The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Garreth took a long, hard swallow, feeling warmth rise from his toes to flood his whole being. He watched, entranced, as the leg stretched forth and the foot began to “search” the trunk of the tree. Several captivating moments later he came to himself, realizing with a start that the object of the search was obviously the ladder that the worker had just removed.

  A wide grin stole across his face, and he chuckled, humor rumbling in his chest. The old man had not only forgotten where he left his ladder, but he had forgotten his helper in the tree. Gazing on the deliciously tempting leg, he wondered somewhat wickedly where it led.

  As though the owner of the leg had overheard his thoughts, the leg folded back up on itself, disappearing behind the screen of leaves.

  Garreth rubbed his jaw, wholly intrigued and most thoroughly tantalized. He remained lodged in place, waiting for the leg to reappear.

  It did not.

  Overcome by curiosity and unable to resist, he proceeded forward to discover for himself the secret of the pear tree.

  Dear Lord, be kind to your servant and let it belong to a female and not some smooth faced lad, he pleaded silently.

  Garreth mounted the gentle slope to the tree with long strides. He spied a pair of ladies’ slippers discarded on the grass.

  Definitely a female. His grin stretched the corners of his mouth farther, and his anticipation rose. Still, the leg remained hidden from sight. Dauntless, Garreth stepped directly beneath the spreading pear tree and peered straight upward into the canopy of leaves.

  His broad smile slackened with surprise. Perched above, amid the foliage, on a smooth gray limb, sat a gorgeous nymph with fiery tresses, her long, sleek legs bare midway up her hips.

  “By the Rood!” The words slipped from Garreth’s lips, followed by a low whistle.

  His gaze skimmed the silken legs upward to the slim waist and full, round breasts straining the fabric of her simple work dress. His gaze then lifted to the maid’s hair, a most unusual shade — deep, rich red, mindful of the fires of autumn. The eyes gazing back at him were a crystalline blue, bordered with dark lashes. Garreth found the beauty of her delicate features to be utterly breath-stealing.

  “Are you real, gentle maid?” he uttered softly, half to himself, half to the angelic vision above, fearing she might disappear in the next instant, the product of his happiest delirium.

  Truly, he had been celibate far too long, for now he was entertaining fantasies. But the swelling response beneath his trousers was certainly not of any imagining.

  Ailénor ceased to breathe as the dark-haired stranger appeared below her. His sheer handsomeness momentarily transfixed her. Though the light filtering through the canopy of leaves cast a dappling of shadows on him, she could see that the lines of his face were clean, straight, strong — most especially his jaw. Rich sable hair flowed to his shoulders, a shorter unruly piece curling over one brow. Ailénor’s heart raced as his dark liquid eyes embraced her.

  The stranger spoke, yet she did not quite grasp his words, for his mouth held the most irreverent of smiles, totally disarming her as, once more, his gaze began to roam over her.

  She wavered as those eyes touched her, wavered with a thrilling, tingling awareness and a most disturbing unease. His gaze slid over her breasts, then grazed the full length of her legs only to return along the same path, retracing every inch.

  Heat shimmered through Ailénor, and her bones dissolved. She gripped the limb all the tighter.

  Striving to recover herself, Ailénor realized how scandalous she must appear, perched in a tree, naked to her hips. Her cheeks grew hot, while the stranger’s lips remained spread with a wolfish grin, his dark eyes devouring her.

  Garreth inclined his head. “Have you a voice, minx? A name?” he called to the exquisite creature above.

  She gazed on him with large, wide eyes but did not respond.

  “‘Twould seem your ladder has gone off. With the laborer, that is,” he amended.

  Still the beauty did not speak.

  Garreth wondered if she could understand him. He assumed her to be one of the native Frankish villeins, and thus spoke that tongue. His own efforts were heavily accented, he knew.

  But mayhap she was Dane. For the greater part, ‘twas Danes who had settled Normandy and continued to do so with a steady influx of people from their homeland. Mayhap he should attempt to communicate in his native Saxon tongue. It shared the same source as the Nordic one, their forebears belonging to the same stock of Baltic peoples. At home, Saxons and Danes communicated without great difficulty, the differences in their languages being largely ones of dialect. Mayhap he should address her in Saxon.

