Mathis, Jolie (6 page)

The day had been long. With steady hand he hung his hauberk and helm upon the wooden armor tree that had been Ranulf's. He folded the remainder of his clothing in an orderly bundle, and set his boots beside the fire to dry. Upon a stool he sat, the flames warming his back. With reverence, he oiled his sword and sheathed it in its scabbard. He commanded no servant to tend to his armor, to stoke his hearth.

He had always been alone and had somehow grown to prefer it so. Upon his birth he had been an unwanted child. His slave mother had cast him into the snow to die. Raised ever since by men of war, he was never without companions, without a brotherhood.

But somehow, always alone.

Finally he examined himself for injuries, running his palms over his abdomen, shoulders, and thighs. 'Twould not be the first time he discovered an injury without first suffering so much as a slight irritation. His fingertips lingered upon the narrow gash upon his cheek, laid there by the princess in her fury. Each scar upon his body was a mark upon the path toward an inevitability he had long since given up trying to escape. This time he found no injury greater than a scratch.

Too easy.
He was somewhat disappointed at how easy the taking of Calldarington had been. He had walked the rows of the Saxon dead, not once, but twice. The man he had come to challenge did not lie among them.
Coward,
to run and hide when the others died for him. For their families and their land.

Kol took up his knife and polished its blade. Tomorrow he would lead a force into the uplands in search of Norsex's craven king.

And once Ranulf had been eliminated—what then?

Although Kol's future held no happy ending, he could no longer ignore the wishes of his men. They could accompany him on his quest only so far. The rest he would travel alone. Perhaps soon he would truly be alone. In recent years his men had grown less satisfied with the mercenary way, despite the riches it brought. He smiled. He could not imagine Vekell as a simple farmer, married and with children.

Children.
The smile faded from his lips. A memory of the princess, holding her child close, came forth from the dark place in his mind. Long ago he had renounced the pain and regret that came with the knowledge he would never sire a child of his own.

But something about this place challenged his inner peace.

'Twas
her.

He moved toward the far side of the room to stare at the wall that separated them. She was there. Even with the thick barrier between them, he could feel her. He even imagined her scent transient upon the night air, sent aloft by the warmth of her beauty and hatred.

In the king's prison he had lain like a child with his head in her lap as she prayed over him. She had touched his face and hair with gentle hand. Her tears had dampened his skin. He did not understand. How could that benevolent girl have grown into the woman who now occupied the chambers next to his? The same one who glared at him, all the fire inside her dead except for the flame of hatred?

Kol frowned at the tapestry on the wall, a hunting scene. The huntsmen were narrow, weak-looking men, with no more collective prowess than a flock of pea fowl. Mentally he named each of the scrawny hunters "Ranulf.

Surely the princess had known he would return.

No warrior of substance could survive the bloody injustice he had and not return to seek vengeance. To do so in this age would mean only cowardice.

In his mind she had been preserved as a simple young creature, pure and chaste. The woman with whom he had reunited today was complex beyond his understanding.

"Who are you?" he said to the wall that separated them.

A huntsman moved. Kol was sure it had. Clearing his mind of all else, he stared at the tapestry. Again there was a wavering, slight but sure. Fisting his hand in the cloth, he ripped it from the wall. Her fragrance swirled about him, lavender and mint. He'd smelled such on her skin, and in her hair, when he'd held her close.

He passed his hand over the timber. Coldness came through, and yes, a faint glimmer of light. He bent for a closer look. The hole was small, almost imperceptible in the dark mortar between the stones. Perfectly round, it had most certainly been bored on purpose. He stared at the peephole, a portal to her sanctuary. He ran his finger around the edge, his mind circling the possible explanations.

Powerful men spied upon those whom they did not trust, that much he had experienced during his travels into the courts of the Franks and the Byzantines. Perhaps, in the past, visiting dignitaries had occupied the chamber, and the king had felt they required clandestine observation.

Or... could Ranulf have secretly observed his own sister? Nay, surely not. Just the thought made him uneasy. More likely the old king, Aldrith, had enjoyed spying upon his young queen, who, years before, had most certainly occupied the comfortable chambers next door.

Kol stared at the hole.

To look would be no weakness. After all, the hole could be used to spy upon
him.
Surely there had been a corresponding hole in the tapestry and if he were to lift the cloth and take the time to look, he would find it. Only a fool would decline to probe further.

Without further deliberation he bent and peered inside.

He saw light. A scant moment later his vision focused and he saw what lay beyond. The trestle and the hearth. But that knowledge registered only vaguely.

She stood beside the overturned bucket. Naked.

His mouth went dry. Low in his belly, it began. A slow, exquisite burn that spread to and filled his loins with molten flame.

