With nothing more to say, he impulsively reached out, again taking her warm fingers in his, but this time she did not pull away. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the flesh softly and feeling her tremble at his touch. Her hand, at his lips, moved to his face and she wedged herself closer to him, both hands on his face as she hung her head. It was as if she couldn’t bear to look at him but she had to touch him one last time. Bretton moved to put his arms around her but she pulled away, abruptly, and shook her head. However, she did grasp his fingers again, pulling him with her as she moved, unsteadily, towards the keep. Bretton followed blindly, even when she let go of his fingers and ran up the stairs as if the Devil himself was chasing her.
The Devil, in fact, was. Bretton raced up the stairs after her, sensing that she wanted him to follow her and being unable to resist. Once he entered the keep, he slammed the door only to find her standing in the shadows of the keep entry. Before he could speak, she ran at him, her mouth fusing to his and her arms around his neck. Bretton responded wildly and instantly, his arms around her, his lips on hers, kissing her so hard that she was gasping for air. Still, he kissed her harder. There was finality in his touch, knowing this would be the last time he ever tasted her. It would be the last, and only, time he would ever touch a woman he loved. Emotion fed his passion to a frenzied level.
Allaston was in his arms as he carried her into the open room and sat her on the scrubbed table, the one he had molested her on those weeks ago. This time, there was so much fever and fire to their touch that it was raging out of control. Allaston began to weep softly as he kissed her, his hands moving to her body, touching her through the dress he had ripped once, feeling her warm flesh beneath the fabric. When he brushed over her right breast, unwilling to spook her, she grabbed his hand and put it squarely over her breast.
“Touch me,” she whispered against his mouth. “I beg of you, take me as your own, Bretton. We will never know this moment again and I want to remember you against me, within me, as the only man who was ever meant to be my husband. In my heart, you are my husband. Please do not deny me this memory of you. Let me feel your love as it was meant to be.”
Bretton didn’t need to be told twice. With a growl, he picked her up again and took her to the end of the room that was dark and shadowed. There was more privacy there. He loosened the fastens on the surcoat this time rather than tearing it, easing the shift and dress off her shoulders, enough so that he could get to a warm and tender nipple. When he suckled her furiously, Allaston cried out softly, holding his head to her breast as if he were a starving child nursing against her. As she held him tightly, his hands snaked underneath her skirts, hiking them up, revealing her virgin core beneath.
Pushing her back on the table, Bretton nursed hungrily at her breasts as his hands, far more gently this time, caressed her buttocks and stroked her thighs. When he gently stroked the dark fluff of curls, she leapt with uncertainty but he stilled her with gentle words and soft caresses. Allaston wanted this, after all. She wanted to feel the man within her, just this once. It would be the one and only time she did.
Bretton slipped a finger into her tight, wet sheath, feeling her gasp at the new and strange sensation. She was very moist and he refused to wait. He had been anticipating this moment since nearly the day he met her and he refused to wait any longer. He unfastened his breeches and let them fall to his ankles and as he put the tip of his hard, throbbing phallus at her threshold, he lifted his head and looked her in the eye.
“I love you, Allaston de Velt,” he murmured, gently kissing her chin, her mouth. “What I do now, I do for no other reason than that. You are my heart, my soul, my wife who will never be. I have never loved anyone as I love you and I have never taken a woman who meant something to me. You are the first, in many ways. You are with me forever.”
With that, he thrust into her, listening to her gasp with pain as he breached her maidenhood. She cried out softly as he thrust again and again, seating himself to the hilt, feeling her tight wetness around him. It was beyond pleasure. It was passion and desire such as he had never known. Once fully seated, he held her buttocks against his pelvis and began to thrust into her.
Allaston clung to him, feeling the proof of his passion buried deep inside her, filling her as she could have never imagined. As he pounded into her, she ended up gripping the edge of the table so he wouldn’t push her off of it with the force of his movements. With every thrust, he ground his pelvis against hers and she could feel sparks every time their bodies met. His lips were against her forehead, kissing her softly as he made love to her, and Allaston was overwhelmed with it.
“I want your son,” she breathed, daring to reach down and touch herself where their bodies were joined. She could feel his smooth phallus as he entered her, again and again. “Give me your son, Bretton. Give me your seed so that I may bear your child. If I cannot have you, then at least I can have him. Please… give me your son.”
Bretton gasped heavily as he heard her words, sending lust and desire through him that fed through his loins. It fed him for another reason as well. A woman who was planning on killing herself would not be thinking of bearing a child. Perhaps this was the divine intervention he had been hoping for. He found himself imagining that he would impregnate her, filling her with his son, a child that would bear his good looks and her intelligent mind. He’d barely thought of heirs until he met her and now he could think of nothing else. When her fingers brushed his phallus again, he couldn’t hold back his climax and he released himself deep into her body, feeling her own release as she joined him.
