by Eliza Knight
“And I have never been happier to be so near a Scot.” He nuzzled her ear, flicking his tongue out to tease her skin.
Alex laughed and Alaric lifted her up, twirling her in a wide circle. The entire day had been a true test to their willpower. Her rear had been pressed indelicately to his hardened arousal. His hands had teased and touched, and she’d leaned back to nip at his chin only for him to claim her lips in a heady kiss.
“Welcome to Ravenshelm, my lord!” a male servant hurried toward them.
Alex jerked her gaze toward Alaric, who settled her onto the ground. “Ravenshelm? My lord? We are not at Castle De Garde?”
If not for the beaming smile on his face and the way his chest puffed with pride, Alex might have thought she’d been duped.
“I have a surprise for you.” His arm swung out toward the large stone keep and surrounding outwalls.
Alex gripped on to his arm, tugging. “Tell me.”
Alaric studied Ravenshelm, a satisfied smile on his face. “The king sent a missive to me along with his note of approval to Queen Margaret.”
“And what did it say?” Alex might have to pull the news from him with one of the blacksmith’s tools.
“Your husband is the new Baron Ravenshelm, and you are my Baroness, mistress of Ravenshelm Castle.”
“Oh, Alaric, this is marvelous news! Ye deserve such an honor for how ye have served yer king and his daughter. I am so proud of ye.” Alex wrapped her arms around his neck, ready to kiss him again until the servant cleared his throat.
Alaric grinned, ignored the servant and kissed her soundly. “An honor indeed. And I am proud to be able to share it with you, love.” Alaric turned his attention to the servant. “Have my things arrived from Castle De Garde?”
The man shifted on his feet. “Aye, my lord. Along with a few… people.”
“People?” Alaric frowned.
The man twisted his hands, looking nervous. “Your family, sir.”
Alaric nodded.
“Will there be anything else you require, my lord?”
“Aye. A bath in our chambers for my wife, a hot meal, some wine. Tell my family we will greet them on the morrow once we’ve rested. Our journey was overlong.” Alaric’s tone brooked no argument, and he gathered Alex up in his strong arms and fairly ran toward the castle, whispering, “I have waited too long for this moment, and if any of them dare to interrupt us, I will toss them from the window.”
Up the stairs he went, past servants doing their duties until they reached the first level of chambers. He pushed open the door of all three, finding them lacking in some way, then ran up the stairs again until he found a chamber suitable.
“Only the best for the Mistress of Ravenshelm.”
Alex laughed. “I would lay my head beside ye anywhere.”
Alaric nuzzled her nose and kicked the door closed behind him. “I know you would.”
He walked her straight to the bed and set her down, lying on his side next to her. Hand on her belly, he teased a path up her to the spot between her breasts.
“It will take hours to undress you,” he complained. “’Haps I should cut you out of these clothes so I can admire you quicker.”
“I have no objection if ye plan to see it mended,” Alex said, feeling bold and naughty.
Alaric grinned, tugged his dagger from his waistband and held it to the fabric near her breasts. A heavy sigh escaped him.
“If I were to mar your flesh, I would never forgive myself.”
Alex laughed, sat up and kicked off her slippers. “Then help me to undress.”
Alaric worked on the pins at her sleeves and the ties at her back. Luckily, as it was a riding frock, it as much simpler to remove than a formal gown.
He kissed her shoulders and the back of her neck as the last of the fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in her chemise and hose.
“Even dressed like this you are a gem for this explorer to behold.”
Alex felt heat creeping into her cheeks and when she spoke, her voice was more throaty than before. “Discover me then.”
Alaric reached for her, when a loud knock sounded at the door.
“Go away!” he shouted.
“’Tis the bath and refreshments, my lord,” the servant on the other side said.
Alaric raised his brow at her in question. Alex shook her head. “I bathed at the inn this morning and I am only hungry for one thing.”
“Come back later,” he shouted, coming toward her.
Alex reached for him as he reached for her, their mouths clashing in a heated kiss. Finally. A week married and they were, at last, going to have this delicious moment.
“I am nearly naked and ye not at all,” Alex chided.
Alaric chucked. “Let’s undress at the same time.”
Alex nodded, stepping back and slowly peeling off her chemise, her eyes glued to Alaric who divested himself of his doublet and shirt, standing only in his tight breeches. The length of his arousal was visible, jutting beneath the fabric. His chest and abdomen were just as magnificent as they’d been when she saw him shirtless in the stable. She swallowed hard, nervous and excited all at the same time.
His fingers moved to the ties on his breeches but paused. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Should we slow down?”
Alex shook her head. “We’ve waited too long.”
“I can slow down if you want.”
“Nay, husband. Not another minute.” She dropped her chemise to the floor just as his breeches fell, leaving them both mostly naked, save for hose.
Neither of them seemed to care. They crashed together, warm, soft flesh on heated, hard flesh. Their mouths fused in a carnal, maddening kiss, and Alex felt herself being carried, the mattress touched her back and she was lying down but flying all the same. Alaric settled himself between her thighs, his arousal pressing with urgent need to her sex. Would he claim her now?
