Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Cooling his heels,” Matthew Vyne said. “And not very happy about it, either.”

  “He’ll be here soon enough.” Nicholas said, turning his head. “Thomas? Give us ten minutes, then announce him yourself. Six guards.”

  “Aye, Nick—ehm, Your Grace.” Before leaving, Thomas placed his beefy hand on Kathryn’s shoulder. “Try not to worry, poppet. Naught will happen to you.”

  Her smile was one of genuine affection. “I know that, Thomas. Thank you.”

  Nicholas assisted her into her chair and he and Rolf pulled theirs up beside her. He gave the signal to begin serving. The first course was chicken poached in a sauce of rosewater, sorrel, cinnamon, and honey. As a generous portion was placed in his trencher, Nicholas glanced over at Kathryn. She was smiling, staring straight in front of her. Placing his fingers beneath her chin, he turned her head toward him. She was looking at him, but her eyes were vacant and Nicholas realized that it was not him she was seeing. It was Robert Walford as she had seen him last, rising over her, repellent and menacing, preparing to rape her—

  “Kathryn! Beloved!” The urgency in Nicholas’s voice got her attention. He was touching her forehead, her cheek, her mouth, trying desperately to reach her and bring her back from the appalling clutches of her nightmarish vision.

  “Kathryn,” he said more gently as her eyes lost their haunted, faraway expression and she looked directly at him. Her smile twisted his heart and sent it soaring at the trust he saw in her eyes. A crooked smile kicked up one corner of his mouth.

  “There’s my brave girl,” he said proudly, leaning forward to kiss her delectable lips. Rolf gently squeezed her hand. “We’re right here, sweetness, right beside you. Just hold onto our hands. We won’t let go of you.” He kept repeating these words of comfort, watching her carefully until, finally, she drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m ready,” she said quietly.

  Nicholas searched her eyes for a long moment. When he was fully satisfied that she was, indeed, prepared to face her torturer, he looked over at Thomas Parsons standing at the entrance to the Hall and gave him a brief nod. Thomas opened the door and six of Nicholas’s knights, dressed in full battle armor and bearing halberds marched in and took up positions behind the diners at the high table.

  “Your Graces,” Thomas intoned in that deep, booming voice of his, “may I present His Grace, Robert Walford, Duke of Pemberton.”

  Thomas stepped aside as Robert Walford entered and stood poised on the threshold. He was flanked by six of Nicholas’s knights, two ahead of him, two behind him, two beside him, holding his arms. Thomas removed the blindfold that had been placed around the Duke’s eyes at the barbican gate. Judging from the infuriated expression on Walford’s face, he had not enjoyed being forced to remove every last stitch of his clothing and stand naked out in the cold. He had been in full view of the entire snickering garrison while Nicholas’s knights had thoroughly searched every garment and every inch of his nude, shivering body.

  They had discovered and removed several hidden knives, including one strapped to his naked thigh and one in his boot, before allowing him to dress again.

  Nor had he appreciated being forced to sit, blindfolded, for over an hour, given naught to eat or drink, waiting to be seen by the upstart Duke of Berwick. His outrage at such treatment was a living, malignant force swirling through the room like a whirlwind, extinguishing all movement, all conversation. It was a wonder it didn’t extinguish all the torches and candles as well. Arctic coldness seemed to follow him into the room.

  “Herron!” he bellowed, shaking free of his escort and marching forward, straight toward the high table. “What is the meaning of this outrage? How dare you have me stripped and searched like some common miscreant? Me! Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? I’ll have your head on a pike for this!” Spittle flew from his mouth, beading on his lips like spindrift.

  Just as the six knights standing behind the diners at the high table were about to lower their halberds and step forward to prevent Walford from getting any closer to Nicholas and Kathryn, his two guards caught up with him and grabbed his arms again, pulling him up short.

  But Nicholas was not even looking at Walford. To anyone watching this intense drama unfolding, he didn’t even seem to be aware of the Duke of Pemberton’s virulent presence mere feet away from the high table. His entire attention was focused on his lovely Duchess, as he very deliberately placed a choice morsel of tender poached chicken dripping with herbed gravy into Kathryn’s open mouth.

