by Karin Tabke
Hot tears sprang to Mercia’s eyes. She rubbed the throbbing hot spot on her cheek. Casting her eyes downward, she nodded. “Forgive me, father.”
“I should not have allowed you to return for your sister’s marriage. You would ruin everything with your words. Keep silent, child or I’ll return you immediately to Drury
Abby.”
Mercia raised watery eyes to Rowena, who sat silent but empathetic. She dared not defend her sister. Cedric was wild and unpredictable since his return from the battle of Hereford. He was a man used to having control, but since the Norman duke’s coming, he never knew if he would wake up with a garrison of Normans taking up permanent residence or if he’d be hanged for his traitorous deeds. For at every turn he sided against Normandy.
Cedric turned his attention back to the daughter who would resurrect his fortune. “I suspect the prince’s train has been delayed with the storm. I pray you seek him out immediately upon his arrival, Rowena, and beguile him. We have not even a day to waste. Get yourself with child, and he will not care that you come to him with only your beauty and the clothes on your back.”
Mercia gasped, as did Rowena. What their father proposed was that Rowena seduce the prince even before they were to wed! ‘Twas preposterous and vile. But it proved just how desperate he was. He looked to his youngest daughter. “I expect, Mercia, that you will assist your sister in every way possible.”
“Aye father, I will lead the stud directly to the mare. I will even hold her tail up for him to mount her.” Her comment earned her another resounding slap. This time Mercia did not flinch, nor did tears sting her eyes. Defiantly, she glared at her sire.
“You are the devil’s spawn, Mercia. God help you.”
“Aye, Father, God help us all.”
She wanted nothing more than to rise, but could not until her father excused her. When he did a short time later, she ran to the solar she shared with her sister, and angrily tossed linens about.
*
Three
‘Twas no easy feat sneaking from the manor. Mercia glanced up to the soft glow in the night sky, grateful for the brightness of the moon. Having roamed the land all her life, she could find her way to the caves blindfolded. Though burdened with furs, food and healing herbs, Mercia made swift time to the cave.
‘Twas dark, and though she did not think it wise, she had no choice once in the cave to build a meager fire. She could not see in the dark! When the small space glowed in a low orange light, she saw that the man had moved from her cloak. Carefully she touched his chest and recoiled. It burned hotter than the fire’s embers. Quickly she unpacked her store and got to work. She sewed his wounds, though ‘twas not easy. In his fever, his body twitched and fidgeted. She was relieved to see his wounds were not as bad as they appeared. Once done with her repairs, Mercia set a small pail of water to warm, and bathed him. As she rinsed his hair, her fingertips discovered a hard lump at the back of his head. ‘Twas not open, but she knew such an injury could kill. It wasn’t until she got to his belly she paused in her chore. She debated whether to strip him of his damp braises and chauses, and though heat filled her cheeks, she knew the clothing needed to dry. Wet and cold as it was, it only added to his discomfort.
Carefully, and with substantial effort, she undressed him, doing everything she could, not to look at what made him a man. When she pressed her fingertips to his skin, she recoiled. Not from the heat, but from the hard smoothness of his skin. She did not expect it to feel so nice. She opened her palm and pressed it to his belly, marveling at the strength beneath her hands. Her fingers splayed wide, liking the feel of the soft downy hair that ran from his chest to his belly and beyond where she dare not look. Inch by inch, she touched his exposed skin, from his cheeks to his toes, but making a wide detour around his hips. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts of him waking and taking her into his strong-muscled arms.
Mercia shook her daydreams from her head. He needed more from her now than her girlish thoughts of romance.
Finally, as she bathed his thighs, she could not help but look at what made him so different from her. She swallowed hard. He was very much a man. His thick member snuggled up against dark downy fur. Instinctively she knew he was a prideful man, and many a maid had seen him and succumbed to his glory. More heat flushed her cheeks. She ignored her attraction to him and finished her cleansing. She spread out the furs and rolled him over onto them. His skin was dry and hot, and she knew only one way to break a fever. She dumped the pail of bath water, poured cool clean water into it, and slowly began to press the cool cloths to his body. They immediately absorbed his heat. She gave no care to the time spent. It wasn’t until his thrashing became uncontrollable and his teeth began to chatter that she knew he was chilled. She threw every pelt she had brought on him and stoked the fire.
