Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1)

by Barbara Devlin

“Shh.” His voice came to her through a haze of confusion brought about by Margery’s special tea. “Rest easy, honey flower. As I guard thy slumber with my life.”

  In an instant, she awakened, as only her husband called her by the telltale pet name she cherished. To her surprise, she met his stare, as he sat on the floor beside their bed. “Hither art thou, when I have called thee, time and again, and thou hast not answered. Wherefore hast thou not responded, when I need thee?”

  “His Majesty summoned me into action, but Pellier and Margery never left thee alone.” Brushing a lock of hair from her face, he smiled and kissed her. “But I am returned to defend thee, sweet Isolde. And as our Heavenly Father is my witness, never again shall I part from thee.”

  “Thou art unusually dramatic, my champion.” It was then she realized he kept a blanket, and an awful reality, which had tormented her dreams, dawned. “Wherefore art thou on the stone?”

  “I would not disturb thee.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, but the display of affection did nothing to dispel her worries. “And I would not risk injuring thee, so hither I shall remain.”

  “Verily, is it so?” Burying her face in her pillow, Isolde sobbed. “Or dost thou no longer desire me, as I am beaten, and my cheek is bruised?”

  “Nay, honey flower.” Arucard tried to address her, but desolation and despair encased her heart, and she wept, as she feared she had lost him. “Prithee, Isolde. Do not cry, as my concern is thy comfort.”

  “How can I find comfort if thou wilt not share our bed or thy body?” The mattress dipped as he joined her, and she peered at him and sniffed. “Tell me the truth. I am ugly, and thou dost find me unappealing. I knew it would happen, and Father was right. I am chitty-faced.”

  “Never, and I forbid thee to make such outrageous statements in my presence, as the mere suggestion is a vile abomination.” With care, he reclined, lifted her atop him, and drew the covers to her chin. “Isolde, thou hast never been more beauteous than thou art now, as thou art alive, and that is my sole requirement of thee.”

  “Then lie with me.” Naked but for the strips of boiled linen shielding her wounds, she sat upright. “Pray, take pity, as I need thee.”

  “Nay, Isolde.” Grasping her wrists, he just stopped her from untying his garb. “Thou art weak and vulnerable, and I would not take thee in that condition, as I might cause thee pain.”

  “Prithee, thy rejection hurts far worse, my lord, as I love thee, and I require thy strength.” At her declaration, he eased his hold, and she discovered him hard and ready for her, which somewhat belied her fears but did naught to quell the hunger for his touch. For Isolde, it was too much. To her shame, she broke. Slumping, she shed tears of relief, as her husband cupped her bottom with one hand and hugged her tenderly with the other. “It is true. Thou dost want me, when I thought otherwise.”

  “Aye, I ache for thee, as it hath been too long since I stirred thy sweet waters.” Then he shuffled her in his embrace, doffing his tunic, breeches, and braies in an awkward and clumsy dance. “And never doubt my devotion to thee, as thou hast my heart, for two lifetimes. Yet, when today is but a memory, the whispering wind no longer kisses thy cheeks, and time ceases to exist for us, I will love thee still. Never forget that. Now scoot forward, honey flower, and let me show thee the depth of my regard.”

  Abiding his request, she tilted her hips, joining their bodies, and it was as if she had, at long last, come home. As Arucard stretched her flesh and filled her, he rose to support her, and she hugged him about his shoulders. Familiar heat beckoned as an old friend, spreading from the pit of her belly, fanning the flames of desire that supplanted her pain and the horrors of the past. Gaining speed, she rocked, even as he grunted and groaned in completion, but she rode him faster still. And then reality fractured and time suspended, as she clung to her husband and screamed.

  After the rapturous moment passed, she sighed, as he cradled her to his chest. For a while, they simply sat thither, enjoying comfort bestowed by their tender reunion. “Margery and Pellier art to wed.”

  “Aye, he told me.” He rubbed her scalp in a soothing rhythm. “I had thought, mayhap, Margery might write her kin and have them live hither, with us, given their current employment is ended.”

  “She would adore that.” Then Isolde seized upon his meaning. “What news of my father?”

  “He is for the ax.” Shuffling her in his embrace, Arucard caressed her cheek. “I am sorry, my love, but thither is naught I can do to redeem him, thus he is condemned.”

