The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “Oh,” she said softly, wondering what “suitable” place they might find amid Silchester’s crumbling buildings.

  “The wing opposite has been converted into a stable.” He gestured across the courtyard. “We can leave the horses to be rubbed down, groomed, and fed, then see what Ebrard has to offer two hungry travelers.”

  Ailénor accompanied Garreth, conducting the horses toward the stable. She glanced over the building.

  “The inn is so large. Can we not stay in another part of it?”

  “‘Tis unsafe. This is the original mansio. Excepting what has been restored, the upper wood floors have deteriorated, and what roof remains threatens to collapse. But do not worry. We shall not be without shelter tonight. There is a place I often use when passing through Silchester. It even has a roof and a door with a bar.” He slipped her a smile and added, “Thanks to Ebrard.”

  At the stable, Ailénor waited as Garreth gave over the horses to the groom and made arrangements concerning Gilbert’s mount. With that done, he rejoined her, and they traversed the courtyard once more, stopping at the inn’s door to inquire of Gilbert and request a platter of meat and a small jug of ale. This they shared, sitting on the portico in the dwindling light.

  No sooner had they finished than one of Ebrard’s sons materialized from the direction of the stable, pushing a cart. He stopped before them, smiling and pointing to the cart’s contents. “Hay, blankets, lamp, bowl, cloths . . .” he enumerated.

  Garreth gave a nod of approval and rose. Taking Ailénor by the hand, he drew her to her feet as well.

  “Ebrard remembers my preferences. He is a good host. Come. Let us seek our rest for the night.”

  Following the innkeeper’s son, Garreth and Ailénor crossed the street and continued down partway until they came to a small building, seemingly in good repair. ‘Twas not until she passed beneath its pillared porch and entered that she suspected ‘twas a church.

  Columns divided the central space into a nave and two narrow side aisles. The nave ended in a semicircular apse, empty now, though large enough for an altar to occupy. There, too, the building extended out to either side in two truncated arms giving it a cruciform shape.

  Ebrard’s son lit a lamp, allowing her to better see the mosaic patterning on the floor and the fragments of painted plaster that still clung to the wall. The song of a bird drew her eyes upward, and she discovered a large portion of the ceiling open to the heavens.

  “This is the city’s only Christian church,” Garreth said at her ear, confirming her thoughts. “It fell to disuse long ago. I have found that ne’er-do-wells generally do not bother the church — fearing to bring a divine curse upon themselves if they do, I suppose. Sometimes pilgrims seek refuge here, and I must share its privacy, but tonight we are alone.”

  By the time Garreth led her to the tiny chamber that lay off the rear of the church, behind the altar area, Ebrard’s son had already arranged the hay and covered it over with one of the blankets, creating a pallet on the stone floor. He left briefly, taking the bowl with him, and returned it filled with water. Setting the cloths out beside it, he then took his leave, taking the cart with him.

  Garreth closed and bolted the door. Ailénor saw the door was new and guessed it to be Ebrard’s handiwork. She looked also to the ceiling and saw the room indeed was roofed.

  “We should be safe here,” Garreth said as he unbelted his sword and laid it beside the pallet. Sitting down, he loosened the laces at the neck of his tunic, then reached for a linen cloth and dipped it in the bowl of water.

  “Here, let me,” Ailénor said, moving to the pallet and taking the cloth from his hand.

  Kneeling before him, she wrung it out and set it to his forehead, covering his wound where his horse had grazed him. He flinched, but she was unsure whether ‘twas from the cold of the water or the pain of the injury.

  Ailénor withdrew the cloth and rinsed it out, then lay it to his forehead once more. Garreth grew quiet as she tended him and cleaned away the last traces of blood and dirt. Drawing away the linen, she studied the bruise darkening his forehead, then felt the heat of his eyes.

  Garreth could not take his gaze from Ailénor as she cleansed his wound. He could feel the warmth radiate from her body, so close was she. He inhaled her mingled scent of flowers and sunshine while her breasts enticed scant inches from his mouth as she shifted, lifting upward one moment, then sitting back the next.

