by Tamara Leigh
Contents
Title Page
Tamara Leigh Novels
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Longing Excerpt
Lady At Arms Excerpt
Tamara Leigh Novels
About The Author
THE KINDLING
Book Four in the Age of Faith series
TAMARA LEIGH, USA Today Best-Selling Author
The Unveiling, The Yielding, and The Redeeming introduced readers to the formidable Wulfrith family during Duke Henry’s battle for the English throne and his succession. The Kindling, the fourth book in the Age of Faith series, is the story of Sir Abel, the youngest and, perhaps, most dangerous of the Wulfrith brothers.
“’TIS SAID FAMILY CREATES A MULTITUDE OF SINS.”
Helene of Tippet is not her father or her brother’s keeper. Yet when she is enlisted to use her healing skills to aid a fallen knight, the secret she holds close threatens to visit her family’s sins upon her. Now she is in danger of loving where she should not—a man of the nobility, and one who has cause to despise her if ever he learns of the blood that courses through her veins. Dare she reveal herself? Dare she trust a warrior so bitter and intent on revenge? Dare she love?
Sir Abel Wulfrith, a man bred to battle, has the scar to prove one should never trust a woman. But when he is wounded by his family’s enemy, he finds himself at the mercy of one who could prove his undoing. Now he faces a battle against which no strategy can prevail, no blade can defend, no heart can escape unscathed. Can he forgive Helene the sins of the father—more, the sins of the brother? Can he reclaim his faith? Can he love?
TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS
INSPIRATIONAL TITLES
Age of Faith: A Medieval Romance Series
The Unveiling: Book One, 08/12: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
The Yielding: Book Two, 12/12: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
The Redeeming: Book Three, 05/13: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
The Kindling: Book Four, 11/13: Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
The Longing: Book Five, Spring/Summer 2014
Southern Discomfort Series
Leaving Carolina, RandomHouse/Multnomah, 2009
Nowhere, Carolina, RandomHouse/Multnomah, 2010
Restless in Carolina, RandomHouse/Multnomah, 2011
Stand-Alone Novels
Stealing Adda, 05/12 (ebook edition) Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
Stealing Adda, NavPress, 2006 (print edition)
Perfecting Kate, Multnomah, 2007
Splitting Harriet, RandomHouse/Multnomah, 2007
Faking Grace, RandomHouse/Multnomah, 2008
“CLEAN READ” TITLES
Dreamspell: a medieval time travel romance, 03/12 Amazon, B&N, iBookstore, Kobo Books
Lady-At-Arms: rewrite of the 1994 bestseller Warrior Bride from Bantam Books, Winter 2013/2014
OUT-OF-PRINT GENERAL MARKET TITLES
Warrior Bride, Bantam Books, 1994
*Virgin Bride, Bantam Books, 1994
Pagan Bride, Bantam Books, 1995
Saxon Bride, Bantam Books, 1995
Misbegotten, HarperCollins, 1996
Unforgotten, HarperCollins, 1997
Blackheart, Dorchester Leisure, 2001
*Virgin Bride is the sequel to Warrior Bride
Pagan Pride and Saxon Bride are stand-alone novels
www.tamaraleigh.com
THE KINDLING Copyright © 2013 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298, Goodlettsville, TN 37070, [email protected]
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
ISBN-10: 0985352957
ISBN-13: 978-0-9853529-5-0
All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Cover Design: Kim Van Meter, KD Designs
For Rel Mollet, my beautiful Aussie friend.
We really must set a date for a girl’s night in front of North & South.
Chapter One
Castle Soaring upon the Barony of Abingdale, England
Late September, 1157
She came to him in the still of a night whose dark edges were beginning to fray.
As she opened the door wider, the better to see him where he lay upon the bed with arms and legs thrown wide as if to test the reach of the mattress, the hinges gave a betraying creak. She winced.
She should not be here, for if he awakened he would likely think she had come to offer comfort between the sheets. However, despite the long journey that had delivered her to Castle Soaring well after the setting of the sun, she was unable to sleep. And all because of this man.
Drawing a slow breath, more for courage than fear she might rouse him, she stepped forward and frowned over the dust and stale scent that rose from the rushes. The floor covering ought to have been replaced days ago, but from the bits of ‘this and that’ picked up from the castle folk, the state of the chamber was the fault of its wrathful occupant rather than neglect of his care.
