Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Moreland Castle,” Kathryn repeated. “Was that his home?”

  “’Twas his mother’s home,” Sorcha explained. “Still is, come to that. Thomas wanted me safe until the fighting was done. So I lived with his mother for eight months. During that time, he came to me as often as he could, whenever he could steal away from the battlefront. I lived for those stolen moments. They were so precious—and far too few.”

  Sorcha smiled, placing her hands protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. “We married in an official Church ceremony on my fourteenth birthday. I was already three months gone with Alice, our oldest. But my entire family was there for the ceremony. Thomas had won them over completely.”

  “He can be very persuasive,” Kathryn agreed with a grin, remembering her brief encounter with him in the forest. “Is Nicholas his liege lord?”

  “Aye. He is Nicky’s master-at-arms, as he was to Nicky’s father before him.” Sorcha leaned forward confidingly. “You know how noblemen’s sons are fostered to other noblemen for their training as knights?”

  Kathryn nodded.

  “Well, Roger Herron did not send Nicky away to be fostered. Because he wanted his son trained by the very best master-at-arms in the country.”

  “Thomas Parsons.” Kathryn smiled.

  “Aye.” Sorcha’s smile faded. “Roger Herron was a very cold, harsh man. He went out of his way to make sure that Nicky was assigned the dirtiest chores, the most difficult training. The harsher Roger was, the more determined Nicky was to succeed in spite of him. And under Thomas’s careful tutelage, under his fair and even hand, Nicky’s determination paid off. He became better than any other trainee.

  “Nicky was the page who brought me the food and clothing in the English camp,” Sorcha continued. “He witnessed firsthand the extraordinary love that burst into being between Thomas and me. And he wanted naught less for himself.” She grimaced. “As you can imagine, that made for some pretty heavy battles with Roger, who was equally determined that his son marry strictly to advance the Berwick name and position at Court. For a while, there was a constant parade of unsuitable women in and out of Berwick, most of whom Nicky refused to even meet, much less marry.

  “He cares naught for Court. He swore he would marry for love and love only. Which is why he has been so seldom at home and so often off with Edward, fighting in yet another war.”

  Sorcha paused, ensuring she had Kathryn’s attention before resuming. “Your Nicky is one of the finest men I’ve ever known, Kathryn,” she said quietly. “He has a nobility of spirit second only to my Thomas’s. And his capacity to love is endless. At first I feared that he would frighten you off with the intensity of his passion. That he would overwhelm you with his needs, some of them very dark. That you would find yourself unable—or unwilling—to return his love, especially after such brutal treatment at the hands of Robert Walford.”

  She smiled, reaching over to give Kathryn’s right hand a slight squeeze. “Obviously, my mind has been set to rest on that score. I can see how much you love him. And I am grateful for that. You are the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  “I assure you, ’tis the other way around,” Kathryn said fervently. “I never knew such love was possible. And to find it at a time when I feared my life was over—” She choked. “I give thanks for that, and for him, every second of every day.”

  Voices in the hallway told them that Nicholas and Rolf were approaching the solar. Sorcha folded the piece of parchment and tucked it back into her sleeve. “I fear I must take my leave, my lady. ’Tis time to return to my girls.”

  “When can I meet them?” Kathryn asked.

  “Any time. We have our own house just beyond the gardens. You are welcome to visit any time. Meanwhile, your dancing lessons begin on the morrow.” She took Kathryn by the upper arms and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. “Until tomorrow, my dear. I am so looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Supper that night was Kathryn’s first meal in the great hall. She sat between Nicholas and Rolf at the high table, so designated because it was on a dais perhaps eight inches high, situated in front of the screens passage. It was covered with overlapping white linen tablecloths that hung to the floor both front and back. Above the screens passage, in the minstrel’s gallery, musicians played merry tunes.

  Also seated at the high table were Roger de Vries, the household steward, Sir Richard Martin, Father Joseph, the castle chaplain, and Sir Simon Morecombe, the castle’s ancient almoner. The servers this evening were Harold Godwain and Andrew Chastain, two of Nicholas’s young knights-in-training.

