Shadow Keepers: Midnight Page 4

  He howled with pain and took a step back while his friends stepped forward, all eyes on her. “You’re going to regret that,” the man who’d first spoken to her said. In truth, she didn’t doubt it. She had real skill with a blade, even her brothers said as much. But she was one woman, and these were four armed men.

  Scar lashed out with his own rapier, and she parried skillfully, her attention no longer on the men but on the battle. She held her own, her feminine grace a help more than a hindrance as she leapt upon the table, positioning herself best for attack. And attack she did—this was not a defensive game, and she knew damn well she was fighting for her life. When one of the men approached from her left, she shifted her sword hand and pulled her dagger with her right. Doubly armed, she fought like a wildcat, with all the passion and skill her brothers had taught her.

  They would be proud, yes, but even the hours of practice they had endured at her behest were not sufficient against the strength of these grown men. One managed to hook the tip of his sword in the quillon of hers and send her sword flying across the room. She lifted her dagger in defense, but the odds were against her. As another man came at her from the front, Scar grabbed her from behind, tossing her to the ground in one swift, hard motion. The dagger flew from her hand, skittering across the floor to rest beneath a table.

  “Down and disarmed,” Scar said. He pressed his hand to her chest to hold her down, his eyes going wide as he did so. “What ho! Look what we have here!” Scar ripped off her brother’s cloak, then tugged at her doublet and shirt, until they ripped open and she was struggling in his arms wearing only Antonio’s riding breeches and the bit of linen she’d wrapped around her chest to bind her breasts. Scar slid a finger between the linen and her flesh. “Soft little thing. Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we.”

  Around him, the men snickered and chortled and begged Scar to hurry so they could have their turn.

  He spit on his hand, then rubbed her face. “Soft skin under all that ash. She’ll do for a poke, I think. And she’s got enough fire to last the night for all of us.”

  “Keep your filthy hands off me.”

  He slapped her without warning, and she cringed at the raw, animal lust she saw in his eyes. Fear flooded her, and with uncommon clarity she saw the future laid out before her. She was going to be raped tonight—ripped apart by all these men. Battered and broken, and quite possibly killed.

  No.

  Perhaps she couldn’t win against all of them, but she could damn well take a few of them out. At the very least, she was going to die trying.

  “Give us a kiss, girl,” Scar said.

  “Let me go if I do?” She tried to sound terrified. It wasn’t hard.

  “Aye, of course. I’m a gentleman. Aren’t I, boys?”

  A murmur of laughter mingled with vague agreement.

  “All right, then,” she said, trying not to gag as his lips came closer and closer to hers. And then, at the moment his lips brushed hers, she reached down and snatched his dagger from his hip. She thrust upward, aiming for the fleshy part under his neck, but suddenly he was no longer on top of her. Instead he was flying across the room, landing atop a table that collapsed beneath the weight of him.

  She stayed on her back, breathing hard, clutching the blade—and looking up at the tall, dark man in front of her, his face painted with a fury more intense than any she’d ever seen. Tiberius.

  Relief mingled with hope coursed through her. One of the other men rushed him, but Tiberius swatted him away as easily as if he were a fly. The man tumbled through the air, smashed into the side of the tavern, and collapsed like a rag doll.

  Around him, the other men shifted nervously.

  “Leave this place,” Tiberius said. “Now.”

  They hesitated only a moment, then scurried out into the fading night.

  Tiberius held out his hand to her. She stayed where she was.

  “Come,” he said. “You need a drink and a bath.”

  “Why are you here?”

  His brow lifted ever so slightly. “Where else would I be, with Baloch’s palazzo so close and your brother hidden deep in its bowels?”

  She smiled, all her worries evaporating.

  “Come,” he said again, and this time when he held out his hand, she took it, then let him pull her up and into his arms. She clung to him, letting him draw out her fear—for herself, for Antonio. Letting him hold and comfort her.

  And when he kissed her, her heart soared.

  Tiberius was with her now, and everything would be okay.

  “Did you believe I would fail? Or that my word was not my bond?” They were in the room he’d taken, a place to rest during the daylight hours. A place to plan and plot and think.

  He’d been thinking about her.

  Carissa. The warmth of her body. The gentle caress of her touch. The way her scent had driven him almost to madness.

  He’d thought—and then she’d appeared.

  Now she frowned, her eyes refusing to meet his as she used a dampened cloth to wipe the ash from her face. “I doubted you. I’m sorry.”

  “You thought I wanted only to bed you,” he said, coming to her side and taking the cloth from her hand. “You thought I would leave your brother to linger in the dungeon of that son of a whore.”

  She looked at him then, her eyes imploring. “I told myself that couldn’t be true, but I allowed my conviction to be swayed by the beliefs of others.” She reached up, cupping his hand against her face. “In the end, I knew that the only way to be certain that Antonio was set free was to rescue him myself.”

  “By whose counsel did you abide?”

  “My nurse’s. She said you wanted only in my skirts. She said that no one was reckless enough to not only defy my father but to cross Baloch.”

