Table of Contents
Excerpt
Lady of Steel
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
A word from the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
His expression softened.
His dark eyes again flared with violent emotion. “You forget. I knew Mortimer. He tried more than once to kill me. I have no sympathy for him. None at all.”
She let out her breath. Perhaps now they could begin again, and he would stop playing this game of cat and mouse with her. She nodded. “I’m very grateful you understand. I’d worried you might have heard tales of me, stories meant to portray me as wicked and manipulative.”
He watched her intently. “Aye, I have heard tales. ’Tis good you saw fit to reassure me. Perhaps now, perhaps we can…” He let his words trail off and the atmosphere between them shifted. His dark eyes no longer seemed stern and implacable, but smoldered with frank sexual desire. The tension between them changed, erupting with blazing arousal.
Fire started in her loins and spread outward, making her skin ache for his touch. She tilted her head, awaiting his kiss.
He hesitated, as if even now he feared to take this final step and give into what his body obviously desired. Observing his forbearance, she thought for the dozenth time of how different he was from Mortimer. Mortimer had been a slave to his emotions. This man sought control at all times.
But at last he brought his lips to hers. The blaze took them both.
Lady of Steel
by
Mary Gillgannon
Medieval Ladies Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Lady of Steel
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Mary Gillgannon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1833-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1834-9
Medieval Ladies Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my beloved knight and hero, Patrick.
Chapter One
Valmar Castle, May, 1189
“Useless slut! When the squire comes to this chamber, you will lie there willingly while he does his business. You will do as I bid, or I will beat you senseless.” Walter Mortimer’s handsome features twisted in a grotesque mockery of a smile. “I would have liked to send you a peasant from the fields. But I had trouble finding one with your devil-black hair. The babe must look like you lest anyone guess the truth.”
“Hah!” Nicola matched her husband’s arrogant tone. “Think you that no one at Valmar knows what you are? That you prefer young boys to women?”
The blow came so quickly she didn’t have a chance to turn her head. She staggered, hand pressed to her bleeding mouth.
“Aye, they know what I am,” Mortimer said, softly. “I am their lord. And the child you give birth to will be my heir. If the matter is spoken of otherwise, I will accuse you of adultery and have you beaten to death.” He put his face close to hers. “Remember that, bitch. Remember to be convincing.”
Nicola struggled to take a breath. It wasn’t fear that choked her but rage. How had she come to be married to this man, this monster? She’d been raised an heiress, coddled and loved. But when her father died, her life abruptly changed. She was made a ward of the king, and the rich lands to which she was heir became the means for King Richard to raise money for his Crusade. He’d wasted no time in offering her and her dowry to the most ruthless lords in the land.
She’d feared to be wed to a man who was old, crude, or ill-visaged. It had been a relief when she first glimpsed Mortimer. With his fair hair and fine features, she’d thought him as comely as an angel. What a jest! A demon was more like it. She had been too naive to understand his hostility at first, too stupid to guess that he did not respond to her attempts to please him, not because he disliked her, but because he disliked all women.
As if guessing her thoughts, Mortimer smiled. He touched her face. “A pity your charms are wasted on me. The serving women tell me you are fair, but all I see is your witch’s black hair and icy eyes.” His hand fell away and his gaze moved downward. “They also say you are too narrow-hipped to give birth easily. I pray they are wrong. Should you die in childbirth, your dower lands will revert to the king. Damn Richard, he’s such a greedy bastard, he’d probably make me pay for them a second time.” Mortimer started for the door. “You will obey me in this, Nicola, or I will make you very sorry.”
As the door slammed shut, Nicola released a pent-up breath. She wanted to pray, but she dare not. Her thoughts were too vengeful and wicked. She wished Mortimer would trip on the tower stairs and break his neck. That he would die in battle and his slayer cut out his heart and feed it to a dog!
She went to the window and stared out at the fields beyond the castle. Hatred had kept her alive these past weeks. It allowed her to endure the despair of being locked in her bedchamber and subject to her husband’s mocking taunts. Now she must survive another humiliation. To lie willingly while a man chosen by Mortimer mounted her and spilled his seed inside her body.
Somehow, she would do it. She would not allow herself to be crushed beneath Walter Mortimer’s boots. She would survive and find a way to defeat him.
****
Fawkes reached the top of the stairs and hesitated before the wooden door. Inside was a lady, his lord’s wife. The thought made him taut with nerves. What would the woman think of him? Would she shrink in revulsion? Although scrubbed as clean as lye soap and water could make him, he still looked like a common soldier.
“Would that I was young and virile myself, that I might have this plum of a task,” the sergeant had told him, his grizzled face split with a grin. “A right honor it is.”
