Startled, Nia gasped and turned around, her sword hand reaching for the weapon she’d forgotten to wear over the armor. Her gaze lifted to find the scowling face of Caerwyn bearing down at her.
“God’s blood, ’tis you!” he murmured.
CAERWYN BLINKED, BUT his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Verily, Nia was staring back at him through Padrig’s helmet. Her gray eyes were wide with fear.
Good. Let her be afraid.
It wouldn’t do to scold her in front of the men. It would only bring shame on Padrig, and he didn’t want that though the stupid fellow deserved it for his part in the perfidy.
He clamped onto her arm and hauled her against his chest. “Come with me, brother. I think Lady Nia would like to have a word with you.”
She blinked and nodded.
Caerwyn marched her across the bailey and into the keep. In the chaos of preparing for the evening’s feast, none of the servants stopped them or took notice, and they reached Nia’s bedchamber unobstructed. Once inside her closed door, Caerwyn took hold of Nia’s helmet and threw it off.
Nia yelped, hands reaching for her braided head. “St. Anthony! That hurt, Caerwyn.” Tears filled her pretty eyes when she looked up at him.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Damn. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He touched her face softly in apology, only to see his rough glove against her alabaster skin.
He swore and stripped the gloves off. The woman bedeviled him, for certes.
“Are you mad?” she asked, tugging off her own gloves. She dropped the pair on the floor beside his. “I didn’t beat you at the rings on purpose.”
Fear for his brother’s and Nia’s safety gave him a wild rush of hostility, making him want to lash out, to yell, or break something. Caerwyn kicked at one of the gloves.
However, the sight of their discarded articles strewn side by side caused something primal in him to raise its head. His mind strayed to darker, pleasurable places, to thoughts of more discarded clothing, to uncovering Nia’s lovely body beneath the bulky gambeson. And then his gaze focused on the bed behind her—large, soft, and beckoning.
Nay!
He dragged in a calming breath and squeezed his hands into fists in an effort to keep from reaching for her. “I don’t care that you beat me. I care that you deceived everyone by pretending to be Padrig. You two are cheats, frauds. ’Tis despicable.”
“He couldn’t do the rings. The competition was unfair. Besides, that was only a small part of my reason for dressing like him.” She pulled at the knotted stay under her chin, loosening it with trembling hands. Her braids fell around her face as she worked.
Caerwyn groaned. It usually took a second person to help Padrig remove his battered armor. There was no avoiding it, he had to help. Taking pity on her, he grabbed the second ratty ribbon and worked at the knot although his hands weren’t steady, either. “I knew you weren’t Padrig. He could ne’er have captured so many rings. He can’t see anything until it’s less than two-and-thirty paces away. What madness made him allow you to compete in his place?”
She tilted her head, and the room’s firelight glowed on her expression of triumph. Trying to read her clever mind, his gaze traced the elegant line of her smooth cheekbone to her lips. She pursed them thoughtfully, and murmured, “I was trying to locate the messenger from the night of the fire before you came along and brought me here. Does it surprise you Padrig’s trust in me is greater than yours?”
Her answer splashed over him like a tub of ice water. “He’s younger and more foolish.” He stepped away, leaving her still half-swallowed in the unfastened chain mail. God, but she still stirred him, even dressed in pounds of armor. The shapeless form forced his eye to her beautiful face and made him long for the rest of her body hidden beneath. “Aye, you’ve become an excellent rider, skilled with a lance. But underneath all Padrig’s trappings, you’re still female.”
“I practice at the quintain more days than not, and I’m a good horsewoman. There was no combat in the event, so I was never in any danger. You must admit I convinced you.” Her face brightened, and she stood straighter. “I’m sure you would say it was Serena’s influence again. Just like three years ago, the last night in our keep, before you left. You and I were to meet. When you arrived, I wasn’t alone . . .”
His chest tightened. He’d kept the memory at bay for too long to let her remind him. He barked, “Now you want to tease me! Aye, you deceived me today, and you betrayed me then. What point are you trying to make?” Mayhap she enjoyed pushing the knife deeper into his heart.