Still, she was prepared—or would soon be—for what she would face in a few short hours when she stood before this possibly dangerous man.
She halted an arm’s reach from the bed and, by the glow of a brazier that would not much longer warm away the chill, considered the figure atop the rumpled bed coverings.
If not for a tunic splayed open at the neck and twisted around his upper thighs, he would be bared. However, she was not alarmed by his state of undress. Not only did her profession as a healer require her to be well acquainted with the human body, but it was told that he had been given a sleeping draught. Of course, lest he was near the end of its influence, she would do well to proceed with caution.
She took a last, heedful step forward and looked closer upon the leg nearest her. Not even the brazier’s dim, forgiving light could disguise the severity of his injury—nor that he had begun to waste away during all the weeks abed. She reached forward, only to draw back. She was here to look, not touch. Touching would come later.
Moving toward the head of the bed, she caug
ht her breath as the rushes crackled beneath her feet, then stilled when a growl sounded from the one she trespassed upon. However, when she peered into his thin, coarsely bearded face, she saw no reflection of light to indicate he had arisen from the depths of the sleeping draught.
Noting the tension in his jaw and neck, she guessed he dreamed dreams he did not wish to have unfold within the darkness of his mind, and was tempted to try to awaken him. But it would be a mistake. Blessedly, it was not long before he relaxed.
Though she would have liked to familiarize herself with the injuries to his torso, she was fairly certain he was not wearing braies, and she would not risk having him awaken to find her peering beneath his tunic. Since his right hand was too deep in shadow on the opposite side to verify its injury without moving it, she also let it be. Fortunately, there was enough light on his face that, when she bent close, the injury inflicted by a cruel blade was well enough told.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered and, too late, sealed her lips. However, her softly spoken words seemed not to penetrate the fog that provided the rest he needed to heal.
Pressing her fingers into her palms to keep from tracing the stitched flesh that cut a path from his left eyebrow to the outer corner of his eye to the lower edge of his jaw, she lingered over his face though she had done what she had come to do.
If the unsightly scar were allowed to heal properly, its appearance would greatly improve. Too, once he began to eat regularly and resumed exercise, the hollow and angular planes of his face would fill in. But even then, would he ever resemble the man she had known, if “known” could be used to describe their two brief encounters? Of course, she also knew him by way of a boy who missed him more than was good for so young a soul…
She closed her eyes. This warrior who believed he would never again wield a sword ought to have stayed in her past. Had his brother, Baron Wulfrith, and her liege, Baron Christian Lavonne, not asked this of her, she would not have had reason to see him again. And she wished she had not, though not because it made her ache to gaze upon his disfigurement. Her longing to remain as firmly in his past as she wished him to remain in hers had more to do with who she was and who, even if not by his own hand, had done this to him.
He made another low, throaty sound, and distress once more hardened his face. This time it was accompanied by an increase in the rhythm and strength of his breathing. This time it did not soon resolve.
Go. They are his demons to undo, not yours. At least, not directly…
His uninjured leg kicked out, head snapped toward her, and lips drew back to reveal clenched teeth. But still his lids remained lowered, eyes moving rapidly beneath them. As she continued to ignore the good sense that urged her to depart, perspiration broke upon his brow.
She bit her lip. Though she could abide the suffering of others as was required of one who earned coin as she did, still it caused the soft places in her to ache.
“Nay,” he rasped, his voice so tight she did not recognize it as the one she had known when his life had been different from what now made his heart beat.
His breathing took the next turn with greater speed. “Cease!”
They are not your demons, she reminded herself, and yet she laid a palm to the uninjured side of his face, bent nearer, and whispered, “They are slain, Sir Abel. Pray, leave them be.”
His breath that moved the tendrils of hair escaping her braid stopped and, as she berated herself for being so foolish, his right hand shot up and captured her wrist. Though she felt his fingers convulse, they did not turn tight around her. And she understood the reason just ahead of the impulse to wrench free that might have undone the healing of his hand.
“No more!” he spat.
Dreading what she would see, she raised her head. The light reflected in his eyes causing her heart to lurch, she braved a face so contorted that the anger with which he had regarded her nearly two months past seemed hardly anger at all.
“I…” What? Was there any way to excuse her presence that would not further enrage him? Surely he would—
The pressure of his hand eased and, though his eyes remained open, he seemed to stare through her. Was he yet dreaming?
