* * * *
Berwick Castle, three days later
Nicholas and Rolf both heard the soft whimper and were instantly awake. Immediately they raised themselves up onto their elbows and looked down at the woman lying between them on the bed. She was thrashing about, obviously in the throes of a nightmare. Both men reached out simultaneously, their fingers meeting, touching as they brushed gently across her cheek. Inexplicably, Rolf began singing, his deep voice soft and tuneful as the Danish words fell, lilting, from his tongue. It was a lullaby, normally sung to soothe a fretful infant. This woman was no infant, yet the tune had the desired effect. She stilled immediately, her breathing once again becoming slow and steady.
Gray eyes met blue above her sleeping figure. “She calls to you,” Nicholas observed softly, “as she does to me.”
“Aye,” Rolf admitted , looking down at her, his expression tender. “I cannot deny it.” His gaze lifted. “But thou cannot be thinking what I think thou art thinking.”
Nicholas eyed him curiously. “We’ve shared women before.”
“Oh, aye!” Rolf’s tone was indignant. “Whores! Harlots! Women of easy virtue whose sole purpose is to pleasure men.” Looking down, he feathered the backs of his fingers over the gentle curve of her cheek. “Not someone like this,” his voice softened, “someone so slight and delicate, so…” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “She has been ill-used by a brute of a man. Surely thou cannot be suggesting—what art thou suggesting, exactly?”
Nicholas shrugged. “I know not. All I know is for nigh onto four years I have been seeing her, touching her—”
Rolf’s head snapped up, his sandy brows knitting into a frown. “How is that possible? She is a stranger to us.”
“It has happened in my dreams, these four years past.” He lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “’Tis the same night after night. I enter an unknown chamber. ’Tis dark, and yet I know she’s there, waiting for me. Her body is eager and warm, and welcomes my cock as I sink into her. And for the past several months…” He paused, pinning the other man with his gaze. “You have been there also, watching us from the shadows.”
Clearly startled, Rolf simply stared at Nicholas for a long moment, before looking back down at the young woman sleeping peacefully between them, blissfully unaware of the turmoil of his thoughts. “Thou art not alone,” he admitted in a voice so low Nicholas wasn’t certain he’d even spoken. “I, too, have been having strange dreams in the night. Of a green-eyed goddess with hair the color of burnished copper, opening her arms and welcoming both of us to her bed.” He lifted his gaze to Nick’s once more. “What dost thou think it means?”
Nicholas shook his head. “I know not.”
Once more his eyes met Rolf’s over her sleeping form. Then, with a deep sigh of contentment, Nicholas turned her unresisting body to face him and pulled her into his embrace, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder. Rolf settled in behind her, draping his arm over her waist as he pulled her hips back against his groin. As she snuggled her buttocks against his erection, he let out a low groan.
For four days and nights he and Nicholas had been faithfully tending to her, leaving her side only long enough to eat, work out with their broadswords, bathe, and use the chamber pot.
For most of that time she had been delirious with fever. Twice, fearing she was close to death, Nicholas had called for cold-water baths. He had sat, immersed in the large copper tub, holding her on his lap, while Rolf sponged the icy liquid repeatedly over her face, her arms, down her back, across her breasts and belly, all in a desperate attempt to cool her fiery body. As he had bathed her, Rolf had prayed to all the gods in Valhalla to spare her life.
Nicholas had emerged from these frigid baths shivering from head to toe, his lips and skin tinged blue. Yet, despite the glacial effects of the water on the rest of his body, his cock had remained so hard he feared it would snap off.
She had emerged from these baths only marginally cooler. But it was thanks to these baths and to Sir Richard’s bitter brew of willow bark and herbs boiled in water, which they had continually forced down her throat one dripping spoonful at a time that her fever had finally broken, just a few hours ago.
After Ellen had sponge-bathed her and Mary had changed the sweat-soaked sheets, the unknown woman had fallen into a deep, boneless sleep. Until this nightmare, that is. Nicholas lifted his hand to touch her forehead—cool and dry, praise God.
