Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  She lay still and silent, eyes closed, keeping her breathing smooth and even so as not to betray her own wakefulness.

  Rolf opened his eyes, but he didn’t otherwise move. “Dost thou think she’s all right?” he whispered softly above Kathryn’s head.

  “Aye.” Nicholas’s mouth twisted. “She is stronger than she looks.”

  Rolf sighed. “By all the gods, Nick. That was the most awful thing I have ever been forced to witness. I never wanted to kill anyone so badly in my entire life.” He shook his head. “It was all I could do to stop myself from jumping over the table and running him through. Odin’s beard! I have never felt so helpless.” His voice was a raw whisper in her ear. “I just wanted to pick her up and carry her out of there and make love to her until I could wipe that terrible, haunted look from her eyes.”

  “I know,” Nicholas agreed, wincing. “When he called her a whore—Christ, the look on her face—I never want to see that look on her face ever again—” His voice broke. “Sweet Jesu! It nearly destroyed me.” His arm tightened involuntarily around Kathryn’s recumbent form. “I cannot even begin to imagine what it did to her.” He blinked his eyes rapidly, his vision suddenly blurred by unshed tears. His throat closed down.

  Rolf yawned, nuzzling his cheek against Kathryn’s hair. “I agree with Thomas,” he went on thoughtfully. “I think he’ll make his first move at night with his war machines in a massive show of force. The way he kept bragging about them, trying to impress us with his power and might—I just know that’s what he’s going to do.” He sighed. “But enough about Walford. I’m tired of thinking about him.”

  His smile, unseen in the dark, was evident in his voice. “I just want to think about our sweet lady here, and see how many times we can make her come with our loving.” He plumped the soft flesh of her breast as his thumb and forefinger grabbed the hard nipple and tweaked it gently.

  Pleasure jolted through her body and she gasped, arching her back to push herself harder against his pleasuring hand. Her eyes flew open to find Nicholas smiling at her, his eyes hot and hungry. Her lungs seized and all of a sudden she couldn’t breathe.

  “I thought you were awake,” he accused mildly. “How long?”

  “A while,” she confessed, slightly breathless from Rolf’s thumb stroking across her nipple like a lash. “I was thinking about some of the things Walford said.”

  “Ignore the things he said, yndling,” Rolf murmured, sliding his tongue into the ticklish cavity of her ear. She squealed in pleasure as he stroked her sensitive skin. “They have naught to do with thee.”

  “But they do,” she wailed, and she suddenly realized that she was crying. Hot, desperate tears she was helpless to prevent or control. “He called me a—a—”

  “Nay, beloved.” Nicholas quickly placed his fingers against her lips. “Stay. Do not bring that villain into our sanctuary.”

  “But he called me a—”

  As one they rolled her onto her back and rose above her, resting on their elbows so they could look down into her face.

  “This is the only time I am ever going to say this, beloved,” Nicholas said sternly, stroking his hard fingers across her satiny smooth cheek. “So listen well. You are not a whore. You are the purest, most loving, most generous woman I have ever known.”

  “But I love sex!” she cried, and to her utter shock both men burst out laughing.

  “That doesn’t make thee a whore, yndling.” Rolf chuckled, once again covering one soft, fleshy breast with his big hand. “That makes thee a miracle.” He bent his head to take the nipple of her other breast between his teeth, tugging gently before releasing it to flick it with the rasping flail of his tongue. “Our miracle,” he added between nips and licks and tugs with his lips, tongue and teeth. “Our very own miracle. One we can kiss. And lick.”

  Each wicked swipe of his tongue across the hard bud of her nipple forced the breath from her lungs in shuddery little moans.

  “And suck.”

  Her hips bucked upward as lightning arced between her nipples and her creaming sex.

  “And pleasure. As she pleasures us. Which actually works out quite well,” he continued pleasantly as both he and Nicholas bent to rasp their tongues across the hard points of her nipples. She jerked and cried out at the raw pleasure whipping through her, at the sight of two heads, one inky black, one bald, feasting at the bounty of her breasts. “Because, just in case thou haven’t noticed”—he raised his head and looked at her, eyes glittering with dark mischief—“we love sex too.”