Gasping, sweating, Bretton gathered her up into his arms, holding her tightly, still embedded in her as the last of his arousal died away. He was savoring the feel of her against him, tenderly kissing the side of her head, when the sounds from the bailey grew louder and he knew it was because his men were looking for him. He could hear someone calling for him. An army was approaching, coming closer, and Bretton knew the time had come to leave her. But he didn’t want to let her go, knowing this would be the last time he ever held her in his arms.
“I must go,” he conceded. “If I do not, they will come in here looking for me.”
Allaston pulled her head from the crook of his neck, looking up at him. Her bright green eyes were full of emotion.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“And I love you, forever and always.”
There was nothing more to say. Allaston released him and Bretton stood back, pulling his breeches up and securing them. Allaston slipped off the table, noticing a small amount of blood and bodily fluid on her shift. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t regret anything. Without looking at him, she headed towards the chamber entry.
“If it is your wish that I remain in my chamber, I will do it,” she said quietly. “But I would like to speak to my father before… well, before anything happens. I would consider it a great favor if you would allow it.”
Bretton looked at her, anguish in his eyes. “I will send for you.”
“Thank you.”
She took a few steps but he called out to her. “Allaston?”
She paused to look at him. “Aye?”
Bretton’s gaze never left her as he crossed the floor, taking her into his arms one last time and kissing her with all of the power and anguish he was feeling. Allaston felt it, too. When he let her go, she ran up the stairs. He could hear the chamber door slam on the second floor. He swore he heard her sobbing, too.
With a heavy heart, yet with great determination, he headed out to the bailey to greet the incoming army.
To greet de Velt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
John Morgan had spent the past two days trying to figure out why he was in Wales. He was surrounded with people he didn’t know, men who had told him he was really somebody else. It was damn confusing and he didn’t like being confused.
The trek into Wales had been steady and methodical, as de Lohr, de Poyer, and de Velt were moving a
fairly large army and they had thirteen provision wagons between them. De Velt had brought almost a thousand men from Pelinom, de Poyer had brought eight hundred men with him from Nether, and de Lohr had eleven hundred, making for a massive movement of men and material. All of these soldiers and knights heading into Wales, preparing to take on a mercenary who held de Velt’s daughter hostage with John Morgan right in the middle of it. According to de Lohr, he was a very important part of it.
Unhappy, John Morgan followed de Lohr and de Velt into Wales because he had been ordered to, but he kept to himself. Unfamiliar people always made him nervous. On the morning of the third day out from Lioncross Abbey and after a restless night on John’s part, the army was in sight of a castle in the distance and word spread through the ranks that it was Cloryn Castle. The sunrise was behind them, as they were coming from the east, bathing the castle in a golden glow. It looked rather pretty, to be truthful, but being that it was their destination, something evil await them there. John Morgan didn’t like the look of it.
As he pondered the castle in the distance, riding off to his left was a young knight and an old knight astride their big war horses, men that de Lohr had told him were relatives of his. The old man was even his father, although John Morgan hadn’t recognized him. But that wasn’t unusual. He was very bad with faces and names. In fact, he was pretty bad at most things. He wasn’t a bright man.
“I have been noticing your horse,” came a voice beside him. John Morgan looked over to see a handsome young knight smiling back at him, a young knight he was told was his nephew. The knight gestured to the big bay stallion John Morgan was riding. “He has the long-legged look of a Belgian charger. Is that where you got him?”
John Morgan wasn’t comfortable in conversation with men he didn’t know so it was an effort for him to answer. “Nay,” he said. “He was given to me.”
“How old is he?”
“I am not sure. I think he is ten years old.”
Rod had wanted to engage his uncle in conversation for two days but de Lohr had told him to stay away. He was afraid of upsetting John Morgan and possibly upsetting the entire campaign if the man decided to run off. But Rod was very sociable and he was also very concerned. Berwyn had been a wreck since the day he met John Morgan and Rod very much wanted to ease the way for his grandfather to have a conversation with his son. It was a heartbreaking circumstance.
“Have you had him long?” Rod continued.
John Morgan shook his head. “Not too long.”
Rod wouldn’t let the conversation die. He forged onward. “It looks as if he has a smooth gait,” he said. “I had a fine Belgian charger once that was as smooth as silk but he had a nasty habit of farting all the time. It made travel rather unpleasant. Do you travel much, then?”
John Morgan shook his head. “Not much.”
Rod was coming to see that the man wasn’t much of a conversationalist but it didn’t deter him. “How was your trip down from Northumberland?” he asked. “I’ve actually never been to Alnwick. I hear it is a big place.”
John Morgan nodded. “Big enough,” he said. “My trip was bearable.”
Rod eyed the man, trying to think of something that would possibly engage him in more of a conversation. So far, he wasn’t doing very well. “I am pleased to hear that,” he said, eyeing the horse again. “Have you ever used that horse in a tournament? He has a big chest. I imagine he would have a lot of power in the joust.”
John Morgan shook his head. “I do not joust.”
“Have you ever?”
Again, John Morgan shook his head. “I have not.”
Rod was struggling to keep the conversation going. “I notice you’re missing a finger,” he said. “How did it happen?”
