Romancing the Rogue (176 page)

A Great Warrior

“The only way out is to the east. It will bring us into the open, but it will give us the high ground advantage. Their horses grow tired, and if we stay centered, we’ll have a better chance.”

“Can we outrun them?” Marek asked his scout.

Aiden shook his head. “They are mercenary. It seems to be that bloody bastard we dispatched was well liked.”

“So we’re outnumbered.” Marek huddled with his men, devising a course of action to keep them all alive.

“Let us not forget our tart,” Gavin added.

Marek glanced at Brynn, unaware of the danger approaching. “You know I never back down from a fight, but—” His words were cut short by a whinny in the distance. “They are close.”

“Well, somebody bloody well come up with a plan.” Gavin smiled, slapping Marek on the back. “I don’t feel much like dying today.”

The party headed east, finding an advantage point near a row of trees to ready for battle. Marek galloped to the farthest tree possible. “You must hurry.” He told Brynn. Marek searched the distance for the riders. “Climb high, and don’t come down no matter what you hear, do you understand me?”

“I… I…”

He cupped her flushed face in his hands, searching her eyes. “Soldiers are coming from the south.” Brynn’s eyes lit, but Marek seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. “Listen to me. These men will not care who you are or where you are from. They are riding for one purpose and one purpose alone — to kill anything in sight, and that includes a little yellow-haired girl from the south lands. They are not coming to chat over tea.
These men will kill you
. Stay in the tree, Brynn.”

Fear reflected in her wide eyes. She nodded.

“No matter what you hear, climb high… and stay there.” And then he kissed her, hard and fast, stealing one more bit of pleasure that damn well could be his last.

“I will,” she told him.

“I will come for you.”

Marek hoisted Brynn into the tree, where she climbed, one limb at a time. With a shout from his men, Marek galloped away, leaving her in the safety of the wooded canopy.

~~~~

The fierce howl of steel grinding against steel pierced through the thick fog. Murderous cries — cries of unbearable pain and certain death — echoed through the trees like ghosts, carrying the sickening smell of blood and sweat.

Men were dying.

The screams and grunts edged closer to her as the battle dragged on, the familiar language of Engels among the shouts. Perhaps they
were
coming to her rescue, but from the sound of the death screams, Brynn didn’t believe they would be at all successful.

Engel pleas of mercy met an abrupt end.

A sickening wave of nausea lingered precariously high in her throat as she envisioned the ruthless slaughter. Archaeans didn’t show mercy.

A horse shrieked far too close to her hiding place. It was nearly beneath her. Frightened, Brynn let go of the tree branch she had steadfastly clung to. She covered her ears and clamped her eyes shut. It was all just a nightmare, and if she could only wake, she’d be back at the manor picking wildflowers. Raindrops splattered against her, and she huddled closer to the tree, picturing the vivid image of home. A powerful gust crashed over her and Brynn heard her name ambling in its wake. The call of her rescuer? Her bothers, perhaps? They had found her at last.

She must be ready. If they were searching for her, they would never see her hidden in the clouds. Descending to a lower branch in hopes of catching a glimpse of them, Brynn was ready to signal them if the opportunity arose. She wanted to be sure her brothers would hear her call when she recognized them.

The devastation took her breath away. Bodies littered the clearing, most severely damaged to the point of being unrecognizable. Brynn scoured the horizon for familiar faces. Desperate, she sought Marek, but couldn’t locate him. Perhaps if she lowered herself a bit more, she could assure herself he still lived. Bryn left the safety of her tree nook.

As Brynn lowered her frame to a rickety branch, a horse and rider bolted from the right, slamming into her perch and knocking her loose. She scrambled to keep her footing and regain her grip on the branch above, but the tree was wet and the bark slippery. With a shrill scream and a solid thump, she was on the ground.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Brynn turned toward the snarling voice. A large man with a devious smirk stalked toward her. She turned to run.

“A little sparrow, fallen from the tree.” He laughed, reaching out for her. His hand caught her by the hair and pulled her to the ground.

“Let go of me!” she screeched, clawing for his eyes.

Despite her effort, he hunched over her — dagger in one hand, her neck in the other.

“Never have I encountered such a prize during battle,” the Engel growled, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin against her cheek. He inhaled deeply, edging the blade under her chin.

“Please, no,” she begged, trembling beneath him.

The soldier laughed, his lips pressed tightly against his rotting teeth. “Please, yes,” he corrected, jerking up her skirt.

“Beast!” she spat, raking her fingers along his cheek.

“You little bitch!” The blade pushed deeper. A stinging warmth fanned along her skin.

His mass was too much for her to maneuver, even when he moved to spread her legs with his. Brynn let out a blood curdling scream as she brought her hands to his, trying to pry them from her body.

He raised the dagger above her chest.

