Dark Warrior
When Nicholas Herron the Duke of Berwick and his best friend, Rolf Torgesson, two of King Edward III’s most powerful and respected knights, discover a badly beaten young woman hiding in the forest, they swear to protect her.
By the time they learn that she is Lady Kathryn Weston, and that her attacker is none other than her betrothed, Robert Walford, the powerful and ruthless Duke of Pemberton, it is too late. They have both fallen in love with her and she with them—a love so forbidden it could cost them everything, even their lives.
Set amidst the turmoil and pageantry of 14th-century England, Dark Warrior weaves a vivid tapestry of three lost souls bound to each other with a deep, abiding love. But will that love survive Walford’s evil plan to attack Berwick Castle, take it apart stone by stone, and ultimately destroy everyone who lives there?
Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 131,902 words
DARK WARRIOR
Julie Shelton
MENAGE AMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Amour
DARK WARRIOR
Copyright © 2014 by Julie Shelton
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62741-105-9
First E-book Publication: January 2014
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
DARK WARRIOR
JULIE SHELTON
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
They were upon her before she could flee.
Rudely snatched up out of the deep sleep of exhaustion, she lay huddled, still and frightened, trying to disappear into the hard, frozen ground. The piles of leaves and pine boughs she had carefully piled on top of herself now seemed totally inadequate to conceal her. The nightmare she’d so desperately tried to escape was finally upon her.
It surrounded her. She could hear it in the form of men shouting, hounds barking, mail clanking, hooves pounding. She could smell it in the form of sour sweat, overheated horses. She could taste it in the form of bitter bile rising in her throat—Sweet Merciful Virgin! He’s sent an entire army after me! To hunt me down and run me to ground like a helpless animal!
Nearly out of her mind with fear, she curled up into a tight ball, making herself as small as possible. She pressed her face into the frozen dirt, hoping against hope that the brown and tan of her stolen clothing would help make her invisible.
Don’t let them find me. Merciful heaven, don’t let them find me. Please don’t—
She let out a shriek as a growling dog sank his teeth into the rough cloth of her sleeve and yanked viciously, sending leaves and twigs flying. Others, barely kept in check by their handlers, lunged at her, snarling and barking, nipping at her with their slavering jaws. She could feel them buffeting her, felt the heat from their bodies. Sweet, merciful God! She threw her hands up in a desperate attempt to protect her face and neck from the animals’ razor-sharp teeth. There was no escape. If she so much as moved, they’d rip her to shreds.
Rough hands seized her, jerking her up out of her hiding place amidst a flurry of pine branches, dirt, and dried leaves. She tried to scream, but no sound came from her ravaged throat. Blessed Virgin!
“Whewwww! God’s blood, boy, you stink! By my oath, pigs smell better than you!”
General male laughter greeted this comment, sending her into full-fledge panic. Heart pounding in her breast, she pushed against the beefy hands lifting her. Dear God, she had to get away. She just had to! Frantically she started to kick, managing to land a few blows with her wooden clogs.
“Here now, lad, none of that. Oww! Hold still, damn you! God’s teeth, you’re as slippery as an eel!” He tightened his grip, wringing a cry of anguish from her throat at the sharp, stabbing pain that robbed her of her breath, even as she continued to twist and writhe and kick. But her attempts to break free were in vain. Whoever was holding her was much too strong, and much too determined.
“Cease your struggles, damn it!” It was a raspy growl right in her ear. She could feel a coarse beard prickling her neck. But she was too frightened to heed the words. Too terrified to hear the underlying kindness in the gruff voice. She continued to twist and kick helplessly against the imprisoning arms, succeeding only in increasing her excruciating pain and exhausting what little store of strength she had left.
Rock-hard, muscular arms closed around her abdomen, pulling her back against a chest as hard and unyielding as a stone wall.
“We’re trying to help you, lad. Cease your struggles!”
She stopped abruptly, gasping desperately for breath, spent and shivering with both fright and cold. Despair settled over her like a shroud, clogging her throat with unshed tears. Any further struggles were pointless, and she knew it.
Tears burned her eyes, sliding silently down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the dust and dirt. Every breath ended in a sob. Her worst fears had come true. The nightmare she had sought to escape was all around her, dragging her back to Hell. Back to him. And this time he would finish what he’d started three nights ago. This time, he would kill her.
