Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

  “Rest, Nia. I can wait until you’re ready.”

  Caerwyn withdrew, pulling away, but she wrapped a quick leg around his hip, ensnaring him.

  “Nay.” She brought him back. “No more waiting.”

  He exhaled, his eyes dark slits as he moved deep inside her, slowly, tentatively. But Nia could not be contained. She lifted against him, taking his thrust. He growled and cupped her buttocks, lifting her as he drove into her.

  Again and again, her lover pounded deep inside, and dark desires, primal desires, took control of her body, possessing her. Kissing, grinding, tasting, they gave in to their urges, which had been forbidden and buried far too long. With the rocking of their bodies, pressure crescendoed in Nia until her mind and bones melted. She heard herself stutter his name, and she exploded.

  Caerwyn followed soon after, surging, until spent and shaking, he collapsed beside her. He smiled and drew her against his chest. Nia smiled, too. Both their eyes were damp, lashes spiky with tears.

  “Am I dreaming?” she murmured. His face rested a breath away from hers.

  His fingertips brushed her face and lips as if in disbelief, too, and he grinned. “I trow this is real. We cannot have the same dream, surely.”

  She smoothed her index finger along the swath of jagged white skin beneath his heart and swallowed, suddenly fearful. “Was it . . . worth waiting for . . . for you?”

  He kissed her forehead and looked into her eyes until she floated in the warmth of his brown gaze. “Listen to me, Nia.” His hand cupped her cheek. “Nothing compares to this. To you. It was . . . worth . . . the . . . wait. Even better.”

  She grinned, meeting his lips with hers in a series of kisses, punctuating his words.

  “Well,” she rolled over him to sit atop his narrow hips, “shall we try this from a different angle? Or is there only the one way?”

  He brought his fist to his mouth, playfully gnawing his knuckles. He groaned. “My lady, I am yours any way you wish to have me.”

  She smiled and leaned to kiss him, feeling him stiffen beneath her once more.

  They played for hours, loving each other until they lay breathless and spent on the bed, a tangle of bodies and linens.

  Caerwyn caressed her arm, draped across his chest as her head rested on his shoulder. “Nia, you know I would ne’er ask you to stop running the quintains because you enjoy it. But next time, please tell me ’tis you under the armor. I’m not always proud, but I’m still a man.”

  “I will.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat, admiring the faint color on his cheekbones. “But that was the point of my attire. Aside from helping Padrig, I wanted to see if I could find and recognize the boy who summoned me to the stables before the fire.”

  His touch halted on her arm. “Aye. I would like to find him, too. I’ve a feeling ’tis de Guildo. He’s sought to be part of your family since before I left.”

  She tried to be surprised but wasn’t. After Maddoc’s advances in the barn, she’d imagined he might’ve put her in danger’s path just so he could save her and reap her father’s rewards.

  Caerwyn ran his thumb along his brow, frowning.

  She sat up, leaning over him. “You have an idea. What is it?”

  He shook his head. “I won’t endanger you.”

  “I will be endangered every moment the fiend walks amongst us, and you know it.” She moved over him and gazed into his eyes. “Tell me your plan, Caerwyn.”

  NIA AND PADRIG padded through the woods, following the road home from the market. The bramble grew thick, obscuring her faithful guardian hidden just a short distance out of sight. She felt Caerwyn’s presence, though, and smiled to herself at the thought of his watch on her. She’d announced during last night’s feast that she was going to market the next day to see the metalsmith, and Padrig had volunteered to escort her. If anyone wanted to attempt another assault, there would be no better opportunity. The trip to market had been uneventful, and the return home equally so. Once again, they reached the narrow stream where they’d been certain the fiend would’ve ambushed them. But he hadn’t.

  Although the attacker had failed to show, she was satisfied with the prize she’d commissioned from Henri, the blacksmith—a silver gauntlet. On Twelfth Night, she would award the piece of armor to the winner of the tourney. Henri had seemed surprised to see her and eager to accept the commission. The lucky winning knight could wear the cuff on his arm for all to see, along with the right to brag and a seat at the table beside her father.

