Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

  Nia’s fortitude, or what there was left of it, melted.

  “Caerwyn.” She touched his lips with her fingertips, stopping him. His words were crushing her heart, remorse making every beat a punishing blow. “I must tell you the truth. I’ve done something horrible, but it wasn’t my fault entirely. I meant nothing wrong, even though it would seem . . . I hadn’t intended—”

  “Don’t explain.” He shook his head. The corner of his mouth quirked, but there was no humor in his eyes. He put his other hand behind her neck, keeping her close as he moved near. Nia felt his thighs touching her through their clothes, and her body responded with a rush of heat to her feminine valley. The brown of his irises disappeared in the blackness of his eyes, hooded now as he stared at her mouth like a predator hungering for its meal. “I’ve grown weary of the past. The things you say remind me of how things were between us when I trusted you. But the way you act belies every word. You mock the past—and us. You mock me.”

  His fingers tangled in her hair possessively as he studied her reaction.

  Wariness had Nia bracing inwardly. This was a side of Caerwyn she’d never witnessed before. He’d never seemed capable of violence off the tournament field. Then again, she had no idea what his hands had done in Jerusalem or whether his enemies had deserved his wrath. She slid her own hands between them, only to discover more frightening evidence of his conflicted emotions—the solid pounding of his heart. Her knees threatened to buckle. “I’m not mocking you. I would ne’er do that.”

  “I may never have my boyhood dreams, but I will have my grown fantasies,” he growled. His thumb left her collarbone and swept her bottom lip. Nia’s mouth opened in surprise, and he caught her chin, tipping her head back.

  His brow furrowed as he leaned forward, capturing her mouth. Excitement unfurled within her, elation and trepidation clashing in one overwhelming moment. Caerwyn’s tongue stroked across her lip, chasing the sensation his thumb had left with a peculiar brand, then invaded her mouth, seeking her tongue. Nia met his stroke, matching it with hers, lifting on her toes to ease his access.

  For so long, she’d wanted to feel this with him again.

  For so long, she’d wanted the chance to show him he was the only one she’d ever wanted to kiss. The only one she wanted to feel naked beneath her hands. She’d always hoped he would recognize the truth when they were in each other’s arms once more. Then he’d realize what he’d thought he’d seen before years ago was naught but a lie, trickery by her and her sister. No man or boy had ever been before him.

  Presently, she felt his hand loosen in her hair as if he’d become aware that she offered no resistance. He traced her neck and shoulder with his gentle hand as he deepened his kiss, exploring her with every touch, every point of contact between their bodies. Nia longed to do the same, to burrow under his clothes and bring him closer in her embrace. His mouth loved hers, kissing her furiously, then tenderly, with his tongue brushing hers in a rhythm she soon followed instinctively with her hips. Emboldened by passion, she smoothed her palms down his chest over the solid ripples of his flat torso and felt the hard pressure of his need against her stomach.

  Caerwyn broke the kiss and caught her hands in his, halting them at his waist. Regarding her through narrowed eyes, he asked, hoarse, “Have you forgotten what I gave you?” His jaw tightened, and his thumb grazed the vacant spot on her finger where the ring had been.

  Nia’s face flared with heat. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “The ring. I—”

  “The ring I gave you as a present was my mother’s, the only thing of hers my father and I kept. I gave it to you, just as I gave you my h—” He broke off, swallowing. “You’ve chosen not to wear it?”

  Nia winced. It meant more to him than she’d imagined. When she opened her eyes again, her soul felt exposed. Heat continued to pulse in her lips from their passion. She longed to hide her face yet wanted to reach for him and drag him back into her arms.

  Mouth suddenly dry, she croaked, “Not by choice. You see, Maddoc took—”

  “And I’m to believe you’re innocent? With your past transgressions? You and de Guildo were in here—the barn—talking?” He tilted his head, frowning dubiously.

  Nia nodded. “ ’Tis true. I have only my word to give you. I don’t trust Maddoc to speak with honesty.”

  “Nay. On that point I believe you. But for the rest . . . how can I pledge my vows to you, to take you as my wife, if I cannot know if you speak true? If I cannot trust you will be faithful to me, Nia? We’ve been through this before.”

