Bound In Darkness 02 - The Devil's Knight Part 8

"We have nothing to discuss," Lebuin said with a nasty snarl. "Get out."

The other man shrugged. "As you will." He took a cup from the table and drained it before he left the hall. Tristan moved back against the wall as he went out. Now was his chance. He opened the hidden panel behind him and moved quickly down the tightly spiraled wooden stairway beyond, emerging in an alcove hidden behind a tapestry. He and Silas had planned this route as a final escape for any trapped within the tower, but it worked just as well as a secret way inside.

Lebuin was still sitting at the table with his back to the alcove. His head was bent over, and his shoulders were shaking. "G.o.d, please forgive me," he said aloud just as Tristan was emerging, making him freeze in his tracks. But the brigand did not turn.

Apparently he meant to speak to the Almighty, not the man he had murdered in cold blood. "The sin is mine," he went on as Tristan moved closer, his soft boots silent on the bare stone floor. "Not hers. Never hers. My G.o.d, you know she is a child."

Tristan stopped again, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Everything she is, I have made her." The rebel leader's voice was ragged with tears, and he thought himself alone. This could be no trick. But why should Tristan care what he prayed or if he prayed at all?

"Every evil she has done has been at my command." Was he not a demon now? Tristan thought, his grip tightening on the sword.

Why should he feel mercy toward this man he meant to kill? "Do not let her suffer, please, my G.o.d," Sean begged, breaking down completely. "Please G.o.d, let me keep her safe." He dropped his head to his folded arms and wept.

Tristan let go of the sword, disgusted but resigned. He could not kill the man at prayer, not even for revenge. If nothing else, Lebuin did not deserve to die with a prayer on his lips. He stood over him for a moment, barely a step behind him. If he should turn or even look over his shoulder, he would see the demon. He would cry out-a curse, no doubt. Then Tristan would have him. He would strike him dead.

But Sean did not look back. His tears slowly subsided as if he had fallen asleep. Tristan moved closer still, reaching out to touch the hilt of the jeweled dagger Sean wore in a sheath at his belt. He drew it slowly, waiting for the brigand to stir, but he did not.

He looked down at the knife, a lethal but beautiful object-Italian-made, would be his guess. Only the richest and most arrogant of n.o.bles would carry such a weapon. He wondered where Lebuin had stolen it.

"I will come to you again," he said softly, tucking the knife into his own belt. "Perhaps before the dawn." The brigand moaned as if in troubled dreams, and Tristan smiled. Disaster was upon him; why should he sleep well?

He heard voices from outside the door, the men returning to the hall. Smiling again at the thought of what was to come, he turned and headed for the stairs.

Siobhan pa.s.sed through the doors of the tower sometime after midnight. She had walked the castle wall for hours until her head felt almost clear again. But her heart was still in chaos; she needed to be alone. At least in her new room in the tower, no one would disturb her.The lower hall was quiet, the men who slept there already bedded for the night. Sean himself was sleeping at one of the tables, his head down on his folded arms. She almost went to him and woke him, but after a step she stopped. What could she say to make him understand how she felt? She didn't understand herself. Since she was twelve years old, she had believed that they were partners in their quest for freedom for themselves and for their people. But it was not so. Sean was the knight with a quest. She was no better than a p.a.w.n.

The room he had made for her was dark but for the glow of the moon outside the window. Someone had leaned a spotted mirror against the wall opposite the door, and she gazed at her shadowy reflection. This was the prize Sean thought could win a baron's heart? She could almost laugh. Her handed-down tunic was worn as a rag, frayed at the neck and split up one sleeve, and her leather breeches were worn soft as linen, she had kept them so long. Even for a boy, she was a disgrace. Her face was clean, but one cheek was smudged with a familiar fading bruise from her bowstring's recoil.

And she bore other bruises as well. On her neck were five distinct round marks, made by the grip of her dead Norman husband.

Four had faded to a dull yellow-green, but the one over her pulse was still almost black. He could have killed me, she thought as she touched it, remembering the fury in his blue-green eyes. "Tristan DuMaine," she whispered, barely making a sound as her lips formed the shape of his name. The devil's knight, her enemy; the Norman they had murdered. He had called her beautiful.

