Fic: Once Upon a Time, Part 8/11
Title: Once Upon a Time
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren't all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
Eliot sat up on the roof and gazed contentedly at his handiwork. While the job had been far bigger than he'd anticipated, and had gone far beyond simply fixing the hole, he was making true progress. It was slow, often tedious, and by nightfall he was exhausted and aching in shoulders, back and thighs, but with each day that passed he could see his work taking shape before him.
And it felt good to do something with his hands that didn't involve killing, to create rather than destroy.
Still, something was missing, casting a small shadow of worry over his peace. He hadn't seen Parker in several days, and he missed her. He'd grown accustomed to her “helping” him (though her notions of “help” were … interesting, at best), had gotten used to the sound of her voice, the flash of her hands as she whisked something of his into one of her countless pockets … had simply gotten used to her. He'd discovered he didn't have to make excuses for himself, for what he'd been and what he'd done, to her, didn't have to try and twist himself into knots to fit any expectations she might have, and could give her that same freedom.
They understood each other in ways no one else could, accepted each other in ways no one else could, fit together in ways they never would with anyone else. Thief and killer, dancer and singer, two irreparably broken people who somehow found a kind of wholeness together.
He missed her. And he was worried about her. While he didn't always see her every day, it was most unusual for her to stay away for this long. Three days she'd been absent now, with no sign of her. He'd even gone to the meadow this morning, hoping for he didn't know what, and had found nothing.
Something wasn't right.
He sighed and looked up, sweeping the distance with his gaze for something, some flash of color-
And stiffened as he saw a wagon barreling down the road at a breakneck pace. He could see no sign of pursuit and swore under his breath. The fool was taking a terrible risk. That road was rutted and pitted, with holes in it that could damn near swallow a horse. If the idiot hit one, he'd kill himself.
Then again, everyone around here knew the treacherous state of the roads; it was a constant complaint, just one more sign of Lord Nathan's neglect. And for all the “taxes” he extorted from them, Sterling had done precious little about them, either.
No one in their right mind would take one of the roads here at that speed.
All his instincts for trouble began to wake, and he fixed his whole attention upon the wagon as if he were on the battlements of one of Damien's cities studying an enemy force. Suddenly the driver turned off the main road and onto the much narrower, and much worse, one that led here, without slowing down-
And Eliot's instincts began to scream. He could see the wagon more clearly now, a large, heavy contraption of wood and iron topped by a colorfully painted canvas cover-
Hardison.
It took him only a moment to identify the driver, and then he was racing for the ladder, his heart hammering out a frantic rhythm. Hardison might be loud, obnoxious and cocky, but he wasn't stupid, and he certainly wouldn't risk killing himself in a road accident without some urgent reason.
Parker.
The fear grabbed him in a hard, painful clench, almost doubling him over. But he fought through it and hit the ladder just as Hardison was closing the distance to the house. He scrambled down the ladder, skipping more rungs than was probably safe, and barely hit the ground before he was pivoting and running to the edge of the yard. Hardison pulled up just as he got there, panting and sweating and looking both furious and terrified.
“Parker!” he gasped out, hurriedly setting the brake on the wagon. “Sterling caught her stealing. He's got her!”
Eliot's world shuddered to a dark and violent stop, his heart dropping sickeningly into his stomach. Jesus-
Hardison jumped down from the wagon and hurried to Eliot, grabbing his shoulders in a fierce grip. “We don't have time for this!” he spat. “You got to get yourself together and get whatever you need to get her back! Sophie's expectin' us back in town-”
“Where is she?” he asked in a low, hard voice, the old killing rage pushing its way through his fear. His hands clenched convulsively, craving the weight of a sword, and for an instant he was back on a sun-beaten desert plain, the scent of blood heavy on the air. “Where'd he take her?”
But Hardison shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “You're comin' with me. I'm not supposed to let you go after him on your own. We need some kinda plan that don’t involve you stagin' a one-man assault on his walls.” Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but Hardison shook him hard. “No! You go stormin' up there, and for all we know that bastard will kill her! Or kill you. Which just might kill her. So no.” He thrust Eliot away. “Go on, now, go inside and get all your soldier shit together. Then we're goin' to town, and you and Sophie can fight this out.”
