Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  For a long time, Kathryn’s shaky breathing and Rolf’s low, soothing voice were the only sounds heard above the popping and crackling of the flames in the fireplace. Until, finally, she sniffled and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Face still pressed against Rolf’s neck, she briefly considered trying to correct Moll’s mistaken assumption that she was upset over dropping the tankard. But she gave up. She realized she’d never be able to explain it to her. She couldn’t even explain it to herself.

  She’d never experienced aught like this before. It was as if she had been swamped by a tidal wave of emotions so dark, so tragic they had swept her into a maelstrom of misery, leaving her body exhausted, and her mind naught but mush.

  She lifted her head and instantly Rolf’s hands lifted to cradle the sides of her face, shaping her head, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “Art thou all right, yndling?” he asked, his thumbs brushing her mouth, lifting her chin to search her tear-reddened eyes. He made no effort to hide his worry as his eyes probed hers, searching for answers. “What made thee weep like that?”

  She shook her head. “I–I know not, my love.” Every word was disjointed, every breath a struggle. “It just…came over me…all of a sudden. All this”—she flung out her hand—“disruption…these people…so much loss. So much upheaval…and all because of me.” Her lower lip quivered and fresh tears started rolling down her cheeks. With a little hiccupping sob, she fell back against Rolf’s hard chest and tightened her arms around his neck just as Nicholas came running into the house.

  “She’s all right, Nick,” Rolf said quickly when he saw the worry in Nicholas’s eyes. “Just a mild case of guilt.”

  Slowing his steps, Nicholas walked over to his wife, who was still seated in Rolf’s lap. He smiled down at her. “I can see you’re in good hands, beloved.” Hunkering down beside her, he took her lips in a gentle kiss. “I fear you gave poor Moll and Ian quite a start.”

  She blushed. “I know. I–I’m sorry. I…know not what came over me.” She looked at the older woman. “I would like to stay, Moll, and help you finish setting your new home to rights, if that is acceptable to you…”

  “Oh, aye, Yer Grace. If ye’re certain ye’re up to it.” But she didn’t look convinced.

  “I am. Truly.” She gave the woman a brilliant smile. “See? No more tears.”

  That settled, Nicholas pulled her to her feet. Rolf stood up behind her. Both men embraced her, communicating silently with each other over her head. Then Nicholas kissed her and he and Rolf left together, although Rolf got no farther than just outside the door, where he turned and slouched back against the wattle-and-daub wall, bending his right knee to place the sole of his foot flat against the wall.

  Kathryn stayed and visited with Moll and some of the other villagers until Nicholas came a few hours later to fetch her for dinner. He and Rolf stood in the doorway waiting patiently as she hugged and kissed Moll good-bye, promising to visit often.

  By the time they were seated for supper and were being served their first course she had developed a splitting headache, partly from her crying jag and partly from the unrelenting din from the constant hammering. After only a few bites of the grilled pike doused with a heavy dill cream sauce, her stomach rebelled. With a little cry of distress, she jumped up, hand over her mouth, and ran from the room, heading for the nearest chamber pot.

  But she was too late, and wound up doubled over in the hallway throwing up all over the floor and the front of her gown.

  Nicholas, Rolf and Sorcha were right behind her. She straightened, looking at them, white-faced and miserable, tears once again streaming down her face. “I’m—”

  Without a word, Nicholas scooped her up in his arms and carried her up to their solar, where the two men quickly undressed her and put her into bed, propping her comfortably on pillows up against the headboard.

  Sorcha wiped her mouth and her chin with a damp cloth, feeling her forehead for signs of fever. There were none, praise God.

  Kathryn looked up at her and Sorcha smiled. “Just a wee bout of morning sickness, love. Naught to worry about. ’Tis usually gone by the end of the third month.”

  Kathryn groaned and closed her eyes. “My mouth tastes like an animal crawled in there and died,” she complained. “Can I brush my teeth?”