But he didn’t. His hands stroked her breasts, her waist, and his mouth… Oh, his mouth. He licked her neck, kissed her breasts, teased her nipples. She gasped, arched against him. Sighed. Moaned. Held tight to his shoulders, and then grew bolder, exploring, too. His fingers slid over the slickness of her mound, finding the little nub of pleasure that had her hips bucking and her insides flaming. What was that?
“You like that,” Alaric taunted, stroking her again.
“Oh, aye, verra much.”
His fingers found the opening to her sex and pressed forward, the pressure and a tiny pinch of pain minuscule as he slid in and out and stroked over that small nub. Oh, the pleasure of it…
“Touch me,” he insisted. “Give me your hand.”
Alex gladly gave in, reached low until her fingers brushed the hardness of his arousal. “Oh, my,” she said at the same time that he groaned, his forehead falling to her chest.
“God, I love you,” he said.
“Make love to me,” she pleaded. “Right now. Claim me as yers.”
Alaric placed his hand over hers and helped her guide his shaft to her opening. A small pinch, and she gasped, but the way he stilled and nuzzled her breasts, remarked on her beauty had that uncomfortable ache soon turning to a pulsing need. He thrust the rest of the way inside her, again stilling, giving her a chance to adjust to his size.
“Are you all right? I’ve not hurt you too much, have I?” he asked.
“Nay, nay. Dinna stop.” Alex stroked her hands over his back, a silent plea for him to continue.
Alaric answered by shifting and slowly pulling out of her body before pushing back in. The exquisite sensation that movement brought left her breathless for more. He sought her mouth as he moved, thrusting in and out, fast, then slow, deep then shallow. An expert lover. Her hips found the movement to match his as his mouth claimed hers, tasting, and melding, imitating what his arousal did between her thighs.
Pleasure radiated from her center, then outward until even her toes tingled and curled. She wanted to make love to him morning, noon and night. If they
never left this chamber again, she would be happy with that. And then, their lovemaking shifted from strident pleasure to something more powerful. The sensations between her thighs deepened. Sparking. Firing. And then finally, exploding. Her entire body shook from it, and she cried out, certain she’d been tossed up to the very stars they’d kissed beneath. Alaric moaned his pleasure, murmuring his delight with her.
It was glorious perfection. They were made for each other.
“Oh, how I love ye,” she whispered.
Alaric collapsed to the side of her, kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. “I love you, too, sweet wife.” He drew circles on her belly, which made her breath catch, her body still recovering. “You please me much, even if you are a savage.”
Alex shifted closer, her skin heating at the way he teased her. “I am the happiest savage in England. For I have the most handsome Sassenach lying in bed beside me.”
Eternally Bound
by
Eliza Knight
Chapter One
Early Spring 1601, London
Baron Dalston was in possession of both of the ancient relics.
Of that, Lord Sebastien de Rayne was certain. Where, was another guess entirely. Nigh on a month ago, the ornery baron had stolen an ancient ring from Sebastien’s father, the Earl of Bedford, fully aware of the power it held. The ring was passed to Sebastien’s father by his father, and his father before him. A great antiquity that was rumored to be of ancient Roman origin. ’Twas priceless. And the bloody bastard had stolen it!
Now with the earl having passed a fortnight ago, Sebastien’s mother, Lady Mary de Rayne, wanted both the relics back to be buried, once and for all, in the family crypt. In fact, the ring had been hers from the moment she’d wed Sebastien’s father—a gift on their wedding day. She’d worn it on her left ring finger daily until it had been stolen.
How the rascal had stolen it, Sebastien had yet to figure out. All he knew was that on his father’s deathbed, when his mother questioned him, the earl had confessed to the baron’s possession of not only her ring, but the mystical sword, as well.
Sebastien would be damned if he didn’t complete the task his mother had set him to. The woman had been half-mad with rage, terror and grief when she told Sebastien the story.
Slinking down the corridor from the grand ballroom toward the chamber he was certain would be the study of the man in question, Sebastien prayed no one came upon him.
If he were caught rummaging through the man’s private office, Sebastien could, at the very least, have his morals questioned and suffer courtly embarrassment, at the worst, he could be hauled before the queen’s magistrate. A situation he could get himself out of, but not one he was particularly interested in wading through. The queen would have questions, and though Sebastien was a favorite of hers, he did not want to have to answer those queries.
He wrapped his hand around the cold, iron handle of the door and slowly lifted until the door pressed open an inch. The room was dark, as he’d suspected, but with a full moon, any light filtering in from outside ought to be enough for him to find the items. The ring may be harder to see, but he prayed the baron had not hidden it separately from the Gladius.
Sebastien slipped into the room and closed the door silently behind him.
His heart pounded a little harder behind his ribs, but he forced himself to calm. This was a matter of his mother’s sanity and he’d not leave without the relics. Hell, she was all he had left, and he didn’t want to have her locked up in her chambers the rest of his days, fearing for her life.
Scanning the room, he took in the wide bookshelves that lined the far wall, filled with leather-bound tomes and scrolls. To the right was a wall of windows, curtains partially closed, and silver light beaming in diamond shapes through the leaded glass panels. A large desk sat in the middle of the room with a wide, wooden chair on one side and another across from it. On the left wall above a hearth was a picture of the baron, his wife and only daughter. And resting on the mantel was the Theodosia Gladius.
