by The Vow
“I know well how to bear his temper, Sir Robert.” She managed a smile. “If I go far from him, it does not bother me.”
Robert laughed at that, and took up the reins to his horse. Chain mail clicked softly, and his sword clattered against the saddle as he mounted. He gave them a salute of farewell, and turned the caravan through the open gates.
It was a bittersweet moment for Ceara, for though she would truly miss Robert, she was glad to see the last of Lady Amélie. She had refused to give Amélie the satisfaction of being the cause of a quarrel between her and Luc, though several times she had come close to losing her temper with them both. Could Luc not see how the lady maneuvered him?
He certainly gave no indication that he did, but neither did he betray any feelings for her. It was a situation that left Ceara uneasy with too many questions and no answers.
Thankfully, other pressing matters distracted her. Soon Lenten season would end, and fields would be planted. It was her duty as chatelaine to bring the castle to its full potential as a working manor.
Luc came to her as Robert and Amélie disappeared from sight into the forest, smiling slightly. “I thought they would never leave.”
She lifted her brows. “Nor I, my lord, but not for the same reason, I think.”
“No doubt.” He caught her by the hand. “Now come. With all their retinue quit of my hall, there should be peaceful corners wherever we look.”
“Have you forgotten the workmen?”
“Nay, sweet lady, but I know their haunts.” Lifting her hand to his lips, Luc held her eyes with a heated gaze that promised pleasure.
Her heart lurched. There was undisguised passion in his eyes that was not diluted with any secret longing for another lady. Could it be that the interest was only on the lady’s side? Common sense bade her think so, but fear that she might lose him intruded at the most awkward times to prick her with doubt. Yet she would not allow him to guess her fears, would not betray the worry that he had wed her when he still loved another.
Ceara did not withdraw her hand from Luc’s clasp, but went with him willingly, forgetting anything but the pressing desire to please him, to please herself, and to taste for a while the sweetness of love. The most pleasurable distraction of all.
Luc’s impatient desire swept her up, and she did not protest when he pulled her into the soft, dark shadows of a hayrick spiced with the musty scent of old hay. Hazy chaff spiraled up when he stretched his length upon a sweet mound and pulled her down with him, his eyes wicked with laughter and hot with need.
“Shall we linger awhile, chérie?”
“Here? Wallowing in a donkey’s breakfast?” She put a hand against his chest, unable to keep a smile from her lips as he took her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm.
“Aye. ’tis a most agreeable place, as the donkeys do not mind and the stable lads are far afield this day.” His mouth moved from her palm to her wrist, pushing aside the long embroidered cuff of her gown. “There is never enough privacy here. While I do not mind others knowing that I enjoy my wife, I do not relish displaying my talents”—he quirked a glance up at her—“or lack of them, to all who care to listen.”
“Talent, my lord?” She swallowed a bubble of laughter. “Do you mean your precocious way with my laces?”
“Among other things.” The tight sleeve of the gunna she wore under her kirtle frustrated him for a moment, and he plucked at it with a frown. “I think I prefer the way you once dressed. I regret discarding your brief garments.”
Ceara watched smiling as he began to untie the laces at her sides, tugging them free with an impatience that betrayed his need. He glanced up at her.
“You could help, my lady.”
“Yea, but then you would have your desire too easily. ’tis my thought that a man should have to work for that which he wants, or he does not fully appreciate it when it is his.”
“You”—he pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder as he pulled aside her kirtle—“are wiser than”—the kirtle slipped over her head and sailed through the air—“any woman I have”—now the gunna slid free, and she lay on the straw cushioned by linen and sweet grass as he moved his hands over her body with a hunger he could not hide—“ever known, ma biche.”
