In Debt to the Enemy Lord

by Nicole Locke

  ‘Anwen!’ he shouted. ‘I need to axe through the door!’ Only the wind hurling rain against the battlements answered him. Teague swung the heavy axe against the door and felt the impact shudder through his hands. The door didn’t move. He cursed the narrowness of the stairwell, another construction meant for defence, for it limited his strength.

  He swung again. His forehead beaded with sweat, but it wasn’t from exertion. How long had she been out there? An hour? Two? While he ran on the ground cursing the mud, she could have fallen to her death. He couldn’t hear her any more. If she was on the other side of the door, he might axe right through her. But he had no choice.

  Again he swung, splitting the thick oak. The door shuddered. His rage built with each swing. The axe handle was cracking. He would reach her. There was no other choice, no other possibility.

  He swung. The double-thick iron-and-steel lock fell with a crash of metal upon stone and he kicked it to the side. Dropping the axe, he rammed the door open.

  The full brunt of the storm slammed into him. Blinded, he stumbled on to the battlements. Without the protection of the stairwell, the rain slashed at him like relentless knives and the wind tore at the sleeves of his wool tunic. Leaning into the wind, he raised his arm to shield his eyes.

  He couldn’t see her anywhere. This part of the castle was not built for the comfort of his soldiers, but for scanning the sea for ships. There were no shelters for the weather, but there were some taller ramparts towards the rear. Anwen might have sought some protection there. He pushed himself forward a few steps until something small hurled itself at him and clutched on to his shoulders like a thrown cat.

  His arms immediately encased Anwen, his thankful words whisked out of his mouth before any sound could be made. Carrying her, he ran down the stairwell to his rooms and set her on the floor. Her lips were blue, her hair sodden, the tendrils flattened around her face. Deep shivers racked her body.

  ‘What were you doing; what were you thinking?’ With trembling hands, he stoked the fire and scattered kindling. ‘What if I couldn’t find you?’ The fire swelled, sending a blast of heat into the room. ‘The wind could have flung you off the ramparts. People die in weather such as this!’

  There was a puddle of icy water pooling at her feet. She was frozen, terrified.

  Teague cursed the rain, the wind, the night; swore at the weak fire and that he had to set her down to tend it. With an unforgiving rendering, he tore the soaked clothing from her body. He saw a flash of her chafed flesh before he wrapped her in a heavy wool blanket and sat her by the fire.

  Whipping his hair back, he threw off his tunic. He was cold, wet, and he had been outside mere minutes; she had been out there for hours. When he tried to unlace the wet leather strappings of his sodden breeches, he cursed loudly in a stream of invectives that would have had lightning striking, if it hadn’t been already storming.

  * * *

  Anwen was cold, so cold. Cold such as she had never known her entire life. She could not stop the shivering despite the fire or the blanket she clutched to her chin.

  Teague stood naked before her. The fire lit his skin so it shone burnished bronze. ‘Open the blanket.’

  She clenched it towards her, but did not take her eyes off the corded muscles in his arms and legs, the ripples of his stomach muscles. She was cold, but her body was warming and responding to the male beauty before her.

  ‘Do you wish to freeze?’ His voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he pulled at her clenching hands. He made a place for himself, pressing his body against her before closing the blanket around them. He inhaled sharply as the cold of her body touched him.

  She didn’t say anything at all. It was like being held against hard fire. She hadn’t expected this, but she wanted it. She had many questions to ask, but for now she was cold and he was heat. She pressed her lips against his chest.

  Teague hissed. ‘Your lips are like fire, but your body is like ice.’ He rubbed his hands on her back, increasing the warmth as she increased her kisses. When his hands slowed, pressing long caresses along her back, she grew hotter.

  ‘Anwen.’ He caressed from the base of her neck, then down, following the curve of her spine. His thumbs pressed deep in the small of her back, before he spread his fingers wide along the curve of her buttocks. ‘Again, you’ve caught me unawares.’

