Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Will you please face away so that I may bathe without an audience?” she asked.

  He made a face, suggesting he didn’t like that request, but dutifully switched sides of the table so his back was to her.

  “You have taken all of the joy out of my life,” he said unhappily.

  Dera fought off a grin as she pulled the garment over her head. “You will survive,” she said. “And do not eat all of the food. I am hungry, I think.”

  He snorted. “That is your punishment for not letting me watch,” he said. “I am going to eat everything now.”

  She laughed softly. “Having a temper tantrum, are you, lad?”

  “Something like that.”

  She continued to chuckle as she went to her satchel, untying the fastens and pulling the bag open. There was a bar of soap inside, carefully wrapped, along with a comb, a horsehair brush, and a few other things. She pulled out a clean sleeping shift, one that had been tightly rolled up by Arabella. Pulling the dirty shift over her head, she climbed into the tub, hissing because the water was so hot.

  But it felt wonderful.

  “Sweet Mary,” she groaned, taking a moment to simply enjoy the heat. “God bless you for having them bring me a bath, Cort. You could not have done better.”

  “You are welcome. Even if I cannot watch.”

  His mouth was full as he spoke and, grinning, Dera began splashing water all over herself. In fact, she removed the stool and sat on the bottom of the pot, the water up to her breasts as she sat cross-legged. Dunking her head to get her hair wet, she pulled forth the bar of hard white Castile soap and began to scrub.

  “Where are we going tomorrow?” she asked, her eyes closed as she scrubbed her hair and face.

  Cort was deep into his pork and beans. “More than likely Mount Wrath,” he said, mouth full. “That is where you will be asked to liaise with the rebels, I suspect, though I’ve not heard that directly. But we will want to open communication with them.”

  Eyes still closed, Dera continued to scrub. “I want to know where my mother and surviving brothers are.”

  “I know.”

  “I also want to know where my father and brother are buried.”

  “We shall find out, I promise,” he said. “Were you close to your father?”

  “I was closer to my mother. I think my father was disappointed that I was not born a male child.”

  “But he has four sons.”

  “He wanted five.”

  “I am glad he did not have five.”

  Dera smiled at his compliment as she splashed water on her face, dunking her hair again to rinse the hard Castile soap out of it. Strangely enough, as long as she kept her eyes shut, she didn’t feel a rocking motion, so she was able to wash her face and hair that way. Once her head was all rinsed, she wiped the water from her eyes and opened them.

  “Cort,” she said. “I have been thinking about the first contact with my Irish brethren.”

  “And?”

  She lathered up the horsehair brush, thinking on how to approach the subject. It was something she had been thinking about since they’d departed Narborough, but now that they were in Ireland, she could no longer refrain from speaking up.

  It was important to her.

  “I think it will be helpful if you understand their way of thinking,” she said. “There is a village at Lisnadara that is the heart of the rebellion in this area and I would like to take you there. I want to introduce you to the priest who preaches a free Ireland and inspires the Irish with his sermons.”

  Cort pondered that as he took a big gulp of wine. “Are you telling me that a priest is rousing the people to insurrection?”

  She scrubbed her arms, over and under. “Not really,” she said. “He does not advocate violence or killing. He does not advocate hatred of the English. That is why I want you to come with me and meet him. I think he could give you some perspective on how the Irish view their land.”

  He set his cup down. “Dera, I do not need to speak with a priest to understand my enemy,” he said. “Although I appreciate the suggestion, it would be a waste of time.”

  “Am I a waste of time?”

  “Of course not, but…”

  “Then, please, say you’ll come with me,” she begged softly, cutting him off. “You will learn something and it will help with the negotiations. Isn’t it important to understand your adversary?”

  She had a point, and a very astute one. He sighed heavily, daring to turn around to see that she was sitting in the big copper pot, facing away from him. As he watched, she tied her long, wet hair up into a knot at the top of her head to keep it out of the way. Illuminated by the fire as she was, with her graceful swan-like neck and delicate shoulders, he swore that he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He knew he should probably turn back around, but he couldn’t seem to do it.

  “If you are trying to recruit me for your cause, it will not work,” he finally said. “I will never agree with or understand the Irish revolt.”

  As he watched, Dera soaped up her neck. “It is not my intention to convert you,” she said. “But I would like you to at least understand. That is all I’m asking, Cort. It will more than likely help you understand me better, as well.”

  He took another heavy drink of wine, draining the cup, as he watched her bathe in the firelight.

  “I understand you,” he said. “I know everything I want to know about you.”

  “Then you know I will not give up until you do this for me.”

  He snorted. “Nagging already, just like a good fishwife.”

  “Nay, not a fishwife. Just a wife. Yours, by God’s grace, someday.”

  He poured himself more wine, feeling the warmth begin to flow through his veins. “We will find a way. Do not lose faith so soon.”

  “If you remained here in Ireland, we could be married. It is not illegal here.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, it is not, but Ireland is a wild place. I do not wish to raise my sons here. They would be enemies in the land of their birth.”

