Samantha James (26 page)

He despised the doubt that plagued him, for he could not bear to think of her with Radburn. Bitterness seeped deep onto his soul. Did she regret all that had brought her into his arms—and his bed? He was reminded how her lips flowered sweetly beneath his, how her hips churned wildly in the heat of passion. Surely she could not respond so ardently while she longed for another man…surely not!

Shifting in his saddle, he stared broodingly off into the distance, where the cliffs dropped off into the wild sea. A hearty breeze carried with it the scent of brine. Alana’s prediction nagged at him. Invasions from the Danes were scarcely unheard of along the northern shores of England, but surely none would be so foolish as to brave the seas with winter’s onset so very close.

Simon approached then, triumphantly displaying his prize. ’Twas then that the oddest sensation came over him…Something was wrong, he thought vaguely. Something was very, very wrong…

His heart seemed to stand still. “Brynwald,” he said urgently. He grabbed Simon’s reins. “Simon, we must return to Brynwald!”

Simon took one look at his wild expression and nodded. A cloud of dust spiraled in their wake.

His eyes scoured the horizon. Darkness would soon veil the earth. It was his most fervent wish that he was wrong. As they rapidly neared the keep, he prayed that all would
be as before. The maids would be preparing to serve the evening meal. Alana would no doubt be in their chamber, Geoffrey nursing greedily at her breast.

But he did not find what he expected at Brynwald. Indeed, chaos reigned supreme. A crush of people scattered in every direction. Merrick leaped from his mount, quick to glean the air of frenzy.

A dairyman from the village fell to his knees before him. “My lord,” he cried. “My son spied Danish longboats beached just to the north. We must defend ourselves!”

“Aye!” cried another. “We should have listened to your lady, for she was right, God save her soul!”

“Aye,” piped up a young maid. “If she were a witch, she would mean to do us evil. Instead she sought to warn us—to save us!”

“Indeed,” spoke up the laundress, “I’ve thought long and hard on what my lord once said. The lady Alana had done me no harm, nor anyone I know. Methinks we have wronged her sorely!”

Merrick head them, but his mind was otherwise occupied. For the space of a heartbeat, his gaze veered straight to Radburn standing near the bake-house. Was this invasion merely a ruse? A Saxon ploy to trick the Norman conquerors?

Nay
, he thought. Every instinct within him said they did not lie. And they were right. The Danes did not come in peace. They came to plunder and wage war.

He raised an arm and beckoned to one of his men. “You, there, ready the horses!” He continued to bark out orders, but all the while his mind worked frantically and his eyes scanned the assemblage, everything within him cried out for Alana.

Where was she? Blood of Christ, where was she?

A hand caught his elbow. It was Genevieve.

“Genevieve! Where is Alana? Have you seen her?”

Her eyes were dark with fright. “Nay! I’ve searched for her everywhere. She left Geoffrey with a maid ages ago to walk along the beach. But I sent a man after her and there was no sign of her!” She gave a half-sob. “Oh, Merrick, she would not leave Geoffrey for so long! Something is wrong, I know it!”

Merrick was unable to give voice to his deepest fear—that Alana had fallen into the hands of the Danes. He squeezed Genevieve’s fingers. “I will find her, I promise. Now go inside where you will be safe.”

She swung around in a whirl of skirts. Merrick did not see the long, speaking look she exchanged with Radburn. When next he turned, Radburn stood before him, bold and tall.

Radburn stared him straight in the eye. “Give me a sword, man. I would fight—for Brynwald. For England. For all of us. And so will the others here.” He gestured to where a group of grim-visaged Saxons gathered behind him. “We are as worthy soldiers as any of your
men. If we combine our strength, we can surely defeat the Danes.”

Merrick’s decision was made in an instant. He beckoned Simon forward. “See that this man is armed,” he ordered. “And the rest of these Saxons as well.”

From somewhere came a shout. “They come! The Danish heathens come!”

For a heartbeat, everything ceased; the whole of the world seemed to hold its breath. It came then, carried on the wind, a bloodcurdling cry of war.

Even as he raised his sword high, an acrid fear sped along his veins. He chanted a silent litany over and over in his mind. He prayed that Alana was alive and safe and unharmed.

He prayed as never before.

The clash that erupted was vicious and bloody. For a time it appeared the fates were against Merrick. As one Danish attacker fell, still another took his place.