She closed her eyes. A shudder made her flesh quiver as his hot mouth found the spot beneath her ear that drew shivering responses from her. Ma biche … my doe. A tender endearment, as were the others he used. But did he love her? Or did he only love loving her? She wished she knew, wished he would indicate that he thought of her as more than a possession, that he loved her. Ah, God, she knew she loved him, with heart and body and soul, and every breath she took. She kept as tight a rein on it as she could. If he did not love her, she could never admit her feelings for him. It would only put an awkwardness between them, for then he would be compelled to acknowledge his feelings—or lack of them.
No, it was best this way, to lose herself in the passion and not allow emotion to shatter their fragile new contentment. After all, Lady Amélie had not been able to draw Luc away from her, though the lady had certainly tried. He had honor, and he would stay with her even if he did not love her. She would always have that. Perhaps one day he would learn to love her for more than her lands and his vow to the king.
Luc lifted himself to his knees over her, his dark eyes glittering with sharp desire, his mouth taut with need. His sherte and tunic were gone, his bare chest gleaming bronze in the dusty light of the stable as his hands moved to the laces of his linen leggings. Her gaze did not waver; she relished the sight of him, this magnificent man who was her husband, this knight with taut bands of muscle on his chest and belly, and the raging evidence of his desire before her. Ah, he was so fine, so beautiful in his potent masculinity, and she ached with such swelling love for him that she had to close her eyes so he would not see.
Skimming his hands up her bare thighs, Luc parted them with urgent gentleness. His fingers trailed caresses from her knees to the silky mound between her legs, and when her legs began to tremble he caught them up and pulled forward. Startled, her eyes flew open as he held her with her legs draped over his shoulders, his mouth pressing kisses where his hands had just been, his tongue a flame that seared her quivering flesh. She cried out but he held her firm, scraping his morning beard against her tender thighs in an erotic abrasion.
Shocked and at the same time throbbing with need, she drew in breaths of liquid heat that turned her blood to molten fire. Luc’s hands moved to her breasts, caressing her, his thumbs raking over her taut nipples as his tongue darted over that aching center of excitement. She made a fervent sound, incoherent, but he seemed to understand what she wanted when she did not.
Never had she dreamed of such exquisite sensations, and there was something so arousingly dangerous about this, lying naked in the straw with Luc above her, his chest bare and his leggings opened so that his rampant maleness was uncovered in an open display of his desire. Moaning and twisting beneath his tongue and hands, she tried to clutch at the queer singing excitement that coursed through her body but it eluded her. A growing frenzy filled her with increasing anxiety, and then it all exploded into a starburst of fire like a comet trailing sparks. Gasping his name,—curling fists full of straw as she heaved upward, she felt the fierce heat spin through her in a tidal wave of release. It was overpowering, exhausting, and depleted her of strength and thought.
Barely, she was aware of Luc lowering her to the straw and moving over her, his body a hard pressure against her, his lips at her ear as he murmured sweet words. And then he was inside her, his hard body sliding into her with exquisite tremors, thrusting, slowly then more swiftly until the pressure began to build again and she soared to match his thrusts. Her hands moved to hold him, to curve around the taut muscles of his arms as he levered his body over hers to drive powerfully, taking her up and over again—and again, until he collapsed atop her in the straw, damp and exhausted and weak with satisfaction.
It seemed like h
ours before he stirred, moving from between her thighs with a sigh of regret and pushing the damp hair from her eyes so that she opened them and looked up at him. A haze of repletion lit his face and curved his mouth into a smile.
“You content me, ma chérie.”
For now, it was enough.
Chapter Eighteen
LUC, YOU CANNOT do this!”
Ceara stared at him, her lovely face white with anger. A startled page scuttled to duck behind trestle tables stacked against the wall of the hall and avoid being caught in their dispute. April light streamed in through the glazed window high up on the wall, hazy with dust motes. Luc propped his booted foot on the bench between them. His voice was tight.
“I can do it. I will. They were given a choice, Ceara. They have made theirs, now I will make mine.”
“But to destroy homes … crops and livestock—you cannot mean to do that, Luc. Tell me that you will not be so cruel.”