“Caerwyn, you’ve never believed me, but I’ll say it again. I’ve never been with another man. Look.” She turned her back to him, gathering her braids in one hand and twisting them up to hold on top of her head. “Do I look like a woman from behind now?”
“You know you do not.”
“I practice in mail often. My father disapproves, of course. Serena’s worn it only once. In armor, she would look like a man from behind, don’t you think?” She moved closer to the bed, took hold of the thick banister. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, the sight of her posture, so sensual, so seductive, yet so unpracticed, his manhood strained against his chausses. Sweat glistened on his brow.
“Aye. I suppose . . .”
“And if I leaned over the bed, and you saw me then, in my gown, of course, lying underneath her?” She bent over the bed, bracing her knee on the mattress while she reached out as if to touch an imaginary lover.
Caerwyn remembered. Nia had sent a page to ask him to come to her chamber. He had planned to ask to marry her, having already received her father’s permission. How his cheeks had ached from smiling so much that day! But when he opened her door, he found Nia with another young man in her arms . . . leaning over her bed. The whole sickening scene replayed in his mind, how he’d left the chamber and heard Nia’s voice calling after him as he’d thundered down the stairs and slammed out the door of the keep, never to return. Until now.
Now, standing in front of him in the armor, Nia moved with the fluid grace of a lover, or a young knight, bending to caress the soft form of a girl . . . Caerwyn’s girl. Just like before, he felt the room around him turn on its axis in that moment, a blur before his eyes. His first clear thought that night after the black veil of rage had lifted, and his eyes had finally dried, was how slight in size his rival had been. Nia’s same height. More capon than boy.
Over the years, his pride had convinced him Nia’s lover had been less of a man than he—after all, he was soon to become a Crusader—when in fact, mayhap his memory had been accurate. Verily, the fellow had been quite petite after all . . .
His feet led him a step closer. “’Twas Serena in your chamber! Why?”
Her eyes held a glimmer of tears. She blinked, turning her face from him. “Serena said if you were truly mine, you wouldn’t leave on Crusade. And she said the only way to make you mine was to get you to fear you would lose me to another.”
Caerwyn closed the space between them and pulled Nia around to face him. “The two of you conspired together?” Was he a puppet on a string, forever manipulated by this girl . . . nay, this woman before him? He’d fought powerful, trained enemies and stood his ground against their blades and arrows. Yet he found himself condemned to defeat when it came to Nia. Incredulous, he held her shoulder and turned her chin on his fingers to search her eyes. Confronted by the honesty he found, he asked, “Why would you believe I wasn’t yours? I know I never treated you falsely.”
“Serena told me you acted like you liked her, too. Everyone I’ve ever known prefers her, so I didn’t think you would be any different. She said if you feared I had another, you would ask to marry me and . . . stay.”
CAERWYN RELEASED HER without warning.
Nia crumbled inside. She’d never seen him so angry. He left her swaying unsteadily by the bed as he paced the room. His movements were jerky, his breathing heavy—like an angry bull in a pen.
“You two mus
t’ve thought I was ridiculous,” he chortled, dragging a hand through his hair as he paused midstride before her. “I didn’t even stay to challenge your supposed lover, running off to seek solace in the war, like some yelping pup who’d gotten his tail stepped on.”
She’d attempted to follow him on Crusade, and would have, had Serena not wagged her tongue to her father, who put an end to her plan. In the weeks that followed Caerwyn’s departure, she’d lain awake in her bedchamber, imaging the horrors he faced in battle, knowing he surely hated her. She’d hated herself. “Caerwyn, my regret runs deeper than you’ll ever know.” Her eyes swam with unshed tears. At any moment, she would melt into a sobbing mess. He couldn’t see her like that. He would feel sorry for her, pity her. She shielded her face from him, acting distracted as she shrugged off the outer layer of Padrig’s clothes. Bracing one hand on the bed, she kicked off the chausses and was left in a thin linen undergarment. Cool air connected with her skin, making her shiver. When she’d begun undressing, she hadn’t considered how bare her last clothing layer was, only that she needed to be free of the armor’s restricting weight. Now cold, sniffling, exposed, and miserable, she wished she’d stayed dressed.