He seethed and spat out a curse, but suspected Hardison was right … not that he ever intended to say that out loud. “Fine,” he ground out. “But while you're waitin', make yourself useful and saddle my horse.”
Hardison blinked. “Saddle- But my wagon-”
Eliot glanced over Hardison's shoulder and glanced at the contraption, which seemed to have been put together by a mad blacksmith and a drunken carpenter. It seemed exactly the sort of wagon Hardison would possess. “I'll be damned before I risk my life in that death-trap!” he declared, then returned his gaze to Hardison. “Especially after seeing you drive! Now, saddle my horse. Everything you'll need is in the stable.”
He turned away and hurried toward the house, but not before he heard Hardison complaining about his insult to someone named Lucille.
Sophie strode into the church, absently dipping into fingers into the holy water font and half-heartedly crossing herself, suppressing a shudder at the thought of all the rules and laws of this place she'd bent or broken in her life. Then she shoved the thought away.
This wasn't about her mistakes.
She walked past the large statue of St. Nicholas, dipping her head briefly to the patron saint of thieves, and made her way into the nave, stepping in and out of the pools of light thrown onto the stone floor by the sunlight streaming in through the high windows. The place was quiet, empty save for the lone robed figure kneeling up ahead on the floor before the elaborate high altar. The scents of beeswax candles and incense floated lightly on the air.
“May I help you?”
She turned at the quiet voice and gazed into the handsome and slightly quizzical face of Father Paul, pastor of St. Nicholas. She could well imagine his surprise at seeing her of all people in his church, but had to admire the way he concealed it. Any other priest would have dropped dead from the shock.
“Thank you, Father,” she said with a soft smile, “but I'm not here to see you.” She turned back toward the figure before the altar. “I'm here to see him.”
Father Paul sighed, a world of sorrow in the sound, and moved to stand beside her, his gaze also falling upon the man. “I've tried,” he said sadly. “I've talked with him, argued with him, prayed for him- He knows how things are, but-” He shrugged. “I honestly don't know what else to do.”
“Yes, well,” she said firmly, lifting her chin, “you're not me. And I'm not really one for prayer. If you'll excuse me?” And she started up the aisle.
She saw his figure stiffen and smiled to herself. Good, let him know a fight was coming.
“I've left you alone with God long enough,” she called. “He's had time for his say, now I’m going to have mine.”
He sighed heavily. “I'm not-”
“Well, you damned well better be,” she snapped, stopping just behind him. “Your people need you, Nate. You've neglected them long enough. Yes, you've suffered a terrible loss, and, God, if I could change that I would! But I can't. No one can. And while you're hiding in here, people out there are suffering. You have to help them.”
He sighed again, then rose to his feet and turned to face her, his blue eyes sad in a worn face. “I can't be what they need-”
“That's too bad, because you're all they've got!” She steeled herself against the pain and said harshly, “And now Sterling's got Parker.”
He gasped and reeled. “What?”
She swallowed hard, trying desperately not to think of all the harm that could befall the girl, and stared into his eyes. “He's got her,” she said again, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “He set a trap for her, and she fell into it-” Her voice broke and she reached out abruptly, grabbing his hands and holding tightly to him. “She needs you, Nate! God only knows what he's got planned for her! Or what will happen if he hurts her. The people won't stand for much more, but he's got his men, his soldiers, all over town-” A sudden thought, a sudden fear, struck her. “And then there's Eliot,” she breathed.
He narrowed his eyes. “Eliot?”
She huffed out a sharp laugh. “Don't tell me you don't know of him. Even hidden away here, you manage to know everything. You can't help yourself.” When he didn't answer, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. Eliot Spencer. Sir Eliot Spencer, a soldier recently returned from the wars who doesn't particularly need any more blood on his hands but cares too much for Parker to let that stop him. If you don't do something, he will, and I have no doubt that someone will die. Is that what you want?”
