My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3)

by Bale, Leigh

  “If Malcolm is truly alive, do you think she’ll want to return to the fat knight?”

  A coarse laugh slipped from Nicholas’s chest as he remembered the bruises on her face and arms caused by Malcolm de Litz. Nicholas swore to himself that he would never allow the man to touch Ysabelle again.

  “No, she could not want such a mon. I will never give her to him.”

  But a twinge of doubt nibbled at his mind. He only hoped that, now he had made her his own, she would want to stay with him always. Because losing her now would be his complete undoing.

  *

  Ysabelle shivered as she watched Nicholas climb the stairs leading upward to the battlements. Her hands trembled and she wrapped them about her arms. Her only hope now was that the English would relent and leave them in peace.

  As he approached her on the allure, Nicholas’s powerful shape loomed before her, yet she no longer feared him. Her heart beat faster and she remembered every gasping pleasure they had shared the night before.

  Her face flooded with heat. It was shameful for her to think such thoughts. She must protect her heart. She must harden her will. She wouldn’t allow Ada to murder her husband in cold blood, but there was still so much they could lose. She had just come from Ada’s side, having told the woman in no uncertain terms that if she committed the crime of murdering Nicholas, she would see Ada locked in the dungeon for the rest of her days. Ada had sobbed pitifully and vowed never to try such a heinous offense again. Ysabelle had resisted the urge to hug the woman and offer comfort. Instead, she had driven her point home by turning her back on the woman and walking out of the room.

  Now, Ysabelle looked at Nicholas. He moved with the supple grace of a man poised, strong, and self-assured. Her pulse tripped into double-time. She struggled with her emotions and her common sense took over. She could not allow her heart to addle her mind. She must retain her self-control at all cost.

  His brows lifted expectantly. Ysabelle jutted her chin, ignoring the intense feelings that flooded through her. Now was not the time to remember their time alone in their chamber. She dared not admit that he had defied even her greatest yearnings. Perhaps what she had shared with Nicholas was a once in a lifetime event. Something to be cherished for its rarity.

  Now, he was a craving in her blood. But it would bring her nothing but pain.

  He advanced, observing her with a severe frown. “You shouldn’t be here, my lady.”

  Passion was not something she understood, but anger was. She lashed out with it now. “And why not? This is my home. Don’t I have a right to go where I will?”

  “Of course. But it isn’t safe to stand upon the wall where an English arrow might pierce your lovely breast.”

  The wind whipped against her as thunder boomed low in the eastern sky. A few raindrops struck her hands and face. A summer storm was upon them. It was unwise to stay here any longer.

  Unable to shrug him off, she shot him an impatient glare. “Why does it matter to you? Sutcliffe is now yours. My death will not change that.”

  “I have sworn to protect you. You are my wife.”

  “That is something I have never understood.” she confided. “Why did my father betroth me to you? Surely you know why.”

  He did not answer and confusion filled her mind. He had wealth of his own, but no land. No claim to renown other than his fierce brutality in battle. Surely this was not what her father had wanted for her. But she had no idea why her father had insisted on their betrothal.

  Nicholas clenched his jaw and she sighed. She was fast learning his expressions and knew he was going to be stubborn.

  “You would have to ask your father that question,” he said.

  She snorted. “What a comfortable answer, since my father is dead.”

  He was silent, his eyes fierce, his demeanor proud.

  “There must be a reason. My logic tells me you are keeping something from me,” she persisted.

  He watched her calmly, opening his mouth as if he wished to speak, but then closing it again. Ysabelle stared at him with rapt attention, praying he would answer and set her weary mind at ease. She sensed indecision in him. A desire to explain something so intense that he could not bring himself to utter the words.

  “You are mine,” was all he would say.

  Frustrated, she turned and looked downward at the English soldiers where they set up camp beside the river. A beehive of activity. Garrisons of men felled trees while others dug trenches. More men battened down large canopies and tents against the approaching storm.

  “They prepare for siege,” she observed. “They prepare to tunnel beneath the castle walls.”

  “We will be there to meet them should they succeed,” Nicholas’s voice chilled her as he gently took her arm.

  “They are cutting trees to build ladders and battering rams. No doubt the catapult will soon be prepared.”

  “You seem well-versed on siege,” he observed as he caressed her arm.

  With her back to him, she closed her eyes, wishing he would leave her alone. How could she fight him when he touched her so tenderly? How could she deny this hold he had over her? She longed to turn and offer her lips for his kiss. When she spoke again, her voice sounded quivery. “I’ve watched my father withstand numerous battles. The only fear he had was if our water and supplies gave out. We are well-provisioned, but a siege can last for months.”

  “Do you doubt I can hold against the English?”

  She gave a dry laugh. “No, your reputation precedes you and I know you have faced worse. But Lord Marshal will not give up so easily. The king will send more and more men. They may not even need to fight but simply wait us out until we starve.”

  “We willna starve nor will we surrender.”

  Turning, she faced him. “You should flee now while you have the chance. You cannot win this battle. You have won today, but what about next month, or a year from now? They will kill you.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away. “I don’t seek your death.”

  “Would you mourn my passing as you do Sir Malcolm?”