  Presently, the water of the stream made a black slash through the woods but was no obstacle for Nia on the back of sure-footed Merlin. Padrig usually forded first to give her a hand, but riding her dear Merlin again—the first time since the fire—emboldened her. And Merlin, too. She knew the gelding anticipated the clearing just beyond the copse, where she often allowed the horse to run at will.

  Once across the water, Merlin snorted, sides trembling with excitement. She cooed, “Go ahead, then.”

  Water crashed behind her, far louder than the sound of a lone knight. She glanced over her shoulder to tease Padrig, but found him facedown in the stream.

  “Oh!” Nia unsheathed her sword and turned Merlin about.

  A hooded stranger carrying a bow rushed from the woods for Padrig, and Nia saw the arrow in her escort’s shoulder. She slid from her horse to thwart the attacker, but his rough hand caught her sword arm first and sent her whirling around.

  “Henri?” she gasped. Panting and grimacing, the metalsmith twisted her arm, attempting to force her to drop her weapon. “What are you doing? Let go!”

  She glanced around, looking for Caerwyn, who should be close enough to aid her. She heard him shout nearby but was unable to locate him for the dense forest. Henri wrestled her forearm. She jabbed his thigh with her free elbow, and he cursed. His eyes widened with disbelief, but his hold tightened. Pain shot up her limb, and she feared it would snap in two. Her fingers opened automatically, letting the sword fall free to the ground. From the corner of her eye, she saw Padrig rise slowly from the water.

  Caerwyn’s horse crashed through the bramble. “Release her!”

  Henri spun her around, using Nia as a shield. His fingers dug into her throat, lifting her in a way that would’ve reminded her of a Christmas duck if her heart weren’t bashing against her ribs.

  “You?” Caerwyn yelled as he drew near. He extended his sword menacingly toward Henri in a steady hand covered in fresh scratches. “What are you doing? The lady has done naught to you!”

  The metalsmith spoke, his whiskers scouring Nia’s cheek with each syllable. “Not her. ’Tis the baron’s fault. I-I meant her no harm.”

  “Good Lord, release her then!” Caerwyn’s gaze held hers, and a vein stood out against his powerful neck. “Your lookout, the one you left upstream, is trussed and bound to a tree.”

  “And Rhys, my young apprentice? What did you do to him?”

  “Let Nia go, and I’ll tell you.”

  Nia felt her captor’s grip loosen ever so slightly. She surveyed Caerwyn again and noted the bloody smear on his clothing.

  Padrig hacked, bending over as he spat out leaves from the stream.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry.” Henri shuddered behind her and dropped his head to her shoulder with a whimper. Silent sobs racked him as he released his hold on her throat.

  “The apprentice is fine. I sent the boy home.” Caerwyn released a long breath.

  Nia turned around and pushed Henri’s chin up. He regarded her through wet eyes.

  “What did my father do to you?” she cried. “You’ve been Walwyn’s armorer for years!”

  Caerwyn moved to Nia’s side and placed his hand on the small of her back. “My love, are you all right?”

  She spun into Caerwyn’s ready arms and held him tight, pressing her face against his neck. His warmth and strength steadied her trembling body.

  Whatever the cause, they were safe.

  Chapter Six

  “YE
T ANOTHER OF your conquests, Serena.” Guy de Brionne rubbed a hand over his spiky gray hair and slumped against the arm of his great chair. “Now you’ve cost me the best armorer in the Marchlands.”

  The windows of the solar had been adorned with tallow candles and wreaths of holly, and afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting a glittering geometrical prism across the stone floor of the sitting area. Serena sat quieter than usual, her pale face pressed against the cushioned back of her chair, lost in thought. Nia and Caerwyn sat side by side, facing her father. Caerwyn traced his fingers across the back of Nia’s hand.

  The baron had been all smiles and joyful pleasantries about her union with Caerwyn until he’d learned about the metalsmith’s plot. Now his salt-and-pepper brows crushed together over his stormy eyes.

