The Commander's Desire (28 page)

Had he murdered Thor?

Elwytha gasped and sat straight up. Water
sluiced down her shoulders and cold air puckered her skin. Nay. She
beat back the treacherous thought.

Never would Richard commit such a heinous
crime. He didn’t lust for power that greatly, did he?

And yet he had hated Thor. All during their
childhood Thor had been their father’s prized son. The perfect
example. Honorable and just. The best swordsman. A new fact
whispered up. Someone would have had to stab Thor in the back to
kill him, for he’d have defeated a direct attack.

Who but those in her own castle knew this
fact?

Nay. Elwytha gulped and reached for her
towel. Shivering, she exited the tub and rubbed her body hard,
trying to shove these traitorous thoughts from her mind. Richard
would never kill Thor.

And Richard loved her. He would never hurt
her, either. Both had received little of their father’s love or
attention. This had formed a fragile bond between them. Honestly,
however, Elwytha had never been close to Richard. He’d been far too
moody. She had loved Thor best, and understood why her father had
lavished such praise upon him. She could not resent it, for she
loved him, too.

Slowly, Elwytha dressed, unable to stop her
horrible thoughts. After her father had died in a hunting accident,
Thor had ascended to the throne. He had reigned for two years.
Battles between their land and the Prince’s had not flagged, though
toward the end Thor had mentioned peace. He wearied of war, and
suspected the Prince did as well.

But then the Commander—or someone—had killed
Thor, and that was the end of peace. Richard desired more land.
More tributes from the peasants. He was a hard man; a fact she
could not deny. He beat his horses, and she’d heard of men killed
because they failed his orders. He wished absolute power, and
absolute subservience from everyone—including herself.

Elwytha padded back to her chamber and
distractedly tugged a comb through her wet hair. She picked at the
snarls, paying them little attention, and stared at her blue eyes
in the mirror. Eyes the exact color of Richard’s. Surely the man
who shared her blood could not commit such an unspeakable act…and
surely he had not ordered the attack upon her as well.

But Elwytha felt her world slowly tilting off
balance. Once thought, the suspicions could not be bottled up. The
fact remained—someone had killed Thor. But had the Commander
murdered him, or had Richard ordered it? Neither option was
palatable. What was the truth?

Still not paying close attention, her comb
nicked her scalp wound. Pain pierced her and she cried out. Ready
tears spurted down her cheeks. Did everything have to be so
painful? So unbearable?

She pressed her fingers to the wound and
fresh blood came away. The comb had broken the scab.

A knock thundered on her door. The Commander.
She attempted to wipe up her tears. “Come in.”

He opened the door. A frown contorted his
brows. “Have you a pain? I heard you cry.”

Her lip trembled, but she willed it to stop.
Wasn’t she a warrior? The battle had reminded her of this truth.
Now the battle to find the deepest truth required her to think
straight, and logically, to find answers.

The Commander sat beside her on the narrow
bed, and she looked at him in surprise. “Your wound pains you?” he
asked gently.

Weak tears welled higher now. How could his
kindness so quickly strip away all manner of her armor?

“
I…I was foolish, and poked
it with the comb.” She stared wordlessly at the blood on her
fingers. She made to wipe them against her dress, but his hand
closed around them, stopping her. She looked at him, further
surprised. What did he intend by this action?

His gray eyes held hers. “I would attend to
you,” he said quietly.

Warmth leaped inside her. “Oh, but you
don’t…”

“
I wish to.”

Her heart beat faster. “I’m fine,” she
attempted to deny.

He crossed the room to her basin of warm
water. He dipped a wash rag in it, wrung it out with one strong
fist, and returned with the ointment in hand.

Elwytha felt further warmth as he sat beside
her again. Her heart beat ridiculously fast. She would not be able
to stop him. She knew this well enough, so she carefully lifted her
hair out of the way to assist him. Then she felt his fingers,
gentle on her chin, holding her head steady, while the warm cloth
dabbed at the wound. It barely stung. Then she felt a soothing
coolness as he applied the ointment to her scalp.

