With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

Snow drifted lightly down from a graying sky. Maris tilted her face up, catching one of the filigree flakes on her pink cheek, and blinked quickly. “Thank you, Sir Dirick.”

  “Aye, and I know the pain of losing a loved one,” he added, his sensitivity allowing the grief of the loss of his father to bubble to the surface.

  She looked at him. “Praise God, I cannot say the same. Though ’tis nearly as bad if a patient dies,” she added. “Was your loss recent?”

  He nodded but remained silent, looking at her and then needing to tear his eyes away. “The sun is lowering. We must return.”

  With a short nod, she slipped the strap of her pouch over her shoulder and gestured toward the river. “I must find a bit of bearberry before we return,” she told him apologetically. “’Tis for my father.”

  “Of course.” With an effort, Dirick threw off the heaviness of grief and sobriety that had cast a pall over them and summoned a smile. “Lead on, my lady.”

  They were nearing the edge of the village and the huge stone wall of Langumont Keep loomed ahead of them when she stopped and crouched on the ground.

  Dirick watched as she knelt to dig in the icy snow with a stick. Maris made a comely picture—squatting near the snow, her deep blue cloak a swirl on the brilliant white, her dark head silhouetted against a nearby drift. Thick locks of hair had fallen from her braid during the day, and now light wisps of it blew about her face, dancing against a pink cheek and catching at the corner of her mouth. In the clear light of day, despite the waning sun, he could see that the color of her hair was a mixture of many shades of brown and rich with red, gold and topaz—just as vibrant as she was.

  When Maris looked up at him, she caught him by surprise and he blinked to recover his normal expression. She didn’t seem to notice his besotted look, and she gestured to the patch where she’d cleared away the snow.

  “Look you here,” she pulled at his cloak, and he kneeled down next to her. Shiny, dark green leaves clustered under the snow, cluttered with dried leaves and branches. A few red berries still clung tenaciously to the sturdy mahogany stems, but she ignored those and began to pluck the leaves.

  “’Tis called bearberry?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Maris explained, stuffing the leaves into a leather pouch that she’d pulled from the folds of her cloak. “It’s a wonder the leaves are still here under all this snow,” she remarked.

  Dirick started to pull some of the berries from the plant. “Need you the berries as well?” he asked, proffering a small handful.

  “’Tis only the leaves are good for steeping in a draught. They help fluids pass easily from the body. The berries are beautiful, but I know of no use for them.”

  “Ah, I see,” he tossed the dark red berries onto the snow where they scattered like drops of blood.

  He turned to clearing away more ice while she picked as many fresh leaves as they could find. Their heads were bent together and he was close enough that a light lock of her hair tossed daintily against his cheek. The fresh scent of lemon and another smell he could not identify reached his nose above the crisp cold of winter. It was so very different from the thick floral scents favored by the ladies at court.

  “’Tis pretty,” he said without thinking, sniffing lightly.

  Maris turned and the smell became stronger. “Pardon?” she asked, her green-and-gold eyes so close that he could count the thick lashes that framed them.

  “’Tis lemons. I smell lemons and another scent,” he said quickly, moving away from her.

  Dirick felt her smile all the way to the pit of his stomach. “’Tis a soap for my hair,” she told him, “It cleans it well and makes it smell fresh. Lemon verbena and mint and rosemary,” she explained.

  “I find it very unusual,” he told her, trying not to be obvious as he sniffed again.

  The tiny dimple on the left corner of her chin appeared. “Ah, Sir Dirick, ’tis quite the diplomat you are,” she brushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I know ’tis unfashionable, as my mama tells me. I shouldn’t smell of utilitarian herbs, and I should be embarrassed ere ’tis noticed.”

  “Nay,” he told with a warm smile, “’tis but uncommon—as you are, my lady. After all,” he said, trying to ignore the heaviness singing through his veins, “it has never happened before that a lady has me digging in the snows for shiny green leaves!”

