Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  They’d agreed days ago that he’d occupy Wode’s solar, but she obviously wanted to exert some control over the day’s arrangements. “Fine,” he said.

  “Good. Now, we must celebrate your victory this day.” Veronique frowned at the table. “No wine? No ale?”

  Aware of the toiling servants listening to the conversation, Tye said, “I have ordered food and drink. ’Twill arrive soon.”

  Veronique scowled. “The servants owe you their loyalty. If you ordered food and wine, they should have been brought immediately. You cannot ignore this slight. Those working in the kitchen should be hauled out into the bailey and soundly whipped.”

  “Mother—”

  “I can see to the whippings for you, Tye,” Braden said, sounding eager for a reason to inflict pain. No wonder he and Tye’s mother got along so well.

  “I am certain what I ordered will be here shortly.” Tye caught the gaze of one of the servants, who was clever enough to understand the silent command in his stare. She dropped her cloth and hurried into the stairwell.

  Veronique watched the woman go and then once again faced Tye. “Before I forget, there is another matter we must discuss.”

  “What matter is that?”

  “The lady who challenged you.”

  “Claire.” Tye’s body responded with a ravenous ache that rekindled the fire in his groin. Soon, he’d go and check on her. He must be sure the servants had tended to the fires, after all.

  “Claire, is it? I did not realize you two were so well acquainted.”

  His mother always had to pry. Unwilling to divulge more about Claire than he had to, he said, “We are not well acquainted. I barely know her.”

  “She is the pretty one you discovered while searching the upstairs chambers?”

  He nodded.

  “I am surprised you let her get away with such disrespect earlier, especially with all of those servants bearing witness.”

  “I could have crushed her at any time, Mother, if I had so wished.”

  “Yet, you did not. I am disappointed.”

  Disappointed. Tye hated that word coming from her lips when she spoke of him.

  Smothering an irritated growl, Tye slowly pushed back in the chair and lowered his feet to the floor. He wouldn’t apologize for the way he’d handled the situation in the hall. His mother might have preferred a gruesome spilling of blood, but bloodshed would not win him respect among the castle folk.

  His mother’s laughter pierced his thoughts. “You have no more to say on the matter?”

  He deliberately held his mother’s mocking stare. “I will have other opportunities to quell Claire’s boldness, if need be.”

  “Mmm. I saw how intently you spoke to her—and how you looked at her.”

  “How, exactly, was that?”

  “As though you wanted to throw her down on the table, shove up her gown, and take her.”

  Exactly right. A roguish grin tilted his lips. “How well you know me.”

  “You are my one and only son.” She smiled. “You are also a man of lusty appetites, whether the woman be a maiden, a courtesan, or a widow. I am surprised you did not ravish the lady during your first meeting.”

  “In the midst of a takeover? ’Twould have been more than foolish.”

  She glanced coyly at Braden, who chuckled, and then back at Tye. “Well, now that the siege is over and this castle is yours, you can do whatever you want with her. Whenever you want. As often as you want.”

  On that, they were in agreement. Just thinking of Claire sent a hot shiver rippling through him. “Lady Sevalliere is quite lovely, even if she—”

  “—is trouble,” Veronique interrupted. “Lovely or not, whether you lust after her or not, she is a challenge to your rule here. One we would be wise to eliminate.”

  Tye was all too aware of the way his mother dealt with people she viewed as problematic. Her dagger had sliced more throats than he could count on two hands, and those were the killings of which he knew. “Mother—”

  “She cannot be allowed to oppose you in that way again.”

  “I can handle Claire.” He shot his mother a warning glare.

  “I have no doubt you can and will handle her. Your clever hands have fondled half the women in England.”

  Tye clenched his jaw. He might have needs, but he wasn’t that loose with his affections. He didn’t couple with just any wench. He met a sour glance from the woman scrubbing a nearby table; she doubtless hated the thought of him touching well-bred, innocent Claire. Spurred by a sting of annoyance, he smirked at her. She flushed bright red and scrubbed as though her life depended upon it.

