Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Nine days ago,” Rolf said in that voice that sounded as if it were rumbling up from the depths of the earth, “the Earl of Carrolton lost a large wager to Robert Walford. The only way he could pay it off was to hand over his castle, all that remained of his holdings, and his daughter. Our wounded sparrow is Lady Kathryn Weston.”

  Kathryn. “Go on.”

  “Eight days ago,” Rolf continued, “on the night before Robert Walford and Lady Kathryn were to be wed, he went to her bedchamber. The next morning he was discovered unconscious on the floor of that chamber.”

  “Walford was discovered unconscious?” Nicholas asked, surprise lacing his voice. “And Lady Kathryn?”

  “Nowhere to be found.”

  Sweet Jesu! No wonder she’s so terrified of him, he thought, a sense of pride at her pluck and courage rising up inside him. She had fought back and she had succeeded in escaping.

  Rolf grinned, a wickedly sensual grin that changed the entire aspect of his face from menacing to irresistible. “It seems our little sparrow has the heart of a lioness. She managed to hit him over the head with an iron candlestick, so hard it cracked the back of his skull, knocking him senseless. By the time they were able to rouse him the next morning, she had flown the coop.”

  Thomas chimed in. “When we found her in the forest five days ago, she had been on the run for three days and nights.”

  “Does Walford know she’s here?” Nicholas asked.

  “We think not,” Rolf said, “He remains at Carrollton Castle, confined to his bed. But his spies are everywhere, looking for her. ’Tis only a matter of time.”

  “There’s more,” Thomas added grimly. “The day Lady Kathryn disappeared, Weston was arrested on Walford’s orders and taken to Newgate.”

  “On what charge?” Nicholas demanded, furious.

  “What else?” Thomas sounded weary. “High treason, of course.”

  Somehow, even though the thought of anyone in the pure hell of Newgate prison made him shudder, Nicholas was unable to summon much in the way of sympathy for Owen Weston. The man had sold his daughter. That made him a bastard in Nicholas’s eyes.

  “In the meantime,” Thomas continued, “a warrant has been issued for my lady’s arrest.”

  Nicholas’s brow creased in a frown. “On what charge?” he demanded, although he feared he already knew the answer to that one.

  “Attempted murder.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Nicholas sank back down. Elbows resting on his knees, he put his head in his hands. “Attempted murder! That’s a hanging offense.” The thought of his beloved swinging from a noose at Tyburn had his insides twisted in a tight knot. “God, what a mess,” he sighed.

  “She’ll only be hanged if she’s found guilty,” Thomas reminded him.

  Nicholas snorted. “Well, with Walford himself as victim, witness, and Chief Prosecutor, how the bloody hell can she possibly not be found guilty?”

  God’s teeth! He sighed. Attempted murder! He felt as if he’d been pole-axed. His mind staggered as he fought to wrap it around this disturbing bit of news. Attempted murder, for Christ’s sake! Bloody fucking Hell!

  “There’s more,” Thomas went on, clearing his throat almost painfully.

  Nicholas shook his head, as if to clear it of his bleak thoughts. He looked at Thomas, one black brow soaring. He had a sinking feeling that his day was about to take a turn for the worst.

  “A second arrest warrant has also been issued. For an as-yet-unnamed party.” Thomas paused and Nicholas lowered his head back into his hands. “For harboring a fugitive from justice.”

  “God’s teeth!” This time he said the words out loud.

  “Both warrants have been turned over to the Sheriff of London. As soon as Lady Kathryn’s whereabouts have been ascertained, both warrants will be served and the parties concerned will be arrested and taken to prison.” Thomas’s voice was harsh as he strove to keep his anger under control, to no avail. His hands were clenching at his sides as he watched his young liege lord wrestle with the ramifications of what he had just been forced to tell him.

  Nicholas straightened in his chair and let out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said on a note of grudging admiration. “You have to admire the man, Thomas, if for naught else than the size of his balls.” He looked from Thomas to Rolf, then back to Thomas again. “Is that it?” he asked hopefully, knowing in his deepest heart that it was not.

