Always.
“More.” She met his every thrust, as if her virgin’s barrier were a distant memory. His arse clenched in anticipation, her breathing and frantic moans telling him it would not be much longer. A pity, in some ways. But he’d wanted her too much, and for too long, for him to achieve the endurance he would have desired.
He couldn’t hold out much longer.
“Conrad,” she yelled, and he responded. With a final thrust, he cried out as she clenched against him. The pressure was more than he could take as every muscle in his body tensed and then slowly, blessedly, relaxed.
Still joined, he pulled her on top of him, where his wife promptly collapsed.
Lying beside the fire, covered by his beautiful, spirited wife, Conrad could die a contented man.
Shoving aside the thought that he very well might die, and soon, he lifted Cait’s head and laughed at her expression.
“Why,” she said, pulling a strand of her hair behind her ear, “did you not do that sooner?”
He pulled out gently, repositioning them.
“You know the reason very well, lass.”
She shook her head vigorously. “But if I’d known . . .”
Her entire body shivered.
Conrad could not stop smiling.
“’Twas the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, restraining myself these past days.”
“The most difficult? Of all the things you have done? I do not believe you.”
He could feel himself stirring already. Not unexpected given their position.
“Nay, ’twas not the most difficult.”
Satisfied by his admission, she made a sound in the back of her throat. It reminded him of a kitten, but Cait was no mewling kitten.
She was more like a full-grown cat, one who could as easily hiss away its enemies as it could curl into a ball on your lap.
He did not want to dampen the mood, but he also would not lie to her. For too long they’d held back, and it had nearly kept them apart forever.
“The most difficult was to watch you ride away from that tourney between your brothers, not knowing if I would ever see you again.”
She tsked. “You hardly knew me.”
“I knew enough.”
Her smile faltered.
“We were meant to be together Cait,” he said seriously. “I was meant to be there that day, to save you. And you were meant to come back into my life, to save me.”
“But . . . I did nothing. I didn’t save you at all.”
“I had nothing. This rebellion . . .” He kissed her lips, just to reassure himself he still could. “Only a fool would be so daring. One who had little to live for but the approval of his people.”
“And his friends.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And them.” He reached up to cup her cheeks. “But I have you now, Cait. And I vow to do everything possible to come back to you.”
“You had best do so,” she said, her expression both desperate and hopeful. “I did not make the journey from Bradon Moor, endure an attack at Dromsley, and disguise myself as one of your men just to become a widow.”
“For that reason, we will persevere.”
Any remaining doubts he had vanished.
He would not fail England.
He would not fail Cait.
Conrad was ready.
But first he’d make love to his wife. Again.
Chapter 28
Three days simply wasn’t long enough.
The days had been spent strategizing, the nights with his friends, at supper, and then alone with his wife. After that first frenzied night, he had taken more time to learn every curve of Cait’s body.
To relish the quiet moments just before they slept.
And to wake before dawn with her in his arms, watching her sleep for a few moments before dressing for the day. It had quickly become one of his favorite rituals, no less so for the knowledge that they had so little time before the maneuver.
That morning, their last, was even more bittersweet than the others. He soaked in the sight of her, the hair feathering her cheek, and stood from the bed.
“You would leave without saying goodbye,” she murmured. Conrad sat back down, the feather mattress sinking under his weight.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” He kissed her forehead. “And we did say goodbye last eve.”
Cait blinked away her sleep, opening her eyes fully.
“We did but . . .”
But they both knew there was a strong possibility he’d not return. They’d not spoken of the order’s plans in detail, but Cait knew enough.
“I will return to you.”
He said it with as much confidence as possible, knowing he would die trying to make it so. When she closed her eyes just briefly, Conrad lay his hand on her delicate cheek.
“Sleep, my dove.”
Unable to look at her any longer, not knowing when, or if, he would return, Conrad left the bedchamber to find the others, her final whispered parting, “Adieu,” still ringing in his ears. Only Guy appeared as cheerful as ever as he accepted a bundle from Lord Sarnac’s squire.
The sun had not yet risen, but the courtyard brimmed with activity.
“I do not understand,” Guy said. “Cait is quite a woman,” he mocked, “but you dote on her in a way I would not have expected from you.” Laughing at his own jest, or what Conrad supposed to be a jest, Guy mounted. His next comment was for Terric. “We’ve called ourselves brothers, but now the three of you are brothers in truth.”
By marriage, both Conrad and Lance could now call Terric brother-in-law.
“If only I had another sister,” Terric said, “or Stanton another daughter.”
Guy winked at him, and Conrad rolled his eyes. “I would dearly love to say the same, but I love my wife more.”
“You are our brother regardless,” Lance said. The rest of them offered their agreement.
“All appears to be ready,” Conrad said.
For as far as he could see, mounted men filled the courtyard. Sarnac would be outside the gates by now. He’d requested to lead with Conrad at the back.
