Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Maxton sighed heavily, scratching his neck as he thought of his reply. “You will let me worry about that,” he said. “I told you I would protect you, like a big brother should. I will not go back on that promise.”

  Andressa stood up, pulling the now-dry towel around her as she moved towards him with timid steps. “But I am not your responsibility,” she murmured firmly. “While I greatly appreciate your offer, the truth is that I am not your responsibility. You have made the offer out of pity and it will soon become a burden if I permit it.”

  She had come within arm’s length of him and Maxton’s dark gaze moved to her. Her hair was dry now, curling around her face, long and silky down to her knees. He could see such beauty in her, such grace and wisdom. Something about her swept him off his feet and made him feel giddy, a feeling that not even her pregnancy could dissolve. He didn’t care that she carried another man’s child. It was a mistake; he understood that.

  All he cared about, at the moment, was her.

  “You would never become a burden to me,” he said. “And… and mayhap I have not been completely honest with you about my intentions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  What did he mean? He fumbled for the right words. “It is not as a big brother that I look upon you,” he said. “I do not look at you and see a sisterly relation. I look at you and see a woman of grace and beauty, and I have since I first met you. There is something so haunting about you, yet so strong. I am not sure I can explain it better than that. Let me take care of you, Andressa. Let me take care of you and the baby, and let us find a corner of this world where two sinners can find happiness with each other.”

  Andressa was looking at him in astonishment. Her eyes widened and she simply stared at him as if he’d just said the most shocking thing she’d ever heard.

  “You… you want to take care of… of…?”

  “Aye, I want to take care of you.”

  She swallowed hard, taking a step back as his words impacted her. She’d only just met the man; that was her first thought. How could he know that he wanted to take care of her? It was his pity talking. She knew that. He had a great deal of pity for her, more so now that he knew she was with child, and it was that kind and generous man acting on impulse. As much as she was flattered, and deeply touched, the offer terrified her immensely.

  I am not your responsibility.

  But, God, she wished that she was.

  Maxton was a powerful, seasoned, handsome knight of the highest order. She remembered thinking that she wished she was good enough for him, because a man like Maxton deserved a fine, elegant wife, not a lowly pledge who was pregnant with another man’s child. She was certain he’d not thought extensively on the offer he just made, because if he had, he probably would not have made it. The mere thought of what he was suggesting was ludicrous.

  For his sake, she could not agree to it.

  “Your offer is as beautiful as your soul, Maxton,” she said quietly. “I know you have a past that suggests your soul is as black as soot, but my experience with you has been much different. You are a man that every girl dreams of. But you said that William Marshal wishes for me to return to St. Blitha?”

  Her response made him hopeful. “He does.”

  “Then that is where I should go.”

  He grunted unhappily. “Andressa…”

  “Please, Maxton,” she said, reaching out to put a slender hand on his arm. “I know you are trying to help me, but you must let me think on what you have said. I will not make a decision of this importance in only a few moments. Will you send food to me now? I am rather hungry.”

  She was changing the subject and he was aware of it. He was also grossly unhappy that she wasn’t jumping on his offer, but he understood for the most part. It had been a turbulent day and a turbulent situation, and he was certain that she wasn’t thinking clearly. He thought that once she’d filled her belly and she’d had time to consider everything, that perhaps she would be more agreeable to his offer. If she was, then he would have to find a place to put her until the situation blew over. When the king went to St. Blitha in two days, he didn’t want her anywhere near the place.

  He wanted her safe.

  Collecting her hand as it rested on his arm, he held her cold digits in his big, rough palm. “I will get it for you,” he said. “But you will think on my offer. Swear it?”

  She nodded steadily. “I am deeply grateful for it. And you.”

  Maxton thought he sensed something in her tone, something that gave him great hope that, perhaps, she was feeling for him what he was feeling for her. He couldn’t even put it into words; all he knew was that he could see it in her eyes.

