A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  He chuckled. Aye, they had wounds. It was part of being a knight. Chain mail did not prevent them.

  Emma bent over the plants like they were young children in need of encouragement. Her long hair fell onto the plants making him want to wrap the flaxen braids around his hand and draw her near for another kiss. In truth, he wanted more than a kiss. He missed the taste of her, the touch of her. He wanted to slip his hands around her slim waist and draw her near, to feel her womanly curves against him.

  Magnus went to sniff at the plants Emma coddled and then sneezed, making her laugh. He liked seeing her in good spirits. He wanted to make her smile often.

  He shifted his gaze from Emma to the garden she and Helise had created, admiring it. He approved of the way it was ordered. The rectangular wooden boxes, about four feet on a side, allowed the herbs to be set apart from the vegetables and flowers. “Was it your design, Emma?”

  Helise answered for her. “It was! And ’tis very clever with the border of marygolde flowers, do you not agree, Sir Geoffroi?”

  “I do. ’Tis a marvel,” he remarked, but he was looking at Emma. She was the marvel.

  “You will like it better when there is a harvest to be reaped, sir knight,” she tossed back with a smile.

  Helise pulled Emma toward a patch of dark, leafy greens. “Over here is where you suggested we plant the kale. See how it grows?”

  The women chatted about the plants, Emma providing suggestions for helping them to grow. Geoff watched Emma with not just desire but admiration to think she had conceived it. He inspected the short, palisade-like fence that surrounded the large garden. It was sturdy enough to keep out animals and children.

  Where had she learned such a skill? And where had she learned to read?

  * * *

  Emma was enjoying her time with Helise, particularly because Sir Geoffroi was near. She did not have to look at him to feel his presence. There was a tether between her and the blond knight, an invisible cord that held her to him, a desire that flamed whenever he was near.

  She did not even mind that the garden she had helped to create would feed the Norman soldiers, for Sir Geoffroi would be one of them.

  Seeing the plants rise from the rich soil gave her pride. The garden was not unlike the one her mother had planted at their manor in Lincolnshire, the largest of her father’s manors. She had lost her mother when she was younger than Finna but she had fond memories of the woman with the flaxen hair like hers. Her mother had taught her to read as well as embroider. She wished she could have her mother with her now, but it was a comfort to have a friendship with Helise Malet, who was the same age Emma’s mother would have been had she lived.

  To Emma, their time in the peaceful garden was like an island of calm in a roiling sea. It could not last, but she was loath to question the good that providence offered her, however short such a time might be. She would enjoy the hours she and Sir Geoffroi spent together, for she knew they would end all too soon.

  As they made to leave, her gaze caught Sir Geoffroi’s and for a moment neither looked away until Helise’s chatter distracted her.

  “We can harvest the plants together,” the older woman offered.

  “That would be nice,” Emma agreed.

  When they returned to the tower castle on the other side of the river, Sir Geoffroi insisted on seeing her home. She was grateful their goodbye would be delayed.

  Even avoiding the well-traveled streets as they did, it was a bit of a procession, her traveling with him and his knights and Magnus loping beside them. People stopped to watch them pass. Some would have recognized Magnus and questioned her being in the company of the knights. She was glad when they arrived at her house without incident.

  “Will you and Sir Alain come in?” she asked.

  “Aye, gladly,” he replied.

  “I will wait for you here with the men,” announced Sir Alain.

  When Sir Geoffroi nodded his acceptance, Emma addressed the one called the Bear. “Then I will send ale for you and the other knights.”

  Once inside, Magnus flopped on his pallet and Emma asked Artur to take the waiting knights ale to refresh them. She hung her cloak on a peg and went into the kitchen, as the servant poured ale and disappeared with a tray of tankards for the knights.

  Sigga was still at the market, leaving Emma alone with Sir Geoffroi. She fetched him a berry tart and a tankard of ale. “I saved one for you when I set aside two for the twins. They will have theirs with supper. Best to eat yours now or Magnus will be begging for it.”

  “Where are the children?”

  “Inga was going to take them to a friend’s for play while I was at the castle.”

  She handed him the tart on her palm, the berry juice running onto her fingers.

  His eyes fastened on the juicy treat bulging with cooked berries. “You have my thanks, my lady.” Swiftly, he engulfed the sweet and washed it down with a swig of ale.

  She laughed, seeing the berry juice dripping from his chin. “You are a sight, Sir Geoffroi.” Reaching for a cloth, she was about to wipe the juice from his face when he reached for her hand.

  Taking the cloth, he set it on the worktable and brought her fingertips to his mouth, licking the juice. The sensation of his warm tongue stroking her fingertips stirred a heat deep within her. Involuntarily her lips parted and she took in a quick breath, shivers making her nipples harden beneath her tunic as his tongue moved over her fingers.

  His blue gaze fixed on her. “You taste better than the tart and I would have more.”

  She regarded his rugged face, browned by his many days in the summer sun. It made his blue eyes all the more striking. His lips curved in a sensual smile, a spot of berry juice still on his mouth. She had the sudden urge to lick it off but before she could do it, his tongue reached out and lapped up the juice.