She swallowed hard as her shoulders slumped in defeat. She was well and truly caught and her brief, miserable time on this earth was about to end. Her mind ground to a halt as the utter hopelessness of her situation bore in on her. And as hope died, so too did her resistance.
Suddenly the man holding her leaned forward, loosened his arms and set her on her feet. She stumbled forward on the uneven ground, nearly sprawling face first in the dirt and leaves.
“Here, lad, steady now. Don’t fall.” Thick male fingers bit into her upper arms, turning her around to face her captor. She heard a gasp. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” One hand released her and she knew he was crossing himself. “What happened to you? Who beat you like this?” Without taking his eyes off of her, the man shouted out, “Your Grace! Come at once!”
His Grace! She swallowed hard, her body stiffening, bracing itself against the blows she knew were coming. The blows she knew she was powerless to stop. Sweet, merciful God, how much more must I bear? Keeping her head lowered, she grabbed the tattered woolen scarf she’d wound around her neck for warmth and quickly pulled it up over her chin, mouth and nose. Mayhap he won’t recognize me. Mayhap he’ll let me go. She gave her head a slight shake. Mayhap pigs will fly.
Utterly defeated, she stood there, shivering so hard she feared her bones would snap. In her haste to flee three nights ago, she had neglected to steal a cloak. And she’d been paying for that oversight ever since. The rough, homespun tunic and loose trousers she had managed to steal were no match for the bitter cold of this gloomy February day. They swallowed her up, leaving gaping holes for the frigid wind to blow through. She’d tried stuffing them with straw, but they were so large, the straw had long since fallen out, leaving her half-frozen. Her body was shaking so hard she was staggering like a tosspot reeling out of a tavern after a three-day binge.
She was only dimly aware of the commotion going on all around her. Men talked. Hounds barked and lunged excitedly, their chains clanking as their handlers struggled to hold them back. Horses stamped the frozen ground with their heavy hooves, snorting out billowing clouds of frosty breath. In the midst of all this confusion, she heard footsteps striding toward her through the crunching leaves, coming closer until they stopped right in front of her. Keeping her head down, she felt her muscles tightening, her entire body shrinking in on itself, anticipating the first blow.
“Well, Thomas? What the bloody hell is so urgent that you would keep a man from the warmth of his fire and the comfort of his ale?”
Her mind reeled in shock. That’s not his voice! The relief that flooded through her was so dizzying, she nearly fainted from it. Her knees buckled and a large hand suddenly grabbed her upper arm to keep her from sinking to the ground. A strangled sob left her throat.
’Tis not his voice! ’Tis not his voice! Her mind repeated it over and over as she struggled to catch her breath. It wasn’t that oily, reptilian voice she so despised and feared. Instead, it was a deep river of sound, smooth and soothing, flowing over her battered soul and body, easing her terror. It was a sound she latched onto like a drowning sailor latches onto a piece of floating wreckage. ’Tis not him!
“Where are your manners, boy?” the first man roared at her in a voice so filled with authority there was no thought of ignoring it. “A Duke stands before you. Show respect for your betters and remove your hood at once or, by God, I’ll remove it for you!”
She threw up her hand and jerked off the hood. Bits of straw tumbled out of it.
“The cap, too, boy!”
With another jerky movement, she snatched the shapeless woolen cap off her head.
The collective gasp from the entire hunting party made her realize, too late, the enormity of her mistake.
A thick, shining mane of reddish-gold hair tumbled down out of the cap. It spilled in luxurious waves over her shoulders and down her back, nearly to her waist. It fell forward in a curtain of shimmering gold concealing her face from view.
Time ground to a halt. She held her breath, heartbeat pounding in her ears. There was a long pause as the world receded, leaving her stranded in a pocket of silence. Where there were no whispering voices, no baying hounds or stamping horses. Just her and the tall man standing before her, holding her shoulder in one hand, her very life in the other. He brushed his hand past her cheek to lift a fistful of her hair, letting it sift through his gloved fingers like a silken waterfall. “Well, gentlemen, it would seem our Thomas here has discovered some sort of fey creature. A woodland sprite, mayhap, or a nymph? Although, I must confess I was unaware that sprites wore homespun and wooden clogs.”
