Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  At least, that’s what everyone was told.

  But based on what Arabella had heard from her father, she knew it was something different.

  Hostage.

  It was true that Arabella had big ears. She wasn’t beyond eavesdropping, but what she had heard about Dera had never left her lips. She might have listened to things she wasn’t supposed to, but she rarely repeated anything.

  Not even to Dera.

  Therefore, as far as Dera knew, she was here to escape the rising rebellion in Ireland and she’d never said anything to the contrary. She’d never begged to go home or spouted her hatred of the English. Quite the contrary; she had assimilated into life at Narborough easily, becoming fast companions with Arabella, who was two years younger than Dera’s twenty years.

  These days, they were inseparable.

  On this rather hot summer day as the dust billowed from the bailey and the flies were out in droves, they trudged across the grass that surrounded the castle pond and headed into the garden that surrounded it. Arabella’s mother, Alais, loved flowers so the garden was quite well-tended and fragrant this time of year.

  Servants were moving around in the garden, passing humorous looks at the young women, mostly Dera, as they moved through the garden and through an open gate in the wall that separated it from the main bailey. Up ahead and to the right were the stables, built against the enormous curtain wall that encircled Narborough, one that was so thick it had chambers built inside of it.

  The bailey was busy on this day as men and women went about their business, the clear blue sky overhead seemingly bleeding heat upon them. The sun was brilliant and intense as Dera and Arabella made their way into the stables, which were cool and musty and smelled heavily of hay and animals. Arabella directed Dera into the very last stall in the long stable block.

  “Now,” she said. “Take the dress off and I will run and bring you something dry.”

  But Dera shook her head. “I’ll not take it off until you return,” she said. “I won’t stand here in my naked glory while you’re off in the keep.”

  Arabella grinned. “I’ll bring you something to dry off with, too.”

  “It would be better if you brought me a bath so I can clean the smell of pond rot off of me.”

  “I’ll have a bath prepared in the keep. Let’s get you into something dry so you can at least get there without my mother screaming that you’re dripping water all over her floors.”

  “Agreed.”

  With that, Arabella slipped out of the stable, leaving Dera to drip all over the straw-strewn floor of the stall. It was cold and uncomfortable as well as smelly, and as she stood there, a pair of big male goats wandered into the stall, looking for something to eat.

  “Be gone with you, devils,” she said as they sniffed her skirts. “Go away, now. Do you hear?”

  One continued sniffing her while the other one rooted around, looking for any remnants of grain or anything dropped by the last animal who ate a meal there. Dera backed away from them, leaning against the side of the stall as they continued to nose around. Suddenly, one grabbed the hem of her skirt and started pulling.

  “Ooch!” she grunted, yanking on her skirt to get it out of the animal’s mouth. “Let go, you Philistine! Let go, I say!”

  But the goat refused to release her skirt, instead, chewing on it steadily because it smelled and tasted like the pond. He was beginning to shred it. Dera tried to kick it away but she ended up losing her balance and landed flat on her bottom.

  The goats pounced.

  One was eating her skirt while the other one tried to walk on her, nosing around to see if she had anything interesting on her body. Their cloven hooves were sharp and she shoved one of them off, rolling to her knees to get away but the other had her skirt firmly. Growling unhappily, she yanked on her skirt in a bizarre tug-of-war.

  “Release me!” she boomed. “When I get free, I’m going to make a hide rug out of you! I’m going to roast you and feed you to the pigs!”

  The second goat, thinking the first goat was eating something delicious, was beginning to tear at her skirt, too, and Dera pulled with all her might. She also was also looking around for a club or tool or something to hit them with. She smacked one with her hand, which only seemed to make it mad, so she decided that she had to get out of that stall or risk becoming goat fodder.

  Lurching to her feet, she started to pull away but the goats held fast. She could see a rake against a nearby wall, one used to clean the stalls, and she had to get to it. The more she would pull away, the more the goats would yank back.

