Awakening His Lady (4 page)

Nostalgia crept into her thoughts—a kiss she'd once shared here with Thomas, an impassioned, lingering kiss, the kind that lasted longer than her breath, much like the kiss she'd just shared with a stranger.

Heaven help her! Had she lost her senses? What of loyalty and love?

A range of emotions raced through her mind. Guilt. Shame. Surprise. No man could replace her Thomas, could he?

Withdrawing the ring from her bodice, she freed it from the leather string and slipped the golden band on her middle finger. She needed to see it…to remember. She cried silently, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her quivering chin.

A cloak settled over her shaking shoulders, its warmth comforting and soft.

Meriom lifted her eyes to see the face of a young squire. There was kindness in his youthful eyes.

“I thank you.” She looked away, discouraging his company.

The squire stood beside her, unmoving. “I'm not much for feasting,” he said, softly. “Too crowded. Too loud. I much prefer the quiet of a campfire and the open road.”

Meriom kept her voice distant. “You traveled far?”

“From Flanders and then from Shropshire to here—in the snow. I was in service to the king.”

“Ah, you served in France then. Were you at the Battle of Bouvines?” She'd met only a handful of knights who'd served in King John's army and survived. She knew not why she even bothered to ask.

The young squire took a drink. “I was there, my lady.” He swallowed hard and looked away. “I am amongst the last to return, stopping here to rest before I travel home.”

Beneath his new traveling clothes, he looked alarmingly thin.

Meriom took pity on him. “I'll make certain you get a sack of food for the rest of your journey.”

He bowed his head and raised her hand to his lips, as chivalric code commanded. “Thank you for your kindness, great lady.”

Meriom nodded, only to startle when he shoved her fingers toward the firelight.

The squire's face paled. “This ring. Where did you get this?”

Meriom snatched her hand from his trembling grip. “'Twas a gift from my grandfather. Why do you ask?”

He stared at her hand. “My master wore one like it once. He—”

“Your master! What was his name?”

“He was called
le broyeur
. Sir Thom—”

Meriom's knees went weak. “Thomas Addecker?”

The squire drew his brows together and nodded.

Meriom swayed. Grief came crashing down, just as punishing and as unrelenting as it was the night the picker man had set her ring upon the dais.

“Tell me about your master. Did he slay many Frenchmen?” she asked, her voice shaking. “What words did he say before he fell? Did he speak his lady's name?”

The young squire stared at her, his mouth agape. “Lady Meriom?”

Meriom nodded, unable to utter a single word.

He knelt before her and bowed his head. “Oh, great lady. He is not dead.”

Meriom picked up her skirts and bolted.

Able called, “Lady Meriom, I bid you stop!”

 

She would find him. She would find the dark knight in the hall, the man she knew in her heart was Thomas. Despite his scar, his limp and the drawn face beneath the mask, the man was Thomas!

Why in God's name had he not revealed himself?

Feet pounding, Meriom flew from the courtyard into the hall, where the great press of people had stilled for the moment, all eyes upon the bawdy jugglers and the magicians in the center of the floor. 'Twas easier now to move amongst the guests, most of whom were seated on benches or in the rushes. A few leaned languidly against the wall, the women flirting, the men drinking, the torch lights sputtering their last.

Meriom wove her way around the room, ducking in and out of the shadows like Diana, the goddess of the hunt. She would find him. She'd dreamed of this moment a thousand times. She spun her ring, turning it around and around her finger. Thomas was alive and he was here! What would she say?

A juggler forced a fiery torch down his throat, causing the crowd to release a collective gasp. They clapped and rose from their seats slowly, the energy of the evening extinguished like the juggler's flames.

The firelight from the hearth dwindled low and servants suddenly appeared, taking down the trestle tables and stowing all the benches. It was her father's way of telling everyone 'twas time to leave or bed down on their pallets. The crowd diminished by the hundreds, and still she'd naught a glimpse of Thomas.

Mayhap the dark knight was not him. Mayhap he was here, dressed another way. Three times she'd circled the room and she'd not seen him and now she stood on the highest stone step at the back of the hall, craning to see over the crowd, while revelers flooded past her, stepping around her and stumbling, filing out of the hall. Already, old men and women snored on their pallets by the fire, and the dogs had curled up in the choicest spots between them. Soon, there would soft murmurings of lovers drifting around the hall, girlish giggles, followed by shushing, and whispers pleading for discretion.

The night was over. And Meriom felt her life coming to an end—for the second time. She wondered if Thomas
had
truly come back for her. Mayhap that's what his young squire had been trying to tell her when he called her back, and she so desperate to find her Thomas had not stopped to listen. That Thomas might not want her was as cutting as the grief that engulfed her when she thought him dead. Hope faded into numbness and frustration.

Hands trembling, she pulled the ring from her finger. Best to keep it safe on its leather string and tucked inside her bodice. It might be all she'd ever have to remember Thomas.

Her fingers fumbling, she felt the golden band slip from her grasp. The ring tumbled, bouncing from step to step, pinging softly until it hit the rushes at the bottom. In an instant Meriom was on her knees sobbing, searching through the rushes. The ring was just a material thing, made precious by a once important moment in her life—and yet she could not bear the thought of living one day without it.

Her effort futile, she wiped the tears from her cheek with the heel of her hand. Mother Mary, she missed the comfort of her brown veil and gray dress. After tonight, the peace she was certain she would find at Rotham Abbey was all the more appealing.

“You dropped this, my lady?”

