Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  At first she’d been disgusted by the lustful sights and sounds. And when she had found herself trapped, unable to reveal herself or get away, she had simply endured, closing her eyes and clapping her hands over her ears.

  But as she developed into young womanhood, far from being appalled at such activity, she had found herself more and more fascinated by it. Far from trying to get away from it, she now sought it out. She developed a crush on one of her father’s squires, a young man named Peter de Quincy, whose sexual prowess was the stuff of legend around Carrolton Castle. His favorite spot for conducting his liaisons was in one of the walled gardens. A garden with a hedge, behind which twelve-year-old Kathryn could hide and watch without fear of being discovered.

  The sights and sounds made by Peter de Quincy and his various paramours both excited and aroused young Kathryn beyond endurance, to the point where she had begun pleasuring herself as she watched, plying her vulva with her fingers. Until she had discovered the spot—that one tiny spot—where pleasure was heightened a hundredfold. The very first time she brought herself to climax, the sensation had been so overwhelming, so powerful, she had curled up into a tight little ball and cried, consumed with guilt over having committed the most horrible of sins, and vowing to the blessed virgin that she would never do it again.

  But she had done it again, over and over, as she’d continued to spy on the lovers in the gardens. And as she had lain at night in the loneliness of her bed, knowing it was forbidden. Knowing that the Church considered it a heinous sin. Knowing that Hell awaited her if she continued.

  She could hear the condemnation of the priest thundering in her ears even as her pleasuring fingers worked their magic. Hot with shame, awash in guilt, but unable to stop herself, she had begun to dream of the day when a handsome knight would do to her all of the things she had witnessed, pleasuring her body the way Peter de Quincy obviously pleasured all of his women.

  She had witnessed other sexual acts, too, around her father’s castle. Acts of depravity, acts of debauchery, acts of fornication between two men, between two women, acts expressly forbidden by both the law and the Church. Acts that shocked her, even as they lured her.

  The summer of Lady Kathryn’s fourteenth year, her mother was taken ill with a weakness in her chest that had her coughing up blood. As the Countess lay on her sick bed, Kathryn had received her first summons to her father’s solar.

  As she had entered, dirty and bare-footed, her hair in wild disarray, looking more like the rag picker’s child than the daughter of an Earl, he had stared at her as though he weren’t sure who she was or why she was standing there. It wasn’t until she’d said, “Father…?” that recognition had dawned.

  “Ah, yes, Caroline,” he had said, proving that he held her in such low regard, he couldn’t even remember her name. “Tomorrow morning you will be escorted to the Convent of St. Anne in Maltby. The nuns there have agreed to take you in while your mother is so ill. Pack whatever you think you might need for a short stay. And, for God’s sake, take a bath and put on some decent clothes! I will not have you disgracing my good name.”

  The Convent of St. Anne had been founded by a Duchess, whose husband had sliced her face with a knife and then thrown her out of his castle, sending her to live as a virtual prisoner in one of his less prosperous holdings. Unwanted, unloved, her face horribly disfigured, she had, upon the death of her husband, turned the manor house into a refuge for women like her.

  Women who, like Kathryn, had been unwanted and unloved all their lives. Women who, like Kathryn, had been shunned by their families. Who had no place else to go. Unmarried daughters of impoverished noblemen who were unable or unwilling to provide them with dowries. Wives whose husbands could no longer abide them, widows no longer tolerated by their children or step-children. Women with ugly faces, sour temperaments, physical deformities. The Convent of St. Anne had a place for all of them and had become known by many as The Convent of Misfits. To the last, they were bitter, withered, and used up, determined to make everyone else as miserable as they were.

  Kathryn’s short stay at the convent had turned into four interminable years that had ground her spirit into the dust. Her father had sent no money for her upkeep, so the nuns had used her practically as their slave. She, with her youth and beauty, became the focus of all their pent-up resentment over their own less-than-satisfactory lives. They had treated her harshly, using religion as a club, punishing her daily over even the slightest infraction of their harsh, incessant rules. They’d seemed to take an unholy delight in forcing her to strip to her waist and kneel abjectly before a prie-Dieu as they scourged her back with a cat o’ nine tails.

  And so it was, that at the beginning of her first year of this bleak, soul-pulverizing existence, a savior had come to Kathryn in the form of a phantom lover. A man who invaded her dreams deep in the night, touching her slumbering body with heat and hunger and raw, primitive power. He was no strutting popinjay like Peter de Quincy. He was beautiful, with the pleasing dark countenance of the devil himself, all hard, primal male, his skin bronzed from the sun, his muscular body potent. Powerful. Elemental. He was the ideal man, virile and compelling. A dark warrior, woven into a tapestry of passion from the threads of her inchoate longings and desires.

  The first time she felt the touch of his hands on her body, she had awakened with a jerk, mortified to discover that her fingers were pressed against her wet, dripping sex. Heart pounding with fear and guilt, she had proceeded to pleasure herself to orgasm, something she had not done since leaving home. Something she knew she would have to confess. Something that would earn her a punishment because, as the nuns took great pleasure in reminding her while flogging the tender skin of her naked back, self-gratification of any kind was a mortal sin.

  But she soon realized that her secret lover was the one thing that was going to keep her from becoming as dried up and embittered as they were. So, at first light the next morning, when the priest asked if she had any sins to confess, she had bitten her lip and remained silent. Over the next few months, both the frequency and the erotic nature of her dreams had increased to the point where a second lover had emerged, a vague, shadowy figure that neither spoke nor drew near, content merely to watch, as she had watched all those years ago. Instead of feeling shame or guilt, she had hugged her secret joyfully to her heart, and had begun going through her dreary existence with a lighter heart, a lighter step, a lighter soul.

  For four years, there had been no word from Carrolton Castle, not from her father, not from her mother, although, she had assumed her mother had died. As the years wore on, her former life at Carrolton eventually took on the form of a dimly remembered dream. She had steeled herself to accept the fact that she would live out her life in the convent—until yesterday, with the arrival of the armed escort bearing the Weston banners and colors and the Earl’s insignia on their livery.

  She’d been scrubbing the floor in the refectory—a punishment, the nuns had told her, for smiling during prayer. Prayer is a serious business, to be conducted with solemnity and a contrite heart. Frivolity of any kind will not be tolerated—the words were still echoing in her mind when one of the younger sisters had come running to tell her she was wanted in the Mother Superior’s office. Grateful for the reprieve from being on her knees on the cold stone floor, she had walked quickly across the cloisters, wiping her work-roughened hands on her apron.

  When Mother Superior informed her that she had been summoned by her father and ordered her to make haste to ready herself for the journey home, she had declared herself ready on the spot, packing naught, taking only enough time to don her well-worn woolen cloak. Still wearing her simple black linen gown and her wet, dirty apron, she’d mounted the palfrey her escort had brought for her and had left without once looking back. The knights had brought her straight home, and now, here she was, standing before her father’s solar for only the second time in her life.

  Nervously, she wiped her hands on the gown that she had be
en told to wear that morning. She looked down at the yellow silk surcote over the deep blue velvet cote-hardie her maid had dressed her in, and frowned. Where had this sumptuous gown come from? She’d never worn anything this splendid in her life. Surely her father had not bothered himself to pick it out for her. And yet, he had insisted she wear it. Why?

  It fit loosely on her, as if made for someone else, someone larger and taller. But even as loose as it was, it accentuated her high, firm breasts, showing off her nipped-in waist and the delightfully feminine flair of her hips. The maid who’d been assigned to her had washed and combed her red-gold hair and plaited it into a single thick braid that hung straight down her back. A square scarf made of a filmy, semi-transparent material, fell in soft folds around her head, framing her face. It was held in place by a gold filigree coronet.

  As she raised her hand to knock on the heavy oak doors, one of them opened and she took a deep breath to steady herself before entering. Her fate awaited her in that room. She knew it. And she also knew, with a deep sense of foreboding, that she was not going to like it. Lifting the front of her gown to keep from treading on it, she walked gracefully into the room.

  Owen Weston, the Earl of Carrolton, was sitting in a high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. It was the only piece of furniture in the room. A tall, extremely heavy man stood beside him.

  The stranger was dressed in a floor-length robe of crimson velvet, trimmed with rich brown sable at the hem and around the cuffs of his long, hanging sleeves. The sleeves of a black woolen undergown buttoned tightly at the wrists. A heavy gold chain hung around the man’s thick neck, nearly getting lost in his multiple chins. His pudgy fingers were covered with showy rings. His jowly face was florid, as if he had spent too long in the sun.

  He had thick, cruel-looking lips and the red, open-pored nose of a man who imbibed freely and often. One corner of his mouth was lifted in a supercilious sneer, the expression of a man who perpetually smelled something rotten.

  A huge, paunchy belly extended out over his bejeweled belt. His eyes were small and dark and the expression in them as they looked her up and down could only be described as leering. Despite his obvious wealth and power, there was an aura of general dissipation about him that made Kathryn fight to repress a shudder.

  She stopped just inside the door, uncertain exactly how to proceed.

  “Ah, Kathryn, my dear,” said her father, rising and extending his hand to beckon her closer. “Come in. Come in.”

  At least this time he remembered my name. Her lips thinned.

  She studied him as she approached, shocked at how much he had aged in the four years she’d been absent. His face was thin, deeply lined, with dark circles under his eyes. His thinning hair had turned a dull, lifeless gray, hanging limply around his face in long, greasy locks. He looked to be a man of ninety.

  He was forty-three.

  She bent her knees in a slow, graceful curtsey. “Father,” she acknowledged.

  “Yes, yes. May I present His Grace, Robert Walford, Duke of Pemberton. Your Grace, my daughter, Lady Kathryn.”

  The revolting man reached out and grabbed Kathryn’s hand in one of his thick meaty ones. It was moist and clammy, like a bag of suet pudding. The metal and jewels of his numerous heavy rings bit into her tender flesh, making her wince.

  “We meet at last, my dear lady,” he murmured in an unctuous voice that immediately set her teeth on edge. “You are even more beautiful than your father’s description had led me to believe.”

  Not surprising, was Kathryn’s uncharitable thought. My father hasn’t laid eyes on me in four years. How could he possibly describe me? But she said naught. Merely stood there trying not to flinch.

  Walford leaned forward and pressed a wet, disgusting kiss to the back of her hand. He smelled of onions, beer, and stale, sour sweat. “It pleases me to see you wearing my humble gift to you, my lady.” he continued, sliding his hand up her velvet-clad arm. “The gown is most becoming on you.”

  She inclined her head regally. “Thank you, Your Grace, for such a kindness.” She could barely prevent herself from ripping it off.

  Turning his head, Pemberton addressed the Earl in pompous tones. “She pleases me, Weston. We will hold the ceremony tomorrow morning at Terce, right here in this room. See to it that she is ready.”

  Ceremony! Kathryn gasped, all of a sudden feeling as if she were being swallowed up into a black pit. “Ceremony, Your Grace?” she asked, a hint of panic in her voice. She jerked her hand out of his grasp and backed away from him. “I–I’m sorry, I don’t—what ceremony?” She looked beseechingly at Owen Weston. “Father—”

  He refused to meet her eyes.

  “Why, our wedding ceremony, of course, dear lady.” Walford replied. His smile stopped ten leagues short of the cold hardness of his eyes. Eyes that roamed possessively up and down her body. Eyes that seemed to see through the silk and velvet of her gown straight to her feminine shape beneath—the swell of her breasts, the generous curve of her hips. “You and I are to be husband and wife.”

  Kathryn turned swiftly away as saliva flooded her throat. She swallowed convulsively, fighting to shove the contents of her stomach back down where they belonged.

  This was why her father had sent for her? This was why he had suddenly remembered he even had a daughter? To marry her off to this odious man? Holy Mary, Mother of God! Outrage swept over her, robbing her of her ability to breathe.

  She stared, aghast, at her father.

  Walford came up behind her, oblivious to her distress. She could feel his hot breath on the nape of her neck, stirring the short hairs that had escaped the plait. Without warning, he stuck out his tongue and thrust it obscenely into her ear.

  “Cease at once!” she cried out, horrified, trying to jerk away.

  But his arm came around her hard, anchoring her against his fat body. His right hand slid up her belly and squeezed her right breast. “By this time tomorrow,” he promised menacingly, ignoring her struggles to break free of his hold, “you will not be begging me to stop. You will be begging me for more. Because by this time tomorrow, you will be mine.”

  “Nay!” she cried, twisting and pushing her fisted hands against his chest. With one final hard shove, she managed to free herself and stumble backwards, away from the disgusting Walford. “Do not touch me, my lord! You have no right!”

  Two armed knights standing just inside the door took a step toward her, hands on the hilts of their swords. A tiny whimper ripped from her throat as outrage turned to terror.

  “I have every right!” Walford bellowed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around roughly, clamping her body tightly against him with his powerful arms. His stench engulfed her. She was going to vomit. “Tomorrow your body will belong to me and I can and will touch you wherever, and whenever I please. Here.” His left hand grabbed her breast and gave it a painful squeeze.

  “Here.” His right hand found the juncture of her thighs and gripped her mound through the stuff of her gown.

  “Here.” He reached both hands around behind her, gripping and squeezing the cheeks of her bottom.

  “And here.” Before she could stop him, he lowered his head and ground his mouth against hers, smashing her lips against her teeth so hard she could taste the blood. Her blood.

  He jammed his fat tongue into her mouth, thrusting in and out, nearly suffocating her as he touched and squeezed, violating her most private, feminine places. Places no one had ever touched except herself…and the phantom lover who came to her every night in her dreams.

  She gagged. Whimpering, she pushed against his chest with her forearms, trying to free herself. But he was extremely strong and her efforts were in vain. Just as she was about to pass out from lack of air, he lifted his head and looked down at her stricken face.

  “You will be mine, Lady Kathryn, make no mistake about that.” His eyes glittered with unholy anticipation. “Your father lost you in a wager and I inten
d to collect. So tomorrow, when I come for you, you had better be ready.

  “Although,” he added as if reconsidering, “even if you’re not ready, it won’t really matter. I will take you anyway. And if you’re reluctant”—his smile was truly evil—“so much the better. I like it when a woman fights. It stirs my blood and makes the experience that much more…pleasurable.”

  He released her so violently, she stumbled backwards, stepping on the hem of the blue velvet gown and falling to the rush-covered floor.

  Panicking, she tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry as wool. Her breaths were coming in short, panting sobs. She knew she was on the verge of hysteria. She turned her head toward Weston. “Father, I beg of you—” She looked pleadingly at him, but he was staring at the floor, his sallow face sagging in defeat.

  Walford stood looking down at her. He made no move to help her up. “See that she’s ready on the morrow, Carrolton,” he addressed the Earl coldly, striding toward the door, “Or I will be forced to reconsider our wager. You promised me a willing bride. See to it that you provide me with one. Oh, and one more thing,” he added softly from the open doorway. “I plan to take up residence as soon as the ceremony is over. See to it that you are out by then. And be sure you take naught with you but the clothes on your back.”

  The Earl of Carrolton bestirred himself enough to look up at the Duke of Pemberton. Kathryn was shocked by the look of utter defeat she saw in her father’s face, in his eyes, in the slump of his shoulders. “But where am I to go?” he asked bewilderedly.

  Walford sneered. “I care not where you go, Weston. At long as it isn’t here. Carrolton Castle and everything in it—including your delectable daughter—now belongs to me. You lost the bet. And I fully intend to collect.”