  “On my life, Caerwyn, I thought I was meeting you. If I could get the ring back from Maddoc, then find the person who sent me the message and bring him to you, would you trust me then?”

  He shook his head, slipping away from her. When he spoke, his voice was broken and defeated, “I’ve been imprudent to trust you again . . . to want you again. I’m a fool, and I’ve only myself to blame. But hear me, Nia, if what you say isn’t a lie about this page, do not, do not go looking for this person. Let it alone. If he . . . if he’s even real, he could be dangerous.”

  Nia hugged herself, wounded by his mistrust. Yet his concern for her safety provided the tiniest hope . . .

  He paused at the door and held her gaze with a sudden vulnerable expression that sent her back once more to that glorious day in the orchard.

  He said, “You have forgotten what I gave you.”

  Of course. She should’ve known the right answer.

  His heart.

  A FORTNIGHT AGO, Guy de Brionne had offered a full set of valuable armor to the winner of the tournament on Twelfth Day, but Nia knew everyone expected the true prizes would be her and her sister. Before sending his invitation for the festivities, her father had called the women to his solar, sitting them down to explain his intentions. Wanting to sort the weeds from the garden, so to speak, he’d said he hoped to eliminate the noblemen who weren’t up to the challenge of protecting his daughters.

  Well, Nia mused now, scanning the weapons stretching from one end of the table to other, why should men have all the fun?

  Each morning since the competition began nine days ago, the bailey transformed into a practice field. Knights and squires parried, chopped, thrust. Arms and weapons flew, bodies fell. Metal clanged incessantly. In fact, Serena claimed the noise from the yard gave her such headaches, she took refuge in her bedchamber, far from her adoring suitors.

  Her sister’s caprice boggled Nia’s mind. On some days, Serena flirted outrageously, throwing herself at everyone, including even poor Henri when she thought no one was looking. On other days, she moped, inconsolable, like today, wanting nothing to do with men in general.

  The present clamor didn’t thwart Nia from visiting the field, though. She skirted past two aggressive opponents, locked in each other’s arms in Greco-Roman combat, struggling for ground. For the past few days, she’d had more solitude and quiet than she could stand. Being alone with her thoughts, she’d ruminated on Caerwyn and their last exchange of words and kisses until she could neither eat nor sleep. His grudge against her was unfounded, and she would prove it once and for all.

  “Lady Nia? You shouldn’t be here.” Padrig stopped her, running across the field to greet her. Coming directly from practice, he carried a mace, its weight pulling him sideways where he stood. Sweat rolled down his face despite the chilly winter day.

  “I’m getting tired of everyone’s telling me where I should or shouldn’t be.” She rested her hands on her hips, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of the sword strapped at her side. “Before you came here, I practiced on this field every day myself.”

  If her father had his way, she’d be in the solar stitching tapestries, flirting with every passing swain like her sister.

  It wasn’t fair. She eyed the crowd, knowing she could compete successfully in some of the events herself.

  Her friend ducked his head, paling with chagrin. “My apologies. I didn’t know.” Dark ey
elashes fanned above his cheeks, which still held a trace of their boyish roundness. He reminded her of his brother in that moment; however, the older knight would never have shown blatant remorse. With his head down, Padrig explained, “Some of the men aren’t as skilled as others, and I feared you might get hurt.”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.” She patted his arm, and her hand met the startlingly thick padding of mail. “Oh my.”

  He glanced up with a lopsided grin. “My gambeson is the one I wore in Jerusalem. It conceals the mail of my hauberk inside its padding. ’Tis patched, heavy, and uglier than most, I trow, but it’s never let me down.”

  Nia nodded. “It is good armor. I wish you luck. Who is your next opponent?”

  “There are six of us left. Bruce of St. Penmore, Brecon, Maddoc de Guildo, Denbigh, Caerwyn, and myself. We compete tomorrow.” Suddenly serious, he swallowed.

