With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “Ludingdon, are you well?” asked Bartholomew as if from very far away.

  “I must go.” Dirick wheeled Nick around, his heart slamming in his chest. He drove his heels into Nick’s sides, leaning forward over the stallion’s neck, urging the horse on. “Tell the king I’ve found him!” he shouted over his shoulder as horse and man thundered through the brush.

  He felt the saddle slip as Nick leapt over a tree trunk, and before he could think, its girth loosened, then gave way and suddenly, he was falling, falling.

  His last thought before he hit the ground was that he had been sabotaged.

  Maris opened the heavy gold box and gasped, sinking onto her bed.

  “’Tis beauteous!” she exclaimed, pulling a rope of fine gold links from the small chest. Topazes and emeralds dangled randomly from the necklet that would wrap around her neck at least thrice. Each jewel was set in an ornate, filigreed hasp, each one different and a work of art in its own right.

  “’Tis a wondrous bride’s gift,” said Madelyne with a twinkle in her eye. “Lord Dirick is a generous groom.”

  “Aye.” Maris looked down at the small chest that rested in her lap. The box itself was a lovely gift, and along with the bejeweled necklet it held bespoke of the value Dirick placed upon his bride. She could not hold back a smile of pure joy. Mayhap he did care for her as much as he desired her lands.

  She poured the gold rope back into the chest. Delivered by one of her own men from Langumont, the box had been tied with a golden ribbon and sprigs of rosemary, lemon verbena, and violets. Maris sniffed the small purple flowers and placed them, along with the herbs, on top of the necklet, and closed the chest. Her stomach fluttered and she smiled again.

  Tonight, she would lie with Dirick, would feel his lips and hands over her body, would mate with him and feel his skin next to hers, would become his. Anticipation sent a shiver down her spine.

  Today, she would marry the man she loved.

  The fear and hesitancy were gone, and in their place was comfort, love, and happiness that she would belong to Dirick, with Dirick, and would live with him, bear his children and rule their lands at his side. Maris took a deep breath, hardly able to credit the fact that she was welcoming—even embracing—the event of marriage after having fought against it for so long.

  An urgent knocking on the door drew her from her woolgathering, and Maris and the other ladies watched expectantly as a maidservant went to answer it.

  “My Lady Maris,” Michael d’Arcy nearly burst into the room when the door opened. “There has been an accident! ’Tis your betrothed husband!”

  Maris jumped from her stool. “What is it? Is he badly hurt?” Her heart lodged in her throat, and she was dimly aware that Madelyne was drawing a cloak around her shoulders.

  Michael shook his head soberly. “Maris, I do not know. They are summoning the physicians to him, for he fell from his horse during the hunt. They are afraid to move him. You must come with me.”

  “Of course.” She moved quickly toward the door, trying to quiet the tension and fear thrumming through her veins. “I must fetch the medicines from my chamber,” she told Michael as they started down the hall.

  “Nay, there is no time. He has called for you to come to his side, and ’tis best that you come with me now…Maris, ’tis no small hurt, and he wishes to speak with you.”

  The fear in her middle grew and she found herself hardly able to breathe. To lose love so soon after finding it would be more than she could bear…especially coming so closely upon the heels of her father’s death.

  Maris clenched her fist in the folds of her skirt as she was propelled along by Michael’s very firm grip. She would not think about that possibility. She would not.

  At the stables, she was faintly surprised to find Hickory saddled and ready, with Victor holding the reins. “Come, lady, before ’tis too late,” he urged, helping her into the saddle.

  Michael mounted his own horse and nudged Maris and Victor ahead of him through the bailey. They trotted quickly through the entryway, over the drawbridge, and away from the keep.

  Bon de Savrille emerged from a corner of the bailey just after Maris and her escort passed by. His face was creased with concern as he hurried into the stable and selected a horse under the watchful eye of the marshal.

  “Hurry, man,” he demanded, looking in the direction in which she’d disappeared.