  He pulled her into his chest and gazed intently into her eyes. “Emma, I have longed to kiss you.”

  “Then mayhap you should,” she whispered, wanting nothing more.

  He bent his head to take her mouth and she was lost in his kiss, the warmth of his chest pressed against her, the taste of the berries on his tongue sliding over hers, seducing her to his will. But it was her will, too. She had wanted this from the first time she had seen him that morning, mayhap for days before that. She tilted her head to allow him to kiss her more deeply, entwining her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck.

  Their breaths quickened, her heart raced and a pool of warm liquid settled in her woman’s center.

  Breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Be my lady, Emma. Let me have you and I promise I will never have another.”

  She was not shocked at his request, but delighted in his words. Their gazes met and for a time neither spoke. Still, there was much in their eyes. For three years she had been without a man and had wanted none, but she wanted him.

  Without a word, she took his rough hand in hers and led him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her chamber, thinking all the while it was meant to be. Once inside, she closed the door and turned to him. “Your companions wait, so we do not have much time.”

  “Let them wait,” he said, drawing her close to kiss her neck, her face, then her lips. “I want you, Emma.”

  If they’d had more time, mayhap they would have proceeded more slowly but she did not think so. The passion between them was too intense and had been building for too long. Instead, they tore at each other’s clothing, frantic to be free of it, but all they managed before they fell to the bed was to remove his hauberk and her woolen gown. Her headcloth had quickly fallen to the floor on its own.

  “Emma, Emma,” he murmured as his hands reached for her linen shift, lifting it to her hips and running his palm down her quivering thigh.

  Then he kissed her deeply, moving his hand to her breast. It felt blessedly right.

  The heavy weight of his sex pressed against her. She tugged at his braies. He helped her slide them down leaving their bodies belo
w the waist touching, hot and ready, flamed by the heat coursing between them.

  “Geoffroi, hurry.”

  He rose up, positioned his sex at her welcoming folds and plunged in more deeply than she could have imagined. “My love,” he murmured as he stilled.

  She raised her hips to take all of him, welcoming his hot flesh into her tight sheath. It had been years since she had known a man, still she could not remember ever experiencing such fullness, such wonder. There was no ghost to greet her, no image of anyone but Geoffroi, his blue gaze intense when she opened her eyes to see him staring at her.

  “Is it well with you, my love?” he asked, concern in the depths of his eyes.

  “Yea, but ’twill be better when you begin to move.”

  “I shall move,” he said, thrusting into her. “Oh yes, Emma, I shall move.”

  Then began a most wondrous coupling, a loving she would never forget. Their bodies fit perfectly to each other, his sex gliding slowly in and out of her welcoming flesh.

  She raised her hips to move with him, as together they strove to reach the peak of their passion. When their release came, it was a joining that seemed so right, so destined, she felt no guilt. He had wanted her to give herself to him and she had.

  There was no turning back now.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dunfermline, Scotland

  A myriad of flickering candles and blazing torches lighted the great hall where Maerleswein joined the men and women feasting on roasted boar. To him it was a regathering of sorts, for they had all been there the year before, seeking refuge willingly offered by the Scottish monarch.

  At the head table sat Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, nearly forty and still a vigorous man with a warrior’s body and a full head of long, brown hair to go with his mustache and well-kept beard. Watching the king was his betrothed, the lovely Margaret of Wessex, who was nearly half his age. Maerleswein had met her the year before, when she and her brother fled north. Anyone who saw Margaret and Edgar Ætheling together would observe the resemblance. The two shared their fair appearance, their blue-gray eyes and the same delicate features; Edgar’s only a masculine version of his sister’s.

  The king had told Maerleswein that when Edgar, his mother and two sisters had landed in Scotland, Malcolm was there to greet them. Maerleswein could well imagine the scene, the king’s eyes devouring young Margaret, as they did this night. ’Twas not surprising when, soon after they met, the king offered to make Margaret his wife. Malcolm had fallen quickly, not just because of her royal Saxon lineage, the same lineage that the Norman Bastard would find disturbing when matched with a Scot, but because Margaret was so much more.

  Her gentle spirit permeated the hall. He had heard it said in Dunfermline that she was persuaded to accept the king’s offer in order to accomplish a holy purpose, to direct Malcolm from his erring ways and increase God’s praise in the land. Mayhap it was so, for, from his own observations, the Scottish people loved her, as did their king.

  She did not say much, a word here, a nod there, allowing her betrothed to do the talking. While Malcolm spoke both Gaelic and Saxon, Margaret spoke only Saxon. Yet she did not need to speak for those attending to observe the sweetness of her nature.

  With her long flaxen plaits and her pleasant expression, Margaret reminded Maerleswein of his wife, Julianna, at that age. A wave of sadness swept over him. He had lost her so early and, even today, missed her far more than he would ever admit. With a sigh, he shook off the longing for the past. He had his daughter to care for and she was the image of her mother. He had named her for Emma of Normandy, Queen Consort of England, Denmark and Norway. The name seemed fitting since both were strong of character and had overcome loss, though after the Bastard plundered England, mayhap the Norman’s connection to the name was best forgotten.

