by Sarah Hegger
Ewayne found exactly what Guy expected him to find. The raiding party had disappeared over the border to Dartmoore land. They made no attempt to disguise their passage. The archer who had felled Geoffrey was spotted dead along the way, his quiver still full of the same arrows as the one he’d helped Rosalind extract.
The evidence had been laid out carefully for them to find. It amounted to a flagrant challenge and for a tiny moment, Guy almost ignored a lifetime of cool thinking, grabbed up the gauntlet and charged forth. Instead he’d stopped his men this side of the boundary between the two demesnes and let his brain rule his hot blood.
An attack of such deliberate provocation meant Ranulf wanted him to come armed to his keep. It wasn’t a particularly imaginative plan, to provoke and then cry foul to the king, but it would work. And once Guy was out of his path, Ranulf would have a clear road to Lystanwold. And Helena.
Guy sat astride his destrier. Pennants rose above the treetops in the distance. Dartmoore Castle. Fierce, hard anger churned in his gut. This was an act of war and it would be paid in kind, but Guy needed to think carefully on how he did that. He hadn’t come this far to lose everything in a rush of blood.
He turned his men toward home. He wanted to see Helena. The tortured expression in her eyes haunted him every step of the way. She truly cared for her people and an attack on one of them struck straight to the heart of her. Ranulf would pay for that as well.
Guards were doubled on the walls, he noted as he rode into the bailey. A mixture of his men and the men of Lystanwold guarded the ramparts. Tension hung thick over the keep. Chains rattled as the portcullis was lowered behind them. Huddles of people milled around uncertainly. They had come behind the walls to seek refuge after word of this morning had spread. They appeared to be aimless. Why had Helena done nothing to see them housed for the night? It wasn’t like her not to succour Lystanwold’s folk.
The rest of the keep slept, other than a few hardy souls, still up and drinking or talking quietly. They stopped as he passed and greeted him. Guy was so tired his bones ached with it. To return to Lystanwold and bide his time abraded within. Vengeance coursed through his blood, but he would think like a lord now and not a warrior. There were more lives at stake than Peter and Flora.
He approached Bridget, seated by the hearth. “There are people.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bailey.
“Aye.” Bridget rose to her feet, weariness in her every movement. “I will see to them.”
“Geoffrey?”
Bridget smiled faintly at him. “The lad is young and strong. The wound is deep, but not fatal. It will need to be kept clear from putrefaction.”
Guy’s relief was tinged by the gut-churning frustration of having to bide his time. “And Peter?”
Bridget made a face. “The man saw his child brutally raped and killed. Do you really need me to answer, Sir Knight?”
He nodded in understanding and strode toward the staircase. Anger burned like acid in his stomach.
Guy sidestepped a chest as he mounted the stairs to the upper level. Helena would be abed, but he could strip off his sweaty clothes and slide into the linens beside her. For a moment, before he fell asleep, he could lose himself in the sweetness of her scent.
He skirted another vaguely familiar chest. Rounding the corner, he drew up in shock.
The keep had been attacked. Then he looked closer, and his heartbeat settled somewhat.
There were clothes and belongings everywhere and they covered almost all the available floor space. He picked up a surcoat. It was his. So were the braies, the hauberk, the chausses and the boots.
“Be damned.” He retrieved his best velvet tunic, crumpled and soaked in the spilled contents of a flagon of wine. Ruined. He dropped it in disgust.
The door to the solar was shut. He tried the latch and found it barred. The door was a solid block of oak, thick enough to withstand a marauding army. Guy took a slow, steady breath. It would be easier to go back downstairs and find a space in the hall to sleep. It had been a hard day for all. He turned to leave.
Nay.
All through this long, dreadful day he’d kept his formidable temper in check. Kept his mind working over his emotions. Stayed calm, remained in command of the bloodlust.
The bellow rose from deep within him, an inarticulate cry of all the pent-up, impotent fury of his day.
He threw back his head and roared. The edges of his vision went dark. He would go through that door with nothing to stop him. People cowered around him in the passageway, curious to know what the furore was about.
Guy charged forward and they scattered like geese, retreating to the shadows. Curse them as well. It took but a moment to find the weapon he needed. It was in the largest chest, almost at the foot of the stairs.
Gasps greeted his reappearance. A woman stifled a scream.
The door splintered on the first swing of the axe. Three mightier heaves and the door gave in. Guy kicked at the splintered edges. Shrieking like a crazed lunatic, he charged into the room.
His eyes locked on Helena and he slid to a halt. The haze of red receded from his vision.
She knelt in the centre of the bed, her eyes huge in her pale face with the bed linens tightly clasped around her chin.
The only sound was the dull thrum of his blood in his ears. The axe was heavy in his hand and he lowered it to his side.
She looked like a little girl in her white chainse with her hair neatly braided on either side of her head.
“Guy?” Her voice held the thickness of sleep.
The axe fell to the floor with a loud clatter. His chest heaving like bellows, he dropped his head and concentrated on taking calming air into his lungs.
“I thought we were under attack,” she finally said.