  “Here you are, my love,” Nicholas handed her a wet cloth, which she dipped into the jar of herb paste he held out to her. Then he gave her a wink. “And it’s may I brush my teeth’,” he corrected with a wicked grin. Which had the two of them bursting out laughing as Rolf and Sorcha looked on, completely mystified.

  Kathryn laughed so hard tears were streaming down her face. But this time they were tears of joy and this time she had herself under control. When her laughter finally subsided, she wiped her tears away with one hand while Sorcha gave the other a gentle squeeze.

  “I’m leaving now, Kathryn.” She patted her hand. “I suggest you take a nap. You will feel better after you’ve rested. And when you wake up try eating some black bread, sprinkled with a little salt. Slice it thin and toast it in the fire. You might even try some quince or apricot preserves on it. ’Tis one of the few things I managed to keep down during my pregnancies.” She smiled, then sobered. “You must eat something, love. That babe growing in your womb needs nourishment. If you have any questions or would just like to talk, please send for me any time. Or come over. The girls and I would love to have you visit us.”

  Giving Kathryn a kiss on both cheeks, she straightened, then gave similar kisses to both Nicholas and Rolf. “Leave her alone, you two,” she admonished, the sharpness of her voice mitigated by the sweetness of her smile. “She needs a good, deep sleep.” And she was gone.

  As Nicholas moved to take the chessboard down from its peg on the wall, Rolf came up onto the bed and began removing pillows from behind Kathryn’s back, dropping them on the floor. “Scoot down, yndling,” he directed, “so thou canst sleep.”

  “Are you not going to sleep with me?”

  “You heard what Sorcha said, beloved.” Nicholas’s voice came from the direction of the cupboard, where he was retrieving the box of chess pieces. “You need a good deep sleep. Chances are likely you would not get that, if we were to bed down with you.”

  Rolf snorted. “Chances are much more than just ‘likely.’”

  “But I don’t think I can sleep in this big bed all by myself.”

  “Try,” Nicholas coaxed. “If you truly are unable to fall asleep, we will come lie with you until you do. But, Sorcha is right, beloved. You’ve had many upsets these last few days. Just close your eyes and see what happens. Rolf and I will be right here when you wake up.”

  Nodding, she heaved a sigh and closed her eyes as they drew the curtains around the bed. For a few minutes she lay there listening to the low murmur of their voices as they set up the chessboard. She was asleep before Nicholas made his first move.

  As one week turned into two, she grew increasingly restless, seeking out activities that kept her mind as well as her hands occupied. Under the watchful eyes of either Nicholas or Rolf, she roamed the castle, seeking out the craftsmen, taking it upon herself to try and learn how every task was performed. She visited the mill, the brewery, the kitchen, the shops, even the weavers’ atelier. One of the musicians taught her how to play the recorder, and she even tried her hand at juggling. Her clumsy attempts to keep the three leather balls up in the air had everyone in stitches. Laughing and out of breath, she straightened from picking them up off the rush-covered floor for the hundredth time, when Nicholas and Rolf came striding in. One look at the solemn expressions on their faces and she rose, her hand flying to her throat. “What—” She began, but didn’t finish because she knew what. “Walford?”

  “The vanguard of his army has left Pemberton,” Nicholas said. “They should begin arriving within the next couple of days.”

  She handed the balls back to Giacomo, the juggler. “Here? At the castle?”

  Nicholas enfolded her i
n his arms. “Nay, beloved. Down in the valley. Beyond the village. ’Tis the only open area large enough for an army to set up camp. We can watch them from the ramparts. We’ll know every move they make. And we’ll be ready for whatever they decide to throw at us.” He released her from his embrace and took her hand.

  At her worried frown, Rolf took her other hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thou knewest this was coming, min skat.”

  “I know, I know. I just…hoped…” Her attempt at a smile failed miserably.

  “Come, yndling,” Rolf murmured as he and Nicholas tugged her gently toward the screens passage. “We know how to make thee feel better.”

