by C. C. Wiley
His hazel eyes flashed, darkening to the color of the rolling seas along the shore. “You heard me tell the men you are under my protection.”
There was nothing she could do to remove the smoky residue from her clothes. Except finish the job and burn them. Walking about like the day Maman gave birth to her would surely quiet his complaints. Being naked together caught her imagination and that irksome heat traveled through her middle. She tightened her thighs. A spasm of contracting muscles coursed through, building, flowing into her mons.
She forced her gaze to remain strong and firm. To glance away would show weakness. ’Twas what Alexandre had demanded in his training of fledglings. Timing. When to show strength and when to show weakness. She could not let Drem know her fear. “Oui. I also heard you say I was your woman. Your spoils of . . .” She twirled her hand in the air. “War.”
“Had to be said.” A jaw muscle jumped. “To keep you safe. We’ll see what can be found to replace your dress. There are women in the camp who may have something to lend you.”
“You wish me to wear a leman’s garments?” Maman’s elegant brocade and silk dresses flashed in Brigitte’s mind. As a little girl, Brigitte never understood the covert whispers and laughter behind locked doors. Now she did. She’d sworn never to be like her mother. And here she stood, staring at the man who had the power to take care of her or give her to his friends.
“Until we break down Harfleur’s defenses,” he added. “Then you may have your pick from the nobles’ wardrobes.”
“Why would you do that?” she whispered.
He drew back. Raising her chin so she might read the truth written in his eyes. “Because I think you deserve better than you received at Master Alexandre’s fist. And, oddly enough, I trust your word.”
Stunned, Brigitte blinked. This knight trusted her? A thief?
A lost piece of who she was before arriving in Harfleur settled into place. Not a perfect fit. She was no longer that abandoned and heartbroken girl. She was determined to retrieve what was hers and then make her way to Calais. The city Maman had spoken of so lovingly, with hope. It was where they were to build their future together.
He lifted her soot-covered hair that she had frantically tried to tame. “’Tis certain you know of a place where we can bathe in private.”
“Oui.” She licked her lips and glanced toward the flap in the tent. Her fingers curled, fighting the urge to stroke his whiskered jaw. She forced down the urge to rub against him like a love-starved cat. “Where is Piers?”
“He’s been taken under Sir Darrick’s wing.” He plucked the jupon from her hands, catching her wrist before she could chase after them. “He is under his protection.”
“Protection. Why?” Her hands folded into fists. “Because he is French?”
“Yes.” He winced as she jerked to free her arms. “And because he is from Soissons. Let Darrick discover what this is about. He is safe. I promise.”
“You promise. How many promises have you made and kept?”
“Too many. And all of them.” He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip. “I’ve been given an order by the king to have my wounds cleaned.” He began to lift the hem of his leather jerkin and groaned. “I beseech you. Point me to the nearest fresh watering hole.”
Brigitte shook her head and let the fear slip from her shoulders. “Here. Let me.” She pressed him onto the stool. His large body filled her view. He ducked as she drew the leather jerkin over his head. A hiss of air exploded.
The linen shirt, ruined beyond repair, stuck to the bloody parts of his skin. The threads of the material, whether torn or singed, broke apart in her hands.
But the broken body, hidden underneath, tore at her heart.
Fresh cuts and purple bruises competed with those that had come before them. Old scars, white with age, slashed across his back and shoulders. A fresh long scar, pink and angry, angled from his rib cage to the curve of his hip.
Brigitte bent to peer closely at the work that lay before her.
* * *
Drem squirmed under her scrutiny. A puff of air blew across his bare skin. His nipples drew up. He waited, holding his breath, aching for her to touch him. Anywhere. Of its own accord, his body leaned toward her. Hungry, searching for contact.