His fever raged. He tossed and turned, throwing the pelts from his body. Concern bit deeply at her. “Sir, you must not thrash about so. Stay still and let the pelts warm you.”
He stilled at her voice. She pressed her palm to his cheek and softly caressed him. “Let the warmth in, ‘twill help you.” So long as she spoke softly and touched him, he stilled. Even so, his body contorted with hard shivers. She moved closer to give him some of her own body heat. Yet he continued to shiver. Finally, she lay down next to him and pressed her body against his. It still was not enough.
In a jolting realization, Mercia knew if she pressed her bare skin against his and could keep them wrapped in the furs, she might finally draw the chill from him. She hesitated as embarrassment warmed her body to hot. But she shucked her clothes, even her shoes, grabbed the larger pelts and pressed up against him. The skin-to-skin contact shocked her in its sensuousness. He was hard, yet smooth. She could feel the power of his body.
Mercia closed her eyes and held her breath, imagining what it would feel like to be possessed by such a man. She knew he was no churl but a warrior. He had a noble face and the few words he had spoke, even in a different language held an air of nobility.
As he twitched, she pressed closer, wrapping her arms around him, caressing his back and his arms, speaking softly in a soothing voice.
His body relaxed. His breaths evened, and she felt an odd sense of contentment. She had always found herself in her sister’s shadow, the plain sister, the smart one, the one lads looked at as a playmate, not a life mate. It felt good to be in the arms of a handsome, virile man. A hard jag of fear followed the contentment. ‘Twas wrong what she did. She was promised to God, and this man was a stranger. She recoiled, pulling away from him, knowing she was as forbidden to him as he to her.
Strong arms tightened around her. “Nay,” he said, his voice thick and husky. Mercia stiffened. His arms tightened around her waist as he pulled her tighter to his fevered body. He moved his head, burying his nose into her thick hair. Her skin flushed hot, and her body tingled in a delightfully distressful way. Her nipples puckered against his hard chest. Warmth filled her womb. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the moment. His hands pressed her back, his long thick fingers splayed across her rounded bottom. Mercia’s eyes flew open. His manhood had awakened. She felt it thicken against her thigh.
Panic seized her. She pushed against his chest, careful not to touch his wound. He said something in his native tongue and she knew from the pleading in it he begged her to stay. She could not. Thoughts raced through her head of what could happen if she allowed it. In his delirium, he would not remember, but she would, and she could not return to the abbey impure.
“Please, sir. Release me,” she whispered.
His hot lips pressed against her cheek, then to her lips. The shock of the contact immobilized her. She dared not move. “I cannot,” he said in thick accented English. “You have bewitched me.”
His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of her bottom; as he did, his hips moved against hers, his hot and swollen manhood jabbed against her belly. She nearly swooned; the feeling of his power so provocative that she held her
breath.
His lips captured hers once more, and this time, he probed her lips with his tongue. Hot shards of desire speared to the apex between her thighs. She moaned beneath him, the new and exciting sensations intoxicating. His kiss deepened, his fingers explored, her breasts became heavy and so sensitive she yearned for him to touch them with is mouth. She gasped at the thought.
“Please,” she pleaded.
He rolled her over so that now he lay fully against her. His silver eyes shone bright with fever, and something else. Desire. “Tell me your name, sweet angel of mercy. Tell me your name and I will release you.”
“Rowena,” she blurted.
“Rowena,” he softly said, and it sounded like a caress. Her body stilled. The way he said it made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world, Eve to his Adam. A sudden desire to be so cherished by this man and this man only overcame her. ‘Twas foolishness. Why she did not tell him her real name, she did not know. ‘Twas better this way. Once his fever broke, she would leave him and never return.
