Trapped by Vengeance (Of Seas and Tides)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Konrad

I t shouldn’t be so easy to be villainous.

I clench the goblet of ale provided to me by the innkeeper. My seat may be in the shadows, but surely, she’s felt my stare by now.

Yet the woman sitting at the bar hasn’t glanced my way once. Does she have no intuition to alert her to the danger she’s in? Or has her wealthy upbringing prevented her from ever developing such a skill?

Unlike the little girl upstairs. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. If she hadn’t been trained in how to survive from a young age, she wouldn’t be alive for me to protect her now.

I unclench my teeth enough to throw my ale back, moving in synchronization with the woman at the counter.

Her metabolism isn’t nearly as efficient as mine is since I was forced to undertake the Rite of the Moon as a child . Her porcelain skin isn’t as flushed as the obviously drunk man trying to flirt with her. But her giggles are far too frequent, and her perch on the stool is becoming more and more unsteady.

The woman is wearing a target on her back. Not that she had any chance of escaping me when I have been on her trail since she sneaked out of her father’s keep. I’m a mercenary by trade and a werw?lfe by the Rite of the Moon.

The moment this drunkard is finished bothering her, there are two more in the wings, ready to harass her. I do not like the malevolence in their gazes as they watch her.

Not that I can blame them for looking at her. Even if she were not my bounty, I wouldn’t be able to help glancing back at her. Her dark hair falls to her waist instead of being pleated around her head like what is currently the style for modest mortal women. That it flows so freely, with only a portion pulled up by a red ribbon, seems both scandalous and enticing.

And that is without considering her sparkling black eyes, bright red lips, and the heart-shaped face that has no doubt haunted many a poor fellow’s fantasies. Her gown, a deep mauve, is a simple cut but is clearly made from the finest silks money can buy. The bodice that seems tighter than a corset and the flowing lengths of the skirt make Lady Valda of Schwerin impossible to ignore.

I glance around to locate her traveling companions, but I don’t see any evidence of someone here knowing her. Everyone is just gawking at her.

“This must be a lark somehow,” I mutter. No noblewoman travels alone. There’s always at least a lady’s maid, and usually a chaperone as well. And for a woman with a father as powerful as Valda’s, there is also an armed guard.

For so long, I’ve determined exactly how to lose the servants in each of those roles. Now that they are all absent, I am at a loss. I’m not used to life being easy.

“Hey there, little lady.”

A rather beefy gentleman leans toward Valda, crowding out her drunken conversationalist. By the stench of metal, embers, and sweat emanating from the newcomer, I’d venture that he’s a blacksmith. He won’t be easy to beat in a bar fight without exposing myself as an illegally living werw?lfe— at least not until he helps himself to another cup or two of the house special.

Valda glances back and then immediately dismisses him, turning back to the meal the barmaid put in front of her. It’s the closest to a three course meal this inn has probably ever provided.

The blacksmith doesn’t take Valda’s hint and leans closer, putting a hand right next to her platter. “I said hello. I have some plans for you and me.”

Unconcerned, Valda takes a sip of her ale. She glances at him up and down and shakes her head. “Well, I don’t.” She waves for a refill.

I glance around the room and see that the other men have taken great interest in this exchange. None of them appear to have chivalrous intentions.

I think I would prefer to have a few loyal servants to fend off than this entire inn of brigands. I mean, this will still be simpler for me. But what was her father thinking? Does he care as little for her as he does for his own people?

If so, my plan is about to crumble into vanity. I can only hope that Lady Valda is a little runaway.

The blacksmith plants his meaty hand on Valda’s slender shoulder. “I said we have plans, and so we do.”

Valda glances at his hand, which is squeezing her tightly. She leans back and looks ready to fall off her stool.

I’m at her side just as she tips. One hand is on her back, pushing her back into place. My other hand grabs the blacksmith’s wrist. I give it a quick twist, and he pulls back, releasing Valda’s hand.