“No, of course not! But-” He turned away, his shoulders slumping. “You don't understand-”
She grabbed him and spun him around, fury blazing through her. “Bloody hell, I don't!” she spat. “I understand being lost, I understand being hurt, and I understand feeling as if your whole world is gone! Everyone understands that, Nate, you're not alone or unique in that! Pain is a part of life! Most of us, though, don't have the luxury of holing up in a church or crawling into a bottle. You've managed to do both. And it's time for you to come back out. Or what happens next will be on your head. And,” she added bitingly, “on your soul.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” he snapped, anger lighting his faded eyes. “In case you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have an army, so I can't just storm Sterling's walls and demand Parker's freedom! He's a bastard, I know that, but he's a smart bastard! He never does anything without a reason, a plan-” He broke off and frowned as she laughed aloud. “What?”
She shook her head, her smile turning sweet, and lifted a hand to his cheek. “Darling Nate,” she cooed, “you've just described yourself! You two have always been more alike than either of you was willing to admit. He's a smart, conniving, arrogant bastard.” She arched a brow. “And I'd say it takes one to beat one.”
He smiled wryly. “You always say the sweetest things.”
“I don't have time for sweetness or flattery,” she said. “And you no longer have time to wallow in your self-pity. You're Lord Nathan of the House of Ford, not some wine-soaked, God-addled monk. And it's high time, my lord, that you dragged your self-indulgent ass out of this church and take care of your people!”
A choked cough sounded behind them, and they turned to see Father Paul standing a few feet away, gazing somewhat uncomfortably at Sophie.
“I'm not sure I would have put it in just those words,” he said, a slight smile teasing at his mouth, “but she's right.” He turned his gaze to Nathan. “God's house is a place of refuge, yes, but only so that those in need might find strength in its walls. It was never meant to be a place to hide from the world. And our responsibilities to that world don't stop at its doors. You have to go, Nate. It's time. And it's God's will.”
Nathan arched a brow. “And you know this because-?”
Father Paul laughed and gestured at Sophie. “Because when Sophie Devereaux walks of her own free will into a church, it's got to be a sign of something!”
Sterling stepped out of the coach and waved his men forward, ordering them to bring Parker. He strode into his hall with a jaunty, confident step, smiling at the sounds of the scuffle behind him. Four men held her between them and others were racing forward to help as she kicked and twisted and lashed out with chained hands, biting and clawing and spitting curses the whole way. She was strong, he'd give her that.
But strength wasn't everything.
At the far end of the hall, he mounted the stone step and seated himself on the large and elaborately carved chair of office, sighing contentedly as he set his hands on the wide arms. Power was everything. And he had it.
He watched as his men wrestled and dragged the girl to him, finally managing to control her between them. One knelt to snap manacles around her ankles and was kicked viciously in the face. He fell back with a cry, nose spurting blood, and Sterling sighed.
Really, how hard could it be?
Another soldier pushed past the fallen man and managed to get the manacles on without grievous injury. Parker still fought and spat curses, but to much lesser effect.
“Good,” Sterling said as his men stood around the chained thief. “Now perhaps we can decide-”
“Father?”
He only barely stifled a curse as Olivia ran into the hall, clearly drawn by the commotion, an anxious look on her face. She stopped short at the sight of Parker and gasped sharply, then turned wide eyes upon her father. “What's going on?”
He sighed and forced a smile. “It's nothing, my dear. Official business. You go on back-”
“What business?” she insisted. “What are you doing?”
“I'm catching thieves,” he said tersely. “She's been stealing from everyone for years, and it finally tripped her up. I caught her red-handed-”
“You tricked me!” Parker shouted. “You set a trap-”
“And you fell into it nicely, thank you!” he ground out. “Now, kindly shut up-”
“They'll never let you get away with it!” Parker spat. “They'll come for me, Eliot will come for me and he'll kill you-”
“Will someone kindly gag the bloody thief!” he shouted, slamming his hands against the arms of the chair and shooting to his feet.
Olivia stared at her father, her eyes huge in her white face. “Eliot?” she whispered strickenly. “Eliot Spencer?”