  Veronique’s painted lips parted, as if she intended to say more, but a muffled bang carried from the forebuilding. A moment later, the mercenary Tye had been expecting appeared.

  At bloody last.

  Tye rose, the legs of the chair scraping across the floor.

  The man, sporting a purplish bruise on his brow, halted and bowed. Clumps of ice fell from the hem of his cloak.

  “The prisoners are taken care of?” Tye asked.

  “Aye, milord. I have the list you requested, written by Sutton.”

  Tye strode along the back of the table. “You can review the list with me on the way to the dungeon. I wish to check on the prisoners myself.” Ignoring his mother’s outraged cry, he said to her, “I regret having to leave, but I do have duties to attend. I will join you in celebrating our victory as soon as I can.”

  With the mercenary close behind, Tye crossed the hall and headed down to the bailey. When he burst through the forebuilding door, he blew out a sharp breath, immensely glad to be out in the fresh air.

  As Tye took a quick assessment of the bailey, a dark shape caught his attention: a furry black object squeezed behind a barrel near the stables. He might not have noticed it, but for the feathered fletching of an arrow jutting out from behind the barrel at an odd angle. The object didn’t move, though, and judging by its size and shape, was likely no more than a discarded garment.

  “Milord?” the mercenary asked.

  “Tell me about the list,” Tye said, motioning to the dungeon. Whatever was behind the barrel would have to wait.

  Tye is the most disagreeable, irritating, arrogant man I have ever met. I vow he has no knowledge of honor or gallantry—very surprising in this era of chivalry—and have reached such a conclusion not just because he boldly claimed this keep for his own. Truth be told, I am still shocked by the outrageous bargain he proposed in the great hall, one that involved him kissing me, touching me, and even more that I am too mortified to remember and, if I dare to ponder further, will cause me to swoon.

  What kind of man believes he has a right to such intimacies, especially with a lady he hardly knows? My thoughts refuse to stop mulling this question, even though I would never yield to such a ridiculous agreement.

  I know that kissing is a most wonderful, special intimacy between a man and woman who love each other and who will spend the rest of their lives together. I know exactly how kisses should be from the one Henry and I shared. A kiss simply cannot be enjoyed with a conquering rogue.

  If Tye believes he can kiss me, he is very much mistaken. I am, and will always be, devoted to my beloved, departed Henry.

  Setting down the quill, Claire read over what she’d written and gave a satisfied nod. She’d covered most of what she’d intended to say. She tucked the quill and ink back into the bag and stowed them back in her linen chest.

  Then she set the journal down by the hearth so the ink would fully dry. The fire had burned down to embers, and the mercenaries had taken away the implements so she had no way to stir up the blaze, but hopefully there would still be enough heat. If only she hadn’t wasted so much time deliberating before setting quill to parchment; however, that couldn’t be helped now.

  Aware of a chill settling in, Claire strode the length of her chamber, rubbing her arms with her hands. She felt a bit warmer, although the coldness wasn’t ju
st in the air; it was deep inside her, an icy knot of uncertainty as to what would happen to her next.

  Tye’s words rumbled again in her mind. If what you are thinking involves my mouth moving upon yours…you would be right.

  Choking down a little cry, she spun on her heel, her gown swirling at her ankles, and paced back across her chamber.

  I would touch you. . . I would learn every bit of you, every womanly curve, dip, and hollow.

  He should not be able to torment her when he was nowhere near. Yet, his words simply would not leave her be.

  Worry gnawed its way into Claire’s thoughts. What was happening in the hall now? Was Lady Brackendale all right? And what of Mary?

  Claire sighed, for it seemed an eternity since the guards had brought her back to her room, shoved her inside, and locked the door, without any wood for the fire or even something to drink. If only she could speak to Tye, ask him outright his intentions, not just for the folk living at the keep, but for her.

  She had no prior experience to guide her with a man such as him: a rogue governed by fierce passions and dark secrets. That he would desire her was both terrifying and—God help her—thrilling.

