by Diana Cosby
Tears welled in her eyes. “I will be crying again in a minute.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “And ’twill nae be my doing. I am going for another cup of wine.” Giric strode off.
Lachllan cleared his throat. “I think he will be needing company.”
She smiled as the steward caught up to Giric, slapped his hand on her brother’s back, then whispered something in his ear. No doubt her brother would rebuild Wolfhaven Castle to its previous grandeur.
Hands stole up to cup her shoulders. She shuddered with anticipation, knowing his touch before she even looked behind her.
“I heard you were missing me,” Nicholas murmured as his lips playfully nipped her neck.
She arched to allow him better access. “Mayhap.” Every nerve tingled in anticipation for the upcoming night.
He turned her slowly as his mouth grazed up her throat, nipping along her jaw, then edging along her ear. “I am planning on seducing you.”
At his rough whisper thick with promise she shivered.
“And, planning on touching you . . . everywhere.”
She moaned with pleasure as he claimed her mouth, hot and hard.
Longing ripped through Nicholas as he drew away, staring at her mouth swollen with his kisses, tempting him back for more. “Come away with me, Elizabet. I am wanting to make love with my wife, and I find my patience is at an end.” The warm flush creeping up her cheeks made his body ache for her.
Her eyes shifted to their guests filling the great room, most well into their cups. “ ’Twould be rude to leave. ’Twould be . . .” Her breath hitched. “Nicholas, I canna think when you are staring at me that way.”
“I am not wanting you to think.” He linked their fingers together. With a glance toward the merrymakers, he drew her with him. In seconds they’d reached the coolness of the turret. “We made it.”
She laughed. “I feel like a child sneaking sweetmeats.”
“Mmmmm,” he said. “And you definitely taste more delicious.”
“They are gone!” An indignant shout roared from the great hall.
“Run!” Nicholas pulled Elizabet with him as they raced up the stairs.
“I see ’em!” a sodden voice called out.
The stairwell buzzed with the echoes of the exuberant crowd, and Elizabet laughed as she kept pace. “They are gaining on us!”
Nicholas slammed the door shut seconds before the drunken crowd topped the steps. The clamor and shouts increased as he slid the wooden bar into place.
“They will give up and go back,” he said with much more bravado than he felt.
She chuckled. “They are Scots out there as well, nae just weak-willed Englishmen.”
“Weak-willed is it?” he challenged, backing her against the wall, and trapping her with his body. The sheer delight that jumped in her eyes had him burning with need.
Elizabet squealed as the first of the rabble-rousers pounded on the other side of the oak door.
“Open up!” a deep voice demanded. “We have a right to see the bride.”
Nicholas held her gaze, wanting to see the thrill, the excitement of every moment. “You have seen her all that you will see her this night!”
Her throaty laugh melded with the thick drunken outrage. “Oh, you are a brave one, you are.”
He shot her a wink. “Aye.”
“He is keeping her,” a deep male voice yelled.
A rush of disgruntled shouts whipped through the crowd. For the next several minutes the mob laid siege to their door. It rattled, trembled, and groaned beneath the assault.
“We will replenish ourselves with drink and return!” a drunken voice boomed over the lot.
Yells of agreement fragmented into one another. Slowly the procession faded from outside the door.
The play of laughter and knowing in her gaze had Nicholas’s body hardening. “About this weak-willed Englishman you were speaking of?”
Her eyes widened with feigned confusion. “And who would be spouting such drivel?”
The fresh scent of heather and woman seduced his senses as he leaned closer to nuzzle her neck. She shivered as he tasted her silky flesh. “Who indeed.” Nicholas slid his hands up her arms, cupping her face, grazing his lips against hers. “I think they have left.”
“For a time,” she said in a breathy reply, her eyes a bit desperate as they searched his.
He loosened a tie on her gown, enjoying watching the humor fade to raw need. “I am going to make love to you, Elizabet.” He undid another tie and pushed the fabric back to expose her shoulder. Candlelight caressed her skin with a golden flush, flickered across the seductive swell of her breasts. “Here. Now.”