  “Do not be, as his outcome is of his making.” Despite what her father did to her, she did not welcome his death. “And my brother?”

  “I suspect the same, as he conspired with the Lancasters to take the throne, and His Majesty is unforgiving, in that respect.” He tipped her chin, brushed his lips to hers, and frowned. “But thou must have no fear, as the King knows of thy innocence.”

  “But I am not worried, my champion, when I am in thy arms, and hither I shall stay.” Without thought, she tensed her thighs, and he hissed. Smiling, she kissed his chest and thrust her hips, and he groaned. “Thou art hungry again, and I am in a mood to feed thee thy most favored fare.”

  “Aye, I always want thee, but I would sooner cut my throat than risk injuring thee.” As she began the delicate dance, he closed his eyes, set his forehead to hers, and gritted his teeth. “Isolde, how I love thee. And I would give thee everything thy heart desires, if thou would but share thy hopes and aspirations, that I might fulfill them.”

  “But thou hast already given me so much. In truth, I indulged in few fantasies, as a young girl, given my father treated me with cruelty, I knew naught of love, and I was always alone. I never conjured images of a handsome knight, riding to my rescue, but it seems fate had other plans and gifted ye.” She increased her pace, and together they soared. “And with thee as my teacher, I am learning to dream.”

  #

  Sound asleep, Isolde draped across Arucard, with their bodies still joined. It had taken two additional rounds of lovemaking, after the first brief but fiery coupling, to satisfy her, yet she refused to disengage him, as she would prolong their affinity, and he had not the strength to deny her. With a grimace, he stretched to reach the edge of the blanket but halted when his wife murmured incoherently. When a charming smiled graced her lush lips, which tempted him even now, she sighed and then quieted, he pulled the covers over them, mindful of her injured back, and tucked the bedclothes beneath her chin.

  Just as he shielded them, Margery entered the chamber. With a start, she averted her stare. “I beg thy pardon, my lord. But thou didst ask me to check my lady, in the event thou didst sleep.”

  “It is all right,” he responded in a low voice, as he set a palm to his wife’s ear, that she might doze, undisturbed. “Have a light meal delivered to the solar in the morrow, and I will feed my lady when she wakes. Prepare a bath at noon, and I shall wash her. Afterward, I shall summon thee to tend her wounds. And continue to brew thy special tea, until the worst of Isolde’s pain has passed, as I would spare her additional needless suffering.”

  “Yea, my lord.” The steward curtseyed and gave him her back. “Wilt thou require anything else?”

  “Aye.” He snorted as the servant fidgeted, but then he checked to ensure he bared naught unintended. “I commission thee to write thy parents and bid them to live hither, at Chichester Castle, as an early wedding gift from Lord and Lady Sussex.”

  “God be praised.” With a hand over her mouth, Margery smothered a sob, but her surprise was evident as she shook. “Thank ye, my lord. Thou art most kind.”

  “Thou art most welcome, and thou art excused.” Drawing an extra pillow beneath his head, he adjusted his hold on his wife. “And close the inner doors, as I would ensure Isolde’s uninterrupted rest.”

  Peaceful quiet fell on the private quarter he shared with his lady. Staring at the flames in the hearth, a sweet refrain echoed in his brain, as he revisited her boisterous exulta
tions of pleasure, and with his finger he drew tiny circles on her bare bottom, which never failed to fascinate him. In response, she wiggled her hips and clenched her muscles, hugging him in an intimate embrace, and he wanted her again, but he would not rouse her.

  Instead, he savored the obsessive desire, the constant beat of her heart, and the subtle rush of her breath to his flesh, proof that she remained very much a part of his world. It was a peculiar feeling—love. Crafty and furtive, the singular emotion seeped into his veins, simmered in his blood, and pervaded every aspect of his being, and he was powerless to stop it, not that he would. When they stood before the archbishop and made their vows, he did not anticipate the powerful commitment that now overwhelmed him. Rather, he had hoped for abiding friendship, an allegiance he deemed reasonable, in light of their arranged marriage and utter unfamiliarity. But thither was naught reasonable about the all-consuming devotion he coveted for her.

