Sinner's Heart

wooden horse. Though she had no sense of smell, Livia imagined the large chamber reeked of sweat.

She hovered, unseen, beside Bram as he strode into the hall. Though the clothing and weapons differed from her own time, she recognized this place.

Men are always looking for an excuse to fight one another, she thought.

Because we’re good at it, Bram answered.

And not much else. It’s a marvel we women keep you around at all.

You like us between your thighs well enough.

She had no answer to that. Gods and goddesses, how she missed the pleasures of the flesh! So basic, so satisfying. The most essential element of life. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch for over a millennium. Was it any surprise that her thoughts kept straying toward the carnal, especially when Bram flaunted his delicious masculine form?

Easier to think of frustrated lust than the Dark One’s strengthening power. She had been pulled behind Bram as he rode toward this fighting school, weaving her way through the streets. Even in daylight hours, a combustible tension lay heavy over the city, a thick, choking net of malevolence revealed in mistrustful glances and broken windows.

“Good day, Lord Rothwell.” A red-faced man with close-cut hair stepped forward, a sword beneath his arm. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “It’s been a spell since last we’ve seen you.” He glanced past Bram, and for a moment, Livia thought the man might see her. But his gaze moved right through her. He was looking for someone. As though Bram usually arrived with company.

“Afternoon, Tranmere.” Bram’s voice was clipped. “I’m looking for a good, hard fight today.”

Tranmere made a tsking sound. “You an’ everyone else, my lord. Not so much practicing proper swordsmanship as it’s a battle royale. Been like this for weeks, but today’s especially fierce.”

Turning her attention back to the rows of men, she noted their bared teeth, their wild swings at one another. As if they were truly battling, driven forward by a need for blood and pain.

She knew who was responsible.

“Perfect,” said Bram. “Find me a partner.”

Tranmere bowed before hurrying off.

Why do you come to this place? she asked Bram. I would’ve thought you’d had enough of fighting.

Anger coursed through him. He still didn’t care for the fact that she’d experienced his memories.

Always need to be prepared, he answered.

Prepared for what?

Anything.

Tranmere trotted forward, a large man trailing behind him. He and Bram nodded to one another.

“Mr. Worton will be happy to spar with you, my lord. I believe his fighting style matches well with yours.”

“I don’t care for pretty forms and dainty foot positions,” Worton said. “Just a good, tough fight.” The sword he carried wasn’t as thin as those used by the other men, looking more like a weapon of war than a genteel sport.

“Then I’m your man.” Bram hefted his own sword, and it was equally brutal.

Without another word, Bram and Worton paced off toward an unoccupied portion of the chamber. Unseen, Livia drifted through the fencers as they leapt and attacked. Intriguing, how the techniques had changed over the millennia. Though Tranmere had bemoaned the lack of finesse the fighters showed today, they were still quite different from the soldiers and gladiators she’d seen practicing or in actual combat.

She’d always had a fondness for soldiers and gladiators. They made for very good company in bed. Their calloused hands, their uncomplicated need. Subtle and nuanced? No. But she seldom wanted subtlety in lovemaking. Had wanted. Never again would she feel the sweat of a lover’s body on her own skin, or the vibrations of their groans against her flesh.

She must stop thinking these tormenting thoughts. Yet it was difficult when surrounded by young, hale men in their prime, all gleaming with perspiration as they vigorously used their bodies.

The tie that bound her to Bram drew her through the chamber and close to where he and Worton stood. They each took a few practice swings through the air, loosening their muscles, until, satisfied, they faced one another. After a terse bow, they took up ready stances, swords upraised.

Worton swung. His blade only tapped Bram’s sword. Once, twice. Getting a sense of Bram’s readiness. Bram held his position, not allowing Worton to drive him back. Yet he wasn’t content to let his opponent do all the testing. He, too, took a handful of investigative swings, as though sounding the depths of a shore. The men held themselves loosely, but the casualness belied a tension even Livia could sense.

Bram and Worton circled one another. Their strikes grew harder, more direct. A swing, a block.

The tension suddenly broke as Worton lunged. Bram countered with quick, fluid motion. And then the fight truly began.

She had seen combat. In the gladiatorial ring. In a few skirmishes as she had journeyed from Rome to Britannia. Like any good Roman, she admired fine fighting skill, for it revealed not merely a strong body, but also a quick mind. She could claim no expertise in the techniques of armed battle, only knowing talent when she saw it.

Her gaze held fast to Bram. She could not look away even if the Dark One appeared right beside her. This— Bram in combat—this was beautiful.

Bram and Worton traded strikes. They circled, struck, lunged and darted back. Worton had the advantage of height and reach, yet Bram had speed and vicious accuracy. Their swords rang as they exchanged blows. A furious exchange.

She was rapt. This was not a genteel sparring exercise. These men seemed gripped by a need to hurt one another. They grunted as their padded jackets absorbed the sword point’s force—though the points were dulled, the strikes still would have wounded were it not for the jackets’ protection. Worton fought hard, relentlessly, yet he could not match Bram for ability.

In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.

Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Bram’s ability.

Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Bram’s skill.

“A guinea says Rothwell takes it,” someone said.

“Only a damned fool would bet against him,” came the answer.

Worton must have heard this pronouncement, for his attacks increased, growing stronger, more aggressive. Yet Bram continually beat him back. He fought with targeted hostility, as though far more than a gentleman’s reputation with the sword was at stake. She wondered if, when Bram looked upon Worton, he saw someone else, something else. The Hellraisers? The Dark One? Perhaps even himself?

The light of fury rose in Bram’s eyes. Sweat glossed his forehead. As soon as Worton began his retreat, Bram pressed forward, giving no quarter. Worton backed away, until he couldn’t go any further, the wall behind him. He tried to block a strike—too late. The point of Bram’s sword struck him right in the heart. A fatal blow without the padded jacket and dulled tip.

Worton lowered his blade. “I yield,” he panted.

Yet Bram advanced, his expression hard and merciless. His sword point hovered close to Worton’s right eye. The bigger man sucked in a breath as he pressed against the wall. He dropped his sword, and the sound reverberated metallically through the chamber.

Would Bram actually drive his blade into Worton’s skull? He truly might. Even with the tip of the sword blunted, it could pierce an eye—and, wielded with strength, go even further.