Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  ***

  A hard smile tilted Bram’s mouth. More questions, but ones he’d be asking, if their roles were reversed. Miranda did deserve to know the whole truth, as foul as it was.

  He studied the graceful slope of her cheek, close enough to kiss if he dared. How he wanted to kiss every luscious bit of her. He ached to taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, to run his hands over her nakedness, to make her gasp, sigh, and moan with the ecstasy their long-ago kiss had promised would be theirs when they joined. But that would have to wait a little longer.

  Fighting to suppress the lust his thoughts had roused, he said, “I, too, have wondered why Roden dared to take my identity. I will only know the truth by demanding an explanation from him. I shall get the answers I want, even if I must hold a sword to his throat and threaten to kill him.”

  “You would slay your own brother?”

  The horror in her voice scraped his soul like a dull knife. “He tried to kill me. Twice. The first time I believed I’d been set upon by murderous thieves, but the truth was made plain to me.”

  “Are you certain your brother—?”

  “Aye.” He clenched his jaw on boiling hatred. “Several weeks ago, after I arrived in London, I paid a messenger to deliver a missive to Dreyswell, informing the castle that I would soon arrive to take residence. Roden, whom I now know had been living in northern England as a mercenary for hire, had heard of Father’s death long before I did. He’d already taken the keep, claiming to be me. No doubt he believed I had died on crusade and would never be returning to England.”

  “When he received the missive, he sent thugs to find and kill me. They attacked one afternoon when my men and I stopped to water our horses. The men were killed. Despite my injuries, I managed to escape.

  “The thugs took my horse, armor, saddlebag, and scabbard, leaving me with only the clothes I was wearing and my sword. I realized later the thugs wanted to steal all that might prove who I really was, if I survived my wounds.” Of all wretchedness, Miranda, they also got what I’d kept for years—what would prove to you, without doubt, I am who I say.

  Her lips parted, as though she meant to challenge his story, but he pressed on. “I found my way to a healer, who treated my injuries for the coins I had left on me. Not realizing Roden’s role in the attack, I continued on to Dreyswell.

  “Before scores of castle folk, he said I was Roden, all while wearing my stolen armor and with my scabbard at his hip. When I accused him of paying thugs to steal my possessions and murder me, the rightful heir, he demanded proof I was Bram. All I had was my word.

  “He called me a trickster, a liar, and ordered men-at-arms to arrest me. The wound on my face was cut by Roden. He would have slain me, had I not managed to get away. His thugs are still hunting me, which is why, as much as I longed to contact you and see you before now, I could not.”

  Still not looking at him, she shuddered. The movement shifted the hair falling over her shoulder, and his unruly gaze slid down the shimmering strands to where her cloak parted, revealing the embroidered neckline of her bodice. Even her garments enticed him, with the promise of womanly curves beneath.

  Bram trembled on a renewed flare of lust. He had to convince of her he told her the truth, for he’d never felt such intense desire for any other woman.

  “What you are saying, then,” she said quietly, “is that the lord ruling Dreyswell is not in truth entitled to such power and authority? He seized possession of the castle out of greed?”

  “Correct. While Roden and I had the same father,” Bram added, wanting her to understand, “we never got along as children. More than once, Roden said how he resented that I, as first born son, would inherit all when our father died, even though ’tis decreed by law.”

  “I see,” she said softly.

  “We fought so much as boys that we were fostered in the households of different lords. When I returned to Dreyswell weeks ago, I had not seen Roden in years. It had been years, too, since I had been back to the keep. That, no doubt, made it easy for him to convince others he was me.”

  She’d turned her head slightly, and her gaze touched his. A faint trace of acceptance glinted in her eyes, and his hopes soared, even as her focus shifted to his scar. The torn flesh ached under her stare, matching the pain in his soul.

  “I am forever marked by my brother’s treachery,” he said, no longer able to keep the yearning for her from his tone, “but I do not see my wound as a disfigurement. ’Tis my reason to fight for what is mine.” Especially for you, he silently added.

  “Brave words,” she murmured, looking at him again.

  “I mean them.” He refused to break their stare, to give her the slightest reason to doubt his resolve. “I will not rest until I have control of what is mine by right. I will rule Dreyswell with pride and honor, in support of King Richard.”

  “If the king still acknowledges you.” Her gaze bored into him. “’Tis not a crime to take a lady hostage and make demands for her release?”

  Her boldness reminded him of when she was younger, when he’d found her curiosity more arousing than a wench’s coy wink. “You speak true. However, ’tis also a crime that you are betrothed to my traitorous brother. Once the reasons for my actions are made clear, I trust the king will forgive what I have done.” He lifted his right hand from the table and brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I hope you, too, will forgive me. My greatest crime is not among those you listed.”

  “W-what did I miss?”

  “Desire.” He drew out the word, let the sound soften to a rumbled purr breathed against her skin.

