Michelle Willingham - Warrior Of Fire

Her ears rang as the dizziness swept over her. She rested her palm against the wall, trying to take steady breaths. Please, not now. Not when she had come so far. The tide of weakness washed over her, stealing away her vision.

‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.

She turned to Raine, but his hooded features blurred. The room spun, and her hand slipped against the wall.

She cursed herself, knowing she wasn’t going to make it to the bed. A moment later, her knees collapsed, sending the world into blackness.

* * *

Raine barely caught the young woman before she fainted. One moment Carice was speaking, and the next, she dropped like a stone. He carried her over to the bed, bothered by how light she was. His mouth set into a line as he lowered her to the mattress. Despite his demand for her to leave, she was incapable of making any journey, as weak as she was. And unless he left her behind, he wasn’t going to meet his commander on the morrow.

Her face was the colour of snow, and he didn’t know the nature of her illness. He poured a cup of wine for her and waited for her to regain consciousness. It took a moment, but when her eyes fluttered open, he saw the fear in them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

‘You need to return to your family,’ he said, ‘where they can take better care of you.’

‘Where I’ll be sent to wed a man old enough to be my father.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve no wish for that.’

‘It’s what marriages are,’ he told her. ‘Nothing more than an alliance.’

‘I am going to die, Raine. My time grows short, and I do not wish to spend my last months wedded to a monster.’

The urge to deny it came to his lips, but he could see the fragility in her body. The weariness there was more than exhaustion from a journey.

‘I have been ill for years now,’ she said. ‘And each day is worse than the next.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Surely you can understand that I would prefer to die as a free woman.’ A wistful look crossed her face. ‘The day will come when I cannot bear to live in this pain any longer. And then it will end.’

‘Is it a wasting sickness, then?’ He had seen men and women die in such ways before.

A twisted smile came over her. ‘In a manner of speaking. I can hardly eat without becoming sick.’ She leaned back and stretched her arm over her head. It brought the curve of her breasts to his attention. Oui, she was thin. But he wondered what she would look like if her body were filled out with plumpness.

‘Is it always this way?’ Undoubtedly her illness had caused her to collapse. But he had never heard of a wasting sickness that involved food—unless it was poison of some kind.

‘Usually it’s worse,’ she admitted. ‘But this meal was small, and sometimes that helps.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You may as well remove your hood, you know. I saw your face when you were leaning down over me.’

He ignored her, for it might have been a ploy. ‘It is better if you do not see my face.’ Though she might not have a memory of him, it seemed wiser to remain shadowed—especially when he’d been ordered to kill her betrothed husband, the High King of Éireann.

‘I would still know you, even if I hadn’t glimpsed your face.’

Her response surprised him, and he couldn’t help but ask, ‘How?’

‘Because of your voice,’ she murmured. ‘I would know you from the moment you spoke.’ Her eyes opened then. ‘Your voice is deep and low, almost wild.’

He was unnerved by what she’d said. Her words cast a spell over him, drawing him nearer. No woman had ever had this effect, stirring his senses in the way she did. He wanted to rest his hand on either side of her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her, learning the shape of her mouth.

Instead, he said gruffly, ‘Rest now. I will return later.’

He needed to hunt, to bring back food for both of them. And while he was away, he could search for the MacEgan man she had spoken of.

A grimness settled over him, for he had met the MacEgans in battle before. Later, their king, Patrick MacEgan, had married a Norman bride. While there might be peace between their people now, Raine knew to never underestimate the power of Irish loyalty.

‘If anyone comes, bolt the door,’ he warned. He didn’t like leaving her defenceless, but there was no choice. He had to bring back more food to nourish Lady Carice, despite the risks. Though her illness had likely caused her to faint, he also didn’t believe she’d eaten enough.

After he departed the chamber, he went down the stairs and returned outside. As he cast a look back at the ruins, a sense of guilt passed over him. He felt responsible for the brethren who had lived within these walls. The abbot and the holy men were innocent, blameless for what had happened. The raiders had been seeking holy treasures, and they had set the abbey on fire during the attack.

The moment he’d witnessed the flames against the night sky, he should have ridden hard to reach the men instead of alerting his commander. The delay had meant the difference between life and death.

Raine stopped before one of the graves, brushing the snow from the simple wooden cross he’d made. For a moment, he rested his hand upon the wood, feeling the rise of anger. He’d been too late. Although he’d tried to help the monks escape, their quarters had been consumed by flames and he’d nearly burned to death himself. Had it not been for one of the brethren dragging him out of the fire, he would not have survived. And then that monk had died, too.

The raw ache flooded through him. He hadn’t been able to save these men any more than his sisters—and he could sense the ghosts of their disapproval haunting his conscience.

The air was cold, and it was near to Imbolc, the Irish feast of Saint Brighid. Raine returned to the stables to prepare a horse. He wondered if his commander, Sir Darren de Carleigh, would send men to bring him back. It had taken a great deal of convincing for the man to grant him leave. He suspected that Darren had only allowed it because he recognised the need to bury the bodies—and because it was a means of doing penance.

The two days Raine had spent here alone had given him a false sense of peace. His soul was already damned, but at least he could give the monks a proper burial. He glanced back at the chapel, wondering what to do about Lady Carice. Her very presence had tangled up his plans—but not in the way she imagined. His conscience warned that he should leave her alone...but there was no doubt she could be of use to him.

He took a bow and arrows, then rode out into the forest, moving deeper into the stillness. The morning air was cool, and there were no sounds at all—not even birds. Their lack of noise made him wary. The shadows of the trees hung over him, while golden light skimmed the tops of the bare branches. Raine drew his horse to a stop and dismounted. Nocking an arrow to his bow, he paused, searching for the source of the tension. Frost rimmed the dry leaves, and he moved with stealth.

There. He spied a small group of men on the far side of the wood. Perhaps a dozen intruders, most on horseback. He didn’t know if they were searching for Carice, but he intended to find out why they were here. Silently, he gave his horse a light push, sending the animal out of the woods and back to the abbey. Then he moved in closer, climbing a tree to get a better glimpse of them.

One was carrying the High King’s banner, and he saw another older man whose face appeared grim. The Irish soldiers broke off into smaller groups, searching the forest—most likely for Carice.

She’d wanted her freedom and had fought with all of her strength to flee these men and reach the sanctuary of the abbey. If he wanted to be rid of her, all he had to do was bring them to her.