Page 66 of The Rogue’s Embrace

He could still feel her body on top of him. As long as Adalia's body was on his—safe—he could stay in the darkness. Just a minute more.

His arm moved.

The sensation odd, as he hadn't moved it. Had he?

His arm flopped wildly.

Shaking. Someone was shaking his arm.

Adalia?

He focused on his chest. It was cold. The space in front of him where she had been—cold. She wasn't on top of him.

His arm shook again.

Against the weight of blackness that fought to stay in his mind, Toren cracked his eyes open. It took a long moment to focus on the person above him. A person straddling him. Awkward.

What was around him? The coach. He was still in the coach, flattened against the inside of the crushed vehicle.

"Adalia?"

"Sir?"

"Adalia? Where?"

"Sir. Ye are awake? Yer driver be sittin' near."

Toren reached up, grabbing at the sleeve he could see swinging above his head. He forced himself to focus on the man above him. "My wife?"

The man, thin, wore farmer's clothes and looked down at him, bewildered. "There be no lady here, sir."

Toren pushed off the side of the carriage to sit upright. Pain sliced down his back and around his side. A rib, probably two out of place.

Light as a feather, the man hauled himself upward out of the carriage door opening above Toren.

Brutal pangs lancing through him with the slightest movement, Toren bore down, shoving all pain to the deep recess of his mind. He didn't have time for pain. Not when he didn't know where Adalia was.

He crawled up the broken interior of the coach, following the farmer up and out with not nearly as much grace. Dropping heavily onto the ground next to the overturned carriage, Toren looked up the embankment. Steep. The coach must have rolled at least four times on the way down.

The farmer bent, balancing on his haunches next to where Toren sat. "Ye ain't lookin' well, sir."

Some semblance of coherent thought finally firing through his brain, Toren grabbed the farmer by the back of the neck. "Where the hell is my wife?"

He looked around, screaming into the oncoming darkness. "Adalia."

"It is just ye here, sir. Ye and yer driver."

"Adalia."

His voice thundered over the cacophony of birds at dusk.

Mr. Benson staggered around the end of the coach. His driver looked worse than Toren felt, blood covering half his face. "I only just awoke, your grace. And she is not here. We were run off the road, your grace."

Leaning against the upturned step of the coach, Mr. Benson glanced at the farmer and then looked back to Toren. "There are tracks."

"What kind of tracks?"

"Two men. Two horses. Down here by the carriage. And this, your grace, stuck on a shard of the carriage."

Mr. Benson tossed a balled up cloth at Toren.

Toren caught it with one hand and unfurled it. A sleeve. The black sleeve of Adalia's dress. Torn. A waft of blood hit his nose. He dropped the cloth to the ground, nodding to Mr. Benson as his entire body pulled itself into steely efficiency. "You know what to do."

"Yes, your grace."

Toren hauled himself to his feet as his look swung to the farmer.

"Do you have a lantern, man? A torch?"

"I have a lantern on my wagon."

"I am taking it. Get it now."

The man turned and started to run up the side of the grassy hill next to the road. Within a minute, he was back to Toren, the lit lantern swinging as he handed it over.

"Horses. We need horses,"

Toren said to the farmer.

"Yes, sir."

A bob of his head and the farmer scampered to the hill.

Toren stalked over to his driver, holding the lantern by his head. Mr. Benson shuffled along the ground on his hands and knees, his fingers over the upturned dirt.

"Do you have it, Benson?"

Mr. Benson looked up at Toren. "Yes, your grace. I believe I do."

"We move."

Breaking through the crust that had formed along her lashes, Adalia opened her eyes.

The bright light of flames across the floor assaulted her pupils. It took a long minute for her eyes to adjust to the glow.

A dirt floor. No. A stone floor covered in dirt. A fire.

The smell, dank and putrid of death, seeped into her brain from the floor her cheek was pressed against.

Haltingly, her senses came back to her, filling her mind, identifying just where and how she had landed.

The last thing she remembered was the carriage rolling down the bank of the road, her body wrapped in Toren's arms and legs as they were tossed about the interior of the coach.

