Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “She was thirty-three to my twenty. The love I had for her was the love of a boy for a woman. The love I have for Kathryn is the love of a man for a woman. Thank thee for allowing me to express that love rather than having to keep it bottled up inside of me.”

  Nicholas smiled. “If she had met you first, I might be the one thanking you.” He yawned. “I take it you’re staying the night?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “It’s just that you’ve never slept with any of our women before. You always left after the loving was over.”

  “It wasn’t loving. It was fucking, pure and simple. And Kathryn is not ‘one of our women.’ She is the woman. Our woman. And this is the only place I will ever sleep for the rest of my life.”

  “Fine by me,” Nicholas said with a grin. “As long as you don’t wind up with all the covers.”

  There was a long pause before Rolf spoke again. “This is going to work, is it not?

  Nicholas sighed. “Aye. We’ll make it work. ’Tis too damned important for it not to work. Because I have the feeling that you would be just as lost without her as I would.”

  “I would be dead inside without her.”

  “She has healed us both,” Nicholas acknowledged with a sigh. “We need to take very, very good care of her.”

  Chapter Ten

  Today is my wedding day, was Kathryn’s first thought the next morning as she was kissed awake by the two men sharing her bed. “I missed you last night, my love,” she said, smiling up at Nicholas as he put his arms around her and lowered his head for a second kiss.

  “You were sleeping so soundly, I had not the heart to wake you. Rolf assured me he took care of you.”

  “Oh, aye, he did.” She blushed, remembering just how he had taken care of her. And how she had responded. The sudden memory of herself leaning back in the tub, legs draped lasciviously over the sides, while Rolf’s stroking fingers brought her to orgasm…Blessed Mary! Her womb clenched. She shut her eyes.

  Nicholas’s mouth went dry. “Christ, beloved, if you could see the look on your face—”

  She opened her eyes and gave him a slow, sensual smile that ripped the breath from his lungs.

  “He took very good care of me, my love.” Her husky voice scraped across nerve endings that were raw with need. “He was very…attentive.”

  “’Tis sorry I am to have missed it.” His voice was low, tight with hunger.

  “Have no fear, my lord.” She gave him a wicked grin. “I’m certain I can think of a way for you to make it up to me.”

  Returning her grin, he waggled his eyebrows. “Can I do it now?” He was practically panting. “Now is a good time for me.”

  He looked so much like an eager puppy, she laughed. “May I do it now,” she corrected demurely. “And, nay, you may not. We have a wedding ceremony to attend.”

  His look of feigned disappointment made her laugh again.

  After getting dressed, the three of them were served a wedding breakfast of frumenty, a hearty porridge of wheat boiled in almond milk, topped with dried apricots and sugared almonds, and washed down with ale. Kathryn had never tasted anything so delicious and helped both Rolf and Nicholas finish theirs. Even so, she could not stop herself from running her finger around the inside of her bowl to get up the last of the tasty treat, ignoring the good-natured teasing of both men. Nicholas kissed his bride-to-be, told her to take her time and left her in the capable hands of Ellen, Mary and a small army of chattering chambermaids while he and Rolf left to make their own wedding preparations in Rolf’s apartment.

  As soon as he left, Kathryn brushed her teeth then stepped into the copper bath tub, sinking down onto the soft sponges, up to her shoulders in hot water scented with lavender and roses. Mary washed her hair with a new bar of soap that smelled like an entire flower garden.

  After the bath, Mary dropped a chemise over Kathryn’s head. Made from Persian silk, it was transparent enough to reveal the shadows of her rosebud nipples and the golden triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs.

  “Here, poppet,” Ellen said, entering from her antechamber carrying Kathryn’s wedding gown. “Put this on, me lady. The tailor made it especially fer ye to wear today. The cloth was woven right here at Berwick, by our own weavers.”

  Kathryn stared at it in wonder. It was a gold cote-hardie, made of wool so fine and soft the threads were almost invisible. It had tight sleeves that buttoned from elbows to wrists with tiny pearl buttons. Over this was a deep green embossed-velvet surcote with a high hem and a low, round neckline. Deep side openings curved inward over her breasts and belly, then back out to flare over her hips. The neckline, armholes and shorter hemline of the surcote were edged with gold-beaded braid.