  Kathryn inclined her head graciously as Nicholas introduced her to those she had not already met. Then, following his lead, she held her hands over a silver basin being held by Harold Godwain, rinsing them in the cascade of rose water Andrew Chastain poured over them from a silver ewer. She graciously accepted a towel from young Jamie Fordyce and dried her hands, giving it back to the young page with a smile that made him blush. She’d never taken part in such a ritual before. Certainly, no one at her father’s table had cared overmuch for the niceties of proper etiquette.

  The long, cloth-covered trestle tables she’d observed earlier were now filled with other diners—knights, tradesmen, the castle artisans, and upper household staff.

  There were nine courses, ranging from a blancmange of chicken pounded into a paste, then blended with rice and boiled in almond milk, to roasted lamb chops, poached pickerel with mustard sauce, and carrots in a sauce of onions, verjuice, candied ginger, and cinnamon. The lavish meal ended with a custard tart served with cheese, poached pears, and sugared almonds.

  Each new course was presented to the high table with a low bow by a host of young, liveried servers. The butler, a clean white towel draped around his neck, scurried back and forth from one end of the table to the other, seeing to it that everyone was kept supplied with hot, white rolls and plenty of hippocras, which he poured from beautifully embossed silver pitchers into equally beautiful silver chalices.

  Again, Kathryn had no trencher or chalice of her own. Nicholas cut her meat with his own knife, fed her choice tidbits with his own hand, offered her sips of wine from his own cup.

  At the end of the meal, the room cleared out fairly quickly so the lower servants could come in and have their meal. Sir Simon Morecombe collected all the leftover trenchers, by now sodden with all the juices they’d soaked up, and placed them in a basket. These he would later distribute to the poor and the pilgrims who always managed to find their way up the long hilly road to the castle gates.

  As Nicholas and Kathryn said good night, Rolf took her hand and brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles. The feel of his warm, hard fingers against her skin sent her pulses racing. He looked at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. His touch was doing strange things to her breathing.

  “Good night, my lady,” he murmured. “I will see thee on the morrow.”

  “You will see me on the morrow?” she asked stupidly, trying to ignore the little frissons of awareness racing up and down her back, leaving goose bumps in their wake.

  “Aye, min skat.” That deep, rumbling voice sent shivers up and down her arms. “For our first dance lesson,” he explained with a slow smile that left her breathless. What was the matter with her? She loved Nicholas with every atom of her being. So why was her body responding with such a visceral reaction to this, admittedly, extremely sensual Dane? Why did the warmth of his touch send her heart racing in her breast?

  Trying to hide her confusion, she turned to Nicholas. “I thought Sorcha was going to teach me to dance,” she said in a low voice that contained an edge of panic.

  “Nay, my love,” Nicholas smiled down at her and her mouth went dry. She felt her stomach do a slow roll at the need she saw there. God, he was so beautiful. What on earth was wrong with her? How could she be so responsive to two completely different men at the same time? What did that make her?

  “You are actually very fortunate, belove
d,” he teased. “Rolf is the best dancer here at Berwick—far better than I. He’ll have you dancing in no time.”

  “Your Grace! Your Grace!” Matthew Vyne, one of Nicholas’s young knights came running across the enormous room, almost skidding to a stop in front of them. “Your Grace, you have a visitor!”

  “At this time of night?” Rolf expostulated. “Who in their right mind is out on the road after dark? And in such weather?”

  “Who is it, Matthew?” Nicholas asked.

  “He calls himself the Sheriff of London.”

  Nicholas ignored Kathryn’s gasp, tightening his arms around her as she tried to wrench free. He held fast even as she continued to struggle, until the pain in her healing ribs forced her to cease her struggles and subside weakly against him.

  “How many in his party?”

  “Six, Your Grace.”

  “Have they been searched?”

