Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  “Art thou always so gallant?” She knelt beside the ancere, took the soap from his grasp, lathered his chest, and splayed her sudsy palms across his flesh, which again woke his one-eyed dragon. “How didst thou get this scar?”

  “In battle.” Painfully aroused, he hunkered forward in an attempt to conceal his affliction and vowed to master the volatile protuberance, which had grown evermore unpredictable since Isolde entered his life. “But the wound has long since healed.”

  “Wherefore were thou fighting, and who were thee defending?” The answers to her seemingly harmless questions revealed more than he dared share, until they consummated their union. She leaned near to scrub his hair. “And who won the engagement?”

  “We safeguarded our beliefs and stood for those who could not protect themselves.” At that instant, he noticed the front of her slip had dampened, and the wet fabric hid naught from his scrutiny. Never had he found female breasts so beguiling, as he had no experience with them, but never had he contemplated the singular womanly feature in such close proximity. The twin crimson-tipped peaks lured him as a bee to honey, and he ached to caress her. “And we prevailed, my brothers and I.” Anticipating additional queries, he ceased ogling her body only to find her studying him.

  “Wilt thou not touch me?” Slowly, she clutched his wrist and brought his hand to her mound of firm flesh. “Art thou not pleased with me? Dost thou not want me?”

  “Isolde, thou dost please me more than thou dost know, and I long to take thee.” As he cupped, stroked, and explored her oh-so-mesmerizing endowments, her nipple hardened, and she inhaled a rush of breath. “Did I injure thee?”

  “No.” She licked her lips. “It is just that never have I been thus affected, and if thou would claim that which is thine by law and the sacrament, I will not oppose thee.”

  “A generous offer from a benevolent lady—my lady.” Through the fine linen undergarment, he teased her taut pebble with the pad of his thumb. Yea, his anatomy could satisfy her, yet his body had not allied with his mind, and he wanted to know more about her prior to negotiating intimacy. “But I am unprepared for what thou dost ask of me.”

  “Wilt thou not send me away?” The fear in her countenance altered his stance, as it was clear she required validation, of a sort. “Wilt thou return me to my father for failure to comply with thy wishes?”

  “Ah, thou dost not trust me, when I refuse to take thee as a poxy-cheeked strumpet. And I would allay thy doubts in regard to the constancy of my devotion in advance of our consummation.” So what could Arucard do, without violating his promise and her maidenhead, as some barbarian boothaler? Then he recalled her gift in exchange for the servant wenches. “Come hither, Isolde.”

  Cupping her chin, he tilted her head and set his lips to hers.

  As before, molten heat poured through his veins, and she flicked her tongue at his. When she speared her fingers through his hair and moaned; he teetered on the precipice of some odd strength of sentiment he had not experienced since his youth. His gut tensed, and he clenched his teeth. Well nigh dizzy from the force of her enthusiasm, he massaged her pliant breast one more time and then retreated.

  “Thither now.” Resting her forehead to his, she rubbed her nose to his and smiled. “I am appeased, sir. And I should complete my chore, as the water grows cold, and I do wish to clean myself without catching a chill.”

  Just then, she peered into the tub and snatched the cloth. To his everlasting shame, his healthy and erect man’s yard caught her attention. For a minute, she held his stare, then glanced at his mouth, and again met his gaze.

  “Dost thou understand what that means?” Anticipating shock and reproach, he choked when she closed her hand about his length. “Isolde, thou should not tempt me thus.”

  “Yea, I understand, as my brother doth lack discretion in his conquests.” Then she tugged gently and said, “Thou dost want me.”

  A violent shudder seized him, and his seed shot forth as though launched from an imposing carro-ballista. Groaning as wave upon wave of release wracked his frame, Arucard rested his head on the edge of the ancere and closed his eyes. A repetitive spasm drew out the blissful release, and he shifted his hips and savored what he had not enjoyed since joining the Templars and mastering his base desires, as the Lord’s men revered austerity in all things.

  Anon, he recovered enough to muster a chuckle and discern his wife’s distress. “What is wrong? Have I frightened thee?”

  “Perchance, as I know not what happened.” With an expression of horror, she blinked. “Did I wound something of importance?”