His mouth tightened. Why must she look at him like that? Shadows filled her wide blue eyes like clouds in a summer sky, as if he were some monster dredged up to ravage the land. He struggled for a way to make her understand. It was not his choice. It was Oswald’s. She should see that if he allowed one man to defy him, he would never have control of his lands. He had observed well at William’s side, and seen the effectiveness of his methods. It was cruel, yes, but necessary if Northumbria was ever to be conquered. Half the region now lay smoking and charred, rubble where once new green fields had been, bones where once sheep and cattle had grazed. But the rebel barons were yielding. Without land and food and shelter, they could not offer an organized resistance.
“It is not a matter we can discuss, Ceara,” he said at length. “You will not understand it no matter how many times I tell it. My views have not changed.”
Trembling, her voice was shaky with grief and fury. “If you do this, I swear I will not forgive it.”
He looked at her dispassionately. “Then so be it.”
Ceara gave him a look of utter disbelief, then spun on her heel and fled the hall. Her butter-yellow skirts whirled up around her ankles. Curse her. She should try to understand his position. He had made a stand. If he veered from it, none of his vassals would respect him. Without respect, he would not be able to hold so much as a single hide of land.
A slight, embarrassed cough caught his attention, and he looked around to see Captain Remy standing not far from him. It was obvious Remy had heard their argument, for he could not look directly at his lord.
“The men await, my lord.”
“I will be there anon.” Reaching for his sword, he buckled it around his waist and over his hauberk. His spurs clinked softly as he walked past Remy, his strides long and determined. She may hate him for this, but by God, she was still his wife.
Ceara was not in the solar, nor in the antechamber where he expected to find her, and Luc’s temper was not improved at the prospect of playing the chastened husband seeking out his angry wife. With each empty chamber, his temper grew hotter, so that by the time he found her, his irritation had swelled to anger.
It did not help that she was sitting on a flat stone by the cairn that held her parents’ bodies. Just beyond beneath a tall beech lay the grave of Wulfric, her first husband and boon companion, always a hero in her eyes. But Wulfric was a hero who had lost all, and he did not intend to do the same.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Ceara stared straight ahead and did not even glance at him when he said her name. A breeze lifted a strand of her hair that had come loose from a long blond plait to curl over her shoulder. It was still cool, though April at Wulfridge was warmer, and yet she wore no cloak around her slender shoulders.
“Ceara,” he repeated more forcefully. “You must abide by my commands when I am gone.” No reply. “Antoine le Bec is to be master-of-arms in my absence. His orders are to not allow you to leave Wulfridge for any reason. This means that you must not walk your wolf, nor seek out herbs and roots in the forest, nor visit Sighere. If there is need to leave the castle, send another.”
She turned at last, blue eyes scornful beneath the puckered twist of her brows. “I am not so fragile a flower that I will wilt at the first sign of your anger, my lord.”
“Well I know that. Yet what I command, I do for your best interests. Oswald knows that I would not countenance his defiance long. Now that Lent is ended and Easter past, he will be waiting and watching for my forces. I will have your vow that you will not leave Wulfridge, Ceara.”
“You will have my promise when I have yours that you will not carry out this destruction you have planned.”
He bent and plucked her from her rock, hand curled so tightly around her arm that she flinched. With his other hand, he shoved up her chin so that she had to look into his eyes. “Do not try to lesson me, Ceara. This is not a time for dissension. It is important that you understand. You must not risk being taken hostage.”
“God forbid that you should part with coin for—”
His hand tightened until he could see red marks on the creamy skin of her jaw and cheeks. “It is not the coin I care about. Your life might very well be a prize to some who begrudge me what I have won. Do not think yourself able to elude capture. One mistake might be all it would take to bring down disaster on your head. Now swear to me that you will not leave Wulfridge.”
“What will you do if I do not swear? Slay my wolf as you once threatened to?” Bright tears sparkled in her eyes, but whether from sorrow or rage, he could not tell.
