Lord of Lyonsbridge

by Ana Seymour

  Connor set him on the floor, then set Karyn beside him, more gently. Squatting to bring himself to their level, he said, “I was walking by Milton’s Pond the other day and suddenly I heard a tremendous splashing. Next thing I knew that big duck took a running jump over the water and flew right into the sack that was hanging at my waist.”

  Abel looked uncertainly from Connor to his brother, John, who was smiling. “Verily?” he asked, a little wary.

  Connor laughed and tousled the boy’s hair. “Something like that, lad. But it’s not likely that that old duck will be so cooperative as to pluck itself, too. Who do you think might be able to help your mum with that task?”

  “May I, mum?” he asked her.

  She nodded, and then, as Karyn tugged at Abel’s sleeve, he asked, “Karyn, too?”

  “After supper you and I and Karyn will do it together,” Connor told the boy. “Sarah can supervise.”

  Sarah and her mother were beginning to put dishes on the table, but the older girl’s expression indicated that she did not have the same enthusiasm for the job as her younger siblings.

  “Or we can do it by ourselves,” Connor amended.

  “Sarah’s got a sweetheart,” John said with the teasing singsong of an older brother. He sang a few off-key bars of a light courting ballad, but broke off when Sarah made a face at him.

  Connor was surprised. He’d seen Sarah with the page yesterday, a likely enough lad, he supposed. But courting? He’d held the girl when she was a babe, though she was now full thirteen years, age enough to be married. Suddenly he was hit by a wave of protectiveness, as if he were, indeed, the father he’d pictured himself on the road into the village.

  He frowned. “’Tis Rolf, I warrant?” he asked.

  Her blushes answered, making the nod of her head unnecessary.

  “Mayhap Rolf would like to help us pluck the duckling?” he asked, realizing as the question left his mouth that the suggestion was preposterous. Connor himself had made enough Saturday-night courting forays into the village over the years to know that plucking ducks with the maid’s family was not what was on a young swain’s mind. At eight and twenty, Connor was but fifteen years older than Sarah herself. But he felt old.

  The fare at the Coopers’ was always delicious. Agnes had taught her daughter the skills she’d learned from her mother, who had been the best cook in several shires, often called up to the castle by Connor’s grandmother for special feast days.

  Connor and John made short work of an entire stack of barley cakes, while Sarah and the smaller children played idly with their suet pudding.

  “I’d not thought to ever marry, Widow Cooper, but food like this is a powerful attraction,” Connor joked, licking the last bits of grease off his fingers, while giving his hostess a quick wink. He turned to John. “Would you see your mum out of widow’s weeds, lad?”

  John chuckled. Agnes Cooper was in truth not much older than Connor, but her hard life and her disease had turned her into an old woman. Nevertheless, Connor’s teasing had put color in her cheeks and a touch of youth to her expression. For a moment, the ghost of the village beauty of old smiled around the table at them all.

  “Would you have more pudding, Connor?” she asked.

  “Nay, I’ll be as stout as Harry, the stone mason, if you keep feeding me thus, mistress.”

  The twins giggled, since Harry Mason was a favorite of theirs, but it was true that the jolly man was as wide as the brick walls he laid.

  “Best enjoy it now, Connor,” Agnes said, the mirth dying from her face. “This is the last of the currants and spices. There are no more to be had in town.”

  Connor frowned. “Has no one traveled to market?”

  “No one has the coin to buy anything at market anymore.”

  John added, “Sir William’s men have been on another round of tax collecting. They’ve taken nearly everything that’s not been cemented down by Master Mason’s trowel.”

  “What reason do they give this time?” Connor asked.

  “Taxes for the king, they say,” John answered bitterly, “but in truth most suspect that the taxes are to line Sebastian Phippen’s purse.”

  “John,” his mother admonished. “Have a care.”

  Connor looked from the widow to her son. “Your mother’s right, John. Saxons can no longer afford to speak freely in this land. We must measure every word spoken, even within the family. One knows not who might be within earshot.”

