DeliveredIntoHisHands (22 page)

“I am sorry too,” she said. “I should have
stayed and tried to talk to you but I couldn’t face you, Garrick. Not then. Not
after you as much as told me you didn’t care if I lived or died.”

“Mother of the goddess,” he whispered. “I
should have my tongue torn out at the root for having said such a thing to
you.”

She came over to him, hesitated for a split
second with her hand hovering over his head then threaded her hand through the
dark curls. “That would be a waste of a wickedly educated tongue, milord,” she
said. “An organ you use exceedingly well if memory serves.”

He slowly raised his head and looked up at
her. She was smiling at him and his heart did a funny little squeeze that made
him lightheaded.

“You need a haircut,” she said, raking her
hands through his hair again.

“Which one?” he asked, his mouth easing into
a grin.

“This one,” she said, plucking one from the
thick mass.

He had not forgotten the teasing banter
they used to swap so easily and though he knew there were problems they needed
to iron out, he desperately wanted to make a go of their marriage. He wanted
his wife back even if it meant going to his knees before her to gain her
forgiveness. Humbling himself was not a Panthera trait—nor one that he readily
embraced—but if he wanted a life with Antonia, he might need to eat a little
humble pie to win her back.

“Tell me what I need to do, wench,” he
said. “I will do whatever it takes to win you back.”

“You swear?” she asked.

“On my honor,” he said. He wanted her so
badly at that moment he would have cut off his right arm to have her.

“Then leave Alyx be,” she said. “You’ve won
the war. You have me. He lost both. Let it go at that.”

Illogical anger bubbled up so quickly he
thought he would choke on it. He wanted to slap her hard enough to make her
ears ring. That emotion must have been displayed on his face for she took a
step back from him.

“How the fuck could you ask me to do that?”
he thundered, shooting to his feet.

“Let it go,” she said and took another step
away from him. “Let him go or…”

“Or what?” he snapped.

“You’ll lose me forever,” she said, chin raised.

Nothing she could have said could have
pushed his button harder. He threw out his hand, grabbed hold of her arm and
jerked her to him. He clamped his other hand around her free arm in a punishing
grip.

“You aren’t going anywhere, wench!” he
said. His words were forced through tightly clenched teeth.

“You might have me physically, but you
won’t have me any other way,” she said. “I guess your definition of doing
whatever it takes and mine are not the same thing.”

“He’s a war criminal!” he shouted at her.

“Aye, but then so are you!” she retorted.
“How many people have you killed? How many homes and villages and cities have
you destroyed? How many lives have you torn apart?”

“I did not set fire to a barracks where
nearly eighty men were burned alive!” he threw at her. “I did not poison a well
then stand back and watch the soldiers die agonizing deaths. I did not capture
five young soldiers and have them decapitated for no other reason than to spike
their heads on poles to warn his scouts not to take a route that would have led
them to an encounter with my troops!” He shook her. “That is my definition of a
war criminal, wench. What’s yours?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t do that,”
she said.

“Aye, he did!” he told her. “And a lot
worse things. I have never destroyed one building until I knew there was no one
inside it. I’ve never poisoned a well. I’ve never had anyone decapitated or
tortured or maimed.” He narrowed his eyes. “Alyxdair Clay has done those things
in spades and you would ask me to let him go? Hell no. Even it means losing
you, hell no!”

His shouting had brought Marc back to the
tent. The Modarthan was hovering at the entrance with his hand clutching the
canvas. She turned her head, pleading with him to deny the accusations. He
shook his head.

“Garrick Warwyck has never told a lie in
his life. What he says is the goddess’ own truth, milady,” Marc said. “The
things Clay has done goes beyond fighting a war. He and his staff have ventured
into the realm of savagery and sadism.”

“He lied about me having an affair,”
Garrick said. “He lied about the supposed divorce. What others lies has he told
you, Antonia? I’m curious to know what he has said that would make you call me
a war criminal.”

“I…” She bit her lip, unable to meet his
eyes.

“What did he tell you I did that would make
you think me on a level with him?” he demanded. When she didn’t answer, he
shook her harder than he intended to and she made a whimpering sound.