  Maris looked up at him so quickly that she almost lost her balance. “Marry, Sir Dirick, I did not think…oh, what you must think that I have involved you in the tasks of an old midwife!” The tinge of pink from the cold flared into a darker, rosy flush over her face. Obviously flustered, she began to struggle to her feet, but her cloak had become wrapped around her foot and she lost her balance, tilting backward into the damp snow.

  “Nay, my lady, ’twas a jest!” Dirick grasped her hand to help her regain her balance. “And a poor one at that.” He smiled as he faced Maris, squatting in the ankle-deep snow as he steadied her by holding both of her hands.

  Their faces were near each other, as near as they’d ever been, and his breath misted in the chilling air. “Lady Maris,” he said quietly, then was caught by her gaze. Her lips parted slightly and he felt the slight shift in her breathing. “It’s been a pleasure to be in your company all the day, throughout the time at the cooper’s as much as assisting you in this simple task. ’Tis only as a compliment that I call you uncommon…and you are uncommonly beautiful as well.” Those last words came as a surprise to him, and he found himself caught in a very warm, trusting, golden gaze.

  Dirick swallowed heavily, knowing that he was going to kiss her and fearing that her reaction might be a heavy hand across his cheek. Pushing that aside, he tugged gently on her hands and she came forward—easily—and he met her lips halfway.

  They were sweet lips…so sweet….

  His mouth was tentative at first, but when she didn’t pull back, he pressed more firmly against her lips. They were chilled from the winter air, but melted warmly, softly against him. One of his hands freed her fingers and slid to cover the back of her head, digging into her braid. He fingered the thick rope of hair, touching its fat smoothness, his rough skin snagging it as he slid his hand down its length. A charge of desire swept through him with such force that he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, surprised, wanting more. The scent of lemon verbena and rosemary caught in his nostrils, mingling with the crispness of the cold air, dancing through his being with the nearness and the taste of Maris.

  She was responsive, warm, taking him into her mouth and kissing him back with a passion he hadn’t expected. He felt a tiny shiver race through her body and knew it was not the cold. Nevertheless, he slipped his mantle over her shoulders, pulling her closer and into his arms. She was small and delicate and he sighed, sliding his hands down her waist and over her hips.

  At last—though it seemed like hours, it was a mere few seconds—Dirick regained his senses and pulled away quite suddenly. His breath was coming in faster, whiter puffs now and he forced himself to set her away from him. He was heavy and hard with arousal, and when she looked up at him with glazed hazel eyes and swollen pink lips, he nearly reached for her again.

  Instead, he pulled away from the temptation, resting his hand against the smooth bark of a birch tree as if to keep it from doing any further damage. “My lady,” he said, trying to speak coherently when all he wanted to do was pull her to him again, “that was unforgivable. I hope you will find it in your heart to allow my escort back to the keep. I’ll return you to your father’s care and you need not be bothered by my presence again.”

  “Nay, Sir Dirick,” she said, struggling to her feet with a dazed look on her face. “Have no worries that I’ll bring tales to my papa,” she said, brushing two fingers lightly over her full mouth. “I allowed you leave to kiss me only to have some questions of my own answered.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her, ignoring the throbbing between his legs and trying to act as cool as she. “And did you have y
our questions answered?” he replied.

  “Aye,” she breathed, still touching her mouth unconsciously, “aye, that I did.”

  Chapter Four

  At dinner that evening, Maris avoided looking at Sir Dirick.

  He sat on the far side of Merle, sharing a trencher with Lady Allegra. The two men, seated next to each other, were engrossed in conversation regarding the latest news that had come in from Westminster—the king’s call to arms for his battle to subdue Geoffrey of Anjou.

  Though he sat away from her, and she couldn’t see him unless she leaned around her father, Maris was as aware of Dirick’s presence as if he’d brushed against her. His hands, serving Allegra and himself, moved in and out of her view, and she found herself watching them, noticing their tanness, the short, clean fingernails, the molding of muscle and tendon and sprinkling of dark hair, the way the sleeve of his tunic fell back to expose a narrow, tanned wrist.

