The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4

by Mecca, Cecelia

  Before he finished, the baron waved his hand in the air for Conrad to stop.

  “And I will consider giving it, but only if you and Lady Cait join me for a drink.”

  The former earl’s enemy had surprised him in nearly every way possible, but he had no choice but to comply, and so he nodded. In response to an order from the baron, the servants scurried to bring seats to the platform, which was no longer arranged for a meal.

  Conrad watched as his men were led from the hall by the steward. Ansel did not appear pleased, but Conrad shook his head in response to his marshal’s silent question. Lindemere may be a touch mad, but he was no murderer.

  “Sit, dear boy.”

  The corner of Cait’s mouth lifted, and Conrad fought a smile of his own. He could not recall being called “dear boy” even when he was, in fact, a boy.

  “Wine or ale?”

  They sat on either side of Lindemere, in high-backed chairs as intricately carved as the baron’s. Each had taken two servants to carry, and Conrad could understand why as his fingers rested on the arm of his own seat.

  “Ale,” he said at the same time that Cait asked for wine.

  Her favorite drink, he remembered, was hypocras, the spiced wine not as common here as it was north of the border. When the wine goblet was handed to her, Conrad found himself watching as Cait took the first sip. Listening as she murmured an obligatory compliment. He tried not to envision her backside pressed against him in sleep. Or the curve of her waist, the only part of her body he’d dared touch these past days.

  How had Lindemere surmised the truth of his connection to Cait so quickly?

  The way you look at her, you fool.

  Conrad took a sip of the ale he’d been given and turned to Lindemere.

  “You are not at all what I expected,” he said.

  Honesty. Conrad’s secret weapon.

  Lindemere drank, a dribble of ale getting caught in his white beard. “Hmmm.”

  “My father had few kind words for you, my lord.”

  Cait gasped.

  Lindemere raised his mug. “Rest in peace.”

  All three of them drank to his father, despite what Conrad had said.

  “If he sat here with us, I’d have few kind words for him. Your father was both rash and temperamental, though only marginally more so than his nephew.”

  Conrad’s cousin Marcus had died years before his parents, and he hardly remembered the man. But he had, of course, heard rumors.

  “’Tis true I had his belongings removed from his bedchamber.”

  Lindemere drank again, prompting both he and Cait to do the same.

  “But not to place myself in a position of more prominence, as he claimed.”

  “I did not come here to discuss a matter so long ago resolved,” Conrad began, not wishing to open old wounds.

  “Ha! Resolved? You glare at me as if I were some mad old man responsible for his father marching to court with a retinue of lanced knights and nearly getting himself tossed into prison for it.”

  Conrad’s eyes narrowed. “Precisely that.”

  He glanced at Cait then. Though she stayed silent, he could feel her anger for him. For his family. She knew what the deterioration of his father’s kinship with the king had ultimately cost his parents.

  “I assure you, my boy, I am not to blame for such an act. Your cousin defiled my daughter and should have been grateful I did not kill him.”

  Conrad’s head snapped back from Cait to the baron.

  “What did you say?”

  “Defiled. Though she’d granted him permission.” Lindemere shrugged. “He was ten years her senior and knew well enough not to do so.”

  Conrad shook his head. “Father would have made mention of it. He’d never have defended such an act.”

  “Perhaps. If he had known.”

  Cait leaned forward. “The earl never knew the reason for your original argument with his nephew?”

  Impossible.

  And yet the baron shrugged. “My daughter wished for it to be so.”

  It was true. He said it with such straightforward simplicity. The mad baron, perhaps not so mad as he seemed, looked him directly in the eyes.

  “You know well, my dear boy, some things are worth more than your own life. When Sir Marcus flew into a fit of rage that so angered the king, enough to have the man nearly beheaded, your father refused to listen to reason. If he’d not stormed from court, returning with those men, it would have been nothing more than a dispute between two wronged parties, provided, of course, your cousin simply apologized to the king. ’Twas all he required for having disrupted the court. He’d never actually behead a man for such a disruption, despite his threat. Instead . . .” Lindemere shrugged. “It was just as well. The father was no more noble than the son is now.”

  It took Conrad a moment to realize he spoke of the king.

  “You do not care for him?”

  Ignoring the rest of what the baron had said, which would take him time to process, he focused on the reason they had come here.

  “For the king?” The tone of his question effectively answered Conrad’s question.

  “Why haven’t you joined the rebellion?”

  Lindemere rolled his eyes. “I am too old to involve myself in such matters. My daughter’s husband will inherit this.” He waved his arms to indicate the great hall. “Imagine that. A Frenchman. At Lindemere.” He made a sound. “’Tis no better than a Scotsman . . .” He stopped then, peering at Cait. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

  From the flash of heat in Cait’s eyes, she did not seem inclined to give it. Even so, she nodded as demurely as if he’d not just insulted her.

  Conrad withheld comment, waiting for the man’s next words.

  “Lindemere is lost,” the baron continued. “What do I care if England is lost with it?”

  He needed to think. To strategize. This was not at all how he’d envisioned this conversation, and frankly, Conrad was at a loss for words.