  She sucked in a sharp breath.

  “I will not rest, Miranda, until you are mine.”

  Exhaling on a shiver, she blinked and looked away again.

  “Do you believe what I have told you?” How much he wanted her to believe him. Never before had he experienced such wanting that bordered on agony.

  She rubbed her lips together, a gesture that made him burn to kiss her again: a hard, plundering, exquisite ravaging of her mouth. Then she’d desire no man but him.

  “My head reels with all you have told me,” she said. “If only you had proof . . . I do not know what to think.”

  “Then do not think,” he whispered. “Feel.” His fingers slid slowly, gently to the side of her neck as he traced a path down her soft skin, over the fastening of her cloak, to the curved neckline of her bodice.

  With each of her unsteady breaths, her bodice gaped a little. The shadow of her cleavage tempted him, coaxed him to further explore that secret valley. Heat from her body seeped from her gown into his fingertips, and he wanted to spread his fingers wide, to press his whole hand against the fullness of her breast, to indulge the need he could barely control.

  “What does your heart tell you, Miranda? What does it say is the truth?”

  How keenly Bram could imagine the sweet heaviness of her breast in his palm. She’d sigh as he swept his thumb back and forth over her nipple. He’d make it hard like a berry, before he sucked it into his mouth, circled it with his tongue, and tasted wet silk perfumed by her skin.

  Again and again, he’d tease her nipple with his lips, teeth, and tongue. He’d make her moan with pleasure.

  His manhood pulsed, demanding he do what he imagined—and much more.

  Seducing her virgin body wouldn’t be chivalrous, but would fulfill his most intimate dream: to hear her scream his name as he brought her to an intense, unforgettable climax.

  She belonged to him.

  His Miranda.

  His.

  Bram’s hand shifted, opened. A groan burning his throat, he cupped her breast—

  “Nay!” Twisting as far away as her bonds allowed, she said, “D-do not—”

  “Do you not still desire me?” Anger and dismay warred inside him as he lowered his hand. “Does not part of you admit that I speak true? That I am Bram? Your Bram?”

  No longer able to den
y his lust, he kissed her cheek. A ragged gasp broke from her, a sound of desire, and his need flared like a crowd of sparks shot up by a log.

  He grazed his teeth against her jaw, nibbling, tasting, as he moved toward her lips.

  One more kiss, two, and then he’d claim her mouth again. He’d kiss her until she arched against him, begging for him to caress her breasts, her thighs, and all the sensitive places in between.

  Her eyelids fluttered. As though with immense effort, she stared at him. “The Bram I knew would never take a lady hostage. Nor would he bind her to a table.”

  Her words hit him like a blow. Fury raced through him, that his words had made no impact, and, worst of all, that she was right.

  He drew the knife from his belt. Ignoring her startled cry, he reached behind her, caught her bonds, and sliced the ropes.

  Chapter Three

  When the cottage door slammed behind the rogue, Miranda blew out the breath she’d held tightly within her like a secret. What a blessed relief to have a reprieve from wielding her emotional shield against him.

  When he’d admitted his desire for her, his voice trembling and hungry, she’d been overwhelmed by the desire clamoring within herself.

  It would have been so easy to surrender to his sensual wiles. To think only of the way her body craved his touch. To feel, as he’d challenged her.

  Rubbing at her reddened wrists, she rose on unsteady legs, her cloak and gown brushing her ankles. Knowing she’d come so close to yielding left a chill inside her, brushed by a dark feather of anticipation. While his story had been convincing, he’d offered no proof he was indeed the man she’d known years ago, not even one detail of the night they’d kissed so passionately.

  Surely, if she meant so much to him, that evening would be as clear in his memory as ’twas in hers.

  Voices drifted in from outside. As she began to walk about the cottage to stretch her legs, she fought both anticipation and dread that the door would open and she’d face him—whoever he was—before she’d gathered her composure.

  Years ago, Bram had captivated her from the first time she’d seen him: the afternoon he’d been wrestling, as part of his training, with the other squires.

  Rising from a lunge against his opponent, he’d looked up and their gazes had collided. His bold stare had made her breath catch with shock and excitement. An instant later, his rival had knocked him to the dirt. When Bram had risen, laughing and dusting off his hose, he’d grinned at her, and she’d sensed the unique connection between them.

  That evening, curiosity had driven her down to the bailey to look for him. The night air had smelled of sun-baked earth and the horses in the stables, where she’d spotted his tunic, hung on a split section of wood near the open doorway. Flickering torchlight from within had coaxed her to approach.

  Over her footfalls, she’d heard splashing water in the stable—a sound that had made her pause, uncertain what she might be interrupting. Eager to see him, she’d walked on, only to freeze at the doorway. He’d stood in the glow of a blazing rush light, facing away from the door, boots kicked off and wearing only his woolen hose.