He frowned deeply, worried by her reaction. “What do you know of him?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Only what Quinn has said. But-”
He muttered a curse. Damn Quinn and his loose tongue! But he pasted on a forced smile and stepped down, going to her. “It's nothing,” he assured her. “Quinn exaggerates. This man Spencer is no threat-”
Parker bit the hand trying to shove a gag into her mouth and shouted, “He's a trained soldier! He's killed more men than you can count-”
“Get her out of here!” Sterling snapped, seeing the effect her words were having on his daughter. “I'll deal with her later! Take her down to cells and lock her away!”
“Father-”
“Ssh, hush, it's all right,” he soothed, taking Olivia into his arms and holding her close as his men dragged Parker away. “She's frightened and angry. Her words mean nothing.”
“No,” she whispered, clinging tightly to him. “They mean you're in danger.”
He laughed and laid his head atop hers. “From a cornered thief and one lone soldier? Olivia, I have an entire garrison-”
“And how many people are there in town?” she asked sharply, pulling out of his arms and staring at him in fear. “In all the towns? Father, I know what you've been doing, and I know the people resent you! Yes,” she said before he could interrupt, “I know, someone had to do it! Lord Nathan abandoned his responsibilities, and someone had to take over! And you're the perfect man for it. But you've gone too far!” She turned away and began to pace, wringing her hands in distress. “Don't you think I've heard the rumors, the whispers?” she asked. “When I go into town, don't you think I can see how people look at me and hear what they say behind my back? They're angry, Father!” she cried, whirling back to face him. “And they're getting desperate!” She went to him and took his hands in hers, holding tightly to them and gazing fearfully into his eyes. “I've heard stories of uprisings in other places,” she whispered. “And I don't want that to happen to you!”
He pulled his hands from hers. “She's a thief, Olivia-”
“Yes, but she's their thief! She means something to them! Please, Father,” she begged softly, “tread carefully. I don't want anything to happen to you!”
He exhaled slowly and away his anger, mustering a smile for her sake. “It's all right,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a finger against her cheek. “I have everything under control, I promise. I have Quinn and an entire garrison of soldiers. And as long as I have Parker, Eliot Spencer will be no threat to me.”
Part 9
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren't all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
Eliot sat up on the roof and gazed contentedly at his handiwork. While the job had been far bigger than he'd anticipated, and had gone far beyond simply fixing the hole, he was making true progress. It was slow, often tedious, and by nightfall he was exhausted and aching in shoulders, back and thighs, but with each day that passed he could see his work taking shape before him.
And it felt good to do something with his hands that didn't involve killing, to create rather than destroy.
Still, something was missing, casting a small shadow of worry over his peace. He hadn't seen Parker in several days, and he missed her. He'd grown accustomed to her “helping” him (though her notions of “help” were … interesting, at best), had gotten used to the sound of her voice, the flash of her hands as she whisked something of his into one of her countless pockets … had simply gotten used to her. He'd discovered he didn't have to make excuses for himself, for what he'd been and what he'd done, to her, didn't have to try and twist himself into knots to fit any expectations she might have, and could give her that same freedom.
They understood each other in ways no one else could, accepted each other in ways no one else could, fit together in ways they never would with anyone else. Thief and killer, dancer and singer, two irreparably broken people who somehow found a kind of wholeness together.
He missed her. And he was worried about her. While he didn't always see her every day, it was most unusual for her to stay away for this long. Three days she'd been absent now, with no sign of her. He'd even gone to the meadow this morning, hoping for he didn't know what, and had found nothing.
Something wasn't right.
He sighed and looked up, sweeping the distance with his gaze for something, some flash of color-
And stiffened as he saw a wagon barreling down the road at a breakneck pace. He could see no sign of pursuit and swore under his breath. The fool was taking a terrible risk. That road was rutted and pitted, with holes in it that could damn near swallow a horse. If the idiot hit one, he'd kill himself.
Then again, everyone around here knew the treacherous state of the roads; it was a constant complaint, just one more sign of Lord Nathan's neglect. And for all the “taxes” he extorted from them, Sterling had done precious little about them, either.
No one in their right mind would take one of the roads here at that speed.