  As if in confirmation of his remark, there was a sudden knocking on the door of the cottage.

  Sarah jumped up. “’Tis Rolf,” she said, her voice elevated.

  But when she pulled open the wooden door, it was not her young page on the other side, but Sir William himself. His darting eyes appeared to take in every detail of her appearance, the black pupils lit with eagerness. It was several moments before he looked behind her to notice Connor’s presence at the Coopers’ table. He scowled at the horse master.

  “What are you doing here, Brand?” he asked gruffly.

  Connor stood slowly. “I was invited, Sir William,” he said evenly. “What are you doing here?”

  William looked down at his feet, suddenly ill at ease. No one spoke as the family waited for his answer. Finally he looked up and said, “‘Tis but a friendly call. I didn’t know the family would have company.”

  Connor stepped out from behind the bench he’d been occupying. A friendly call? From the castle bailiff? Not likely. He looked from William to Sarah, and a shiver of disquiet ran down his back.

  He walked over to the door, his tall frame towering over the short bailiff. “Widow Cooper is not yet recovered from her recent attack. She was about to retire,” he told the man, careful to keep his voice calm. “Mayhap you’d care to state your business, Sir William.”

  Sir William licked his lips and once again looked over to Sarah, then back at Connor. “If the widow is feeling poorly, I’ll call another evening,” he said after a moment.

  “As you wish,” Connor told him.

  The man backed out of the doorway, his eyes still darting furtively to Sarah, much like an animal keeping track of prey.

  Connor reached around the girl to close the door behind him. “Has he bothered you, Sarah?” he asked her.

  The girl’s eyes were troubled. “I like him not. He looks like a rat,” she said with a little shudder.

  Connor did not press her further. “Best be sure you stay with Lady Ellen at all times when you’re up at the castle. I’ll speak to her about it, if you like.”

  “Oh, please do not, Master Brand,” Sarah said quickly. “She might not let me come anymore, and then I’d not see—”

  She broke off and Connor gave a sigh. “Tell your Rolf to watch out for you when you’re at the castle and walking to and fro. We may need to design a plan to keep you out of William’s way.”

  “But you’ll not tell Lady Ellen?”

  “Nay, I’ll not tell her.”

  Sarah nodded, relieved, but Connor felt no such relief. The incident had given him a sense of foreboding. Sarah was a pretty young thing, and it wouldn’t be the first time that a castle bailiff had decided to award himself with the maidenhood of one of his tenants.

  Indeed, there were many things for Connor to be thinking about, he told himself sternly as he thanked the widow once again and made ready to leave. He had a large family to protect, and he’d best use his time to that end, rather than in senseless dreaming about the golden eyes of the castle’s mistress.

  Chapter Eight

  It was unfair to Jocelyn, Ellen decided finally. She’d stayed away from the stables for nearly ten days, busying herself with all the changes she was making in the castle, which to her gratification was now beginning to look as tidy as any back home. But she missed her daily rides.

  She’d almost convinced herself to hold out yet one more day. Then Sarah had asked to leave early in order to stop and pick up a knife she’d left for mending at the ironsmith’s, and Ellen had
decided that a brisk ride before twilight would be too enjoyable to pass up. With luck, she wouldn’t even see the horse master. He’d probably finished his work for the day, and it was too early for the evening feeding.

  Her eyes went to the narrow window toward the roof of the stable, which she now knew looked into Connor Brand’s bedchamber. Mayhap he was there now, perusing those books of his. In the heat of their encounter, she hadn’t been able to ask how it was that a humble horse keeper had more books than she’d seen together in one place other than the great abbeys.

  Her father had taught her to read Latin and Greek and French, but it was a rarity, even in Normandy. Books were more precious than jewels. Yet her horse master had at least twenty of them, by her rough count.