He nodded. Disgust sneaked in like a thief around the fading edges of his temper. He was no better than his father, thundering about the keep, spreading fear and destruction with each meaty fist.
Guy battled the demon within. He wouldn’t be his father.
Helena motioned to the door. “I did not think that possible.”
Curious faces peered through the splinters of oak. “You can all go back to your beds,” he ordered. A vein pulsed in the side of his head. He strode over to the doorway and glared out. The courageous few still standing there scurried away like rats.
“Are you harmed?” he belatedly asked, his eyes studying her carefully.
Slowly she whispered, “I am all right, Guy.”
As her husband turned to survey the damage he had caused, Helena couldn’t help but wonder at his thoughts. What would he do now? Beat her? Berate her? Nay, surely not.
She’d meant to take the bar from the door and have Guy’s belongings brought back to the solar. She must have fallen asleep after her rampage through the chamber. The first she’d known was that unearthly bellow, rousing her from sleep. It sounded as if the Infidel was attacking Lystanwold.
Obeying an instinct that, even now, assured her she wouldn’t be hurt, Helena padded across the chamber toward him. He shook his head as he bent to pick up a piece of splintered wood.
“Guy?” Helena touched his shoulder.
“I lost my temper.” A frown marred his brow. “I have not lost my temper since . . . in a very long time,” he amended. “I do not lose my temper.” He bent to pick up another piece of wood.
Suddenly, her actions this day shamed her. “I lose my temper all the time.” He appeared not to hear her as he attempted to fit the two pieces of the shattered door into each other. He gave up with a shrug and the wood clattered to the floor.
“I should not have done this,” she admitted, toeing aside a piece of wood and drawing closer to him. It had been a childish reaction to the terrible events of the day and she had regretted it as soon a
s her anger cooled. She’d been exhausted and lain down for a moment to collect herself before she cleaned away the evidence of her fit. If only she could start this day anew. A pointless wish.
“I was so angry.” She placed her forehead in the swell of his shoulder. “I meant to unbar the door.”
He grunted deep in his throat, yet didn’t move away. His face was drawn and closed, the muscle in his jaw working furiously.
Helena needed to touch him. She looped her arms about his neck. His shoulders were bunched tight with emotion beneath her touch.
“I tossed all your things out of the solar,” she confessed.
He grunted again and looked through the gaping maw of the doorway as if the news were a surprise.
“It all became jumbled in my head. Flora, Peter, Geoffrey,” she added. “And then you chose Rosalind to tend to Geoffrey and I . . .” Helena swept her hand over the solar, now empty of all traces of Guy.
He shifted out of her hold, a tiny frown creasing the skin between his brows. “Rosalind is a good healer,” he stated.
“I know that.” She brought her hand to his brow and smoothed the furrow of skin with a finger. “Can we begin this night anew?”
“Aye.”
Helena let out a relieved breath. “What did you discover?”
“It was Ranulf.” A muscle tensed in the side of his jaw.
Fresh anger surged within Helena. “Did you kill him?”
“Nay.” He turned from her abruptly. “He is hiding in his keep.”
“What will you do?”
“A siege would take weeks.”
“And the king could arrive any day.” She understood, though she’d have like to remain stubborn. It was for this reason Roger had never openly attacked Ranulf. Stephen wouldn’t tolerate unrest on his northern border, not with the Scots poised to take advantage of any opportunity.
“What news of Geoffrey?” She’d meant to see Geoffrey after she’d finished clearing the debris. Dear God. Her awful temper was her downfall again.
“Bridget says he will heal, if the wound stays clean.” Lines of worry marred his strong features. She longed to soothe them away.
“Ranulf will pay for this, Helena.” His eyes were deadly earnest. “I swear to you.”
He didn’t give his word lightly, this knight of hers. When he did, it was as solid as the walls about her. He’d given his word to Rosalind and kept it, when it would have been much easier to renege. “I know he will.”
His eyes flared with warmth. Reaching out, he brought her closer to him. “You have a wicked temper.”
“Yes.” Helena burrowed closer to his warmth. With his arms about her, the horror of the day seemed to recede. “I, however, did not chop down the door.”
A soft snort of amusement vibrated through his chest.
She pressed her face into the warmth where his neck and shoulder met. The pungent tang of horse barely concealed the reek of his hauberk, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She tugged on it impatiently, needing the comfort of his skin on hers. “Let us get this off you.”
He obediently raised his arms to the side. “I did not choose Rosalind over you. You are my wife.”
“Not all men esteem their wives.” She stepped onto the dressing stool to remove his smelly chain mail.
“But I do,” he returned.
And her heart gave a queer, little thump of pleasure.
He turned, took the hauberk from her and dropped it onto the floor. She wavered slightly on her perch on the dressing stool and he steadied her by the hips. “The words,” he rumbled. With her height raised by the stool, their eyes were level. “I do not do well with words.”
“I know that much, Guy.” A bubble of laughter rose to the surface. Did he really think he was telling her something she didn’t know?