  “Aye, Your Grace, as per your orders and, I might add, over their very loud objections.” He grinned. “They took them into the guard room in the barbican, stripped them, and removed all of their concealed weapons.” His expression turned to one of shock. “They were heavily armed, Your Grace!”

  Nicholas just grunted. “Have the Sheriff, and only the Sheriff, brought to me here under double guard. The rest of his party may await his return in the guard room. As soon as he’s rejoined them, send them on their way.”

  “But, Your Grace, he insists they be given food and lodging for the night.” Matthew’s young voice rose in consternation at the rudeness of turning away a traveling party seeking shelter after dark, especially in such bitter cold weather.

  Nicholas let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, he does, does he? Well, we shall just see about that. Fetch him and bring him into the solar.” As reluctant as he was to give Henry Fallon the courtesy of greeting him in the solar, a welcome usually reserved for honored guests, he was even more reluctant to conduct such a sordid business in the great hall, within earshot of several dozen servants.

  “Come, beloved,” Nicholas said, lifting a distraught Kathryn into his arms. Swiftly he carried her behind the screens, across the gloomy hallway and into the solar. Rolf followed on his heels. As Nicholas set Kathryn on her feet, she clung to him desperately.

  “He is here to arrest us,” she cried. “Robert W–Walford has sent him to take us to prison.”

  “Hush, love, hush,” Nicholas soothed, rubbing his hands up and down her back in an effort to impart comfort. “No one is going to prison. At least, no one in this household.”

  “But—” She drew back to look up at him, her face streaked with tears.

  “No buts,” he said gently, stroking his thumbs across her wet cheeks. “Did I not ask you to trust me?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded jerkily. “Aye, my lord.”

  He smiled. “Then kindly have the courtesy to do so,” he admonished mildly, bending his head to place a kiss on her lips before straightening and pulling her more tightly against him, tucking her head beneath his chin. He held her thus until the sound of marching footsteps and an unending stream of vitriolic curses reached their ears. Holding Kathryn by his side, he turned to greet the new arrival. The game was certainly afoot and he just prayed he was not about to consign his entire household to be hanged at Tyburn.

  “Let me go!” the voice uttering the curses shrieked. “Release me at once, you villains, or I’ll have your heads on pikes for this gross insult!” As two Berwick knights wrestled him into the solar, he yanked and jerked against their hold on his arms, straining so hard that when they abruptly released him, he stumbled, tripped on a corner of his cloak, and nearly fell to the floor. Righting himself, he squared his shoulders and gave a sharp downward tug on his travel-stained surcote, which bore the coat of arms of the city of London.

  At first glance, Henry Fallon, the Sheriff of London, was an imposing figure of a man—tall with broad shoulders and a deep chest. But the farther south the eye traveled, the less imposing he became. His hips were too narrow, his legs bowed and spindly, his feet almost comically large. A weak chin and oversized head kept him from being handsome. Actually, Kathryn concluded, studying him closely, everything about him kept him from being handsome.

  “This is an outrage!” he screamed, shooting a venomous look at Nicholas. Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “How dare you treat a person of my rank in such a rude, barbaric manner? The king shall hear of this, I can assure you!”

  Nicholas just shrugged. “State your business and be off with you,” he said coldly.

  The Sheriff’s face grew so darkly red Kathryn feared he would burst a blood vessel. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “Very well,” he said with a forward jerk of his chin, “if that is how you wish for this to play out. Nicholas Herron, Duke of Berwick, I am here in my official capacity as Sheriff of London to place you under arrest. Both you,” his eyes narrowed on Kathryn and his lips thinned in a sneer, “and that harlot standing next to you.” At Kathryn’s gasp, a look of satisfaction crossed his face. “I have the warrants right here,” he tapped a long, leather tube tucked securely into his belt, “duly signed, sworn, and affixed with the seal of the Chief Magistrate.”