That voice.

That soft, deep voice fell upon her like the warmth of the setting summer sun.

She froze, unable to speak. She merely looked up to see the masked face of the dark knight, of the man who was surely Thomas peering down at her, his hand extended with her ring in his palm.

Thomas!

He smiled. “I believe this belongs to you, Lady Meriom.”

Meriom attempted to clamp her mouth shut, aware that she sat there with her lips parted, as if she meant to speak but had suddenly been struck dumb. He set the ring in her hand, his warm fingers grazing her palm. She shuddered. Why did he not reveal himself? Did he think she would forget those beautiful lips, that strong square chin, that mat of dark hair that curled at the base of his neck?

What kind of fool did he think she was?

“Might I be of some assistance—again?” he asked. “You ran off during the dance as if you'd seen an ogre.”

Her fingers curled over the ring and she rose. “No ogre, just a ghost, mayhap,” she quipped, forcing a tone of detachment. “But I thank you, sir, for my ring. I am tired. 'Tis time I go to bed.”

He caught her by the elbow. “I will escort you, then. 'Tis not safe for a lady to wander 'round the castle alone in the dark.”

She cast a glance from the corner of her eye. “Am I safe with you, good sir? You are a stranger, a guest at my father's feast, arrived too late to be announced.”

Not waiting for an answer, she turned and climbed the steps leading to her private apartment. Thomas walked beside her, so close she feared he could hear her heart hammering.

“You need not fear me, Lady Meriom. You are the lady of the house, your father's noble daughter. Guards would come running if you called.” He smiled, his white teeth shining in the shadows.

“How is it that you know
my
name, and
I
do not know yours?” She walked slowly, noticing that he limped, giving him time to catch up with her.

“I asked a servant when I saw you dancing.” His voice was tight.

Meriom halted. So he'd seen her dance beneath the mistletoe with Lord Leeman and thought her besotted? Could it be that Thomas was jealous?

Thomas offered her his arm, as if he thought
her
too fatigued to walk without him. She rested her open hand on his sleeve, praying he could not feel her trembling. Would that she could rip off his mask and cover his face with kisses.

“Ah yes, I danced with Lord Leeman,” she spoke softly, the rush torch at her apartment door sputtering its last light. “He is a worthy suitor, and wanted to kiss me beneath the mistletoe, but I fear I have offended him tonight.”

“How so?” By the twist of his beautiful lips and the spark in his eye, Thomas was bemused.

Meriom slowed and held him by his sleeve.

“I declined. I am a poor kisser, my lord,” she whispered, imparting seriousness to her tone.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Mayhap I could help. Show me how you do it—our kiss under the mistletoe was too brief, and I'll suggest improvements.” He steered her around and placed her back against the wall.

Meriom quirked her eyebrow. What game was this?

She shook her head, refusing to get angry, determined to play this scene as he appeared to want to play it.

He shrugged. “Let me demonstrate how a man would like to kiss a woman, then you can show me how a woman thinks it should be done.”

Before she could object, Thomas lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips with a gentle kiss that soon became more urgent, more intense with desire that was not disguised. Blessed saints, she could not help herself; kissing Thomas had always been like eating honey from a spoon. She parted her lips and accepted him, let his tongue inside to touch her own, the silken slickness of his mouth and his sweetness pure heaven. His warm breath rushing against her cheek, she could feel the thunder of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts before he pulled away.

God's teeth! She could barely catch her breath!

“That, Lady Meriom, is how a man wishes to kiss a woman. Now show me how you would have kissed Lord Leeman that he should have taken such gross offense.”

She touched her tingling lips. “I do not know how I would have kissed Lord Leeman, because I did not want to kiss him. I turned him down and allowed another man to take his place. A stranger. I kissed the stranger,” she whispered, glaring at him.

“Ah, would you have rather kissed Lord Leeman?”

“I think not, sir, but had he insisted I would have endured it for politeness sake.”

With a fluid movement, Thomas pressed his lips against hers and kissed a searing trail from her mouth, moving to the scar on her chin, then down her neck, pausing to nip at her earlobe and nuzzle in the hollow just above her collarbone.

He raised his head, his dark eyes penetrating, glinting. “Kissing, Lady Meriom, is not to be endured.” His voice was low and languid. Seductive.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Nay,” she replied, her voice ragged. “Nay, not to be endured—”

His lips covered her mouth again, this time with the pressure of featherlight kisses that sent her blood racing through her veins.

Blessed saints, when had the stony castle turned so warm! Why did he pretend to be a stranger? Any other man she could have resisted. But not Thomas. Never Thomas, no matter how angry she was at him, or how hurt she was by his refusal to reveal himself.

Hell to the devil. She would give him what he asked for.

She kissed him back, pressed her lips lightly to his mouth, tentative and soft, a bare whisper of a kiss. She took his lower lip between her teeth and sucked, gently humming, knowing it would drive him mad—as it had years ago.

He moaned and drew his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, exactly what she'd hoped for. Slowly she slid her hands from his shoulder to his hips, all the while, covering his neck with distracting kisses, touching his skin with her tongue.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, the weight of him pressing her against the wall. She could not have moved if she'd wanted to. Thomas wedged his knee between hers, and with his free hand, he dragged her skirts up to expose her thighs. Deftly he untied the garters that held her stockings up.

Not caring who might catch them, she pulled his tunic up, found the ties to his braes and exposed him.

Thomas gripped her shoulders. “Lady Meriom. You are bold.”