20 Shades of Shifters_A Paranormal Romance Collection

by Demelza Carlton

  Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her, hoping to offer a little comfort, if she allowed it. After a while, he started to stroke her hair, smoothing the damp curls that had escaped from her braid. Her hands were so cold he could feel the chill through his tunic. How long had she been out in the storm?

  "What happened?" he asked, his belly churning with dread at what her answer might be.

  She hiccupped. "I went to the church, to light candles for their souls." No need to ask who. "Then I walked through the churchyard and saw it. That bastard threw them all into a pit and covered it over, then stole the cross from my mother's grave and shoved it into the sand on top. No respect for the dead. No wonder they want to haunt the castle. They didn't deserve this. None of them did. And it's all my fault!" She dissolved into tears once more.

  Tears of grief, and frustration, and anger. All things he understood, and wished he could protect her from, but it was too late for that. So he did what he could, and held her while she cried, wrapping a blanket around her to keep her warm.

  Her storm of grief ran out before the one outside ended, for Ursula cried herself to sleep in his arms. Not wanting to wake her, instead, he lay down beside her, willing to face her fury when she woke, for it would be worth it to hold her in his arms for a night.

  He woke when he felt her pull out of his grasp, but he made no move to stop her.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "I did not mean to burden you with…with…that. I am sorry."

  "You are most welcome. And you have nothing to be sorry about. The only person to blame for your loss is the man who commanded the army who killed them. Lord Vauquelin. You are innocent."

  She shook her head. "I could have saved them."

  He wanted to ask how, but when she didn't elaborate, he decided to stay silent.

  "Thank you," she said again, then let out a shaky laugh. "What would my father think of me? Spending the night in the bed of a man whose name I do not know."

  "Bernard. My name is Bernard. And you do know me. I gave you a terrible fright, broke my leg on your stairs, then made you porridge, and a stew that you never ate." He managed a rueful smile. "When I put it like that, I'm not sure I'd want to know me, either. Oh, even if I do make a reasonable substitute for a handkerchief."

  She bowed her head. "Thank you, Bernard. But I must go to bed now, and I wish you pleasant dreams."

  She turned her back, moving into the shadows on the far side of her bed before she removed her outer dress and slipped between the covers.

  "May your dreams be sweeter than mine, Ursula," he replied, sighing inwardly. He would dream of her, and wake unfulfilled, for the few feet of floor that separated them might as well be an ocean he could never cross.

  Chapter 23

  And a blessed Yule to you too, my dear lady," Bernard roared, downing yet another cup of wine. But that did not stop him from pouring another. Some of it splashed into the pot of chestnuts he'd painstakingly shelled several hours before. He stared at the pot for a moment, as if making a decision of great import, before he upended the wine jug and doused the chestnuts entirely. He added a generous spoon of honey, before hanging the pot over the fire. "My sweet lady, I am about introduce you to a dish so royal, I am certain you have never eaten it before. It was the King's command that no one else should eat it, for it was his favourite. And as I learned to make it best, better even than his own cooks, more than once this royal dish rescued me from other, more unpleasant tasks."

  Ursula giggled. She wasn't sure if Bernard was telling the truth, or telling a fanciful story. "I can't imagine there would be many unpleasant tasks, serving a king on a crusade."

  Bernard laughed so hard he spat out his wine. "Ah, there you are wrong. The King may be royalty, but he is still a man, with all a man's tastes, appetites, and faults. Constant travel is wearying for everyone, be he the King, or a lowly page. If the King had only thought to bring women along on his most holy crusade, perhaps it would not have been so bad. But he had formed the idea that women were the source of all temptation, and as such, they had no place on a such a holy undertaking."

  "Well, women certainly have no place in war," she said.