  Both garments fit her perfectly, emphasizing her narrow waist, the fullness of her breasts, and the feminine flair of her hips. She stroked her hand lovingly over the rich fabrics. She had never felt more beautiful in her life.

  Her new ankle-high boots, black leather with long pointed toes and fancy stitching around the opening, also fit to perfection, thanks to the cordwainer’s skills. The butter-soft leather hugged her feet like a second skin and she had to keep lifting her skirts and looking down to remind herself that she was wearing boots at all.

  Her copper-gold hair flowed freely over her shoulders and down her back in a shimmering mass that glowed and sparked with captured sunlight. Nicholas had left specific orders not to bind, restrain, or conceal her hair in any way. A thin filet of intricately wrought gold circled her head. It was her only adornment.

  “Me lady, mayhap ye might like to try some of this?” Mary held out a jar that contained a paste of rice flour tinted pink with rouge. “’Twould help to cover that last bit of bruising around your eyes and neck…”

  Kathryn shook her head and pushed the jar away gently. “Thank you, Mary, but I no longer feel the need to hide from anyone.” She had been hiding all her life, she realized. But now, thanks to both Rolf’s and Nicholas’s love and encouragement, she was ready to step out of the shadows and live her life to the fullest. She was ready to claim her future with two men she loved beyond measure. Although, with Robert Walford plotting against them, it was a chancy future at best. She just hoped Nicholas’s plan to defeat him actually worked.

  When Nicholas returned just before the hour of terce, he was dressed in a mid-thigh-length tunic with a nipped-in waist, made of the same deep green embossed velvet as her surcote. His chausses and the lining of his long, hanging sleeves were of the same gold wool as her cote-hardie. The sleeves, hem, and neck were trimmed with sable. A jeweled belt circled his narrow waist.

  His mustache and goatee were neatly trimmed and, somehow, Sir Richard had even managed to tame his thick, shaggy locks. But he still looked exotic and barbaric. He stood on the threshold, just looking at her, his need for her a fever in his blood. He pinned her with his gaze, his eyes stark with an expression of such hunger, she felt her insides heating.

  Then Rolf appeared behind him and she lost the ability to breathe. He was dressed all in black—tunic, chausses, knee-high boots. And for the first time since she’d known him, he was not wearing his swords. She looked at the two men she loved more than life itself, her entire body throbbing with anticipation.

  Closing the gap between them, Nicholas dropped down on one knee and lifted her right hand to his lips, never taking his eyes off hers. “You are so beautiful, beloved,” he said. “You are a treasure I never expected to find, and one I will cherish forever. Thank you for loving me.”

  Unbidden tears gathered in her eyes as she placed her left hand, still wearing its splint, over her heart. She was swept with a longing so fierce it took her breath away. This man had saved her life and healed her soul, and yet, here he was, thanking her.

  “You are the other half of me,” he continued. “You fill all the empty spaces in my soul, casting out the darkness with your warmth. You are the light of my life.”

  Slowly, silently, hot tears leaked fr
om the corners of her eyes, scalding their way unheeded down her cheeks. He reached up and gently brushed them away with his thumbs. “I love you with all my heart, Lady Kathryn Weston, and I am honored that you have consented to be my wife. I will be your lover, your partner, your champion, your protector. You will never have cause to fear me. And you will never regret marrying me.”

  Ellen and Mary were sniffling softly, dabbing at their eyes with the corners of their aprons.

  He rose and drew Kathryn up into his arms. Twisting his fingers in the golden silk of her hair, he cradled the back of her head, angling her face up and to the right so he could touch his lips to hers in a kiss that was so gentle, so tender, it made her heart jerk, then stutter in her breast. His soft lips wrought magic as they brushed across hers, sending liquid heat spilling from her core.

  Slowly his arms encircled her, drawing her more fully into his embrace as he deepened the kiss. She felt his tongue dart out to trace the seam of her lips. When he applied faint pressure, she opened to permit his leisurely exploration of her mouth.

