The Black Thorne's Rose

by Susan King

  In her arms, Harry began to sing in his high soft voice, and Emlyn laughed to hear the sweet, simple words. The wind ruffled his golden curls and lifted a lock of her hair, loosened beneath her hood. She heard the scrape of a boot behind her.

  “What is this? Two new members of the wall guard on duty? Our enemies must beware.” Hearing the low voice, she spun around to peer into the shadows, and gasped.

  Nicholas stepped away from the tower doorway. Emlyn paused uncertainly where she stood, her heart thumping under her ribs.

  He came nearer. “My lady,” he murmured, sliding back the hood of his dark cloak, worn over a long tunic. A cool breeze wafted the scent of wood smoke and horses toward her, and blew his hair across his cheek and brow. He stopped an arm’s length from her.

  She leaned Harry against her hip. “Greetings, my lord,” she said carefully. “I was unaware you had returned.”

  “We rode in just after dark,” he said.

  “Then you are here briefly, as before?”

  “I am back, my lady,” he said quietly. “For good and all.”

  Her heart thumped a stronger pace. Though she had come to regret her angry words to him, the hurt of his betrayal came rushing back, keen and sharp as a blade pushing at her breast. The low, honeyed rumble of his voice, so familiar, seemed to vibrate in the center of her belly.

  Her heart fluttered like a silly flapping hen, and she could not catch her breath. His voice, the lean shadowed planes of his face, and his silent, watchful expression all exerted some subtle power over her mind and limbs, mingling a sense of pleasure and pain. She felt misery, joy, and utter confusion.

  Gazing up at him in the moonlight, she wondered if he would reject their marriage. Easy enough to cast a clandestine marriage pledge aside, she thought, if he desired to do so.

  “Well, my lady,” he said, “I will bid you good night.”

  “My lord—” She took a little step forward, groping for something to say, wanting him to stay, wanting to talk to him, yet fearing the painful matter between them. “Did you see Maisry and Aelric in the dale?” she asked. “Are they well?”

  He nodded. “Well and hale, though Whitehawke’s men have been threatening their farm along with the other parcels.”

  “ ’Twas why you were gone, I heard,” she said.

  He was staring down at her, the moonlight casting a sheen on the crown of his head. Harry whimpered in her arms, and she shushed him, glancing back at Nicholas.

  “Aye, ’twas why I left and stayed away so long. The abbot asked me to encamp my men for the welfare of the villeins, until the archbishop could send an envoy.”

  His manner seemed relaxed, without the tension and anger she had come to expect from the baron. The wind played freely with his hair, but he never took his eyes from her. Standing there in the crisp moonlight, without his armor, with his hair blowing loose and his face unshaven, he was more Thorne than Nicholas. Her heart pounded insistently.

  “The bishop’s priests—they came?” she asked.

  “Aye, but they took too long about it. Whitehawke left before they arrived.”

  “Then naught has been settled,” she said.

  “At least some measure of peace exists now, if only because Whitehawke is absent. With winter approaching, the archbishop will send no one else to travel so far in bitter weather, and Whitehawke refuses to go to York.”

  “When this is settled, and likely in the monk’s favor, will your father accept the judgment?”

  “Will he learn that arrogance and tyranny do not gain him what he wants? I know not.” He shrugged. “More likely he will direct his fury to some other matter.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more.

  Harry began to cry in earnest, and Emlyn swayed in a little rhythm, patting his back and shushing him softly.

  “By the saints, what troubles the child?” Nicholas asked irritably, tense and clipped, like the baron she knew.

  “New teeth are sometimes painful,” she said. “What does the king say of Whitehawke’s actions?”

  “King John still makes no decree, which galls my father no end. The king turned it over to the courts and has done naught since. Now that the archbishop has involved himself, he will be the one to settle this, if a peaceful resolution is possible,” he replied, raising his voice a little over Harry’s fretting.

  Harry let out a loud wail, and Emlyn bobbled him up and down, distracted. A lock of hair worked its way out of her lopsided hood and fell into her eyes. She blew it back in exasperation.

