They made camp on schedule, settling into a quiet vigil just outside of Thalsbury’s wall as they waited for the call to arms to come just before dawn. Some men dozed, not wishing to get caught at less than their best. Lucien was surprised his fatigue got the best of him and he, too, slept.
She was there, as ever, in his dreams. The echo of the promise he had made to her before he had left resounded in his mind. When he returned…
He awoke, shaking off the remnants of the intoxicating vision and drew out his whetting stone to sharpen his weapons. As always, the mundane chore calmed him, focused his concentration. When he was finished, he buckled on the scabbards and sheaths and mounted his huge destrier.
Agravar, about to lead his troop to the hidden gate at the base of the cliffs, rode past with sword raised. Lucien struck it with his own weapon.
“A-Viking,” the Viking whispered mischievously, then kicked his mount into action.
Lucien smiled darkly. He waved his men on and they rode to the east tower.
The invasion came off better than Lucien could have hoped. The watchmen had no warning of their approach. As he had done so often as a boy, Lucien swept up the trees, his men following. They quickly constructed the narrow walkway with flat planks, crossed to the ramparts and silently descended into the outer buildings. The guards at the postern gate were easily overcome and the portcullis was raised, allowing Lucien’s full army to ride into his old home.
“Most of the place is still asleep,” he hissed to his men. “Go to the stables and armory and secure them, then round up the soldiers quietly. You, gather the servants together in the hall. Agravar, come with me.”
With the Viking at his side, he cut around to the solar where the master of the house slept. Pausing before the door, he was acutely aware that this had been his parents’ room. He drew a deep breath to steel himself, then swung the door open wide.
Agravar shoved a lit torch inside the dark chamber. The master of Thalsbury was abed, entwined with a wench amidst the generous heaping of furs.
Garrick sat up, blinking into the light. As his bleary eyes registered the intruders, he lunged for the scabbard hanging on the post at the foot of the bed. He was on his feet in an instant, brandishing his weapon at his enemies.
“So, my lord baron,” he snarled, “you sneak in like a thief in the night.”
“It causes less bloodshed,” Lucien explained patiently. “I am going to need these villeins after I kill you.”
At his side, Agravar stood in a casual stance as he smirked at the naked man before them. “I believe you have forgotten your armor, sir,” the Norseman said.
Garrick’s gaze did not leave Lucien’s face. “Your audacity is indeed amazing, de Montregnier. But your stupidity is even more so. Even with the surprise you have dealt me, do you think I would not have a defense planned?”
“I do not know. Do you?” Lucien sounded disinterested.
A slow smile spread across Garrick’s face. “Look behind you.”
Lucien would never have let his gaze be distracted from his enemy but for the light sound of steel touching metal from behind him. He looked to his companion, and Agravar’s head snapped around. In one swift motion, the Viking whirled, drawing his sword up to face the men behind them.
Lucien did not move. He stayed as he was, watching Garrick with narrowed eyes. “You underestimated me, de Montregnier,” the older man sneered.
“I never underestimate an enemy,” Lucien answered.
“Ah, but here you have erred.”
“Indeed?” Lucien raised a brow. “I see we have simply evened out our game. Now Agravar will have someone to play with while you and I attend our business.”
With incredible swiftness, Lucien lunged at Garrick, who was hard-pressed to meet the swing. The clash of steel echoed in the room, and the poor girl who had been sleeping with her lord huddled fearfully under the furs.
Lucien pressed on, swinging his sword in rapid succession until he had Garrick against the outer wall. In desperation, Garrick struck out with a newfound ferocity, and Lucien was driven back a bit, but only for a moment.
“You were given Thalsbury as reward for helping du Berg kill my father. You were the one who ambushed us that day, were you not?”
Garrick sneered, a singularly ugly expression. “Well, you figured that much out. Aye, and I was happy to get rid of Raoul, for he was far too noble for my tastes and Edgar wanted Isobol. You had to be silenced.”
“Now that we have settled the reasons for our feud, shall we get on with your death?”
With a quick flick of his sword, Lucien slashed a cut on Garrick’s right shoulder, drawing a crimson line across the pale flesh. Stung by the injury, he winced and slapped his other hand over it to stem the flow of blood.
“Does that not ache, Lord Garrick?” Lucien inquired, his voice sounding deceptively polite. “When I was taken by your men, one of them wounded me there. I bear the scar to this day, along with many others. Such is the life of a man of war, eh? As I was saying, this one wound troubled me much. Indeed, I almost died of it, for it was deep and close to an artery. But I did survive it, as you can see. Shall I show you where else their swords found me?”
A lightning-quick slash brought another gash, then Lucien frowned. “Oh, how clumsy of me. ‘Twas not there that the man did his damage. ‘Twas more to the left, I think.”
Another wound was opened so quickly that Garrick had no chance to deflect the blade. “Aye,” Lucien said, satisfied. “That is where it was. Now, that one did not trouble me much, since—”
“Enough!” Garrick yelled. His voice cracked. He was becoming unnerved.
