Destined for a King (5 page)

Great beyond, where was this reaction coming from? The man was well made, certainly, but so were any number of his followers—as were the king's guards, for that matter. Young men in their prime, chosen for their brawn. A maid could admire, but to melt so quickly?

On top of that, he'd been out cold for most of their acquaintance. If anything, Torch's arrogance ought to tweak at her last nerve. She ought to hate him for the position in which he'd placed her entire family.

Yet, he'd shown them more mercy than she'd expected. The order may have come through his second in command, but he'd done nothing to countermand the dictates. The first time he'd wakened, he could have demanded all the Thornes' heads.

Based on what she'd learned of the king's treatment of his enemies, Magnus would have done just that.

“I know nothing of you. Nothing of the man you are. Only…” Dare she say it? “Only your reputation.”

“Ah, but which reputation is that?”

When Torch cast such easy verbal darts with her, she had difficulty believing the more brutal tales. His charm might prove a more dangerous weapon than his sword. “The one that earned you your name.”

“Again, which one is that? The one where I put innocent villages to the torch, or the one where highborn lady and serving wench alike carry a torch for me?” He leaned his head against her shoulder and nuzzled at her neck. The week's growth of beard on his face prickled, but so did something else.

Whatever that hot, melty feeling inside her was, it was beginning to cause her discomfort, an odd sort of ache that made her want to squirm where she sat. It made her want to move closer to him. It made her want to beg him not to stop whatever he was doing.

From her shoulder, he added, “I like to believe only one is true, but they may both be lies.”

She ought to push him away, but for some reason the arm she'd used to support him tightened about his shoulder, unbidden, clutching at him, keeping him right where he was. Steely muscle bunched beneath her fingers. She felt something more against her neck, something warm and damp. His lips or his tongue? By all the gods, was this what her mother had warned her against?

She tried to duck away. “I believe I'd like you better if you shaved.”

“Are you volunteering for that duty?” He said it low and soft, his breath wafting warm against her neck.

“You'd allow me near your throat with a blade? After you forced my maid to act as your taster the last time you were awake?”

“Kestrel wouldn't, that's certain.” He laughed, the bark somehow strong despite the way he lay so boneless against her. “Owl would have my head. That's even more certain. But what better way to prove some trust might exist between us? You've had me at your mercy for days now. I have to believe you wouldn't do me any intentional harm.” How wicked he made it all sound. Wicked and tempting.

“Kestrel's still got my father locked up as a gauge of my good behavior,” she reminded him. She had to keep him at a distance somehow, even if she didn't wish it. If she allowed him free rein, he would seduce her all too easily. She could sense that much. “You don't know what I'll be capable of after his release.”

“Hmm…” He pressed his lips to her neck, just below her ear. Right at the point where her pulse was pounding out of control. “I'd dearly like to find out what you're capable of. I'm more and more certain we'll both enjoy it. I know I will.”

Gods. “And I'm more and more certain you say that to all the ladies.”

He raised his head and captured her gaze. “No.” A single word, but so solid. So sure. “Only you. I've seen you.”

“Seen me? On the walls, you mean.”

He shook his head. “No.” He raised a hand and touched the stone at his throat. “I've seen you in my mind. I've dreamed of you.”

“How can that be?” From what she knew of him, he and his band of Brothers had come out of the Freeholds to terrorize the northern lands and harry Magnus's supporters. They raided, they stole, they put villages to the sword. Or so she'd heard. But they'd never come this far east, and they'd never captured a Stronghold. “You didn't even know of my existence until you came to Blackbriar.”

“That is where you're wrong. I knew of you even before the Ironfist contracted a betrothal with you.”

Magnus. Something lay between him and Magnus, clearly, based on his chosen targets. And she was just another one. He'd steal Magnus's tributes, and now he dared steal Magnus's bride. His pursuit could not go any deeper than that. His references to dreams were only part of the seductive web he wove about her, along with his lips, his body pressed to hers, his wicked words.

“Impossible.”

“It seems like it would be. I didn't even know how I was going to find you until I saw you in the hall. And then I knew I'd been led here. I wasn't only meant to take this keep. I was meant to hold it. It is my destiny.” Gracious, utter conviction infused each syllable. Whatever nonsense he was spouting, he believed every last word. “And so are you.”

Destined for a king.
That was what her mother had always insisted, and yet if she gave in to his demands, if she wed him, she would be doing the exact opposite. “I can't be.”

“Is there something between you and Magnus?” A harshness replaced his sleepy, seductive tone—the same sort of brutality she might attribute to the Torch of fearsome repute.