  She looked away as a shudder of repulsion swept her. “I do not mourn Sir Malcolm.”

  “And neither do I believe you would mourn my death. Hopefully my memory will make you tremble with longing.”

  True! She wanted to shout at him. Opening her mouth to reply, she closed it quickly. She would never admit what he already knew. It would give him too much control, too much power over her. And when he died, her heart would break in two.

  “I hope one day you will mourn me as you do Lord Maston,” he said.

  She would! And this knowledge left her uneasy and confused. After all, she barely knew the man. So, why did she care if he lived or died? She didn’t understand. No, not at all.

  He shook his head, his eyes growing shuttered as the corners of his mouth became severe. “You doubt my abilities. Because we have only just met, you don’t know the kind of mon I am. I willna compromise. I willna relent. I would rather you gave me your loyalty to me and accept our marriage. If we present a united front, we can fight the English and drive them from our lands. It is what Lord Maston wanted.”

  Stepping back from him, she threw him a frosty glare. “I know the kind of man you are. Nothing else matters to you but victory. But I seek to protect my people. There are women and children within these walls. The old and young will die first, of famine and disease. And when we run out of food, we will resort to eating rats. The outlying lands will suffer when the English burn everything for miles around. It will take years to recover before we can plant our crops again. My people will starve. And once you are dragged from the castle and beheaded, think what King William will do to the rest of Sutcliffe. My father would want his people safe. He would want them to live.”

  Nicholas did not acknowledge her words, but the planes of his face tightened, his cheekbones high and chiseled.

  “It isn’t safe for you here on th
e battlements. Return to the keep,” he ordered in a frigid tone.

  Ysabelle dared not defy him. A slow tick pulsed in his cheek and she saw his hands clench. She wondered if he might strike her. Until Malcolm de Litz, never had anyone raised a hand to do her harm, even in anger. Except for their consummation, Nicholas had never hurt her. But that could change if she challenged him. How far could he be pushed before resorting to violence?

  Looking at him, Ysabelle did not move for several long moments. She saw him studying her, his dark gaze intent upon her face, his powerful body tense. Anger pulsed on the air, a tangible emotion she could actually feel as it rushed from him to her.

  “You are controlled in your fury, I can see that,” she said. “Yet, I have been told you often unleash your rage on others, and heaven help those who stand in your way.”

  “I unleash my anger in battle, against men armed for war. I do not attack women and children. I willna attack you, Ysabelle.”

  She didn’t understand why, but she believed him.

  Stepping around him, she walked past the numerous armed guards and back to the safety of the great hall. Inside, she did not pause to sample the meal being spread on the long tables by the servants. The soldiers took their food in shifts, eating only enough to fill their bellies, and nothing extra. She had heard Nicholas give orders to Cook. Nicholas would not allow gluttony during a time of siege and Ysabelle approved of his decision. It was what her father would have done.

  She raced upstairs, stopping beside Ada’s pallet to see that the woman was staying out of trouble. The old woman snored softly and Ysabelle was relieved. She didn’t know if she could protect the handmaiden should she attack Nicholas again.

  Ignoring the lord’s chambers, Ysabelle went to her old room and stripped the dress from her body and stepped into the shallow tub of water Genevieve had prepared for her. Though she did not fear a lack of water, it might be the last bath she could enjoy for some time to come. Fuel was another matter. Praise the saints. it was spring and the frigid winter had finally passed. But they still needed fuel to cook with. Because they were situated along the river, it kept their wells filled. But there were no trees inside the bailey.

  Leaning her head back, she clenched her eyes shut, wishing she could forget her troubles. Soon, the English would attack the castle. She thought of the food items they had stored away and hoped it would be enough to outlast the siege. If not, she shuddered to contemplate the outcome.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A single tallow candle lit the room. Ysabelle eased herself back against the high rim of the bathing tub, letting the lukewarm water soak her weary body.

  The day was yet early and she could relax before going downstairs to complete her chores. Closing her eyes, she sighed with pleasure. She heard the door open and the tread of soft footsteps upon the thick rugs covering the stone floors.

  “I wish to be alone, Genevieve. I won’t be long,” she said.

  “There’s no need to hurry,” a masculine voice reached her ears.

  Opening her eyes, Ysabelle gasped. Nicholas!

  He leaned over her, his nose almost brushing hers. He didn’t smile, but she caught a twinkle in his expressive eyes and detected a playfulness in him she’d never noticed before.

  “I’d like to be alone,” she said.

  “You’re in the wrong room, my lady. Our chambers are down the hall. Why have you come here?”

  She didn’t know what to say. She was reticent to share a room with him that had recently belonged to her beloved father.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she hedged.

  She’d pulled her hair high upon her head. He reached up and twined a finger around one, long curl.

  “Your neck is long and regal, your skin translucent and lovely.” He leaned toward her.

  She shivered at his words. No one had ever said such things to her.

  Their breath mingled as he kissed her lightly. She tried to pull away, but he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head, until his mouth slanted over hers. Sharp desire crashed over her with an intensity that left her breathless.

  “You are worth far more than Sutcliffe,” he said.

