Part 33 (1/2)
Each driving stroke of arms and legs was evenly matched. Both men had suffered bruising and earned wounds in their earlier meeting on the tournament grounds, but this was a new battle, the final battle, and neither spared a thought or grimace for the aches or fatigue. They attacked like rampant lions, blow upon mighty blow staggering first one, then the other. Their swords slashed and hacked without grace or deliberation, each cut searching for a hidden weakness, probing for an unguarded flaw-some imperfection in skill or speed that could reward a bloodthirsty blade.
They fought their way onto the sand where the footing was not sucked out from beneath them, but where the weight and drag slowed their turns and lengthened the time needed to recover. The droplets sprayed from Lucien's hair were tinged red from the wound on his temple, and the front of his s.h.i.+rt became splashed with sand and gore. Etienne's arm and thigh were gashed, the links of his mail unable to withstand the tremendous power behind each of the Wolf's blows.
The two crashed together, locking swords, their eyes blazing at each other over the crossed shanks of steel. Lucien saw nothing in the icy blue gaze to jar the memories of happier times that had softened him before; he saw only hatred and twisted jealousy, and the arrogance of greed and unchecked corruption. He saw more. He saw his father's face and the agony of the betrayal he must have felt knowing his son had condemned him to a traitor's death. He saw Eduard lying spread-eagle on the torturer's rack, and he saw Mutter and Stutter, Robert the Welshman, and all the faces of all the good men who had given their lives over the past twenty hours. And he saw Servanne ...
Lucien surged forward with a roar, breaking the tension in Etienne's arms. The Dragon fought to retain his balance, doing so at the last possible split second, and was able to angle his sword down, ready to block the antic.i.p.ated stroke his instincts screamed would come at him from the right. He committed his sword and his eyes followed the stroke ... but it came from the left but it came from the left, not the right, and the enormity of his error flickered across his face even as Lucien's blade carved into the exposed rack of ribs and sliced its way through silk and leather, mail and muscle, flesh and sinew and wildly beating heart.
The Dragon sagged forward, a groan of incredulous agony pulling him down onto his knees. He dropped his sword and reached frantically for support, but Lucien had already taken a broad step back, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. The Dragon looked down in disbelief at the blood gus.h.i.+ng onto the sand. He clasped his hands over his chest as if to keep any more from spilling from the wound, but he was already dead, and he fell facedown, his flaxen hair glittering against the crimson sand like tarnished gold.
Lucien barely had time to collect his senses before a woman's piercing scream drew his gaze to the sh.o.r.eline. He spun around just as Gil, her hands gripped around the hilt of a knife, thrust her weight forward to plunge the blade deep into Nicolaa de la Haye's chest. The scream was cut short as Nicolaa's body went rigid with the pain. Her green eyes blazed wide through a moment of shocked recognition as Gil Golden's face turned into the sunlight, but the only sound that came from her lips was the gurgle and hiss of a dying breath.
Servanne, trembling like a leaf in the heart of a storm, stood in the midst of the carnage, her wounded hand cradled to her breast. She saw Gil run over to kneel by Alaric's side, and she saw Sparrow leap into the surf with several other men to retrieve Eduard before he was dragged out to sea again. Sir Roger and another tall, n.o.ble-looking knight were talking to Lucien but he gave them only the briefest of acknowledgments as he cast a swift, smouldering glance along the beach and found Servanne.
He seemed to need a deep breath to steady himself before he started staggering slowly toward her. His gloriously handsome face was streaked with blood, his s.h.i.+rt was cut in a dozen places and clung to his flesh like a wet black sheath. But he had never looked more wonderful to her. Servanne had never felt such happiness, such love, such pride before in her life.
He stopped within arm's reach, his eyes a paler gray than ever she had seen them, and filled with more emotions than she would have dared hoped or dreamed. He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze moving over her soft curves, pausing at every scratch and bruise as if offering a silent pledge to atone for each and every one. There was a breathless little silence between them and her knees turned to jelly. She knew if he did not say something soon, or take her into his arms, she would melt into the sand and be washed out to sea on the next tide.
They must have been sharing the exact same thought at the exact same instant, for her half-sobbed cry was lost beneath the heartfelt oath he murmured as his mouth came crus.h.i.+ng down over hers. His arms went around her, clinging to her so tightly she became moulded to the muscles of his body. His kiss was deep and ravaging and might have frightened her with its demanding intensity if her own lips were not just as eager, just as frantic to become a part of him.
”Ahh-hem.”
The discreet cough behind them made no impression.
”Ahh-hem. My lord?”
Sparrow happened by and chuckled dryly. ”I warrant you would have better luck winning a response from a tree trunk, Sir Richard of Rouen. These two shall not move again until hunger, thirst, or body needs lay them by the heels.”
Lucien's mouth lifted from Servanne's with a grudging sigh, but he made no move to release her from his arms.
”Sir Richard ... were you not supposed to be well on your way to Hull to rendezvous with the queen's s.h.i.+p?”
”There is grat.i.tude for you,” Sparrow chirped, earning a scowl from Sir Richard in return.
”As it happens, my lord, as soon as we were out of hailing distance of the castle, my men lost patience with the louts sent to escort our troop to Lincoln. We laid them by in short order, then set off in the direction of Hull, but bed.a.m.ned if my steed did not pull up lame and require the services of a farrier. In all conscience I could not risk the safety of Princess Eleanor over such a trifling matter, and so I sent her on ahead with the bulk of the men, retaining only a few good lads to, ahh, aid me in my search for a smithy.”
Lucien's gaze had not broken from Servanne's, nor had the heat in his body grown any less threatening to her composure.
”And? Did you find a smithy?”
Sir Richard ignored Sparrow's rolling eyes and nodded quite seriously. ”Aye, my lord, but by then it was broaching dusk and so misted on the forest roads we could scarce see our hands before our faces. Imagine my surprise when the road we took brought us back to the moor instead of away to Hull.”
”Imagine,” the Wolf mused, his embrace tightening around Servanne, the movement rippling along the muscles in his arms and chest.
”And then the further surprise of stumbling across the camp occupied by our own men! We were naturally pressed into lodging there the night and-”
”And just happened to still be there when I arrived,” Sparrow interjected, ”although I am sure, had I been a wink later in gasping my way out of the moor, Sir Richard and his men would have departed for Hull.”
”No doubt they would,” the Wolf murmured, his mouth lowering to Servanne's with a warm, devouring pa.s.sion. ”Well, my lady? What do you think of such a tale?”
”I think it heroic and brave,” she whispered. ”Sir Richard has obviously been in your service long enough to have learned by example.”
”The devil you say, madam.”
”The devil you are, my lord,” she sighed, and stretched up on tiptoes to ensure he did not speak again.
EPILOGUE.
Servanne ran the palms of her hands reverently over the warm bulge of male flesh beneath her. Discovering the two raised beads of his nipples, her lips formed a moist pout and leaned brazenly forward to claim their prize. Lucien groaned and raked his fingers into the silken ma.s.s of her hair, but that was a mistake too, for it freed her hips to move at their own impudent pace, and he could feel himself being drawn deeper and deeper by muscles that were becoming just too d.a.m.ned proficient at undermining his authority.
He skimmed his hands down to the firm, pearly skin of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and took some satisfaction in hearing a faintly rasped warning. She was just as close as he was, but twice as determined to squeeze every delicious shudder of pleasure from his body before she relinquished the reins of pa.s.sion.