DeliveredIntoHisHands (18 page)

Eleven years later

On the battlefront on Volakis

With a strangled shout, he sat bolt upright
on the bunk, trembling from head to toe. His eyes were wide, glazed, filled
with horror. Sweat dripped down his face, clung to his heaving chest and the
hand he spiked through his damp hair shook uncontrollably.

“The dream?” Marc asked quietly.

All he could do was nod. He licked his dry
lips, struggled to get his pounding heart and gasping breath to calm. It took
him a moment or two then he swallowed hard and leaned back on his elbows.

“She’s all right?” he managed to ask.

“She is. You want to see her?”

“Aye…” He shook his head. “No. I don’t want
to see her.”

“Want something to distract you instead?”
Marc inquired.

“Anything,” he stated, closing his eyes,
clenching his face as though he were in terrible pain.

“We received a diplomatic pouch from the
Volakisian king.”

Garrick opened his eyes then swiped a hand
over his sweaty face. “Did you open it?”

“Of course not,” Marc said. “Want it?”

“Aye.”

Marc plucked the leather pouch from
Garrick’s desk and brought it over to him. Garrick took it and held out his
hand for Marc’s dagger to slit open the seal. Drawing it from its sheath, Marc
flipped it over and handed it grip first to his friend.

“Did you have the chains removed?” Garrick
asked as he took the dagger.

“You know fucking well I did,” Marc said.
“She’s not going anywhere.”

“And you know this because?” Garrick asked.
He ran the edge of the blade under the wax seal.

“I’ve got men posted all around the
stockade and a woman guard posing as a prisoner inside with her. They should be
great friends by now.”

Garrick snorted. “You really think she
wouldn’t know the woman is a plant?” He reached into the pouch to pull out a
single sheet of parchment.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Marc queried. He
was watching Garrick’s face as he read. “Bad news?”

“Surprising news,” Garrick replied. He
looked up at his friend. “He’s surrendering.”

“Get the fuck out!” Marc said.

Garrick extended the paper to him. “See for
yourself.”

Marc took the missive, read it, read it
again then slowly looked up. “It’s over,” he said. “The war’s over.”

“If he accepts my terms,” Garrick said. He
swung his legs from the bunk and stood, reaching for his pants. “I’ll accept
his surrender.”

“And what terms would those be? As if I
didn’t know.”

“I want Alyxdair Clay.”

“What if King Cormac won’t turn him over to
you?”

“Then the war continues until there isn’t a
man of fighting age left on this backwater world,” Garrick stated. “Fetch Oran for
me.”

Marc nodded and turned to go. He stopped.
“You want to see her now?”

Garrick shot him a look of irritation. “Why
the hell would I?”

“To tell her about this new development?”

“It doesn’t concern her,” Garrick told him.

“She knows where he is.”

“Aye, but she won’t give him up,” Garrick
declared. “Bring the woman guard to me. Let’s see if she’s learned anything
worthwhile.”

“Your wish is my command, milord,” Marc
said with a chuckle.

Marc sent Oran into the tent before sending
one of his men over to the stockade to get the female guard. He knew Garrick
wouldn’t want to speak to her until after he had dictated his terms to Oran and
the return message was written down in Oran’s careful script. He waited until
Oran emerged from the tent and walked over to a messenger before he motioned
the woman inside.

Garrick glanced up from his desk as the
woman entered with Marc. She snapped to attention and he frowned. “What’s your
name?” he asked.

“Corporal Leanora Jantsen, Sir!” the woman
replied.

“At ease, Corporal,” Marc said for Garrick.
He exchanged a humorous look with Garrick as the woman jerked into parade rest
with her gaze leveled over Garrick’s head.

“Tell me about Lady Warwyck,” Garrick said,
leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“She is well, Sir,” Jantsen replied.
“Undernourished but not weak. She knows I was put there to spy on her.”

“And how did she take that?”

“Well enough. I think she was expecting it,
Sir.”

“My lady-wife is smart if misguided,”
Garrick said. “What did the two of you talk about?”

