She spoke the truth and had proven as much during her mother’s illness.
“Let her go.”
They all turned at the sound of her mother’s voice.
Entering the room, the countess strode up to her husband. She smiled at Idalia and Lance, offering her encouragement.
This was certainly not the first time the countess had disagreed with her husband, but it was only one of a few times she’d done it so openly. It was simply not her mother’s way.
“She will be in danger,” her father said, his voice betraying his typical stalwart manner.
“Nay,” Lance interjected. “She will not. The Order of the Broken Blade will protect her.”
Her father seemed to understand, but Idalia did not. Order of the Broken Blade? The rebellion? Likely, but what was the significance of such a name?
They stared at one another, her father seeming to take Lance’s words into consideration. She could have left it at that, and perhaps he would have capitulated, but while she appreciated Lance’s assistance and her mother’s support, this was her argument to be won.
“I love you, Father,” she said. Words she had spoken to him far more often than he did to her. “You have always protected us, and you’ve taught me the values of justice and nobility. I will carry those lessons with me as I do my part to protect Stanton and its people from the king.”
Her mother winced.
“By Lance’s side. I will marry him, and together, we will do what is necessary. But I am going with him.”
“I promised Tuleen Castle as a part of your dowry.” Her father’s eyes narrowed. “And I can take it away.”
Tuleen Castle. She had always wondered about her dowry. The thought of living there with Lance, so close to her mother and Tilly . . .
But she would not be bought with the promise of anything.
“Do what you must.”
Her mother sucked in a breath, but Idalia’s gaze was fixed on her father.
Daring him to deny her.
She’d seen him negotiate many times, and one thing she’d learned was the importance of follow-through. If necessary, she would marry Lance without her father’s blessing. Leave Stanton Castle with nothing.
“She will stay in the north,” her father commanded.
“Aye, my lord,” Lance agreed.
“If John retains these French mercenaries—”
“He will not.”
“When the king learns of the rebellion, learns of its members . . .” Her father’s voice trailed off.
Idalia shivered at the reminder of what they were talking about: rebellion against the king. And she would be in the middle of it, by choice.
“Clan Kennaugh will provide protection.”
Clan Kennaugh. A border clan. Idalia had heard of them before but knew little else about them. She had so many questions, but only one that mattered now.
“Father,” she cut in. “Will you trust that you have raised me well?”
He frowned, clearly displeased. But she already knew his answer.
30
Idalia dismounted, leading her horse into the deep thicket of trees. They’d agreed to leave the grounds of Stanton Castle before their discussion. One she’d been anticipating since their discussion in her father’s solar last eve.
Her father had suggested they visit Tuleen Castle, with an escort of course. That escort, Tilly, had abandoned them as soon as they passed through the gatehouse. She’d remembered a “pressing matter” to which she needed to attend.
Idalia would have believed her if not for the wink Tilly gave her as she rode off. The gesture confirmed her assessment of her sister—Tilly was fast becoming a young woman. Idalia did not know what to make of it, but she supposed her opinion did not matter. Tilly would grow up whether she approved or not.
“Let me take him,” Lance said, gathering the reins from her and leading her mount to the stream.
They had much to talk about.
She watched as Lance cared for the horses. For a man who spent his days hammering metal, he was surprisingly gentle. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought that they were finally alone together, completely and blessedly so.
After the tense talk with her parents last eve, her mother had whisked her away to her bedchamber. They’d spoken of posting banns and of the wedding, which they’d agreed should happen as quickly as possible.
Idalia and Lance would be leaving the moment the vows were exchanged, a fact that both scared and excited her. Despite her conviction to leave with Lance, she knew little of what she was running toward.
But that would change.
Now.
Lance tied off the horses and turned to her. If not for all of the uncertainty that still lingered between them, this could be the perfect day. It was certainly the perfect spot.
The sun actually shone through the clouds, and they were surrounded by willow trees. As soon as it had been decided they’d be visiting Tuleen this afternoon, she’d known exactly where she wished to stop. Although she’d expected a chaperone to be with them.
Thank goodness Tilly had decided to give them space.
Lance closed the distance between them in just a few strides. When he pulled her to him, his kiss was insistent and all-consuming. She returned it, for a time, but eventually pulled away.
“Sit with me,” she said, gesturing to the bank of the river.
“With pleasure.” Lance pulled out a small blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. After spreading it out across the grass, he held out a hand to her.
“Do you always travel so prepared?” she asked as she sat with his assistance.
“Aye.”
Idalia wasn’t surprised by his answer. Lance did always seem prepared for what lay ahead.
“What is the Order of the Broken Blade?” she blurted out.
Lance grabbed her hand and squeezed. She loved when he did that.
“Your father only knows that is an order of knights. Myself, Guy, Terric, and a man named Conrad Saint-Clair.”
“The Earl of Licheford?”
“Aye, the same.”
“And Terric?”