  He drew his hand away and stood, though the break in contact with her bordered on painful. A single thin blanket lay on the bed, and he picked it up and draped it over her shoulders, hiding her soft, tempting skin as well as the treasure he knew was hidden beneath those ridiculous linen wrappings.

  “Do you wish me to leave?”

  He answered her with a kiss, the intensity of his need for her surprising him. He should be angry. Not because she had failed to trust him—under the circumstances, she’d perhaps been wise not to do so—but because she’d put herself in such bitter danger.

  But there was no anger. There was only relief—that she was safe, that she was with him, and that even now she was opening her mouth to his, pressing her body against his, touching him with the same desperate intensity that filled his heart.

  He didn’t hesitate or think. He merely pulled her close, hearing the blood burning hot in her veins. Desire, oh yes. But not for her blood. For her. The taste of her, the touch of her, and he kissed her with a passion long dormant. Kissed her as if there would be no tomorrow for him instead of a thousand upon a thousand. Kissed her as if she were the only woman he had ever had or would ever have. The only woman he had ever needed or would ever need.

  He had never felt this way before, and the intensity of emotions vexed him, but he knew that they were true. He’d met his match in her, and he wanted her more than he could remember ever wanting anything or anyone.

  He kissed her, but he didn’t have his fill of her. How could he, even being immortal, ever spend enough time with this woman to satisfy his cravings?

  In his arms, she moaned as she opened herself to him. Her lips, her tongue. He tasted her, consumed her, craved the touch of her skin against his. “Carissa,” he murmured, his hands slipping beneath the blanket to brush the linen that covered her breasts, delighting when he felt her breath quicken, the scent of her desire enveloping them both.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  He needed no further encouragement. He slid his hands over her soft skin, pushing the blanket to the floor and leaving her standing in only those ridiculous breeches and the linen binding. He caught the edge of it and began to unwind, delighted when she
laughed and spun for him, helping the process along. And then there she was, her breasts naked in front of him, her nipples hard and alert and so very tempting. “Ah, Carissa,” he breathed as his hand cupped the weight of her breast, “I fear the danger you placed yourself in, but I must admit I’m glad you’re in my arms.”

  “I will never doubt you again,” she said.

  “Never again,” he whispered, and his lips closed over hers. She tasted sweet, like a ripe berry, and he wanted to indulge until he’d had his fill. He slid his hands over her soft skin, then down between her thighs, his body hardening even more when he felt how slick and ready she was for him. “Come,” he whispered, then led her to the bed. He didn’t want to wait, wasn’t sure he could wait; he leaned over her, taking his weight on his arms, and then thrust inside.

  She was tight and warm, and her body closed around his, pulling him in, milking him, taking him to the edge and back again. Her soft moans urged him on, and when her hands clutched his back and she demanded that his thrusts be harder, deeper, he knew that he would deny her nothing. She was his, for then and forever, and he would have her completely.

  Over and over he claimed her; deeper and deeper he took her, watching her face with each thrust, seeing her lips part and her eyelids twitch as her passion grew, and then—when he was on the brink himself—she arched up, taking them both over at once until finally, sated, he collapsed on top of her and could do nothing more than breathe in her scent and thank the gods that fate had brought her to his arms.

  “I feel alive,” she whispered after they’d laid lain together in silence for an eternity.

  “As do I,” he said.

  She rolled over to face him, her expression remarkably serious. “I must tell you,” she said, stroking his cheek with the palm of her hand. “I’m betrothed.”

  Her words were like a knife to his heart. “To whom?”

  “An old man,” she said. “I don’t love him, and I know—I know I will never have this again.” Her teeth grazed her lower lip. “That was why … in the stable … I wanted you to save Antonio, of course. But I also wanted to know how it felt. How it felt to be loved by a man.”

  “And now?” he asked.

  Her smile bloomed. “Now I know. And now I want only you.”

  She spooned against him, and he stroked her hair, thinking of her words, and wondering at the depth of pleasure they brought him. Idly, he ran his hand over the curve of her breast and the rise of her hip.

  “A boy,” he scoffed. “As if it were possible for you to pass as a boy.”

  She smiled up at him. “It was a sound plan—at least until I was discovered.”

  “And attacked. And almost violated.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “That part did not go as I had planned it.” She pressed her head against him, and he reveled in the joy of having her near—he who had spent centuries as a warrior and a leader now brought to his knees by the touch of a woman, and willingly, too.

  “I could have killed him,” she said, shifting in his arms to face him. Her green eyes were blazing, and there was no mistaking the sincerity of her words. “I would have sliced his throat without a moment’s hesitation. He was foul. He took liberties he had no business taking, and I would neither mourn his passing nor fear for the safety of my soul when he fell dead at my feet.”

  By the gods, he loved her.

  The realization shot through him, so simple, so true, and so utterly inconvenient. He could not have her, of course. Not forever. She deserved life and the sun, and those were two things he could not offer her. But the truth of the word weighed on him nonetheless and could not be avoided. Love.

  “I shall call you Caris,” he said after a moment, then put his hand over her heart. “Be Carissa to all others, but let me see the warrior within, for hers is a heart that understands my own.”

  Caris.