Laughter greeted this statement, and in spite of herself, fear returned, dark and ugly, twisting through her once again. True, this was not the man who had beaten her three nights ago, but that didn’t mean he was actually going to help her. He was, after all, just another man. He could turn out to be just as brutal, if not worse.
As renewed terror cascaded through her, hot, stinging bile rose up from her stomach, burning the already damaged tissues of her throat. With great effort, she choked it back down, swallowing convulsively. She hunched her shoulders up around her ears, folding in on herself, as if trying to disappear altogether. She tucked her chin tight against her chest, staring fixedly at the ground. Gradually, she began to realize that the man had hunkered down in front of her and was speaking to her, repeating gently, over and over, “Have no fear, ma petite. We will not hurt you.”
Tears dripped from her eyes, making tiny little plopping sounds in the leaves at her feet. She swiped helplessly at them and her cold, runny nose with the dirty sleeve of her homespun tunic.
Removing his right glove, the Duke pushed his warm fingers through the heavy curtain of her hair, only to encounter the concealing folds of her scarf. Pushing the thick woolen material down, he touched her chin. The heat from her skin nearly scorched his hand. “Holy Christ, Thomas, she’s burning up with fever!” Gripping her chin firmly, he lifted her head.
Her hair fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage done to her beaten and battered face.
“God’s Blood!” the Duke thundered, jumping to his feet. “What in the name of bloody hell happened to you, girl?” He stared at her in utter shock, then turned to his master-at-arms. “Thomas, look at her! Who would do such a thing? What know you of this?”
“Naught, Your Grace.” Thomas stared at her, every bit as mystified as the young Duke. And every bit as agitated. “Only what you see before you. The hounds found her hiding in the leaves.”
“She looks familiar to me. Is she from Berwick?”
Thomas just shrugged and shook his head. “I think not, Your Grace. I’ve never seen her before.”
She stood stock-still, her eyes closed, her face hot as the Duke’s gaze raked once more over her bruised and swollen features. A touch, light as a butterfly’s wing, brushed her cheek. She couldn’t stop herself from recoiling.
Bloody fucking hell! “Easy, lass, easy.” The Duke kept his voice low and soothing, talking to her as if she were a wild horse he was trying to gentle. “I will not hurt you, sweetness. Please believe me, no one here will hurt you.” He brushed her cheek again, and this time she didn’t jerk back. She stood still, hands clenched at her sides, tentatively accepting his touch.
Nicholas Herron, the sixth Duke of Berwick, dropped his hand and simply stood there, staring at her,
the blood running cold in his veins as he suddenly realized where he’d seen her before. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’s the woman who’s been haunting my dreams for the past four years! My phantom lover! Stunned, he studied her more closely. Aye. Beneath the dirt, beneath the swelling and the bruising, it was indeed she, the naked houri with the sun-kissed hair, who had welcomed him nightly into her bed, even as she’d welcomed him into her body, giving him the most exquisite pleasure he’d ever known. Sweet Jesu, she’s an apparition! She’s not real! She cannot possibly be real!
And yet…here she stands. Only instead of a seductive temptress, she looks like the survivor of a pitched battle. Feeling as if he’d been struck in the stomach with a mace, he examined the slight figure of the young woman standing shivering before him. Her face was a livid mass of cuts, scratches, and deep purple bruises. Her blackened eyes were swollen shut. And for the first time he noticed the blood-encrusted wound on the right side of her head, matting her hair stiffly. Dried blood was caked around her ear and dribbled in rivulets down her neck. Her hands were equally cut and bruised and covered with dried blood. The little finger of her left hand was crooked and swollen, most likely broken. She must have fought like a lioness. He could not explain why that thought filled him with such pride.
She stood as still as her shivering body would allow, her right arm bent protectively around her abdomen. Her breathing was labored, but carefully shallow, a sure sign to Nicholas, no stranger to the wounds of combat, that at least one of her ribs was cracked, if not broken.
Rage twisted inside him as he took in her ravaged appearance, a rage deeper than anything he had ever felt in his life. It surged through him in dark, stormy waves, glittering fiercely in his turbulent gray eyes. This girl had been beaten so savagely it was a wonder she had survived. God’s teeth, what in the name of all that is holy is wrong with a world that allows such things to happen?
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