He lifted his head. “And without children?”
She closed her eyes, unwilling to admit how she had secretly struggled with the idea of never having babies of her own. “To leave the cloister would mean living under the control of a husband—”
“Camhanach, it is a bargain as old as the world itself.” He chuckled. “Women want protection… men want a willing lass to warm their bed.”
Her lashes opened wide. “Is that all it is to you? Like an exchange of goods in a market?”
“Aye, but it can be a most enjoyable exchange.” He dusted kisses over her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat, lingering at that spot where her life’s blood pulsed so close to the surface. “This is what is real between a man and a woman, milady. This is all that is real. The rest is just foolishness spouted by poets and prophets.”
She reached up to touch his face, making him look at her again, her fingertips gentle as they traced over the scar on his cheek. “And you think I am the one who is alone.”
Their gazes held, his eyes darkening to a blue deeper than midnight.
Then he lowered his head, groaning, and captured her mouth with his. That unsettling heat flashed through her as he brushed his lips over hers, again and again. Deep within her, a new tension, sweet and astonishing, unfurled low in her belly.
Then he angled his head, deepening the kiss, urging her lips to part… and his tongue stroked against hers.
God’s mercy. She tasted him, breathed him. His passion overwhelmed her senses until she was not only allowing the kiss but returning it. The sensations intoxicated her more than the spiced wine she had drunk. She felt as though she were floating on a river made hot by the sun, aware that she was heading for the ocean, but too utterly at home in the water to be afraid.
He threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her deeply, lowering his weight over her. An unfamiliar longing flooded her body and left her trembling.
She uttered a soft whimper and he stopped, breaking the kiss.
Opening her eyes, she blinked up at him, feeling as if she were awakening from a dream.
He whispered something in his language, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. “Even a knave must know his limits.”
Rolling onto his side, he drew her close. “Sleep, milady. I will keep you warm tonight, and safe.” He pulled the blanket over her, wrapping one arm around her waist as he settled beside her on the furs. “And for one night, at least, neither of us will be alone.”
Chapter 5
Darach awoke before dawn. Dusky hues of gray and red had just begun lapping at the black edges of the night sky as he stood at the window, looking out through the open shutters. He watched the furtive movements of those below. Shadowy clumps moved about in the inner bailey, breaking up to reveal themselves as men taking their positions along the wall. Rising out of the forest beyond, tall shapes lumbered toward the castle, like dragons waiting to unfurl their wings and spit fire on any in their path. Siege towers, he knew.
How many times had his day begun exactly like this?
He glanced again at the lady curled up on the furs before the fire. She still slept soundly, her head nestled where his shoulder had been. He should have left already, he admonished himself. There was much to be done and little time. He would need to borrow chain mail and a helm from Gaston. And he should be below by now, helping to direct the placement of men and weapons, choosing the best positions for the pots of boiling pitch, discussing with Gaston whether it was best to concentrate their defense on the gatehouse or curtain wall…
Without thinking, he crossed to the hearth and crouched beside Laurien. Her hair lay in pale tangles across the fur throws. Even in sleep, she held one hand curled into a small fist. Fiery demoiselle, with her gentle heart and her stubborn strength. He reached out and gently uncurled each finger.
Last night, he had done exactly what he had sworn he would not: given in to this desire that was stronger than any he had known, this feeling that quickened his heartbeat and made him forget anything but her.
Even when he had stopped, it had not been out of concern for his mission, or the lives depending on him.
It had been out of concern for her.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Glenshiel?”
“A moment,” he replied quietly, recognizing Gaston’s voice. Moving back to the window, he closed the shutters and lowered the bar. He picked up his boots from before the hearth. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he tucked the woolen blanket closer around Laurien, chastising himself even as he did so.
’Twas not for him, the softness and comfort of a woman beside him—never for more than a brief time. His was a life of sharp edges and steel blades, enemies to be fought, battles to be won.
And thus it would be, forever.
“Glenshiel.” Varennes’s voice was insistent this time.
“Aye.” Darach rose and turned away from her. “To the battlements.”
~ ~ ~
She was late for matins again. Laurien could not make herself open her eyes, though her friend Therese would surely be coming any moment to fetch her… but the bed felt so warm and comforting and… nay, her warmth had been stolen away and she was…
Alone.
Laurien woke with a start. Of course she was alone. She awakened every day alone. Raking her tangled hair out of her eyes, she sat up.
And remembered all at once that she lay not on her pallet in the convent—but on the Scotsman’s bed of furs before the hearth.
Everything came back in a rush.
She had slept the entire night in the arms of a man.
Blinking in the shadowy light, she went still, stunned. What had she been thinking?
In truth, she had not been thinking at all—something that had never happened to her before. Darach’s touch and his kiss made it impossible for her to do anything but feel. Overwhelmed by longings she did not understand, she had allowed him to hold her, had wanted him to kiss her.
And then she had slept soundly in his arms, all through the night. It made no sense that she should find comfort in a man’s embrace—especially not his—but somehow it had not felt wrong or sinful.