  Nicholas reached out a hand to Harry’s head. Tiny blond locks curled gently around his fingers. The child quieted for a moment, the leather roll dangling from his wet lips, as he stared up at Nicholas. “The air is quite chilled. What the devil are you doing out here past matins?”

  “Harry disdains sleep for now, my lord,” she answered. “Night walks are sometimes calming.”

  “You look pale, even in moonlight,” he said, frowning down at her. “Have either of you slept this night?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, but he will tire soon.”

  “Come.” He took her elbow and quickly pulled her along to the tower door. Lit by orangey, fat-spitting torchlight, they went down the circular tower stairs. He drew her relentlessly along through the shadowed, musty corridor, until they reached his bedchamber. Harry was unaccountably quiet, perhaps surprised by their swift progress through the halls.

  Nicholas guided her inside his chamber and shut the door. Firelight sent soft amber shadows dancing around the room, and she smelled fragrant applewood smoke.

  “Well, give him to me,” he said behind her.

  She turned. “My lord?”

  “Will he not come?” He lifted the child easily out of her arms. Harry did not protest. “Come, boy, see if you can tire a seasoned knight.” He jiggled Harry, who emitted a watery, hiccupy giggle. “I will sit with him awhile. Go and rest in the solar.” He lifted one brow. “Or rest in your own chamber if such proximity makes you ill at ease,” he added coolly.

  His remark did not escape her, and she flicked her eyes away. “My lord, ’tis woman’s work to sit with fussing babes.”

  “Is it? I have known Aelric to sit with his boys when they are ill. Is the child—er, dry?”

  Emlyn felt the breechcloth under Harry’s tunic. “Aye.”

  “Then go. ’Tis barely past midnight. I am not tired, and have much to think about. Lulling the child to sleep will be no great chore.”

  Wondering if he knew what he took on, Emlyn pursed her lips. Her thoughts were decidedly foggy and her eyes felt pinched and heavy. “I am tired,” she admitted. “Just an hour, then. When he falls asleep, lay him somewhere safe so that he will not fall.”

  “I know they climb like ferrets. Now go.” He turned away to sit in a high-backed chair in front of the fire, settling Harry on his lap.

  Emlyn paused, her hand on the door latch. Then she turned and crossed the bedchamber to lift the solar curtain.

  She awoke, blinking, in the dense blackness of the solar and sat up. Through the shuttered windows, she saw a faint crack of moonlight. Dawn had not yet come. She had slept only an hour or two at the most.

  Pushing aside the curtain, she peered into the firelit bedchamber. Hearing soft rhythmic sounds from the chair that was turned away from her, she stepped into the room.

  Nicholas snored gently, his head tilted against the high back of the chair, his eyelashes black crescents against his slightly flushed cheeks. Emlyn thought his face quite startlingly beautiful in repose, strong and perfectly made, like a statue of a saint, gently colored and almost beatific. She realized, with a curious twinge deep inside, that she had never seen him asleep.

  His hand rested on Harry’s head, long fingers caught in the pale curls. The child slept as if Nicholas’s chest were a cozy pillow, his cheek mashed against the dark tunic, his mouth lax and drooling slightly.

  Emlyn smiled and touched Harry’s warm, slightly sweaty head. Then her hand drifted lightl
y up to Nicholas’s hair, grazing the wavy dark locks in a soft caress. Neither one awoke as she bent to scoop Harry up and settle his limp, solid weight against her shoulder. She glided toward the solar and laid him gently on the cot, covering him with her cloak.

  Unable to relax, she went to one of the windows and parted the shutter slightly. Blue moonlight spilled over her hands and face, and her hair blew back over her shoulders. Her heart pounded and her stomach turned nervously as she thought of Thorne—or Nicholas—so close, only a few steps away.

  A deep, poignant ache insisted that she had lost him through her hot declaration that she could no longer be his wife. Though she regretted her impulsive temper, she also recalled why she had been angry: he had proven shatteringly untrustworthy.