  ‘You didn’t plan this?’ She tried to tease, but her voice was low...husky. Her hands felt as greedy as his. Her response to him this time was different, deeper than before. Now she was responding because she knew him. Because again, he kept her safe. His rugged form, his actions. Everything about him made her greedier yet.

  He shook his head, a look of desire and longing in his eyes. There was longing, even though his hands greedily stroked her skin. ‘By Gwyn, no. This is not my intention.’

  She pressed another kiss. ‘And if it is mine?’

  She felt another sweep of his hands, his fingers curling and just stopping from clutching her closer. ‘With you against me like this...’ he said. ‘I meant only to give you warmth and comfort.’

  Frightened, alone, the wind had shoved at her until she gripped the unforgiving stones to keep from being flung off the sides. In all of it, she never doubted he would come. ‘You gave me comfort. You’re giving me comfort.’

  ‘That’s all I should be doing. But you keep kissing, and,’ he breathed, ‘touching me.’

  She kissed and touched him more.

  He dipped his head and she lifted herself to meet him. As their lips brushed, her teeth immediately stopped chattering. His heat poured into her and she pressed herself tighter against him.

  He pulled his mouth away and hungrily kissed the cords of her neck. ‘It is too soon. You are cold, frightened.’

  It might be too soon, but she knew one certainty. He was not all darkness. She twined her hands around his nape. ‘I need more.’

  ‘You are blunt. Bold. And yet...’

  ‘I was never bold before you, never like this.’ She arched her neck to give him more access. ‘I need you.’

  ‘You’re impossible to resist.’ With a groan, he swept his hands to cup her breasts. He skimmed the tips with his thumbs until desire thrummed more tightly through her.

  Lifting her, the wool blanket forgotten, he set her on the bed and sat beside her. She explored him freely with her hands, with her mouth.

  When Teague stretched beside her, she explored even more. She revelled in the roughness of the hair on his chest and legs, the warmth of his skin, the ridges of muscles twining underneath, the thickness of his bones beneath that.

  She caressed and kissed lower along the path of hair on his abdomen, trailed her hand to the rigidness of his hip bone, felt the soft vulnerability of bared skin there until his breathing became deep overlapping shudders.

  ‘Anwen, what do you do?’

  ‘What you did to me in the hut when you kissed me. Is that not right? It’s what I want to do.’

  His dark eyes, darker yet, were unfathomable, consuming. She saw more of that longing she sensed in him when he held her. But it was sharper now, urgent, as a fist curled at his side and his leg twitched as if he might spring out of the bed...or on to her.

  ‘How could I...’ his eyes lost their focus as he gave a harsh breath and looked away ‘...refuse?’

  She continued until he made impatient sounds that only encouraged her. So she kissed him more, her fingers tracing the inside of his thighs until he shivered, until he groaned.

  ‘Enough.’ He forked his fingers through her hair and dragged her up to capture her lips with his. The blood through her limbs pulsed and he twisted until she was underneath him.

  His hands were on her now, firmer, without rhythm. She widened her legs. He growled in satisfaction, fervently kissed her breasts, the inside of her wrists, her stoma
ch. Clasping her hips, he moved her further up the bed. Then he cupped her underneath and lifted her to his mouth.

  It was her turn to flush, to let out a breath, but she didn’t look away. Not when his glittering obsidian eyes held hers; not when he had that curve of sensual satisfaction on his lips. Not when he said, ‘You are necessary.’

  Clutching the blankets beneath her, she couldn’t move, but she could see how his dark loose hair swirled against her inner thighs. And she felt his kiss, so much and not enough. As he held her firmly, she tried to press herself more fully against his mouth, wrap her legs more tightly around him. She needed to move; she needed more. But he kept his kisses light, teasing, until she moaned in frustration.

  He raised his head and the black heat of his gaze seared her. Then he touched his lips softly to her thighs, to her hips.

