Enduringly Yours

by Stocum, Olivia

  And then she heard his voice from across the bailey.

  Some called him John the Merciless.

  She called him her new sword master—among other things—but only in the silence of her heart.

  Alana halted, sucking in a long breath to steady herself. The polite thing to do would be to turn back and greet him. She wanted to greet him. She wanted to do a lot more than greet him—like run into his arms—but at the moment she would settle for making her heart stop fluttering. Chester snorted in annoyance.

  “I know, sorry,” she muttered to the horse, laying a palm on his chest and giving him a little push. “Back,” she told him. He compliantly back-stepped until they were no longer standing in the doorway.

  John neared with a lazy swagger and a smile. Could she actually have forgotten how handsome he was? With his shoulder-length sandy hair, leaf green eyes—even though she couldn’t quite see them yet, she already knew what color they were—and some quality she couldn’t begin to describe. Masculine didn’t say enough. Confident? Nay, that wasn’t the word she was looking for. Virile? She cleared her throat. Best she not go there. Well, whatever it was, it had her entranced.

  John and Matthew clasped hands, then began slapping one another on the back. They talked, and she waited. Chester swished his tail at flies. She began to wonder if both men had forgotten about her. Matthew laughed at something John said. Alana lifted her chin to them. What did she care if John acknowledged her or not? Her throat constricted.

  She cared.

  A lot.

  John was her brother’s best friend. She’d known him before, when she was a child, but she had paid little attention to him. Then the Crusade took him from English soil. She saw him again for the first time a few weeks ago at a friend’s wedding.

  Things had changed.

  She was of age now. And he was a seasoned warrior.

  “My lady,” John called.

  Alana straightened. A shot, like lighting, jumped through her limbs. Chester bumped her shoulder as if to remind her that she was supposed to be taking care of him.

  Suddenly, she was hyperaware of the way she was dressed, in one of her brother’s old tunics, her favorite brown leather jerkin over it, and wide-legged leather riding trews she had made herself. Her sword was sheathed at her belt. The last time she’d seen John, she was in a yellow kyrtle with draping sleeves, her hair loose, and a silver circlet atop her head.

  For the first time, she was putting on no airs. Life as she knew it would end come autumn, and she no longer had anything to hide.

  She certainly didn’t care what Lord John of Ravenmore thought—so she told herself—or what her soon-to-be husband might think. Not that the man ever bothered to look at her. At least not the way she wanted her husband to.

  With affection.

  Her betrothed only wanted her as payment for the gold they owed him. And the heir she could potentially provide.

  John smiled, hesitated, then thrust out his hand. It took her a moment to respond. She had made it clear in her correspondence with him that she did not want to be treated like a lady. She was there to take the next step in her study of swordplay, not to be coddled because she was a woman. She clasped his hand in what she hoped was a firm grip. His fingers closed neatly around hers.

  “Lord John,” she said, managing not to stammer. “I am looking forward to studying with you this summer.”

  “As am I.”

  His voice had changed over the years he’d spent at war. Bellowing orders on the battlefield had given it a deeper, hoarse quality.

  It made her heart beat faster.

  He still had her hand. She realized it was probably because she was latched onto his. Alana pulled free, her face warming.

  Some things in life just were not fair. One of them being how beautiful he was, the second how attracted she was to him despite her best efforts not to, lastly was the little matter of her being betrothed to another man.

  Chester nudged her and she tore her gaze off John. “I should see to my mount,” she said.

  “My lads can do that.”

  “He is temperamental. I would not want anyone getting hurt.”

  “A nuisance is what he is,” her brother added, coming up to them. He laid a hand on Chester’s neck. The horse pinned his ears and Matthew pulled his hand away. “See?”

  John considered her stallion. “Good blood lines,” he said, walking around the animal. Alana gave the reins a tug to remind Chester to behave. “Nice muscle tone.”

  “Stubborn and hard-headed,” Matthew added.

  “Stamina?”

  “Excellent,” Alana said.

  “He’s wide in the chest. Means he has good lungs.” John came around front. Chester rolled wide eyes at him, blowing air loudly through flared nostrils. “And only you can ride him I take it.”

  “It has always been that way. Since he was a colt, only I could handle him.”

  “If it were not for my sister, I would have gelded the beast long ago,” Matthew said.

