“I am Sewal Verley, my lord.” An elderly figure with a regal bearing stood. “For almost a hundred years, my family farmed the pilfered acres, but with a single stroke of his quill, Juraj de Mravec executed the King’s authority and stole our heritage. We art now but tenants on what we once owned.”
“And I am in the same position,” another man added. “Yet we were not compensated.”
“We were robbed of our legacy,” an unknown individual cried.
A murmur of concurrence built, slow at first, but erupted as an incoming tide. Each injured party nodded agreement, with revelatory parchment to support their assertions, which Arucard collected as evidence. As he perused the documents, he noted the Crown’s seal and frowned. Naught made sense, given His Majesty had discussed his intentions and made no mention of the burgage plots. His instincts told him all was not as it appeared.
“This is puzzling.” Stacking the papers, Arucard glanced at Aeduuard. “Wherefore didst the previous earl of Sussex not negotiate the deeds?”
“Mayhap because his head was rotting on a pike outside White Tower.” De Cadby rubbed his chin. “Dost thou doubt our grievances?”
“Perchance thou art involved in the thefts.” Verley narrowed his stare. “Wilt thou profit at our expense? Wilt thou continue our oppression?”
“Do not question my honor, sirrah.” Arucard pounded his fist on the table. “The last man who doubted my sincerity met his demise at the rude end of my halberd. However, as our acquaintance is new, I shall indulge thee. But do not let it happen again.”
The great hall fell silent as a tomb, and the tension mounted.
“A pleasant eventide, good gentles.” Gowned in rich burgundy velvet, with her raven hair plaited in her usual style, Isolde inclined her head and curtseyed. “Am I interrupting anything of importance?”
In unison, the men stood and bowed.
“Allow me to present my wife, Lady Isolde, countess of Sussex.” What perfect timing his bride possessed, as she had just diffused a rapidly deteriorating assemblage, and he considered her a heretofore-underutilized weapon in his arsenal. “Wilt thou join us?”
“Thank ye, for the invitation.” With grace and elegance of which he was immensely proud, she waved to Pellier, who carried a chair, which he perched beside Arucard. “And permit me to offer refreshments, as supper will be served soon.”
Isolde clapped her hands twice, and maids conveyed armfuls of mugs to the table. From a tray, his wife retrieved a pitcher and made the rounds, casting him shy glances and coy smiles, as if they shared a delicious secret. And then it dawned on him that they did, indeed, harbor a bit of confidential but mutual enlightenment, the extent of which had fueled his afternoon games. When he winked, he distracted her, and she spilt the ale.
“Oh, I am so sorry.” Snatching a cloth from a passing servant, Isolde compressed her lips and then dried the unfortunate fellow’s sleeve. “Margery, thou mayest deliver the meal.”
“Yea, my lady.” The steward rushed to perform Isolde’s bidding.
Again and again, he shared furtive reflections with his lady, in unspoken summons, while she tended their guests, and in his brain he vowed to make his move in an altogether different direction, neglecting his chief duties, at the moment, if she issued another secretive invitation. When she steadfastly avoided his gaze, disappointment sparked in his chest, and he sank in his seat. Then he seized on an idea.
If his wife met his stare before he counted to ten, he would take her, thither and then.
As he advanced his cause, slow and steady, as he would not rush her, it occurred to him that the afternoon fostered new and enticing feelings he still could not quite comprehend, but one thing was certain—Arucard needed Isolde, and he needed no one.
Often the gentle curve of her swanlike neck held him spellbound, as he loved to suckle the shallow hallow just below her ear. And his wife was ticklish, which he discovered when he nibbled the succulent flesh of her round bottom and nipped at the indention above her hip.
Just then, she returned the ewer to the tray and looked him in the eye, and he lurched upright. Yea, she was his just as he was hers.
“If I may, how doth the Lady Isolde favor Chichester?” Verley inquired.
