Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2)

by Barbara Devlin

  “The fault is mine for thy deteriorating condition, as I should have insisted ye ride with me.” Indeed, he had considered the option but decided against it, as he did not want her so near.

  “In that, we are in agreement.” Bearing a tray with a large bowl, a trencher filled with chunks of bread and strips of dried beef, and a steaming mug, Isolde sniffed in unmasked reproach and then deposited the items on a small table. “Thither is enough food for both of ye. Now I should retire, as Arucard grows impatient.” At the flap, she halted and pointed. “Also, I brought ye a small container of yarrow salve, which thou should rub onto Athelyna’s cheeks, as it will soothe her wind burned flesh.”

  “Gramercy, good lady.” Clutching the blanket to her chin, Athelyna wiped away another tear. “I am in thy debt, which I shall repay in full at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Pass a pleasant night, get plenty of rest, and remain in satisfactory health, and we shall consider the debt paid.” Isolde offered his wife a gentle smile. “If thou dost take ill, thou wilt delay my return home, and I long to see my daughter.” She strolled to the exit but halted. To Demetrius, she said, “Secure thy humble abode, as the storm grows strong, and I fear the gale would threaten thy temporary quarters, despite my husband’s adept anchoring.”

  “Then I will spare not a drop of the broth, and I would follow any suggestions ye might have to avoid sickness.” He favored Athelyna’s uncommon logic and acquiescence, when she could have protested. “Again, I offer my gratitude, Isolde.”

  “And I wish ye uninterrupted sleep, my lady.” After she departed, he tied tight the flaps of his double belled wedge tent and turned to his bride. “Now, I must feed ye.”

  “But I am quite capable of managing myself.” Athelyna shifted and grimaced. “First I should remove one of my gowns, as it is a tad restrictive.”

  “Hither, I should assist ye.” Moving swift and sure, he eased back the pelts and covers. “Permit me to loosen thy laces.”

  “All right.” In seconds, he swept off the heavy wool surcoat and then slackened the cotehardie. “Oh, that is much better. Thank ye.”

  Rather than carry his wife to the food, he lifted the tray and dragged the table to a convenient position beside the bed. A large chunk of bread beckoned, and he tore a smaller piece, dipped it in the hot broth, and brought the morsel to Athelyna’s mouth. For an instant, she just stared at him. Then she covered his hand with hers and ate from his grasp.

  The subtle brush of her flesh to his gave him a strange sensation, not altogether unpleasant, and he smiled. “Careful, else thou wilt take another bite of my finger.”

  “I am sorry about that.” Despite her apology, she grinned, which he decided he liked. “But, in fairness, I knew not what to expect of ye, and I was afraid. Art thou truly a virgin?”

  “Aye.” And it unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. “As I explained, my conviction is such that I have abstained from all carnal activity. Thus I benefit from our deferment, too.”

  “Art thou anxious?” She sipped the steaming brew and licked her lips, a heretofore-innocuous affectation he found suddenly appealing, and he could not explain the peculiar stirrings below his belly button. “Because I must confess I am terrified by the prospect of the consummation.”

  “It would seem we are a pair, as I, too, am anxious.” Then it occurred to him that he had access to an ally. “Mayhap thou might discuss the matter with Isolde, as she faced similar circumstances, not so long ago, and she seems quite happy with Arucard. Thither art no signs of permanent damage.”

  “What a wonderful idea.” Then she quirked her brows. “Thou dost not suspect Isolde will be offended by queries of such a personal nature?”

  “Given the noises originating in their tent, at this moment, I think not.” As usual, Arucard and Isolde played a painfully familiar tune, which bespoke their felicitous union.

  “Is that what that is?” With an expression of wonder, Athelyna blinked. “I thought some poor wounded beast had wandered into the encampment.”

  A particularly lusty howl, human in origin, rose above the wailing winds, and his wife flinched. In silence, of a sort, they finished their meal, and he removed the table to its previous spot, along with the dishes.

  And so he confronted the moment he dreaded. The tiny frame of his traveling bed was about half the width of the luxurious four-poster they shared on their wedding night. After removing his boots and tunic, he sat on the opposite side of the mattress. As before, his bride gave him her back, and he stretched long and did the same.