  He gave her a wicked grin just before they both curled their tongues around her stiff nipples and pulled them into their hot mouths.

  * * * *

  In spite of the fact that most of the wedding guests had already departed, dinner the next night was a loud and boisterous affair, thanks to the presence of Clan McGarrity. The men ate like they apparently did everything else in life, with high spirits, raucous laughter, great gusto…and no manners. Add to that the fact that they were all red-faced and staggering before the meal even started, obviously profoundly foxed, talking and laughing way too loudly.

  All of their scraps, instead of being placed in the alms dishes provided for them, were tossed carelessly to the rush-covered floor to be instantly devoured by their dogs, who, when they were not fighting over the scraps, were shamelessly begging for more from all of the other diners. Grease, gravy, and spilled wine stained the pristine linen tablecloths. Drunken catcalls directed at the musicians in the minstrels’ gallery sent them packing up their instruments, thus putting an early end to the soothing dinner music. They were replaced by two burly Highlanders, who soon had the Hall resounding with the shrill, high-pitched skirl of their bagpipes.

  Kathryn had never heard bagpipes before and found herself longing for a time when she never had to hear them again.

  But the worst had to be the food fight that had nearly half of the diners fleeing while the other half laughingly flung and dodged chicken bones, peas, venison, and flying chunks of bread.

  By meal’s end, Thomas, Sorcha, her mother, and sisters all rose from their chairs, grim-faced and silent. As if that were a signal, the fight came to an abrupt end as the remaining diners either sat back down, shame-faced, or slunk guiltily from the Hall. Kathryn was speechless with shock, eyes wide, one hand covering her mouth. Nicholas and Rolf did their best to hide their amusement.

  The bagpipes played on.

  As the McGarrity men rose and staggered drunkenly toward the door, the Parsons and the McGarrity women bowed low to Nicholas and Kathryn, excused themselves, and walked sedately behind their obstreperous men.

  Nicholas winked at Kathryn. “Methinks someone is about to get a rather stern lecture on proper dining room etiquette,” he said, his lips twitching.

  “Methinks ’tis too late for that,” Kathryn said, matching his tone. “Are they always like this?”

  “Aye, pretty much,” Nicholas said, shaking his head ruefully.

  “Although, this wasn’t nearly as bad as last time,” Rolf chimed in, grinning. “Remember, Nick? When they released those mice in here?”

  “They didn’t!” Kathryn cried, aghast.

  “Oh, aye, they did,” Rolf confirmed. “You wouldn’t believe the commotion they caused. Dogs going berserk trying to catch them, women screaming, jumping up on the tables.” He laughed. “This was mild compared with that.”

  “No wonder you warned me to be ready for chaos,” she said, smiling up at Nicholas.

  “Oh, aye. They’re an interesting lot, the McGarritys.”

  Except for the servants, grumbling beneath their breath about having to clean up the mess left behind, the three of them were the only people remaining in the Hall. Kathryn covered a dainty yawn with one hand. In spite of her earlier nap, she was exhausted. As they rose and turned to leave, Sir Simon Morecombe approached, shoulders stooped with age and fatigue, a grim expression on his face. He was accompanied by a young page named Samuel. Bowing his head to
Kathryn, the elderly man said, “Your Grace, may I have a word with you?”

  Merciful Heaven, will this day never end? “Of course, Sir Simon.” She gave him a gracious smile. “Why don’t you wait for me in the solar? I’ll be along after I’ve had a brief word with His Grace.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas had turned his old solar into an office for conducting estate business. The bed had been removed and the entire chamber had been transformed into a bright, comfortable space.

  Colorful Persian rugs warmed the stone floor. Tapestries had been brought up from storage and were now hanging on the wall. Although the subject matter, war, was not one Kathryn would have chosen, even she had to admit that the weavers, whoever they were, had captured perfectly all the pageantry and vigor of armed combat. And the bold, vivid colors made the room quite cheerful.

  The small table had been replaced by a much larger, more imposing one. Household account ledgers were stacked in one corner. Two cushioned chairs were angled invitingly in front of the table.

