by Diana Cosby
That the lad should fear someone this much infuriated him. “Who do you know that you are afraid of?” Nicholas asked in soft demand.
“Please,” Thomas whispered, his gaze slanting briefly toward the powerful men seated at the table. “Let me serve you and be gone.”
The desperation laced within the soft-spoken plea convinced Nicholas to end the subject—for now. With the volatility of the officials gathered around the table, he needed his wits about him. After the meeting was another matter. Nicholas waved his squire away, but searched for recognition in any man’s face as Thomas passed.
Naught.
Frustrated, he sat back, strummed his fingers upon the edge of the table. Secrets, he despised them. With a grimace, he lifted his cup and took a long draught. For the moment he would celebrate his achievement, but on the morrow Thomas’s secrets would end.
“And the whoreson shall live no more,” Nicholas’s rich voice sang out in a deep, hearty bass, but in a key that would surely rival a wounded bear.
The fire in the hearth popped cheerfully, warming his immense chamber as Elizabet rolled her eyes at his drunken rendition of an English fighting song.
The bells of Matins pealed.
She glanced out the window. Stars glittered in the sky, but soon streaks of dawn would come. Regardless of the late hour, after she’d helped Nicholas stumble into the room, he had demanded a bath.
She scrubbed the damp linen on the bar of soap until it formed a thick lather as she eyed the castellan propped in the wooden tub with frustrated tolerance. Even drunk, why did he have to be so charming?
Nicholas kicked back and plunged into the next chorus with fervor, and water sloshed over the sides of the wooden tub to join a growing pool.
He opened his mouth, but before he sang another word, she clamped her washrag over his mouth, stifling the next off-key verse.
“Lad,” he sputtered as he shoved away the offending linen. “ ’Tis no way to . . . I say ’tis no way to treat your kniiiight!” He shot her a fierce frown, but the slurred sentence punctuated by the hiccup stole the impact of his inebriated threat.
The smile she’d fought to suppress as she’d guided him up to his chamber this night stole to her lips. He was incorrigible, but in an enchanting manner. She sighed and again began to scrub his broad shoulders hewn by countless battles. How could she nae be charmed by this fierce warrior when he wallowed in such a defenseless drunken state?
He lolled his head back and closed his eyes as she continued to scrub, giving her ample opportunity to view him at leisure.
Running the soaped cloth over his well-muscled chest sheathed in a mass of silken curls, she braved sliding it down into the lukewarm water to wash his taut, flat belly. Honed muscle rippled beneath her touch, and excitement stole through her. How would it feel to be loved by this man, for his hands to skim over her flesh in a soft caress?
At her wayward thoughts, guilt filled her. She glanced up at Nicholas.
His eyes remained closed, and he lay limp against the wooden frame. On a mumble, a hearty snore fell from his lips.
Elizabet gave a soft laugh. So much for him noticing her interest. The warm fragrance of soapy water steamed between them as she knelt and rested her arms on the side of the tub.
Golden rays of candlelight flickered over his face in a soft caress, easing the hard lines.
How easy ’twould be to reach out and ruffle his sodden hair, to trace her fingers over his jaw, or to lean forward and steal a kiss.
Struggling to deal with all this man made her feel, she shoved to her feet. Why couldna he be the callous Englishman she’d expected? This position as his squire was temporary. She was a fool to think it could lead to anything more.
Nicholas would be furious to learn his squire was nae a deprived lad that life had treated with a callous hand, but a woman of stature who had used his empathy for her own goals. Nay, he must never find out. Such a discovery would put her life in jeopardy, worse it would end her chance of freeing her brother and people.
He gave a soft snore.
For the heartache he caused her, ’twould serve him well if she left him in the tub overnight. She grimaced. Like it or nae, at this moment he needed her. And like it or nae, she needed him as well.
Resigned to her task, she moved behind his head and worked her hands under his arms. His rich scent of male and soap teased her, and desire stormed her senses. Blast it! “Up you drunken beast.”
He mumbled something about his sword as he rose an inch in her arms.
