Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  “Indulge me,” was his laughing reply. “Methinks I will enjoy carrying you, so accustom yourself to it. It will happen often.” Settling her into a chair, he draped the fur coverlet Jamie handed him over her lap and sat beside her. Jamie placed two trenchers heaped with roast suckling pig, boiled turnips, and capons with a honey-chestnut glaze on the table before them. Grilled pike, green peas, and manchets, the soft white rolls reserved for the Lord and his guests, rounded out the meal. After Jamie poured hippocras into two silver goblets, he bowed and stepped aside.

  The mouthwatering aromas wafting up to her nostrils made Kathryn’s stomach growl loudly. She had had naught but a thin chicken broth since awakening last night and she realized she was starving. Even so, she touched very little of the food on her trencher. Partly because this was the first solid food she had eaten in six days. Mostly because Nicholas kept selecting tender morsels from his own trencher and placing them in her open mouth, like a father bird feeding his hungry chick.

  At every touch of his fingers against her mouth, every lingering brush of his thumb across the wet fullness of her lower lip, she felt her muscles clenching deep within her feminine core. Its emptiness wailed at her, demanding, entreating, and clamoring to be filled. Filled as only he could fill it. Her dream lover. Her dark warrior.

  She sighed, feeling the wetness between her thighs, shifting in her chair in an effort to ease the throbbing ache deep within her weeping sex.

  She had fought against Robert Walford. In an attempt to remove herself mentally from the brutality of his rape and beating, she had made a conscious effort to close down her mind. But she knew she would never be able to fight Nicholas Herron. She didn’t want to. Her need for him was uncontrollable. Undeniable. She knew she would freely give him everything he asked for—her mind, her body, even as he already had her heart.

  She shifted again, uncomfortable with the wetness seeping from her, helpless to do aught about it. She squeezed her thighs together. Hard.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t help. She was simply going to have to force herself to ignore her discomfort. Aye, and while she was at it, learn to fly.

  Sensing movement at the entrance to the solar, she turned her head, her gaze riveted to the man striding toward them. Tall and lean, dressed from head to toe in leather and furs, he swiped off his hood as he entered, revealing a completely bald head!

  Blessed Virgin! Her eyes widened as they moved from his drooping silver-blond mustache and pointed goatee, to the piercing blue eyes peering out from two cave-like sockets, to the gold hoop dangling from one ear. Twin swords rose behind his shoulders, their heavy pommels bracketing his head.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God! Her breath caught as recognition swept over her, sending goose bumps racing across her skin. This is the other man in my dreams! The one watching from the shadows!

  “You,” she exclaimed in a stunned whisper, her hand unconsciously lifting as if to touch him.

  The man frowned down at her. “You know me, my lady?”

  “Aye,” she breathed, then shook her head. “Nay. It’s just that…you were there…in the shadows…watching us…” She let her voice trail off as the heat of humiliation crept up her neck and scorched her cheeks. Mortified, she dropped her gaze. Merciful Virgin, I am going straight to Hell. “Forgive me, sir knight,” she begged through stiff lips. “’Twas rude of me.”

  “What is it, my love?” Nicholas hunkered down beside her chair, lifting her hand in his callused one. “Does this have aught to do with the dreams you told me about?”

  Mortified, she gave a jerky nod of her head, unable to look either man in the eye.

  “Was this man there also?”

  Her shoulders hunched forward and she shut her eyes. “Please, Your Grace, ’tis unseemly to speak of such things.” Unbidden, a vision rose behind her eyelids, a vision of herself, legs spread wide, ready to welcome her lover into her body. Of Nicholas looming over her, penetrating her with one powerful thrust. A vision of herself crying out with pleasure, even as she beckoned to the silent observer, watching avidly as he emerged from the swirling gloom, his large, sinewy hand fisting his cock, the light from the guttering candle gleaming off his bald head.

  She gasped. Her eyes flew open and a delicate shudder ran through her as she tried to rid her mind of the forbidden images. “’Twas naught but a dream,” she said, shaking her head firmly, more excited than she’d ever been in her entire life.