~~~~

It was the scream that caught his attention, the sound of pure terror. A woman’s ultimate terror — he’d heard it many a time throughout his hardened life. For a quick moment, Marek’s eyes shifted in search of the treeline instead of the soldier he battled. The swing of an Engel sword narrowly missed his shoulder and sent him staggering backward on his heels. Marek barely escaped the bone-crushing blow. The soldier advanced on horseback, whereas Marek battled on foot. Regaining his stance, he blocked the Engel’s next blow with only seconds to spare. He couldn’t focus — he worried for her safety.
Damn woman.
He was going to get himself killed.

Marek was torn between the two battles. Did he attempt to fight the man he engaged, praying Brynn could fend off her attacker until he could reach her, or did he make a run for her, hoping to surpass his own battle? Given another few minutes, Marek would slay his opponent. Another scream sent him reeling. The Engel held a blade high above her.

Damn, she won’t be afforded another few minutes.
He was out of time, and no risk was greater than that of her life. Narrowing his eyes, Marek charged his opponent and wrenched him to the ground. The soldier, caught off guard, slid from the saddle, dropping his weapon. With one swift jerk, Marek’s sword slid along the man’s throat, severing it. A wild fray of blood spurted at the sky as the body slumped to the ground. Marek spun on his heels to race across the field.

