Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  Pride shone in his eyes as he lifted his hand to caress her cheek. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss into his palm, before turning back to Pemberton.

  “So, when he brings me to look upon your dead and lifeless body, as I will insist he do, I will spit in your face. For you are naught, Robert Walford. You’re less than naught. You are without merit. Without honor. You are beneath contempt. I look forward to dancing on your grave.”

  As if her quiet words were a signal, the two guards turned Walford around and hauled him by his upper arms out of the Hall. “I’ll be coming for you, whore!” he shouted as his dragging feet made twin paths through the rushes on the floor. “And when I’m finished with you, I’m going to give you to my men—ah!” Matthew Vyne’s solid fist to the jaw ended his venomous tirade.

  Nicholas glanced over at Thomas Parsons. His burly master-at-arms gave a brief nod. “I will personally see him off Berwick property, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head.

  As soon as they were gone, the entire room burst into applause, punctuated with shrill whistles and loud “Huzzah’s.” Nicholas grinned and lifted his trembling wife’s hand to his lips to renewed cheering. They all sat down and resumed eating and talking as if there had been no interruption.

  “Well done, beloved,” Nicholas said approvingly. “You are braver than any knight I have ever known.” He lifted the heavy gold wine goblet, tipping it for her to take a sip of hippocras.

  But she needed a lot more than just a small sip. She needed a large gulp—nay, several large gulps. She grabbed the goblet out of his hand and held it herself, tipping it up and drinking deeply until it was empty. Licking her lips, she looked up to find Nicholas watching her closely, a panoply of emotions playing across his face. Amusement. Pride. Approval. And something more. Something smoldering just beneath the surface, making burning black coals of his eyes. Something that turned her insides into a fiery puddle and sent her blood singing through her veins. A quick glance at Rolf revealed a similar expression on his face.

  People approached her, speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear them above the roaring in her ears. Sorcha Parsons, Sir Richard, Sir Simon Morecombe, even Father Joseph all addressed remarks directly to her. She could see them looking at her. She could see their lips moving.

  But she heard naught. Her responses to them were vague, little more than a nod and a smile.

  Nicholas fed her, but she didn’t know what she was eating. She opened her mouth automatically when prompted, like a baby bird reaching for a tasty worm. She chewed automatically, tasting naught.

  She didn’t hear the sprightly music or see the jugglers and acrobats roaming around the room, performing their crowd-pleasing antics.

  All of a sudden, the roaring that had seemed to be coming from someplace far away, was inside her head, drumming in her ears. Her blood grew heavy, as though it had been transformed into lead. Her movements felt slow, sluggish. But her head felt just the opposite—light, almost effervescent. As bubbly as French champagne and threatening to fly right off her shoulders.

  Nicholas noted her sudden pallor, the fading awareness in her eyes. By the time they began rolling back in her head, he had surged to his feet, catching her and lifting her into his arms as she collapsed. Without a word, he turned to carry her out of the Hall, followed closely by Rolf.

  “Nicky, wait. I’m coming with you.” Sorcha Parsons was on her feet right behind them as Nicholas carried his unconscious wife around the carved screen.

  Together the three of them hurried down the cold hallway, Sorcha having to run to keep up with the men’s long-legged strides. When they reached the solar, Sorcha ran over to the washstand and dipped a washcloth in the basin, breaking the ice skinning the water. Rolf pushed aside the bed curtains. Nicholas laid Kathryn gently on the bed, taking one of her cold hands between both of his.

  “Christ, Sorcha, her hands are freezing,” he cried out, a worried frown knitting his brow. “What’s the matter with her?”

  Sorcha gave him an exasperated look and pushed him aside so suddenly, he overbalanced and fell to his knees beside the bed.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s the matter with her,’ you big oaf,” she said in a low, furious voice, folding the cloth and pressing it against Kathryn’s forehead. “You’ve just forced her to face the worst possible nightmare any woman can have—confronting the man who raped and beat her. Which she did, by the by, with more grace and courage than any knight I’ve ever seen! And yet you ask ‘what’s the matter with her?’” She was practically shrieking. “What were you thinking, Nicky? Whatever possessed you to put her through an ordeal like that?”