  Chapter Four

  “’Twas more than a mere dream,” Nicholas persisted, lifting her hand to his lips. “’Twas years and years of the same dream, over and over. He was there, wasn’t he? I know this, because he was also present in my dreams—the ones I had of you. And we must speak of it, my love, because he, too, has been having dreams—dreams of you. Dreams wherein you reach out your arms to both of us, enfolding both of us in your embrace.”

  Her head snapped up, her puzzled gaze flying to his. “What witchcraft is this?”

  “’Tis not witchcraft,” Nicholas answered vehemently. “’Tis an omen.”

  “’Tis evil.”

  “Nay, my love. There is naught of evil about this. Only good. ’Tis an omen for the future—our future—if we are but brave enough to reach out and grasp it.”

  “The nuns—”

  “Have no say here,” he said firmly, his mouth hardening into a grim line. “Neither does a God who turns his back on so much misery in the world, nor a Church that cares for naught but greed and hypocrisy.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes clouded. “What is it you are asking of me, Nicholas? That I accept two men into my bed?”

  “I am asking you to follow your heart.” He paused before squeezing her hand gently in his. “Besides,” he added with a wicked grin, “you have already accepted two men into your bed. Both Rolf and I have been sleeping with you for the past four nights to warm you through the chills.” He rose, ignoring her sputtering cry of shock as he gestured toward the man still standing just inside the doorway, brushing his long, lean fingers down over his silver-blond beard and goatee. “Now, cease your fretting, beloved, and meet Rolf—the other person I cherish most in this world.”

  She stared, transfixed at the tall, lanky knight who crossed the room and stopped in front of her. He took the hand that Nicholas relinquished. His skin was dry and warm against hers, and callused from years of wielding a broadsword. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, then straightened, but he didn’t release her hand. She made a move as if to pull it away, but Rolf just tightened his grip, holding her in place.

  He bent forward to kiss her cheek. His lips were soft, his wine-scented breath warm against her skin. When he drew back, he was smiling and she was suddenly having trouble getting her lungs to work.

  Blessed Virgin! This man had slept with her! How was it possible to have no memory of that? He was devastating! As devastating as Nicholas himself, but in a completely different way. She tried to swallow, but the sheer masculine power he exuded evaporated all the moisture in her mouth. “Prithee forgive me, sir knight, for not rising to welcome you.” She glanced down at her hands clasped primly in her fur-covered lap, well aware that her nipples were visible through the thin silk of her chemise, but resisting the urge to cover them. “I fear my present attire is woefully inadequate for greeting guests.”

  “Fear not, my lady,” he said graciously, “thou art beautiful enough to have no need of frippery.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully. “In truth,” she said, “women who see you must trip over their own feet, since they most certainly are not watching where they are stepping.” Her hoarse voice sounded just the tiniest bit out of breath.

  His smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and she felt a curious slow roll deep in her belly. “Oh, aye, it’s been known to happen,” he replied with a wink. “There have even been random reports of drooling, though I cannot say for certain. But something I can say for certain is that none of those women were half as beautiful as thee, my lady.”


  Kathryn laughed. “Charming words from a charming man,” she said. “And if I were not already halfway in love with this handsome knight standing next to you…”

  “Only halfway?” Nicholas asked, pretending to pout.

  Ignoring him, she smiled at Rolf, finishing with, “I just might be tempted to pursue you myself. Although,” she added, with a considering look, “I would try my best not to drool.”

  He laughed and she looked up at him, enchanted. Blessed Mary! What was she doing? She had overheard servants calling this back-and-forth type of banter “flirting.” She had never flirted in her life, although she’d certainly witnessed her father’s knights doing it, as they’d strolled the gardens with their paramours. She was surprised to find that it was quite easy—especially with this darkly compelling Dane. And it was fun!

  “Excellent, my lady,” he was saying. “Anytime thou growest weary of His Lordship, there,” he jerked his bearded chin toward Nicholas, who was watching their byplay with fascination, “thou’lt know where to find me.”

  “Just look for the piles of drooling women,” Nicholas chimed. The mental image made them all laugh.