  She heard him laugh—a low, masculine, husky laugh that heightened her awareness of him. His conversation carried over the noise of the meal, collecting in her consciousness, as close to her as if he whispered in her ear. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling as he alternately admired and charmed Allegra, and debated and argued with Merle, was soothing and exciting and haunting.

  A simple kiss…a simple kiss had made her as aware of him as she’d become aware of herself.

  Even now, her fingers trembled when she remembered the heat, the shock of pleasure that took her by surprise and made her body come alive. Warm, demanding lips and the hard strength of his body were enough to steal her breathing and pool desire into the center of her being.

  Even now, she felt the stirring of desire, the flutter of arousal in her middle.

  The memory of his lips still burned on her mouth as she sipped from her wine. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted to know if the kiss they had shared could be duplicated, if it would be the same charge of energy should it happen again.

  Casting a covert look in his direction, she saw him leaning flirtatiously toward her mother, a smirk curling his mouth, and realized suddenly, with a cold shock, that he was most likely well-accustomed to kissing maidens in the wood. That knowledge settled in her middle like a large chunk of bread and she turned away to sip from her goblet.

  It was her own doing, she reprimanded herself, for she had wanted to kiss him, and had known he wanted to kiss her when he helped to pull her to her feet. She’d welcomed the chance to see if kissing was any better now that she was older than when her father’s squire Raymond of Vermille had stolen a kiss from her years ago.

  It was.

  “Daughter, are you ill?” her father asked suddenly, turning his attention to her, and startling her from her own thoughts. “You are no louder than a mouse this night.”

  “Nay, Papa,” she gave him a soft smile. “’Twas a long and wretched day, for I could not save the cooper’s wife.”

  His face sobered. “Ah, aye, Father Abraham’s servant sent word to me.”

  Maris pushed back the sadness that threatened to bring tears back to her eyes and replied, “There was naught I could do.”

  He smoothed a comforting hand over her arm. “I know you did all you could, dearling.”

  “They had a leech in!” she said, her grief replaced by anger. “It was the cause of it, and still the villagers won’t listen.

  He shook his head. “Maris, I know Venny taught you well, and he knows many things, but there are others—leeches—that know medicine as well. They are not always bad.”

  “I have yet to meet one that has not worsened the situation,” she told him defiantly.

  Her father tsked, for they had had this conversation many times. Obviously knowing that neither of them would win the argument, he said, “I am sorry that she died. I will send three chickens to the cooper on the morrow, and visit on Justice Day. Is the smith’s daughter still wet-nursing the babes?”

  “Aye. She will do a fine job, and mayhap the cooper and she will marry. She is of an age, and lost her own husband to the fever several moons ago.” She flickered a glance at Dirick, who was mooning over her mother’s slim hand, then looked back at her father. “I’ve brewed some fresh tea from the bearberry bush for you this night.” She patted his arm lightly. “I know you’re in need of it, for Mama told me this morn in Mass. The leaves are fresh and the tea is strong. I’ll have Verna bring it to your chamber when you retire.”

  “Thank you, dearling. Though I despise the taste of it, I cannot complain about the good your bearberry tea does for my pains. Have Verna bring it to me anon, and I vow I’ll drink it.”

  “Very well, Papa. I shall hold you to that vow,” Maris said as she stood. “I must see to Maisie’s daughter, for she’s not feeling well, and then I will brew your tea,” she explained, carefully avoiding any more than a brief glance at Dirick. “Good night, Sir Dirick, good night, Mama.” She bent over to kiss her father on his cheek, then she turned to walk from the hall.

  Dirick watched her go. He’d spent the entire meal alternately cursing and congratulating himself for seizing the opportunity to taste those lovely lips. He was not an impulsive man when it came to women. He took his time, wooing and flattering, teasing and titillating a woman until she was like a ripe peach falling into his hand. There were plenty of willing women, ladies and whores alike, that made themselves available and giving him no cause to take chase. That was the way he preferred it.

  Nevertheless, not only had he enjoyed his day at Maris’s side, but he knew he would kiss her again—betrothed or nay.

  She had just disappeared into the kitchen and the hall was beginning to quiet down when the messenger made his appearance.