And then they had landed. Landed and what…

The man. The man that knocked her head into the bench.

And Toren—he was still. Not moving.

Panic seized her chest. No. He was fine. He had to be fine. He would not leave her. Would not die. He had sworn as much to her. Said he would always protect her.

He couldn't have died. No.

He had to take care of the twins.

She gasped a breath, trying to calm her panic.

Where in the bloody hell was she?

Lying on her side, on the floor, she tried to move. Pain shot down her arms, all her movement denied. Blast it. Her arms were stretched high above her head, her wrists tied together around a wooden leg. She craned her head up between her arms. The leg was attached to a table. A beastly thick table above her. And the sleeve of her left arm was missing.

Every muscle aching, her head now pounding, she tried to pull her legs upward. No. They were not moving either. She looked down her body to find her ankles tied to the far wooden leg of the table.

Stretched out like a pig to be roasted.

Aside from the missing sleeve, her clothes were still intact. Thank the heavens for that.

"Look. The mousey moves."

Her head tilted, her eyes following the sound of the rough voice.

Twisting her neck along her arm, she searched the room, and her eyes finally adjusted well enough to see. Vaulted ceilings, the stone of them crumbling and pockmarked with time. She was deep in the undercroft of an ancient castle or abbey.

She saw the boots first, worn, moving across the floor toward her. And just behind them, someone else.

Theo.

Her sharp intake of breath cut through the dank air.

Theo sat across from her next to the fireplace, tied to a chair, bare from his waist up, not conscious. Blood splattered his body. Cuts, lines of flesh boiling—singed. His dark blond hair hung past his face in long locks—clumps of muck meshing the strands together. His jaw looked wrong—crushed in on the left side. She stared at his chest, willing it to move. They wouldn't have brought her here to him if he was dead, would they?

No. Impossible.

She stared longer, her eyes drying out. Breathe, dammit. Breathe.

A flicker of a movement. The tiniest of breaths.

The boots stopped in front of her face, interrupting her view of her brother. Adalia wiggled, trying to crane her neck so she could see past the boots.

The man attached to the boots dropped to his haunches, fully blocking Theo from her sight. The bastard poked at her cheek. "Your brother is sleeping again."

His gravelly voice sliced into her ears, making the pounding in her head intensify. "Never knew one to fall to blackness as much because of the pain. A mite weak, that one."

Instant indignation flared through her, the need to defend her brother's character instinctive and seemingly ignorant of the fact that she was also tied up and at the mercy of the man in front of her.

Her eyes dropped to the floor between them, concentrating on the ridge of dirt made by his boots. This wasn't the man that had gone after her in the wagon. This one was more refined, his accent odd, English not his native language.

"Watch him carefully, mouse."

The man's thumb pointed back over his shoulder to Theo. "You will be needing to speak to him when his senses come back about him."

Talk to him? Talk to him about what? About how he was alive? Not dead? She still had not wrapped her mind around the thought—even if Theo was currently sitting across from her. Beaten to grotesqueness, but still there. Still alive. Still breathing.

The man stood, his boots spinning in the dirt before her eyes. He walked back across the room, stopping by the hearth to pick up an iron poker and then nudge the tip of it into the fire.

Her look drifted to Theo. The horror that he had lived through the past months was evident all over his body. But still alive—a miracle. Or hell on earth. They were keeping him alive for a reason, and she didn't imagine that bastard by the fire wanted her to have a pleasant chat with Theo about the weather.

The fat leg of the table wedged between her forearms, she twisted her wrists with as little movement as possible, testing the knot of the rope binding her hands together.

Tight. And every shift of her hands made the ropes dig into her skin. She turned her attention to her legs. Her boots were gone, the rope looped around her ankles, holding her legs together. She bent her left knee, trying to wiggle her foot free. The rope didn't budge.

A scream—tortured and curdling—echoed in the stone chamber.

Her look whipped to Theo. Wide awake, he was frantic, pain rolling across his face.

Then she saw it. Skin still sizzling on his chest. Flesh bubbling. The poker the man had been tending the fire with was raised in front of Theo, still glowing red.