She untied her braid and loosened the waves of her hair on her shoulders, blue-black in the tender light. Like silk, he had said it was when he touched it. She drew her own hands through it just as he had done, letting it fall through her fingers. He had been desperate to escape. He had known they meant to kill him; she had never let him think anything else. She had only touched him to humiliate him, to prove she was a brigand like the rest.

But when he had escaped his bonds, he had not fled; he had held her. He could have killed her in an instant and escaped, but he hadn't. He had kissed her mouth. Her own hand strayed now to touch her lips, remembering the taste of him, the way his tongue had felt. She had been so angry to be bested, so afraid of what he meant to do. But his kiss had been soft, almost tender, drawing her to him even as she fought. She had never doubted that he hated her, even when he took her in his arms. He had never pretended anything else, had not tried to flatter her or charm her into helping him escape. But he had held her to him and kissed her. He had called her beautiful and spoken her name like a prayer. For the first time since that moment, she let her waking mind drift into foolish fancy, the madness that haunted her dreams. She imagined how it might have felt to be his love indeed. A warm, sweet flush spread through her, making her feel drunk again. She thought of the power of him, his strength as he held her, his arrogant fury. What would it be to possess such a man, to know him as her own?

She caught her own gaze in the mirror and scoffed, disgusted at her foolishness. She was a warrior, not a woman, whatever Sean might think. She would forget Tristan and his kisses; she would not marry again. She was a soldier, and Sean would have to accept it.

A sudden movement in the mirror made her start, her hand going by instinct to her sword, though she knew it must be one of the castle servants, come to put her into bed like she might have been a child. "Go away," she ordered, turning toward the door.

"Leave me in peace."

"In peace?" The voice came from the shadows by the window, and it made her blood run cold. "Why should you have peace?" A shape emerged in the darkness, a man built like a mountain, and the voice went on, mocking and familiar. "Murderers belong in h.e.l.l."

"Tristan?" Her tongue felt dry in her mouth. She could barely form the word. He moved into the light at last, and she felt her knees go weak. "No.... you are not here." She was still drunk, seeing phantoms.

"Where else should I be?" His face, so bruised and bloodied when she'd seen it last, was whole again, the skin pale but perfect.

The thin streaks of gold in his dark brown hair gleamed in the moonlight, and his green eyes glittered with malice. "Is this not my castle?" His mouth curled in the smile that haunted her memory, cruel and sweet at once. "Are you not my wife?"

"You are dead." He held no weapon she could see, but she trembled even so. He towered over her, his shoulders twice as broad as hers-he could cover her fist with his palm. Even now, in terror and shock, she could remember the strange sensation she had felt when his hand closed over hers, a fearful thrill. "They took you away, Bruce and Callum. You were dying." "Are you certain?" Tristan mocked her, moving closer. This was the moment he had dreamed of in a fever, the moment he would finally kill Siobhan. He had meant to let her see his face, to frighten and torment her for only a moment before he wrung her neck or bled her dry. Even when he let her brother live, he had never doubted he would murder her on sight. But now that he was here at last, a moment just wasn't enough. "Did your friends ever return?" Her huge blue eyes were wide with fear, but she did not look away. Any other woman faced with the husband she had helped to murder would have had the decency to scream or faint, but not his beautiful monster. She might turn pale and tremble, but her hand was on her sword. "These men you sent to hide your crime, where are they now?" She drew the sword with a sharp rasp of metal, her eyes defiant, and he smiled. "Shall I tell you, sweeting?" He took another slow step closer. "Would you care to guess?"

"You could not have killed them," she insisted.

"You might be amazed." She was inching backward toward the door. "I can kill whomever I like." In a moment, she would make a run for it, he knew. His little warrior could sense she was outmatched.

"You were dead!" she shouted, her voice's sudden rise in pitch giving away her fear. "I saw you."

"You saw I was dying." He should kill her now and let himself be done. But somehow he could not. "You should have made certain, my love." He raised the dagger he had stolen from her brother's belt. "Sean should have made certain."

"No, I just saw him," she said, shaking her head. But the knife was Sean's. She had seen him in the hall below, sleeping, slumped over the table. She had almost gone to him...An icy fear swept through her. Surely he had only been asleep. She looked up into Tristan's eyes. "You can't have killed him-"

"Can I not?" He wanted her to say what she had done, to hear her say again how she despised him. Then he could let it be over between them. Then he could take his revenge. "I have not killed him yet, Siobhan," he said, moving closer. "But I swear to you I will."

