Dark Triumph

I struggle to sit up, but the arms are like a vise and hold me firm. “Shhh,” the familiar voice says. “Do not flail about so, you’ll spook the horse.”



Beast.



The bastard has done it again!



The world spins as I try to sit up and put as much distance between us as possible, which is not so very much when we are sharing a saddle. Furious, I jam my elbow down into his thigh, pleased when he grunts in pain. “If you ever do that to me again, I will kill you. I mean it.” And while I do mean it, the words do not sound nearly as threatening as they should.



The other horsemen draw away, giving us the illusion of privacy, for I’ve no doubt that their ears are all straining to hear every word.



There is another rumble from his chest and I cannot tell if it is words or laughter, and my head aches too much to turn around to see. Besides, even though anger and annoyance rumble in my gut like bad fish, I bask in the strength of these arms, relieved to have them between me and the rest of the world. Between me and d’Albret.



Merde! “Where are we?”



“On the road to Morlaix.”



The jolt of alarm and dismay brings a fresh wave of nausea, but I grit my teeth and ignore it as I try to clamber down from the horse. Beast’s arms tighten painfully. “Are you mad?” he says. “Hold still else you’ll fall.”



“I have someplace I must be.”



He says nothing, but his arms tighten even more until I can scarcely draw breath. It would be easy—so easy—to surrender to the strength in those arms. Because I want to do just that, scornful laughter erupts from my throat. “My father will not pay a ransom for me, nor the abbess, if that is what you hope to gain.”



When he speaks, there is an odd note in his voice. “Is that what you think I want? Ransom?”



“Why else would you abduct me? Ransom or vengeance are the only reasons I can think of.”



“I didn’t abduct you; I rescued you!” He sounds affronted by my lack of appreciation.



“I did not ask to be rescued!”



His gauntleted hand reaches out and oh so gently turns my face toward his. “Sybella.” My name sounds lovely and musical on his tongue. “I will not let you go back to d’Albret.”



The tenderness in his eyes undoes me. It is stupid, I tell myself. It means nothing. He rescues everyone he passes on the road.



But my false heart will not listen. Just like he came back for his sister, he has come for me.



Fearing he will see the n**ed longing of my heart, I turn my face away from his and search for the outrage I felt only moments before, but it is a mere echo of what it once was.



“I must go back,” I say, as much to convince myself as him. “If I do not, the abbess will send Ismae, or perhaps even Annith, who has never even left the convent before. Neither will stand a chance against d’Albret.” I was so ready to accept my fate—this time for the right reasons. Out of love, rather than vengeance. And once again this . . . man, this . . . mountain . . . has destroyed my hard-won resolve with a careless flick of his wrist. And even though none of the desperate reasons that compelled me to commit to that course of action have changed, I fear I will not be able to rekindle my determination.



“The abbess is no fool. Ruthless, perhaps, and unscrupulous, but no fool. She will not send one of her prized handmaidens to certain death. She is using them both to threaten you.”



“I am not willing to risk my friends’ lives on that,” I say quietly. “Besides, what if it is my fate, my destiny, to stop d’Albret, and I do not?”



He is silent a long moment, his cheerfulness disappearing like last winter’s snow. “Can we ever know our own destiny?” he asks. “I believed it was mine to rescue Alyse, but I failed, so clearly it was not. It is possible our fates cannot be known until we are cold in the ground, our lives over.”



Even though I fear he is right, I am not willing to give up. “What if your mission in Morlaix fails?”



“We will just have to be certain it does not.”



“It is a foolish commander who puts all his hope for victory in one basket.”



“Sybella. You cannot stop him. Not alone.”



His words are so seductive, I fear I will have to place my hands over my ears to keep them from tempting me. “But I must,” I whisper.



“Ah, but you have no choice, for you have been kidnapped by someone far stronger than you and there is no escape. Best set your mind to that and be done with it. Besides, I have collected your belongings, so the abbess will think you have left for Nantes, just as you were scheduled to do.”