“It is quite beauteous. The seashore is rugged but breathtaking, and I find the hills rather stimulating.” Her subtle reference did not escape him. After taking her seat, Isolde leaned to the side, offering him a delectable view of her bosom, and whispered, “My lord, I understand thy behavior, of late, as I crave thee, and I know not how to manage what threatens to consume me. Prithee, take pity, as I need thy assistance. Canst thou help me? Pray, what should I do?”
The raw hunger in her gaze, undeniable in its clarity, bespoke an unembellished truth and impressed upon him the urgency of their situation, as fiery desire simmered in his veins, capturing him to the detriment of all else. He could only imagine what she experienced, as an innocent. It was as though she had just punched him in the gut, because the force of her much prized confession rendered him almost giddy. And then his body responded, in kind.
“Meet me in the undercroft.” Nay, he should not do what he planned to do, but he could not restrain himself when it came to Isolde, and he had to have her, else he feared he might degenerate into insanity, and she could run amok. “Go, now.”
“Aye, my lord.” To the gathering, Isolde said, “Forgive me, but I must check on the bread, as I ordered it fresh from the oven. By thy leave.”
Deploying his earlier tactic, Arucard counted to ten and then vacated his chair. “My lady prefers wine with her sup.”
Pellier stepped to the fore. “I can fetch it—”
“I will get it, myself.” Driven by decadent determination, the potency of which he could not withstand, Arucard stormed into the kitchens, navigated the narrow passage, and all but ran into the storage cellar. “Isolde? Whither art thou?”
“Hither, my lord.” From behind, she jumped him.
And the sumptuous battle commenced.
As Arucard turned and grabbed her, Isolde leaped, wrapped her arms about his neck, and set her mouth to his. The delicate taste of her, a thousand times more intoxicating than the finest liquor, rendered him drunk with passion, and his flesh burned for her. With his hands on her hips, he lifted her to sit atop a barrel. When he flicked up the skirt of her gown, she swept aside his tunic, fumbled with the ties of his breeches and braies, and freed his man’s yard.
In implied surrender, she spread wide her supple thighs in welcome, and he could have cried in gratitude. Standing between her legs, he joined their bodies, and she sighed as he rested his forehead to hers and exhaled in relief. With his thumb, he massaged her pearl in rhythm with his thrusts, which became ever more frenetic. Riding her hard and fast, he savored the subtle gasps, each with its own unique pitch to laud his efforts, which she vented as he took her—until a servant interrupted their licentious liaison.
“Hello?” The maid cleared her throat. “Thither is someone in the undercroft?”
Furrowing her brow, Isolde tensed, and he stilled, yet an invisible but nonetheless powerful web spun a fragile swathe about them. Completion beckoned as a demanding lover, and Arucard ached to answer the call. Footfalls signaled the interloper’s departure, so Arucard resumed the voluptuous assault. And when she stretched in telltale rigidity, he covered her lips with his palm and smothered her cry of release. Seconds later, he followed her into the bliss, gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw to stifle his groans of pleasure, as he bent over her and collapsed.
“My lord, I needed that.” Giggling, Isolde kissed his ear. “Art thou disappointed with me?”
“Thou must be joking.” Weak from their coupling, he mustered a half-hearted chuckle. “Admit it, thou art a witch in an angel’s garb, and thou hast cast an incantation over me, as I am thine, body and soul. And while I should be entertaining our guests, all I want is to bury myself in thy sheath, honey flower.”
“And I would hold t
hee in my arms until I pass from this life, my champion.” How he loved it when she hugged him with her thighs and flexed her muscles, tempting him with a far more intimate embrace. “But what an ending. Shall we return to the great hall?”
“Aye.” Against his wishes, he withdrew and secured his attire. Then he lifted her from the impromptu perch. As his thoughts centered on the land dilemma, something occurred to him. “Isolde, if thou dost ask thy father’s opinion on the burgage plots, dost thou believe he will answer honestly?”
“Given my father thinks me ignorant, I suppose he will.” Marching toward the kitchen, she paused when he tapped her shoulder. “Yea, my lord?”