  “Ah, Sir Simon,” she greeted warmly, as she entered the room. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “’Tis quite all right, Your Grace,” he said in his high, quavering voice.

  She extended her hand for him to kiss, holding it high enough to forestall his having to bow. She knew that he had chronic, painful swelling in the joints of both his knees and ankles, as well as his skeletal fingers. He seemed so frail she feared that if he knelt, he might not be able to get back up.

  “Prithee, Sir Simon, come and have a seat.” The page took one arm and she the other, supporting him as he lowered himself gingerly into one of the cushioned chairs. She winced at the cracking sound his knees made as they bent.

  She didn’t know how old he was, but he looked to be at least a hundred. She had never known anyone as old as he, and it amazed her that he could get around as well as he did.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” he wheezed as soon as he was seated. “Thank you for seeing me this evening. Pray accept my apology for not making an appointment.”

  Kathryn resumed her seat, studying him as he painstakingly adjusted his clothing to his satisfaction.

  He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man with heavily shadowed brown eyes set close to a sharply hooked nose. The flesh beneath his prominent cheekbones was sunken, giving him a skeletal appearance. His thin lips stretched back to reveal enormous, yellow teeth.

  Wispy white hairs hung around his head, seemingly held in place by the simple skull cap he wore. As if they were attached to the cap rather than his scalp, and would go with it when it was lifted off.

  Although he was not a monk, he dressed like one, in an unadorned robe woven from the roughest homespun, with a hemp rope tied around his waist and a hooded capelet of the same cloth over his shoulders. It didn’t quite cover his bony ankles. His feet were shod in leather sandals, and were almost blue with cold.

  “Sir Simon, is there a reason you wished to see me?” she prompted, when it seemed as if he had forgotten why he was there.

  “Oh, aye, Your Grace.” His accent and manner of speaking were that of an educated, cultured man. “As you know, with the advent of warmer weather, we are ministering to so many more pilgrims on their way to Canterbury and other shrines. At this moment, there are nineteen men and seven women at the gate expecting a hearty meal to see them on their way. However”—his voice took on a note of outraged disapproval—“since the arrival of those Scottish…heathens…the amount of food left in the alms dishes is simply inadequate for seeing to their needs.” He sniffed audibly.

  Kathryn hid a smile, pretending to consult her ledger. “I see. And the current allowance for alms is…?”

  “Four pence per day, I believe, Your Grace. Plus the scraps.”

  “Very well, Sir Simon. I will assign an extra half-quarter of wheat per week, strictly for alms. And seven additional pounds of meat as well. Will that be helpful?”

  “Oh, aye. Thank you, Your Grace.” He inclined his head regally.

  “If you will stay a moment, Sir Simon,” she added, rising, “His Grace would like a word with you.

  Nicholas stepped forward. “Nay, Sir Simon, pray do not rise,” he said, quickly stepping forward and holding up his hand to forestall the elderly man’s feeble attempt to stand up. “May I sit with you, my old friend?”

  As Sir Simon nodded his permission, Nicholas pulled up the other chair in front of Kathryn’s desk and sank down on the edge of the seat. He leaned forward and took the old almoner’s skeletal hands in his. His wrinkled skin felt dry and powdery, like aged parchment.

  “Sir Simon,” he began gently, “I fear I must add further to your work burden. Beginning two days hence, you will no longer be serving your pilgrims just outside the inner gate. I must ask you to move your ministry outside the barbican.”

  Sir Simon looked at Nicholas with just a hint of dismay.

  “I realize that this will make it very difficult for you, the extra distance, the hilly road, if you feel you cannot continue, I will understand.”

  “Your Grace,” Sir Simon said, seeming to grow taller in his chair, “pray do not consign me to the dust heap quite yet. I have been Berwick’s almoner for over sixty-five years and will continue doing so as long as I draw breath.”

  Nicholas gave the old man’s hands a slight squeeze. “Thank you, Sir Simon. Your loyalty and devotion to duty is much appreciated. So, kindly allow me to ease your burden, at least a little.” He beckoned to two young pages hovering in the doorway. “Sir Simon, may I introduce John Mortimer and Harold Gordon. They are to be your permanent assistants.”