“I—Oh.” She glanced back toward the bed.
Desire seared him. “There too.” He slid his hand under the soft fabric to cup her breast, rubbing his thumb over the proud nub.
Emerald eyes darkened to liquid pools. She nodded as her tongue peeked out to sweep over her lips. “I would be liking that.”
Maybe it was her throaty reply that all but drove him to his knees, or her tiny shivers at his touch. At the moment he couldn’t say which or care. She moved him as no woman had—ever.
Since his arrival, Elizabet had managed to turn his life upside down, often in the most unexpected ways. Yet in the end, through her love, determination, and compassion, he’d learned more than he’d ever expected. Forgiveness for his father, acceptance of Dougal’s death, then she’d shown him love.
He trembled at her taste, savoring every moment, every touch. This woman—magnificent in her beauty, fierce in her love—had guided him to his heart’s desire.
Nicholas pushed the silken gown away, needing to feel her quake beneath him. The soft garb pooled on the floor with a delicate swirl.
A thin chemise as pale as a winter’s snow willowed along her slender frame in a gentle caress. Hints of her taut, ruby nipples strained against the silken fabric, tempting and teasing him with innocent guile.
His body coiled tight, urged him to take without caution. Fighting to maintain control, he drew a steadying breath, then another. In this as all things, she would come first. He caught her nipple through her chemise, and she arched against him on a moan. Slowly he teased her, wanting to watch her as her eyes glazed, and she fell apart.
On an unsteady breath he peeled away the last remaining fabric covering her.
Naked she stood before him, proud, challenging with a glint of need in her eyes.
He skimmed his fingers down her warm flesh, through the mist of downy soft curls and cupped her. She was already damp.
He grew harder as he slid his finger between her soft folds and into her slick heat. With gentle strokes, he urged her up, guiding Elizabet to her sensual crest.
As her body convulsed into a frenzied state, he trailed his kisses across her skin to her most sensitive place and slowly began to taste.
“Nicholas !”
He stroked her with his tongue, and her body trembled.
She moaned. “I—I . . .”
Lazily he suckled on her swollen flesh, stealing her words, wanting her complete surrender.
On a gasp, her muscles tightened, and her pants grew desperate.
Watching her, he slid his tongue deep.
On a scream, she arched and fell over the edge.
As tremors swept through her, he kissed his way up her body, capturing her mouth to swallow her cries as he lay his body over hers, then drove deep. Nicholas thrust long and hard, taking her back over the top. As she convulsed around him in violent demand, his hard-won control shattered.
Breaths coming fast, he lay against her. “We have not even made the bed yet.”A sated smile curved her lips. “You promised we would,” she said with love in her eyes.
He nipped playfully at her neck as his mind shifted back. “And I am a man who always keeps his word.”
“Mmmm.” She skimmed her hands along his chest. “When I first saw you through the branches, I thought of a pre
dator, sleek, mayhap a bit wild.” Her eyes searched his with sensual delight. “Dangerous,” she added on a teasing growl.
He laughed as he remembered the exact moment he’d spied her through the trees, and then the exact moment when he’d saw in the water that the ragged urchin had turned into a beautiful woman.
After a deep kiss, Nicholas lifted her into his arms and strode toward the bed, already needing her again. “What would you have done if I had come up the tree after you?”
Emerald eyes sparkled with delight, with the fire of passion that would always be an innate part of her. “I would have given you a merry chase,” she said with a laugh.
As he laid her on the bed before him, her laughter faded. “And I would have caught you.”
With a mischievous twinkle she cupped his face, her look stubborn, daring. Then her gaze softened, and the love there humbled him.
“Aye, my husband, I believe you would.”
Keep reading for an excerpt from
An Oath Broken
The next book in The Oath Trilogy
Available in June 2015 from
Diana Cosby
and
eKensington
CHAPTER 1
England/Scotland border, 1292
Lady Sarra Bellecote crumpled the missive and flung it to the chapel floor. “He can go to the devil!” Blood pounding hot, she swept past the aged bench, halted before the stained glass window.