Her skin shone flawless in the firelight's glow. She lifted a strip of linen to her arm. Shadows etched the delicate lines of her ribs, and shaded the undersides of two full, pink-tipped breasts.

The moment she turned away he suffered crushing disappointment, but was rewarded with the sight of her unbound hair. He remembered it. The slippery-clean feel of it against his cheek as they had struggled. Its scent, lavender and mint.

Darkly, the silken curtain fell over her back to tease his eye, just above her rounded—

Kol whispered a curse and stepped back from the peephole, his body raging with fire.

Her
deviant, damned half brother
had spied on her. What other purpose could the peephole have served?

He closed his eyes, but the memory of her nakedness remained scorched upon his mind. He should never have looked. He was
no better
than the one who had created the hole.

And, damn himself to Hell, all he could think of was how much he wanted to look again.

He stared at the opening.

Kinsman or saint, he was neither. In truth, he suffered a pitiably small conscience when it came to lust. Of the sins he had committed, this would be among his least.

With his fingers splayed against the stone, he bent and peered inside again. Isabel pulled a long, pale gown over her head. He snatched only the briefest view of her softly curving buttocks and long legs.

Isabel turned. She stared directly at the wall. At him. Surely she couldn't see him.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

With a hiss, Kol closed his eyes.

Exercising more effort than he wished to admit, he stepped back. As far away from the hole as he could remove himself.

He fell back on Ranulf's bed and stared at the ceiling timbers, a crucifix above him.

Of course she would cry. Had he expected otherwise? She was a woman. Her home had been attacked, her loved ones defeated and killed. He had taken her child from her. And perhaps a beloved husband.

And he would change nothing if given the chance.

Closing his eyes, he immersed himself in the same self-taught meditation he had practiced since he was a child. He willed the blackness to consume his insides; his mind, heart, and soul, until he felt like nothing more than a shadow, transient upon the earth. Indifferent to the lot which awaited him in the coming days.

When he at last saw nothing, he slept.

And dreamt.

She came to his bed, her eyes brilliant as jewels against her white skin. There were no more tears. She gleamed with fearlessness. He smiled. She smiled in return.

He saw the glimmer near her breast.

'Twas no dream—

As quick as an asp, his hand shot up to halt the dagger's murderous plunge.

Chapter 5

"How—?" Kol demanded, squeezing her wrist. The tip of the blade quivered just above his bare chest. What of his guards? How had she breached the security of his chambers?

The princess peered down, her cheeks aflush, her eyes wide. Her upper lip twitched into half of a smile but behind, her teeth were clenched.

"I had an inkling you fancied knives, Thorleksson." With a tug she attempted to free her wrist. "So I brought you another."

Beside him, she crouched upon the bed, all curves and hazy softness. The glowing hearth, behind her, gave her a surreal glow. Two slender feet peeked out from the hem of her linen gown. How pretty she was.

God save his soul. He felt nothing but excitement with her bent above him, blade in hand.

"Who are you, Isabel?" Kol stared into her eyes. With one stiff shake of her wrist the blade clattered to the floor.

He arose to one elbow. "The suffering princess or the brave warrioress?"

Her smile grew by a hair. "Neither, Norseman."

"Then what?"

She bent low, so close he felt the quiver of her breath upon his lips. Silken tresses caressed his shoulder. Deep within his chest something staggered, and he recognized it as the beat of his heart. With gentle pressure, he pulled her hand to his chest. Cool, slender fingers splayed across his skin. Her pupils were huge. Fear shone in her eyes, but was he wrong to believe he also saw exhilaration?

He lifted his head, just a fraction, and brushed his lips across hers. She exhaled, then murmured, "Your executioner."

And in that instant her other hand swung up. Though he could not see the blade,
he knew—

"Isabel!" he rasped, stunned by her ferocity.

Instinctively he deflected her attack, and at the same time scuttled back, up the mattress. His senses exploded in shock as
his own weapon
plunged between his legs, a hair's breadth from her original target.

His loins.

While he gaped, stunned, the princess tugged frantically at the blade, trying to get it free. Her knuckles brushed heavily against him. In one white-hot flash, blood surged into his member. A half-moan escaped his lips.

The princess ceased her struggle and stared at his groin. There, the hilt of the blade protruded rigid and phallic. Color suffused her cheeks.

The sight of her fingers, slender and white, around the shaft—

Jesu.

Kol felt heat flush his own cheeks. Dismayed, he clasped his hands over hers and, by proxy, took control of the weapon. Clenching her hands tight, he yanked the blade free and hurled it to the floor. God, how he wanted to put his hands on her. He pulled her forward, into his lap.

She shoved against him, all elbows and rigidity. "Godric is mine. I will kill you before you take him from me."