“Easy, Rick,” Marc advised.

“Tell me!” Garrick ordered.

“Maechin,” she said.

“What of it?”

Her chin quivered. “He said you executed my
parents and my sister when you heard there was going to be a raid on the
prison.” She slowly lifted her head and gave him a look that hurt his soul. “He
said you did it to punish me for marrying him.”

“Son of a diseased whore,” Marc said. “King
Cormac knew the Blackthorns had been taken to Modartha for safe keeping. Surely
Clay knew it!”

“Of course he knew it,” Garrick said. “Just
one more lie he told you, wench.”

“I know that now but I didn’t then,” she
said.

“Yet knowing it you still call me a
criminal?” he growled.

“General?” Oran asked from outside the
tent.

“I’m busy!” Garrick shouted.

“What is it?” Marc asked, looking behind
him.

“The carriage is ready and the guard in
place whenever he wants to leave for Warwyck Castle,” Oran reported.

“Take her to the carriage,” Garrick
commanded. “And bring my horse around.”

“Are you sober enough…” Marc held up his
hand when Garrick’s eyes flashed red and he growled low in his throat. “Sorry,
wrong word. Are you awake enough to ride? I gave you a pretty hefty dose of
algés.”

“I need the night air to clear my fucking
head,” Garrick replied. He released Antonia and pushed past Marc to leave the
tent.

“He’ll calm down,” Marc told her. “He just
needs some space.”

“And doesn’t need to be in the same
enclosed space with me right now,” Antonia said.

“Aye, that too,” Marc agreed.

Garrick strode down to the river and stood
there with his hands on his hips, staring at the darkened woods beyond. The Moon
was riding high across the black satin sky and casting a mellow gold light upon
the hills north of the greensward. He had the urge to shift into avian form and
take to the air but his head wasn’t clear enough just yet. The algés still had
him feeling numb and too detached for such an endeavor. Which was a shame for
the freedom of soaring would have gone a long way in easing the anger seething
through his mind.

His mother’s face suddenly flashed across his
mind. She had been a strong, passionate warrioress with a good head for strategy.
Like all the Witches of Bandar she tended to be bloodthirsty and savage when it
came to fighting but she had been putty in the hands of her lover, Garrick’s
father King Lorrian. She had loved the man to distraction. As much as she loved
Lorrian, she had despised his wife, the queen. Given the chance she would have
gutted the bitch and taken the crown for herself.

“When you want something, Garrick, go after
it tooth and nail,” she’d told him. “Let nothing and no one stand in your way.
If you let slip through your fingers that which makes it possible for you to
rise each morning, take breath, and fight through the day, you will lose a part
of your very soul. You will regret it ’til your dying day.”

He thought back to the day she’d said those
words to him. She was lying on her deathbed with her shield maidens surrounding
her. He, as her son, was the only male in the entire encampment. She had sent
two Hell-hags to bring him to her and those two were glaring fiercely at him
from the other side of his mother’s cot.

“I bitterly regret not slitting that
bitch’s throat,” she’d said, her voice growing weaker.

“Who, milady?” Garrick asked.

“The Modarthan queen,” she told him. “I
will not allow that woman’s name upon my lips. I hate her and she hates me.”

“She is no friend of mine, either,” he
stated.

His mother had smiled nastily. “That is
because she looks at you and thinks of me.”

“Take what you want from this life, my son.
No one will simply hand it to you. I see…” She’d coughed—her body racked by the
evil eating through it. He’d held the pan to her chin as blood speckled the
enamel. When she’d been able to talk again, she’d used the last of her strength
to reach up and grip his wrist. “I see a girl who will be your all. Promise me
you will let nothing come between you and your heart’s desire. It will be
necessary for you to kill the man who would take her from you. Swear to me you
will not let anything—love, honor, or truth—stop you from taking his life.”

“I swear it,” he pledged.

The last words his mother spoke were, “Kill
him or you will never know peace.”