  But considering the maid, with her fine features and dark auburn hair, he decided ‘twas more likely she was of mixed heritage, Danish and Frankish, and likely spoke the latter. Again he undertook to speak that tongue.

  “Might I be of assistance?”

  Understanding reflected in her eyes, but she appeared frightened and unready to trust him.

  “Mayhap we should be properly introduced before an attempted rescue.” He smiled easily. “I am Garreth of Tamworth. Have you a name, minx?”

  He watched her take a small swallow, her hands tightening on the branch.

  “Ailénor. Of Héricourt,” she said in clear, pleasant tones.

  “A lovely name, to be sure.” His smile broadened, carrying warmth to his eyes. “Well now, Ailénor of Héricourt, ‘twould appear that someone forgot you. The ladders have all been taken in for the day.” He gestured to the empty orchard. “Certainly you cannot remain there till the workers return on the morrow.”

  The maid listened attentively but made no response.

  “Nor should you stay there through the night. No telling what beasts or ne’er-do-wells might lurk about in the dark outside the palace walls.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth rounded into a perfect “O.”

  Garreth felt a jolt of desire to sample those lips and make them pliable beneath his own.

  Ailénor stirred, looking appreciably disquieted by his last remark, and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Bien. How do you propose we manage it?”

  Garreth groaned inwardly, thinking of what precisely he would like to manage with this damsel, be she made of flesh or dreams.

  “You are already seated upon the lowermost branch.”

  Ailénor nodded, taking stock of her position.

  “Concentrate here, on the center of my chest.”

  Ailénor looked there. “And?”

  “And . . . jump.” He lifted open arms to her.

  “Jump?” Ailénor clung to the tree, her eyes rounding all the more.

  Garreth caught the thread of panic racing through her voice. “Truly. I shall catch you.”

  “Could you not seek out a ladder?”

  “There are none, minx. And besides, it will be much quicker and easier this way.”

  Ailénor looked at his chest, then at the ground, then back to his solid and oh-so-disturbingly masculine chest and his outstretched arms. She shook her head.

  “I would much prefer a ladder.”

  “My lady, you wound me,” Garreth avowed, chuckling, then noticed how she clutched the limb, white-knuckled, and noted the paleness of her face. Ailénor, he suspected, possessed an acute fear of heights.

  “As you might have noticed, I am a rather tall fellow,” he cajoled. “The jump won’t really be so far. It appears so because, well, your head is higher than your lovely toes. Come now. There is nothing to fear. Why, if I were to leap up a mite, I could touch your feet.”

  The thought of this man touching her anywhere sent a jolt of liquid fire straight through her, settling low in her abdomen. She shifted restlessly. Below, Garreth widened his open arms to her, obviously believing her ready to make the leap.

  “Loose your hold of the branch now,” he called. “Give a little shove off and throw yourself at my chest.”

  “Your chest,” Ailénor repeated, staring at
that broad expanse and running the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  Garreth’s eyes followed the movement of her tongue over her lips, then suppressed his natural response and forced his concentration back to retrieving her safely from the tree. There would be time aplenty later to sample those lips and tongue.

  He wiggled his fingers in a coaxing manner. “Now, Ailénor. At the count of three.”

  Ailénor gulped as she looked at the proposed target of his chest. He did look sturdy and solid. Nonetheless, ‘twould likely be a hard landing.

  Loose your hold and drop down,” he bid her. “Aim for my chest. One, two, thr — ”

  Ailénor pressed her lashes tight and shoved herself off the branch, casting herself at her rescuer.

  A “woof” left Garreth as Ailénor caught him high on the chest, compelling him backward. Together they tumbled, his arms wrapping instantly around her as they fell.

  Thudding gracelessly to the ground, Garreth found his face suddenly buried between the soft pillows of her breasts. There was no help for it, for in the same instant they began to roll, over and over, down the slope, gaining considerable momentum and coming to a stop minutes later with Garreth atop of Ailénor, his nose and mouth still pressed intimately between her voluptuous contours.

