Oswald waved away his words with an unconcerned hand. “Things have changed since yesterday,” he said, his tone friendly.
It was a knowing, laughing glance Temric sent Philippa. She smiled in return. He knew his family well, indeed. “So, my love,” he said, “I’ll ask you again. Will you wed me and let me hold you close behind my own boundaries?”
“Happily, for all my life,” she replied, joy blossoming in her. Despite the fact that everyone watched, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Temric’s lips. She sighed when he answered her caress. As the heat between them grew, he reached out with an arm to draw her nearer still.
Oswald groaned. “I’m heartily sick of watching the two of you kiss. I vow, that’s the only reason I’m agreeing to this. Mistress Alwyna, bring your witnesses. Their observations and memories will be duly noted and Pippa of Stanrudde created.”
With that, Philippa’s joy grew too great to be borne. She tore free of Temric to settle back onto her stool. Turning, she looked upon the woman who would soon be her mother-by-marriage. “Alwyna, on this new heritage of mine?”
“What of it, daughter of my heart?” Alwyna asked, her grin broad, indeed.
“Best give me a goodly dollop of Norman blood, or no one will wish to wed their child to ours. I don’t mind being a bastard once again.”
As Alwyna’s merry laugh rang against the rafters, Philippa met Temric’s startled look with a wry smile. “It’s true, love, I’ve never minded it.”
“Lord Meynell!” The child’s call echoed through the thickness of the forest, slipping past stands of birch and alder, yew and fir.
Temric turned atop his steed, his leather hauberk groaning with the movement from beneath his sodden cloak. Rain slanted through the canopy of newborn leaves to spatter against his cheeks. A palfrey topped by a tiny rider, one of the stable lads from Meynell, made its way along the path to halt near Temric.
“My lord, the midwife says you must come,” the boy announced in a bold voice. “Your lady delivers.”
Temric only frowned at such nonsense. “It can’t be,” he snapped. “The midwife swore the babe would wait another two weeks.”
One of the bishop’s foresters laughed at this. “Your first, is it, my lord? If this were your second you’d know babes enter this world on their own schedule. If the midwife says come, then best you go.”
With that, the terror that Temric had been holding at bay these last months stabbed into him. Women died in childbirth; Rannulf’s mother had, so had two of Rannulf’s wives. Indeed, only last year, Lady Rowena had narrowly escaped that same fate.
Roweling his mount around, he kicked it into motion wishing all the while he were atop his tall gelding, not this little legless beast. Damn him, why had he agreed to become warden of the bishop’s chase? Now he was ten miles too far from Meynell.
When they finally broke free of the woodlands, Temric sent his horse tearing across the green plain. Ahead of him, the landscape lifted into a chalky hill. Set atop the hill the thick walls of his new home seemed to melt into the low-hanging clouds. Through the village at Meynell’s base he went, scattering geese and piglets as he rode, then his mount was pounding through the armed gateway of his home.
Here in the courtyard, the soughing, damp wind tore around the squat keep tower, whisking away the smoke rising from the roof vent atop his wooden hall. Leaping from the heaving beast as a lad took its reins, Temric jogged up the stairs at the hall’s front, ripping off his sodden cloak as he went. He dropped the garment as he pushed past the door and started across the big chamber.
The hall was empty, not even the dogs here to greet him. Unnerved, he lifted his heels and ran toward the wooden partition he’d raised to create a private sleeping area for him and Philippa. The door’s leather hinges squealed as it opened.
Worry multiplied a hundred fold as he stepped within his bedchamber. Save for the fire crackling and hissing on the hearth, neither sound nor movement disturbed the room’s silence. Where were the maids, the midwife? Across the chamber’s width was his bed, the fire’s light playing across the rich folds of material that curtained it. The draperies were closed.
Now drowning in terror, he leapt across the room and shoved back the fabric. Philippa, her eyes closed, lay in utter stillness amid the twisted bedclothes. Her golden hair was strewn in wild disarray across the bolsters. Dark circles clung beneath her eyes, while her mouth was tight in exhaustion.
Temric’s heart stopped. The babe, his babe, had killed her. He dropped to sit on the mattress. Torn between the need to weep and his need to prove she wasn’t gone, he tore off a glove and pressed cold fingers to her throat. She started at his touch, shifting and stirring as her eyes opened.
His shout of surprise died unspoken beneath his relief. “You live,” he breathed, slipping his arms beneath her to draw her upon into his embrace.
She rested her head upon his shoulder, then turned her face into the cold dampness of his neck. “Oh, Temric,” she cried, her voice ragged as if from shouting, and disappointment lying heavily in her tone. “It’s only a girl child I’ve given you.”
