Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  He kept his eyes closed, reliving the horror of the moment when the full extent of her injuries had been revealed with the removal of those horrible clothes. “She is gravely wounded,” he said quietly. “She was kicked repeatedly in the belly, back and legs. One of her ribs is cracked. Her breasts bear marks that could only have been made by…a man’s teeth.”

  Sir John Lowden drew in a hissing breath, but didn’t interrupt. Nicholas exhaled slowly to steady his own breathing. “Her left little finger is broken. Her wrists were bound—tight. The wounds there are…” He trailed off, unable to finish. He had wanted to weep upon seeing the deep, bloody gashes encircling her wrists. She had strained so hard against her cruel bonds. He shook his head.

  “Was she violated?” Thomas asked quietly.

  Nicholas’s mouth twisted grimly. “Aye. And sodomized.” Nicholas paused, gathering himself. When he resumed speaking, his voice was shaking. “Her mouth was used so hard her voice may be permanently damaged. At least, that’s what Sir Richard thinks caused the kind of injury he saw there.”

  “Merciful Christ!” This from Sir John.

  Another pause. Another deep breath. “She was also strangled. Probably to the point of near-death. Many of her wounds have festered. At this moment, she is delirious with fever and Sir Richard believes she will not last the night. And there’s something else.” Nicholas looked from one man to the other until he had their undivided attention. “She’s been scourged. Often, from the looks of it. And over a long period of time. Her back is covered with thin scars from a cat o’ nine tails.”

  Suddenly, Rolf jumped up, shoving his chair back so hard it fell over with a clatter that sounded like a thunderclap. He started to pace, his route parallel to Nicholas’s, as if trying to erase the violent images from his mind’s eye. Images of her as she had stood shivering in the forest, the glorious mass of her hair tipped back to reveal the horror that had been inflicted upon her. Images of her on Nick’s bed, naked, her pale skin blue with cold and covered with bloody cuts and bruises. “Why dost thou not call this what it is, Nick? This woman was tortured! Why would anyone want to torture a helpless woman? What sort of fiend—”He broke off with an angry shake of his bald head, realizing that there was no answer to his questions. At least no answer that would satisfy his sense of chivalry and fair play.

  Rolf was a knight, a seasoned warrior, inured to the most grievous wounds of combat. But this? This defied all reason and logic. This was not combat, this was depravity. It was barbarity in its cruelest form. This was inhuman.

  “Who would do such a thing?” he repeated in a strained whisper. “And to what purpose?”

  “Husband, I’ll wager,” said Sir John Lowden, sinking down heavily into one of the chairs. His nearly white hair and his face, lined with deep wrinkles, attested to his many years’ worth of heavy responsibility and devotion to duty. But, it was not responsibility that weighed so heavily upon his shoulders this day, nor duty that turned his face the color of the ashes in the grate. It was anguish over the cruelty inflicted upon the unknown young woman. Sir John had a gentle heart, a rarity in this barbarous age.

  “Monster, I’ll wager,” said Thomas Parsons, his braided beard quivering as he bent to pick up the fallen chair, striving to control the sudden urge to commit some sort of mayhem. “Wish we knew who he was. I’d like to give the bastard a dose of his own medicine.” He stroked his beard, clearly agitated.

  “The queue forms behind me,” Nicholas said grimly. “And, I vow that by the time you raise your hand to him, he will be long dead by mine.”

  “You must know he is even now searching for her.” Sir John pointed out the obvious. “And when he finds her, he will likely finish the job, if for no other reason than to punish her for attempting to flee.”

  The four men fell silent as they contemplated this evil possibility. A log shifted in the grate, popping and hissing, sending a shower of fiery sparks out onto the hearth. For a long moment it was the only sound in the room.

  It was Nicholas who finally broke the silence. “Well, gentlemen, whoever he may be,” he said in a deadly voice, “we cannot allow him to finish the job.”

  “And just how do you propose to stop him?” Sir John asked. He could feel the rage pouring off of his young lord in dark, turbulent waves. It was so palpable it seemed to eddy about the room on invisible currents. “You have no right to interfere in matters between a man and his wife, Your Grace. She is his property. She belongs to him under the laws of both God and man. A husband can do whatever he wants with his wife.”