She attempted to scramble away, but he flipped her onto her back and with his own body pressed her into the bed.

"I do not want the boy."

Liquid-onyx hair fanned out around her shoulders, and rippled with each arch of her body. Beneath him, Isabel let out a low groan and set about shoving him off. Easily he held her, peering into wild, violet eyes. While she might want nothing more than to slay him, he could only imagine lifting her tunic to ease the erection presently wedged between their bodies like an iron pikestaff.

"Nei."
He caught her clawing hands beside her head, weaving his fingers between hers. "I do not want the boy. Nor do I want Norsex."

Her eyes widened. "You lie. Every word you speak is a lie."

For a woman she displayed fair strength, but he aligned his thighs against hers. "I want only Ranulf."

Her linen gown twisted about her body and gaped at the neck, revealing the round swell of her bosom. Desire, heavy and thick, mottled his thoughts. "Perhaps now I want more."

Some things were fated. He knew that truth too well. Why should he fight this? Isabel could be his, for as long as his destiny allowed.

As she lay trapped beneath him, he drew the backs of two fingers over her cheek. Emotion flashed in her eyes, but she did not turn away. Against his naked chest, he felt the beat of her heart, as rapid as his own.

"Your husband, does he live?" Though he spoke her language, for a moment she did not seem to understand. Dark lashes lowered, shutting him out.

"Aye."

Along the delicate line of her collarbone he brushed the same two fingers. She gave a shallow gasp.

"Then why is he not here, tearing down timber and stone to save you from me?"

Her pale skin blanched a shade more white. Through the fine gossamer of her gown, he felt her nipples against his chest and his mouth went dry.

His control weakened. "Do you honor him?"

The princess did not answer. His eyes roamed her face. How he wanted to be inside her, to drown himself in her crushed, tragic beauty. To consummate the hazy web of emotion between them, to experience the intensity of their unspoken connection as they made love. The dark fringe of her lashes fluttered, and her eyes closed. Beneath him, he felt her tremble. She tugged her hands free. What she did next sent his mind into a dizzying whirl.

Her hands bracketed his face. She lifted her head and brushed her lips over his in a kiss as soft as a butterfly's blush.

Oh, God.
He closed his eyes, not believing. Pleasure surged through him. The world disappeared. He was left with nothing but the invitation of her body, warm and pliant, beneath his. Her sweet scent, all around him. Her mouth grew bolder in its foray.

Impatient to taste her completely, he thrust his tongue inside, vaguely aware of her uneven breath, her hands clenching his upper arms.

With a low groan, he fisted his hand in her hair and gently arched her neck back so that he might test her delicate skin with his lips, and his teeth. In the back of his mind, there rang satisfaction: He would have her in his enemy's bed. He smoothed a hand over the firm swell of her breast.

Isabel arched. "You will return the boy to me?"

Kol grew still. Slowly he drew back and looked into her face, knowing, with a sudden and complete blackness of heart, what he would see. And indeed, he did see fear and hate, manifested in the tremble of her lip and the pallor of her skin.

She used her body as barter in an attempt to regain her child. Kol had never felt such self-disgust.

Fate?
He nearly laughed out loud. Nay, 'twas merely blind lust on his part. Cursing, he lifted himself from her and backed away.

"But I am willing," she insisted in a low voice. "I will do as you wish if you will return my son to me."

He glared at the floor, where the two knives lay. "No trade." Bending, he retrieved them and placed them on the mantel.

He heard her intake of breath. Turning, he saw the horror clear on her face. His scars. She had seen them. His oath split the silence as he yanked a tunic over his head.

The princess sat up, the dark mantle of her hair falling over one shoulder. Upon her cheek there were small abrasions, where, in his passion, his beard had marred her skin.
Beast.
She thought him a beast.

He was a beast. Scarred, inside and out.

Though only his ears could hear them, the shades, cowering in their shadows, dared to laugh their disdain.

Unworthy. Unwanted. Soon to be forgotten.

Kol shut his eyes, not wanting to see the curve of her body, nor the bruised, vulnerable loveliness that had so destroyed his ability to reason. Even if she were willing, 'twould be senseless to give into such a temptation. Revenge and death could be his only mistresses.

In a low voice she asked, "Why would my father summon you?"

Kol stared at her. Would she believe the truth? Or did she already know why her father had sent his missive? Perhaps she merely feigned lack of knowledge to test his understanding of the intrigues of the Norsexian court.

He worded his response with caution. "At times, my army provides military services for pay."

"You are a mercenary." She made no move to leave his bed. By that, he assumed her invitation to barter for possession of her son remained in place, despite her knowledge of his deformity.

He tore his attention from her thin gown, and the alluring shadow of dusky peaks beneath. "Your father retained me thusly."

