Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(138)

Turning, he motioned Gunther from the doorway, signaling his friend to check around the cottage before coming inside. Gunther nodded and ducked out into the shadows. Brant stepped into the room, worried he’d misjudged William’s fear and that the man had lied to him. Then, out of the silence, he heard a muffled scream. Tilting his head to the side to better listen, he hardened his stance. A shuffling sound came from the back of the room. That is when he noticed the small door in the side wall of the front chamber.

Della! He began to rush forward, but then held back as heard the voices from the other side. Bile rose in his throat.

“Get on with it, Serilda.” Brant recognized Stuart’s voice. “It’s taking you too long.”

“Keep her still,” Serilda answered. “Hold her legs open.”

“It would be better if we could give her something for the pain. Did you bring none of your potions?” Stuart again.

“She had me tossed from the manor before I could gather my draughts. It’s her own fault,” Serilda returned, her tone harsh. A muffled sound followed the words.

“Della.” Stuart’s voice was strained, but then softened. “Keep still lest we are unable to get that heathen brat from your womb. It will only hurt for a moment and then you will be free of it.”

Brant was sure his heart stopped beating as Della’s stifled response answered her cousin. He hadn’t wanted to believe that Della betrayed him. He didn’t want to believe that she plotted to have him killed. But the evidence was too overwhelming.

And now she is killing my child, just as she first promised to do.

Without thought of his own safety, Brant smashed through the door in a violent rage. All he saw was his murderous anger as he glared at the chamber’s occupants, taking it all in within a second. His wife was bound to the bed with a bit tied in her mouth to help with the pain.

Her skirts were thrown over her waist, lying bare her thighs and stomach for all to see. At his entrance, her eyes grew round. Stuart sat by her shoulders, possessively caressing the soft skin of her neck and Serilda kneeled between her thighs with a crude knife and a forked metal spike. Disgusted, Brant’s blood ran cold.

“Blackwell,” Stuart squeaked, his face instantly pale. “It’s not possible. You should be dead!”

Serilda dropped her knife. The crude weapon landed on the dirt floor with a thud and she scrambled off the cot to retrieve it.

Della groaned and struggled against her ties. Tears fell from her eyes to leave clean trails on her dirty face. She stared at him, pleading with him. But for what? Mercy? Brant couldn’t give her that. After her betrayal, he had none left. He had nothing left.

“Yea, it’s very possible,” Brant said, the words dark and passionless. “You sent a paid fool and a boy to kill me.”

Stuart shot to his feet and looked hastily around the chamber for a weapon. His hands visibly shook as he didn’t find one. Serilda lifted her knife and backed away slowly, refusing to give it over to him when he motioned her to come nearer.

“You would dare to kill an unarmed man?” Stuart asked weakly. “Think of your honor.”

Brant didn’t answer. Instead, he glared briefly at Serilda and then back to Stuart. “Serilda, drop your weapon and move away from her ladyship. Back yourself into the wall and do not move lest I be tempted to kill you as well.”

Serilda did as he commanded. The long knife thumped on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her as she moved around to the other side of the cot. Brant kept his raised sword trained on Stuart, making his way to the end of the bed.

Then, taking a deep breath, his insides trembling with apprehension, Brant glanced between Della’s legs. A dirty handprint marred the white flesh of her thigh where the midwife had touched her. But he found there was no blood.

They haven’t harmed the child.

Bittersweet relief flowed over him. Catching the frightened gaze of his wife, he had to look away.

Yanking at Della’s skirt, Brant covered her sex before kneeling to retrieve the discarded knife. Tossing it at Stuart’s feet, he motioned for the man to take the blade.

“Nay, it is not fair,” Stuart whined. He sidestepped the knife, refusing to pick it up. “You have a sword.”

Fury rose inside Brant. He gripped the hilt of his broadsword, wanting desperately to slay the man. His arm tensed and urged him to lift it. But, in the end, he could not bring himself to do it. He could not kill a defenseless man in cold blood. The deed would go against everything in his nature. He glowered at Stuart, willing the man to try anything that would justify his slaughter. Just as Brant was about to throw down his own weapon and beat the man with his bare hands, he heard Gunther’s voice. It was calm as it drifted into the chamber from the door, and his words were the answer to Brant’s bloody prayer.