Set to Flame (Flame Series) (11 page)

“I came to visit with you Sir
Cyrille.  I have come to know the other people here well enough so now I wish to get to know you.”

With a growl the man came from the darkness.  He tried to move quickly but stumbled over his leg, and the cane he wielded awkwardly in an effort to keep himself upright.  The shuffle was what drew her eyes first, then up the legs clad in nothing because the burns to his body were so horrendous it appeared to be agony for anything to come in contact with his skin.  Her eyes travelled further, to a waist that had grown thin, and the chest was not as broad as she remembered then finally to his face as he made it to within an arm’s reach of her.  All his bared skin appeared as if it had melted from his body, and she wondered if its appearance would ever improve.  She knew she would always bear her scars but at least the skin was growing back.  Most of his skin was still missing creating a raw, chafed appearance although the deeper wounds the fire had created appeared to be healing together.  The burns were only a minor distraction when one looked upon his face.  They did not compare to the knife wounds where his eye had been cut from him and where he had fought the cutting of his tongue.  If they had been intent on such a thing she knew he would be without his tongue now as well, but it had obviously been only a scare tactic.

“Take a good look,” his voice rasped away before his mighty hand came up and knocked the candle from hers.  It skittered across the floor with the clank of the sconce and snuffed itself out when it came to rest.  She had to admit to herself, she was frightened.  She could feel the rage seeping from this man, the raw fury because it had once consumed her.  Perhaps a great deal of responsibility lay at her feet for his circumstance since she did not free them before he was tortured and burned.

He was standing over her.  She could hear his rasping breaths.  She felt his hand touch her shoulder but was immediately drawn away.

“You still hurt?” she asked, gathering her courage and lifting her face toward his silhouette. 

“Get out,” he said.

“No,” she quickly responded, making it clear she had no intention of going anywhere.

“Have you let them put the healing salves on?” she asked, moving around him as if he was not a hulking man with his anger directed entirely on her.  She moved toward where her candle was, feeling with her toe and finally locating it.

She quickly scooped it from the floor and struck her flint to it.  As the candle regenerated its light Alena had to stifle a gasp, knowing the man who stood only inches from her would mistake her shock as a response to his face and not his sudden closeness.

“It would do wonders for your pain.”

“What do you know?”

“I know that you can’t start healing until you get rid of your pain.”

He turned from her and started pacing like a caged animal, albeit a very tired caged animal.

“You also have to let go of some of your anger.”

He turned like a predator and came at her, lifted his hands toward her but dropped them back to his sides.  “Let me see your hands,” she demanded.  He hesitated, and she was sure he was baffled that she did not fear him.  She didn’t see why anyone would fear a man whose hands were so sore he couldn’t hurt anyone with them, just throw things in an attempt to drive people away.  Slowly he raised his hands and at her motion turned them over for her inspection.  They were raw and cracked like the rest of his body. 

“Have they left something for this?” she asked him.  He hesitated again before nodding to a table next to the bed.  She went to it, surprised to hear his shuffling step behind her.

“The yellow, then green,” his gravelly voice said stepping before her.

“Perhaps when you are well enough you will be able to take your meals in the hall so you can gain some of your muscle tone back,” she said offhandedly as she scooped the ointment from the jar and began to apply it to his hand.

With each stroke he grimaced, and she felt sorry to be causing him so much pain.  When he had been unconscious it had not mattered, but to cause this man more pain melted her heart and she wanted to throw her arms around him and make it all go away.  Yet, that comforting act would cause him much more suffering than her hand spreading the salve.  She knew from experience the second would soothe so began alternating between them.

“What do you know…” he began, his voice trickling away to near nothingness.  When he swallowed a couple of times, he finished his question, “Of anger?”

Alena cast a glance at his one good eye.  She wanted to cry for she remembered how handsome this man was.  Casting her gaze back to her task, she replied, “A great deal.”

“Sheik
Ghalib slaughtered everyone I knew.  He took my life away and the first time I laid eyes on him, I wanted so badly to spill his blood.  I wanted to see him as he had left my parents, my friends.  That was just the beginning of my anger because he forced me to give him pleasure, when he only deserved my hate.”  Her voice changed then, and the bitterness edged in.  “No matter how hard I fought him in the end it was all the same and I hated him and myself even more.”

“Easy,”
Cyrille said squirming from beneath her hand that had grown heavy. 

She began to apologize but found it dried up in her throat. 

“He hurt you?” he asked.

She looked up at him and realized tears had pooled in her eyes and were falling down her cheeks.  “Not as bad as he hurt you,” she said redirecting her gaze to her work.

“Damien will kill him,” he said after a pause so long Alena nearly forgot their conversation.  Her eyes darted to Cyrille’s good one and saw the truth in his statement.  Ghalib dead?  She had wanted it for so long.  Alena paused, closing her eyes and prayed. 

“Do you not want that?” he asked, looking down on her and her hand that had stilled.

“Of course I want that.  I prayed that his death came to him violently and that he was filled with excruciating pain before he drew his last breath.”

She went back to work but was disgusted with herself when she felt the tears threatening to escape from her eyes.  “Does that make me a bad person?” she asked, refusing to look at him, afraid even through his scars she would see his disgust at her words.  Women were supposed to be gentle and biddable, not wishing an agonizing death on other humans. 

“No,” he said.

The chamber remained silent as she finished her task, stepping back to study him. 

“At least your important parts were spared,” she said casting her eyes from his naked groin to his scarred face. 

His eye looked to her, and she thought she saw a smile try creeping its way through the destroyed flesh.  “Not so important,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Very important because you can still piss.  What, did you think I meant?” she asked, cocking her head sideways.  “I cannot believe you’re so filthy minded,” she accused him with a smile. 