“No. I would never slay your wolf to wring your acquiescence from you.”
“Not true, my lord. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I have not, how you swore to slay Sheba if I did not disrobe for you.”
“I never threatened to slay the beast. No—think back. I said it would be a shame if the wolf were to have to pay for your sins, and so it would have been. But I never meant to harm an innocent beast just to gain your cooperation. It would have been far too easy to disrobe you myself.”
She shook back the loose hair from her eyes and set her jaw in a familiar line of defiance. It had been a while since this obdurate expression had settled on her fair features, and he was sorry to see it now.
But her words belied her expression as she gave a shrug of her shoulders and said, “You do not mind playing me false, I see. Very well. If you must have my vow, I give it to you.”
“The words, Ceara.”
“I swear I will not abandon Wulfridge.”
“No, swear you will not leave the castle.”
“My lord, I must be allowed to go to the stables, or to the storehouse to—”
His grip tightened on her arm. “You must know my meaning. All that is encompassed here within these walls is safe. It is outside the walls that is dangerous. I cannot be distracted with worry for you when I am pursuing rebel barons on their own ground, so you had best swear to me now before I am tempted to leave you in chains.”
Her gaze lowered and he tried not to notice the slight quiver of her lips. A pulse beat madly in her throat, and her skin was ashen. After a moment she looked up at him again.
“I vow to remain here, my lord, as you command.”
He studied her. She did not look away, but gazed at him steadily, pale but defiant. Uncertain, he tried to judge her temper. Did he dare trust her? Jésu, he wasn’t even certain she was honest with him about her lack of French—would she keep her sworn word? Reluctantly, he released her arm and nodded.
“It is for the best, Ceara.”
“Yea, lord, if you say it, it must be true.”
Irritated, he started to turn and walk away, but halted and reached for her. Jerking her into his arms, he held her hard against him and kissed her fiercely. He kissed her until her lips parted, and he felt her stiffened spine relax beneath his hands. Releasing her, he cupped her face in his palms to gaze down at her.
“I will keep you safe if you allow it, chérie.”
Bright tears spangled her curved lashes, and she
curled her fingers around his wrist and sighed. “Keep yourself safe, Luc. For me.”
“Yea, fair lady, for you I will return.” The smile on her lips was a little wobbly, and he brushed away a dewy tear from her cheek with his thumb. It was enough that she knew he wanted only to protect her from those who may cause her harm. He kissed her again, gently this time, a light brush of his lips against her mouth, then left her there in the grove of young trees that guarded the burial cairn.
Remy and the mounted soldiers were waiting. Paul held Drago on a tight rein, as the destrier had already worked into a lather, with steam rising from his heated hide. Frost clouds blew from scarlet nostrils, and tack chains rattled as the animal shook its massive head.
Luc mounted, and they rode from Wulfridge with his banner raised, the standard-bearer riding close by. The weak April sun glinted on frosted grass at the roadside. Wind blew sea waves into frothy lace caps on the surface of the inlet and bent long supple reeds as they headed for Rothbury.
It was a grim business, and not one he liked, but it must be done. Oswald must yield.
They followed the Coquet River until they reached the priory at Brinkburn, and rested there before moving on. The weather held, though it shifted to a slight drizzle that wet the roads. Night was cold, but not freezing, and did not disturb the sleep of soldiers used to harsh marching conditions.
On the second day they arrived at the edge of Rothbury Forest. It was a thick wood, studded with crags and streams swollen by the runoff of spring thaw. The river was too swift to ford under cover of darkness, but no doubt Oswald had already heard of their approach.
Luc was right in that assumption, and when they reached the fortress high atop an earthen mound, it was shut up tight against them, gates locked and manned with archers and spearmen posted along the walls. Luc sent a messenger with an offer of clemency for all save Oswald if the stronghold was yielded to him. The reply was a volley of arrows and defiant yells, as he had anticipated.