  Fear? Surely not. He’d fought beside Caerwyn and Prince Edward.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled Padrig close to speak where no one would overhear. “My father is choosing the opponents, is he not? If you’re afraid you’ll be asked to face your brother, I could—”

  “Nay. I have no qualms about facing an opponent.” He planted the heavy, spiked end of the mace in the earth beside him and leaned on its handle. “It’s the running of the rings, my worst event, so I’ll probably be eliminated.” He shrugged a shoulder. “My eyesight has never been good enough for small targets.”

  Nia bit her lip. There was nothing to help poor eyesight, and sadly, Padrig’s weakness would soon be exposed. A series of quintains would be erected with small metal rings suspended in the air for each knight to spear with his lance while riding at top speed. Difficult, even for those with good eyesight.

  “It’s all right, my lady. I’ve enjoyed my days here, and at least I know your father won’t turn me out of his keep for the defeat.”

  Nay. God knew what it would take for Father to send any of these suitors away!

  She glanced around the field, spotting Caerwyn sparring with his squire, a redheaded man, far too tall to be mistaken as the page who’d sent her into harm’s way. Reminded of her mission, she gestured for Padrig’s ear again.

  “I’m trying to locate a boy. He’s about six-and-ten years of age, black-haired, nearly your height. He brought me a message.”

  Padrig shook his head, frowning. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Nia twined a strand of hair around her finger as more disappointment settled within. The castle steward hadn’t recognized her description of the lad, either. She stole another glance at Caerwyn and found him watching her across the bailey. Beneath the smooth metal dome of his helmet, he scowled and slung his shield to the ground.

  Flooded by the confusing emotions of anger, regret, and the desire he invoked, she backed away from Padrig, blurting, “Don’t tell your brother I asked. If you see anyone fitting those details, would you please find out whom he serves and fetch me at once?”

  “Of course, milady.” He bowed and hefted the mace onto his shoulder.

  No longer spoiling for a fight—at least not with Caerwyn—Nia picked up her skirt and hurdled over one felled warrior as she hastened for the nearest exit from the practice field. Finding a door to the keep open, she slipped inside, watching from afar as Caerwyn caught up with Padrig.

  God’s blood, that didn’t go well. She cursed, then bit her lip for using one of the expressions she’d picked up from her father’s men.

  It just wasn’t fair. She might never find that page again. Many of the guests didn’t mingle with the family of the castle, and she couldn’t even be sure he still resided in Walwyn. The only way to find him would be to mix amongst the knights, and she couldn’t do that with Caerwyn’s eyes following her.

  Unless she became one of them.

  Chapter Five

  OUTSIDE THE DOOR, the footsteps of the crowd passing the armory sent a shiver of excitement through Nia. She crammed Padrig’s helmet on her head, hiding the tight braids she’d made of her hair. His heavy mail and gambeson made movement difficult, and in no more than a few moments under the weight, her arm muscles ached. When she’d dreamt up the idea of taking his place at the running of the rings, she hadn’t planned how her movements on the horse would appear—let alone how she would walk on her own two feet.

  Too late to change her mind now, she forced her concerns to the back of her mind. Dressed in the armor, she hoped she could be Padrig’s twin, and none would be the wiser. “Well? How does it look?” She tugged at the hauberk and turned in a circle for her friend to see.

  “Wretched.” He wrinkled his nose, and his scrutiny followed the line of her legs encased in the thick, padded chausses. It had taken much convincing to get Caerwyn’s cautious little brother to warm to the idea of the switch. He covered his eyes with a hand and stumbled toward the door. “I would rather not look a’tall. It’s an abomination.”

  Nia laughed and shoved him away from the door. “You must stay here until the contest is over. But pray, you would warn me if you didn’t think it was convincing, would you not?” If the knights got word of her scheme, they’d banish her from the place before her search for the messenger boy ever began. She had to be allowed to enter chambers where their young grooms and squires followed.

  He sighed. “Aye, you look like a man. With the helmet on, you’ve hidden the last trace of your identity. Are you sure you want to do this? I do not have to win.”

  “I know. But you’re too good to be eliminated over such a silly event. Don’t consider this as wrong, Padrig. We’re merely making the competition even.” The helmet was too tight, causing her braids to pull and sting her scalp. She reached to adjust them, but her gloved fingers were too thick to help.