  She frowned. “I doubt Lord Marshal would agree with you. I suppose you refused to hand me over to him?”

  Nicholas hesitated. Now would be the right time to advise her that Malcolm still lived and still claimed she was his wife. But Ysabelle had her hands wrapped around his neck, her cheek against his chest, just beneath his chin. She soaked his shirt, but he didn’t care one bit. She was pliant in his arms as he lifted her from the tub and carried her to her bed. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy the moment with unhappy news.

  “Lord Marshal understands we are wed and I will not leave Sutcliffe,” he said.

  “They will fight you,” she whispered against his lips.

  “And they will lose.”

  “You are very confident.”

  She drew back and he sought her gaze.

  “Do you doubt me?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply, and there were no more words as he kissed her again. He made sweet love to her, knowing he had broken through almost all her barriers.

  Except her heart.

  Later, he held her in his arms while she sobbed. Her tears wet his neck and tore at his soul like cruel talons.

  “What is it, sweeting? Why do you cry?” he asked.

  Shaking her head, she turned away from him without answer. Her shoulders trembled and he was at a loss how to ease her misery. Staring up at the dark ceiling, Nicholas thought he would rather face her anger.

  Finally, she slept, and Nicholas breathed with relief even as he heard the soft drumbeat of raindrops falling from the angry sky. It was a good omen. Rain would flood the English trenches and cause cave-ins so they could not burrow beneath the castle to collapse the outer wall. The English would have slippery mud to work in and make little headway in their plans for siege.

  Nicholas smiled grimly. There would be no battle today. Easing from Ysabelle’s side, he breathed a sigh of relief. Though he longed to stay with Ysabelle, he rose from the bed and dressed in quiet haste. He would use this interlude while he had the chance. The spring storm would give him time to send Father Edward on a critically important mission.

  *

  Ysabelle woke with a start. The room was dark and she could hear the soft patter of rain striking the roof. For a moment she lay still, covered in warm furs, feeling languid and content.

  She remembered Nicholas’s kisses and realized her heart was now entwined with his. When she thought of loving him, it brought her so much sadness that she could do nothing more than cry. Even now, before he was killed, she mourned his death. It was inevitable. Having recently lost her beloved father, she doubted she could stand to lose Nicholas, too. And yet, how could she tell him the reason for her tears?

  Her gaze slid to his side of the bed, but she saw no man lying in the shadows beside her. Bright light pierced the blackness of the narrow window and the boom of thunder split the heavens above. No doubt the storm had woken her.

  She sat up and slid her feet to the floor, then hurried to pull the shutters closed. Shivering, she crossed the room, searching in the dim light for her dressing gown. She shrugged into it as she looked at the rumpled bed and saw it was indeed empty. No doubt Nicholas had gone to keep watch with his soldiers.

  Her stomach rumbled hungrily and she realized she hadn’t eaten since the day before. Slipping on her shoes, she draped a shawl over her shoulders and stepped out into the passageway and descended the spiral stairs. The great hall was empty except for a handful of men who slumped against the walls or lay sleeping along the benches. A lone man with light-colored hair sat at the table, eating a cold meal of bread, meat, and cheese. He wasn’t large enough to be her husband and she drew near.

  Peering through the shadows, she was grateful for the bright light from the large fire. To conserve on resources, the candles and torches had been exti
nguished. Again, Ysabelle was impressed by Nicholas’s resourcefulness.

  “Ah, Lady Ysabelle. Come join me,” Alex smiled when he turned and saw her.

  Squeezing her hands together, she frowned. Reluctant to answer any of the man’s usually persistent questions, she went to sit next to him as he offered her a cup of wine. Perhaps Alex might disclose a bit of insight so she could understand her husband more.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” she whispered.

  “You’re no bother,” he assured her. “Are you hungry?”

  At her nod, he tore off a piece of crusty bread and handed it to her, then scooted his own trencher close so she could sample chunks of tangy cheese.

  “I suppose the storm awakened you?” he asked as he considered her in the firelight.

  “Yes, I had forgotten where I was.”

  He smiled. “Do storms trouble you?”

  “Not usually. I love the smell of washed earth and I enjoy walking in the rain.”

  His brows lifted at this and he grinned. “Truly? Perhaps you can teach Nicholas to take pleasure in such things.”

  “I believe your brother takes pleasure in very little.”

  “He takes pleasure in you, sweet lady, and I am pleased to see him so happy.”

  “Happy?” She shook her head. “That isn’t a word I would choose to describe the Scots Ram. He rarely smiles.”

  She remembered the few times she had seen him smile with dazzling clarity. It made her wish he weren’t so severe.

  “As time passes, he will do so more often,” Alex said.

  She frowned with doubt.

  “You’ll come to know him better verra soon,” he assured her. “Nicholas has difficulty showing joy, but I can tell he is verra happy to have you for his wife. He will smile more, you will see. He willna be able to help himself.”

  She scoffed as she popped a piece of apple into her mouth and chewed. “More likely, he is happy to have Sutcliffe and all her rich lands.”

  “He doesn’t care about wealth, though he is happy to have a home. Don’t judge him too harshly. He will learn to smile, if you teach him.”