by Nancy Morse
Helena’s eyes glistened with angry tears. “We must know for certain if Lord Crandall caused Father’s sickness.”
Her expression reflected the fury and anguish roiling inside him. “We will.”
“Helena, beware,” his lordship moaned. “’Tis too dangerous—”
“Hush, Father. I will not yield to fear. We must send a letter to the King, stating what has happened, and—”
Tavis shook his head. “’Twill take too long.”
She huffed. “What do you suggest, then?”
“We will ask Crandall exactly what he did.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ask him? How?”
“You mentioned the official had other castles in Cumbria that he intended to visit.”
“Aye. He was headed to Fremley Keep the day of the storm.”
“With the foul weather, he might still be there.”
Determination brightened her features. “Let us hope he is. Come. I will find us a quill and some ink.”
Chapter Seven
Helena strode down the corridor, Tavis beside her. Her mind whirled with all that she’d learned moments ago, while the poignant ache within her drove deeper. Her father had kept so many secrets from her—ones that even Tavis seemed to know.
How utterly foolish she was, for not having suspected that her father wasn’t being truthful. In hindsight, she recalled several instances when he’d shifted their discussions to other matters, or claimed a missive he’d received in her presence was a matter of estate and thus he’d read it later, no doubt so he wouldn’t have to divulge any details of what was really going on.
She fought an angry sob. She should have been more attentive. If she had, her sire wouldn’t now be lying gravely ill in his bed—
“Helena,” Tavis said.
She kept walking, her hands fisted at her sides.
“Helena,” he said again.
When she didn’t answer, he caught her arm, shoved open the door to a nearby chamber, and pulled her inside. She struggled to break his grip, but he was far too strong. As he released her and the chamber door clicked shut, she found herself in the guest room he was sharing with Merry. Two wooden-framed beds were lined up along the opposite wall, and a freshly kindled fire crackled in the hearth.
Facing him, Helena set her hands on her hips. Her chin nudged higher.
His mouth kicked up at the right corner. “I remember that look.”
“Do you really?”
“You are about to storm off.”
“I would, except you are standing between me and the door. Deliberately, I vow.”
Tavis winked, of all things.
Fie! There was much to do, and he was causing a senseless delay. “Step aside, Tavis.”
“I fear I cannot.”
“Why not? Your boots are not nailed to the floorboards.”
His grin broadened, as if he enjoyed her annoyance. “Aye, well…”
“We were going to write a letter. For that, we need the supplies in my chamber.” She marched toward the door, determined to brush past him.
Tavis caught her arm again, abruptly halting her.
The warmth of his hand reached her through the worn fabric of her sleeve. A tremor ran through her, an acknowledgement of his touch as, trapped beside him, she raised her lashes and glared at him.
His thumb brushed her arm. “Calm yourself, Thistle.”
“Thistle?”
A reddish flush defined his cheekbones. “’Tis a secret name I gave you years ago.” His tone softened. “Like the thistle, you were beautiful, strong, and yet, a little prickly.”
Confusion and pleasure swept through her, heightening her anger. “Why bother to give me such a name? We never expected to see one another again.”
His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t answer.
She tried to wrench free of his hold, but his grip was akin to an iron manacle.
“Tavis, let me go.”
“When we are finished talking.”
“Now.”
He laughed softly. “Easy, Thistle.”
She glowered at him. “We must send that letter as soon as possible. ’Tis very important.”
“Indeed, ’tis. You are important though, too.” Slowly, firmly, he pulled her toward him, forcing her to take a step until they were less than a hand’s span apart. His enticing smell, a mingling of herbal soap and fresh air, teased her senses; she struggled with the urge to lean into him, to better savor his masculine scent.
“If you do not let me go, right now, I will cry for help. Servants will come at a run—”
“I would hope so, since you are the lady of the keep. Yet, ’twould be a shame to put them to such effort when you are not in the slightest peril.”
His coaxing, husky tone sent more tremors racing through her. “How do I know I am not in peril?”
“Because you know I am an honorable man.” His grip on her loosened, and he caught hold of her left hand, as if he were courting her. “Just as I know that you are furious with your sire and the revelations you have just learned.”
How could he know her so well? ’Twas simply not fair. She meant to tug her hand free, but then he pressed their joined hands to the middle of his chest. His body heat teased her, along with the feel of honed muscles beneath his tunic, as he caressed the backs of her fingers. They were close enough to kiss now…not that she was thinking of such a thing.
She rallied her fury. “The letter—”
“Do not be angry with your sire.”
“How can I not be?” Her rage flared up like flames stirred by the wind. “He kept the truth from me. He deliberately kept me ignorant—”
“He was trying to protect you.”
“By lying to me? I trusted him completely. I have done ever since I was a little girl.”
“He loves you very much. ’Tis why he wants to keep you safe.”
“But—”
“The danger is only going to grow over the coming months. The King knows about the charter and is feeling increasingly threatened.”
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked hard, determined not to cry in front of Tavis. Glancing away, her voice trembling, she said, “I would never betray my father to the crown, not under any circumstances.”
