Warrior's Deception (9 page)

“But not the war, Nora. The year will pass. Why postpone the inevitable?” Roen’s smile softened. Lenora was beautiful in her outrage. She held herself to her full height, taking advantage of every asset. The set of her shoulders pulled her bodice across her full breasts. One copper-colored ringlet escaped the confines of her braid. He met her indignant eyes, undaunted.

“A year is a long time to wait. My father will get well. He will petition the king. There are few closer to Henry than my father. King Henry will deal with you harshly. ‘Twould serve you better to leave this demesne now.” Lenora delivered the order with authority.

“Aye, to leave this place has ofttimes crossed my mind of late. But that was before ‘twas the home of my betrothed. My future home. Nay, I will stay. We will marry. Soon.” Roen’s declaration of intent sounded more like a threat, even to his ears.

He tried to defuse the tension. “Come, Nora, ‘tis for the best. You could do much worse than me for a husband. We will talk of it later, after you have had time to accept the idea.”

“I have no intention of speaking with you later today, tomorrow, next year or anytime.” She was livid. The knave dismissed her like a child. Did he think that marriage to him was such a prize? She’d not swoon away in his presence. Nay, she would fight and win.

Roen patted her head like an indulged child. “Really? What a truly heavenly gift for your husband. Alas, I must leave you now, my dearling.” His lips twitched when he heard her angry gasp at the term of endearment. “I must have words with my men. Messengers must be sent to your vassals on the upcoming nuptials.”

‘Twas a joy to tease her. She was so quick to rise to the bait. He intended to leave her to wallow in her anger but a devilish vision made him stop.

“But before I leave, a token of my affection.” He drew her close, trapping her hands on his chest. One muscular arm at her slender waist pulled her to him. The other grabbed a handful of fiery locks. He tugged at her hair, coercing her to tilt her chin up. His lips paused a thread’s distance from hers. He inhaled the sweet aroma of her breath. Roen looked into Lenora’s golden eyes, a conqueror’s smile on his face.

“You are mine,” he whispered for her ears only.

“Never.” She issued a challenge for all to hear.

In answer, he closed the distance to her lips and captured the red fullness. Roen thought to tease her, perhaps to frighten some sense into her. He plundered the ripeness of her mouth and drank in the fresh nectar. The taste quenched a deep thirst in his soul but made him thirst for more of the elixir.

The sweet smell of her fragrance ensnared him. Roen became engulfed in the intoxicating lavender scent of Lenora’s skin. It compelled him to pull her even nearer to him. She fought him, arching her back to escape his mouth. Her hips pushed against him. The response in his braes was immediate. His manhood quickened. He could feel his hardness push against the softness of her abdomen.

Roen realized that his plan had somehow gone awry. Instead of him capturing Lenora, she had captivated him. Still, he could not release her. His hand moved from her braid to the back of her neck. He forced her to him and felt the exciting heaviness of her breasts against his chest. His tongue pushed against the restraint of her closed teeth.

Lenora struggled for breath and Roen seized the opportunity. When she opened her mouth for air, his tongue gained entry and explored the intimate reaches of her mouth, her movements stopped. He reveled in consuming her lips without wasting energy on her futile attempts to escape him. The moment was short-lived.

The pain in his leg chilled his ardor. “God’s blood.” Roen released her and grabbed his shin.

Lenora, her face flushed, her lips seductively swollen, drew back her slender foot and kicked him again in the other shin. She gave him an unmistakably contemptuous look before leaving the hall. Roen was glad to see her limp become more pronounced.

“I believe that is two battles won by the Lady Lenora,” Hamlin said dryly. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed nonchalantly at his chest.

Roen returned to the head chair, glad to see Matilda had vacated the room. The rest of the hall remained mute. Knights stood, unsure of the correct move. They looked to Sir Edmund’s steward to guide them. Sir Hywel continued to eat, unaware of the commotion around him. The men and women gave Roen furtive looks as they gossiped behind their cups of wine. He watched Lenora climb the stairs.

“’Tis true I’ve lost a few battles in my time, Hamlin.” Roen kneaded his shin. “But I always win the war, eventually.”

Obviously, the kiss had not affected her as it had him. That unnerved him. He had felt the brunt of too many of her tantrums to believe Lenora was passionless. Nay, the wench was ruled by her passion. He directed his remark to Hamlin, but his eyes never left Lenora’s body. “Especially this war, Hamlin. This is one I intend to win, at all costs.”

