A Knight's Desire--World of de Wolfe Pack

by Catherine Kean

  There was another, earthier smell, too: a distinctly masculine scent.

  She must be in the solar at Wallensford Keep. Surely, though, she’d remember at least something of her wedding night with Edric? She’d overheard several maids gossiping about how pleasurable ’twas to couple with men, especially those with lusty appetites and experience in the bed chamber, but Rosetta certainly didn’t recall any moments of glorious pleasure.

  The last things she remembered were being chased by the rider and falling in the alley—

  Alarm raced through her. She opened her eyes to see rough-hewn beams overhead. ’Twas not a ceiling she recognized.

  “’Tis good to see you awake, milady. How are you feeling?”

  Turning her head on the pillow, Rosetta found a chestnut-haired young woman sitting in a carved oak chair pushed up to the bedside. Pain shot through Rosetta’s head, and she winced, while fighting the sickening lurch of her stomach.

  Her smile kind and encouraging, the woman rose. “I will tell his lordship. He wanted to know the moment you woke.”

  “His lordship?” Rosetta hoped that she meant Edric, or her father, or one of her uncles who could tell her how she’d come to be in this place. Closing her eyes while she rubbed her forehead, she said, “Please. Where—?”

  A click told her the woman had hurried out the door.

  Rosetta sighed, for she could barely think past the hammering in her skull, but she must determine what had happened since she’d fallen and lost consciousness. Mayhap seeing more of the chamber would prod her memories and help answer some of her questions.

  Slowly, carefully, she eased herself up to sitting. As the bedding fell to her lap, she realized she wore only a linen chemise. Judging by the coarse weave of the fabric and lack of embroidery, ’twas not one of her own.

  Rosetta glanced about the chamber, her gaze skimming from the iron-bound wooden door across from the bed to the long oak trestle table set with candles and other items that was pushed against the opposite wall. A fire burned in the hearth, and a thick Eastern-style rug covered the floorboards. Two linen chests rested against the right wall, and oak tables, also set with candles, flanked each side of the bed. She most certainly had never been in this chamber before, and all of the furnishings were unfamiliar.

  Panic rose, forming a crushing tightness in her breast, but fretting would solve naught. She must remain strong and figure out what was going on.

  While she didn’t see her wedding garments and shoes in the room, at least she hadn’t lost her pearl and emerald betrothal ring, which glinted on her left hand. Was her circlet still lying with her veil in the muddy alley? Edric would be upset if she had lost his costly gift.

  Panic threatened to well again, but she fought for calm. Her circlet could well be with her garments and shoes, which had been handed over to servants to be cleaned. The items had, after all, been thoroughly filthy. Her skin was clean, and so was her hair, falling loose about her shoulders, which meant someone had washed off the filth from the alley. Had the young woman who’d sat beside the bed done so?

  When she returned, Rosetta must ask her what had happened to her belongings. Moreover, Rosetta dearly wanted to know the name of this place where she’d been brought.

  The chamber door swung inward.

  “You are back,” Rosetta said. “Thank g—” The rest of her words froze in her mouth.

  A man walked through the doorway. A tall, well-muscled warrior dressed all in black, from his belted tunic to his woolen hose and knee-high black boots: the rider from Clipston.

  As he entered, he set an object down on the trestle table: her circlet.

  She glanced back up at him, and her gaze riveted to his face. Wavy, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders and framed a visage bronzed by the sun. ’Twas a handsome face, apart from the puckered red scar that slashed across his forehead and spliced downward through his left eyebrow. The wound had very nearly taken his eye.

  This was the man from her dream.

  She knew, without the slightest doubt, that he was once the Ash she had loved.

  Years ago, Rosetta had memorized every part of his beautiful face with her fingers and lips. She’d offered him her heart, her soul, without the slightest reservation. She’d loved him with a passion that had nigh consumed her, and in memory of what they had shared, a cherished part of who she was would always belong to him.

  That he had been so disfigured made her want to weep. She wouldn’t, though. Not in front of this man, this stranger, whose aura of sheer, unbridled boldness made her clutch the bedding tightly to her bosom.

  Her gaze locked with eyes the hue of polished oak.

  “Ash,” she whispered.

  ***

  He held Rosetta’s stare, watched as color spread across her face and down the smooth column of her throat. He followed the redness as far as he could, but nowhere near as far as he wanted. Her hands were pinning the blankets to her chest.

  He’d always loved the way she blushed. Her skin would go from a pale cream to the pink of a wild rose. Her blushing always made her blue eyes look exceptionally bright. Years ago, he’d struggled to describe the exact color of her eyes, but after going on Crusade, he knew: They were the hue of the Mediterranean Sea.

  Turning slightly, he pushed the solar door closed. It shut with a muffled thud, and she flinched. While he understood her nervous reaction, it still made his heart twist in his chest.

  Ash crossed to the side of the bed, his footfalls loud on the planks in the quiet room. Her eyes widened, disquiet glimmering in their depths before she gathered her emotions and cool determination replaced all trace of unease.