The Gladius glinted in the moonlight, the leather sheath made for it resting behind it. He’d never seen the sword, but his father had told him about it many times. The man had been proud of his ancestral legend—and had wanted this sword in particular, though the baron had been loathe to part with it, no matter how many times his father had offered. The Gladius and his mother’s ring belonged to the de Rayne’s and he was determined to get them back.
Sebastien let out a deep breath.
Where was the ring?
Locating the sword hadn’t been as hard as he’d assumed, but the ring had to be somewhere in here, too. He hurried toward the baron’s desk, rummaged through two drawers without success and then came to a third that was locked.
Damn!
There’d been no key in the other drawers. Sebastien grabbed a letter opener, attempting to jimmy the lock with no luck.
At least he could seize the Gladius and then sneak out a servant’s door at the back of Thornton House. He’d have to figure out another way to get back into the man’s office undetected for a further search of the ring. Perhaps he could pay a servant. Households always had a servant willing to betray their masters for a few extra coins.
Sebastien had not planned on staying long at the baron’s dinner in honor of his daughter being of marriageable age. And he’d certainly not come because of any interest in marrying. The baron had thought himself clever, calling it simply a dinner of the lords who would advise the queen, but Sebastien had not been duped like the lot of his peers. Dalston had been loudly crowing of his daughter’s beauty at Queen Elizabeth’s court for the past fortnight before his invitation went out.
An invitation which would not have originally gone to Sebastien, but he’d been able to orchestrate one, and of course, this had been the perfect opportunity for Sebastien to swoop in and reclaim what had been stolen from his family.
Sebastien had yet to see the chit, as he’d made himself scarce before she’d been introduced to the other lords in attendance, but given her father’s penchant for thievery, he didn’t expect much.
Walking swiftly, his footfalls hushed by the thick, tapestried rug, he reached for the Gladius. As his fingers came in contact with the cool iron of the hilt, a spark shot up his arm, causing him to jerk back.
What in bloody hell was that?
Frowning, Sebastien reached for the Gladius again and managed to grip the hilt without incident. He ran his fingers over the etched words. Most were too worn to read. His father had told him part of the legend. The carved words. No one knew the entire meaning or what it had once said. From what the legend stated, and he wasn’t certain he could put too much stock in his father’s lengthy stories, the blade had been carved by a man about to die. A man who loved so deeply that he promised even in death that he’d meet his love on the other side.
Theodosia… Rubra prunas… Illegible words continued along the edge of the blade, curving around the tip and back up the other side, until the last right by the hilt again: Cum tantum somnium vestrum.
Sebastien could not decipher the words—he’d been terrible at Latin, sneaking out often to practice with his sword—but he recalled that cum tantum somnium vestrum was etched onto his mother’s ring, confirming his suspicions that the ring and sword did, in fact, go together and the stories his father had told him were at least partially true. A great love story that his forefathers had passed down from Rome. He did not understand love like that. He’d never been one for sentimentality, never understood his father’s powerful, almost obsessive, need to please his wife and show his love for her.
He slipped the Gladius into its sheath and hooked it to his belt.
With at least one of the items in hand and no time to search for the second, it was time for him to make his escape. Sebastien turned to exit the way he’d come, but a subtle thump sounded behind the closed door of the study and had Sebastien pressing his back to the wood-paneled wall beside the hearth and holding h
is breath.
Damn. He’d only just entered. Disappointment coursed its way deep inside him. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d not been able to find the ring. Sebastian quickly unsheathed the Gladius and thrust it back onto the mantel. He’d been so close.
The door handle lifted. God’s bones, but he’d be caught and the de Rayne relics lost forever. Silently sprinting toward the window, he ducked behind a heavy curtain, certain that whoever was about to enter would find him shortly anyway.
Well, he wasn’t going to leave without a fight.
Sebastien held his breath and waited.
The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in Lady Maxwell Thornton’s mind. Why did it have to sound so ominous? And why did her father look as though he was about to deliver news that the queen was having her tossed in the Tower on some false charge?
It wouldn’t be the first time their good queen had locked someone up behind the thick walls inside which they could not hope to escape.
Of course, it didn’t help that her father’s study was dark except for the dim light of the moon shining through the window. Her father struck a flint and lit an oil lamp on his desk, illuminating the room with a soft, golden glow.
Her heart skipped a beat and she wiped her palms against the front of her brocade stomacher—partly to dry them and partly to calm the sudden flip in her belly.
“Have a seat, Max,” her father said.
The man walked around his desk to sit in the carved oak chair that had been his own father’s. The wood creaked with his bulk.
“Must I, Father? Our guests have begun to arrive.” Not a quarter hour before, courtiers had begun to walk through the doors of Thornton House.
Soft music was playing in the great hall of their modest London town house. Though they didn’t boast a residence along the Strand or even close to one of Queen Elizabeth’s palaces, her father had done a splendid job of restoring the older home to glory.
“Sit.” His voice was clipped and broached no argument.
