By King's Decree

by Shari Anton

  He started to chuckle at the savage threat, then stopped, brought up short by the feel of cold iron on his warm inner thigh. Her dagger. She had slipped past his guard.

  Hellfire.

  “Surprise,” she said softly, immense satisfaction dripping from the single word.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gerard lay motionless. The point of the dagger rested uncomfortably close to the flesh she threatened to maim. “Well done, Ardith. Now put the blade away.” He paused, then added, “Take care.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Slowly, she slid the flat of the blade down his leg before slipping the dagger into her boot.

  He let go his breath in a relieved rush. She chuckled. He flipped her onto her back, pinning her hands above her head.

  “Savage little minx. I should beat you for impudence.”

  “Make love to me instead.”

  “Hah! You dare threaten castration, then ask for the pleasure my staff can give you? Nay, scamp.” He denied her request with a shake of his head. He tried to look fierce, “First you must repent.”

  “I vexed my lover but I pleased my weapons master, did I not? Shall I seek forgiveness for learning my lessons well?”

  Damn, she had learned well. But he’d warned her about drawing the blade unless in earnest. Then again, she had drawn the blade without his having to order her to do so. Maybe she’d rid herself of the revulsion, a sign that she accepted the weapon as her own.

  “Your weapons master may praise you, but your lord seeks amends. Think you can pull a blade on a baron and hope to escape punishment? If one of my men pulled a weapon on me, he would forfeit his life.”

  Her self-satisfied smile faded. “Gerard, you must know I meant no malice.”

  “Despite your intention, the crime is committed and you must suffer punishment.”

  She squirmed. “Such as?”

  He kissed the worry creases forming around her eyes. “Mayhap I will sentence you to a week of lying naked on a pallet, your legs spread, ever ready to welcome the staff you threatened to sever.”

  She blushed. “’Tis futile to threaten ravishment, my lord.”

  He kissed her brow, her cheek, then nuzzled in her neck. “But if I did not come to you, if I took my imperiled man parts elsewhere for pleasure?”

  “You just said you would not, and I trust your word.”

  Gerard shifted his grip on her wrists, freeing one of his hands to roam Ardith’s body. Her bodice had shifted upward during the previous tussle, covering her breasts. He caressed a mound, feeling the nub harden through the layers of cloth.

  “’Twould be apt punishment, methinks, to let you lie alone, waiting for my touch, wanting the joining so much you ache.”

  She moaned softly and closed her eyes when his mouth found the hollow of her throat. She tugged to free her hands. He held them fast.

  “Would you be so cruel?” she whispered.

  The stirring in his loins intensified. He tugged the hem of her gown upward, sought the curls of downy hair at the juncture of her thighs. She arched into his hand, her fire ignited, fueling his desire.

  “Would you suffer, my love?” he asked, stroking the moist passage of pleasure, fanning the flames.

  “As much as you would suffer.”

  She knew him too well. By denying Ardith, he denied himself. Damn her for knowing. Damn himself for giving her the power to shred his heart should she choose. He moved over her, flesh sliding against flesh, seeking the fulfillment Ardith’s straining body promised.

  “Aye, I would suffer. And so would I suffer if you came to some harm. I would have your oath, Ardith, that henceforth you will obey my commands, willingly, without argument.”

  “Is an oath given under torture valid, my lord?”

  “Your word, Ardith.”

  Her eyes flashed with indignation, her spirited nature rebelling. Then they softened. “You are the only man I would trust not to use my pledge against me. If you require an oath of obedience, then I swear it to you.”

  An unwelcome sound pierced the passion-ignited roar in his head. Hoofbeats. Heavy and nearing the hut.

  Gerard looked down at Ardith, her face reflecting the same surprise and irritation he felt at the interruption.

  “Richard comes. We will finish this later,” he promised, rolling away.

  Ardith gritted her teeth and tugged at her clothing. “How do you know the intruder is Richard?”

  Gerard struggled to his feet, tucked his bulging parts into breeches. “Only a destrier pounds the earth so hard. Since I stole Richard’s horse, doubtless he now searches for it with mine.”

