An Oath Taken (9 page)

A mixture of pleas and tugs brought him to the edge of his bed. Relieved to be able to escape his nearness, she released him and made to move away; but he swayed then floundered.

Flailing, he reached out and caught her shoulders.

“Nicholas—” Elizabet lost her balance and tumbled onto the mattress.

With a grunt, he landed on top.

Her breath left her in a rush. 'Twas a blasted plot! “Get off of me, you oaf.” She shoved against his massive chest thick with water-slicked hair, trying to ignore how his body fit perfectly against hers and how his lips hovered but a breath away. “Nicholas!”

He didna budge.

Elizabet closed her eyes as his honed curves pressed against her with sensual heat. A fine mess! She tried to pry him off.

At her shove, Nicholas's eyes opened. Confusion filled his gaze as he stared at her. Then, passion darkened his eyes to a deep smoky gray and he grew hard.

Panic assaulted her as her body answered with a burst of need.

His gaze shifted to her lips.

Her body burned. How she wanted to kiss him. Mary, Mother of God, what was she thinking! “Nicholas!” Her words came out in a panicked rush as her body pulsed with desire.

A low, sultry laugh filled with intimate promise seduced her further. “Do not be afraid.” He lowered his head. “'Twill be good, I promise.”

And that was what she was afraid of. “Nich—”

His mouth muffled her plea as he captured her lips, silencing any further protest. She tried to resist, but his taste, the softness of his assault, and her own undeniable hunger stripped away further protest. And why nae enjoy this moment? He would be none the wiser, and this would be her only chance to ever get close to him as a woman.

With her conscience appeased, Elizabet fell into his kiss. Like a hot summer day he warmed her, teasing her with the beauty of it all. He nibbled her lower lip. On a moan he slid his tongue into her mouth.

As if the most natural response, she answered, tasting, teasing, giving back and demanding more. A low groan swirled deep in his throat as her body spun out of control.

His hands captured her face with infinite tenderness as he deepened the kiss.

“Nicholas,” she murmured, lost to sensations.

He pressed kisses on her cheek, along the curve of her jaw, then worked at a slow, torturous pace down the column of her throat, halting every bit to glide his tongue across her sensitive flesh in a destroying assault. With a groan of appreciation, his hand cupped her breast, his finger stroking her nipple until it grew taut.

Though she'd never lain with a man, any shame fled at the rightness of the moment. “Nicholas.”

His mouth curved in a lopsided grin, and he continued his sweet torment until she could only feel, respond to the waves of pleasure coursing through her. That he shifted, and she nay longer lay pinned beneath him, mattered little. All she could do was experience, want, beg for more.

“Nicholas, please . . .”

His hand slid down to her most private place and stroked her slick folds with mind-teasing expertise. “In time, Anicia.”

She froze. Humiliation engulfed her and Elizabet rolled away and scrambled to her feet. What had she been thinking? Nay, she hadna a thought in her mind except being with him! Her body aching with need, she stared down at Nicholas.

He reached out for her, and confusion slid into his gaze. Then his lids flickered twice before they finally closed. He sighed a quiet, lonely sound and began to snore.

Tears burned her eyes as she made her way to her pallet, missing his touch, and shamefully, wanting him still. She'd been a fool to dare even a simple kiss. A rough laugh fell from her lips. Naught about that kiss had been simple.

Regardless of how much she wanted him, he was English, an enemy who held her brother within his dungeon, and a man she must keep at a distance.

A
dagger plunged through his skull. Nay, 'twas more like a mace. As his head pounded and nausea wrenched in his gut, with great care he brought the back of his hand to rest over his brow.

What a pathetic state.

On a groan, he drew in a slow breath, struggling for the next. The distant shrill of a morning bird shattered through the wash of pain.

God's teeth!

Nicholas braved opening one eye, then the other. Firelight flickered over the room in a soft glow. Through the window, streaks of dawn caressed the sky, silver through gray, orange through black; but the throb of pain obliterated the beauty before him. He closed his eyes willing the hours, like his misery, to flee.

“Would you care for water?” Thomas asked, his voice a beacon in this storm of misery.

“My dagger,” he forced out, wincing at the cost. 'Twould be the only way to end this agony.

“I . . . Your dagger?”

If not for the pain the gesture would bring, he would have smiled at his squire's confusion. “Fetch me the water.” His whispered words slammed through his head as his mind remained under siege.

The soft pad of footsteps moved away.

Blast it, but he was too old to endure this living hell. He opened his eyes and sat up. The room spun. Even the quiet glide of the sheets against his skin hurt.

As Thomas approached, he stole a covert glance toward him then dropped his inquiring gaze, but not before Nicholas caught the concern etched there.

His squire held out the wooden cup.