All his instincts for trouble began to wake, and he fixed his whole attention upon the wagon as if he were on the battlements of one of Damien's cities studying an enemy force. Suddenly the driver turned off the main road and onto the much narrower, and much worse, one that led here, without slowing down-
And Eliot's instincts began to scream. He could see the wagon more clearly now, a large, heavy contraption of wood and iron topped by a colorfully painted canvas cover-
Hardison.
It took him only a moment to identify the driver, and then he was racing for the ladder, his heart hammering out a frantic rhythm. Hardison might be loud, obnoxious and cocky, but he wasn't stupid, and he certainly wouldn't risk killing himself in a road accident without some urgent reason.
Parker.
The fear grabbed him in a hard, painful clench, almost doubling him over. But he fought through it and hit the ladder just as Hardison was closing the distance to the house. He scrambled down the ladder, skipping more rungs than was probably safe, and barely hit the ground before he was pivoting and running to the edge of the yard. Hardison pulled up just as he got there, panting and sweating and looking both furious and terrified.
“Parker!” he gasped out, hurriedly setting the brake on the wagon. “Sterling caught her stealing. He's got her!”
Eliot's world shuddered to a dark and violent stop, his heart dropping sickeningly into his stomach. Jesus-
Hardison jumped down from the wagon and hurried to Eliot, grabbing his shoulders in a fierce grip. “We don't have time for this!” he spat. “You got to get yourself together and get whatever you need to get her back! Sophie's expectin' us back in town-”
“Where is she?” he asked in a low, hard voice, the old killing rage pushing its way through his fear. His hands clenched convulsively, craving the weight of a sword, and for an instant he was back on a sun-beaten desert plain, the scent of blood heavy on the air. “Where'd he take her?”
But Hardison shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “You're comin' with me. I'm not supposed to let you go after him on your own. We need some kinda plan that don’t involve you stagin' a one-man assault on his walls.” Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but Hardison shook him hard. “No! You go stormin' up there, and for all we know that bastard will kill her! Or kill you. Which just might kill her. So no.” He thrust Eliot away. “Go on, now, go inside and get all your soldier shit together. Then we're goin' to town, and you and Sophie can fight this out.”
He seethed and spat out a curse, but suspected Hardison was right … not that he ever intended to say that out loud. “Fine,” he ground out. “But while you're waitin', make yourself useful and saddle my horse.”
Hardison blinked. “Saddle- But my wagon-”
Eliot glanced over Hardison's shoulder and glanced at the contraption, which seemed to have been put together by a mad blacksmith and a drunken carpenter. It seemed exactly the sort of wagon Hardison would possess. “I'll be damned before I risk my life in that death-trap!” he declared, then returned his gaze to Hardison. “Especially after seeing you drive! Now, saddle my horse. Everything you'll need is in the stable.”
He turned away and hurried toward the house, but not before he heard Hardison complaining about his insult to someone named Lucille.
Sophie strode into the church, absently dipping into fingers into the holy water font and half-heartedly crossing herself, suppressing a shudder at the thought of all the rules and laws of this place she'd bent or broken in her life. Then she shoved the thought away.
This wasn't about her mistakes.
She walked past the large statue of St. Nicholas, dipping her head briefly to the patron saint of thieves, and made her way into the nave, stepping in and out of the pools of light thrown onto the stone floor by the sunlight streaming in through the high windows. The place was quiet, empty save for the lone robed figure kneeling up ahead on the floor before the elaborate high altar. The scents of beeswax candles and incense floated lightly on the air.
“May I help you?”
She turned at the quiet voice and gazed into the handsome and slightly quizzical face of Father Paul, pastor of St. Nicholas. She could well imagine his surprise at seeing her of all people in his church, but had to admire the way he concealed it. Any other priest would have dropped dead from the shock.
“Thank you, Father,” she said with a soft smile, “but I'm not here to see you.” She turned back toward the figure before the altar. “I'm here to see him.”
Father Paul sighed, a world of sorrow in the sound, and moved to stand beside her, his gaze also falling upon the man. “I've tried,” he said sadly. “I've talked with him, argued with him, prayed for him- He knows how things are, but-” He shrugged. “I honestly don't know what else to do.”