  He gazed about the hall, decorated with shields and tapestries belonging to the Scottish royal family and proudly noted that the men sharing the meal with the king were nearly all Northumbrians, many related. None was even thirty, yet much would be expected of them if they were to take back the North. The Danes and their ships would not be enough without leaders like Waltheof, the Earl of Huntingdon, who looked like a Dane with his great height and pale hair. And no wonder, for he was cousin to King Swein of Denmark.

  As he thought of it, Waltheof was also cousin to Cospatric, the young Earl of Bamburgh. Now there was a man who would make a fine husband for Emma. Handsome by most women’s standards, and more importantly to Maerleswein, Cospatric was wealthy and titled, still powerful with his lands north of Durham.

  Emma was too independent, too content with her made up family. She needed children of her own. She’d had enough time to mourn Halden’s death. Maerleswein had no intention of allowing his only daughter to remain a widow forever. It was time for her to wed again. He was not pleased with this friendship with a French knight who had helped her with Ottar. The look in her eyes when she spoke of the knight’s kindness displayed more than gratitude.

  Emma had been alone with women, children and servants for too long. She needed a man, one her father approved of.

  Hearing the men’s conversations, retelling the story of the Normans’ routing of the weak Northumbrian forces, reminded him of his mission. He had come to Dunfermline not only to seek Malcolm’s aid, as he had King Swein’s, but to convince the Scot and the others to join the fight. Even more than men and arms, they needed leaders with a firm resolve to accomplish their purpose. He was still doubtful of Osbjorn’s ability to lead hundreds of ships and thousands of Danish warriors. He knew William. The Norman Bastard was fierce and would not be stopped except by men with a tenacity to match his own.

  “You are a quiet one this night, Maerleswein,” observed the king of the Scots, looking down the table to where Maerleswein sat.

  “Aye. I have been contemplating all that must be done by summer’s end when we return to Yorkshire to meet King Swein’s ships. There is much to consider.”

  “You are confident they will arrive?”

  “I am. What Swein has promised, he will see done. While I was still in Jelling, he ordered the building of more longships.”

  Cospatric set down his wine. “He was most eager to reclaim the heart of the old Danish lands.”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “In that, Scotland may have an interest. We were planning to invade Yorkshire last year on Edgar’s behalf, but alas, the Norman got there first.”

  “He has come and gone again from York,” Maerleswein informed the king, “leaving yet another of his castles and more of his French knights. While he is away is the time to strike.”

  * * *

  York, England

  Emma gazed into Geoffroi’s face, as they lay together amidst the lavender flowers at the edge of the meadow that abutted the woods, content as she had never been. In the background she could hear the melodious song of the ruby-breasted linnet.

  The world did not intrude into this part of the forest. It was a special place, theirs alone. It had not been easy for her to steal away unnoticed to meet him in the flower-filled meadow, but she had done so. And she came willingly, though not as often as either Geoffroi or she would have liked.

  Sunlight filtered through the trees to fall across his straw-colored hair. One arm bent under her head for a pillow, she reached up with the other to touch his cheek, letting her fingers caress his now familiar face, relishing the weight of his body lying across hers.

  He bent his head to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers. She heard him take a deep breath.

  “I love your smell,” he said, nuzzling her neck, sending shivers down her spine and awakening other parts of her body. “I noticed it the first time you rode with me.”

  His tongue slid over her skin and she turned into his caress.

  “You taste like honey,” he murmured.

  She turned her head to kiss his temple.

  “Would that we could always be together like this,” he said, raising himself on one elbow to
brush tendrils of hair from her brow. “Only I would prefer a bed,” he added with a grin, “and you naked. The times I have seen your lovely form have been too few.”

  She smiled up at him, her hand curving around his chiseled jaw. He turned his head to kiss her palm. The warmth of his lips sent an aching need coursing through her. She loved the touch of this man. His hands were rough but his lovemaking tender. Yet, at times, his passion had risen to take her in a furious storm. She had reveled in his unleashed strength.

  “’Tis a dream I, too, wish were real,” she murmured. But she knew it was only a dream, one that would never be realized. In this place she ignored the allegiances that would one day tear them apart. She forgot the father she loved who led the rebels. If this was all she had of her knight and his love, she would accept it and be grateful for the gift.

  His face was mere inches from hers when he whispered, “I meant when I said I would have no other, Emma. Do me the honor of becoming my wife and when I return to Talisand, come with me.”

  She let out a breath. How she wanted to go! Somehow she must find the words to tell him she could not. “My life is here, Geoffroi. The twins, my home, Inga.” My people, my father, my future.

  “Bring Inga and the twins with you,” he said undaunted, sitting up to cast her a mischievous smile. “Even the hound! Talisand has room for all and I have a manor and land of my own. Even Artur and Sigga would find a home there with us.”

  “If only….” She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. If only her father did not plot with the Danes to recapture York. If only she was not a thegn’s daughter with all the attendant responsibilities to her station and to those who depended upon her. If Geoffroi knew her father and his allies planned to send the Norman king running, he would have nothing to do with her. His love might even turn to hate. If her father knew she had taken a Norman knight as her lover, he would kill that knight. Torn between them, she could tell neither of the other.