The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  A timely observation. Edyth’s curves disappeared.

  A frown furrowed Turi’s brow as he traced the delicate web permanently engraved into Cristen’s abdomen. Undeniable evidence of where her child had once lain, stretching his mother’s flesh as he grew inside her. The marks were the only proof Cristen had that she’d given birth to her son. She closed her eyes and swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat.

  Turi muttered something, heaved a sigh, and drew her into his arms. “Do not despair, aderyn bach,” he whispered. “One day, you’ll see your son again. I swear it.”

  That single vow, so profoundly made, gave Cristen hope like she had never known. Then Turi did what he said he would do. He loved her, wholly and with adoration. Cristen surrendered to him with equal passion and allowed herself to drift on a rising tide of ecstasy. Somewhere along the way, Turi carried her across a threshold in her mind and she lost herself in the pleasure he gave. And when at last his body joined with hers and touched the core of her, she discovered what it meant to fly.

  *

  “This one?” Cristen traced the thin scar across his abdomen.

  “A knife.”

  “And what about this one?” She traced another, thicker, scar that ran vertically along Turi’s side.

  “A sword,” Turi replied, flinching.

  “You’re ticklish!” A mischievous smile curled her lips. “Have I found your weak spot?”

  “You certainly have,” he murmured, ruffling her hair, “and likely will again before morning.”

  Cristen blushed.

  They lay replete in the aftermath of passion, a contented tangle of naked limbs, damp with sweat. Despite his calm expression, and unbeknownst to Cristen, Turi struggled with a relentless and daft desire to grin. Making love to her had hoisted him onto a plateau of utter fulfilment. Her surrender had been absolute. Beyond sweet. By all the gods, the value of the girl in his arms almost scared him. He breathed in her essence like a man starved of breath.

  Contentment. A simple word and common enough, he supposed, frequently bandied around by mortals. Turi had never expressed it. For the past thirteen centuries, he had never truly felt it.

  Till now.

  Cristen pushed herself onto an elbow. “So many scars,” she said, circling her fingers through his chest hair. “You must have fought in many battles.”

  Turi had long since lost count. “A few.”

  “Dear God, look at this one. Right over your heart.” Her brows raised as she traced the thin line between his ribs. “Who did this?”

  He shook his head. “It no longer matters. It happened a long time ago.”

  “You were fortunate the blade did not strike your heart. It would have killed you for sure.”

  “I expected to die,” he replied, “but the wound was not as lethal as it seemed.”

  Her expression became thoughtful. “There is much I don’t know about you, Turi.”

  He grunted and folded an arm behind his head. “There is much about me you would not wish to know.”

  “I care not what you have done in the past. Nothing would change my opinion of you.” She pressed a kiss to the scar above his heart. “Will you at least tell me where you’re taking me after we leave here? Do you still intend to return to your home?”

  “That was my intention,” Turi replied, “but our plans have now changed. I meant to tell you about it earlier, but it seems I lost all sense of reason after I kissed you.”

  Cristen chuckled and rested her head on his chest. “I apologize for distracting you. Tell me now, then.”

  Turi told her of his meeting with Gilbert and the subsequent agreement they’d made.

  “I think I know who you mean. He’s an older man with white hair and a friendly face.” Cristen stifled a yawn. “I saw him when we first arrived. He seemed interested in us. Or in you, at least.”

  “Aye, that’s him.”

  “Does he know about me? Why I am with you?”

  “Aye, I felt obliged to tell him everything. If we’re being pursued, he has a right to know. It didn’t appear to daunt him in the least.”

  “The borderlands,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “They are a long way from here.”

  Turi pulled her closer. “Aye, they are, and I know what you’re thinking. But has it occurred to you that Jacob might also be in the north?”

  “No, in truth. I never really considered that. I suppose he could be anywhere.” After a few moments of silence, she said, “I have other questions, Turi. May I ask them?”

  “Aye, of course.” He dropped a kiss on her hair. “But I may not answer them all. There are some things in my past that must stay there. For now, at least.”