  As she struggled towards the rake, someone entered the stable. She couldn’t really see who it was because of the blinding light coming in from the yard beyond, but a body was heading in her direction.

  “Help me,” she demanded. “The enemy is at the gate and trying to pick my bones clean.”

  She heard a soft, low laugh. “That is obvious.”

  The man picked up the rake that she’d been trying to get to and whacked both goats, twice, enough to cause them to release her skirt. Dera bolted away from them, jumping onto a ladder that led up into the hayloft overhead. The goats, properly deterred, went to find something else to munch on as the man put the rake back against the wall.

  “I think you’re safe,” he said, turning towards her as he came into the light. “They did not hurt you, did they?”

  That’s when Dera got a good look at the man. He was enormous; she’d noticed that from the start from his sheer silhouette. He was taller than almost anyone she’d ever seen and he had glistening copper curls that tumbled to his shoulders. And what shoulders they were; as broad as a doorway and then some, attached to massive arms.

  In fact, the entire body was massive.

  But those eyes…

  The color of the sea on a warm summer day. They weren’t blue, nor where they green, but something in between. They were glimmering with some humor at her, but she couldn’t quite seem to answer. She’d never seen such a gorgeous man.

  And he was gorgeous.

  She stammered like an idiot.

  “N…nay, they didn’t,” she said, feeling flustered. “But they tried. Had you not come along, I’m sure I would be nothing but a pile of bones right now.”

  He grinned, revealing big, white teeth. “Then you owe me your life, Irish,” he said, recognizing her accent. “Mayhap those goats think anyone from Ireland is tasty. They could be right.”

  It was a gentle flirt and he was making her flush. “How would you know? Do you make it a habit of eating Irish flesh?”

  He laughed softly. “Not lately,” he said. “At least, not the flesh of a beautiful young woman. May I be so bold as to ask your name, my lady?”

  “Dera MacRohan.”

  “Brend MacRohan’s sister?”

  “Aye.”

  The man’s gaze seemed to linger on her for a moment. “Lady Dera, I am Cort de Russe,” he finally said. “Your brother and I are old friends.”

  Dera couldn’t stop staring at the man. “De Russe,” she repeated. “I have heard that name.”

  “Of course you have. My father is the greatest knight in England, the Duke of Warminster.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. “Do you have brothers?”

  He nodded. “Several,” he said. “My two older brothers are the Earl of Westbury and the Duke of Shrewsbury, respectively. I have three younger brothers as well. I fall somewhere in the middle but, confidentially, I am the smartest and bravest one of them all.”

  She grinned at his charming arrogance. “Are you, now?” she said. “How fortunate for you.”

  “Indeed,” he said. Then he lifted his hands to her. “Can I help you off that ladder and into the keep? Or is there a reason why you’re lurking out here in the stables?”

  She lifted her chewed-on skirt. “I fell into the pond,” she said. “I am waiting for Arabella to return with something dry to wear so I can enter the keep without Lady Alais berating me for r
uining her floors.”

  The goats picked that moment to wander back in their direction and Dera climbed up the ladder, midway, as Cort used the rake to shoo them out of the stable. When they were gone, he looked at her and grinned.

  “No goat will make a meal out of you as long as I am around,” he said. “You can come down if you wish.”

  Gingerly, she climbed back down just as Arabella rushed back into the stall. Arabella nearly ran into Cort, gasping as she barely stopped herself. Cort grinned at her.

  “Greetings, Bella,” he said warmly. “Where’s your dastardly brother?”

  Arabella genuinely liked Cort. She lit up at the sight of him. “There’s a lady in Swaffham that he’s fond of,” she said. “Have you not seen him since he has set out to pursue the fishmonger daughter?”

  Cort started laughing. “The fishmonger’s daughter? Bleeding Christ, he can do better than that. What is wrong with that man?”