  She scowled at her idiocy. “Not thrilling. Not, not, not!”

  Crouching by the hearth, she inspected the ink. It seemed dry, but she would wait a little longer, just to be sure, before hiding the journal again.

  Just as she rose to standing, voices sounded outside her door. Gasping, she snatched up the journal, slammed it closed, and dashed for the bed.

  She’d only just tucked the journal away and straightened, when the door opened.

  Tye strode through the doorway.

  Chapter Eleven

  Claire’s pulse jumped as Tye’s gaze fixed on her standing near the bed. Memories of their previous conversation crowded into her mind, and dread wove through her. Had he come to finalize the bargain he’d so brazenly proposed?

  Tye walked several steps into her chamber and then halted. His lips formed a thin line, as though he assessed whether she was going to cooperate or challenge him again.

  Claire’s legs suddenly felt unsteady. She was not going to collapse in front of him. ’Twould only prove how much he unsettled her, and her pride simply refused to bolster his arrogance. Maintaining eye contact with him, she walked to the hearth and stopped at the edge of the glazed tiles, glad of the heat that began to warm the right side of her skirts.

  Turning slightly, Tye beckoned to someone in the corridor. A young girl hurried in, carrying a tray. Claire caught the fragrant scents of mutton stew and freshly baked grain bread as the girl set the food on the trestle table, then waited with her eyes downcast.

  “Bring the rest,” Tye said, “as well as more firewood.”

  The girl curtsied and dashed out. After nodding to his men on guard outside, Tye shut the door.

  He had shut them in together.

  Just the two of them.

  Claire had never been alone with a man before. Not a flesh and blood one, anyway—as opposed to the gallant heroes who had filled her daydreams and romantic imaginings. She’d always had Mary to chaperone visits with Henry, to avoid any impropriety—not that Claire had expected any from her most honorable suitor—and also thwart any attempts by those who thrived on castle gossip to stir up a scandal.

  Tye obviously didn’t care about propriety or the potential to create a scandal that would quickly reach the servants’ ears. Shame tugged at Claire, mocking her for all of the instances she’d been so careful to protect her good name and maidenly virtue. All had been for naught.

  Swiftly following that shame, though, was indignation. If she’d had a choice, she wouldn’t have allowed Tye into her room. Yet, she did not have a choice; she was a prisoner. A hostage to be ransomed or used to further his ambitions.

  When he did not speak, just stood watching her, Claire crossed her arms. With luck, by standing with her arms folded, he wouldn’t see how much she was shaking.

  Tye’s gaze dropped to her arms, then rose again to her face. His mouth eased into a lop-sided grin.

  She could bear the awkward silence no longer. “Why do you smile?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “Why did you want to?” Had he noticed her trembling? If so, she was going to have to find a better way to conceal her unease.

  Tye shrugged. “Better to smile than to scowl, aye? Or should I be scowling? Were you up to mischief, Kitten, while you were all alone?”

  Mischief. That could describe her recent entry in the journal. Surely, though, what she’d written was more aptly described as first-hand information on an important historical event. Therefore, not mischief. “I did naught of consequence,” she answered, proud that her voice didn’t catch and betray her lie. Remembering that he’d found her standing by the bed, she added, “I took the opportunity to rest.”

  His brows rose. If she made him suspicious, he might order a search of her chamber. He might find the journal behind her bed.

  “How could I get up to mischief?” she said hotly. “You took my letters, as well as the journal that I might have read or written in to help me pass the day.”

  An emotion she couldn’t name flickered in his eyes. “So I did.”

  “There.” She nodded briskly. “You have the truth.” As the words left her mouth, she cringed inwardly. Why had she said that? She was going to get herself into trouble if she didn’t steer the conversation onto safer ground. As his stare sharpened, she asked, “How is Lady Brackendale? I have been worried about her.”

  “She is resting and comfortable.”

  “Is she all right? When she was forced from the hall—”

  “She is well.”