  “Interesting . . .” John ignored her brother.

  “What is?” she asked. She was enjoying the attention, even if he was looking at her horse instead of her.

  “I always suspected, but so few ladies ride stallions.” He leaned back against a wooden fence, arms crossed casually over his chest, pressing hard, lean muscle into an ivory tunic. He still hadn’t answered her question, but she didn’t say anything about it. She was too focused on his arms. “If a stallion might bond more intimately with a mistress than a master.”

  Did he have to use those exact words? He seemed unfazed, which was all well and good—for him.

  Chester ducked his head. Velvety lips reached out to toy with the folds of her tunic. She wound her fingers into his heavy gray mane, glad for the distraction.

  “I’d wager that beast would protect you with his life,” he said.

  “He would protect her.” Matthew came around to lean against the fence next to John. Her brother was half a head taller than John, having come from the same family tree that had produced herself. Alana was taller by a head than most ladies. It made her as tall as John.

  Yet another strike against her.

  “That horse has bitten me twice now,” Matthew said, rubbing his arm. “Keep your distance from his mouth.” He looked at Alana then, his eyes softening. “But it is a small price to pay for her safety.”

  She swallowed the lump forming in the back of her throat. “Matthew . . .”

  He seemed to shake himself, then pushed off the fence. The moment of familial affection had ended, but that was all right. She already knew her brother had a soft heart.

  “Why do I not show you my stable,” John said.

  “Thank you, my lord.” It was nice to know he wouldn’t question her choice in horseflesh.

  “You wear your sharp?” He said as they walked under the stone arch and into the familiar scent of fragrant hay and horse manure.

  It took her a moment to understand what he meant by sharp, then she patted the sword at her hip. “Aye. I do not normally wear it, Matthew does not like it.” She gritted the last words. “But we brought no retainers with us, and we thought I should be armed with a functional weapon.” They would have brought retainers, had they any to spare. But they were so poor they hardly had enough men left to guard the walls at Berkley. “I brought my dull training sword as well.”

  “I can understand the necessity of being armed, but now that you are safe . . . We will train with dull swords only, my lady.”

  “Of course.” She worked her jaw. “And if I were a lad?”

  “If you were a lad,” he said quietly. A lock of sandy hair fell over his brow. “You would be a knight by now.”

  Her heart dropped into her feet. She was old enough to have earned her Knight’s Spurs. “But I am neither,” she said, barely managing to keep the emotion out of her voice.

  “Nay, you are neither.” She had the insane notion that he could read through her skull.
If he did, he would be shocked by what he found there. She had quite an imagination, after all. She broke the attachment, feeling self-conscious, and more than a little guilty.

  John gestured down the aisle. “You might as well stable him near mine. They will need to become accustomed to each other anyway.”

  “He is fine with other horses.” She followed with Chester in tow. “As long as they do not get too close to me.”

  “You are important to him,” John said from over his shoulder. He opened a stall door for her.

  Alana patted Chester’s neck. “Sometimes he is the only one who understands me,” she whispered. Chester’s ears twitched toward the sound of her voice.

  Glancing behind her, she found Matthew scratching the delicate black nose of a small-boned horse.

  “A Saracen mare?” Alana led Chester into his stall.

  “Aye,” John said. “An acquisition of mine. I thought I might cross her with one of my stallions.”

  Alana lightened Chester of saddlebags.

  “He cannot be too big though. What I need is a small stallion.” John leaned over the half door of the stall.

  She set her bags aside, then loosened the cinch on her saddle, beginning to feel more comfortable around him. “Like Chester?”

  “Exactly like Chester.”

  Alana stifled a groan as she lifted her saddle into her arms. He opened the door, reaching out to take it from her.

  “Well, he has had plenty of experience at . . .” She cut herself short, her face warming, her arms still around the saddle.

  He took it from her grasp, lips quirked into a knowing smile. Brows arched as if daring her to finish what she’d almost said. It embarrassed and thrilled her at the same time. Turning, he walked off with the saddle, presumably heading for the tack room.

  She glanced at her brother, hoping he hadn’t noticed the exchange. Thankfully, he was still with the mare.

  “I will pay for his services, of course,” John called.