Not at all.
She rubbed her eyes and struggled to right her careening thoughts.
The flames in the fireplace had burned low, and the place beside her felt cool to the touch. He had been gone for some time. Through cracks in the barred shutters, the full light of morning seeped into the chamber… along with sounds of the battle outside.
Tossing off the blanket that covered her, she stood, listening with a mix of alarm and dread. She could hear war cries, the clash of weapons, the whump of catapult stones finding their targets. Never had she even seen a battle from a distance before, let alone been in the midst of one.
Every story she had ever heard filled her mind: tales of men burned by boiling pitch, of bristling weapons at every turn, of unlucky warriors who chanced to fall into a moat, only to be dragged to the bottom by their own armor.
And Darach would be in the thick of it.
She shook her head, reminding herself that he was capable of dealing with whatever he might face. At the moment, she should be thinking of herself—because with most of the chateau’s occupants busy, now was her best chance to escape.
She remembered Sir Gaston’s words from the night before: We have a secret sally port to the north.
Picking up her boots from where they sat near the bed, she went straight to the door—and found a piece of parchment tacked onto it.
On it were two words in French, both underlined: Restez ici. Stay here.
She took the note down, crumpled it into a ball, and sent it sailing into the fireplace. Now was no time to start following Darach’s orders. Reaching for the latch, she paused.
He might have posted a guard. But would they spare a man from the battle solely to watch her?
She cautiously lifted the latch and opened the door a crack.
Hearing no shout of alarm, she stepped into the solar.
She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the brighter light, then realized with relief that she was alone. Her cloak and gloves lay where she had left them last night, and she quickly put them on. Hurrying to the door that led to the great hall, she tried the latch.
Locked. Bolted shut from the outside. And perhaps watched by someone in the hall beyond. Gritting her teeth, she realized she would have to talk her way past him.
But first, she must get past the lock.
Reaching for her aumoniere, she felt the familiar outline of her knife. The Scotsman had made a mistake in underestimating her. Too late, he would realize he had erred by allowing her to keep the little weapon.
She knelt in front of the latch and began working at the wood surrounding the metal fittings. She wiggled the blade back and forth until the oak began to splinter. She repeated this process all the way around the iron rectangle until, at last, she had it loose. Then she carefully slid the blade into the slim opening and used it as a lever to gently…gently…slip the bolt free.
Straightening, she placed her knife back in her bag. Then she took a deep breath and opened the door.
She fully expected to be ordered to halt by some imperious male voice. Looking around, she exhaled in relief. It seemed they could spare no one from the battle, for no guard had been posted.
Apparently the Scotsman considered one lock sufficient to hold a mere woman.
Her mouth curved. That man’s arrogance would be his undoing someday.
A pity she would not be around to see it.
She walked into the shadowy great hall. How eerie it seemed, empty and silent after the revels of the night before. The refuse had been swept away, the trestle tables neatly placed along the walls. A small fire crackled on the hearth, untended. The servants must all be occupied in the kitchens beyond, she realized, preparing food and drink for the men—along with bandages and poultices.
There was no way to reach the main door except by crossing the open hall. Pulling the hood of her cloak well forward to conceal her face, she moved quickly, not wanting to have to explain herself to a servant—or worse, to one of the warriors who might happen to enter. She barely breathed, alert for the slightest sound, the rushes crunching beneath her feet.
Finally, she reached the exit. Casting one last look behind to make sure no one had noticed, she slipped out into the stairwell tower.
As in most French chateaux, this tower was one of four that offered access to the various floors. A spiral stair led above and below, a single door on each level the only entry to the rooms beyond. A torch sputtered in a sconce next to Laurien’s head. She pulled it from the wall and started downward, quickly, the occasional click of her boot heels on the stone steps echoing like the crack of a whip.
Her heart was beating madly by the time she reached the ground floor, where another torch flickered in the gloom. On her right she saw that the portcullis had been lowered, the thick, iron-wrapped wooden grating blocking the portal that led outdoors.
The door on her left, she guessed, led to the now-empty garrison quarters. She hurried past it, heading for the bouteillerie, the underground larder and storage chamber, the most likely place to find Sir Gaston’s tunnel.
The staircase spun onward, coming to an abrupt end at a large door flanked by two more torches. She reached for the iron ring and took another calming breath. She could not bear it if she were caught now. She was so close to freedom.
Gripping the torch tightly, she opened the door.
The flame in her hand illuminated only a small circle of light compared to the size of the chamber. Two tiny pairs of blood-red eyes flashed in the brightness, then disappeared into the shadows. The skittering sound made Laurien shiver, but she forced herself to move forward.
Where to begin? The bouteillerie was much larger than she had expected. Every corner overflowed with the bounty of Sir Gaston’s larder: barrels of wine and ale, casks of dried fish andbeef, sacks of flour and cakes of salt. The scents of pepper, ginger, and cloves spiced the clammy air.