“Nothing but an agreement between my father and him. I've only ever met his proxy.” A soft-handed, white-complected excuse for a man who dressed in bright silks. The very opposite of Torch. “I've yet to be presented to the king in person.” Her father had made the arrangement at the great summoning last year. Belwin Thorne had traveled with all of Magnus's other vassals to renew oaths of fealty and pay tribute at the royal palace at Highspring Moor. Calista couldn't help but wonder if she'd been part of that tribute along with blackbriar soaps and perfumes and her mother's special potions.

Torch raised three fingers ranked tightly like soldiers, the gesture meant to ward off the Faceless One. “The Mother and Father preserve you against such an eventuality.”

She gave in to temptation and traced two fingers along his bearded cheek. The short hairs prickled, wiry beneath her fingertips. “What have you got against him?”

He straightened, backing away from her touch, to look her head-on. For a moment, she could nearly read his expression:
As if you didn't already know.
But she didn't, and a moment later his eyes shuttered. “Let's just say we've a score to settle between us.”

“A score?” she prompted. She couldn't work out what a man of no name and no family from the Freeholds might possibly have against the king. Torch couldn't be old enough to hold the throne against him. Magnus had seized power just over a score and five years ago, before her birth, before her parents had even met—before Torch was old enough to develop a grudge, if she didn't miss her guess.

He stared at her a moment longer, and a glimmer passed through his gaze. Was it indecision? Before she could decide, it was gone. “I promise I will tell you one day, but not now.”

“In the meantime, you might meet up with him sooner than you think.” Magnus was supposed to come this summer to claim her hand, after all.

“Oh, I believe he's been delayed, but no doubt he'll come. Once he breaks away from his other troubles.”

“What do you know?”

“Only that my brother is off, creating…a diversion, shall we say? Griffin will keep him from arriving for his wedding overly soon. But I've no doubt Magnus will turn up outside the walls one of these days to beg entry.”

Griffin. She'd heard that name as well, and his reputation was just as fearsome. “Magnus will take your actions here as an insult of the worst sort.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “I'm counting on that.”

Yes, Magnus would come, and he'd come with strength. By the Three Gods, Torch hoped to hold Blackbriar against the king and all his armies. And then another thought chased through her mind. Her father must be counting on Magnus's prompt arrival. In fact, that might be why he'd yielded the keep so easily. He was counting on his king to come, get rid of Torch's threat, and claim Calista after the battle.

And if Torch believed himself relatively safe behind these walls while he recovered, so much the better. In his complacency, he might discount the threat.

Calista bit her lip. She ought to favor her father's plan. She ought to be obedient to the king's wishes and go through with their wedding as intended. But lying here in her own bedchamber with this flesh and blood man—one who had treated her father and his household with a great deal of leniency—she was no longer certain of anything.

Torch was cold, so cold he thought he'd never be warm again. Once as a young boy in the north, he'd been lost in a snowstorm outside the walls of the Pinnacle. He'd fought that swirling wall of white for what seemed like half the day, without even the solidity of a soldier pine or a wall to guide him to shelter. The wind had clawed at his garments, searching with relentless fingers to burn his skin with frost. His feet had grown numb. And when Steelsleet the Stormlord and his men had finally found him, it had taken another day and night for him to thaw—or so it seemed.

He relived that sensation now, shivering endlessly and hugging himself, clutching at the blankets, but nothing kept him warm.

On some level, he knew he was ill—ill where he shouldn't be. His wound had closed. Not once had he detected the sickly sweet odor of infection on the bandages. Calista had tended him with the best possible care, and yet he'd succumbed, first to a mere flesh wound and then to a fever without infection.

Something was off about that, but his befogged mind couldn't place what. Weak as a newborn, he was. If his enemies caught him now, they'd laugh before hacking his head from his neck and displaying it on a spike atop Blackbriar's gate.

He curled himself into a ball, and let himself drift, the way he had during the snowstorm at the last, when the cold had tempted him with the promise of sleep and warmth and he'd given in. His mind wandered the paths of the past, the paths of truth to a place where his name was not
Torch,
his brother was not
Griffin,
and his sister was recognized as such. Where his mother was no longer leman to the lord of an ice palace in the far north.

Where he rightfully donned velvet robes trimmed with fur, walked the length of a marble-lined hall, and ascended a throne. And from there, he sat in judgment of all those who had wronged his family, Magnus Ironfist foremost among them.

In sleep, his mind transported him into a dream, often revisited since he came by his Stone, back to a night when his mother stood tall before him and spoke to him in low, urgent tones.

“We must be very quiet.” She sank to her knees, her hands on his shoulders. In place of her usual silks and velvets, she'd donned the brown cottar-spun linsey of a maid. Her golden hair lay hidden beneath a cowl. A disguise, she had called it, to make it all seem like a game. “Not a single sound. Do you think you can do that?”

He nodded, even though he wondered at the need for silence. From far off came the dim but relentless pounding of a ram at the gate, punctuated at intervals by the cries of the defenders.