“What care I for that?” he said and truly meant it, even though he’d done naught but imagine his new son these last months. “You live.”
Hugging her close for another moment, he leaned back and grinned at her. “So where is this precious child of ours? I’d look upon the creature who’s so rudely stolen my wife from me this past month.”
“The midwife’s taken her to be baptized,” Philippa murmured, new tears springing to her eyes.
That surprised him. “Already? They couldn’t wait until my return?”
Fear darkened Philippa’s eyes. “Oh, Temric, all the women say she’s such a wee thing they fear for her survival, especially after I was delivered so swiftly. Fie on me,” she cried, her tears now staining her cheeks, “but why couldn’t I wait until next week when my sister comes? Little Alwyna should have at least one noble godparent as befits Meynell’s heiress.”
“Now, love,” he soothed. “You sister will still be her godmother. We’ll repeat the ceremony to see that she is.”
With the babe’s bulk no longer between them, he drew her close, then touched his mouth to hers. Her lips trembled at first, then what began as a gentle caress deepened into a fiery kiss that had nothing to do with comfort. At last, he tore his mouth free.
“By God, but it’s good to be able to put my arms around you once more,” he whispered against her brow. It was a soggy laugh that left his wife’s lips.
Through the open door to the hall came the echoes of excited voices. Releasing his wife back onto the mattress, Temric came to his feet and looked out through his chamber’s open door. A troop of folk, the midwife leading the way, marched across the hall toward this room. In the midwife’s arms lay a bundle of blankets. Sweeping into his private chamber as if she, not he, owned the place, the midwife offered him a gap-toothed grin, a testimony to her own great brood of offspring, and laid her burden into his arms.
“Your daughter, my lord,” the woman said as if she’d done more than help the babe into the world. “She’s a beauty, she is, with no caul or disfigurements to mar her.”
Temric stared down at the wee bit of life in his arms and saw nothing beautiful. Still, she was so small and so helpless, so needful of his protection, that it pained his heart to think on it. So had his father felt about him and thus did a father love his child, without heeding reason or logic.
“Come sit by me,” his wife demanded.
Still trapped in the mists of budding affection, Temric did as he was bid and sat back onto the mattress. When he was down, Philippa leaned across him to remove their child’s christening cap, then teased the wisps of dark hair on the child’s minuscule crown. “Look,” she said, no sign of her previous sadness in her voice, “she has hair like yours. But I think her face is like mine,” she continued, using a fingertip to trace the line of the babe’s cheek.
“Thank God for that
,” Temric retorted with a swift laugh.
That made the babe in his arms start. She began making mewling sounds. The midwife thrust out her arms. “You may give the child to me, my lord,” she commanded.
“Nay,” Temric snapped, not much liking the woman’s manner and not wanting to let her touch his precious child. “You may all leave us.”
Although the midwife sniffed at so abrupt and unusual a dismissal, she and the rest did as he commanded, one of the maids closing the door behind them. When he and Philippa were private, he again looked at his daughter. Lord, but it would be only a mere dozen or so years before he’d have to give her up to another man. Resistance woke. Too soon!
In his arms, the babe’s stirrings became insistent. Her mewling grew louder as her tiny head moved to the side. At last, she screwed up her face and began to squall.
Murmuring, Philippa scooped the child from his arms. She shifted on the mattress, leaving his side to lean back against the bed’s headboard. Temric watched his wife put their child to her breast. As the child nuzzled, finding what she’d wanted, Temric watched the expression on Philippa’s face soften. So great was the love touching her features that he sighed. At the sound, she looked up at him and smiled.
“You aren’t disappointed that she’s but a lass?” she asked, her voice warm.
“Disappointed?” he asked, strictly containing his smile while cocking a brow. “Aye, horribly. How you’ve failed me, wife. Because of you I’m forced to endure the travails of vassalage to my brother, title, lands, home, wife, and now family.”
Philippa laughed. “Oh, you! You’re teasing me again.”
He grinned. “So I am. And what of you? Are you content with this life of ours?”
“Aye.” Her smile grew. “But, I am sorely aggrieved at you, sweetling,” she said, touching a finger to their daughter’s head. “Too long have you kept me from your father’s bed.”
That made amusement grow in Temric. He leaned forward as if to share a private word with his daughter. “Aye, best you take heed, little Alwyna,” he said. “It’s a dangerous thing to stand between your mother and her lust.”
“It’s not lust,” Philippa protested, “only my heart’s need to feel you once again showing me how much you love me.”
At her words, Temric’s body tautened with the need to do just as his wife suggested. “Now who’s teasing?” he complained.