  She peered cautiously into the stable. It seemed to be empty, as she had hoped. With a smug little smile, she made her way down to Jocelyn’s stall. She’d never attempted to saddle the horse herself, but she’d watched it done countless times. If the slight young boys who worked the yard could do it, she could.

  It took a bit of struggle, but standing on a block of wood that she pushed over to the horse’s side, she managed to flop the saddle in place and tighten the cinches. Jocelyn recognized her mistress’s touch and stood peacefully throughout the process.

  There was still no sign of Connor Brand or anyone else as she boosted herself onto Jocelyn’s back and made her way outside, proud of her feat and looking. forward to the ride.

  She had perhaps three-quarters of an hour before twilight, she decided, steering her mount away from the road and up a grassy incline at the rear of the stables. She’d ride just a few minutes, see what was on the other side of the hill, then head back, unsaddle the horse, and no one would ever learn of her adventure.

  Jocelyn seemed equally pleased to be out on the mild afternoon. There was a moist hint of spring in the air. Ellen took a great, cleansing breath and smiled.

  Connor swore softly as he watched the solitary horse pick its way up the hill to the west of the stable yard. He’d been sitting in a window seat in his study. He’d designed it so that he could catch every possible ray of sun to read his manuscripts. They were his only remaining legacy from the old days. His parents had collected them from the far corners of Europe, and whereas he’d kept few other items from the family treasures, he’d been sure to keep every single one of the books.

  Carefully he closed the illuminated tome, a particularly precious one written in a Germanic script he could only partially decipher. With occasional help from Martin, he’d been working on it for the past year. It was his escape from the world of Lyonsbridge, his one concession to his old life. In years past, he’d taken his escape in other ways with the obligingly friendly village girls, but these dalliances had become increasingly rare as he’d begun to feel more and more the weight of the responsibility his father had placed on his shoulders with his dying charge.

  It was that responsibility that spurred him now, he told himself. Lady Ellen might be too spoiled or too foolish to recognize the danger, but Connor knew that his worry had not been idle. Most of the men of Lyonsbridge were good people, but there were still too many lawless elements in England for a beautiful woman to be safe wandering about the countryside alone.

  He clattered down the stairs, threw a saddle on Thunder and headed out. She’d not have gone far.

  Thunder seemed energized by the unexpected ride at this hour of the day. Connor felt his body awakening to the horse’s beat, his mind slowly leaving the dusty depths of his books and bringing into focus once again the image that had haunted it for too many days and nights-the lady Ellen, laughing up at him, lips full and red as berries, breasts thrust high.

  He took in a deep breath of the mild February air. It appeared they were about to be alone together once again. He considered whether these continued trials were some kind of penance sent to him for his dereliction in keeping the holy sacraments. “You said you’d pray for me, Martin,” he muttered under his breath. “Mayhap now would be a good time.”

  He caught up with her easily, and she, of course, knew that it would be he. In a way, she’d known he would come, no matter how much she’d told herself that she’d wanted to escape him.

  She laughed back at him, challenging him to scold her, but he didn’t even make the attempt.

  He pulled Thunder up beside her without speaking and in silent accord, they let the two horses stretch out into a race, their long legs burning the ground underneath them, horses and riders exhilarated in the dying afternoon sun.

  The two mounts stayed neck and neck, neither trying to win, as if they knew that the race they ran had nothing to do with speed.

  Finally, the glowing orb of the sun sank behind a low hill to the west, and Ellen pulled Jocelyn up. Without Connor’s bidding, Thunder stopped beside the mare.

  “’Tis a beautiful evening,” Ellen said, a little breathless from the ride.

  “Aye.” There was still none of the expected reprimand.

  “I’ve not ridden her for too long,” she said. “’Twas overdue.”

  “The mount’s available anytime milady wishes,” Connor said. He swung off his horse’s back. “We’ll walk them a spell to cool them down before we start back.”

  He reached up for her, but as soon as she jumped into his arms, he set her on the ground, avoiding any unnecessary contact of their bodies. Ellen tried to push away a feeling of disappointment.