  Most of the men-at-arms had retired from bawdy conversation and raucous story-telling to the beds of whores, chess and dice games, or the night watch. Dirick himself was ready to find his own pallet when the seneschal approached Merle.

  “My lord, a messenger at the gate brings tidings to our guest, Sir Dirick de Arlande.” The man stood silently, waiting permission to call the messenger within.

  All thoughts of sleep and of Lady Maris’s luscious mouth fled Dirick’s mind to be replaced by anxiety. The news must be bad indeed for a messenger to track him whilst on a secret mission for the king. Fresh from the experience of having news of his father’s death brought in the same way, he was immediately concerned.

  Merle nodded his assent to the seneschal, who disappeared to retrieve the messenger. The moments that passed until his reappearance seemed an age to Dirick as he forced nonchalance, sipping more ale. At last the messenger appeared, and Dirick’s concern was heightened when he recognized a man-at-arms of his brother Bernard, now the Lord of Derkland.

  “The message I bear is best given in private,” the messenger said as he approached the high table.

  “Then let us step to a private corner.” Dirick stood, his mouth compressed and his middle roiling.

  The man followed him to a dark, chilly corner of the room and Dirick rounded on him as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “What is the news, Sir Ivan?”

  “Lord Bernard sent me thus—”

  “He is well then? Bernard is well? Is it Thomas? Speak, man!”

  “Aye, your brothers are well, and—”

  “Mother! ’Tis not Mother?” Dirick’s body turned cold. Her grief over the loss of her husband had been deep and long. Had her broken heart weakened her?

  “Nay, nay Sir Dirick—all is well.” The emphasis on these last words at last penetrated and Dirick’s tension eased.

  “Well, man, you nearly affrighted me into an earlier grave than I should wish! What news is it that Bernard should send you to find me whilst on the king’s business?” He held his hand out for the missive.

  “’Tis not writ,” Ivan told him. “Lord Bernard didn’t wish to chance the wrong eyes to see it and alert them of your assumed identity. He learned a story from a traveling knight who stopped at Derkland en route to the king. Upon
hearing the details of your father’s murder” —Ivan crossed himself— “this man, Samuel of Lederwyrth, told the tale of another murder thus.”

  Ivan began to speak from memory, his eyes glazing over as he recited the message:

  “He came upon a terrible sight near London, nearly two leagues south of the city. It was obviously the scene of a robbery. There were two men dead and picked bare of their valuables. Both lay on the ground, facedown, in the most odd position: with their arms positioned as if their hands had been joined or clasped as they died. One of the men, knights they were both” —Ivan crossed himself again— “had been stabbed so as to leak blood for hours, and his throat cut. He was placed in the ground with his face in the dirt—”

  “And his neck broken by the hoof of a horse, and his face pulled back so that his forehead touched the sky?” Dirick felt his heavy meal surge in his stomach.

  Ivan shook his head, his eyes coming into focus again. “Nay, though a there was the imprint of a horse’s hoof deep in his back.”

  Dirick closed his eyes as the image of his father’s similar fate swam into his memory. Nay, he hadn’t been tortured by seeing it himself, but he could imagine it all too well.

  “My lord Bernard bade me also tell you of the horse found on the scene. ’Twas a fine horse with two legs broken, and it was hobbled to a tree. The horse had died thus.” Ivan’s face mirrored the horror that Dirick felt—but there was still more to tell. He drew forth a small bundle from the deepest folds of his cloak and offered it to Dirick. “The knight also showed Lord Bernard this, which was found embedded in a tree above the horse.”

  Dirick’s hands trembled slightly as he held them out to catch the object rolling from the cloth.

  The item was a wicked-looking dagger. Dirick caught it easily in his hands, measuring the blade against the length of his hand from wrist to the tip of his longest finger.

  The blade was silver, and the tip had been nicked off so that instead of a perfect point, it ended in a jagged edge. The dagger’s handle was wrought of silver filigreed roses intertwined with serpents, the blooms as true to life as the sharp thorns, as wicked as the slithering serpents. A small crystal was set in the end of the handle and it glittered in the light of the blazing fire.