But the Normans—aye, and the Saxons—were determined not to succumb to the wild invaders from the North. The night air was filled with the sounds of battle. Harsh, guttural cries torn from the throats of all who fought added to the relentless din of clashing swords, spears, and battle-axes.

The night grew old and eventually there came a lull in the skirmish. Outcries grew fewer. Norman and Saxon pride swelled and strength was renewed. Atop his destrier, Merrick wiped the sweat from his brow.
Beneath his helm, his dark gaze scanned the fray. Victory was imminent. He could feel it in his very bones.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind take hold of his senses. As if some unknown force guided him from afar, he opened his eyes and turned his head.

It was just as it had been once before. Cedric sat on his haunches a short distance away, twitching his tail, as proud and haughty as ever!

Caught fast in the snare of some strange, unknown force, Merrick nudged his destrier into a walk. Not an arm’s length away from the cat, he halted, leaning on his forearm to bow low.

“Cedric,” he said softly. “Take me to your mistress.”

Merrick could have sworn some silent message passed between them. Even as he watched, Cedric rose daintily to his feet. An instant later, the cat leaped around and darted toward the cliffs.

Merrick was right on his heels.

The hours since Alana’s capture had taken their toll. After tying her wrists with hemp, Raoul had deposited her in a tiny, dark cave with a huge, hulking Dane standing guard. He and the others had left and had yet to return. That Raoul had allied himself with the heathens made her long to retch. But far surpassing her hatred for Raoul was her fear for those she loved.

Even now the sounds of battle still raged overhead.

Numb and chilled to the bone, Alana fought the very depths of despair. The fighting had gone on for so long now! She trembled to think of those who had fallen beneath the thrust of a sword, the blade of a battle-ax. Was Geoffrey safe? And what of Genevieve and Sybil? Her heart wrenched. Genevieve would be crushed should any harm befall Simon.

And Merrick. Did he still live? Her heart cried out.
Please, God. Oh, please…

“Did you think I’d forgotten you?”

Raoul had returned. He stood there in the gloom, a careless smile twisting his lips. Alana glared her distaste.

“Come now. Let us remove these bonds.”

He knelt before her. Alana suffered his touch but welcomed the surge of anger that warmed her veins. “You led the Danes to Brynwald, didn’t you?”

“Oh, of a certainty ’tis to my advantage that they should come now. Though I admit, when I encountered their leader Rasmus a few days past, I was most successful in persuading him Brynwald was worthy of his attention.”

The hemp fell free. Alana rubbed the chafed skin of her wrists. “What can you possibly hope to gain?”

His laugh was hearty. “Oh, a great deal, love. A great deal indeed.”

“You would betray your own people,” she accused. She was suddenly so angry her voice shook with it. “The Danes are barbarians. They
will spare no one. They will set fire to any and all—”

“Nay, love. They will not.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What bargain did you strike with them?”

His laugh was chilling. “Rasmus will do what I dare not—see Merrick dead at his feet. Indeed, he may already be so. Then they will plunder and loot as they wish, but no matter. They are easily satisfied. Indeed, the Danes are far more interested in bloodlust than treasures. They will take a few baubles and be on their way.”

Her eyes sparked. “And leave bloodshed in their wake!”

He shrugged and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And when they are gone, Brynwald will be mine.” A finger came up to stroke her cheek. He smiled. “And so will you, love.”

Alana wrenched her head away. “You are a cur,” she spat. “A vile dog that will burn in hell—”

“Say no more!” he hissed. “I will do no more than Merrick did to your father, what William did to England. Take what the weak cannot hold for their own.” He leaped to his feet, jerking her along with him. “And now I think the time has come for us to join the victory.”

He dragged her along behind him. Alana tripped and nearly fell time and again as they traversed the rocky trail up the cliffs.

The smell of rain was ripe in the air. The winds began to rise and dark clouds raced overhead. Thunder rumbled across the earth.

Raoul did not stop until they reached a grassy hillock just outside the gates. The battle had spread beyond the outer wall of the keep. Alana sank to the ground—and her heart did as well—for bodies lay like sticks fallen in a storm.

Raoul stood several paces before her, enthralled with the grisly scene spread out below. Bile rose in her throat and she battled a sense of helplessness, cringing with every scream that rent the air.

All at once something leaped into her lap—a ball of matted yellow fur. Cedric! Slanted yellow eyes gleamed up at her. ’Twas odd, but a sizzle of something seemed to kindle between them. Cedric bounded from her lap and ran off, then paused and looked back, as if summoning her to follow.

