The Commander's Desire (4 page)

His mind returned to his well-understood
deficits. The scar that twisted his brow, and his broken nose… Few
women, and usually only drunk ones, would have him.

His eyes traced her delicate beauty. He was
not worthy of her. He knew that. But for peace… He grew weary of
battle. No. He was weary of inflicting death and pain on other
humans. A dark emptiness grew larger in his soul after each battle.
He feared that soon it would swallow him alive.

But now, for peace—a peace he suspected the
Prince played games with Elwytha’s brother even now—for as long as
peace lasted…for as long as he had Elwytha, he would enjoy her
fire. A spirit that vibrant could not be broken, and he had no wish
to do so. Here was a battle he might enjoy, although he would not
trust her an inch. She hated him viciously. Death flared even now
in her eyes, and he grinned.

Mutiny gleamed back, and he tried to squash
his smile. Here was a worthy opponent. But he would be certain to
protect his vulnerable areas. If she attempted a death blow, the
game would end.

But for now, he would choose the victory he
sought. His mind spun with possibilities. What methods could he
employ to tame one such as herself?

* * * * *

Elwytha didn’t like the unreadable thoughts
flickering through the giant’s clear gray eyes. Who knew what
tortures he planned, even now. Look at that smile. He was clearly
pleased with some nefarious plot he’d concocted to further
humiliate her. Perhaps, once again, she should take care. After
all, she knew the wickedness of which he was capable. Hadn’t she
stood at Thor’s gravesite only six months ago? Unexpected tears
stung, but she managed to swallow them back. Tears had no place in
her warrior’s mission.

She raised her chin and stated, “I will
retire to my room. You may summon me when my clothing has arrived.”
With a majestic sweep of her robe, she stalked to her tiny
bedchamber and shut the door. She was surprised when he didn’t
follow, or try to stop her. Good. He must never know that right now
her courage felt about as substantial as a brittle piece of
ice.

Her first order of business was to inspect
the door. Any locks, to forestall his unwelcome advances?

None. She turned and surveyed the room,
searching for weapons—for any tool to help her succeed in her
ultimate quest. A quick glance proved the floor and walls were made
of stone, and the ceiling of dark, heavy wooden beams. No
candelabra for her; instead, dark, cone-shaped torches flanked the
wooden door.

The room only had one window. It was high and
narrow, with bars. Impossible to climb out. If she wanted to
escape, she’d use his—she had noticed a larger window in the other
room. The bed was small, and made of wood. A sheet and blanket with
a pillow rested upon it. Elwytha heaved up the mattress and
discovered slats of wood beneath. Perhaps she could work one of the
slats free and use it as a cudgel. Yes. She smiled with pleasure
and continued to survey the room.

A tapestry on the wall. Pretty, but useless.
A rug on the floor, white and wooly. Again, useless. A wooden
dresser, three drawers. All empty, she discovered. No secret
compartments. Although she could secrete her blades behind the
dresser when she retrieved them.

Elwytha completed her survey of the room. A
wooden stand with a porcelain bowl upon it. In a pinch, she could
break it for a sharp blade.

Not bad. Crossing her arms, she sat on the
bed. That’s when she realized her room was like a cell. A prison.
What would she do in here? Lose her mind, most likely. But it was
far preferable to the Commander’s presence.

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes.
A light nap would refresh her and allow her mind to remain sharp.
Who knew what further skullduggery the giant intended to pull
tonight.

Chapter
Two

Elwytha was unable to
nap.
Instead, she plotted how to regain her
daggers. She needed them for self-protection; not to mention her
ultimate goal. But how to retrieve them? Perhaps at night, while
her captor slept, she could sneak out and wander the halls until
she found her trusted blades. Provided he didn’t lock her in her
room, of course. Unfortunately, a likely scenario.

Her mind turned to ways of confounding any
lock the door might hold. Of course, it would help if she
understood what mechanism this palace used to imprison its
captives.