  “He cannot murder her!” Nicholas cried indignantly. “That’s against everybody’s law!”

  “Calm thyself, Nick.” Rolf stopped pacing long enough to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “None of us will allow that to happen.”

  “Leastways, not as long as I draw breath.” Nicholas looked at his three advisors. “When I took my oath as a knight, I vowed to protect the weak and helpless. And if that young woman lying in the next room isn’t weak and helpless, I know not who is.” His voice was cold as frozen steel. “I’ll not be party to rape and murder, gentlemen. For that is exactly what will happen to this woman if we deliver her back into this bastard’s hands.”

  Thomas looked at his young master’s dark face. “What do you wish done, Your Grace?”

  “Pick a dozen of our best men. Send them out to scout all the towns, inns, taverns and marketplaces within ten leagues of here. Judging by the state of her injuries, she was most likely attacked two or three nights ago. Even if she’s been on the move constantly since then, she’s too badly injured to have traveled much farther than ten leagues.

  “Have them dress as farmers and pilgrims. I would not have them drawing attention to themselves. Tell them to keep their ears open for any talk about missing or runaway women, especially women with hair the color of the sunrise.” Nicholas looked at the faces of his trusty councilors. “I would know who’s looking for her so I can make plans for keeping her safe from him.”

  “Speak not so hastily, Your Grace, you may yet have to turn her over,” Sir John pointed out grimly. “You may not have a choice.”

  “Oh, there’s always a choice,” Nicholas replied with a cold smile. “Some choices just come with a higher purchase price than others.” He looked from Thomas, his stalwart master-at-arms, to Sir John, his trusted steward. “Thank you, gentlemen. Pray she lives long enough to tell us who she is, and who beat her so badly.”

  The two men inclined their heads. Turning as one, they left Nicholas staring at Rolf in the gathering gloom of the dying firelight, the two of them communicating on a level that required no words. A level that could only be achieved after years of anticipating each other’s every move, both on the battlefield and off. Only the darkness of Nicholas’s eyes and the working of his jaw muscles revealed the presence of the emotion that was savaging him and the effort it was costing to keep it bound by his will.

  Without a word being exchanged, the Duke turned and exited the small chamber, closely followed by Rolf. Together, they slipped quietly into the solar, going immediately over to the bed. Nicholas looked down at the tiny woman lying so still and broken beneath the fur covers. The woman who had been thrust so violently into his care and responsibility. Care and responsibility he neither wanted nor needed, but which he would accept nonetheless. Gently, he lifted her right hand to his lips. “I will never send you back to him,” he whispered fiercely. “I swear it on all that is holy. You can live the rest of your life here at Berwick, safe and protected.”

  Despite the fever ravaging her body, she was shivering hard, her muscles tight and rigid, her teeth chattering. Alarmed, Nicholas reached beneath the fur and touched the smooth skin of her belly. “Sweet Jesu! Rolf, her skin is like ice! Make haste and help me warm her before ’tis too late.”

  Unhesitatingly, he ripped off his clothes until he was as naked as she was. Lifting the coverlets, he slid into bed beneath them. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, these sh
eets are freezing! Ellen!” he barked. The battered young woman smelled of herbs and clarified goose fat from the unguents and healing poultices applied to her festering wounds. A strip of linen wound around her head held such a poultice in place against the wound in her scalp. Lying on his side, Nicholas pulled her bruised and battered body back against the strength and solidity of his own, intending to cocoon her in his warmth. But she didn’t need his warmth. Heat was pouring off of her in waves. God’s teeth! “Ellen!”

  Teeth chattering, Nicholas watched Rolf as he methodically unbuckled his baldric with its twin swords, carefully placing it on the stand nearest the bed, the pommels within easy reach. Then he stripped off his fur vest and leggings, followed by his leather boots, breeches and jerkin, dropping each item carelessly the floor. Last to come were his linen shirt and braes. Naked, he approached the bed.

  Even in the gloomy gray light coming in through the room’s high windows, the Dane’s pagan body markings were evident. The triskelion on his right bicep, a design of three overlapping blades, each scything to a sharp point. The Volknutt, or three interconnected triangles over his heart, to show his willingness to die for Odin, chief of the Norse gods. The wide Celtic interlace band circling his left bicep, with runic lettering proclaiming him to be “Odin’s warrior.” And, although he couldn’t see it at the moment, Nicholas knew that if Rolf turned around, the magnificent Viking ship in full sail, with its dragon figurehead rising up his back from his waist to his shoulder blades would be clearly visible.

  As Rolf started up the steps to the bed platform, Nicholas was vigorously rubbing the woman’s arm, her hip, and her thigh, carefully avoiding the bandages wrapped around the worst of her wounds. To warm her, he kept telling himself firmly. But the feel of her smooth, creamy skin beneath his callused fingertips, her soft feminine curves fitting so perfectly against his powerful male body, had his cock so hard it was very nearly painful. God’s blood! How could he be thinking of fucking when this young woman lay at death’s door?

  Then he noticed that Rolf, too, was sporting an erection. Not that it mattered. He’d seen his best friend naked many times, usually when they were sharing a willing bedmate. The fact that this woman seemed to be affecting his best friend as well as himself…well, that bore thinking about. Mayhap later, when he had the luxury of turning his mind to tasks other than simply keeping her alive.

  Without a word, Rolf climbed onto the bed with the slight figure of the woman between him and Nicholas and slid under the fur covers. Sliding his hips across the silken sheets, he carefully aligned his length along the front of the unconscious woman’s body, scooting himself forward until she was snug against him, her generous breasts cushioned against his broad chest. Putting his arms around her shoulders, he hooked one rough, hairy leg over both of hers.

  It was a familiar position for Rolf. He and Nicholas had shared many women in the past and this was the configuration they seemed to fall into naturally after the loving was done and the woman they’d just pleasured had fallen asleep. Except this woman had not been pleasured. This woman had been brutally beaten and was, even now, clinging to life by a thread. And the fact that his cock was so hard it throbbed with every beat of his heart surely consigned him to the hottest fires of Hell. Except he didn’t believe in Hell—neither the Christian version where sinners were tormented by Satan and his imps, nor the Norse version, where the dead were tormented by Hel, the goddess of death.

  By Odin and all the gods in Valhalla! Rolf gritted his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack and crumble to dust. It took all his effort and concentration to keep his hands from sliding downward and palming the satin globe of her breast—

  “Your Grace! Mr. Rolf!” Ellen cried, scandalized, as she shuffled back into the room, followed by her husband, William, Nick’s chamberlain. “What in the name of all that is holy do ye think ye’re doing?” She climbed up to the bed platform and grabbed Rolf’s shoulder. “Get away from that poor child this instant! She’s not one of your strumpets to be pawed over by the two of ye—”

  “Enough!” Nicholas roared, and Ellen jerked back, placing her hand over her mouth, eyes wide in shock. “You forget yourself, Ellen. ’Tis not your place to question our actions.”

  The old woman crossed herself and took a step back, bowing low. “Aye, Yer Grace, ’Tis right ye are, and ’tis sorry I am.” She shook her head, chins wobbling. “I meant no harm, I swear by the blessed virgin. I thought—”

  “We know what you thought, Ellen.” Nicholas’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger in his tone. “You made that perfectly clear. However, ’tis not what you think. This young woman’s skin is ice cold and this is the quickest way to warm her. In future I suggest you hold your tongue before leaping to erroneous conclusions. We are under no obligation to explain ourselves to you. Now, fill up the warming pans, the sheets are freezing.” He sat up, slid to the edge of the bed, and stood, holding the unconscious woman in his arms. “William,” he addressed his chamberlain, “move that chair closer to the fire. As soon as I’m seated, cover us with all the bed furs and tuck them in around us.”

  Quickly he moved to the chair, his steps mincing because the stone floor was so damned cold! Bloody hell! He sank down onto the cushions with the unconscious girl sideways in his lap. His cock was a thick ridge between her thigh and his belly. He cradled her against his broad chest, pulling her head to rest beneath his chin. William swaddled them in the soft, warm furs, tucking them so tightly around him he couldn’t move. Rolf, holding a sable coverlet around his waist, went over to stand by the fireplace, his inked markings glowing in the flickering light.