L
enora slammed the oak door behind her and fled into the poorly lighted women’s dormitory. She threw herself facedown onto the rope bed she shared with her cousin. Strangled sobs tore from her in heartbreaking spasms. “’Tis a lie—a lie,” Lenora chanted in hopelessness. “Father would not do this.”

Time you married,
Sir Edmund’s voice reverberated in her head.
An heir. Woodshadow needs an heir.

An embroidered pillow from the bed caught her eye and her anger. She hurled it across the room and shouted, “Damn you, Galliard.” The pillow hit the door and hung in midair, its threads caught on the iron braces of the heavy door. She cringed as she saw her delicate stitches pulled, her work destroyed.

Lenora sprang from the bed. Eyes blurred by tears, she tried to untangle the hairlike threads from their confinement. Each strand she tugged caused a pucker or a broken thread. Finally, she freed the last string and stared at her meticulous work, ruined beyond repair. Clutching the pillow to her chest, she rocked back and forth. Late afternoon shadows crept into the recesses of the room as despair engulfed her. All of the intricate strands of her life were being pulled apart.

Sinking to the rushes on the floor, Lenora laid her cheek against the ruined pillow. She had caused the destruction of her artwork in a moment of anger. Galliard’s destruction of her life was by design. His greed threatened to rob her of her freedom.

“I’ll never marry him,” Lenora vowed. The words left her lips with little conviction. Heady waves of emotion rekindled in her breasts as she remembered the hardness of Galliard’s
warm body against hers. Currents of passion bit at her lips from his kiss. Lenora closed her eyes tightly. It was difficult to breathe, as if an iron belt encircled her chest, or was it memories of strong arms holding her, caressing her. Gooseflesh prickled along her arms and up her neck just as it had when Roen’s lips had invaded her mouth.

His breath had smelled sweet from the wine, his lips had teased, enticed. Flashes of Roen, his shirt loose, his chest exposed, created an intense heat that flared from the core of Lenora’s womanhood throughout her body. “Nay.” She pounded her head with her fist. “He disgusts me.” Her voice echoed in the empty room and begged her body to listen.

“Lady Lenora, are ye in there?” an urgent young voice called from beyond the door. A knock banged on the thick wood. “Tom’s sent me for ye. He says to come right quick. That mare of yours is—”

Lenora jumped to her feet and threw open the door. “What about Silver Maple? What did Tom say? Hurry, Tyrus, exercise your tongue.”

The startled stableboy stepped back from the doorjamb. “Tom, he says the mare’s goin’ to foal. Tonight.” The boy opened his mouth to continue but Lenora charged past him. Down the stairs she bolted, thoughts of her own troubles vaporized like morning fog.

Instead of tearing across the main hall and reckoning with her aunt or Roen, she turned down a passageway and exited onto the high inner-bailey wall. The condition of her beloved mare filled her with worry as she ran along the inner curtain wall and down the staircase of the round tower to the ground floor.

The setting sun began to paint the English sky in bright pinks and blues when Lenora made her way to the stable. She pulled up short. The terrified anguish of Silver Maple’s neighs knocked the air from her lungs. “Sweet Jesus,” Lenora cried, and pushed aside the stable gate.

The mare lay on her side. Her glazed eyes rolled back into her head. Tom stretched across the dark, sweat-stained horse’s middle and tried to keep the pain-crazed animal down. A spasm shuddered across the mare’s bulging stomach. Sharp hooves thrashed as she tried to regain her feet.

“Silver Maple.” Lenora threw herself across the mare’s neck. The acrid smell of sweat and fear inhabited the stall.

“Get yourself out of here. ‘Tis too dangerous for ye in here,” Tom chastised Lenora. Breathing heavily, the old man poked her with his good leg. “The mare don’t know ye. She’s mad with the pain, girl.” Tom didn’t dare move for fear the mare would escape and pound both him and Lenora into the ground.

“Tom, I can’t leave her.” Fresh tears streamed down Lenora’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Too tired to fight both the man and girl, the mare lay restlessly under them. “’Tis a breech.” Tom leaned against the mare and rested. “The foal’s turned inside her and a-rippin’ her up inside.” His voice low and deliberate, he finished what Lenora already knew. “She ain’t gonna make it, girl. ‘Tis best we put her out of her misery.”

“Nay!” Lenora sobbed her denial and knelt to stroke the velvety muzzle. The mare squealed as another labor pain contracted her body. Lenora cringed. She felt the grip of pain, also. “Nay.” She choked and tasted the salt of her own tears. The flavor did not sit well on her palate. Faith and unwavering determination set the fine lines of her face. “There must be something we can do. Think, Tom. Is there any way to turn the foal?” Lenora demanded, and applied all her weight against the near mad horse.