  “Nay, laddie, there’s more.”

  “There’s more,” Nicholas repeated, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if appealing to it for mercy. None was forthcoming.

  “Walford has already sent out a call to his vassal knights to assemble at Pemberton Castle.”

  Here it comes, thought Nicholas, dreading the next words out of Thomas’ mouth. The words that would take the matter completely out of his hands and force him to make the one choice he never wanted to have to make. War.

  “My guess is he’s planning to use force of arms to seize the property of whoever is harboring Lady Kathryn.” Thomas finished.

  “I guess that would be me,” Nicholas noted grimly. He stood abruptly and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “All right, gentlemen, let me see if my facts are in order. In a day or two the Sheriff of London, or one of his minions, will arrive at my front gate and attempt to take Lady Kathryn and me into custody. We will be escorted to Newgate Prison, presumably with an armed escort and great pageantry so that the entire countryside will be witness to our disgrace and be reminded of the power of Robert Walford, thus insuring his even greater power.

  “M’lady will be quickly and publicly tried, hanged, and finally beheaded for attempted murder. And I, if I’m not lucky enough to share her fate, will simply just rot away in a dank, foul prison cell, never to be heard from again. The Herron line will end with me.

  “Berwick Castle and all my estates will be seized by Walford’s army. Anyone loyal to me—that would be you two and everyone else who lives here—will either be killed outright or arrested and sentenced to hang for high treason.” He pressed his lips together, turning to look at Rolf and Thomas. “Is that an accurate summation?”

  The two men looked at each other, then nodded at Nicholas. “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “And Walford actually thinks we’re going to just”—he waved his hand vaguely—“go along with this plan?”

  “Aye, so it would seem, Your Grace.”

  One black brow arched upward. “Is the man mad? Did that blow to his head addle his brains?”

  Rolf and Thomas just grinned. “Apparently so, Your Grace.”

  The three men looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then Nicholas sobered. “All right, this is the plan. Thomas, I need you to ride post-haste to London. Tell Edward what Walford is up to. I know he is back temporarily from the siege at Calais. I just hope he hasn’t already sailed back to France.

  “And this time make him listen. He has been warned about Walford many times. It’s high time he did something about him.” Nicholas’s lips quirked. “Remind His Majesty that he owes me a favor. And when this is finished, he’ll owe me an even bigger one, because I am going to save his bloody throne for him. Rolf, send guards out to the barbican. Station six knights outside the gate to search everyone who approaches—pilgrims, beggars, cripples—everyone. No exceptions. After they have been divested of anything that might be used as a weapon, they will be permitted into the outer bailey, but only as far as the inner gate. That is where they will receive their alms. When the Sheriff shows up, he will be disarmed and given a choice. He can either leave quietly—without serving his warrants, I might add—or remain here as our guest until this business with Walford is finally settled.

  “In the meantime,” he waved his hand dismissively, “let Walford raise an army. But it will have to be a really, really big army. Big enough for an extensive siege of this castle, because that is the only thing that will take Berwic
k down. Oh, and Thomas? Before you leave for London, please send Sorcha to me. I need her to plan a wedding.”

  “A wedding!” Both Thomas and Rolf looked at Nicholas as if he’d lost his mind.

  “Aye, a wedding. If Walford attacked Lady Kathryn the night before their ceremony, then he’s not her husband. Ergo, she’s not married. Ergo, she’s mine.” He grinned. “If I marry her she’ll have the protection of my name and title.”

  “Which is worth exactly naught if thou’rt sent away to Newgate,” Rolf pointed out sardonically.

  “Whoa, laddie. Hold on just a minute.” Thomas held up his hand. “Are you sure about this? You want to marry this girl? That’s forever, lad. You know naught about her. None of us knows aught about her. It’s as if she sprang into existence eight days ago.”

  “I know as much about her as you knew about Sorcha when you decided to marry her.” There was a trace of defiance in Nicholas’s voice.

  Thomas had the good grace to back off with a smile. “Point taken, lad. If you’re certain—”

  “I’m more than certain.” Nicholas stepped over to the connecting door, jerked it open, and stuck his head through. “Eric!” he barked, “In here. Now.”