He prodded at the unusual sensation. This slip of a woman unmanned him. She looked guilty of something. As if she had been caught listening to conversations she should leave alone. For an instant, he felt the warning flare into his blood. But then she had turned and his brain stopped working. The damp bodice clung to her body, wrapping around her figure like a lover’s embrace. Had she heard what was said between Darrick and Nathan? ’Twas that what had brought the wary look into her eyes? And then her mood shifted. Like the faerie he thought her to be that first night. Angry at his stupid remark about her body odor, Drem groaned. He was a stupid, stupid man.
He twisted, ready to offer another apology.
“Stay still,” she warned. Her cool hands pressed into his shoulders. “I must see the damage you’ve done.”
A rustling behind him warned of the coming of the smelly unguents kept in the chest by his cot. He searched the room, listening for the click of the lid. He tensed, preparing for the stench. ’Twas usually strong enough to keep him from using the stuff.
“What is this?” She sniffed at the jar.
“Boar’s grease and . . .”
“’Tis rancid?”
“If you like, I can see the surgeon.”
“No.” She sighed. “’Tis unnecessary.”
She rifled through the chest, her silence leaving Drem to wonder what she intended to do to his scarred hide. Her small hand popped over his shoulder. A chunk of deep red resin lay in her palm.
“Dragon’s blood?” she whispered.
“Aye. Purchased in London.” That was the time he’d almost lost his life. He’d miscalculated the distance between his body and the tip of a lance. The barber had sworn it was the dragon’s blood that had saved his soul from death.
“’Tis costly.” She snatched her hand back before he could grasp it. “You pay for this, but let this . . .” The jar of grease shoved under his nose, stealing his breath. “. . . rot.”
Drem gripped the stool with both hands. “Just use the damn stuff and be done.”
“No.”
A warm rag stroked over his skin. It stroked over his back, his shoulders. The hair on his thighs lifted as her breath caressed his rib cage. The water cooled his skin.
“You have many scars.” She slid her hand over the one that ran down his torso. “’Twas a dangerous angle.”
Drem hissed as she expanded her exploration. She left a trail of contradiction. Heat, rising, wave after wave, wherever she touched. Then cold emptiness came crashing down in the wake of her hand moving on.
“There is swelling here.” Her fingers probed the bruise at the base of his spine. “Do you have stiffness?”
He looked down. His hands trembled against his thigh. As if they were spent from wielding a sword all day. He spun on the stool and grabbed her wrist. “You ask too much.”
“I do only what is ordered.” She scrunched her nose. “But I’ll not use that ointment you carry around with you. Like adding a putrid dead body to your skin.” She patted his chest, as if testing the coils of hair, tickling the already sensitive nipples. By all that was holy, when had his nipples become sensitive? They were used to the weight of a linen shirt, a padded gambeson, chain mail, and plates of steel. Instead, all he could think of was what the weight of her lips would be like as she suckled.
“Any more and I’ll have you bent over the cot.” He rose and regretted it immediately. Her lush mouth came perilously close to his crotch. His stones tightened, aching for release. He growled under his breath. He was a fool, trying to convince himself she meant nothing. He wanted her.
She rose with him. Fluid and graceful. “Your friends . . .” she said.
The muscles in her neck danced up and down
as she swallowed. The tip of her pink tongue flashed between perfectly formed teeth.
He watched her mouth. Would it be wrong of him to claim her?
“Piers . . .” The wary shadows flowed back into her eyes. “They . . . they shall return any moment.”
Drem shook free of the hunger that drove him toward madness. He had done many things while in the service of his king. Terrorizing a woman, prisoner or not, was not one of them. Until today. Guilt nipped at him like a rabid wolf. She was not his to claim. Was she? Is this what his sister had felt while in the hands of the English? If she heard of Brigitte’s ill treatment, his sister would have his balls on a stick and roasted over the campfire by nightfall. Relief washed over Drem. The mere thought of his sister dampened the raging desire thrumming through his veins.
His brain began to work again. Although no one would pay a ransom for her, she was his prize from the siege of Harfleur. And his responsibility until they left on their march.
“Piers will be fine. I imagine he is learning the wonders of battle preparation.” He watched her. “You did say he is not yours.”