  “Please, sir knight.” Kathryn indicated the bounty spread before them. “Will you not partake of the noon meal with us? As you can see, there is plenty yet.”

  “Thank thee, my lady, but I have no wish to tire thee.”

  “Nay, sir, I am nowhere near tired. Pray join us.”

  “Aye, Rolf,” Nicholas echoed the invitation, a strange light glittering in his eyes. “Pray join us.”

  “Thank thee, my lady.” Ignoring Nicholas, he seated himself in the chair to Kathryn’s right. “I find I am ravenous.”

  She watched as he loaded up his trencher with pork, then seized an entire capon, tearing off a leg and shoving it between his teeth before dropping the remainder on his trencher and wiping his greasy hand on a linen napkin. He proceeded to add a pile of turnips, an entire grilled pike, and half a dozen manchets. Swallowing the contents of his embossed silver flagon, he held it out for Jamie Fordyce, Nicholas’s young page, to refill.

  “You are not English,” Kathryn ventured, staring open-mouthed as Rolf proceeded to demolish his meal with enthusiasm, washing it down with copious amounts of hippocras.

  “Nay, m’lady,” he mumbled around an enormous bite of roasted pork, “Danish.”

  “How did you and Nicholas meet?” she asked curiously.

  “He saved my life,” Rolf replied taking another swallow of wine, then setting the heavy goblet on the table with a loud clunk! Instantly Jamie was there to refill it.

  “How did that happen?”

  “I was traveling through Lincoln Forest on my way to London. I had dismounted from my horse to check his hoof—he’d gone lame all of a sudden—when I was suddenly accosted by five brigands.”

  “Five!”

  “Oh, aye.” He grinned.

  “What did you do?”

  “Well,” he said with a smile, reaching up and tugging on his ear, the one with the golden earring dangling from it, “they were dead-set on separating me from my money, my horse, and my life. So I decided that if All-father Odin was calling me to Valhalla, then I was going to send as many of those heathens to Hel as I possibly could. So…I fought them.”

  “One against five?” she cried out, aghast.

  “Oh, aye. Until Nick came along and evened things up a bit.”

  “Two against five? That’s even?”

  He ducked his head modestly. “Well, actually, by the time Nick joined the fray, I’d already dispatched a pair of them, so it was two against three. And once they saw Nick, those three were pretty much inclined to cut their losses. It took very little effort on our part to convince them to tuck tail and run.” He smiled, a slow, heart-stopping smile that lit up his whole face. “Nick and I have been fighting together ever since.”

  “Are you anticipating a fight now?” she teased, looking pointedly at the twin swords rising above his shoulders.

  “One never knows where a foe might be lurking,” he said with a wink. “Why, just this very morning I came upon a rat nearly as big as a cat.” Kathryn shuddered and Rolf laughed. “Have no fear, my lady, I dispatched him with one of these very swords. They and I are here to serve thee.”

  Her breath hitched and a strange, sizzling silence stretched between them. “Have you never wanted to marry?” she finally asked, curiously. “Settle down? Have a family?”

  Not until thee. But Nick got to thee first.

  The change in his expression was so swift, it made her catch her breath. It was if the sun had been swallowed up by a thundercloud. His eyes were turbulent with some dark emotion she couldn’t identify. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his best friend rose and walked over to the wall to retrieve a large teak and ivory chessboard hanging from a wooden peg.

  “I was married once,” he said, leveling his expression.

  His words surprised her. He seemed so solitary, so…self-contained. So alone. It was difficult to picture him with a wife. “You were married?”

  “Aye.” He smiled. “Does that seem so impossible?”

  “Nay, of course not.” She leaned forward and put her hand on his forearm. A bolt of lightning shot up her arm and she jerked her hand away. If he noticed, he gave no indication.

  “Her name was Inge.” His expression softened. “She was beautiful, with hair the color of moonlight.”

  “What happened?”

