From Undone: A Storm of Love, A Novella Read online

  Breac carried her back to the clearing and sought out the rough shelter of the copse where he’d left most of his provisions. Holding her slight form against his chest, he eased back down to sit on the ground. Once there, he tugged most of the length of his woolen cloak from around him and wrapped it around her. Then, as the last rays of the storm-covered sun faded, he shifted her in his arms and waited for her to wake. He must have drifted into sleep for the next thing he knew, she scrambled away from him, dragging his cloak with her. The other trees acted as a boundary and when she reached them, she could go no farther.

  He stood then, stretched his arms and legs to get rid of the stiffness from sitting too still for too long, and searched his sack for his flint and the few pieces of dry kindling he always carried. Without a fire he could not see her in the darkness. Or more importantly it seemed, she could not see him. He could hear her terror in the rate of her breathing.

  “I will try to start a fire,” he explained. “Stay where you are.”

  Breac ignored the sounds of distress from her and got some of the kindling burning. With that faint light, he was able to find some drier branches and start them to burn. They didn’t need a fire for the whole night, just long enough for him to see to her wounds and for them to settle in. Everything else could be managed in daylight, hopefully a drier one than this one had been. It took a short time, but soon he had a fire burning well enough to see their small shelter.

  And the woman.

  She sat huddled against a tree, wrapped in his cloak, watching every move he made. Her pale-colored eyes were wide with fear and she worried her teeth over the fullness of her bottom lip every time he gazed at her. Though her skin was the color of the pearls that his lord’s wife wore in a necklace, he knew from seeing her naked that it bore darkening bluish-purple bruises that had not yet shown their true color or size. It was her hair that fascinated him though, the hue of burnished silver with flecks of some darker shade through it. And, cut off as it was only a few inches from her scalp, it began to curl as it dried.

  Breac’s body reacted then, remembering on its own the pleasing shapes and softness of her body and ignoring the clear signs that she was older than him. Desire at this time was unseemly, even for a man who’d not had a woman in many weeks.

  He crouched down, searching in his bag for the oatcakes and cheese he carried. Finding it he broke them in two and held out a portion of each to her. Trying to banish the desire that flowed through his blood now, he turned away after she took the food from his hand. That she took the food and then shifted back as far as she could bothered him in some deep way.

  Breac waited for her to eat the cheese and then handed her a skin filled with ale. She accepted it the same way she accepted the food—a quick grab for it and then out of arm’s reach. The action should not surprise him; it was an act of fear and, after witnessing what must be only a small part of the treatment she’d received from the men and their lord, it was one he could understand. So, like gentling a wild animal, he would accustom her to his presence. At least for the night.

  He had no inclination to bring her to his home and his farm, no matter what story he told to get her released to him. The tasks of seeing to his sister and overseeing his own land and those that his lord owned were too important to be distracted by this woman. No matter that her gaze held a measure of pleading in it each time she looked at him, and no matter that his blood stirred for her in a way he’d not felt for a woman in a long, long time.

  So wrapped in his own thoughts and his own arguments about her fate that he did not notice her approach, he startled when she held the skin out to him from just a foot or two away.

  “My thanks,” she whispered, as she stepped away once more.

  “Come closer,” he said. “The flame is meager and you cannot feel its heat from over there.”

  He watched as she stood, wrapped his cloak more securely around her body, and then took a hesitant step forward. She silently slid to sit nearer to the small sputtering fire, but remained as far from him as she could. The night had fallen deeply around them, the sounds of rain grew fainter as the minutes passed in silence. Putting the skin up to his mouth, he drank a mouthful before meeting her gaze.

  “What are you called?” he asked.

  The low flames sputtered and crackled and he waited for her to answer. What surprised him was the tone of her voice when she did speak.

  “Aigneis,” she said. Her voice was deeper than when she was terrified and her name flowed like the melody of some unsung song, touching something deep within him. Heat and warmth and comfort flowed through him in that moment, with just one word.

  Her name.

  “Say it again,” he found himself almost pleading to hear it again.

  Chapter 3

  “My name is Aigneis.”

  Her exhaustion lulled her into revealing her name and, worse, it came out in that voice. The one she kept hidden from everyone. One of the few remnants of her time in the land of the Sith, it had the most unusual effect on others, especially men. This time was no different. Her captor shifted as he sat on the ground and his eyes glimmered in response.

  Aigneis cleared her throat and pitched her voice a bit, nearly whispering now so that it was not as evident. It was the reason the men assigned by her husband kept her gagged—he knew its effect and had warned them. She could, he claimed, tempt the angels from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell with that voice. And though it had tempted him to many, many things, he believed she could overpower the will of men and bend them to her bidding. ‘Twas not true, but it did not stop him from believing it or from spreading it as truth and making his people fear her.

  “Where are you from?” Breac asked, his eyes intent on hers as he did, as though he was anxious to hear her speak.

  Mayhap he was?