“
Thank you,” she managed,
allowing her hair to fall free again. Quickly, she cast him a
glance. An unknown emotion heated her, making her feel flustered.
“I appreciate your…kindness to me.” Unable to stand his nearness
any longer, she sprang to her feet, taking the cloth and the
ointment from his hand, and deposited them where they belonged,
across the room. She wiped the blood from her hand, back still to
him.

She said, “I would dine in my chamber this
even, if you do not object.” He would think she was tired, and
while that was true, it wasn’t the full truth. Setting her chin in
a firm line, she turned to face him. “I wish to retire early.”

After assessing her features for a moment, he
nodded and rose to his feet. “I will tell Hagma.”

Elwytha was relieved. Her feelings for this
man continued to grow, springing outside the carefully sealed
chambers of her heart. He was a danger to her now, more than ever.
“Thank you.” She attempted to smile.

Again his gaze raked her face, discerning,
unnervingly intelligent, as usual. “You are troubled.” A
statement.

No sense denying it. “Yes,” she allowed.

“
Why?”

Helplessly, she waved her
hand. “It’s as I’ve told you before. I don’t know what to
think…about anything. You. My brother. It’s all such a
mess
,” she gritted this
last.

He advanced toward her. “Can you not be loyal
to me, and to your brother, too?” His hands closed around hers, and
she gazed up at him wordlessly.

“
I wish for peace,” she
insisted brokenly.

“
And we shall have it. Our
marriage will provide that firm foundation.”

A marriage she meant to flee? But what if she
didn’t? Could peace truly be served? Conflicted thoughts twisted
through her.

“
Do you wish it?” he
persisted. Another velvet cloaked demand for the truth from her
heart.

A reply evaded her, for she did not know.

“
I wish it,” he told her,
and kissed her. His lips burned like fire across her own. The brief
contact ended, and she stared up at him, feeling dizzy and weak at
the knees. Why did she wish to melt into his arms now? His nearness
befuddled her, playing tricks with her mind—at least, this is what
she tried to tell herself.

After a moment, he said, “Have you written
your missive to Richard? I will send it at first light.”

Elwytha had written one several days ago, but
now she wished to destroy that one and pen a new one. “I will write
it anon.”

The Commander released her hands. “I’ll get
the parchment and ink.”

After he’d left these items, he left her
alone, closing her door behind him. Elwytha gazed at the parchment
for a long time, searching for the best words to sway her brother
to peace. To warn him to eschew his treachery. Finally, she dipped
up ink and wrote.

Brother, my wedding is moved to the Saturday
hence. I pray you can come early. Could peace be so evil? Again I
ask you, would the sacrifice of honor serve either of us well?
Leave your sword at home, brother. What benefit lies in the enemy’s
pit? Your loving sister, Elwytha

There. The clearest hint possible that she
wished to commit no treacherous act. And a veiled plea to rescue
her early and forget his bloody plan. He was a smart man. He’d read
between the lines. If he came bearing his sword, he would leave
with it buried deep in his heart. She shivered at that grotesque,
horrible thought, and delivered the letter to her warrior
betrothed.

He read it and nodded approval. “Your words
cut as sharp as your tongue.” Was that a faint smile?

“
You approve, then?” she
inquired, eyebrow raised, and suppressed a sudden grin. “Or would
you love more words?”

His smile edged up. “For me, you mean.”

“
They please you so well. I
wish only your approval.”

He grinned with quiet, appreciative
amusement. “Do you flirt with me, Elwytha?”

Her face burned. “Nay! I merely inquired if
my missive meets your exacting standards.”

His eyes smiled, pure silver now. “I would
continue this conversation. But it might be better finished after
our marriage feast.”

Her mouth opened and her heart pounded loud
in her breast. “You overstep your bounds, Commander. Good
even.”

Hastily, she retreated to her chamber and
slammed the door. She leaned against it, breathing quickly. What in
the world had she just done? Verily, she had flirted with him! Had
she taken all leave of her senses? The wallop to her head must have
addled her brains. She needed a good night’s rest to clear her
thinking processes. In fact, the sooner she retired, the
better.

