Her Honorable Mercenary--A dramatic Medieval romance

by Nicole Locke

  This mulberry grove had once reminded him of his childhood, of kinder times, but he knew it would now remind him forever of how she looked up at him.

  ‘Are there more berries?’ she asked.

  They would need more since she ate almost as many as he picked.

  ‘Because you have stopped.’ She plucked up another.

  ‘Stopped?’ Watching her rhythmically chew the berry in her mouth, he felt that tenseness in his shoulders thicken and move lower down his spine.

  ‘You have stopped picking berries.’ A small smile, closer to a smirk, curved her lips. ‘They’re delicious, but they don’t have as much of a smell as quince.’

  Moving lower yet, that feeling he knew was lust wrapped around his waist and pooled perilously close to where she lifted the basket. To her fingers which flitted along the silken hem. To her lips that were damp with the juice from the berries.

  ‘What colour are they, Margery?’ he asked, his voice roughened.

  Delight kindled in those eyes of hers. Lavender eyes. As if a mere flower could adequately describe what he saw in their depths.

  Scooping a couple of berries out of the fabric, she held them out. ‘Compare them.’

  His mind was on the curve of her lips, on everything except her words.

  ‘Quiet again?’ she teased.

  He growled and reached for her.

  Laughing, she skipped away. ‘Not so quiet, then. Come, Evrart—guess.’

  Her eyes darkened, showing him she felt what was between them as well, and he complied.

  Grabbing her wrist, he pushed her sleeve up. The berries cradled in her palm were the shade of the skin he revealed there.

  ‘Do you compare these berries to your skin?’ He lifted her palm to his mouth and ate the fruit there.

  The headdress that had still been clenched in her other hand dropped to the ground. He didn’t give a damn about those berries. He cared for the ones he crushed in his mouth as he kissed and nipped her hand. He cared how she tasted as his tongue and his lips brushed against the seam at her wrist. He cared about the sound she made when he did so.

  Continuing his kisses up her arm, his other hand pushed the sleeve, applying his thumb to her inner elbow. Holding her still...holding her captive.

  ‘These berries aren’t as warm as your skin, nor as sweet,’ he said. ‘They don’t flush when I do this...and this.’

  Her free hand, which had hovered, now clasped his upper arm. Pulling her closer, he kissed, licked and nipped her neck.

  ‘These berries don’t feel as your skin does. They don’t make me feel as your skin does.’

  Her eyes fluttered. The wrist he held trembled. ‘How?’

  He caressed her cheek. ‘So soft... So soft and yet it heats my blood, my body.’

  Her lips parted, and his mouth hovered above hers. ‘What colour am I, Margery? What colour would you make me?’

  Her eyes opened. Their depths were unfathomable now. ‘Everything.’

  She was everything. On a groan, he captured those sweet lips, delved with his tongue until he tasted the berries she’d eaten, until he tasted her.

  Scooping her up, he held her against him, kept his eyes locked with hers, asking her only, ‘Are you showing me colours, Margery?’

  A question, but not. He had seen the answer, guessed it when she’d played those games as he’d dropped one berry after the other. Still, much had happened between them since that day in the orchard, and they faced other uncertainties ahead.

  Laying her hand on his jaw, she caressed his lower lip with her thumb. So soft, so sweet!

  ‘Show me,’ she whispered.

  Gladly.

  Setting her down, he worked to loosen her gown and push it off her shoulders. He gripped her fine chemise and pulled it over her head, revealing all of her to him. Her flesh pebbled, her nipples tightened, and as he gazed at them they tightened again.

  She smiled wide. ‘You left my shoes on.’

  Gripping his tunic, he said, ‘You take care of those.’

  Shoving off his breeches, his braies, his eyes never leaving her, he groaned as she bent over. He ripped his boots off and grabbed her, throwing them both off balance as he fell to the ground with her on top of him.

  ‘Your back!’

  He could feel the damp earth there, but didn’t care—not with the heat of her body against his. He just wanted her. But he needed this time to be gentler.

  ‘I’m being careful...’ He brushed his fingers against her neck, where he’d kissed too hurriedly, too much.

  Shaking her head, releasing that maddening scent, she said. ‘Careful? No. I want you.’

  ‘You have me.’

  ‘No, I want...’ She grabbed his arms, dug her fingers in. He felt the bite, felt her need.

  ‘Margery—’ He groaned.

  ‘Please, Evrart. I want you as you are. All of you.’

  Cupping the back of her neck, he kissed her. Her hands were going to his chest, her legs scrabbling around. He gripped her waist, held her against him. Delved with his tongue deeper, until he had to breathe, had to taste more.

  ‘Like this?’ he said.

  Turning her over, he pulled at her gown and laid her over it. Spread her hair along the paleness of the sleeve, the blades of the grass. There were colours there, he knew. But they couldn’t compare to her.

  ‘I know what colour these are,’ he whispered. ‘Red.’

  Margery murmured against Evrart’s kisses. Gripped his hair, let it fan through her fingers, then rubbed her palm against the shaved bits. So many textures to explore...so she did it again.