“Pray, a moment.” In good humor, he tugged the back of her skirt from her garter. “I would permit no one to look upon that which is mine.”
“And shall I dine with thee and thy men?” The gentle sway of her hips held him mesmerized. “Or would thou charge me with another task?”
“I would have thee at my side, always.” Plotting and strategizing in silence, he mulled the possibilities, in regard to the current problem. At the last minute, he snapped his fingers and swiped a pitcher of wine from the kitchen and then offered his escort. “And tonight, when we retire, I would have thee compose a letter to thy father.”
#
“How is thy nose?” With a sheepish grin, Arucard shuffled his feet, and the poor man seemed so contrite, so she could not, in good conscience, tease him. “And I am sorry. If it makes thee feel any better, I will never forgive myself.”
“It is much improved.” Biting her lip, Isolde managed not to laugh, but she gave vent to a snort, and he groaned. “And it was an accident, so thither is no need to apologize.”
“But I almost drowned thee.” Prior to the day’s events, his mighty scowl would have frightened her, but not so anymore. Instead, she could not help but notice his rippled muscles, broad shoulders, and thick hair. “We should not have attempted to…thou dost know what I reference. To my immense regret, I embarrassed myself.”
After a spirited supper, wherein the guests consumed mass quantities of ale, and an odd contest ensued, regarding the length of their swords, which Isolde still didn’t quite understand, she and Arucard had retired to their private quarters with like-minded intent.
As promised, she endeavored to pleasure her husband under his somewhat awkward tutelage, given neither had any personal experience with the maneuver she haphazardly employed. While the outcome went as planned, the path to release had been at her expense, because the instant she locked her lips about his length, he erupted with such force it had taken her by surprise, to the extent that she withdrew without warning, and he sprayed her face with his seed.
“Nonsense.” How difficult he made it to focus on the task at hand, as he finally sat opposite her in the solar and pouted, and all she wanted to do was soothe his injured pride. “I am thy wife, and I should know thy body as intimately as thou dost know mine. I believe we achieved that, tonight.”
“To my everlasting shame.” With an adorable grimace, he propped his elbow atop the table and rested his chin in his palm. “We will never do it again.”
“Oh, yea, we will, my lord.” Then she glanced at the parchment in her grasp. “Now what dost thou wish me to say in the letter?”
“Tell him thou dost not know the origin of my relationship with His Majesty.” As he narrowed his stare, he scratched his cheek. “But thou dost suspect nefarious deeds in my history, which would render me vulnerable to attack. Pledge to uncover my secrets in thy father’s service.”
“Nay.” She shook her head, as she found the mere suggestion repugnant. “I will not conspire with my father against thee. And I shudder to think what he might do, should he discover thy Templar associations, which I shall carry to my grave.”
“But I am not asking thee to betray my confidence, as thou art incapable of treachery.” On the precipice of conflict, the consequences of which could result in the separation of their heads from their necks, he remained calm, which kept her grounded. “However, if we art to appease thy father and divert his attention from thee, we must satisfy his curiosity.”
“Is that thy only aim?” In accordance with her husband’s directives, she scribbled a few sentences, even as his worry thrilled her. “As I would protect thee, too.”
“Isolde, I can take care of myself. And I would have thee explain thy belief that my fortune is vast, but thou hast yet to locate it, although thou art searching, which should shield thee from thy father’s wrath.” Then he reached for and clutched her wrist. “Thy safety is my primary concern, as thy life is precious to me.”
“Am I?” So many sensations rushed through her, as he leveled his gaze, and the truth of his statement shone clear in his blue eyes. In the brief term of their union, they had grown together beyond her wildest imaginings, and never would she doubt him. “As thou could always marry again, should I meet my fate. Most men take second wives in such cases.”
“Mayhap that is true.” When he stood, rounded the table, and came to a halt behind her, she gulped. Cupping her breasts through her robe, he trailed sweet but effective kisses along her neck. “But I am not most men, and, now and forever, thou art my only mate. So finish thy work, as I desire thee again, honey flower.”