I cannot help but admire his thoroughness, and some small part of me hopes it might work. To be free of not just d’Albret but the abbess as well? So must Amourna have felt the first time she was allowed to leave hell.



Beast places his big hand on my head and pushes it toward his chest. “Sleep now,” he says. “Else I will have to clout you again.”



Annoyingly, I do what he tells me. I assure myself it is only because I wanted to do it anyway.



When next I open my eyes, the horse has stopped moving, and the sun is angled low in the sky. We are halting for the night.



I blink as Winnog gangles over toward us and Beast prepares to hand me down from the saddle. At Winnog’s approach, the horse prances and paws the air until Beast does something with his heels and mutters a command, and then the horse stills long enough for me to slip from the saddle into the charbonnerie’s waiting hands. “What is wrong with your horse?” I ask once I am safely on the ground.



“That is no natural horse, my lady,” Winnog mutters, “but some foul creature straight from the Underworld itself.”



Beast flashes one of his lunatic grins then steers the creature to the edge of camp where the horses are being tethered.



“My lady? Do you need to rest?” Winnog asks, and I realize I am still clutching his arm.



I let go immediately. “No, thank you. I prefer to stretch my legs.”



He bobs his head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go help with the horses.”



I stand for a moment, watching the swarm of activity as the party rein in their horses and begin to dismount. A dozen men from the duchess’s army are on fine coursers and stallions, and they jostle for position, trying to steer around an equal number of charbonnerie on their sturdy rouncies and ponies. None of them appears willing to give way before the others, and within minutes it is a chaotic jumble of cursing men and prancing horseflesh. Merde. If this is the sort of cooperation Beast can look forward to, he was beyond stupid to keep me from being the contingency plan. We will be lucky to even reach Morlaix, let alone run off the French so the British troops can land.



A slow realization creeps over me. Rennes is only a day’s ride away, and d’Albret himself will not arrive until late tomorrow at the earliest. If I leave now, I can be there in plenty of time to slip unnoticed into the throng of camp followers that are sure to travel with him.



I glance around the clearing. Yannic is wrestling Beast’s demonic horse to a tether. Beast himself has already fetched his maps and is rolling them out in order to discuss tactics and strategies with his commanders. The charbonnerie are busy casting sullen glances at the soldiers, and the soldiers are busy making their disdain for the charbonnerie plain as day.



No one is watching me. The resolve I feared lost for good rises once more.



I begin sauntering toward the line of horses. As I draw closer, there is a whisper of movement from the trees, and a half a dozen bodies emerge. I freeze, as do the soldiers, their hands going to their swords until Erwan tells them to hold. It is only the charbonnerie women, come to cook for the camp.



During the confusion that the new arrivals bring, I choose a dappled gray gelding tethered the farthest from camp and quickly put his great girth between me and the others, hoping he will hide me somewhat.



I reach out to pet the creature’s silky nose and let him smell me, as if I am merely saying hello. As I do, I glance around, looking for saddle and tack. I will need a bridle if I am to steer this creature back to Rennes. A saddle would be nice, although I can ride without one if need be. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to the gray, but before I have taken two steps, a hand closes around my arm. A big hand as hard as iron. “Must I hobble you as Yannic has hobbled the horses?”



Damn him. Will the infernal oaf just tend to his business so I can tend to mine? I huff out a breath of annoyance, but there is some relief as well. Furious at myself for being relieved, I pull my arm out of Beast’s grip. “No. You do not need to hobble me; you need only to let me go so I may complete my assignment.”



His normally open face is hard and ruthless. It is the first time I have seen his ferocity focused on me, and I force myself to smile so he will not see how unnerving it is.



“We have discussed this already. You are staying here. Camulos knows this mission can use your skills.”



“There must be a contingency plan in case this half-cooked scheme does not bear fruit. And as much as I loathe the abbess and do not trust her, she is correct in that the more opportunities we have to strike at d’Albret, the better our chances of success.”



