Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  At the far end of the room were the brick baking ovens, with sacks of grain and baskets full of bread loaves stacked high. A man with heavily muscled arms was kneading a huge ball of spongy dough in a wooden trough the size of a small boat.

  Bunches of flowers and garden herbs hung drying from the arched stone ceiling. A veritable pot pourri of fragrances warred with one another, assaulting the nostrils, vying for attention. Kathryn lifted her head and drew in a deep breath. “Oh, Nicholas, it smells wonderful in here!”

  In one corner, a man was seated on a three-legged stool, plucking chickens. Feathers flew everywhere, drifting around his feet and clinging to the rough stuff of his clothes. A long white apron tied around his waist was covered with blood. A wooden cage full of cackling hens was to his right. Plucked carcasses were piled high to his left.

  A dozen scullery boys sat around a large table pounding bread crumbs, dried herbs, and spices in giant mortars with heavy marble pestles. Bellows wheezed, workers shouted, roasting meats crackled as the young turnspits turned them slowly over the roaring fires.

  Above the commotion could be heard the harried voice of the cook, bellowing out orders, berating anyone too slow to follow them, and whacking his long-handled wooden spoon against whatever—or whomever—came within reach.

  A constant parade of servants came and went, bringing things in, taking things out. The delicious smells of baking bread and roasting meats permeated the air.

  After observing the unremitting hustle and bustle for several minutes, the foursome finally caught the eye of one of the scullery boys. Braving grievous bodily harm, he adroitly managed to avoid the wooden spoon even as he was finally able to get the cook’s attention. Turning his head, the cook acknowledged their presence with a rapturous expression, rapping his spoon loudly on the table to get everyone’s attention. Instantly work stopped as everyone turned toward their Duke and dropped to one knee. After Kathryn had been presented, the chaos resumed and the foursome stepped back out into the cobbled bailey. Ducks, geese, and chickens scurried around in aimless frenzy, searching for any crumbs or seeds that might be lurking between the cobblestones. Dogs roamed everywhere. Cats gathered in groups atop barrels, hay bales, posts, and crates, huddled together for warmth as they dozed or cleaned each other’s fur with their rough, raspy tongues.

  Over near the western wall, a small army of carpenters and other workers were hammering and sawing. The constant din assaulted the ears.

  A pall of smoke from myriad fires, hung in the cold, damp air. Low gray clouds scudded across the sky, looking dirty and rumpled like piles of old rags. It was suddenly much colder.

  The next stop was the laundry. Dense clouds of steam rose from enormous tubs of boiling soapy water, where the household’s sheets and linens were being swirled around with large wooden paddles. Other sheets hung drying on ropes stretched out between tall wooden posts across a broad, open area.

  Kathryn tugged the voluminous hood of her mantle more closely around her head. The weather was deteriorating by the minute. As the clouds grew darker, the temperature fell. The wind picked up, biting through even their fur-lined cloaks.

  By the time the foursome made their way through the chandler’s, the chemist’s, the butchery, and the cobbler’s, the few drifting snowflakes had become flurries, progressing into a heavy, steady fall of big wet flakes that stuck to every surface.

  In the shelter of the chemist’s shop-front, Nicholas looked down at Kathryn, taking in the pallor of her face, the deep lines of fatigue etched on either side of her mouth. “Come, beloved, we can finish this another day when you have recovered more of your strength and the weather is more cooperative.”

  They turned and headed back toward the Keep. In addition to being exhausted, Kathryn was also freezing, trying to hide her shivers. As they hurried back across the courtyard, pulling their sable-lined cloaks more tightly about their bodies for warmth, she stumbled on a loose cobblestone and would have fallen had Rolf not been right behind her. He caught her, pulling her up against him. He looked down into her pale face, noting her chattering teeth and the strain around her eyes.

  “By all the gods, Nick! This lovely lady is beyond exhausted!”

  Swearing softly, Rolf swung her up into his arms, carrying her easily through the blowing, drifting snow, his graceful, long-legged stride making short work of the distance.

  “Rolf, please, put me down. I can walk,” she said, though with no real conviction in her voice. She was simply too tired to proffer a real protest.

