Devil's Dominion (10 page)

The wine flowing through his veins was dissolving his self-control. It was causing him to have wild thoughts. So the prisoner was bathing, was she? Although he had given Grayton permission to tend the woman, he wasn’t particularly keen on the fact that his prisoner had some freedom. He wasn’t too keen on a de Velt moving freely about the keep. She was a prisoner, wasn’t she? She deserved no more consideration than she’d had before, languishing in a vault. No de Velt deserved more than that, in his view.

The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became until he slammed the cup down and rose abruptly from the table. His destination was the keep but he didn’t mention that to Grayton. He didn’t want the man to come with him. Therefore, he kept silent as he quit the hall, even when Grayton and Dallan called after him. He ignored them. He had a prisoner to see.

The keep of Cloryn Castle was tall and built like a big, square box. It even had stone steps leading to the second floor entrance which was a rare feature. Most stairs that led into keeps were wooden so they could be burned and keep access cut off in the event of a siege. But Cloryn’s keep had an enormous entry door that was made of iron, impossible to burn and nearly impossible to breach, so it was this door that Bretton moved through. By the time he reached the steps that led to the upper floors of the keep, he was working on a righteous rage.
Damn de Velts!

He hit the second floor landing and was preparing to take the stairs to the third floor when he heard coughing. Lured by the sounds, he ended up at the second of two large chambers on that floor. He could feel the warmth from the room escaping through the gaps between the door and the door frame. Hand on the latch, he shoved the door open.

Very warm air hit him in the face. The first thing he saw was Allaston on the floor next to the hearth, her eyes wide on him and her fingers frozen in her hair as she had been raking the digits through it, trying to dry it in the warm air. Bretton took several big, angry steps into the room, his gaze fixed on the prisoner, but as he drew close it occurred to him that she was an extremely beautiful woman. Cleaned up, with some color in her cheeks, she was utterly spectacular.

The realization set his anger back a few notches, inviting an extreme amount of bewilderment into his drunken mind.
Beautiful?
Was it possible a de Velt could actually be beautiful? Momentarily stumped by his conflicting thoughts, he just stood there and stared at her as if he wasn’t entirely sure which direction to take. Should he bellow and be angry and drag her back to the vault? That was his original intention. But now, at this moment, he couldn’t seem to do it. He just stared.

Allaston stared back. His appearance was startling and unwelcome. The last time she had seen the man, he had threatened to impregnate her. She had threatened to kill herself if he tried to touch her. She wondered if they were about to see these events come to pass. Taking a deep breath for courage, for strength, she removed her fingers from her hair.

“Your man, Grayton, brought me here,” she said steadily. “I am most appreciative of the consideration. My thanks to you.”

His anger was knocked back another notch. He’d never noticed before, but she had a rather sweet voice. Was it the wine making him notice such alluring traits about her, he wondered? The wine was doing bizarre things to his thought processes.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.
God’s Beard, man, why should you care?

Allaston shook her head. “I have not,” she said. Then, she pointed to the bath. “But I have bathed. Your man was very kind to provide me with clean clothes.”

Bretton looked at the bath, now full of cool water. He could smell the lavender. Then his eyes returned to her, noting the glistening dark hair, reflecting red highlights in the firelight, and her bright green eyes were spectacular against the backdrop of her alabaster skin and dark brows. Rather appalled at his lustful thoughts, he moved away from her, aimlessly, noting the garments on the bed and then her dirty clothing on the floor. He pointed at the collection on the floor.

“Burn these,” he said. “You will no longer need them.”

Allaston watched him as he moved near the bed, which put her on edge. Beds were where marriages were consummated. She wasn’t quite sure how she could fight the man off if he was intending to force her into bed so she remained by the fire, nervously looking about for a weapon should he try. There was a large fire poker a few feet away. It made her feel a bit better knowing she was closer to the poker than he was. She could get to it first should he try anything. At least, that was her hope.

“They can be washed,” she replied evenly to his statement about her clothes. “I see no need to burn serviceable clothing.”

Bretton looked up from the bed, staring steadily at her. He just stood there and looked at her but it was clear there was something on his mind. His entire manner held something odd, something of curiosity and angst and bewilderment. After a moment, he tore his gaze away from her and resumed his aimless wandering.

“Tell me something,” he said.

Allaston watched him pace. “If I can.”

His wandering eyes found the great tapestry near the bed, the one with the lord and lady on it courting in romantic love. He fingered the expensive piece.

“Explain this to me,” he said. “Explain to me what kind of man your father is.”

Allaston wasn’t sure this was a safe subject but she obliged. “I can only tell you from my experience,” she said. “That is all I know.”

“I realize that. Tell me.”

Allaston paused a moment to collect her thoughts, hoping she wouldn’t set him off with whatever she said.

“He is a generous man,” she said. “He is strict, that is true, but he is a man of warmth and humor. He also has a head for mathematics and business.”

Bretton turned to look at her, surprised. “Business?”

Allaston nodded. “My father has many holdings and between him and my mother, they manage them very well,” she said. “Although I believe my mother is much smarter than my father is. She thinks so, too.”

She was smiling faintly as she said it and Bretton realized it was the first time he had ever seen her smile. It was glorious. He could have very well been swept away with it upon his alcohol-hazed mind but he fought it. He fought it furiously. He mostly battled it by thinking of his hatred of de Velt and of the terrible things the man had done.

“And you are fond of him?” he asked as if bewildered by the entire concept. “Do you truly not have any idea the atrocities your father has committed? Do you truly not know what a monster he is?”

