Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember (3 page)

He sank back into the furs, bringing her with him. Mercia held her breath, unsure what she should do. Her body warmth drew the chill from his. Yet she could not lie naked with a strange man who was fully aroused!

She opened her mouth to plead her case, when his arms loosened. She leaned up on an elbow, her full breasts dragging across his hard chest. She bit back a moan, embarrassed by the heat that overcame her. She dared to look at him. His eyes were closed, and the tension gone from his face. His deep, even breaths filled the small space. Finally, he slept.

Mercia slid from him, and as she did, a deep sense of longing filled her. If she could make her own choices she would slide back beneath the furs and lie with him until he awoke, then allow nature to take its course. Regretfully, she hurried from the cave just as the grey fingers of dawn pushed back the night.

As she slipped into her chamber, she stopped short to meet Rowena’s suspicious eyes. “Where have you been all night, sister?” She demanded.

Mercia shrugged and walked casually into the solar. “I have spent the night on my knees in the chapel, praying your prince will come. I am weary now and seek some rest.”

*

Four

Mercia woke to the feel of strong, rough hands on her breasts. The luxurious feel of his callused thumbs as they brushed against her sensitive nipples elicited a soft moan. Warm breath above her cheeks and the hard smooth heat of a man’s chest against her soft skin made her cry out.

“Mercy!”

Mercia woke with a start to find Rowena’s suspicious gaze fixed hard upon her.

Sheepishly she said, “Ro, I—Did I sleep through the morning meal?” She moved to slide from the bed. Rowena grabbed her arm.

“Do you have a lover, sister?”

Hot guilt washed in waves through her. Never had she lied to her sister. She took a deep breath. There was a first time for everything. Mercia nodded. Rowena gasped. She grasped both of Mercy’s hands. “Tell me! Tell me all!”

Mercia swallowed again. She cast a glance around the empty room. Conspiratorially she whispered, “There is a boy, nay, a man, at Drury Abbey, the local lord’s squire, Sir Ashton. He—” Mercia batted her eyelashes and feigned the coquette. “He, is most handsome, and before father’s outrider came to fetch me, we shared a kiss.”

Rowena gasped and pulled Mercia to her. “Was it magical?”

Mercia swallowed again, suddenly feeling terrible for lying to her sister. But if she denied what Rowena suspected, hiding the truth would be more difficult. Give her what she wanted and she would be satisfied. She hoped.

Mercia managed to blush and nodded her head. “’Twill not happen again. I take my final vows before the harvest.”

Rowena’s beautiful face morphed into sadness. “Mercy, I am so sorry father has so mismanaged your life. I would take you with me to Dinefwr if I could. But I do not know the disposition of my husband-to-be. He might be ogrely and resentful.”

Mercia slid her hands from her sister’s and stood. “Do not worry about me, Ro. I will be content at the abbey.” Another lie. They came too easy to one pledged to God. She quickly bathed and dressed and set about her chores. All the while, the scent of the man she had left just that morn clung to her senses, and she could barely keep herself from flying back to his arms. But she could not. She found Rowena’s eyes on her throughout the day, and her father, sullen as he was, paced a long furrow in front of the manor doors, awaiting word of the prince’s coming.

Finally, just as the sun began its daily decent into the churning sea, a half score of men on horseback approached the manor. Lord Cedric set out to meet them, Mercia following close behind. Rowena stood nervously at the threshold.

She recognized the standard, the boar of Dinefwr. The prince had finally come? Mercia looked past the tired contingent, but none of them sat regally upon their steed as a prince would. Nay, their faces were grave and haggard.

“Lord Cedric of Wendover?” the standard-bearer demanded.

“Aye,” her father said, stepping forward. “I am he.”

“I am Morgan of Dinefwr, steward to milord Prince Rhodri. Our flotilla met with pirates and terrible storm upon the sea and we have been separated from the prince. Has he preceded us?”

Mercia caught a gasp, her father cursed. “Nay! There has been no sign of him!”

Anger at her father seethed. He was not worried over the prince’s welfare, but for his own loss should the prince have met foul play.

Morgan’s face blanched white. He dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. “We caught the brunt of it. Pray his ship was just blown off course from the storm. My lord is healthy and strong. He will surface. We will await him here.”