John Morgan lifted his right hand, looking at his little finger, taken off to the second knuckle. He inspected it a moment. “A horse took it off.”
Rod felt a jolt of hope roll through him. It happened long before his head injury. How did he know that? “A shame,” he said, eyeing the man. “I had an uncle who lost the same finger to a horse. As a child, I was scared of horses because of it. I thought they ate fingers for the longest time.”
John Morgan didn’t say anything. He continued plodding along, occasionally looking at his missing finger. “You mean me,” he finally said.
Rod nodded, his heart softening. He found himself praying that somehow, someway, the man would remember them. For Berwyn’s sake, he prayed.
“Aye,” he said softly. “I mean you. I loved you very much, Uncle Morgan. I still do. Although you do not remember me, or your family, you were very loved. We are very happy to know you did not die those years ago.”
John Morgan sighed with confusion. He kept looking at his missing finger, struggling to recall those years that had vanished from his mind. He didn’t seem as uncomfortable or stiff as he had earlier.
“That old man,” he said after a moment. “That man who attacked me. He is my father?”
Rod nodded slowly. “He is,” he said quietly. “He did not attack you. He was happy to see you and was trying to hug you. He did not know that you did not remember him.”
John Morgan was still staring at his hand, evidently pondering the information. “I do not know him.”
“His name is Berwyn.”
John Morgan looked up from his hand, his brilliant blue-eyed gaze roaming the land. He seemed to grow thoughtful, as if his damaged mind was working on something. He scratched his chin, his lips moving as if to bring forth words he couldn’t quite grasp. When he finally spoke, Rod barely heard him.
“Fair flower,” he muttered.
Rod was stunned. “Fair flower,” he repeated softly. “Blodwyn. That was your mother’s name. Why did you say that, Uncle Morgan? Do you remember her?”
John Morgan shook his head unsteadily, still looking over the landscape. He pointed to a patch of yellow flowers by the road. “Fair flower,” he said again.
Rod turned around and frantically motioned to Berwyn, who was riding several feet behind them. Berwyn looked as if he had aged fifty years in the past two days, distraught over a son returned from the dead who did not remember him. But he dutifully spurred his charger forward, looking at Rod with as much curiosity as he could muster. Rod whispered to his grandfather as the man grew near.
“He said fair flower,” he muttered. “That was grandmother’s name, Blodwyn.”
Berwyn looked at his son, brow furrowed, but John Morgan was staring at the flowers at the side of the road, seemingly in a world of his own. When Berwyn saw what he was looking at, it sparked a memory in him from long ago, something that his beloved wife used to say to their children. A child’s rhyme that he pulled from deep in his mind.
“Fair flower, fair flower, you greet me each day,” he said, loud enough so that John Morgan could hear him. “Fair flower, fair flower, do not go away. Fair flower, fair flower, your beauty won’t fade. The sun from above is your soft fairy maid.”
Rod had heard that rhyme from his grandmother once, too, but he hadn’t made the connection when John Morgan had mentioned fair flower. He had only thought of his grandmother’s name and its meaning. But the moment Berwyn repeated the rhyme, John Morgan looked at Berwyn with the most curious of expressions. Berwyn gazed into his son’s eyes, his heart breaking that the man didn’t know him. But there was something in his face that suggested he was trying. Something was going on in that wounded brain, sparks of long-lost memories beginning to stir.
“Do you know that rhyme, John Morgan?” Berwyn asked calmly. “Have you heard it before?”
John Morgan stared at Berwyn a moment longer before nodding his head, briefly. Then, he faced forward again, all but ignoring Rod and Berwyn. It was evident that the conversation was over. Still, contact had been made. There was something there, something that suggested memories were buried deep. They simply needed to dig them out. When Rod finally turned to Berwyn to see how the man was reacting, he was surprised to see a smile on his
lips.
He had hope.
The ride continued in comfortable silence from that point forward. Rod’s attention turned from his uncle and grandfather to the head of the column where de Velt and de Lohr were beginning to signal to the men. Cloryn Castle was drawing close and a call went up in the column, and everyone ground to a halt.
De Poyer, covering the rear, barked orders and sent the provisions wagons away from the rest of the column, back into a line of trees that was off to the northeast. They would have protection there and tents would be pitched out of the range of archers from the castle. Word then spread back through the lines, calling Rod forward. De Lohr had need of him.
Rod charged forward, along the column, until he reached Christopher at the head. “Aye, my lord?” he responded as he brought his charger to a halt.
Christopher was in full battle armor, as was de Velt. It was an impressive but odd sight, seeing the two great commanders in full regalia as allies with a common cause. De Velt was as frightening as always in his red and black tunic with his battle-scarred older mail, something he hadn’t worn in quite a long time, while Christopher’s recognizable blue and yellow tunic covered expensive and well-maintained mail. When Rod approached, Christopher lifted his visor.
“We can see movements on the parapets, so they are alerted to our arrival and are undoubtedly preparing,” he told Rod. “Since you have already made contact with your cousin, I am going to ask you to ride to the gate and summon him. Since he knows you, he is less likely to shoot you down.”
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