  He smiled at Ardith’s grumbles as he left the hut.

  Richard dismounted and tossed the destrier’s reins to Gerard. After a quick perusal of Gerard’s disheveled state, a knowing smile lit his face. “Did I interrupt aught of import? Saints above, Gerard, I thought I gave you sufficient time to subdue the wench.”

  “Have a care, brother. I am in no mood for your taunts.”

  “Oh, ho! Gave you fits, did she? Do not scowl, Gerard. I came only to retrieve my weary horse, not to prod your temper. You might, however, wish to end your tryst quickly and return to the manor. You left it in an uproar.”

  “How so?”

  Richard swung up into the saddle of his destrier. “Daymon is crying for his father. Meg cannot silence her babe who wails at the tot’s cries. Elva is wringing her hands and preparing salves.”

  “Salves? For what?”

  “Ardith’s bruises.”

  In the ensuing silence, the brothers stared at each other. Gerard felt Ardith’s hand on his sleeve.

  “Elva has always warned me of you, Gerard,” she said. “My aunt is sure you will one day beat me.”

  “I would not—”

  “I know, but Elva does not.”

  Gerard looked down into trusting blue eyes. Did Ardith also know he would lop off the hand of anyone who dared raise a fist to her? She did. He’d threatened as much to Percival in the chapel at Westminster. Had he loved Ardith even then? Probably.

  Richard cleared his throat. “Shall I reassure Elva that Ardith is unharmed?”

  “Nay. She will see for herself when Ardith returns.”

  With a brisk nod, Richard rode off.

  Ardith shrugged a little deeper into her beaver cloak and watched the horse and rider until they disappeared. “How did Richard find us?”

  “My brother is among the best trackers in the kingdom, if not the keenest. Whether man or beast, if there is some sign of passage, some mark of direction taken, Richard can follow.”

  “Really?”

  “I have seen him track prey with a less clear trail than his own destrier’s hoofprint.”

  “A good man to have on the hunt.”

  “If one is not the hunted.” On that ominous note, with a fluid swing, Gerard mounted the destrier. She took his outstretched hand and then landed across his lap, expecting another punishing ride. But the horse didn’t move.

  Gerard’s eyes had darkened, glittering like emeralds. “I know we must return to the manor, but we did not finish.”

  Pressed hard against him, Ardith couldn’t mistake his meaning. “Do you suffer, my lord?” she teased.

  “If I thought that I could control my horse with you astride, riding me, I would be willing to end my suffering while we ride.” He tilted his head, his smile devilish. “If I told you to unleash my aching manroot, hike up your skirts and take me inside you, right here, right now, would you?”

  A test, then, of her promise to obey. Would she agree to a joining so utterly depraved? How erotically tempting! The wretch. He deserved a show of obedience.

  She reached for his lacings. His eyes darkened.

  “Ardith?”

  “Shall we finish before we are thrown, do you think?”

  He grabbed hold of her hand. “Scamp. We would most likely be thrown before we managed to join.”

  She gave him a long, aggrieved sigh. He laughed and urged t
he horse forward.

  They rode more slowly this time, back to the little boy who wanted his father, back to an aunt who readied salves for her niece.

  During supper, Ardith marveled at the resemblance between Richard and Gerard. The half brothers could be mistaken as twins from a distance.

  Though Gerard was taller and a bit broader in the shoulders than Richard, if they were armored and seated atop horses, their faces obscured by the nose guard of a helmet, friend and foe alike would be hard pressed to distinguish one brother from the other. Because of the resemblance, somewhere on Richard’s body a fresh scar marred healthy flesh from the near-mortal wound inflicted by Edward Siefeld.

  Ardith liked Richard and wished him no ill, but she couldn’t help being grateful that Siefeld had attacked the wrong man.

  “The earl of Warwick sheltered at Wilmont on his way home from court,” Richard said. “He told me that Henry will let Basil and Siefeld languish in the Tower for a while. Henry is again embroiled in church matters.”

  Gerard scowled. “Now what?”

