by Nicole Locke
Even pregnant, she’d been acutely aware of Nicholas’s return. His sitting next to her for hours as they held council. How close he was.
She couldn’t speak the words, but with her body she’d tell him. Using his arm around her waist and his wrist on her collarbone, she pulled herself up until they fitted once more.
His breath hitched. There was a loosening of his arms as if he meant to step away. She gripped his hand and arm and kept him locked to her.
‘Matilda...’ he rasped.
‘You love me?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Then love me.’
A choked growl. ‘Do you know what you’re asking of me? Of us?’
‘I want it. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.’
His hands flexed on her. Just this side of clenching her tightly to him.
‘It’s been too long.’
She didn’t want to think of the others he’d held like this.
He lowered his head once again. His lips pressed against her collarbone. Her neck.
‘Too long since I held you. Kissed you.’
Not others. Her. He was thinking of her.
‘There’s no going back after this, Matilda.’
They weren’t young any more. Both had learned about life and consequences. Holding him like this would have consequences.
She might not be able to tell him, but she didn’t want to go back. The past held nothing for her any more.
‘I know.’
Nicholas’s body shuddered at her words. She’d had a man and knew what to expect. Except this was Nicholas. This was different.
She knew it was different in the way he held still behind her. Waiting for something from her. Waiting... But in that waiting were myriad needs.
There were prickles to the small of her back, a sudden sheen to her skin. Her hands were damp, sliding against him. Their breath changed to a matching rhythm. As if something reckless and dangerous was coming.
This was dangerous. For even though it was Nicholas, even though she’d wanted him all these years and he’d returned, she wasn’t certain he’d stay.
Everything about him was a warrior, a mercenary. It was there in his restlessness. It was there in the way his body was made. There was no waste to any of him. Every bone, sinew, muscle and strength was on display, necessary to carry out a threat or offer protection.
He’d trained in all those years away, and he’d trained upon his return. Nicholas was a hired sword, and even now it was apparent. It was there in the predatory manner he held, as if waiting to strike. Lethal. Deadly.
Hers.
She wanted all that power, that strength, that resolve.
‘Please...’
Desire coiled tight until she thought she’d break. Again she moved to turn around. Again he held her still against the hard rigidness of his stance. She felt the flexing tension of the muscles in his arms around her.
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘No, I—’
‘Like this,’ he said, releasing his upper hold on her. He kept his left hand hard on her hip. Using his hand, his fingers, his palm to hold her still, he skimmed along her collarbone, up to her neck. Tilted her head with a caress of his thumb on her jaw.
She felt its rough callous against the tender skin under her ear, the heated gentleness of his hand cradling her before he brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. Then down her neck. He brushed her hair away from her nape. Lowering his head that bit more, curling his fingers under her chin to bare her neck and skim his lips along her left ear.
The heat from his breath as his tongue traced coiled delicate curves was gentle. Devastating. While his breath grew ragged warm pleasure seeped into her belly, between her legs, and she leaned into his firm hand at her hip, the secure stance of his body.
Wanting more, she tried to turn.
His grip tightened. ‘No.’
‘I want to see you.’
There was a slight lessening of his hold, enough to give her permission. She took it.
His gaze was taking in every bit of her face, as if he hadn’t seen her for most of his life. She knew she looked at him just the same way. Her gaze felt greedy.
‘I want to see you,’ she repeated.
There was a slight tremble to his hand and he closed his eye. Then he lowered his head even more, held still, and she reached behind him to untie the strip of linen covering his left eye.
Before she lowered it she took in all his features. The crease between his brows, the tightness around his jaw. It was as if what she did pained him. Yet she also saw the trusting way he waited, the softness of his lips.
She brushed her lips against his. Enough to taste him. To reward him for giving her this. He took a trembling breath, as if she had truly gentled him. Then she pulled the linen away.
Holding it in her left hand, and resting her other against his chest, she took in the full breadth of his injury.
He let her. Keeping his good eye closed. Allowing her to take in the scar without feeling the scrutiny of his gaze. Making the left and the right side of his face match though they never really could.
The scar was thin, healed as evenly as any scar could ever be. The scar was thin, but it bisected his brow, crossed his eyelid and ran down his cheek.
To her astonishment, the eyelid was intact. As if the sword had just skimmed it. There was nothing to warrant the patch he’d worn all these months. The linen had covered half his face.
She’d expected something deeper. Something dark. An emptiness where his eye should be. Instead the scar simply swiped across his eyelid like a strong wind. His eye was there, and with both eyes closed they...matched.
‘How?’ she whispered.
‘I cannot open the lid. I cannot blink.’
‘Can you see with it?’
‘My sight is gone. Something else severed that I cannot get back.’
‘Why cover it? It’s—’
‘Repulsive.’
The word was so far from the truth. ‘Hardly even nicked.’
‘Nicked?’
He gave a soft huff of breath, as if that simple word had hit him. And she knew it had, seeing the way hearing it had softened his gaze even more.
