Her Noble Lords (23 page)

I choose not to correct his selective recollection of events. Instead, I settle down to sleep, a smile on my lips. A fortunate day indeed.

* * *

My pregnancy is advancing, my baby due in just eight weeks’ time. Overall, the months have been pleasant ones and relatively easy on me. Agnes and Joan are at my constant beck and call and both Ralf and Piers too. I have only to look at a pail of water or pile of linens and one of them suddenly appears from thin air to carry it for me. It is an existence I will struggle to become accustomed to but since it appears to be the intention of my men to keep me pregnant much of the time, I daresay I must adjust my attitude somewhat. I have thus far avoided developing an even closer acquaintance with the contents of Mrs. Murching’s larder and would not wish to change that state if I can help it.

The early weeks of my pregnancy were less congenial. I was deathly tired for the first three months and spent much of the day resting on my bed. Worse than that, I was plagued by sickness at all times of the day. Piers and Ralf had hardly a full night’s sleep between them as one or the other was constantly called upon to assist me to the privy. They did so with good grace, for the most part. By the time my fourth month arrived those trials were behind me and since then I have enjoyed rude good health though this has not curtailed my men’s fussing nor the solicitous attentions of Agnes and Joan. I have accepted their ministrations with good grace but in truth, I feel cosseted to distraction.

And I am bored.

My lessons with Father Peter have occupied much of my time and I am reasonably proficient with my letters and numbers now. I have also enjoyed the use of the fine harp Ralf brought back from a trip to the market town of Kendal, balanced on the back of a cart. It was his birthday gift to me and has been ensconced in a corner of our chamber and brings me great pleasure. My lords, too, love to listen to my playing and we spend much of our leisure time in here just enjoying each other’s company.

On occasional feast days Ralf or Piers have had servants carry the instrument down to the great hall, and the rest of the household have clustered around to listen to the music. I find those times somewhat disconcerting as I am unused to an audience of more than two, but my efforts are appreciated so I am happy to be of service.

Winter has receded and spring has turned into early summer. There has been an unseasonable amount of rain of late which has confined the entire household to the hall and surrounding outbuildings but now that the fine soft sunshine once more spills her light and warmth all around, I am increasingly agitated at my sedentary existence. I long to venture out, to join our household as they come and go between the neighbouring villages and small towns. I feel fit, active, and desperate for freedom.

“Linnet, you will snap the strings if you pluck at that harp with any more vigour. I swear, your knuckles are already white from the effort.” Piers offers his observation from the safety of the bed as I pace our chamber and try an experimental note or two as I pass the instrument. I turn to offer a retort but instead I fold my arms across my distended stomach as the baby gives a violent kick inside me.

“Oh, there it is again.”

Piers grins. “Come and lie down, little maid. Your agitation is provoking our baby.”

“I cannot. I do nothing but lie down, or sit. Or eat. I want to go outside now that the rain has finally ceased, feel the fresh air, the good, rich earth beneath my feet. May we not just—?”

“Linnet, you know we want you to rest while you may. There will be much to do once the child is here.”

“Aye and no shortage of willing helpers to lend their assistance.”

“True but—”

Ralf interrupts. He is buckling on his sword belt in readiness for training the men in the bailey but pauses to lay both his hands on my stomach. He is fascinated by the baby’s movements inside me. “We could take our bonnie wife to the river, perhaps enjoy a picnic there.”

“Brother, do we really have the time to dally at picnics on the banks of the Ehen? There is much to do. We have guards to drill if you ever succeed in getting the better of that belt of yours, a keep to fortify, stores to replenish before the autumn sets in.”

Ralf is undeterred. “Your diligence is to be applauded, Piers but we have months before we need concern ourselves with our food stores and the castle is safe enough for now. Mayhap we would all benefit from an excursion, just the three of us. I have a fancy to fuck our sweet little countess with the sun on my back. Or hers.”

I cannot prevent the flush which starts at my chest and works its way up, but despite my outraged modesty the notion sounds like a good one to me. I lend my pleas to Ralf’s. “Please, Piers, could we?”