Four days she had been there. Four days she had been healing. Her cuts and gashes had scabbed over. Her eyes were no longer swollen completely shut and her bruises had begun to develop areas of green and yellow, a sure sign of improvement. Even the bruises on her neck were beginning to lighten in color, although it was entirely possible that a faint shadow might always stain her skin there, a grim vestige of an ordeal that would most likely haunt her for the rest of her life.
Yes, outwardly she was improving. But inwardly, that was another matter altogether. And it was something Nicholas had never even considered, until that morning, when Sir Richard had taken him aside and sat him down for a heart-to-heart talk.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Grace,” he had begun gently. “But I’ve seen the way you look at her—you and Rolf both.” He jerked his head toward the Dane. “I’ve seen the hunger in your eyes.” He grinned. “Believe me, I remember what it’s like to be in love. I know she appeals to all your protective instincts. Bloody hell, she appeals to my protective instincts. But you must not become attached to this girl. The man who beat her so badly was most likely her father or her husband. Either way, he’ll expect you to hand her over.”
“Nay,” Nicholas had countered stubbornly, “that will ensure her certain death. She must remain here at Berwick, where she’ll be safe.”
“To do what?” the portly man countered. “To warm your bed at night? To be a bed mate for the two of you? She’s not one of your trollops, Your Grace.”
Nicholas flinched. He’d not thought that far ahead.
“Keeping her here will only bring dishonor and destruction down on the house of Herron.” Sir Richard sat down heavily in the chair opposite Nicholas and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Son.” It came out at the end of a heavy sigh. “She has problems you cannot begin to imagine. Or fix, no matter how noble your intentions. Many women who are raped and beaten as brutally as this girl was, never recover from it. Oh, eventually the bruises fade and the cuts heal. Outwardly they look the same as they always have.
“But the scars never go away. Inwardly, in the mind, they are forever changed. They become terrified of men—all men. They find themselves no longer able to respond sexually to a man—any man. Many cannot even abide a man’s touch or the sound of a male voice. Most of these women eventually retire to a convent. Others become prostitutes or commit the mortal sin of suicide. Some even go mad. Keeping this girl here is asking for trouble, you mark my words.”
Recalling this conversation now, Nicholas closed his eyes against such unthinkable possibilities. Unable to stop himself, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers, breathing in the sweet lavender scent of her newly washed skin. The warmth of her breath against his mouth made his body clench with need. Behind her, Rolf’s face was buried against the nape of her neck, her hair a curtain of silk cascading over his bald head.
Nicholas didn’t even know who she was, and yet she pulled at all his senses. Making him wish for things that he would most likely never have. Making every instinct within him clamor to protect her. Making him ache to possess her. To claim her as his.
Somehow this woman had crawled inside his hardened warrior’s heart and found a haven there. And, in doing so, she had changed his life forever. In ways he was not even able to identify, much less comprehend. In ways he was not yet certain that he would be able to survive.
He looked down at her, seeing the fragile elfin beauty beneath her injuries, the red-gold silk of her hair
and a raw, primitive sensation of pure lust speared through him. His cock rose unbridled from its curly black nest at the juncture of his thighs and curved, rock-hard, up over his muscular belly.
He resisted the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to lift her face and claim her mouth with his. How could she inspire such powerful feelings in him? Such longing? Such lust? Such tenderness? She aroused him as no other woman had ever done. He couldn’t stop looking at her, thinking about her, touching her. He couldn’t stop visualizing the things he wanted to do to her. Bloody Christ! He had to stop thinking this way!
He didn’t even know who she was, yet he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman in his entire life. He wanted to love her. Treasure her. He wanted to slide his cock inside her exquisite body and make her scream with ecstasy as she climaxed around him. He wanted to wipe from her mind the memories of her brutal attack. And replace them with memories of him and Rolf. Only of him and Rolf. Of the two of them loving her. Worshipping her. Pleasuring her.