  Uncertain about revealing anything else to him, she looked away, hoping in each second that passed that he would not challenge her silence. She watched as he lifted the skin to his mouth and drank from it another time. Just as she thought he would not speak again and as the pain in her body from being manhandled for days reached a level that made it impossible to ignore, his strong voice called out to her.

  “I am called Breac,” he said. He leaned toward the flames, revealing more of his face to her.

  In addition to the strength in his voice and in his body, his face was chiseled by masculine angles, with a straight jaw and nose that showed a previous break. Instead of making him look weak, it added a sort of dangerous appeal to his looks. The thing about him that shocked her the most was his age.

  Aigneis had lived almost thirty years, but this Breac appeared to be at least five or mayhap even seven years her younger. He wore his black, shoulder-length hair pulled away and tied at his neck. His beard was trimmed close, unlike most men who let their beards grow wild and bushy. But it was his eyes that caught her attention.

  Not that their dark brown color was anything apart from ordinary. Nay, ’twas not their color, but the stark sorrow that lay deep within them when he was not paying attention to hiding it. The sorrow was so strong and so clear that it made her heart, one scarred by deception, betrayal, and loss, hurt at the sight of it. Aigneis held out her hand for the skin, thirsty from so many hours without nourishment or drink.

  “What are your plans for me?” she asked softly. She did not wait for his reply, for her thirst threatened to overwhelm her, as did the pain piercing through her body and the exhaustion. Tipping it back, she drank several mouthfuls before realizing how little was still left and stopped. “Am I your slave now?”

  She watched as a shiver pulsed through him and lust shone once more in his gaze, but only for a moment before he controlled it and banished it.

  “I need no slave,” he answered. “Come morning, I will take you farther north and release you.”

  Of all the things she expected and steeled herself to hear, that was not one of them. Did he speak the truth? Would he chance her going back to h
er . . . lord and bearing such retribution from Donnell’s men? As though she’d spoken her word aloud, he shook his head.

  “I know not what happened to bring you here,” he began. “And in such condition”—he paused, throwing a glance at her cropped hair and his clothing—“but you would be wise to seek a new place and a new life, far from whichever lord you offended.”

  Considering how many she’d offended in her life, his advice was both warranted and wise, but he had no idea. Even her lord husband, who’d married her because of the bargain her father struck upon her return from the land of the Sith, had no idea. ’Twas the chest filled with an unimagined wealth in gold that convinced her father and her husband to uphold their betrothal and to keep her. Until now.

  Her body grew heavy even as her heart did when she dared to think of her ultimate sin. However, she knew this pain was from the beatings and the torturous ride here, bound and held on the back of a horse. She was about to ask his leave to sleep when he spoke again.

  “Let me see to that gash and then seek your rest,” he said. “The rain is letting up and I will leave at first light.” The deep sorrow filled his gaze once more, yet unlike when lust crept in, he made no attempt to hide or banish it.

  Aigneis handed the skin back to him, sliding back a few feet. His care was quick and efficient and soon the wound on her leg was clean and wrapped. Then she lay down on her side and curled in a ball. The woolen cloak wrapped around her smelled of his scent—masculine, leather, and something else—and she tried to stay awake long enough to watch him, yet uncertain of his plans. But the heaviness in her body and heart and soul took control and dragged her into a fitful sleep.

  Sometime in the night, she awoke, whether from the cool air that settled around them making her shiver or his voice, she knew not. Breac mumbled in his sleep, his words sounded like prayers.

  Prayers for Fenella. Fear that she could die. Fear that she would die before his return. All repeated over and over, disturbing his sleep but not waking him. Was Fenella his wife? She suffered from some illness and his guilt was clear from his words. Was this something from his past or the reason for his journey and his haste? He settled deeper into sleep as she thought on calling his name to rouse him from it.

  Then later, as she shivered against the cold, Aigneis began to wake. Before she could force herself to sit up and wrap the cloak anew in hopes of better protection from the cold, she was surrounded by a soothing and comforting heat. Lulled back into sleep, she did not remember hearing anything else until his voice called her name again.

  “Aigneis,” he said. “You must wake now.”

  Only on his second call did she realize that he spoke her name and that his voice came from behind her. Startled that he was so close, she opened her eyes and tried to sit up. His weight on the cloak yet wrapped around her stopped her. His arm, resting across her waist, held her in place. His warm breath on the back of her neck teased her body and she shivered against it.

  He lay next to her! Aigneis began to push him away, but he clutched her tighter.

  “Hush now,” he whispered against her ear. “You lay shivering in the night and I thought to ease your discomfort.” Breac lifted his arm once she stilled and then rolled to his feet away from her. “And to keep myself warmed as well,” he admitted.

  Aigneis scrambled to the other side of their small enclosure and tugged the cloak loose. Pushing her hair out of her face, she realized that he stared at her. His shirt gaped open again, this time though the bruises that covered her skin were visible to both of them in spite of the day’s weak light.

  Gathering the edges together, she stood and picked up the cloak once more, her body aching with every move she made. Before she could even try to replace the cloak over herself, he took it from her and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “See to your needs at the stream.” His voice was brusque. “I . . . we have a good distance to travel before night.”

