Angie Arms - Flames series 04

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by The Strongest Flames


  “I have thought of nothing else but this for days,” he said, and it seemed as if the admission surprised him. His blue gaze flew to her face, but his next thrust was hard, as he pinned her hips in place with his hands. Her head rolled backward and she rode the building wave of pleasure.

  He thrust in an out of her, his hips and hands creating a rhythm that brought her so close to a precipice she wanted to plunge over, but the sensation was so pleasurable she wanted it to continue. She fought the need to explode. Before the rhythm released her, he slowed again, and moved in and out of her, so she felt every hard inch of him.

  She looked up at him and his face looked different. So much so, she wanted to weep, to beg Roland to let her have that part of him. The part that could care, that could love, but she knew this was the only time he let his guard down, and he became vulnerable to the emotions that could shatter a strong man such as he.

  “You look like you would like to ride me,” he said, with his knowing grin.

  “Please,” she said, the thought made her nearly allow the waves to release her when he thrust one more time, before withdrawing all together. With one arm he wrapped it around her and rolled onto his back, bringing her on top of him.

  Within an instant her hand had him guided within her and he moaned, as she slid herself all the way down on him. She wanted to move slowly, to set the slow rhythm he had and to hear him gasp and moan as she toyed with his pleasure. But once his hands landed on her hips and he immediately matched her speed with his hands, pushing and pulling on her hips, pressing her down so he was deep within, she could not keep the rhythm slow. She lost herself as her hips involuntarily sped up and his strong hands helped keep a rhythm she rode and rode, until she felt the release that exploded from her. The muscles within her relaxed and contracted as they milked each moan from him, she stilled and he used his hands to set his own rhythm. She could feel his seed shooting inside of her, its warmth made the spasms continue after he was spent.

  “Emma,” he said, as he breathed her name heavily.

  She lay down on his chest, her ear pressed to the nearly hairless skin, to hear his heart thundering. His hand came out to stroke down her hair, and she sighed. Whatever tomorrow brought, tonight was heavenly. She lay on him while their breathing slowed to normal, and Roland began stroking her back.

  “The King has found me a husband.”

  The hand stilled. “Who?” he asked, cupping her shoulder with his hand. She felt the strength and warmth in it, the gentleness.

  “Mercadier.”

  Suddenly, his breathing stopped and he quickly flipped her onto her back so he was leaning over her on his elbows, staring into her face. She saw it then, what she never dreamed she would see in the man who resided at Helthpool alone, fear.

  “It will be okay,” she rushed to assure him, although somewhere in the pit of her stomach she knew, once Roland left her, it never would be again.

  He gave his head half a shake, then she saw the tears spring to his blue eyes. Quickly, he dropped his head to her shoulder and stretching himself out beside her, he hugged her tightly to him, and she heard the nearly silent sobs.

  “I know he did it,” she said, using her own hand to stroke along his back, in an effort to sooth him. She was confused, she didn’t know how to take away Roland’s pain. She would do anything, if only she could take it away.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard the words softly spoken against her shoulder. She shifted and turned, so she could look into his face. She used her hand to wipe the tears away as he stared at her.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I brought you here. I brought you to him.”

  “You could not have known. How could you?”

  “But I didn’t care. I knew you would not fit in here. I knew if you lived a hundred years you would never fit in here, because you are spirited, with a kind heart. I wanted you to suffer. I’m not sure why, but I wanted to see the spirit ripped from you, and your kind heart shattered. Especially, after I lay with you the first time. I think I was angry at myself because I took your innocence.”

  “But I begged you too.”

  A grim smile crossed Roland’s lips. “You are such an innocent. There is no good in me. Not anymore. I brought you here, I knew what it would be like for you. I knew there were men like Mercadier who would want to marry you. But I brought you anyway, because I thought maybe if I watched you destroyed, it would somehow save me.”

  Emma pulled back, but panic flashed across Roland’s face before he reached out and seized her, yanking her back against him. “Noooo,” he cried quietly, his face pressed into her shoulder. “Whatever you think of me, I will not let you go. I can’t be alone any more Emma. It’s killing me inside. Please stay with me.”

  “Can I do that now? I have agreed. It was Mercadier’s request.”

  Roland pulled back. “Mercadier asked for you?”

  “Yes, that is what I am told.”

  Suddenly Roland was in motion, climbing off the bed, grabbing her cloak from the floor, and flinging it in her direction, before he began searching for his. “We have to go. I have to get you out of here.”

  “What’s going on Roland?”

  “He knows, Mercadier knows about us, if he knows, the King knows.”

  “What will we do?” Emma asked, stumbling to her feet.

  “We run and hide,” he said, yanking his tunic on over his head.

  “Hide?”

  “We can’t fight them,” Roland replied, as if she had gone mad. “We have to go, now.”

  “I think you are over reacting,” she said, as she tied her cloak around her shoulders.

  Roland paused to look at her, his breathing was quick, his eyes frantic. Then agitation crossed his face before he went to his boots and began to yank them on. “After he killed Lillian, before we left to kill for the King, I told him I would see he would never have a woman to love.” Dressed, Roland stood as he reached for his sword. “The man smiled at me and told me the game was on.”