  The room held its breath. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on their Duke and Duchess. No one made a sound.

  Nicholas smiled at Kathryn, that lazy, diabolical smile that had her stomach doing flip-flops. Or it would have done flip-flops if it hadn’t already been tied up in knots.

  She closed her lips over the succulent chicken, then proceeded to lick and suck the rich gravy off of her husband’s fingertips in a pointedly carnal display. Their eyes locked, maintaining contact, hers resolute, his reassuring. She was well aware that this little drama was intended to convey Nicholas’s utter contempt for the Duke of Pemberton. And she was a full and willing participant.

  Nicholas leaned forward and kissed her mouth.

  Thoroughly.

  “Herron!” Walford’s face was so fiery red and so twisted with rage that he looked to be on the verge of apoplexy. “Look at me, damn you! How dare you treat me thus? I am the King’s cousin! His Chief Magistrate! I demand your respect!” He tried to pull loose again, but was prevented by his guards from moving any closer.

  He glared at Nicholas and Kathryn, his hatred pouring off of him like a tidal wave, dark and malevolent, sending ripple after ripple of gooseflesh up and down Kathryn’s arms and back. She tried not to shiver as she and Nicholas continued their sensual pantomime, ostensibly paying no heed to the large, thoroughly enraged man who was frantically trying to pull his arms free of the hold Nicholas’s knights had on them. “Turn me loose, you bastards!” he bellowed. “I am here on business for the Crown! I will not tolerate such treatment! I will have you all arrested and thrown into Newgate!”

  Neither his threats nor his struggles to break free were to any avail.

  Kathryn chewed her chicken while Nicholas dropped tiny kisses all over her upturned face. On Kathryn’s other side, Rolf had to cover his mouth and pretend to cough to keep from laughing out loud.

  “Herron!”

  It was a roar that might have shaken the rafters of a less substantial dwelling.

  Giving Kathryn’s hand a reassuring squeeze, Nicholas released her and rose slowly to his full imposing height of six feet three inches. Height made even more imposing by the eight inches added by the dais he was standing on.

  When he turned to face Robert Walford full on, he towered over his older adversary like an avenging archangel.

  Walford licked his lips in an unconsciously nervous gesture, and actually leaned backward slightly, although he did manage to prevent himself from taking a step in that direction. His bellicose expression turned to a snarl. It was obvious he resented being forced to look up into Nicholas’s eyes.

  Eyes that were black and lethal and brimming with a hatred so powerful it was taking all of Nicholas’s effort to control it. A hatred that, were he to give in to it, would have him leaping over the table, broadsword in hand, and hacking Robert Walford to pieces right where he stood.

  The muscles of his square jaw clenched and unclenched. He reached across his body and put his hand on his sword, fingers flexing around the jeweled hilt. He withdrew it from his scabbard about an inch.

  Walford stepped back.

  No one in the Hall moved or spoke. It was more than just mere silence. It was a total absence of sound, as though a scouring wind had come roaring through the Hall and swept everything away.

  “I expect to be addressed with the courtesy due my rank and title,” Nicholas said in a voice of frozen steel. A voice so cold it was a wonder his words didn’t shatter into shar
ds of ice as they fell from his lips. “Especially within the walls of my own home.” Impossibly, he seemed to grow taller. “Now state your business and be quick about it. You are interrupting our midday meal.”

  Although the dictates of society required him to invite the other man to share in their meal, everyone knew no such invitation would be forthcoming. Yet another insult to the Duke of Pemberton.

  Walford fought a snarling reply. Instead, he licked his thick lips and sketched the slightest of bows—a barely perceptible movement of his head. “Your Grace.” It was a sneering acknowledgment of Nicholas’s aforementioned rank. His tone was just barely civil. “As I just stated, I am here on the King’s business. And I believe you know what that business is.”

  “I am certain that I know not,” Nicholas replied icily. “Suppose you enlighten me.”

  “Very well,” Walford’s expression changed to one of triumph. “If that’s the way you wish for this to play out. I am here to arrest you, Your Grace. You and that whore sitting next to you.”