And he would. That was a given. Not just
because Clay was his enemy in war. Or because the man had tried to have him
murdered in a horrendous way. And it wasn’t because of the lies he had told
Antonia. The reason Alyxdair Clay would soon be tossed into the arms of the
Gatherer was because he had dared put his filthy body to Garrick’s woman.

For that, the bastard’s life was forfeit.

Antonia leaned back in the carriage seat
and looked out the window at the passing scenery. The Moon was so bright she
had no trouble seeing the little creatures that hid among the bushes and behind
the trees as the carriage rolled past. Her vastly improved night vision was one
of the things she had come to enjoy about the Changing. The fleetness of her
feet, her upgraded strength, the ability to speak with her mind were assets she
begrudgingly admitted she liked, but it was the enhancement of her five senses
that she found most appealing. Things were sharper, clearer and more intense
now.

The drawbacks—not being able to go out in
the Sun and the need to consume Sustenance—were things she would need to
accept. As yet, she had not. Her first taste of Garrick’s blood had been a
wild, intoxicating experience that had left her invigorated, satiated. The next
night’s taste had disturbed her for she knew it would be necessity from there
on out. It had not been his blood she had consumed but that of one of the
animals kept for that purpose. The taste was like river water compared to the
finest wine but she had refused to drink from Garrick’s vein. Now, all she
could think of was pressing her lips to his throat and drawing into her mouth
the sweet, rich essence that coursed through his body.

“Stop thinking about it,” she mumbled.

Marc looked over at her. “Beg pardon?” he
inquired.

She shook her head. “I was talking to
myself.”

“They say that’s the first sign of
senility,” he quipped.

For some reason his banter irritated her.
“Why aren’t you out riding beside your commander?” she asked.

“He didn’t want my company and he doesn’t
need my protection,” he replied. “Am I bothering you?”

She sighed. “Everything bothers me,
Zoltán,” she snapped.

“I’ll be quiet then,” he snapped.

“Dial down the attitude, warrior,” she
ordered and saw his face darken even in the murky interior of the carriage.

“Aye, milady.”

They were silent until she shifted in her
seat and took a deep breath. He looked up inquisitively from a semi-doze.

“He said he looked for me,” she stated.

“He did.”

“Tell me.”

“He was like a caged animal as we waited
for the ruins to cool enough to send men in to clear away the debris. I thought
we’d have to shackle him to calm him down. He was yelling at everyone,
threatening the workers, cursing anyone who dared cross his path. He thought he
had seen you die when the keep collapsed and he was intent on finding your body
to give you a decent burial. He would have stayed after the dawn light scorched
him had Oran and I not dragged him to that cave that led to the keep’s shelter
room. He was up before the Sun went down and racing back to the ruins. He set
to digging in the debris himself. When no body was ever found, he became
obsessed with finding you. He sent search parties over every inch of ground
surrounding the keep in the hopes you had somehow been thrown free before the
walls came down. It was wishful thinking on his part and we all knew it but the
absence of a body was puzzling. All the servants were accounted for so who that
woman was in the window is a mystery.”

“Did anyone else see her?” she asked.

Marc tilted his head to the side.
“Actually, I don’t think anyone did.”

“Then mayhap it was his guilty conscience
that put her there,” she said.

“Mayhap you’re right. I never looked at it
in that way,” he agreed. “At any rate, he had the search perimeter expanded to
a five-mile radius. We brought in dogs to track you but without a garment, a
scent for them to go by, they went every which way. I suspect they were chasing
rebels.”

“And I was among those rebels,” she pointed
out.

“Every village we entered, every city,
every encampment, he had all the women brought before him in the hopes you were
among them. For months, years he did that,” he said. “He refused to believe you
were dead, that you were lost to him. The nightmares began the night after the
keep fell and have lasted all these years.”

“What does he dream?”

Marc shrugged. “I have no idea. He won’t
talk about them.”

“When did he stop searching?”

“Only in the last couple of years,” Marc
replied. “I think he finally came to accept you were truly gone.”

She bit her lip then rushed her next words.
“What of other women?” she asked.

“There have been no other women, milady,”
he said. “Not in the way you mean. There have been whores who have eased him
but that is only because a man has needs a woman cannot understand.”