Her heart beating like a captured doe’s, she rose. Slowly she began to retreat, her legs shaking, her gaze never leaving the broadness of Raoul’s back. When she deemed herself a far enough distance away that he would not hear, she spun around and began to flee, as if beset by demons.

And perhaps she was, for alas! she had misjudged Raoul. Behind her came a furious shout. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him raise a fist high; with his other hand he ripped his sword from its scabbard.

Sheer terror consumed her. For a timeless moment, she stood as if frozen…

All around was a darkness such as she had never known. Blacker than the deepest pits
of Hell. Shadows shifted and loomed, darting back and forth, in and out, as if to snatch at her with greedy, grasping fingers.

She could feel…something. Something evil…
Raoul
. A sense of danger that loomed all around, as heavy and thick and depthless as the shadows.

The wind rose in fury, wailing and howling. Lightning crashed across the heavens, a blaze of rending light. Thunder roared across the land, shaking the very ground beneath her feet. Great pools of blood splotched the earth. The air was rife with the sickening stench of gore and destruction.

Then she was running. Over the shriek of the wind, her blood roared in her ears. Footsteps trampled the earth, just behind her.

Blindly she ran, besieged by darkness. Beset by danger. By those horrible shadows that lurked all around. The specter of death loomed close at hand. Pressing in on her. Smothering her so that she could scarcely breathe…

But all at once there arose before her a hulking shadow. From out of the shadows they came…Man and beast. Knight and destrier.

He sat atop the great black steed, armed and mailed. For one single, frozen moment, he was dark and faceless, his features hidden behind a cone-shaped helmet. Behind him, lightning ripped the sky apart; it was as if he were cast in silver.

Slowly he raised his helm. A jolt tore through her. His expression was utterly fierce, pale and glittering and cold as frost; it stabbed into her
like the point of a spear. Then slowly he raised his arm. Clasped in one gauntleted hand was a gleaming sword. He raised it high, his weapon poised for the space of a heartbeat.

Merrick. Her love. Her life.

It was then she realized…This was her dream. Her dream come to stark, vivid life…

An utter certainty came over her. She marveled that she had been so foolish—and so blind! For Merrick had come, not as her enemy…

But her savior.

R
aoul was still behind her. As Merrick rode past her, Raoul leaped toward Merrick with a bellow of rage, blood in his eyes and murder clearly writ in his heart.

Merrick’s sword sliced down…down to pierce Raoul’s breast…

Her eyes squeezed shut. She turned her face away and swayed unsteadily, certain her legs would give out at any moment. When next she opened them, Merrick towered above her, his face streaked with dirt and sweat.

With a strangled sob she collapsed against his chest. His arms closed around her. He bent her face into his shoulder that she might not see the mangled body.

“He’s dead?” she choked out.

His fingers stroked the tangled cloud of her hair. “Aye,” he murmured.

She raised her head. Her fingers curled and uncurled on his chest. “Merrick, he brought the Danes here. He planned for them to attack Brynwald. The Danes’ leader was to
kill
you
. When they left, Raoul sought to claim Brynwald for his own.”

“I suspected some such thing when I realized Raoul was not among my men.” Merrick’s tone was grim.

Tears she was unaware she had shed glistened on her cheeks. “Merrick, it was just as in my dream. You came from out of the darkness, your sword raised high. You must forgive me, for all this time I thought it was me you meant to slay…” Emotion clogged her throat. She could say no more.

Merrick stripped away his glove. With the tips of his fingers, he skimmed away her tears, his touch infinitely gentle. When he’d finished, he clasped both hands around hers and brought them to his heart.

“’Tis I who must beg your forgiveness, for you were right about the Danes,” he said quietly. “I doubted you, and I was a fool to do so.” His gaze never wavered from hers. “I’ll not make the same mistake again, sweet.”

Alana stared. She could have sworn a wealth of tenderness dwelled in the eyes that lingered upon her upturned face, tenderness and something she was half-afraid to name. A finger beneath her chin, he lifted her lips to his.

The kiss they shared was long and sweet. Alana cared not that his mail dug into her breasts; she reveled in the way his arms tightened hard and strong about her back, as if he would never let her go. By the time he released her mouth, she felt she was soaring, like a falcon among the clouds.

Only then did they realize the sounds of fighting were all but gone. Merrick mounted his destrier, then lifted her before him on the saddle. Alana leaned back against the breadth of his chest, wrapped in his loose embrace. Long before they approached the gates, the last of the Danes had fled.