Losing his footing to the slick mud, he skidded to his knees, realizing he’d never make it to her side in time. The soldier would have the dagger in her chest before he could intercept. Marek fumbled for the protruding handle of the knife still wedged in his boot. Finding it, he pulled the blade from its sheath. With his heart racing and his hand oddly trembling, he whirled the knife into the back of the soldier’s skull.

~~~~

The soldier froze mid-swing, his mouth agape in a bellow that didn’t come. A sickening gurgle erupted from his throat as blood began to flow from his nose and mouth. The soldier’s beady eyes rolled back behind saggy eyelids just before he slumped forward, pinning her against the tree.

His weight crushed against her. Every breath was a struggle. Brynn shoved his chest to no avail. His body only slumped further. She pushed on his shoulders trying to slide out from beneath him, but the massive man’s head snapped to the side. His lifeless white eyes stared back at her, his grim expression of death only accelerating her terror.

A mixed cry of sobbing and screams welled in her chest as thick, sticky warmth dripped from her palms.
Blood
. A fearful cry left her lips when the weight ascended from her chest. Two hands gripped her shoulders, and Brynn thrashed aimlessly, too exhausted to continue to fight.

“Brynn.” A voice echoed through her.

She opened her eyes. Kneeling before her was her warrior, her rescuer. At the sight of his familiar face, she rose to fling her arms around his neck, crushing him with all her might. “He’s dead!” she cried, in hysterics. Brynn pulled Marek to her chest in a fitful embrace, trembling in his arms.

Marek peeled her clinging frame from his to brush the hair from her face. “Aye, I know, I know,” he breathed. “I killed him.”

Anguish overtook her, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, weeping uncontrollably against him. She wove her fingers through the waves of hair at his nape, never wanting to let go, to be separated from the safety she found in his arms.

Drawing her tight against him, he knelt with her, letting her sob. He didn’t speak nor try to hush her weeping — he simply wrapped his warmth around her lithe body when she pulled him close. He placed tender kisses on her eyelids, attempting to stanch her tears. He could do nothing to console her but surround her trembling frame as the rain fell upon them, washing away the screams of battle, the smell of freshly spilt blood, and the hot tears of fear.

Only when her crying slowed and her breathing calmed did he break away. Tilting up her chin with his thumb, he looked into her eyes and murmured, “Come, we must leave this place.”

Her voice quivered. “You…” Brynn’s gaze lingered on the soldier with the small knife still protruding from his skull. The body lay motionless, submerged in a reddened puddle, still and stone-like. She dared not believe the ease and accuracy with which Marek had ended him. Her mind drifted back to when she had held the dagger to his throat. He could have killed her one-handed. “You’re injured,” she gasped, spying the large crimson stain on his left side.

“’Tis not mine,” he reassured her, rising. “Come. We must find the others.” Marek helped Brynn to her feet then crossed over to the corpse and placed a muddied boot in the center of the Engel’s shoulders.

Brynn averted her eyes when Marek retrieved his boot knife from the man’s skull. A quick sucking sound was followed by fresh crimson that oozed and gurgled from the open wound.

Marek wiped the knife on the man’s tunic before tucking it back inside his boot. “
Fucking Engels
,” he cursed low under his breath.

The Archaeans were busy searching the bodies of their opponents and recovering weapons when Brynn and Marek reached the center of the clearing. Ronan sat on the ground, inspecting his injured shoulder. Gavin was busy looting the dead soldiers, taking anything that could be of value.

“Ronan, where is Aiden?” Marek inquired, approaching his brother.

“He’s gathering the horses.” With an exhausted sigh, Ronan fell to his back in the grass.

“Are you hurt?”

“Eh, nothing that won’t heal.” Ronan chuckled, fingering a fresh gash on his thigh.

“Need anything sewn back on?”

“
Och
, no, I’m well.”

“Brynn, make sure his stitches have not let loose, would you?” Marek turned to Brynn, his eyes expectant.

A shout from Gavin turned everyone’s head.

“What did he say?” asked Brynn.

“He says a few are still alive,” answered Marek.

Brynn’s lips formed a circle, but she made no sound.

“Kill them all,” Marek purposefully replied to Gavin.

Brynn watched from a distance as Gavin grinned with delight, drew his sword, and plunged it into the chest of a barely living Engel soldier. The bone-crunching noise reverberated through her body, and she let out a small cry, horrified by the brusqueness and ferocity of it all. These men cared nothing for the lives of others. She watched as Marek found another and ended the man’s life with a quick slit of the throat. The last man alive caught her attention. Oddly, the soldier looked familiar. “Wait!” Brynn commanded.

Marek cocked his head inquisitively, lowering his arm when she approached the sputtering soldier. “Who sent you?” he asked the soldier. “With what army do you ride?”

The dying soldier spit blood at him.

The Engel was just a boy, sent to do the bidding of some nobleman. Brynn stepped closer and kneeled beside the mortally-wounded man. With the corner of her skirt she wiped the blood from his face. “William? Oh, William… what have you done?” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. Just days before, he had been a strapping young lad with a bright future under the command of her betrothed. But now he lay broken and dying.

She wanted to comfort him, see to his wounds, but he was badly damaged. His body was a mangled mess, even with the armor he wore. He’d been slashed as if his attacker toyed with him — used him as target practice — and he bled heavily from his nose and mouth. Death was imminent.

William struggled to breathe. When attempting to speak, blood, not words, spilled from his mouth. Brynn placed his head in her lap and stroked his matted hair as tear droplets fell onto his distorted face. “I am so sorry, William. I cannot mend this.” She caressed his cheek as his chest gurgled.

“The militia called out… Lord Dugray murdered… by… Archaeans.”

Stunned, Brynn paused to put his words together. “W-what?” Everything that had happened suddenly seemed to piece itself together. The Engel arrowhead, the alliance, Archaeans deep in Engel lands. They had murdered Lord Dugray.

Slowly, Brynn raised her eyes to meet Marek’s.

That fiery blue told her everything.