“We still have ten more years of various painful procedures to go. Do you tire of this game? I shall cut it short. Let us get right to it, then, though it does puzzle me that you wish so soon to die.”
With that, his blade crashed down in a resounding strike. Garrick raised his sword to meet it, but staggered under the tremendous force. Lucien raised his weapon again, letting loose a barrage of blows that left his adversary stunned.
Garrick was beginning to panic, Lucien could see it in his eyes. Raising the tip of his sword, Lucien played out his cruel game to the end.
“It is justice then, that my father’s sword shall see to your death.”
Without warning, as if that last statement had driven any sanity or honor from the man, Garrick let out a blood-curdling yell. The sound echoed, then died, and with the madness that had fed that cry, Garrick ran full-tilt toward his tormentor. It took only one deft slice to end the man’s charge. Impaled, Garrick stared at Lucien as they staggered backwards toward the window. Turning quickly, Lucien jerked his sword free, sending Garrick through the gaping opening, his eyes already closed in death as he was swallowed at once by the darkness.
In the ensuing silence, Lucien rushed to the side of the window and peered down. The chamber was along the western ramparts, the ones that perched atop the cliffs above the river.
He turned away after a moment. The rogue was gone and would trouble them no more.
Agravar was still busy with the last of Garrick’s personal guard.
“Your lord is dead, cease this vain resistance,” Lucien called, adding, “You will be treated fairly, for you are not to blame for your master’s treachery.”
The man faltered. A quick glance at the slumped forms of his companions helped him to decide. He threw down his sword.
The rest of the night was spent rounding up the last of the occupants, and once again Lucien issued his bargain of fealty or the dungeon. Apart from a few of Garrick’s cronies, all readily acceded to their victor. Those few who refused were herded to the damp chambers under the castle.
That night, Lucien slept in his father’s bed. He gave himself over to the bittersweet remembrances of his youth, finally making peace with the loss that had obsessed him for so long.
His last thoughts were comforting, for he thought of Alayna.
Over the next few
days, Lucien found that he missed Alayna terribly. He would see a maid out of the corner of his eye and think for a moment that it was she. But when he would turn to look, he wondered how he could have been so mistaken, for the girl’s hair would not be nearly as glorious, nor would she have the fine-boned features or the sensuous slimness of his wife. Or he would hear a voice and feel a quick thud in his chest at the thought that she would be there. But it would be some other, uninteresting and, upon closer inspection, not at all similar to Alayna.
On the sixth day, they fished Garrick’s dead body out of the river, signaling the end of the seige. Lucien could stand it no longer. He left Will in charge, and he and Agravar took most of the soldiers back to Gastonbury.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alayna was in the cellars inspecting the stores of wines and casks of ale with Alwin. Outside the circle of light of the seneschal’s torch, she could hear the skitter and squeak of rats. The sound made her flesh crawl, but she pushed aside her squeamishness. Peering into the shadows, she pointed out a small wooden crate. “What are those strange flasks yonder? The ones with the distinctive shape.”
“I do not know, my lady. I have never seen any like them before. They are stamped with an insignia, but I do not recognize it—a mountain and sun with a vine entwining both together.”
Alayna gasped. “Those are wines from one of the finest vineyards in Bordeaux!”
“Wherever did Lord Edgar get those?” Alwin wondered, moving closer to inspect their find.
“Have them brought up and served at the master’s table when he arrives home. I want the Bordeaux wine and no other.”
Alwin smiled broadly. “Aye, my lady.”
“Do you suppose there are more treasures as these?” she asked, peering into the dim recesses beyond the light. “Please, my lady, let me get some pages with torches. They can drag those casks out for you.”
Alayna nodded, finally conceding, for she had no taste to challenge her venturesome spirit further. The two of them climbed the timbered ladder up from the filthy cellar.
Smacking at her skirts, she tried to rid herself of some of the dust from the seedy caverns below. Cobwebs clung with sticky determination to her hair. As she detangled the offensive grime, hoping desperately that a resolute spider did not still linger on his old home, there was a flurry of activity as servants hurried about in some kind of excitement. She stopped one little girl she knew, a pretty lass of about eight years old, who was skipping by with the stale bread to set out for trenchers.
“What is going on, Clary?”
“The baron arrives home! The watchmen spotted him!” the child cried out with glee, then resumed her happy chore.
“The baron arrives home!” Alayna cried, alarmed. “Oh, nay! Look at me, I am a mess! Bess, start the preparations we discussed for my lord’s arrival. Alert the cooks, and Alwin—have those flasks of Bordeaux brought up right away!”
“Aye, I will see to it. Go, I will take care of everything,” her steward assured her.
Alayna flew up the stairs to her chamber. The water in the basin from her morning ablutions was cold, but she shivered through a thorough washing. She could hear the sound of horses in the lower bailey. The army was just arriving at the stables. Good, that should give her another ten minutes at least until Lucien could come into the castle.