“’Tis correct. Alexandre brought him to the Nest a few months ago.” She paused. Her restless hands stilled against his chest. “Alexandre had been excited that day. He kept speaking of windfalls. Coming to him like spring showers.”
Drem filed away that information to share with the brotherhood. She winced when he caught her fingers. He turned her hands over. A crash of guilt bit at him again. “I need to tend to your palms.”
“I should wait for Piers.” She stepped back.
“No.” Picking up his sword, he added, “We shall look for him while you lead me to this heaven you spoke of earlier.”
* * *
The men littered the ground, lying on their cots, leaning against tent poles, all of them turning to stare at Brigitte. Drem gripped the hilt of the broadsword hanging from his waist. He glared at the men, willing them to stay away from Brigitte. From his woman. She is mine!
Her skirts swayed, stroking his legs. He swore he could feel the heat penetrating through his chausses and leather boots.
“I shall make you a salve that is better for your wounds,” she said, “You’ll see.” Her frown deepened. She wiggled her arm. “First, you must release me.”
“Aye.” Drem sighed as he thrust his fingers through his snarled hair. His gallant promise of protection kept him from holding her as if he would never let go. “Come. We need to find a place to clean both our wounds and free us of the smoke.”
“’Tis this way.” She glided past the tents where pallets lay on the ground. The wounded groaned out their pain and suffering. Her hand slid up his arm. “Do they not have the medicine they need?”
Drem looked past her. How much should he reveal? She had been on the other side of Harfleur’s wall just that morning.
He shrugged, allowing her to think he did not care. “’Tis not my concern.”
Brigitte’s shoes dug into the soft grass. “You think I do not see what is written on your face?” She shook her head. “I know you are a man who cares.” Her lithe finger tapped the corner of her eye. “I’m taught to notice many things.” She twirled it in the air. “To hear many things.”
Drem blinked. The leather purse tied to his belt now spun between her fingers.
“And to acquire many things of value.” She patted his chest before dropping the purse into his palm. “You have a good heart.” She grinned up at him and winked. “I think I shall keep you. But first, I shall help you heal. Come with me. I shall tell you what we must gather.”
Drem’s steps faltered as she led him by the hand. She meant to keep him? Shite. What did she mean by that? She was his prize, not the other way around.
She urged him on as she ticked off the supplies. “I must gather thyme and sage. Lavender. Mint. We will also need garlic.” Her face scrunched in thought and she added, “I’ll need you to procure vinegar. Do your surgeons use it to cleanse wounds?
Drem snapped his mouth closed. “This is all for me?”
“Of course not.” She waved her hand toward the camp. “’Tis payment for my safe passage away from this place.”
* * *
Brigitte hid the smile that kept creeping up on her like a thief. Merde. What reason did she have to be giddy? No home. That foul Alexandre had Maman’s broken necklace, her only connection to what was left of the memory of her mother. And he had her stash of coins. She would find a way to make him pay, to beg for mercy.
“Bee,” Piers called out. His sweet voice turned her from her dark thoughts. They paused to let Darrick and the boy catch up with them.
Drem’s fingers twitched under her palm. “I should have my hands free,” he muttered.
Darrick cocked a brow in their direction. “Where are you headed?”
“Been suggested a bath would do a person good,” Drem said. He slung his arm around Brigitte’s shoulders, drawing her tight to his side. Her ribs reverberated from the steady thumping of his heart.
“The pool?” Piers piped up.
He bounced on the balls of his feet with more energy than she could muster. Her aching leg reminded her that she, too, needed a rest. The cold, clean water beckoned her from just over the knoll.
“Oui, Piers.” She held out a hand. “’Tis certain you are in need as well.”
“Lad, ’tis best you stay with me.” Sir Darrick placed a restraining hand on the boy’s slim shoulder. “Drem, there are signs of riders.”
“French?” The rhythm shifted inside his chest.
“Oui,” Piers said. He glanced down at the toes of his boots. “But they are not from Burgundy.” He thumbed his chest. “This I would know.”