She sank on the bed.
Holding her head down, she didn’t notice that Caerwyn had drawn near until she felt his heat. She stared at his boots, waiting for him to berate her. Looking up at him from beneath her wet lashes, she caught the movement of his hands unfastening the buckle on his sword belt. Not even in her worst nightmare could she picture Caerwyn hurting her—unlike Maddoc. Curious, she lifted her gaze.
“You have been the death of me. I trow I’m not a fit prize for your games anymore.” He dropped the belt and grabbed the edge of his tunic and mail.
Nia swallowed, and her tongue felt thick. She wondered at his intentions.
He revealed the side of his torso for her scrutiny. At first glance, she spied the warm, smooth, tan skin of a life lived in the desert sun. Then as he twisted in the firelight, the wide white stripe of an old scar came into view just above the bone of his hip. She heard the breath whoosh from her lips, and her fingers shot out to trace the puckered edge.
Her gaze flicked up to catch him watching her with extreme interest. “The wound came from a Saracen when I charged him. I was clearly outmatched, but I didn’t care if I died. I begged my opponent to put an end to my suffering, and he would have if Padrig hadn’t cut him down from behind.”
Nia cupped his warm skin beneath her hand, imagining Caerwyn on the battlefield with life ebbing from the spot.
“There are more. Have I shocked you beyond recovery?”
Unable to speak for fear of her voice’s breaking, she shook her head.
“Help me with this.”
Nia stood and aided him, removing his armor and raiments until he stood before her in his breeches alone. His chest was riddled with scars of different lengths and widths, some faded and pale, some more recent. He took her hand and slid it to a four-inch-long gash that began just above his nipple and ended midway across his ribs. He flattened her now-trembling hand over the mark, and she braced her other hand on his shoulder to keep steady.
“It’s from another enemy I charged. It was dark, and I was too drunk to hold my own weapon.”
She’d never seen him drink when they were young. For him to abandon his common sense, he must’ve been a different person entirely.
“How can you still be alive?” Pain clogged her throat. A tear dripped on Nia’s cheek, but she left it, unwilling to remove her hands from Caerwyn. She wanted to hold him close, to swallow him up and be his shield, to keep him safe for the all the times he’d been in danger.
“Padrig again.” His eyes gave a hint of a smile. “He sliced the warrior’s hand off. My brother always has the advantage when his opponent’s vision is similarly obscured. He’s honed his other senses. He can hear the sound of an arrow cutting through the air and somehow senses its direction well before others can even see it. Still, after that night, I quit seeking death for fear Padrig would be the one to suffer, not I.”
Nia put her hand against his cheek and traced the smooth plane of his skin under her thumb. “Your suffering was worse than I’d imagined. You must hate me beyond measure for what I did . . . to do that to yourself.”
She licked her dry lips and tasted the salt of her tears. Her vision blurred as she waited for him to confirm her darkest fear: he hated her still.
His hands came up to frame her face. “Aye.” He pressed his lips to her damp cheek. “I hate you. I even welcomed death when I could not have you.” He kissed the trail of her tears, following it to her mouth. He whispered above her lips, “You see how I hate you.”
Nia wrapped her arms around his neck, and his eyes widened with surprise. He murmured low and pressed his mouth to hers. His tongue swept beyond her parted lips, and Nia felt the weight of his arm against the small of her back, bringing her forward against him. She pressed her length along his, longing to touch the magnificent body he readily despised. Although he claimed to hate her, his response told her otherwise. His thick sex rubbed the apex of her thighs through the paltry membrane of their clothing. Heat and urgency at her core made Nia push against him, adjusting her position to allow him more contact.