  Sweet Ailénor, the mistress of torment. She’d stirred his passion and played upon his heart since she first fell atop him, and a multitude of times since. The night they made love she spoke of destiny, and he believed her words to be true. She was his life mate, his soul mate. To think he nearly lost her this day for all eternity. The thought tortured him and shadowed his mood.

  He started to move and stretch out his legs, but winced as pain shot through his shoulder where he had taken the earlier fall. He rotated his shoulder, attempting to work the soreness from the muscle.

  “Alors, are you wounded there, also?” Anxious, Ailénor tried to open the neck of his tunic to better see his shoulder, but to no avail. She then caught the hem of his tunic and began to draw it off.

  “Ailénor, I am all right . . . I . . .”

  Garreth could not stay her persistent hands and relented, allowing her to remove the shirt and inspect his shoulder. As she bent over him, her breath fell warm on his suddenly chilled skin. When she placed her hand to his shoulder, her touch was as fire.

  Garreth caught her hands and stilled her movements. Conflicting emotions warred inside him, battling between wanting to scold her for scaring him half to death earlier and wanting to make fierce love to her at the same time. He neared to bursting as the events of the day surged once more to mind, as did the memory of the peril in which she had placed herself.

  “Christ’s toes, Ailénor,” he blurted gruffly. “What possessed you to slip away like that? You knew the dangers.”

  She stiffened, lifting her chin. “I had Gilbert to rely on.”

  “And a great deal of help he proved to be.”

  “Oh, unfair, Garreth! He risked his life for me and nearly lost it.”

  “He would have had no need to had you remained at Andover.”

  “You know I could not,” she cried, shoving to her feet and stepping apart.

  Garreth rose and caught her by the arms. Spinning her around, he pulled her against his body.

  “Do you know what would have happened had I not arrived on the road when I did? Have you any idea what the sight of Grimbold overtaking you did to me? It nearly caused my heart to stop and shortened my life by years.”

  “As the sight of you spilling over with the horses did to me! I feared you to be dead at first, then I watched helpless while you fought Grimbold, blood on your head.” Her eyes suddenly teared up, and she shook her head with a look of shameful guilt. “‘Tis my fault, I know — what befell you, Gilbert, Grimbold.”

  “Shed no tears for Grimbold. He brought his fate upon himself. But you . . . you should have never left Andover.”

  “What else could I do? You were not going to help me.”

  “Not going to . . .” Garreth choked on her words. “Why do you think I was riding to the king? And why do you think I rode back as though hell snapped at my heels when I realized ‘twas Grimbold I encountered in the stables at Andover? I feared for your life.”

  Ailénor paled at his revelation. “So. Andover was unsafe after all.” Ailénor pulled from his arms. “And still you intend to return me there. Do you not? To comply with the king’s commands?”

  Garreth vented an impatient breath. “I have explained what I believe to be His Majesty’s reasons.”

  “Reasons no longer matter — the king’s or yours. Do you not see? I must get back to Normandy. You know I must.”

  “And you will try again?”

  She looked away as the events of the past two weeks rushed up to overwhelm. Tears stung at the back of her eyes as she turn
ed to the man she loved.

  “Ah, Garreth, we have been caught in a terrible web — spun first of revenge, then of intrigue. Whatever comes, know I admire you for your loyalty and I understand the course of your actions, but you must understand mine as well. You say you hastened to my rescue for fear of my life. I hasten to my mother for fear of hers. Wimund yet prowls somewhere. Even should he fail at his task, from what I know of Rhiannon, I cannot believe she will rest until she exacts the retribution she seeks. She will send another and another to seize the Baronne de Héricourt. I must protect my mother, as she would me.”

  Garreth gazed on Ailénor a long, silent moment, then enfolded her back into his arms, resting his cheek atop her head.

  “Dear God, I do understand and love you all the more for it, my brave and beautiful Ailénor. Truly, we are caught in a web, but not wholly entrapped by it. We will deal tomorrow with what course we might take. For now, only one thing matters — you are safe.”