  ‘I didn’t think you could be any more beautiful to me,’ he said. He pressed more kisses to the curve of her stomach and navel, his fingers skimming along her legs. ‘I didn’t think I could want you any more than I did.’

  He unwrapped her trembling legs, lowered her shivering body gently back to the bed, kissed along her flushed skin as he moved upwards. ‘But I only want you more than ever.’

  Every muscle in her was tight, coiled, aching. She caressed him now, echoed his skimming gripping touch. She could feel the cords of his back, the swells of muscles in his shoulders and she kneaded his hips as he poised above her.

  ‘Please,’ she demanded.

  And he answered her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Anwen woke to the sound of dry logs popping. Teague crouched by the fireplace and prodded the logs until the flames flared and increased the warmth and light. He’d thrown on a woollen tunic against the chill of the room. The loose tunic and braies seemed to highlight his rugged form she had become all too familiar with, and still seemed to need.

  Averting her gaze, she noticed on the table by the fireplace lay a large tray covered with food, a pewter flagon next to it. The shutters were closed and the room held a dim light, but she could hear the sounds outside telling her it was at least mid-morning. She had never slept so long in her life. She stretched, luxuriating in the fine fur and wool blankets wrapping around her bare legs.

  Teague turned to her, a smile tugging at his lips. She had thought the room fine before, but it was nothing compared to Teague’s face when he smiled. She was glad she was lying down.

  He straightened and a warm flush crept up her skin as she noticed scratch marks along the collar of his tunic. Grabbing another tray, he sat on the bed beside her. Instead of any sumptuous fare, this tray contained two cloths, one wet and one dry.

  A knowing light gleamed in his eyes. ‘You may have need for these.’ When he tugged her blanket, she tugged back.

  He chuckled. ‘I thought we disposed of any modesty after the third time.’

  ‘It’s bright in here.’ She pointed out the obvious.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Taking the hem, he slowly pulled up the blanket and trailed his fingers along her thigh. In the dim light she could see the contrast between his skin and hers. Though she thought her body replete, desire rippled through her with his touch.

  Abruptly, he released the blanket laying halfway up her thigh. Regret was etched in every plane of his face as he lifted one of the linens on the tray. ‘I brought you these to soothe you.’

  Breathing in shakily, he added, ‘I thought myself sated enough to do the task, but I know now I’ll never make it. Or if I did, I would be intensely jealous of the linen.’ He laughed.

  Anwen was caught in that laugh. Something was different about him; he was almost boyish. A bubbling lightness inside her echoed his. It was as perplexing as his tenderness. But now that she knew what the linens were for, she did welcome those, just not in front of him.

  ‘Turn your head,’ she ordered.

  Sighing, he went to retrieve the food and she heard the clink of dishes. She was done by the time he returned and he removed the platter with the linens, and replaced it with one laden with cheeses, fruits, cold meats and fresh bread. She was hungry, but since the fire, her stomach continually protested her eating choices. It was a reminder of their baby she carried and that she still needed to tell him.

  Instead, she grabbed the bread and tore into it with her teeth.

  ‘You eat like that and you’ll not get a chance to finish.’ His eyes moved to her lips before he turned his attention to the tray.

  As she watched him bite into a honeyed fig, she understood what he meant. It would be so easy to delay what she needed to say, but she had delayed enough. ‘I believe you,’ she said.

  Teague’s eyes sharpened. ‘What do you believe?’

  Anwen took another bite and tried to steady her nerves. ‘I came back for you because I believed you. On the ramparts, I was trying to find you, to tell you.’

  She breathed, calmed her thoughts. She must take this slower. Have some caution when there were many obstacles between them. ‘You are no traitor,’ she confessed. ‘I knew what Urien was, but I chose to be blind to it. He was, although he did not acknowledge it, my father. He was not family to me, but I hoped I came from some good.’

  She blinked back the sting in her eyes. ‘But he wasn’t good. He was arrogant, selfish and cruel, and because he worsened after Gwalchdu sided with the English, I...attributed his cruelty to you, thought Brynmor suffered because of...you. But I was wrong.’