The princess's gaze dropped. A frown thinned her lips and she shook her head. Though her lips parted, he spoke before she could offer her denouncement.

"Do not think to accuse me of lies." Already, the old anger swelled his chest. The anger of being wrongfully accused.

Color darkened her cheeks. "But what you claim cannot be true. I would have known of any threat to my father's sovereignty, from within or without."

" 'Tis only fair you hear my account."

Stone-faced, she sat. Kol waited until she nodded. Only then did he proceed.

"At your father's written invitation, my army sailed from Frankia, where we had spent most of the winter. But upon our arrival in Norsex, I found him already buried and Ranulf sitting upon his throne, waiting, with some expectation, to raze my existence from the face of this earth."

Confusion scored her brow. "None of what you say makes sense. If my father had extended an invitation to you and your men—which I altogether doubt—my brother would not rescind the summons, through violence, without provocation."

"Unless he was the source of the threat your father sought to quell through the retainment of my mercenary services."

She blurted, "That is ridiculous. My father adored Ranulf as a son, and honored him as his heir."

"Then who threatened Aldrith's throne?"

Isabel drew her knees up against her chest. "We have fended off the Northumbrians and Mercians for an age."

"Your father would not have felt so compelled to keep those foes a secret in his missives. The threat lay closer. Within his own ranks."

She refrained from meeting his gaze. "You offer no details which might render your accusations true."

"Why, Princess," he answered sharply. "You have given me little opportunity."

"I need hear no more." She shook her head. "Ranulf had every reason to seek your death and it had naught to do with my father or any
supposed
need for mercenary assistance."

Fists clenched against his temples, Kol turned toward the fire. Why had he even attempted to gain her understanding? He and the Saxon princess were nothing to one another, nothing but strangers, and foes. It mattered naught what she knew or believed about his intentions, or the truth behind them. This parlay of words had been a descent into stupidity on his part and he would end the fall now.

He would confine her to her chambers until Ranulf was dead, and then he would depart this place forever. There need not be any further discourse between them.

He turned toward the bed. Only rumpled bedclothes lay there.

He blinked, disbelieving. With a muttered oath, he walked the length of the room. He searched the shadows, even under the bed. No Isabel.

Fury arose inside him. Clearly Isabel
was not
ready for the truth, if, at the first glimpse of it she ran like a deer from the hunter. And curse her, the woman moved too easily for his liking. First in her escape from the bower and now from this chamber. Had his guards drunk too much of the sweet, Saxon mead? Were they, even now, asleep and senseless in the hallway outside his chamber? Furious, he strode to the door and yanked it open.

Two sentries straightened their stance, fully aware, their weapons lodged at their sides.

He slammed the door.

Of course. He had been so distracted by her appearance beside his bed he had not considered how she had come to be in his room in the first place.

A secret doorway or passage. They riddled the keep. His men had sealed all which led inward. Apparently one had gone undetected.

Because it joined two private rooms.
The skin at the nape of his neck prickled in unease, in recollection of the peephole.

What of Isabel's husband in all of this?

Through narrowed eyes Kol surveyed the wall dividing their two chambers. Hands spread over the surface, he sought with touch what his eyes might not see, a portal large enough for a grown woman. Or a man.

He felt the aberration as soon as he entered the shadows along the far side of the room, where sun or firelight would rarely fall no matter the time of day. A slight crack in the mortar between the timber planks. His fingers ran over the almost imperceptible groove.

He could force his way inside, force her to hear the truth. But no, not while so many questions swarmed his mind. He glowered at the bed. He would find no rest this night, not in this fortress of breathing walls. He jerked his boots up his calves.

If he could not have sleep, he would at least have answers.

A short time later he strode into the great hall, tying the laces of his leather jerkin with impatient hands. All along the walls his warriors slept. Snores punctuated the silence. Near the fire lay the children from the forest. Several

Saxon women lay among them, those he supposed had been secured by his warriors to tend them.

He drew closer, searching for one child in particular. One with dark, shining curls and the face of an angel. He found the boy, nestled in the arms of a maiden. He drew closer, searching the boy's features. Long lashes lay against flushed, hearty cheeks. The boy would grow into a fine man.

Beneath his regard, the young woman who held the boy awoke, and seeing him, startled—then smiled the sort of smile he knew well. She misunderstood his interest.

Gently she moved the child from her arms, onto the fur beside her, and extended her arm in invitation to Kol. His eyes moved over her. She was comely, with large brown eyes, a small, pink mouth, and hair the color of honey. An ample bosom crowded the neckline of her tunic.

He smiled, but just a mite. There were always women among the defeated who sought out their conqueror. Sometimes he accepted what they offered. Most times he did not. He shook his head, and drew away.