  Arabella giggled. “Mother doesn’t like it, either,” she said. “In fact, she’s rather irate about it. You should go into the keep and soothe her, Cort. The woman melts like butter when you’re around.”

  Cort winked boldly at her. “All women do,” he said. “But I shall go and pay my respects to your poor mother and then I shall beat your brother around the head and neck until he comes to his senses. I can only imagine this girl must be a goddess for him to pursue her.”

  Arabella shrugged. “She is very pretty and kind,” she said. “I like her, but Mother feels that she is beneath Dillon’s station.”

  “What about your other brother?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Damien is only twelve years of age and far too young to pursue women, though he thinks he is quite grown up now,” she said. “Father went to Watlington to see a man about a horse and took Damien with him.”

  “So only the women of the family are here?”

  “Indeed.”

  Cort flashed her that brilliant smile. “Excellent,” he said. “I have you all to myself.”

  “Brend is here.”

  Cort’s face fell. “That bloody Irishman,” he said. “I am going to find him and give him a thrashing just because I don’t like his face.”

  Arabella started to laugh. “Why not? It is a very nice face.”

  There was something in that statement that made Cort take a second look at her, as if there were a fondness there that she was trying without success to hide. He jabbed a finger at her.

  “Are you telling me that I must compete with Brend MacRohan for your affections?” he said. “You promised you would be true to me, Arabella.”

  He was jesting with her, the same jest he’d been using on her since she was a child. He would demand her loyalty and she would give it. The truth was that Cort and Dillon and Brend were very good friends, and Arabella adored Cort. But she adored Brend more, much to her father’s distress.

  Especially since marriage between the English and Irish was forbidden.

  “I am true to you, Cort,” she insisted. “At least, when you are at Narborough, I am.”

  She giggled and he scowled, exaggerated. “If I find out that you have been throwing yourself at Brend, I will be forced to challenge the man for your affections,” he said. “Meanwhile, I am going to go endear myself to your mother so that I am her favorite child. Lady Dera, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope to see more of you.”

  Dera, now standing on the ground next to the ladder, nodded. “It would be an honor, Sir Cort.”

  “Just Cort,” he said, smiling at her rather boldly. “Until later, ladies.”

  With that, he was off, heading out of the stable and across the dusty yard. Dera’s gaze never left him. She made her way to the stable entry, watching Cort as he disappeared into the main bailey as he headed towards the keep. Once he was out of her sight, she turned to Arabella.

  “That is Cort de Russe?” she gasped. “I think I have heard Brend mention the man, but I had no idea… Sweet Mary, the man is handsome.”

  Arabella laughed softly. “Aye, he is, and he knows it. The man’s swelled head enters a room five minutes before he does.”

  “Is he married?”

  Arabella guffawed. “Cort? Never. I pity the poor woman he actually marries. She will have a time of it with that one.”

  “Why? Is he unfaithful and terrible?”

  Arabella shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “Quite the opposite. He’s a loyal friend and ally, and one of the most charming men you’ll ever meet. But every woman who meets him falls madly in love with him. His poor wife will be fighting women off him day and night.”

  Dera grinned, leaning against the doorjamb. “I can think of worse ways to spend my life.”

  Arabella shook her head. “I would not even entertain such a thought, Dera,” she said. “Cort de Russe is not meant for women like us.”

  “There is nothing wrong with us.”

  Arabella cast her a long look before reaching out and grabbing her. “Stop your daydreaming,” she said. “Let’s get you into dry clothing and into the keep where you can take a bath. And put Cort de Russe out of your mind.”

  Dera tried. For about a minute, she tried. But those pale eyes and that bright smile had her maiden’s heart racing.

  Even if he was a Sassenach.

  So that was Brend MacRohan’s ugly sister.

  Truth was, she wasn’t ugly at all.