  “She died in childbirth. Seven months after we were wed.” His voice was flat, devoid of any kind of emotion. He might have been discussing the weather. “The baby died, too. A little girl. I named her Lis, so she would have a name on her grave marker.” His eyes took on a dreamy expression. “She would be seven years old now had she lived.”

  “Oh, Rolf, I’m so sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Do not fret, min skat. ’Twas a long time ago. So long ago, it almost seems like a dream now.” He smiled at her and her belly once again did that slow, clenching roll. “Things happen the way they are meant to happen.” Including thee. And, dreams or no dreams, thou wert not meant to happen to me.

  He looked at her, reining in his lust with effort. Draining the newly refilled goblet, he rose, tugging on the hem of his leather tunic, praying she would not notice the enormous bulge of his erection threatening to make a tent out of it. “I will see thee anon, min skat,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it again

  “Must you leave?” she asked, strangely reluctant to see him go. “We’ve barely had time to become acquainted. I am certain that Nicholas…” She looked at the chessboard the duke had set in the middle of the table then gazed up at him beseechingly. “Is there not something the three of us can play?”

  “I suppose in lieu of chess, we could make it a game of Gleeke.”

  Kathryn clapped her hands. “Oh, I adore Gleeke!” she said enthusiastically.

  Rolf’s eyebrows soared. “Thou knowest how to play Gleeke, my lady? Thou didst not learn this in a convent, methinks.” He found himself barely able to contain his mirth as he tried to envision a room full of prune-faced nuns hunched over small gaming tables, their cards pressed to their bosoms to discourage the mortal sin of cheating.

  Kathryn laughed. “Nay, my lord, my father’s knights taught me. Though, I must confess, ’Tis many years since I have played.”

  As Jamie Fordyce cleared the remains of their meal from the table, Nicholas put the chessboard back on the peg and went to one of the matching pair of ornately carved Spanish chests flanking the doorway. He opened the top drawer and removed a large wooden box with a domed lid. “Thank you, Jamie,” Nicholas said graciously, startling Kathryn. Certainly her father had never thanked any of his underlings or servants. “When you have returned that to the kitchen, kindly run and tell the cordwainer and the tailor I have need of them.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas placed the box on the table, opened it, and removed a set of cards, w
afer-thin rectangles of parchment. The Herron coat of arms, a heron passant on a quartered field, was painted on the reverse, while the pips, coates, and suits were elaborately painted in the French style on the obverse. He riffled through the deck, quickly removing the deuces and treys.

  Kathryn spread her hands, shaking her head slightly. “My lords, I have no stones to wager.”

  Rolf gave her a puzzled glance. “Stones?”

  “Aye. When the knights allowed me to play, we played for stones.”

  He grinned. “Oh, methinks we can provide thee with something a bit more interesting to wager than stones.” Giving her a wink, he lifted a fairly hefty leather pouch from the card box. It made a clinking sound. Loosening the draw string, he tipped it sideways and a river of silver coins cascaded out onto the table.

  Kathryn gasped. Though they were but farthings, the lowliest coin of the realm, she had never seen so many all at once. She watched Rolf’s long, slim fingers make quick work of dividing them into three piles, trying desperately not to imagine those same fingers stroking her skin, caressing her body, brushing across…Blessed Virgin! Her cheeks heated and she squirmed uncomfortably in her chair as she turned her head to watch Nicholas deal their cards, placing the remaining cards face down in the center of the table and turning the top one over to reveal trump.

  She fared no better watching his fingers and began to question her ability to concentrate on the game. Keeping a clear head against two such virile adversaries might prove well nigh impossible. They each picked up their cards. “As eldest, you have first bid, Rolf,” Nicholas announced, watching the lanky Dane place thirteen coins into the pot. That set off a lively round of bidding, which ended with Kathryn taking the stock.

  She had just collected the last trick when they were interrupted by the arrival of the cordwainer, a sturdy, barrel-chested man of around forty years of age. His hair was the color and texture of roof thatching and had the overall appearance of a haystack after a high wind. The sleeves of his brown tunic were rolled up onto his massive shoulders, leaving his thick arms totally bare. He wore a brown leather apron, and he smelled of leather and boot polish.