Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Annie Burrows

  But when the horse had kicked up the mud and stones, he’d noticed. When he’d turned and seen the rows he’d carefully dug were destroyed, he’d noticed.

  ‘He came up on a nearby road, saw me, and made my family an offer we couldn’t deny.’

  His only attention on having to redo his work, Evrart had not immediately addressed the man on the destrier. But when a sword was pointed at his throat, he’d noticed that, too. Ian of Warstone hadn’t asked for loyalty in his employ, he’d taken it.

  ‘By threatening them.’

  Evrart nodded. That had been ten years ago. Ten years of hard training, first learning to become a squire and then to gain the skills of a knight. Evrart would never obtain knighthood. That was impossible, but Ian had always gloated he had the training of one.

  Years later, when they’d attended court, Evrart had realised how odd it was Ian did not have the usual guard. Years after that, he had come to know why. Ian couldn’t threaten noble families as he had Evrart’s. He couldn’t force their loyalty. And no family with any decency or with any love of their children would allow those children to be raised by Warstones.

  No, he had been bought, sold, and with his mother and sister crying, he had entered into Warstone service.

  ‘What of your brothers? Were they not there to protect you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yter and Guiot were already gone. Else without a doubt Yter would have volunteered his services in my stead.’

  ‘He’s different from you?’

  ‘They are both as large as me. Yter was always restless, loved adventure, and played games only to win.’

  ‘Guiot?’

  ‘He studies things. To me there are rocks...to Guiot there are kinds of rocks.’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘I have not heard from them in many years. I have never learnt what you have Margery. I do not know letters or writing.’

  ‘I should not have learned either, but I... Well, when I did learn I taught my siblings with a stick and some earth. I could teach you. Perhaps Guiot has learnt by now.’

  Was this an indication that she wanted to stay with him? ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Margery looked at the sky, though she could see only a bit of grey. She was chilled, but not cold, and very little rain fell through the leaves. Some quick walking under the trees would dry her well enough.

  ‘Do you want more berries?’ he asked.

  ‘Is there more bread from this morning?’

  He nodded, and she went to the pack, dug around until she found the bread and dried meat and handed him some as well.

  ‘The rain is easing,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll go when it stops. The horses won’t be happy to be carrying packs in the rain.’

  ‘Is it much farther?’

  ‘A day—but with the rain, maybe it will take till tomorrow. You’ll see many buildings before we get to the centre of the village. My family is on the other side.’

  His village sounded larger than the one she’d grown up in. Perhaps in a bustling atmosphere there wouldn’t not be so many prying eyes. Maybe a large village meant there were more resources to pay taxes and there wasn’t the abject poverty of her village. If Evrart, who was good, came from there, then it must be good.

  ‘If it’s only days from Warstone Fortress, what protection does it have?’

  He shrugged. ‘Protection from the abbey—and, in truth, it’s between Warstone holdings.’

  ‘Between?’ More Warstones? More intrigue and betrayal? Would she ever escape danger?

  ‘Be at ease. At first, the Warstones didn’t own the lands. Once they did, they gave Ian the fortress and kept the other land for themselves. The Warstone parents aren’t often there, however.’

  ‘Could they be near now?’

  ‘We should not run into them on this road. I would not have risked it otherwise.’

  When she’d left her village, she hadn’t thought of risks. She hadn’t thought of matters that could be worse than having no food and a mother who hunched while walking. Instead, after Josse, with Roul, and especially with Ian, she’d made matters worse. She’d risked her sister’s life, sending that note asking for help.

  With Evrart, the risks would be lessened, but only if they were together.

  It might be too soon to think of them being together, but her heart couldn’t help but hope. He might not have said he loved her, but he had lain with her...he was taking her home to his family.

