Awakening His Lady (3 page)

Thomas scanned the hall, his eyes searching desperately for Meri. He'd donned a half-mask to cover the puckered red scar that slashed his forehead, lest he frighten her before he had the chance to warn her. By all rights he should have been a dead man, left on the battlefield to die, his leg shattered at the hip by a blow from a mace, his sword arm nearly severed at his shoulder. The last he remembered of the Battle of Bouvines were the great cleated hooves of a destrier thundering toward him while he lay in the mud, bleeding and too weak to move. He felt the ground shake beneath his head and all went dark. When at last he awoke from the apothecary's drugs, he'd been unable to move or speak, so close to death he'd come.

He owed his life to Able, who'd run to the next camp and returned with a small garrison of knights, enough to beat the French back down the hill. Able had somehow managed to drag him to safety. England lost the war.

It had taken months to learn to speak again, and more before he could walk or ride. Had it not been for the smooth ocean seas and strong headwinds that carried him quickly home from France, and the good brothers at Shropshire's monastery, he'd not have recovered as quickly as he did. That he was here now, a year after the war had ended, standing in the great hall on the night of the winter feast, and finally returned to see his Meri, was nothing short of a miracle. Able and the monks had saved his body, but 'twas Meri who saved his soul.

He rubbed his aching shoulder, an ever present reminder of how close to death he'd come. The pain would always be with him, either there or in his injured hip. He limped when he was tired, but he did his best to hide it.

“Beer, my lord?” The breweress batted her eyelashes and held up a cup. “'Tis my finest. 'Twill revive you.”

Thomas lifted the cup to his lips, savoring the rich warmth and pungent taste of hops. The finest French wines paled in comparison. He smiled at the pretty woman. “'I thank you. Tell me, madam, for I have just arrived, where I might find Lady Meriom?”

A flash of disappointment graced the breweress' face. She shrugged and pointed. “She be over there, my lord. Dancing.”

Thomas' eyes came to rest on Meri, dressed in red damask, her face flushed, a flicker of a smile on her lips. She'd threaded strings of seed pearls through her long, dark hair and it trailed down to her waist like a silken mantle. Praise the saints! She was well and happy—and dancing. 'Twas all that he could do not to leap over the heads of the hundred guests that stood between him and his love.

The breweress turned to leave.

Thomas caught her by the arm. “Who is the man she dances with?”

“'Tis Lord Leeman, my lord. Rumor has it tonight they are betrothed. She seems to like him…” Her sly gaze shifted to the dance floor.

Lord Leeman had whisked Meri beneath the mistletoe, and there he'd bent his head closer to hers as if he meant to kiss her. