Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Me lady—”

  “Leave me, Rose.” Her command was harsh. “I wish not to be disturbed.” She heard Rose’s sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t care. She had to be alone. She had to think. Think!

  Forcing herself to move, she removed her shift and walked naked over to the bath. Lifting the sheet, she stepped over the rim. Drawing her knees up tight against her chest, she sank down, not even feeling the heat of the water. Nor the heat from the fire. She felt frozen to the bone and didn’t think she’d ever be warm again. She sat in water nearly up to her chin and tried to focus. Tried to force herself to ignore her fear and confusion and think.

  Her life was over. Her father had sold her to a brute of a man to pay off a gambling debt. Owen Weston, Earl of Carrolton, had always been a notoriously bad gambler. Over the years he had sold or gambled away all of their money, their family jewels, houses, household furnishings, and land to pay off his enormous debts.

  As his assets had dwindled, so, too, had Kathryn’s hopes of having a sizeable enough dowry to attract a suitable husband. As she had moldered away in a convent, advancing well beyond the limits of what was considered a suitable age for marriage, she had abandoned all hope of ever having a husband of any kind, suitable or not.

  And now her father’s insatiable need to risk everything he owned had forced him to commit this ultimate act of betrayal, selling his own daughter to a man who valued naught but money, land, and power.

  Oh, yes, Kathryn Weston knew all about Robert Walford, Duke of Pemberton, the illegitimate third cousin to King Edward III. Even in the relative obscurity of the convent, his exploits had been the topic of whispered conversations among the nuns as they had tended their gardens, sheared their sheep, and picked their fruit.

  Rumors about him were rife. About how he was abusing his power as Edward’s magistrate. About how he was taking advantage of Edward’s obsession with conquering France to bring false charges of treason against weaker noblemen. Noblemen whose lands and castles he subsequently confiscated in the name of the Crown, secretly adding them to his own holdings to consolidate his wealth and power.

  Power he fully intended to use, according to the latest gossip, to launch a coup d’etat against King Edward, grab the throne, and declare himself King in Edward’s stead. With Edward pre-occupied with the war in France, the time was ripe for Pemberton to make his move. His greed and ambition knew no bounds.

  He had already had three young wives, all of whom had conveniently died, leaving him even more lands and wealth as parts of their dowries. Three dead wives, the latest having succumbed to a sudden, mysterious “illness” a mere three months ago.

  Blessed Virgin! Kathryn was about to become wife number four to a man who, she was certain, would take his pleasure of her then kill her, too. Fear and terror clawed inside her. She had to get out of here. She had to disappear, go where no one would know her. Someplace where Walford could never find her. London, perhaps. Or Paris. But to do that she needed money. And she had none.

  Mind working feverishly, she stood abruptly, sloshing water over the edge of the tub onto the floor. She had to get out of here. Now. Tonight. She’d steal some men’s clothes. Find something she could sell for money.

  Absently, she lifted her hand to her breast and touched her locket. Her locket! It was the only piece of jewelry she owned, a gift from her dead mother. She hesitated, and then shook her head. No matter. It was gold. She would sell it. And the gold coronet she’d been ordered to wear tonight, for her meeting with Robert Walford. That should fetch a pretty penny.

  Wrapping the sheet around her wet body, she lifted a slim, shapely leg to step out of the tub—

  The door burst open.

  She gasped and tugged at the sheet to pull it more tightly around her.

  Walford stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing to mere slits at the sight of her, something menacing and malignant burning in their obsidian depths. His hot, lustful gaze roamed lasciviously over her body, resting in turn on her mouth, her lush, firm breasts with their dusky pink nipples, the triangle of red-gold curls at the junction of her thighs.

  Kathryn looked down. The sheet was trailing in the water, wicking up moisture, molding itself to her slender figure. It clung to her like a second skin, revealing everything, concealing naught.