“It will be dark where we're going, but you must be brave. You must be strong like your father.” Even at the mention of her lord husband, her voice did not falter. Although she had to know they'd never see him again.

“Yes, Mama.” He gave her the expected reply as if he were as brave and strong as his papa, but inside, his heart felt like a trapped moth battering against the sides of a lantern.

“Take this, then.” She pressed the cold iron of a dagger into his small hand. With an adult's understanding, he knew she could not have expected him to use it, but as his fingers curled about the hilt, the permanence of the metal had calmed his heart. She was trusting him with his first weapon, and he must not fail her.

And then she shouldered a pack. His mother, the queen, who commanded servants, took on a burden. He'd never seen her with more in her fine, white hands than an embroidery needle, but now those long fingers gripped a torch. And into the waistband of her patched skirt, she slipped a dagger of her own. Not once did her hands waver.

When she straightened, the flicker of that torchlight showed the way through back passages known only to the servitors, down through the bowels of the keep, lower than even the lowest dungeons. The shadows fled before them, creating eerie shapes on the rounded brick walls. The corridors echoed with the squeak and rustle of rats scuttling to hiding places. A damp draft blew chill through the passage, and bit into his skin beneath his ragged clothes. But down here even the clangor of battle at the gates soon faded into a heavy silence.

At one point, Mama turned to him, one finger raised to her lips. He wanted to ask why, as he'd been carefully silent thus far. Before he could whisper the question, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder and leaned close to breathe, “Wait here.”

His heart turned into a moth once again. The passage walls pressed close, like the sides of a lantern, and the desire to escape turned into a cold block of ice deep in his belly. But he must be brave, so he nodded.

His mother eased herself through a crack in the wall, and the torchlight followed her through that tiny space. He strained his ears, fancying he could hear the scrabble of rats coming back, and he held in a whimper. Brave. Silent. Like Papa.

Ages passed before she returned. “Come.”

The brick gave way to earth, both above and below, and the air filled with the rich scent of humus. Like rabbits in a warren, they crept onward, while the ceiling lowered until his mother had to bend double. Before long, she sank to her knees. On and on, they went, until he felt as if he could not take another step. But he forced himself, for his queenly mother was crawling like a worm, and crumbs of dirt streaked her face. If she could keep on, so could he.

By the time they emerged, hot and dirty, from the tunnel, they truly looked like peasants who had spent a long day laboring in the fields. They found themselves surrounded by trees, the din of battle blessedly replaced with birdsong that greeted the pinkening sky to the east.

Finally, he might voice the question that had been plaguing his childish mind since they'd left the palace behind. “Why, Mama?”

His mother knelt before him and set both hands on his shoulders. Beneath her eyes, the smear of earth on her face had given way to two salty tracks. “I've brought you something.” She reached into her pack to produce a long, narrow bundle. In the growing dawn light, she unbound the rough cloth. Metal rung like a bell as she withdrew a long, heavy broadsword. “This is Char. I laid it by for when you're old enough.”

Far better than a dagger, this. Papa's eagle decorated the pommel. Round-eyed, he reached out and touched the glimmering metal. Then he traced the embossed runes, his fingertip bumping down the black leather.

“Do you want to know what that says?” his mama asked in her quiet way.
“Death to the unworthy.”

“What does that mean?”

She set the blade aside. “He who draws it lives or dies by the king's will.”

He shook his head. “But Papa is the king.”

“You are the king now.”

He nodded as if he understood. Yet the question still remained. “Why, Mama?”

She did not answer it, not directly. “I must keep you safe. One day you might reclaim the kingship that is yours.”

Sometime later, he felt hands on his body. Soft hands, feminine hands stroking his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his legs. They left cold dampness in their wake. He reached out to capture them. To take away whatever was leaving him chilled. To replace them with her body's warmth.

He grasped at air. The hands returned, stroking, stroking, but never bringing the sort of relief he sought, and always they melted away when he reached. Fingers caressed his face, accompanied by words spoken in a soothing tone, but his brain was too muddled to untangle them into sense.

He reached again, touched this time. Soft skin. A cheek. His fingers trailed down over a pair of lush lips. Traced a smile. The lips puckered beneath the pad of his thumb for the briefest of moments, and then the hands clasped his wrists and pressed them back to the bed.

“Easy.” At last the voice penetrated. Soft, yet tinged with a note of desperation.

Something cool and damp and slightly rough sloughed along his chest. A sponge. Cold water. Last he'd known, Calista was cuddled on the mattress with him, and now she was bathing him. Three Gods, how long had he been out?

“How long?” he whispered, just like the first time he'd awoken in her chamber, his voice just as weak.