  Impulsively, he put his arms around her and pulled her against him, his mouth slanting over hers to deliver a kiss that was warm and curious, tender and titillating. She stiffened at first, but only momentarily – quickly, he could feel her relaxing, surrendering to his power, and that only made him kiss her more deeply. She was warm and soft in his embrace, if not a bit bony, but it didn’t take away from his excitement or his enjoyment. He could also feel her hard belly pressing against his torso and, strangely enough, it excited him. Her fertility excited him. He found it alluring and womanly, all strange thoughts from a very unconventional man.

  He could get used to the feel of her in his arms quite easily.

  A knock on the door startled him and he quickly let her go, moving a few feet away as the door opened and the old servant woman appeared. When she saw Maxton in the chamber, she gasped.

  “I’m sorry, m’lord,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  Maxton took a couple of long strides and was at the door. “I was just leaving,” he said, pulling the panel open wide. “I will have food sent up to the lady.”

  With that, he was gone, leaving the room unnaturally fast. Andressa stood there a moment, glancing at the old serving woman and wondering if the woman was thinking that he had behaved strangely. Did she know they’d been in a passionate embrace only moments before? Andressa’s cheeks felt hot and she put a hand to them, feeling the heat, knowing Maxton had put it there.

  It had been a moment she never thought she’d experience, but it only served to confirm what she was already thinking – Maxton was a man of impulse, and that was exactly what his offer had been – impulsive. But he was also sweet, passionate, and wildly handsome.

  And that kiss… she was still reeling from it.

  Still, she couldn’t let him make such a mistake, and the truth was that she didn’t want to make a mistake, either. She’d already had one foolish moment in her life. She couldn’t stand to have another and possibly ruin Maxton’s life in the process.

  “Come along, m’lady,” the old serving woman cut into her thoughts. “I’ve brought something that you can wear.”

  As the old woman went to pull away the drying towel, Andressa balked. “Nay,” she said. “Not that clothing. Where is the garment you took from me?”

  “The spots are being cleaned from it, m’lady.”

  Andressa pushed aside the garment that the old woman was extending to her. “Bring it back to me,” she said. “Hurry, now. I do not wish to wear anything else.”

  “But –”

  “Now, please. Bring it in a hurry. I do not wish to catch a chill.”

  Begrudgingly, the old woman left the chamber with the garment she had brought with her, a fine robe that belonged to William Marshal’s wife, and went down to the kitchens where a maid was scrubbing out the dirt from the rough woolen tunic. Collecting the half-cleaned garment, she took it back up to the stubborn lady, who took the garment from her and then asked for a blanket to cover herself with.

  As the old serving women left Andressa alone to dress as she went on the blanket suitable for the young lady, Andressa very quickly pulled on her woolen garment and yanked on her shoes. The leather belt she wore was draped over a chair and she collected it quickly, rushing for the door as she tied it on.

&n
bsp; Very quietly, she opened the chamber door, sticking her head out to see if anyone was around and, seeing that it was mostly vacant, she dashed from the door and down the stairs that led to the interior courtyard outside.

  It was dark now, with dozens of torches lighting up the night, as she scurried through the courtyard and to the front gate. The gate guards were surprisingly willing to let her leave without so much as a word, and once the gate was opened for her, she slipped out into the night, braiding her freshly-washed hair as she rushed through the darkness, disappearing down the street on her way back to St. Blitha.

  It wasn’t until nearly a half-hour later when Maxton returned that he discovered her missing.

  No one had to tell him anything. He knew where she had gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I was told you were awake,” Alexander said. “How do you feel?”

  While the men of Farringdon House were feasting in the hall and Maxton was off dealing with the St. Blitha pledge who had unknowingly solved all of their problems, Alexander had been informed that his prisoner had awoken from his drunken stupor. He’d left William and the other men supping on boiled beef to tend to Alasdair, who looked as if he’d been hit by an ale wagon and then some. The man groaned as he rubbed at his head.