As she looked around, the enormity of her task nearly overwhelmed her. But what had she expected, she reasoned, a large X marking the secret tunnel? Squaring her shoulders, she decided to start with the wall to her left.
She held the torch at eye level, peering at the stones and moving slowly, looking for some crack or line that would reveal itself to be a door. Intent on her search, she did not notice the flame suddenly dance wildly.
But she did hear the footstep behind her.
Startled, she spun around—just as a man clad in chain mail charged at her. She dodged to one side only an instant before his sword bit into the wall with a loud clang, in the very spot where her head had been.
Scrambling away, she took in all at once the man’s frightening size—and his yellow-and-red tunic with a dragon symbol. It was one of the enemy’s knights!
“Say a prayer, lad,” he snarled, following her. “You will not live to tell your lord that I have discovered his secret sally port.”
He attacked again, wielding his sword with deadly skill. With a terrified cry, she swung the torch in desperation only to have him knock it from her hand. It sputtered out in the dirt. Enveloped in darkness, she ran for the exit.
She fumbled for the door, found it, and ran up the stairs. Her attacker was right behind her. He tripped her and she fell. The hard edge of the steps knocked the breath from her.
Screaming, she rolled against the wall just as the sword came down again. It glanced off the stone, sounding like a smithy’s hammer on an anvil. The knight jerked it free and raised it to deliver a lethal blow—only to stop suddenly, the weapon suspended above his head.
At the astonishment on his face, Laurien abruptly realized that her hood had fallen away as she rolled, revealing her hair, her face. She took advantage of his momentary confusion and launched a hard kick at the most vulnerable part of his anatomy.
Shouting in pain and surprise, he stumbled and lost his hold on the sword. Laurien turned and raced up the stairs, fumbling with her aumoniere to free her knife. She heard him cursing just behind her.
On the first level, she darted through the door to the garrison quarters and slammed it behind her, only to have it smash open before she could secure it. She was thrown headlong into the room, falling to the floor, her knife flying from her hand. She looked desperately for another weapon.
The racks had been picked clean. The only weapons left behind were a pair of pages’ training swords on the far wall.
The knight slammed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his expression furious. Sheathing his sword, he slid the bar into place, blocking any servants who might come to her aid.
An ugly grin curled his mouth.
Pushing herself to her feet, Laurien backed away, her heart pounding hard against her ribs.
The knight pulled off his mail gloves. “For once, I count myself fortunate to have been chosen as a scout.” He moved toward her. “Never did I expect to happen upon such a choice morsel in Varennes’s larder.” His gaze raked her body. “I mean to enjoy this, wench. Your death will not be quick.”
Laurien’s back came up against the stone wall. Desperate, she reached up and grabbed one of the training swords from above her head. She held it out in front of her, breathing hard.
The man laughed as he came closer, batting at the slim metal blade like a cat playing with a mouse’s whiskers. Terrified, she lunged out with the sword as he reached for her. He snatched his hand back, roaring in surprise and pain, blood dripping through his fingers.
She turned and ran for the window, lifting off the bar, tearing open the shutters. His hand closed on her shoulder and he spun her around, rage twisting his features. On instinct alone, she slashed out again as she came about. He screamed as her weapon opened a line of red on his face.
The page’s weapon still clutched in one hand, she scrambled up onto the window ledge and leaped out.<
br />
Straight into the battle.
~ ~ ~
Darach slumped down behind the wall, exhausted. After several hours of fighting, neither side was making any progress. The leather jerkin beneath his borrowed chain mail was sodden with sweat. He pushed back the metallic coif that protected his head, along with the padded leather cap underneath, savoring the cool touch of the wind in his damp hair. He was concentrating on holding the moat and battlements, while Gaston saw to the defense of the main gate.
He licked his dry lips, the familiar litany of battle repeating in his head. Keep them from gaining the outer bailey. If that fails, keep them from the inner bailey. If they take that as well, defend the castle to the last man.
’Twas a living, breathing, bloodied chessboard. He had played this game too often, both from the attacking side and the defending. Another blow from a catapult shook the wall-walk he was sitting on, and he put out a hand to steady the man beside him, who had just taken aim and now teetered precariously at the edge.
Darach stood and peered over the top of the wall, wiping the edge of his silk surcoat over his face to clear the soot that stung his eyes, coughing on the fetid steam rising from the cauldrons of boiling pork fat to his left and right.
At the edge of the water below, relays of red-and-yellow-clad warriors struggled to fill the moat with soil and stones and branches. One of Beauvais’s siege towers stood just beyond the reach of the defenders’ arrows, waiting for the makeshift bridge to be completed. It could take all day, Darach knew, for the moat was well within his men’s range, and they kept the fillers pinned down with a rain of arrows and scalding liquid. He was more concerned about the scaling ladders.
A sudden high-pitched sound broke into his concentration and he spun toward it. It was the falconer’s whistle, ringing high and clear above the din—the secret warning that he and Gaston had devised during their mercenary days. His friend was in trouble.
Half crouching, Darach sped back along the wall, scanning the area near the gate as he went.
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 9