The people of Brynwald wasted no time in declaring their revelry. Shouts of triumph and victory were long and hearty. A cheer was heard as Merrick rode in with his bride.

“She lives!” came the call, and then another: “Praise God, our lady is safe and well!”

A boisterous cry went up. Alana’s jaw went slack. She twisted in the saddle, her surprise keenly evident. “Sweet Mother Mary,” she muttered, “they must be ill!”

A possessive hand tightened on her belly. Merrick smiled crookedly. “I told you, sweet. You were right about the Danes. And at last they have come to realize that while you are different, you are not to be feared or scorned.”

He reined to a halt before the great hall. Alana was still numb with amazement as he lifted her down. He gave an unexpected chuckle and pressed a lingering kiss upon her mouth. Alana’s head was still reeling as he escorted her inside the hall.

But they were scarcely within than he stopped abruptly. Beside her, she felt him stiffen. With a swift, sidelong glance, she saw his gaze trained directly across from them. Alana followed the direction of his gaze, then caught her breath.

Genevieve was wrapped in Radburn’s arms.

Alana could almost feel the jolt of anger that went through Merrick. “By God,” he swore hotly, “I will see the wretch in hell first—”

She cried out sharply when his hand went for his sword. “Merrick, no!” She tugged at his forearm. “She loves him! Do you hear me? Genevieve loves him! And he loves her!”

Merrick’s jaw clenched. “Nay! Such a thing is not possible—”

“Oh, but it is, brother.” Genevieve had finally noted their entrance. She hugged Alana fiercely, then turned once more to her brother. Radburn remained where he was, his expression wary but watchful.

“I suggest you explain yourself, Genevieve.” Merrick said curtly.

Ever dignified, Genevieve lifted her chin. “There is little to explain,” she stated. “I love Radburn and he has declared his love for me. He would ask for my hand but stubborn pride forbids it. Indeed”—her tone was cutting—“now that you are lord here, brother, he is no better than a peasant.”

“What!” Merrick exploded. “And you would marry the man? My sister with a Saxon husband? Nay, I say!”

Genevieve’s temper began to smolder. “You have a Saxon wife,” she pointed out icily. “Besides, the decision is scarcely yours to make.”

While Merrick glared, she went on daringly, “I once asked if you would take Alana to your bed and not your heart. And now I would ask you much the same…Would you rather I
took this man I love to my bed and not my heart?”

Merrick did not answer. Instead his gaze swung to his wife. “Did you know of this?” he demanded.

Alana bit her lip. “Aye,” she said weakly.

Genevieve spoke up once more. “Radburn is worthy of my love, brother. He is also worthy of your respect, for he fought long and hard this night that the rest of us might live. And if I have my way, he
will
be my husband.”

Merrick threw up his hands. “So be it, then! You will do as you please no matter what I say!”

“Aye,” she said sweetly. “That I will.” She turned back to Radburn, all at once transformed. The happiness that radiated from her as she reclaimed her place in his arms was like a burst of sunshine.

But before Alana could say a word, there was a piercing shriek from just behind them.

“Nay! This cannot be. He swore he would kill you…
he swore he would kill you
!”

It was Sybil. She and Merrick whirled around to find Sybil on the threshold, her expression wild.

In the instant between one breath and the next, something pieced together in Alana’s mind. Sybil and Raoul. Raoul and Sybil. Merciful God,
Raoul and Sybil
.

Every drop of blood drained from her face. “Nay,” she said faintly. “Oh, Sybil, no…”

Beside her, Merrick was rigid. Apparently he had guessed as well. “Who?” he demanded.
“Was it Raoul? You and Raoul planned to see Alana slain as well?”

“Yes,” Sybil hissed.

“Raoul is dead,” Merrick said tautly. “He died beneath my sword.” He would have said more, but Alana drew a deep, wracking breath.

“Sybil,” she whispered. “Oh, Sybil, you are my sister! How could you wish me ill?”

Sybil’s eyes burned like fiery embers. “How could I not!” she spat. “Always you have claimed what should have been mine, Alana, just like your mother claimed what should have been
my
mother’s! You, his bastard daughter, were always Father’s favorite. Faith, but I hated the way he would ever tell me I should grow to be gentle and sweet like you—how I’ve despised you all these years! Then when the Normans came, I thought you would be put in your place—serving me!—while at last I took my rightful place as the lady of Brynwald!”