  “I feel as bad as ye smell, Sassenach,” he muttered. Then, he looked up at Alexander and seemed to have some clarity. The light of recognition went on in his eyes. “’Tis ye. I should have known. Are ye behind all of this, then?”

  Alexander leaned against the door jamb, feeling rather smug. After the months he took to follow this man, he had every right to feel victorious.

  “Do you recognize me?” he asked. “I thought you might. There is no way you could have avoided me as much as you did without knowing me on sight.”

  Alasdair sighed heavily as he blinked, trying to clear his vision. “An leanabh,” he said. “Ye are The Follower. Ye’ve been following me since I left Italia.”

  Alexander nodded, feeling some sense of satisfaction now that they had acknowledged each other. Not that he had any doubt, but the truth was that he’d followed Alasdair around for so long he felt as if he were seeing an old friend.

  “I have,” he said. “Do you know why I have been following you?”

  Alasdair shrugged. “Someone put ye up to it, I imagine,” he said. “Who paid ye? Was it Abramo? Or Idiamo? I can only guess it would be one of those two, shadows of the Holy Father and suspicious of all who come near him. Well? Which bastard was it?”

  Alexander wasn’t going to tell him who had paid him, so he simply shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter?” he said. “I was paid to hunt you down and kill you, but you proved quite a challenge. I will congratulate you for evading me until now. I did not know that a Scotsman could be so clever.”

  Alasdair smiled thinly. “There’s much ye dinna know about a Scotsman,” he said. “Now that ye know who I am, tell me yer name.”

  “De Sherrington.”

  That made Alasdair peer more closely at him, this time in surprise. “De Sherrington,” he repeated. “God’s Bones, it is ye. I dinna recognize ye without the hair on yer face and yer clothes on. The last I saw ye, ’twas during a summer feast at the Lateran Palace. ’Twas as hot as Hades, as I recall, and ye had women in yer arms. Yer part of the Sassenach contingent that the Holy Father invited tae the Lateran Palace.”

  “I am.”

  “I heard that ye and yer friends are called the Cavalieri de Boia. The Executioner Knights.” He suddenly grinned. “I was more clever than a bunch of Sassenachs. Admit it.”

  Alexander smirked. “For a time, mayhap,” he said. “But I have you now.”

  “Do ye intend tae kill me?”

  “I’ve not yet decided. You are a very interesting man and it would be a shame to kill one so clever. In fact, I am very curious about you.”

  “Why?”

  Alexander shrugged. “You are a double agent,” he said. “I find that fascinating. And, by the way, the messenger you sent north to Scotland while you were in Berwick shall not make it to the king. He’s dead.”

  Some of the smile faded from Alasdair’s face. “I see,” he said, rather calmly. “A pity.”

  “He would not tell me the message he carried. Mayhap you will.”

  Alasdair sighed heavily and scratched at his bushy head. “I hardly remember it,” he said. “It seems like it was so long ago.”

  “Did you send him with word of the Holy Father’s directive to kill King John?”

  Much to Alasdair’s credit, he didn’t overly react to the question, but that was the training in him. Years and years of training, of spying and lying, had given him excellent control over his moods and emotions. He continued scratching his head, casually, glancing up at the enormous English knight.

  “I wouldna know, lad.”

  “I think you do.” Alexander came away from the door jamb, wandering into the chamber. “In fact, I know you do. I have it on good authority that you delivered a message to the Mother Abbess of St. Blitha and instructed her to kill the king when he comes to the abbey for St. Blitha’s feast day. Did you think you were the only double agent around? Think again, Douglas. There is a mole at St. Blitha and we know everything you told them. You may as well confess the truth.”

  Alasdair sighed again and dropped his hand. “Ye seem tae already know it,” he said. “What more could I say that ye dunna already know?”