Chapter
Eighteen

When Elwytha awoke, dim
light
filtered into the room. She felt
sleepy. Another cloudy day. Perhaps it might rain. Or snow. It was
the perfect gloom to precede her fateful wedding to the Commander
on the morrow.

The wedding Richard may stop, and the wedding
she may flee—unless she decided to pursue peace, and convinced
Richard to agree to the same. Would she marry the Commander to
guarantee peace between their lands?

Would she marry him under any
circumstance?

Elwytha did not know the answer to any of
these questions. She lay still on her bed, listening to the noises
outside. A faint, spitting sound. Rain? What of the flowers she and
Hagma still needed to cut this morn?

Again, for the wedding that may never be.

Elwytha was tired of lying still and doing
nothing. She needed to get out and about, and allow her mind to
breathe—and her body, as well. Mayhap she’d don her cloak and take
a turn around the grounds before the ground became too soggy.

This plan appealed. She quickly dressed,
fastened her cloak about her, and silently left the room. Hagma had
not arrived with her breakfast yet, so it still must be early.

Even so, the Commander was not in his room.
This did not surprise her. What did he do with his days? Practice
sword play with his men? Train the warriors? Plot battle strategies
with the Prince? She knew the Prince already suspected treachery.
He had said as much a few days ago. Now, after the attack at the
pass, these suspicions would be strengthened. More reason to
convince Richard of peace.

Swiftly and silently, she sped down the cold
stone hallways to the door leading to the courtyard; to the flower
garden where she had fled that first night, fleeing the mocking
Prince and her frightening, murderous betrothed. Or so she’d
believed at the time.

She stepped into the light, sprinkling rain.
The dampness chilled her, but she pressed on, for the ground was
not muddy yet. And the flowers…she saw none. Where were they? Just
two weeks ago, lush bushes had bloomed. She had sniffed their sweet
scent and they had soothed her anguish and fear.

How her perceptions had changed in so little
time. True, the Commander was still huge and fearsome, but not the
brutish monster she had believed. Intelligence, gentleness, and
discernment tempered his natural tendency to command, dominate, and
aggressively insist upon obedience to his orders.

An unusual combination in a man.

Elwytha hurried on, warming a little now. The
rain felt cold against her face, but the fresh air smelled sweet
and heavenly. Few people were about. She approached the armory. No
one was outside, and the door stood open. Could the Commander be
inside?

Without thinking, she stepped to the door and
peered in. Dim light revealed swords, daggers, lances, armor—every
conceivable weapon of war. But no Commander. No one was inside.

Two weeks ago this opportunity would have
filled her with giddy delight. She’d have dashed in and pilfered
three of everything she could carry. At the very least, three
daggers. Temptation beckoned now. Would her daggers be in the pile?
What harm would it do to merely look?

Feeling as though she were taking wrongful
steps, Elwytha approached the daggers. A shiny pile of them filled
a bin. All sharp. All wicked looking. A quick perusal proved none
were hers.

The Commander was right. She did prefer the
dagger. She loved the look of them, and the feel of them.

She spied a small, slender one with a rapier
thin blade. It bore no jewels, but a design of leaves was battered
into the hilt. It balanced perfectly in her hand. Again, with a
blade in hand, she realized how naked she’d felt lately with no
dagger strapped to her person. At home she always wore one. Thor
had taught her to be prepared at all times, for any manner of
attack. Mayhap he’d been afraid one of the warriors would assault
her, she realized now. But still, she loved the blade. Reverently,
she stroked the weapon. A fine piece of craftsmanship, this.

A huge hand gripped her wrist, and with a
twist, forced her to drop the knife. With a gasp, she faced the
Commander. Her heart beat hard. His eyes looked like steel in the
dim light. “Again you would steal a blade?”

She drew a quick breath. “I was tempted,” she
admitted, knowing he would only tolerate the truth. And she did
wish to be truthful to him.