She tugged. He was as heavy as weighted armor! She let go.
With a splash, Nicholas slid back into the tub and gave a low snore.
With the front of her tunic soaked, she stood, placed her hands on her hips. If the situation wasna so hopeless, ’twould be funny. Should she go to the great hall and fetch his men to help her? Nay, after the meeting that had turned into a drinking fest, she would be hard-pressed to find a man less drunk than the castellan.
Well, the sodden beast would just have to help. She nudged his shoulder none too gently. “Wake up.”
“Is my horse readied?” Nicholas slurred.
She’d give him a horse—a clonk over his head with the blasted shoe was more like it. “ ’Tis time to go to bed.” She gave him another nudge. “Get up. I canna lift you myself.”
A sensual grin slid to lips. “Anicia?”
Jealousy sliced Elizabet, and she released him. What had she expected? She’d nae guarded her speech, and he’d heard a woman’s voice. Her spirit sagged further. Who was Anicia? A friend? More like his mistress, a woman who’d tasted his lovemaking many times over.
“Where is my bloody sword?” Nicholas grumbled.
Disgusted by her own regret, she caught his shoulders and shook him hard. “Get up, Sir Nicholas. ’Tis late and you need to seek your bed.”
His eyes flicked open. “To bed?” He wrinkled his brow then searched the chamber with a sluggish look. “Anicia?”
Her throat tightened. “Nay,” she replied, deepening her voice. “ ’Tis Thomas, your squire. You are dreaming.” She tugged on his arm. “To your feet now. I canna carry you alone.”
“Ah, Thomas lad.” With her help, Nicholas struggled to his feet. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as he fought for balance.
As he stepped out, Elizabet tightened her grip, steadying him as best as she could. Only by the grace of God did she aid him from the tub without him taking them both to the floor. The moment of victory faded when water streamed down her tunic as his naked body pressed against hers.
“Sir Nicholas, I—”
“No more rambling lad. To bed!”
The bed. She would nae think of that! Too aware of him, she tried to focus on her task and ignore the intimate press of his muscled body against hers. Well into his cups as he was, she doubted the castellan could even see the bed much less distinguish that she was nae a he.
A mixture of pleas and tugs brought him to the edge of his bed. Relieved to be able to escape his nearness, she released him and made to move away; but he swayed then floundered.
Flailing, he reached out and caught her shoulders.
“Nicholas—” Elizabet lost her balance and tumbled onto the mattress.
With a grunt, he landed on top.
Her breath left her in a rush. ’Twas a blasted plot! “Get off of me, you oaf.” She shoved against his massive chest thick with water-slicked hair, trying to ignore how his body fit perfectly against hers and how his lips hovered but a breath away. “Nicholas!”
He didna budge.
Elizabet closed her eyes as his honed curves pressed against her with sensual heat. A fine mess! She tried to pry him off.
At her shove, Nicholas’s eyes opened. Confusion filled his gaze as he stared at her. Then, passion darkened his eyes to a deep smoky gray and he grew hard.
Panic assaulted her as her body answered with a burst of need.
His gaze shifted to her lips.
Her body burned. How she wanted to kiss him. Mary, Mother of God, what was she thinking! “Nicholas!” Her words came out in a panicked rush as her body pulsed with desire.
A low, sultry laugh filled with intimate promise seduced her further. “Do not be afraid.” He lowered his head. “’Twill be good, I promise.”
And that was what she was afraid of. “Nich—”
His mouth muffled her plea as he captured her lips, silencing any further protest. She tried to resist, but his taste, the softness of his assault, and her own undeniable hunger stripped away further protest. And why nae enjoy this moment? He would be none the wiser, and this would be her only chance to ever get close to him as a woman.
With her conscience appeased, Elizabet fell into his kiss. Like a hot summer day he warmed her, teasing her with the beauty of it all. He nibbled her lower lip. On a moan he slid his tongue into her mouth.
As if the most natural response, she answered, tasting, teasing, giving back and demanding more. A low groan swirled deep in his throat as her body spun out of control.