  A half-smothered shriek had him glancing over his shoulder, only to discover her gone. “Athelyna, whither art thee?”

  “I fell to the ground.” She popped up, and he reached for her.

  “Art thou injured?” Once he resituated her, he scooted closer to the edge of the mattress.

  “Nay, my lord.” She fluffed her pillow, and he returned to his prior orientation. Their precarious perch shook, as she shuffled beneath the sheet. When she bumped her bottom to his, he toppled to the rug.

  “Oh, dear.” His lady sat upright, and he noticed the brooch pinned to her bodice. “Husband, perchance we should face each other, as we rode atop thy destrier?”

  “Of course.” He nodded, but inside he trembled at the thought, so he sought distraction, as he maneuvered next to her. “Thou dost wear the bauble.”

  “Aye.” As he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close, her hand brushed the ridge of his man’s yard, and jolting heat shot through his crotch. “Thy gift is precious, and I shall treasure it always.”

  “Hast thou had any visions, in keeping with the lore?” Nay, he had no interest in the jewel, and he placed no credence in such folly, but he craved diversion, as she flexed her fingers, extending an innocent but nonetheless potent caress that animated his one-eyed horse with a vengeance.

  “Some,” she replied with a yawn. “But I have yet to make any sense of the dreams.” Incomprehensible mumbles signaled she slept.

  Humbled by the trust she invested in him, as she rested in his embrace, Demetrius found slumber hard won, and his last thought centered on the discomfiting realization that he desired his wife.

  #

  Four days anon, Athelyna slipped from the warm bed she shared with Demetrius, careful not to disturb him, gathered her garments, donned her clothing, washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and rushed to the makeshift field kitchen, as had become her habit.

  A brisk winter breeze brushed the wool skirt of her surcoat, a crescent of mighty oaks swayed, and she shivered and thrust her hands into her fitchet, as she gazed at the dark skies. The storm that plagued the onset of their journey had, at long last, abated, but clouds filled the heavens, cold air cut like a knife, and snow blanketed the earth, which turned the roads into a hazardous path and slowed their travel.

  When she entered the tent, she found Isolde tarrying over a steaming pot. “Prithee, dear friend, how is it ye art always hither, when I rose before dawn?”

  “Well, my husband has a rather robust appetite, especially in the morn, thus I am always up with the sun.” She handed Athelyna a wooden spoon. “If thou wilt stir the sop, I shall prepare the bread, as Arucard wishes to depart as soon as possible, that we might regain lost ground.”

  “Something smells delicious.” Arucard bent, entered the small structure, smiled at Isolde, slipped an arm about her waist, drew her near, and kissed her—at length.

  It was not the open display of affection that shook Athelyna so much as the intensity of the exchange. Never had she glimpsed such unreserved devotion, and the couple gave her hope for a future she had not thought possible. But she had not the courage to enact a similar scene with Demetrius.

  At last, the tender twosome parted, but Isolde rubbed her nose to Arucard’s and said, “I love ye, my handsome knight.”

  “Ah, my sweet wife, I love ye, too.” With that, the imposing warrior thrust his face to the curve of Isolde’s neck and growled, and she giggled.r />
  “Arucard, we have not the time to sate thy hunger, so thou wilt make due with sustenance.” Isolde gave him a nudge. “Now sit, and I shall serve ye, but do not distract me, as I have dozens of men to feed.”

  “By thy command, my lady.” He sketched a salute and winked. Then his stare settled on Athelyna, and she bowed her head. “Good morrow, Athelyna. Is Demetrius awake?”

  “Nay, my lord.” She filled a bowl and handed it to Isolde. “He dozed when I left him in our quarters.”

  “That is not right, as the husband is supposed to vacate the bed before the wife.” To Athelyna’s dismay, he chuckled. “I must have words with him.”

  “Thou wilt do no such thing, else ye mayest room with the guards, as poor Athelyna is new to the marital state, and she hath no need of thy interference.” With a humph, Isolde brought a mug of hot tea to Arucard, along with a trencher of bread. “Eat, and spare our sister thy vast knowledge of women, oh great Nautionnier. As thou hadst thy share of mishaps in the early days of our union, so thou art no one to talk.”