  Water droplets had glistened on his bare back. As she’d watched, thoroughly fascinated, he’d bent to plunge soap into a bucket of water and scrubbed his face. The muscles in his back had rippled, revealing his lean strength. As he’d bent lower to wash his shoulders, his hose had stretched tight over his arse, defining the muscles so well, she’d easily imagined him naked—a thought that had made her lower belly clench in a way she’d never experienced before.

  Blowing out a watery sigh, he’d straightened, eyes closed, then tipped his head back and plowed his fingers through his wet hair. The purposeful glide of his hands and flex of his shoulder muscles had made her shiver.

  She must have made a small sound, for he’d spun, so fast, a shriek had burst from her, and she’d stumbled back.

  A grin had curved his mouth as he’d dropped into an elegant bow. “Milady.”

  “H-hello.”

  Water had trickled down his chest. His skin, bronzed from the sun, had been lightly scattered with wiry hair that led her gaze down to his snug-fitting hose.

  “How may I serve you?” His voice had drawn her attention from the bulge between his legs to his handsome face. “Is there something you desire from the stable?”

  She’d blushed, mortified that he’d noticed her looking at his male parts. How did she say she’d come searching for him? That she’d simply had to see him?

  He’d closed the distance between them then, teasing her with the herbal scent of his soap, and enticing her with the nearness of his bare torso. When he’d lifted his tunic from its makeshift peg, it had brushed against her hand. The light scratch of the wool had sent tingles dancing across her skin.

  He’d pulled the garment on and covered the beauty of his male physique. Regret had woven through her, even as he’d looked at her, awaiting an answer.

  “There is something I . . . want.” She’d gnawed her lip, unsure how to explain her longing. “I mean . . .”

  He’d seemed to know what she was trying to say, because he’d swept his hand to indicate the dark interior of the stable. “Would you care to linger a while, milady? I love to entertain guests in my fine keep.”

  She’d giggled, unable to deny the thrill of his invitation. “Thank you, milord. I would like very much to stay.” She’d stepped forward, and he’d caught her hand and drawn her inside, where sweet-smelling straw had rustled under their feet.

  Caution had dimmed her growing anticipation. If she, the lord’s daughter, were found alone at night with a squire . . .

  “The stable hands went to the kitchens to play a game of sticks. We have my entire castle to ourselves,” he’d said, as though attuned to her hesitation. “I will understand if that is good reason for you not to stay. I shall, however, die of disappointment.”

  Smiling, she’d held his unwavering gaze. She’d wanted to stay, too, for he’d intrigued her more than any man she’d met. Never would she have missed this chance to learn more about him.

  “My name is Bram. Bram Hawksley.”

  “Miranda de Vornay,” she’d said, barely able to contain the excitement within her.

  “A beautiful name.”

  The admiration in his gaze had brought a flush to her cheeks, even as he’d drawn her down to sit beside him on a bale of hay. The rational voice within her had warned her to go back to her chamber without delay, but stronger than that voice was her desire to be with Bram.

  They’d talked and laughed, their hands still entwined. Then, in the flickering light, his expression had turned somber. With his thumb, he’d caressed her wrist. “One day, I really will be lord of a castle.”

  “I know you will.”

  “How do you know? Did your father tell you that I am my sire’s heir?”

  She shook her head. “I have seen your determination. You will accomplish whatever you set your mind upon.”

  His gaze had narrowed with a hint of wariness. “You know me so well?”

  “Somehow, I feel that I do.”

  “You have more faith in me than most people.”

  His bitter tone had roused a pang of sympathy within her. Before she could say a word, he’d grinned as though he didn’t care what others thought, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it. A fiery tremor had raced through her, even as she’d longed for him to kiss her again.

  Reaching up with her free hand, she’d unfastened the blue silk ribbon from her hair, causing her loosened tresses to tumble down past her shoulders. She’d dangled the ribbon before him. “For you, Sir Bram of Castle Stable. A token of my faith in you.” Freeing her fingers from his, she’d tied the ribbon around his left wrist.

  He’d held her gaze, a smoldering heat in his stare that hadn’t been there before. “Miranda,” he’d whispered. Her insides had quivered, and she’d watched, spellbound, as he’d slid his hand into her hair
and bent his head to kiss her.

  The brush of his lips had made her breath hover in her lungs. Heady, glorious elation had swirled up inside her. He’d kissed her with such tenderness, as though he cherished her, and never wanted her to leave.

  As he’d kissed her again, his mouth pressing harder, her eyes had closed to shut out all but the astonishing sensations: the heat of his lips; the sigh of his breath across her skin; the curl of his fingers in her hair.

  Craving had burned hotter within her with each kiss. Greedy, starved for more, she’d moved her lips against his. A clumsy effort, but he’d groaned, an expression of pleasure. Then he’d taught her, with his clever mouth, how to find the rhythm in their kisses.