Her father scowled, no doubt counting in his head how much it would cost to feed the train of ten hungry men. He bowed and said, “Of course, Sir Morgan, I would have it no other way. In the morn, we will send out a search party for the prince.”

Mercia hurried to give her sister the news. Rowena nearly fainted. Mercia took her to their chamber and settled her, as she too worried. With no husband, Ro would suffer the same fate as Mercia.

It was not until much later, when the manor had quieted, that Mercia was able to slip from her chamber and back to the cave. She was relieved to see the man still there. He lay still beneath the heavy mound of furs, his breaths even, and she could see he had not disturbed the food she had left behind.

She set the fresh stores she had managed to steal beside the wineskin. He shot up from his slumber and grabbed her. She screamed when he covered her with his large body. “Nay!” she cried. His silver eyes looked wildly about, but when he settled them upon her, they cleared.

“’Tis I, sir, Rowena, come to see to your health.”

He stared hard at her, and confusion reigned supreme in his gaze. “Rowena?” he hoarsely said.

Slowly she pried his fingers from her arms and nodded. “Aye, I pulled you from the surf and have nursed you these two days past.”

Realization dawned, and with it, he smiled slowly. “Aye, I remember now, you pressed your body to mine to draw the fever.” He pulled her closer. “It still rages.”

Heat flashed across her skin as if he had caressed her. “Sir, ‘twas a last resort.”

Regretfully, he released her and lay back against the furs. They had come down to rest just below his belly. Despite his illness and wounds, he fetched a most manly sight. Embarrassed by her thoughts, Mercia moved away. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”

“I have a great hunger, Rowena, but ‘tis not for food.”

She turned her back to him, flustered, and glad for the compliment. “If you cannot control that hunger, I will not return to see to your needs.”

“I am a man of honor. I give you my word I will not press you.” He leaned up on one elbow and looked at her, his silver eyes brilliant in the low firelight. “But let it be said, I would give you every possession I own to have you naked and willing beneath these furs.”

Mercia gasped in shock. “You are too bold, sir!”

“Nay, I am but honest.”

She handed him a chunk of salted meat and a piece of crusty bread. “Here. Eat while I tend your wounds.” He smiled and slowly took the food from her hands, his long fingers brushing her skin stoking her to hot. She shivered at the contact, wondering what was wrong with her. She had never felt such giddiness when Sir Bertram favored her with a smile or took her hand to assist her. Why this stranger? She slowly withdrew her hand.

“Sir, last night when I asked you your name you could not remember. Do you now?”

He scowled and bit off a chunk of bread and slowly chewed. “Nay.” He swallowed and looked directly at her. “Where am I?”

“Wendover on the Wessex Coast. I found you upon the beach.” She touched a fingertip to the wound on his chest. “’Tis a sword wound.”

He scowled deeper as he tried to recall who he was and why he had battled. “English is not your native tongue,” she said. “Are you perhaps Irish? Or Welsh?”

He shook his head, but when he spoke, his words were foreign. Then he said in English, “I speak Welsh and Irish with equal ease.”

A sudden terrible thought occurred to Mercia. What if he were one of the pirates who had attacked the prince’s flotilla? His wounds were recent, and admittedly, he spoke Irish with ease. His knowledge of Welsh would make sense as well. Many pirates spoke the language of those they preyed upon. She moved back from him, suddenly afraid.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. He dropped his food and grabbed her by the wrists, jerking her to his chest. “Nay!” she cried out. In one swift move, he was upon her, pressing her back into the soft furs. His long naked body infused her skin with his heat. His head dipped to her lips. Softly he said, “You do me grave dishonor, Lady Rowena. I may be a pirate, but I will not harm the woman who drew me from the sea. I owe you my life.”

Stark relief flooded her body. “Sir, I—”

He shook his head, his warm breath caressing her cheeks. Wild images of their naked bodies tangled and glistening as they lustily mated flashed before her eyes. She gasped, and arched into him. He growled low, and lowered his face into her hair she had left unfettered. “I may be wounded, my sweet, but I am still a man with a lusty appetite for a woman. Especially one such as yourself. Do not tempt further or I may play pirate and ravish you.”

