Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “We could have been beaten senseless,” Mary said, not lifting her arm, “and left to bleed all over the floor.”

  Claire shivered. “Aye.”

  “Or brutally ravished.” Mary’s words were a strangled whisper.

  “Aye.”

  “Or both.” Mary moaned like a dying hound.

  “True,” Claire agreed, determined to stay calm. “But none of those terrible things happened. That, surely, is a reason to be thankful.”

  A disbelieving snort broke from Mary. Claire stooped, gathered her tidy pile of items, and put them into the linen chest, along with the garments Mary had folded. Pausing a moment, her hands braced on the sides of the open chest, she closed her eyes and prayed for fortitude and a clear, rational mind to help her think through their situation.

  She must be as brave as Lady Brackendale. Succumbing to hopelessness and tears would not help matters—although Claire had learned in the days after Henry’s killing that she often felt much better after a good cry.

  Straightening, she looked at her chamber door, battered but serviceable once again. Before leaving, Tye had ordered one of the mercenaries who’d arrived from the bailey to find some wood and hammer it across the broken slats. The thug had completed the task and then had slammed the door shut, to stand guard along with one of his colleagues.

  Claire caught the sound of the men conversing now and again, although she couldn’t make out what they said. Disappointing, for she longed to know how Lady Brackendale and the others fared, but at least she and Mary had a measure of privacy now. With the door repaired, the men outside couldn’t peer in. Nor could they easily hear what was being discussed—which hopefully would work in their favor.

  “I cannot believe you think there is any reason to be thankful.” Mary sniffled. “We are prisoners. We have no idea what will happen to us. Truth be told, I am worried beyond measure. Oh, Claire, I cannot stop thinking about Lady Brackendale. I hope she is being treated well.”

  “I do, too.” Concern for the older woman weighed upon Claire. Lord Brackendale’s recent death, followed by the conquest of the castle, could be overwhelming for her ladyship in her fragile emotional state. Claire would be sure to ask Tye about Lady Brackendale when she next saw him, which was likely to be soon, if she was to believe the promise in his parting words.

  The thought of facing him again was most unpleasant. ’Twould mean experiencing his hard, keen gaze upon her. ’Twould mean fighting the unsettling, breath-snatching pull of masculinity surrounding him like an additional layer of armor. Yet, she must speak with him again. The rogue might not heed a word of what she said, but she’d do her best to make him attend to her ladyship’s wellbeing.

  Mary’s arm over her face lifted a fraction. “Do you think Lady Brackendale is all right? I mean… Do you think she was ravished?”

  Claire mentally pushed aside the possibility. “I would hope that the attackers extended the same respect to her as they did to us—if not more respect, considering her position.”

  Mary peered up at Claire. “Respect? Claire, that…that thug took your letters and journal. He knew they were important to you and also highly personal.”

  Ugh. As if she needed a reminder. “He did,” Claire agreed. “They will not be of much use to him, though, if he cannot read.”

  Mary pushed up to sitting. “Considering he is a lowborn ruffian, ’tis more than likely that he cannot read. I certainly do not know any thugs who can understand written words.”

  Claire stifled a smile. She’d never imagined Mary was so knowledgeable about thugs.

  “Whether Tye can read or not, though, is another matter,” Mary continued, her tone anxious. “We were speaking of respect and his lack of it. He had his hand up your gown!”

  “I know, Mary, but—”

  “He touched your legs! And the way he stared at you, as if he wanted to devour you…”

  A blush heated Claire’s face. To try and hide her reaction, she plucked an imaginary loose thread from her sleeve. She needed no reminders of what had taken place. Hidden by her gown, her legs still tingled from Tye’s touch that had felt more like a reverent exploration than a rough search. She’d never forget the heat of his hands upon her, or the strong, unforgivable yearning that had stirred within her at his caress. “What happened earlier is behind me—us—now. We should concentrate upon what lies ahead.”

  “W-what do you mean?”