“Your name, sir?” She quietly queried. She would know her dream lover’s name and hold it dear to her heart for the rest of her life. For never again would she feel so cherished by such a man.
His dark brows knitted in confusion. His struggle to recall his name was apparent on his face. Slowly he shook his head. “I, cannot remember.”
Tenderly she touched the bump on the back of his head. He winced. “’Tis common with such an injury. The fever does not help. Once you are well, you will remember.”
He sank back into the furs, bringing her with him. Mercia held her breath, unsure what she should do. Her body warmth drew the chill from his. Yet she could not lie naked with a strange man who was fully aroused!
She opened her mouth to plead her case, when his arms loosened. She leaned up on an elbow, her full breasts dragging across his hard chest. She bit back a moan, embarrassed by the heat that overcame her. She dared to look at him. His eyes were closed, and the tension gone from his face. His deep, even breaths filled the small space. Finally, he slept.
Mercia slid from him, and as she did, a deep sense of longing filled her. If she could make her own choices she would slide back beneath the furs and lie with him until he awoke, then allow nature to take its course. Regretfully, she hurried from the cave just as the grey fingers of dawn pushed back the night.
As she slipped into her chamber, she stopped short to meet Rowena’s suspicious eyes. “Where have you been all night, sister?” She demanded.
Mercia shrugged and walked casually into the solar. “I have spent the night on my knees in the chapel, praying your prince will come. I am weary now and seek some rest.”
*
Four
Mercia woke to the feel of strong, rough hands on her breasts. The luxurious feel of his callused thumbs as they brushed against her sensitive nipples elicited a soft moan. Warm breath above her cheeks and the hard smooth heat of a man’s chest against her soft skin made her cry out.
“Mercy!”
Mercia woke with a start to find Rowena’s suspicious gaze fixed hard upon her.
Sheepishly she said, “Ro, I—Did I sleep through the morning meal?” She moved to slide from the bed. Rowena grabbed her arm.
“Do you have a lover, sister?”
Hot guilt washed in waves through her. Never had she lied to her sister. She took a deep breath. There was a first time for everything. Mercia nodded. Rowena gasped. She grasped both of Mercy’s hands. “Tell me! Tell me all!”
Mercia swallowed again. She cast a glance around the empty room. Conspiratorially she whispered, “There is a boy, nay, a man, at Drury Abbey, the local lord’s squire, Sir Ashton. He—” Mercia batted her eyelashes and feigned the coquette. “He, is most handsome, and before father’s outrider came to fetch me, we shared a kiss.”
Rowena gasped and pulled Mercia to her. “Was it magical?”
Mercia swallowed again, suddenly feeling terrible for lying to her sister. But if she denied what Rowena suspected, hiding the truth would be more difficult. Give her what she wanted and she would be satisfied. She hoped.
Mercia managed to blush and nodded her head. “’Twill not happen again. I take my final vows before the harvest.”
Rowena’s beautiful face morphed into sadness. “Mercy, I am so sorry father has so mismanaged your life. I would take you with me to Dinefwr if I could. But I do not know the disposition of my husband-to-be. He might be ogrely and resentful.”
Mercia slid her hands from her sister’s and stood. “Do not worry about me, Ro. I will be content at the abbey.” Another lie. They came too easy to one pledged to God. She quickly bathed and dressed and set about her chores. All the while, the scent of the man she had left just that morn clung to her senses, and she could barely keep herself from flying back to his arms. But she could not. She found Rowena’s eyes on her throughout the day, and her father, sullen as he was, paced a long furrow in front of the manor doors, awaiting word of the prince’s coming.
Finally, just as the sun began its daily decent into the churning sea, a half score of men on horseback approached the manor. Lord Cedric set out to meet them, Mercia following close behind. Rowena stood nervously at the threshold.
She recognized the standard, the boar of Dinefwr. The prince had finally come? Mercia looked past the tired contingent, but none of them sat regally upon their steed as a prince would. Nay, their faces were grave and haggard.
