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"Why do you laugh at me?"
He didn't reply. Instead, he smiled at her over his shoulder. His eyes twinkled warmly.
An unbidden blush rose to her cheeks. She wished she could fathom this strange affect he had on her. She was about to quiz him again, but he moved on, continuing to lead her along the steep path between the cliffs.
Veldor raked his fingers over the flagstones as he fought off unconsciousness, reaching beyond himself for a clear mind. He rose to his hands and knees and howled into the night. He was wounded, his head pounding.
The woman. He glanced around. Gone.
Rage flared up inside him. His mind was in turmoil, his thoughts fracturing. What had gone on here? He tried to piece together what little he recalled. A powerful being had attacked him. That was it. But they had taken his woman. He could see no sign of her, or anyone else for that matter. Bron. Damn him. He was behind this. Although Veldor had not seen him, he knew it for certain.
"Where in fury are my men?” he roared. Cursing, he drew himself up to his feet. He swayed, the room spinning around him, and shouted for Cale. No one answered his call. Staggering up the stairs, he lurched along the corridor and into the room where his men were gathered, drinking and talking, in front of the fire.
They quieted and turned toward him, expressions shocked as they took in the marks on his face, the dried blood, and the rage in his eyes.
"You fools, sitting here as if nothing has happened. Maerose has gone.” He lunged toward the table, steadying himself with both hands on its surface.
The serving woman darted in, following the sound of his raised voice, and then backed away in fear when she saw his face.
He glared at her, his ire rising by the moment. “Now you come. Now, when it is too late.” He roared and overturned the table, sending its contents crashing across the room.
The woman snatched up a serving salver that had clattered to the floor near her feet, fetched up her skirts in her other hand and ran from the room.
Cale stood. “We thought you were with her. You said to ignore screams, or...” His voice faded into nothing. He swallowed.
Veldor sneered and pushed past him, ignoring the truth of the matter. Spying his broadsword standing beside the fire he reached for the weapon. He weighed it in his hands, his blood boiling. “This is Bron's doing. He will die for this."
He lifted the sword to his brow to make his vow, reveling in the touch of the cold, hard steel against his forehead, imagining it plunging into Bron's flesh, robbing him of his life. “If I have to lure out the demons of the underworld alone, I shall. At my command, they will rain evil down on Bron's head and scourge his soul. I will be there to watch him take my blade as I thrust it home, and I'll watch him breathe his last, knowing who has taken his life."
Turning on his heel, he roared aloud and struck the blade into the edge of the upturned table, burying it deep in the wood. “His life blood will be sacrificed alongside hers."
* * * *
She was safe on his bed. Bron sat beside her and undid the remaining buttons on her tattered woolen dress, easing it down the length of her body. She had all but passed out before they reached his retreat. Then finally, he had her safe. He had refocused his inner energies on maintaining the shield around the retreat as soon as they were on their way. They were safe, for now. He would need to meditate again in the morning to ensure it, for he had no doubt that Veldor would soon be behind them, hunting them down.
He pushed his hand through his hair, standing, stretching his aching bones. The transformation had wearied him, as had the winged ride. The power to cover the ground so fast drew on the very deepest of his resources. He needed to meditate. Sleep. Yet his mind still raced back and forth over what had taken place, and what Veldor had hinted at in his comments about the curse of The Strangeling.
It was worse than they had thought. Veldor had always wanted to be the one to undo the curse, but Bron had not considered his motives to be quite so despicable. Had Egremont known, he wondered, or Felicita? It was likely, but they shared only what they felt needed to be known.
He sighed and bent to take off her deerskin boots, marveling at her slender ankles. She stirred, whimpered, but did not wake. Even in his exhaustion, he desired her, his blood running hot and hard to his groin. He stared down at her for some time before putting the boots down on the floor. Upon the gods’ eyes, she was beautiful. It pained him deeply when he saw the marks and bruises on her body. The lines of the shackles on her wrists would take many days to fade. He would have to find another way to ensure that she did not leave his side. He needed her, but he wanted her to remain there willingly. It had pained him deeply to keep her bound on the journey, but it was too soon to take risks. He needed time to show her, teach her.
He'd been shocked at the strength of the link between them. It had taken him by surprise. The very sound of her voice sang in his soul, just as it had the first time he had seen her from afar and heard her voice lifted in song. It called to the deepest part of him. It wrung his heart and fired his desire. He'd always been aware of their destiny in duty, but there was a deep-rooted connection there, and she had felt something, too. She had not truly recognized it yet, but her soul had communed with him—despite her later annoyance at being held captive still.
With her sweet, lush body so vulnerable in his arms on their journey, his desire had run the gamut from wild need to tender care. And she had reciprocated, her body soft and willing in his arms, her gaze startled and betrayed when he had not freed her. No such fluttering breath or soft, wide-eyed looks for Veldor. No.
Veldor. He sensed him stirring and frowned. Rising to his feet, he turned his attention to building the fire. There would still be daylight at the shutters for some hours, but he suspected that she would sleep long, maybe even into night, but when the evening rolled in he needed to be ready. He glanced around his humble retreat, hoping she'd find it habitable. He'd built the hideaway in a cave deep in the ravine, boarding up the opening and making it a watertight, serviceable home. The cave was both warm and welcoming, when lit by the fire and filled with the scent of food cooking over it.
As he worked at the task and the flame took, he couldn't get Veldor out of his mind. He felt Veldor's anger at his back as he worked—a violent, dark force. It hadn't been in him to take Veldor's life. A flaw, some would say. But that was not Bron's nature. Veldor was an obstacle, and no small one at that. Was it the previous bond they had shared that had caused this reluctance? No, because he was sure that bond had gone. Instinct told him he wanted Veldor alive. Whatever it was, it had halted him at the last moment, when it had been within his power to end it. He knew he did not want Veldor's blood upon his hands.
Not even for Maerose? He ignored the voice in his mind that questioned him, looking over instead at her sleeping form. He walked back to her side. She was deep in slumber, the frown that marked her forehead fading while she slept. Smoothing out her hair, he marveled at its color, the rich red sheen of its tresses. Her lips were softly parted, her lashes damp against her pale cheeks. She had wanted to return home, and he wished that he could free her and keep her from this. He reached over and pulled the covers over her, forcing himself to turn away.
If only he could have returned her to her family, if only things were that simple. She might try to escape from him. Could he bear to capture her and bring her back, if she did? All he wanted was her happiness. To go through this again would kill him. No, he could not take the risk. Their journey together had only just begun.
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r /> CHAPTER FOUR
"Maerose, don't stray too far from me.” Her mothers voice echoed through her deepest slumbers, beckoning her, and yet she also seemed to be waving her on her way. The darkness cleared and she found she was a child again, wandering in a forest.