"No!" she screamed, her terror forgotten in fury. She struck him with the sword, a blow that should have sliced his arm from his shoulder. But he barely flinched. He grabbed her wrist, wrenching the sword from her grip, and she heard a small sound, like steam on an ember. Looking down, she saw the sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt was ripped open, its edges stained with blood. But the flesh beneath the rip was whole. "Holy Christ," she whispered, feeling faint.

"Be careful, love," he teased her as the tension in her arm went slack in his grip. "You might not want to call Him." He held the dagger to her throat, tracing its tip down her skin much as she had done to him the night that they were wed. "Blasphemy is mortal sin. But then, why should you care?" Her heart was beating faster; he could hear it. At last she was truly afraid. "What is an oath to you?" He let the dagger scratch her flesh, teasing himself with her blood, and she gasped, a sweetly feminine sound. But in her eyes he saw as much fury as fear. Even now, if he allowed it, she would murder him. "You swore before G.o.d's altar to love me, to obey me, remember?" he taunted. "You laughed as you said it, knowing it was a lie." He took a step closer, and she struggled again in his grip, tearing at his fist around her wrist. "Or have you forgotten, sweet wife?"

"No," she answered, struggling to make herself be still. She knew now what he wanted; he wanted her to be terrified, to hear her beg for mercy. But she would not. "I have not forgotten." She made her free arm fall to her side, taking a deep breath. Then she looked up into his eyes. "I wanted you to go away."

"You wanted me dead," he said, glaring down on her with such rage, she thought she might die just from his eyes. How could he be here? The grave will not hold me, he had sworn at their mummer's play wedding. I will return from h.e.l.l. "But you are a coward, just like your brother."

"Why did you come here?" she demanded, her voice barely shaking with fear. "Why could you not stay in France where you belonged and leave our people be?"

"Your people?" he scoffed with a laugh.

"Aye, my lord," she retorted, his mockery making it easier to be brave. "My father's people, born to this land as Sean and I were born to it, born to freedom-" "Freedom to starve, you mean," he said, laughing again. Even now, looking death straight in the eyes, the little fool would not give up her cause. "If I should let you live, if I should leave you be, as you say, what then? What will your people say to you this winter, now that their crops are destroyed?"

"You know nothing of this land." He sounds like Sean, she thought, almost laughing herself in pure madness. A slave can be contented if his belly is full, her brother had said, and she had hated him for it. "You know nothing-"

"And what do you know, little monster?" he retorted. "How to fight and to f.u.c.k like a man." His smile cut through her like a knife.

"What good will you be to your people?"

"Good enough," she swore, flushed hot with rage. "I will finish you." She lunged for him, grabbing for the hand that held Sean's dagger, and she felt the blade swipe across her cheek. But he hadn't been expecting her attack; she had momentum. She forced the dagger back into his shoulder just above his heart.

His eyes widened for a moment, then he smiled. "Well done." Still holding her fast by the wrist, he yanked the dagger from his flesh. As she watched in horror, the gash she had made closed over, sealing itself with a hiss. "At least this time, you tried to kill me yourself." He pressed the dagger's hilt into her free hand. "Would you care to try again?"

She slashed him this time, across his throat and down the muscles of his chest, ripping through his s.h.i.+rt. Again the wound opened, but no blood came out. A few scant drops welled at the edges of the wound, then the flesh was healed.

"What ails you, love?" he teased her. "You look as if you see a ghost."

"Demon," she whispered, looking up into his eyes. "You truly are a demon." She let the dagger fall.

"Yes." She tried to back away a step, and he caught her by the shoulders, his smile melting into a scowl. Now was the moment for revenge, he thought. She was terrified; her heartbeat thundered in his ears. He let his palms slide up her arms, and she s.h.i.+vered, now too frightened to resist his touch. His hands encircled her delicate throat, and she gasped, biting her lip. No brigand mob could save her now. No one would even hear her scream. "Did I not promise you I would return?" She closed her eyes against him, her lashes black against her death-pale cheek. She was his now for the taking, just as he had dreamed. One last, swift movement of his wrist, and her life would be snuffed out forever. "I am your husband." One tear slid down her delicate cheek, glistening in the moonlight. "Is that not so?" he demanded roughly, hungry for her voice, to hear her speak once more.