  “Nothing new. Henry still fights excommunication for his stand on royal investiture of bishops. However, Bishop Anselm has returned to England from exile. They…negotiate.”

  Intent on the men’s conversation, Ardith absently picked up her goblet and took a sip of wine. She frowned at the faint, odd aftertaste—not of spice, but of herbs.

  Elva had poured this goblet of wine.

  Though Ardith wanted to remain near Gerard, hear the rest of Richard’s tale, she slid from the bench to seek Elva.

  All afternoon Elva had hovered, looking for signs of mistreatment By deed and brightness of spirit, Ardith had tried to reassure her aunt, but apparently failed.

  Why couldn’t Elva believe her own eyes and ears? Hating the idea of a confrontation, but knowing it necessary, Ardith motioned Elva to a corner and held out the goblet. “You added a potion to my drink,” she accused.

  “A restorative,” Elva admitted without apology.

  Appalled at her aunt’s temerity, Ardith’s temper flared, though she kept her voice low. “I need no restorative. How dare you potion my drink without my knowledge?”

  “Ardith, dear heart, I know these men of Wilmont, of how you must suffer. I sought only to ease—”

  “Enough,” Ardith said through clenched teeth. “I will hear no slander against Gerard.”

  “He holds you in thrall.”

  “He holds me by affection. Open your eyes to the truth, aunt. Gerard is no brute. Look.” Ardith pushed up her sleeve. “I am unmarked.” She upended the goblet, creating a puddle of wine on the earthen floor. “I need no restorative. Beware. Should you persist with this nonsense, I will send you back to Lenvil.”

  The sharp threat hit its mark. Elva’s eyes widened in stunned comprehension. Ardith squelched the urge to apologize, to soothe the aunt she loved dearly, but she couldn’t take back the threat of banishment. Before the desire to placate Elva overpowered the need for firmness, Ardith returned to her place at the table.

  Though small mounds of snow dotted the hillsides, the winter winds had ceased to howl. Gerard welcomed the milder weather, but cursed the passage of days. A year had seemed an eternity when Henry had issued the betrothal decree. But three months had passed, and no child stirred within Ardith’s womb.

  Iron poker in hand, he stared at the banked coals of the pit while giving Ardith the privacy she craved to ready for sleep. Behind the drapery surrounding their pallet, Ardith was donning a night rail and the woman’s rags needed to absorb her monthly courses.

  He turned slightly when Ardith padded softly from behind the drapery. Her body veiled by a gown of white linen, feet bare, she drew the thick plait of auburn hair to lie gently over one shoulder. Her eyes glittered with tears she tried to stifle.

  He searched for words of comfort. He gave the embers a poke, then another. Would every month end like this—Ardith in tears, he disappointed and tongue-tied?

  “Gerard, I…” she began, then gasped, and stumbled, grabbing at her thigh.

  Tossing the poker aside, he sped to scoop Ardith up before she could fall. With her secure in his arms, he sat on a stool and cradled Ardith in his lap.

  Ardith squeezed her eyes shut against the sharp pain. She sensed the connection to her twin, the faint sensation that Corwin had reached out with his thoughts and touched her mind. He didn’t, of course. As children they’d probed the link, learned they couldn’t purposely read each other’s mind or send silent messages.

  Only in time of distress or injury did the link flare. And Corwin must be close by, for the pain belonged to Corwin.

  “What hurts?” Gerard demanded.

  “My leg. Here.” Ardith rubbed her right thigh.

  Gerard pulled up the night rail. The sharpness subsided to a dull ache, succumbing to the weakening of the link and the kneading circle of Gerard’s hand.

  “I see no bruise. Did you twist it wrongly?” he asked.

  Gerard knew of the link, had known for months. But knowing of the link didn’t mean he wouldn’t recoil in horror if she told him the pain wasn’t her own, but Corwin’s.

  His large, warm hands worked healing magic, though she noticed he was careful not to massage too widely, careful not to touch her woman’s rags.

  “You hurt, Ardith. Why?”

  Why indeed? The pain had been sharp. She pulled slightly away from Gerard and closed her eyes, focusing on the moment the pain had hit. She sensed no fear, no alarm on Corwin’s part. Other than the pain, he was all right.