  Teague looked past her shoulder, and released a breath. When he looked at her again, his lips were curved and his obsidian eyes were lit from within. ‘What else do you believe?’

  He was English. Greedy. It was expected.

  He had told her of Urien. Rescued her from the ramparts. He had kept her safe. It was a gift she couldn’t repay, but he deserved more words nonetheless. ‘That you did not, by intention or by hand, cause Brynmor’s fire.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘But it would not have happened had I not gone to Brynmor.’

  She firmly shook her head. ‘You couldn’t control or know that such a senseless act would be committed. I understand that now you told me of Urien and of Gwalchdu. This place is important to you, you’ve committed your life to it. Of course you would pursue someone threatening it. You’re no traitor to Brynmor...or to me.’

  Teague’s brow eased. ‘Is that all?’

  No, there was the child to talk of as well, but she didn’t know how to approach that now. After all, what were his feelings for her, or for that matter, hers for him?

  A baby required more than understanding. It required love, trust, protection. Could a Marcher Lord, could Teague, provide that? After all, Urien, a minor prince had never been able to.

  ‘I was cold and frightened last night,’ she began, ‘but that wasn’t why I came to your bed.’

  ‘And stayed.’ Teague’s mouth curved again.

  She felt her cheeks burn. ‘I wouldn’t have come if you had not told me of your past.’

  It wasn’t only his tale of Urien’s betrayal, but also of his mother’s death in childbirth that called to her. He had suffered much in his childhood.

  ‘I’ve told you more than I’ve ever told another soul and yet...’ He shook his head and looked away. Began to pace as if he’d been caught in a trap that he hadn’t seen.

  He wanted more. She should have expected it though she’d given him more than she’d ever given any man before. Not just her body, but something of herself. Despite her past and the way her father treated her and her sister. Maybe her words weren’t enough.

  ‘What more do you want?’ she said.

  ‘I want your—’ He stopped and his eyes searched hers. Looked away as she did when she didn’t want him seeing too much.

  And he kept his back to her as he poured himself wine, as he took a sip before he turned to her agai
n. In the light, she could not see the emotion in his dark eyes. She was again reminded how this man was both light and darkness.

  ‘I want your trust,’ he said.

  Trust. He told her so much, but could she truly trust this man or any man of such power? ‘I believe you...what you said. It’s why I intend to—’

  ‘Good,’ he interrupted. ‘Then you’ll believe me when I say you must go.’

  She pulled the blanket up to her chin. ‘What?’

  He clenched the goblet in his hand. ‘The latch to the ramparts was crushed. The enemy you say I have no control over purposefully locked you out on the ramparts. Do you understand?’

  A cold rush prickled her skin. Someone had locked her outside and purposefully endangered her life. The enemy who set fire to her home had tried to kill her. She understood all too well.

  ‘Did anyone know you were going?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I told Greta.’

  ‘Greta!’ Teague frowned. ‘She waited on my mother and Ffion when they were young. I cannot think ill of her. But she should have stopped you from going.’

  ‘I don’t think I gave her a chance.’ She straightened in the bed. ‘Does it have to be anyone we know?’

  ‘I can’t dismiss anyone now. It’s not just me, or my home. They tried to get to you, which is why you have to leave. I can give you an escort to Edward’s court.’

  This she didn’t understand. ‘If this enemy of yours is after me, it won’t matter where I am.’

  He slammed the goblet on the table. ‘I’ll not take any chances,’ he said. ‘When you fell from the tree, when I carried you through Gwalchdu’s gates, you became my responsibility. You will go.’

  Responsibility. Orders. She didn’t like it. She believed he was no traitor, but she was right not to truly trust him. He was still a Marcher Lord and she wouldn’t be ruled by him. ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Why change your mind now? You said this was a temporary home; that you’d leave come spring. I’m telling you to leave now.’

  ‘But you told me of your past. The reasons for me to leave are no longer there.’