  Garreth started to raise himself, but Ailénor clung tight and pulled him back down.

  “Am I . . . alive?” She panted for breath, wholly shaken.

  Garreth muffled a response between her breasts, then managed to lift himself partway. He felt the silken warmth of her flesh beneath his left hand, coming aware that that member now grasped her naked thigh, and that her leg twined about his like a lover, hooking his knee from behind.

  “More than alive, from what I can tell.” Garreth gasped for air and resisted the urge to sweep his hand upward and seek her bare backside. Instead he raised himself, bracing his arms on either side of her and gazed back down on the entrancing maid.

  Her dark red hair spread about her, framing her exquisite beauty. Garreth felt a pang of desire pierce him anew and feared his unruly manhood would next burst from his braies. He could not help but favor their position, all the parts fitting so comfortably together. He promised himself he would see that their parts did so more completely, once they found a more secluded place. He had no mind to let this minx get away.

  Eyes sparkling, Garreth began to feel along Ailénor’s arms and then her legs.

  “I trust nothing is broken. Does anything hurt? Here? Or here?”

  Still somewhat dazed and tingling from his familiar inspection of her, Ailénor tried to focus on Garreth’s darkly handsome features. He chose just then to shift upward. Bringing his face away from her breasts, he propped his elbows at the sides of her head, but in so doing, his groin pressed intimately against hers.

  “Mon Dieu!” Ailénor gasped, her eyes flying to his face, heat shooting into her cheeks as she felt the hard bulge pressing against her abdomen — and, even more shocking, a hot, pulsing response between her legs. Before she could push him from her, a clamor rose off to the left of them — a mixture of voices and the scraping of steel. Ailénor turned her head and glimpsed her older twin cousins, Richard and Kylan, running toward her, the children trailing behind with Felise, their nursemaid, who wore a thunderous scowl upon her face.

  The twins’ swords gleamed before them, their dark brows slashing over angry eyes riveted on Garreth, who yet hovered above her, pinning her to the ground.

  Ailénor realized that Felise likewise perceived her virtue to be endangered. Felise snatched up a stick from the ground without slowing her trot, huffing indignantly as she bustled toward them.

  The twins halted beside the entangled couple, their swords pointed at Garreth’s back. But Felise did not stay her step and came at Garreth, amid proclamations of outrage, and switched at him vigorously. But she quickly found difficulty in doing so without smiting Ailénor’s bare legs as well. After a moment of indecision, she brought the stick down on Garreth’s shoulders and head. Garreth, in turn, protected Ailénor, shielding her with his body.

  “Cochon! Swine! Free my lamb at once!” Felise shrilled.

  “Felise, non!” Ailénor cried from beneath Garreth, her lips against his throat. She shoved at him to move off her, but with their legs still entwined, they managed only to roll over together in unison.

  Ailénor quickly shifted atop Garreth, briefly smothering his face with her breasts once again. Felise continued to circle the stranger and swat at him. Hastily Ailénor sat upright and rocked back, warding off the nursemaid with a flaying of hands, striving to knock the stick away.

  Meanwhile, the parrying caused Ailénor to shift and wriggle atop Garreth, bringing a groan from his lips. He glimpsed Ailénor’s twin protectors exchange glances as the persecution continued. Between the stings of the stick and Ailénor’s squirming upon his manhood, Garreth felt wholly tormented.

  “Non, non, Felise!” Ailénor nabbed the stick, then scrambled off Garreth and stumbled to her feet. “Richard. Kylan. Put down your swords,” she demanded and flung the offending stick away.

  Aware that Garreth had shoved to his feet behind her, she backed toward him, her arms and hands outspread defensively. Their bodies came into instant contact, and Ailénor felt Garreth’s hardness press against her backside. She jerked forward with a gasp, all word and thought deserting her tongue.