  “Oh?” she asked, perking up considerably. She quickened her steps to keep up with their long strides as they stepped into the hallway. “Will juggling be involved?”

  Nicholas laughed. “I rather doubt it, beloved,” he said, giving her a lascivious grin. “But I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something equally entertaining.”

  “Aye.” She released a sigh of contentment. “I’m sure you will, too. I have every faith in you.”

  * * * *

  Three days later, Berwick Castle’s inner ramparts were as busy as a London street on Market Day. Everyone watched the arrival of Walford’s army at the far end of the valley two leagues away. Everyone watched the increasing number of tents, with their colorful banners and pennons, sprouting like mushrooms in the open meadows beyond the village, as if it were a country fair or a tournament being set up rather than an armed camp. Small bands of pilgrims and beggars continued to make the daily trek up the long, hilly road to receive the castle’s charitable donation of leftover food. But it was served under heavy guard outside the barbican gate. No one was permitted inside.

  Every day more and more catapults, mangonels, and other heavy siege machines moved down the road into the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed behind them like a peacock’s tail. Every night, growing numbers of flickering campfires cast an increasing glow in the darkness and an increasing pall of gloom over Kathryn’s spirit. Even so, she could not resist watching the showy display of force Walford was bringing to bear against them. As she walked the ramparts at least twice a day with Rolf and Nicholas, a deep feeling of dread kept her insides twisted in a churning knot, robbing her of her appetite and her peace of mind. She became withdrawn and apathetic, turning pale, with deep shadows under her eyes.

  The very smell of food made Kathryn ill, and no amount of coaxing and cajoling from her two attentive but very worried lovers could induce her to eat. Only Sorcha, alternately stern, cajoling, and commiserating could somehow work the necessary miracles and get her to partake of plain roasted chicken and toasted black bread, the only two foods, other than a thin, watery chicken broth, she was able to keep down.

  So she ate, but without appetite or enjoyment, nearly overwhelmed with guilt at being the cause of this untenable situation. She felt personally responsible for the fact that an army was gathering to destroy her new home. Her new life. And the people she had come to love as her family. And that burden made her weepy and irritable, causing her to burst into tears several times a day, for no apparent reason.

  The first few times it happened, a baffled Rolf and Nicholas, unable to calm her irrational fears, were at their wits’ end. Until Sorcha assured them that such behavior was perfectly normal for a newly pregnant woman, and that it would eventually pass.

  So they took turns simply holding her in their laps and whispering words of comfort to her until each new crying jag passed. Then having to reassure her that they didn’t hate her, whenever her guilt over feeling guilty made her apologize over and over for being such a burden to them. They spent their nights in bed simply holding her, soothing her with their loving touches and gentle kisses.

  And when she begged them to make love with her, they did so almost with a sense of quiet desperation. Desperation on her part to keep the two of them joined with her body, as if she were trying to reassure herself that they were all still alive. Desperation on their parts to convince her that she was safe and cherished and loved. They worked in tandem to take her to dizzying new heights of pleasure, bringing her to orgasm after thrilling orgasm, keeping her sated and exhausted.

  They couldn’t get enough of her, nor she of them, and every moment they weren’t conducting the daily business of running a great castle or preparing for the upcoming siege, they were together in their big bed, sleeping, making love or simply lying in each other’s arms, replete with passion…until desire built anew and they found themselves reaching for one another yet again.

  * * * *

  “Your Grace! Your Grace!” Jamie Fordyce burst into the gloomy solar. “You must come at once, Your Grace!” He shouted. “’Tis Sir Simon! He’s been shot!”

  Bloody fucking hell!

  Nicholas bolted upright and pushed the covers away as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Parting the curtains, he stared bleary-eyed at the frantic young page. “Where, Jamie?” Behind him he could hear Rolf and Kathryn stirring to wakefulness. They had all fallen into a deep slumber after a marathon bout of lovemaking.

