by Nicole Locke
Tonight, Balthus was keeping watch at the outer part of their circle, far past the other watch guard and the farthest from the fire. When he’d volunteered for such a shift, she’d worried about him because he was still recovering. However, if there was one trait about the Warstones...no, that comparability had ended long ago. The fact he undertook the hardest task hadn’t anything to do with Warstones, who would have bludgeoned others into doing it for them. Balthus sat up in the middle of the night in the cool air because it was his turn. It was simply his duty to do so and he did it.
Before she knew what she was doing, her feet took her to the last place she’d seen him. What she found was a man sitting and leaning against a tree, sound asleep. It was as startling as finding snow bells through ice. Just as beautiful and unexpected. Hardy and yet...vulnerable, if such a word could be applied to Balthus. His black hair slashing downwards and long lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones and jaw. The tightness to his jaw, the quirk to his lips that made her heart quicken was instead softly rounded. She wanted to kiss him. To wake him and watch his eyes open. Wanted to know if the kiss would proceed to more.
However, if she woke him now, he might not be pleased he’d slept. Ever vigilant, she could well imagine him berating himself on his weakness. Maybe she could even tease him a bit.
Where were these thoughts coming from? She had no right to tease or wake him with kisses, and wasn’t she angry with him? After the stables when he reminded her of Ian, and...no, there had been more shared between them since then. And now he was weary because he pushed himself to protect her and the boys on this journey. How could she hold herself back from this man? A tender part of herself opened up to him, and now she wanted to soothe him.
He was beautiful in that masculine way that was impossible to describe. He still reminded her of that brutal yet riveting tapestry, the one that if she studied it, she’d have an idea of the weaver’s skill. With him, she wanted to be closer. Days with him, weeks, she’d touched him in a way only a healer should, but all the time she’d admired the way he was made. Then he’d kissed her, kissed her again, and his touch? It had been her unravelling.
Now he slept, and something daring wove through her. Would she heed it? Lifting her skirts ever so carefully, she stepped towards him and still he slept. He’d pushed himself so hard, all to help her, to defeat his parents, to answer his nephews while still respecting her need to hide. And that, again, how he was with her children, was all it took for her to make the decision.
She stepped closer still and knelt.
Balthus’s dream was infused with rolling waves of languid heat...pleasure. A persistent revolution guiding him that he willingly followed, uneasy until a gentle weight straddled his lap and iron bands of need tightened. With a heavy arm, he clasped the source against him. A desirous anchor of soft breath against his neck. A feeling of completeness, of needful desperation. The heat above him damp, and he drove towards it once, twice. A hot gasp, a woman’s quiet cry, a grip against his thigh. Nails biting through his skin, breaking him from the cocoon of warmth to the cool air of night; the cold wet grass, the unforgiving tree he leaned against. To the scent of thyme escaping from long red tresses tangled and trapped by his arm. To Séverine, placing damp kisses along his neck, just under his chin before his scruff started, trailing to behind his ear. The length of him a hard bar between them. Insistent as the beating of his heart.
He looked wildly around him, at the quiet of the woods, the faint spark of a dying embers where he knew the camp was. ‘I slept? Is there danger?’
‘Nothing. No one. Only me.’ She pressed closer to him. ‘Don’t stop.’
Something rumbled and broke. He searched her eyes, which were dark, but her lips were full, her gaze slumberous. On a groan, he captured her mouth, their tongues exploring, tangling, pressing tighter. Showing his need and desire for her with his every breath.
Séverine settled on his lap, his bound arm trapped between them, a sting of pain that he ignored as her soft flesh gave to his. ‘I want... I need you.’
‘I know, you’ve told me when you were sleeping.’
He cupped her head in his hand lifted her eyes to him. ‘How did we get like this?’
‘I meant to wake you in a different way,’ she said. ‘But you talked.’
He never talked in his sleep. As the youngest brother, he would have heard of it. All the others knew about Ian, and yet... Was it her? What did he have to tell her so badly he could only say it in his sleep?
‘You listened.’
‘You said some words that you said before. They didn’t make sense then, but I think...you talked about me.’ She patted his arm. ‘I laid a hand on your arm and then you tugged me.’
‘You were kissing me.’ It had been a dream, but it wasn’t. They were memories now and needed fast clarification. He was already losing control, his mind snagged because his body didn’t want this conversation...only her.
‘I was.’
‘Because of what I said,’ he clarified.
‘And what you do,’ she whispered.
He had been asleep when she’d approached. Very little made sense with her in his arms, the slight dampness of his neck where she’d kissed him, the fact her fingers were gripping his tunic, ready to tear it off. Her fingers mimicked his own, which were buried somewhere near her hip.
‘Tell me what I said.’
She shook her head. Did it again as she lifted herself and slid down.
Lust slammed through him.
‘Move, Balthus. I want to kiss you more.’
No. Something wasn’t right. He hung his head, his chest heaved. ‘You’re undoing me.’
She slid her hands along his shoulders, his skin damp with sweat under his tunic. ‘I know. I want you.’