  ‘If they are spread too thinly, they’ll head to Philip’s court or Edward’s, to reinforce their losses. Certainly when it becomes known that Balthus wants to deed Warstone Fortress to Louve, a no-name, no-blood hired sword, they’ll be at court to contest it. Most likely they’ll travel to England.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because Lord Warstone is English, and they have other matters afoot there.’

  Louve was English... ‘Is this something to do with why Louve was searching Ian’s chests?’

  Evrart tensed and rolled his shoulders. ‘How much do you know Margery?’

  After she’d apologised, her conversation had gone well with her sister, who had been saddened, but not surprised she wanted to leave.

  ‘Nothing—truly. Bied would tell me nothing, and I left it at that.’

  Not because she hadn’t wanted to know, but because Bied had said it would risk Louve. Margery hadn’t asked more. Bied loved Louve, and he loved her. Whatever she could do to protect her sister’s happiness, she would.

  ‘Louve truly won’t miss you?’ she asked.

  ‘I talked to him. If we stay in my village, I will need to travel at odd times and days to the fortress often. They can’t trust messages.’

  ‘Is this to do with Ian and...and that scroll in his hand?’

  ‘Everything to do with that.’

  ‘What is “everything”, Evrart?’

  He looked at her for so very long she didn’t know if he’d tell her. Then, ‘I may have been his guard, but I don’t know everything.’

  She immediately wanted to demand what he did know. But this was Evrart, and after her last questioning she’d vowed to trust him more. Could she let his answer stand? She knew this had something to do with Louve searching Ian’s rooms, but she’d let her sister not tell her. She wanted to fight it now, but was loath to lose this time they had today. And in truth, didn’t she have secrets of her past she hadn’t told him? Maybe patience was key for them both.

  ‘When you return to Warstone Fortress, will you give messages to my sister?’

  He gave a curt nod. ‘You truly are on better ground with her?’

  ‘We’re both stubborn, but she is my sister,’ she said. ‘The fortress will be odd, though, without an actual Warstone living there. Do you grieve for Ian?’

  Evrart exhaled roughly. ‘There were times, especially after he married Séverine and had his two boys, when I thought he would become a decent man. But after so much mistrust and betrayal, reason isn’t easy to hold on to. Guy was reported to be the cruellest of all. Reynold left early. And Balthus was much protected by his mother. I think, in the end, he let his wife and boys go to keep them safe.’

  ‘But she ran from him. He must have frightened her.’

  ‘He frightened most men.’

  ‘Ian talked in his sleep,’ she said. ‘He said he loved her still, but he also wanted to...’

  Evrart searched her eyes, and she let him see the answers there that she didn’t want to say. To love someone and yet want to harm them... To throw daggers at brothers and poison servants... She’d thought Josse was controlling, Roul cruel, but the Warstones and their intrigue were something she wanted no part of.

  Was she being a coward not demanding answers from Evrart? No, not now. She liked this peace between them. Liked it that she travelled with him and they were able t
o talk without the prying eyes of guardsmen or servants.

  She liked the way his dark brown hair was drying, the hacked-off pieces framing cheekbones and shoulders that were better suited to some mythical giant of old. But all she could envisage was Evrart’s impatience and a knife. She hoped before he cut his hair again he’d let her—

  What was she thinking?

  Pivoting, she strode past the horses. They were talking of Ian and his runaway wife, not of them being together. Not of how she could feel the way his hair grew, remember how it felt under her touch. How she wanted it all again.

  * * *

  Margery kept walking in a circle...around the trees, around the horses. Two of them didn’t pay her any mind, but the gentle palfrey kept eyeing her as if she would attack. Maybe she would. She had been uneasy since Ian’s death. Would that playful woman who had filled a basket with quinces return, or had he not protected her enough? Had he told her too much of what had happened in the Great Hall?

  She wanted to know what Louve had searched for in Ian’s room. He suspected it had to do with the legend of the Jewell of Kings. Over the years he’d caught snippets of conversation between Ian and his parents...something of treasures needed. But he had been careful not to listen. That way lay death. He had been certain Ian would kill him if he’d realised he talked aloud of such matters.