  “Ardith?”

  She opened her eyes. His concern and worry touched her heart, banishing her fear of rejection. His love was as strong and sure as the hand that now lay still on her thigh.

  “’Tis Corwin’s pain. He must be near.”

  Confusion, then perception, flickered over his features. He looked down at the flesh under his hand and squeezed gently. “Corwin injured his leg and caused you pain,” he said, a trace of anger sharpening his statement.

  Compelled to defend Corwin against Gerard’s unwarranted ire, Ardith said, “I am sure he did not injure his leg on purpose, Gerard.”

  “Is he badly injured?”

  “I think not.”

  “And the others?”

  Others? Of course, Stephen and the soldiers who’d accompanied Stephen and Corwin to inspect the Northbryre lands. For the first time in many years Ardith wished she could invade Corwin’s mind and hear his thoughts.

  “I cannot say with certainty. But I felt no alarm from Corwin, no sense of fear or danger.”

  “That does not ease my mind, Ardith.”

  “I can tell you no more. If I could, my love, I would.”

  Gerard sighed inwardly, letting loose the anger he’d summoned to mask the urge to recoil from Ardith’s revelation.

  So calmly, within the walls of Westminster, he’d listened to Corwin tell of a bond between brother and sister. Gerard had wanted to believe in the mysterious link, believe Corwin’s statement that Ardith’s body had healed completely from her long-ago injury. Yet doubt of the link’s existence lingered.

  Ardith’s continued barrenness bolstered the doubt But tonight she’d nearly fallen from pain she claimed to be Corwin’s.

  “How far away do you think they are?” he asked.

  “Within half a day’s ride, I would guess.”

  “Any idea in which direction?”

  “Nay.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Gerard, you are not contemplating riding about in the dead of night to search for them, are you?”

  Aloud, the notion sounded foolhardy. Especially when he couldn’t quite believe Ardith’s claim.

  “Not tonight. Morning is soon enough. Can you walk or must I carry you to our pallet?”

  An impish smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I confess I could walk.”

  “Scamp,” he accused. Charmed by her light laughter, he picked her up and strode the few feet to the far comer of the manor.
He stopped just inside the hangings to look down at Daymon, sleeping peacefully in a tangle of furs at the foot of their pallet.

  Gerard lowered Ardith to her feet, then bent to tuck a cover under his son’s dimpled chin.

  “He has your eyes, Gerard, and your golden hair,” Ardith said softly. “And your chin, so proud even in the bud of his youth. I knew he was yours the first moment I saw him.”

  Gerard recalled another moment on the day of his son’s arrival in Romsey—when he’d thrust Daymon at Ardith while questioning Richard. Ardith had taken the boy without hesitation, knowing Daymon a bastard but not holding the circumstances of birth against an innocent. She’d eased the child’s uncertainty with soft words and gentle touches.

  Afterward, Ardith had cared for Daymon, seen to his welfare with the attention of a natural mother. If only…

  “Daymon is happy here, is he not?” He interrupted the disturbing direction of his thoughts.

  “Aye. Daymon even likes the sheep.”—

  “Then something is amiss with his nose.”

  “His nose is adorable and works perfectly well. He does not share your aversion to sheep.”

  Gerard took a long look at Daymon before joining Ardith under the furs. Not only had Ardith taken to the boy, but so had the tenants. Someday Daymon would need a place to call his own. Maybe this was the place.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gerard paced the manor. Upon rising this morning, he’d realized he couldn’t search for Corwin and Stephen. With only Ardith’s word that Corwin might be near, he wouldn’t spread his soldiers over the countryside to search for a man who could be leagues away, a man who might or might not have an injured leg, who might or might not have a mysterious bond with his twin.

  Finally, desperate for a distraction, Gerard strode over to the table where his brother broke his fast and cuffed Richard on the shoulder. “How fares your sword arm? Have you regained your strength?”

  “I wondered when you would ask. Care for some exercise?”

  “Can you withstand me?”

  “Is that not what you intend to find out?”