"Yes." His touch was almost tender, more a caress than a threat. She had dreamed of this moment for night after night, the terrible sweetness of his touch if somehow he should return. She had told herself it was a nightmare, that it would fade in time, but she had never truly believed it. No man had ever touched her the way Tristan did; no man had ever dared. But now he did not mean to touch her but to kill her. His hands and voice were cold. "You are my husband," she said.

"Then kiss me." Her eyes flew open, and he smiled, his bitter devil's smile. "Kiss me good-bye."

He was mocking her, tormenting her before her death as she had taunted him. She slid her hands over his shoulders, rising to her toes to reach him. He seemed surprised; his green eyes widened, then she closed her eyes and touched her mouth to his. A thrill raced through her stomach as his arms enfolded her, a sudden, senseless desire more potent than fear. "Siobhan," he said against her mouth, the voice she had heard in her dreams. She clutched the rough wool of his tunic, dizzy as he crushed her closer, deepening the kiss. Alive, she thought. This was no dream. Her husband was alive. His mouth on hers was brutal, demanding surrender, his tongue pus.h.i.+ng inside. She could fight him; she must fight him, but she knew he would not let her go. She tore her mouth away from his to look into his eyes and saw a flash of demon's fire burning in the green. h.e.l.l itself could not keep him away. Just the thought of it made her feel faint.

He bent and scooped her off her feet, and the trance was broken. "No!" she cried out, thras.h.i.+ng in his grasp, flailing like a lunatic to get away. "Stop it!" She tried to punch him with her fist, and he flung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "Let me go!"

"Will you scream for Sean again?" he asked, wicked laughter in his tone. "Please, call him to save you." He tossed her onto the bed, throwing his weight over her to press her flat to the mattress. "Watch me rip his heart out." She slapped him hard, still writhing underneath him, and he grabbed her wrists and pinned them. "My bride's gift to my love."

"Your love my a.s.s," she swore, arching upward. He was too strong; she couldn't escape him. "Leave Sean alone!" He covered her completely; she could hardly move at all. "Please, Tristan..." The image of Sean sleeping in the hall below made tears rise in her eyes. They had quarreled; he probably thought she hated him. And now she might never see him again. "Please, leave him alone."

Tristan had bent to kiss her cheek, but the sudden change in her voice made him freeze. She was pleading, soft and sweet, but not for herself. Leave him alone, she begged. Even now, she cared for no one but her brother, the wh.o.r.eson who had meant to murder him. Jealous rage like nothing he had ever felt before burned through him.

"Aye, sweet love," he said softly, his open mouth against her skin. She twisted her hips, trying to thrash her legs free, and his c.o.c.k, already throbbing with desire, pushed hard against her thigh. "I will leave Sean alone." He nuzzled her throat, his tongue finding her pulse. "Every friend he has will die." With demon's fangs, he tore a long gash in her flesh, making her cry out in pain.

"No," she whispered, breathless, hating the weakness she knew she would hear in her voice if she spoke the words aloud.

"Tristan, stop..."

"Tell him, Siobhan," he ordered, his voice thick and deep in his throat. "Tell him I will take all that he loves." She could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke, but no heart beat in his breast. "Tell him I will come for him when all his loves are lost." His tongue swept over the wound he had made in her throat, and a strange tremor swept through her, making her gasp for breath.

"Tell Sean you are mine."

She felt his teeth tearing deeper, and she screamed in pain. But there was something else as well, more frightening than painful. His mouth was pulling at her flesh like a suckling babe, drawing her blood down his throat. She heard a sigh she'd never meant to make escape her lips, and a sweet, hypnotic want possessed her, making her body seem to melt in his demon's embrace. His hands moved slowly down her arms, the palms hard and calloused against her skin, but she couldn't seem to fight him, could only preen under his caress.