She forced herself to remain still, hoping he did, indeed, see something beyond her, praying he would sink into a restful sleep.
At last, his lids lowered, as did his hand, drawing hers downward until her palm lay against his chest. Beneath it, she felt the work of his heart that, beat by beat, transformed from a rushing river into a calm stream.
Back aching, legs beginning to cramp from holding her bent position, she tried to pull her hand from beneath his, but he pressed it tighter to him.
Patience, he will soon move to the next realm of sleep and relax his hold.
But it was not soon enough for her straining muscles, and she sought relief by pressing her free hand to the mattress and lowering to her knees in the dry rushes alongside the bed. Minutes passed and more, and throughout he kept hold of her.
When sleep tempted her to rest her head upon the mattress, she pushed her drooping chin high and studied his face. He looked almost peaceful, more approachable than ever she had seen him. And she wanted—
Nay, that would be more foolish. She knew her purpose here and that, even if she were not perceived as far beneath his rank, still he would want nothing to do with her when—if ever—he knew all of her, especially considering how much he had lost and suffered in his quest to end the terror that had stalked these lands.
Testing the weight of his much larger hand and finding it had slackened, she slowly drew her arm back. When her fingers slid free, he did not stir, nor when her knees creaked with their unfolding.
“God speed your rest,” she whispered and crossed the chamber to where the door stood open as she had left it.
She slipped into the passageway and eased the door closed. The worst was over. Now to claim what would likely be fewer than two hours of sleep before the castle began stirring toward a new day.
Hooking her fingers in her skirts, she hitched them clear of her slippers and took a step forward—only to take it back when a shadow parted from a pool of darkness upon which the light of the expiring torches did not waste their efforts.
She would have cried out if not that she knew who it was even before he stepped into the dim light. How could one not know such a man who was rivaled in size only by her liege? And, of course, there was his silver hair that one did not commonly see on a man of little more than thirty years of age.
Guessing that from behind whichever door he slept he had heard the creak of the hinges or his brother’s protestations, she straightened to her full height, every hair of which was needed to come as close to appearing as adult as he.
When he halted before her, her search for words to explain her presence yielded only the truth. “Lord Wulfrith, I apologize if I did wrong, but I could not sleep for thinking on seeing your brother again as he would not want me—or anyone—to see him. Pray, believe me, I but meant to prepare myself.”
“And did you?” he quietly asked.
He did not sound angry. “As best I could without rousing him from sleep.”
“A troubled sleep.”
Did he know it was troubled only by the anguished words the open doorway had spilled into the passageway? Or had he peered within and seen her standing over his brother? Worse, on her knees with her hand pressed to his chest?
As much as she longed to explain away what he might have seen, she determined it was best to simply answer his question. “Aye, most troubled, my lord, though Sir Abel does appear to have settled now and, God willing, will pass the remainder of the night in peace.”
Baron Wulfrith inclined his head, and though it was too dim to read whatever his eyes might tell, she sensed something in his gaze that would likely fluster her in the light of day.
“God willing,” he agreed, then said, “Come. The day will be long, and you shall require whatever rest remains to be had.” He turned away.
Strangely, she knew that, and yet the years had taught her to be cautious even where she might not sense danger. However, it was only recently that she had concealed upon her person a dagger more lethal than the one upon her belt that she used for cutting herbs and the occasional piece of meat.
“Come,” he said again.
When he had seen her back to the hall and settled upon her pallet between two softly snoring women servants, he slipped away so silently that she wondered how a man of such size could make it seem as if he had never been.
Would he sleep now that he was assured she meant his brother no harm? Of course, had he truly believed ill of her? It was he who had sought her in her village, coming as near to pleading as a man as powerful as he might come. Too, it was not as if he knew her secret. Or did he?
Of late, when she visited Broehne Castle, often she caught her liege’s stare and saw questions upon his brow. Thus, she would be a fool not to realize he was suspicious of her past, which the death of his father had caused to bleed into her present. Might Baron Lavonne have shared those suspicions with his brother-in-law?
She did not think so, for if Baron Wulfrith had been told, he would not have brought her here to try to undo what had been done to his brother. Indeed, he would think her a weed best torn from the earth before its roots went deep and fouled the good soil. And her John, who had fixed himself to Sir Abel’s side during her long absence, would be hated as well.
That she could not bear. It had not been easy, but she had made a good life for her son and herself here on the barony of Abingdale, and to be forced to leave and begin anew…