The putrid smell of burning flesh hit her nose, making her gag.

Theo's eyes landed on her. He stared at her for a long moment. Too long. And then recognition hit him. Hit him with a blast that sent his head shaking, sudden tears streaming down his face.

"No, Theo. No."

Words failed her as she yanked on her limbs, desperate to free herself, to go to him and hold him, take away his pain.

His breathing going rapid, Theo's arms strained against the ropes holding him captive to the chair and he looked up at the man that had turned back to the fire, shoving the tip of the iron poker into the blue of the flames.

"No…"

The one word came from Theo's lips, strangled as though he hadn't spoken in weeks.

The man at the fire looked to Theo. "We had hoped for one of your wee nieces, but your sister will do nicely."

Adalia's mouth went instantly dry, brutal terror coiling down her spine and invading her body. The world slowing, disbelief seized her, his words flooding her mind—she would do nicely.

The man took a step backward, pulling the poker from the fire. He looked at it with a nod, its black tip glowing a molten orange-red.

No. He couldn't mean.

Holding the poker tip in front of him, he brushed it in front of Theo's eyes—close—but not close enough to burn. A taunt. And then he continued across the room to her.

No.

His boots edged closer.

No.

Her eyes could go nowhere but at the waning glow at the tip of the poker.

"You know exactly how this feels, dung heap. Now your sister will feel the brunt of your pain."

"No."

The choked word came from Theo.

Adalia's look flicked desperately to her brother. He could barely keep his head up. Yet he fought it. Fought the pain. He had suffered beyond what anyone should have to suffer for whatever he had refused to tell this man during the past months. And now she would be the end of it.

Theo would do anything to save her, and she knew it.

Her eyes flew around the room, desperate for anything to help her escape. The table atop of her. Maybe if she could yank a leg out, the table would fall. It would crush her, yes, but Theo would not be forced to make an impossible decision.

"You say no, yet I don't hear you talking, dung heap."

The bastard's gravelly voice stayed even, almost bored with the idea of sizzling away Adalia's flesh.

She yanked as hard as she could on her arms, pulling the leg. Nothing. Not the slightest creak of the wood. She jerked up on her legs. The same result.

The bastard took his last steps to Adalia, stopping in front of her. He turned himself slightly to the side, giving Theo a full view of the red-hot poker hovering above his sister.

"No."

"No, what, dung heap?"

The bastard lowered the poker in front of her face and then close to her neck. Heat radiated from the tip, near to burning her bare skin by mere proximity.

Her neck open and vulnerable, she twisted, a trapped animal frantic to escape, a whimper stuck in her throat. Frantic and helpless.

"Are you going to tell me before I burn her perfect skin? Or after you have heard her tortured screams?"

The poker dipped closer. The tiny hairs along her neck crisped, burning, the smell making her retch.

"No. Don't."

The garbled words came out of Theo in a cough.

The bastard looked down at her, a vicious smile snarling his lip.

He was going to enjoy this.

Adalia gasped a breath, bracing herself, her eyes closing against the horror of the iron near to searing into her flesh.

A whoosh of air. Metal clanking.

Embers sparked down onto her neck as the poker went flying through the air. Her eyes flew open with her scream at the sharp pain, even as the embers quickly fizzled on her skin.

The poker sailed through the air, clattering down to the stone in front of her. Shouts, screams—a scuffle that had two men struggling fiercely for control, until the bastard trying to burn her was flipped onto his back.

A fury of fist after fist came down upon the man, blood splattering, until his head fell to the side, his body motionless.

The man on top of the bastard stilled, looking over at her.

Toren.

His brown eyes savage, the ferocity of his face, his body, made her heart stop. A second that seemed like a lifetime. It wasn't until he moved that her body jolted into motion again.

He was to her in an instant, a knife pulled and cutting through the ropes at her feet and wrists within seconds.

He paused as she drew her limbs inward, curling against the pain coursing through her muscles after the unnatural stretch they had been in. She could feel him watching her. But she was fine. Fine. Or she would be in a moment.

