Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment Read Online Free PDF Page B

pressed it toward the hole in the wall, peering closer at the creature inside.
     

Three

    Wulfson’s heart seemed to stop for one inexorable beat. From behind some type of metal device, a helmet with cross bars and what appeared to be a bridle of sorts, glittering eyes the color of the ocean stared at him. From what he could see of her face, it was a muted mass of bruises. His hands reached out to her, and she hissed and spat like a cat being dunked in water.
    “My lady…” Gareth whispered from behind him. Wulfson moved closer to her, his gaze catching every detail: a bloody chemise twisted around her waist, the sharp rise and fall of her breasts hardly discernible beneath the combined caked blood and dirt of the floor. Deep purple bruises, along with the crisscross markings of the lash, etched her arms and thighs. His gaze moved back to hers. In quiet amazement and a grudging respect for the woman who had not only survived such torture but still had fight left in her, he could not look away. He raised his right hand to touch her, to see if she were indeed human. The movement elicited another hiss, followed by a clawed hand digging into his gauntlet, halting his movement. He nodded, and withdrew, but not to ease her comfort. His hand slid to the leather-wrapped hilt of his short sword. As his fingers closed around the well-worn grip, he could not tear his eyes from her defiant glare. What kind of woman was this?
    Slowly he pulled the weapon from the leather sheath, intending to ease her suffering for all time. As the blade slid from the sheath, his eyes dipped, unable to meet hers when he plunged the sword deep into her heart. The fullness of her breasts trembled beneath the dirt and blood that covered her. A fleeting stab of regret pricked at his belly. He ignored it and pressed the tip of the blade to what he knew would be a silky-smooth spot between the full globes. As he moved to press the steel into her heart, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes.
    Time halted for the briefest of moments. Transfixed, as if drugged by some potion, Wulfson watched a lone tear track slowly down her cheek, leaving a bloody stream in its wake. And at that precise moment, something deep inside him shifted.
    It was also at that same instant that Gareth came undone. “She belongs with me!” he called hoarsely, lunging forward. Wulfson flung his hand back, staying the Dane. From the commotion and scuffle behind him, Wulfson knew the man was contained.
    Never breaking eye contact with the specter crouched before him, Wulfson said, “Her fate is not in your hands.” Her eyes narrowed at his words, and her back stiffened. In silent defiance, she dared him to harm her.
    “Whatever lies Rangor has spilled to your king I can disprove them!” cried Gareth. “She is not a witch. She isnot a murderess, nor is she an enemy to the Crown! I will stake my life on it!”
    “She is what she is, sir captain. I cannot change the facts,” Wulfson answered.
    “She is with child! Wouldst you murder a babe as well?” Gareth pleaded.
    “I doubt even had she been with child it would have survived the torture.”
    “Be not so sure of that, Sir Wulfson,” Rangor said from behind him. At Wulfson’s notice, the noble moved to the doorway, filling the space. “The wench has a penchant for survival. With her herbs and spells, she no doubt extracted Malcor’s seed from his unholy body and nurtures not one heir of Dunloc but a spare as well.”
    Grabbing the lady’s hands, Wulfson drew her from the dark hole, hoisting her up to her feet. She cried out, collapsing against him. Not wanting to but having no other choice, Wulfson lifted her up into his arms. She weighed no more than a mite. He turned with her in his arms and faced Rangor, Gareth, and his men.
    “It matters not.” The small body in his arms tightened at his words.
    “You are wrong, my stubborn Norman,” said Rangor. “Princess Gwladus of Powys is not only my goddaughter, but