  Sighing, she rested her hands on the rough stone ledge. He had shown her a kindness that was unexpected. But he was fond of Harry, and concerned for him. He had not asked forgiveness, or mentioned aught that stood between them. He had remained remote toward her, but she had responded to his presence in every fiber of her body.

  Suddenly she heard a soft shuffle behind her. The curtain opened quickly, iron rings jangling in the heavy silence.

  Startled, Emlyn gripped the window ledge, but did not turn. His boots scuffed softly as he crossed the wooden floor. She sensed the warmth and rhythm of his body behind her. Her shoulders tensed delicately and her heart pounded.

  He stood so close that his breath stirred her hair. “Emlyn,” he murmured. “Give me leave to speak or not, we must talk.” His voice thrummed in her ear, blending the gentle tone of the forester with the clipped decisiveness of the baron.

  An ache of frightening intensity flooded her. The desire to whirl and press into his arms was so strong that she tightened her body against the urge. She did not know whether to speak, or flee, or spin into his embrace. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, keeping her head turned from him.

  “Once I believed you to be Thorne, an outlaw, the forester I wed most willingly,” she said softly. “But then you became a stranger to me.” She closed her eyes against a rush of anguish. “I know not how to smooth this rift between us.” Behind her, she sensed the warm, solid block of his body, and she bit back a sob.

  “Do you want to mend this?” he asked softly.

  She caught her lip between her teeth, her back still to him. Aye, she thought, aye, I do. But she remained silent.

  His fingers suddenly gripped her shoulders. “Emlyn,” he said. “Look at me.” He turned her forcefully, and she raised her eyes to his. A slender shaft of moonlight made his eyes seem luminous as silver. Tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a long belted tunic of dark wool, his long hair brushed his shoulders like raven’s wings, and his shadowed jaw was firm and stubborn as he frowned down at her.

  “Harken to me,” he said quietly, “before you condemn me.”

  “Enlighten me, then,” she said. Dear God, she thought. Part of her wanted to be pulled into his arms, but his hard grip on her shoulders seemed to speak of anger. “I would know why you betrayed me.”

  “Four years ago, ’twas I asked your father for your hand.”

  Emlyn stared up at him, her eyes widening at his unexpected words. “You? My father wanted me to marry you?”

  “Aye. But ’twas during the Interdict, and your mother desired that you finish your education in the convent, perhaps because of your painting skill, of which I was unaware. Assured of the pledge, I waited. But your father died. What he did with the letter of intent we signed, I have no idea. Your mother had passed, too, and Guy was captured before I could approach him.”

  Emlyn listened with a dawning sense of relief, of pure joy, but she feared to give it rein. He had been false before. She had to be cautious. “I was told naught of this,” she said. “How do I know ’tis true?”

  “Here is the truth of it.” He let go of her shoulder to reach to his belt, pulled out something tucked in it and extended his hand. A small ring lay in his open palm.

  She picked up the ring. One small garnet, set between golden dragon claws, glinted in the moonlight. “This was my mother’s,” she breathed softly. “How do you have it?”

  “Your parents gave it to me as a token of intent.” He gently took her hand and slid the garnet onto her slender finger, next to the steel circlet. “I do owe you a ring, my lady.”

  She cocked her head, thinking, narrowing her eyes at him. “Why did you ask for my hand, years ago?”

  He looked steadily at her in the cool milky light, and he smiled, a lopsided tilt. Emlyn’s heart lurched. She knew that smile so well. She had missed it.

  “I once pledged my life to you and your family.”

  “Aye,” she breathed.

  “A husband protects his wife. He is obligated to look after her family as well.”

  “Aye.” Her voice was near a whisper. He stepped closer, his eyes never wavering. She tilted her head back, caught in his gaze. “But Lord Whitehawke—”

  “He will come to accept this. But I regret that you thought I wed you only to strike at him,” he said quietly. “There was no other way. I could spare you from Whitehawke by pledging with you myself. But I could not tell you who I was, not then.” He ran his fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You would not have married me. Truly, I think you would have killed me out of ire.”

  Their gazes touched and held. Emlyn no longer wanted to flee. She felt like a hare pinned to the trap, yet somehow glad of the end. She leaned in toward the smoky depth of his eyes.