“Too long, you've burned too long.” The desperation had taken over fully now. And no wonder. Her father's life hung in the same balance as his. As long as Kestrel held Belwin, she'd take good care of him.

He must remember that. She'd lain beside him, long enough for her reserve to thaw. He'd detected the beginnings of a response to him in the easing of her body, the touch of her hands. But it was all for her father's sake, not for his. Not yet. One day, he might elicit that. But not before he got better. And not before he'd gained everything he wanted. Including their marriage.

“Who is Josse Vandal?”

Torch's eyes snapped open. Calista had asked the question in all innocence—or had she? He could no longer tell. One moment, she'd been spooning weak broth into his mouth like he was some toothless dotard, and the next she'd posed that question.

He dodged the spoon. Damned broth was tasteless and not likely to bring his strength back any time soon. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Vandal? It's the king's family name.”

The Usurper had attached the Vandal name to his own, certainly. Not that he had a right to it. “No, the other. Where did you hear that?”

“From you. You were fairly raving last night.”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He recalled the dream now, his memory turning the pages of his past as through an ancient chronicle.

At least his fever had broken, so he was unlikely to repeat that mistake. He'd awoken in the deep watches of the night drenched in sweat and shivering, but it had been real shivering brought on by true cold, not the false sense brought on by his illness. He lay now at Calista's mercy, still, weakened from his ordeal. He'd been able to rise from the bed only for the time it took her to change his sheets, before he had to lie down and sleep again.

“It is a name best forgotten.” He was so weak, he couldn't even put the usual note of command in his tone. The Faceless One take it, Kestrel would have a good laugh at his expense. And not just Kestrel. The rest of his Brotherhood as well.

“Vandal.” She spooned up some more of that damned broth. “Just like the king.”

He couldn't even reply to that. Magnus had taken the Vandal name to himself, but it wasn't his, even if he had done his level best to erase that fact from living memory. As for Josse or Jaffe or any of the true Vandals, rumor had it, Magnus didn't suffer anyone to utter the names in his presence.

“Like the king, indeed.” For want of any better answer, he occupied his mouth by taking the proffered spoon. A pity he couldn't waste a little more time chewing. If he took long enough, he might even make her forget her curiosity. “You don't suppose you could find me something a little more substantial to eat?” he added once he'd swallowed. “And some ale to wash it down?”

“Not yet.” She'd replied just as he'd suspected. “You've only just recovered, and I'd like to make sure you stay that way.”

Typical woman, but if he acted like less than a model patient, he might succeed in distracting her further. “Odd, I didn't think forcing dirty dishwater on a sick man was all that beneficial.”

She sent him a dark look and offered him the spoon again.

“I'm completely serious. Have you tasted this?”

He grabbed the utensil from her hand. Thank the gods he'd taken her by surprise and she let him have it. If she'd resisted, he wasn't certain he'd have the energy to fight her. Leaning forward, he dipped into the bowl and dredged up a spoonful of watery brown mess.

She jerked her head away. “I'm not the one who needs to regain her strength.”

He let himself grin. “I prefer to think you'd simply rather not test this yourself. Then you'll have to admit how vile it truly is.”

“You need this more than I,” she protested.

“Is it because you'd rather not share a spoon?” His lips stretched even wider. He may be weak as a newborn puppy, but he could still tease outrageously. “Come now, it would be no different than giving me a kiss.”

Two spots of red formed on her cheeks, and she ducked her head. “Somehow I don't think so.”

“You're absolutely right. I can guarantee you my kisses would taste far better than this swill.”

“Not at the moment.” Despite her deepening blush, she cast him a dark look. “That's all you've been eating, and you haven't taken in much for days before that.”

“Promise you'll give me a chance to test the theory, and I'll finish my porridge like a good boy. On my own, for that matter.” He took the bowl in both hands. “Just give me some mint to chew and a twig to clean my teeth, and I'll prove you wrong on all counts.”

He disposed of the contents in three gulps. The liquid seared his tongue, and he grimaced as it burned a path to his stomach.

“Now.” He pushed back the blankets.

Her eyes went round, and she snapped them to his face. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I've spent enough time abed this past sennight, don't you think?”

“Yes, but…”

He hadn't forgotten he was naked beneath the blankets—and neither had she, judging by the color rising in her cheeks. The pink washed up her neck to her forehead.
This is how she'll look in your bed, once she's spent her passion.
And she would spend all her passion. He'd satisfy the both of them, and the sooner the better.

“You're not going to come over all shy on me, are you?” He swung his legs to the side of the mattress. The scarred skin over his wound stretched and pulled. “As much time as you've spent with me these past days, you ought to be used to the sight of me by now.” And if she wasn't, she'd best get used to it. Once he married her, he planned on spending as much time as possible shut up in this room, with nary a stitch of clothing between the pair of them.