  He halted beside the bed, the carved chair within arm’s reach. His gloved hands curled as she continued to hold his gaze. He had to admire her courage; most women couldn’t bear to look at him with his ugly scar. Truth be told, he could barely stand to see his own reflection.

  Silence persisted, each passing moment making the air between them thicker, heavier with the weight of past memories. He indulged his ravenous curiosity, allowed his gaze to wander over her, to savor what naked skin he could see and to acknowledge the beautiful woman she’d become. His gaze snagged on the ring on her left hand—a gaudy ornament for a woman with such delicate hands—and then moved on.

  Her tresses were still the color of pure gold limned by sunshine. How keenly he remembered the silken glide of her hair as he’d plunged his hands into it to hold her head still for his kiss. How easily he recalled the taste of her lips, as sweet and ripe as the blackberries they’d picked together and feasted on while lying on a blanket down by the creek on her father’s lands. How desperately Ash wanted to feel again the soft warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, but that pleasure was forever denied to him now; he never removed his gloves, except when he was alone. Most of the time, not even then.

  “Why do I remember you…as if from a dream?” she finally asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “A good dream?” He’d secretly hoped that she would still be dreaming about him after all these years. Mayhap she’d be more receptive to what he had to reveal to her than he’d expected.

  Rosetta frowned. “We were on a horse—”

  “Ah. You woke during our ride here, not long after we left Clipston. When you saw me—rather, saw my scar—you fainted.”

  She looked down at the bedding; she clearly didn’t like that she had swooned. “Why does your voice sound different?”

  “My throat was damaged after I was wounded in the East.”

  She was clearly curious about what had befallen him, but her frosty resolve returned. “What do you want, Ash?”

  A brittle laugh broke from him. “That is all you have to say to me, after not seeing me for years?”

  Her lips flattened, a clear attempt to stop them from trembling. “What else would I say? You stopped my wedding. There must be a reason why you were so exceedingly bold. If not, I warn you, my father and Edric will—”


  “There is a very good reason. Indeed, more than one.”

  She studied him warily.

  “I will tell you all, but not just yet.”

  An indignant huff broke from her. “Why must you be so secretive? Why bother to ride back into my life today? You have had weeks to see me or get in touch with me if you wanted. When I heard you had returned to England, I wrote to you. Did you not get my letters? You never replied.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He’d received her letters. They were carefully stowed in one of his linen chests, just a few steps away, but a great many urgent matters had demanded his time and focus once he’d landed on English soil. He’d spent most of the past weeks in London, or traveling to meet with contacts recommended by the crown, or at his late brother’s castle, not here at Damsley Keep. Even if he had found a moment to write to her, he had trouble holding a quill now; his handwriting was nigh illegible.

  “You never even visited Millenstowe Keep,” she pressed.

  “I had other responsibilities.” Including the one he’d send out to the tiltyards to practice his archery.

  “After refusing to see or speak to me for years, you then attempt to kidnap me—”

  “Nay, I did not attempt. I did kidnap you, Briar Rose.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Do not call me that.”

  “What? Briar Rose?”

  Anguish flickered across her fine-boned features before her expression once again darkened with barely repressed anger. “Do not mock me.”

  “I am not—”

  “You are. You know what that endearment once meant to me.”

  Regret pierced the iron shield around his heart. The endearment had been precious to him, too. He crushed the inconvenient emotion.

  “Where have you brought me?” she demanded. “Am I at Damsley Keep?”

  “You are.”

  Her eyes flashed. “A fortress ceded to you by the King, if I remember correctly.”

  “Aye.”

  “A reward for all of your honorable victories in battle while on Crusade.”

  Ignoring the bite in her voice, Ash sat in the chair; it creaked as he stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. She was waiting for him to reply, and he let her wait while his gaze skimmed up the slender, bare length of her arm to her face. “This castle was indeed a reward—”

  “And yet, you are willing to risk the crown’s disfavor by abducting the intended of one of your peers, on the day of her wedding no less?”

  Risk the King’s disfavor? Laughter welled in Ash’s throat, but he swallowed it down. What he did for King Richard wasn’t to be discussed with anyone except those trusted few within the crown council in London, as well as several other men the King had told Ash he could rely upon when needed.

  Ash crossed his arms, the indolent posture drawing her gaze to his chest before she swiftly looked away. “Well?” Rosetta said.

  “I am not concerned about reprisal from the King.”

  Shock registered in her eyes. “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Because…”

  “Because? ’Tis all you can say?”

  He smiled, a wry tilt of his mouth. “’Tis all I care to say.”

  Rosetta shook her head. She looked drawn and weary, and with a pang of concern, he reminded himself to have her head wound examined again. Earlier, while she’d slept, the castle healer had found a lump on the right side of head and bruises on her right arm and hip, but she had assured Ash that Rosetta would be all right after a good rest. He truly hoped so.

  Rosetta winced as she rubbed her brow. “Edric will find out what you have done—”

  Edric. His lip curling, Ash growled, “I expect so.”

  “He will bring his men-at-arms to your castle gates. Is that what you want? To confront Edric in battle?”

  Rage kindled anew in Ash’s veins. Confront wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what he wanted to do to the bastard.