“Not intentionally, nay. Sometimes, though, a wrong word or hesitant glance is all that is needed to betray our true thoughts.”
Damnation, but he was right.
“I know ’tis difficult,” Tavis said, “but trust that your sire did what he believed would keep you from harm.”
“At what cost, though?” Stinging tears slipped from her eyes. “I appreciate why he wished to protect me. Yet, if I had been more informed, I might have been able to stop him from being sickened.”
Tavis made a sound of dismay. “You cannot blame yourself. He is a grown man and responsible for his own decisions.”
“I could have kept watch over him! I could have done far more, but…instead…” A sob broke from her. “He…is fighting to l-live.”
“I understand, Helena, but—”
“How can you p-possibly understand? Not only is Father ill, but he is so greatly in debt, we may never be able to pay what we owe.” As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted them, but she couldn’t take them back now. “I should n-not have told you. You cannot s-say a word to anyone. Father made me promise—”
“I will keep my silence. Tell me, though. Is the debt from the King’s taxes?”
“Taxes, fines, added fees for late payments.” More sobs racked her. “I have sold the family silver, furniture, j-jewelry, and more. Still, the debt increases.”
“Your sire is among many lords in the same predicament. ’Tis why there is such support for the charter.”
“And what will be the outcome of that document? A war?” Tears blurred her vision. “Father is the only parent I have left. I…c-cannot…lose him. I will not! Do you hear me? I…”—she shudde
red—“will…”
“Helena.” Tavis’s voice held an echo of long ago: of the way he’d spoken her name when she’d woken on the stony lakeshore. His free hand slid into her hair, holding her steady.
And then his mouth pressed to hers.
Tavis groaned as his lips brushed the delicious, hot warmth of her mouth. She tasted of every dream he’d kept locked away in his soul. A flood of heat rushed through him, straight down to his toes.
Helena startled, as though by the touching of their mouths, a fiery spark had whipped through her. He lifted his mouth from hers, hesitated a moment, their breaths mingling. He tasted her tears on his skin, and as she exhaled a shaky breath, he kissed her again, telling her with his lips and tongue how much she meant to him.
For she did. How he admired her loyalty to her sire, her respect for the folk who served at the keep, her bravery when fighting the fire. He loved her unique scent that reminded him of untamed meadows, the way sunlight shone in her hair, the sparkle of her eyes, her stubborn passion for what she believed was right. She was remarkable in so many ways, and if he could go back years ago to the first day he’d met her, and live that day differently, he would without the slightest hesitation.
He lightly nipped her bottom lip, and she shuddered. She didn’t pull away though, or attempt to break the kiss, and as his mouth molded to hers again, he let go of her hand pressed to his chest and linked his arms around her waist to draw her in closer. He groaned again as her slender body fitted against him, for having her in his arms was the most wondrous pleasure.
“Helena,” he whispered, and deepened the kiss.
She sighed against his mouth. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, and then she answered his kiss with a bold, tempting one of her own.
Ah, God, she wanted him. She desired him as much as he desired her.
A dream he’d believed to be impossible.
Heat leapt within him. He silently warned himself not to rush, not to frighten her with his lust. Yet, each kiss was more passionate than the last. As her breathing quickened, and her mouth explored and teased, sensual fire spread through him and pooled in his groin. Every bit of his flesh was alive with sensation, for he wanted her more than any woman he’d known, including Elyse.
The fire in his blood became a heady roar as he nudged her backward, toward the beds. His conscience screamed for him to stop, and yet, his ravenous body refused to listen. Her legs bumped against his, her gown rustling as the cloth brushed against his hose. He anticipated her protest, but she didn’t lift her mouth from his to scold him, didn’t slow in her feverish kisses. The back of her legs hit the bed, and as he swept his cloak bearing his cursed pin onto the floor, she sank down to sitting on the coverlet. Their lips parted for the briefest moment as he shifted to sit beside her, and then they were kissing again, her hands burying into his hair, his mouth plundering hers.
How had he managed to live without her kisses? He wanted more, needed more—
“Tavis,” she panted, kissing his jaw, her face flushed pink.
“Thistle.” God’s bones, he was trembling with desire.
“What we are doing…” She kissed him again on the mouth. “We…”
“Aye?” he rasped, starved for her reply. Did she want to lie with him? He mustn’t expect that. She was a lady. She was likely a virgin. He had to be gallant—
She kissed him again, and he crushed his mouth to hers once more.
Over their sound of their ragged breathing, he heard the chamber door open. Warning skittered at the back of his mind.
Before he could draw away from Helena, Merry asked, “Da, what are you doing to Lady Marlowe?”
Chapter Eight
At the sound of Merry’s voice, Helena sprang away from Tavis. She stood, brushing the creases from her skirts, while she tried to think of what to say to the little girl who stood in the doorway, holding Dandelion.
“Merry.” Tavis rose to stand beside Helena. His hair was a tangled mess, and his tunic was askew. With a remarkably steady hand—her own pulse was racing like a wild animal—he tugged his tunic back into order.
Merry, frowning, didn’t move from the doorway.