  Bernard wagged his finger. "Wrong again! War does not work without women. Laundresses, maids, cooks, and camp followers, all play their part in keeping an army happy, fed, clothed, and marching to their destination. But the King had other ideas. When he wished to be entertained by a woman, he refused to succumb to temptation. Instead, he brought women's gowns. Gowns he made us wear. The young men who served him." Bernard took a gulp from his wine cup, his eyes dark with foreboding. "After several cups of wine, he could not tell the difference between a pretty page in a dress, and a real woman. So when the King ordered you into his bed, you obeyed, or you dishonoured your family forever. Curse his name, but the King thought me the prettiest of all."

  Ursula could not believe what she was hearing. "But there is nothing wrong with asking you to warm his bed. On cold winter nights, I often shared my bed with one or two of my maids. I was glad of the warmth."

  "If the King summons you to his bed, you would warm it all right," he said grimly. "You would warm it, and him, and any part of him he chose to stick inside you. Anywhere he liked."

  "You're a man," she protested. "You don't have…woman parts…" Realisation dawned and with it, horror. "Men do that?"

  He stirred the pot and said nothing. He didn't need to.

  "But it was a holy crusade. Surely the King…"

  Bernard met her gaze squarely, unflinchingly. "Oh it was holy, all right. The King thrusting himself into every hole he could find, all the way to the Holy Land and back. As long as it did not belong to a woman, there was no temptation. No sin. But the boy who cooked his favourite food, he was called to bed less often than the others. Which is why I am such a good cook." He pulled the pot from its hook, and set it on the hearth to cool. "Forgive me, lady. I have shocked you. I had intended to carry the secret to my grave, but some things scar a man worse than any broken bones, and the scars show. Pray, forget my thoughtless words, and let us speak of happier things. Yuletide memories, perhaps, for it is time for cheer and goodwill."

  But she wasn't listening. "You don't belong to that king any more, Bernard," she said fiercely. "Berehaven owes fealty to King Siward, the king across the mountains. He is no defiler of children. Now that my father is gone, I am the power here in Berehaven. And I will ask you to share my bed, as a show of faith, no more. I ask for your warmth, and I shall give mine in return, but nothing else. For the night is cold and dark, and you cannot have been comfortable sleeping on the floor."

  His eyes bored deep into hers, reading her soul. She did not flinch. "I will accept your offer, my lady," he said. "For I believe we are safe here, while the passes are closed for the winter. I will pledge your safety, as readily as you pledge mine. Your honour is safe with me." He patted his leg in its cast. "Though I no longer need the box, this will be as good as a sword between us. For a sword might cut you, and I could not have that." He smiled.

  A king's unwilling lover, and a magnificent cook. What other secrets was Bernard hiding? Ursula suspected there was more, but she had the rest of the winter to uncover them.

  Chapter 24

  Bernard had thought himself in a pleasantly fuzzy state of inebriation until Ursula sank into the mattress beside him. Now he was painfully aware of every breath she took, imagining the rise and fall of her breasts…

  She leaned over him and he felt her breath on his face. His eyes snapped open, staring.

  "A kiss of peace, for Yule is a time for such things," she whispered. Then her lips touched his, and Bernard had no time for words.

  Somewhere in the back of his brain was the thought that he would not dishonour her with a kiss.

  Then his hands cupped her face, his fingertips grazing those soft curls that always seemed to escape her braid, and he kissed her back with everything in his being.

  Tongues, lips, breath, all swirled togethe
r in a passionate union like nothing he'd ever tasted before. More than the delicious sweetness of the drunken chestnuts that lingered on her tongue. More than the willing woman opening to him, wanting everything he longed to give her.

  Then her breath caught and she broke the kiss, her eyes wide with horror.

  "Bernard, I'm so sorry. I promised I would not ask for more than warmth, but I've never kissed anyone quite like that before, and I lost my way…" She swallowed. "I am sorry."

  Bernard grinned. "I'm not. All night I've been wishing for some mistletoe, so that I might have an excuse to kiss you. You may ask for anything you like, and I may choose to grant it, or not."