  Aigneis did not argue or even comment, she simply followed his instructions and walked away from their shelter, back through the trees where he pointed. With each step her feet and legs screamed and her back tightened in pain. Her mind had lost the ability to make plans and she only knew she would not lie down and die here as Donnell had ordered and hoped. She must live. She must live to seek her sons.

  Breac tried to focus on the tasks he needed to complete in order to get on the road, but his gaze followed the injured woman as she walked away. He’d seen the bruising begin to blossom on her skin and, as his shirt slipped and exposed her, there were few places he saw that were not marked in some way. Now it was not surprising that she’d flinched as he held her close in the night.

  She never stopped, in spite of the pain clear in every step she took. This Aigneis continued to walk toward the stream as he’d ordered and never once looked back or hesitated. The sun’s light grew stronger with each passing minute and just before she entered the shadows of the trees he saw that her hair was silver, streaked with black.

  The length of it spoke of a humiliating punishment, a public sign of the loss of status or honor, and he wondered at it. A disobedient female serf, an unfaithful wife or leman, any willful or offending woman could be dealt such punishment—a beating and the loss of her hair. The way she dealt with her pain and her uncertainty, for he could read that in her gray eyes every time he looked at her, spoke of honor and strength.

  She disappeared into the trees and Breac turned back to his task, quickly gathering and packing away any items he needed. The skin of ale was nearly empty so he carried it down to the stream to fill it for their journey. When they reached the next village, he could use a few of his coins to buy more and to buy food.

  Breac pushed through the last branches before the rushing water and stopped. He thought she’d walked straight to the water’s edge but her path had taken her a different way and she stood in front of him now facing the flowing stream. He watched, holding his breath as he did, as she eased his shirt off her shoulders and down. If he only saw the feminine curves of her body, narrow waist and full hips, he would have been rock-hard in an instant. But the sight before him made his stomach turn.

  Not a place on her skin was unmarked.

  Lash and cane marks marred her back and buttocks and legs—bruises there and every other possible place from fists or some other weapon. Though none other than the gash he’d wrapped broke the skin, these were evidence of great anger and the need to inflict as much pain as possible. She knelt down slowly and bent over to scoop some water onto her face and arms and he closed his eyes.

  He’d seen discipline. Hell, he’d been the recipient of a beating or the lash more than once for disobedience to his father or to his lord, but never had he seen such treatment inflicted as this. Breac moved back as quietly as he could, determined not to add to her humiliation with his gawking. When he was free of the trees, he walked back to the two sacks of his supplies and waited for her return.

  Breac thought of his choices and was not satisfied with any of them. He could not fight her battles, whatever they were and no matter the impulse to do so, because he needed to return to his sister as soon as possible. His hand moved to the precious herbs still wrapped and packed safely with the pouch at his waist. Every delay in this journey was a risk to her survival, every hour increased the chances that she would not recover.

  From the injuries he saw, Aigneis’s ability to keep pace with him was not possible. Her stiff and painful gait across the clearing and down to the stream made it clear she would be a hindrance to his journey home. And though his sister teased him about his tendency to take in stray and injured animals, this was one injured creature he could not.

  He also knew that if . . . when his sister recovered and found out that he had abandoned such a one as Aigneis, he would see disappointment in her eyes and could not bear such a thing. So, he either had to not let Fenella find out or . . . he needed to help Aigneis. He wavered between the choices, convincing himself one way and then the oth
er until she walked into the clearing.

  Her chin lifted as she spied him watching and she struggled to keep her steps moving smoothly. If he hadn’t seen the marks and the injuries, he might even have believed what she tried to fake. When she met his gaze, he nearly stopped breathing.

  Her eyes, now visible in the growing light of day, were like something otherworldly. Almost an exact match in color to her hair, an unusual shade of silver, they seemed to reflect the sun’s light back at him. And her skin . . .

  He’d seen the places covered by his shirt and cloak, but the skin on her face seemed to glow in vibrance, making her look younger than the age he thought her to be. Aye, he’d noticed the difference in their age, with her having at least five more years than he did. In spite of that, she seemed younger now.

  She walked up to him, remaining more than an arm’s length away, and nodded. “I am ready.”

  So she was, but was he ready to begin this journey? If she could display this bravery in the face of a completely unknown future, surely he could?

  With an offered prayer that she would not be a distraction from his true task at hand and that whatever caused him to intervene was not a case of scattered wits, he positioned his leather sacks over his shoulder. As he gave a final tug on the straps, he thought he heard his sister’s laughter.

  Without another word, he nodded back at Aigneis and began walking.

  Chapter 4

  It took little more than twenty paces for all his good intentions to fall apart. She could not walk at his pace, not because he was taller and had longer strides, which he did, but because her feet were bare. As he cursed himself for such obvious stupidity, he thought on how to best remedy it. She already wore his spare shirt and his cloak and he had not another pair of shoes or boots. In the end, it was Aigneis who sorted out a solution.