by Karin Tabke
“Shush, girl,” Alewith admonished. He raised pleading gray eyes to Wulfson. “My pardon, my daughter forgets herself.”
Wulfson shrugged, and realized the girl was younger than he first suspected. And while some men might have no qualms about sharing a pallet with a child, he was not among them.
Once he set the girl aside, the noble faced him fully. Wulfson watched him muster his nerve. “I am afraid I cannot accept your response. Tarian belongs with her family. I insist you allow her to return with me.”
Wulfson swept past him to sit at the lord’s table. “I have a great hunger this morn, Lord Alewith.” Wulfson swept his hand to encompass his men, who sat with him at the high lord’s table. “Please, sit and sup, so that we can discuss the matter of your former ward.”
Alewith turned a jaundiced eye upon Wulfson, then upon Rangor, who nodded. Brighid was seated alongside Rhys, her father and uncle flanking her other side.
As the meal was laid out with haste, Wulfson nodded, and speared a chunk of coddled egg from a bowl with his table knife. As he was about to take a bite, a loud cough from the table below the lord’s table halted him. He lowered a stare to Father Dudley, a most annoying man who reminded him of a terrier, constantly yapping at his heels. He had made repeated pleas for the release of Lady Tarian; Wulfson turned a deaf ear to the man each time.
Wulfson lowered his knife and his head, though he was still able to watch all that transpired before him in the room. He smiled to himself and saw that the Blood Swords did the same. Once the prayer was said, the men dug in with gusto. As he slowly chewed, Wulfson watched his guests from beneath lowered lids. He washed the egg down with a goblet of milk and asked, “How is it, my lord, that you and Rangor appear to be the epitome of health, when most of England’s nobility fell at Hastings, and its survivors still show the ravaged signs of war?”
Alewith choked on the piece of meat he had just swallowed. He sputtered as his daughter pounded him on the back. He raised a hand to stay her assault while he collected his breath. Wulfson noted once again the richness of his garments and the rings he wore. While he was not overdressed in the way Rangor seemed to enjoy, the noble wore just enough not to be called a popinjay. The man’s dark gray eyes held shrewd experience behind them, and he was, Wulfson decided, more dangerous than Lerwick, who wore his emotions on his tunic sleeve like a woman.
The latter scowled but did not reply, waiting instead for Alewith to take the bait. Which he promptly did. Sitting up straight, the Saxon smiled sourly. “Sir Wulfson, I can assure you that I fought as hard and as long as my fallen countrymen. That I escaped death is a testament not only to my own skill with an ax and sword but to the loyalty of the men surrounding me; but if you must know the absolute truth, the young lady who I have come to take home had my back throughout the day. A more fearsome warrior I could not ask for.”
Wulfson scoffed and was glad he had not taken a bite of the braised meat on his knife tip. His men chortled. “Do you mean to say, Saxon, that that scrap of a woman we found on her deathbed in the bowels of this hovel held a sword against William at Hastings?” Rorick incredulously asked.
“And before that, Stamford Bridge!” Brighid sparked, coming to her feet. Alewith tossed an indulgent smile at the girl, but quickly pulled her back to her sitting position before shooting her a warning glare.
Wulfson grinned and rubbed his chest. “She no doubt met up with those cowardly Bretons! An old woman with a raised broom could have shooed them off.” The men from Brittany had returned home in disgrace for their cowardice on the battlefield.
Alewith smiled and nodded. He looked like the fox that had just raided the henhouse. “Since I know not if we are to become friend or foe, I will refrain from extolling my ward’s prowess with not only a longbow but her own good sword.”
Wulfson snorted and bit off another hunk of meat and chewed. He glanced across the table to his men, who all sported the same mocking gloat he felt. “’Twould explain why Harold ultimately fell.”
Alewith stiffened and leaned across his daughter to speak directly at Wulfson. “He was a mighty warrior and the favorite of the people. He was a man all of England respected.”
