Once Upon a Castle

by Nora Roberts

  “One kiss, Lady Arianne. One.”

  Then his mouth descended upon hers, claiming it as a knight would claim a battlefield.

  A shock like lightning quivering through a birch tree ran through her. A shimmering fire caught and held.

  The kiss was gentle. But not so gentle that she didn’t feel the ripple of power from him, the control he was exercising, the deliberation. She wanted suddenly to startle him out of that control, to make him want her as she wanted him.

  Her lips clung to his, parted, heat flaring from her to him, her arms circling his neck and tightening.

  Nicholas knew he should stop after that one kiss. He’d meant to, but she tasted like summer honey and autumn spice. Shock ran through him—and something else. Desire. With an oath, Nicholas twisted his hands in her hair and deepened the kiss. He heard her soft gasp, knew a swift, grim satisfaction, and then he felt her entire body quiver as his mouth explored the curve of her lips with rough, demanding thoroughness. He took his time, tasting and savoring.

  “Arianne,” he muttered at last, lifting his head, letting her breathe, but before she could speak, he backed her against the hard stone wall, held her there helpless, and kissed her yet again.

  He didn’t want to stop. Was damned if he would stop…

  Unless she wanted him to…

  Her full, soft breasts were pressed against him, straining, yearning. He felt her tremble in his arms like a wild creature.

  Careful, he warned himself, even as he claimed her mouth still, ruthless with the wanting of it. A voice inside shouted that it was nearly too late for caution.

  Then, suddenly, without warning, he pulled back. Her eyes were shining, her lips bruised. She stared at him in dazed wonder and rising joy.

  His sanity flooded back.

  “Arianne, go.”

  “No.” She flung her arms around his neck.

  He disengaged them, his blood beating hotly in his temples.

  “Go!”

  “I am staying. I…”

  He wheeled away from her, then immediately sprang back. He gripped her by the arms, not gently, his lean face dangerous in that dim and silent chamber. “If you stay, I can’t answer for what will happen. I’m a strong man.” He gave a bitter half laugh. “I’ve survived worse dungeons than the one far beneath us in the bowels of this castle. I’ve survived whippings and beatings, starvation, bitter cold, and war—but I cannot survive you. The wanting of you…needing of you…not being able to have you…”

  “Have me. Take me. I’m yours,” she whispered and threw her arms around his neck again, rising up on tiptoe to kiss him.

  A sweet kiss. An innocent, giving, yearning kiss that stirred something previously untouched inside him and sent the fire raging even more intensely until, abruptly, Nicholas knew he had to pull away.

  He held her at arm’s length, reining in with a supreme act of will the tattered remnants of his self-control.

  “This is wrong, Ari.” His voice was thick, yet dogged. “Wrong. You know nothing of men, of the world. You’re in love with some boy you knew long ago, some wild, heedless daredevil you admired from afar…”

  “Yes—and no! I loved you then, loved him then—but you’re not that boy anymore. I know that. He’s gone forever. You’re not that boy, and I’m not that skinny, freckled child who followed after you. Look at me, Nicholas.” She raised her chin, her eyes bright as stars, defiant, compelling. “I’m a woman, a grown woman.”

  He groaned and raked a hand through his hair. That she was. A beautiful woman. With her lush, pouting lips, her brilliant eyes, her creamy, flawless skin. And hair softer than velvet and sweeter-smelling than the wildest of forest flowers.

  “And I love the man I see before me,” she went on in a whisper that tore at his heart. “I would trust my life to you, give my life for you. I love you, Nicholas of Dinadan. I always have. And now, now more than ever, I always will.”

  Firm and stubborn she stood there, a slender, incredibly lovely woman reaching out to him. Giving, loving, hoping.

  “I was wrong about you before…in the cottage. Those things I said. You are a true friend to my brother. You’re risking everything for Marcus. For me. I beg forgiveness for misjudging you.”

