The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Panic was new to Jordan. She’d never experienced it before which was why she scared herself all the more to feel her control slipping away. She yanked her arm away from William, her head spinning and her legs like jelly. She turned to run but he caught her before she could take a step.

  She turned into a frightened animal, scratching and kicking. William had her firmly by the body and easily captured her arms as she struggled against him.

  “No, no, no,” she moaned over and over again.

  Paris had wisely taken Jemma ahead. Any servants who happened to be in the foyer had vanished. William trapped her against him and lifted her to a small secluded alcove that usually served as a cloak room. He wasn’t about to carry her kicking and screaming up the stairs.

  “Stop it, Jordan,” he hissed into her ear.

  “Let me go.” She twisted violently in his arms. “I want to go home. I dunna want to stay in here. Let go of me.”

  Holding her with one arm, he gripped her chin with his free hand and forced her to look at him.

  “Listen to me.” he whispered harshly. “Damnation, listen… you are injured and exhausted, and you are not thinking rationally. Relax, Jordan, please.”

  Her panic slowed. He had promised to take care of her, hadn’t he? Her senses balanced but hot tears started anew at her embarrassment and shame of losing control. She had been so scared a moment earlier she would have done anything to get the hell out of there. Now she was deeply ashamed.

  She wept deeply and he pulled her against his chest with a sorrowful sigh. He rubbed her back, stroked her arms, murmuring soft words into her ear.

  “There, there,” he whispered. “Everything is well. I know you have had a day of it.”

  She was sobbing like a child. “I want to go home.”

  He smiled. She sounded so vulnerable that had it been within his power, he would have turned this moment and taken her home.

  “I know,” he said simply.

  She cried until no more tears would come. He had held her so gently, like a father. Or a lover.

  “Oh, English,” she moaned with a hiccup. “I need a drink.”

  “Of course,” he said softly. “There will be wine in your room. Do you feel like going up there now?”

  She pulled back, wiping at her nose with her soaked handkerchief. “Not wine, English. Whisky. Do ye not have any?”

  He almost laughed. “Whisky?” he repeated. “You should not drink that stuff; it’ll burn holes in you.”

  She cocked at eyebrow. “I have been drinking it since I was a bairn.”

  He was taken aback by her statement and fought off the urge to laugh at her professed vice.

  “No whisky for you, my lady,” he told her. “ ’Tis a low man’s habit and certainly not the drink of a future countess.”

  She looked at him as if to pout. She was about to argue but decided she had not the strength. “Very well, English, whatever ye say. I would go to my rooms now.”

  He gazed down into her eyes, smiling gently at her and tapping her lightly on the side of her cheek. Jordan’s heart swelled at the depth she saw in his eyes. She wished fervently he would kiss her again, now. She needed it more than the drink.

  “English?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Aye?”

  She took a deep breath. “I forgive ye for what ye called me earlier,” she said. She was probing him and hoping he did not realize it. “I know it was a slip. Ye need not be embarrassed.”

  He looked perplexed. “What did I call you?”

  “Love,” she replied softly. “Ye called me ‘love’ when ye were looking at my cut.”

  His smile faded and her heart lurched. She thought probing him was not such a good idea now. She did not want to hear his reply and lowered her gaze, gathering her skirts as if to leave. He stopped her.

  “I am not embarrassed and it was not a slip,” he said. “But I apologize if the term made you uncomfortable.”

  “Nay,” she said, trying to remain impartial. “It did not. I thought….” She shrugged and refused to continue.

  “Jordan,” his voice was husky and deep. “I never, ever say anything I do not mean.”

  Her head snapped up to him and she could not breathe. It was too much to hope for, too much to believe possible. She was afraid and thrilled and astonished at the same time. His eyes, Sweet Jesu,’ his eyes were boring their way down into her very soul. She felt as if she were being torn in half by her confliction emotions.

  She decided she wasn’t strong enough to hear anymore. She tore her gaze away from his and nodded swiftly.

  “I would go to my chamber now,” she repeated softly.