Her gaze raked over Merrick. “You were no different than my father!” she sneered. “You took this slut to your bed when you could have had me! But I vowed I would not suffer the same shame as my mother, knowing that the man I would have was claimed by one such as her!” With a lift of her chin she disdainfully indicated Alana. “But I knew you would not want her if you believed her a witch!”

Alana blanched. A horrible thought had formed, one she could not bear to think might be true.

Alas, it was.

Sybil’s features had turned purely malevolent. “Oh, but it was so easy, and you were all so stupid!
I
butchered the animals, and everyone was convinced it was Alana!” She threw back her head and let out a wild laugh.

Merrick’s fury was barely suppressed. “Father Edgar. You murdered him, too, didn’t you?”

“Aye!” she boasted. “It wasn’t so very different from slitting the throat of an animal. Indeed, he gave me far less trouble than those beastly creatures!”

Sybil’s smile was gloating. Her eyes glittered. Alana’s stomach heaved. She shrank back, for the woman before her was a stranger, an evil, horrible stranger.

Sybil’s gaze fastened on Alana. “Raoul might be dead, but I am not. And now, dear sister, it’s your turn!”

It was so quick, Alana was never quite certain how it happened. Sybil’s hand darted inside her sleeve. There was a flash of silver, the gleam of a blade. Merrick lurched forward, even as he pushed Alana out of the realm of danger. A powerful hand closed around Sybil’s wrist.

Sybil’s eyes bulged. Merrick’s grip was merciless. He squeezed until the dagger clattered to the floor. A vile oath spewed from Sybil’s lips. But just when he would have kicked the dagger aside, Sybil dove to the floor.

Alana saw it all through a haze. With a cry Sybil raised the dagger high, then plunged it deep in her breast.

Without a sound she slumped to the floor.

It was a night filled with many emotions. Terror. Relief. Gladness. Pain. Alana’s heart was in shambles. Merrick held her tight against his breast while she cried, saddened by Sybil’s death, devastated by her hatred and betrayal, overwhelmed by all that had happened this day. Merrick had startled everyone by gruffly announcing that should Radburn be willing to swear fealty to William, he in turn would speak to William about granting Radburn and his Norman bride a small fief. Indeed, there was one not so very far to the west…

And there was more yet to come.

The night was nearly spent when at last they sought their bed. Merrick insisted on carrying her up the stairs; Alana was too tired to protest. Once the door of their chamber was bolted, he lowered her to the floor. But when she would have stepped away, his arms closed more tightly about her.

Fingertips placed lightly on his chest, she glanced up at him questioningly.

His eyes found hers. “There was a time this night when I feared I might never hold you again, sweet.” He smiled slightly. “I find I am loath to let you go.”

“I—I felt the same,” she confided shyly. “I was terrified I would never see you and Geoffrey again…” To her shame—and Merrick’s confusion—sudden, startling tears glazed her vision.

“Alana, sweet, what is it?”

“I have always thought my dreams a curse,
for I had no wish to see the future. But now I wish that I could, only I cannot…nor can I see what’s in your heart…and, oh, Merrick, I wish that I could…I—I wish you loved me the way I love you…” The words broke free of her heart—and her lips.

She would have buried her face in the hair-roughened hollow of his throat but he wouldn’t allow it. A finger beneath her jaw, he guided her face to his.

His gaze was riveted to hers. “I do,” he said softly. His head bowed low. And then it came again, a dark, velvet whisper that touched her very soul, this time against her lips.

“I do love you, sweet. I feel it with all that I am, with every beat of my heart. I love you…”

Her heart squeezed. Everything inside her went from dark to light. She cried anew, but this time with joy.

Her arms slid around his neck. Their lips clung. Merrick carried her to the bed, and there with body and breath, proceeded to prove the truth of his words.

It was dawn before passion’s fires had cooled. Drowsy and content, Alana lay with her head pillowed on his chest. Merrick idly stroked the ivory slope of her shoulder.

“Do you recall that first day in the forest?” His voice was a low murmur. “The day I came upon you and Aubrey surrounded by my men?”

A slender brow arched high. “Indeed, I could hardly forget,” she teased. “You demanded
that I surrender. And you proclaimed yourself my lord and conqueror, my
Norman
lord and conqueror.”

“That I did.” He laughed, but then his eyes grew tender. “But now, sweet, now I am your sword and protector. And I love you, my sweet Saxon witch. I will love you forever.”

So he said…and so it was.