  “Nay, my sweet Isolde.” Given that gem of logic, he surrendered to a full belly laugh. When she frowned and sat on her heels, he stood, snatched a towel from the stool, and wrapped the square of linen about his waist to mitigate his nudity. Dripping wet, he bent, slipped his arms about her waist, and lifted her. “Thou hast bestowed upon me another treasure, and thou art most kind.” He claimed another kiss and set her on her feet. “Now I must don my garb and fetch fresh water for thy bath.”

  “Prithee, only a pail, and I shall make do with that.” Unaware that the entire front of her slip had been rendered sheer by his damp hug, she shielded naught from him, and he took advantage of the moment to look his fill as he dressed.

  “As thou dost wish.” With that, Arucard nodded once and stepped into the chilly night air, which he hoped might cool his blood. Beneath the silver light of the moon, he glanced at the starry sky and smiled. Yea, the lady Isolde had cast a spell, and he ached to yield to her demands, but he would linger and win her fealty. Then he would claim her body.

  ARUCARD

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Four days later, Isolde descended from the traveling wagon, after the procession pulled into an expansive glade for the night. The distinct keen of sea gulls declared they neared the coast and Chichester, but the weather had turned, the roads had deteriorated, and the sun had set, so Arucard commanded they halt their progress, rather than risk a broken wheel or an injured horse due to the muddy ruts.

  “So thou hast not consummated thy vows?” Margery arched a brow and snorted. “Thou hast always been stubborn to a fault, and this instance mayest be thy worst yet.”

  “But my husband hath been most supportive.” With a groan of exertion, Isolde dragged the trunk containing the cooking utensils to the place that would serve as the temporary kitchen. Given the length of their journey, she had organized the necessities to ensure rapid setup and packing. “And he shows his affection with greater frequency.”

  Not to mention, he had become far more amorous. Ever since that glorious interlude in their tent, when she had accidentally brought him to completion with her hand, Arucard had increased their intimacy in small but effective strides. The previous eventide, after supper, they took to their bed and explored their bodies beneath the animal pelts they shared to keep warm, and just thinking of it gave her a shiver of delight, because he touched her as he had never touched her.

  As they kissed, she caressed his man’s yard, and he eased his hand between her legs. At his first brush of her most sensitive flesh, Isolde knew not how to respond to the experience, but his whispers of praise and encouragement had soothed her nerves and calmed her fears, and she allowed him free rein. The end result, a rather quick affair, required a change of braies for her knight, and she could not stifle a giggle at the thought.

  “Then thou would do well to surrender thy maidenhead before telling him of the letter.” The irascible steward hefted additional items and followed in Isolde’s wake. “Else Sir Arucard could accuse thee of betrayal and ship thee home.”

  “Must thou always sing the same tune?” The relative euphoria vanished, as she pondered the possibility. In a short span of time, she had grown fond of her husband and their fledgling routine. “And Arucard is my champion, so he would never do such a thing. Set up the spit, so we can serve a hot meal, as the rain has stopped.”

  With that, Isolde abandoned the task at h
and and sought her knight for inspiration and confidence. As was his way, he supervised the preparation of their tent, their ancere, and their bed, so she could situate their belongings and hasten their rendezvous after dinner. When she found him, she smiled.

  “Place the rug at center, as the ground is damp, and I would ensure my wife’s comfort.” As he directed the servants, Arucard fluffed the straw-filled mattress and placed it on the ropes of the bed frame. “And fetch the large brazier, as the wind is strong, and it will be a cold night.”

  The servants scrambled to fulfill his commands, and she pressed a finger to her lips as she entered their temporary quarters. Alone with her husband, she slipped her arms about his waist and hugged him from behind. “Wherefore dost thou require a brazier, when thou shalt keep me warm?”

  “My lady.” Covering her hands with his, he squeezed her fingers. “Am I not thy champion? Thy health and welfare art of great importance, and I would not fail thee.”

  “When shall we arrive at Chichester, as I long to have thee to myself?” The attendant returned, carrying the requisite item, and Isolde released her knight. “Perchance, I should move the small table into our tent, and we could dine in privacy. Thou hast never finished thy story last eventide, and I do so wish to know more of thy family history.”