  Padrig chuckled and thumped her helmet, making the metal rattle in her ears. “You’re a good friend. And don’t worry if you lose. I wasn’t expecting to win. I could never beat Maddoc or Caerwyn, at any rate.”

  Nia sucked in a breath. “Really? Have faith. Even if we don’t win, I doubt you’ll come in last.”

  Walwyn’s outer yard had been turned into a small tournament field. The larger area outside the castle walls that the baron usually reserved for such events was being prepared for the final joust. Sir Padrig’s squire brought his horse around and helped Nia mount. She sighed with relief as the fellow led her to the field, where the other contestants were waiting. If Padrig’s own man didn’t notice, no one else would either.

  Nia was the fifth combatant to take the field. Reining Padrig’s mount, she waited her turn in line, feeling jittery with anticipation. Very soon, she hoped to find the missing page.

  Caerwyn appeared last, sitting tall astride his Arabian horse. Nia had seen the animal in action, and its grace and agility in Caerwyn’s skillful hands made it seem an extension of its rider. Together, they were one fluid machine as they approached Nia and sidled in beside her. She watched Caerwyn through the slit of her helmet, suddenly glad of its smothering fit over her face. She heard her heated breath in her own ears, coming faster, deeper, within the metal dome, as she felt her beloved’s powerful presence.

  Caerwyn nodded to her in greeting, sending fear through her like the crack of a whip, and the horse, sensing Nia’s state of alarm, pawed an impatient hoof. Oh, by the rood, Nia. He’s nodding at Padrig, not you! She blew out a calming breath and gave the horse’s shoulder a gentle rub with her gloved hand. If Caerwyn noticed anything different about his brother, he didn’t show it, gazing out at the small gathering of guests and onlookers lining the wall of the keep. His helmet obscured his brow from her, but from his side, she observed the lines of concentration bracketing his mouth. Serious and stern amidst the Christmastide revelry of the tournament, Caerwyn was a man who needed pleasure in his life. Too long he’d experienced war and pain, only to come home to watch his father die. Nia recalled hearing that his mother had been unfaithful. By the time she’d learned about his family’s history and th
e sordid affair, it was too late; she’d pulled her stunt to try to make Caerwyn jealous. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have acted with such disregard for his feelings.

  She would have to remember to caution Padrig not to tell Caerwyn about their new deception. Her beloved distrusted her as it was. Another perfidy on her part might be the last straw, ending any feelings he had for her.

  Caerwyn, though the last to arrive, was called first to compete. He took a lance from his squire and charged toward the rings with steadiness and accuracy. The lance struck the objects one by one. At the end of the row of quintains, he held up his weapon, displaying three rings caught out of five.

  Each knight followed in turn, running through the course, snagging rings. Padrig’s name was the last one called, and Nia, watching Caerwyn at the far end of the field, almost didn’t hear her friend’s name. The crowd went silent, watching her, and her stomach dropped as she realized her mistake.

  She shook off her anxiety, grabbed the lance, and hefted it against her hip to ride out to the quintains.

  Her horse bolted beneath her spurs, zooming toward the first target. Her lance clinked as it struck the first ring dead center. One. Keeping her aim true, she held her course. Two. The lance felt as if were a part of her. Three. Faces whizzed in her peripheral vision. Four. The horse’s gait a steady rhythm beneath her. Five.

  At the end of the row she grinned and turned, showing her father and the crowd her lance decked with five metal rings. A perfect event. The audience cheered, chanting Padrig’s name. Her heart soared, knowing her friend would now be able to continue to compete with the rest of the men.

  The squires and grooms came out directly to help the knights dismount and remove the horses to the stables. This was her chance. Hidden under the helmet, Nia parted with her horse to walk in the crowd and scanned the faces of men and boys, searching for the one who’d come to her the night of the fire. She swiveled, struggling to see through the helmet’s orifices, but there were so many people, all moving too quickly. After several exhausting minutes of circling the area, going in and out of the equipment rooms, she watched the men trickle away from the stabled animals. The crowd thinned, and her page was nowhere in sight. She sighed, resolved to another disappointment. Then from behind, a gloved hand fell on her shoulder.