  Her chest rose and fell. “Very well.”

  She untangled herself from him and sat up, shifting her weight onto her hip so as to face him. Turi’s heart stirred at the image she presented. He had loosened her hair during their lovemaking. Now it tumbled over her shoulders and breasts in a sweeping mass of pale gold. Her nipples, seductively rosy against her white skin, peeked out from behind the blonde curls.

  Illuminated by candlelight, Cristen appeared almost unearthly. Like a fae, escaped from the Otherworld. In awe, Turi placed his hand in the small of her waist. The girl had changed – nay, broadened – his perception of beauty. The contrast of his darker flesh against hers was alluring and incredibly arousing. As was the way her small breasts fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. With that thought, he moved his hand higher and her nipple responded to the light touch of his fingertips. Odd. He’d always been drawn to more curvaceous women, yet no female body had ever fascinated him as Cristen’s did.

  Turi’s cock stirred anew.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  Turi continued to pluck at her nipple. “Older than I look.”

  “’Tis no answer, that,” she replied, frowning. She shifted her weight and her hair brushed across her breasts in an erotic game of hide and seek.

  Turi grunted. “Cristen, I want –”

  “I would guess twenty-eight summers. Am I close?”

  “Close enough.” His hand moved back down over her belly to the triangle of soft blonde curls.

  “And where were you born?”

  “You arouse me like no other, aderyn bach.”

  She smiled. “Where, Turi?”

  “A small village.” His fingers began to probe and explore. “Not far from Chester.”

  “I thought…ah.” She arched her spine. “Are you not Welsh?”

  “You are a goddess,” he murmured, the expression of pleasure on her face sending a sudden rush of blood to his groin. “An enchantress. A sight to behold, with your skin aglow in the candlelight, and the way your hair falls around you.”

  “Are you of noble birth?”

  “Better than that.” Turi sat up and lifted her onto him so that she straddled his hips. He allowed himself a grin. “My father is an immortal.”

  “An immortal? What do you… oh, Turi, that feels…” She gasped as his hand continued its intimate caress.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Wonderful. It feels wonderful. Do you mean he’s in Heaven?”

  “Nay, I mean he is not a slave to time.” His cock nudged at her center. “Lower yourself onto me, Cristen. Aye, that’s it.” He groaned and plunged his fingers through her hair, cradling her skull as he leaned up to kiss her. “I swear I will never have enough of you,” he murmured, trailing kisses from her brow to her throat. “Never.”

  “Not a slave to time?” She gasped as he thrust upwards and filled her. “I don’t understand what you –”

  “One day, when I think you are ready,” he said, sliding his hands down to cup her buttocks, “I’ll tell you everything about who I am. What I am. But I need to be certain that, when you hear it, you will not run from me.”

  Cristen groaned, half-closed her eyes, and moved against him in a slow, languid rhythm. “Nothing would ever make me run from you, Turi,” s
he whispered. “Nothing.”

  Later that night, Turi awoke to the sound of hushed voices and horse harnesses jangling. Although it was still dark, it seemed people were on the move already. Cristen, sleeping soundly, lay on her side, naked flesh, soft and warm, against his. Turi buried his face in her hair and inhaled her sweetness.

  He had found his match. Of that, he had no doubt. This little fugitive had taken up residence in his heart and soul. The rapidity of it stunned him. The power of it scared him. But he would not let it weaken him. Perhaps the biggest blessing was being allowed to love her. His immortality would not be a stumbling block this time. Soon, he would bleed when cut. He would begin to age.

  Pendaran’s words arose in his mind.

  Men are meant to die. ’Tis their mortal rite of passage. I have denied you that rite and you will suffer for the lack of it.”

  The irony of becoming mortal during a time of great pestilence, however, was not lost on him. At least now, though, they had a destination. Eamont. Turi knew of it. It lay not far from the hilltop where he had awoken thirteen centuries before, naked and alone, with a fresh scar atop his heart.

  Turi liked Gilbert Allonby, but there was something about the old man that he couldn’t quite fathom. Secrets. All men had them, it seemed.