  “Two,” she corrected, leaning back and smoothing a dark lock of hair from his forehead. “I could not bear it if anything happened to you. You are my very heart, and I love you most truly.”

  Garreth warmed at her words. Lowering his head, his lips moved over Ailénor’s, hot and sweet. He trailed kisses to her eyes, cheeks, jaw, and throat, then upward to her temple and brow. Ailénor’s arms slipped about his neck, her ardor rising to match his as their lips met again.

  Their kisses grew fevered as they sank to their knees on their mean pallet, their bodies pressing together. Garreth tangled his fingers in her thick tresses and drew her down to the pallet atop him. She pulled her lips from his to spread kisses over his muscled chest and flat nipples, moving lower to his stomach, as her hands reached toward his braies.

  When her fingers brushed his rigid arousal, Garreth caught her wrists and rolled her onto her back. Covering her mouth possessively, he explored her sweet recesses with his tongue, teasing hers in a sweet delirium. He felt her become fluid beneath him, giving herself to him willingly, eagerly.

  When his hand began to cup her breast, she arched toward him, filling his palm, inviting his touch. He caressed her through the cloth until he felt her harden. Craving to feel her flesh against his, he fumbled blindly at the laces at the back of her dress. Following his lead, her hands sought the ties of his braies.

  Frustrated by their lack of progress, Garreth drew Ailénor up to a sitting position and turned her around. Working at the laces, he opened the gown and bared her back. Pressing kisses to her shoulders and the back of her neck, he drew the gown downward, stripping it away to her hips.

  He slipped his hands to the front, filling them with her warm, bare breasts, fondling them gently, teasing their firm buds. Ailénor let her head sink back on his shoulder, offering him the access he desired and exposing her neck.

  Kissing the curve of her neck, Garreth continued to caress one breast as he slid his other hand downward to seek the honeyed secret, hidden between her legs. Ailénor moaned as he claimed her and seduced her with his touch.

  Drawing her back onto his lap, he turned her and bent to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth and laving and suckling it. Ailénor tightened her grip on him as he continued to savor her and shifted her from his lap. Laying her gently on the pallet, he cherished her other breast, then drew his tongue on a downward path toward her abdomen, pausing long enough to strip away her gown from her legs and dispense with his leggings and braies.

  He shifted upward to move over her, but as he did, Ailénor lifted her hand and enclosed him in the warmth of her palm. He sucked in his breath as her fingers began to explore him. Growling, he moved fully atop her and drew her hand away, settling himself between her legs.

  Greedily, he took her breast into his mouth and plundered her sweet flesh with his lips and tongue. Reaching downward, he sought her sweet core then massaged her tenderly as she opened herself to him. At her invitation, he covered her mouth again. Their tongues danced wildly, rhythmically, matching the rhythm he set below. Feeling her swelling response, he withdrew his hand and slipped into her, continuing to build the momentum as he moved against her.

  Ailénor moaned at the contact, then again as he increased his rhythm. Wrapping her legs tightly about him, moving in perfect unison, she drove him toward an eager climax.

  Garreth’s name burst from Ailénor’s lips as her contracting waves grabbed him. Garreth joined her in his own fierce release, groaning mightily as he thrust deeply, repeatedly, spending himself thoroughly as he filled her with the gift of himself. Exhausted, he sank atop her, panting for breath.

  He smiled and dropped kisses over her nose, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth, along her jaw. “You are all right, my heart?”

  She sought to steady her own breath as she smoothed her hands over his muscled back. “More than all right when I am in your arms.”

  In the lamplight he saw the worry steal back into her eyes. “Garreth — ”

  “Shhh, love. We’ll find a way through this.”

  Rolling from her, he curled his body around hers, draping an arm over her waist and drawing her nearer.

  Later, in the depths of the night, when he caressed her breasts and trailed kisses along her shoulder, Ailénor stirred. Turning toward him, she welcomed his love and met him fully. After their lovemaking, she slept soundly beside him, secure in his embrace. Garreth, however, remained awake, disparate emotions warring within him, making it impossible to sleep.