He reaches out with his other hand and grabs my shoulder. “I will not let you put yourself in that much danger.” For the briefest of seconds, the anger gives way to a look of stark despair, and then it is gone.



His grip on my arms loosens, and slowly, he leans toward me. My own temper forgotten, I hold very, very still. “If you hit me again, I will kill you,” I whisper.



“It is not hitting I have in mind.” And then his hands move up to cradle my head, making me feel small and fragile—no, not fragile, but cherished. As if I am some precious treasure.



As he leans in closer, I do not move—I do not so much as breathe. I watch his lips as they draw nearer to mine, marveling at the shape of them, how there is the tiniest of dimples in the left corner of his mouth, so small you would not see it unless you were close enough to—his lips find mine. Warm, and softer than they’ve any right to be. I am awash in sensations that have nothing to do with relief or fury. I simply want. I want him, his strength, his honor, and his be-damned lightness of heart. I want to drink all those things up like honeyed wine from a goblet and have them fill me.



Unable to resist, I close my eyes and lean into him and let myself imagine that something between us is possible.



But it is not, not with all the secrets that exist between us still.



Slowly, with regret leaking through every pore in my body, I pull away. His eyes open, and they are filled with warmth. “How can you not be angry with me?” I whisper. “I deceived you repeatedly; nearly every word that passed through my lips was a lie.” I am desperate to put some sort of barrier between us or I fear I will throw myself at him like some simpering maid.



He heaves a great sigh, then steps away to lean on a nearby tree and take the weight off his bad leg. “At first, I was. Furious at being deceived and lied to. And by a d’Albret. It seemed as if the gods themselves were mocking me. Intending to stoke that anger, I went over everything you had said, everything you had done. And while your words may have lied, your actions never did. I have seen you in the harshest of circumstances, escorting a wounded man across the countryside while dodging enemy soldiers and hostile scouts with little thought to your own comfort or safety. You gave more thought to the miller’s daughter and the charbonnerie’s plight than your own well-being. And you killed d’Albret’s own men with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.”



I gape at him, unable to speak, as he lays out this new Sybella I hardly recognize.



He runs his hand over his head. “Once I got past being angry, I was outraged that you hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But since I reacted precisely as you had feared, clearly I did not warrant that trust.” He grows serious once more. “But Sybella, I have seen you when there are hard choices before you, not these false choices of memory, and every time, you have chosen well. Chosen the path that helps the most people and hurts others the least. And that is why I bear you no grudge.”



Unable to help myself, I put my hand to his cheek, needing to be certain he is real and not some vision my overwrought brain has concocted. His skin is warm, and his whiskers rough beneath my fingers. “How did your heart grow so very big?” I ask.



A flash of something—pain and perhaps a touch of bitterness—shines briefly in his eyes, then is gone. “Because I have had no one to share it with since Alyse left.”



A shout goes up just then, followed by a ring of steel. A woman screams.



Beast pushes away from the tree and hurries back to the clearing as fast as his injured leg will allow. I lift my skirts and follow.



There is a fight brewing near one of the cook fires. Two charbonnerie women stand warily. I recognize Malina, but not the younger one. Erwan, Lazare, and Graelon have planted themselves in front of the women, like a shield. Facing them all are two of Beast’s soldiers, one with a shaved head, cold eyes, and a drawn sword. “God’s teeth,” Beast mutters as he limps forward. “What is going on?”



The soldier with the drawn sword never takes his eyes from the charbonnerie. “These men have insulted us by drawing their knives. I am only urging them to use their weapons.” His chest is thrust forward, like an angry rooster’s.



“We offered insult? It was you who slandered our wives and sisters by trying to drag them off to the bushes to slake your lust.”



The second soldier—Sir de Brosse—gives a lazy shrug. “Thought she was a camp follower. Didn’t mean any harm.”



Beast reaches out and thwacks him across the back of his very thick skull. “Keep your dagger sheathed, you idiot. There are no camp followers here.”