Mora handed her a satchel of herbs. “You know what to do with these.” She turned and tightened the cords that held closed the mouth of her leather sack. “I have spoken with my daughters, and my youngest, Christie, has agreed to move here.” Mora lifted her brows. “I canna keep making the trip between you and Triona. Christie will take good care of ye, and is willing to remain on.” Mora took up her sack. “Be gentle with William. Although I suspect he will survive.” Laughing, she left the chamber.
After forcing his way into their bedchamber to witness the birth of their twins, William had decided that Rhiannon was, in fact, more than capable of having his children.
He’d faced his fears. Rhiannon wondered if he was ready for a home full of children though.
She padded across the floor, then pushed the door open. William was standing across the way, leaning back against the stone wall of the corridor, a chubby-cheeked teething lad in one arm, and a chubby-cheeked teething lass in the other.
She held up the satchel of herbs. “I am to take these.”
He lifted his brows.
“And we will need to acclimate the twins to goat’s milk.”
William rearranged his children into one arm and moved across the corridor toward her. Oh yes, he still made her breath catch and her insides warm. He always would. Rhiannon came up on her toes and kissed him. She heard the twins giggle, their slimy hands in their mouths as they chewed on their fingers.
William cupped her face in his free hand, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “How long?” he asked.
“Six months.”
“We better expand the nursery.”
“That might be wise.”
He regarded her in her chemise, eyes thoughtful. “How many this time? Three?”
“If there are, I am blaming it entirely on you.”
He tucked his arm around her, his hand at her tailbone. “I shall gladly take the blame,” he breathed. “Mo leannan.”
THE END
Enduringly Yours
By
Olivia Stocum
Prologue
(excerpt)
England, 1192
Zipporah hated Peter.
She hated the way he teased her. And the way he looked so sure of himself. She hated it when he told her how to ride her horse.
And most of all, she hated that he was leaving.
Because in reality, she didn’t hate him at all.
It was Peter’s fault, for making her fall in love with him in the first place.
Zipporah cantered her white gelding down the road, a three quarter moon lighting her path. She knew all the best ways out of her father’s castle, so getting away tonight was easy. She thought about the times she and Peter had sneaked away together. They used to ride their horses in the forest, or fish at the lake. It was all done in innocence, or at least it had been, until things started to change between them.
He’d surprised her when he kissed her in the rose garden with the autumn leaves pouring down around them. There had been just enough chill in the air that day to make his arms oh so inviting.
One kiss had led to more kisses. Kisses led to touching. She touched him and he touched her. And touching only served to heighten her curiosity.
When she first came of age, her mother told her what she needed to know about being a wife. It was her duty, her mother had said, even when she didn’t feel like performing it.
But she did feel like it.
With Peter.
The thought of being with another man in that way scared her. Maybe that was why she’d gotten so angry with Peter this afternoon, when he told her he’d decided to go on crusade with his brother, John. Her brother, Edward, was eager to agree, and now all three of them were going to war.
When she reached the secret cove at the lake Zipporah slowed her horse to a walk. She slipped from the saddle, brushing her long hair out of her face. She’d unbraided it for bed, then realized she couldn’t sleep until she’d spoken with Peter, and left the castle with her hair down.
She tied her gelding reins on a tree branch with nervous hands and tightened her cloak around her. She wasn’t sure if Peter would be at the lake. But this was their secret place, and she hoped he would, because she needed to apologize to him for all the horrible things she’d said.
Tangled underbrush stood between her and the narrow, pebbled beach. She worked her way over gnarled willow roots in the dark, night birds scolding her. Zipporah’s hair snagged on a branch. Wincing, she freed it.
Finally, the moon was visible again, now bathing the lake. Silver ripples lapped the shore. She lifted the hem of her cloak and stepped over a log.
Scanning the beach, she saw him. Peter was sitting with his knees bent and his head down. His strong shoulders looked withered.
She’d wounded him with her words.
Zipporah thought about what she should say. How could she repair the damage?