“Chief of Clan Kennaugh of Bradon Moor.”
“The one you said would keep us safe, if need be?”
“Idalia.” Lance squeezed her hand again. “I will keep you safe. You will not be in danger, ever. I promise you that. But if we need to take precautions, leave England for a time? Aye, Terric’s clan will welcome us.”
She still had so many questions.
“The four of us have pledged to end the king’s reign. Or to at least force him to cease such policies as kidnapping for failure to pay exorbitant taxes.”
“I mean no disrespect—”
“Why a blacksmith and a mercenary?”
She hadn’t intended to ask that way, but it did seem a curious combination.
“We each have our reasons.” Lance stood.
Idalia watched him take something from the same sack from which he’d removed the blanket. This was a hard object wrapped in a cloth. When he dropped it at her feet and then proceeded to sit beside her and unwrap it, Idalia did not know what to make of it. A sword hilt. Ornate, obviously of fine craftsmanship.
She looked up and waited for him to explain.
“I’d been attending the Tournament of the North with my father since I was able to ride. He serviced his lord, and others, as the tournament smith.”
Idalia had heard of it, of course. Though her father had not attended in her lifetime, she’d heard stories of the only tourney held here in Northumbria. It was the only time they treated peaceably with the Scots.
“I’d met Guy the year before. Each day, during the melee, my father gave me leave to walk the grounds as every knight would be on the field at that time. It was during one of these afternoons he and I wandered down to the riverbank.”
Lance picked up the hilt.
“This was once Conrad’s. Or his father’s, to be precise.”
Idali
a did not interrupt even though dozens of questions flitted through her mind.
“We spotted two boys who appeared to be our age practicing with their swords. One, tall and thin. The other . . . just thin.” He laughed. “When you meet Terric and Conrad, you’ll never be able to imagine either of them as boys.”
He smiled. Lance did not smile often, but whenever he did, it made Idalia’s heart soar. Whoever these men were to him, he obviously cared very much for them.
“Even then, Guy was good with the sword. When he asked for a turn, the boys obliged easily despite the fact that we were obviously not noble like them.”
“Licheford is the earl now, is he not?”
“Aye, a title he inherited from his father. Terric is also an earl.”
Her brows drew together. The Scot was also an earl?
“Clan chief in Scotland, Earl of Dromsley in England.”
Dromsley. She hated to interrupt again, but that name sounded familiar. She would ask about it later.
“But that summer they were both simply the sons of powerful men practicing with their swords.”
As quickly as his smile had come, it went away. There was something darker to his story, as evidenced by the hilt he held in his hand and the troubled look on his face.
The loud call of a bird interrupted them. Watching as it flew by with its companion, Lance took up his story again.
“Guy heard the scream first. We could not see anything from where we stood, but the sound was easy enough to hear. By the time we reached the wooded area where it originated, Cait was lying on the ground, her gown lifted above her waist.”
His hand gripped the hilt so tightly his knuckles had grown almost white.
“Terric roared, a sound that I will never forget.”
He looked up, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
“A man, one of the king’s men, held her down.”
Idalia gasped. “He took her by force?”
“He was attempting to, aye. Thankfully, we arrived in time to prevent it.”
She almost didn’t want to know what had happened next. Looking at the hilt now, its lack of a blade began to make more sense.
Lance shook his head.
“It happened so fast. I ripped the man from Terric’s sister . . .”
Idalia gasped.
“But he was much, much larger than any of us. One punch landed me on the ground. Terric lunged at him, getting between the man and his sister, but he was easily tossed aside as well. Guy was the first to draw blood, his quickness with a sword a boon for a short time until the guard grabbed his own weapon. From there, neither Guy nor Conrad stood a chance.”
Obviously all four of them were alive now. Which meant . . .
“It was Conrad who killed him.”
Lance lifted the broken hilt. “The guard broke Conrad’s sword with one strike. While he was engaged with Guy, Conrad slit the man’s throat with the piece of blade that remained.”
“But it is not there any longer? ’Tis only a hilt.”
“Aye.” He turned the hilt over in his hands. “When we tossed the guard’s body in the river, this went with it.”
The guard’s body.
Idalia had suspected as much.
“It was only later, with clearer thinking, that I fetched it, realizing the discovery of Conrad’s broken blade with the body would not bode well for him. I removed the remainder of the blade.”
“And kept the hilt?”
He nodded. “Conrad wanted to be rid of it.”
“So you took it? Kept it safe?”
Laying the hilt on the grass, he turned to her.
“Aye.” Lance held her hand once more. “We vowed to keep that secret, and I’ve not told anyone since. Every year the four of us meet at the tournament. But we never discuss what happened with Cait and her attacker.”
“Cait.” She said the name, trying to imagine what the lady had endured, but it was too excruciating. “Is she well now?”