Helena drew a calming breath and pushed back her shoulders. While most unmarried ladies would fret about their reputations in such circumstances, at three-and-twenty years of age, she was far too old to be concerned about being found alone with a man. Still, she’d rather not have been discovered in Tavis’s arms by his young daughter.
“What were you doing with Lady Marlowe?” Merry asked again.
Tavis dragged his hand over his jaw. “I was…comforting her. She was upset after our visit with Lord Marlowe, who remains very ill.”
Her expression cautious, the little girl set Dandelion down on the planks. Still wearing his leash, the kitten scampered over to the wall and began pawing at a small hole in the mortar.
“You were not comforting her, Da,” Merry said. “You were kissing her.”
Poor Tavis wasn’t going to escape this awkward situation easily. If only Helena knew what to say that might help; she didn’t want to make his predicament worse, though, or convey somehow to Merry that she and Tavis were caught up in a romantic relationship. They weren’t.
Their kissing, while sinfully thrilling, had been no more than a brief moment of pleasure, brought on by them both dealing with painful emotions. He’d soon be returning to Galloway, while she had important responsibilities here, especially when there was no telling how long ’twould be before her father was well again.
Tavis’s sigh drew Helena’s attention back to the child. “I was kissing Lady Marlowe,” he said, “but I was also offering her comfort.”
Anguish shone in Merry’s eyes. “You kissed Mother that way. I remember.”
A strangled groan broke from Tavis. He crossed the chamber and knelt beside his daughter. Pushing windblown hair from her brow, he said softly, “I remember too. I cared for your mother very much—”
“Do you care for Lady Marlowe, then? Is that why you kissed her?”
Unable to stand still any longer, Helena joined Tavis and Merry. Sinking down to the planks, her gown spreading out around her, Helena said, “Your father and I first met many years ago. We are old friends. ’Tis why I…let him comfort me in such a manner.”
“Is that right, Da?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Tavis nodded.
Feeling his curious gaze upon her, Helena added, “In the chansons, Merry, when noble ladies have just been rescued from danger or other upsetting situations, knights often comfort them with kisses.”
Astonishment lit Merry’s eyes.
“Your father is a knight, is he not?”
“Aye.” The anguish in the child’s expression had faded, replaced by fascination.
“Have you heard any chansons, mayhap sung after feasts in the great hall at Dumfries?” Helena asked.
“I have heard a few. Usually, though, Da sends me to my chamber when the men start singing. He says I am not old enough to hear some of the words.”
Helena smothered a smile, for chansons could be rather bawdy. “Some of the songs tell of dragons that breathe fire, destroy towns, and devour beautiful maidens. No doubt he did not want you to be frightened.”
Merry grimaced. “I do not like dragons.”
“Neither do I.” Helena shuddered. “I cannot imagine facing such terrifying beasts.”
“Oh, they are not real,” Merry said quickly; she sounded a little worried. “Are they, Da?”
“As far as I know, they are creatures that live only in chansons and old folk tales.” His gaze locked with Helena’s, and she saw admiration and relief in his eyes. “Still, there are many other exciting stories about knights and ladies that do not involve dragons. If you like, I can tell you some, or read you the old stories from books, when we return to Galloway.”
Merry smiled. “I would like that.”
“Good.�
� Tavis wrapped his arms around Merry and hugged her. The little girl clung to her father as if she never wanted to let him go.
“I love you, Da,” Merry whispered against his shoulder.
“I love you, too,” he said.
Helena pushed to her feet, brushing dust from her gown. Tears pricked her eyes, for she remembered her father embracing her in a similar way when she was young; all of her worries had vanished when he’d hugged her tight.
“Tavis,” she said quietly, “I will go and fetch the writing implements we need. I will meet you in the great hall when you are ready.”
“Are you certain this will bring Lord Crandall back to Kellenham?”
Looking down at the parchment laid out on the lord’s table, Tavis nodded. “I have no doubt.” How he longed to stand face to face with the official who had most likely poisoned his sire, as well as Lord Marlowe. ’Twould be a meeting Crandall would never forget.
Helena set down the quill and wiped ink from her fingers with a linen rag. For several moments, they’d discussed what the missive should say. Tavis had insisted that the letter should be short and, and in what the contents implied, intriguing to a man of Lord Crandall’s position. She’d agreed. In neat lines of black ink, she’d said that her sire wanted to speak with Crandall about a matter of great importance to the King, and that ’twas urgent. Lord Marlowe had already agreed to sign the letter once ’twas done, and would authenticate the document by pressing his signet ring into the wax seal.
Sunlight entering the great hall through the overhead windows covered in animal horn streamed down upon Helena, gilding her red hair with gold. Tavis’s gaze skimmed her profile, and he marveled at the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the dewiness of her skin, the sleek shine of her braided hair. She was a beauty, and one he’d had the honor of kissing. How he yearned to kiss her again…and show her even greater pleasures.
She glanced up at him then. “What if Lord Crandall has heard that Father is ill? What if his lordship refuses to return, claiming that he doesn’t want to catch the sickness?”
