The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (3 page)

When he looked up, he found that the man had
disappeared from his line of sight. Perhaps, if he could get his
feet under him, he could at least raise himself from the sitting
position to where the tree trunk might be small enough to give some
relief to his wrists and shoulders. Drawing up his knees slowly, he
tried to find enough leverage to lift himself and felt the rough
bark of the tree grinding into his back through his shirt. With
desperate resolve, he pushed upwards and felt his arms slip up the
trunk just a bit. Gritting his teeth against this wave of different
pain, he pushed again and slid a few more inches up the tree before
the rope snagged on something, stopping his progress. It would not
work. He let out the breath he was holding and tried to ease
himself back down without doing more damage, but the big man was
back suddenly, kicking his feet from under him. It seemed
impossible that he could have raised himself to the height
indicated by the bone-jarring crash precipitated by the vicious
kick. He was sure his spine was broken by the slight fall and
surely there would be no skin left on his back. He heard himself
groan as he settled back into this former position at the base of
the tree.

The man took a handful of his hair and
slammed his head against the tree. Stars danced in front of his
eyes and blackness threatened to take him away, but unmercifully
did not, leaving him looking up into the ugly man’s face again.

“Where’re you goin’, dipshit?” the man asked.
“Somebody else wants to talk to you. You be a pretty boy now and
don’t try that again.”

He let go of the hair and Mark’s chin dropped
to his chest. He was beyond thirsty and wondered how long he had
been there in the orchard. It seemed like a very long time and, in
fact, may have been. The tree was all he could remember. As far as
he was concerned, he had been there all his life. He heard the
leaves and old pecan shells crunching again as more footsteps
approached, but he refrained from looking up to see who was coming
to visit him now. Strangely, he heard his stomach growl and a new
sensation made its way into this brain. He was starving… literally.
He must have been here for days.

“Mark Andrew Ramsay?” a pleasing female voice
surprised him. He raised his head too quickly and the stars came
back to entertain him. Dizziness joined the repertoire of
unpleasant sensations and sweat ran into one eye, cutting his
restricted vision in half. Death surely could have finished the
sideshow at any moment and he thought that it might have been a
good thing. He decided against looking for the woman that belonged
to the voice. The effort was too great and she was probably as ugly
as her companion in spite of her pleasant voice. “Knight Templar.
Master of the Key of Death.”

This caused him to frown which caused the cut
to bleed more which brought new pain which caused him to groan
involuntarily. His vision cleared a bit and the image of a woman
dressed in a flowered summer dress danced in front of his eyes
while the trees behind her moved in a great circle.

When she smiled, he thought she was an Angel,
come to welcome him to Paradise, but the pain in his shoulders and
the pain in his wrists and all the other pains he felt indicated
quite plainly that he had not crossed over just yet.

“Won’t you talk to me?” she asked.

She knelt beside him and brushed his hair
from his face before leaning close and looking into his eyes. He
could smell her perfume and see the tiny golden hairs on her cheek
in the dappled sunlight. She held a bottle of water to his lips and
he drank it without thinking, spilling it over his chest. The water
was cold and sweet and he nodded his approval without taking his
eyes off her face where clear blue eyes and cherubic cheeks were
framed by short golden curls.

“The company of women is a dangerous thing,
and the devil has turned many men from the path to Paradise by
providing female company," he said without knowing why. His own
voice was strange to his ears.

He wondered why he would say such a rude
thing to the best sight he had seen in his extremely brief
life.

“Spoken like a true knight, but you don’t
have to worry about all that right now,” she said and her smile
widened as if the rude comment pleased her somehow. She traced a
cool finger down the trail of blood on his face. “Such precious
blood should not be wasted.”