  “Arucard.” Gasping, Isolde shivered violently, flailed her legs, and whimpered, and her distress tore at his heart. “Whither art thou, Arucard?”

  “Shh, honey flower.” With his thumb, he caressed her cheek until she relaxed. “Hither am I, and hither shall I remain.”

  The truth of his proclamation, invested with steely resolution he would defend to his death, supplanted the most important oath he had ever sworn, excepting his nuptials. While his brothers might frown on Arucard’s priorities, he owed Isolde his very existence, as she manifested his center, and he would have it no other way. So the next time he undertook the Brethren oath, in his mind he would alter the last sentence: For Love and Isolde he lived.

  EPILOGUE

  “Admit it, thou art trying to kill me with pleasure.” Arucard pinched Isolde’s bottom, and she shrieked. “But what a way to meet my fate.”

  “Thou art free to reject my advances, my lusty lord.” Sprawled atop her husband, she placed a kiss on his chest and then sighed. “But keep thy voice down, as thy daughter sleeps. If thou dost wake her, thou must deal with her.”

  “When dost thou expect Margery to collect our child?” When he hugged her tight, she cuddled close. “As I would have thee to myself, once the deed is done. And I intend to suckle thy sumptuous petals and make thee scream, this eventide.”

  Ah, yea. The deed.

  An official proclamation arrived only yesterday, and her husband dreaded apprising Demetrius of impending events, which would forever change his life. How odd it was that Arucard would deliver the news on the first anniversary of their wedding.

  “I suppose we should rise and garb ourselves for the singular occasion.” Yet Isolde shifted beneath the warm blankets. “My lord, I do love our lazy days spent in private, especially when the weather turns unseasonably cold.”

  “As do I.” To her surprise, he sat upright and carried her with him. “Let us have done with it, that we might commence the celebration of our nuptials, to which I look forward.”

  “Very well.” Naked, she crossed her arms and strolled to the washbasin, while he tended the fire in the hearth. As she soaped her face, he hugged her from behind and kissed the back of her neck. Rinsing the suds from her eyes, she giggled. “My insatiable lord, thou dost tempt me, and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Isolde, dost thou remember when I said thou dost hold my heart?” In play, he nipped the crest of her ear.

  “Aye.” When he cupped her breasts, she moaned, reached and grasped his thighs. “It is one of my most cherished memories.”

  “I was wrong.” At his declaration, she turned in his grasp, preparing to protest, and he rubbed his nose to hers. “Thou art my heart.”

  With a cry of delight, she jumped on him, and they fell into bed.

  Anon, as she again collapsed atop him, spent and sated, she started when someone knocked at the door. “My lord, I do not think I can move.”

  “Prithee, a moment.” In one fail swoop, Arucard rolled her over, kissed her with a loud smack, and then leaped from the mattress. After retrieving his robe, he belted it tight. “Honey flower, I love thee. Now don thy attire, as thou hast promised to help me with Demetrius, and I believe he will take it better with thee in his presence.”

  As he stepped into the outer room, he closed the door to their inner chamber, and she reluctantly repeated her earlier grooming.

  Seconds later, he reappeared and whispered, “It is Margery, come to take little Roswitha.”

  It warmed her that he took such tender care, as he bent and scooped their daughter into his arms, along with Isolde’s cherished Bartholomew baby. When their child cooed, he smiled and kissed her forehead. Then he rocked gently, as he carried her into the solar.

  With her hose in place, Isolde pulled on a chemise, just as Arucard re-entered their sanctuary. “So, it is done?”

  “Aye.” As she anticipated, he made straight for her. “We art alone until the morrow, when Margery will return Roswitha to us, my lady.”

  “And now we must tend Sir Demetrius.” She expelled a breath, as he suckled her bottom lip and then chuckled. “And, between the two, I believe Margery hath the easier task.” Then something occurred to her. “My lord, how didst thee react to the revelation, when it was thy turn?”

  “I should clothe myself.” In a flash, he whirled about and all but dove into his trunk. “I need fresh braies and hose. And I would wear my burgundy tunic, which thou didst sew with thy own sweet fingers.”

  “Arucard?” With hands on hips, she tapped her foot on the stone floor. “Answer me.”