  “In the leg, Your Grace,” Jamie responded, fidgeting and wringing his soft hood in his hands.

  Nicholas laughed, grabbing his linen undershirt from the pile of clothes on the floor and pulling it over his head. “Nay, Jamie. I mean where is he? Sir Simon?” He jerked on his braes, casting about for his chausses. Where in bloody hell were his chausses?

  “Oh. Sorry. He’s inside the barbican. They’re all inside the barbican. All the guards, all the pilgrims, all the beggars—”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “I know not, Your Grace.” Jamie shook his head. “One of the pilgrims, a woman, was tending to him when I left to come find you. “She said he would mend nicely.”

  Nicholas spied his chausses under the furs at the foot of the bed. Grabbing them, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them up roughly, rolling them into the waistband of his gathered braes. “Run and fetch Sir Richard.”

  “Already done, Your Grace. One of the guards went to find him.”

  Rolf, already dressed on the other side of the bed, was buckling his baldric.

  “Jamie,” Kathryn said from under the bedclothes, “please wait downstairs so I can get dressed.” At Nicholas’s look, she said defiantly, “I’m coming with you, of course.” As Jamie left the room, she slid off the bed, lifting the furs and sheets looking for her own hastily discarded clothes.

  “Nay, my love,” Nicholas hastily pulled up his knee-high boots and stood, stamping his feet down into them. “You must stay here where you’re safe.”

  “You cannot wrap me in cotton wool, Nicholas,” she said irritably. “Surely I am safe within the walls of my own home. As chatelaine of this castle, I am responsible for Sir Simon. If he is injured, then of course I will attend to him.”

  Ah, there were her clothes—a wrinkled wad of fabric stuffed beneath a pillow. Oh, dear…

  “Pray do not argue with me, beloved,” Nicholas’s tone was indulgent, but firm, as if he were addressing a stubborn child. “I wish you to remain here.” He pulled his green velvet tunic over his head, yanking it down and tugging at the tight sleeves.

  “Why, Nicholas, my love, I have no intention of arguing with you.” She turned her head as Mary approached. “Ah, Mary. I need something to wear. And please be quick about it. We have an emergency.” She turned back to meet her husband’s frowning gaze.

  “’Tis not necessary for you to accompany us, beloved,” he insisted, reaching for his sword belt. His tone was noticeably less indulgent.

  Rolf was struggling to contain his grin. Approaching Kathryn, he grabbed the wrinkled clothes from her hands and thrust them into the young maid’s arms. “Thank thee, Mary, I will see to it that Her Grace is properly attired.”

  Mary’s hand flew to her cheek. Wide-eyed and flustered, she dropped a curtsey and fled as if the very hounds of Hell were after her.

/>   “I want you safe,” Nicholas insisted.

  “I’m going with you.” Kathryn was equally insistent.

  “Now, children,” Rolf admonished mildly, going to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. “One more word out of thee and I’ll send thee to stand in the corner.” He opened the lid and withdrew a deep blue woolen cote-hardie. Gathering it from hem to neck, he held it up in front of Kathryn. “Arms,” he said gently.

  Automatically, she raised her arms and let him drop the gown over her head. It was followed by a crimson velvet surcote, trimmed with sable. As she was tugging the long, tight sleeves of the cote-hardie down her arms, he retrieved her hooded mantle from the wall peg and swirled it around her shoulders, fastening the gold clasp at her shoulder.

  Smiling down at her, he tucked her braid inside the voluminous hood. His hand cupped her chin and he ducked his head to give her a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. “Thou art beautiful, yndling.”

  Her answering smile squeezed the breath from his lungs.

  She turned to look at Nicholas. “Thank you for waiting for me, my love,” she said with a wide grin.

  He grinned back at her, striving to give his best impression of a man still in control of things. “Think naught of it, beloved,” he said with a shrug. “Thank you for not arguing with me.”

  “Of course.” She inclined her head regally, letting him usher her from the room. “A proper wife never argues with her husband.”