

It wouldn’t be difficult to persuade them to take women of their own and raise their families at Drachaven. He could have what he wanted without visiting his sins on a lass and any child they created together. Leadership meant directing others, giving them a greater purpose, not abandoning what he knew to be right. He needed his convictions. They kept him strong, and he refused to relinquish his beliefs for a lass who stirred his blood. Now all he needed to do was hold firm to the plan and stay the hell out of Afina’s bed.