An Outlaw's Honor

by TERRI BRISBIN

  She ached.

  She wanted.

  She needed.

  The low moan that escaped her did not sound like any sound she had ever made before, yet it seemed to encourage him. He slid his now-freed hand over her body, gliding over her breasts, pausing there to caress her until she could do nothing but moan again and arch into his hold. Annora could feel his smile even while he kissed her. Then, his hand caressed down, over her hips and behind her, cupping her bottom and holding her more firmly against him. She spread her legs in answer to the pressure of his hand, and he moved her closer still, rubbing his hardness against her now.

  Heat poured off of him. His relentless kisses did not stop, even when she leaned her head back to take a breath. His mouth traced down, near her ear and onto her neck, suckling and nipping as he went. At her gasps, he brought his mouth back to hers, drinking in the sounds she made.

  If this was passion, she now understood the temptation of it. She understood how the weak fell into the sin of it. For, in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to fall with this man. Nothing mattered more than his touch, his mouth, his tongue on her, in her, taking her.

  He stilled then, and she opened eyes she had not realized she’d closed to meet his gaze. Now, a single sound interrupted this madness of desire—one long, loud blast of a horn echoed down the lanes, alleys and streets from the castle itself.

  “The baron’s men and those charged to keep the peace are coming to clear the streets.”

  He stepped back slowly, allowing her to disentangle her body from his. Her legs wobbled a bit when she stood free of him, and her skin felt on fire now. Her breasts swelled against the strictures of her gown and shift, and the tips of them felt abraded by the fabric. Could he tell? Did he know? One glance at his face gave her the answer.

  Aye. He knew. The rogue knew, and from the smile that broke on his face, he was pleased that he could so easily draw her into such misbehavior. And that she’d exposed such a weakness to him so plainly

  Annora straightened her cloak to cover herself and waited for his taunt. He’d played her. He knew she was inexperienced, and he’d used it against her. Would he tell her father, or worse, tell le Govic? Men used such things to make their opponents lose concentration during a fight. Whether truth or not, they would fling insults and innuendos at each other until something worked. Would these last moments of wanton behavior come back to haunt her? One look at that expression on his wicked face, and she knew he would.

  “I think, sir, that you are more dangerous to me than any I might encounter in the marketplace you warned me of,” she whispered.

  He stared at her with those intense, dark eyes, and for once, he did not smile. When he lifted his hand, she startled at its approach. He smoothed her hair back, away from her face, and adjusted her cloak before nodding ever so slightly. “You have lost your veil.”

  That was not what she expected him to say. Somehow, in the confusion of running to escape the coming mob, her veil must have come loose. If she made it back to her chambers, she could fix her hair and replace the veil before her father noticed. Mayhap Margaret...

  “Margaret!” She grabbed his hand then. “I left her alone. I pray you find her!”

  “In the marketplace? Where?” He ran his hands over his head, and she could imagine him doing that when his hair was longer.

  “Nay, before we entered the marketplace. Near the entrance to the castle.”

  “Come this way,” he said, taking her hand and urging her to keep up with his long, swift paces. It took little time to reach the castle’s entryway, though ’twas not the way she’d gone. Sure enough, there stood Margaret; horror etched on her face as she searched the crowds for her.

  “Oh, my lady!” she called out as Annora approached her. “I thought you would be dead. Or maimed. Or...worse!” she whispered.

  “I am well, Margaret. Thanks to the efforts of Sir Thomas.”

  “Sir Thomas helped you, my lady?”

  Annora turned to thank him for, in spite of his inappropriate kisses and sinful caresses, the man had saved her from being trampled by the mob or worse. He was gone. Standing on her toes, she searched but could not find him, even though his height should have made him visible above the rest.

  “Come, Margaret. I need to return to my chamber. Remember, my father need not know of this excursion. ’Twould be better for both of us, I think.”

  The girl fell silent but followed Annora up the road towards the castle gate. Annora took one final look back and saw Thomas then. Just as she began to offer a smile and nod, hoping he understood her gratitude for his protection, he held up her veil and pressed it to his face as though smelling it. The knave! Annora clenched her jaws so as not to scream when his laughter reached her. She did stamp her feet, but it did not bring her satisfaction.

  Turning back to Margaret, she made her way to her chambers and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to calm her heart and thoughts after the events in the marketplace. Her father never summoned her to watch the parade of knights that would open the tournament and she was glad of it. With so many attending the first of five days of jousts and challenges over on the tournament fields, she begged off supper in the hall and ate in her room with only Margaret. Through the quiet moments of that day, Thomas of Kelso occupied her thoughts.

  He seemed to get the best out of each of their encounters, and it infuriated her. She’d never had to deal with a man like this—part nobleman, part outlaw, part unshackled from proper behavior and part unencumbered by morals. This was the man who, God willing or not, might win control of her. How could she protect herself against someone like him? In some ways, he was more dangerous and less predictable than the lust-driven le Govic. Her father’s champion wanted to swive her and might tire of her when there was no sport in it. But she sensed that this Thomas of Kelso wanted more than her body. He wanted, nay he hungered, for more than he deserved and more than he should gain. He wanted more than what his king offered him.