He gave her a tentative smile in return. “I do not like the locked door,” he continued. His eyes drifted down. They lingered over the swell of her breasts beneath the fine linen of her chainse. The firm lines of his mouth softened as his gaze stroked over her hips, the juncture of her thighs and the length of her legs.
“Clearly,” Helena retorted as she looked at the wreckage of the door. An answering flush of heat spread over her body where his eyes rested. Her nipples jutted out boldly, demanding his attention.
“There should be no more doors betwixt us.” He tugged her closer.
“There should be no more Rosalind betwixt us,” she groused as his hands slid around to cup her buttocks. He pressed his hard length to her and another sort of passion took control of her.
“There are only clothes betwixt us now.” He rocked his hips. Her body responded immediately to the primal demand of his. Her fingers crept over the broad planes of his chest and onto his shoulders. “There is no Rosalind here,” he rasped.
Helena let her head drop to the side. A guttural murmur of approval vibrated through him as his mouth roamed the column of her neck.
He hooked his hands beneath her thighs and urged her legs to curve about his waist. Her bottom rested in his big palms and he pulled her closer. Locking her ankles, she pressed into his hard heat.
Hunger rose swift and fierce within her. Here was healing. Helena bracketed the rugged planes of his face between her palms and brought her mouth down on his. Her tongue swept boldly into his mouth and tangled with his, aching for him to sink deep and hard inside her and take her away from the death and the ugliness surrounding them.
He lowered her onto the bed, coming down with his arms braced on either side of her shoulders. Impatient with his careful caresses, she wrapped her arms around his neck and rolled. He was forced to move with her until he lay beneath her with her legs straddling his hips. Uttering a purr of relief, Helena pressed against his shaft, rubbing her aching flesh over him, reaching blindly for her fulfilment.
His hands tightened on her hips, forcing her to stop. With a feral growl, Helena glared down at him.
“Gentle,” he panted, his teeth clenched, his jaw rigid as he battled for control. “Do not want to hurt you.”
“I will not break.” She knocked his hands away from her hips. In his eyes she perceived the moment he abandoned control, his hunger stark and plain.
Helena exulted in it.
His palms slid up her legs, bunching the fabric of her chainse to her waist. The cloth of his breeches abraded her sensitive flesh.
One of his hands dropped to free himself and then Helena could feel him full and smooth beneath her weeping core. She raised her body enough to sink onto him. He slid deep and she groaned. Guy’s expression held equal parts bliss and torture. He was iron-hard within her and Helena rocked with him.
“Sweet Jesu.” His head arched back, exposing the strong lines of his throat. Helena nipped on the column of flesh exposed to her.
He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her. His tongue plunged swiftly between her lips, imitating the motion of their bodies in a feverish thrust and retreat that left her near mindless with the need to drive them both to completion.
Rising beneath her, Guy drove his shaft deeper. He caught her harsh cries between more kisses, giving and taking as he brought her closer to the precipice. His hands guided the motion of her hips, increasing the pace.
Helena shattered on a long, deep keen as she ground herself against him. Under her, he stiffened, thrust up once more and his entire body tensed as he poured into her. His hands tightened on her flesh as he reached completion.
“Oh, Lord.” With a sigh, she dropped forward onto his chest. “We have no door.”
His deep laugh rumbled through her chest. The skin of his throat was salty and damp beneath her lips and she flicked her tongue out to taste him. She was rewarded with another chuckle as his hands came up to stroke her back.
“Helena.�
� The seriousness of his tone held her still. His hands continued their long, leisurely strokes from her shoulder blades to the swell of her buttocks in a soothing motion. “Nobody can come betwixt us unless we allow them to do so.”
Within her, his flesh stirred and it sent an answering rise of heat through her body.
“I know that.” Her lips explored the sharp line of his jaw. Enough with Rosalind and her jealousy. Enough with talking altogether.
“And I may have chosen Rosalind for her healing abilities, but there is only you in this bed with me and only you beside me as we care for Lystanwold.”
A rush of sweetness filled her. “Those are good words.”
Chapter 21
King Stephen arrived, leading what appeared to be half of the south of England in his wake.
“So many,” Helena marvelled, as she stood in the bailey, ready to meet the retinue crawling over the drawbridge. The task of sheltering and feeding the long procession of people behind the king daunted her. They kept coming, the stragglers only just disappearing beneath the canopy of the forest.
“It is a show of power,” Guy said from beside her. “Stephen is reminding me who is king.”
“Subtle,” Helena agreed.
“As a trebuchet.”
The king dismounted and strode toward them. “Sir Guy.” The king hailed her husband. “Marriage agrees with you.”
“My liege.” Guy executed a flawless bow.
Helena stopped staring like a gap-toothed child and dropped into a curtsy. She’d never met Stephen before. Roger had adjudged it unwise to take her to court.
The king was a well-looking man just past his middle years, but the cares of war seemed to be etched in sharp lines around his eyes and mouth. “Lady Helena,” he said. Since the king wasn’t an overly large man, Guy towered above him like an oak above a sapling.
“My liege.” She kept her head bowed. The king made a waving motion and following Guy’s lead, Helena stood.