Flametouched Page 2

  What game is this?

  Keeping one eye on the sabercat, he slumped against the oak and grabbed his gun, clearing the bad cartridge. He reloaded as quickly as he could. The snow fell thick now, and he knew he had to leave, but he feared moving might attract the sabercat’s notice again. So he waited.

  Do I value my life again? he wondered bitterly.

  He couldn’t keep his mind or his heart straight. But as he sat and listened to the breeze bend branch and grass, an odd idea trickled into his mind, a solution to his awful marriage inspired by what he had just experienced.

  At first he dismissed the unorthodox, preposterous notion, but the more he turned it over in his head, the more he realized he could pull it off. And so, like the odd person whom long familiarity makes normal to us, the idea became more comfortable and more comforting the longer he considered it. He would have to sacrifice many things to accomplish his design, but nothing on the list did he count too dear if it meant freedom from unrelenting misery.

  A blast of cold air reminded him he needed to move. He stumbled as he rose, the cuts on his chest searing him with pain. Dirty claw marks. Not deep, but painful and easily infected. Fortunately, Saunders could wash and mend the wounds, a skill from his infantry days.

  As he jogged the mile back to his horse, he felt a bitter sting that his wife would be the last to care that he was late arriving home. Her indifference always hurt, but his newfound plan brought him a renewed sense of hope. At last he would give her the one gift she would utterly adore and never have to thank him for.

  He would give her his death.

  Chapter 2

  Davon had to force himself to keep from rubbing the gashes on his chest. They itched and burned, and the steady, jostling rhythm of the horse seemed to inflame them with each hoofbeat forward. He opened his long hunting coat to let the chill breeze numb the discomfort on his chest, but he paid for it with shivers.

  The way home to Frostbourne manor led him out of the wild and through the township of Canton, the warm lantern lights of its houses edging through the cracks in shutters. During his father’s wasteful tenure, Canton had nearly gone to ruin, but Davon had revived it once his father had died, even going so far as to plow and harvest with the common folk until they could prosper on their own.

  As he passed the modest general store to his left, the door cracked open, Mr. Thewberry’s head poking through the opening, wild gray hair catching the breeze. He had suffered greatly during Frostbourne’s poverty, but Davon had persuaded him to stay on until the goods and the money started flowing again. It had cost the man much in prosperity and comfort, but for his sacrifices for Frostbourne, the Queen had recommended Mr. Thewberry for presentation to the Eternal Flame. He was now Flametouched, the only one in Frostbourne Davon knew of.

  Davon nodded in his direction.

  “Is that you, Milord?” Mr. Thewberry said, stepping out onto the porch in his bedclothes. “It’s right cold for an evening ride! Why don’t you come in and warm your blood with a little tea and brandy? It’s been a while since you visited, and little Jillie loves your stories.”

  Jillie was his granddaughter, a bright girl barely up to his waist. She did love a story, and the tea and brandy sounded nice, but his wounds wouldn’t let him delay. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Thewberry,” Davon said, slowing up a little and angling the horse toward the house, “but I’ve urgent business at Frostbourne and must return without delay. Give Jillie my best.”

  “May the Eternal Flame bless you, Sir,” Mr. Thewberry said, raising a hand in salute. Davon could just make out the tiny flame-shaped scar on the man’s palm and wondered if it had hurt when the Eternal Flame had branded him.

  An icy breeze numbed Davon’s chest, goosebumps sprouting on his skin. The winter wouldn’t hold back for much longer. Frostbourne was a minor estate situated in the extreme northwest of the Kingdom, as far from the capital city of Bellshire as one could get and still claim citizenship in the country. Its northern locale meant cold and snow paid Frostbourne their unwelcome visits rather sooner than everywhere else, and, like bad company, left long after their welcome had worn off.