For certes it was. But why had Lord Mortimer chosen him? Fawkes could not help thinking of his old nurse’s words. If you fancy that something sounds too good to be true, ’tis probably so.
Too late. He had already agreed. Had he a choice? Even couched in fine words, an order was an order.
He looked down at his p
lain leather boots as his stomach fluttered. What if she laughed at him? Jesu, you can’t think like that. ’Tis not the woman who will unman you, but your own thoughts.
What did she look like? He’d never seen Lady Mortimer, but in the few weeks he’d been in the garrison, he’d learned she was a great heiress. A woman who brought as her dowry the castles of Valmar and Mordeaux scarce needed to be comely.
What if her limbs were misshapen or she smelled foul?
He could close his eyes and hold his breath. His shaft had never before failed to rise when presented with a willing woman.
But was she willing? He took a breath, trying to calm himself. If he didn’t master his fears, he would never earn his spurs as a knight. He must have courage. A mere woman was nothing to a warrior.
He rapped sharply on the door. There was a sound, but he couldn’t tell if she bid him enter. He shoved the door open. The one window was shuttered, sealing out all but a tiny sliver of the afternoon sunlight. He made his way to the bed. “Lady?”
He could smell her rich perfume. Never had he bedded a woman like this, pampered and refined. For a short while, she would be his. He would not think about why. He shucked his clothing. The ropes supporting the bed groaned as he climbed in. He reached out and felt warm, smooth skin. Her shoulder was silk, her arm lithe and gracefully shaped. With cautious fingers, he groped upward and grasped a thick braid.
“By the saints!” Her voice was a taut whisper. “Will you get on with it!”
He went rigid. She clearly dreaded what was to come. Disappointment shafted through him. Very well. He would do his duty. Then he would leave.
He released her hair and moved his hand lower. The feel of a lush, pliant breast made his breathing quicken. He caressed her nipple.
“Don’t,” she murmured. When he ignored her, she tensed as if she would push him away. But then she arched upward and the nipple he was fondling peaked tight and firm against his fingers.
He was intrigued by this woman. Her scent. Her sleek body and rose-petal soft skin. His cock was aching hard, but there was so much yet to explore. He touched her face. Fine features. Delicate bones. He wondered what color her eyes were. He had to know. Had to see her.
Rising from the bed, he went to the window. “Nay!” she cried as he threw open the shutter.
He turned. “Why not?”
“’Tis a business best accomplished in darkness!”
“I wish to see you.”
“Well, I wish otherwise!” Her voice echoed sullenly.
He approached the bed and the breath seemed to leave his body. She was a soldier’s wet-dream. Hair like black silk. Skin like fresh cream. Her face a perfect oval with wide-set gray eyes and a rosebud mouth. The thin linen chemise revealed a body as finely made and lovely as he had imagined.
She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at him. “There will be no kissing. And no more touching except as required. You will not dally. You will not gainsay me or give me orders.”
It took a moment, but he finally found his voice. “My name is Fawkes de Cressy. Your husband bid me get you with child. He didn’t explain the details. “
“I won’t lay silent while you handle me as if I am a mare to be gentled! I’m a lady and mistress of Valmar!”
He went to the bed. Leaning near, he touched her cheek. “So you are. I have not forgotten.” He climbed onto the bed and brought his mouth to hers.
****
His mouth felt hot and wet. His kisses made her gasp, and when she parted her lips he thrust his tongue inside, like a sweet, spiced plum. Nicola went rigid at the invasion, but a moment later her body filled with aching heat.
She wanted to fight him, but oh! His tongue moved in a tantalizing rhythm, mimicking what was to come. He grasped her braid and worked it loose, then smoothed the strands over her body. His strong, callused fingers cupped one of her breasts, playing expertly with her nipple. She fought back a moan. He moved his mouth to where his hand had been, suckling. Gentle at first and then more roughly. A ripple of sensation spread through her body and struck lightning between her thighs. Her hips arched upwards, wanting, wanting.
His fingers slid down her belly and teased the soft hair of her mound before moving lower. He explored her as if he was a blind man memorizing her flesh. His fingers discovered that secret place she hardly understood herself, possessed of mysterious folds and contours and a damp slit between that grew wetter still when touched.
He opened her like unfurling the petals of a flower and dipped one finger in the center of the blossom. Her body clenched and tightened, then melted to allow him entrance. He left his finger inside her, pressing slightly upward, and kissed her again. Pressure built, turned to ache, then undeniable need. She arched her hips seeking something more. He moved his hand to her cleft and struck sparks when his fingers reached a spot hidden deep. She burst into flame and a wild cry echoed in her ears—her own voice.
He adjusted his body over hers and she felt something different. Something bigger than a finger. His shaft. He brushed her belly with it and traced a path downward, stroking softly. As if she had no control, her body opened. Her legs splayed wide. Hips lifted. Without thought, her body sought his.