  "But your king…"

  The way she'd said it – his king, not hers – made him consider her earlier words about her own monarch. Berehaven did owe fealty to a different king, and if he could stay here, he would be truly free.

  "Not my king any more. I may have been his favourite on the crusade, but when we arrived home, it was a different story. He likes women, you see, not men, and when he returned to court, he selected the prettiest maiden there to be his new favourite. A duke's daughter named Dulcinea." He sighed heavily. His memories of Dulcinea were more than enough to smother his desire.

  "So he made her his queen?"

  Bernard's heart ached for Ursula's innocence. Dulcinea had probably thought the same thing, once.

  "No. He made her his whore."

  Ursula gave a pained cry. "But why?" she whispered. "How could a man who has any honour at all…"

  "The King has no honour. A man who rapes pages and maiden daughters is a stranger to honour, and chivalry…and any good quality, really, does not deserve his power, or the loyalty of his people. Just as Dulcinea did not deserve her fate." Which he'd made worse by trying to help her, he thought but did not say.

  Her soft hand patted his cheek. "I'm so sorry." Pity dripped from her words, as sweet and seductive as honey.

  Bernard resolutely pushed her hand away. "So am I, for I must remind you of your promise. We may share a bed for warmth, but nothing else. Better that we not touch, for temptation is a terrible thing."

  "Of course." She retreated to the other side of the bed, her hands no longer touching him.

  For a moment, Bernard wanted to apologise, and pull her into his arms, so she could sleep in his embrace as she had that day she'd found her family's grave, but he knew better than anyone where that would lead, so he held his tongue. Though he could think of a dozen other things he could do with it, without endangering her honour.

  In his dreams, maybe.

  Chapter 25

  Day after day, the snow fell, building up deeper and deeper in the courtyard until Ursula had to take up a shovel to find the woodpile again. And still the snow fell, until it stopped.

  She should have known the true winter freeze had set in, really, for that's what it felt like every year when the fire in her tower room was no longer enough to keep the cold at bay. But waking up in Bernard's arms, her face pressed against his chest, confused her more than she was willing to admit.

  She lay there a moment longer than she should have, enjoying the warmth, before she'd forced herself to move away. She tried to tell herself that he must have grabbed her in her sleep, but she knew it was a lie. Such a shared embrace showed she'd sought him out, as much as he'd wanted her to. It wasn't until she slid out from under the blankets to mend the fire that she realised why. The flagstones beneath her feet were so cold she could feel the chill coming up through her socks.

  Her breath misted in front of her face as she built up the fire as fast as she knew how, adding an extra log to fuel the blaze.

  She longed to creep back into bed next to Bernard, cuddling up to him consciously, much as she had in sleep, but she knew she could not. A baron's daughter did not cuddle up to an ordinary soldier, except if necessity required it – such as to stop herself from freezing to death. But as she pulled on a gown, followed by a thick overdress, before topping the lot with her fur-lined cloak, she imagined what her life might be like, if the world were different. If Bernard were more than a common soldier, or she was less than her father's daughter. If their different stations in life would allow them to marry, so that he would be more than just a warm presence in her bed, perhaps even her husband. She suspected he would make a good husband, too. Kind and caring, but with a deeper knowledge than most men, for he was well travelled, and he could converse on more matters than simply swordplay, hunting and the state of the harvest.

  She snorted, making another little puff of mist. If she was some lowborn soldier's wife, she would have to cook him breakfast, instead of fetching supplies from the kitchen so that he might do the cooking.

  She pulled on her fur-lined boots, and crept quietly out of the room. But if destiny had been kinder, and made him a highborn lord or baron – she didn't dare aspire to marrying a prince. She knew life was no fairytale – she would be allowed to lie abed with him for longer, making love to him, or letting him make love to her. Servants would bring their breakfast, and see to their needs, so that Bernard could see to the security of Berehaven.

  No, not Berehaven. Bernard's lands would be far grander than her beautiful valley home.