  Once out of Canton, Davon crested a small hill, the lights burning in the windows of Frostbourne manor blooming into view. Just a little farther, dear Ceril, he mentally urged his horse. His manor house sat just outside the dark boughs of the spruce-filled Windhill forest and was surrounded by a wall the height of a man to keep out dire wolves, short-faced bears, and the occasional mammoth that sometimes ventured out of the wood hungry for an easy meal. Six mighty blue spruce trees obscured much of the outer architecture of Frostbourne from distant eyes—one of Lady Carver’s chief complaints after she had taken residence at the manor. It took Davon nearly two solid weeks of argument to convince her that the thick, needled branches shielded the house from the wicked blasts of the winter winds and that he would not cut them down under any circumstances.

  Davon sighed as he neared his home. Was he really willing to give up everything for her? Give everything to her? Strangely, he felt ready to do just that. That his despair had so poisoned his soul that it had killed his attachment to Frostbourne surprised him, but then again, that same despair had murdered just about everything. His pride was gone. His hope for brighter days and simple joys was gone. His sense of humor was gone.

  After he had rescued his estate, his marriage was to be, in his own mind, the crowning achievement in the recovery of Frostbourne, and when the marriage failed, the rest did as well by association. It was as if an artist had painted a masterpiece and smudged it with a final stroke.

  Wolves deep within the spruce-covered hills bellowed a mournful call and Ceril whickered nervously.

  “It’s all right, boy,” Davon soothed. “Look. We’re there.”

  After dark, the front gate was shut and locked, but the warm light spilling out between the shutter slats of the guardhouse signaled that Carter had not yet retired. The glow from the guardhouse window played on the two tooled, copper flames set into the stonework on either side of the gate. Normally, Davon would unlock the gate with his own key, but he thought it best to move as little as possible until he was nearer someplace he could collapse.

  He stopped at the gate and whistled, turning his eyes to the sky while he awaited the Gatekeeper’s service. The flurries and snow had quit almost as soon as he had mounted the nervous Ceril and headed home after the sabercat attack. The movement of the ragged clouds had slowed, gaping holes revealing a deep black sky sequined with brilliant stars.

  The guardhouse door banged open, revealing Carter buttoning up his blue jacket over his white shirt and trousers. Davon grinned. Carter was the son of a local farmer and an utter rascal. His father, one of Davon’s tenants, had begged Davon to give Carter some position to help him throw off the child and take up the mantle of a man. Davon had never employed a gatekeeper, though most other Lords did. Frostbourne had no problems with theft and poaching, and there were simply never enough visitors to justify having someone sit in a house at the ready all day long.

  But as Davon eyed the thin young man with the tousled blond hair and near permanent smirk, he thought the posting had changed him—a little. The eyes still held that boyish hint of trouble, and there were people in Canton who still hated the lad for his history of pranks and tricks. Davon thought the completely improvised uniform he had insisted Carter wear had affected the most change, though having the less than commodious guardhouse as his own had no doubt helped. A change of clothes and situation could work marvels; Davon’s newly hatched plan to free himself from his wife depended on that axiom.

  “Startin’ to despair of you, Baron Carver,” Carter said as he inserted the key into the lock and eyed the horse. “Nothin’ jump in front of your gun today, eh, Milord?”

  “My rifle wasn’t up to it today,” Davon said, guiding his horse forward as the gate opened. “Would you please run ahead and tell Saunders to meet me at the stables?”

  “I will. No ne
ed for the please, though. You’re the Lord, remember?” Carter said, a customary admonition for his Lord when he was too polite. “Lady Frostbourne never says please. She understands the order of things.”

  “Just fetch him, Carter.”

  The lock clinked shut and the gatekeeper chuckled. “That’s more like it, Lord Carver. Much better.”

  Carter sprinted off toward the house, and Davon set Ceril to a nice steady walk, taking it slow to allow Saunders time to arrive. The horse snorted, a cloud of breath shooting into the night. “Almost home, boy,” Davon said, patting his neck. He was going to have to give up his horse. That thought struck him like a falling tree; Ceril had been his constant companion for years.

  The stable boy, Dantree, met him outside the stalls. He was a pudgy, twelve-year-old lad with a kind, round face.

  “You all right, Milord?” he said as he grabbed the reins.

  “I’ve had better days, Dantree. Is Saunders here?”