Wulfson stood, drawing one of the swords from his double back scabbard with both hands. He raised it high amongst the screams of the women and the cold stares of the men, then hurled it across the room, where it landed with a sharp thunk in the wood support beam behind the sapphire-and-gold dragon standard hanging above the great hearth. The velocity of the impact tore the fabric in half. “Harold is dead, and William is king!” Wulfson stormed. “I will hear no more mewling about what a noble man your usurper was. I was there when he swore to my king he would uphold Edward’s oath to William for the throne of England. He broke his oath, and any man, great earl or not, who breaks his oath is no man in my eyes!”
“Wouldst you not make an oath if a sword were pressed firmly to your throat as well as those of your brother and nephew?” a husky female voice said from behind him. The hall went tomb silent, and the hair on the back of Wulfson’s neck rose. So did his cock.
“Tarian!” Brighid cried, but her father grabbed her arm before the girl could run to the woman who, Wulfson knew at that moment, was going to test his mettle as it had never been tested before.
Slowly he turned, as did all the Blood Swords. When he faced her, the sharp intake of breath from his men whisked past him, and even that of her guardian, but loudest was the strangled cry that came from Rangor. The sound was a mixture of admiration, dread, and unrequited lust.
Wulfson’s glare caught hers across the room, and for one brief space of time, his heart did not beat.
She was, in a single word—enchanting. Like no other woman he had ever laid eyes upon. And, he noted with a dry smile, not dressed as a young widow should be. Her long ebony hair hung in thick, rippled waves around her shoulders and down to her softly flared hips. Blue, crimson, and yellow ribbons were braided into two long strands that ran down the side of her face. And Jesu, what a visage. Finely arched brows framed brilliant sapphire-colored eyes that at the moment snapped with irritation, and, he realized, with a passion few men could match. His cock flexed. Her nose was smallish and pert. Her wine-colored lips were full, the top one reminiscent of a cupid’s bow, the bottom, even tight as it was now, pouty.
His eyes dropped. She wore a rich embroidered blue woolen and linen kirtle over a soft sea-green undertunic. The bodice was laced tight, the fabric taut across full round breasts. Around her slender waist hung a thick embroidered leather belt, from which hung a sheathed broadsword. Thick gold and silver bracelets encircled her arms, from her wrists to just below the elbow. While they were ornate, they were also thick, and, he suspected, a worthy shield to the delicate skin beneath. Her left hand fondled the leather-wrapped hilt of her weapon, which he could tell even at the distance between them was a prime piece of weaponry. The Saxons were renowned armorers.
Wulfson smiled leisurely, his blood coursing wildly through his veins. The familiar excitement swirled in his belly, much as it did when he faced the enemy. He longed to see just how expert a swordswoman she was before he spread her on the nearest pallet. But he checked the urge. Not only was she a noblewoman, but she was a marked one.
His eyes moved past her to Gareth and Thorin, who stood behind her, both watching him closely. Wulfson’s smile widened. The fortnight-long wait had been worth this magnificent sight.
He bowed, and said softly, “An oath is an oath, Lady Tarian.”
She smiled and curtsyed. “I will remember that well, my lord knight.” She looked past him; to Rangor, he was sure. “Would you give your oath to see my home rid of the scourge that would have me rest so soon beside my dearly departed husband?”
Wulfson stepped forward, and as he came closer to her, his eyes traversed her face and form. His body warmed more the closer he came to her, and a sudden sense of familiarity stung him. He halted next to her and cocked his head, his eyes taking in every aspec
t of her. Even her voice sounded familiar. He smiled slowly, and watched a soft flush of pink tinge her cheeks.
Making a short bow, Wulfson huskily introduced himself. “I am Wulfson of Trevelyn.”
She made a shallow curtsy. Wry amusement twisted her full lips. “I am Lady Tarian of Dunloc.”
“So I have heard.” He stood staring down at her, unable to comprehend her beauty and the air of sensuality that was as much a part of her as those remarkable eyes. “My lady?” He extended his arm as a noble would to his lady. Tarian’s eyes narrowed, but she reached out and placed a firm hand on his arm. He drew her around and as they walked to the lord’s table, Wulfson asked, “Now, tell me, of which scourge do you speak?”