  More.

  Well, the only way to hold her own against him was to learn about him and use that against him as he used her ignorance, her innocence, against her. She would seek out what she could about him, and she would be able to resist the way he undid her control. The way he tempted her to forget herself and be a wanton woman for his pleasure. If he were to control her future, she needed to figure out a way to control him.

  When word came that her father would remain at the camp instead of returning to the castle, Annora decided it was time to seek out the secrets of this man who might be her lord...and master.

  Chapter Seven

  The baron’s men had cleared the streets of the brawl by the time Thomas made his way back towards the marketplace in the center of the village. The damage was much less than such a mob could have caused, and Thomas found a few broken carts, some tents torn down and a dozen or more men nursing bruises and broken noses.

  It took little in a gathering such as this one to light the flames, turning a spark of indignation or insult into a bonfire. The baron’s scrutiny and practice of having his men placed around the village and fields to respond quickly prevented this one from getting carried away. He grimaced as he remembered another place and time when it had. The price had been paid by those least able to afford it—the villeins and peasants who lived there and the farmers whose fields had burned. The wealthy man’s son who’d taunted an opponent into throwing the first blow, and then stirred those watching into joining in the fray. The fight had spread and crossed the road from tourney grounds to the nearby farms. Havoc traveled quickly and widely that day, and a number lost their lives, and many their livelihoods.

  All but the wealthy man’s son, who was the cause of it.

  Laurence le Govic.

  Witnessing that had soured their friendship and eventually led to the fight that Thomas had lost. And his own disgrace. An uneasy feeling settled within him now. To have both of them in the same place with the same ci
rcumstances around them made his gut tighten. Pray God, nothing like that happened during this tournament.

  Turning down a narrow lane, he counted the shops and looked for the alley he needed to find. Thomas hoped the man had waited for him. The delay was unavoidable once he’d seen Annora in the path of the growing mob. He had to protect her and get her to safety. Even now, as he approached the eighth ramshackle shop on the right, he tried to convince himself that it was all about allowing nothing to interfere with his challenge.

  He turned into the dark alley and walked to the second doorway. His soft knock brought a reaction within, and the shuffling feet soon reached the door. A crack appeared as the door was eased open and then a familiar smile emerged.

  “I had almost given up on ye, laddie.”

  Not many could call him “laddie” and live to tell. But then not many had known him as long as Iain Dubh had. As the old man pulled him into a rough hug, the urge to hang onto this man as he had so many times in boyhood filled him. Iain, his father’s stablemaster, had fled during the troubled times for south of the border and away from the constant battles for control over the lands there.

  “I had things to see to, old man,” he replied, stepping away and nodding to the much younger woman who sat sewing by the fire. “Good day to you.”

  “This is my wife, Gytha.” Thomas nodded once again at the young—very young—woman. So, the old man had found happiness here, after such misery in Kelso. Good for him.

  “Iain, can we speak?” Thomas asked. He needed to be over on the fields, preparing for the two challenges he’d received and accepted. Martel would soon send out to find him, and Thomas would rather not involve Iain now that he was settled here.

  “John, my lord. I am called John here. And aye, we can.” Gytha rose and took her sewing into an adjoining chamber. When the door closed, Thomas smiled.

  “And I am not your lord, John.”

  “Old habits, milord,” Iain said, holding out a cup he’d filled. “Sit awhile.”

  The man had lived in the borders all his life and knew more about the comings and goings, risings and falls and turmoil there than any other man Thomas knew. If anyone could give him insight into the king’s reasoning behind this challenge, Iain was the one. And he might know something about possible treachery on the part of Lord de Umfraville or his champion.

  ’Twould be hard enough to win a fair fight against le Govic, but if the scales were heavy on the Norman’s side, ’twould be nigh impossible. Thomas was no one’s fool, least of all his own, so he understood what he faced more than most. He needed to find some weakness of le Govic’s and exploit it.

  After an hour’s discussion, Thomas was not an inch closer to finding out the truth of William’s challenge or a way to defeat his enemy. But Iain had given him one bit of knowledge about le Govic that he’d rather not have learned.

  The man had lost his wife. He’d known that Laurence had married some cousin back on his father’s lands after Thomas left for Scotland, but he’d had no knowledge of her death or the other two who’d followed her. According to Iai…John, his first and then second and third wives had met early deaths. Suspicious deaths, it was rumored. Violent deaths. Worse, though never accused because of his father’s power and connections, all three deaths seemed linked to Le Govic’s tendencies to use his fists against anyone who opposed or questioned him. So, this time he’d agreed to fight for gold...and another wife.

  That Robert de Umfraville would willingly offer her as a prize knowing how le Govic’s wives met their untimely end appalled even him. What could be behind this devil’s bargain?

  The thing that bothered him most was that it was Annora, an easily riled innocent filled with passion waiting to be roused, who would be given into such an arrangement. Truly, it made his stomach twist. Before this began, he cared not for he knew her not.

  Now...now he knew her, and he wanted her. He would ignore, for now, the call of his long-dormant conscience about the terrible fate that faced her as his opponent’s wife.