  The two young men bowed low at the elderly man’s regal nod.

  “John and Harold,” Nicholas addressed them in a firm voice, “you will go with Sir Simon. You are to do all of the physical work of gathering the leftovers after every meal, and delivering it to the needy at our gates. And you are to do whatever else he asks of you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “You will no longer sleep in the Hall with the other pages, but on pallets in Sir Simon’s chamber beneath the chapel.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “And if he asks you to fetch me, you are to come on the run, at once, understood?”

  “Oh, aye, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Thank you, boys. I knew I could count on you.”

  He turned back to Sir Simon, who looked grateful, despite his earlier protests. “I trust this new arrangement will prove helpful, Simon. If there is aught else you feel you need, please let me know.”

  “Aye, Your Grace. Thank you.”

  Nicholas rose and helped the old man to his feet, then turned him over to John and Harold to assist him.

  “Something has happened,” Kathryn said, watching them go.

  “Just being extra cautious, beloved.” He looked at her, his expression grim. He could see the worry in her eyes and longed to be able to do something—anything—to ease it. But he knew that his next words were only going to increase her fears. “Walford’s no fool, beloved. He is a wily and cunning foe, and that makes him especially dangerous. We—Rolf, Thomas, and I—all feel that he will attempt to seize you so he can use you as leverage to demand my surrender.

  “At the moment, there are hundreds of complete strangers here for the archery contest. ’Tis a risk I chose to take, because we have need of archers. Yet, any one of them could pose a threat to you, which is why everyone has been restricted to the outer bailey. On the morrow, after everyone has gone home save the archers who elect to stay and fight with us, we’re expanding our defense perimeter to the barbican gate. No one will be admitted onto the castle grounds, unless it is someone we are expecting. Everyone will either be detained at the barbican gate and searched for weapons, or turned away entirely. In the meantime, you must go nowhere unescorted, not even within the walls of the keep. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, my love. I will honor your request.”
/>   “’Tis not a request, beloved. ’Tis an order. And I expect it to be obeyed without question.”

  * * * *

  Nicholas awoke early and had already bathed and dressed when he leaned over his sleeping wife, raised her hands to his lips, and kissed them, first one, then the other.

  “Nay, my love,” she said plaintively, “it cannot possibly be tomorrow yet. ’Tis still dark outside. Come back to bed,” she begged softly.

  “I would love to come back to bed,” he answered ruefully. “I would love naught better than to spend the entire day in bed exploring all of your nooks and crannies.” He grinned. “Especially your crannies.” He waggled his eyebrows, and she laughed, the sound echoing sweetly in his soul. “But, alas,” he continued, “duty calls. We have an archery contest to judge.”

  Reluctantly she sat up and looked around. “Whither is Rolf?”

  “He is helping Thomas set up the butts for the contest. He will meet us at the pavilion.”

  Shortly after a breakfast of hot oat cakes smothered with butter and honey, Nicholas and Kathryn joined the throngs of people headed for the tiltyard. As they passed through the inner gate, they turned right and made their way across a vast open space, toward the main pavilion.

  The road between the inner and outer gates was lined on both sides with open tents and stalls where all sorts of delicious-smelling food was being prepared to sell to the spectators, who had already begun pouring into the parade grounds and tiltyard. The smell of smoke and roasting meats also rose from the many cook fires that dotted the campground against the eastern wall, where all of the colorful tents had been pitched. Other booths and open tables displayed merchandise ranging from brooms and candles to gold and silver jewelry and round cheeses the size of cannonballs.

  Applause and cheers rose from a large group of people gathered around a circular pit filled with sawdust. A thick rope was suspended three feet above the ground across the center of the pit, where a man was performing amazing feats of equilibrium. Also gathering small crowds of their own was a man eating fire, and another swallowing swords. Yet another man had a bear that walked and danced about on his hind legs. Kathryn was enthralled by all these strange and wondrous sights, and she wanted to stop and look at everything.