His hands captured her face with infinite tenderness as he deepened the kiss.
“Nicholas,” she murmured, lost to sensations.
He pressed kisses on her cheek, along the curve of her jaw, then worked at a slow, torturous pace down the column of her throat, halting every bit to glide his tongue across her sensitive flesh in a destroying assault. With a groan of appreciation, his hand cupped her breast, his finger stroking her nipple until it grew taut.
Though she’d never lain with a man, any shame fled at the rightness of the moment. “Nicholas.”
His mouth curved in a lopsided grin, and he continued his sweet torment until she could only feel, respond to the waves of pleasure coursing through her. That he shifted, and she nay longer lay pinned beneath him, mattered little. All she could do was experience, want, beg for more.
“Nicholas, please . . .”
His hand slid down to her most private place and stroked her slick folds with mind-teasing expertise. “In time, Anicia.”
She froze. Humiliation engulfed her and Elizabet rolled away and scrambled to her feet. What had she been thinking? Nay, she hadna a thought in her mind except being with him! Her body aching with need, she stared down at Nicholas.
He reached out for her, and confusion slid into his gaze. Then his lids flickered twice before they finally closed. He sighed a quiet, lonely sound and began to snore.
Tears burned her eyes as she made her way to her pallet, missing his touch, and shamefully, wanting him still. She’d been a fool to dare even a simple kiss. A rough laugh fell from her lips. Naught about that kiss had been simple.
Regardless of how much she wanted him, he was English, an enemy who held her brother within his dungeon, and a man she must keep at a distance.
CHAPTER 8
A dagger plunged through his skull. Nay, ’twas more like a mace. As his head pounded and nausea wrenched in his gut, with great care he brought the back of his hand to rest over his brow.
What a pathetic state.
On a groan, he drew in a slow breath, struggling for the next. The distant shrill of a morning bird shattered through the wash of pain.
God’s teeth!
Nicholas braved opening one eye, then the other. Firelight flickered over the room in a soft glow. Through the window, streaks of dawn caressed the sky, silver through gray, orange through black; but the throb of pain obliterated the beauty before him. He closed his eyes willing the hours, like his misery, to flee.
“Would you care for water?” Thomas asked, his voice a beacon in this storm of misery.
“My dagger,” he forced out, wincing at the cost. ’Twould be the only way to end this agony.
“I . . . Your dagger?”
If not for the pain the gesture would bring, he would have smiled at his squire’s confusion. “Fetch me the water.” His whispered words slammed through his head as his mind remained under siege.
The soft pad of footsteps moved away.
Blast it, but he was too old to endure this living hell. He opened his eyes and sat up. The room spun. Even the quiet glide of the sheets against his skin hurt.
As Thomas approached, he stole a covert glance toward him then dropped his inquiring gaze, but not before Nicholas caught the concern etched there.
His squire held out the wooden cup.
“My thanks.” Nicholas curled the mug in his hands like a lifeline, then downed the contents. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, igniting a fresh wave of pain to assault his head. He tossed the cup; it bounced on the floor with a mind-screaming clatter. “God’s teeth, what was in there?”
With an appraising glance, his squire retrieved the cup, clutched it to his stomach. “Herbs to aid thee.”
Nicholas laid his palm over his brow and willed the pain away. “Herbs?”
“Iceland moss for your stomach and feverfew for your aches.” Thomas refilled the mug and held it before him. “This time ’tis only water.”
Nicholas debated accepting the brew, but the bitter aftertaste in his throat won over. He emptied the cup, thankful for the cool slide, then returned it to his squire.
The lad walked to a corner table where two small leather bags sat. Without looking back, he cinched the first sack then stowed the cup inside a nearby pack.
Unsure if he should be grateful to be so accurately read, he studied him for a moment. “You have done this before?”
Thomas shrugged but didn’t turn. “I do what is necessary.”
“And am I necessary?” Each word fell out with a measured calm. Whatever existed between them was a hell of a lot more than necessary. He wanted his squire’s respect, and to make a difference in his life.