  A sigh of relief broke from Claire. “I am glad. And Mary?”

  “In her chamber. She is well, also.” Tye’s smile broadened, revealing his even, white teeth. “However, I expect she is probably fretting that I drugged her stew.”

  Claire’s attention shifted to her tray of food. Tainted food was a possibility. What better way to keep an enemy castle under control than to taint the fare with drugging herbs? Leveling him a cool stare, she asked, “Did you drug the stew?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I did not go near the kitchens this day.”

  “One of your men could have done it, or even…your mother.”

  “My mother was seeing to other matters. Trust me, Claire. If I wanted you subdued, there are other ways of accomplishing that.”

  What a hideous thought. A curious part of her wanted to ask what ways he meant, but in truth, she didn’t want to know.

  He motioned to the food. “Why not eat while ’tis warm?”

  “Thank you, but I am not hungry—” Her belly loosed a loud gurgle and she instinctively pressed her hands over her stomach.

  Tye chuckled.

  “All right. I am hungry. But—” Even if the food isn’t tainted, I could not eat one bite with you in the room, watching my every move.

  “I should not have mentioned drugging the food.” Tye headed to the table, his long strides consuming the short distance. “Here. I will prove to you that the food is not corrupted.”

  “Really, you do not need—”

  “Oh, but I do.” He picked up the wooden-handled spoon—the one and only utensil. ’Twas dwarfed in his callused, sun-bronzed hand. He held the implement up for her to see and then picked up the earthenware bowl of stew. Cupping it in the palm of his left hand, he dipped in the spoon and lifted it to reveal a mounded heap of vegetables coated with thick brown gravy.

  Her mouth watered. The cook made a good stew, always richly flavored with wine and dried herbs grown in the castle garden. How Claire longed for a taste.

  A mischievous glint in his eyes, Tye raised the spoon and opened his mouth. The stew slid between his teeth, a smear of gravy glistening on his bottom lip. He closed his lips around the spoon and pulled it out, slowly, tiny bit by tiny bit, while his eyes closed in an expression of extreme delight.<
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  “Mmm,” he said, the appreciative sound deep and rumbling. “Delicious.”

  The muscles in his jaw shifted while he chewed. She wanted to look away; should look away. Somehow, she couldn’t. She could only stare helplessly at his full, well-formed lips as they moved; his eyes were still closed, his thick lashes brushing against his skin. At last, he swallowed, and his eyelids opened, his gaze intense and gloating.

  Again, he held up the spoon.

  “Fine.” Her voice emerged oddly strained and breathless. “You have proved your point. Thank you for—”

  “I am not done yet.”

  “You wish to eat more stew?”

  He laughed softly, as though eating was far from his intent. Then, holding the spoon like a lit candle, he brought it to his mouth again. His tongue flicked out to glide over the bowl of the spoon, as if to lick away every last drop of gravy.

  Mercy. Did he do that after every spoonful of stew he ate, or were his dramatics intended to torment her? His tongue slid in a slow, slick exploration, while he watched her watching him.

  She tried to remain impassive, but what he was doing was both thoroughly revolting and completely mesmerizing. How curious, that a strange, tingling heat had kindled in her lower belly. His glistening tongue curled over the spoon with such sinful decadence, as though ’twere not a spoon at all but something else entirely… What, though, she had no idea, and that flustered her all the more.

  “Enough,” she said, trying to ignore the distressing sensations he’d evoked.

  “I am upsetting you?” Tye gave the spoon another slow, lusty lick. Judging by his expression, the spoon now tasted just as good as when it had held stew.

  “That spoon is more than clean,” she said tartly. “And now ’tis covered with your spittle.”

  Tye winked. “What a shame.”

  “I hope there is wine in that mug on the tray. I shall use some to cleanse the spoon.”

  He chuckled, a sound of wry amusement, and then set the utensil down on the table. It settled with a soft clunk. “There is indeed wine.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Although if I were to kiss you, you would have my spittle on your mouth.”