Allaston’s smile faded. “I told you that all of that is in his past,” she said. “I know he did some terrible things, but….”

“
Terrible
?” Bretton nearly bellowed. He came away from the tapestry and headed in her direction. “Terrible is to burn a house down, or loot a village. Terrible is to kill a man who was only defending what was his. What your father did went beyond terrible! Do you know that he would take all of the knights and soldiers he conquered and run big stakes through their anus, up through their intestines, until the sharp part of the stake emerged from the man’s neck or chest or shoulder? Then, he would drive the end of the pole into the ground and leave the man to die as if he was no more than a mindless animal. If the loss of blood or the destruction of his entire body didn’t kill him quickly, the elements surely would. Your father, this man you speak so fondly of, did that to my father. My father was a good man, a man with great love for his family, and your father put him to the stake as if he was less than human. Jax de Velt treated my father as if he was no more than a side of beef and not a man with a heart and soul. That is what
your
loving father did to my father.”

By the time he was finished, Allaston was looking at him with tears in her eyes. In that rather drunken tirade, she understood a great deal, more than she ever had. She was both terrified by it and touched by it. Sympathy and fear played hand and hand in her mind. Aye, she had known that her father had done atrocious things, but it wasn’t something she ever thought about or dwelt upon. She didn’t like to think her father capable of such things, but now, she was forced to face it.

“Every man has a past,” she whispered. “Many men have killed.”

Bretton’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, many men have killed, but what your father did was beyond killing,” he said. “He took what was most valuable to a five year old boy. He took away my entire life in a single, dark night. Memories are all I have of a wonderful life that was. My life since then has been focused on one thing – the destruction of the man who took everything away from me. Destruction of the man who nearly destroyed
me
.”

Allaston could see, in those few short sentences, that there was pain somewhere in that anger. There was a flicker of grief there that drove de Llion. It was what fed his spirit. At that point, she did the only thing she could do; she begged forgiveness.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I am so terribly sorry your happiness with life ended that way, but the man that did that… I do not know him. That is not the father I know.”

Bretton stared at her, feeling very strange as he did so. He wanted to give in to her sympathy, he truly did, but then he would remind himself that this was the daughter of the man he had sworn to hate. His inner struggle was great.

“Mayhap you do not know that man, but he still exists,” he assured her. “Your father still exists. Therefore, his evil still exists. Do you know what I plan to do?”

Allaston shook her head fearfully. “Nay.”

Bretton drew close to her, going down on one knee so he could see her better. He could smell the lavender on her, assaulting his senses, and he struggled to ignore it. His heart was nearly bursting with emotion, brought on by the wine, and he was unable to stop the words spilling out of his mouth.

“I intend to take back every castle your father conquered on the Welsh Marches,” he said. “I have two already, Cloryn and Ithon. Then, I will proceed to take Rhayder, Comen, Erwood, and finally, Four Crosses. Your father’s men man these outposts and those I have captured, I have put to the stake in the same fashion your father did. Jax de Velt is getting a taste of his own tactics and once I am finished confiscating his castles, I will meet the man on the field of battle. It is inevitable that he will come to me, for I have several things that belong to him. But I have something that means more to him than all of the material possessions combined. I have you, and you will bring your father to my doorstep whereupon I will best the man in battle and put him on a stake just like he put my father on a stake. I will watch Jax de Velt die a slow and agonizing death and call it justice.
That
is what I intend to do.”

Allaston looked up at him with baleful eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You cannot do that,” she whispered. “My father is not the man you knew. He has changed. You
must
allow that men see the error of their ways and proceed to live a good life.”

Bretton’s eyes were riveted to her, seeing such haunting beauty the more he scrutinized her. He struggled not to let himself be distracted by it.

“Mayhap,” he agreed, his raspy voice low. “But your father did not see the error in his ways before he killed my family. We all have to pay for our sins one way or the other.”

Allaston couldn’t help but notice he was leaning rather close to her and instinctively, she pulled away. “Are you God, then?” she asked, wiping at her cheeks. “Only God can punish sinners. That is not your right.”

Bretton stared at her a moment before breaking down into a grin. The man had a devastating smile of big, white teeth.

“Nay, I am not God,” he said, “but I have been called the Devil, and these castles I take back from your father are now part of my dominion. There has never been another warlord like me nor shall there ever been another one like me. I am unique unto myself, with more power than Jax de Velt could ever hope to have.”

Allaston sighed heavily at his boast, which turned into a coughing spell. She ended up coughing into her hand, struggling to breathe. She was starting to feel ill again, from his words more than from actual illness. It was frustrating to hear him speak of such hatred for the man she loved.

“Then I am sorry for you,” she said. “Look at you. You are obviously a powerful and well-spoken man, and men like you are a premium commodity. You could do so many things with your life, swear fealty to any number of wealthy lords or even to the king himself, but instead, you focus all of your power and intelligence on vengeance. Your father is dead and killing my father will not bring him back. In fact, I would suspect that even if you are able to murder my father, all you will feel is a hollow sense of accomplishment. What will my father’s death bring you? Happiness? I doubt it. You are an embittered and unhappy man and no amount of killing is going to satisfy that hole in your heart you are trying so desperately to heal.”

Instead of flare, Bretton actually found himself listening to her. She spoke rationally, not with fear or emotion, and he found that her manner intrigued him. She was a calm and collected lady in the face of death and, in spite of everything, a small seed of respect sprouted for her. Nothing she said was untrue. In fact, it made a good deal of sense. After a moment of digesting her words, he actually smiled.