She turned to leave but paused at the door with the tapestry lifted and turned to him.  “I will try to let go of my anger if you will try to do the same.  After all, the man who created each is one and the same, and the one your brother vowed to kill.  He impressed me as a man who keeps his vows, no matter what it takes.”

The man standing near the candle she left on the table nodded. 

“Good.  He will never do again what he has done to us,” she said with a nod then left the chamber.  Once she stepped out into the corridor she felt her legs grow weak from beneath her.  Her body slid down the wall and ended in a crumpled heap on the floor and cried.  She wasn’t sure what she cried for, but it would not stop.  Even when Marcus found her there, lifted her gently in his arms and carried her back to her chamber.  He said not a word, holding her until her tears dried up then he simply released her and left the room. 

~   ~   ~

The rumors did not reach Alena’s ears until she stood in the village, looking over the sweet pastries at the baker’s shop.  Lenora’s cook was an expert at making meals that made taste buds squeal with delight but one thing he did not make was the sweet foods that had become a special treat while under Ghalib‘s rule.  As she looked over the delicacies, she became aware of the voices behind her just as she made a selection of the most perfectly created one covered in sugar that made her mouth water.  The three women had gathered at the shop behind her and at first she hadn’t noticed their whispers.  But whispers were secrets which were warnings of danger to come.  She paused as she handed the young lady, probably the baker’s daughter her coin for the purchase.

“They say she was the sheik’s own witch.”

“Why has Sir Damien brought her here?”

“They could not leave her with the Sheik, she made him too powerful.”

“I heard they tried to burn her when Sir Cyrille was taken out of the flames, but she would not burn,” the coin dropped from Alena’s numb fingers.  “Only the one side of her face would burn, God’s mark upon her so the world will know what she is.”

Slowly she turned to stare at the women so caught up in the conversation they did not notice they had an audience.  The one whose back was to
Alena was short, the woman’s  red hair was straight, almost to her hips, but those hips had grown wide with age and matched the rest of her plump figure.  To her right was a mousy looking creature that appeared as if she would be blown away by the slightest of winds.  The third was a tall Neanderthal with hair so long it fell to her knees, and she could tell, by the way it shone in the morning light that it was her pride and joy for it was beautiful with nearly every color between blond and black glistening in it.  Peasants they all were, easily detected by the clothes they wore, wives out gathering essential supplies for their families and filling their heads with gossip.

“She’s with Lord Garrick, the devil himself.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ala is her name.”

“No,” Alena said striding forward to stand over the women.  “My name is Alena,” she smiled when she heard one of the women gasp.  She knew it was a smile that tilted her eyes and bunched the scars on the right side of her face.  “I had better never hear my name pass between the lips of you ignorant fools again,” she said with a hiss, her smile dropping away to stare at them.  She wanted to threaten them with a curse but heard Marcus's footsteps behind her, and she allowed the smile back onto her face.  No one would have been able to tell it was not a genuine smile of happiness.  Lifting the pastry she took a bite, ignoring the fact she had squished it in her fist.  She chewed it for a moment before nodding her head vigorously.  “It is very good,” she said wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth with a delicate touch of her finger.

Alena
did not want to turn around and face Marcus.  She found she was angry that she knew it was he behind her and none other.  She spent so much time at the keep, listening for his footsteps, she knew them well.  She knew his scent, the sound of his laughter, everything, and it all drew her toward him.  She wanted his arms around her, she wanted his comfort.  She wanted him to protect her from the world, from people who looked at her and talked about her, but she was not a child. 
You fool
, she chided with vehemence inside her own mind refusing to let him see her need for him.

When
Alena turned she saw the flicker of uncertainty cross Marcus’s face at the appearance of fright on the faces of the women.  “Try this,” she said quickly, offering him a taste of the treat.

His
soft gray eyes went to her, puzzled and calculating.  She knew she did not deceive him, but he played her game anyway, she read it in his eyes and the sparkle they held.  He took her slender wrist in his hand and held it up to take a bite of what she offered.  His hand lingered overly long, so long she could swear she felt a delicate touch from those intense eyes that did not miss a thing.  What kind of man was this?  He knew she was hiding something yet he did not rant or threaten but took delight in what made her feel like the beginning of a cat and mouse game. 

Despite her thoughtful silence throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening Marcus asked nothing about the women.  As he left her that night at her chamber door, he asked her if she knew to come to him if she were ever to be in any danger and she assured him, she did.  He bid her a goodnight and left her alone finally with her thoughts.

~   ~   ~

One mind numbing day after another left Marcus feeling close to insanity.  He trained with the guards at Holmesfield, but they provided no challenge so he spent a great deal of his day riding the countryside and trying to free his mind of the beautiful woman that was his.  She moved about the keep like some ethereal queen with her head up and a cold demeanor that made it seem as if she were much more than a woman with nothing.  Lenora had been right about all the fabrics and styles that went into the creation of her wardrobe.  They all seemed to bring out the color and catlike tilt of her eyes.  They also enhanced the curves of the woman that made him want to weep for what he wanted so badly to touch.  It was a time he took for granted until it was too late to appreciate.

The message came from Garrick, summoning him to Winchester, where his army had just returned with King Richard. With Garrick’s message came a message from Damien to his brother, summoning
Cyrille if he had survived and could fight.  His heart grew cold at the implications.  They were going to war, he knew it as surely as he knew Alena was hiding something from him, something that had happened in the village more than a fortnight ago.  It was something that kept her from leaving the walls of Holmesfield and visiting the bakery again.  One who did not miss an opportunity he visited it daily and returned with a delicacy that lit her face and earned him her gratitude.  He knew she would come to him if she needed him and decided to leave her alone about it until then.