The angry slap of the January wind against the crafted panes matched the fury pounding in her heart. Her home, her decision to marry was being torn from her. She closed her eyes against the rush of betrayal.
How dare her guardian issue her such an ultimatum?
A hint of frankincense and wood filled her every breath. After a moment, Sarra regained a measure of calm, and on a long exhale opened her eyes.
The stained glass portrait of the Blessed Virgin, crafted within the blue, pearl, and gray panes, stared back at her. Calm and reassuring, at a time when she didn’t know whom to trust.
Faith, her mother’s voice of long ago whispered in her mind. Bitterness curdled in her throat. As if after all of these years God would choose this moment to offer a token of hope?
Sarra turned from the stained glass portrait and clasped her hands tight before her. But she did not pray. Her belief in God, as in most things in her life, had long since fled.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her, accompanied by the swish of vestments.
“My child.” Father Ormand’s gentle entreaty spilled through the brittle silence.
For a moment, the child whose faith had once guided her responded to his entreaty. Then, like her hope over the years, she flickered and died.
Sarra lifted her head and stared at nothing, feeling everything. “Why should I yield to my guardian’s request to marry his son or forsake my holdings and be exiled to a nunnery?”
Father Ormand cleared his throat. “Lady Sarra, your guardian knows not your feelings about—”
She whirled, aware her action bespoke poor manners toward a revered man of God, but at the moment hurt overrode decorum. “As if Lord Bretane would care?”
Thick lines sagged across his brow as his solemn brown eyes studied her. “Your father would have wished this, my lady.”
“You are wrong. A marriage based on threats and conditions is not a union my father would have sanctioned.”
“Lord Bretane was your father’s best friend,” the priest said quietly. “Your father was the godparent to Lord Sinclair, the man you are to wed.” Father Ormand shook his head as his worried gaze searched hers. “Arranged marriages are expected. Feel blessed that your guardian, a man your father trusted enough to leave your keeping to, chooses your husband. With the wealth of your holdings, the king could have easily intervened and selected your betrothed.”
A part of her acknowledged that she should be grateful. King Edward’s matches often served his own gain. But her guardian’s writ commanding her to wed his son by Midsummer’s Eve was a directive she loathed to obey.
Since she’d witnessed the savage murder of her parents at the age of eight, her hopes and dreams had crumbled one by one. To think her last desire, to marry for love, would be seized from her in a forced marriage to a Scot was unacceptable!
She shuddered as youthful images of her betrothed, a dark-haired child smashing falcon eggs, scraped through her mind. “Drostan was a contemptible lad. I must speak with Lord Bretane and request that he reconsider.”
“Lord Sinclair was but a child when you knew him,” Father Ormand offered. “Boys make mischief, but boys turn into men. Ten and one years have passed since you have seen Lord Bretane’s son. ’Tis unfair to judge what we cannot see.”
Mayhap, but beneath Drostan’s title of baron lay the blackened ugliness of his ancestry.
A reiver.
The name punctured her mind like a bolt of a crossbow—lawless raiders who pilfered, raped, and murdered. The border savages who had attacked and killed her parents. And for what? The paltry pieces of gold they carried.
Several wisps of her golden hair slipped from her braid. Sarra secured the wayward locks into the tight plait, her own life as confined by convention as the strands she fought daily to keep within their bounds.
“Come,” Father Ormand urged. “Lord Bretane’s escort is expecting your reply. We have kept them waiting overlong.”
However much she wished to send the priest to deal with the entourage of Scottish knights in the courtyard, as mistress of Rancourt Castle, ’twas her duty.
With a nod, she walked toward the exit, refusing to succumb to her fears. Determination and pride had allowed her to persevere since her parents’ tragic death. The same resolve would serve her well in her upcoming confrontation with her guardian.