  The main routes passed through Silchester. He could travel south and return Ailénor to Andover, thus complying with the king’s commands. Or he could head north and seek the king directly, taking Ailénor with him. But a third possibility beckoned. The east road to Lundenburh.

  Deep in his soul, he found it a most disturbing thought. Disturbing because he sensed it to be the right path to take, yet he knew not how to reconcile that course of action.

  Through the long hours, he lay unsleeping, torn between his love for this woman and his loyalty to his king.

  »«

  Garreth knelt on the chilly floor in the nave of the church facing the empty sanctuary where an altar once stood.

  Instinct rode him hard to deliver Ailénor to Lundenburh, while a voice from the corner of his conscience decried it as a preemption of royal command, misuse of power, and a betrayal of the king’s own person.

  His thoughts continued to chase each other in a dizzying cycle, as reason and instinct vied with unconditional loyalty and ties that ran as deep as an oak’s tap root.

  The misdirection of Cynric’s actions was fueled by the motives of the grasping Breton, Barbetorte, and the king’s half sister Eadgifu, anxious to see her son wear Francia’s crown. Garreth strongly believed matters had been misrepresented to the king, and that if Athelstan knew the entirety of the matter, he would have none of it.

  Yet Garreth could not be certain beyond doubt. The issue concerned a hallowed throne and the sovereign’s blood nephew. And what of the king’s missive itself, officially ordering Ailénor’s detainment? His mind argued every facet, every point of contention, until mentally exhausted he banished the thoughts altogether and stilled his mind.

  Garreth pressed his eyes shut and bowed his head, inhaling deeply as he rested a moment. His thoughts floated without form, then of their own accord stretched back across time. Back to Tamworth and his first encounter with Athelstan.

  When twelve-year-old Garreth entered the lower end of the hall that afternoon, he found it wrapped in quiet and virtually empty except for a few servants moving about in the lull that preceded the supper hour.

  Voices drew his attention. Looking right, he discovered three young nobles standing in a knot, all taller, older, and more strapping than he. They chuckled and whispered amongst themselves as though conspiring some mischief. The object of their interest proved to be a small servant girl, making her way from the kitchen passage.

  No more than five or six, the child progressed slowly, bearing a tray with bowls of mu
stard to the sideboard where the meats would soon be sauced. As she neared her goal, one of the nobles shifted his stance and tripped the child apurpose. The young men then burst into a spate of laughter as the bowls flipped into the air and upended their contents into the rushes.

  Stricken, the child could only stare, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. The noble youths taunted her all the more, commanding she scoop the sauce from the rushes and refill the bowls.

  But another promptly countered the other’s charge. “Nay, the sauce cannot be served. ‘Tis fit only for the dogs now. Make the chit eat it.”

  Infuriated, Garreth stepped forward, planting himself between the child and her tormentors. “Eat it yourselves.”

  Taken aback by his sudden appearance and defense of the girl, the nobles narrowed their interest on their new prey.

  No match for them and their more seasoned skills, Garreth knew he dared much, but he would not tolerate such abuse, no matter the person, station, or place. That much he brought with him from Aylesbury. Closing his hands to fists at his sides, he put on a bold face.

  “You dishonor Mercia’s lord and lady, maltreating children under their care.”

  “Ho, and who are you?” asked one.

  “Is he not the Kentish pup who arrived but a few days past?” remarked another.

  “Gangly, isn’t he? And in need of some lessoning, I’d say,” said the third.

  “And I’d say you are the ones in need of lessoning,” a fourth voice boomed, its owner unseen.

  The young nobles parted their ranks, revealing a flaxen-haired youth of approximately their age, average in height yet well muscled, and possessing piercing blue eyes.

  Those eyes now bore into each of them as he stepped into their midst. “Shall we do it, then? Right here and now. Or will you get down on your hands and knees and lap the rushes yourselves?”

  “We did not mean . . . Just a bit of fun . . . We are sorry . . .”

  But the flaxen-haired youth would not be appeased. Drawing the little child up by her hand, he kept her at his side while commanding the three to their knees. Reluctantly they did as told, but hesitated over the mess in the rushes.