He knows when he is outnumbered and grins at the pair of us. “Aye, I suppose we shall if the both of you insist upon it but on one condition. I get to fuck you first.”

I start to nod, then look to Ralf. This is not my decision.

“That is agreed then. But I get to take her arse.”

* * *

This is a truly wonderful day. The sun bathes us in her gentle warmth all afternoon and we make excellent use of her bounty. Ralf and Piers lead me to a secluded spot, a favourite haunt of theirs since boyhood. We eat beside the river, her banks swollen from the rainfall now finding its way down from the hills to the north. The current swirls and tumbles past us with a turbulent roar, crashing over submerged rocks and carrying a cargo of flotsam collected upstream. Boughs, lumps of wood, even a couple of fallen trees are dragged down the valley as the river makes its relentless way toward the Irish Sea.

At Ralf’s command, I undress and drape my clothing over the low branch of an oak tree. I am self-conscious regarding my changed and ungainly girth, I seem to grow larger with every passing day. But both men adore my new contours and insist on studying me closely at every opportunity.

With practised ease I straddle Piers, now also naked, and sink onto his erect manhood with a satisfied moan. I lean forward as best I can, given the huge bulge where my flat stomach used to be and purr happily as Ralf works oil into my rear hole ready for his entry. It does not take long these days and within a minute or so he too is sinking his length into my body. Piers cradles my face and kisses my lips as Ralf fucks my arse, mimicking the plunging motion with his tongue in my mouth. Too soon it seems, Ralf hauls me upright and slips his hand around my body to strum my clit. Piers sees this as his opportunity to thrust hard from below and soon I am hovering on the brink of orgasm.

“My lords, I do not think I can wait…”

“Then do not, sweet Linnet. Take your release, there will be more to follow.”

I take Piers at his word and climax around both their cocks, a guttural cry tearing from my throat. Ralf rubs my clit and puts his other hand to good use teasing first one distended nipple, then the other. Almost as soon as the first orgasm ebbs another is surging forth, even more powerful. I abandon all hope of control and convulse helplessly through each climax as they play my body to exhaustion. At last they too are spent, first Piers, then Ralf erupting to spurt their seed into me.

Afterward we lay entwined together on the soft grass, replete, tired, and gloriously happy.

Now it is time to start back to Egremont. The journey will take us at least an hour and as ever the men are determined to see our hearth again before nightfall. The days are long though as midsummer approaches, we have plenty of time to dress and collect our picnic things together. We fill the bulging saddlebags on Ralf and Piers’ mounts, whilst my little mare continues to fill her belly with the sweet grazing to be had out here. She is a docile little beast, my birthday gift from Piers. I have named her Guinevere though she does not choose to answer to that yet. I will convince her, in time.

Piers helps me into the saddle then vaults onto his own horse. Ralf leads the way. We follow the course of the River Ehen heading south toward Egremont, the sound of the rushing waters making conversation difficult. For myself I am content with my own thoughts and allow my mind to drift. I long for the birth of my baby, despite the perils inherent in childbirth. I cannot allow myself to believe the outcome will be other than that which we hope for and that both myself and my baby will emerge safe and well. Each morning and evening I offer up prayers to the virgin that it will be so.

Can it really be true that this time last year I was toiling as lady’s maid to Eleanor of Wellesworth and happy to be so, convinced that I had achieved the pinnacle of my life? I believed myself to be happy.

I was not, for my contentment then bears no resemblance to my happiness now. I have learnt the meaning of joy, of true pleasure, of loving and being loved in return. Most women long for even one man who will care for them and protect them and who will bring them pleasure in the bedchamber. Such men are rare indeed, a veritable treasure, yet I have found two. I truly cannot believe my good fortune.

I close my eyes, swaying with the gentle rhythmic motion of Guinevere’s agile step as she picks her way along the river bank. My fingers are loose on the reins, the mare drawing her direction from the horse in front. She lurches suddenly, one hoof tilting beneath her on the sodden, slippery ground. I slip forward, grabbing at the pommel to right myself. I succeed in remaining in the saddle and manage to regain my balance, just as Guinevere finds another patch of water-logged earth. This time her hoof sinks right in and she hurtles down to her knees. I topple over her neck, grasping in vain for something solid to hang on to. There is nothing and I land in the roiling waters with an almighty splash.

