Loving the Knight: Book 2: Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  The huskiness in her voice turned him to iron once again. “Sully me, Drew.”

  Never in his life had he been taken outside of himself as he was this night. Having lost Eryn twice in the week—and then regained her—made their coupling immeasurably more intense than their first night together.

  Drew concentrated on taking Eryn to heights that made her buck beneath him and cry out. Then he took his own pleasure with frantic energy.

  He shattered into a million pieces.

  And he never felt so whole.

  He lay trembling in her arms as she dissolved into much-needed sleep. And he realized there was no way he could walk away from her again.

  His journey to London was still a necessity, of course. And curiosity still propelled him to Elstow Abbey. But once he discovered Eryn’s secret, and perhaps convinced King David to release him from service, he would return to Castleton and marry the Lady Eryndal Bell.

  Drew eased himself from Eryn, who slept so deeply she didn’t move. He crossed to the fire to remove the sheath. When he reached for it, he froze.

  The string was loose. His emission oozed from the tiny opening in the end.

  Drew looked over his shoulder at the naked woman sleeping so peacefully in the bed. Then he pulled off the sheath and tossed it into the fire. It hissed at him as if to chide him for such vigorous bedding.

  Guilt prodded him as he slipped back into the bed beside her: guilt over the loosened knot and guilt over sleeping the night beside her, thereby risking discovery.

  But he was powerless to change either of those circumstances.

  Drew curled himself around Eryn’s slumbering form and buried his face in her damp hair. She shifted a little to fit better against him. He tucked the coverings around their bodies and surrendered, exhausted and sated, to the night.

  January 6, 1355

  Eryn woke slowly, unsure what was real and what was dream. Her blankets were unusually heavy and blissfully warm. She blinked her eyes open in the dim pre-dawn.

  Drew was her blanket. One leg rested along hers and the other draped over her hips. His arm bent across her chest. His palm cupped her shoulder.

  Her first reaction was fear. What if he was found naked in her bed? She should wake him and make him leave. That was the wise course.

  But she didn’t have the strength to do so.

  Instead, she snuggled against him, determined to enjoy the last intimate moments she would ever spend with the powerful knight. Once he went to the king and told him what she had done, he would be ordered to return and arrest her.

  He sighed in his sleep, the warmth of his breath tickling her cheek. His arm bent a little more, pulling her closer. Eryn closed her eyes and relaxed in the embrace of the man she so unwisely loved.

  Her pulse tripped.

  Oh, God… I do love him.

  Even though Lord Andrew Drummond was completely wrong for her, the yearning in her heart was insistent. She wished things might be different, but the past could not be altered. The foolish and unconsidered actions of those who preceded her made her what she was. She pressed against the hard wall of his chest and refused to think about it any more.

  When she woke again, Drew was gone. A tap at her door repeated, and she realized that was what had roused her. She pulled the covers to her neck. “Come.”

  A maid entered, set a tray on her hearth, and claimed the one from last night.

  “Lord Drummond requests yer presence in the Hall, Lady. He is preparing to depart and wishes a word with ye first.”

  Eryn cleared her throat to dislodge the sudden obstacle those words prompted. “Thank you.”

  A quarter hour later Eryn strode into the Hall, her heart as hard as she could make it, which—once Drew turned and bathed her with his golden gaze—was not hard at all.

  “Lady Bell, your beauty blinds me,” he purred.

  That was my intent.

  Eryn wore her turquoise gown and silver belt. She brushed her hair and left it hanging free, held out of her eyes by a silver and emerald tiara that belonged to the original Lady Bell. She gave a low curtsy, intended to display her meager cleavage to its best advantage.

  “My lord, you are too kind.”

  Drew offered his hand and lifted her to her feet.

  “Eryn, I must be on my way to London. But I will return to ye.”

  “Drew…”

  He put up a hand. “Do no’ deny me. Ye have no say.”