  Chester snorted at his fodder, looking for all the world like an overgrown lapdog. He shook his head, long mane flying around his neck. Alana blew an errant curl out of her face with an overheated breath and began undoing the buckles on the bridle, her hands shaking as she struggled to control herself. She slipped the bit out of Chester’s mouth, wishing she could beat back this monster inside of her. She had never felt this way before. At one point, she’d been besotted with a young knight, but she’d never been so preoccupied with him that she forgot herself.

  “I mean it,” John said reappearing at the stall door. “I am looking.”

  “What?” she breathed.

  His brow creased as if he were thinking over their conversation to make sure he hadn’t missed something.

  Alana shook herself. “Sorry. You were referring to Chester.”

  “Aye.”

  Was the offer to pay her for Chester’s stud services charity? Did she care if it was? They needed the money. “Just be sure you pay Matthew.”

  “I was going to pay you.”

  She looked around for her brother. He was no longer with the mare. She wondered where he’d gone. John’s offer was generous, but she shook her head, handing him the bridle. “I cannot. I will belong to the Duke of Besville soon.” Assuming she failed in her mission. Her voice cracked. “And so will Chester.” She laid a hand on the horse.

  John opened his mouth, stopped, then turned away, walking back down the aisle toward the tack room with the bridle.

  Alana took a good look at her hands, at her dirty fingernails, then at the roughness of her palms, knowing that every callous and every broken fingernail was bringing her one step closer to deliverance. She would not go to the altar without a fight. She would save Berkley herself. Or die trying.

  “My lady?” John asked.

  She looked up. My, he was efficient. She hadn’t expected him back so soon. “Just be sure you pay my brother.” She found herself whispering, even though Matthew had left the stable. “He needs all the help he can get.”

  “How bad have things gotten? He has not told me.”

  She turned to retrieve her bags, slinging them over her shoulder. “The tapestries are gone,” she said, shrugging. He took the bags from her, and she didn’t try to stop him. This time anyway. “As are the jewels Mother left me. We let my maids go. We are down to minimal staff and the walls are so bare of guardsmen that we practically beg to be overtaken. My betrothed only gave us enough to replant our fields and rebuild our village after the fire. No more.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. Forget I asked,” he said, touching her elbow. “Try not to think about it.” He frowned like he wasn’t sure his words had come out right. “That is probably not possible, is it?”

  “Nay, it is not.”

  “Try not to . . . Do not let it ruin your training.” He frowned again.

  “I will not, my lord.”

  Chester’s head appeared in the doorway. Before she could react, the horse shoved her and she fell backward into a pile of straw. By the time she’d scrambled to her feet, John was holding his arm like her brother had when Chester had bitten him.

  Nay, John was holding his arm exactly like her brother had when Chester had bitten him.

  “Chester!” she yelled at the horse. He swung his head in her direction. “How could you?”

  John lowered her bags to the ground with a wince.

  “I’ve had worse,” he assured her, looking at it, and then clamping his hand back over as if he didn’t want her to see.

  “I am sure that you have my lord, but please let me look.” She brushed his hand away. Fresh blood ebbed through his tunic sleeve. “I’m so sorry.” She attempted to examine the wound around his torn sleeve, then gave up and ripped it off altogether. Blood ran freely down his arm. “It is deep.” She tied the fabric around the bite to staunch the bleeding. Then she took his good arm and pulled. “Inside with me. Right now. I need to take care of it.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I assure you that I am fully capable of attending to a man.” She tugged again.

  “Aye, my lady. I am sure you are.” He held his hand out to her. “Best take it,” he said, his voice threaded with that husky quality that made her heart pound. “Would not want me to get lost.”

  She wasn’t sure why he would want her to hold his hand.

  But she would not refuse it either.

  She placed her fingers in his, more thrilled by the simple contact that she had any right to. His palm was calloused from the sword and horseback riding, warm, meatier than hers; yet she imagined that if she held her hand flat to his, her fingers would be nearly as long. She looked up. They were definitely of a height, leaving her staring straight into his eyes. Alana resisted the urge to hunch a bit.

  He gave her hand a tug. “Who is leading whom?” he said . . .

  A Worthy Opponent, coming June 2015.

  About the Author:

  Olivia is an enigma wrapped in a stigmatism. (No, that’s not right.) To find out about her, visit www.oliviastocum.com.