  Her stomach clenched with revulsion. “I command you to leave at once, Your Grace.” Her voice was as cold and unwelcoming as she could make it.

  He licked his thick lips again. She was repulsed by him and he knew it. He actually fed on it.

  “Why, my dear,” he said in that unctuous, oily voice she now knew was his normal way of speaking. The voice she already knew she loathed. “Is that any way to greet your loving husband?” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

  “You are not my husband yet, Your Grace.”

  He sneered at her, his eyes cold and reptilian. She could not suppress a shudder. Blessed Virgin! He wanted her to be afraid. It fed his lust. “I will be soon enough.” His snakelike voice slithered across the floor and coiled about her.

  She watched him advance across the room toward her and knew she could not stop what was coming. She knew that the vicious assault he was about to inflict on her unwilling body would be naught like the ravishingly sensual acts she had shared with her phantom lover. Her dark warrior. No, Robert Walford was not here as a lover. His purpose here had naught to do with love, or even sex. He was here to establish his power over her. He was here to intimidate her. To control her. He was here to own her, as he owned his lands and his estates.

  Dropping the sheet, she stepped out of the tub and stood there straight and proud, making no move to cover her nakedness, because to do so would have been demeaning in its futility. She licked her lips and stood quietly, refusing to let him see her fear. She could not deny him her body. But she would deny him her fear if it were her last act on this earth.

  Chapter Three

  Her thrashing and whimpering woke him up. Lifting his dark head, Nicholas saw her head flinging back and forth on the pillow, her fists flailing in the air. She was having another nightmare. He reached out his powerful arm and wrapped it around her. Turning her gently onto her right side, he pulled her more closely against him, nuzzling his face against the side of her neck, stifling a groan as she nestled her bottom into his groin.

  “’Tis all right, my lovely,” he crooned softly against her ear. “You’re safe. I will keep you safe.” He held her, trying to calm her with his heat and touch. Rolf’s arm tightened around her waist and his deep bass voice began the soft strains of the Danish lullaby that had previously soothed her through several prior episodes.

  The two men held her until her struggles ceased and her breathing steadied. Then Rolf lifted his arm and slid backwards out of the bed, striding naked over to the table to pour himself a tankard of ale. Nicholas watched as Rolf walked toward the garderobe, before releasing the breath he had been holding and returning his head to the pillow. As the woman lay quietly beneath his sheltering arm, he could feel the satin-smooth skin of her back sliding against his hair-roughened chest. Could she feel the hard ridge of his penis jerking to life between her ass cheeks whenever she moved?

  He swore softly to himself. Even in sleep she seemed to be seeking his heat and comfort, and all he could offer her was his lust. He had been in a constant state of arousal since she had arrived four days ago.

  His jaw clenched and he vowed silently that even if it killed him, he would never allow his baser needs to force her into anything she didn’t want to do. He would make it clear, of course, what he wanted. But if she could never find it within herself to allow him to make love to her, then so be it. He would have to be satisfied with that.

  He would do it, by God, but damned if he would like it. It would, quite simply, be the most difficult thing he would ever have to do in his life. And if he had to let her go? Well…somehow he would do that too. Even if it ripped his heart out. And he feared that it might do just
that.

  He lay there in the darkness, trying to envision his future without her. A bleak, endless vista yawned before him, filled with naught but a vast, restless longing. He would be empty without her. An emptiness he feared no other woman would ever be able to fill.

  Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

  He shook his head to rid himself of the vision. As dismal as the prospect was, it was no less dismal than the future he could easily envision with her.

  If he kept her from her lawful husband—if he made love to her—he would be committing adultery, a mortal sin, according to the Church. He would be forced to repent or risk ex-communication. He might even be imprisoned. As for himself, it mattered not. He was not a religious man and cared naught for the greed and hypocrisy of the Church. But, by making love to this woman, he would be forcing her to commit a mortal sin. And he had no right to endanger her mortal soul, no matter how much he might profess to love her.