  “Mayhap tomorrow, mayhap the day after, our journey will end.” Quick as a flash, he turned and pulled her into a more intimate embrace. “And perchance thou shalt take thy sup in my lap, if thy meal is pleasing.”

  “I am making cameline meat brewets, as my lord declared them another favorite.” How she adored his smile, which featured the hint of a dimple on his left cheek. “Will that suffice?”

  “Sounds delicious, and Demetrius will be happy, as they art his favorite.” Then he bent his head and kissed her. As she suckled and laved his full lips, a bewitching aspect of marital life she had mastered, she relished the taste of him. All too soon, he ceased the interlude but kept her close. “Isolde, thy mouth is far more tempting than thy fare, although thou art an excellent cook.”

  “Praise, indeed.” For a scarce second, she pondered Margery’s warning and considering revealing the letter to Arucard. But they had yet to consummate their vows, and Isolde feared he might return her to London and her father. And she viewed that as a fate worse than death. With a wicked shudder, she rubbed her arms and laughed. “Allow me to be of use and gather the skins for our bedding. Mayhap thou should place clean braies beneath thy pillow, in anticipation of our nightly games.”

  “Mayhap thou should keep thy hands to thyself, thus I would have no need of clean braies.” When she pouted, he winked. “Perchance I should forgo braies, altogether, when we retire.”

  “Art thou complaining? And I didst naught more than thee instructed.” Isolde spread the hides, as he positioned the ancere and carried in the table. Then she checked the pillows, as her husband preferred the firmer cushion. “Thither, it is done. Now I should return to the kitchen, as Margery and Anne might have need of me.”

  “Prithee, a moment.” Ah, how well she knew his playful side. She lowered her chin, he arched a brow, she veered left, and he caught her. “Dost thou run from me?”

  “Never.” With a squeal of joy, she wrapped her arms about his neck. “But thou hast quite an appetite, and supper will not cook itself.”

  “Anon, might I persuade thee to forgo a night rail?” He nuzzled her temple, and she well nigh melted. “As never have I seen thee without benefit of clothing.”

  “Thou dost wish me to sleep nude?” At the prospect, she gulped, as she had kept her scarred back hidden from view, given she feared he would use her marked body as an excuse to end their marriage. Until they consummated their vows, she wanted to maintain that secret, along with Father’s correspondence. “Dost thou intend to claim my maidenhead?”

  And that singular query interrupted his mischievous diversion.

  “Isolde, as I told thee, it will happen when it happens.” To her regret, he frowned and put her on her feet. “I had thought we could advance our forays between the covers, and thou dost not know whither that mayest lead us.”

  “Until then, my lord.” In a rare display of confidence, she jumped up, kissed him hard and fast, and ran from their tent, and his chuckle rang clear behind her. As she marched for the makeshift kitchen, she thrust her hands in her fitchet and came to an abrupt halt. For several seconds, she dug and searched, as her heart pounded, her ears rang, and her breath came in fits and starts. When reality set in, a chill of dread settled in her chest.

  Father’s letter was gone.

  Ever since she read the missive, she kept it on her person, as she could not risk her husband finding it, hadst she hid it amongst her belongings. The earth seemed to pitch and roll beneath her leather slippers, as she hiked the skirts of her cotehardie and ran to the tent.

  Standing with his back to her, Arucard loomed large but appeared fine, as he dismissed the help.

  She exhaled in relief and dipped her chin to the servants, as they exited. “My lord, I was just—”

  Slowly, her knight faced her. In his grasp, he held her downfall, the telltale parchment. “Is this what thou dost seek?”

  #

  “Wherefore art thou so determined to consummate our nuptials?” Raw rage charged the field, as Isolde’s treachery cut like a knife, and Arucard crumpled the damning correspondence. “Dost thou intend to seduce me into thy web before thou dost betray me to thy father? And is that the reason thou dost seem so interested in my history?”

  “Nay.” As he expected she wept, but her tears moved him not. “Pray, thou must believe me. Never would I disclose the information Father demands, as I owe him naught. Thou dost own my allegiance, and never would I break my vow.”