  “Apparently not,” he responded with a grin. “Why didst thou not tell Nick how exhausted thou wert?” The foursome entered the great hall in a swirl of capes, snow and a blast of freezing air. He carried her through the enormous chamber, now a beehive of activity in preparation for the midday meal. Trestle tables, covered with crisp, white linen cloths had been set up along the side walls, while servants bustled about setting trenchers cut from thick slabs of dried bread for soaking up the meat juices, pewter tankards and linen napkins at each place.

  Moving with that fluid, catlike grace that evaporated all the moisture in Kathryn’s mouth and made her breath hitch, Rolf carried her into the solar and deposited her in one of the cushioned chairs, scooting it closer to the roaring fire.

  “Bring us mulled wine,” Nicholas ordered one of the grooms stacking wood beside the fireplace. The young man rushed from the room as Nicholas removed his gloves and knelt before Kathryn to release the gold clasp securing the mantle around her neck. As he pushed the hood back off her head, great globs of melting snow fell to the floor with a crystalline tinkle. “Sweet Jesu, beloved, why did you not tell me how cold and fatigued you were? Ellen!” he hollered, without turning his head.

  “She is but two days out of bed,” Rolf retorted in a low, angry voice. “How couldst thou not have known?”

  The elderly woman came bustling into the solar, chins quivering beneath her dingy white wimple. Immediately sizing up the situation, she went to one of the tall cupboards and retrieved a lidded brass pan. She carried the pan over to the black kettle hanging over the glowing embers and poured hot water into it, filling it a little less than halfway.

  “Take off her boots, laddie,” she ordered, placing the pierced lid on the pan.

  He did so, shocked at the icy feel of her skin. “Christ Almighty, beloved, I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Here, poppet,” Ellen crooned, lifting Kathryn’s stockinged feet and placing them on top of the warm pan. “This’ll get those poor little feet nice and warm.”

  Smiling her thanks at the elderly woman, Kathryn immediately bit back a low cry as she slid her feet off of the blistering pan to rest them on either side, allowing the steam to billow up through the pierced lid into the envelope formed by her gown and warm her legs. Once the water cooled down a bit, it would be safe to put her feet back on top of the lid.

  Rolf retrieved a fur throw from the bed and draped it over Kathryn’s lap.

  “Thank you.” She smiled up at him, a smile of sheer, sensual sorcery.

  Odin’s Beard! He felt as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning! His cock hardened so fast it nearly blinded him. For one wildly dangerous, breathless moment, he actually considered pulling her up from her chair and taking her lips in a rapacious kiss. But somehow, through sheer dint of will, he managed to avoid that, contenting himself with merely returning her smile with one of his own, a slow, lazy, upward curve of his lips that stole the breath from her lungs.

  Blessed Virgin! She ripped her gaze away from that sensual mouth. What in God’s name is wrong with me? How can I be planning to marry one man when this other affects me so? She was practically panting to drag enough air into her lungs.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll go down to the village,” Nicholas was saying as he leaned down to kiss Kathryn’s cold cheek. “But only if you feel up to it. Do you ride, beloved?”

  “Passably well,” she replied with a shrug. “But only astride. My father’s kn
ights taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach their horses’ knees.”

  “Ellen.” He turned to address his elderly retainer. “Have you come across my mother’s riding habit in her trunk?”

  “Nay, laddie. But I’ll search for it right now.” She walked over to the enormous trunk and began lifting out garment after garment. “Here ’tis, Yer Grace.” She straightened triumphantly, holding up a black velvet cote-hardie and a matching hat ornamented with a fluffy white ostrich plume. “I’ll get started on it straight away.”

  The groom reappeared with a pitcher of steaming wine and four silver chalices. As he filled the goblets, the pleasing scent of cloves, cinnamon, and orange peel filled the air. He handed the chalices one at a time to Nicholas, Kathryn, Sorcha, and Rolf. Since Kathryn had not yet removed her gloves, she raised her left hand to her mouth and closed her teeth around the tip of the glove’s middle finger, preparing to pull it off. She was stopped by a nut-brown hand gently covering hers. “Allow me, my lady.”

