Page 4 of Rebellion's Fire

His mouth twisted slightly. Christian’s stomach gave a sudden wrench as he took the sword. Almost, she expected him to cut Henry down with it. Instead, he inclined his head rather graciously, like a knight accepting victory at a tournament.

Maybe he could be reasoned with after all.

His men began collecting the surrendered weapons. Others were already stripping the armor from the fallen.

The berserker stepped through the chaos toward the women. This time he had no need to push. The men left standing parted for him without a quibble.

“Which of you,” he asked in the same soft, casual voice, “is the Lady de Lanson?”

Close-to, he was no more comforting. Different shades of blood stained his clothes and forearms, his hands and face. Remote yet wild dark brown eyes scanned everyone impartially and still somehow gave the alarming impression of seeing something else entirely—no doubt his recent kills or his plans for the next ones.

Beside Christian, Alys cleared her throat. Christian could feel the other woman’s tension, the failing of her courage, and yet Alys still meant to do it. Her loyalty would have humbled most women. Christian, it angered.

She would not let William do this. These people were inhercharge, her care.

She caught Alys’s arm, roughly enough to surprise her into silence. And to disguise her own trembling. “I am Christian de Lanson.”

His gaze crashed into hers. Now that she had his full attention, at last, she’d have welcomed the remoteness back with enthusiasm. Dear God, unstable was an understatement. They were the most dangerous eyes she had ever encountered: the eyes of a man who has seen and done terrible things and not yet learned how to live with them.

If he noticed the oddity of her mask, his gaze didn’t linger on it. Turning away, he spoke only three words in the same quiet voice he had used before. “Come with me.”

“No, thank you,” Christian said clearly, and he paused without turning. Now Alys clutchedherarm, convulsively. The other women drew back into the wreckage of the tent again, as if afraid his wrath would consume them as well. “There’s no point,” Christian said brazenly. “I am a useless hostage, being worth nothing to my husband.”

“You are William de Lanson’s wife?” The young berserker turned back to her abruptly, impatience clear in his face for the first time.

“I am. But disgraced and barren, my value is not high.”

She actually laughed at his shock. “Ask them,” she added, nodding at her husband’s soldiers. The one whose unflattering opinion she’d overheard earlier stood bleeding among them.

The young barbarian before her looked as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Without warning, he reached out and seized her wrist. His touch shocked her; perhaps it was the rough strength of his bare fingers or their unexpected warmth. But before she could properly register it, let alone object, he dropped her wrist as if it had burned him.

He actually spun away from her so that she couldn’t see his face. It struck her that he was wounded or ill, and the watchful way a few of his men regarded him seemed to bear this out. And yet they never moved to inquire or to help him. In any case, the moment passed before it was properly begun.

He glanced back at her. “Let’s talk,” he invited. This time he didn’t touch her, merely gestured with his arm in a fashion almost courtly. She couldn’t hesitate; she could only pray he wouldn’t perceive the shaking of her legs. She stepped forward, and Alys, reluctantly, released her arm.

“I am Adam,” he said, “son of Malcolm.”

Of course, he was. Christian closed her eyes. “MacHeth.”

Chapter Two

Without meaning to,she let out a funny little laugh and began to walk briskly. It made the trembling easier to control.

“MacHeth or MacAed,” he said. “Some call us by that name.” He had fallen into easy step beside her, his stride long and swinging as they brushed through his men and what was left of hers. She wished he’d chosen her other side, where the mask allowed her at least the illusion of protection.

“My husband is looking for you,” Christian said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “He will return shortly—with rather more men than you.”

“I doubt that,” said Adam MacHeth. If anything, he sounded amused.

Christian glanced at him, only to find his disturbing gaze already on her face. Curious. Some instinct made her abandon the subtler approach. Instead, she said bluntly, “What is it you intend to do with us? I have already told you my value to my husband—”

“I know what it cost you to say the words.”

She stumbled over some rough tussock. He made no move to catch her, but nor did his gaze leave her naked face. She could feel it burning her clammy skin, wondered what he thought of as he looked.

She muttered, “Hardly. My people are well aware how the land lies. It makes no difference. Holding me will give you no advantage over my husband. You should let us go and ride off before he returns.”

“I think you may misunderstand the nature of the advantage. You assume I will try to give you back to him.”

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