  At last, he was given the reins and he vaulted into the saddle. With a loud “Hah!” he whipped the stallion and thundered through the bailey and across the drawbridge, following the path of the two men and the woman he loved.

  Dirick forced his eyes open from the darkness that beckoned him with a soothing aura. There was something…something urgent….

  Voices reached his ears, as if from far away. He thought he moved…aye, he must have, for pain ricocheted up his leg and curled in the low part of his back.

  The urgency came to him again…then it was gone.

  Firm hands pulled and pushed at him, and he wanted to slip into that blackness and sleep…but the urgency kept kneading at him…kneading…like the hands that interrupted his comfort.

  Maris.

  The name struck his consciousness like a lightening bolt and he jerked awake. Something about Maris…. His eyes were open, blearily focusing on the faces that stared down at him. Maris was not there, he realized dimly…Henry…Bart…Raymond…

  Maris…his mind screamed the name, the urgency, but it took all of his effort to pinpoint his concentration. The urgency had aught to do with her…. Maris, his betrothed wife, his beloved….

  D’Arcy.

  Dirick croaked the name as he struggled to sit upright. God in heaven, he was going to take her! “Maris,” he managed to push from a dry, swollen throat.

  Faintly, he heard Henry laugh, though the concern still ringed his eyes. “The man’s worried that he won’t be able to do his wife justice this night…he must be well.” Nevertheless, the king himself bent toward Dirick. “Can you stand, man?”

  Dirick gathered all of his wits and strength and nodded his head, reaching for the hand that was proffered to him. It was a beringed hand, and it belonged to Henry…but Dirick disregarded that fact as he lunged for the offered grip and pulled himself to his feet.

  He was in the forest. The members of the hunt had gathered around with their mounts, and the hounds, and even the carcass of the boar. “I must go,” was all he could say once he found Nick with his gaze.

  “Ludingdon, what ails you? You must come back to the castle and be tended to!” Henry boomed the order. “Richard! Marcus! Take him and bring him back to the physicians, and do not listen to his arguments! He has delayed my hunt long enough!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  How much farther are they?” asked Maris, looking about the forest for some sign of the hunting party. She’d ridden quite far out of London with Michael and Victor and expected to find the hunting party at any time.

  Neither man replied to her question, nor did they seem to acknowledge it.

  “I do not see them anywhere,” she said more forcefully. “Surely the hunt did not take the party this far from the castle.” An uncomfortable twinge started in the base of her spine and she reined Hickory up. “Are you certain we are going in the right direction?”

  Michael stopped his horse and turned back to her. “Come, Maris, do not question me.” He grabbed the reins from her hands and began to propel Hickory behind his own mount.

  The twinge blossomed into a full foreboding and Maris felt fear curdle in her middle. “I must return to the castle for my wedding,” she said, squinting up at the sun that was beginning to climb down the sky. Panic started to blossom in her belly. Something was very wrong.

  Victor laughed and the sound sent a chill up her spine. “Your bridegroom is in no condition to attend the ceremony. There is no need for you to return.”

  Those words held a finality that did not sit well with Maris. It had occurred to her earlier t
hat she’d disobeyed Dirick’s orders to go nowhere without him or Raymond…but her fear for his safety had been the overriding factor in her decision. And, in sooth, she’d forgotten her promise in the terror that he’d been injured.

  Michael urged his horse into a canter, and Maris was forced to lean forward and grab Hickory’s mane. Just as she had done when Bon abducted her, she forced herself to examine the situation. She swallowed the fear in her throat. She could not escape on foot, and Michael was in control of her horse. Victor rode so close to her that his mount’s tail brushed against Hickory’s shoulder.

  “’Tis not far from here,” he told his father, moving up so that their horses were neck and neck.

  Maris was now just behind them, but out of their easy sight as she was towed along on Hickory. She used the opportunity to slip a hand under her skirt and pull forth her dagger. She sent up a prayer of thanks that her mother had warned her never to be without the knife and set to cutting away at the reins. If she were quick, and lucky, she could cut herself free and be off. Mayhap, she and Hickory could outrun her kidnappers. If not—

  She stopped her thoughts right there. That possibility was not worth thinking on.