“Dost thou?” Tempted by his desire, and the mention of her pet name, which he had devised, she dropped back her head and cast him a side-glance. “I am hungry, too. But thou art distracting me, and I would fulfill thy request before I sup on thy flesh, as I would make a second attempt at thy favored exercise.”
“Nay.” And now he blushed, which charmed her to her toes. “We will abstain from that particular activity.”
“We shall see about that.” After composing a few more statements intended to mollify her father, she signed her name to the bottom of the correspondence. “Thither it is done.” Quick as a flash, she spun about on the bench and grabbed his hips. Riding a crest of steely determination, and emboldened by his expression of affection, however moderate, she slipped her hand between the folds of his robe and found him hot and hard. “Now, whither were we?”
“Isolde—”
“Cease thy talking, my champion.” Holding his gaze, she untied his belt, swept aside the cloth, and pressed a kiss on his plumb-shaped tip, and he hissed. Oh, yea, he was hers every bit as much as she was his. “Unless thou would impart thy words of passion, which I rather enjoy.”
“Words of passion?” He tensed at her touch, and she found her rhythm as she worked him. “I know not of which thou dost speak.”
“Thou dost know what I mean.” Slowly, she drew him into her mouth and retreated, and again he groaned. “Ah, that will suffice.”
As it turned out, naught else was said that night.
ARUCARD
CHAPTER NINE
A fortnight later, well past the noon hour, Arucard strutted into the bailey. To his infinite satisfaction, Isolde remained tucked, safe and sound, in their bed, sleeping the sleep of the sated, which was just as he preferred her. In his mind, he pictured his wife, her raven hair splayed across her pillow, revisited sweet recollections of what he had done to tangle her thick locks, and he smiled.
Given he clutched a letter from her father, which had just arrived via a messenger wearing the earl of Rochester’s colors, he would rather discuss the correspondence with his brothers, put a plan in place, and devise a written response before burdening his lady. Waving at Demetrius, he nodded at Aristide, and that was all that was necessary to clue the Brethren.
In the great hall, he selected a smaller table near the back wall and sat on a bench. Soon, his fellow knights joined him. Without a word, he passed the earl’s missive to Demetrius.
“Surprised to see thee up and about so early, brother.” Geoffrey snickered.
“I cannot recall the last time thou hast attended weapons practice at sunrise.” The telltale frown of disapproval signaled Aristide’s disappointment. “Art thou no longer a warrior in service to the
Crown?”
“Or hast thou misplaced thy dedication to duty?” Morgan inquired.
“Thou art mistaken, my friends.” It would have been easy to take insult to their comments, but Arucard knew his aim was true. “As it stands, I labor every eventide at the Crown’s direction, long after thou hast retired.”
“Thou art not serious.” Aristide scoffed. “Would thou make light of our reasonable concerns, as thou art the lord of Chichester Castle?”
“Not at all.” Just then, Demetrius glanced at Arucard. “I am charged with begetting an heir, and I endeavor to fulfill my Sire’s command, but it is strenuous work. Hence I have launched numerous initiatives to the task, yielding precious hours of sleep to the cause.”
“Methinks thou dost complain in jest.” Demetrius attempted to return the parchment, but Arucard indicated otherwise, so Demetrius handed it to Aristide. “I take it thither art more notes?”
“Aye.” Arucard nodded and revealed the two previous dispatches. “The first was given to my wife on the day we departed London.”
“The earl threatens his own daughter?” With an expression of unmistakable disgust, Aristide grimaced. “Dost thou believe he would hurt her? Although Lady Isolde is a fine woman, mayhap she is involved in the scheme, and the warning is intended to divert thee from the obvious.”
“Nay, it is not possible.” The mere suggestion incited anger, but Arucard took no offense, as Aristide knew not the depth of her suffering. “Her heart is pure.”
“How dost thou know for certain?” Geoffrey scanned the original letter. “Thou hast known her but a short length of time.”
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