‘I haven’t worn a patch for years. Only when it was healing. In my line of business my injury is an asset.’
‘Because you look fearsome?’
There was pleased curve to his lips. ‘Because they underestimate me. They look at it as a weakness.’
She didn’t understand. There was nothing weak about Nicholas.
Something flashed in his expression. ‘And yet you don’t see me that way.’
She shrugged. When she had first seen the scar, she’d only thought of his pain. What he’d endured without her. But to think of this man with any weakness was beyond her comprehension.
Another curve to his lips, a similar shrug to hers. ‘So simple—but I don’t understand. You have to know I don’t.’
She’d have to explain. ‘Look at you.’
She gestured with her hands, indicating the breadth of his shoulders, his height like that of no man she’d ever known, those arms that could control a team of oxen through boulders. Arms that could hold a female close.
‘What do you see?’ he insisted.
There was no mischief or amusement on his part at seeing her vague hand gestures. He truly wanted to know what she saw in him.
She laid her palm against his cheek, traced her fingers along the thin, jagged seam of his scar. It was softer than it looked. Contrasting with the stubble of his jaw so roughly shaved.
‘If I were a mercenary meeting you on a battlefield...’ Sword arm raised, all his strength and training engaged, menace and lethality in his gaze. ‘I’d think you were dangerous.’
He stilled her
hand with his own. A tender touch that somehow made her heart beat faster.
‘I can barely fathom that life you had, so...’ She shrugged again. ‘Since it’s me, I just see you, Nicholas. All these months I’ve wanted to see more of you. I hate this scrap covering you.’ She opened her hand and let the linen flutter to the ground. ‘I don’t want it back. Not here. Not...anywhere.’
There was a flare of light, of hope, before his expression darkened again. ‘It’s worse elsewhere. The scar...the injury...far worse. Because it was an upward stroke.’
She couldn’t imagine it being worse, or what he must have suffered. She hurt simply thinking of his pain. What he continued to suffer because others treated him differently until they knew better.
Bracing herself, knowing how much she would hurt for him at what she might see, she nodded.
She wanted this moment with him because Nicholas was...just him. And if he could be brave enough to reveal whatever he seemed reluctant to show her, she could be brave enough to see it.
He looked to the right and the left, then huffed out a breath before he gripped the back of his tunic and tore it off.
A sound escaped her suddenly closed throat. There was no word to describe the scar cutting wide across his abdomen, becoming thinner as it arced up over his chest. Deep. Jagged. As if someone had carved him.
It didn’t match the scar across his face. Not in depth, width, or even in direction. Not the clean sweep of an upward stroke, as he’d suggested. This was... This was as if the sword had pierced him and he’d turned his body to fling it out of the way.
But the blade had sunk deep. And when he’d turned... Her eyes followed the scar up. When he had turned it had gouged his body. A great uneven furrow, with the certainty of pain and agony.
There was a roar in her ears as she followed the scar’s path up his body. Suddenly she was there with him. Right beside Nicholas as he slashed his enemies on the battlefield.
She almost felt a heavy cold mist that did nothing to cool the heat of fear and strength rushing through her limbs. She heard the clash of metal, horses screaming, men crying out in victory and loss.
This wasn’t an injury. Something a man—a body—would recover from. This was permanent damage. Unending pain.
How could he have withstood it? How could any man, even one of his size? Any lesser and he’d be dead. He should be dead. There, where the scar went across his heart, it bisected his torso as thoroughly as a butcher.
He had been butchered on the battlefield. It was as if she had been there. Felt it. Heard it.
A large hand was encircling her arm. Shaking her until her eyes went to his. His gaze was fierce, his lips were moving, but she didn’t hear his words—heard only the battle that raged on in her head until there were different cries of agony.
Trembling... Shaking... But nothing like that moment when her horse had slipped and she had thought she would hurtle to the ground. That moment of realisation of fear of terror.
He pulled until she was held in his arms. Held securely, a heartbeat steady against her chest. His heartbeat. Then his voice. Scraps of words. Her name. Apologies. Soft murmurings. Comforting her until she rested against him.
She could hear his heart beat more strongly now. The sounds of the battle were fading. She rested her hand on his chest. Felt that he was alive under his healed wound. He was alive.
‘There you are.’ He curled his fingers under her chin and brought her gaze to his.
Tenderness. Concern.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
She was aware that she was held against this man’s naked chest. That they’d shared kisses. He pressed her close and she could feel the rigid length of him. The need of him. And how she wanted more. Everything.
That want was still there underneath, juddering under her too-tight skin with emotions she couldn’t seem to contain. Touching him helped. Touching him brought her back to this time, now, and to his kisses. The way his tongue delicately licked, his breath caressed her ear.
‘That’s twice now,’ he murmured. ‘Twice you’ve scared me. I’m a mercenary, Matilda. If this gets out you’ll have no—’
Wanting to feel him again, she rubbed at his chest. He huffed out a breath. Tracked her hand on him with his gaze.