  “We didn’t force her, Sorcha. She insisted. We all tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted! Said it was something she had to do. If I had had my way, I would have wrapped her up so she couldn’t move and had someone sit on her until Walford was gone.”

  Sorcha grimaced. “Well, whatever you do, don’t sit on her, Nicky. She’s pregnant.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Pregnant!” A stunned Nicholas stared up at her. Rolf sank down onto the bed as if his legs had suddenly been knocked out from under him. “How can that be possible?” Nicholas asked. “We’ve been together for less than a fortnight.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How can you be so sure?”

  Sorcha laughed. “It only takes once, Nicky.” She patted her rounded belly. “Believe me,” she added with a wry grin, “when you’ve had as many as I have, you know.”

  She bent over to wipe Kathryn’s pale, clammy forehead. A fine sheen of sweat also beaded across her upper lip.

  Nicholas grabbed Sorcha’s skirts like a child in need of comfort, a look of anguish on his face.

  “Nicky, what is it?” she asked in alarm.

  “The babe—what if”—he looked away from her—“what if it’s…not mine?” The pain in his voice was unmistakable. Unimaginable. Unbearable. It was a raw whisper of despair and it wrenched at Sorcha’s heart.

  Dropping to her knees beside him, she grabbed his hand, holding it up to her cheek. “Oh, Nicky, what do you mean, what if it’s not yours?”

  “She hasn’t had her menses since—since Walford raped her. If she is carrying a babe, it could be his!” He sank down onto his bent legs beside the bed, covering his face with his hands. “God’s blood! What if it is his? How can we bear it?”

  Sorcha sighed, then stiffened her back and her resolve. “Of course ’tis yours,” she told him fervently, keeping her voice low so Kathryn couldn’t hear them if she woke up. “Even if you suspect that it is not, you can never let her know that you have this fear. It could eat away at her soul and cause her to miscarry. It could destroy any chance she’d ever have of bearing a child—any child.”

  He looked at her, horrified.

  Her lips thinned into a grim line. “Now you listen to me, Nicholas Herron,” she continued fiercely, “when this babe is born, you will love it and you will raise it as your own. Do I make myself clear?”

  Nicholas wiped the tears off his face with the black velvet sleeve of his tunic. “You say that. You tell me I will love it and raise it as my own. But how can you be so certain that I can actually do that? I mean, love a child who may have been fathered by that—that bastard in a brutal act of rape?” His voice broke and he looked at her, ashamed.

  “You will love it, Nicky.” Her whisper was ferocious. “’Tis not the babe’s fault who sired it. So do not torture yourself—or Kathryn—with ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs.’ Let not your hatred of Walford infect you.” Her face softened and she cupped his cheek with her hand. “Babies are very easy to love, sweetheart. No matter whose babies they are. Have you not loved every one of my babes?”

  “Aye. Because they are a part of you and Thomas and I love both of you.”

  “I can hear you whispering.” A plaintive little murmur drifted up from the bed. “But I don’t see you. Where are you?”

  Sorcha and Nicholas both popped their heads above the edge
of the bed to stare into a pair of puzzled green eyes.

  “What are you doing on the floor?” she asked, perplexed.

  Nicholas actually blushed. “Oh, I—Sorcha dropped—that is, we—how are you feeling, my love?”

  He rose to sit on the edge of the bed and once again swallowed her slight hand between both of his. Rolf reached across the mattress to cover her other hand with his.

  “I’m fine—a slight headache.” She frowned. “What happened?”

  “You fainted,” Sorcha explained soothingly as she finished wiping the sweat from Kathryn’s face. She smiled at the young Duchess. “Nicky carried you up here and I followed because…well, because I believe you may be…well, pregnant.”

  Kathryn’s stomach lurched. Pregnant! Merciful heaven, could it be true? Was she pregnant? Could she even now be carrying Nicholas’s child beneath her heart?