  “Arianne, if I stay, if I kiss you again…I won’t stop…not until I’ve had you, taken you…”

  “Please.” She laughed shakily, reaching up to drag her fingers through his hair, to stroke his face. “Take me. I want you to…”

  “By God, you’ll wed me when this is over. If we live we’ll take our vows. It will be forever. Answer me now, yes or no.”

  Arianne tugged his head down toward hers. “You make it sound like a threat.” Her laughter was soft, spilling over him like sun-warmed honey as she traced her finger gently, teasingly, around his lips.

  “It’s a vow. A vow of honor.”

  Nicholas pulled her against him. As his hand closed over her breast, Arianne’s eyes widened with newly discovered pleasure.

  “Forever,” she squeaked.

  “You won’t change your mind.” It was a statement as his thumb found her nipple.

  “I…never change my mind…Nicholas,” she managed and then closed her eyes in pure pleasure as his mouth devoured hers again.

  When they sank down on the corner pallet, it was as one. Her body was aflame everywhere he touched, and he touched everywhere. With furious, exquisite passion they clung together, shedding tunics and hauberk and breeches and chemises and hose, their bodies hot and feverish despite the chill easing off the stone walls.

  By candlelight they kissed and touched and tasted. Neither knew what the morrow would bring. They might have only this one night.

  Arianne’s hands slid down his powerful back, and her fingers paused as she discovered the many scars embedded in his flesh.

  “Nicholas!”

  “It’s nothing, sweet. It doesn’t matter.”

  “But these are whip scars…”

  “From when I was imprisoned…by men who did Julian’s bidding.” He was trailing kisses down her throat. “They fell upon me after I was wounded in a battle in Chessperon. They brought me to a dungeon in the far marshy reaches of the land. I was thrown in prison, beaten…”

  Her mouth and eyes were wide with horror.

  Nicholas brushed a kiss on the top of her nose. He spoke gently. “Ari, don’t think about it.”

  “That’s why you weren’t here sooner,” she murmured brokenly, clutching his shoulders.

  “I only recently escaped. I came as soon as I got word of your pleas.”

  “Nicholas, forgive me, forgive me. I wronged you…my poor dear.”

  “Don’t pity me, Arianne.” He caught her against him and cupped a warm, strong hand under her breast. The kisses he pressed against her throat, and then lower, to the swell of her breasts, heated her flesh. “At this moment I am the luckiest of men.”

  This time when he claimed her mouth with his, the kiss nearly blocked the horrid images from her mind. It swept through her, wild and possessive and demanding, and she gave herself up to it, but far beneath the sheer ardent passion of the moment, love and need and tenderness burned. As her mouth parted beneath the onslaught of his, as she slipped her arms around him and drew him close, closer still, love poured from her heart, open and free and giving. It wrapped them both in a cloak that no wind or breath of coldness could penetrate.

  As they drew together on the pallet, he gave to her his strength, his courage, his love, and she gave tenderness and warmth and healing. They rocked together in that cold, uncertain night, while the candle sputtered and the wind sighed at the window, and destiny waited beyond the walls of the chamber.

  7

  “We’ve come for the prisoner from Galeron. Archduke Julian commands his presence in the great hall prior to the execution.”

  Nicholas and his black-masked companions waited with feet planted apart as the dungeon master fumbled for his key ring. “Does he want the gypsy, too?” the man
grunted.

  “Both of them.” Nicholas’s hand was on his sword hilt. “Quick, you fool. If you keep the archduke waiting, he’ll see you locked here in their stead!”

  Another guard ambled along the corridor of miserable prisoners. His feral eyes inspected the tall, masked knight with suspicion. He halted before Count Marcus’s cell, his back to the bars, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Nees told me at supper last evening he was the one selected to lead the escort for the prisoners today.”

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Nicholas snarled, gesturing impatiently at the dungeon master, who had frozen at the other guard’s words. “Now hurry, or the archduke will have our heads. The prisoners—quickly, fool, or by all that is holy…”

  At that moment one of Sir Castor’s knights, unnerved by the complication, made a move toward his sword.

  “‘Tis a trick!” the second guard shouted suddenly, drawing his own sword.