Thomas’s fingers fumbled as he tied off the second sack. Once secure, he stowed the pouch. “I . . .”
Why was getting answers from him like pulling an ox from the mud? “Face me when you speak to me!” Pain rushed him with merciless force. Nicholas cradled his head in his hands. If he lived through this he would never imbibe to such limits again.
With a hesitant move, his squire turned. Firelight fluttered across his face, haunting his eyes and the apprehension swirling within.
Silence, broken only by the crackle of flames and the hush of the soft breeze, filled the chamber. Tension thrummed through Nicholas, matching the throb in his head. “Answer my question.”
Regret slid through Thomas’s gaze before he could shield the emotion. “By taking me on as your squire you have offered me hope when I had little.”
He hesitated, unsure if his squire had answered the question. Rubbing his temple, Nicholas owed his confusion to the lingering haze of ale.
The meeting with the Wardens of the Western Marches last eve came to mind and Thomas’s hesitancy when around the powerful Scots, along with his resolve to find answers to his questions as well. “Which man did you know last eve?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “You will be wanting something to eat.”
Blast it. “Do you think I would let anyone harm you?”
His squire hesitated. “Nay.”
“Then why do you evade my questions, give me half-answers, or keep the truth from me at every turn?”
“I think you are a fair man.”
Then he understood the lad’s reserve, and had missed the obvious from the start. “And you did not want me to be fair, did you?”
Flames curled and drifted up in the hearth. Thomas released a slow, deep breath, then shook his head. “Nay.” His hands clenched tight. “And you have no right to be!”
“Why?”
“Because you are English,” he said, his voice raising a pitch with frantic desperation. “Because the Sassenach take without care and leave naught but devastation.” Thomas’s breath hitched. “And because ’twould be easier that way.” His voice broke. “Then I could hate you.”
He was stunned by the ferocity of his squire’s charge, and his anger dissolved. Compassion filled Nichol
as. Pain like this took years to foster. What had Thomas seen, experienced? He shuddered to think. “Who hurt you?”
Expression guarded, his squire took a step back. “This isna about hurt.”
“Is it not?” A residual pounding pulsed in his head as Nicholas grabbed his braies and jerked them on. He pushed to his feet, ignoring his body’s protests. “Last night when you served the ale, ’twas all you could do to avoid the men around my table.”
The lad swallowed hard.
Nicholas stepped closer. “Why?”
“Please do nae do this.”
His squire’s harsh whisper halted Nicholas, but the flash of tears had him taking another step forward. To hell with propriety. He embraced Thomas and gave in to his own need to offer succor, to be there for the lad when it appeared everyone else had walked away.
The lad struggled in his arms, then his slender frame shuddered and he sagged against him.
Hot tears spilled against Nicholas’s chest, but he held him close, understanding all too well the need for release, to empty oneself of the shame and humiliation, and having someone there who cared enough to make a difference.
After his father’s death, he’d dealt with the sadness, but his legacy of shame as well. Now, with Thomas in his arms falling apart, the old hurt spiraled through him, the pain of abandonment, and the knowledge that his father was a coward.
Nicholas closed his eyes, stunned by the roll of emotion.
Like a warm caress, Thomas’s sobs faded into tattered breaths upon his skin.
A sense of peace invaded Nicholas as he held his squire, as if a need fulfilled. His throat tightened, caught by the power of emotion rushing him, by the rightness of it, of wanting the moment to go on forever.
The hazy image of a woman entwined in his arms last night confused him. The erotic sensations even more. Flashes of heat, bodies wrapped in an intimate press, and the taste of her kiss teased him. Nicholas struggled to form a clear image of the woman’s face.
Failed.
The bells of Prime tolled. A guard yelled to another. Laughter, then muffled voices, invaded the silence.
Thomas lay nestled within the circle of his arms, relaxed against his half-naked frame; and God help him, it felt so right. Staggered by the unnatural course of his thoughts, Nicholas caught the lad by his shoulders and held him away. He was going mad. There was no other answer.