“I have never been ravished,” she softly admitted.

Her words shocked him, she could see. Not that she had not been ravished but that she said it as if it were a bad thing. He smiled, showing strong white teeth. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “I can remedy that, sweet Rowena.”

Instead of demanding he release her, Mercia lay still and silent, allowing her imagination to run away like a startled stag that sensed hunters. She wanted to know how it felt. She wanted the experience, for when she returned to the Abbey and took her final vows, she would never, not even for her freedom break her oath to God.

“I—I give you permission to kiss me,” she stuttered. His eyes opened wider before they narrowed.

“Do you play with a dying man’s heart?”

She slapped him playfully and giggled. “You are not at death’s door. You have but two cuts and a bump on the head. In another day or two you will be fit to swim to Ireland.”

His lips lowered to hers. She could feel the hard thump of her heart in her throat. Suddenly her lips were dry. She licked them. He growled low. “Are you as innocent as you appear?”

She nodded, never wavering from his gaze. She felt him swell against her belly, and knew she played with fire. She did not care if she was burned. “Kiss me,” she softly demanded.

And he did. A slow, deep, hot kiss that curled her toes and took her breath away. His long fingers dug deep into her hair, bringing her closer to him, so close she felt as if they were a part of each other. So close, she could feel the solid thud of his heart against her chest. So close, she had but to lift her skirt and—she tore her lips from his, her breath caught in her throat, she could not draw a normal breath. She pushed away from him and sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees.

He lay there in all his naked glory, not bothering to cover his erection. It was all she could do not to stare. More heat infused her skin. She crab-walked backwards, then stood.

“Sir, it appears you are most capable of fending for yourself. I must go. I will not return.” She flew from the cave, then into the darkness, and wanted with every part of her body to return. When he called her name, she stopped and turned. He stood naked at the cave’s entrance, his arm extended, his palm up.

“Return to me, Rowena.”

She shook her head and ran as fast as her legs would carry her back to the safety of Wendover.

*

Five

She tossed and turned, no position comfortable. Too many times to count, she moved to leave the bed, her desire to return to the stranger so insistent she nearly screamed her frustration. But she did not go to him. Not that night, nor the next morning, nor the next afternoon. But once the sun sank and the moon rose, like a Siren’s call, in her dreams, he called to her. And she went to him.

She went to him, she told herself, because the food she had left for him had surely run out. She went to him, she told herself, because though he was out of the woods as far as his fever and wounds were concerned, he was not strong enough to hunt, or even defend himself. She went to him, she told herself, to help him return to where he had come from. She went to him, she told herself, because if she did not, he would perish.

The cave was empty. Only the low glow of embers illuminated the space. But she did not need the meager light to tell her he was gone. A deep aching void opened up in her gut, paining her worse than any bellyache or any heartache she had ever endured. It pained her more than the day her father told her she would be going to the abbey where she would spend the rest of her life a virgin bride of God.

Anger came swiftly. Did she mean nothing to him? She had saved his life! Did not that account for something? Of course it didn’t, she told herself. She was plain and boring, and he a virile, handsome man women fawned over. What interest did a man such as he have in a girl such as she?

She moved into the cave and sank down onto the furs, bringing them to her nose. She inhaled deeply. They smelled of him. Clean, and potent, like the sea. Hot tears stung her eyes. She was a silly girl with foolish dreams of love. Foolish dreams she had no right dreaming. She flung the furs from her and angrily stood. Humiliation wrangled with her anger. She told herself it didn’t matter. It could
not
matter. He was a stranger. She was a noblewoman of a noble, albeit impoverished house. Women such as she did not cavort with pirates. Indeed, with any man unless she were properly wed.

Still, the tears stung. And yet, despite it all, she yearned for him as she had never yearned for anything in her life, including freedom. He
was
freedom. He could give her a taste of what it meant to be truly desired. It would be enough to see her through to the end of her days.

A small sound behind her startled her. She whirled around and nearly cried out. ‘Twas he. Standing in the cave’s entrance, clad only in his braies, a wild hare hanging limply in his hands. His eyes burned hotly into hers.