Caerwyn groaned and lifted his mouth.
His face hovered over hers, their breath mingling. He took her hands from his neck and flattened them against his chest. “My body, my wounds—are you not revolted by the sight of me and”—he dropped his gaze, swallowing—“my cowardice?”
Entrapped, Nia couldn’t move to show her true feelings, so she willed everything she had into her words. “Never. Your scars remind me how precious you are, how I nearly lost you. Caerwyn, you could never be a coward. You’re the bravest man I know.”
His dark eyes held her gaze steadily, then he closed them. He pressed his mouth against hers in a kiss so deep and encompassing, she felt her very essence lifting skyward.
Locked in his passionate kiss, in fact, she didn’t realize he’d actually picked her up until she felt the bed beneath her backside. Caerwyn stretched out beside her as he hungrily kissed her mouth, and Nia tunneled her fingers in his hair, keeping him close. She sensed the shimmy of the bed as he struggled to keep his weight off her while loosening the final ribbons of her clothing. Losing herself in these new sensations, she became aware of her nakedness when she felt the gentle brush of his coarse fingers across her skin and heard the concentration in his breathing as he tenderly caressed her nipple.
“Nia,” he breathed, and pressed his mouth against her neck. “Fairest, most beloved.”
Her body melted beneath his caresses and kisses, and her bare feet dug into the sheets. He pressed tiny kisses against her neck and along her hairline, then she felt the delightful relief of her scalp beneath his soft touch as he took down her braids.
Once his fingertips unbound the last plait, he returned to kiss her again, lowering his body against hers. Nia spread her legs, feeling him move between her thighs. His hand parted the tie of her pants and opened the fabric to expose her feminine core. He bent over her breast and took one of her nipples into the wet heat of his mouth. Lovingly, he tasted her breast, swirling his tongue around her tightening bud. His hand swept across her belly and cupped the gentle swell between her thighs. Nia lurched, surprised, when his fingers moved between her lips to find the sensitive petals of her sex. Her face flushed and heat spread from her womb to the rest of her body. His mouth found her other nipple and repeated the ritual, swirling, sucking, nibbling, until Nia squirmed with delight and need. Her fingers gripped his sides and swept inside the barrier of his breeches, smoothing over the hard muscle of his buttocks and forward, seeking his aroused flesh.
“Caerwyn, please,” she murmured, not even sure what she wanted to convey.
He lifted his head, tickling her with his soft shaggy hair in the motion. He regarded her through serious dark eyes, his chest moving as if slightly winded. “You have ne’
er had another lover. If we continue, you ne’er will, for I won’t share you with another.”
“I understand.” I love you. Why would I want another?
“It will hurt at first.” His brow creased, watching her.
“Not as much as I’ve hurt without you.” Nia pushed up on her elbows and put her hand on the back of his neck, guiding him to return to her.
Caerwyn muttered an oath, and his lips brushed over her exposed skin. With every sweep of his mouth, she lost a piece of herself, thoughts scattering. Her flesh sizzled with heat and longing, like sandy desert lands starved for rain. His hand passed down her bare thigh, removing her clothing before traveling back up her long leg. Freed from all restriction, Nia bent her knees under the exploring pass of his palm, allowing him greater access to the place where she needed him the most.
He pressed his lips against her neck, kissing and tasting, murmuring words of his love, and his sex nudged against her. Feeling the weight of his organ, need intensified within Nia until she was frantic to join him at last. She lifted beneath his thrust, impaling herself on his sex. Their gasps rang out together—her pain and his surprise.
Caerwyn went still. His arms encircled her, cradling her as he pressed soothing kisses against her cheek, his breath ragged in her ear. The pain, which had originally been a sharp pang, ebbed away as her flesh relaxed around him, accommodating his size. His heart thudded against her breasts, fast and strong, a driving rhythm that her body responded to instinctually. She fanned her hands over his back, exploring his wonderful body, and the action elicited his groan of need.
Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection Page 25