  Without saying a word, Nicholas simply held out his hand, staring at Henry Fallon until, muttering to himself, the man snatched the tube from his belt and handed it to him. Removing the cap at the end of the tube, the Duke of Berwick shook out two vellum scrolls, each with a series of dangling ribbons affixed with wax seals, the largest and most ostentatious being that of the Duke of Pemberton, Chief Magistrate of the Crown. Without even looking at the scrolls, Nicholas handed them to Rolf who walked over to the fireplace and tossed them in.

  “My Lord!” was Fallon’s outraged shriek.

  Everyone in the room held their breath, their eyes riveted to the fireplace as the wax melted and the flames slowly consumed the parchment and bits of fabric until there was naught left but ash. Then Nicholas turned to Henry Fallon, his face cold and hard as steel, his voice equally so. “You tell Pemberton that if he wishes to arrest me, he’ll have to come and do it himself. You and your men will be escorted by six of my armed knights to the border of my lands, where your weapons will be returned to you. Where you go from there is none of my concern.”

  The Sheriff stood staring at Nicholas, mouth agape. “You would send us away without offering us sustenance or a place to bed down for the night?” he shrieked in disbelief. ’Tis colder than a witch’s tit out there!”

  Nicholas’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. “And you would come to arrest me and then have the audacity to expect my hospitality? Really, Henry, have you gone mad? You chose to arrive at this time of night, passing three perfectly good inns along the way. Go back and stop at one of those, and blame no one but yourself for your discomfort.”

  With a dismissive wave of his fingers, he turned his back on the enraged man, who slapped away the knights’ hands and stalked out of the room ahead of them. “Matthew,” Nicholas said to his young knight, “when our lads give the Sheriff’s party their weapons, track them, but keep at a safe distance. I would know whither they go.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  As soon as Matthew was gone, Kathryn put her hand on Nicholas’s forearm. “My love, was that wise?” she asked, concern flickering in her eyes.

  He smiled at her. “Probably not. But the die is cast, beloved.”

  “Robert Walford will be a formidable enemy.”

  His eyes glinted as he put his arms loosely around her. “As will I, beloved. As will I. Trust me, the better man will win this fight. I am more than a match for the likes of Pemberton.”

  Rolf moved in behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, warming her to her bones. She couldn’t move, crammed as she was between these two compelling men, one so dark, the other so fair. They towered over her, engulfing her senses, unsettling her, confusing her. What would it be like to have two men loving me? With both their cocks, at the same ti
me? Is such a thing even possible?

  Her face turned a bright crimson as she ruthlessly shut down the vision. Blessed Virgin! How could she be having such thoughts? Where was her sense of right and wrong? These feelings she was having had to be wrong. They simply had to. And yet…God help her, they felt so right.

  She looked up to find Nicholas staring at Rolf above her head, communicating silently on a deep, fundamental level that was beyond her knowledge or experience. They seemed to be having an argument, which only increased her discomfiture. After saying naught, but conveying volumes, Rolf finally said, “I bid thee good night, min skat,” in a tight voice. Dropping a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, he took swift leave of them, his boot heels clicking loudly on the stone floor.

  Dry-mouthed, Kathryn stood and watched as Nicholas began to remove his clothes, slowly and with great deliberation, never taking his smoky gray eyes off of her. First, his capelet and amulet. Then his long, black robe. This time he did not drop them indiscriminately on the floor. Instead he walked over and hung them carefully on the stout wooden peg.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled off his black boots, then stood to push down his woolen chausses and braes.

  There he stood before her, gloriously naked, his cock thick and hard, curving upward from its thicket of black curls. Slowly, he walked over to where Kathryn was standing, his cock bobbing up and down with each step. She couldn’t stop staring at him. At that broad chest, that rippling abdomen, those powerful legs and thighs. And that cock—that rigid, throbbing instrument of her pleasure. Blessed Virgin, it was enormous! How had she ever taken that into her body without being rent in two? She licked her lips. He was looking at her the way a panther looks at its next meal, with a primitive, almost violent hunger.