  Eric Fordyce, a young knight, whose bright blue eyes, long blond curls, and baby fuzz along his jawline made him appear much younger than his eighteen years, came into the room. Nicholas closed the door again. “Eric, I need you to go to your father. Tell him I must meet with him here at Berwick day after tomorrow. ’Tis a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “What if he is not at home?” Eric asked.

  “Then find him. Tell him it’s about Robert Walford. He’ll come. As soon as you’ve spoken with your father, deliver the same message to the Earl of Fairbourne and the Duke de Brienne.” Nicholas put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and bent his head so Eric would be looking straight into his eyes. “Tell no one but these three men directly. Go alone and go quickly, avoid the roads. Let no one stop you. Understood?”

  “Aye, Your Grace, I’ll not fail you.” He bowed low, then turned to leave the room when Nicholas added softly, “Oh, and Eric? Change your clothes.” He indicated the Berwick livery and badge that Eric was wearing. “You might fare better on your journey if you’re mistaken for a tenant or a villein.”

  A grin split the young man’s face. “Oh, aye, Your Grace.”

  As soon as the young man had left, Nicholas smiled at Rolf and Thomas. “Relax, gentlemen. Everything is under control. I have a plan.”

  The two men exchanged knowing grins. “I love it when Nick has a plan,” Rolf said, bending his knees and bringing his long legs under him to push himself straighter in his chair.

  `”Aye,” Thomas agreed. “Nick and a plan. Walford will never know what hit him.”

  “All right, gentlemen, let’s get down to business. I’ll need archers. Lots of them. Any suggestions? And I don’t want to be obvious about it.”

  There was a long silence, then Rolf said, “Thou art getting married when, exactly?”

  “Thursday morn. That will give Sorcha four days to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Rolf shrugged. “Then hold an archery contest, the afternoon of the wedding. “Thou canst pass it off as part of the celebration.”

  “An archery contest in only four days’ time?” Thomas asked. “Impossible. ’Twould take a sennight just to build the pavilion.”

  “Then hold it a sennight from today. Walford cannot possibly mount and provision an army plus construct and move over one hundred machines of war before then.”

  “Excellent idea, Rolf.” Nicholas rubbed his hands together briskly, almost gleefully. “Now, let’s see what other nasty little surprises we can come up with to put an end to Walford’s treachery once and for all.”

  The three men talked for another two hours, discussing strategies for avoiding a siege, if at all possible, or for dealing with it if not.

  After Rolf left to organize a couple of hunting parties to round up as many wild boar, pheasants, and deer as they could find, and Thomas left to ride to London, Nicholas sought out Sir John Lowden and instructed him to round up as many carpenters and builders as he could. In the likely event of a siege, it was his responsibility as liege lord to provide shelter for all his farmers and villeins. They needed to get started on that right away.

  When Nicholas returned to his solar, musicians were playing softly in one corner of the room. Kathryn Weston was sitting up in bed, leaning back against dozens of silk- and velvet-covered pillows, which Ellen was plumping and placing behind her.

  The sweetness of the smile she bestowed upon him slammed his heart against his ribs and sent the blood singing through his veins. He stopped dead in his tracks, trying to catch his breath. God’s blood, she is beautiful! And he would be willing to wager his entire worth that no one in her life had ever told her that. Well, that is about to change. He would not let a single day go by without letting her know just how lovely she was. Or how much he loved her.

  He came up on one hip, knee bent, perching on the edge of the bed. “Good morrow, lovely lady,” he said, his smile as broad as her own. He reached out his left hand to tuck a wayward tendril of red-gold hair behind her ear. “Are you feeling better?”

  Before she could reply, he leaned forward and took her mouth in what was intended to be a simple brush of the lips. But the moment he touched her, his hunger for her flared like a bonfire and he couldn’t stop himself from testing the seam of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

  And when she parted her lips at his slight pressure, he plunged in joyfully, stroking his tongue into the sweet honey of her mouth, savoring, tasting, exploring. His tongue curled around hers, dueling, caressing, lingering to rasp teasingly across the roof of her mouth. The kiss became scorching, his hot tongue invading and devouring.