  “Your connection to the French court is well-known,” Cait said. “Your support could mean the difference between taking London peaceably, by force, or not at all. If we are forced to call upon the French—”

  We. Cait had said we.

  Lindemere crossed himself. “All will have been lost.”

  “But surely it would bring prominence and attention to Lindemere if you were at the center of such an effort,” she said.

  He raised his mug, considering, and Conrad and Cait exchanged a glance.

  “What do I care either way?” the old man finally said. “Let’s drink! A toast to your happy union.”

  If he had been confused before, Conrad was even more so now. He could not decide if this were the wiliest, or craziest, man he’d ever met.

  “Our union, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said as firmly as a man his age could manage. “You and the lovely Scotswoman. For the insult I’ve given her, I shall rectify it with the support you seek. Now drink.”

  He did so gladly.

  Chapter 21

  He knew it was Cait before the door fully opened.

  Perhaps he was attuned to her movements after spending the last several days imagining what it would feel like to touch her.

  To taste her.

  To make Cait his, finally.

  He’d effectively avoided a confrontation with her earlier. A chambermaid had escorted her from the hall just before Conrad left to speak with the men. Unfortunately, the same maid had returned, telling him “his lady” was in the chamber adjoining his.

  A fact he could have happily gone without knowing.

  “Conrad?” she asked, her feet softly padding on the floor.

  He groaned, cowardly pulling the coverlet over his head.

  “Do you think to avoid me?”

  She pulled the cream coverlet down.

  “Why would you think such a thing?”

  Hands on her hips, the small but fierce Cait Kennaugh glared at him. The lone ca
ndle beside his canopied bed shone just enough light for him to see her face.

  And her shift.

  Though the arms billowed and the shapeless garment hung to the ground, Conrad knew well what was underneath. He’d felt it these past sleepless nights.

  He forced his thoughts to the promise he’d made Terric.

  Relenting a bit, he sighed. “If you’ve come to talk so that we might learn more of each other”—he rolled to the side, propping his head on one hand—“you’ll find me willing.”

  “Learn more . . .” He did not like the way she smiled.

  No indeed. He did not like it at all.

  “Aye, ’tis precisely what I’ve come for, my lord.”

  “Cait, please.”

  She took a step toward him.

  “It seems I’ve quickly become accustomed to sleeping by your side.” She frowned prettily. “And since there is still so much to learn . . .”

  “No,” he said, his answer immediate.

  “Just for a moment. So that we may speak.”

  “No.”

  Crossing her arms, Cait tried again. “You said you’ve forgiven me.”

  “And I have. Mostly.”

  “And that you loved me once.”

  On that, he would disagree.

  “I never stopped loving you,” he said seriously, watching her eyes as he said it. Conrad had known the truth of his feelings from the very moment he saw her in his courtyard. She thought he had saved her that day, but really, it was the opposite. His life had been all training. And duty. Lessons for the future earl. His only real friends, scattered throughout the country, only to be seen once a year at the Tournament of the North.

  Until a missive from Cait arrived. And with it, hope for a future that was more than acquired estates and praying for a good harvest. A future filled with the same abiding love his parents had felt for each other. A smile in the darkness that his country had descended into.

  If he’d taken up its cause so fully, it was because he’d needed something to replace the hole Cait had left.

  Aye, he’d loved her always. But that did not mean he could be persuaded to dishonor her now.

  When she leaned into the bed, Conrad thought to pull away. But she was too quick. Grabbing his shoulder, she didn’t hesitate. Cait kissed him. Her lips were on his before he could form another thought.

  He’d taught her well.

  Her mouth glided over his, her tongue insistent, sweeping inside with the expertise she’d only just acquired.

  And the minx thought to use her knowledge to overcome the barrier he’d placed between them. Except Conrad had been seduced before, by women who hoped to claim their place as his countess, and he’d learned to control his baser impulses.

  So he kissed her but restrained himself too.

  Proud of his efforts, Conrad smiled into her lips, until he felt it . . .

  Her hand.

  On his cock.

  He’d not even felt her reach beneath the coverlet, so busy he’d been congratulating himself on the small, fleeting victory.

  How did she know . . .

  She wrapped her hands around him before he could stop her. Cait’s small, unsure hands were actually stroking him.

  Nay, it could not be.

  “Once”—she pulled away to whisper into his ear, although she continued to move her hands—“I snuck into the stables at night, defying my parents’ orders to do otherwise. My mare was due to give birth, and I worried for her.”

  Ah, God. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to feel.

  “Thankfully, I never saw them. My brother Rory’s moans stopped me before I’d turned the corner. But I could hear his words easily. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wrap your hand around me like that. Up and down, love. That’s right.’”

  He really, really did not want to hear this.

  “I fled, of course, and never spoke of it. But I didn’t forget it, and after I overheard a few other conversations between Rory and Terric, between some of the maids . . .”

  Her movements, coupled with Cait’s breath tickling his ear and the knowledge that, if he reached down and pulled her atop him, she might very well lose her virginity tonight . . .

  She was moving much too quickly. He would spill his seed if she continued.