  Eryn stared at him long and hard. His black hair was neatly tied, and his eyes glowed a happy golden-green. He was beautiful and perfect and she loved him in spite of all the dangers he held.

  “I do believe I have struck ye speechless.” Drew grinned. “I did no’ ken that was possible.”

  Eryn backhanded his chest. “You, Sir, are not humble.”

  He leaned forward. “I never claimed to be.”

  Then he kissed her softly.

  “Drew, don’t,” she complained, though she did not resist.

  He pulled her close and whispered in her ear. “Eryn. I will be back. It may take months, but do no’ stop waiting.”

  She had no voice. She had no words. She could only nod—and try to hide the violent storm raging through her emotions. She desperately wanted what she knew could never be; and she knew she might cease to exist without it.

  Drew kissed her again, but this was no tender kiss. This kiss was obviously intended to remind her of their nights of passion—as well as promise of what was to come. Eryn welcomed it hungrily, and answered it willingly.

  She pressed her body to Drew’s and tried to burn every aspect of their experience into her memory. The way he tasted: like ale and meat pies. The way he smelled: like the plain soap she made for the manor. The way he felt: hard muscles sliding under tailored shirts, tunics and hose. The way he sounded: a commanding voice that roared across a room, growled when he was angry, or purred when she held him close.

  When the kiss ended, Eryn watched him walk away from her. Taller than her by half-a-foot. Broad-bodied and long-limbed. Shoulder-length waves of glossy black hair. Changeable eyes that shifted from brown to gold to green. The one missing tooth in his bottom jaw. The battle scars that puckered his torso. The large hands that caressed her so purposefully.

  His big boots.

  When the hoof beats of Drew and Kennan’s mounts thundered out of earshot, Eryn went up to her chamber to change into work clothes. She had made her decision.

  “With him or without him, I will die either way.”

  If he returns, I might as well enjoy my demise.

  Chapter Eighteen

  January 12, 1355

  Elstow Abbey, England

  Drew sat in a small chamber and waited for the Mother of the Abbey to come speak to him. He explained through a hole in the door of the eleventh-century nunnery that he had news of one of their students, and wished to ask a few questions as well. When a plump, middle-aged woman entered the room, he stood and bowed.

  “Good day, Mother,” he said.

  “Please sit, my son.” She waved a hand and he returned to his seat. She sat in the only other chair in the room. “How may I help you today?”

  “I have brought news of one of your students—Eryndal Bell,” he began.

  She frowned a little. “Oh? Has she married?”

  “No… not yet,” he replied. “Why do ye ask?”

  “Might you mean Eryndal Smythe?”

  Suspicion nudged Drew.

  “Who is Eryndal Smythe?”

  She leaned back and a cautious expression settled over her ruddy features. “Who is Eryndal Bell?”

  This might go on a bit. “She is Lady of the Bell estate in Castleton, Scotland,” Drew conceded.

  “Ah, yes. The border has moved. Castleton used to be in England.” A placid expression settled over the woman’s face. She gazed at him silently.

  “And yet, she remains the Lady Bell,” Drew prompted.

  The nun tilted her head and fiddled with the hem of her
sleeve. “Can you tell me, when did she become the Lady of that estate?”

  “During the Death.”

  “And how did it come about?” she pressed.

  Drew pulled a calming breath, irritated by the woman’s evasion and questions. But when it came to patience, he knew the nun would win the day; unlike him, she had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

  “When the Lord—her stepbrother—died of the plague, Lady Eryndal assumed leadership,” he explained. “His wife had already passed.”

  The nun nodded slowly. “She told you that Henry Bell was her stepbrother?”

  Suspicion stopped nudging Drew and hit him with a battering ram. The problem was clear. Eryn’s secret was laid in front of him. “He was no’ related to her, was he?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Her true name is Eryndal Smythe?”

  “If we are speaking of the same woman. She would be in her upper twenties by now. And I have only met one person in my life with that name.”