  “Coming, Davon!” Saunders jogged as fast as his well-traveled bones would permit, buttoning his coat with knobby-knuckled hands. He had a bald pate with bushy sideburns running down into a full, gray beard. Davon’s aging steward was a transplant from the army where he had served as a supply officer and field medic. Too rough for the genteel houses of Bellshire, Davon found him a perfect fit for the wilder environs of Frostbourne, though Lady Carver could barely tolerate his outspoken and often irascible nature. Lord Carver found Saunders as frugal and farthing-hoarding as he himself had been during Frostbourne’s recovery. It had taken time, but Davon had trained enough of the military-mouthed man out of him to make him palatable to the rest of the house staff.

  “Help me down, if you would, Saunders,” Lord Carver asked.

  “Help you down? What’s wrong with you?” Saunders asked, face screwed up suspiciously. Davon opened his coat, revealing the blood soaked shirt. “Flame and flood!” he exclaimed, reaching up a hand. “Did you take a fall?”

  “No, no,” Davon answered. “Get me inside. I’ll need stitching up.”

  “I dare say so,” Saunders agreed, slinging Lord Carver’s arm over his shoulder. “Bloody fool you are. Hunting alone is like running into battle with a bloody broom! Not to mention that your huntmaster is starting to think you mean to let him go with all your trips without him this fall. Let’s get into the kitchen.”

  Saunders lifted the latch to the door near the stables and pulled Lord Carver inside the house. Ian, the cook, stared wide-eyed as the steward dumped his charge in a chair. “Don’t stand around, Ian!” Saunders admonished. “Fetch Lord Carver a glass of wine. No. Bring the whole bottle. The good vintage. And get some water boiling!” He turned to Davon. “Let’s get that shirt off you and see what we’re dealing with here.”

  Struggling out of the coat and shirt pulled and twisted the jagged tears in his flesh, breaking open the scabs and setting the blood funneling down his sternum to his belly.

  “Those are good and ugly,” Saunders said. “Shall I fetch the Lady of the house so she can help minister to her Lord?” The last was said with enough sarcasm to cut through Lord Carver’s pain.

  “Leave her be, Saunders. Leave her be. Let’s get this done as quickly as we can, please.”

  Saunders harrumphed in disdain and deposited the soiled clothes on the table before cleaning the wounds. Ian returned later with the bottle and Lord Carver upturned it and drank deeply, wincing as Saunders daubed a cloth around the cuts. Ian stoked the embers in the stove and set fresh wood inside. “It’ll take a bit to get the water boiling,” he said, worriedly eying the gashes.

  “It’s all right, Ian,” Saunders said. “We need the spirits to do their work on our reckless Lord here before we get to the stitching. I’ve got to go find the alcohol and a needle. Make sure he doesn’t fall out of the chair.”

  Exhaustion, wine, and sitting still had dulled the pain enough to where he thought he might just pass out, but Saunders returned and renewed his painful ministrations, straightening him in his chair and elevating his mind above the fog.

  First, his steward cleaned the gashes with a warm cloth from the water on the stove, which hurt plenty; but when he applied the alcohol, fire erupted on Davon’s chest and he nearly fainted. He wiped the tears from his eyes while Saunders patted his shoulder.

  “Remember the pain, My Lord. It’s a good remedy against future bouts of stupidity.”

  “Thank you, Saunders.”

  The old man had taken the place of a father when Davon had hired him, adding the finishing touches to what the young Lord already knew about hunting, shooting, and fighting. What Saunders lacked in manners he more than made up for in practical wisdom. Leaving him would be hard, too.

  “Another bottle of wine, Ian. Quick!” Saunders ordered. “He’s going to really remember this part, drunk or sober.”

  Davon drank more while Saunders threaded the curved needle. This wasn’t the first time he’d been patched up by his steward after his scrapes in the wilderness, but it was by far the most extensively he had ever been sliced up.

  “This was done by a sabercat, wasn’t it?” Saunders speculated.

  “Yes.”

  Saunders jabbed the needle in and pulled the thread through. “And how did you get your sorry arse out of that one alive, Milord?”