  “In truth, I vomited before the King.” Rotating until he faced her, he cast a charming pout. “It was humiliating. But, in fairness, I knew not the bounty that awaited, and never have I regretted fulfilling my duty and taking thee to wife.”

  “Given our union was arranged, I shared thy trepidation, though not in such spectacular fashion.” After pulling a gown over her head, she gave him her back. Without prompting, he tied her laces. “Am I still thy duty?”

  All activity ceased.

  Biting her tongue, she turned and peered at her husband, and the pain in his visage was evident.

  “Isolde, I love thee.” He trailed a finger along the curve of her cheek. “And while I admit I harbored more than a little apprehension as we took our vows, that changed when I lifted thy veil and glimpsed thee, as thou art no duty such as I have ever known. But the love and devotion came anon, when thou didst kneel on the ground and bare thy marked flesh, in preparation to receive thy punishment after I found the letter from thy father. Thou didst win me with thy bravery.”

  “Thou were so angry.” When he flicked his fingers, she wrapped her arms about his waist, and he cradled her close. “I thought thou would never desire me, if thou didst know of my scars.”

  “On the contrary.” Shifting her in his grasp, Arucard bent and kissed her. “Thou art glorious, and thy wounds bear testament to thy strength and courage. If I could have spared thee the torment, I would have done so. But as I cannot change what hath already happened, I would have thee no other way. And thou art not my duty. Thou art my life.”

  Noises in the solar signaled their meal had been delivered.

  “My champion, let us impart the joyous report, that Sir Demetrius may enjoy similar good fortune.” Then Isolde rubbed his crotch. “As I would savor thy company, unreservedly, for the remains of the day and night, and I want thee naked for every minute of it.”

  “Honey flower, I will make thee pay in coin of thy supple flesh for thy enticement.” He squeezed her bottom and thrust his hips. “But now we must host my friend, and thou must play thy part.”

  “It will not be difficult, given I love thee.” With a wink, she eased into her slippers and then set wide the doors.

  At the table, an alluring feast had been served to her exacting specification, which included the burly knight’s favorite dishes. Just as she poured the tankards of ale, the guest of honor arrived.

  “Am I late?” Although Sir Demetrius was not as large in statu
re as Arucard, he was nonetheless imposing, especially in light of his unique coloring. Whereas Arucard boasted dark brown hair and deep baby blues, Demetrius was known for his raven locks and pale, almost silver eyes, which often unnerved her in their clarity, as he appeared possessed by some foul demon.

  “Nay, brother.” Arucard slapped Demetrius on the shoulder. “Come in and sup with my bride and I, on our special day.”

  “I wish ye merry and must confess I was surprised to receive thy invitation.” Chuckling, Demetrius straddled the bench, and Arucard followed suit. “Rest assured, I will not linger.”

  While the men talked of various interests, Isolde dished ample portions. As she made to sit beside her husband, he grabbed her by the hips and lifted her to his lap.

  “No worries, old friend.” As a show of affection, Arucard broke off a large piece of cameline meat brewet, shoved it into her mouth, and she choked. “Ah, it is good to be a husband.”

  “My lord, if I may, perchance thou might offer a smaller bite?” With her napkin, she wiped her chin and coughed. “And I am more than capable of feeding myself.”

  “My lady, is that a sambocade cheesecake?” Demetrius licked his lips.

  “Indeed.” She glanced at Arucard and winked. “I dried the elderflowers, myself.”

  “Only a wife would think of such simple pleasures,” Arucard added.

  “Thou art too kind, gentlewoman.” Wolfing down an impressive amount of buttered wortes, Demetrius narrowed his stare. “But what need have I of such a creature, when Lady Isolde doth indulge my preferences so well?”

  Arucard gazed at Isolde, and together they blinked.

  “Well, have I shown thee my new tunic?” With unmasked pride, Arucard stretched upright. “My wife created this for me.”

  “Ah, yea.” Demetrius tugged at his collar. “She made mine, and it is a perfect fit.”

  When Arucard frowned at her, she shrugged.

  “God’s bones, brother.” At last, Arucard propped his elbow on the table and groaned. Then he drew the King’s letter from beneath his napkin and tossed it to Demetrius. “Soon, thou wilt have no need of my wife’s skills as a cook and a tailor.”