  “Thou dost speak pretty words, but thy letter reveals the truth of thy character and motives.” And pain cut to his core, as he contemplated her deception, given his stated intent to foster marital accord and trust. “I should hie thee back to London and the earl.”

  “Nay.” With a wild-eyed expression, she threw herself at his feet. “Prithee, nay. I beseech thee to have mercy, sir.” Clutching his shins, she bowed her head. “I hid the missive because I feared thou would send me away, and I was wrong. By my troth, I am thine to command.”

  How he longed to believe her, as he revisited brief but cherished moments of their journey. But the truth was she had wounded him, and he had not prepared for that injury, which hurt worse than any he had suffered in battle.

  “Arucard, come hither.” Morgan charged into the tent. “We art under attack by an unknown enemy.”

  Operating on instinct, Arucard grabbed his sword and shield. “Lady Isolde, thou wilt remain hither, as I am not done with thee. And if thou art not present when I return, I will search for thee, and when I find thee, thou wilt not enjoy the outcome. Dost thou understand?”

  Sitting on her heels, she wiped her nose and whimpered. “Aye, my lord.”

  Riding a wave of righteous fury mixed with bone-chilling disappointment, he ran into the field, whither he found hooded bandits engaging soldiers in combat. As the men had been setting up the encampment, and none had anticipated an assault, the raiders had met little resistance—until Arucard and the Brethren entered the fray.

  Forming a formidable line of defense, the Brethren of the Coast waged war with a rallying cry. Bereft of heavy armor, Arucard moved swift and sure, thrusting and swinging, and taking down various adversaries with his weapon. With a single graceful flourish, he severed the head of a marauder and impaled another. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Demetrius, Arucard’s faithful comrade in arms, they plowed a wide path through the boothalers.

  To his right, Arucard noticed Pellier struggling to subdue a large assailant. “Step aside, old friend.” Arucard pushed his marshalsea clear. “Let us see how the ornery giant handles an evenly matched opponent.”

  “Thou dost not intimidate me, silk-snatcher.” The flaxen-haired oaf rushed Arucard, and steel c
lashed with steel. “If thou hast come hither to steal more lands on behalf of the King, thou art mistaken, as we rebuke thy authority.”

  “I know naught of what thou speaks.” As his opponent swung wide, Arucard landed a fist to the rival’s chin, and the young man dropped to his arse. With the pointed end of his sword leveled at the combatant’s throat, Arucard lowered his chin. “If thou wilt call off thy forces, I shall hear thy complaints, as I am the newly commissioned guardian of Chichester.”

  “I care not for fancy titles.” The provoking challenger spat blood and wiped his mouth. “And wherefore should I believe anything thou dost say?”

  “Because I will spare thy companions, good sirrah.” Arucard stretched to full height. “Otherwise, if thou dost prefer a warrior’s death, I shall indulge thee. And my knights and I will slaughter thy men. The choice is thine.”

  “Wherefore should I take thee at thy word?” He frowned. “The Crown spreads lies, denying the rape of our property, while we endure the thefts and the accompanying humiliation.”

  “I am Arucard de Villiers, the King’s emissary, and on my honor, I shall deal with thee honestly and fairly.” He retreated a step and extended a hand in a gesture of faith. “What is thy name?”

  “I am called Aeduuard de Cadby.” The gadling stood, and his scowl deepened. “Wherefore should I trust thee, when I know thee not? Thou could renege and run me through, as lies know no boundaries, rank, or sworn oaths, sir. And a few pretty words cannot undo years of ill treatment, thus I have had little reason to confide in anyone.”

  The statement, stark in its meaning, jolted Arucard.

  In an instant, he recalled Isolde and her tragic relationship with her father and brother, which she shared in bits and pieces over the past few days. Like de Cadby, she had been cautious and suspicious of Arucard’s motives, and he had considered her misgivings a barrier he had yet to breach. Given the dissension in her family, the letter should have struck Arucard as odd. Instead, unchecked ire blinded him, and he leapt to unsupported conclusions, when he should have permitted his wife to explain her situation. Despite the urgency of the conflict, he needed to return to his bride.