Jantsen’s eyes flicked down to his then
away. “The weather, Sir.”

Garrick’s brows shot up. “Beg pardon?”

“The weather,” Jantsen reported.
“Primarily, the wretched heat and her hope that it will rain soon.”

“And that’s all you two talked about?” Marc
pressed. “All day long?”

“Aye, Sir,” Jantsen replied. “All. Day.
Long.” She said the three words as though they were a personal affront to her.

Garrick sighed. “I’m not surprised although
I would have thought she’d have had a few nasty things to say about me.”

“Not one word about you, Sir,” Jantsen
said.

“What of the executions?” Marc asked. “Did
she have nothing to say about them?”

“No, Sir.”

“That will be all, Corporal,” Garrick said
and his frown returned when she snapped to attention, saluted then pivoted
smartly. He watched her leave the tent then told Marc there was no reason for
her to return to the stockade.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Marc
commented.

“Are the rebels still hanging from the
scaffolds?”

“Aye.”

“Cut them down and have them taken to the
burial site,” he ordered. “Then bring her to me.”

“You don’t want her to see them,” Marc
acknowledged.

“No.”

“Got it,” Marc said before heading out.

While he waited, Garrick laid his head
against the backrest of the chair and closed his eyes. The remnant of the
recurring dream—nay, the nightmare—he’d been having since the night Castle
Blackthorn fell still held him in its grip. It made his blood run cold,
squeezed his gut into a twist, and served to remind him of what a moment’s careless
vengeance had cost him.

For years he refused to believe the woman
he loved had died in the fire. Though he had seen her outlined against the
flames, pounding at the window in her attempt to save herself, had watched the
building collapse around her, he would not accept her death. He had his men
start to comb the debris long before it was safe to do so. The ruin was still
smoldering as they dug through the wreckage. Giving him hope was the fact that
they never recovered her body.

“She escaped,” he insisted though they told
him the fire had burned so hot, so intensely there might not have been anything
left to find. “I know she escaped.”

And she had. For that he was grateful and
silently thanked the goddess Bastet for bringing her back to him.

Then cursed Sibylline, the deity to whom
his wife owed her worship for handing her over to his enemy in what Marc had
learned from one of the rebels had been a Joining conducted by the Volakisian
king, himself.

“I am the wife of the rebel leader.”

“No hell you aren’t! You are my wife. Not
Alyxdair Clay’s!”

“I have not been your wife since you
murdered an innocent man before my very eyes.”

She was still his wife no matter how many
illegal weddings were conducted. No matter how many fucking assholes she slept
with. She would remain his wife until time was no more. He would make sure of
it and would see that she had eternity in which to atone for lying with that
rebel bastard and daring to call herself his wife.

He opened his eyes and stared at the tent
flap, willing her to appear. When she did, he stiffened, the ice flowing
through his veins freezing him.

She looked none the worse for wear though
she was so pitifully thin and pale it concerned him. There were deep shadows
beneath eyes that were wary yet determined not to show fear.

“Tell me where he is,” he said, knowing
full well she wouldn’t but giving her one last chance before he completely
destroyed the world as she knew it.

“You know I will not do that,” she said.

His smile was slow and mean. He tilted his
head slightly to one side. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll have him soon enough.”

“I doubt it,” she said, her smile equally
hateful.

He rested his elbows on the chair arms and
steepled his fingers. “Tell me, wench. How important do you think he is to your
king?”

“Alyx is the general of his army. He has
kept your men at bay for twelve years. How important do you think he is?” she
countered.

Garrick shrugged. “I’ve no idea but I doubt
his life is worth the lives of the remaining warriors in the king’s army.”

Her smile faltered. “His men would protect
Alyx with their lives.”

“All of them?” he asked. “Each and every
one of them?” When she didn’t answer, he arched an eyebrow. “Has he no enemies
among his men? Not even one?”

“I imagine he has fewer enemies than you,”
she said, her lips tightening.

“What of the king’s nephews?” he queried.
“They lead their own regiments, do they not? I hear he is quite fond of them.
The king, I mean, not your fake husband.”