“Aye.” Terric was the last to be prepared, and when he was finally ready, he nodded to Guy, who would ride in the middle with him. “To Aldgate.”
“To Aldgate,” they all repeated, Conrad staying back with Lance.
Although they did not expect trouble on the two-day ride, their group numbered at over five hundred men, and it would be a slow slog with so great a party. Alone, Conrad could have made it there by dark. Instead, they would camp for the night at Renwith and then arrive outside the city’s gates by nightfall the following evening.
“The noise,” Lance said as they waited for the others to ride ahead. “’Tis what surprises me most.”
As strong and fierce as any of them, Lance was the only one who had not been raised as a knight. His training had been with a blacksmith’s hammer, not a broadsword. And though he had learned to wield one in their time together, this would only be his second battle.
The first had been at Dromsley Castle.
“It is as many men as I’ve ridden with as well,” Conrad admitted. “Of the four of us, only Guy would have seen forces of this size.”
Guy had fought in more than one mercenary company, at times with Bande de Valeur and others in France. He’d once told them a tale of him and his father fighting alongside the French king. It had been his closest brush with death, a festering wound that had unfortunately not convinced him of the merits of heavier armor.
Nearly always serious, Lance seemed even more so now. Conrad understood, of course. What they were about to do . . .
“We will return.”
He said it as much for himself as his friend.
“What do you believe he was thinking, your father, when he rode toward Westminster Hall?”
Conrad thought differently now than he had, having met Lindemere, a man who had nothing to gain for telling him anything but the truth.
“As are we, my friend.”
The certainty with which Lance spoke lit a flame inside of him. He admired his friend’s grit, his steadfastness. Unlike Conrad, Lance had earned every single accomplishment—none had been given to him.
“Aye,” Conrad agreed. “As are we.”
If justice chose sides, they would surely win. But he feared history did not bear that out. Sometimes, little thieves were hanged while great ones escaped.
“Do we have the men to take it by force?”
“Are we prepared to lose them?”
An argument had broken out among the order and other leaders and continued throughout the morn. A letter had arrived at their camp, as expected, from inside London’s gates. The news it contained, however, was not what they had hoped to hear.
They’d arranged for FitzWalter, the castellan of London and chief banneret of the city, to alert them when it was safe to enter. Key merchants, nobles, and laymen had assured FitzWalter there would be little resistance to the Order of the Broken Blade and its supporters. They would enter through Aldgate, which was to be conveniently left open while mass was being offered throughout the city.
Instead, the mayor of London wrote only, “Await the banner.”
They watched from their position at the top of the ridge, all eleven officers of the rebellion staring at the banner. King John’s three golden lions on a field of red waved in the wind from Aldgate’s towers, jaunty and proud. No one seemed in a hurry to change or remove it.
“We cannot take London by force,” Lord Noreham said once again. Some of the others disagreed with him. They’d carried on this conversation for some time, watching that infuriating banner. Conrad had thus far kept his silence, content to listen to the arguments on both sides, but the others had insisted he should make the final decision. He would lead them to victory, or to their final stand against the corrupt king.
Each of the men looked to him now.
They could wait until the conditions were ideal, until the few who opposed them were distracted. If they could enter the city walls peaceably, their numbers would easily overwhelm those who stood against them. And though they had brought enough men to take London by force, many would lose their lives, and victory was anything but guaranteed.
With the news he’d learned from Bishop Salerno . . .
Conrad exchanged a glance with Terric.
His father had taught him to lead. Leading was often a lonely proposition, though, and his friends, the Order of the Broken Blade, had taught him the importance of not standing alone. He’d not make a rash decision. Taking a deep breath, Conrad glanced at the banner once more, still waving in the wind.
“We will lose support without the clergy. We will not have another chance.”
Terric’s nod was so slight, none other would have caught it. Aye, this was the right decision. Even if it cost some of them their lives.
“We take London,” Conrad pronounced loudly enough for all men to hear.
For the briefest of moments, none of them spoke, and Conrad could hear the noise Lance had spoken of, the murmur of several hundred men outside of their tents.
In the next, everyone began talking at once. Everyone except for Guy.
It was so unlike him to remain silent at such a pivotal time that Conrad moved his position to stand next to the mercenary.
“Do you not agree?”
The sullen look on his friend’s face reminded him of something he’d nearly forgotten in the chaos of the morning. Two nights prior, a messenger had arrived from Lord Brefton, who had been camped outside the city for more than a sennight.
A mercenary company had contacted him with an offer of assistance—a rarity given they did not typically concern themselves with politics. The messenger had refused to explain the reason for the offer but had said his master was none other than Bernard Lavallais.
Guy’s father.
Unfortunately, though he’d sent the company, his father had not accompanied the mercenaries.
“Do we need them?”
