Awaken My Fire (10 page)

“
Never seen such a fine, ripe piece! Like a picture, she is!" The words sounded with curious surprise, as if a small miracle stood before them, and in a way she was. "The maid's too pretty by far to ruin with a knife!"

"Cut her open, Beggar!"

The blue eyes flew open as the knife was put to her chest. She tried to scream, but terror made her choke. A bare foot kicked the bloody man in the groin, and he doubled over and fell back. Abruptly she was released. She stumbled forward with a small, weak cry, only to receive another well-aimed blow across her face. She dropped to the floor, washed in a wave of blackness, returning only to feel a mind-numbing pain pounding through her head.

"I'm gonna stick it to you till your innards spill out!"

She was crying, then screaming as his hands came around her waist and he lifted her up. A knife ripped open her dress. She was thrown down with her backside to the ground. Hands came over hers, pinning them to the floor, then her legs, as the men began placing bets on how many rods the slender figure would take before she died ...

Wearing the colors of the House of Suffolk, the knights rode east at a lope on the river road. Word that a small band of outlaws using the Duke of Suffolk's name to spread terror to the country folk had reached Vincent just after landing. The illegitimate use of his name was a capital offense; he immediately organized a patrol of his personal knights, demanding they be caught this night. The patrol rode at a fast sprint, knowing the outlaws were somewhere ahead.

Just as they approached yet another split in the roadway, Wilhelm called out, "Halt!"

Vincent tugged once on Gascon's reins and the stallion halted. A lift of his hand, that was all, and the twelve knights behind him brought their stallions up. The dust settled, and the well-trained horses kept still.

"I swear I heard something," Wilhelm, the red-haired knight, said.

The men listened to the pleasant hum of crickets, the nearby rushing river, the soft rustle of a breeze through the trees, all sounding with the shuffle and snorts of their mounts--

There it was, a scream sounded in the far. distance, barely audible but enough for Wilhelm to cry out, "From ahead, Vince! Those cottages up ahead!"

Spurs hit the beasts' sides, and twelve mounted knights leaped into an abrupt charge. A cloud of dirt grew behind the riders as they quickly reached the narrow road leading to the cottages. They did not have to wonder which of the four humble dwellings the scream had issued from, for the nearest one had no door. In the darkness, they saw the peasants running into the hills behind the house, frightened that they would be next. A child cried out in the night; soft, weakened cries came from the house, too weak to be heard above the chaos and noise of twelve mounted knights rushing up to the house. Sword drawn, Vincent leaped agilely from his horse before Gascon had stopped.

Prince dropped his leggings and Roshelle cried weakly, twisting violently as he went to his knees before her, far too shocked to even know how badly she wanted to die before this thing happened—

Like the charge of Apollo, Vincent burst through the door, and before his gaze had absorbed the scene in front of him, in a burst of inhuman strength and even greater speed, his sword flew. Suddenly the small room filled with colors, bright rich colors of green and blue, swirling, moving colors. For a moment, Roshelle thought God had spared her from a moment more of the choking horror; then the colors changed to red. Bright red blood spreading across the naked chest and groin of the man kneeling before her. A weak scream sounded, lost in the sudden chaos of movement. Her arms and legs were released as men jostled in a rush of shouts to reach their swords, but the man's inhuman speed slew another before the scream had even stopped. Four other knights rushed inside. Men were dying with agonized last calls to a God they did not deserve.

The eye could not absorb the speed of his movement or that of his knights. It was over before she even knew it had begun. She felt a warmth draw close to her bare skin, like a gift from heaven, a great blanket of warmth enveloping her as strong arms slipped under her person and brought her body against the great comfort of a man's strength. More men rushed in to remove the bodies. The clear, decisive, aristocratic voice sounded far away as the man called questions and orders to his men.

"Is the wretch dead? Yes? And that one?"

"Nay, milord—"

"Save him, then—I want him hung at morning light as an example to all outlaws who would dare. Do not ease his pain, though; he deserves every blessed second of it. Look at this child. Dear God, she is in shock. I need a blanket here posthaste!"

Vincent's dark eyes fell on the man beside the door. “Who is that man? Not one of them?"

"Nay, milord. Methinks the girl's father or husband."

"Be he dead?"

"Nay, milord. Looks like only a blow to the head."

"Attend him at once. If he wakes, assure him the girl was saved."

The girl had buried her face in the velvet doublet across his chest, and her long, scarf-covered auburn hair fell in two braids over his arm. Such long hair, each plait as thick as his fist and the color of red fox pelts. His dark gaze fell to the small pale hand clutching at the hard muscles of his arm as he spoke, a desperate gesture as if to keep him there. The extreme vulnerability and fragility of that small hand tugged at the strings of his heart, and without real awareness as he orchestrated the activities of his men, he reached his hand to hers. She clasped his thumb tightly, as if it were a lifeline, and then like two pieces of a puzzle, his hand covered hers.

Wilhelm handed him a. blanket. As Vincent attempted to wrap her cold and naked form, he came to discover his mistake. This was no child. A single brow rose as his dark eyes beheld her slender arms and shoulders, the round, full mounds of her breasts tipped with prominent pink buds—a tease he felt particularly vulnerable to—the mercilessly tiny waist and rounded flare of her hips, before traveling over impossibly long, slender legs. Desire in flesh...

Violent shivers shook the small form, reminding him of what she had just survived. The blanket came quickly over her nakedness.

Roshelle drew huge, gasping gulps of air, her consciousness fragmented, and still many minutes behind on the horror she would never live long enough to forget. Hers was a violent time, made up of all manner of death and terrors: wars, pestilence, and brutal slayings, and yet for all of it, little of the violence reached her eyes, far less her person. Her status protected her, like a great glass-enclosed palace; she rarely dwelled in the world gone mad. And though Potiers had taught her defensive measures-how to toss an anlace and wield a saber—though she often rode through the dark dead of night on her secret missions, she had never experienced violence. With the noted exception of Lord Edward, no one had ever touched her with ill will.