  “Thou dost mock me?” Arucard snorted and smacked his wife’s bottom. “I seem to recall ye had no complaints in our tent.”

  “And thou didst take thy time about it.” She tossed a napkin in his face. “Now cease thy carping and finish thy meal, as I long for our Roswitha, and I wish to arrive in Chichester, that we might celebrate Christmastide with our family, in our home. If thou dost wish to keep me happy, then make it so, else I can guarantee no one will be happy.”

  Holding her breath, Athelyna braced for a sharp rebuke and wondered how she might protect her friend. Without a response, he downed the sop, snatched another chunk of bread, saluted, claimed another kiss, complete with a loud smack, and marched from the tent.

  “Isolde, thou art the bravest woman of my acquaintance.” Suppressing a shiver, Athelyna swallowed her trepidation. “For a minute, I thought he might beat ye, for thy defiance.”

  “Arucard—beat me?” Isolde set out stacks of trenchers and bowls. “Never would he strike me, because he loves me, and such barbarity is not in his nature, which he assured me from the onset.”

  “Didst thou know him, prior to thy nuptials?” Curiosity blossomed, and Athelyna could not resist the query. “Were ye friends?”

  “Nay.” With a half-smile and a soft expression, Isolde averted her gaze. “I met Arucard on the steps of the Chapter House, just prior to our nuptials.”

  “Dost thou mean ye had never seen him, until thy wedding?” At the very least, Athelyna had enjoyed amiable conversation with Demetrius during the night she spent with him, in his tent, so he was not necessarily a stranger. “Thou hadst not even spoken, via written correspondence?”

  “Aye.” Isolde wiped her hands on an apron and returned to her task, filling bowls with the thin soup. “In fact, I knew not of my impending marriage until the eve of the ceremony, so I had little opportunity to ponder my fate.” With the ladle mid-air, she paused and snickered. “May I confess a secret?”

  “Oh, I wish ye would.” Desperate for an ally, Athelyna sought a bond with the estimable noblewoman.

  “When I first spied my husband, I almost fainted from fear of him.” To Athelyna’s amazement, Isolde burst into laughter. “That sounds so absurd, given our relationship.”

  “But I would argue otherwise, given his size.” Athelyna sidestepped close to her friend, peered at the entrance to the tent, and whispered. “Much like Demetrius, thy spouse is rather intimidating in stature.”

  “Only in stature?” Isolde arched a brow, and together they collapsed in good-natured mirth.

  “So I have not offended ye?” Still, Athelyna perched on a precarious precipice. “Thou art not displeased?”

  “By thy honesty?” Isolde waved and clucked her tongue. “Not at all, my dear, as thou art correct. But I submit ye will change thy mind, when ye dost become better acquainted with thy man, Arucard, and the other knights of the Brethren, as I submit they have much in common with wayward children.”

  “And thou art content in thy situation?” She thought better of her intrusive query and retreated a step. “Forget I asked, as I impinge on thy hospitality.”

  “No apologies necessary, as I have naught to hide.” With a steaming pot in her grasp, Isolde filled numerous mugs with tea. “But if that is thy way of inquiring as to whether or not I have any regrets regarding my marriage, the answer is simple. Thither is naught to lament, as I found salvation, contentment, and unfailing love, despite those who conspired against me. And while my enemies sought my demise, which they concealed in such lofty terms as honor and duty, to their own ends, I savor paradise. The same fate awaits ye, if thou wilt but seize it.”

  “I do not follow.” Athelyna searched her mind, but she could make no sense of Isolde’s statement. Thus far, Demetrius showed no inclination to form a connection rivaling that between Arucard and Isolde. From Athelyna’s current position, it seemed unlikely she would ever win such bliss. “What can I do? And I cannot imagine ye might have enemies.”

  “Thou might be surprised, as evil often lurks in the most unexpected places,” Isolde stated with a frown and more than a hint of melancholy. “And art thou not a woman of faith?”

  “I am most devoted.” Perplexed, she scratched her cheek. “Wherefore dost thou question my constancy?”