He knew the answer Guy sought, but Conrad could not give it.
“If we move forward with an attack, aye, we will need every man willing to fight for us.”
Guy’s normally jovial mood, already soured by the persistent banner, did not improve with the knowledge that he would be forced to fight alongside men sent by a father who Guy did not wish to be indebted to.
“They are here because of you,” he told Guy.
Conrad highly doubted the mercenaries cared about their cause. Or any cause. Coin was their usual motivation, and none was being offered here. Guy’s father had only sent help because of Guy’s involvement in the order.
“Any man who can convince a company of mercenaries to fight without payment does so out of love, however misplaced it might seem.”
“Love,” Guy scoffed. “Who is the man who stands before me?” He made to rejoin the others, all of whom were still loudly debating—although not refuting Conrad’s decision.
“One who has likely just sentenced us to death,” Conrad answered. “No invading force has taken London before without heavy consequence. And if we’re captured . . .”
They would be coming for Conrad first.
The others quieted, looking at him, but he had only the truth to give them.
“It appears London does not welcome us. As you know, the task ahead is all but insurmountable. But if we go home now, we forfeit all to the king. Some more than others, for he will surely seize every title and bit of land and property we possess. If we fight, ’twill not be an easily won victory, but at least we will have tried.”
He made sure all of them understood his decision. Satisfied, Conrad looked down at the banner once more. Still Lackland’s.
He pictured Cait then, lying atop him on their wedding night. He’d been right to insist on marrying her straightaway. Never had he possessed such a powerful motivation to fight. To win.
Conrad swallowed and then bellowed, “Who among you fights with me?”
Chapter 29
“’Tis so quiet.”
Sabine said what all four of them were thinking.
At least, Cait had been. They sat in a stranger’s hall, among servants they did not know. But they were, at least, safe. Meanwhile, Conrad and her brother were out there risking their lives. Cait shuddered.
“We must eat.” Idalia picked up her pewter spoon, earning a smile from the steward who watched them from the side of the hall. A few men had remained to garrison the castle, but it felt so indescribably empty compared to how it had been just a few days past. Her family’s hall in Scotland had felt much the same way after her father died.
Few spoke.
Even fewer smiled or laughed, for there was little cause to celebrate. They all knew what the bishop’s revelations meant. This campaign was their very last stand against the English king. If they failed to take the king to task now, it would not happen, and all of the rebels would be punished.
“What do you believe is happening now?” Cait asked, not for the first time since the men left.
Roysa looked up to the ceiling, counting on her fingers. “I believe they have taken London.”
Cait nodded firmly, wanting to believe it. “Aye. I believe that is where they are this very moment.”
Sabine lifted her goblet, smiling at them with forced cheer. “To London. And to the rebellion. My parents would be proud.”
All four lifted their goblets, the other women lifting her spirits, just slightly. She drank, wanting to ask again. How could they be sure? What if the men were not in London? What if they’d been forced to fight? Or worse, what if they’d been captured?
She stopped herself.
It was those precise thoughts that had kept her in Bradon Moor for so long.
What if Terric learned what she’d done? What if Conrad changed his mind about her? What if he reminded her of the trauma she had endured?
Nay, C
ait would not allow herself to linger on what-ifs. She’d done enough of that for a lifetime.
“They will be victorious,” she said, her voice firm. “They will be victorious and your king will be forced to negotiate with them.”
All three women looked at her.
“Our king?” Idalia asked, smiling.
The comment caught her off guard, but Idalia was correct, of course. When they were successful. When Conrad returned. When this rebellion was over, they would reside at Licheford. After a visit to Bradon Moor, of course. Cait tried not to think of what her mother would say about it all.
Cait nodded. “I suppose you are right. Though I cannot be proud of the fact.”
Roysa made a face. “If only we could all go north, across the border. To be ruled by a worthier monarch. As you were.”
Were. A strange thought, to no longer be a daughter of Scotland. In residence, at least. In Cait’s heart, she would always be a Scotswoman first.
She’d been hesitant to ask before, but it seemed an appropriate question now.
“What of you, Roysa? Have you spoken to Terric about what will happen when this is all over?”
All eyes turned to her sister-in-law.
“’Tis as uncertain as the king’s response when they do take London.”
Cait knew better than the others what she meant.
The matter was complicated. Although Terric had been born mere minutes before Rory, he had inherited both the Scottish and English titles from their father. Despite Rory’s pleading, Terric refused to relinquish either to him.
And Cait did not blame him for his hesitance.
Rory believed he was ready for such a responsibility, but his actions did not support such a claim. He still cared for his own pleasure more than his duties. Managing two such large properties was a challenge, and Terric would dearly love to bequeath either title on his brother, but Rory was just not ready.
“Do his clansmen resent him spending so much time in England?” Idalia asked her sister. “And bringing warriors to Dromsley?”
The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4 Page 14