When she leaned closer, he realized that the
thin frock was almost the only thing she wore over a lithe, tanned
body. His mouth fell open slightly and his eyes almost crossed at
the sight of so much smooth feminine flesh. At least the view was
pleasant, or would have been pleasant under other circumstances…
perhaps. She followed his gaze with her own eyes and then pursed
her lips thoughtfully before sitting back on her heels.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked and
then rocked forward just enough to brush his face with her own as
she whispered directly in his ear. “There is such a fine line
between pleasure and pain, Mark Andrew. Don’t you agree?”

“Who are you?” he asked and turned his face
away from her. Her perfume smelled like she looked, soft and
expensive. Whatever her game was, it was far worse than being
beaten by her brute of a companion. He knew how to safely react to
a good beating. This was much more diabolical and cruel. Not an
angel, but a devil.

“You should have been more cooperative with
Maxie,” she frowned sympathetically and turned his head back to
face her. “He can be such a brute at times. But you didn’t answer
my question.”

“What was the question?” he asked.

Mark felt the dizziness return as he gazed
into her eyes. What did she want? What did the big, ugly man
want?

“Do you like what you see?” she asked
again.

He nodded. This was not right at all, but
perhaps a little cooperation might be in order until he could get
his bearings.

“Maxie asked you a lot of questions and this
is the first one you have answered so far. Maybe his methods of
interrogation are too crude. Perhaps you would respond better to a
softer approach.” She leaned forward again, pressed her lips to his
and he closed his eyes tightly. Not right. Not right. She took his
head in both her hands and he allowed her to run her tongue over
his lips and between his teeth.

Mark could not believe what was happening and
winced as yet another sensation coursed through him causing him a
variety of new pains as his entire lower body convulsed
involuntarily in response to her attentions. She sat back and
looked at him in surprise. “You see? A very fine line. We can make
all this other stuff just disappear.”

He could do nothing but sit staring at her as
she worked one hand under his belt, inside his waistband and down
to where the latest in a long list of unexpected sensations was
developing in direct contrast to what his mind was saying about
this bizarre situation. She moved into a very compromising
position, settling down on his lap, causing more pain in his
legs.

When he involuntarily tugged on the ropes
holding him in place, he realized it was not an attempt to escape,
but rather an attempt to embrace her. He mumbled an incoherent
objection to what she was doing when she unzipped his pants and
then made another attempt to reach her, but this time he wanted to
rip her apart for reducing him to such a sorry state.

“How long has it been for you, Sir Ramsay?”
she whispered and ran her fingers through his damp hair.

“How long for what?” he heard himself ask
stupidly, afraid of what she was referring to.

“You won’t regret breaking your vows with
me,” she told him and leaned back to work on his belt buckle.
Within seconds at least one part of him was blessedly free and he
cursed it for betraying him so blatantly.

“What language was that?” she asked as she
maneuvered into place, but he was in no mood to answer. He didn’t
know or care what she was talking about.

None of it made sense to him, but she was
right about one thing. He was no longer worried about anything
except what she was doing now. He wondered vaguely where her
companion had gone and if he was watching them. No matter what he
could not remember, he felt this 'assault' was something that he
had never experienced before. She adjusted her position once more
and an involuntary noise escaped his lips as she lowered herself
onto his lap and adjusted her skirt to cover what was occurring and
covered his mouth with her own, kissing him deeply. Mark leaned his
head against the tree and closed his eyes. This had to be a dream,
a nightmare. There was nothing he could do to help himself or her
efforts, but she needed no help whatsoever.

The pleasure was very short-lived and before
she could get his belt fastened again, everything had returned to
its former state of intolerable pain. She kissed him once more and
he dropped his head on his chest breathing hard while she made him
a bit more presentable. When she stood up, he realized that he
could no longer feel his feet.

“These ropes are much too tight,” she said as
if noticing for the first time that he was in a bit of trouble. She
turned slightly and whistled as if summoning a horse. The mount in
question turned out to be the scar-faced man, who showed up
shortly, wearing the same ugly scowl as before. If he had witnessed
the strange event that had just occurred, it had not helped his
temperament.

“Let him go,” she told the man brusquely.