  “You can tell me that this is the message you carried all the way from the Lateran Palace,” he said. “Douglas, think of it this way – you carried a message from the Holy Father and I was paid to kill you, presumably before you delivered it. Someone at the Lateran Palace didn’t want that message to make it to St. Blitha. Someone there either hates the Holy Father enough, or loves King John enough, that they did not want you to succeed.”

  Alasdair had been in the game a long time, enough to know that defeat was sometimes part of that game. He simply shook his head.

  “Someone will succeed,” he said, a grin returning to his pale lips as he looked up at Alexander. “The hatred against John… it goes deeper than ye know, de Sherrington. ’Tis not only the Holy Father who wants yer king dead.”

  Alexander thought about that for a moment before an idea occurred to him. His eyebrows lifted. “Of course,” he muttered. “I should have guessed. The Scottish king is in on the plot, also. That is why you were sending a message north to him.”

  Alasdair lifted his hand in a way that was both vague and confirming at the same time. “Then ye know if ye stop the nuns at St. Blitha, someone else will come forward,” he said. “They always do. Ye canna cut all of the threads of the spider’s web. Where one is snipped away, others remain strong.”

  “True enough,” Alexander said. “But we can hunt down Richard’s bastard son and kill him. With the boy out of the way, neither the Holy Father nor William the Lion, or any other enemies, will have a legitimate issue to place upon the throne.”

  The fact that Alexander knew about Richard’s bastard son drew some reaction from Alasdair, however weak. His dark eyes flickered as he realized that, indeed, de Sherrington knew the extent of their plans. Whoever the mole was inside of St. Blitha had done a thorough job, which was rather disappointing.

  “Ye’ll never find the lad,” he finally said. “The Holy Father sent him away. I dinna even know where he is.”

  Alexander waved him off. “It is of little matter,” he said. “If enough money is presented, I am sure whoever guards the boy will happily turn him over to us. No man is more loyal to the Holy Father than he is to his own purse.”

  Alasdair conceded the point. “Money is the most persuasive language in the world,” he agreed. “I wish ye luck, Sassenach. Ye’ll need it.”

  Alexander dipped his head as if thanking the man. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming,” he said. “But have no fear; in the end, we shall do what needs to be done, for the good of England.”

  Alasdair’s dark eye
s glittered. “Would ye care tae wager on that, lad?”

  Alexander couldn’t help the grin on his lips. “I may keep you alive just long enough to see who would win that wager.”

  “If I win, then ye’ll set me free. If I lose, ye can slit my throat.”

  “I do not need anything as frivolous as a wager to do that.”

  “Then ye still intend tae kill me, in any case?”

  “That is what I’ve been paid to do. And I am loyal to my own purse.”

  Alasdair laughed softly, thinking of the words on the value of money presented only moments earlier. “If I pay ye more, will ye spare me?”

  Alexander appeared intrigued by the offer. “Can you?”

  “My king can.”

  Alexander rather liked that. It was the mercenary in him. He had no great loyalty to Abramo or the money the man had paid him, but if he could make even more money by sparking Alasdair’s life, he would consider it.

  “Then mayhap I shall send word to William the Lion and ask him what your life is worth to him,” he said. “Meanwhile, you will be my guest for a time. You may as well get comfortable. You are going to be here a while.”

  Alasdair simply nodded, torn between showing de Sherrington just how clever he was and making the man think he had surrendered to his fate. He didn’t want to tip off the big knight with suggestions of a future escape, but from the moment he’d awoken in this unfamiliar chamber, that was exactly what he’d been thinking. As he sat there, rubbing at his head again and waiting for de Sherrington to say something more, another muscular knight came to the doorway.

  “Max has more information,” the warrior muttered to de Sherrington, who turned to look at him. “The Marshal wants you down in the hall to hear it.”

  Alexander grunted in acknowledgment. “Very well,” he responded, returning his attention to Alasdair. “I’ll send some food to you, ye madman. Behave yourself while I am gone.”