  “He was your best friend!” she whispered.

  “Was.”

  Her gaze flickered, a subtle acknowledgement of his use of the past tense. “Whatever happened between you, Ash, I do not understand how you could hurt him in this way. Why kidnap me right before our wedding? Why would you—?”

  Ash lowered his arms and slowly straightened. “As I said, I will tell you all, but not just yet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Ash—”

  “Try and get some rest. When you are feeling better, we will talk again.”

  “Rest?” She snorted as if he’d suggested the impossible. “If you cannot, or will not, tell me why I am here, then I ask that you return me to Millenstowe Keep.”

  He laughed, a rough sound.

  “Immediately,” she added firmly.

  He rose, the chair screeching back across the planks. His Briar Rose had grown thorns since he’d last seen her; hell, but he rather liked her angry and prickly. How he longed to kiss her, right here, right now. Instead, with the soft creak of leather, he clenched his hands into fists.

  “If you return me to Millenstowe Keep,” she said, as though choosing her words with care, “I am sure, once you have explained your reasons for what you did to my father and Edric, that—”

  “You will remain here.”

  She gasped. “I do not want to stay here.”

  “Nevertheless, you will.”

  Her throat moved with a hard swallow. “You will hold me prisoner?”

  “If I must.”

  “In this solar? ’Tis your private chamber, is it not?”

  “’Tis.”

  Her shortened breaths rasped between her lips. “I will not stay here. I will find a way to leave.”

  He didn’t doubt she’d try, but this was his castle, and all of the folk within its walls were beholden to him. “Then, regrettably, I will do what I must to stop you.”

  “Regrettably?” Her voice sounded shrill. “Are you even capable of regret?”

  The words struck like the lash of a whip. His anger flared, swift and scorching. “You have no idea what I am capable of.”

  She stared at him, her expression full of anger, yet also remorse. “What in God’s name has happened to you, Ash?” she whispered. “What kind of man have you become?”

  ***

  As Ash’s expression darkened with fury, Rosetta tightened her grip on the bedding. The young lord she’d loved had changed so much. Years ago, she’d adored his lop-sided smile that caused a dimple to form in his right cheek; the mischief always twinkling in his eyes; his gentleness toward all folk and animals.

  While she resented the arrogant way Ash had spoken to her, she also longed to know what circumstances had molded him into the toughened warrior he was now, because whatever had happened to him had been significant.

  She’d heard that some knights who returned from Crusade never forgot the horrors of war. Ash had not only fought Saracens, but had been badly scarred, his features permanently altered. She couldn’t imagine what that must be like, to be reminded every day, through one’s own reflection, of battle, bloodshed, and lives lost.

  “The kind of man I have become,” Ash repeated, each word ground out like a piece of stone.

  “You are not the lord I knew,” she said.

  “Nor should I be, after what I have experienced.”

  Her attention instinctively shifted to his scar. Words crowded up inside her, demanding to be released. Mayhap if she asked about his injury, she could reach him emotionally. If she could somehow revive their common bond, she could convince him to let her go.

  She must try. If only she could think past her worsening headache—

  “Your head,” Ash said. “How does it feel now?”

  Defiance stirred within her, urging her to insist that she was perfectly fine. Yet, he’d known her well enough years ago to be able to tell when she was lying—and he no doubt would still be able to tell. “’Tis pounding like a drum,” she admitted.

  “You have a nasty bump from your
fall, as well as some bruises. There was no bleeding , though. The healer said—”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Ash crossed to it and opened it.

  The chestnut-haired young woman outside curtsied. “Milord, you have a visitor. He is waiting in the great hall.”

  “Thank you, Herta.” Ash motioned for her to enter the solar, and she quickly brushed past him.

  Rosetta met Ash’s gaze once again. “You were speaking of the healer?”

  “I will consult her and see what more we can do for your injuries,” he said. “Meanwhile, if there is aught else that you need, just ask Herta.”

  “Well, since I may ask, I would like to move into another room. My staying in the lord’s solar is rather…” Rosetta’s face warmed. “Inappropriate.”

  “Milord,” Herta said quickly, “I could—”

  He raised his hand, halting her. “Milady, I am surprised you would complain. I have given you the finest bed in the keep.”

  “That is not—”

  “I vow you are comfortable enough here in the solar.”

  Comfortable enough? Comfort was not at all the issue. She was betrothed to another man!

  Glowering, Rosetta said, “May I ask for Herta to return me to Millenstowe Keep, then? I vow I would be most comfortable there, and my throbbing head would feel much better.”

  Ash chuckled, the barest hint of genuine mirth in his voice. “I had forgotten how stubborn you can be. The answer, though, is still nay.”

  Chapter Three

  Seated in a chair facing the fire in the great hall, Ash turned the thin gold coin in his fingers. The artifact had been discovered at dawn that morning. When the missive with word of the find had reached Ash, he’d immediately understood the significance—and had vowed ’twas yet another good reason for him to stop Rosetta’s wedding.

  The gold gleamed in the fire glow. The image of a man’s head, surrounded by ancient lettering, marked one side of the coin; a central flower shape and more lettering was on the other.