As he set her down in the space beside him, Tarian forced back a shiver. The potion had been potent, but he suspected. She saw the spark of recognition in his deep green eyes. Panic sprang up out of nowhere, seizing her belly and twisting it. But she calmed herself and played it out. What panicked her more was her unexpected reaction to him, so strong in the light of day. Her body warmed the instant he turned those brilliant eyes of his upon her, and the way he raked her with those eyes made her feel as if she stood naked before him. She knew well what crossed his mind. Her cheeks warmed again. The same thought crossed hers. She’d held her breath, watching him closely for the slightest sign of recognition of her, and when she heard his question she held her breath again. He seemed, though, to second-guess himself. Which was well. She could not afford for him to rethink.
“Why, sir knight, you of all people should know of whom I speak,” Tarian said sweetly.
Wulfson grinned; his teeth were white and straight. “Let us see how the day plays out before I give my oath.”
The knight took the seat beside her, and as he reached for his table knife he paused and looked at her through surprised eyes. His nostrils flared, and for a moment she thought he had caught her perfume. But she had prepared well. Last night’s rose scent was not her usual, the honey-violet scent she wore now. She prayed he would not recognize her.
She raised a brow. “Sir? Do you sniff your prey like a wolf before you slay it?” The low noise at the table quieted at her words. Tarian stared up at him, her look fierce. “I would know now your plans for me.”
Wulfson grabbed his knife from the table where it stuck in the wood. He brought it close to his chest and turned the sharpened tip toward her. Her breath caught in her throat but she did not dare move. In a light caress, he placed the flat side of the tip to the bend of her jaw; then slowly he drew the blade down to her throat and lower still to the full swell of her breasts. Tarian sat rigid, yet oddly warm. Did he mean to do the deed here? Now? Gareth might die trying to save her, but her captain and her men, who had all turned at her entrance, were seasoned warriors and well weaponed. More than her head alone would roll if she were murdered. Would the Norman sacrifice a few of his men to do the deed now, in public, when he could bide his time and spare the lives of many?
She breathed in a deep breath; the blade pinched her soft skin. Her gaze caught his, and she was not sure what she read in those emerald depths. Fire, to be sure, but was it the fire of the chase, the anticipation of total domination over one’s prey? Or was there more to it then that? For he was a hunter of the most violent kind, and she knew all too well that his passion was as fierce as his fighting skills—for which he and his men were renowned.
Long seconds dragged out; she did not so much as flinch. Instead, she pressed herself into the blade. “If you have come to see me planted beside my husband, do it now and save us all the anxiety of the hunt.”
His lips quirked. “You do me grave injustice, Lady Tarian.”
She cocked a brow in question.
“You have given up the chase before it has really begun. I would think a warrior of your ilk would be champing at the bit to prove herself.”
Tarian smiled, and pressed her hand to his thigh. He hissed in a breath. “Oh, but sir knight, that is where you are most incorrect. I have been engaged since the day I was born.”
His eyes narrowed as if mayhap he realized he was not the one in control. She took advantage, and pressed more firmly against the blade tip.
Though his hand held steady, moving neither forward nor away from her, when the tip broke the sensitive skin on the swell of her breast from the pressure she exerted, Lord Alewith slammed his fists down on the trestle top. “Enough! Do not harm her! She is my ward and I would see her safely back to Turnsly.”
Wulfson looked past Tarian to the man who had raised her. She slid her hand down his forearm to rest upon his fist that held the knife. It was the same knife he had pressed to her throat last night. Wulfson’s nostrils flared, and the entire hall watched with bated breath his next move. She felt more than saw Gareth off to her right, and she knew that unless she gave him the signal he would not impede her strategy. He had learned many years ago that what might look like a foolish deed was often well planned, and the wiles of a woman could do more damage to an unsuspecting foe than any blade.
But Sir Wulfson of Trevelyn was not any such man. His eyes caught hers, and he cocked a dark brow. In her gut, she knew he was there to dispose of her; why, exactly, she was not sure, but if she gave him the lead he would take full advantage of it. “I am lady here, and as such I have the right to know what business your king has with Dunloc.”