“As a woman has needs a man cannot
understand,” she stated.

“He has been faithful to you, milady,” her
told her. “He has not entered the body of another nor would he have ever done
such a thing. He has mourned you every day of his life and would have continued
to do so had he not found you again. He would have gone to the Gatherer
mourning you because he loves you. You are his Chosen as he is yours. The
question is, do you love him enough to forgive him?”

She turned her head to the window once
more. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “There is much to forgive,
Marcus, and if he goes after Alyx—”

“Which he will.”

She flinched. “If he does, I’m not sure I
will be capable of forgiving him.”

* * * * *

His mind on his woman, Garrick did not
sense the trackers who were keeping pace with him on either side of the road
that led to Warwyck Castle. Nor was he aware of the crossbow aimed at his
back—the quarrel carved from whitethorn wood centered on his heart.

In his state of mind, he had galloped ahead
of his guard and though they thundered after him, he was alone and open there
on the roadway, unprotected. The trackers were not alone in their stalking of
him. Six battle-seasoned warriors accompanied them. All rode atop black
stallions bare of trappings—no saddle or bit to cause the slightest noise,
hooves wrapped in heavy burlap. All were dressed entirely in black with their
faces hidden beneath black masks with only their eyes showing. They blended in
with the night shadows and were careful not to venture into the Moonlight.

He did not hear the quarrel as it sang
through the air toward him but he saw it as it flew past for his mount took
that moment to sidestep a critter that ran across the road in front of it.
Whipping his head around, he became aware of his would-be attackers. Fury
lanced him with a sharp point and he wheeled the horse around to confront them
head-on. He hadn’t counted on there being eight rebels coming at him but it
didn’t matter. With the fury had come pitiless intent to put the men down hard
and to put them down in a way they would never rise again. In the blink of an
eye he shifted from human form to that of a Panthera Reaper, flinging himself
from the stallion to leap upon the closet rebel with a roar of rage.

A bloodcurdling scream was cut off in
mid-vibrato as Garrick sank his fangs into the man’s neck and with one powerful
jerk ripped the head from his flailing body. Growling, he sprang at another
attacker and took him down as well, snapping his neck like a twig before
spinning around to face a third warrior.

The quarrel hit him in the shoulder and he
stumbled but continued to charge. Lips peeled back over his bloody fangs he hit
the archer mid-body and knocked him from his mount. The horse reared up—its
legs pawing the air—then a hoof came down on the archer’s head.

Peripherally he was aware of his men
engaging the remaining rebels. He was panting from the pain of the quarrel
buried deep in the muscle of his shoulder. Dropping to his belly, he watched
the carriage roll into view, saw Marc jump from the opened door to run to him.
The last thing he saw before he passed out was his friend leaning over him.

* * * * *

Antonia stood at the window as lightning
jagged across the pre-dawn sky. The fierce storm had rolled in out of nowhere
and the torrential downpour that had started as the carriage rolled under the
portcullis of Warwyck Castle was already making quagmires of the road leading
up to the keep. She knew the river that ran past the castle grounds would soon
be overflowing its banks if the heavy rainfall continued.

“Whitethorn is an evil wood,” she heard the
healer remark. “Especially to one of his kind.”

She glanced around at him. “How so?” she
inquired.

“For centuries the whitethorn has been used
as a protection against evil. It is the wood of choice to be driven through a
vampire’s heart. The quarrel the general took to the shoulder was doubly
dangerous to him. It had been dipped in a mixture of pulverized calla lily,
bloodroot and columbine—all plants toxic to cats. The breathing problems and
seizures he experienced when he returned to human form were a direct result of
the poison.”

“Had all the quarrels been dosed with the
poison?” she asked.

“Aye, Your Grace,” the healer replied. “If
his heart had been pierced…” He shrugged. “He would not have died from the
wound but he would have been rendered much sicker than he is now and unable to
defend himself.”

“Good thing the archer wasn’t that good a
shot,” Marc said from the chair beside Garrick’s bed.

“What of the men you captured?” Antonia
asked Marc. “Have they given you any information?”