“We can’t. The mare’s not gonna let anyone near her but us. It takes the both of us to hold her down. We need someone to pull the foal out.” Tom searched the evening darkness for help. The stable was empty except for them. Faint strains of music drifted in on the brisk night air and clued Lenora as to the whereabouts of the stableboys.

Silver screamed out in pain and threw off her subduers. Trapped between the horse and the wall, Lenora made a desperate grab for the halter. Silver tossed her head violently and slammed Lenora against the rough boards of the stall. Splinters of pain lanced through her wrenched shoulders, but she managed to hold on to her horse. The mare’s hooves lashed out in an attempt to escape. Silver’s sharp hoof caught on Lenora’s dress. It sliced through the coarse material of her kirtle and exposed her calf. A thin red welt puckered on her leg.

“That’s it.” Tom reached for the long thick knife he had sheathed on his belt. “She’s gettin’ wilder. ‘Tis time to have done with it.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.
The polished chess piece in Roen’s hand met the arm of the chair with methodical regularity. His eyes continually strayed toward the winding staircase at the far end of the hall. Hamlin, seated across the chessboard from his friend, could not contain his delight at Roen’s displeasure. Hamlin raised his tankard of ale in mock salute. “I think ‘tis time to seek other pursuits, my friend. She’s not coming down.”

Roen dropped the pawn on the table near the elaborately inlaid chessboard. “I’m not waiting for the chit to come downstairs.” He waved his hand imperiously over the board. “I’ve been waiting for you to move your piece. Come on with it, man.”

“For me?” Hamlin grinned. “Roen, ‘tis your turn to move. I’ve already told you that twice.” He stood and shifted his body to block Roen’s view of the stairs. The soft shuffle of footsteps caused his friend to jump from his seat and push him aside. A breathless lad scampered down the stone steps. Hamlin chuckled when Roen checked his advancement.

“Friend, I leave you for my bed.” Hamlin gave a retiring wave of his hand. A shapely servant girl hurried past the two men, a jug of wine in her hand. “But perhaps I won’t retire alone.” He executed a sharp turnaround, winked to his friend and followed the girl.

Soft giggles and gentle laughter told Roen his compatriot would not be lonely tonight. He returned to his seat and contemplated the abandoned chess game. His white queen, captured by Hamlin, lay on its side. Roen retrieved the piece and traced the queen’s profile with his thumb. High forehead, straight nose, a gentle smile. The carver had done exquisite work. His thumb paused on the queen’s full lips. He examined the piece. ‘Twas Lenora! He could see the resemblance now. Roen threw the white queen on the table in disgust. Was there no way to escape the woman? A movement on the stairs snared his attention. “Nora?” he bellowed.

The boy seated on the bottom stair jumped to his feet. “Just Tyrus ‘ere, milord. Just restin’ a spell ‘ere on the step. Just deliverin’
a message for Lady Lenora.” The boy staggered back from the knight and tried to work the door latch.

“What message?” Roen clamped his hand on the boy’s slender shoulder. “When did you deliver it?”

“’Twas a message for Lady Lenora.”

Roen could hear the boy’s knees knocking together. He gave the youth a sneer that had brought knights to their knees.

The boy began to quake and squeaked out a reply. “’Ere, sir, ye could rightly throw me against yon wall there and break me bones. ‘Tis your right and all. But I gives the message to Lady Lenora ‘cause it were for Lady Lenora. If’n ye want to know what ‘tis about, then ye needs to talk to her.” Tyrus squinted and stiffened his small body to take the expected blow.

Roen lifted the weight of his hand from Tyrus’s shoulder. He saluted the boy’s courage. “I apologize. You are correct. I should discuss this with Lady Lenora.”

Tyrus opened one eye, then the other. The look of awe, then boyish bravado on the young stableboy’s face quirked a smile on Roen’s lips.

“You think highly of your lady.” Roen stroked his chin with his hand. “’Tis commendable to find a lad so loyal, considering the lady in question’s behavior.”

Tyrus forgave the nobleman and gave Roen an agreeing nod. “Think nothin’ of it.” He resumed his retreat from the hall. “There’s not much any of Woodshadow wouldn’t do for our lord and lady.”

“Wait, boy.” Roen saw him stop in midstride. “I would have you go upstairs to the ladies’ quarters and give Lady Lenora a message from me.”