  “My lor ...er ...Thomas, sir,” John called after him softly as he walked away from the doorway. “Ye dropped this, lad.” A piece of fabric, gauzy, silky fabric meant to cover a woman’s hair, lay there in the old man’s hand.

  Annora’s veil. The forfeit she’d not realized at the time that she’d lost to him. As he reached for it, John smiled at him and shook his head. “A woman, then, is it?”

  He ran his hands over his head before reaching out for it.

  “Is it not always about a woman, my friend?” He took the veil, gathered it in his fist and shoved it inside his boot. “Is it not always a woman?”

  John slapped him hard on the back and, with a chuckle, returned inside where his own wife awaited.

  Before heading out of the town to his tent in the camp, Thomas retrieved the veil and brought it to his nose, inhaling the last bit of the gentle scent remaining within it as he stuffed it back inside his tunic. Annora’s scent. All he could remember at this moment was the taste of honey as he suckled and kissed it from her fingers and her mouth. And the sounds of her gasps and the quiet moans that escaped her at his caresses.

  Her breasts and hips had pressed against his body, urging him to take her. Innocent that she was, had she even understood the invitation she offered him? When she should have fought him or resisted, instead, she’d opened and accepted his tongue, his mouth, his hands, even his cock against her. The feel of her soft skin as he plundered his way down her neck had caused his own flesh to harden and rise. Her firm arse had fit well in his hand as he’d lifted her more firmly against his shaft.

  But for her shift and gowns, he would have taken her there against the wall in the shadows. The excitement of the danger of the mob had given way to arousal and need of the fleshly kind, and his body had been ready. Hers was, as well, even if she had not realized it. When he held her hands above her head, her breasts lifted as though an offering to a hungry man. He’d wanted to untie her gown and bury his face against them, licking the place between them and sucking those ripe nipples until she screamed.

  Oh, aye, she would be the kind of lover who screamed out her pleasure.

  Thomas stumbled then and realized he’d been so caught up in the sweet memories of the encounter with Annora that he’d not been watching his path. Luckily, the man he’d hit took no offense and just stood aside for him.

  God in heaven! How was he to concentrate on the coming challenges when a few minutes of kissing and petting affected him like this? As he made his way along the road towards his tent, Thomas knew he could not allow the lady to be this kind of distraction from his purpose. He must put those thoughts aside.

  When she was his...

  If he won...

  He growled aloud then, losing the battle to keep thoughts of her out of his mind. He was no better than le Govic if all he wanted her for were her sexual favors, whether in marriage or without. Asking her consent or not did not change it. He walked the lane of tents there and found his. Martel stood beside the opening with his weasel-like face tightened in anger as Thomas approached.

  “You are late,” he said as he held the flap aside to let Thomas enter. “You do not seem to be taking this seriously, sir.”

  “Is my horse ready? My squire? What is his name?” he barked out.

  “Geoffrey,” Martel replied in an even, unworried tone.

  “Well then, where is Geoffrey? I have not seen him lately. Is he prepared for the morrow? My sword and lance sharpened? My chain sanded and oiled?”

  Martel’s gaze narrowed at each question.

  “Well, Martel? Have you carried out your duties to me?”

  Anger, nay frustration, pushed the words out. He did not wish his fury unleashed on the innocent squire assigned to him under Martel’s direction and yet he lost control then. His body wanted to explode. Wrong or right, he wanted Annora. He hungered for the taste of her skin, for the taste of her mouth and her core, for the sound
of her screams as he filled her with his cock. He needed...

  “Have a woman waiting for me this night, Martel.” There. He would take his ease and satisfy this need and be better able to focus on the tasks ahead of him.

  “Am I a whoremonger now?” Martel asked.

  In two paces, Thomas crossed the tent and grabbed the infuriating man by his tunic, pulling him up until only his toes touched the ground, and their faces were inches apart.

  “I did not say she had to be a whore, Martel. Whether I pay her matters not to me. Young or old, slender or well-endowed and cushioned, be she red or black or brown-haired, none of that is of consequence. Willing and wanting is all I require.” He shook the man a few times then, seeing the ire in his gaze at the insult. “And, aye, you are whatever I need you to be by order of the king.” Thomas waited for a sign of acquiescence before releasing the man. “I will be at the practice yards.”

  He shoved the man off and watched as he stumbled across the tent. Gathering up his working sword and staff and leaving his cloak there, Thomas strode out and towards the practice yards. A few hours of work would take the burning edge off his need. ’Twas better to enjoy a woman’s softness when the urge to plow was not so strong.

  Some of the fighting had begun this day, with more to follow on each until the week’s end when the grand melee would happen. Grand? ’Twas nothing grand about sliding around in the mud, slickened by your opponents’ blood and sometimes guts.

  There were few, if any, rules for the melee and, in spite of the use of blunted weapons, many men were injured—sometimes killed. Not intentionally, certainly not, but dead, nonetheless. A suspicious or cynical man would think it a good time to rid himself of a pesky enemy and ’twould be easy enough to mask under the guise of rough sport rather than intentional murder. Thomas walked to the fence that surrounded the practice yard for hand-to-hand fighting and watched as several men worked.