“How many?” Drem scanned the hillside. He drew Brigitte closer, repositioning his body to shield her.
“No more than forty,” Darrick said. “Keep an eye out for them.
“Seeking out information?”
“Or intimidation. Riders were already sent out to protect the archers. They ran the cowards off.”
“Time for them to return to their nursemaids and have their nappies changed,” Drem scoffed.
“But one must be aware.”
“This I know,” Drem murmured.
Brigitte flinched, caught by the surprise of his lips pressed to the top of her head. She pushed against the captivity of his arm. “Should we return to the camp?”
“No.” He slid his thumb down her cheek. “As you said, I am in need of mending.” The pad of his thumb, no doubt callused from time spent wielding a sword. “As are you.”
Darrick clapped his hand on Drem’s forearm. His stern countenance, a frown etched in place from too many years of scowling, made Brigitte’s skin prickle. “We will watch for you. Be sure to return before the sun lowers.”
“Aye,” Drem said, accepting his counsel. He looked up at the sky. “Rain is coming. Best be on our way.”
Grabbing Brigitte, he began to trudge up the hill. On impulse, she planted her feet long enough to look up at Harfleur’s outer wall. Men stood along the buttress. Did she know them? Wishing she did not, she brought her hands up to her eyes. Squinting through curled fingers, she peered at the blond cap of hair that stood out like a shiny coin amid the dust. Her breath caught. “Master Alexandre.” His head jerked in her direction. As if sensing her observation of his actions. Her back stiffened. “What is he doing on the parapet?”
She scanned the rest of the men. Le Défenseur, Raoul de Gaucourt, stood by his side. Did they have information that they would soon be delivered from the English army?
Chapter 13
Brigitte hastened her pace to the pool. Hidden by the grove of trees, it would provide privacy. More important to her, it would hide them from Master Alexandre’s probing eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Drem called. “If I can protect our king, you should trust that I am well able to protect us from a small band of French nobles and their men-at-arms.” His hand slipped over the hilt of his sword
. “See, ’tis near and at the ready.”
She ignored his reassurances and tugged on his hand. The soles of her shoes slid over moss and gravel, carrying her faster than she had anticipated. The air slammed out of her lungs when she hit the ground. Drem followed, sliding behind her and into the ravine.
They came to a stop, resting in a thick overgrowth of wild vines. The gentle sound of water gurgling over stones blended with their ragged breaths.
Unfamiliar laughter bubbled into her throat. She turned to see Drem’s flushed face. Their eyes met. So many flecks of gold. They were like faerie lights in a forest.
Laugh lines crinkled as his chestnut brows arched. His lips, full and lush, lifted. In one swift movement, light as a pickpocket’s touch, he leaned over to place a kiss near her mouth. He smelled of sweets, almond and honey. Like a warm pastry.
Brigitte caught the back of his neck and drew him closer. Their lips sunk deeper. Tongues touched, dancing and sipping. She tasted in return. Mint and ale.
Closing her eyes, she reveled in the pleasure cascading through her limbs. She wrapped her arms around him, holding on to the unfamiliar swell of desire crashing into her core. The herbal scent of crushed vines and fresh water, mixed with the intoxicating sound of the waterfall nearby. The crack of a dry branch caused them to freeze, their lips pressed together.
She snapped her lids open. The look Drem gave her silently told her to remain still and quiet. Not one to scream, she tipped her head.
He slid over, slowly rolling onto his stomach. He touched a finger to her lips. Still under the power of seduction, she allowed a small nip into the pad. The green in his eyes flared. A breeze blew across her damp skin. She took a shallow breath and dug her nails into the earth. She nearly had lost her head with this man while the enemy stood nearby. Enemy? She didn’t know who the enemy was anymore. Even her mind and body betrayed her with this man.
Restless, she tired of waiting and rolled to slide down the rest of the way to the stream. She gasped when she felt a tug on her ankle. Drem lay below her; hand over-hand, he drew her down until she lay beside him.