I flash my teeth at him. “The lady said no.”

The blacksmith sizes me up, and I know he’s determining how easily he can snap my lean frame. My musculature was built by surviving on my own and then surviving for others, so most would consider me a formidable foe even if I’m not as large as he is.

Before he can come to the terrible decision to challenge me, two other men are behind me, smelling like stale ale and sweat. “Yeah, the lady said no. It’s our turn.”

Valda glances back at them, her eyes glassy. How much alcohol has she consumed, exactly? “I’m sorry, boys, but my husband is here now, so . . .”

Husband? I don’t recall hearing Valda’s banns being read, let alone a betrothal announcement . . . Unless this is a more clandestine wedding. That would explain the lack of servants, if she ran away in the arms of a suitor her father disapproved of.

I glance around for the man who has become the sole obstacle in my mission.

Suddenly, a warm body presses against mine, and hands are wrapping around my waist.

Startled, I stare down to find Lady Valda leaning into me, her face resting against my chest as she drowsily looks up at me. “Take me to our rooms, husband of mine.”

She must be drunker than I previously estimated if she can confuse my ragged, dirty blonde hair for whatever pristine man she must have wed. I almost correct her out of habit before I remember my mission. Drawing her away alone falls exactly into my purposes.

Valda’s fingers tighten at my waist, and her voice is barely a whisper. “ Please.”

I glance around at the tavern filled with hungry-looking men. This isn’t confusion; this is strategy. And a good one at that. I’ll have to remember she is still cunning, even while inebriated.

“Of course, little wife.” Reaching down, I grip Lady Valda’s skirt and pull her into my arms.

She gasps in surprise, and I press chaste kisses to her soft hair for the show. From this proximity, I can see that her hair ribbon is the only thing about her apparel that is a little ragged, like it has seen much wear. “You know I cannot bear to have you far from our rooms for long.”

Smirking at me in a way I was not prepared for, Valda slides her hands behind my neck. “Then take me there straight away.”

The other men watch with dangerous glints in their eyes as I carry Valda out, but they don’t move to intervene— possibly because I am clearly not strained by the weight of her. Lean yet curvaceous as she is, she is also tall for a mortal woman.

I do not notice any weight, though. I have a deeper source of strength than what is clear to the mortal eye. One that is forbidden by the Creator, but was foisted on me before I knew my right hand from my left, let alone good from evil.

Despite my tainted blood, the Creator showed me mercy by leading me to Pa. And now I must be an arm of the Creator’s justice to avenge my family.

Without breaking a sweat, I carry Valda up the rickety wood stairs. My sheathed saber bounces against my leg with each step.

Once we are out of earshot, Valda takes one hand from my neck to gesture to the door farthest down. “That one is my room.”

Excellent information to obtain. Now to determine whether there truly is a bridegroom nearby . . .

I carry Valda to the door she pointed out, just three doors from my own, and set her down. The noblewoman doesn’t release me completely, one hand lingering possessively on my shoulder while the other unlocks her door.

“I have to thank you, dear gallant . . .” Valda’s voice sounds dangerously sweet, like the kind of snack I would regret should I steal a bite from it. Her door creaks open a crack, but she doesn’t push it open. Instead, she turns to me, and the heat in her expression has burned away the glassy appearance from earlier .

The collar of my tunic suddenly feels too tight, and my palms are too hot. I carefully clasp them behind my back. “My code of chivalry would have it no other way.”

“Still, I must insist on bestowing a token of my gratitude . . .” Her hand on my shoulder slides back to my neck. Then it climbs to my face, caressing the jaw that hasn’t seen a razor these past three days on the road.

My instincts desert me for a sudden case of the nerves the likes of which I haven’t felt since I was a pup. I open my mouth to apologize for my unkempt appearance.

Before I can speak, though, she drops her hand to my frock coat collar, grabs it, and drags my lips onto hers.