  “He thinks life and death is a game?” Emma asked, dumbstruck as Roland hurried past her on his way to the door.

  “That is the kind of man he is. Now let’s go,” he said, swinging the door open. Emma took one last glance around at the room, before hurrying after Roland.

  March 19, 1199 France, Chalus-Chabrol

  Emma watched the boy pull back on the bow string, but the instant before he let the arrow fly, his left hand dropped. The arrow hit its target, some distance away, but below the center.

  “You have to stay steady,” Emma coached. She raised her own bow, pulled an arrow from the sheath at her back, and due to years of practice, the arrow left the cradle she set it in within the blink of an eye, and lodged itself in the center of the old pelt they shot at.

  “Draw it back and let it go as if you had an arrow,” Emma coached.

  Pierre recovered from his awe at her speed and accuracy, then did as she said. Again, his hand dropped as he opened his fingers to release the arrow, but this time, because he was not concentrating on the arrow, he saw his error. Pierre Basile was the first friend she made when they arrived at the little castle, to hide for a short time, before making their way home.

  “Practice that way until your bow does not move a hair when you release it, then you will hit your target every time.

  Eagerly the boy nodded, as Roland reached Emma’s side.

  “What big game do you plan to bring down with your archery skills?” Roland asked, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  Emma was still amazed at the different man Roland became while hiding at the small keep in France. Here, Roland was not a knight, but an assistant to the armorer, in order to feed them and put a roof over their heads. She visited him often at his work, and began giving lessons to the keep’s children in archery. Although the keep’s guards never sought her out, they often watched her lessons, and Roland told her the guards were going through more arrows since her lessons began. He told her thi
s with pride, to let her know her skills were not only good enough for the children to learn from, but the guardsmen as well. It was as if here they took the lives of someone else. She shared Roland’s bed every night, woke with him in the morning, and they gladly shared their days with one another. It even seemed as if Roland was happy.

  “I think, if I were to see an elephant, I would have to bring it down,” the boy declared.

  Roland laughed, his eyes twinkled brightly, and Emma suppressed her gasp as the dimples appeared in his cheeks, and his face lit up with his merriment. Emma’s stomach made the familiar flop as his eyes collided with hers, and she wanted him as much as she wanted him last night, and the night before.

  Roland redirected his attention to the boy. “Keep practicing, and you will be the best archer in all of France.”

  Pierre cast a glance up at Roland. Roland’s blue eyes fairly danced with his joy as he patted the boy on his shoulder. “Back to work I go,” Roland said. He leaned over the boy and planted a kiss on Emma’s cheek, before turning away.

  “Show me how you draw so fast,” Pierre said, reaching behind himself, to clumsily draw an arrow from his sheath.

  “A good archer always counts his arrows,” Emma said. “Not only how many you start with, but how many you have as you shoot. Do you know how to count?”

  “Of course I know how to count,” Pierre said, standing tall and proud with his chest puffed out. “I can add and subtract too, because Papa said it is important that farmers know these things. Not only when we pay the rent, but plant our garden, and breed our sheep.”

  “Your father is a very wise man. So you will need to practice shooting more. You have superb aim, as long as your hand does not drop. When you do not drop your hand, you can practice the habit of subtracting your arrows as you fire. Once you know how many arrows you have, naturally, as you reach back and take one, you will be able to take it faster, because you will know if you reach for a full sheath, or just one. It will also help you in a battle.”

  “What do you know of battle?” Pierre asked. Emma saw the signs of the boy losing interest.

  “I fought against Roland. That is how we met?”

  “Truly?” the boy asked, his attention fully hers again.

  “Truly. I was a rebel against King Richard, and Roland was sent to hunt me down.”

  “A rebel? Truly?”

  “Truly,” Emma said, with a smile.

  “What was that like?” Pierre asked.

  “It was freedom. We didn’t actually fight. We just lived in the forest and refused to pay the king and his lords’ taxes, and bow to their will. I grew up in the forest, so my father thought it important I learn to defend myself. Not only against the King’s men, who might come looking for us, but against wild animals.”

  “If you grew up in the forest, that means you didn’t have to milk cows or feed the chickens, clean the barn and sheds.”

  Emma couldn’t help the chuckle. “No Pierre, I don’t recall having any chores growing up. I just played. My friends and I even had a secret hand signal, so we would know we were on the same side, if we saw each other in the forest.”

  “But wouldn’t you all know each other if you saw each other?”

  “We would,” Emma replied. She was becoming used to the boy’s quick mind. “But it was also a symbol that we would not bow to the King.” She placed her hand on her chest and then extended the hand above her head, pointing her index finger into the sky.

  “That’s it?” Pierre asked, obviously unimpressed.

  “Yes. We should have had you, I bet you would have made it a better symbol.”

  “It couldn’t be simpler,” the boy mumbled. At 10, Pierre was a boy who took responsibility and loyalty to his family seriously. He came almost daily to the castle to earn a little money to help his family. Emma knew the family’s milking cow died some months ago, and they were trying to buy another since. So Emma tried to help the boy as much as possible, by finding him work where she could.