“That wouldn’t be very smart,” the man
growled and frowned at her as if she were crazy.

“He’s not going anywhere,” she said. “I said
let him go. Now! He can barely breathe.”

Mark waited for what he knew would be another
unpleasant event. The man stomped angrily behind the tree and cut
the rope that held him against the trunk with a wicked hunting
knife. The man did this work none too gently and gave one last jerk
before letting the rope go. This second release was even more
gratifying than the first and more than welcome. Mark dragged his
numb hands around in front of him very slowly and laid them in his
lap. Surprisingly, no fingers appeared to be missing, though there
was no sensation in them and they were a distinctively unhealthy,
purple color. As the feelings began to return to his fingers, the
accompanying stinging tingle gave him something else to
appreciate.

“There now,” she smiled at him when he looked
up. “Isn’t that better?”

A beautiful, female rapist. He’d never
thought it possible. Never given it a thought at all. But she was
beautiful and she seemed to have no malicious intent. In fact, she
reminded him of a child.

He nodded again, sighed and closed his weary
eyes as he drew his knees up and then sat cross-legged, arching his
back to ease the pain there. When he opened his eyes, she was
beside him again.

“Tell me, Chevalier Ramsay,” she knelt beside
him and reached to flick a piece of bark from his hair. “Where are
your brothers?”

“I have no brothers,” he told her. He didn’t
know if it was a lie or the truth.

“You have eleven brothers, Sir Ramsay,” she
insisted. “No other family. They are well known to us. You are the
Master of the Key of Death. The Assassin. The Chevalier du
Morte.”

“You have lost me entirely,” he said tiredly.
A cool breeze kicked up beneath the trees and helped to revive him
immensely. Even though the titles sounded familiar in a vague sort
of way, he refused to admit it.

“No, I’ve just found you,” she said with a
twinkle in her blue eyes. “I intend to keep you for a while. Sir
Ramsay.”

This was not what he wanted to hear. He
wondered ironically where she had found him and what he had been
doing and what he was supposed to do now. She was obviously insane.
Beautiful, but insane.

“You will tell me everything eventually,” she
told him. “I think you would rather tell me than the others. It is
only a matter of time. There is no use in going on with your old
ways. This is a new century and things have changed. After we have
found your brothers, we can get on with a new order that will be
much better than the old one. Less restrictive, I think.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about."

He noticed that his accent was different from
hers. He didn’t know which of them were in the wrong place. With a
sinking feeling, he had to assume that it was himself who was far,
far from home. This place was strange in every aspect. Not home.
Too hot. Too dry. Even the trees were wrong. He recognized them.
Pecan trees. But where was home? Where were pecan trees grown in
such profusion?

“Your order is dying, Sir Ramsay,” she told
him almost sadly. “There is no place left for your kind in the
world. It is time to share your secrets with the world.”

“You and your friend have me confused with
someone else,” he tried to tell her.

She laughed and her laughter reminded him of
Pixies or some other faery from his homeland. Homeland? Pixies were
legends… of what land? Home. Home! Faeries and Pixies? She was not
the only one here who was quite right in the head. He was insane as
well. He was quite sure of it. An almost hysterical laugh escaped
him, confirming his thoughts.

“What a fine sense of humor you have, Mark
Andrew. So unafraid, just as Cecile said you would be.” She leaned
in quickly and kissed his forehead before examining the cut above
his eye. “I should think that after all these years and all the
horrors you have seen, you would be more… solemn or bitter. But you
are nothing like I expected.”

What horrors? His only horror was still
clomping about under the trees. He wondered what horrors she was
referring to. Why had she called him an assassin? Was that why he
was in this situation? Was he a murderer? He didn’t feel like a
murderer. He didn’t feel like anything, but a very confused and
abused man in a great deal of trouble and yet, he knew quite well
that he'd not heard himself called by Mark or Mark Andrew in a
long, long time or perhaps ever.