Unable to lie idle a moment longer, she
sprang to her feet and stealthily tested the door latch. To her
surprise, it moved easily in her hand. With suspicion, she
cautiously eased the door open a crack. She pressed her eye to the
opening and scanned what little she could see; only half of the
room, and the giant was nowhere to be seen.

Emboldened, she edged it wider and peered
out. No one. She was alone. Her spirits leaped in triumph. Now a
far greater opportunity lay before her than inspecting the door
latch. She could search the Commander’s room for a weapon.

She darted out and commenced a quick,
efficient search. A small chest, locked. She made a note to find
the key. The bed, with only old footwear beneath it. A tall wooden
wardrobe filled with clothes. A chair. A stand for washing, and a
window. But little else.

In frustration, she put her hands on her hips
and surveyed the room. Where did he keep his knives? His weapons of
destruction? Perhaps most were in the armory, but a warrior always
kept his sword close at hand. And what of daggers? Perhaps even now
he carried them on his person. Likely.

“
Have you found everything
you require for comfort?” The deep rumble came from behind
her.

With a gasp, Elwytha spun to confront her
betrothed. He had not improved in appearance during their brief
separation. The great shoulders strained at the leather of his
jerkin, and the slash on his brow seemed to give him a permanent
squint…or frown. She gathered her courage and gave him a cool, bold
stare, even though she felt vulnerable without her blades. No need
for him to know that.

“
I require my clothes,” she
stated. “They still haven’t arrived. And I require sustenance.
Unless, of course, you intend to starve me. Is that your standard
treatment for captives?”

His lips twitched. “You may dine with
me.”

“
No.” The horrified word
spit out. “I have no wish to dine with you. A simple meal in my
room will suffice.”

“
I wish you to dine with
me.” His expression didn’t change, but Elwytha knew he meant it. He
was insisting upon her presence with him.

Her skin crawled at the very idea of
partaking of a meal with this brute beast. Likely he ate with his
hands and dribbled juice down his chin!

She could not still a shudder.

He waited patiently, saying nothing; allowing
her to make up her own mind to accompany him. Everything within
Elwytha boiled in rebellion at the thought. He probably meant to
parade her as a trophy on his arm before the tables of men he
commanded. She gritted her teeth, unable to countenance the
thought.

He said, “You will agree?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Or what?”

“
No food will be delivered
here.”

Elwytha’s mind worked quickly then,
determined to make the best out of a bad situation. Perhaps at the
dining table she would find a knife. She could secrete it upon her
person. Yes. That would make the coming humiliation worthwhile.
Then she’d be prepared to kill Thor’s murderer when her brother
came…in two long weeks.

Elwytha frowned, as if rethinking her
refusal. “Very well,” she said at last. “If you insist. But first,
I need appropriate clothing.”

“
It is coming.” At that
moment, a knock came on the door, and when the Commander opened it,
two guards entered, carrying a large trunk. Not one of her own
trunks, she noted with disappointment. They deposited it in her
room and departed. The Commander turned to her. “Dress,” he
ordered.

“
Of course. Right away.” Her
lip curled, belying the servile words, and she retreated into her
room. The door slam made her feel better; at least for a moment.
She opened the trunk and discovered that most of her clothes were
inside. Of course, they were wrinkled now and stuffed in every
which-away.

Further outrage simmered as she selected her
ugliest garment to wear; a gray woolen with a severe, high
neckline. If necessary, and if given a needle, she would modify all
of her garments so her enemy would find no cause to lust after her
person.

She thankfully found a brush, and brushed out
her hair, then plaited it and coiled it up into unbecoming loops.
Elwytha smiled with satisfaction into the small, highly polished
bit of metal that served as her mirror. It, too, could be used as a
weapon in a pinch, but would wield little damage upon her enemy.
Likely it was why it had been allowed to her.

Last of all, she tied a narrow cloth about
her shin, ready to hide any knife she might pilfer from the dining
table. Pleased, she exited the room.

The Commander stared at her.