  “We are rebels here too, in revolt against King Richard. Our viscount will not allow Richard to claim this property, feudal overlord or not.”

  “Listen,” Emma said, her heart suddenly sank at what she just did to the boy. She placed a hand on each of his shoulders, as she stooped before him. “You have a big family who cares for you. Let them worry about the revolt. You have more important things to worry about,” she said with a broad smile, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “The seamstress needs someone to go through the volt of fabric while she looks for a ‘certain material that will make the best tunic for Aimar’,” Emma said, throwing in an impression of the seamstress. The last time she needed help from Pierre, they discovered she had a huge crush on the Viscount. It was a source of common humor for them ever since. The Seamstress was so much older than the man, but she still spoke of him with true love sickness in her voice. She also put on a great deal of airs, one would think the tiny castle that was now their home, was a grand palace, instead of the run down old keep it was.

  Pierre peeled off into laughter before turning, and running for the small shed behind the keep, where the bolts of fabric the seamstress hoarded, were kept. No one went about shabbily dressed at Chalus-Chabrol. Each time Pierre helped her, he came away with tunics for himself, once one each for his mother and father. Despite their humor, where the old woman was concerned, she was a kind hearted, generous woman. Sometimes Emma felt guilty for making fun of the woman, but it made Pierre laugh, so she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

  March 25, 1199 France, outside Chalus-Chabrol

  Roland thought he was sly, thought he could get away, but he would not. He would watch his newest whore die as he did the last. Roland was Lord Damien’s commander, now with the King’s order to have Damien killed, Roland was an insignificant knight. From what Mercadier heard, a drunken one at that. But the man challenged him. He knew, one day, he would bring the man all the way down to the bottom. As soon as he came to Gaillard with the woman, he knew he had a chance to finally accept Roland’s challenge, and Mercadier knew Roland did not stand a chance.

  Despite the woman’s insistence it was not Roland’s child she carried, Mercadier knew the woman frequented the knight’s bed. What would be better than to have the woman and Roland’s child? For Roland to know both lived and died by his whim. Apparently, Roland was too much a coward to stand and face him, because he turned tail and ran, taking the woman with him. If he did not believe Roland cared for her, the fact they fled together confirmed this. Making his plan all the sweeter.

  It was not difficult to convince Richard to attack the little castle, after his spy told him where Roland was cowering. At war with King Philip, Mercadier knew the crown needed as much money as Richard could get his hands on. One little rumor that made it back to the King about the Roman gold found by a peasant at Chalus-Chabrol, and Richard could not be stopped.

  Chapter 15

  Grace stared at the woman sitting in the corner of the tiny room. Warner ensconced them in an abandoned convent two days before. He left after the first day, and returned a few hours ago. With the woman.

  “Countess?” Grace whispered, as she entered the room.

  The woman’s head rose sharply to look at her. The woman was tiny. Her blonde hair dirty, and her vivid big blue eyes appeared huge in her ashen face, with tears brimming in them.

  Grace moved closer. She was nervous, perhaps not so much that Warner would find her here, but that she might be in the presence of the Countess Ryann Kinnard. “Help me,” the woman whispered, untangling her legs pulled against her chest.

  Her legs were bare with scratches to go with those on her arms and face.

  “Are you the Countess?” Grace asked again, coming to stoop in front of the woman. Whoever she was, Grace was sure she didn’t want to be here.

  “Yes. Who are you?” she asked in a whisper, mirroring the other woman’s.

  “I’m Grace my lady,” she said, offering her a slight nod of her head. What
did one do when in the presence of not only a titled lady but one of God’s angels?

  “Where are we?”

  “We are in an old convent.” Grace heard a noise. She turned her head and listened. “I will try to help you escape, but not just yet,” Grace hurriedly tried to reassure her. She rose to move away, but the Countess grabbed her hand.

  “Why are you here with him?” The woman looked so frightened, Grace’s heart went out to her.

  “I came for you.” Grace pulled her hand, and after a moment the Countess released her. “Have faith. I will find a way to get you out.”

  Grace hurriedly left the room, closing the door and locking it again. She hurried down the corridor to the hall, where she told Warner she would be. She was out of breath by the time she arrived there, and was just a moment ahead of Warner.

  “I have a proposal,” Warner said. The way he said it made Grace’s skin crawl. “There is a small village half a day’s ride from here. I feel the need to celebrate. Will you go dance for those fair citizens? You will have a chance to show off your new act.”

  “I will be very pleased to,” she said, forcing a smile upon her face. Perhaps that would be the key to getting the Countess away.

  “Then go dress. We will leave in but a moment.”

  “But it’s already so late in the day,” Grace protested. She would have no time to find a way to release the Countess before they left.

  Angry strides carried Warner to her. He reached a hand out and grabbed her chin between his fingers, and squeezed painfully. He took a great deal of time studying her face, before his fingers eased their grip, though not releasing her.

  “It is in your best interest if we are to go today,” he said. There was something in his voice that made her believe it was not a threat, but a promise, of something dark from a man filled with evil.

 

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