‘What is it you need?’ His voice was almost a growl.
She loved the smattering of hair beneath her palm, the unyielding body underneath. The warmth of him in the chill air. This calmed her. This was the truth of Nicholas alive.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. One moment I was here...’ She shook her head. ‘And then I was there with you. There in Spain. I was beside you and I saw this happen.’
His lips parted. There was a flash of pain and need, then he slowly nodded. ‘You were there?’
Oh. No comfort now. None.
She had been there in his thoughts when his enemy had gouged his body. In his thoughts when he’d received that letter telling him she’d married another. He’d received this scar and she had hurt him again. How could he forgive her? How could he want her?
She removed her hand, tried to step back.
He grabbed her elbows, held her firmly. Ducked his head so she would see everything he felt. There was so much there...
‘No. Don’t,’ he said.
She shook her head, her eyes darting.
‘Don’t think of that. Not now.’ He gave a little shake to her elbows when she tried to pull free. ‘Enough separates us. No more.’
‘But—’
‘Do you want me?’ he said. ‘Still? Like this? With this?’
Want him? Want his strength? His resolve and determination? The intoxicating heat and scent of his body?
She saw the way his gaze searched hers. The scar which furrowed into the very element of him. Nicholas was here. Alive and holding her. The scar was simply him.
Did she want him?
‘Desperately.’
His calloused hands cradled her jaw, lifted her chin. A brush of his lips. Dry. Firm. Another kiss. Deeper. Harder. More insistent as his arms went around her. He trailed his kisses along her jaw, down her neck, behind her ear, where he already knew she was sensitive.
She gasped. He gave a rough chuckle, but it was her turn next. His tunic was off and she could play and touch wherever she wanted. And she did want.
It was different this time. Not just the scar, but what was underneath. Despite his training, and earning his knighthood, he hadn’t been honed like he was now. His body was different, its muscles and sinews distinguished; a topography of a warrior’s form. His skin was burnished from many years in the sun. His years and experience had defined him until he was...more than he had been six years ago. So much more.
Her eyes couldn’t take in enough, and she lifted her gaze to his. His expression was bemused, as if he couldn’t believe his fortune.
‘You’re different,’ she said.
‘The longer you do that, the more I’ll be changing.’
She was skimming her palm and fingers along his chest, as if there were paths for her to follow. She could feel that in the beat of his heart, the raggedness of his breath.
The tension between them was tightening.
Heat rushed her skin—not out of embarrassment, but because she knew what he meant.
‘Oh, you find that humorous?’ he said, his voice deepening.
Was she smiling? Maybe a little. His body was rugged and yet honed like a sword. She didn’t know what to expect under his other clothes. She’d watched him carry timber for houses, plough the fields, train with sword and shield, but nothing had ever been revealed to her.
‘My lips curve not in humour,’ she said, not surprised her voice sounded husky.
The weather was chilly, and cool air prickled along her neck and along his skin as well. But the weather di
dn’t account for the increased sensitivity of her skin. It was seeing him.
Now she could see why his body moved so fluidly—why it seemed his weaponry was an extension of him. Because his body was a weapon.
‘Why do your lips curve, then?’ The tip of his blunt finger brushed across her jawline to her lips.
Now she saw him with a woman’s eye, how could she not smile in appreciation?
More touch. Along the dips of his shoulders, flattening her palms against his chest to feel more of him. Exploring. Noting the roughness of his hair, the sensitive skin underneath. The cords and ridges of his abdomen. Watching the muscles tense and flex under her light touch.
‘I like this,’ she said.
‘So do I—too much. It’s my turn.’
She was untying the ribbons at her sides before he had even gripped her gown. Her arms were in the air before he began to tug it over her head. He threw it over a fallen tree.
Now only in her loose chemise, she kept her arms up to help him with that garment as well. Instead, he gripped the fabric and pulled it up to her hips. Locking his hands, he shoved his thigh between her legs.
When he languidly pressed his thigh against her, her head fell forward and she gripped his shoulders while he supported her. She wanted more touch, wanted him to rip the chemise from her.
‘I want to feel you,’ she whispered.
‘Me you, as well. Except we’re out in the open and it’s cold.’
‘I don’t feel the cold.’
He scowled at that. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing you. Us. I won’t share.’
She gripped his face. Tried to make sense of it all. ‘Is there someone near?’
‘I can hear nothing, see nothing, but you.’
She had ridden hard and far, and he had followed her. This deep in the woods there shouldn’t be anyone. No hunting this late in the day, no reason to be here during this part of the year.
Still, she tried to look.
He gently cupped her face with his big hand and pulled her lips to his. A brush against her lower lip. Then a firmer one, pulling in her upper lip before he licked along the seam.
‘No thinking. No waiting. I’ll have you like this. I need you like this. Out in the open. Not slow. I’m frantic for you, Matilda.’