It is cold. Deathly cold. My skirts drag me down, preventing me from kicking to remain afloat. They tangle around my legs so I am unable to get a foot down onto solid ground. The river is not deep, just fast but I am spinning, rolling, tossed around in the water as though I am no more than one of those boughs carried here from upstream.

The water clears, there is daylight. I suck in a gasp of air. Shouts reach my ears, frightened, desperate calls. Then I am submerging again, the water closing in front of my face. The warm, sweet daylight is swirling out of my reach. I am sinking despite my frantic struggles.

I want to live. I have so much to live for. My future is but inches from the front of my face. I cannot reach it. I am losing…

Lost.

Strong hands around my waist haul me back, upwards, back into the daylight. One behind, one in front, I am half carried, half dragged back toward the shore. I grasp a pair of shoulders, strong, sturdy, beloved shoulders.

“We have you, sweetheart. You are safe now.” Ralf’s voice is close, behind me as Piers cradles me in his arms. I cling on, shaking, shuddering, barely conscious.

We are almost at the bank again, within touching distance, when another surge of frigid water hits us. Piers loses his footing and we both swirl downstream, caught up in the relentless torrent. He loses his hold on me and I start to sink again, this time surely for good. But it is not to be. I am seized once more, dragged back to the surface and shoved in the direction of an overhanging branch.

“Hang on. Grab it and do not let go.” It is Ralf’s voice, his command lending new strength to my exhausted body. I manage to wrap my cold fingers around the bough, then somehow find the determination needed to haul my upper body from the water. I get my elbows onto the branch and manage to edge my way along it until at last I am able to find enough purchase beneath my feet to scramble from the river. I fall exhausted onto the grass and my world goes dark.

* * *

I can hear roaring coming from close by, a dull, monotonous sound. I am cold, shivering, lost, and confused.

My eyelids are heavy but I prise them apart. The sun is setting, long shadows stretching from the trees beyond. The river is at my back and it is her unending rush I can hear. I push myself up onto my elbows and give my head a quick shake. As my senses clear I remember it all. I was in the river, drowning. My men saved me. They risked their lives to help me.

I look to my right but see nothing, no one.

I push myself up onto my knees, hug my arms across my chest as my teeth chatter with cold. I look in the other direction but still I am alone. Panicking now, I call out.

“Ralf? Piers? Where are you?”

I get to my feet and lurch back along the river bank, scanning the water’s edge for any sign of someone else having dragged themselves from the depths. They are both much bigger than I, stronger, fitter, unencumbered either by heavy skirts or an advanced pregnancy. If I survived, so will they.

I round a bend in the river and spot a shape twenty or thirty yards in front of me, half in, half out of the water. It is a man. My man.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you. Thank you.” I break into a run and hurl myself down beside him. His face is turned from me, his blond curls plastered to his scalp. I shake him, grabbing his shoulder.

“Ralf! Piers! Please, are you all right? Oh, please, please wake up. We have to find…”

He groans, his large body shifting under my hand. I stand, gazing further along the river, searching for a sign, any sign of another survivor.

“What the…? Linnet?”

I drop to my knees again as he rolls, coughing, onto his back.

“Piers! Thank God you are all right. Where is Ralf? We must find him. Please, get up. You must help me to look.”

We do not find Ralf that night, nor the next day. It is nearing midnight when Piers and I encounter the search party coming forth from Egremont to seek us out, our failure to arrive home having raised the alarm. It is pointless to continue the search in the dark but men are out at first light, Piers at their head. They have not let up. Piers is a man possessed and I am out of my mind with worry.

* * *

For three days now our own men and much of the populace from the surrounding villages have scoured the river banks and the shallows, tirelessly searching for the slightest sign, the least clue that might suggest Ralf escaped the raging torrent. They have found nothing.