  “Aye, that’s her,” Drew growled.

  “Is she well?”

  Drew snorted. “Aye. Until I kill her.”

  The Mother’s eye’s rounded and her jaw dropped. “What!”

  He waved splayed hands in front of his chest. “Have no fear, Mother. I’ll no’ do the lady any harm. In fact…” He paused and cleared his throat. “I hoped to marry her.”

  Understanding smoothed the woman’s fearful expression. “I see.”

  “So perhaps I might press ye into telling me her story? The real one,” he added.

  The nun pushed to her feet and crossed to the chamber door. “Would you care for refreshments, my lord?”

  Fighting frustration, Drew nodded. “Lord Andrew Drummond, knight and courtier to his majesty, King David II.”

  “We are honored by your presence, my lord.” She spoke softly to someone in the passageway then returned to her seat. “You may call me Mother Helena, the name of our abbey’s matron saint.”

  “I am honored that ye have taken the time to meet with me, Mother Helena,” Drew answered. He was beginning to see how to get what he wanted. “Lady Eryndal is a credit to the education ye gave her here.”

  Mother Helena nodded her thanks. “She was an exceptional student. With an exceptional tongue, as I recall.”

  “That, Mother, has not changed!” Drew laughed.

  She shook her head. “Ah, but I had hopes.”

  A young nun entered the room carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. The scent of the spiced wine made Drew’s belly rumble. He was in such a hurry to get to the Abbey that he didn’t break his fast that morning.

  “Thank ye,” he murmured, accepting the drink. When the nun left, he returned his attention to Mother. “At what age did Lady Eryndal come to the Abbey?”

  She cocked a brow. “At her birth.”

  Drew shifted in his chair. “I do no’ understand.”

  Mother Helena set her own mug down and took Drew’s free hand. Her skin was smooth and warm from holding the mug. She gazed into his eyes.

  “Eryn was left here by her mother the day she was born.”

  Drew asked, “Why?” though he was certain he knew.

  The nun’s tone was gentle. “Her mother was not married. She was born a bastard.”

  “And the father?” Drew pressed.

  Mother Helena straightened. “We do have a little bit of information about him.” She went to the door for the second time and spoke softly to someone outside the chamber.

  “One of our eldest sisters died several months ago,” she explained to Drew as she retook her seat. “When we sorted her belongings, we found a letter. It seems this particular letter arrived at the Abbey when Eryndal was but five years of age. Sister Michael held on to it, waiting for Eryndal to grow to adulthood before giving it to her.”

  “And yet, ye still have it?” Drew asked, wondering over the nuns’ motive. “Has she ever seen it?”

  “No. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the letter when we sent Eryndal to the Bell estate to serve Lord Henry and his wife.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fifteen.” Mother Helena’s brow crumpled in consideration. “How old is she now?”

  Drew sighed. “Twenty-seven.”

  A different young nun came into the room and handed Mother Helena a folded and stained parchment. She nodded her thanks and handed the missive to Drew. “Will you take it to her?”

  “May I read it?” He would do so in any case, but asking permission was polite.

  “You will read it no matter what I say,” the nun chided. “Go on, then.”

  Drew felt his face flushing. He focused his attention on the letter, trying to think of how Eryn would feel reading it—that would determine whether or not he kept his word to give it to her.

  My dearest, darling Rolf ~

  It is my sincerest prayer that this letter finds you. My heart is with you always, and my prayers for your health and safety are unceasing. And now I must tell you that I am carrying your child.

  The babe will be born at Christmastime. Please come back to me, Rolf. We can marry and raise our child in Norway—at your home in Arendal.

  I am waiting out my confinement in Bedford, about eighty miles north of London. I had to leave London. I cannot be found in my condition, or I will be sent away from court. I am supporting myself here by embroidering hangings and clothing, which I sell in the Elstow Abbey Market.

  If the child comes before you are able to return to me, I will trust the infant into the nuns’ care at Elstow Abbey here in Bedford and return to the court in London where I will await your arrival.