  Long, lean fingers curved around her wrist as Rolf placed his cup on the table with one hand and lifted her hand in the other. In a slow, sensual movement that almost seemed like a dance, he started to remove her glove, one leather finger at a time, except for the little finger, which had already been cut off to accommodate her splint. Every movement was studied, unhurried, and elegant, imbued with a natural grace that made Kathryn’s pulse race alarmingly. He dropped the glove in her lap, then lifted her hand to his mouth to place a gentle kiss to her broken finger. “Nick, thou cod-noddy,” he chided gently, without even turning his head to look at his friend, “her hands are freezing. What wert thou thinking, taking her outside on such a day?”

  Kathryn laughed. Ellen scurried over and held out a deliciously warm sable muff. But before Kathryn could put her hand inside it, Rolf took it and placed it gently in her lap. “Thank thee, Ellen,” he said in that deep, velvet-smooth voice. “I’ll see that she puts it on.”

  God help me, Kathryn groaned inwardly, her attention riveted to Rolf’s hands, to his long, lean fingers massaging warmth back into the icy tips of hers. How could the removal of a glove be so sensual? So arousing? So… Her gaze jerked to his and she sucked in her breath, unable to look away from the riveting blue fire of his eyes.

  Still unhurried, he transferred her wine goblet to her left hand, and proceeded to remove her right glove in the same deliberate manner. When he finished, he lifted that hand to his lips. Eyes never leaving hers, he took the wine goblet and placed it on the table, picked up the muff, and slid both her hands inside it. Then he went to one knee before her, his eyes boring into hers before bowing his head low. “As I have sworn eternal fealty to Nick, I now swear fealty to thee, my lady. To thee I freely give my loyalty, my honor, my life.”

  My heart.

  Unable to say more around the sudden constriction in his throat, he kept his head bowed as he blinked back unexpected tears.

  “Nay, Rolf, rise, I beg of you,” she choked out, deeply moved. “You do me much honor, sir knight, but you must rise. You are Nicholas’s best friend, a friend to stand beside him, not kneel before him. I, too, consider you a friend, something I have never had. And something I will sorely need as I take up my duties as chatelaine of this great castle.”

  “A gracious speech, my lady,” Rolf murmured, rising to his feet and smiling down at his new liege lady. Almighty Odin, she is lovely! Unable to tear his gaze away, he was much more affected by her than he was willing to admit.

  Normally, his taste ran toward larger, more buxom women. Women who were wise in the ways of pleasing a man. Women of whom the term “wenches” might aptly be applied.

  Over the years, he and Nicholas had tumbled many of these women, giving them more pleasure together than any one man alone could possibly have provided them. Taking more pleasure from their soft, luscious bodies than either of them would ever have thought possible.

  But, looking down at this small, exquisite woman, a woman who even now stirred a whole host of powerful needs inside him—the need to claim her, the need to cherish her, the need to protect her—he could see how easy it would be to fall in love with her, as Nicholas so obviously had done. As he, himself, must guard against ever doing, for that way lay certain destruction.

  Lady Kathryn Weston was not a woman made for sharing. She was a woman made for loving, cherishing, and honoring above all things. A woman made to love one man. And that man was obviously Nicholas. Rolf’s smile remained on his lips, but drained away from his eyes, leaving them flat and remote.

  Kathryn watched his joy fade, wondering as to the cause. Sweet Mary. This man is dangerous to my peace of mind. She lowered her gaze to the muff warming her hands struggling to understand and deal with the feelings that threatened to swamp her.

  Nicholas came to stand behind her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Lady Kathryn and I will take our luncheon in here,” he said. “Then I think she should nap. She is, after all, as Rolf so rightly reminded me, but two days out of her sickbed.”

  “Really, Nicholas, I am not an invalid.” Kathryn protested mildly. “Just a little tired is all. You must not treat me like an infant.”

  “’Tis my pleasure and privilege to look after you, beloved,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head, “something I sorely neglected to do today in my desire to show you off.” Looking back up at Sorcha and Rolf, he added, “Why don’t you return in three hours’ time? Sorcha, you and Kathryn can go over plans for our wedding, while Rolf and I attend to some necessary business.”