  “Thou hast taken the sacrament.” Isolde shrugged. “Thou hast made a pact with God, and thou must honor it, unless thou would break thy oath, sanctioned not only by His Majesty but also by Our Lord.”

  “Nay, I would not.” Not since she stood on the steps of the Chapter House had she thought of her circumstances in such simple terms. Then she glanced at the brooch, which she pinned to the bodice of her cotehardie. Thus far, she had focused on the strange dreams, which had yet to reveal the personage of her one true knight.

  But did it matter?

  “Thou dost woolgather, Athel.” Isolde inclined her head and smiled. “May I call ye Athel? I contrive pet names for everyone in our family.”

  “I like that.” She giggled and clutched Isolde’s wrist. “So what am I to do? How can I foster an abiding affection with Demetrius?”

  “Well, thou must learn my recipe for cameline meat brewets and sambocade cheesecake, as he is partial to the fare.” Isolde tapped her chin. “And thou must perform all the services for which a good wife is responsible, such as sewing and washing his garments, bathing him, keeping thy shared quarters neat and clean, satisfying him in the marital bed, birthing and raising his heirs, running his household as chatelaine, and supporting his endeavors. In thy spare time, thou must minister to the community. Given thou were an oblate, I presume ye art educated in much of thy tasks.”

  “Oh, dear.” Athelyna’s knees buckled, and Isolde retrieved a chair.

  “Hither ye should sit.” Isolde offered a mug of tea. “If I had something stronger to offer ye, I would do so, but the wine and the firkin of ale is already packed, yet no one knows thy distress better than I, as I walked in thy shoes not too long ago. And all is not lost. Thou need only take charge, and thou hast me to help ye. By the King’s command, I am to train ye for thy mission, in service to the realm.”

  “But I am not afraid of hard work, and I am fine with most of the functions ye mentioned.” Athelyna gulped. “It is the production of heirs that is unutterably foreign to me.”

  “No worries, as I am an expert in that arena and can extend sage advice to see ye through the worst of it.” Isolde prepared a tray, poured two mugs of tea, ladled sop into two bowls, and heaped chunks of bread into a trencher. “If thou dost follow my counsel, thou wilt find similar happiness. Now take thy husband his meal, and serve it with a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” Athelyna blinked.

  “A kiss.” Isolde dipped her chin and grinned. “And deploy thy tongue. Then assess his reaction. If he doth show no signs of interest, then thou must be patient with him, but I doubt it will come to that.”

  “And if he responds?” Athelyna was n
ot certain, but she supposed she might dread his active participation even more.

  “Enjoy thy benefits as a wife.” Isolde arched a brow. “Believe me, thither art worse things in this world.”

  “That is a matter of opinion.” She collected the light repast and trudged through the snow, back to her tent. When she slipped through the flaps, she discovered Demetrius garbed and waiting at the small table. “Good morrow, my lord.”

  “My lady.” As she neared, he stood. “I could have fetched my own food.”

  “Ah, but it is my duty to tend thy needs.” She rolled her shoulders and prayed for calm, because she was about to make her move. “Art thou hungry?”

  “I am, indeed.” How handsome he looked, in his black breeches, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tunic, which only intensified his silvery eyes. After arranging their meager feast, she faced him.

  Time suspended, as she studied his angular cheekbones, high forehead, and thick black hair. Isolde was correct. Thither were worse things in life than sharing the world with a man as beauteous as Demetrius de Blackbourne, and he was Athelyna’s husband. He was hers.

  Framing his jaw, she perched on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

  For a few seconds, he did naught, and her confidence faltered. But then he rested his hands to her hips, shifted, and brushed his flesh to hers, and she could have cried. Slowly, so as not to frighten her shy spouse, she parted her lips and prodded him with her tongue. At that point, everything melded into some unfamiliar but enticing sensation.

  Gasping for breath, she separated from him, but the reprieve was short-lived, as he took control of their sweet exchange. New and tempting emotions blossomed, and she gave herself to the alluring experience. Fire simmered in her veins, obliterating her hesitation.

  And then Demetrius broke their oh-so-sumptuous interlude and set her at arm’s length. Before she could say anything, he took two steps back, reached for a chair, bent, missed the seat, and landed on the ground.