Seraphim. Michele Hauf
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did want to trust him. She wanted to feel the same relief Baldwin had felt at having the mercenary accompany them. Dare she allow him continue at her side? How to judge San Juste’s best interest was for her? What reason could a complete stranger have for joining such a suicidal mission? She had not offered him coin.
Blind to all but this stir of conflicting emotion that threatened to fell her to her knees, Sera let out another horrifying moan as she was grabbed from behind.
“It is me, Sera.” Gentle arms embraced her shoulders. Not harsh. No dagger. No demon horns formed by shadows dancing in the firelight.
“Release me,” she said, with a shove to the squire’s hand. Drawing in a breath of courage she expelled it in a thick cloud between the two of them. A decisive nod chased away the foolish trepidation. “I am better now.”
“What happened back there? Did he hurt you?”
She managed a mirthless snort. “I am not injured. I merely…needed some time apart. A moment to myself.”
She found in Baldwin’s silent gaze an understanding that neither need speak. For he had found her the night Lucifer had descended like his namesake upon the d’Ange castle. This man knew. He had seen the blood, her torn skirts, the devastation. He would keep her secrets—“Why did you tell him? I trusted you!”
“For your own good. You know well yourself, we need him, Sera. San Juste knows Abaddon’s secrets.”
“How? Did you ever pause to think about that? How do you know we can trust the man? We know not who he is. He claims a higher power sent him?” She propped her arm against the birch trunk and vacillated her attention between the squire and the distant mercenary. “To me that is Lucifer de Morte. How else would the man have such intimate knowledge of the layout of Abaddon’s lair?”
“You think Lucifer would send a man to watch the black knight extinguish his brothers?”
“Of course not, but perhaps this is San Juste’s way—deliver me to Abaddon’s hands, then watch a grand slaughter.”
“He would have killed you by now.”
She found conviction in the spark of white centered in Baldwin’s brown eyes. A certain integrity that had not been there during morning rituals in the cool shadows of the chapel. No, the church did not hold solace for this man. Not yet.
“You trust him?”
“I do.”
She gazed across the expanse of whiteness that separated her from her self-proclaimed protector. Her running footsteps had made deep prints in the snow, with Baldwin’s long strides stamping craters alongside. San Juste stood by his horse, brushing a reassuring hand along the rich ivory mane. He had frightened her something fierce by pinning her in the snow. Had she not seen the glint of violet in the man’s dark eyes she might have died of pure fright right then and there.
Violet. The color of peace and royalty. A gorgeous, passionate color. A color she could—wanted to—trust.
“If he indeed wishes to protect you,” Baldwin said softly, “then you can go about your business without fear. At least you will have someone watching your back.”
“And what is wrong with you?”
“Sera, I am not a knight. I’ve no inclinations to the sword. I am but a miserable toad-eater who relies on a bag of worthless bones to see him through strife. But I do wish the extra protection San Juste can offer.”
“And if it turns out he really is the enemy, sent to kill me at the finest moment?”
Baldwin opened his mouth to speak, but Sera stopped him with a curt response to her own question, “Then so be it.”
At least she would die knowing she had given her all to avenge her family.
Trust him? Never. But use his knowledge to make her quest easier?
“Perhaps Dominique will share all he knows of this castle of the seven hells?” Baldwin offered.
“He will, or he will answer to my blade.”
Baldwin opened his mouth to comment but Sera cut him off. “I thank you,” she muttered in the quiet of the chilled air. “You allow me to see through my rage with your simple wisdom.”
He shrugged, allowed a smile to wriggle his mouth. “I think that was a compliment.”
Despite her misgivings, the knowledge of this new protection released a cord of tension from Sera’s neck and shoulders. She had much to face in the coming days. Instinct must be honed, reaction burnished to mere seconds, and above all, she must keep her senses about her.
But now they were three. And Sera had to admit, this man did not so much frighten her, as put forth a challenge to the heart of the silk-clothed damsel hidden deep within.
FIVE
The moon glowed high in the sky when the traveling trio decided to stop at the edge of the thick forest that bordered the winding green waters of the Seine. Sera, who had been silent since granting San Juste his desire to protect, now settled against the rough, icy bark of an elm. She spread her wool cape out around her thighs and tucked it up over her knees to fight the chill.
They’d passed the Abbaye de Royaumont a half hour earlier. Now its single spire rose up majestically in the distance, decorating its little unpopulated spot of land with quiet grace. A sanctuary from evil, open to all who sought sanctity. Save the English.
Yes, please, Sera thought now, as scrapes of flint striking stone produced sparks at her traveling mate’s direction. Grant me sanctity. I want to be free of this quest, free of the rage and anger.
But Sera knew that such freedom must be earned. ’Twas the price she must pay for being the only survivor. Her brother and father would have done the same.
Soon a roaring blaze lighted their snug encampment. Fire sprites danced up toward the unreachable moon. Gryphon, tied close by, had settled to rest and Tor, untied, wandered the edge of the forest, seeking sustenance. The squire followed Tor’s untethered steps, then looked to Dominique—who offered but a silent shrug.
The mercenary excused himself, and took off over a hard pack of snow.
He needed a few moments away from Seraphim’s hard blue gaze to collect his thoughts. Every time she looked at him she gazed straight into his eyes. Not an evasive, coy look, as most women were wont to express. The feeling that she touched his soul with an imperceptible appendage was so strong. What did she spy in his own eyes of such interest?
He also sensed she still did not completely trust him. Wise woman.
But all for naught. He had every intention of protecting Seraphim until her mission was complete. Woman or no, he would not be granted release from the burning question of his parentage until he did such.
The chill air quickly attacked his exposed cock as Dominique drew a line in the snow with steaming urine. A man should wonder if the thing might take up the freeze and fall off for the times he must whip it out just to relieve himself. He could think of far warmer places to put it. Though present company would go unconsidered. The last woman he wanted to expose his starving lust to was a sword-wielding vixen like Seraphim d’Ange. That woman could emasculate with a mere glance. Rather, with the evil eye.
Securing the leather codpiece to his soft linen undershirt with a tug of the points, Dominique then slipped his fingers over the narrow slash in the thigh of his leather braies, courtesy of the black knight. ’Twas shallow, the cut. His flesh had taken on the chill, though the wound had already healed. There was not a drop of blood on his skin or clothing—at least not of the red variety. He smoothed away the congealed iridescent liquid, rubbing it between his fingers until it became powder and glistened into the air.
The only pain he felt was that of succumbing to his opponent’s blade. A woman’s blade, for the love of the Moon! He most certainly was not accustomed to such a bold woman. She deserved to