She froze in place when he turned. Peter came to his feet. His surcoat had been discarded, and lay on the ground next to him. The summer breeze toyed with his sandy-brown hair and the edges of his flaxen tunic. He didn’t say a word, just stood there, his lean, hard body silhouetted against the shoreline.
Zipporah took a breath. “I was wrong,” she said, the words slipping from her mouth without hesitation.
“You have every right to be angry with me.”
“Do I?”
“Aye.”
She wanted to tell him why she’d been so angry. How did a lady go about admitting to her knight that she would die before letting another man touch her?
“I would ask you not to leave tomorrow,” she began. “But I think you have to anyway.”
“I have no choice. Not now.”
Nay, not now. He had already given his word to king and country. Sir Peter had no choice but to crusade the Holy Land.
Tears stung Zipporah’s eyes, and she did nothing to stop them as they began to run down her cheeks. She hoped Peter would take pity on her, but when he didn’t move, she turned around and walked back down the shore, losing her nerve entirely.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“I am going home.”
Peter caught up with her.
“Come here,” he said, his familiar voice making her breath hitch. He turned her into him, wrapping his arms around her like she’d belonged there all along. She pressed her check against his warm shoulder and breathed in his scent of leather and pine.
“I have never seen your hair unbound before,” he said, trailing his fingers through her dark waves.
“I was saving it for my husband.”
“Zipporah . . .”
“I could not sleep. Not after what I said, not with your leaving, not with . . . Kiss me goodbye?”
“I cannot.” He said the words, but his arm tightened around her waist anyway, digging into her. She lifted her chin toward his face in response. “Not like this,” he said. “No man has that much self-control.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t care if he lost control, but he cut her off.
“I spoke to your father about us.”
“You did?”
“He said I was too young to marry. He is right. You need a husband who has proven himself, one with land of his own, not a knight who has only just earned his spurs.”
“I do not want another man. I want you.”
He winced, and she felt ashamed. Maybe he wasn’t ready for what she felt. Then he bent and kissed her temple, her face, and her neck. She hated that her cloak was between them and stepped out of his arms to remove it. Zipporah fumbled with the clasp on her broach then tossed the garment aside. It landed next to his surcoat.
She stood before him in her pale blue kyrtle. It was the same gown she had worn hours ago when they had argued. Now it felt like a ball gown, and Peter her perfect white knight.
He looked her over, and she noticed the way his muscles tensed.
Peter shook his head. She’d exp
ected his reluctance. He was that kind of man. “Do not do this to me,” he said.
The breeze fit the fabric of her gown into her body. “Don’t you want me too?”
“I want you.”
“Then why won’t you touch me?”
“What if your father marries you to another man, and you’ve no proof that you’re pure.”
“I . . . will think of something.”
He picked up her cloak, draping it over her shoulders. “Nay.”
She caught his hand. “I’m afraid. What if my husband doesn’t love me? What if he hurts me?”
He bent closer. “I cannot be sure I will not hurt you.”
Nay, he could not be sure, because neither of them knew what they were doing. She leaned in, her nose brushing his. “I rather be with you.”
Peter cupped her face, his fingers calloused against her skin. Zipporah closed her eyes.
“You are cold,” he said, then he kissed her mouth. Usually, when he kissed her, he was very careful, always stopping before he ventured too far. This time he was different, cradling her head in his hands while he devoured her mouth like a dying man.
Or one who was soon leaving for war.
She tugged at his tunic until he peeled it off. The plains of his chest beckoned her. Slowly, she reached out, laying both palms against him. His skin was warm and his muscles unyielding. He was like rock compared to her softer body.
“Zipporah,” he whispered, bending to nuzzle her shoulder. “No matter what happens, I will always love you.”
Enduringly Yours
Coming October 2014
Olivia Stocum lives in upstate New York with her husband, three children, a Jack Russell Terror (oh, sorry, Terrier), and a litter-trained rabbit called Georgie. She’s been writing since she was first published at eight years old. The majority of her childhood was spent riding horses, playing with her dog, shooting her favorite recurve bow, and going on imaginary adventures with Robin Hood. One day she might decide to grow up (but probably not).
www.theclaymoreandsurcoat.com
www.facebook.com/OliviaStocum
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