  Nor did he have any legal right to keep her from her lawful husband. A husband who most certainly had the right to reclaim his property. By any means possible—including force of arms, if necessary.

  A possible future of war and death loomed before him. His future if he defied the laws of both God and man and kept a woman who was the wife of another.

  Gradually, Nicholas became aware that she was awake. She didn’t move, but her breathing changed, becoming shallow, more cautious. He lay quietly, hardly daring to breathe himself, waiting for her to make the first move.

  With a tremendous effort, she turned within the circle of his arms, groaning as each movement sent pain stabbing through her. Her eyelids fluttered open and Nicholas found himself sinking into the depths of the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Eyes that shimmered and glowed like emeralds in the flickering candlelight.

  “Oh!” Her mouth opened on a gasp of surprise.

  “Hello, love.” He smiled at her, surprised, yet relieved, that she hadn’t stiffened with terror and bolted up out of the bed.

  She just stared at him, looking at him as if she were seeing a wraith. “You,” she said softly in a voice so hoarse it hurt his ears to hear. “How—?” She frowned, her confusion evident on her face. Her tongue came out and she licked her lips in an unconsciously sensual caress. What was her phantom lover doing here?

  Was this a dream? It had to be. There was no other explanation for why she found herself suddenly staring into the face of the dark warrior who had haunted her dreams for the past four years. The starkly compelling man who had come to her bed night after night. Who had kissed her mouth, caressed her body, making it hum and throb with pleasure at his every touch.

  ’Tis a dream, she told herself sternly. It has to be a dream. He cannot possibly be real. Her eyes roamed confusedly over the features of a face at once familiar, yet unfamiliar. His skin was darker than she would have thought, his hair blacker, his features stronger, more angular. And in her dreams he hadn’t had that neat little black mustache and beard. How devilish it made him look! And how handsome!

  Unable to control herself, she reached out her hand and touched her fingertips to his hard, bronzed cheek. The skin was warm. Supple. Alive! Gasping, she closed her eyes, jerking her hand away. She lay perfectly still, holding her breath, her mind skittering wildly in all directions, like a dried-up leaf being blown by the winter wind.

  He is real! Blessed Virgin, he’s real! Dragging air into her lungs, she tried to steady her careening heartbeat. Tried to gather her staggering thoughts. Nay. Nay. ’Tis not possible. How can this be possible? Shaken, she reopened her eyes to find him gazing at her with eyes the misty color of a fog-bound sea.

  As she watched, his lips curved up in a smile, a lazy, attractive smile with a touch of sorcery in it. Her blood thundered in her ears. There was only one explanation for this.

  “I’m dead,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, barely loud enough to hear. “But…” She twisted her neck to look around the cavernous room, lit only by firelight and dozens of flickering candles. “What is this place? Is this heaven? Nay.” She quickly answered her own question. “I am far too wicked to be allowed into heaven.” She frowned, then gave a mirthless little half-laugh. “But if this is Hell, then the nuns need to revise their notions of the afterlife.”

  To her astonishment, the man chuckled, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, like water bubbling up from a bottomless spring. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, making him so attractive her belly did a slow roll and the breath froze in her lungs.

  “You are very much alive, ma petite.” His deep masculine voice was low, vibrating through her like the contented purr of a tiger. “And this is neither heaven nor hell, but my home. You are safe here.”

  Safe. Once again her eyes drifted shut. She lay quietly, trying to process the bits of information bombarding her brain. She was in bed. With a man. And no ordinary man, either, from the looks of it. He was her dream lover come to life. And quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen. Diabolically handsome, with that neat little black mustache and goatee. Excruciatingly, devastatingly, heartbreakingly handsome.

  Safe. She worried the word in her mind. How she wished it were true. But it wasn’t true. She had never been less safe in her entire life.