"Tristan," she repeated, his name coming out as another pleading sigh. His hand cradled her breast through her tunic, a tender lover's touch, and she clenched her jaw, desperate to resist the desire she felt. She moved to push his hand away, wrapping her hand as best she could around his wrist to pull him back, but she couldn't reach around it. "Tristan..." Just knowing she could not undid her completely, made her hold his hand against her instead, lacing her fingers with his. One of his legs was between her own as he crouched over her, and she arched up against the hard muscle of his thigh, moved by instinct, reason lost. And still he fed upon her throat, her lover returned from h.e.l.l. She heard him moan, a sound despairing as her sigh, and his arm entwined around her waist, holding her to him as her body weakened. Her muscles were failing, turning slack and heavy, and suddenly she felt cold.

"No," she whispered, entwining a hand in his hair but too weak to pull. She was dying. "Please...my love..."

Tristan felt her heartbeat slowing to a crawl, its pounding faded to a gentle flutter he could barely feel through her thin tunic. He tasted vengeance in her blood, sweeter than his dreams, but there was more. Drunk with his own desire for her, he tasted yearning in her blood, yearning for him. She had wept for him, he realized as he drank from her heart; she had grieved for him, dreaming of his kiss. Drawing back from her throat, he looked down on her face, the beauty he had sworn he would despise, but he could not.

Even now he was bewitched by her. Bending down, he kissed her lips, the lightest brush to taste her breath the same as he'd tasted her blood. "Who are you?" he whispered, tracing the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand. "What do you want, Siobhan?"

You, she thought and would have told him if she'd had the strength. Just you. But surely that was wrong; she hated him, wanted him dead. He was her enemy, sworn to destroy her, to enslave her people. He had sworn to murder the brother who loved her, the only soul left she could love-even now, he meant to kill her, too. To want him was treason, a betrayal of all she held dear.

The devil had bewitched her on purpose, stolen her mind with his cruel demon's kiss. He would steal her soul before he took her life. "No," she whispered again, forcing her eyelids to open. Bending over her, his face was beautiful, a cruel devil's trick. The devil should be ugly, she thought, should come in the shape of a beast, not a beautiful knight she could love. "Leave me now," she ordered, fighting for her voice. He smiled, his arrogant n.o.bleman's sneer. "Begone..." He brushed his lips across her brow.

"Demon...begone." "Shhh..." The sight of her too weak to fight him was more than his pride could resist. He kissed her throat, the lurid bruise his teeth had left over the vein, the mark of his grip where he had held her as a man. She was his, and he would not give her up, not even to d.a.m.nation. She sighed as he pressed kisses down her jaw, her body arching upward, betraying her zealot's resolve, and he smiled. But he would not take her in this state, as much as she deserved it. He wanted her strong, able to fight back when he conquered her completely. "I will come back to you, darling," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. "What was it you said to me in the hall at our wedding? I am not done with you yet." She turned her face away as he moved to kiss her mouth, giving him her tender cheek instead. He kissed it with the reverence of a penitent kissing a saint, holding her fast as she struggled. Then he let her go.

Moving fast along the narrow corridor that led to the stairs, he heard a voice coming from the second room, the weeping of a child. Clare...

For a moment, he considered going on without stopping, the wisest course if he did not mean to finish this tonight and take her away with him. But she was his beloved child, and she was crying. Demon or not, he could not just leave her alone.

He slipped into her room, the door handle turning easily. Emma was nowhere to be seen. "Clare," he said softly, approaching the tall, posted bed.

"Papa?" She turned toward him as he reached her, her eyes wide with hope and shock. "Papa!" She threw herself into his arms.

"Shhh," he murmured, holding her close. "Hush now, precious love." Tears of his own spilled down his cheeks. "Please don't cry." He kissed her silky golden hair, forcing himself not to squeeze her so tightly he hurt her. "I promise, it's all right." But that was a stupid lie-he was a demon, cursed by G.o.d. How could he care for a child?

"I knew you would come back," she said.

He smiled, holding her back to see her face. "How did you know?"

"You promised." She frowned. "Papa, you're bleeding!"

He touched his own cheek where she pointed. The tears he shed were blood. "It's nothing, pet.i.te," he promised. He drew her close again, her tiny weight in his arms comforting him even now. "Are you well?" he asked her. "Is your Emma taking care of you?"

"Yes," she nodded, settling against him. "She and Siobhan."