  As if on cue, Jamie Fordyce appeared with a tray piled high with delicious-smelling food. He smiled at Kathryn and she gave him an answering grin. Sorcha and Rolf bowed and took their leave as Nicholas and Kathryn were served their meal.

  Kathryn, too exhausted to eat, in spite of her earlier claims not to be so, let Nicholas feed her choice morsels of roasted goose, smoked salmon, and peas cooked with beef marrow. But when her eyes kept closing despite her struggles to stay awake, he rose abruptly and picked her up. She was asleep before he reached the bed.

  He undressed her, then pulled the covers up over her. “Wake us in an hour,” he told William as he removed his own clothes and climbed in beside her. He pulled her into his arms as William drew the curtains around the bed, enclosing them in their own little cocoon of warmth and privacy.

  An hour later, the drapes parted, allowing light and heat from the flickering fire to enter. “’Tis time, Your Grace,” William said quietly.

  “Aye, William.” Nicholas lifted his head slightly from his pillow. He had actually slept. Kathryn was tucked against him, her back to his front, a warm silken bundle setting fire to his self-control, reducing his good intentions to ash. She was still sleeping. “Thank you, William, that will be all.”

  His arm tightened around her. They still had an hour and a half before their prospective meetings. He could feel her gradual transition from sound sleep to reluctant wakefulness. Knew the instant she became aware of the hardness of his erect penis against her bottom. Stifled a moan as she turned her body slowly within the circle of his embracing arms until she faced him, arching her body hard against his, loving the feel of his hair-roughened skin against the soft globes of her breasts.

  With a groan, he crushed her mouth in a plundering, open-mouthed assault that throbbed with an urgency as pagan and barbaric as his Celtic heritage. It was a kiss that threatened to incinerate them both on the spot.

  She moaned deep in her throat and opened her mouth to the merciless invasion of his tongue. She closed her teeth over it, sucking it deep into the cavern of her mouth, dueling with her own tongue. A waterfall of liquid fire cascaded through her, drenching her sex. God, she loved kissing him. She loved the feel of his tongue rasping against hers as he thrust it in and out.

  Nicholas released her mouth to nibble and kiss his way across her cheek. He pressed tiny kisses along the line of her jaw. He swirled his tongue around the acutely sensitive whorl of her ear, clos
ing his teeth over the tender lobe and giving it a series of painful little nips, which he promptly suckled to soothe away the pain. He left her ear to blaze a blistering trail of kisses down the side of her neck, closing his teeth around the tender skin where it met her shoulder. He bit down, a sharp little nip, which made her stiffen and cry out. He then kissed and laved the pain away with his tongue before moving down another inch, alternating kisses, bites and licks as he went.

  Kathryn’s breaths were coming in shuddering little moans at the feel of his wet mouth and tongue making love to her goose-bumpy skin.

  Lifting his head, he looked down at her soft curves melting against his hard length. At her flushed face, with her luscious, kiss-swollen lips. “You are so beautiful,” he sighed on a note of awe. “You are a treasure—my treasure.”

  She met his gaze, sinking slowly into the swirling gray mists of his eyes. She marveled at the raw power radiating from him. The primitive sensuality that was so much a part of everything he did, everything he was. It was there in the way he looked, like a pagan god, sculpted from molten bronze, exuding an untamed, barbaric appeal. It was there in the way he moved, like a stalking tiger with sleek, elegant grace that only partially concealed the coiled strength of a dominant predator.

  It was there in his voice, that deep, intoxicating sound, all velvet and satin, that flowed over her, turning her blood to honey in her veins, hot and heavy and sweet. But most of all it was there in his touch, in the hands that seared and scorched, leaving trails of fire in their wake and in the lips that marauded and beguiled and seduced, melting bones and boiling blood. It was there in his cock, the one that hardened like steel every time he touched her. The one that she knew was waiting to plunder and ravage and transport her to a realm of pleasure so pure, so profound it would be like flying with the angels.