The power of the curse shocked her. Nearly three years had passed since she last lay, her weary gaze on the old man she loved more than life, but only now did she grasp its power, her first husband and maybe her second, Edward and now these men. The curse had sent this man to slay her evil assailants, so she might survive the fate worse than death. It hardly mattered that he was not just English but an underlord of the Duke of Suffolk, no doubt one of the commanders in the army that marched to Reales to subdue her rebellion. All that mattered was that the curse had stopped the raping that surely would have brought her death. The curse had saved her once again.

The understanding felt heavy, not yet crystallized in her dazed and shocked mind, yielding to the more immediate understanding that it was over, she was safe. Frantically mobilized to fight, her body had yet to respond to the changed circumstances: her heart and pulse still raced, she drew breath first fast, then too slow, then several seconds deprived, in great gasps. She felt hot and cold and shaky all at once. The man spoke the common English with barely a hint of the aristocratic French accent—French was spoken almost exclusively among the English nobility and court. Like Papillion, too. One could never tell from Papillion's accent where he was from: a person was likely to guess an Italian state, a northern German or Arabic one, or that emerald island of the English, though Papillion preferred to speak English and so she had, too. Now even Cisely, much to Cisely's horror, often found herself speaking the peasants' language . . .

Roshelle tried to gather the fragments of her thoughts to concentrate on the words in the room, but it all sounded distant and vague, like the echoes of a dream. As if he knew, he began whispering soft words of comfort. '"Tis over now . . . 'Tis all over . . . You are safe now . . . you are safe."

He sat upon the straw pallet, careful to keep her in his arms. A gentle hand brought the long ropes of her hair from under his arm, then tucked the edge of the blanket more securely around her. "Let me see your face now, sweetling. I need to see that you are unharmed." Sweetling. Papillion had called her that...

Blue eyes lifted hesitantly to his face to view him through a hot sting. Blurred pieces of an image formed in her mind: dark hair tied straight back, thick dark brows over widely spaced dark eyes, intelligent eyes searching hers, a brow lifting with curiosity or concern as he did so.

The beauty of her face struck Vincent’s ability to speak, and for a long moment he could only stare at the lovely blue eyes, so large and translucent as to seem painted by oil colors, then at the delicately sculpted nose and the full, wide lips. A bruise quickly formed on one side and he cursed the idea that the man who did it had but one death. Her skin seemed unnaturally pale but exquisite, nearly flawless save for a small, faint mark of a childhood bout with the pox on her chin. What in heaven's name was such a beauty doing in a peasant hovel?

His gaze took in the humble dwelling before returning to her face as if he were trying to reconcile the two. She hid again in his chest. A peasant's days filled with little more than arduous toils, labors that took a toll on faces and hands. Hands-

He lifted her small hand for a close examination. Yet another contradiction. Smooth, pale skin covered a lady's delicate hand on one side, yet small calluses showed on the other. A gentle thumb traced over a small callus, one got from . . . reins.

She did not belong to that elderly man of the cottage by either marriage or blood, that much seemed sure. Few peasants could afford even an ox, let alone a horse to aid in tilling the fields; none could afford a beast to mount. Besides, her beauty would no doubt draw out the purses of every man who viewed her. Here was something else—

"Milord, the man has come to. He says the girl is not his. She and her man were traveling at night when the outlaws overtook them and she ran to his house for help—''

A violent shiver shook her, and she reached for his hand. "Please help my servant. He was attacked in the field just to the north of here. I fear the worst—"

He watched anxiety and pain fill her blue eyes. "Wilhelm—"

"Aye, at once."

"Dear God, he will be needing me." She started up, but his arms gently restrained her. "I must go to him—"

"Nay, not yet. You are too weak, trembling still. My men will attend him. If he be wounded, they will bring him to you."

She turned her face against his tunic, the entire force of her being centered on a prayer for Potiers' safety. Potiers was her most faithful servant and friend. She did not want to think of what her life would be like without his companionship and aid and strength.

"The man is someone you care about?"

She nodded. "He has served me nearly all my days and there are few alive I love more, methinks, and if he is wounded or . . .oh, Dieu! No, make him live—please, if he be wounded, I need, I need to be ready. My clothes—"

Vincent set her easily onto the pallet, stood up and looked about the room for the discarded remnants of her gown. "I do not think—"

"No, not those." She shook her head, trying hard to concentrate. She felt so strangely numb, her heart pounding first fast, then slow, then fast again. She could not stop shaking. "I ... I wore the good man's deceased wife's clothes to trick them, knowing they were looking for a boy. The good man hid my clothes behind the cupboard in the buttery there."

Maids dressing as boys to disguise their sex was a common enough practice to have the church declare it a venial sin, and while Vincent offered no comment, his eyes alone managed to express what he thought of the practice. Or perhaps what he thought of a world where such tactics were necessary.

He found her clothes and handed them to her, staring at her as he did so. Her blue eyes met his as if seeing him for the first time, and she was. The fire danced in the small hearth and shadows played over the uncommon strength revealed in the arresting features of his face: the thick, neatly combed hair, the remarkable eyes—lit with an unmistakable restlessness and impatience—and thick brows, the fine, large nose and mouth, a square-cut, cleanly shaven chin with, mon Dieu, the mark of a perfect cleft! "Beware the perfect cleft, a mark of the most powerful, a man whose unnatural luck and fortune is nothing compared to the force of his will," Papillion had once told her. She had plenty of reason to believe it now, for she abruptly grasped that here was a lord of King Henry's realm.