  Jamie Fordyce, Nicholas’s young page, scooped glowing coals into two lidded brass pans attached to long wooden poles. Ellen, her entire body stiff with disapproval, and Mary, the young servant girl, slid the flat pans slowly back and forth across the bed’s surface between the top and bottom sheets, letting them linger in each spot a little longer than usual to make sure the bed became extra warm.

  Nicholas sat, trying desperately to keep his body under control. He had never been so aroused in his entire life. Sweet Jesu, he wanted her. Wanted this beaten, battered, damaged young woman. He wanted to thread his fingers through her hair, bury his fists in that glorious mane and spread it out across his pillow. He wanted to kiss the cuts and bruises away from those swollen lips, those eyes, those beautiful breasts—hell, he wanted to lick every inch of her tiny, delectable body. He wanted her naked body beneath him, writhing in ecstasy, as he pleasured her with his lips, his tongue, and his cock—

  God’s Blood! He had to get himself under control! He was a seasoned warrior, First Knight to King Edward III, mentor to the monarch’s sixteen-year-old son, the Black Prince. He was renowned for his valor, his honor, and his rigid sense of discipline. So where was that much-vaunted discipline now, when he needed it most? One look at this unknown young woman and it had flown out the window. For some reason, she appealed to everything that was masculine in him. She warmed his heart. She tugged at his soul, making him want things he’d never wanted before. Things he knew he had never earned and could never have. His lips thinned. He would do well to remember that.

  “The bed is ready, Your Grace.” Ellen stripped the fur covers off of him and the girl. William laid warmed sheets on the floor for Nicholas to walk on.

  He carried the still-unconscious girl back over to the bed. Sliding their bodies between the now-toasty sheets, he and Rolf took up their previous positions, sheltering her between them, curving their bodies around her protectively while Ellen and William covered them with the warm furs. They didn’t fall asleep until she finally stopped shivering.

  Chapter Two

  Three Days Earlier

  Lady Kathryn Weston, daughter of Owen Weston, Earl of Carrolton, stood in the cold, gloomy hallway outside her father’s solar. For only the second time in her life, she had been summoned into her father’s presence.

  Yesterday morning, an armed part
y of her father’s knights had arrived unannounced at the Convent of St. Anne, where she had been living for the past four years. They had informed the Mother Superior that Lady Kathryn was to ready herself at once. Her father had urgent need of her at home.

  Kathryn had been alarmed. She had not seen her father in four years, not since her mother had fallen ill. And, frankly, she had preferred it that way. Her father was a cold, unfeeling man who had been so bitterly disappointed that his wife had presented him with a girl-child instead of the son he had required, he had rarely looked at or even spoken to Kathryn for her entire life.

  Her mother, the Countess, having endured Owen Weston’s brutal rutting over the years, with naught more to show for it than six miscarriages and three stillborn children, all of them girls, had been as disappointed in Kathryn as her husband had been. Declaring herself done, she had turned Kathryn over to a wet nurse and had spent the next fourteen years secluded in one wing of Carrolton Castle with no companions save her ladies’ maids. Never once, in all that time, had she bestirred herself from her self-imposed exile, nor had anyone been allowed to visit save the priest who came daily to hear her confession.

  As a consequence, Kathryn had basically been raised by her father’s servants, often dressed no better than them, scrabbling for whatever scraps of food she could find, like them. And because she was such a ubiquitous presence, people had stopped paying attention to her. She had, for all intents and purposes, become invisible, hearing things she’d never been meant to hear, seeing things no child of privilege had ever been meant to see.

  She had learned how universally despised her father was. She had witnessed over the years the gradual depletion of nearly all the household furnishings—everything that had value—either sold to pay off Owen Weston’s incessant gambling debts or stolen by trusted retainers. She had been an unwitting and, at first, unwilling witness to people having sex. Knights and their ladies, servants, priests. Even her father, fucking whatever unwary servant he’d managed to corner, wherever that happened to be, whether in his solar, in the gardens, or in the dark, drafty hallways of Carrolton Castle.