  If Margery had come across Ian talking of it, it was a miracle she hadn’t been killed. Maybe in time they would know. After all, it seemed her sister knew—as did this Louve. But for him, he only wanted to protect Margery, and that meant her not knowing of Warstone matters.

  ‘The rain has ceased,’ he said. ‘We should leave.’

  She stopped her pacing, looked at him in a way he wished he could understand. ‘Could we get some more berries before we do?’ she asked.

  There was a tree that hadn’t been plucked clean. She dug in her satchel and pulled out some fabric wrapped in a circular band.

  ‘What’s that?’ He indicated it with his chin.

  ‘It’s a headdress.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘We have no baskets and I need something to carry the berries.’

  ‘Seems too fine. It’ll stain.’

  ‘My clothes are all too fine, and this I cannot wear in public. Roul—’ She stopped, frowned. ‘All that doesn’t matter. We can’t pour them into the satchels.’

  He eyed the contraption. ‘How many berries do you want?’

  ‘As many as you can find.’

  It was easy enough picking the berries, since he knew which of them would be ripe. It wasn’t easy having Margery at his side, holding up the head covering while he dropped in each find. He swore she purposely kept moving the stiffened fabric around to see if he’d miss.

  When she curved her lips, and turned quickly to the side, he determined to keep a better eye on her. Which proved complicated. For one, with the ceasing of the rain the sunlight was filtering through the leaves and casting her in different shades. The shadows played across the curve in her cheek, the fullness of her lips. The sunlight highlighted the fan of her lashes, the grace of her fingers twining around the silken fabric.

  This mulberry grove had once reminded him of his childhood, of kinder times, but he knew it would now remind him forever of how she looked up at him.

  ‘Are there more berries?’ she asked.

  They would need more since she ate almost as many as he picked.

  ‘Because you have stopped.’ She plucked up another.

  ‘Stopped?’ Watching her rhythmically chew the berry in her mouth, he felt that tenseness in his shoulders thicken and move lower down his spine.

  ‘You have stopped picking berries.’ A small smile, closer to a smirk, curved her lips. ‘They’re delicious, but they don’t have as much of a smell as quince.’

  Moving lower yet, that feeling he knew was lust wrapped around his waist and pooled perilously close to where she lifted the basket. To her fingers which flitted along the silken hem. To her lips that were damp with the juice from the berries.

  ‘What colour are they, Margery?’ he asked, his voice roughened.

  Delight kindled in those eyes of hers. Lavender eyes. As if a mere flower could adequately describe what he saw in their depths.

  Scooping a couple of berries out of the fabric, she held them out. ‘Compare them.’

  His mind was on the curve of her lips, on everything except her words.

  ‘Quiet again?’ she teased.

  He growled and reached for her.

  Laughing, she skipped away. ‘Not so quiet, then. Come, Evrart—guess.’

  Her eyes darkened, showing him she felt what was between them as well, and he complied.

  Grabbing her wrist, he pushed her sleeve up. The berries cradled in her palm were the shade of the skin he revealed there.

  ‘Do you compare these berries to your skin?’ He lifted her palm to his mouth and ate the fruit there.

  The headdress that had still been clenched in her other hand dropped to the ground. He didn’t give a damn about those berries. He cared for the ones he crushed in his mouth as he kissed and nipped her hand. He cared how she tasted as his tongue and his lips brushed against the seam at her wrist. He cared about the sound she made when he did so.

  Continuing his kisses up her arm, his other hand pushed the sleeve, applying his thumb to her inner elbow. Holding her still...holding her captive.

  ‘These berries aren’t as warm as your skin, nor as sweet,’ he said. ‘They don’t flush when I do this...and this.’

  Her free hand, which had hovered, now clasped his upper arm. Pulling her closer, he kissed, licked and nipped her neck.