"Toren—Theo, get him."

She managed to grit out through the pain.

"Can you walk? We have to get out of here—Benson has two upstairs he is holding off."

"Get Theo."

Her words barked and Toren finally jumped from her side. "Yes."

He ran to Theo and started sawing through the ropes holding her brother to the chair.

Adalia rolled onto her back, staring at the rough underside of the table, bearing down against the pain of blood rushing into her limbs.

A clank sounded next to her, cutting through the heaving breaths she was taking. The poker lifted from the ground.

The bastard had woken up and grabbed the iron. The tip raised high to swing, he was headed straight for Toren's back.

For one instant, Adalia's world stopped.

Not Toren. She could not lose him. And even if she screamed out, the bastard was too close and Toren would only turn into the swing of the poker at his face.

She had nothing. No knife. No gun.

Nothing but her body. She could stop him for only a moment, but it would have to be enough.

Scrambling to her feet, pain ravaging her every movement, she lunged, diving low, ramming herself into the back of the bastard's legs.

He grunted as they both toppled forward, the poker flying out of his hand.

She hit the stone floor, rolling, just as Toren turned from Theo, knife high in his hand.

By the time she stopped rolling, knocking into Theo's bare feet, Toren was standing over the bastard, knife bloody.

The man wasn't moving. Dead, she hoped.

Her look lifted to Toren, and he was staring at her with a strange mixture of wonderment and rage in his eyes. And then he grinned. Pure, unadulterated pride beaming in his look. "Well done, Adalia."

She nodded, unable to speak, her body still moving purely on instinct.

His eyes darkened. "But do not ever dare to do something so foolish again."

He nodded to Theo. "Let us remove ourselves."

Slitting the last rope free from Theo's ankle, Toren slid his arm around her brother's back, lifting him from the chair. At standing, her brother instantly swayed, and she could see Toren take almost all of Theo's weight as his own.

Not that there was much left of Theo. Her brother was tall, but the skin she could see through the blood and wounds hung loosely from his bones.

Within a minute, they were up a tiny circular stone staircase and moving out into the daylight.

Her hand lifted to cover her eyes from the bright early morning light. She shook her head, slightly confused at how time had moved to morning. She had to have been unconscious for some time.

Mr. Benson rushed toward them, quickly wrapping his arm around Theo to support the other side of him.

"The others?"

Toren demanded over the top of Theo's slack head.

"Taken care of. But I do not recommend we stay in the area,"

Mr. Benson said.

Both men supporting her brother, they started moving along an overgrown lane leading from the side of the castle toward a line of trees. "Adalia, your feet—can you walk out here?"

She looked down. Bare feet. She had forgotten she lost her boots and stockings. The dewy grass cold against her toes, she nevertheless nodded. "Yes. Nothing has hurt them yet."

"Grab the reins of the horses."

Toren flicked his head to the two horses tied a few steps into the forest by the trail they were walking toward. "The road is only a quarter mile ahead. It will be easier if we don't have to balance Theodore on a horse."

Adalia ran ahead, untying the leather straps from the low-slung branches. Waking them, she tugged the horses to follow Toren, Theo, and Mr. Benson.

Rogue sticks poking into the soles of her feet, Adalia bit back a blasphemy at each prick shooting up her leg. She would never complain about pain again. Not after that. Not after seeing what Theo had been through.

Unimaginable pain.

In front of her, she watched the limp rolling of her brother's head as Mr. Benson and Toren carried him forward. He was awake, grasping at threads of consciousness, but her brother could not even hold his head up.

Unimaginable pain. But he was alive. Alive.

She just prayed his soul had somehow survived the last three months as well.

The trees thinned as they approached the road and within minutes of walking, a man and a wagon crested the hill before them.

Toren waved him down. "You. We need your wagon."

Hay piled low in the back of his wagon, the farmer slowed, his grey donkey coming to a lazy stop.

Adalia stepped up beside her husband, poking him in the ribs. "You cannot just take someone's wagon, Toren."

Toren glanced down at her, his eyebrows arched as though the thought was novel. He gave a slight shrug, glancing to his driver. "Benson?"