  Dera conceded the point. “Then France? With Brend and Bella?”

  “Would that disappoint you?”

  She shook her head. “I would go to the moon with you if it meant we could be together,” she said. “But… but I worry, Cort. I have been thinking about this since our time together in Narborough’s vault. You have so very much to lose with all of this and I have absolutely nothing to lose. Can you really be happy giving up everything you have worked for? Your service for the king, your family?”

  The truth was that those thoughts had crossed Cort’s mind, too. He tried not to give them any great weight, but it was difficult not to. He’d always been a man who did what he wanted, when he wanted, and accomplished anything he’d ever attempted. But in the case of an Irish bride, his luck might run out.

  And he would never get the Collingbourne barony.

  “It is serious, no doubt,” he finally said. “When Henry asked me to seduce you and learn all of Ireland’s deep secrets, he promised me the Collingbourne barony should I succeed. Given that I am a third son, and both of my older brothers are titled, the lure of lands and title mean something to me. I have worked hard for them. But I find it difficult to believe I cannot still have the barony and you also.”

  “But how?”

  He shrugged. “I am not sure,” he said. “Mayhap I will train you to have a French accent and tell Henry you are a French orphan. He’s never seen you, so how is he to know who you really are?”

  She turned to look at him, her breasts just below the waterline. When she realized that he was sitting there watching her, and probably had been for some time, it did not trouble her. It seemed oddly natural. She leaned forward, her chin against the side of the pot.

  “I cannot be any less than what I am,” she said. “I am not ashamed of being Irish.”

  “It is not a matter of shame,” he said. “It is a matter of presenting you as a bride I am legally allowed to wed.”<
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  She thought on that. “I will consider it,” she said, “if you will come with me to visit the priest of Lisnadara. Please, Cort. It is important to me.”

  He eyed her, seeing that she wasn’t beyond bargaining with him. It mildly annoyed him, but it also impressed him. As always, she was a woman of great passion and conviction. He drained his cup, slamming it back on the table.

  “I will consider it,” he said, “if you will trade places with me and let me get into the bath.”

  “I would be happy to.”

  “I want you to help me bathe.”

  He had the benefit of two big cups of wine in his system, warming his veins, while visions of Dera’s naked body warmed his loins. Dera eyed him, sitting back in the pot so that the tops of her breasts were visible above the water. The waterline was right at her nipples and Cort had a tantalizing glimpse of them.

  “I am a maiden, Cort,” she said, a hint of scolding. “I would not know anything about bathing a man.”

  “And I would not know about an Irish priest who preaches rebellion. But if I am willing, you should be willing.”

  She fought off a grin. “Are we bargaining about this, then?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Then I must think about it.”

  “Dera?”

  “Aye?”

  “Will you be my wife?”

  Her smile broke through. “I told you that I would go anywhere with you, as long as we could be together. I would be proud to be your wife.”

  “I am not a man given to subtle hints or tactics. If I want something, I say so.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Then will you do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Will you stand up?”

  She blinked, looking down at herself in the pot. “But… clearly, I have no clothes on.”

  “I know. But I just want to see how perfect you are. If that makes you uncomfortable, then you do not have to do it.”

  Dera sat there, eyeing him. She wasn’t sure what to say. As much as she adored the man and wanted to be his wife, there was something in her that was hesitant in making a spectacle out of herself. Perhaps because she didn’t want him to think she easily gave over to his fairly lusty demands – not just his, but any man’s. She had restraint and dignity, and for the moment, she intended to keep both. It was bad enough that they were alone in a chamber together.

  She didn’t want him to think less of her.

  “If you don’t mind, I would rather not,” she said.

  Something flickered in his expression, as if he just realized his desire had gotten the better of him. Perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was because he hadn’t seen her in nine days. He was so eager to see her, explore her, and know everything about her that he’d made an improper request.

  He tried not to feel foolish.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have asked. My mother raised me to be more of a considerate man than I have displayed. But you are so beautiful, and I have missed you so, that I could not help myself.”

  She smiled. “Truth be told, I am tempted,” she said. “But when that moment comes for us, and it will come, I would rather it be something very special between us. Not because I’m conveniently nude in a bathtub and you’ve had more than your share of wine.”

  “You noticed that, did you?”

  She laughed softly. “I saw you pour at least two cups. You’ve probably had more than that.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “You may as well know that I can drink to excess sometimes,” he said. “Especially when I am weary, as I am now. I will turn my back and you can get out of the tub without my intrusion.”

  He turned around, facing the table, and Dera climbed out of the tub. She used her old shift to dry off with before donning the heavy white shift she’d brought, just for sleeping. Her wet hair was still tied up in a knot on the top of her head and as she watched the back of Cort’s head, she began to soften towards him, just a little.

  Big, beautiful, handsome Cort.

  He was hers.

  In truth, she wanted to explore him, too. She could see his massively muscled arms as the skin reflected the firelight, skin that was smooth and tanned from years spent in the sun. She knew that the man must have women falling all over themselves for him because, surely, such beauty would not have gone unnoticed. She saw the way he’d flirted with Arabella, as tame as it was, but he was a silver-tongued devil when he wanted to be.