  Nor did she look like some kind of fearsome warrior woman, one who could lead a rebellion. As Cort headed into the keep of Narborough, his thoughts were lingering on a woman with silky white skin, long golden-red curls, eyes of the palest blue, and lips like a rose. Divine didn’t even begin to cover her beauty.

  He’d never seen anything like it.

  He was starting to feel like a fool.

  Woof, woof…

  He and Henry were going to have a good laugh about this when it was all over. But suddenly, he wasn’t nearly so resistant to this mission. In fact, he was rather looking forward to it. Charming a beautiful woman and learning her secrets.

  There were worse things he could think of.

  He was nearing the keep when he heard a shout. Turning, he could see someone heading in his direction, a big man pushing through the soldiers that were in the bailey. Brend MacRohan lifted a hand in his direction and Cort came to a stop, lifting a hand in return. He watched the knight jog towards him.

  Brend was a big, muscular man as all of the MacRohan’s were, with blond hair and eyes so blue that they were silver, much like his sister’s. When he grinned, he displayed an adorable gap-toothed grin that had caused many a maiden to swoon. He was grinning openly at Cort as he pulled the man into a friendly embrace.

  “Cort, you magnificent beast,” Brend said as he squeezed. “I saw you ride in but I had business with Denys and could not break away. Where did you go?”

  Cort threw a thumb in the direction of the stables. “To secure my horse,” he said. “I met your sister in the stables, in fact. When did she arrive?”

  “About six months ago,” Brend said. “That is my baby sister, Dera Patrick MacRohan.”

  Cort looked at him strangely. “Patrick is part of her name?”

  Brend snorted. “We all have that as part of our names,” he said. “I am Brend Patrick and my brothers are Declan Patrick, Finn Patrick, and Ardmore Patrick. My mother is quite pious and St. Patrick is her favored saint, so all of her children are named for him.”

  Cort shook his head. “And I was only named for a king,” he said. “Your entire family is named for a saint.”

  Brend slapped him on the shoulder. “And it has been great protection in battle,” he said. “I doubt praying to Henry Tudor will provide you any protection.”

  “Probably not.”

  Brend grinned. “Tell me what you thought of my little sister. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Careful, Cort told himself. He was measured in his response. “She doesn’t seem to have been cursed with the same ugly looks as you,” he said.
“I ran into her and Bella in the stables.”

  Brend’s smile faded and he averted his gaze. “Dera and Bella have become fast friends,” he said. “It is good for Bella to have another female companion. All she has here are men and her mother.”

  Cort swore he heard the same wistful tone in Brend’s words as he had in Arabella’s. He grew serious.

  “I have not seen you since before your sister came here,” he said. “Tell me what is going on around here, Brend.”

  Brend looked at him as if realizing the man was on to him. They were very old friends, after all, and they’d known each other well for years. He forced a smile.

  “Nothing unusual,” he said, far too lightly. “Life has been the usual, though we wait with apprehension for the reports that come from Ireland. We lost one of our garrisons to the Irish rebels.”

  “You’re Irish, Brend,” Cort said softly. “How do you feel about all of this?”

  Brend’s smile turned ironic. “I was Irish,” he said. “I don’t even sound Irish. I sound like you. Such is the curse of having been in England since I was a child, educated in the finest English houses and having the trainers beat my Irish accent out of me. Oh, it’s still there, sometimes when I become angry, but for the most part, I blend in with the English. That is what I am supposed to do even though I am not English. I have no freedom of choice like the English.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Brend’s smile faded as if he were actually contemplating an answer. But very quickly, the grin was back and he slapped Cort on the shoulder again. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m a bit of a philosopher in my old age. Have you seen Lady Alais? She will be angry if you do not visit her right away.”

  Cort knew the man was avoiding the question but he didn’t press. It seemed that things were going on at Narborough since his last visit. He didn’t know exactly what they were yet, but he would. He would get to the bottom of everything. As he and Brend turned for the keep, a big, dark-haired knight emerged from the entry and headed in their direction.