  “Father,” Nia began, drawing his attention away from her aloof sister. “I know Henri endangered me, and I know the damage he and his friends caused, but for you to turn him over to the sheriff would be to send him to his death.”

  The baron’s eyebrows lifted. “Verily, he deserves a severe punishment. It doesn’t matter if he thought himself in love with Serena. You wouldn’t ask me to offer him reprieve if he had killed Padrig or Merlin or Caerwyn, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  According to Henri, he’d fallen in love with Serena, hence the many circlets he’d fashioned for her hair. Knowing the baron would never allow a mere craftsman to marry his daughter—and fearing Maddoc or another knight would steal his place in her bed—Henri lashed out at those he blamed. He’d ambushed them in the woods twice and set the fire in the stables, hoping to scare the baron by luring Nia and Maddoc into the dangerous traps he’d set. In his twisted mind, he needed them all to suffer as he’d suffered for not being able to be with Serena.

  “I still cannot believe he thought Maddoc was your first pick for Serena’s husband.” She winced, sickened by another memory of Maddoc’s unwanted advances. Her thumb rubbed the vacant spot on her ring finger.

  “But he was. He still is.” The baron lifted his glass in the air, gesturing for the cupbearer.

  “Father!” Nia scolded, and Serena’s voice chimed in, as well.

  “What? He has made his interest in this family known for years. He’s been very patient, loyal, and now he’s here, pledging to protect—”

  “He is a liar and a thief.” Nia leaned forward.

  Caerwyn took her hand in his and warmth traveled up her arm. “Now you know my interests, my lord.”

  The baron inclined his head, and his features softened. “Aye, you and Nia have my blessing. ’Tis not an easy thing, guarding these two girls, but I trow you’re up to the task, Sir Caerwyn. And if you love her, as I believe you do, you’ll treat her fairly.”

  Serena unfolded herself and looked on their father with keen interest. “If love is important to you, then reconsider Henri’s fate, again. I beseech you. He . . . I might . . . well, some blame should rest on my shoulders.”

  The air of the room went so quiet, even the fire on the Yule log seemed to cease its crackling.

  The baron’s mouth fell open.

  Serena scowled, wringing her hands in her lap. “I complained to Henri bitterly about Sir Maddoc and the others. I flirted; I flaunted them under his nose. The whole time, I knew how Henri felt. I was horrid!”

  Her father recovered, stammering, “Serena, do you care for this man? The metalsmith?”

  She blinked, eyes brightening. Her head bobbed. “I always have. Why do you think I fought the idea of marrying for so long?”

  Nia covered her mouth. Her sister’s tiny voice made the hair on her arms rise. Of course! Then her gut turned—she should’ve known her own, poor sister’s heart.

  “Oh, dear me,” the baron mumbled, turning his head, and downed the rest of his wine.

  ON THE EVE of Twelfth Night, Nia waited in the orchard. The gray, wintering trees reminded her of stark weathered bone, reaching up from the frozen ground in a tidy graveyard row. But on any day, hot or cold, damp or dry, there was nowhere on earth she’d rather be. The orchard was where Caerwyn and she had first kissed, the place where he’d given her his heart forever, and now their secret meeting place. This time, when a page had approached her requesting that she meet Caerwyn in the orchard after the tourney, she knew she could be assured it was for real.

  If only she didn’t freeze to death waiting for him!

  Pacing, she rubbed her arms and smiled to herself. In another fortnight, they would need no more interludes, no more worrying who watched because they would be betrothed.

  She stopped and tilted her head to the evening sky, smiling again. A falling star replaced the falling blossoms of that blissful spring day years ago. Now, instead of leaves, the only bit of greenery left on the apple trees was a small sprig of mistletoe, which had somehow managed to escape the hands of the castle’s servants, who’d covered Walwyn in the festive evergreen.

  “Ah, I see the lady has found my secret.” Caerwyn walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  She rested against him, snuggling into the warm space beneath his chin. “You’ve very naughty, milord. You intended to catch me beneath the mistletoe, didn’t you?” She rested her hands on his forearms and felt the icy metal cuff of the gauntlet he’d earned for winning the joust against Maddoc. “I still can’t believe Henri was able to finish this in time.”

