Читать книгу His Enemy's Daughter - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 13

Soren had tried not to think much on the coming night, he just wanted to accomplish as much as possible before the sun set. So, he’d focused his thoughts on how to hold so many prisoners, and how many of his own men had been killed, and how many villeins had fled his approach and how many yet remained to tend the fields, and other matters as weighty as those. It was only as he climbed the steps leading to the second floor of the corner tower of the keep that he realised he’d thought about her more than he wanted to admit … even to himself.

The scorn and scolding he saw in the gazes of his soldiers who stood guard stopped him in his steps. He was about to address their insubordination when Stephen called out his name. Since the man stopped at the end of the corridor and did not come to him, Soren walked back to hear his concerns.

‘Soren, is this wise?’ Stephen asked in a low voice.

‘What do you speak of?’

‘I know that a man’s blood runs hot after battle, but is this wise?’

Coming from this man, someone who had learned the hard lesson of misplaced lust after a battle, gave Soren pause. But, this was not of his concern.

‘If I was caught in the throes of bloodlust, you would be lying unconscious on the floor for asking such a thing and I would already be lying between the wench’s thighs halfway to satisfaction,’ he said. Soren glared at his friend. ‘So, ask me not such things and we will both be the better for it.’ Soren turned away, but was stopped by Stephen’s grasp on his arm. He shrugged it off easily.

‘She is your wife now, Soren.’

‘She is Durward’s get.’ The men who fought with him knew, had heard, his plans for any who carried the blood of Durward of Alston and who came under his control. In all the dark and painful detail. The change in her circumstances mattered not.

‘And now your wife. Different than what you had planned on. A different matter completely now.’

‘And my concern alone, Stephen. Do not make me regret accepting you into my service.’

The warrior looked as though he wanted to argue, but he controlled that urge and nodded. With only one more glance over his shoulder at Soren, Stephen left. Soren continued his path down to the doorway to her chamber. The guards stepped aside and waited for his orders.

‘Stay down there. I will call you if you are needed,’ he said, directing them to the place where he’d just spoken to Stephen. ‘No one comes further until I say so.’

He noticed the sweat on his palms as he reached for the latch and lifted it. He swore he felt no nervousness, but his heart raced and his chest tightened as he faced the next step in seeking vengeance against the man who had destroyed his life … and his body and soul. Soren pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Her servants, both the older, stout-figured one and the younger, lithe-bodied one, stood like statues next to the pallet. The wench lay nearly motionless on its surface—motionless but for the quick and shallow rise and fall of her chest and the curling of her fingers as though she tried to take hold of the bedcover and could not find purchase of it.

‘Can she see?’ he asked. The injury to her head did not necessarily mean blindness. ‘When the bandages were removed?’

With a stiff shake of her head, the older woman confirmed her condition and he let out his breath.

‘I told you to prepare her,’ he said, moving then and making his way slowly across the chamber. ‘Undress her and get out.’

‘My … lord …’ the younger one stuttered, bowing her head now in an unsuccessful attempt to placate him. ‘Twas too late for that.

He hesitated in spite of his intentions and watched as they helped her to stand next to the bed. Now in a clean gown and tunic—what did they call those, syrce and cyrtel?—with her injury tended to, Soren could see her loveliness. And he could see the terror that drained her face of any colour and made her body tremble with fear.

Her pale hair fell in waves over her shoulders, but it was her hands that caught his eye. Fine and graceful, like the curve of her neck as she whispered to her servants. Any trace of the earlier bravery she’d displayed had fled her and he could see that she was younger than he first thought … more beautiful as well. But it was her delicate features that struck him now. She was a well-born lady and he was.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and to focus his intentions. ‘Either you undress her or I will see to it,’ he said, harsher than he needed to, but he made his point.

Soren turned away then, trying to ignore them, hearing them move to do his bidding rather than allow him to do it. Soren busied himself with removing his heavy leather belt and scabbard, and lifting the chain coif from his head and loosening the leather helm. Turning away, he positioned the leather patch to make certain it hid the stitched flesh that covered the place where his eye should be. When it grew silent behind him, he turned back to find the wench lying under the bedcovers and her garments in the hands of her maids.

Good. He let out a breath he did not realise he’d held. His task here would be done quickly and he could see to more important matters. If his seed did not take, he could visit her until it did and then not see her until the birth of his heir.

As he’d realised during his hours of toiling to make this place his, apathy would be a more fitting punishment than the hatred that simmered just below his skin, waiting to tear free of his control and wreak havoc on his enemies … on her. Though vengeance was key in his plans for her, he would make this woman nothing but a vessel that would bear his seed and fulfil his needs.