  With a deep sigh, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her soft feminine curves along his hard male length. When at last he raised his head, she looked up at him through slumberous eyes. Flickering firelight carved the planes and angles of his face, glinted with blue iridescence in his thick, shaggy, black locks. Blessed virgin! He was actually here—the dark warrior of her dreams come inexplicably, mysteriously to life. She still had difficulty believing he was real.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered huskily, the sound breathless with the turmoil of the emotions churning inside of her. She looked up at the barbarically handsome man who had intruded into the deepest, most secret corners of her soul, altering the very pattern of her existence. Her tongue slipped out to savor the taste of him on her lips, slightly swollen from his kiss.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he replied, following the sensual movement of her tongue with his dark, hooded gaze. He studied her carefully. Sweet Jesu, but she is beautiful. Her skin was smooth and silky soft, the pale color of peonies in full bloom, with just the faintest blush of pink staining her cheeks. Her eyes, framed by silky, golden lashes, were even greener than normal, reflecting the deep emerald color of her velvet surcote. “Are you ready to become my wife?” he asked, smiling down at her, one black brow lifting in inquiry.

  “I already am your wife,” she declared softly. “At least in all the ways that matter. I love you, Nicholas Herron.”

  Rolf stepped forward and dropped to one knee before her, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand. “Min skat,” he began in his deep, rolling-thunder voice, “today thou wilt become the wife of my best friend. Just know that the pledges he makes to thee are those that I would make to thee if this world were a different place. Alas, ’tis not. But the words he speaks will echo in my heart. For the love I bear thee is as strong and true as his own.”

  He rose and put his hands on her waist.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed as he pulled her flush against him and bent his head to take her lips in a kiss that was soft and sweet and filled with such tenderness she was left gasping for breath. His skin was hot against hers, and he made no effort to hide an erection that felt like a boulder against her belly. When he finally, reluctantly released her mouth she drew back her head, only to find herself drowning in the stormy blue depths of his eyes. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek. His gaze darkened and he kissed her on the forehead, before releasing her to Nicholas, who said, “Come, my love, let us be wed.” Offering her his hand, he led her out of the solar.

  The small chapel at one end of the bailey was filled to overflowing with neighbors, friends, Nicholas’s knights, some of the villagers, and other well-wishers. The Countess of Lyndsley and the Countess of Fairbourne had arrived the previous evening and were seated at the front of the chapel with their husbands and the Duke de Brienne. His wife had not made the journey, but had sent her well wishes.

  After the marriage contract was duly signed and witnessed outside the chapel doors, Nicholas and Kathryn exchanged their vows, promising to love and honor each other. Then Nicholas reached into a leather pouch that was hanging from his belt and withdrew an ornate gold ring with a large green emerald in the center. “My lady, you would do me a great honor if you wear this as a token of my love for you.” He slipped it on the third finger of her right hand. “With this ring,” he said softly, lifting her hand to kiss her fingers, “I plight thee my troth.”

  She curtseyed low, bowing her head. “Thank you, my lord. I will do my utmost to honor you in all things.”

  The chapel doors creaked open and they entered the church and walked down the aisle to the altar, where Father Joseph awaited them. Those guests unable to claim a seat on one of the high-backed wooden pews had to stand shoulder to shoulder around the sides and back of the small chapel.

  Sorcha Parsons and her six adorable girls, all dressed alike in green-and-pink dresses, were seated in the front row next to Rolf.

  Nicholas and Kathryn joined hands and knelt before Father Joseph, who ministered the Eucharist before a hushed audience. Then, after a few words to each, he placed a hand on each of their heads and pronounced them man and wife.

  Due to the unusual circumstances, there had been no betrothal ceremony, no posting of the banns. Nicholas would deal with the potential consequences of those omissions, as well as her father’s certain objections, later. After this looming and probably deadly confrontation with Robert Walford had been dealt with.

  For now, they were married. And she was safe. At least, she was as safe as he could possibly make her, considering the arrest warrants that were still out there for both of them. Pushing these disturbing thoughts to the back of his mind, Nicholas looked down at his new bride and kissed her tenderly, to the cheers and whistles of the crowd.

