David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Matthew was restless. Each night he was haunted by the wan faces of Raxler and Shimmea, eyes sewn shut in the Brennan tradition, lips purple and swollen. He could even smell the rot coming off their corpses. The glow of the fire that rose from the dinghy where their bodies had been placed remained a phantom vision, assaulting his eyes each time he blinked.

He sighed, poured a finger of rum into his cup, and downed it in a single gulp. Bren had done just as he’d asked, killing Gertrude’s assistants painlessly by poisoning their wine when they toasted the successful birth of Patrick Gemcroft the day after Rachida and Gertrude set sail for the Isles of Gold. Though silencing them had been a necessary evil, the guilt of it bore down on his soul. As underhanded as he could be in matters of business, he had never ordered someone’s death before. He felt dirty, as low as the brothers he constantly fought.

They did this to me, he thought. The fucking Conningtons made me a murderer.

Shaking his head, he swallowed another finger of rum. His head was beginning to go fuzzy, but it wasn’t banishing his shame. Lately he was discovering how impossible it was to drown his sorrows in liquor, for it seemed the liquor only deepened his sorrow.

The solarium was mostly dark, the shades drawn against the outside world. The chair that usually brought him comfort now dug into his back and elbows, and he shifted restlessly as he stared at the small flames dancing in his hearth. It was the middle of the night, and he knew he should be sleeping in preparation for the next day, but he also knew that sleep wouldn’t come. A letter had arrived from Veldaren demanding that supplies such as grain, casks of water, and men be sent to the capital city. The most strident demand, however, was for weapons, and a delegation was on its way to make sure such supplies were dispatched without delay. The correspondence had been signed by the cleric Joben Tustlewhite, the letter sealed with the sigil of Karak’s temple, rather than that of House Vaelor. Matthew groaned. Dealing with the king would have been far more preferable, for men of practicality were easily lied to, while the truly faithful required detailed explanations when their demands could not be met. How could he give away his sellswords when he had less than a hundred left? Would they wonder at his excessive amounts of wheat and cattle, payment from the Conningtons for the weapons? And worst of all, how could he get around explaining that those weapons, a matter of public record as they had been purchased in the king’s court with Vaelor mediating between Romeo Connington and him, were now missing?

The questions caused a headache to spike behind his eyes, and he rubbed his temples. A muted whimper echoed throughout the solarium, and he sighed. Moira was at it again, moaning as she sometimes did. Ever since Rachida and baby Patrick had set sail for the Isles of Gold, she’d been in a terrible frame of mind. Yet another thing to improve his foul mood…

He snatched up his rum, took a long pull straight from the jug, wiped the excess with his sleeve, and then stood up. The thought of Moira tossing and turning on her bed…well, perhaps that was one thing he could resolve. His drunkenness lending him courage, he stormed down the stairwell, using the wall for support, and then stepped off at the next level down. He passed the door to his bedroom, and those of his daughters and son, until he reached the one at the end of the hall. He barged in clumsily and closed the door behind him, too far gone to care that the sound of it slamming would echo throughout the hall.

Candles burned on either side of the large featherbed. Matthew took a step forward and saw Moira balled up on the bed, a sheer nightgown all that shielded her cream-colored flesh from view. A scarf was wrapped around her hands, which she held to her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. Matthew approached her, his thoughts askew. Actually seeing Moira as a vulnerable waif threw him off. He sat down on the edge of the bed, letting his hand wander across it until it fell on her shoulder. He thought she might push him away, but instead she pulled closer to him until her head was resting in his lap.

Matthew stroked her hair, stiff like hay from the constant dyeing. The scar that ran behind her ear and onto her lower jaw was raised and red, as if it too were sad.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “I just wanted to…do what I could to make you happy.”

“If you desired that, you would have sent me to the Gold Isles with her.”

Matthew winced.

“You know my reasons, Moira.”

He looked down at her, at the way her body quivered, at the side of her dainty breast, visible through a gap in her nightclothes. Her head resting in his lap was the final straw. The way it nuzzled, the look of her slightly parted lips, brought fire to his loins. He gently moved her head and, moving his hands to her shoulders, pushed her flat. Pinching her nipple, which poked against the thin fabric of her nightclothes, with his left hand, he slipped his right between her legs.

A fist struck him in the jaw, bringing stars to his vision. He felt a moment of weightlessness, his insides tightening from the combination of liquor and excitement, and then his body hit the floor. Pain shot through him and he let out a whimper, grabbing for his hip, which had struck the ground first. Before he knew what had hit him, he was being dragged across the floor.

When he was slammed into the wall, he opened his eyes, but surprise and drink had rendered his surroundings a blur. A weight pressed into his abdomen, and something struck his right cheek, causing the back of his head to hit the wall. A hand grabbed his hair, pulling at it, forcing his chin up.

“You don’t touch me,” a cold voice said, and he was slapped again.

Gradually, Matthew’s vision returned to him. Moira’s face was all he could see, her eyes narrowed, her lips pulled back, her nose scrunched. She had him straddled and helpless, and she slammed his head against the wall once more. He shouted in pain this time, but her hand stifled the sound. He noticed she held a dagger and gawked at her, confusion and terror running through him. Moira grabbed him under the chin with one hand, and pressed her cold steel against his jugular, the cutting edge feeling much too sharp.

“I am not yours to have,” Moira told him, the order spoken as if he were a disobedient animal.

“I…I’m sorry,” Matthew managed to say, his voice sounding weak to his own ears.

The dagger pressed harder against his flesh. Her voice was devoid of feeling.

“I tell you this now, Matthew, and you’d best remember. Everything I do, I do for Rachida’s safety, and right now that involves staying here as your prisoner. But whatever good will I had for you died the moment I realized you had lied to me. You kept me from my beloved Rachida, even when she was right here in this house . And then you dare to come in here with the drunken hope of taking advantage of my pain? Fuck you. Fuck you. You will not touch me again. You will not offer a kind word. You will not so much as look at me in any way that suggests an impure thought.” She drew back the dagger, eliciting a relieved gasp from him, and waved it in front of his face. “Should you disobey, I will open your throat and let you bleed out on your own carpet. Do I make myself clear?”

Sniffling, Matthew nodded.

“Good. Now leave my room.”

She climbed off him then, jamming the tip of the dagger into the nightstand and flopping back onto the bed. She glared at him, not moving an inch, until he left her presence.

Matthew wandered down the hall, feeling close to tears. His brush with death seemed to have cured him of his drunkenness, and the clarity of mind that followed sunk him even lower than he’d been at the start of the evening. In desperate need of comfort, he slunk into the bedroom he shared with his wife. Catherine was awake, propped up in bed with countless pillows, her nose buried in a book. She offered him a solemn smile.