He wished he knew what he’d said, what he’d done to gain her affection, but he could guess. He was obsessed with her so was it any wonder that he talked to her while sleeping?
But there was more that needed to be said—must be said. ‘Séverine there’s—’
She rested her hand on his chest. ‘Secrets. I know. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow we return home. We don’t have to know them, not now.’
She tightened her arms and legs around him. Her rushed words and the urgent rolls of her hips enflamed and called to every need to possess. He stilled himself, aware that his breeches and her crushed chemise were the only barrier to him burying himself in her.
Staring into his eyes, she rolled her hips again. He grunted and gripped her hip hard. She trembled in his arms, and he wanted every single one. Crushing her body against his, he felt his own body pulse against her heat.
He couldn’t last like this, he had so little control. One hand could free him and—
He had to do the impossible. Must, even knowing the magnificence of holding her would end before the sun rose.
‘I can’t keep this secret. We can’t.’
Séverine tried to still the deep fluttering inside her; attempted to ease her hammering heart and slow her breathing. She could do nothing about her trembling as she looked up at Balthus’s tortured expression.
She knew he wanted her. It was physically evident in the tension of his body and his words. When she’d knelt by him while he’d slept, he’d turned to her as if he could see her with his eyes closed, and he’d spoken to her. They hadn’t been feverish, disjointed mutterings, but whole thoughts on what her children meant to him, what she meant to him, how hard it was to let her go, but he needed to. And the more he’d talked the faster his breathing had become, as if his words hurt him.
So she’d rested her hand on his arm to soothe him, and on a harsh groan and faster than she had been prepared for, he’d gripped her gown and dragged her over him. Not even then had he woken, but her body on his had agitated him. When he’d whipped his head back against the tree, the cords of his neck had strained
and he’d let out a growl of such feral desperate need, she had been lost. He was in pain because of her; she would end it.
Now his gaze was unfathomable but vast, forever, and it included her. The swelling in her heart was all too comprehensible: she loved him. Loved Balthus of Warstone. The brother of her husband.
No matter how much this moment meant, it wasn’t enough, and she would only ever want more. She didn’t want a life without him, but here he was reminding her that that was how it would be.
Foolish hopes of a future together!
Because she was married, and as much as she knew that what was between them was right and good and everything, she couldn’t keep it. No matter how much of forever he showed her in his tender gaze, in his gentle touch, in the whispers of breath against her temple, there was no running away with him.
Everything in her that wasn’t gentle unravelled within her, and as her own heart was crushed in her chest, Balthus’s steady grey gaze wavered as if at any moment she’d disappear.
It wasn’t she who would be gone tomorrow. It was him. It was them. Then she wept.
Balthus had never felt true life before. Oh, he may have been born, learned to walk and breathe. Learned the ways of childhood and of becoming a man. He may have felt some camaraderie with Louve, some familial affection when he’d approached Reynold in his courtyard and asked to be a true brother. But his heart and body had only been mimicking life. His lungs pretending to draw in air, his heart to beat. He’d never been alive until Séverine had placed her hand on him and said...always.
That word meant far more than a word whispered across tongue and lips. Always meant something he’d never granted himself. His false life wasn’t meant to last for always, nothing of his soul was worth forever. But Séverine gave that to him, gave him life and always, and he succumbed to it all. Took her kisses, the weight of her heat against him, though he knew it was wrong.
And he knew it as Séverine’s gasps and tears revealed the lies.
‘It’s Ian, isn’t it? You’ve sent him a message, and he’ll be there at the keep, waiting for us. What have I done? What will become of the children? Of us? Ian will know.’ She choked. ‘I can’t run from him forever, and he’ll know. They always know!’
Her sobs were distressed, her words frantic. Balthus gave useless murmurs in reply, inadequate pats as he wrapped her body in his loose cloak and pulled her closer to him. Soaking them both in her tears.
‘Stop. Stop. Séverine, there’s no need for this. There’s only us. Ian’s not there. There is no message. He is not coming, neither is he a threat. Not now, not ever. Ease your heart, my—’
She abruptly pulled away. ‘What did you say?’
He rubbed her back. ‘You worry about your husband...but you shouldn’t. Not anymore. Not ever again.’ Balthus breathed in deeply. Braced himself and told her what he should have told her that first day. ‘Your husband, my brother, is dead.’
It was the cold that reached her first. As if her entire body had been plunged in a winter lake.
‘What did you say?’ she said, and even then she was certain she wouldn’t hear him properly. Not through the terror and roaring in her ears. He couldn’t be saying what she thought.
‘He’s dead, Séverine. Ian’s... There was an incident at his fortress some months ago. It wasn’t an acci—’
She ripped her chemise free from his legs and stood to her full height. ‘This is...true? Not a game?’
He stood with her. ‘I should have told you.’
‘Told me what... Warstone. That a man I have fled from for years is no longer a threat? That your brother has been killed? That I am a widow?’
‘All of it. Any of it.’