“Can’t, Sir Knight.” Tyrus reached the handle and opened the door. “Lady Lenora ain’t up there no more. She’s surely out to the stable by now.” The boy slipped through the opening and pulled the door shut.

He pondered the lad’s loyalty. Why were the people of Woodshadow so devoted to a lady who neglected her duties? Roen decided to follow Tyrus out the door. He rushed down the forebuilding steps and made out the small shape near the kitchen. A couple of long strides and the distance between him and the boy became negligible.

From the kitchen, Roen heard loud, welcoming shouts greet the lad’s arrival. The boy ducked into the crowded structure and grabbed a trencher. Tyrus ladled out hot rich stew and began to shovel spoonfuls into his mouth. His mouth full, he wiggled into a seat on the long bench with his friends.

Loud laughter and the smell of spiced wine spilled from the open door. A bawdy song was being mangled by several off-key singers. Roen noted the camaraderie and content of the villeins, the signs of a well-run keep.

The question remained: by whose hand was the keep run? Sir Edmund was too ill, the steward was not always in his right mind, Beatrice was too timid, and Matilda was at best tolerated. As far as Roen could deduce, Lenora did not interest herself with the duties of the keep. Roen didn’t like riddles, he wanted answers, and he knew where to get them.

He sprinted across the courtyard to the stable. It lay in darkness, save for one feeble light that flickered in the open window. Roen steeled his backbone, ready to confront the shrew. Approaching the stable, he mentally rehearsed a speech. He would make her see reason.

“Nay, Tom! You can’t do this! Put away the knife.” Lenora’s desperate cries reached Roen. The warrior unsheathed the heavy broadsword from his belt and peeked through a knot in the wood. Shadowy light illuminated Lenora lying on the ground in a stall. Sir Edmund’s man, Tom, stood above her, his all-too-familiar dagger in his hand.

“’Tis time,” Tom threatened while he edged closer to Lenora. Tears streamed down her face. Despair and sadness etched her face with breathtaking beauty. Roen slipped into the darkening shadows and inched closer.

“Tom, please,” Lenora begged. She covered her face with her hands. “I cannot see this.”

“Nor will you have to.” The tip of Roen’s sword rested lightly at the base of the old man’s neck. “So, I discover the traitor in Woodshadow’s midst, right at the lord’s side.” Roen emerged from the shadows. “Nora, come away from there.” He was pleased to see that for once she did as she was told.

Lenora jumped up and thrust her body between him and the tired old stableman. She batted the sword away with the back of her hand. “What do you think you are doing?” Her redrimmed
eyes flashed with anger. Behind her, an animal moaned and thrashed.

Roen stared at her in disbelief. “Saving your worthless life.” He sheathed his sword as he reviewed Lenora. Copper-colored locks fell in alluring disarray. Hay straws clung to her hair. The compulsion to remove each one so that he could run his fingers through the silky strands almost overcame him. He seized the pommel of his sword to ensure his fingers would obey his mind and not the raw hunger in his loins. Roen’s anger flared when the swirl of Lenora’s dress displayed the rent in her kirtle and a puckering red welt.

“’S all right, Lady Lenora. No ‘arm done.” Tom gave Roen a knowing nod. “The man’s edgy. ‘Tis why he’s still alive with the reputation he’s got.”

Lenora’s attention was diverted by the mare. The animal’s moans grew more insistent. Tom gripped his dagger once more and Lenora’s eyes widened.

Words tumbled from her quivering lips. “The foal is turned. Pray, help us to save her. Silver can’t die.” She squeezed his arms tightly and pleaded, “Roen, I need your help.”

Lenora’s use of his name jolted his emotions unexpectedly. He sucked in his breath and felt her pleas sift into his heart, reawakening a long-dead part of it. He found he could not deny her.

The mare tried to stagger to her feet. “Old man, keep the mare down,” Roen ordered. “Nora.” He subdued his voice. “I can’t promise you anything. If the mare needs to be put down, I’ll do it. The animal shan’t suffer needlessly.” Lenora bit her upper lip and nodded. Silent tears streamed down her face.

Tom shuffled to Silver’s side while Lenora grabbed the rope halter. Roen clutched at her kirtle to stop her. “Lenora, step away.”

Deaf to Roen’s command, she grasped the halter and attempted to lull her horse. “Easy, girl. Everything will be all right.” With gentle words and hands, Lenora eased the horse back down onto the hay. “There’s not much time. Do it now.” She cradled the mare’s head in her lap and whispered into the feathery softness of the animal’s ear. “Don’t worry, Silver. Roen will help you.” Lenora was surprised to find that she really believed it.