A stinging thrust of pressure. Followed by a startling moment of pain. She clutched his shoulders and clawed him with her nails. But the time for turning back was over. He was almost inside her. She panted, undone by the sense of being torn apart.
“Shhhh. I didn’t know you were a virgin. I’ll take it slow.”
He moved his hand between them, to where taut skin stretched around solid flesh. Expert fingers stroked, coaxed, soothed. Her body responded, appeased into surrender. More pressure and he was inside her.
Pain, but it subsided. He began to move and the wrenching ache returned. She let out a cry. He responded by kissing her. First her lips, then nibbling her neck and ears. Gradually she relaxed.
He moved again. She tensed at each thrust. He halted and once again slid his fingers between them, searching for some precise hidden spot. He found it and like a door opened by a key, her body yielded and caught fire. Fierce sensation coursed through her. Her hips locked with his, drawing him deeper as she strained for some elusive, desperate satisfaction. Finding it, she bucked upwards and keened wildly. The fire inside her exploded and drenched them both.
For a moment, she was senseless, blinded and deafened by waves of pleasure. Then the room tilted back into place again, and she became aware of a pounding that was not the blood throbbing in her ears.
She could not heed it, so disoriented she was. He shook her gently and whispered, “Answer. I dare not.”
Weakly, she called, “Who is it?”
“Walter, your husband.”
Fawkes jerked away and started to get up from the bed. She grabbed his arm. “Nay, don’t let him in!”
He gave her a desperate look. “I must. He is my lord.”
Nicola watched helplessly as Fawkes got out of bed, pulled up his chausses and rearranged the rest of his clothing. He went to the door and opened it. “Milord?”
“You must be the boy Warmond found.” Mortimer thrust his bulk through the doorway, forcing Fawkes aside. “I came to see how my wife fared. From the caterwauling, I feared you did not do right by her.” He looked toward the bed, the familiar sneering expression distorting his features. “I see I was mistaken. She looks well enough.”
“My lord, I—” Fawkes said.
Mortimer silenced him with a shake of his head. “Nay, do not explain. The truth is obvious. In the right hands, my wife is clearly a lusty creature, a veritable bitch in heat.”
Fawkes stared at Mortimer in stunned silence. Nicola tightened the blanket she held around her body. “We were attempting to do as you bid, milord.” She fixed him with an icy look. “To beget an heir to secure your lands.”
Mortimer smirked at Fawkes. “Did you plant your crop well?”
Fawkes looked stricken. Nicola answered quickly. “Aye, milor
d. We are finished.”
Fawkes finally found his voice. “Mayhaps we should let the lady rest, milord. I’ve heard the seed takes better if the woman lies down after.”
“I was told you were a good soldier.” Mortimer’s tone was deep and mocking. “One who would do his duty well. Warmond’s faith in you was not misplaced.”
Mortimer approached the bed, and Nicola held her breath. “I can’t imagine how you managed it. Do you not find her overly pale? And that ugly black hair…” He glanced at Fawkes and laughed. “Of course. Yours is the same, so you would not notice.” Mortimer turned back to Nicola. “I feel nothing for my wife, of a certes. All I’ve had of her these weeks since we’ve wed is her sharp tongue and peevish temper.”
“My lord, I…” Fawkes took a step forward.
Mortimer turned. “My lord…what?”
Nicola felt a wave of pity for Fawkes. She sensed the battle going on inside him. A less controlled man might have struck out, but Fawkes merely went rigid and looked as if he might choke.
Mortimer smiled. “That’s right, boy. I am your lord, and it’s me you obey, not your randy loins or”—he jerked his head toward Nicola—“this cunning slut.” He looked back at Fawkes. “You have spilled your seed, but it will be weeks before we know if it takes. In the meantime, I go to London and you go with me.”
Fawkes’s eyes widened. He shot Nicola a startled look. She wanted to say something, to bid him farewell. But she dare not. If she showed him a hint of warmth, she would seal his doom. As it was, she feared Mortimer meant to be rid of him as soon as possible.
Fawkes hesitated a second, then awkwardly bowed. “My lady.” He turned and went out the door.
Nicola’s heart jumped into her throat. While Fawkes was in the room, she’d some hope Mortimer would not abuse her. Now, he was gone, and she was alone with her husband. Although she’d vowed never to let him see her fear, it grew more and more difficult to conceal her dread. The memory of the pain he’d already inflicted made her stomach lurch.
Mortimer gazed after Fawkes for a moment before turning back to her. A slight smile touched his features. “All that youthful lust wasted on a whey-faced bitch like you.” He grabbed her chemise. Nicola struggled to jerk away, but he pinned her against the bed with his body.
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