“I am here to see to your welfare—among other things.”
She moved away from him and turned back to the trencher she was to share with him. “I am well, as you can see. Please leave, and take that scourge Rangor with you.”
Wulfson shook his head and stabbed a chunk of meat from the bowl of pottage. As he chewed, he looked at her, his eyes ravishing every inch of her. He was beyond bold. His arrogance was unsurpassed, and when she looked up and down the trestle top she recognized he was but the twin image of his men. She nearly snorted in contempt, and felt disgraced that she had sought a Norman’s bed. Despite her impression of him in the light of day, she had relished him last eve. When she had slipped from the bed, she felt a sense of loss she could not put a name to. When she made it back to her room, Edith sat in her chair with her distaff in her hands, a pile of wool in her lap and a knowing smile lighting up her face.
Tarian awakened several times in the night to the illusion of hot lips and strong hands stroking her body. Frustrated by her passion for the Norman, she admitted she wanted to experience it again. For it had been nothing like any encounter in her life. Yet she felt that there was more to it. Her body ached and she knew not how to ease it. Instinctively, she knew the answer to lie with the knight down the hall. Each time she flung the covers from her and sat up in the bed, her pulse racing and her breaths heavy, Edith looked on, that smug smile still plastered across her face. Tarian threw her pillows at the old woman and commanded her to cease looking and see to her pallet.
This morn, she could not look her nurse in the eye, and dressed with amazing speed, nearly bolting from the room into Gareth’s chest.
Her body warmed. And despite her frustration, she cast the dark knight a sideways glare from beneath her lashes, and could not deny that he was a most remarkable specimen of a man.
Eight
Her earlier hunger was overrun with anxiety and excitement, and Tarian only picked at her meal. The Normans devoured every morsel in sight. Whilst they dined, Tarian decided to leave the argument that was to come, to after the breaking of the fast. She wanted to be mobile, not seated between two hulking Normans with her men out of reach. She would plead her case and see to it that Rangor and Alewith returned to their respective manors.
She was not a woman who needed a man’s protection, not even from these Normans.
“How came you to learn our tongue?” Tarian casually asked Wulfson.
“My mother was Saxon. I spent time in Dover with her brother as a young lad.”
“Why not with your dam?”
Wulfson scowled a warning. Tarian immediately understood
and retreated. Byblow that she was herself, she could well understand a mother’s scorn for an unholy child.
“Are you with child?” Rangor blurted out from down the table. Tarian stiffened, as did the knights flanking her.
Heat rose in Tarian’s cheeks. Heat not of embarrassment, but of indignation. He had no right to ask her such a question. But when she looked to Alewith for support, she saw only quiet questioning in his eyes. She swallowed the lump of bread she had just chewed and straightened.
“Time will tell.”
Rangor stood and turned to peer down the trestle top to her. “If there is no heir, then you have no claim here.”
More than irritated at his relentless demands, Tarian stood as well. She would put his incessant claims to rest once and for all. “I have claim here because Malcor gave me all in his will.”
“A fraudulent document, no doubt! He would never leave his estates to a woman!”
“Where is the document, Lady Tarian?” Wulfson asked as he too stood.
She looked up at him and glared. “In a safe place where no devious hands can touch it.”
Wulfson nodded, but pressed. “I would see it.”
Tarian cocked a brow. “You can read?”
Wulfson nodded. “Well enough.” He returned a cocked brow. “And you?”
“Better than well. ’Twas the only way the monks at Turns Abbey could keep me from causing more disturbances.”
Satisfied with her answer, Wulfson looked past her to Rangor. “The document will be produced and examined for its validity. My decision will be final.”
Rangor came around from the men and approached, a long sniveling sneer twisting his thin lips. “Even if the document proves authentic, if there is no heir, by our law she must relinquish the earldom, and the lands and title that go with it, to the next living male in the line. I am that male. The only one.”
Alewith stood as well, and moved around to stand beside Tarian. He took her cold hands into his. Before he could utter a word, Rangor strode closer demanding, “It has been a month since Malcor’s death. Have you missed your courses?”