  But instead of lighting up with pleasure at the thought, her face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears.

  “What is it, beloved?” Nicholas asked anxiously, lifting a hand to her forehead to feel for fever.

  “I–I”—she choked—“the babe—it may be—there’s a chance—”

  Before she could finish, Sorcha drew herself up to her full height, placed her hands on her hips. Her lips thinned and her countenance grew fierce with a scowl that said, “Now you listen here, young lady. I am your mother and I know what is best for you.” It was a look that made grown men quake in fear. A look she had polished to perfection over the years of dealing with six highly spirited children.

  “Don’t you even think that, missy, do you hear me?” she commanded in a tone that brooked no argument. “Don’t you dare think that. This child was conceived in love! The love you and Nicky have for each other! ’Tis your child! Do I make myself clear?”

  Subdued, both Kathryn and Nicholas nodded in unison, both completely cowed by Sorcha’s righteous indignation.

  “A birth is a joyous event,” she went on in more measured tones, her expression softening somewhat. “And the two of you will look forward to the birth of this babe, your babe—the babe you made together out of love—with all the joy you can summon, do you hear me?”

  She scowled fiercely at both of them. When they both nodded solemnly and said in unison, “Aye, mother dear.” She smiled serenely, kissed them both on each cheek, and marched out of the room. “Oh, by the by,” her voice came floating up the stairs behind her, “when the time comes, I can recommend a good midwife. And,” she added, mischief in her voice, “’Tis perfectly all right to continue having sex.”

  Several moments later, they realized that they were all holding their breath, staring at an empty doorway. Then the three of them looked at each other and grinned. Big, sloppy, happy-faced grins as the reality finally bore in on them.

  “Yndling, that is blessed news indeed,” Rolf murmured, leaning over her to place a sweet kiss on her lips. “A babe will be a welcome addition to this household.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Nicholas breathed in wonderment, his eyes locked with hers. “We are going to have a child.” He scooted up on the bed, aligning himself alongside her, touching her flat abdomen reverently. “Our child.”

  “Aye,” she replied, putting her hand over his. “And,” she added blissfully, “we still get to have sex!”

  He reached out a finger to wipe away her tears—tears she hadn’t even realized she was shedding. “Weep not, my angel. I cannot bear to see you weep. If you truly are carrying my child, ’tis a good thing. A happy thing.”

  She smiled tremulously up at him, tears spiking her lashes. The relief flowing from every pore of her body was so tangible he could almost feel it.

  “Are you not forgetting something?” she asked, smiling at last, albeit faintly.

  “What?”

  “Would it not be…our child?

  “Oh, aye,” he breathed on a note of wonder. “Our child. A baby boy with hair the color of golden flames—like his mother’s.”

  “Nay, my love. A girl. With curly black hair and—”

  “Emerald green eyes,” he finished for her.

  “Actually, I was going to say a little black mustache and goatee,” she said with an impish grin.

  He laughed at the image.

  “I do know one thing, though.”

  “What is that, beloved?”

  “I know that after this babe—the next one is going to be Rolf’s.”

  That drew a startled gasp from the man on the other side of her. “Nay—Yndling—thou cannot—”

  “Aye, Rolf.” She rolled onto her right side to face him. “I can.” She looked into his startled blue eyes and stroked his bronzed cheek with the first two fingers of her splinted left hand. “After this babe is born and I am allowed to have sex again, you will be the only one to spend inside me—until we are certain that I have conceived again.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she pressed her fingers against his lips. “Nay, my love. That’s the only way it can be, if this is to be a true ménage a trois. A true sharing. I want to have a child with each of you. After that…well, after that, it’s every man for himself.”

  Both men laughed and she found herself unable to speak for a very long time as they hugged her so tight she could hardly catch her breath. Meanwhile, Rolf looked over her head at the man pressed up behind her. His best friend. His heart’s brother. The man to whom he owed not only his life, but the love of his life as well. Nicholas’s eyes were black, glittering, his expression unreadable.