  Everyone gasped in horror.

  Kathryn went white, her eyes wide with shock.

  Nicholas’s face darkened dangerously. His jaw clenched. His body was rigid with a fury so violent everyone could see the tremendous effort it was taking him to keep it under control.

  Under the tablecloth, Rolf put his hand on Kathryn’s thigh.

  “You will address my wife as Her Grace, the Duchess of Berwick,” Nicholas ordered in a voice sharp enough to sever a man’s head from his body. “And you will give her the respect that is her due.”

  “Wife!” Walford’s face was once again suffused with rage. “Impossible! The bitch is mine, Herron. I won her in a bet.” His look turned baleful. “Besides,” he added viciously, “she may be yours now, but I had her first. I fucked her in every virgin hole in her body.” He sneered. “How does that make you feel, Herron? To know that I fucked your woman before you.”

  “Stay your tongue, you slimy bastard, or, by God, I swear I will personally cut it out of your filthy mouth!”

  But Walford was beyond stopping. His little piggy eyes glittered, crazed, as he continued to taunt Nicholas. “I took her in her ass, her cunt, her sweet, sweet mouth—”

  “Enough!” It was an agonized cry from Nicholas.

  “Easy, Nick.” Rolf jumped up and moved to stand behind him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder while Nicholas fought to control his rage.

  Mourning the loss of his warm caress on her thigh, Kathryn shut her eyes and managed to bite back a whimper.

  “And she loved it, Herron.” Walford continued, his eyes glittering with pure evil. “She loved every minute of it. She begged me to fuck her mouth. Begged me! And when I did, she swallowed my seed, Herron. Like a true harlot.” Walford jeered. “I’d be willing to wager she didn’t tell you any of this, did she, Herron? She tricked you into marrying her, just as her father tricked me.

  “Your so-called wife is damaged goods, Herron. The bitch belongs to me. And I intend to get her back. Although,” he added, his lips curving upward in a leer, “she will certainly have to be punished for her little escapade. What a pleasure that will be, eh, Herron? Whipping that sweet little ass until it’s striped red with blood—paints a pretty picture, does it not?” His smile was loathsome. He looked like a fat, repellent toad squatting malevolently in the grass.

  “God damn you to eternal hell, Walford!”

  But Robert Walford was not finished. He was enjoying himself too much.

  “When you found her, Herron, did she not have my mark on her? My seed still inside her? Does she not have my mark on her still? Her back will bear my scars forever. And those pretty little titties of hers—I bit them up pretty well, didn’t I, Herron? Of course, they’re a little small for my tastes—I like my women on the busty side—but a nice mouthful, nevertheless, don’t you agree?”

  Control shattered, Nicholas drew his sword with a scrape of steel on steel. Only the sight of Kathryn’s white, stricken face and Rolf’s hand hard on his sword arm kept him from vaulting over the table and killing Walford on the spot.

  Knights jumped up from their seats all around the Hall, drawing their swords and stepping forward menacingly. Walford’s guards wrestled him down to the floor and held him there, their booted feet on his neck and shoulders, shoving his head against the stone floor.

  Again silence fell. An unsettled, agitated silence that eddied almost visibly around the room. All eyes were on Nicholas, as everyone once more held his breath.

  He stood stock still, wrestling desperately with the murderous impulses careening through his body. The muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched furiously as he fought for control. When he did finally manage to find his voice, he could only speak through gritted teeth. “If you wish to continue living, Pemberton”—he spat the name as if it were a foul taste in his mouth—“then I suggest you shut your filthy mouth.” His voice was so dark, so deadly, it sent shivers up and down Kathryn’s spine. “One more word out of you and I will cast you into the deepest, darkest hole in this Keep. And, believe me, there is one. A tiny, rat-infested oubliette waiting just for you.

  “You can live out your few remaining days on this earth in total darkness, with no food, no water, and only the rats to hear you scream. You will die in agony, Pemberton. Unmourned and forgotten by all who hold honor dear.”