  Please come to me, my love. You are my life.

  Your own Annais

  August 1327

  Drew stared at the parchment. Brown splotches and smudges made some of the words hard to see. He looked up into Mother Helena’s kindly brown eyes.

  “Is this blood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  “Rolf’s.”

  Drew shook his head. Mother wasn’t making this interview easy. “How do ye ken?”

  “The letter was delivered to the Abbey by a soldier who knew Rolf. Rolf died in the crusades in Italy and the soldier found the letter inside Rolf’s tunic. Close to his heart.”

  Drew made a mental note to tell that bit to Eryn, whether she read the letter or not.

  Mother Helena shrugged. “That soldier carried the letter with him for a long time. He had no way to find Eryn’s mother, of course, so he returned the letter to the nunnery.”

  “I see…” Drew fingered the letter and stared at the bloodstains.

  “The man asked us to pray for him and absolve him of his sins, using his return of the letter as a sort of penance. He said he read the letter over and over through the years. Then he offered to marry Annais and raise Rolf’s daughter.” Mother sipped her wine and shook her head. “He said he carried it through five winters before he was able to come.”

  Drew met her gaze. “So Rolf died afore he could return, even if it was his choice to do so?”

  “So it appears.”

  Drew refolded the letter and tucked it inside his tunic. “And what of Annais?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know. We never heard from her again. So we could not tell him anything.”

  “Did ye try to find her?” he pressed.

  The nun gave him a condescending look. “My son, we are about the Lord’s work. If Annais wanted to see her daughter, she could have easily done so.”

  That part, Eryn would never hear. Not from him, anyway. “Did she leave nothing behind for her daughter?”

  Mother Helena nodded. “She gave us the babe wrapped in a most unusual blanket. We sent that with Eryndal when she left us.”

  Drew nodded. “Thank you, Mother Helena. Ye have been most generous to this unworthy knight.”

  A laugh burst from the woman. She waggled a finger at him. “False humility, my son, is a grievous sin.”
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  Drew reread the letter a dozen times—and half of those times aloud to Kennan—as they rode south away from Bedford and Elstow Abbey, and toward London. He was stunned by the information he gleaned and the ramifications therein.

  Eryn was a bastard for certain, and an orphan most likely.

  She had no right to call herself ‘Lady Bell’ nor to assume the position and power such a role entailed.

  She signed away property that was not hers to give, even if such an act was legal, which it was not.

  She had broken enough laws to be charged with treason time and again.

  And her future rested in what he said to King David.

  “No wonder she turned away from me,” he mused. His breath hung in the damp, gray day. “Now what shall I do?”

  “Will ye look for any of her kin?” Kennan asked.

  Drew shot the vassal a look, realizing he had spoken the question aloud. “An interesting idea, that.”

  Kennan looked pleased with himself. “The father’s dead, but ye do no’ ken of the mother, aye?”

  Drew rode in silence for a while. If he returned to Castleton with solid information about Eryn’s parents, that might soften whatever else he had to tell her.

  Aye, this might do.

  “We shall reach London on the morrow. Before I meet with David, I want ye to go to the English court and see what ye can find out about this Annais Smythe,” Drew instructed. “She’ll have been an embroiderer and weaver there as well, I imagine. Use your natural charms on the ladies to ferret out anything ye are able to.”

  Kennan blushed and grinned. “Aye, my lord. And ye?”

  “I shall go to the docks and find a braw sailor to swiftly carry a letter to Norway and back.” Drew shifted in his saddle. “All I’ve got are ‘Rolf’ and ‘Arendal’—but that’s a start.”

  January 14, 1355

  London, England

  Drew’s missive wasn’t overlong, and simply stated the facts: A letter addressed to a deceased soldier named Rolf from Arendal was recently discovered, informing him that he had fathered a child in London in 1327. That child, a daughter, was now searching for her relatives.