Rage shook her limbs. Séverine raised her fist and struck him. The fact his face exploded with red did little to ease her embarrassment that she had been duped, and that her husband was dead. Or her rage that it was this man she’d given her heart to who was the one who’d shamed her.
‘I thought you were different. I thought you weren’t a Warstone, with your games and lies. Why didn’t you tell me? To prove that I have no moral code? That I attack men in stables while they’re sleeping and can’t keep—’
‘No!’ he said. ‘To keep me away from you!’
She stepped back, shook her head.
‘I am the one with no honor. I’m the one who needed to remember a man, a good man, is the one who deserves you.’
Madness! ‘Ian wasn’t good. Ian tried to kill you, left me in that keep and abandoned his children. He hasn’t even searched for me. I know it, or he’d find me like you did and...’ She gasped. ‘How long has he been gone?’
‘Ian loved you.’ He rushed out the words.
‘What?’
‘Those were his dying words,’ he said. ‘To tell you he loved you and hoped that you were safe. That he mourned leaving you and the children, but he did it because he had to. Because he wasn’t...he couldn’t trust his parents, or his own thoughts and deeds.’
‘You go too far.’
‘It’s true. He said as much as he could to Louve. The rest...the understanding, that came because of what happened when he died.’
‘You act like you were there. Did you kill your brother, Balthus? Twist a blade or stir a potion to fell the father of my children?’
‘I played a part.’
She raised her hand to strike him again. When he waited for it, she cursed. ‘Tell me.’
Her tears were gone. Sorrow was there, biting at her heart, but now rage ruled her. Secrets. How naive could she have been? She’d thought she’d grown up since being away from the Warstones. Had congratulated herself that she could carry two whole buckets! It was laughable. She didn’t have strength of heart or will. This family always won with deceit that far surpassed any of her so-called cleverness.
He shook his head.
‘Tell me!’ she demanded. ‘Who did it, and why. He was my husband. How far do your lies go? Are your parents even alive? How did I not know any of this since I’ve travelled the entirety of France and Provence and I have all these people loyal to me. People you tell me I can command to overthrow the Warstones. Do they even exist?’
Balthus stepped back again, his body half in shadow from the trees, half in the dim light from the moon. ‘My parents are still alive, they truly do want this legend because the King of England wants it, and if we’re right, they know it leads to a treasure. They can’t have more power or wealth. Reynold and I have a tenuous agreement. I still need to prove myself to him. To do that, I vowed I’d find you, and obtain the parchment he believes exists.’
‘If I have it,’ she said. ‘I have possessions, but there’s no certainty whether...’
‘Ian told Louve what he’d done. That you and the legend were hidden in a location no one knew.’
‘So even the reason of him loving me and taking me to Forgotten Keep was a lie? It wasn’t me or the children he wanted safe; it was some foolish scribbles.’
‘He...lost more of his control after you were gone, Séverine. I can see it no other way than he broke his own mind to save you.’
‘Is this your attempt to make me feel shame when it’s not me but all of you who are to blame?’
‘There’s only two of us against our parents now.’
Ian was gone. No, she couldn’t think about him and finish what needed to be said. ‘You are truly making an alliance with your brother.’
‘I know it is as unbelievable as a legend with a treasure, but it’s true. I approached Reynold and we made a pact to end their reign.’
‘And do anything to do it, including lying to me.’
‘I didn’t lie to you because of the treasure,’ he said, then turned and cursed.
This was worse. ‘You were to tell me immediately. Let me guess. You were to ask me for it when there was some trust between us.
After all, what if I had sided with King Edward in the six years?’
‘That’s not the reason I waited.’
She laughed, but it was bitter, because she felt that thorn. ‘I know that because it was apparent to you I hadn’t sold myself over an elusive scrap of felled tree the moment you saw me carrying kindling.’
‘Séverine, I waited because I—’
The thorn turned to a shard. ‘You care for me? Lies! All of it. You have no feelings because if you did, you would know how much this hurts me.’
‘They’re flawed, I’m flawed, but—’
‘True? I won’t believe you again. Now tell me what any widow deserves to know.’
He exhaled roughly, rubbed his arm as if it pained him. She felt no pity for him. She only waited.
‘He wasn’t well,’ he said. ‘In the hall of the fortress, with witnesses, he threw a dagger at me...and then Louve threw a dagger towards him. Louve’s dagger struck true, but—’
‘Louve again.’
‘A mercenary who is aggravating, but he made company with Reynold.’
‘And somehow with you, as well. Thus, he’s at Warstone Fortress because Ian’s dead, and he’s holding it safe while you find me to get this parchment.’
It was more than that, and he didn’t know how she’d react. She had run...but there were her children. ‘Reynold and I never wanted that estate and signed it away to him. My parents have their own estate, Warstone’s was completely Ian’s. Naturally, it should go to his children, but...’
‘You did what?’ she said.
‘You ran,’ Balthus said. ‘We couldn’t leave the estate vulnerable to our parents. Of course, it hasn’t been sealed by France’s king yet, and it may not be, but we’ve delayed—’