  “You cannot imprison me,” Walford blustered, despite the fact that his head was still pressed against the floor. “I am Chief Magistrate of the Crown. Here to serve two legal arrest warrants. One for that whore you call your wife—for attempted murder. One for you for harboring a fugitive and for high treason. If you interfere in any way with the King’s business, I’ll place your head on a pike over London Gate so the ravens can peck out your eyeballs!”

  To everyone’s utter astonishment, Nicholas laughed, a mirthless bark that split the silence like a battle axe splits an enemy’s skull. “The King’s business, my ass.” he said sharply, his voice ringing through the hall like a bell, keen and clear. “You are here for one thing, and one thing only—to further your own greed. And it has naught to do with the King’s business. You want Berwick, and the only way to get it is to bring false charges against me.

  “You have no authority to arrest me or anyone else here. The charges are trumped up and you know it. The only treason being committed here today is your own, Walford. You’ve been taking advantage of Edward’s absence for months. Usurping the lands and fortunes of faithful knights whose armies were no match for the ruthlessness of yours.

  “Well, this is where it stops, Pemberton! Right here. I am more than a match for you.”

  “Your threats are hollow, Berwick,” Walford threw back at him. “My army will make short work of your pitiful defense. I saw naught but a few archers manning your ramparts. They’ll be no match for the one hundred siege engines I plan to bring against you! You’re defeated already, Herron, and you don’t even know it.”

  Nicholas smiled inwardly. Walford had just told him something he hadn’t intended. He either didn’t know about tomorrow’s archery contest or was unaware of the real purpose behind it—to hire as many extra archers as were willing to stay and fight. Good. His plan was working out even better than he’d anticipated. He allowed his smile to become visible. It was a taunting smile. A challenge of a smile. A crooked lifting of one corner of his mouth, deliberately designed to infuriate his opponent. “Just keep thinking that, Pemberton,” he goaded softly. “Keep telling yourself that, as you prepare to attack this castle. I believe you will find that we are more than ready for you. Oh,” he added almost as an afterthought, “and I would watch my back if I were you, Pemberton. You have many enemies—and they are a lot closer than you think.” He sheathed his sword with a violent thrust and his smile became demonic. He waved his hand in dismissal. “Let him up.”

  The two knights removed their boots from Walford’s neck and jerked him to his feet so hard they practically dislocated his shoulders.r />
  “Your business here is finished, Walford,” Nicholas resumed in that cold, hard voice that had grown men quaking in their boots. “You will be escorted back outside the walls and off Berwick property. Your weapons will not be returned to you. The next time we meet, you are going to die. By my hand.” His smile was chilling. “You can count on it. It will afford me the greatest pleasure of my life to remove your head from your neck.”

  “I’ll see you in Hell, Berwick!” Walford sputtered.

  Nicholas’s smile broadened. “I think not, Pemberton, since I do not plan on going there.” Without turning his head or looking down, he extended his hand imperiously out to his side.

  Kathryn placed hers in it and rose gracefully to stand beside her husband. She looked the disheveled Duke of Pemberton straight in the eye without even the faintest tremor of fear. Her revulsion, however, was more difficult to hide and she didn’t even bother to try. “Robert Walford,” she addressed him directly, her raspy voice low and steady, but loud enough for everyone to hear. The entire room held its breath so as not to miss a single word.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her words were slow, measured, and dripping with icy disdain. “You beat me. You kicked me. You strangled me. You tied me up and raped me. You very nearly killed me. And you think that makes you a man.” By some miracle she managed to keep the sneer from her face, but it was definitely there in her voice. “You are no man. You are a brute and a coward and a bully. My only regret is that I did not kill you myself when I had the chance. If only I had hit you harder with that candlestick, you would not be here right now threatening these fine, hardworking people. People whom I love dearly. People who have become my family.

  “Not killing you was definitely a failing on my part. A failing that my loving husband here seems only too willing to set to rights. And I am only too willing to let him.” She smiled up at Nicholas, a sweet smile that tugged at his soul. A smile that made him want to weep for her. For the brutal ordeal Robert Walford had put her through. For the ordeal he was putting her through right now.