She stood naked and chilled as she tossed open the lid to a trunk. Grabbing the first garment she found, a jade green silk, she held it up. It was far too fancy for daytime, but she had no time to hunt for something else. She slipped it on without any chemise underneath. When she realized her mistake, she cursed her forgetfulness, then shrugged. No time to right it now. Dashing to the table, she grabbed her ivory brush and began to rip it through her hair. How much time did she have left? Where were the green slippers that went with this gown? Was her gold circlet for her hair in the small trunk or—?
Her panicked thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the chamber door crashing open. Her hand froze in mid-stroke as she looked up to meet the coal black gaze of her husband as he stood framed in the doorway. He was dusty and disheveled from the journey, standing with his feet braced apart, his hand still on the catch of the door.
However did he get up to their chamber so quickly? she thought distantly.
The brush fell from her hand; her fingers were numb. His eyes, she kept looking into his eyes; the memory of their parting and the promise he had made her had her trembling.
He stepped inside the room, closed the door solidly behind him and slid the bar into place. In just a few long strides, she was in his arms.
He kissed her hard, pressing her full up against him in a crushing embrace. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer and closer still until she could feel the full hardness of him against her entire body. Her hands slid hungrily over the muscles of his back, down the thickness of his arms. His mouth slashed over hers, twisting, opening it to plunder. The soft slide of the fabric against her breasts was like a caress, her nipples grazing against the roughness of the chain mail he still wore.
His hands moved quickly to slip the silken gown easily up over her hips. Quickly he untied his leggings and lifted her with her back against the stones of the hearth. Grasping her firmly, he slid inside with a sudden, exhilarating plunge. She cried out, a mingling of surprise and joy, then relaxed in the steely hold as he pinned her against the wall.
Moving against her, he covered her mouth to smother the sounds that tore from her throat. With each thrust, she strained to meet him, her pleasure beginning to take form from the elements of desire. She felt it building, and the need of it made her abandon herself to her senses, surrendering to the crystallization of pleasure and fulfillment that came in the end.
He leaned against her, his breath raging in her ear. Slowly he released his hold, and she slid her feet to the floor to stand on trembling legs, grateful that he still held her close. The sultry aftermath of their lovemaking still lingered in her veins, giving her a floating, drowsy sensation that made her feel like a feather drifting on the wind. But he was not finished. He kissed her with hot, demanding passion as if they had not just consummated their bodies’ craving.
Grabbing some furs off the bed, he tossed them onto the floor in front of the fire, then pushed her down with him onto the plush bedding. He handled her roughly, laying her on her back, pulling the rumpled gown off over her head to reveal her completely to him.
His impatience was intoxicating, bringing to life once again the sensations he could so effortlessly command within her. His hands closed over her breasts, gathering them into his grasp, and he bent to kiss each one in turn, toying erotically until she arched against him and moaned a wordless plea. He lingered on the sweet mounds, testing and sampling the gentle curves while his fingers worked to unfasten his clothing and strip off the travel-stained garments until he was undressed. Then he lay down on her, covering her with the warmth of his fevered flesh.
His kisses, his caresses did not stop for a moment, exploring, touching, rousing until she writhed under him with desperate longing. With a growl of impatient desire, he came up over her again, taking her this time with gentleness, speaking soothing words that thrilled her to hear as she clutched him close to her heart.
“I missed you,” he said much later.
They lay together in the big bed, the late afternoon sun spilling through the open shutters, creating long shadows across the room. His thumb moved over her cheek, then ran along her upper lip. She saw a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he considered her features.
Her heart gave one wild leap before lodging in her throat. He had missed her!
“So that pleases you, does it, my lady wife?” he teased wryly. “My men find it somehow less delightful, considering my temper this last sennight since you and I have been apart. And I drove half of them to near exhaustion in my hurry to return.”
“I must offer my apologies to them, then,” she quipped. “I would not like it if they bl
amed me for their trials at your hand.”
“Do not worry overmuch. My mood will be much improved on the morrow.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Then I have until the morn to cajole you into better spirits?”
Lucien raised a brow. “I would be most interested in this ‘cajoling.’”
She laughed, unable to keep her eyes from sweeping over the broad expanse of chest, down to the tapered waist and flat abdomen. His body was magnificent, lean, corded with muscle—each movement a study in controlled power. In all of the times they had made love, he had always held the lead, boldly sampled her woman’s body, touching and kissing and arousing her with an expert touch. She longed to explore his body in the same way.
Old inhibitions resurfaced briefly as she faltered in her courage. Determinedly she pushed them back. This was her husband. It was right to touch him intimately and offer him the same pleasures he had given to her.
“Then I had better get started,” she whispered.
A sharp rap at the door brought Alayna awake. Lucien growled groggily, “Who the devil is that?”
Donning her dressing gown, she rushed to the door. Sliding back the bolt, she drew it open just a sliver and peered tentatively through the small crack to find Eurice standing in the corridor. Her nurse was wearing a remarkably pleased expression on her old face.
“Alayna, my dearling, do you and your husband care to join us in our victory feast?”
“Feast?”
“Aye. The feast you yourself ordered to be prepared. Did you forget?”
The Maiden and the Warrior Page 20