  Davon repressed a yell as Saunders jabbed the needle in again. “Well, I—”

  “Is that you, Lord Carver?” a voice said sweetly from behind him—Lady Carver sounding strangely happy. Davon craned his head around. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes on a letter in her hand. She perused it carefully.

  Lady Emile Carver was a beautiful thing, though pain-watered eyes distorted his vision of her. Coppery hair, green eyes, tall, pale—everything men wanted. When they courted she had often worn bright colors, but now she sported one of her many loose-fitting gray dresses, a dull blue ribbon around her waist offering the only dab of color. Davon often thought she chose gray to indicate that she was half in mourning. Soon, Emile, you can exchange it for black.

  “I’m home,” he said, voice strained as Saunders resumed his gory work.

  “Well, good. We just received a letter this afternoon from the Tahbors inviting us to their Day of Farewell celebration. It’s to be an entire week long! Balls and parties and plays for seven days! Tell me we can go, Lord Carver. It could hardly be missed.”

  “Of course we’ll go, Emile. We go every year.”

  “Very good. I shall write to inform them of our acceptance immediately.” She walked away without further comment while Saunders stared angrily at her.

  “For the love of the Flame!” he exclaimed incredulously. “You think she might notice that the steward is performing surgery on her husband in the kitchen! Your bloody shirt is sitting right bloody there!”

  “My back was turned to her.”

  “Your naked back,” Saunders said, jabbing the needle in angrily, making Davon wince. “I guess she assumes that you just walk into the kitchen and disrobe on a regular basis, then?”

  “Careful, Saunders!”

  “Sorry, Milord,” he apologized. “You defending her infuriates me so. If you had a proper wife she would be here kissing your neck and holding your hand and sitting by your side and passing prayers into the fire until you were properly recovered. That beast of a woman has no proper affection!”

  “It’s never good to talk about spring days to men in the dungeon,” Davon mumbled dispiritedly.

  “You could have all the spring days you wanted, Davon,” Saunders pressed, pausing his ministrations. “I know at least three women in Canton who would bathe you in sunshine and warm water until you couldn’t remember winter any more. Let me fetch one to care for you!”

  He had heard all of this a hundred times before. The servants couldn’t understand and never would. To the world Emile was a proper woman who had married against her nature. He knew why she had married him now. Her previous indiscretions stung him, especially since they led him to ki
ll Viscount Cornton of Hightower in anger to defend her pretended honor, widowing his beautiful, young wife. But still he ached for and loved Emile. Or maybe he just loved the idea of her he had formed when they courted. She had been so different then.

  Another needle pull yanked him out of the past. Saunders and Ian were discussing women they thought would fit his needs.

  “The Widow Merriweather is only a year or two, well, maybe five older than the Master,” Ian was saying. “She’s not as pretty as Lady Carver, but has a good disposition and has a melon garden I’d love to get lost in, if you take my meaning.”

  Saunders nodded. “Not an entirely bad choice, but mark my words, she’d want back. The Master needs someone who just wants to give. Lord Carver has given enough of his soul to that sour wench.”

  Davon’s hand shot out and grabbed Saunders wrist. “You watch your tongue, Saunders. No more about this mistress business and no more disrespect for Lady Carver. Do you understand me, old man?”

  Saunders yanked his hand away with equal anger. “You’ve lost your senses if you think Lady Carver would care one way or the other!”

  “I said leave it alone,” Davon slurred, the wine’s effects intensifying his exhaustion.

  Saunders and Ian shared a glance and the steward resumed his bloody work to its completion without further comment. By the time the last stitch was closed and tied off, Davon’s vision swam. He remembered little of the assisted journey to his bedroom where he had slept alone for uncounted months.

  Sleep would be but a temporary escape, but when he woke, he would put in place a more permanent escape for Lady Carver and for himself.

  Chapter 3

  The outside world intruded on Davon’s deep slumber slowly. A vague jumble of swirling voices told him that people were coming in and out of his room, though nothing of what they said reached his consciousness. He alternately felt warm and cold, but never to extremes that would impel him to shift himself or to fully awaken. The dark in-between was dreamless. He wanted to wake, for he had work to do, but for time unmeasured he could not muster the will to shake off his weakness and open his eyes.