“Aye, according to Terric she is. I’ve not seen her since that day. Cait never returned to another tournament and remains in Bradon Moor. She refuses to even visit Dromsley Castle. She won’t come back to England.”
“I can understand her reason.”
“It was a different king, of course—John’s father—but it had an impact on all of us. Respect must be earned—it is not owed to a man simply because he’s affiliated with the king.”
“Your reason for the rebellion?”
“Nay. My reasons are simple. Conrad asked for our support. And his cause is just. King John must be stopped.”
Conrad willed it. It was the right thing to do.
Lance had no personal stake in this. He only did it to support his friend. His country.
He was exactly the man she’d thought him to be.
And he was hers.
“And now you have my support,” she said. “Though it is a small victory, to be sure.”
“A small victory? Idalia, how could you say such a thing?”
She’d just meant that she could do little in a rebellion against the king, but from his expression, Lance did not seem to agree.
The way he looked at her, with such love and longing, made her forget everything except for how blissful it had felt being joined with him the night before.
Lance must have been thinking the same. His eyes darkened. The air around them seemed charged with electricity. Their contemplation of the past had ended. They were right here, rooted in this very moment.
“Kiss me,” she demanded.
He leaned forward.
“I’ll gladly do that, and more, my sun.”
“Soon to be your wife.” Idalia smiled. “The wife of a blacksmith. I quite like it.”
He was on top of her so quickly, Idalia didn’t even have time to blink.
“I’ve many things to show you I think you’ll like,” he said, his voice low and incredibly seductive.
She did not doubt he meant every word.
“What, pray tell, are you waiting for?”
His laugh echoed all around them, the sweet sound a balm to her soul.
Epilogue
Idalia thought she felt air float over her body, where a moment ago she’d been warm, snuggled between her husband’s body and the soft coverlet.
“What are you thinking of?” Lance asked.
Idalia opened her eyes.
She hadn’t imagined it.
Her husband actually lay between her thighs, the coverlet pushed to the side. Blinking to clear away the remnants of deep slumber, she attempted to lift her head.
Lance pushed open her legs and kissed just above her knee. Another kiss, this one on her thigh.
“Terric.”
He stopped his ministrations, and Idalia couldn’t help but laugh at his expression.
“I wonder where he found this coverlet. ’Tis the softest I’ve ever felt. I may ask him if we can take it with us when we leave.”
Of course, Lance had warned her that they might be at Dromsley Castle for some time. It was from here their order would conduct its missions. Owned by a Scot, the castle was apt to attract less attention than Conrad’s home, Licheford, might.
“I’ll need you to stop thinking of Terric,” he said, resuming his ministrations.
“But he is quite nice,” she said, attempting to bite back laughter.
“Nice,” Lance grumbled. “Large. Terrifying. Those are the words more often used to describe the chief.”
He was getting closer.
“Well, I believe him to be quite nice.”
Lance had found his mark.
“Do you, then?”
He started with a quick kiss, but then his tongue darted out, finding exactly the right spot.
“And do you believe this to be quite nice?” he asked, repeating his actions.
Idalia lifted her hips toward his mouth, receiving a chuckle in response. She could no longer engage in conversation. Waking up this way . . . it would take some ge
tting accustomed to, but Idalia was a quick learner.
As Lance became more insistent, Idalia attempted to keep her moans as quiet as possible. She did not know how easily sounds could be heard outside of their chamber.
“Oh!” But it was getting harder and harder to do.
Thankfully, Lance shifted his position, moving quickly up her body and covering her mouth with his own.
Kissing her, he guided himself inside.
The sensation of him inside her, filling her so perfectly, so completely, was such that Idalia knew she would not last long. She told him as much, and as always, it seemed to expedite his own pleasure. For just as she could feel the spasms overtake her, Lance cried out, though not so quietly as she.
Pulsating with him, her muscles went from tense to pudding. One moment she was tensing from head to toe, the next, Idalia could not have moved if the keep were attacked.
Gathering her in his arms, Lance pulled out and shifted them both to their sides.
“Good morn, wife.”
She smiled. He’d said that every day since their wedding. She still loved the sound of the word on his lips.
“Good morn, husband. Or”—she loved to tease him—“my lord, if you prefer.”
He rolled his eyes. “Husband, please.”
“Why do you dislike the title?” she asked, her question an earnest one.
“’Tis not me. I am a smith. Will always be a smith.”
He kissed her nose.
“A smith who is also a knight. And a lord.”
“Husband is my greatest title.”
And he meant it. Lance never let her forget how much he loved her. Even Terric had commented on his constant show of affection, saying, “Who is this man? Where is his scowl?”
Idalia closed her eyes, content to lie in Lance’s arms just a bit longer.
Lance and Terric had both warned her the current calm would not last for long. In two days’ time, they would ride out to speak to a border lord whose support was all but guaranteed.
And yet . . . one whispered word to the wrong person would see both men branded as traitors.
Idalia sighed heavily at the thought.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 17