  He kissed her temple. “And he hopes to have the suit of armor I won ready by spring. But he had better incentive than money to keep his forge hot. Your father was more than generous with the man.”

  “Aye.” Nia turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. At least Padrig was content with his own mail and gambeson, preferring it, however battered it might be. She suspected Padrig had allowed Maddoc to beat him at swords so he wouldn’t have to face Caerwyn in the joust. Neither brother wanted to admit defeat to the other. For certes, she and Serena wouldn’t, either. She loved her sister no matter her faults. “Would you and Padrig encourage Father to let Serena marry Henri?”

  “Nia.” He rested his head against hers and held her hand between them. “Please give the matter some time. I nearly lost you, thanks to his schemes. ’Twill be a long while before this grudge can be forgotten.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” She nodded. His mention of grudges made her glance at her bare hand. Caerwyn had forgiven her for losing his mother’s precious ring, and she was grateful. However, she hadn’t forgiven herself.

  “Enough of this.” Caerwyn sighed and dropped her hand.

  Nia glanced at him askance as he dug inside his tunic. A moment later he withdrew his hand and held the beautiful gold ring in his fingers.

  She gasped. “Where did you find it?”

  He made a lopsided grin and pushed the band onto her shaky finger. “I’ve had it since the night de Guildo took it from you.”

  “You . . . wait. You knew I was looking for it!” She snatched her hand to her chest and cradled it protectively. She tried to scowl at him beneath her lashes, but relief poured through her, making anger impossible.

  He rubbed her shoulders. “At first I wasn’t sure you took the ring as seriously as I did, but when I saw you searching the barn floor, I knew for certes. You seemed genuinely distraught. And then I wanted to wait until after this business with Henri and Serena.” He tilted his head, studying her face with love in his eyes. “Do you think I deserve a woman as amazing as you? Am I worthy enough to be your husband?”

  Tears pricked Nia’s eyes. “Of course you are. Always, Caerwyn.”

  He kissed her urgently, drawing her against him. Their tongues twined, and her heart raced.

  When he lifted his mouth from hers after a length, he grinned and gave her playful squeeze. “Now that Twelfth Night is finally here, how long before your father tells those other fools to leave?”

  Nia laughed. “Soon. I think he’s found his winner.”

  About Sandra Jones

  SANDRA JO
NES is the author of historical romances. She’s worked as a bookseller and a librarian, where she indulged in her love of old books.

  When not researching or writing, she enjoys being with family, reading, and watching British TV. A self-proclaimed history geek, she currently lives in a 1905 Greek Revival home in the Mississippi Delta. Sandra loves to hear from her readers. Please visit her Web site at www.sandrajonesromance.com.

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  Tempting Mr. Weatherstone

  VIVIENNE LORRET

  Chapter One

  London

  1822

  PENELOPE RUTLEDGE WAVED to her sister as the carriage disappeared from view. After a month of parties, shopping, and utter chaos, their father’s London town house was now quiet. Perhaps even too quiet.

  “I imagine Eugenia will be glad to return to her own home,” her father murmured from the winged chair facing the desk, his head bent over this morning’s paper.

  Even though he couldn’t see her, she nodded. “The children will be glad to have more room to scamper about, I’m sure.”

  She moved away from the window and closer to the hearth, her fingers toying with the fringes of her shawl. While the fire was well tended, it still did not warm her. For the past week—or perhaps a bit longer—she couldn’t seem to escape this ever-present chill. Today, it was worse than before.

  “I daresay, Marcus will be delighted by their return,” her father said with a smile in his voice. “Not to mention the happy news.”

  Penelope stared into the fire. Yes. The news. Eugenia—her younger sister by two years—was expecting her third child.

  Of course, Eugenia had married Marcus at the end of her first season, when she was not yet nineteen. Penelope, on the other hand, had had four seasons and two marriage proposals by the time she was two-and-twenty, but no husband.