“Yes, well,” she said firmly, lifting her chin, “you're not me. And I'm not really one for prayer. If you'll excuse me?” And she started up the aisle.
She saw his figure stiffen and smiled to herself. Good, let him know a fight was coming.
“I've left you alone with God long enough,” she called. “He's had time for his say, now I’m going to have mine.”
He sighed heavily. “I'm not-”
“Well, you damned well better be,” she snapped, stopping just behind him. “Your people need you, Nate. You've neglected them long enough. Yes, you've suffered a terrible loss, and, God, if I could change that I would! But I can't. No one can. And while you're hiding in here, people out there are suffering. You have to help them.”
He sighed again, then rose to his feet and turned to face her, his blue eyes sad in a worn face. “I can't be what they need-”
“That's too bad, because you're all they've got!” She steeled herself against the pain and said harshly, “And now Sterling's got Parker.”
He gasped and reeled. “What?”
She swallowed hard, trying desperately not to think of all the harm that could befall the girl, and stared into his eyes. “He's got her,” she said again, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “He set a trap for her, and she fell into it-” Her voice broke and she reached out abruptly, grabbing his hands and holding tightly to him. “She needs you, Nate! God only knows what he's got planned for her! Or what will happen if he hurts her. The people won't stand for much more, but he's got his men, his soldiers, all over town-” A sudden thought, a sudden fear, struck her. “And then there's Eliot,” she breathed.
He narrowed his eyes. “Eliot?”
She huffed out a sharp laugh. “Don't tell me you don't know of him. Even hidden away here, you manage to know everything. You can't help yourself.” When he didn't answer, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. Eliot Spencer. Sir Eliot Spencer, a soldier recently returned from the wars who doesn't particularly need any more blood on his hands but cares too much for Parker to let that stop him. If you don't do something, he will, and I have no doubt that someone will die. Is that what you want?”
“No, of course not! But-” He turned away, his shoulders slumping. “You don't understand-”
She grabbed him and spun him around, fury blazing through her. “Bloody hell, I don't!” she spat. “I understand being lost, I understand being hurt, and I understand feeling as if your whole world is gone! Everyone understands that, Nate, you're not alone or unique in that! Pain is a part of life! Most of us, though, don't have the luxury of holing up in a church or crawling into a bottle. You've managed to do both. And it's time for you to come back out. Or what happens next will be on your head. And,” she added bitingly, “on your soul.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” he snapped, anger lighting his faded eyes. “In case you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have an army, so I can't just storm Sterling's walls and demand Parker's freedom! He's a bastard, I know that, but he's a smart bastard! He never does anything without a reason, a plan-” He broke off and frowned as she laughed aloud. “What?”
She shook her head, her smile turning sweet, and lifted a hand to his cheek. “Darling Nate,” she cooed, “you've just described yourself! You two have always been more alike than either of you was willing to admit. He's a smart, conniving, arrogant bastard.” She arched a brow. “And I'd say it takes one to beat one.”
He smiled wryly. “You always say the sweetest things.”
“I don't have time for sweetness or flattery,” she said. “And you no longer have time to wallow in your self-pity. You're Lord Nathan of the House of Ford, not some wine-soaked, God-addled monk. And it's high time, my lord, that you dragged your self-indulgent ass out of this church and take care of your people!”
A choked cough sounded behind them, and they turned to see Father Paul standing a few feet away, gazing somewhat uncomfortably at Sophie.
“I'm not sure I would have put it in just those words,” he said, a slight smile teasing at his mouth, “but she's right.” He turned his gaze to Nathan. “God's house is a place of refuge, yes, but only so that those in need might find strength in its walls. It was never meant to be a place to hide from the world. And our responsibilities to that world don't stop at its doors. You have to go, Nate. It's time. And it's God's will.”
Nathan arched a brow. “And you know this because-?”
Father Paul laughed and gestured at Sophie. “Because when Sophie Devereaux walks of her own free will into a church, it's got to be a sign of something!”