  If fate were kinder, it would let her keep Berehaven, and give her a husband strong enough to defend it. But to find such a husband, she would have to leave this place, and seek him out. For such a man would need a large army indeed to drive off Lord Vauquelin when her family's murderer returned.

  Had her father lived, come the spring, she'd likely have been headed out of the valley to make that marriage alliance he'd planned, anyway.

  She sighed as she gathered up suitable things for breakfast and what Bernard had wanted to make their dinner for later. This time, the wedge of cheese she knew she'd left on the table was gone. When spring came, she resolved, she would ask some of the men in town if they could trap the rats that stole so brazenly from her kitchen. In the meantime, she decided to carry a whole cheese upstairs, for the rats did not rob their food stores in the tower.

  With her basket considerably heavier than usual, Ursula trudged up the stairs. As was his custom, Bernard had shifted from the bed to his pallet on the floor. He'd told her many times dragging himself from one to the other was nothing, and did not hurt at all, but she'd seen the way he gritted his teeth in the evenings when he made the return journey, too many times to ignore. She suspected it was because he did not want her to see his pain.

  "A whole cheese today! And a ham. How did you manage to carry these up the stairs by yourself?" he asked.

  She shrugged and forced a smile. "It seems anyone can get used to hard labour, when they have no choice but to do it every day."

  He grinned. "And as your work is now done, it is time for me to begin mine. Would my lady like me to heat a little of the ham first, or would you like me to attempt those flatbread things the people of the Holy Land made? We still have enough flour for me to try again, and I think I've worked out how to do it right."

  Ursula considered. If there was one thing she missed most, it was bread. They had plenty of flour, but she had yet to find any of the yeast that was needed to make bread rise. Not to mention, she had no idea of what to do with it if she did. Breadmaking, and indeed the ovens in the kitchens, were a mystery she had not yet solved. Sadly, Bernard had told her that he could not make bread on the fire up here. So, she would have to wait until spring, when the townspeople were up and about again, for her next crust of bread.

  She watched Bernard as he mixed the batter until it bubbled, then poured it into a pan that he held over the fire with steady hands. He flipped the flat cake, which looked a little like the pancakes the cook had made when she was a child. Yet when he placed the first flat cake on a plate for her it was as crisp as the crust of ice on the well bucket this morning.

  Bernard pushed the cheese toward her. "Here, spread some of that on it while I warm you a slice of ham. You may wrap it around itself and eat it like the peop
le of the Holy Land do."

  "You have so many stories about the Holy Land," she said. "Of all the places you have travelled… I wonder what tales you will tell of Berehaven?"

  He laughed, his eyes on the toasting fork as he turned it to make sure the honey he'd glazed over the ham did not burn. "I heard many stories of this place before I ever set foot in your beautiful valley. The King's library had much to say about it. That it was the home of formidable warriors, who had vanquished every army that had dared to enter the valley. Enter, but not leave, for only a handful of cowards ever escaped. One of the books even said to be written by one such coward, told that the warriors were not men at all, but the spirits of giant bears made flesh. Bears with the strength of ten men, that no mortal man could stand against. Immortal bears who did not die, but remained in the valley in readiness for the next army to come and try their strength." He laughed softly. "But even in your furry cloak and boots, Ursula, you look far too sweet to be a big scary bear, let alone one who would kill me with a single swipe of her paw. And if there were any bears, then surely they would have come to our aid."

  Ursula's throat went dry. Dare she tell him about the bears in the caves? Not warriors, not an army, but all that remained of her people. Her grandfather had wanted her to believe the stories he told but Ursula knew better now. Bernard was right. No army had come to her aid. Therefore, they did not exist, if they ever had.

  "Perhaps they were hibernating. I did wonder why Lord Vauquelin attacked so close to winter. Maybe that is why he left so soon, too. Attacking while they were asleep, leaving before they could wake… Why, perhaps he did not mean to leave me to starve to death after all. Perhaps he left me as an offering to these pagan bear spirits. A human sacrifice of sorts."