  She took a step but his hand shot out and jerked her back, pulling her roughly against him even as his lips came down on hers. He was gentle at first, his lips so soft and caressing against her, that she instinctively leaned into him, aching for more. His stubble scratched at her, enhancing the pure sexuality of the kiss like nothing she had ever experienced.

  When she moved to push closer, his huge hand grasped her face and did not allow her to budge an inch. His kisses were becoming more forceful, more demanding, and his tongue was plunging into her mouth, ravishing her until she was breathless. Her limbs tingled painfully from his actions and her belly was warm and quivering.

  William pulled back reluctantly, forcing her to open her eyes. She smiled back at him with complete contentment.

  “I thought ye were never going to do that again,” she teased.

  He looked regretful. “I lied.”

  “Then why did ye do it?” she asked.

  “Because I could not help myself,” he said. “I do not know why you make me so weak, Jordan. I am not a weak man.”

  “I know, English,” she put her small hand up to stroke his cheek and he kissed her palm. “Ye are the strongest man I know. And the most decent. And the most honorable. And the most beautiful.”

  “Men are not beautiful,” he snorted. “But I thank you just the same. Considering you are the most perfect woman who has ever lived, I consider your praise quite a compliment.”

  She smiled, “Ye are the only person who thinks I am perfect,” she said. “Ye and my Da, of course.”

  “Untrue,” he countered softly. “Every man in my command thinks the sun rises and sets on you, which makes you fairly close to perfect in their eyes, too.”

  “I dunna care what they think,” she insisted. “I only care what ye think.”

  His gaze turned smoky again. His hands came up and cupped her face and he studied her well before gently kissing her forehead, her nose, her chin.

  “I think you are perfect,” he said hoarsely. “And I think I am doomed to a life of misery.”

  “Why?” she demanded softly, thrilling more than he could imagine at his touch.

  “Because you can never be mine,” he replied simply. He dropped his hands as if the statement had spoiled his mood. “We should go to your rooms now. Paris is bound to come looking for us.”

  He tucked her hand onto his elbow but she balked.

  “English,” she said faintly. “Legally I may never belong to ye, but ye will always have my heart. I swear it.”

  He exhaled heavily, with sorrow, and turned to her. “As you will always have mine,” he whispered. It had taken nearly all of his energy to say it.

  She knew how hard this must be on the man; it was hard on her, too, although he had far more to lose than she did. She was glad to hear it but at the same time sad for him. Her future was beyond her control; he still controlled his path, yet he had set an awful hurdle in the middle of it.

  “English,” she put her hand on his, looking at the contrast in size between the two appendages. “Dunna say that right now. Ye may regret it when ye meet a young lady ye would like to marry.”

  He covered her hand with his other. “I already have.”

  He led her from the alcove without another word.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bathed and pressed and pri
mped, Jordan watched the flickering torches in the inner bailey three stories below. There were soldiers everywhere, calmly walking the grounds, and somewhere she heard singing.

  The night was amazingly warm. A cool breeze blew in over the lush hills and gently caressed her as she stood at the window. She wore a pale yellow satin surcoat that was high in the neck and long of sleeve, clinging to her round breasts and slim waist. A gold link belt studded with rough-cut topaz hung about her hips and the voluminous skirt dragged behind her when she walked. Her freshly washed and dried hair hung in loose curls, but she parted it on the right side and brushed the front of it over so it partially covered the cut on her right temple, just under the hairline.

  After the bath and a good dose of wine, she was feeling much better. The castle physician, a tiny bald man named Byron, had been in her room when she had arrived and had taken care of the cut. Then he had given her a potion of boiled willow bark for her splitting headache, which had worked beautifully.

  Her mind was clear, normal again, as she gazed out into the lovely night and wondered when she would be retrieved for supper. Moreover, she wondered who would be sent for her and wished on all the stars in the sky that it would be William.

  Jemma was in an adjoining room. She could hear her cousin’s irritation at the borrowed clothes, nothing fit, everything was too long or too tight in the bust, nothing was right. She smiled to herself, more in a mood to take on Jemma’s tantrums.