  He handed her Jocelyn’s reins and began walking down the hill they’d just climbed, leading Thunder behind him. Ellen followed, her shoes slipping on the soft grass.

  “Will we get back by dark?” she asked, finding the silence awkward.

  He looked toward the west, at the darkening pink on the horizon. “Nay,” he said.

  “But you know well the route?”

  “Aye.”

  She concentrated on making her way down the hill without stumbling. Connor did not look at her, but his expression did not appear hostile. Finally she asked flatly, “Are you angry with me, horse master?”

  He stopped walking and gave her a long, steady look. “I’ve warned you about riding alone, milady, but I knew ten seconds after meeting you that you were a maid who does as she pleases.”

  “Are you saying that I am spoiled, then?”

  His eyes studied her in the growing darkness. “Mayhap. Or call it stubborn, if you like.”

  She crinkled her forehead. “I’m not sure I do.”

  “’Twas not my intention to offend you.”

  His voice vibrated low with the husky resonance she’d heard before. He stood not inches from her. Each still held the reins of their horse, but the rest of the world had seemed to melt into some kind of vague background, leaving only the two of them, standing face-to-face, feeling it once again, this thing between them.

  “What was your intention, horse master?” she asked, her own voice now gone hoarse, as well.

  He dropped Thunder’s reins and seized her. “This,” he growled. Then he was kissing her, as he had before, but this time, in the darkness, Ellen felt the kiss like a quake through her entire body. Her feet left the ground and she was melted against him, merging with him, it seemed, as though their two beings were fusing into one.

  “’Twas your intention, as well, was it not?” he murmured, still kissing her. “When you rode out today, you knew I’d come.”

  Of course, he was right. She had known.

  Their horses moved away, forgotten, and somehow the two lovers tumbled to the ground, seeking more contact, deeper contact.

  “I want thee, princess,” Connor whispered to her. “’Tis a kind of madness you’ve set on me.”

  She couldn’t answer. Her mind was too awash in new sensations as his hands made sensuous circles over her breasts and his lips nuzzled hers, then her chin, then the lobe of her ear.

  An ache had begun in her loins, coming in waves with each movement of his fingers across her nipples. She was filled with new and shocking longings. She wan
ted to be quit of her layers of clothing and feel his skin against her.

  “Aye,” she finally managed to whisper. “I want thee, too, horse master.”

  He stopped moving, but did not release her. Some of the desire had fled from his expression, replaced by sudden awareness and surprise.

  Don’t stop, don’t stop, she repeated inside her head, but the words came out as a mere nod.

  He appeared to be thinking, wrestling with himself. Finally he boosted himself to his feet and pulled her up beside him. She looked at him, her eyes hurt. Every portion of her body was clamoring a protest, but she was too proud to give it voice.

  He spoke solemnly. “Aye, princess. I believe this thing is meant to be between us, though we’ve both fought against it. But I’ll not take you here on the cold ground.”

  She shook her head in confusion, wishing he hadn’t let her go. She’d wanted the delicious feelings to continue, but now there was only the cold air rushing over her, cooling her body and her brain.

  In an instant he’d retrieved Thunder and mounted, then reached a hand down to her. She looked over to where Jocelyn stood nearby. “Nay,” he told her. “You’ll ride with me, in my arms. I’ll not let you go this night.”

  So she let him pull her up in front of him and leaned back against him as they started back toward the castle, leading Jocelyn behind them. Her eyes closed and her mind drifted again to those few moments on the grass, as he whispered sweet things in her ear and moved his hand, slow and sure against the flat of her stomach. Once he lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck and another time he stopped riding entirely to turn her in his arms for another long, drugging kiss. She hardly realized when they arrived once again at the stables.

  Her eyes stayed closed as he tenderly lifted her down and held her locked between his own hard body and the side of his saddle, while he kissed her again, deep and hard.

  “Just stay here a moment, sweetheart, while I stable the horses,” he told her softly. “I’ll be right back for you.”