  This man’s presence was over-powering, compelling. It was much more than just the heavy arm anchoring her to the bed. So much more than just the huge male body lying in front of her. More than the thick ridge of his iron-hard penis rising between their bellies.

  In person he made her dream lover seem pale and tame by comparison. There was naught pale or tame about this man. Nay, there was something raw and primitive about him. A savagery just barely kept in check by the constraints of civilization. Sheer power radiated from him, overwhelming her senses.

  She could not afford to be overwhelmed. She needed to be strong to fight the danger stalking her. A very real danger that she had to get away from.

  Her body tensed. She tried to gather the strength to pull away from this man. The strength to get up and leave this place, no matter how tempting it was to stay. She had to leave. Run. Hide. And she had to do it now, or all would be lost.

  But she had no strength. The sense of urgency that had sent her fleeing from her father’s castle had somehow leached away. Her body was a limp rag, bound to the bed, not only by the powerful arm holding her, but also by the deep lethargy that claimed her.

  This man—this physical embodiment of her phantom lover—was telling her that she was safe, and she desperately longed to believe him. Safe. Blessed Virgin! How she needed for that to be true. But it was not true. As long as Robert Walford was alive, there was no place on earth that was safe for her.

  Nicholas watched her face, watched the play of emotions flowing across it. Knew exactly the moment the fear returned. When her eyes opened again, he could see the effort she was making to suppress the panic that was there just beneath the surface.

  “Where am I?” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, as if someone else were using it. It sounded…creaky, as though it had rusted in place.

  “Berwick Castle. My home.”

  She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “How long have I—?”

  “Four days.”

  He watched her process this information. He could see it surprised her. “F–four days?”

  “By the time we found you in the woods, some of your injuries had festered. You’ve been delirious with fever the entire time you’ve been here. It broke just a few hours ago. How do you feel?”

  She didn’t even need to think about it. “Like a mountain fell on me.”

  He kissed her forehead gently. “Will you tell me your name?”

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “’Tis better for you if you know not,” she croaked. Her hand went to her throat. “What is wrong with my voice? Why can I not talk?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could, watching her carefully. “Your throat is…damaged. We’re not certain exactly how it came
to be so.”

  He noted her frown. She was thinking, trying to recall.

  Her head dropped forward and suddenly she was crying, stiffening her arms, trying to push him away from her. “Nay, nay!” She was struggling, trying desperately to free herself from the muscular arm sheltering her, holding her down. Frantically, she pushed at him with both hands, trying to sit up. “Release me, sir, I beg of you! I must go! I must leave here,” she sobbed, “before he finds me, before he—” She stopped abruptly, staring at the splint and bandage covering her left hand and wrist. She held it up, turning it back and forth, looking at it as if it didn’t belong to her. As if it were something outside her life’s experience.

  Shaking her head, she renewed her struggles. “He’s coming after me!” Her voice was desperate. “’Tis not safe!”

  “You are safe,” he insisted, hauling her back toward him. Sitting up, he pulled her backwards onto his lap. Folding his muscular arms around her, he enveloped her with the sheer power and size of his body, as if to show her exactly how safe she was. He bent his head to brush his lips across her right temple. “Who is he, beloved? Tell me who is after you. I will keep you safe, I swear it, upon my oath as a knight.”

  “Nay, my lord, you misunderstand.” Her whisper was raw, a harsh, frantic sound in the quiet of the night. “’Tis you who are not safe. If he finds out you assisted me, he will kill us both!” She was truly desperate now in her struggles to free herself. Her movements against his groin made him so hard he didn’t think he would ever walk upright again. His cock was huge, an iron rod fitting itself into the crease of her shapely ass. Surely she could feel it. Perhaps it was even contributing to her panic.

  “Who?” he demanded again. “Who do you fear so much?” Grabbing her wrists, he pinned her flailing arms tight across her body, holding her as gently as he could until she exhausted herself and once again grew quiet in his arms.