  “Nick? Is this acceptable to thee?”

  “You’re asking my permission? You are an equal partner in this, Rolf. You have as much say as I do. Although, ’twould appear that neither of us has as much say as our beautiful lady, here. ’Twould seem she’s the one making the decisions. In this case, however, I happen to agree with her. She’s right. ’Tis the only true sharing. They will all bear my name, but they will all be our children. And we will love them all equally.”

  “But what about Berwick, thine other holdings? Who would inherit? By right they belong to thy first-born son. If parentage is uncertain…all your property could revert to the Crown and our children would be penniless.”

  “They will all bear my name,” Nicholas reminded him. “Our first-born son, whoever sires him, will be my legal and legitimate heir, the next Duke of Berwick.”

  “Nay, Nick,” Rolf protested, “That is too generous—”

  “It matters not anyway,” Kathryn said glumly. “If Robert Walford succeeds in his mission to destroy us, there will be naught to inherit anyway.”

  Knifing up from the bed, Nicholas held out his hand. “Come, beloved,” he said imperiously, a stern expression on his face. “Put on your cloak, ’tis bitter outside.”

  “We are going outside?” she asked, nevertheless taking his proffered hand and letting him pull her up off the bed. Rolf was quick to follow, yanking all three of their fur-lined mantles off their pegs. He handed Nicholas his, putting his own on the bed so he could swing Kathryn’s new deep-green woolen mantle, the one given to her by the weavers, around her shoulders and fasten it. Then he pulled up the hood and gave her a brief kiss before donning his own cloak, one that had been tailored to fit around his twin swords.

  “She’ll need gloves,” Nicholas ordered, taking a lighted candle and placing it inside a horn lantern while Rolf rummaged through the drawers in one of the Spanish chests, searching for her gloves. When he found the ones with the left little finger cut off, he put them on her, being careful of her splint.

  “We are going to show you the preparations we are making for the upcoming fight. So you can put your mind to rest once and for all that you have naught fear from that man.” He took her hand and led her over to the tapestry that concealed the circular stairway leading down to Rolf’s chamber. Looking at it more closely, she noticed that it also led up. “Oh.”

  Holding the lantern aloft, Nicholas led the way up the tight spiral of the iron staircase, followed by Kathryn, holding
up her skirts to keep from tripping over them, and Rolf behind her, his hand on her hip keeping her steady on the narrow treads. At the top was a trapdoor, which Nicholas pushed open, letting in the afternoon light. Another push sent it over with a loud clang.

  After he had climbed the last of the steps and emerged outside, he turned back around and gave her his hand, pulling her up and out onto the flat roof of the tower. As soon as Rolf had cleared the opening, Nicholas placed the lantern on the top step, and lowered the heavy trap door. They were atop the tallest and largest of the four towers at the corners of the twelfth-century Keep, and the only one that was square.

  Pulling her sable-lined cloak more tightly around her against the raw, icy wind, she let Nicholas guide her over to the crenellated wall at the north end of the tower. The view down was dizzying. Directly below them was a deep gorge, at the bottom of which raged the turbulent rapids of the River Cranford. Its white water tumbled over rocks and boulders with a splashing that could be heard even from where they stood high above it. The entire northern length of the castle’s outer curtain wall extended along the top of the gorge.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed as she realized how impregnable the castle was from this direction. As well as from the West, where the western wall rose above the same ravine, taking advantage of a natural bend in the river to secure the castle’s defenses in two different directions.

  To the East, the promontory upon which the castle was situated fell off steeply. At its base, far below the base of the curtain wall, was a dry moat, filled with sharp rocks and boulders, the detritus of hundreds of years of natural rock fall, castle construction, and human ingenuity. Beyond the moat a thick forest stretched as far as the eye could see. Even if it were possible to scale the steep cliff and get across the moat, it simply was not possible to climb the hundred or so feet of sheer castle wall above it, which looked straight, but had actually been built with a slight outward slant from bottom to top.