  Once again, Maris considered the facts and the situation. Dirick should have learned of her absence by now, and of course he would search for her. That thought eased her a bit.

  But as she continued to saw through the thick leather, another thought turned her cold. Michael and Victor talked so certainly of Dirick’s injury…mayhap there was a truth to it and he would not be able to come after her. Mayhap he was dead!

  Angry, frustrated tears welled in her eyes and she pushed the thought away. She’d think only of one thing now: escaping from Michael and Victor.

  When the reins were nearly cut through, Maris gathered herself and readied her courage, gripping Hickory with her thighs and tightening her fistful of mane. With a final slice, she cut the last bit of leather and kicked her horse to veer suddenly away.

  The shout of surprise erupted too close behind her and she leaned forward, urging Hickory as they raced for their freedom. The trampling of hooves in their trail was loud and gaining proximity and she felt tears sting her eyes. “Go, Hickory, go!” she cried into the mare’s ear, kicking her again.

  ’Twas of no use. One of them galloped up next to her and with a swift jerk, pulled her from her saddle across his own. She landed on her stomach with the air knocked out of her and saw the ground race by at a dizzying speed. She’d failed.

  “Bitch!” Michael’s voice was tight with fury as he slowed his horse to a walk. “Foolish woman!”

  Victor barreled up to them. “I’ll take her, Father. ’Tis my right to enjoy what little time we’ve left together.”

  Maris struggled as she was shoved over to the younger man’s mount and placed in front of him on the saddle. Michael gave her a hard slap to the face, stunning her, as Victor’s arms tightened around her waist.

  “What are you going to do?” she demanded, trying to ignore the pounding in her temple from the blow.

  Victor laughed harshly. “You seem so concerned about your wedding, my dear, that I should hate to disappoint you and have you forego your wedding night.” One of his hands slipped to close over her breast as he pushed his arousal into her bottom. “I would expect that to occupy us for some time, and then…well, my love, I do not see any purpose in returning damaged goods to your bridegroom…if indeed he still lives.” His fingers pinched cruelly at her breast, closing over her nipple so that she could not suppress a soft gasp of pain. “And I have no use for damaged goods myself. After all, ’twould do no good for me to beget a child upon my sister, now would it?”

  “What?” she gasped from pain as much as shock.

  “What, Father, you did not tell her that we are blood?” Victor asked, his hand moving to cup the full weight of her breast, fondling it roughly.

  Michael looked at Maris. “Your mother, whore that she is, begat my child before she married Merle of Langumont and birthed you.”

  “You are my father?” The pain from Victor’s seeking fingers faded in light of this revelation. “Nay.”

  “Oh, I assure you, ’tis true.”

  “But…I was to marry…your son…my brother.”

  Michael shrugged. “I did not know you were my daughter at that time. I didn’t learn of it until your stupid mother told me as we set out for Breakston to save you. In truth, it didn’t matter to me or to Victor…but your papa—Merle—must have learned this, for he told me he’d changed his mind over the betrothal.” A cold smile of such evil spread his features that Maris felt nauseated. “I could not accept that decision.”

  The nausea turned to cold anger. “You killed my father,” she whispered.

  “Oh, nay, he did not,” said Victor, leaning forward to thrust a tongue wet with slime into her ear. He murmured, “Nay, ’twas I who loosed the arrow into his back.”

  Maris jerked away from his cold mouth and was just as harshly jolted back onto a solid chest. “Nay, lady, you’ll not escape me this time. Long have I waited for the opportunity to break your arrogance and impudence, and I’ll have no more delays.” He sank his fingers into the mass of braids at the back of her scalp, pulling her head backward at an impossible angle, and kissed her forcefully.

  Just then, the sound of galloping reached their ears. All three turned to see a single man on horseback careening through the trees.