"Siobhan?" he echoed, surprised. The last time he had seen his child, Siobhan had been holding a knife to her throat. "Lady Siobhan takes care of you?"

"Yes." She held his man's hand between her little ones. "She promised she would teach me how to fight. She makes them keep the dogs out of the hall so they can't scare me." She looked up at him. "She said she promised you." She frowned again. "Is she really your wife?"

"Yes." He had almost killed the one person who seemed able to protect his child. For a moment, he could hardly speak, just thinking of it. He barely remembered Siobhan's promise in the courtyard, he had been so close to death. But Siobhan remembered. She had kept her word. "She is my wife-your stepmother." Saying the words, he felt confused, all his plans for vengeance shaken to the core. "She will keep you safe." He heard movement on the stairs, his demon's ears able to detect voices even so far away. Emma was coming back. "Siobhan will protect you until I come home."

"No," Clare protested, clinging to him. "I want to go with you."

"Not yet." He took her precious face between his hands and smiled. "I cannot take you with me yet, sweet love." Tears glistened on her cheeks again, breaking his heart. "But I am with you, I promise." He kissed her forehead. "I will come again." He hugged her close for one more moment, loath to let her go. Emma was speaking to someone, a man-soon they would be too close to avoid. Only the thought of Clare watching him do murder induced him to release her. "Go to sleep, sweet love." He tucked the blankets under her chin and slipped away into the night.

Siobhan struggled to sit up, her body still heavy and cold. She rolled onto her side, one leg hanging over the side of the bed, her eyes struggling to focus in the gloom. Across the room, she could make out the shape of her reflection in the mirror. Tristan was gone, a demon on the loose. "Get up," she muttered, gritting her teeth. The wound in her throat burned like a brand, and her limbs ached as if from bone-freezing cold. "Get up, Siobhan." Her sword lay on the floor where she had dropped it, and she focused on the blade, gleaming silver in the moonlight. She lunged for it, holding a hand to her throat, catching herself on her knees. Her hand closed hard around the hilt and she dragged it toward her. Her head was swimming, the tower room spinning around her. But Tristan could be anywhere. She had to stop him, to save Sean and the others. Leaning on her sword, she staggered to her feet.

CHAPTER 8

Lilith had survived as mistress to the baron of Callard for almost six months, a privilege of her n.o.ble birth, perhaps. But now her time was drawing to an end. Setting the tiny packet she held aside for a moment, she studied her face in the mirror, the brand he had burned into her cheek. The mark had been made a fortnight ago, long enough for the flesh to heal into an ugly purple scar. If what the servants had confessed to her was true, she had no more than a night or two left to live. Unless she killed him first.

She poured the pinch of coal-black powder into the bottom of the pewter cup and put it back on the tray just as she heard his footsteps coming up the hall. "Good evening, my lord," she said, bobbing a curtsey as he came in, followed by two of his guardsmen. He barely even glanced in her direction as he went to his chair.

"Bring me my letters," he said brusquely to one of his footmen as the other knelt before him to unlace his boots.

"Will you drink, my lord?" she asked, pouring the wine. One of the guardsmen was named John. He had promised to help her; had delivered the message from her aunt that held the poison; had promised to spirit her away as soon as the baron was unconscious, before his body could be found. Don't look at him, she ordered herself inside her head as she carried the cup to the baron. Don't look at John. She made herself smile as she bent low before her lover, offering the cup.

"What is this?" Callard muttered as he took it, but she didn't answer. She had made the mistake of teasing him once, giving him a saucy retort to such a question. When she'd come back to herself three days later, she had learned to keep her peace. He took a sip and nodded, releasing her to rise. She trembled, freedom so close she could taste it. He took another deep swallow as he turned his attention to his letters, and she risked a glance at John. He looked pale as milk, but there was triumph in his eyes.

"Would you like for me to sing for you, my lord?" she asked.

"I would like for you to shut your mouth," Callard answered, sounding drunk. He frowned, giving his head a shake, and she had to bite down on her cheek so hard she tasted blood to keep from smiling. The poison was working, just as her aunt had promised.

"Leave me," he ordered. "All of you-get out!"

"May I not stay?" she asked. She wanted to see him die; she needed to be certain. "I will be quiet-"