  But she was the one he’d fallen for.

  She could still hardly believe it.

  With a smile on her lips, she came up behind him, putting her hands on his broad shoulders. He turned his head slightly, seeing her right hand on his right shoulder, and he brought up a big hand to clasp her fingers. With her left hand, she raked her fingers through his copper-colored hair, acquainting herself with the feel of it. The musky, wildly alluring scent of him. She found herself smelling the top of his head, intoxicated with the scent of the man.

  Her hands moved to his arms, feeling his warm skin beneath her palms. Her heart was thumping firmly against her ribs, her excitement nearly more than she could bear. She lifted one of his hands, big and scarred, and rubbed her cheek against it. She heard him groan, but he didn’t make a move to grab her. This was her inspection and he was going to let her take the lead.

  “Cort,” she murmured, rolling the name off her tongue. “Cort. Is that your real name?”

  He had his eyes closed, enjoying her touch more than he ever thought possible. “My full name is Cortland Henry Hubert, but I have been called Cort since I was a small lad, ever since I realized how much I hated my full name. My older brothers used to tease me, calling me Cortland, and I would fly into a rage and try to pummel them.”

  She grinned. “It is not worse than my name,” she said. “My full name is Dera Patrick. Can you imagine? If my mother was to name me for a saint, she could have picked a woman – Mary or Margaret or Catherine. But, no; I had to be named for a man.”

  Cort flashed his teeth. “Your brother told me that. I have been thinking on calling you Patty.”

  Her hands moved to his neck, encircling it as if to strangle him. “Do that and you will not live much longer.”

  He laughed, low in his throat, and she removed her hands, moving back to his shoulders, which were so magnificently broad. In fact, nothing about the man was imperfect. He sat there, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, as she ran gentle hands over him. Now that she’d touched him, it was as if she couldn’t get enough of him. She wanted to keep touching him. The man belonged to her.

  This English knight.

  Her enemy.

  Coming around to the front of him, she bent over, depositing the sweetest of kisses on his smooth, warm lips.

  The moment she did that, the situation changed.

  Cort knew he was lost the instant she latched on to him with her soft mouth. He didn’t even try to pull away; he lost himself in her sweet lips, his enormous hands entwined in her hair. He could not have resisted her in any case.

  Emotion overwhelmed him.

  Cort began to take the offensive, becoming more forceful in his kisses. Perhaps it was the wine or perhaps it was simply his powerful attraction to her. With his mouth fused to hers, he pulled her down onto his lap, cupping her face at first before allowing his hands to roam. Timidly at first, so he wouldn’t startle her, but he had every intention of inspecting her as she had inspected him. She was soft and clean and warm, and the shift she wore, though heavy, wasn’t heavy enough that he couldn’t feel her body beneath it.

  And it did nothing to conceal her from his eager hands.

  His lips never left her mouth and before Dera even realized it, the sleeping shift had been pushed down around her waist. Suddenly, she was up in his arms and the shift was falling to the floor. Heated kisses rained down on her mouth, face and neck as Cort lay her down on the lumpy bed. It took Dera a moment to realized he was removing his own
clothing.

  Off came the doublet.

  Off came the breeches and boots.

  Suddenly, they were both naked.

  Cort’s enormous body came down on Dera’s soft, slender form, enveloping her in power and warmth. His mouth left her lips, devouring her neck as he moved down her body. He tasted every inch of flesh on her shoulders and arms, moving to her chest and suckling lustfully on her swell of her bosom. A big hand fondled her breasts as his lips finally sought her nipples, moving from one to the other hungrily.

  Beneath him, Dera squirmed and gasped. Gone were the thoughts of restraint, of not presenting herself as a willing victim to his lust. She wouldn’t stand naked in front of the man, but the moment he’d touched her, that changed.

  Everything changed.

  His weight on her was significant and she instinctively parted her thighs so that his lower body slipped through, his weight partially supported by the bed. He was such a big man that he nearly swallowed her up with his flesh and heat, though his touch was incredibly gentle. It only made her want more. One of his hands moved beneath her to grasp her tender buttocks while the other slipped down her flat belly as his mouth began to move along her abdomen.

  The man was moving lower.

  Dera was in a haze of desire. It was her first experience with a man, any man, and she was only thinking of her growing love for him rather than of the consequences of their actions. She knew they should not be doing this, but she was selfish in that she didn’t care. All she could feel was the adoration she felt for him. When Cort moved lower, grasped her buttocks with both hands, and brought his mouth to bear on her Venus mound, Dera was quite certain that she saw God.

  It was the first word out of her mouth.

  Sweet Jesú!

  God and all of his saints were called upon as his mouth began to work her virginal core. Cort was merciless with his tongue, hearing her cries of passion that fed his lust in a way he’d never known. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he should not take her in the literal sense, at least not now, but she was so delicious that he wasn’t sure he could keep from burying his manhood in her womanly center.