  “Jemma, do ye need any more help?” she called.

  “Nay.” Jemma bellowed.

  Jordan smiled. “Ye should be happy wearing the burgundy silk.”

  “I am.” Jemma said as if she didn’t mean a word of it. “But it is too long. I am going to kill myself walking down those stairs.”

  Jordan turned away from the window and crossed the room. “We took it up as best we could, considering there wasna proper time,” she reminded her. “Just do yer best and we shall mend it proper tomorrow.”

  Jemma huffed and puffed, studying herself in the huge polished bronze mirror. She looked quite lovely in the color. Jordan watched her cousin’s amber eyes, much darker in the firelight.

  “Kieran will think ye look lovely,” she remarked.

  Jemma stopped fussing and looked at her. “What makes ye think I care what an Englishman thinks of me?”

  Jordan smiled broadly. “Because I see how ye look at him, Jemma, so do not try to fool me,” she said. “I know ye like him, and he likes you.”

  Some of the huff went out of Jemma’s puff. She absently smoothed at the surcoat. “He is handsome. For an Englishman.”

  “Aye,” Jordan agreed heartily. “And he’s nice for one, too.”

  Jemma looked up then and Jordan could see a true conflict. The lass had spent so much energy hating the English that she was truly confused by her attraction. It would seem that both girls had similar concerns.

  Jordan took the hairbrush and gently brushed her cousin’s hair. “Yer not a traitor to think him wonderful, Jemma,” she said softly. “He’s a man, flesh and blood, who just happens to be English.”

  Jemma looked at her cousin in the reflection of the mirror. “Is that how ye feel of William?”

  Jordan stopped brushing for a moment, then resumed slower. “William is my future husband’s captain. He is a kind and gentle man, and I will always respect him as such, English or no.”

  “Ye’re avoiding the question,” Jemma told her. “As ye said yerself, I have seen ye look at him.”

  Jordan looked long at her. “I am to be married to another man. I willna wish for what canna be.”

  “Ye love him, Jordi?” Jemma’s voice was soft, questioning.

  Jordan dropped her head, still brushing. “I dunna know. All I know is that he makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world and I crave to be with him. Is that love? I dunna know.”

  Jemma watched as her cousin formed soft curls with her hands about her shoulders, the raven colored hair a sharp contrast to the burgundy. “All of the knights say he is in love with ye,” she said. “Did ye know that?”

  Jordan looked surprised. “Nay, I dinna,” she said. “Sweet Jesu,’ I am being branded an adulteress even before my wedding?”

  “They dunna say that,” Jemma smoothed at her own hair. “They like ye, much better than they like me. And they think William is God himself. I think they approve of the match.”

  “There is no match between us,” Jordan said emphatically. “I am to be the earl’s bride, not William’s.”

  Jemma smiled, much to Jordan’s surprise. “But in yer heart, ye wish ye were William’s, do not ye? ’Tis understandable. He is a beauteous devil.”

  Jordan shook her head helplessly. “Not a word, Jemma. We must talk of this no more. Please?”

  Jemma nodded. “I promise. No telling who is listening to us right now.”

  Jordan was stricken. “Do ye think so?”

  “I was jesting,” Jemma placated her. “No more talk, I promise.”

  There was a loud rap at the door that made both girls jump with a start. Jordan’s heart was pounding as Jemma ran to open the door. One look at their callers made her head spin with delight.

  William and Kieran stood in the door jamb, over filling it with their sheer size. Both were dressed in breeches and tunics and heavy boots.

  Jordan barely acknowledged Kieran. Her eyes were riveted entirely to William. He was dressed entirely in black, his legs bulging with muscles through the breeches and the tunic stretched taut across his broad chest. She realized it was the first time she had ever seen him without his armor. Bathed and shaved, he looked for all the world like a god descended.

  “Ladies,” William could not take his eyes from her. “The earl awaits.”