  But he never had a chance to use it, for Marcus’s arm shot through the bars and grabbed him by the throat, and the next instant the Count of Galeron had plunged Arianne’s jeweled dagger into the guard’s neck.

  Fighting erupted in a furious tempest as Nicholas and the knights whipped out their swords and a dozen of Julian’s men-at-arms, hearing the cries from the dungeon guards, came swarming down the stairs.

  “Kill them! They’re imposters! ‘Tis a trick, a trick!”

  The dungeon master slashed his sword at Nicholas, who leaped aside only just in time. He sliced his own blade forward, then leveled it sideways in a wicked thrust that tore through the dungeon master’s chest. Blood poured, the man sank to his knees with a death groan, and then Nicholas had the keys from him.

  He tossed them through the bars to Marcus as he advanced upon the next shouting, slashing onslaught of Julian’s men.

  Marcus fitted the key in the lock and swung the door wide. An instant later he was out, grabbing up the sword of the guard he’d stabbed and hefting it even as the gypsy shouted out in glee from her cell.

  At that moment the soldier blocking Nicholas’s path drove his great shining sword past Nicholas’s guard and thrust straight for his heart.

  “What have you done with my medallion?”

  Glaring, Julian bore down upon his wife with deadly rage and grabbed her by the throat. Cren the Astrologer paused three paces from them and folded his arms, watching the duchess’s terrified eyes with satisfaction.

  “Tell me, you conniving whore, or I’ll throttle you here and now!”

  “Nothing, my lord. I…never…saw…”

  “Only you and Cren have access to my chambers and know where it is kept. I need the medallion for the execution today—do you think to save your scum lover Marcus by hiding from me the royal medallion of Dinadan?”

  “Stop…stop…I beg of you…”

  Arianne, who had just a moment before entered the adjoining anteroom, heard the duchess’s strangled cries and darted forward. Without hesitation, she threw herself at Julian, wrenching his arm to free Katerine from his death grip.

  Cren half turned, gesturing to the guards at the outer door.

  “Subdue this woman.”

  “No!” Arianne cried desperately as she was dragged back. “My lord, let her go…I beg you, don’t harm her!”

  At that moment there was a thunderous pounding in the corridors of the castle. She heard shouting, boots stomping, and from a distance came the clash of swords.

  “To arms! To arms! The castle is besieged!”

  The shout reached their ears, and Julian froze even as Cren gave a hoarse cry of fear.

  “You did not foretell this!” Julian cried, releasing Katerine’s throat with a growl as he spun furiously toward the astrologer.

  “My lord, the stars do not lie. But they did not show me…”

  “Do you know what this means? What I must do now? Quick, the tower!”

  Then Julian was gone, the guards whipping aside to let him pass. “Go! Fight! Drive them back!” he screamed as he ran up the corridor, the astrologer striding after him, pale as frost.

  Arianne helped the bruised and weeping Katerine to a bench as the other ladies emerged fearfully from the anteroom. “Tend to her,” she ordered, then raced out into the hall.

  Which way? Which way had he gone?

  It was then that she saw the sweep of a starred black-and-white robe just disappearing around a corner. Cren!

  She rushed after him, dashing up the corner stair on slippered feet.

  Over the bare hills and through the Great Forest galloped a seemingly endless stream of soldiers. The portcullis had been raised for the nobles and peasants and townsfolk to enter the bailey and witness the executions, and the encroaching armies crashed across the drawbridge in a thundering charge that echoed through the hills and mountains surrounding the south end of the kingdom.

  Some troops carried the banner of Galeron—they were led by Count Marcus’s captain of arms. Others waved a strange banner—green with black letters that spelled “Nicholas the Hawk.” These warriors were fierce-looking men astride powerful destriers.

  Sir Castor’s men, bearing his own banner, led another charge, tearing through the courtyard and hacking at the black-masked guards who were loyal to Duke Julian.

  The fighting was furious and bloody. The crowd shoved and ran and fought and fell. Julian’s troops attacked from above with arrows and from below with swords. They swarmed from the castle like a frenzy of locusts.