  She felt flushed with heat, with want, as he continued with kisses on her lips, against the shell of her ear, then lower. She tried to pull him to her, to kiss and taste what she could as he moved a shoulder, his chest... Then it became impossible.

  ‘These are red, too, are they not?’ His eyes were riveted on her breasts.

  She’d always thought them unimaginably small, but with Evrart’s gleam of pleasure she knew he did not feel so. Under his gaze they tightened until they ached, and she arched her back, rolled her shoulders against the ground, begged him to end his gaze.

  ‘Red is heat, is it not?’

  He captured her nipple in his mouth, swirled his tongue and pulled. Swirled his tongue again and peppered her breast with heated breaths, with tiny licks, before he engulfed the entirety with his mouth and suckled.

  ‘Evrart!’ She gripped his head, held him there until she felt that pinch, felt the dampness between her thighs.

  He pulled back. Gave her hot, fast kisses down her belly, along her hip, until he sat between her splayed legs. She saw the wicked gleam as he took her in.

  Her legs looked tiny around his hips; she tried to pull back. ‘I want to touch you.’

  He grabbed her ankle, held her still. ‘I’m showing you colours, remember?’

  ‘You’re showing me?’ She swallowed.

  ‘Assuredly.’ A victorious grin as he circled her core with one finger, then flicked her nipple with the thumb of his other hand. ‘These are the same... I love it when they flush darker.’

  He sank one finger into her folds. She moaned.

  ‘I love it that this makes you moan and whimper.’

  He bent and kissed one nipple, then the other. Palmed her breast as he pulled back again.

  ‘But this is a bit more, isn’t it? It gets darker, redder, wetter...’ He swirled that finger and she couldn’t take any more.

  Grappling for his shoulders, she pulled him down. Planted her feet on the ground and pushed against the little relief he gave her.

  ‘Evrart, stop this showing. Please...’ she begged.

  When he didn’t stop, when he teased her that bit more and pressed his thumb against her clit, making a hard circle, she spasmed.r />
  ‘What colour are you, Margery?’ he asked in a low voice. One that was half a growl, half a plea.

  Panting she answered, ‘Everything.’

  He released his finger and she opened her eyes. The curse on her lips quickly died when he grabbed her thighs and pressed them to her chest. When he made enough room for himself...for them.

  No more soft touches or whispered words. He pressed himself forward, impaling her steadily, deeper, until he could move no further and she could take no more.

  But she wanted more. Even as Evrart stilled to allow her body to adjust, to accept. Didn’t he know she had already accepted him?

  Tugging harder on his arms, she pulled him closer yet, and he buried his face in the side of her neck. She felt the hot air of his breath, the low rumble of his growl. Heard his tortured groan as he pulled his hips slowly back.

  But she followed him with whatever part of herself he allowed her to use—her mouth, her teeth, her hands, her arms. Her heart. She didn’t want to let him go.

  His darkened eyes went wide at her sudden franticness and a shudder racked his large frame.

  A shiver echoed in her own, and with a curse, Evrart clenched his eyes.

  Then she didn’t have to think about restraint, or showing, or anything except him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Margery was both grateful and yet not that they rode on separate horses as they entered the village. She missed the strength in Evrart’s touch and in his presence against her back as she faced these curious people. She knew that if she’d been surrounded by him she could have pretended speculative gazes weren’t looking her way.

  And they were looking at her.

  Smiling at one of the waving children, she turned to the next and tried to look kind. At least, however, by riding beside him, she might be seen as an equal to this man. Perhaps be respected.

  As more greetings were shouted Evrart, in his usual way, was quiet, but there was a light to his eyes that was more joy than sorrow, more calm than wary. It was a look she’d rarely seen, if ever, at Warstone Fortress. His obvious pleasure helped ease her own emotions, which she barely contained. Happiness at being free from the Warstone Fortress was warring with her trepidation at entering the village.

  She couldn’t help but compare the village where she’d spent her own wreck of a childhood to this. It was larger than her old home, and seemed interconnected with others. One village after another, surrounded by miles of furrowed land. And the abbey in the near distance was beautiful.

  Visually, it couldn’t be any more different from the mud-laden narrow lanes she remembered. But one thing was the same as in any other place: those curious eyes.

  Secluded as she had been for three days with Evrart, she’d forgotten what it was to be stared at. To hear whispers and know the subject was her.

  She gave a smile to one person and a small nod to another. This time a mother holding baby. What she didn’t do—what she forced herself never to do—was look at the men. Maybe later, when these people knew her better. Maybe...

  She hoped with Evrart her life would be different.

  The streets became busier and Evrart dismounted, leading the two horses behind him, with her coming up far behind as the crowd thickened.

  There were hand gestures and slaps on his back. Many were talking animatedly with Evrart, who increasingly lost more of the tension around his shoulders. Words were leaving his mouth. There were some sounds of joy, and exclamations from little ones who pointed at his height. There were no other men as tall as her Evrart.

  Her Evrart.

  So many changes since Ian’s death, and even more in the three days they’d travelled, when they’d shared much of their lives and even more kisses. Now she was seeing a whole other side to him. One she liked, but wasn’t certain of her place with.