“My thanks.” Nicholas curled the mug in his hands like a lifeline, then downed the contents. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, igniting a fresh wave of pain to assault his head. He tossed the cup; it bounced on the floor with a mind-screaming clatter. “God's teeth, what was in there?”

With an appraising glance, his squire retrieved the cup, clutched it to his stomach. “Herbs to aid thee.”

Nicholas laid his palm over his brow and willed the pain away. “Herbs?”

“Iceland moss for your stomach and feverfew for your aches.” Thomas refilled the mug and held it before him. “This time 'tis only water.”

Nicholas debated accepting the brew, but the bitter aftertaste in his throat won over. He emptied the cup, thankful for the cool slide, then returned it to his squire.

The lad walked to a corner table where two small leather bags sat. Without looking back, he cinched the first sack then stowed the cup inside a nearby pack.

Unsure if he should be grateful to be so accurately read, he studied him for a moment. “You have done this before?”

Thomas shrugged but didn't turn. “I do what is necessary.”

“And am I necessary?” Each word fell out with a measured calm. Whatever existed between them was a hell of a lot more than necessary. He wanted his squire's respect, and to make a difference in his life.

Thomas's fingers fumbled as he tied off the second sack. Once secure, he stowed the pouch. “I . . .”

Why was getting answers from him like pulling an ox from the mud? “Face me when you speak to me!” Pain rushed him with merciless force. Nicholas cradled his head in his hands. If he lived through this he would never imbibe to such limits again.

With a hesitant move, his squire turned. Firelight fluttered across his face, haunting his eyes and the apprehension swirling within.

Silence, broken only by the crackle of flames and the hush of the soft breeze, filled the chamber. Tension thrummed through Nicholas, matching the throb in his head. “Answer my question.”

Regret slid through Thomas's gaze before he could shield the emotion. “By taking me on as your squire you have offered me hope when I had little.”

He hesitated, unsure if his squire had answered the question. Rubbing his temple, Nicholas owed his confusion to the lingering haze of ale.

The meeting with the Wardens of the Western Marches last eve came to mind and Thomas's hesitancy when around the powerful Scots, along with his resolve to find answers to his questions as well. “Which man did you know last eve?”

Thomas cleared his throat. “You will be wanting something to eat.”

Blast it. “Do you think I would let anyone harm you?”

His squire hesitated. “Nay.”

“Then why do you evade my questions, give me half-answers, or keep the truth from me at every turn?”

“I think you are a fair man.”

Then he understood the lad's reserve, and had missed the obvious from the start. “And you did not want me to be fair, did you?”

Flames curled and drifted up in the hearth. Thomas released a slow, deep breath, then shook his head. “Nay.” His hands clenched tight. “And you have no right to be!”

“Why?”

“Because you are English,” he said, his voice raising a pitch with frantic desperation. “Because the Sassenach take without care and leave naught but devastation.” Thomas's breath hitched. “And because 'twould be easier that way.” His voice broke. “Then I could hate you.”

He was stunned by the ferocity of his squire's charge, and his anger dissolved. Compassion filled Nicholas. Pain like this took years to foster. What had Thomas seen, experienced? He shuddered to think. “Who hurt you?”

Expression guarded, his squire took a step back. “This isna about hurt.”

“Is it not?” A residual pounding pulsed in his head as Nicholas grabbed his braies and jerked them on. He pushed to his feet, ignoring his body's protests. “Last night when you served the ale, 'twas all you could do to avoid the men around my table.”

The lad swallowed hard.

Nicholas stepped closer. “Why?”

“Please do nae do this.”

His squire's harsh whisper halted Nicholas, but the flash of tears had him taking another step forward. To hell with propriety. He embraced Thomas and gave in to his own need to offer succor, to be there for the lad when it appeared everyone else had walked away.

The lad struggled in his arms, then his slender frame shuddered and he sagged against him.

Hot tears spilled against Nicholas's chest, but he held him close, understanding all too well the need for release, to empty oneself of the shame and humiliation, and having someone there who cared enough to make a difference.

After his father's death, he'd dealt with the sadness, but his legacy of shame as well. Now, with Thomas in his arms falling apart, the old hurt spiraled through him, the pain of abandonment, and the knowledge that his father was a coward.

Nicholas closed his eyes, stunned by the roll of emotion.

Like a warm caress, Thomas's sobs faded into tattered breaths upon his skin.

A sense of peace invaded Nicholas as he held his squire, as if a need fulfilled. His throat tightened, caught by the power of emotion rushing him, by the rightness of it, of wanting the moment to go on forever.

The hazy image of a woman entwined in his arms last night confused him. The erotic sensations even more. Flashes of heat, bodies wrapped in an intimate press, and the taste of her kiss teased him. Nicholas struggled to form a clear image of the woman's face.

Failed.