  “Look at the muddle I find myself in,” he said huskily. “I have kept my ruse secret for years. Now you have entered both lives, and disrupted both. And I find myself asking for more of this sweet, dangerous disruption.”

  He raised a hand to cradle her head, his fingers stroking lightly beneath her ear. Gathered into his embrace, she went, resting her head on his chest. His chin, warm and slightly prickly, pressed against her temple.

  Anger and disharmony slipped away as if they had never been. Closing her eyes, she felt a wash of sheer joy in his arms. Listening to the deep velvet of his breath, she felt him as Thorne; he spoke, and with each word he uttered, with each breath he drew, Thorne and Nicholas blended completely.

  “At first I admired you, the beautiful, brave child,” he said. “And I knew marriage would pay an important debt.” He streamed his fingers through her hair, sending slow, languid shivers down her spine into her lower abdomen. Only Thorne had ever touched her like that, she thought.

  “I did not know then that you would mean so much,” he continued. “But when I met you again, I came to cherish you. Your spirit,” he paused, smiling against her cheek. “Your sharp temper. I could not let my father have you. I would not see you shut away. I would have done anything to keep you in my life. Anything, Emlyn.” He breathed out softly. “Even lie to you, and risk your hatred when you discovered me.”

  “I do not hate you,” she whispered. “I could not.”

  Almost lazily, he stroked the silken tendrils of her hair, then thrust his long fingers into its cool mass, pulling her head back to look at him. She was unable to quell a delicate shiver.

  “I need your forgiveness,” he said gruffly.

  She looked at him for a long moment. “You are not Thorne, and yet you are,” she said. “When I learned you were the baron, I thought Thorne was lost to me.”

  “Not lost to you, my love,” he murmured, lowering his head. “Never lost to you,” he whispered.

  His warm breath smelled of wine and cinnamon as his mouth clung gently to hers. The comforting brush of his lips, soft as silk, warm as heated wine, changed to a moist, sweet demand.

  His lips withdrew. “Emlyn,” he said huskily, “I have loved you for years. Only now am I seeing how much, how long that feeling has been with me. I need your forgiveness.”

  She circled her arms around his neck, and the last bitter core that had sat hard in her heart began to melt like wax.

>   “ ’Tis yours,” she whispered. What had not been forgiven, held in some angry reserve, suddenly dissolved like shadows in light. The depth of what she felt in that moment humbled her. Where she had feared malice and betrayal and coldness from him, he had offered only love. She tilted her face, and his mouth covered hers in a deep, almost desperate kiss, warm and urgent and enduring.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered against his lips, “I have loved you since I was a child.” She kissed him firmly. “Both of you, I trow. Only promise me that I will come to understand all this.”

  “We will speak more of this,” he murmured, his lips against the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw, his fingers delicately tracing the line of her throat, “but not now.”

  She caught her breath as his feathery touch moved down over her throat and shoulder. His long fingers slid over the soft wool of her gown to round the full contour of her breast. She caught her breath as her nipples ruched, tingling and aching beneath his whispering touch.

  Groaning softly against her mouth, he put an arm beneath her and lifted her in his arms. She pressed her cheek to his.

  “Nicholas,” she murmured against his soft earlobe. “Harry—”

  “I let him sip a little French wine,” he whispered. “He will sleep well until morn.”

  He carried her through the curtained threshold into the snug warmth of the bedchamber. A circle of golden firelight spilled over the wide bed as they sank into deep feather mattresses covered in red samite and overlaid with silky furs. Nicholas reached up to draw the curtains shut; the firelight penetrated the delicate weave in places, enclosing them in a warm gold and red cocoon.

  With quick, breathless movements, they drew away each other’s garments and flung them aside, slid back the coverlets, and glided into a warm, close, breathless embrace.

  As he kissed her with a growing urgency, Emlyn gave into the need to savor his nearness after so long without him. Her fingers grazed the dark cloud of hair covering his chest. She leaned forward to kiss his shoulder, inhaling his warm scent, redolent of leather and spices, smoke and sweat.