“Our marriage is not fake,” she said. “I
was free to marry him and I did. Under Volakisian law and before witnesses.”

“Well now, that is interesting,” he stated.
“Considering I am still alive how could you possibly be legally married to
another man?”

“I’m not going to play your evil game,
Garrick. I signed the papers. I—”

“What papers?” he asked.

“What papers?” she repeated, eyes flashing
green fire. “You know goddess-be-damned well what papers! You had them served
on me at—”

“What fucking papers?” he shouted, getting
to his feet so quickly she stumbled back, terror flooding her face.

Marc must have been standing just outside
for he flung the flap open and came in. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“What papers, Antonia?” Garrick demanded.

“The divorce papers you sent to the court
by diplomatic pouch!” she said though her voice suddenly filled with
uncertainty.

“There are no divorces in Modartha,” Marc
said, looking from her to Garrick. “What is she talking about?”

“That’s what I want to know!” Garrick
snapped. He came around the desk and she backed up—stumbling into Marc who put
hands on her shoulders to keep her from falling. “Get your hands off my woman
and get the fuck away from her!”

Marc jerked his hands back, held them up at
shoulder level, and took several steps away from her.

“Tell me!” Garrick ordered.

“I read the papers,” she said. “I saw your
signature. I thought—”

“Divorces are illegal on Modartha,” Garrick
told her. “I couldn’t have divorced you even had I wanted to!” His cheek ticked
with tension. “Which I didn’t!”

She looked to Marc for confirmation.

“It’s true, Tonia,” Marc said.

“Who gave you the papers?” Garrick
demanded.

Her gaze returned to him, filled with
confusion.

“Who gave you the fucking papers, Antonia?”
he bellowed.

“Alyx,” she said and he watched
understanding settling in eyes. “Alyx did.”

He reached out and grabbed her arm. “And
you believed him.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement filled with rage.

“I had no reason not to,” she said. “You
forced me out of your life. You never came looking for me. You—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he
bellowed, shaking her. “I had every stone in Blackthorn overturned looking for
you in the rubble! I spent years searching for you!”

Antonia’s brow furrowed. “Why would you
look for me in the rubble?”

“I saw you in the window!” he snarled. “I
was watching you when the roof fell.”

She looked to Marc for understanding. “What
is he talking about?”

Marc studied her face then drew in a
breath. “Oh my goddess. It wasn’t you,” he whispered. “You weren’t the woman in
the window.”

Her eyes shot to Garrick. “Someone was left
inside when you set fire to the keep?” she asked, horror turning her face paler
than it already was.

He couldn’t answer. She was looking at him
with shock and utter loathing.

“We thought everyone was out,” Marc said.
“The guards said everyone was accounted for.”

“Save you,” Garrick said so quietly they
barely heard him.

“What happened that night? Why weren’t you
with the other inhabitants?” Marc asked for him.

She shifted her attention back to Marc as
though she could no longer stand to look at Garrick.

“After he departed, I went down to the
postern gate and left. I didn’t want to face him after what he’d done. I was
having a hard time dealing with it and I could not stay there and watch my home
being razed. I walked for over an hour before a rebel troop found me and
eventually took me to Alyx.”

“It must have been a servant he saw in the
window,” Marc said. “He thought it was you. When we found no body amid the
ruins, we thought you had managed to escape. He has looked for you for years,
refusing to believe you were dead. Where were you?”

“Alyx’s men took me to the palace. The king
gave me a new name so no one would know the Crimson Lord’s wife was living
there.”

“Yet the papers miraculously found you,”
Garrick said. “When was that, Antonia? How long after that night?”

“I always thought you would come for me,”
she said. “I was terrified you would and terrified you wouldn’t. When you
didn’t I realized you had washed your hands of me. You had cut your losses and
moved on.”

“How long?” he repeated.

“Three years,” she said.

“I’m surprised he waited that long,” he
said with a snort.

“I kept waiting for you,” she said. “Fool
that I was. It wasn’t until he showed me proof that you weren’t likely to ever
come that I finally gave up that foolish notion.”