  Taking in the amazed and expectant looks of the others, including Felise’s disapproving gaze fixed on her bare legs, Ailénor yanked her gown free of her girdle and fortified herself with a deep breath. Gathering her frazzled thoughts, she started to launch into an explanation, but Garreth began with his own a fraction of a moment before, so that they overspoke one another.

  “I’ve just arrived in Rouen . . . I was walking toward the palace gates.”

  “He found me in the pear tree.”

  “The worker carried off her ladder.”

  “I was trying to get Michan’s kitten.”

  “A kitten? Really?” Garreth paused, tipping his head toward Ailénor. “Is that why . . . ?”

  Ailénor ignored his question and raised her chin, looking back at the others.

  “It backed itself down, and Michan ran off . . .”

  “As I was approaching, her leg appeared out of the tree . . . looking for the ladder. Well, I went to see . . .”

  “And I jumped . . .”

  “Well yes, such as it was.” Garreth rubbed the center of his chest. “We fell . . .”

  “And rolled down the slope . . . together . . .”

  “That’s when you came . . .”

  “We hadn’t recovered ourselves yet . . .”

  Garreth stopped and gazed down at Ailénor, the side of his mouth pulling into an infectious grin. “My dear minx. I doubt if I ever shall!”

  Ailénor’s eyes flew to his. At the same time Richard and Kylan split with laughter, their swords sagging before them.

  Felise huffed, her large bosom heaving, while the children giggled beside her, excepting Michan who had the good grace to look embarrassed for having abandoned his sister and brought this mishap upon her. Cricket, now confined in a pouch suspended from Michan’s belt, contributed a repentant “mew.”

  Wiping the mirthful tears from their eyes, Richard and Kylan resheathed their swords with some difficulty.

  “Welcome to Rouen.” Richard extended a hand and arm. “I am Richard, and this is my brother Kylan.”

  Garreth clasped arms with Richard, then Kylan. The two young men were identical with ebony hair and steel-blue eyes. He guessed them to be about twenty.

  “I am Garreth of Tamworth, thegn of the royal court of King Athelstan of England.”

  “Athelstan,” Kylan voiced the name with a note of awe. We are indeed honored.”

  “Your business then brings you to see the duke?” Richard assessed him with sharp eyes.

  Garreth hesitated at that look, concerned that the purpose of his true mission might be too easily surm
ised.

  “In truth, I visit Rouen to procure a Psalter, commissioned for the king at St. Ouen. But I do bear my lord’s greetings for your noble duke, William Longsword.”

  “To that end, we may be of assistance and can arrange an audience, if you so desire,” Richard offered.

  “In repayment for your kindness to Ailénor and for her damage to you,” Kylan added with some merriment as he looked to Ailénor.

  Garreth raised a brow, suspecting a little boasting on the part of these two. How was it that they could so easily arrange a meeting with the duke himself? How, too, did they know Ailénor, and why their fierce protectiveness of the maid? A briery patch of jealousy sprouted in his chest as he considered just what the nature of their interest in the beauty might be.

  “I assume you have access to the duke, then?” Garreth could not wholly disguise his skepticism.

  Felise snorted, miffed at his disbelief. “You Saxons need to learn a few manners and show proper respect for the cousins of the Duke of Normandy,” she scolded.

  “You are cousins to Duke William?” Garreth looked to Richard and Kylan in surprise.

  “As is Lady Ailénor,” Felise apprised, piqued by his ignorance.

  “Lady Ailénor?” Garreth’s glance skimmed over Ailénor’s disheveled hair, worn gown, and bare feet. “I did not realize . . .” he offered, his tone apologetic.

  Garreth reproached himself. He should have suspected as much when her defenders arrived — noblemen, to be sure, and a lady’s maid. He recalled the slippers he found beneath the tree and chastised himself once more. They were fashioned of fine kid leather, obviously those of a lady. His eyes traveled to Ailénor again. Her simple gown and tousled locks did little to foster the impression of a lady.

  Garreth’s look was not lost on Ailénor. She realized at once that he thought her to be a commoner until this moment. The realization put a decided spin on her feelings, and she wished ‘twas possible to simply melt into the ground and leave not a trace.