  Turi more than most.

  Chapter Ten

  The church bell sounded louder than usual, perhaps because of the message it conveyed. Not a call to worship, but an obituary, since the toll, thrice times three, announced the death of a man.

  Abbot John sat at his desk staring at the crucifix on the wall. He sought to find comfort from it, reminding himself that the Son of God had died for the sins of mankind. All morning he had prayed to Father and Son both, an invocation that had bolstered his spirits.

  Somewhat.

  But a shadow continued to creep unchallenged across the land. It seemed God had stepped back and given this hellish pestilence leave to wreak havoc at will. There was no sanctuary to be had. No safe haven. Were the sins of man so great as to merit such a punishment?

  The bell ceased its third knell, and the subsequent silence felt all the more ominous. John knew the bell rope would not be abandoned for long. So far, only one man had succumbed, but the rapidity of Brother Daniel’s demise had stunned everyone. He had collapsed during morning prayers and been dead by sunset. Three more brothers had developed fevers that afternoon and now lay awaiting their fate in the infirmary. John knew their chance of recovery was unlikely. He also knew the decimation had only just begun.

  As had the exodus.

  Those who were able had already begun to leave the coast, heading inland, many passing by Abbotsbury on their way north. The last John heard, two people had succumbed in Melcombe, and several others showed symptoms. The sickness seemed to be spreading all along the coast and would, no doubt, soon follow those seeking to escape it. Of course, poorer folks, trapped by circumstance, had no choice but to stay and face their fates.

  John’s thoughts turned to Cristen St. Clair and her enigmatic sentinel. Had they managed to stay ahead of it, he wondered? He offered up another heartfelt prayer as a knock came to the door.

  “Enter,” John said, straightening his spine.

  “My lord abbot.” Brother Francis, one of Abbotsbury’s scribes, stepped into the room. “We have visitors.”

  John frowned at the worried expression on the man’s face. “Seeking shelter?”

  “Nay.” Francis threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. “They are apparently seeking –”

  The door flew wide open, narrowly missing Francis, who flinched.

  John caught his breath and rose to his feet.

  “Abbot John.” Ralph St. Clair strode into the room, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Good of you to spare the time. You do remember me, I trust?”

  John cast a glance at the man’s weapon. “I do, indeed, Sir Ralph. Welcome to Abbotsbury. Brother Francis, be good enough to take the man’s sword for safekeeping.”

  Ralph shook his head. “My sword stays with me. Besides, this shouldn’t take long.”

  John held the man’s gaze for a moment. Ralph St. Clair’s eyes, a dark, ominous gray, possessed no hint of warmth. Indeed, they appeared empty of any and all emotion.

  It had been over a year since John had last seen him, the occasion being Cristen’s marriage to Ralph’s brother, Cedric. Physically, the man had changed little. His lank, brown hair had thinned, perhaps. Although half-a-head taller than his older brother, Ralph shared the familial aquiline nose and square chin. He was a bully and, therefore, in John’s estimation, a coward. But a coward with a sword, and John was no fool.

  He glanced at Francis and gave the monk a reassuring nod of dismissal. Francis scowled his disapproval and left.

  “Please, have a seat, Sir Ralph,” John said, retaking his own. “What brings you to Abbotsbury?”

  “I’m hunting my fugitive sister-in-law, but I suspect you already know that, since you don’t seem too surprised to see me.” Ralph settled in the chair and leaned back, legs sprawled apart. “So, don’t deny knowledge of her whereabouts. One of your brethren already admitted that a woman matching her description visited the abbey a few days ago.”

  A strong odor of garlic assaulted John’s nostrils. It turned his stomach and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. “I deny nothing without merit. Lady Cristen was here, aye, but she left Abbotsbury three days ago undecided about her destination. I have no knowledge of her direction or her likely whereabouts.”

  “May God smite you for your lies, Abbot. You know fine well her direction, as do I. She came from the east, so is unlikely to return that way. She cannot go south, unless she means to take a boat. West?” Ralph grunted. “My instincts say otherwise. The logical and only remaining direction is north.”