  She liked the way it sounded. Most especially, she liked the fact that it was a name he’d given her. As intimate as a kiss, more precious than a rose. She wanted to curl up in it, in him, and never leave this bed. Here was safety.

  Here was the fantasy. The belief that everything would be okay. That Tiberius would never leave. That Antonio would be saved. That her marriage to Giancarlo would never come to pass.

  And that Baloch would never be heard from again.

  The mere thought of his name sent fear coursing through her, and she shifted in Tiberius’s arms, covering herself with the blanket as she sat up to look at him. “Why did you come? Why are you willing to face Baloch?”

  Something dark flashed in his eyes, and she saw for a moment the man her father had so feared. “I come because I must. Facing Baloch—that, my darling Caris, is a happy bonus.”

  The way he spoke Baloch’s name sent a shudder through her. So much loathing, so much hatred. There was more here than Baloch’s horrific reputation, and until she understood it, she knew she would never fully understand the man who lay beside her. She pressed her hand to his chest, stroking the taut skin that she had so recently claimed as her own. “What is Baloch to you?”

  A shadow seemed to cross his face, and she worried that he wouldn’t answer. But then he sat up, pausing only briefly before rising and going to the single tiny window. He’d insisted that the curtains be drawn tight, and now he pressed his hand against the wall beside the drapes but did not push them aside. “The question isn’t what is Baloch to me, but what is Baloch.”

  “All right,” she said. “What is he?”

  He turned to face her. “Do you know why your brother was taken?”

  “Of course. Baloch—” She closed her mouth, frowning. She’d intended to say that Baloch sought to smite her family, but that did nothing to address the greater question. The question of why. “My father says that he is a monster. That he commands dark forces. That he is no friend to the Pope. That he is no ally to any man.”

  “Everything your father says is true,” Tiberius said. “And yet it doesn’t explain anything.”

  “Do you know why he took Antonio?”

  “I do.”

  She swallowed, something in his voice sending a wave of dread through her. She didn’t want to ask the question, and yet she couldn’t sit there and stay silent. “Tell me.”

  “Your father killed his son,” Tiberius said, his voice far too matter-of-fact for the words. “And he has taken Antonio as a replacement. An heir.”

  “No.” Caris realized she was shaking her head. “No, that can’t possibly be right. I would have heard. The authorities. Surely they would have come. Would have talked to my father.” She stood, the blanket wrapped around her, and began to pace the room. “He didn’t kill anybody.”

  “He didn’t kill a man,” Tiberius said.

  “But you said Baloch’s son—”

  “How were you intending to secure your brother’s release?”

  “By killing Baloch.”

  “A worthy goal. How?”

  She nodded toward the saddlebag he’d brought to the room for her. “There are garments in there. Finery. Oils. Perfume. I intended to speak to the man himself. To tell him I had come to negotiate for my brother’s release.”

  “He would never agree.”

  “And I would not expect him to. But I am a woman, and I know that I am desirable. And Baloch is a man. He would see me.”

  “He would. And then?”

  “I may not prevail against four men, but I can take down one man with my dagger.” She looked at him hard, examining his face for any hint of doubt. There was none.

  “I saw you fight. I don’t deny your skill.”

  She nodded. “I would kill him. And then I would find my brother.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Your plan is not without merit,” he said. “There are some weaknesses—Baloch’s men, for one. But stealth and cleverness could see you safely over that hurdle.”

  She smiled, pleased with his praise.

  “Even so, you would fail.”

  Her pleasure
faded. “You cannot know that for certain.”

  “On the contrary, I can.” He moved across the room, and the certainty in his gait that had so impressed and attracted her before was now slightly irritating.

  “And, pray, what flaw do you see? Baloch lies dead on the floor. I locate and free my brother. I grant you it is not a perfect scenario, but failure is by no means certain.”

  “You would not kill him,” Tiberius said as he bent down to pick up her dagger.

  “I would. You think that because I am a woman I would lose my nerve? That I do not have the strength to thrust a blade through flesh? You are wrong, sir.”

  “I do not doubt your ability. But this dagger will not kill Baloch.”

  Confused, she looked at the curve of the steel blade, the jewel-encrusted handle. Her eldest brother had used that very same dagger in battle, and it had saved his life. She knew it would kill, and do the job well.

  “To kill Baloch, you need a blade made of silver.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Baloch is not human. And neither was his son.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Not human?”

  “On the night of the last full moon, your father was out riding. He shot a wolf. That wolf was Baloch’s son.” His words were calm. Measured. But his eyes—his eyes were heated, passionate. And they were full of conviction.

  Caris crossed herself, her heart beating rapidly. She knew of Baloch’s dark nature, of course. It was no secret that demons walked in dark places, and that the church gathered its forces to fight against such heresy. But she had never once believed that she would live to see these things up close. The thought that her brother—sweet, innocent Antonio—was at the mercy of a creature spawned from the heart of hell …

  “No,” she whispered. It was the only word she could push past her lips, but there was no force behind it. She could see too clearly that Tiberius spoke the truth. However impossible, however horrible, what he said was true.

  “Baloch took Antonio, and he will make him a werewolf. He will make him his heir.”