She abhorred the thought of the arduous travel ahead at this miserable time of year. For her sanity, she must believe the man she remembered, the man who had bounced her on his knee and had offered warm smiles during her childhood, would never condemn her to a life with a man she didn’t or couldn’t love.
Angry clouds boiled overhead, spitting fat flakes of snow. Wind, sharp and brutal, tugged at the cloak of Giric Armstrong, Earl of Terrick. He remained motionless astride his destrier, positioned before his small contingent of men.
Waiting.
Through thick, black lashes, Giric scanned the courtyard of the English fortress, dusted with a fine sheen of snow. He took in the well-maintained grounds, the sturdy walls, and the skill of the knights training in the practice field as the clash of steel echoed throughout Rancourt Castle.
Envy shot through him at the quality of their armor and the swords they wielded. He smothered his discontent. The gold he would earn on this simple task would make great strides toward rebuilding his home, Wolfhaven Castle, feeding his people, and furnishing his knights with sturdy blades of steel and fine-crafted mail. And prove to his people that he was a noble they could respect.
The slam of the keep door at the far end of the castle caught his attention. A gust of wind swirled up, billowing into a white cloud thick with snow. Two cloaked figures emerged through the wintry haze. Another icy burst exposed a hint of vestments worn beneath the black cloak of the larger form.
A priest? Giric studied the smaller figure lost within the rich folds of a burgundy cloak. The hem of an ivory gown peeked from the border. Lady Sarra Bellecote? He frowned. Aye, he’d expected the lady of the castle, but accompanied by her guard. Why would she require the aid of a priest? Only one reason came to mind—she’d refused the match and had requested sanctuary from the church.
Giric dismissed the notion, confident his desperation for cash spawned such dismal thoughts. Many reasons could exist for the vicar’s accompaniment. Mayhap a devout Christian, Lady Sarra sought the blessing of her priest.
He relaxed in his saddle. ’Twould make their journey easier if his ward was a softly spoken maiden of God.
The pair closed on his entourage.
&nbs
p; Several paces away, the woman motioned toward the priest. The vicar halted, yet the slender figure continued forward. A length before Giric, she stopped.
Wind tugged at the hood of her cloak as the woman slowly raised her head. Framed within porcelain skin, eyes as gray as a winter storm locked on his clan brooch, darkened as they cut to him.
Giric’s breath stumbled in his throat. Draped within the oversized cloak, most women would appear nondescript within the numerous yards of wool. This woman’s regal bearing, as well as the mix of innocence struggling against the fear in her eyes drew him, conjured forbidden thoughts of her silky skin warmed by sunshine as he slowly peeled each garment away, touched her every secret place until she begged him to make love with her.
Stunned, he squashed thoughts he had nay right to entertain. He was hired to escort her to her betrothed. And she was an innocent. “I am Lady Sarra Bellecote, mistress of Rancourt Castle. You are in charge of these men?”
Her warm, sultry voice flowed over him like peat-warmed air. And if she stepped closer, would he catch her scent? That of a sun-warmed field of heather? Or the crisp, cool water flowing down a burn? “Aye,” Giric replied, irritated this one slip of a woman, an Englishwoman at that, evoked such a deep response.
“Until I give further instruction, you and your men are offered shelter within Rancourt Castle.” After a perfunctory glance over the rest of his party, she started toward the keep.
Dismissed! He bit back a string of oaths. With him staring at her like a green lad, ’twas nay wonder she treated him with such disregard. “My lady!”
Her pace remained steady, the whirl of snow consuming her as she strode toward the keep.
Never, in all of his years, had any dared to ignore him so deliberately. Giric dismounted in one controlled move. “Lady Sarra, I—”
“Sir Knight.” The priest intercepted him, then shot a concerned look toward the lady of Rancourt Castle before turning toward Giric. Wind tugged at his cloak, and he drew his hood tighter. “Please, you and your men come inside the keep and warm yourselves. Lady Sarra will speak with you once you have eaten and rested.”
