by Denise Lynn
He sighed heavily. ‘To be honest, I would have come back. No matter how many times I’ve vowed to hold you at arm’s length, I’ve never been able to do so. I’d have probably returned sooner rather than later, considering how much I have missed you at night.’
‘Only at night?’
‘Yes.’
She flinched at his brutal honesty.
He added, ‘And in the morning, during the afternoon and lately in the evening, too.’
He led her over to the chair in the corner, took a seat and pulled her down on to his lap.
‘Yes, your words hurt. But even had I killed your father, I still would have kept my vow, I would have shouldered your hatred, had I thought for one heartbeat that I wouldn’t cause you any more pain.’
She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. ‘Can you forgive me for being so weak?’
‘Weak?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘That is something you will never be. There is nothing to forgive you for, Beatrice.’ He shuddered in mock horror. ‘And don’t beg me for anything. All I am, all I possess is always yours for the asking.’
‘There is one thing I would like to beg you for.’
‘What is that?’
‘I want to be a piece of your wood.’
He pushed her away to look at her in question.
She explained, ‘I saw you today, working with your wood. I’ve never seen anything as sensuous as the way you stroked your palm down that piece of lumber. For a minute, I was lost in lust and jealousy.’
‘Jealousy?’
‘You were so intent, so focused and passionate, that I felt as if I were watching something that shouldn’t be done in public.’
He reached beneath her gown and slowly, almost reverently brushed his palm up the side of her leg. Beatrice sighed and let her head fall back against his arm. ‘Oh, yes. Just like that.’
He nuzzled her neck. ‘Is there anything else we need to discuss before I haul you over to that freshly made pallet?’
‘Yes, I do have one question, may be two.’
He leaned his back against the chair. ‘What?’
‘Do you have any particular names you prefer for a child?’
He frowned at her. ‘Is this your way of telling me you are pregnant?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Are you displeased?’
‘Not in the least. Just upset that you found it needful to haul my child off on a seagoing vessel. What were you thinking?’
‘That I needed to apologise to you before he or she was born.’
‘Don’t do that again.’
‘I won’t.’
He stripped off her soft boots and stockings, then rose to set her on her feet. Grasping the hem of her gown, he asked, ‘Is there anything else? Are we finished talking?’
‘I think we’re finished.’
The moment he placed her naked on the pallet, Beatrice said, ‘Oh, I forgot, what will King David say?’
She laughed at his glare. He was fully aware that she was tormenting him on purpose.
‘I have already spoken to David and it seems David’s Wolf is yet bound by chains.’
‘So he didn’t consider your mission a success?’
‘No.’
‘But you have Warehaven.’
Gregor stripped off his clothing and knelt between her legs. ‘He feels it was given as a bride gift.’
‘Why would he believe that?’ She tried to ignore the sudden racing of her heart as he stroked his hands up the inside of her thighs ever so slowly.
‘While I didn’t tell him the fight had been a ruse, I did explain why I failed to kill FitzHenry.’
She tried to focus on his words, but the fingers sliding up her legs had met at the juncture of her thighs and were teasingly muddling her concentration. ‘What did you tell him?’
Gregor leaned over her, resting his weight on his forearms, and lowered his head to cover her lips with his.
Whatever concentration she’d possessed fled beneath the warmth of his kiss. Anything she’d planned on saying melted into a fog of need.
‘I explained that Warehaven’s Warrior possesses a tender heart.’ His whisper brushed against her ear. ‘Too tender a heart for me to break in such a cruel manner.’
Beatrice moaned at the heat entering her. She pushed her hips up, savouring the warmth slowly filling her, yet wanting something more.
He held her so tightly in his embrace that she felt his heart pounding.
‘I told him I could not do so, because I love her far too much.’
His words filled her with more joy than she could bear. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared up at him and cupped his cheek. ‘Oh, Gregor, I love you, too.’
Chapter Twenty
Warehaven Keep—Spring 1146
Gregor leaned against the rail on the deck of the forecastle. Warehaven’s harbour was in sight and from the line of men standing watch, he feared he’d tarried too long. This rounding up of Beatrice’s family and delivering them to Warehaven had been the Wolf’s last mission for King David, at least this particular Wolf’s last mission, and it had required more time at sea than he would have preferred considering how close Beatrice was to birthing their child.
The task hadn’t been hard. Nor had it required the shedding of any blood. In fact, he was certain it had come from the Empress.
He’d basically served as a transport for the entire Warehaven family. Matilda had come aboard in Montreau with Beatrice’s brother Jared, his wife and their two babies. The rest of the family had boarded in Dunstan—FitzHenry and his wife, Beatrice’s sister Isabella, her husband and their two babies.