“
I am ready,” she announced.
“Lead on.”

Without a word, he exited the room. She
smiled to herself. Her appearance had taken him aback. Good; a
small victory to assuage her coming humiliation.

As they neared the end of a corridor, she
spied the great dining hall ahead of them. It was hard to miss, as
a din swelled down the hall, pulsing into her ears, and the warm
smell of crisped venison and fresh baked bread assailed her
nostrils. She sniffed deeply and her stomach gurgled. As they drew
closer, she noted the huge candelabras burning overhead, as well as
multiple torches burning on the walls. A bright, unfortunately
festive atmosphere.

The Commander slowed as they neared the
entry. “Place your hand on my arm.”

“
I will not
touch
you.” Revulsion
galloped through her.

“
You are my bride. The
Prince has thrown us a feast.”

Elwytha saw now that all eyes had turned to
them—most likely all of his men who looked up to him. How shamed he
would feel if she would not submit to his command.

“
I will walk beside you,”
she decreed. “Expect nothing more.”

He heaved in a great breath. Displeased, she
knew. She flicked a glance up at the gray eyes. That was a mistake.
The stormy gaze promised battle. Perhaps later, when no one would
see her, or hear her. Without a word, she lightly placed her
fingertips on his forearm.

“
You learn well.”

“
I choose only critical
battles. No others matter.” His defeat, in other words. She gave
him a hard stare, wishing she could imprint that warning upon his
thick brain. “Don’t expect me to smile,” she warned, determined to
displease him at every point possible.

When they entered the room, all the men stood
and gave a great cheer. Her face burned at the hand clapping and
coarse jokes, but she lifted her chin and schooled her features
into disapproving lines. Her old nursemaid had perfected it.
Luckily, Elwytha had taken delight in copying it. This skill served
her well now. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to discourage their
uncouth behavior, but she felt better about it.

“
Up here, Commander,” the
Prince called from the far end of the room. He sat in splendor upon
another ornately carved chair, plumped with many
cushions.

Wonderful. Into the enemy’s den with a
murderer on one side and a conniving Prince on the other. How could
her brother have subjected her to such an untenable situation?

Revenge, she reminded herself, and settled
onto a bench indicated by her hulking betrothed. He settled to her
right. Now only to endure the meal. And to find a knife.

Her swift glance scanned the long wooden
table. It was dotted with candles and heaped with hunks of bread,
cheese, grapes, bowls of boiled vegetables, and slabs of roasted
deer. Plenty of spoons, but no knives were in sight. A warrior on
her left scooted a mite closer, but before she shrank back, she
noted the bejeweled dagger glinting at his belt. She smiled,
pretending cordiality. He grinned back, showing crooked, stained
teeth. A waft of putrid air sailed her way, and she hastily pressed
a hand to her mouth to stop a gag.

“
A fine wench, Commander,”
the man slurred.

Good. He was drunk. Elwytha smiled with true
pleasure then.

“
Be careful, Commander,” the
Prince drawled from down the table, to her right. “Already her eye
wanders.”

Elwytha frowned. “In civilized courts a smile
is merely polite.”

The Prince popped a small tomato into his
mouth. “Does she please you, Commander?”

“
She will do.”

More shouts and coarse jesting peppered the
warm air. Elwytha longed sharply for her blades then, and for her
fellow warriors to cut down this loathsome bunch. Not that the
warriors in her palace behaved any better, she had to admit. But
still, she’d never been the butt of their coarse jesting before.
Not if they wanted to keep their heads, anyway.

The Commander seemed to ignore the revelry
around them. A wicked looking dagger appeared in his hand. It
flashed as he cut meat for her wooden trencher, and then scooped
vegetables in as well. Elwytha tried to get a clear glimpse of the
blade. It was long—perhaps almost a foot—with a pair of sapphires
embedded in the hilt. It looked wicked, and was obviously his
favorite. No doubt he carried it on his person at all times. Well
to be warned of her obstacles in advance.