Soren smiled grimly, glad that success felt so close at hand. With a nod, he ordered them from the room and when the door closed he took in and released a deep breath. But the smile remained. Only when he was within an arm’s length of the bed did he notice her trembling once more. The curling mass of her pale hair outlined her head and shoulders and distracted him again from his contemplation of vengeance sought and found. Though the bandages had been removed, she lay with her face turned away from him as though she did not wish to look upon him.

The humiliation he’d felt when others had turned from the carnage that used to be his face returned in an instant, pouring bile into his stomach. But, one glance at her empty gaze and he remembered that she could not see him at all. Relief flooded his senses in that moment and the tension evaporated within him.

She cannot see me.

He allowed himself to revel in that realisation and he felt lighter than he had in all the months since that September day. Standing over her now, Soren noticed the creaminess of her skin and wanted to caress those graceful lines of her neck, the fullness of her lips and the fragile daintiness of her slender figure. It would, he realised, take little effort to tug the linens out of his way and see the rest of her feminine curves and skin laid bare. With just this small hint of her comeliness, his body warmed and readied for the task ahead. Soren reached over to lift the sheet away when she startled so suddenly that he jumped back.

‘Sybilla,’ he said, realising he should offer her some words of explanation. He did not doubt she came to this ill-gotten marriage a virgin.

The sound of her name on his tongue for the first time felt rough and ill-fitting. He swallowed and cleared his throat. Before he could move closer or do anything, she tossed the covers back and pushed herself off the bed, sliding away from him. He reached over to grab her, but slipped and landed across the bed, with an empty hand. Leaning up, he watched as she tried, like a trapped, wild animal, to run with nowhere to go.

Her bare feet skidded on the wooden planks of the floor and her momentum carried her as she stumbled across the chamber. Soren climbed over the bed and reached for her just as she got to her feet and dashed away. Like a madwoman, one too caught up in escaping to remember she could not see. Confused and probably still dazed from her injury, he watched as she pressed herself up against the wall, whispering and shaking her head.

Soren spoke her name several times, but clearly she was incapable of hearing him. He approached her as he would a high-strung mare, trying to gentle her with a calm voice.

‘Sybilla,’ he said, sliding off the bed and trying to get to her before she caused more damage to herself. ‘You must stop.’

She stood motionless, but only for a deceiving second, and then she bolted as soon as he moved towards her. He almost got hold of her when she knocked over a small table that held a jug and cups. Soren managed to take hold of her shoulders and stop her from further injury, but she began to wail as soon as his hands touched her skin. It was a pitiful sound that he hated hearing, both for what it made him want to do and what it made him feel. Sybilla would have backed away from him but for his hold on her and she surprised him again when she collapsed to the floor.

Soren told himself that she simply sought to avoid the inevitable and that he had every right to claim her body this night, but something deep within him refused to let him take that step. Instead, he whispered her name and tried to calm the devastated woman he had forced into marriage. Somehow he guided her over to the bed and settled her under the bedcovers.

He ran his hands through his hair as he gazed around the chamber and wondered how he had so mismanaged this situation that had seemed completely under his control just minutes before. His plan to bed her regardless of her feelings on the matter fell apart in the face of her pitiful condition. Some remnant of his old self ate at him as he witnessed the fall he’d planned for so long. But only for a scant moment as he realised he could not, would not, bed her this night.

Acknowledging it, acknowledging that he could not take her against her will, no matter his will or his desire on the matter, seemed to let loose all the anger he’d held inside for so long.

She’d won again.

Her father had defeated him yet again.

Soren felt the rage seething and turned away from the bed and her. He struck out in blind anger, at the only thing he could, grabbing a nearby wooden loom and throwing it frame first against the wall, then crashing it to the floor. He heard Sybilla scream out, but ignored it this time. He’d given up much this night and could give no more.

Unfortunately, the loom had landed partially against the door, blocking the path of his retreat, his exit, so he had to call out for the guards. When they opened the door immediately, Soren knew they’d been right outside and not down the hall.

‘Get this damned thing out of here!’

Only as they began to collect the wooden beams did she react, sobbing and sliding from the bed where he’d placed her. He blocked the guards’ view of her and wrapped a blanket around her as she scrambled towards the remnants of the loom. He shook his head in confusion and disbelief.

Was she mad as well as blind?

As he watched, Sybilla tried to gather and touch the pieces of the frame in her arms, all the time rocking to and fro and sobbing. Stephen arrived at the doorway and frowned as he watched the strange scene before him.

‘What happened, Soren?’

Soren shrugged. At first he thought fear had taken hold of her. Fear of consummating their vows would be something he could understand since she was a maid and was his bitterest enemy. But then, she seemed to have lost her wits and her way. Now, the heart-wrenching sobs that seem to come from her soul confused him. Damn it! Why did Stephen have to be right in his warning?

‘The loom fell,’ he explained, leaving out the part about his unleashed anger causing it. Incomplete. Inaccurate. It was as much as he was willing to explain.