The bells of Prime tolled. A guard yelled to another. Laughter, then muffled voices, invaded the silence.

Thomas lay nestled within the circle of his arms, relaxed against his half-naked frame; and God help him, it felt so right. Staggered by the unnatural course of his thoughts, Nicholas caught the lad by his shoulders and held him away. He was going mad. There was no other answer.

Nicholas cleared his throat. “ 'Tis time to tend to the duties of the keep.” And he needed to bloody get out of here!

Emerald eyes too wide, too sad, and tinged with burgeoning trust lifted to his with distress. Thomas sniffed. “I canna even do this right can I?”

God's teeth. It seemed that neither could he. Nicholas worked up a tender smile not wanting to frighten his squire. “I would say you are doing everything fine.” He released him and took a step back, fighting to come to his senses, searching for answers to his unexplainable draw to this lad, answers that wouldn't come.

The familiar stubbornness worked its way back into Thomas's gaze much to Nicholas's relief. Someone needed to retain their grasp on sanity in this moment of madness.

A lone tear slid down the lad's cheek. He wiped it away with an angry slash. “Weak men cry.”

As much as Nicholas wished to, he couldn't look away. The fierce pride of the lad held him. “No. Tears are only shed by those brave enough to love.”

Thomas eyed him in silence.

“I need to don my garb,” Nicholas said, unsure at which point he'd lost control as well as his mind. “The Wardens of the Western Marches will be awaiting my presence as well as the others.”

His squire stepped back. “Aye, Sir Nicholas.”

That cool mask shifted back onto the lad's face, and Nicholas wanted to shake him, to erase the indifference Thomas seemed to erect between them with ease when he barely held himself in check. Frustrated, he strode to the hearth, knelt, and threw another log on the fire.

Elizabet jumped as the wood clattered into the flames, shaken by the intimacy that had passed between her and Nicholas. This definitely wasna good. She hurried to gather the castellan's clothes. “Here.” She handed him the hose, shirt, and tunic.

His face littered with confusion, he donned the garb.

Consumed by guilt, she turned to retrieve his boots. What a fool! How could she have allowed him to embrace her or stayed within his arms? Wanted more? Wanted him still?

By the saints she was a lackwit. After her stolen kisses last night, which he'd thankfully nae recalled, she should have applauded his misery from too much drink and left him to flounder with the resultant pain.

But she couldna watch him suffer. She glanced toward him, then looked away, wanting him and damning him more. Why did he have to be so blasted endearing!

“ 'Tis getting late.” Elizabet knelt at his feet and shoved on his boots, trying nae to admire his well-muscled legs or his teasing scent of male with a hint of soap. Her blood warmed at the nearness, all too familiar with the feel of his body against hers. She glanced up, stilled.

He watched her with a cautious expression, as if not trusting himself.

And why shouldn't he? She had felt it, the thrill, the flash of desire when their gazes met. And from his panicked reaction when she'd looked at him moments ago in his arms, he'd experienced the same.

Mary's will. If she believed herself a convoluted mess of emotions, he must think himself more so. She had botched this from the start.

Nicholas stood, walked to the hearth where the flames danced before him with a mocking twist, shoved his hands upon his hips.

She forced herself to keep busy, setting the pack containing the herbs out of sight before he realized that lads rarely knew about healing. Another muddleheaded move.

“Was there a woman in here with me last night?”

The sack of herbs trembled in her hands. Oh God, he'd remembered! She shoved the sacks into the pack before they spilled. Calm. She must remain calm. “Sir Nicholas?”

He exhaled as if to continue then paused, mumbling something under his breath about a bloody dream. The castellan shook his head. “Never mind.”

Mary, Mother of God, that was too close!

Dropping his hands to his side, Nicholas turned. A frown creased his brow as his eyes scanned hers assessing, undermining her crumbling bravado.

She stilled. What now?

“Which of the men below do you know?”

She gave a mental groan. Why had she believed he'd forgo that line of questioning? Elizabet shrugged. “They are all familiar to me.”

He arched a brow. “All?”

Pinpricks skittered across her spine, and she gave a slow nod. “The Wardens of the Marches are known to all who live within their boundaries.”

He muttered a soft curse. “I have not figured out who is the bigger fool, you for not trusting me, or me for trying to earn your trust.”

“How could I nae trust you?” she said, finding it the truth. His every action bespoke a man to be admired, a man to count on. A man she wanted with her every breath.

“Give me something about the men below, Thomas.”

Need churned within his heartfelt demand. At the very least, he deserved an answer. She moved toward the bed and began to make it, needing a release for her restlessness. “On occasion I have seen them. They are powerful men, leaders of their people.” She faced him. “Though their duty calls for them to uphold the law, most ride beneath the night and raid across the borders. Or worse, steal from their kinsmen without remorse—as did Sir Renaud.”