  Claire crossed to Mary and gently pulled her to her feet. Struggling to piece together the frayed thoughts racing through her mind, Claire squeezed her friend’s hand. “You and I need to stay alert, to listen, and to watch with great care. We must remember the smallest details of all that takes place during this occupation. Such information will be important.”

  “To Lord de Lanceau?” Mary asked, swiping at her bottom eyelashes.

  “Aye. As Lady Brackendale said, he will soon know of the takeover here and will launch a rescue.”

  Mary’s gaze brightened with hope. “You are right. He will.”

  A smile tugged at Claire’s lips. “Of course I am right.”

  Mary giggled. “Well, most of the time.”

  “When have I—?”

  “The stable, two winters past. Remember?”

  Oh, mercy. Claire did indeed remember. “All right, so I was wrong about the young lord waiting there for your kiss.”

  “Very wrong.” Mary frowned. “That situation could have been extremely mortifying, if I hadn’t recognized the man standing in the shadows as Sutton.”

  “Aye. Well.” Claire cleared her throat. “That incident aside, we need to focus on the here and now. We might be captives, but we are also first-hand witnesses to—”

  “Chroniclers,” Mary said.

  “Aye!” Excitement fluttered inside Claire like a handful of butterflies. “Oh, Mary. What a wonderful idea!” She hurried to her linen chest and dug down in the contents. With a grin, she pulled out the blank journal Tye had looked at earlier and discarded, along with a drawstring bag containing quills and ink.

  “I was saving this tome for my musings on my first weeks with Aunt Malvina.”

  “Your aunt will still be expecting you today.” Mary said, her eyes widening. “When you do not arrive, will she not be worried?”

  Claire shook her head. “This snowfall will have affected much of Moydenshire. She told me in her last letter not to leave Wode if the weather was foul. She will suspect I was sensible and stayed behind until a better day for traveling.”

  “I see.” Mary gnawed her lip. “Well, if you are willing, I say ’tis a worthy sacrifice, to use this journal for our account of Tye’s conquest.”

  “I can always buy another journal.”

  Smiling, Mary nodded.

  Motioning for her friend to follow, Claire headed to the trestle table and set down the book and bag. She opened the tome, the binding creaking slightly, the pungent scent of cured parchment rising to her.

  “How shall we begin?” Mary sounded a little breathless. “Should we start from the moment we heard the shouts?”

  Claire drew the pot of ink and a quill from the bag. She carefully opened the ink, making sure not to spill any. Dipping the quill into the black liquid, she said, “How about: ‘ ’Twas a snowy morning—’”

  “A cold and snowy morning,” Mary corrected, leaning closer.

  “Very well.” The nib of the quill scratched across the parchment. ’Twas a cold and snowy morning that fateful day at the great keep of Wode…

  Chapter Seven

  Pulling off her leather gloves, Veronique strolled into the empty solar. She studied the rumpled bed, the food left on the tray, the oak table opposite the bed that was set with small pots, combs, hair pins and jeweled hair ornaments. The furnishings in the chamber were simple but of fine quality and suited to a wealthy older lady who enjoyed her comforts.

  A hard smile curved Veronique’s crimson-painted lips as she crossed to the table, tossed down her gloves and dagger, and
trailed her fingers over the collection of luxuries there, dragging them out of the organized arrangement that had suggested each item had a special place. Pins tumbled to the floorboards; she left them where they fell. She swept a silver comb onto the planks where it landed with a clatter.

  Her hand lifted, hovered, and picked up a brown earthenware pot.

  “What have we here?” she murmured, removing the lid and taking a whiff of the lavender-scented cream inside. She dipped in a gnarled finger, scooped some cream out, and rubbed it on the back of her hand. The cosmetic was a nice, smooth consistency. Excellent quality. It had likely had cost her ladyship—or more likely Lord Brackendale—a small fortune in coins. Her smile broadening, Veronique put the lid back on the pot. Slipping her hand inside her cloak, she shoved the pot into the leather bag at her hip, along with two gold hair combs studded with gemstones.

  Picking up a silver hair piece inlaid with pearls, she tapped it against her palm and walked farther into the room. The spacious chamber was well kept. ’Twas the kind of large, comfortable room Veronique liked. Indeed, that she bloody well deserved.