He was still stroking the smooth, silken skin of the girl’s cheek when Ellen came bustling into the solar, carrying their breakfast on a tray. It was naught more than herring in cream sauce, coarse black bread with some butter and quince preserves, and two pewter tankards of ale.
“How’s our patient this morning?” she asked brightly, approaching the bed. She reached over Rolf and touched the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead. “Blessed be the virgin, her fever’s not returned.” She crossed herself. “She should be waking up soon.”
As William, Ellen’s husband of thirty-seven years, shuffled into the solar, carrying a fur-trimmed dressing gown, Rolf rose swiftly, wrapped a sable coverlet around his hips, and went over to sit in one of the chairs in front of the massive stone fireplace.
Nicholas yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. He arched his back, stretching his arms above his head, trying to ease his cramped, aching muscles. Sliding out of bed, he stepped onto the warmed sheet William had spread on the floor to protect his bare feet from the cold stone. Turning his back to William, he thrust his arms behind him and shrugged the dressing gown up onto his broad shoulders. Tying the long sash around his waist, he walked over to the table.
He sat down heavily in the empty chair and picked up a thick slab of freshly baked bread still warm from the oven. Breaking off a chunk, he slathered it with butter and quince preserves and bit off a piece, chewing thoughtfully. He could not stop thinking about the lovely, naked woman in his bed.
He had always enjoyed women. Had enjoyed the silken feel of their perfumed bodies beneath his, their sweet cries as he brought them to climax. Had enjoyed sharing them with Rolf even more, the two of them giving and receiving more pleasure than either of them could have experienced alone. And the women had been eager to give themselves to the pleasure of being fucked simultaneously by two randy, skillful lovers.
But no woman had ever appealed to the very substance of who he was the way this one had. In just a few short days, without saying or doing anything, this young woman had stolen his heart, his mind, the very essence of his soul.
“Who is she, Ellen?” he asked hoarsely, looking up at his old nurse. “Why does she stir me so?” His torment was obvious even by the dim light of the fire.
The old woman’s rheumy, pale blue eyes were filled with tears, and her mouth was trembling over her laddie’s obvious misery. “I know not, my lord,” she replied in a whisper. “But ye must watch yerself. I heard Sir Richard’s words to ye, and he’s right. Ye must not allow yerself to feel so deeply. ’Tis very likely that the person who did this to her was her own husband.”
“Well, whoever he is,” Nicholas swore softly, “he’s a dead man.”
“Nay, my lord,” she admonished sharply, placing her plump hand on his arm as if to restrain him. “This is not yer affair. If it was her husband, she is his property. She must go back to him. Ye may not like it, but that’s the way of it.”
“I’ll cut off his balls and force them down his throat until he chokes,” Nicholas vowed fiercely. “I’ll—”
“Ye’ll do nothing of the sort!” Ellen cried, scandalized at the violence and coarseness of his language. “She has to go back to her husband. And there’s an end on it.”
“You would have me turn her over to a man who beat her nearly to death?” Anguish roughened his voice. “A man who most likely will beat her to death once he gets his hands on her again? Nay, Ellen. I’ll not do it.” Throwing off her restraining hand, he stood and stalked over to stand in front of the fireplace. “William, I’m ready to dress.” Dropping his dressing gown over the back of the chair, he stood, limned in firelight. Its flickering glow sculpted the gleaming slabs of muscle that defined his broad chest, his torso, his rippling, sinewy arms, his powerful thighs and legs. He was perfectly proportioned, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips—a pagan god. A heroic warrior.
The heat from the glowing embers caressed and warmed his skin. But there was a place deep inside him that remained untouched by the fire. A frozen core that no amount of heat could ever thaw. Not until he knew that she was safe. Not until he knew that she was his.
“If he finds her, he’ll kill her,” he continued, his voice tight. “Hell will freeze over before I consign her to such a fate.”
“Ye won’t let her go because ye want her for yerself!” Ellen accused sharply, her finely wrinkled cheeks quivering. “Ye would steal another man’s wife?”
“Aye!” His fists clenched at his sides.