Shifting Theo's weight onto his one arm, Mr. Benson awkwardly fished out a heavy sack of coins from the inside of his black coat. He tossed it up to the farmer.

Squeezing the pouch, the farmer heard the coins clinking and a toothless smile broke onto his face. "It be yers, sir."

He jumped off the driver's bench and with a tilt of his worn cap, he turned and walked away in the direction he had come from.

"Let us get Theodore in the back on the hay,"

Toren said, and he and Mr. Benson walked Theo to the rear of the wagon, lifting him up onto the flat boards. Stripping off his coat, Mr. Benson jumped up onto the bed of the wagon, laying the coat down and then dragging Theo forward until his entire body was splayed on the coat and hay.

Toren turned to Adalia to take the leather reins of the horses.

Through the fog she was still in, she felt his knuckles brush the back of her hand and it sent a shock up her arm. Her eyes lifted slowly, almost afraid to meet his eyes in case she was dreaming and he was about to dissipate to the wind.

His chin. Dark stubble along it. His lips. A cut along the bottom left.

She held her breath.

His eyes. The warmest brown, tender in the midst of the rage that still pulsated under his skin.

Real. He was real.

"You…you didn't die. I feared…"

She could only now utter the words that had been stuck in her chest since he had appeared in the bowels of that castle.

His free hand lifted, settling against her neck, his fingertips pressing into the muscles along the base of her hair. "No. I didn't die. You do not curse those around you, Adalia."

She blinked hard, still afraid to believe he was alive and in front of her. Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn't curse those around her. "And you found me."

His eyes closed to her. He visibly swallowed, his head shaking. It was a long breath before he opened his eyes and met her look fully. "I did. I will always find you. Always protect you, Adalia. I swore that. For that alone I will live through anything."

She nodded, her chest swelling. In spite of all his idiocy—his lies—she loved this man. Loved him fully, unconditionally, and she knew she would until the day she died.

A slight grin lifted the side of his mouth. "Though I must give due credit, Adalia. I did not technically find you. Mr. Benson did."

"Mr. Benson?"

She leaned to the side, looking at Mr. Benson still getting Theo's limbs comfortable on the bed of hay. It appeared as though her brother had lost consciousness again.

"Benson is one of the crown's preeminent trackers. I borrowed him when I learned you were in London. He shadowed you until I arrived. He was going to accompany us back to Dellon Castle."

"Yes."

She nodded, Mr. Benson's face registering. "I recognize you from the Revelry's Tempest."

Lifting one of Theo's legs, the ragged shreds of her brother's trousers tangling in his fingers, Mr. Benson glanced up at her, tilting his head. "That you do, your grace. Pleased to be of service."

She looked up at Toren. "I wondered why Mr. Beal was not driving the carriage last night."

"I left him at the castle. He is teaching the girls about how he trains the horses."

"Why on earth?"

"Mary wants to learn how to drive a carriage."

Adalia chuckled. "She is about ten years and a quarter of the weight she needs to do that properly."

"Yes. But she can learn. And whatever those two want to learn, I am going to move heaven and earth to teach them."

Adalia smiled, her thumping heart expanding hard in her chest.

Toren motioned to the wagon. "Where do you want to ride, Adalia? On the bench or the back?"

She glanced at her brother and then looked up at him. "I want you—no—I need you, Toren. You. I need you holding me."

"Then I bow to your needs."

He nodded, a glow sparking in his brown eyes. "We will ride in back together with Theo."

"I think that best."

His hand dropped from her neck and he moved to tie the horses onto the wagon, but she stopped him before he escaped her, her hand going up to his cheek, turning his face toward her. "Before I forget to argue over your latest edict, you should know that I will foolishly tackle a thousand men for you, Toren, whether you wish it or not. Do you understand there is nothing I would not do for you?"

He stared down at her, his brown eyes piercing her. The twitch of his cheek under her hand said volumes. But then he sighed. "I know it, Adalia. I know it full well."

"Good."

Her hand dropped from his face and she motioned to the wagon. "Then let us make our way home."