‘She does not seem well, Soren,’ Stephen said as the wench continued grasping and crying. ‘Should I summon her maid?’

What else could he do at this point? There would be no consummation this night and he wondered if he’d made a mistake by taking her as his wife. He looked around the chamber at the damage caused and shrugged. Mayhap the women could calm her and even explain this to him.

‘Aye, get them and seek the healer.’

Stephen left and Soren observed her from where he stood. She had not moved from her place on the floor and did not appear to even feel or hear anything as she rocked and cried. When he heard the sounds of the women’s approach, he stepped slowly out the door, continuing to face and watch her. With a motion of his hand, he stopped them several paces from the door.

‘Stop,’ he ordered in a whisper. ‘You, you come here quietly,’ he directed to the older woman. When she walked to where he stood, he nodded. ‘Tell me of your lady’s behaviour.’

The older one leaned over and peeked in the chamber, gasping at the scene before her. When she moved to enter, he held her back with his arm.

‘Tell me why she acts as a madwoman.’

‘What did you do to her?’ the maid demanded.

Soren reached over and grabbed the woman by her garb, hauling her up close to him. ‘I do not explain my actions to a servant,’ he growled through clenched jaws. Pushing her away, he nodded at the lady in question. ‘Has she lost her wits?’

Her answer was interrupted by the healer, a man brought with them who understood how to treat injuries and heal with herbs. Brice’s wife had spoken highly of his treatments and Soren was pleased to find him still alive after the slaughter and brought him here to Alston for the time being.

‘My lord?’

‘Teyen, have you treated the lady for her injuries?’

‘Nay, my lord. Her maids saw to her while I saw to those more in need,’ he explained. ‘Should I now?’

Soren rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the shattering pain growing there in the face of this absurd situation. ‘What happened to her?’ Soren asked. ‘You, there.’ he nodded at the younger servant ‘. what are you called?’

‘Gytha,’ she stammered out.

‘Gytha,’ he said, ‘tell me how was your lady blinded?’

‘When you … the attack began, she was running to collect the children into the keep as Gareth directed. The wall shattered in front of her and struck her down.’

‘So she lost consciousness?’ he asked. Gytha nodded. ‘For how long?’

‘Until you … you broke into the keep. She’d just awakened then.’

He’d seen many men who became dazed and confused after head injuries in battle. Some forgot themselves for a time. Some believed they were other people and some even became violent or attacked others. Some never recovered. A head wound would explain much.

‘Teyen, see to her. A calming brew might—’ Teyen’s shaking head stopped his suggestion.

‘It is better not to let her sleep deeply, my lord. Some do not awaken after such an injury if left to sleep too long.’

‘Whatever is necessary. Let her maid go in first and see to her condition, then follow.’

‘Aye, my lord.’ Teyen stepped back to allow Gytha entrance.

When the girl gasped at seeing her lady huddled on the floor, clutching pieces of the broken loom, Soren grabbed her arm and shook his head. ‘If you cannot be calm, you cannot go in,’ he ordered. Soren waited for her to accept his words and then released her. He did not miss that Stephen stepped closer as he’d grabbed the girl and watched the exchange with an intensity that spoke of more than a casual interest.

The older woman approached as Gytha touched her lady’s shoulder and began to whisper in a soothing voice to her. Though she seemed too nervous to do it, the maid had the wench off the floor and walking to the bed within moments. She, Sybilla, now limped, he noticed, favouring her left leg and foot as she moved slowly. Just when Gytha guided her to the side of the bed and began to help her in, Sybilla began to shake her head and became agitated. Gytha quickly took her to a chair that remained standing and sat her there.

‘You asked if she has lost her wits, my lord?’

The older woman’s voice surprised him. Soren turned to face her.

‘The lady has lost everything but her wits, my lord. Her father, her brother, both lost in battle. Her mother lost years before that. Her future lost today. And now, worst of all, her sight.’ The woman took a breath before continuing. ‘Such loss cannot help but overwhelm a person of such kind spirit and good heart as my mistress.’

He watched as Gytha began to evaluate the lady’s injuries and tended to them. The older woman’s words brought a feeling into his heart he did not recognise at first. Many times the target of it himself, it took him some moments to accept that it pulsed through him now.

Pity.

He pitied his wife.

Worse, he pitied the daughter of the man who had destroyed his life and his future.

Faced with this emotion, one he did not wish to feel for anyone who carried the blood of Durward within them, Soren did what he needed to do before it could take hold and ruin his plans for vengeance—he fought it and walked away the winner.

‘What are you called?’ he asked, backing out of the room and crossing his arms over his chest. If it was a defensive stance, he would never admit it.

‘I am Aldys,’ she said, with a bow of her head.

‘I am holding you responsible for your lady’s care,’ Soren said. ‘See to it.’ If she questioned or doubted or misunderstood his command, he knew not, for he was down the steps before she could open her mouth and get words out.