  Her hand closed around the hair piece. The delicate tines bent under the pressure, but instead of relenting, she crushed even tighter. If circumstances had been different, she would have enjoyed a lavish chamber like this and all of the privileges due a rich lady day after day, year after year. Aye, her life would have been very different if that bastard Geoffrey de Lanceau hadn’t cast her aside in favor of Lord Brackendale’s young daughter, who had quickly become Geoffrey’s wedded wife.

  ’Twould have been different again if Geoffrey hadn’t refused to accept that the boy Veronique had birthed was his child.

  Tye was Geoffrey’s son; she hadn’t lain with any other man during the weeks that she’d gotten with child. Geoffrey had only himself to blame for the inevitable battle ahead; he deserved to die a painful death for the way he’d spurned her and her babe.

  What a wondrous day that would be: the day Geoffrey died, killed by the son he’d forsaken twenty years ago.

  Laughter bubbled within Veronique and filled the silence of the chamber. Pride burned in her breast, for at last—at last—Tye was taking the role she’d envisioned for him since the day he’d burst from her womb. It had taken long years of teaching, guiding, manipulating, but all of it had finally coalesced into one sole purpose: to destroy de Lanceau.

  Tye would destroy him.

  Opening her hand, Veronique looked at the crushed ornament, too damaged now to be worthy of repair. Geoffrey would soon be damaged, destroyed. That it would happen at Wode was even more fitting. Geoffrey had been born in the castle—in this very room. He’d fought years ago to reclaim Wode and his family’s honor, as part of his plan to avenge his father who had died condemned as a traitor. And here, in the fortress that had been home for so many lords of his revered Norman bloodline, he would die.

  Her lips twisted, and then she flung the jewel against the wall. As the clink of metal faded, rumbled voices from the corridor reached her. She’d seen the battered chamber door farther down the passageway, and among the voices, she recognized Tye’s. He had a talent for breaking down doors—and for swiftly quelling any opposition—as the occupants of that room had no doubt discovered.

  Veronique trailed her hand over the end of the wide rope bed, the pale blue silk coverlet soft beneath her palm. When Tye assumed the role of bold warrior, he could be formidable. Exceptionally so. His handsome face turned hard, and his gaze became knife sharp, piercing.

  At times, she was a little afraid of him. She’d never admit that to him, though. Why should she? She had no reason to fear her son. He’d never harm her; she’d kept too good a hold over his emotions for him to ever dream of turning against her.

  Judging by the frightened murmurs following Tye’s raised voice, the women in the chamber were obeying him. And so they should. They were now his subjects, for him to do with as he pleased. A bawdy giggle tickled Veronique’s throat. With his healthy sexual appetites, they would please him, all right.

  She sensed movement near the solar door, spun, and grabbed for her knife, but then Braden strode in, his sword at the ready. How she loved the unapologetic arrogance in his walk; it had appealed to her on a raw, sexual level from their very first meeting.

  When he saw her, he grinned and lowered his weapon. “Love.”

  She smiled back. “All is well in the great hall?”

  “’Tis secured, just as we planned. I came to see if I was needed up here.”

  Needed. Her womb pulsed, a throb of anticipation. She always needed him, and had done since the day she’d first laid eyes upon him.

  Braden strode past her, his gaze sharpening as he scrutinized the chamber. She knew that look. He’d once studied her with such thoroughness. She’d been a prisoner then, chained by her wrists and ankles to a dungeon wall, captive to his stare and harsh words. A slick fire began to burn between her thighs.

  How clearly she remembered when he’d entered the dungeon of the castle ruled by Dominic de Terre, de Lanceau’s closest friend and most loyal knight. She’d been imprisoned soon after the defeat at Waddesford Keep. De Lanceau had put her in Dominic’s care so that she and Tye would be in separate secure locations—what little good that had done.