“We know they were sent to capture
Garrick,” Marc replied. “They were to take him to Clay.”

Inhaling a long, deep breath, Antonia faced
the flashing night sky again. A smudge of the dawn’s early light was creeping
over the mountains and the titanium blinds would soon be rolling down from the
overhead cornice to block out the sunlight.

She exhaled slowly. “The keep is secure?”
she questioned.

“No one can get to him, milady,” Marc said.
“I swear it.”

She nodded. “Make doubly sure, milord,” she
ordered. “I want guards at the base of the staircase as well as at the top. I
want them along the corridor not just the ones outside his door and these
here.” She looked to the warriors standing to either side of the door.

“It will be seen to,” Marc agreed.

“You have my order to shoot to kill any
rebel who attempts to enter this keep,” she said. “Save Alyxdair Clay. He, I
want alive.”

Marc’s eyebrows lifted but he didn’t
question her order.

“As long as he is incapacitated, I want to
be very sure my husband is protected,” she stated.

“Aye, milady. He will be,” Marc assured
her. He went to the door to issue the order to the men outside.

“I will be checking on him periodically,”
the healer said. “I know the three of you will be retiring for the day so I
will endeavor not to wake you.”

“Wake us if need be,” Antonia said. She
eyed the three cots that had been brought for Marc, Oran and herself. They
would not leave Garrick alone even with the two guards who had been handpicked
by Marc flanking the door. She doubted any of them would sleep easy this day.

“Send for me if there is any change in his
breathing or if he seizes again,” the healer said. He bowed to Antonia then
left.

“I trust him but I wish Healer Frye was
with us,” Antonia said.

“I wish we had the TAOS unit still,” Oran
said. “We should never have sent it back to Modartha.”

“That is true,” Marc acknowledged as he
rejoined them. “But I have sent word to the king to have it returned as quickly
as possible to us.”

Antonia left the window and walked to the
bed. She shook her head when Marc offered her the chair. “I’m too nervous to
sit,” she said then jumped as the blinds began to lower over the windows.

“You know what would have happened had
Clay’s men taken him,” Marc said softly.

“Aye, Zoltán,” she snapped in as imperious
a voice as any her husband would have used.

Standing at his bedside, Antonia looked
down at Garrick’s still face and thought he looked much younger than his
thirty-eight years.

“He will come for you,” Marc said.

“I am counting on it,” she told him. “When
he does, I want him arrested then immediately put on a transport destined for
Modartha.”

“Milady?” Marc queried, his brows drawn
together.

“Where he will stand trial for his crimes,”
she said. “That way, his punishment—and I am sure that punishment will be
hanging—will be out of Garrick’s hands.”

“He’s not going to like that,” Marc warned.

“I imagine not but such will be the case,”
she stated.

She felt the sun rising and her body
growing weak. Glancing to Oran, she saw the young man was already nodding off
though he was sitting upright on his cot. She looked at Marc and smiled
tiredly.

“Rest, milady,” Marc said. “I’ll keep watch
as long as I can.” He nudged Oran with the toe of his boot. “Lay yourself down,
Ori. I’ve no desire to pick your ass up from the floor when you face plant the
rug.”

Oran nodded and fell sideways, fully asleep
before his cheek hit the pillow, his legs hanging over the side of the bunk.
Marc chuckled and lifted the young man’s legs onto the mattress.

Antonia smoothed the hair back from
Garrick’s forehead then leaned down to kiss his brow. She watched a ghost of a
smile touch his lips but he didn’t wake.

“He knows you’re here,” Marc said.

“Aye.”

“Is he forgiven?”

She looked up at Marc. “Only time will
tell,” she said then turned away. She went to the cot and sat down, her
shoulders slumping, her eyelids drooping.

“Rest,” Marc told her again. “You are new
at this.”

She nodded and swung her legs onto the cot.
She turned to her side with her hands thrust beneath the pillow and within
seconds was deep in sleep.

* * * * *

The rain was still falling heavily on the
third day of Garrick’s convalescence. He had yet to wake from the poison
invading his system but his breathing was easier, the shivers that racked his
body from time to time diminishing.