Coming to his feet, he shucked his hauberk, tunic and muddy boots. Dressed in naught but shirt and chausses, he returned to sit beside Philippa. Once settled, he looked down at his daughter. Little Alwyna’s eyes were closed as she suckled.
“That’s right, wee one. Keep your eyes closed.” He leaned over to press his mouth to his wife’s, then breathed against her lips, “I have something to show your mother just now.”
Thank you for reading Summer's Storm, the second of my stories about the FitzHenry brothers.
If you liked this book (or even if you didn't, I suppose) please consider liking the book or leaving a review.
While I was writing my first book, Winter's Heat I never really conceived I'd be writing a series. After all, my ex-father-in-law had previously informed me I had a better chance of making a killing on Wall Street than I did of ever selling a book. But then Winter sold, and the publisher asked for more. Luckily for me I'd fallen hard for Temric, Rannulf's half-brother. I wanted to know why he was refusing to accept the name his father had offered him and he, being Temric, was refusing to tell me. Moreover, I knew Temric's mother lived in a prosperous Medieval city and since I'd already seen how a baron lived, I needed to explore something different. But how and what sort of story was there in him?
Warning: Woo-Woo stuff follows. (Cue the Twilight Zone theme.)
Then one night I woke up and there was a ghostly figure standing in the doorway to my bedroom. This wasn't the first time this had happened to me. My mother's side of the family has a legacy of psychic ability that goes back some sixteen generations, and I seem to be the repository of it in this generation. Still, no matter how often it happens I'm always a little freaked. I mean, how do they find me?
Anyway, my visitor was a girl of about twelve. Her story flashed through my mind. She'd lived in a Medieval keep of some kind as a servant or the child of a tradesman until she was killed by some high ranking soldier, possibly the lord of the place. She was in his way and he struck out while wearing a metal glove and the impact killed her.
As I came into her awareness I knew instantly what I was going to do with her and her story. Her personality was the perfect wife for Temric. It all clicked together from there: the story of abuse, which was tolerated if not accepted in that time period, the idea of bastardy and inheritance, the strange concepts of relationships imposed by the Catholic Church at the time, and a ghost.
In case this is the first book of mine you've read, here is the full list. And thank you!
The Seasons Series (sometimes known as the Graistan Chronicles)
Winter's Heat
Summer's Storm
Spring's Fury
Autumn's Flame
A Love for All Seasons
Or you can buy all five books at once a box set: The Seasons Series
The Lady Series, although two doesn't quite a series make. There were supposed to be more. Hmm, I wonder... .
Lady in Waiting
Lady in White
Or you can buy both books at once a box set: The Lady Series
The Warrior Series
The Warrior's Wife
The Warrior's Maiden
The Warrior's Game
Or you can buy both books at once a box set: The Warriors Series
My only Regency era book. I'm sorry. It was too modern for me. I'm better off back when guys just bashed each other with hunks of steel.
Almost Perfect
Monica Sarli's Memoir Men-ipulation
And then there's Monica Sarli's memoir that I co-wrote. Men-ipulation is a memoir of addiction and recovery. After fifteen years abusing Cocaine, Crack and (her personal favorite) Heroin, Monica chose on August 4, 1986 to clean up and hasn't looked back-even though cleaning up cost her everything she valued in life. For anyone struggling with addiction or who loves someone suffering with addiction, this is a book you won't want to miss. (And, yes she really talks like that...all the time.)
By the way, I'll note here that I am title defective. For the first five books, my fabulous stepdaughter Amberly Neese came up with the original and very clever idea of using the seasons, and the publisher ran with it. Beyond that, well, I count on the kindness of editors and others.
If you want to keep up with me or send me a note, please feel free to email me at [email protected] or visit my website at DeniseDomning.com where you can read the old entries on my blog. I've stopped blogging now that I'm writing again. However, my husband and I are definitely still living a life that mangles the old "Green Acres" TV series with the book Under the Tuscan Sun.
Wish me luck (I'll need it) and happy reading!
Knights of Valor
Copyright © 2013 by Laurel O’Donnell, Eliza Knight, Catherine Kean, Denise Domning
All rights reserved. No part of this romance box set ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its authors.
The characters and events portrayed in these historical romance novels are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the authors.
Table of Contents
START READING NOW
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A KNIGHT'S VICTORY
PRAISE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
C
HAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ABOUT ELIZA
OTHER BOOKS
A KNIGHT'S REWARD
PRAISE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ABOUT CATHERINE
OTHER BOOKS
A KNIGHT OF HONOR
Knights of Valor Page 119