  All of Dinadan roared with battle.

  Blood flowed down the stairway of Castle Doom behind them as Nicholas and Marcus fought their way up. They’d hacked through dozens of men thus far, and their swords were bloodied, their clothes torn, but they fought on with a ferocity that terrified all those who opposed them. A dozen soldiers surrounded the two of them as they reached the head of the stairs, and the clang and hiss of swords rang out in frenzied chorus as back to back they fought.

  As Nicholas shoved a soldier down the stairs and sent him crashing into three others who were clambering up, he spotted Katerine watching in terror from the doorway of her chambers.

  “Where’s Arianne?” he shouted, blocking the thrust of his opponent.

  “The tower room—she followed Julian and Cren—ahhh!” she screamed as one of Julian’s men seized her from behind.

  “Traitor,” the man snarled. “I’ll teach you to give aid to the enemy…”

  With a vicious thrust, Marcus dispatched the soldier who had just bloodied his arm. He swerved toward Katerine and the soldier who held her, rage suffusing his handsome face.

  “Release her!” In that instant he recognized the soldier: Baylor, the Captain of Arms, who had delighted in beating the prisoners of the dungeon, who had beaten Marcus only a week earlier.

  With an evil smirk, Baylor moved his blade toward Katerine’s heart.

  “You’ve been lusting after the duke’s honored wife, and she after you. Now you can watch the whore die.”

  At that moment, Katerine tried to wrench free, and Marcus sprang forward. His sword flashed with cold fire as he shoved Baylor’s blade aside only just in time.

  Baylor hurled Katerine into the wall and rounded on the count.

  Time froze. Katerine stared at the two men in horror, fear for Marcus shining in her eyes. But he didn’t glance at her; his gaze was locked on Baylor, who was grinning maliciously, circling.

  “Get inside, Katerine!” Marcus ordered, remarkably calm. “Lock the door!”

  She stayed where she was, and without warning, Marcus lunged toward the soldier again.

  Fear tore at Nicholas even as he fought off two more of Julian’s men. Something terrible was about to happen. He didn’t know how he knew—he just did. Years on the battlefield had given him a sixth sense where death was concerned. True, it was all around him now, but he sensed that it was bearing down like a wild, panting wolf on someone he loved.

  Arianne, he thought in raw terror for her, even as he br
ought his sword down on the last man in his path. With a quick glance he saw that Marcus had slain the man who had dared threaten Katerine; he was now holding the trembling young woman in his arms.

  In a flash Nicholas remembered the secret passageway leading into the tower room itself, and the door that opened only from the outside.

  He ducked down the corridor, following several twists and turns. He had to get to Arianne before she confronted Julian and Cren. In the secret passage no soldiers would impede him.

  He found the hidden panel, pressed it, and entered dank darkness. With swift, practiced movements he tindered a light, then ran through the close-walled gloom, his boots scraping over the stones as he sprinted toward the secret stair.

  When Arianne arrived at the top of the landing, she peered about in dismay. The landing led nowhere. There was nothing here but another short corridor, ending in a wall. No windows, no doors. Just a single light overhead and an arced multicolored panel painted beside a low bench.

  Julian and Cren had disappeared.

  From below came the distant sounds of fighting. Where were Nicholas and Marcus in all of this pandemonium? At this moment they were most likely battling for their very lives. She closed her eyes, overcome by the horrible images crowding into her brain.

  It would do no good to sob or even to search for them. Instinct told her to follow Julian. If she got the chance to rid the earth of him, she would. She had no weapon but her wits, and she was afraid, but she was more afraid of what would happen should he remain archduke of this subjugated land.

  She turned her thoughts from the awful din of battle belowstairs and focused on the gypsy’s words. The blue panel.

  That blue panel? she wondered, staring at the colorful design beside the bench. She reached up and pressed the oblong that was blue.

  Nothing happened. She pressed again, harder.

  The wall with the panel swung partly open, making no sound in the silent hallway.

  Instantly Arianne stepped forward. She slid through the gap—and froze.