  Maris’s heart leapt until the man drew closer and she recognized him. Bon de Savrille. How could he be involved in this mess?

  “Halt!” Bon cried as Michael and Victor started to wheel their horses about, ready to make their escape. “Unhand her!” Bon did not slow, and his momentum brought him to their sides. Maris saw that he brandished a sword that glittered in the afternoon light and she took the opportunity to pull loose of Victor’s hands.

  With a quick elbow into his abdomen, Maris launched herself off the saddle, stumbled, then started running through the woods as fast as she could. There were shouts of anger behind her, and she heard a scream of pain from one of the horses, but she kept running.

  There was no sound of horse’s hooves following her, but she knew in her numb mind that when they finished their battle—whoever was left—would chase her down.

  Swallowing back nausea, Dirick leaned forward over Nick’s neck. His head still pounded and his entire body throbbed with pain…but his intent was single: to find Maris.

  He refused to allow himself to think of what could be happening, what she might be going through, as he led the party of men through the forest. Fortunately, several people had spotted Michael and Victor with Maris and Dirick had had to waste little time in discovering their trail. The odd part, he reflected, happy to focus on some other puzzle so that he wouldn’t go crazy with worry, was the third man who had followed in their wake.

  The sun was lowering and soon the forest would be dark. ’Twould be next to impossible to follow the trail in the dark, and this realization was the impetus that drove him on.

  He could not lose her.

  Dirick swallowed back the unmanly urge to cry in frustration. She was his, she was to be his…tonight, he was to wed with the only woman he’d ever wanted with such deep, certain need. He drove his heels into Nick’s middle, pushing the destrier even harder than he did in battle. This was the most important battle he’d ever fought, he realized numbly. He could not lose it.

  He almost missed seeing the shadow that rushed out from a deep thicket, until it was nearly beneath Nick’s hooves.

  “Help me!” it cried.

  “Maris?” Dirick pulled back on the reins, wheeling Nick aside on his hind legs, landing just next to her. He was out of his saddle in an instant, aware of the rest of his men gathering around them in the forest.

  “Dirick?” she cried. “Is that you?”

  He pulled her into his arms in one fluid motion. She was shaking, and her face was suspiciously wet. She was running her hands all over his face
and shoulders as if to ensure that it was really he.

  “My God, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck, smelling the rosemary and lemon and touching the tangles of her hair. “Maris, Maris,” he said her name over and over. “Beloved, have they hurt you? How did you escape?”

  She sniffled in the first show of womanly weakness he’d ever witnessed. “I am not hurt,” she told him, looking up with wide golden-green eyes. “But ’twas Bon de Savrille who saved me.”

  “What?” Dirick guided her back to his horse as the others gathered around, listening and yet remaining at a distance.

  “Aye, he came after us and in the confusion, I managed to get away. It wasn’t far from here.” She looked over her shoulder, gesturing in that direction, “and no one came after me. I do not know what happened.”

  With a curt nod, Dirick sent several of the men scattering to see what they could find. “Are you truly not hurt?” he asked, drawing them away from the rest of the party and angling Nick so that he stood between them and the gawking men. “My beloved, I cannot tell you what fears I had for you!”

  She reached up and smoothed a cool hand over his face, touching a scrape from his fall. “They told me you’d been hurt, that you’d fallen from a horse. I was afraid you were dead.”

  He nodded. “Aye. And I suspect it was Michael or Victor who slit the girth of my saddle, nearly causing me to be trampled among Nick’s hooves. I am fine, now that you are safe.”

  She pulled him down, covering his lips with her own. He felt the dampness of her tear moisten his cheek. When she pulled back after a sweet, tender kiss, Maris was looking up at him with those green-gold eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, some new tension tightening his chest.

  “I—I nearly didn’t have the chance to tell you…but you must know. I am well-pleased to be your wife. I‘ve come to love you, Dirick, and I am sure you will make a find husband, and a good Lord of Langumont.”