  Thinking to stop her, Conrad placed his hand over hers.

  And then she kissed him again. Deeply.

  His body took over, guiding her hand as he claimed her mouth. Her moan, coupled with their hands working together . . .

  What am I doing?

  Tearing her hand from him was as difficult as sliding a sword into a man’s flesh. Painful, but necessary.

  He’d meant to pull away completely, but the sight of her stunned faced stopped him. He hauled her up with him, despite the height of the bed. Pulling Cait next to him, then atop him, the coverlet was now flung fully off.

  She sat on his legs, looking down the length of him as if she’d never seen a man this way before, and he supposed she likely hadn’t. The unbridled appreciation in her gaze did nothing to calm his desire for her as she stared directly at his cock.

  “I’ve never . . .”

  Conrad closed his eyes. Even though he knew they could not do this, not yet, he said, “Take off your shift, Cait.”

  He felt her moving, and then . . . stillness.

  Opening his eyes, he cursed himself for a fool.

  Cait Kennaugh sat above him, nude, as beautiful as a goddess. The need to touch her was as undeniable as his attraction to her.

  And so he did.

  His hands were everywhere at once. Rolling with her, Conrad landed on top. Encouraged by the sounds she made deep in her throat, he kissed her collarbone as his hands reached up to cover her breasts. He explored her body, both frantic and thorough.

  Her hands, once tentative, did the same.

  But when she reached behind him, softly touching his buttocks, Conrad made another vow. He’d not dishonor her, but by God, when the time came, he’d ensure Cait Kennaugh understood what they’d missed by not doing this sooner.

  As much as he wanted to play with those beautiful breasts, he now had one goal in mind. And she didn’t stop him until Conrad lifted one of her legs and positioned himself beneath her.

  “What . . .”

  He looked up then, the single candle thankfully still burning so she could see him. Conrad knew she trusted him, but a reminder was needed at this moment. He could have gone more gently, eased into this.

  But he would not.

  “Trust me, my sweet dove.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He’d committed each of her letters to memory, and so he remembered it was in her fourth missive she’d told him of her affinity for the dovecote she managed at Bradon Moor. He’d first used the nickname in his fifth letter. It seemed fitting, Cait’s love of the small yet powerful bird.

  She understood. And did not flinch at the first touch of his tongue.

  When her back arched a moment later, her hips pushing into him, Conrad smiled against her, glad for the pleasure he would give her, even as he denied his own release. It was pleasure enough to hear her moans, and when she called out his name, he refused to relent.

  He could hear her hands grasping for something and imagined himself buried deep inside her, Cait’s hands reaching for him. As they would be. Someday.

  For now, he’d content himself with the cries that would surely wake the entire manor. The thought of gliding into that wetness, claiming Cait as his . . .

  They could marry this moment. Say the words that would be as binding as any ceremony.

  He will kill you. And you’d deserve it.

  Instead, Conrad shifted his head to watch as Cait’s expression changed from pleasure to pure wonder. The look she gave him then was worth the painful throbbing he endured at this moment.

  Smiling, Conrad pushed his way up the bed and laid his head on the pillow next to hers. He closed his eyes. Calmed his breathing. Pretended to be on the ba
ttlefield, staring down mounted knights with lances at the ready. Any man who said he was fully prepared for such a sight lied.

  Mock battle, the melee, was nothing akin to real men aiming to kill you.

  “Conrad?”

  Painful memories, but they had worked.

  “I will need you to put on your shift, if you would stay here with me.”

  Cait did not hide her amusement. “Will you not dress as well?”

  “I sleep nude. As you will when we are married.”

  They’d not spoken of it openly yet, and as Cait sat up and complied with his request, he found himself holding his breath as he awaited her response.

  Covered finally, she turned toward him.

  “I did not realize . . .”

  It pleased him that she was at a lack for words.

  “’Twas but a taste of the pleasures we will find together,” he said, pulling her back toward him. They moved into the now-familiar position of Cait tucked into him, and despite his longing, the need for her that had nearly killed him, Conrad was somehow able to find peace.

  “I did not know,” she repeated.

  Conrad smiled against her neck. “’Twould not be the same with any other man.”

  He didn’t know if she believed him or not, but Conrad spoke the truth. He’d been with other women, but love had never entered into any of those arrangements. It felt so different to touch Cait, to pleasure her. Which was why he prayed for strength. Knowing Cait, she’d not relent, even after this night. But if he had restrained himself with her hand on his . . . with the taste of her on his lips.

  There was nothing she could do to convince him otherwise.

  She would arrive in London a virgin.

  And then, they would be married after he received Terric’s blessing.

  Aye, that is precisely how they would proceed.

  Chapter 22

  “Will the nuns think ill of us for sleeping in the same chamber?” Cait asked as they

  rode up to the abbey, darkness having fallen long ago.

  Cait had discovered the greatest enjoyment of her life: teasing Conrad. Although she’d always enjoyed teasing her brothers, this was much, much more rewarding. He did not brood as her brother Terric did at times. Nor did he tease her back so mercilessly, like Rory, that she was forced to call for a truce.