  ‘These berries don’t feel as your skin does. They don’t make me feel as your skin does.’

  Her eyes fluttered. The wrist he held trembled. ‘How?’

  He caressed her cheek. ‘So soft... So soft and yet it heats my blood, my body.’

  Her lips parted, and his mouth hovered above hers. ‘What colour am I, Margery? What colour would you make me?’

  Her eyes opened. Their depths were unfathomable now. ‘Everything.’

  She was everything. On a groan, he captured those sweet lips, delved with his tongue until he tasted the berries she’d eaten, until he tasted her.

  Scooping her up, he held her against him, kept his eyes locked with hers, asking her only, ‘Are you showing me colours, Margery?’

  A question, but not. He had seen the answer, guessed it when she’d played those games as he’d dropped one berry after the other. Still, much had happened between them since that day in the orchard, and they faced other uncertainties ahead.

  Laying her hand on his jaw, she caressed his lower lip with her thumb. So soft, so sweet!

  ‘Show me,’ she whispered.

  Gladly.

  Setting her down, he worked to loosen her gown and push it off her shoulders. He gripped her fine chemise and pulled it over her head, revealing all of her to him. Her flesh pebbled, her nipples tightened, and as he gazed at them they tightened again.

  She smiled wide. ‘You left my shoes on.’

  Gripping his tunic, he said, ‘You take care of those.’

  Shoving off his breeches, his braies, his eyes never leaving her, he groaned as she bent over. He ripped his boots off and grabbed her, throwing them both off balance as he fell to the ground with her on top of him.

  ‘Your back!’

  He could feel the damp earth there, but didn’t care—not with the heat of her body against his. He just wanted her. But he needed this time to be gentler.

  ‘I’m being careful...’ He brushed his fingers against her neck, where he’d kissed too hurriedly, too much.

  Shaking her head, releasing that maddening scent, she said. ‘Careful? No. I want you.’

  ‘You have me.’

>   ‘No, I want...’ She grabbed his arms, dug her fingers in. He felt the bite, felt her need.

  ‘Margery—’ He groaned.

  ‘Please, Evrart. I want you as you are. All of you.’

  Cupping the back of her neck, he kissed her. Her hands were going to his chest, her legs scrabbling around. He gripped her waist, held her against him. Delved with his tongue deeper, until he had to breathe, had to taste more.

  ‘Like this?’ he said.

  Turning her over, he pulled at her gown and laid her over it. Spread her hair along the paleness of the sleeve, the blades of the grass. There were colours there, he knew. But they couldn’t compare to her.

  ‘I know what colour these are,’ he whispered. ‘Red.’

  Margery murmured against Evrart’s kisses. Gripped his hair, let it fan through her fingers, then rubbed her palm against the shaved bits. So many textures to explore...so she did it again.

  She felt flushed with heat, with want, as he continued with kisses on her lips, against the shell of her ear, then lower. She tried to pull him to her, to kiss and taste what she could as he moved a shoulder, his chest... Then it became impossible.

  ‘These are red, too, are they not?’ His eyes were riveted on her breasts.

  She’d always thought them unimaginably small, but with Evrart’s gleam of pleasure she knew he did not feel so. Under his gaze they tightened until they ached, and she arched her back, rolled her shoulders against the ground, begged him to end his gaze.

  ‘Red is heat, is it not?’

  He captured her nipple in his mouth, swirled his tongue and pulled. Swirled his tongue again and peppered her breast with heated breaths, with tiny licks, before he engulfed the entirety with his mouth and suckled.

  ‘Evrart!’ She gripped his head, held him there until she felt that pinch, felt the dampness between her thighs.

  He pulled back. Gave her hot, fast kisses down her belly, along her hip, until he sat between her splayed legs. She saw the wicked gleam as he took her in.

  Her legs looked tiny around his hips; she tried to pull back. ‘I want to touch you.’