  Hands clasped, they walked back up the central aisle beneath an arch of raised broadswords. As they stepped out into the vast courtyard, all of the estate’s farmers, villeins, and servants had gathered there, clapping and cheering as they welcomed their new Duchess. They had formed a gauntlet for the newlyweds to traverse. Surrounded by laughing and teasing well-wishers, Nicholas and Kathryn made their way slowly back to the great hall, sidestepping dogs and assorted poultry. Nicholas’s firm arm around her kept her moving steadily forward through the laughing throng. The sound of constant hammering merely added to the din. They were approaching the keep, when there was a sudden faint shout from beyond the inner gate. The gatekeeper sent out an answering shout and the portcullis began to rise.

  Everyone in the inner bailey turned toward the sound of hoof beats just in time to see an enormous man gallop through the open gate on the largest horse Kathryn had ever seen. He was followed by three knights wearing Berwick livery. The horses’ mud-caked hooves clattered loudly over the cobblestones, sending geese and chickens flapping and squawking in all directions. The crowd parted quickly, making way for the mounted party.

  Stopping his lathered, muddy charger directly in front of Nicholas, the large man began to dismount and as he did so, a child’s voice yelled out, “Papa! Papa!”

  A chubby little toddler, not yet three years of age, ran toward the strapping man. Her skirts were flying around her legs, her plump little arms outstretched. Her crisp white linen coif hung down her back, revealing thick, curly hair the color of honey in the sunlight.

  “Emily! My poppet!” Broad smile wreathing his weathered, bearded face, Thomas Parsons, for he could be no other, Kathryn realized, bent down, stretched out his arms and threw them around the little cherub, who catapulted herself into them, laughing and shouting. Then she shrieked with delight as her father tossed her high over his head and caught her against his chest.

  “Oof!” he cried in mock protest, pretending to stagger. “You’re getting too big for me to do that.”

  The child put her face within inches of her father’s, placing her chubby little hands flat against his cheeks.

  “’Tis I, poppet,
” he confirmed, giving her plump cheek a loud smacking kiss, “your poor old Papa.”

  “Did you bring me a present, Papa?” she asked eagerly and Thomas laughed.

  “Don’t I always bring you a present? ’Tis in my saddlebags. You’ll get it later.” Parsons kissed his daughter’s forehead. She kissed his nose, then both corners of his mouth, stroking his soft, braided beard. “I missed you, Papa,” she said softly.

  Meanwhile, his five other daughters, ranging in age from four to fourteen, ran shrieking up to their father, flinging themselves against his legs so hard he staggered and nearly fell backwards under their exuberant onslaught.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Easy, my little chickens. Don’t knock your poor old Papa down!”

  Sorcha Parsons followed her daughters at a more sedate pace. But it was obvious to every onlooker by the look in her lively hazel eyes, that she was equally glad and relieved that her husband was home. The five older girls parted at the approach of their mother, allowing Parsons to put the arm not holding Emily around his wife’s thickening waist.

  “How is the most beautiful girl in the world?” he asked hoarsely, his love for her there in his eyes for everyone to see. Before she could answer, he gave her a full, hard kiss on the mouth.

  When he finally raised his head, she gave him a captivating smile. “Did you bring me a present, Papa?” she asked slyly.

  “Aye, lass.” His grin was wicked. “Something big. And hard. But, ’tis not in my saddlebag.” And he kissed her again. She put her arms around his waist and when the erotic kiss was over they just held each other, touching each other’s faces in wonderment, murmuring their joy at being together again.

  The crowd, already in a festive mood due to the joyous wedding that had just taken place, laughed and clapped at the reunited Parsons family.

  Finally, Thomas moved out of his family’s embrace, passed Emily to his wife’s waiting arms, and went down on one knee in front of his liege lord.

  “Thomas, nay.” Nicholas was still not comfortable accepting such obeisance from a man he considered an equal—a friend, as well as a surrogate father. “Prithee, Thomas, rise.”