  John shrugged. “She said nothing of her destination to me,” he said. “Nor did I press her.”

  “You should have held her.” Ralph gave a patronizing smile. “The girl is an outlaw.”

  John responded with a tight smile of his own. “According to Lady Cristen, what happened to your brother was an accident and I had no cause to doubt her story. Besides, this is a monastery, not a garrison.”

  “No cause to doubt her?” Ralph huffed. “The lass fled like a thief in the night. ’Tis as good as an admission of guilt. I’m curious, too, about what brought her to your door.”

  John saw no reason to lie. “She hoped I might know of her son’s whereabouts,” he replied. “I do not, of course, and can only condemn those who would separate mother and child so cruelly.”

  “Your condemnation is noted.” A malevolent glimmer came to Ralph’s empty eyes as he leaned forward. “She is traveling with a man, I understand.”

  John cursed inwardly and resolved to reprimand whoever had imparted the information. “An innocent liaison. He serves as her protector. He saved her life when she was set upon by an assailant.”

  “Innocent?” A flush of color circled around Ralph’s throat like a noose. His lip curled. “Who is this man? What is his name? Is he of noble birth?”

  For a moment, John toyed with a temptation to fabricate a name and description. But what purpose would it serve? “His name is Turi,” he said. “Who he is, precisely, I cannot say. I did not feel the need to ask, since I judged him to be an honorable man. I would not have let her leave with him otherwise.” John gave Ralph another thin smile. “I consider myself to be a good judge of character, Sir Ralph.”

  Ralph either missed or ignored the subtle jibe. He deliberated for a moment. “A young man?”

  “In the latter part of his twenties, at a guess.”

  “A eunuch?” A mocking tone edged Ralph’s voice.

  John sighed. “Nay.”

  “Then don’t insult me with ridiculous claims of innocence.” Ralph sat back again, a sneer stamped on his face. “Even here, within these celibate walls, I warrant carnal thoughts are as common as prayer. Men are men, no matter their c
alling.”

  John bit down against a thrust of anger. “Turi will do her no harm, sir. Indeed, I suggest you ask yourself why the lady feels the need to flee. ’Tis you she fears, in truth.”

  Ralph’s eyes narrowed and his face colored. “And with good reason,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Make no mistake, Abbot, I will find her and this… this protector she travels with.” He rose to his feet. “Are they afoot or on horseback?”

  “They are –” The bell tolled once. John frowned, twisted in his seat, and looked at the window. He knew, of course, even before he measured the amount of daylight leaching through the thick glass, that it was yet early. Too early for Vespers. The bell spoke again and, after another slight pause, a third time.

  Then it fell silent.

  “We have lost another,” he murmured, crossing himself as he turned back. “May God rest his soul.”

  “You were saying?” Ralph’s spurs rattled as his feet shifted. “Afoot or on horseback?”

  “Horseback.” John’s gaze drifted to the crucifix.

  “A single horse?”

  “Aye.”

  “What color?”

  “Gray.” His only lie. And it came easily to his lips. “Although I’m not certain that any of this really matters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The bell tolled again. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  “Get used to the sound of death knells, Sir Ralph,” John said, offering the man a grim smile. “I fear you’ll be hearing them a lot more in the future. That is, if anyone is left to ring the bells.”

  *

  Ralph strode from the Bird in Hand inn with a flush of rage warming his face.

  “They were here two days ago.” His head, for some reason, pounded like a battering ram and had done so for the past hour. That, combined with what he had learned moments before, had pushed him well past his flimsy boundaries of patience. He wanted to punch someone. Or better yet, kill someone. He hauled himself into the saddle and snatched up the reins with harsh hands, startling his horse. “They came in from the rain. The innkeeper said he thought they were man and wife, since they shared a room. Christ’s blood, I knew it. The whoreson is bedding her. I swear I’m going to skewer him. Nail him to a tree. Hack his balls off and make him eat them.”