  Jordan smiled, accepting his offered arm. He smiled back, his free hand closing over her small one as it gripped his elbow. She felt giddy gazing into his beautiful eyes, remembering Jemma’s comments and knowing how true her cousin was. She did indeed love him.

  William didn’t say a word until they were descending the stairs. “How are you feeling, my lady?” he asked.

  “Much better,” she replied breathlessly, still feeling flushed from the sight of him. “The potion Byron gave me worked wonders.”

  “He is a knowledgeable man. You look as if you have not seen a day of hardship.”

  She laughed and it sounded like silver tinkling bells to him. “Good,” she replied, then quickly turned her attention back to Jemma and Kieran. “Kieran, take care with her. The dress she wears is too long and she will trip and break her neck if she isna careful.”

  Kieran grinned, stopped, and scooped Jemma into his arms in a great swish of material. She squealed, half from surprise and half from delight.

  “Put me down, ye beast,” Jemma smacked him on the shoulder. “I am no wench to be picked up at yer whim.”

  “I would hate to see you break you neck,” he explained with a smirk. “This will alleviate the problem.”

  William and Jordan were already halfway down the stairs, but Jordan was still turning around to see what was going on above her. She smiled because she knew Jemma was enjoying the attention immensely.

  She stumbled a bit and William steadied her. “Careful, love, or you’ll end up breaking your own neck,” he chided her.

  She looked at him with a faint smile. “Ye called me ‘love’ again. Ye’d better watch that, English.”

  “I know exactly when I may and may not use the term of endearment. That is, of course, with your permission.”

  She nodded graciously. “Ye have it. Do ye mean to say that ye do not wish to call me Pony-legs?”

  “Nay,” he replied. They reached the landing and he stopped, waiting for Kieran and Jemma to catch up. “I like ‘love’ much better. I do not think of Pony-legs when I look at you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So ye think of ‘love’ when ye look at me?”

  Jemma and Kieran were right behind them, still carrying her and he
r still protesting. They moved on to the last flight of stairs, but Jordan felt as if the question still hung between them.

  “You weigh no more than a bird, Lady Jemma,” Kieran said in mock seriousness. “How can that be when you eat like a horse?”

  Jordan laughed as Jemma unleashed insult after insult at him, telling him exactly what she thought of his comment. When the barrage died down, Jordan turned to Kieran slyly.

  “What do ye think of her dress? Doesna she look beautiful?” she encouraged him.

  “Aye, she does,” Kieran agreed and Jemma immediately shut up. He smiled at her. “ ’Tis lovely. Next time, however, borrow the dress your cousin is wearing. Then you can walk in front of me the entire day and I shall be forever content.”

  William stopped and thrust a warning finger in Kieran’s face. “Be mindful of who you are speaking of.”

  Kieran looked properly rebuked. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and William started walking again. “But your view is not the same as mine.”

  William stopped again and jerked Jemma from Kieran’s arms. He actually looked angry.

  “You will take Lady Jordan and I do not want to hear another word regarding her appearance,” he growled. “Move out.”

  Kieran fought off a grin and did as he was told, taking Jordan’s arm and leading her the rest of the way down the stairs. William carried Jemma down the steps, his eyes never leaving Jordan’s swaying hips. It wasn’t that he wanted to see for himself but, by God, if Kieran was right. He just didn’t want Kieran looking at her.

  Jemma was watching him. “Sir William, I do not wish to tumble to the floor below. Mayhap ye should watch the stairs and not my cousin’s backside.”

  William looked into the amber eyes. “I am quite capable of descending stairs, my lady, without looking at them.”

  Jemma nodded, giving him a knowing glance and causing him to raise a black brow to her. He would not justify her look with any sort of remark. The little banshee could speculate all she wanted, but she would never hear any sort of confirmation from his lips.

  At the bottom of the stairs, William put her down and took Jordan from Kieran. He then led her through a maze of corridors in Northwood’s massive keep that eventually led to the grand foyer. It was virtually devoid of people, but off to the left Jordan could see the grand hall.