  Again, she was happy he was back home—but she didn’t know these people. They didn’t know her. And the advantage of riding a horse whilst Evrart led wasn’t favourable. By perception, with her clothes and the horse, with her looks, it would appear she was some fine lady being led by her servant.

  Evrart wasn’t her servant. He was her...lover. But that was hardly an improvement when it came to the hierarchy here. It neither boded well for Evrart nor herself. Why hadn’t they talked of this?

  She knew why she hadn’t addressed it. Because part of her still believed she wasn’t worthy of him, and...and she loved him. But if he didn’t return that love, it wouldn’t be right to trap him.

  They hadn’t married because he hadn’t asked her, and she hadn’t hinted. Now she wished she had—if for nothing else so she knew where she stood, knew who she was to him. Because Evrart was introducing her. There was a grin on his face, and though his gestures were careful, they were not stilted as they had been at the fortress.

  She continued smiling, but all the gazes skittered away before throats were cleared and the people returned to talking with Evrart, actively avoiding looking at her. Were they displeased? How would she have felt if her brothers Isnard or Servet had brought home a woman in fine clothing who obviously hadn’t worked a day in her life, or at least not recently?

  She cursed the gown she had on. What would his family think of her? His family... She didn’t know what his home was like, but she knew they must be close as Evrart stepped them along and two women came barrelling around the corner.

  One was older, the other noticeably younger than Evrart. Both were large of bone, their hair matching Evart’s. When he stepped away and opened his arms, the youngest flew into them.

  Something tugged at Margery then. Both nostalgia and missing her own family, but also trepidation at what it all meant.

  She didn’t have time to think on it as Evrart pulled them through the crowd and he helped her dismount, right in the centre of everyone. Three boys took the horses away, so she didn’t even have them for cover as more eyes looked at her and Evrart. And then, in a voice she hardly heard above the others, he announced she was his Margery, from Warstone Fortress.

  She couldn’t feel any relief at his proprietorial hand at her back. Or at the way he looked at her as if she mattered. His sister, Peronelle, looked at her with narrowed curiosity. His mother, Blanche, simply said, ‘She’s small.’

  Evrart couldn’t recall when he’d felt such lightness. Most likely not since the last time he’d returned home, which had been years before. Ian had loathed letting him see his family. When he had let him go, it had been with a fellow mercenary who would report independently to Lord Warstone on what he’d done.

  He had, however, been grateful to be allowed to return to his village when the rest of the guards and mercenaries had not. But although Evrart had been afforded certain liberties they had been burdens as well. Mostly because he’d yearned for the life he had been torn from, and every time he’d gone from home to the fortress, he had been reminded of the bargain he’d made. His family lived, and so he served.

  But now he was free, and at his side was a woman whom he adored, whom he intended to spend the rest of his life with. He had shown her that honour by dismounting and pulling her through the village rather than simply going around to the far side, where his family lived. He’d wanted to introduce her to everyone and he had, pleased that he had refrained from marking her neck or other places they could see.

  He was also pleased that the places he had kissed roughly, she’d asked him to kiss some more. She liked him—brute that he was. And though he’d vowed to be careful, she didn’t want that. She wanted him.

  Bringing her home—this moment—was more than he’d dreamed.

  He’d smiled so much his jaw was sore, but that hadn’t precluded him from smiling all the more when he’d seen his sister run around the corner of the last hut on the path, quickly followed by his mother.

  And now they saw the woman he intended to call wife, and his quiet, taciturn mo
ther, who kept her head down and ignored everyone, had actually spoken.

  His life could not be happier.

  ‘She’s hungry, too—as am I,’ he said.

  ‘You’re always hungry,’ Peronelle said. ‘I bet she eats nothing.’

  He turned to Margery, expecting a full debate on food and her choices. Some competition such as who could eat the most bread rolls or berries. Her happy liveliness, her ability to pull him along with no fear, would be a good match for his sister’s cynicism. He swore that Peronelle had been born with a suspicion of life.

  But Margery’s eyes were dim. Ah... It had been a long journey, and since that moment under the mulberries he hadn’t stopped touching her. Stealing as many moments as he could while it was just the two of them.

  ‘Food and perhaps some rest, first,’ he said.

  ‘If you’d sent a message ahead of time, we could have prepared,’ Peronelle said.

  ‘When have I ever sent a message ahead?’

  His sister looked behind him. ‘Where are the other guards?’

  ‘No others. There is only Margery and I.’

  ‘Is there something I can do to help?’ Margery asked.

  ‘I’m getting to it!’ Huffing, Peronelle turned to him. ‘Is she always so impatient?’

  Frowning fiercely, his mother grabbed Peronelle’s arm.

  He turned to Margery. ‘I must apologise for my sister. She likes it when I travel with the guards, for they know to bring her gifts.’ He leaned over to whisper in her ear. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Margery rubbed her hands along her skirts. She wasn’t certain she wanted Evrart to explain anything later. She wished the horses hadn’t been taken away. Not that she could safely ride one, but she was terrified enough to give it a try. Her doubts on their relationship and about her own worth were quickly turning to dismay. Had she made a mistake coming here? It was as if his mother had looked at her and known she wasn’t good enough for her son.