At times he’d felt as if this mission had been his final punishment—trapped aboard a small ship with his family-by-marriage and four babies who seemed to cry in unison as if on cue.
It had been the longest two weeks of his entire life.
Now, from the looks on the faces of his men at the docks, it wasn’t going to end any better.
He didn’t wait for the ship to tie off, instead leaping to land the second they were close enough.
A grim-faced Simon handed him the reins to a waiting horse. ‘You need to hurry.’
He didn’t wait for the family—they all knew their way to the keep. His man kept pace as the two of them raced ahead.
‘Has the baby been born?’
‘If not yet, then any minute, my lord.’
‘How has Beatrice been?’
‘Teary.’
Gregor grinned wryly. ‘How many times would you like me to apologise, Simon?’
‘Not necessary. Just reminds me why I’ll never marry again.’
As they neared the keep, Simon shouted for the guards to open the gate, explaining, ‘I had it closed behind me when I headed for the docks this morning.’
‘Any reason for the added caution?’
‘No. Nothing has occurred, just wanted to be safe.’
Gregor entered the Great Hall to the sound of his wife’s scream ripping down the stairwell. Suddenly his legs almost gave out and he took the stairs two at time, slammed through their chamber door and froze. One of his brothers-by-marriage had claimed childbirth was a beautiful thing, the other had solemnly shaken his head and agreed.
They’d both lied.
Three women turned to him at the same time, making it feel oddly like an assault.
Almedha glowered.
Helena, the midwife, pointed at the door. ‘If you can’t be of any help, leave.’
Beatrice, drenched in sweat, her face red, gasped and reached a hand out to him. ‘Don’t leave me.’
Without hesitation he crossed the room and took her hand, ignoring the midwife’s complaint
s about him being present at the birth. He couldn’t leave her now after he’d repeatedly promised to be here.
She grimaced and curled her fingers tighter around his hand, repeating, ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I won’t.’ Although he’d really rather lead a charge into battle on foot and naked than see his wife in such pain.
‘Promise.’
‘I swear. I will not leave your side.’
‘If anything should happen to me—’
‘Beatrice, stop. Don’t speak nonsense. Nothing is going to happen.’ He shot a worried glance at the midwife, who did nothing more than roll her eyes before motioning him to get behind Beatrice on the bed.
He rubbed her back and shoulders between contractions and acted as her support wall during them.
Finally, when he was certain his wife could bear no more, the midwife said, ‘This will be it.’
Beatrice cried, ‘I can’t.’
Gregor reached around her and gripped both of her hands. ‘There is no choice here, Beatrice. Push.’
Suddenly everything happened in a blur. Beatrice pushed, screamed, pushed, and then someone claimed, ‘It’s a girl!’
The next thing he knew the two older women were cleaning, washing, moving, changing, until finally he and his wife were on clean bedding, she was in a fresh shift and the baby was wrapped and laying in her arms.
Then, blessedly, the door to the chamber closed, leaving them alone on the bed.
He stretched out alongside her, his back propped up against the pillows, Beatrice resting in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, the baby sleeping on her mother’s chest.
‘Were you hoping for a boy?’
Gregor smiled and stroked her cheek. She sounded so tired, yet so very happy.
‘Not really. I was simply hoping for whatever would make you happiest.’
Beatrice sighed. ‘You are too good to me.’
‘Would you prefer I be cruel? I can be if you would like.’
She laughed. ‘No, you couldn’t. Besides, I love you just the way you are.’
‘And I you, my love. I’d not change a thing.’
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, discover more
great reads from Denise Lynn
THE WARRIOR’S WINTER BRIDE
BEDDED BY THE WARRIOR
PREGNANT BY THE WARRIOR
FALCON’S LOVE
FALCON’S HEART
Keep reading for an excerpt from HEIRESS ON THE RUN by Laura Martin.
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Heiress on the Run
by Laura Martin
Chapter One
Amelia ran through the trees, ignoring the branches that whipped at her face and the brambles that caught at her skirts. She was exhausted, her lungs felt as though they were on fire and the muscles in her legs protested with every stride, but still she kept running. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Amelia stumbled, her ankle twisting dangerously to one side, but she caught herself and managed to stay on her feet.
A loud clap of thunder sounded overhead and seconds later the sky lit up with a fork of brilliant white lightning. Amelia felt exposed in the bright light, despite the camouflage of the trees, and was glad when the world returned to darkness again. Now the rain started in earnest, big droplets of water that pounded against Amelia’s skin and soaked her within minutes. Her dress hung heavily against her, rubbing like sandpaper with every movement, and for once she wished she was wearing something more practical, less pretty, something that might keep her a little warm in this awful climate.
Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, Amelia listened carefully. She’d been walking over these Godforsaken Downs for the past two days, unsure where to go, where would be safe and offer her sanctuary. It had been bad enough when it was just cold and windy, but now, with the storm raging overhead, Amelia wondered whether she might die out here on these hills.
At least the village was far behind her now, the village that she had hoped might give her shelter for the cold night. That had been a bad idea. The first person that had caught a glimpse of her bloodstained dress and windswept hair had backed away, calling for her to keep her distance, and alerting the entire population to her arrival. She’d fled quickly, sparing a glance for the warm glow coming from the roadside inn, and continued her dash over the sodden hills.
Amelia was convinced the villagers would have sent people to follow her. Her face was probably on posters by now, her crime known far beyond the seaside resort of Brighton where it had been committed. She let out a small sob, wondering where everything had gone so wrong, and allowed herself a moment of self-pity. This was not how her life was supposed to be. Four days ago she’d had everything to look forward to: a new life in England, a reunion with the man she loved and a Season in London, whirling through ballrooms and sparkling in pretty new dresses. She had imagined being complimented and courted, not condemned and chased.
Straightening up, Amelia noticed a low wall on her left and a little further on a set of wrought-iron gates, easy to miss as they were so overgrown with curls of ivy and creepers. It only took her a second to decide what to do. Her feet were hurting, her entire body shivering and she hadn’t slept for two days. The gates looked as though they belonged to an abandoned estate. If she was lucky there might be a barn or outbuilding still standing, somewhere to provide her shelter from the elements and to rest.
Cautiously she pushed open the gates and slipped through. As Amelia walked up the driveway a sense of unease began to uncurl inside her. The place had a ghostly feel to it and, if she wasn’t so desperate to stop for the night, she might have turned back to look for alternative shelter.
The house was magnificent, in a dark and Gothic sort of way. Gargoyles loomed from precipices and the windows all tapered to elegant arched points. Statues and carvings decorated the spaces around the windows and doors, and towards the back of the house Amelia could see two imposing towers climbing up into the sky.
The estate was abandoned, Amelia could see that straight away. The house had an empty, disused feel about it even from this distance and the east side was blackened by fire damage. She wondered how long ago it had been abandoned and whether there might still be a soft bed to rest on inside.
Cautiously Amelia approached the front door and pushed it open, surprised to find it swung inwards without a creak or protest, revealing an empty hallway.
‘Hello?’ she called out before stepping over the threshold. ‘Is anyone here?’
She waited for a second and then,
hearing only the howling of the wind outside, she chided herself for the unease that prevented her from pushing the door closed behind her.
After another minute of silence she shut the door and stepped further into the hall. She had to wait for a moment until her vision had adjusted to the darkness before she could see anything properly. Summoning her courage, she walked down the hall, selected a door and pushed it open.
Amelia could see the room beyond must have once been a drawing room, or maybe a sitting room. A comfortable-looking armchair tempted her to take a step inside and once she was in the room she could make out the other contents. Most of the furniture had been covered over with white sheets, designed to keep the thick dust at bay, and on the floor was a heavy, luxurious rug covering the floorboards.
Her eyes skimmed over the details of the room and came to rest on the large fireplace set into one of the walls. A spark of hope flared inside her as she saw the basket of wood sitting beside it and visions of a roaring fire, warming her frozen limbs and drying her sopping toes, sprang into her mind. She almost cried with relief when she saw the tinderbox sitting on top of the mantelpiece. Finally her luck was beginning to change.
The practicalities of starting a fire were much more difficult than Amelia had first envisioned. She’d seen fires laid before—even in India they had needed fires in the kitchen and sometimes in monsoon season a fire would be lit to help dry out the clothes—but she’d never actually taken much notice of what the servants were doing. Hesitantly she piled some wood in the grate, ensuring there were some small pieces at the top, and then she set to work on the tinder box.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later and she was just about ready to throw the infuriating little box across the room. Her fingers were aching from trying to strike up a spark into the tinder and she had begun to shiver almost uncontrollably, which didn’t help with the delicate manoeuvres needed. With a growl of frustration she struck the steel against the flint one last time and almost cried with relief as a few sparks flew out and ignited the tinder. Carefully she fanned the flames, blowing softly, then touched the sulphur match to ignite it, before lighting the taper. With delicate movements Amelia knelt down in front of the fireplace and set about coaxing the wood to begin burning, feeling an unparalleled sense of satisfaction as slowly the wood began to blacken and the flames danced brightly in the grate.