“Lord Cedric of Wendover?” the standard-bearer demanded.
“Aye,” her father said, stepping forward. “I am he.”
“I am Morgan of Dinefwr, steward to milord Prince Rhodri. Our flotilla met with pirates and terrible storm upon the sea and we have been separated from the prince. Has he preceded us?”
Mercia caught a gasp, her father cursed. “Nay! There has been no sign of him!”
Anger at her father seethed. He was not worried over the prince’s welfare, but for his own loss should the prince have met foul play.
Morgan’s face blanched white. He dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. “We caught the brunt of it. Pray his ship was just blown off course from the storm. My lord is healthy and strong. He will surface. We will await him here.”
Her father scowled, no doubt counting in his head how much it would cost to feed the train of ten hungry men. He bowed and said, “Of course, Sir Morgan, I would have it no other way. In the morn, we will send out a search party for the prince.”
Mercia hurried to give her sister the news. Rowena nearly fainted. Mercia took her to their chamber and settled her, as she too worried. With no husband, Ro would suffer the same fate as Mercia.
It was not until much later, when the manor had quieted, that Mercia was able to slip from her chamber and back to the cave. She was relieved to see the man still there. He lay still beneath the heavy mound of furs, his breaths even, and she could see he had not disturbed the food she had left behind.
She set the fresh stores she had managed to steal beside the wineskin. He shot up from his slumber and grabbed her. She screamed when he covered her with his large body. “Nay!” she cried. His silver eyes looked wildly about, but when he settled them upon her, they cleared.
“’Tis I, sir, Rowena, come to see to your health.”
He stared hard at her, and confusion reigned supreme in his gaze. “Rowena?” he hoarsely said.
Slowly she pried his fingers from her arms and nodded. “Aye, I pulled you from the surf and have nursed you these two days past.”
Realization dawned, and with it, he smiled slowly. “Aye, I remember now, you pressed your body to mine to draw the fever.” He pulled her closer. “It still rages.”
Heat flashed across her skin as if he had caressed her. “Sir, ‘twas a last resort.”
Regretfully, he released her and lay back against the furs. They had come down to rest just below his belly. Despite his illness and wounds, he fetched a most manly sight. Embarrassed by her thoughts, Mercia m
oved away. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”
“I have a great hunger, Rowena, but ‘tis not for food.”
She turned her back to him, flustered, and glad for the compliment. “If you cannot control that hunger, I will not return to see to your needs.”
“I am a man of honor. I give you my word I will not press you.” He leaned up on one elbow and looked at her, his silver eyes brilliant in the low firelight. “But let it be said, I would give you every possession I own to have you naked and willing beneath these furs.”
Mercia gasped in shock. “You are too bold, sir!”
“Nay, I am but honest.”
She handed him a chunk of salted meat and a piece of crusty bread. “Here. Eat while I tend your wounds.” He smiled and slowly took the food from her hands, his long fingers brushing her skin stoking her to hot. She shivered at the contact, wondering what was wrong with her. She had never felt such giddiness when Sir Bertram favored her with a smile or took her hand to assist her. Why this stranger? She slowly withdrew her hand.
“Sir, last night when I asked you your name you could not remember. Do you now?”
He scowled and bit off a chunk of bread and slowly chewed. “Nay.” He swallowed and looked directly at her. “Where am I?”
“Wendover on the Wessex Coast. I found you upon the beach.” She touched a fingertip to the wound on his chest. “’Tis a sword wound.”
He scowled deeper as he tried to recall who he was and why he had battled. “English is not your native tongue,” she said. “Are you perhaps Irish? Or Welsh?”
He shook his head, but when he spoke, his words were foreign. Then he said in English, “I speak Welsh and Irish with equal ease.”
A sudden terrible thought occurred to Mercia. What if he were one of the pirates who had attacked the prince’s flotilla? His wounds were recent, and admittedly, he spoke Irish with ease. His knowledge of Welsh would make sense as well. Many pirates spoke the language of those they preyed upon. She moved back from him, suddenly afraid.