“Ye would plunge Berwick into war?”
“Aye!”
“Just to satisfy yer own lust?”
“Aye!” His bellow was harsh, scathing. He swung around to face the old woman. “Aye, Ellen, I want her. God help me, she’s a need inside me that makes me ache with wanting . She’s already stolen my heart. She is entwined so deeply inside me that letting her go will likely kill me! But being in my heart is not enough! I want her in my arms. In my bed. I want to pleasure her until she screams my name in ecstasy. I want to spill my seed inside her body. I want—”
“Your Grace!”
He broke off. There was a long silence before he continued in a low, ragged voice, raw and bleak. “I want everything, Ellen. Everything she has to give—however much or little that may be.” He heaved an anguished sigh. “Sir Richard could be right. She may be so badly damaged in her mind that she won’t be able to bear my touch without recoiling in fear.” He held himself perfectly still, unable even to contemplate such a ghastly possibility. Then he gave himself a slight shake.
“No matter.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. Crossing back over to the bed, he stood looking down at her. At the thick golden lashes that fanned across her cheeks. At the reddish gold hair, confined into a thick braid to keep it from becoming tangled as she thrashed about in the throes of her nightmares. And she’d had them. Many of them. All of them instantly soothed by their gentle touches or the sound of Rolf’s voice singing Danish lullabies.
“I’ll not send her back to the contemptible bastard who did this to her. This is her home, for as long as she needs or wants it. Whether she will have me or not, she need never fear him again.”
* * * *
Somehow, Kathryn managed to stumble out of her father’s solar, forcing her trembling legs to carry her back to her own chamber, where she collapsed in a desperate, sobbing heap on the hard stone floor.
How could her father have done this to her? Sold her! To that odious villain, Walford. For four years Owen Weston had conveniently forgotten he even had a daughter, until now, when he needed her to pull his ass out of the fire! And for the worst of all possible reasons, to settle a gambling debt! Her fury knew no bounds. It howled inside her like a wild beast, wrenching against the chains that bound it.
“Me lady!” Her maid, Rose, the coarse, graceless by-blow of her father and one of his harlots, ran toward her, alarmed. “Me lady, is aught amiss? What—?”
“Remove this gown from me, Rose!” Kathr
yn was already frantically pulling at the sleeves of the blue velvet cote-hardie as if the very material were burning her skin. This gown was a gift from Robert Walford, and she couldn’t bear its caustic touch another second. “Rip it off!”
“Oh, aye, me lady!” Rose stooped, grabbed the hem of the yellow surcote and yanked it up over her mistress’s head. The gold filigree coronet went flying off Kathryn’s head, skidding across the floor with a metallic clatter. The filmy scarf fluttered to her feet.
“Take it away!” Kathryn jerked her arms out of the tightly buttoned sleeves and pushed the gown down over her hips. “Burn it!”
“Aye, me lady.”
“And fetch hot water.” Kathryn scrubbed at her arms with the heels of her hands as though trying to erase the feel of the rich cloth, the stench of that odious man lingering in her nostrils. “I must bathe.”
Rose dithered, clearly of two minds about her mistress’s strange request. “But, me lady, you’ve already—”
“At once!” Kathryn commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.
Rose caught her lower lip between crooked, yellowed teeth.
“I must bathe now! Fill the tub and leave me.”
Still, Rose hesitated. Bathing twice in one day? It was unheard of! Obviously, Her Ladyship was not in her right mind. Obviously she—
“Rose!”
“Oh, aye, me lady.” Scooping up the offending puddles of yellow and blue cloth, Rose dropped a perfunctory curtsey and ran to see to the heating of the water. She left Her Ladyship clad only in her linen chemise, standing perfectly still in the middle of the cold stone floor.
Kathryn remained there, unmoving, head down, eyes closed, as grooms carried in the heavy wooden hip bath, followed by an endless procession of servants pouring buckets full of hot water into it. Draping a sheet over it to keep the heat in, the grooms paraded out, and she was once again alone with the anxious Rose.
Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 5