  When Braden had stepped into dungeon, she’d felt his presence like a hot hand sliding over her body. Introduced as an interrogator who reported to the King, he’d walked into her dank, solitary cell to question her and slammed the door; she’d shivered inside with wicked desire. She’d challenged his quelling stare, fought his inquiries with her wits and feminine wiles, and in the coming days, had found his weaknesses: loneliness and failed ambition.

  As the days of interrogation had worn on, she’d secretly tried to convince him of the advantages he’d gain by helping her and Tye, especially when Tye would soon rule all of Moydenshire. “You could be a lord,” she’d coaxed, keeping her tone hushed. “A rich lord. A man with an estate, a castle, and a title worthy of great respect.”

  “Beware,” he’d growled. “I do not tolerate lies.”

  “Lies?” She’d scoffed. “I do not lie. All that I mentioned could easily be yours.” She’d paused for a significant moment, letting her words settle before she went in for the final verbal thrust. “’Tis clear to me that you are an intelligent and skilled man. Surely you aspire to be more than an interrogator? Surely you deserve more?”

  He’d scowled, told her to stop trying to deceive him, and continued with his questioning. The next morning, his face an emotionless mask, Braden had arrived with a covered wagon, four armed men, and a signed missive, and hauled her in chains from her cell.

  “King’s orders,” Braden had told Dominic, who’d been angry enough to smash a hole through the dungeon wall with his bare hands. “I am to take her to London. The King has questions about information she provided during my interrogation. On those matters, she will answer to King John himself.”

  Dominic had fiercely protested her being taken away, but no lord could overrule a summons from the crown. Some distance from the castle gates, however, the wagon and riders had been set upon by mercenaries, and the men who’d accompanied Braden had been killed—just as he’d arranged.

  After liberating Veronique from her chains, Braden had explained that the escape was part of King John’s secret agreement with her; the days of interrogation she’d endured were a necessary ruse, to ensure Dominic wouldn’t try to stop Braden when he took her from the dungeon. In exchange for her freedom, she’d relay information on de Lanceau to the King. Moreover, Braden was to be her personal protector. She’d agreed to the terms and then seduced him in a passionate coupling that had sealed their arrangement. That night, before word of the killing of Braden’s entourage had spread throughout Moydenshire, they’d successfully freed Tye from de Lanceau’s dungeon.

  How she’d grown to appreciate Braden. While he obeyed his King, he also saw that with the political instability caused by King John�
��s ever-increasing taxes, his confiscation of castles and lands throughout England, and his war with the French King, there were opportunities for ambitious men. He wanted to rule a fortress; he looked forward to becoming king of his own court and enjoying the rich future she’d offered him.

  She adored his self-centered ruthlessness, almost as much as she loved his naked body on top of her, pounding into her…

  Braden approached the solar window and drew open the shutters to look out. Her body tingling with desire, Veronique crossed to the door and shoved it closed.

  Braden glanced at her. He was clearly trying to appear surprised. Yet, she knew him too well to mistake the glint in his eyes for astonishment. That fiery look was pure lust.

  Veronique indulged in a bawdy giggle. Hips swaying, she strolled toward him.

  Braden closed the shutters and met her halfway. “Why were you laughing?” He slid his arm around her waist. The scent of him—a blend of worn leather, fresh air, and pungent sweat—accosted her senses, rousing visions of their nude limbs entwined, thrusting together. Her womb fluttered greedily.

  Smiling up into his face, she said, “I am imagining Geoffrey’s rage when he learns Wode has been captured. He will be especially furious when he hears the name of the new lord.”

  Braden chuckled. “’Tis the only reason?”

  She nibbled his jaw. “Nay.” Braden always tasted so good: salty and spicy, like danger and excitement.

  As her hands prowled under his cloak, he said softly, “Should we not find Tye?”

  “We will. In a moment.”

  Braden’s heated gaze settled on her mouth. “Tye does have the situation under control.”

  “He does.”

  “The fortress is taken.”

  “’Tis.” She found the hem of Braden’s tunic, and then her hands slid underneath, to the bulge of his sex constrained by his snug-fitting woolen hose. Her hands closed over his manhood, and she was rewarded by his sharp inhalation and shudder.

  “Veronique—”