  She was combusting, going up in flames from an endless, raging need she could not control. She moaned, the sound wrenched from her throat by a hunger so raw, so savage, she felt she would die if he ever stopped kissing her.

  But he did stop kissing her. He had to. Because he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning that had sizzled through every cell of his body and stopped his heart.

  Sweet Jesu! What was that?

  They were both breathing heavily. He had to close his eyes so she couldn’t see the need prowling in them like a ravening beast. Hauling air into his lungs, he drew his head back from her far enough to rest his forehead against hers. His heart jumped and jerked, then stumbled forward into an erratic rhythm only slightly resembling a normal heartbeat. His struggle to get himself under control took all of his concentration, all his discipline. His mind was reeling. His entire body was in chaos.

  Groping blindly for her hand, he grabbed it, lifting it against his chest, placing it over the trip hammer of his heart. He held it there as they both struggled to calm their breathing. He had never been so aroused in his life. And all he had done was kiss her, for Christ’s sake. What was there about this woman that tied him up in knots so? That made him ache for her with a hunger so fierce he was shaking with it?

  God’s blood! It was several moments before he felt he could trust himself to speak. And when he did it was with great effort that he made his voice sound anywhere near normal. “Do you feel up to eating a little something?” His voice sounded hoarse to his ears, harsh and guttural. He cleared his throat and straightened away from her reluctantly.

  There were high spots of color on her cheeks and her eyes glittered like emeralds refracting the sunlight. “I–I’m not really dressed…” she trailed off, her voice sounding as strangled as his.

  He glanced down at the too-large linen chemise she was wearing. Probably one that had belonged to his late mother, Lady Blanche. The sheer material did naught to hide the ripe swell of her breasts. Her rosy pink nipples were hard and standing at attention, just begging for his mouth to suckle.

  Christ! Where had that thought come from? He shook his head. No matter. Now that it was there
, he could not rid his mind of it. Nor could he keep his eyes off of the soft mounds. Bloody Hell!

  “You’re fine just as you are.” He somehow managed to speak without choking himself. “Jamie will be bringing us a tray in a few minutes. I thought we might eat together.” He finally managed to jerk his gaze away from her breasts. Praise God she wasn’t completely naked. As she had been ever since she had arrived five days ago. Sweet Jesu! If she were naked right now, there wasn’t a power on earth that could prevent him from rolling her beneath him, sliding his aching cock into her sweet, wet heat and fucking her until the world came crashing down around their heads.

  He forced himself to stand, the extent of his arousal evident in the hard ridge straining against his chausses. It was clearly visible beneath the flared skirt of his tunic. It was level with her eyes and she couldn’t stop looking at it. Her hand lifted, as if she were going to touch it, and his cock jerked in response. She jerked back, bit her lip and looked up at him, a dazed expression on her face, her eyes glazed with arousal. Her entire body was buzzing like a hive full of bees.

  Nicholas bit back a groan. How in the name of all that was holy was he going to get through the next four days? The four days he’d sworn an oath to spend courting her properly, the way a knight courts a lady? The four days of additional healing time that Sir Richard Martin adamantly insisted upon before allowing Nicholas to finally bed her? How in God’s name was he to accomplish this feat? Especially since she appeared to be as hungry for it as he was?

  Calling upon every bit of his will, he tamped down the hunger raging through him, devouring him from the inside out. Hunger that had naught to do with food. “Come, sweetness,” he said, flipping the bedclothes off of her, as young Jamie Fordyce appeared in the doorway carrying a large tray.

  Sliding his powerful arms beneath her knees and lower back, Nicholas lifted her easily and lowered her to stand before him just long enough to drop a silken chemise over her head before lifting her once again and carrying her over to the table.

  “Really, Your Grace, I’m perfectly capable of walking,” she protested. There was a hint of laughter in her rough, raspy voice. “I’ve had much practice over the years. Surely I have mastered the art by now.”