Sterling stepped out of the coach and waved his men forward, ordering them to bring Parker. He strode into his hall with a jaunty, confident step, smiling at the sounds of the scuffle behind him. Four men held her between them and others were racing forward to help as she kicked and twisted and lashed out with chained hands, biting and clawing and spitting curses the whole way. She was strong, he'd give her that.
But strength wasn't everything.
At the far end of the hall, he mounted the stone step and seated himself on the large and elaborately carved chair of office, sighing contentedly as he set his hands on the wide arms. Power was everything. And he had it.
He watched as his men wrestled and dragged the girl to him, finally managing to control her between them. One knelt to snap manacles around her ankles and was kicked viciously in the face. He fell back with a cry, nose spurting blood, and Sterling sighed.
Really, how hard could it be?
Another soldier pushed past the fallen man and managed to get the manacles on without grievous injury. Parker still fought and spat curses, but to much lesser effect.
“Good,” Sterling said as his men stood around the chained thief. “Now perhaps we can decide-”
“Father?”
He only barely stifled a curse as Olivia ran into the hall, clearly drawn by the commotion, an anxious look on her face. She stopped short at the sight of Parker and gasped sharply, then turned wide eyes upon her father. “What's going on?”
He sighed and forced a smile. “It's nothing, my dear. Official business. You go on back-”
“What business?” she insisted. “What are you doing?”
“I'm catching thieves,” he said tersely. “She's been stealing from everyone for years, and it finally tripped her up. I caught her red-handed-”
“You tricked me!” Parker shouted. “You set a trap-”
“And you fell into it nicely, thank you!” he ground out. “Now, kindly shut up-”
“They'll never let you get away with it!” Parker spat. “They'll come for me, Eliot will come for me and he'll kill you-”
“Will someone kindly gag the bloody thief!” he shouted, slamming his hands against the arms of the chair and shooting to his feet.
Olivia stared at her father, her eyes huge in her white face. “Eliot?” she whispered strickenly. “Eliot Spencer?”
He frowned deeply, worried by her reaction. “What do you know of him?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “Only what Quinn has said. But-”
He muttered a curse. Damn Quinn and his loose tongue! But he pasted on a forced smile and stepped down, going to her. “It's nothing,” he assured her. “Quinn exaggerates. This man Spencer is no threat-”
Parker bit the hand trying to shove a gag into her mouth and shouted, “He's a trained soldier! He's killed more men than you can count-”
“Get her out of here!” Sterling snapped, seeing the effect her words were having on his daughter. “I'll deal with her later! Take her down to cells and lock her away!”
“Father-”
“Ssh, hush, it's all right,” he soothed, taking Olivia into his arms and holding her close as his men dragged Parker away. “She's frightened and angry. Her words mean nothing.”
“No,” she whispered, clinging tightly to him. “They mean you're in danger.”
He laughed and laid his head atop hers. “From a cornered thief and one lone soldier? Olivia, I have an entire garrison-”
“And how many people are there in town?” she asked sharply, pulling out of his arms and staring at him in fear. “In all the towns? Father, I know what you've been doing, and I know the people resent you! Yes,” she said before he could interrupt, “I know, someone had to do it! Lord Nathan abandoned his responsibilities, and someone had to take over! And you're the perfect man for it. But you've gone too far!” She turned away and began to pace, wringing her hands in distress. “Don't you think I've heard the rumors, the whispers?” she asked. “When I go into town, don't you think I can see how people look at me and hear what they say behind my back? They're angry, Father!” she cried, whirling back to face him. “And they're getting desperate!” She went to him and took his hands in hers, holding tightly to them and gazing fearfully into his eyes. “I've heard stories of uprisings in other places,” she whispered. “And I don't want that to happen to you!”
He pulled his hands from hers. “She's a thief, Olivia-”
“Yes, but she's their thief! She means something to them! Please, Father,” she begged softly, “tread carefully. I don't want anything to happen to you!”
He exhaled slowly and away his anger, mustering a smile for her sake. “It's all right,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a finger against her cheek. “I have everything under control, I promise. I have Quinn and an entire garrison of soldiers. And as long as I have Parker, Eliot Spencer will be no threat to me.”
Part 9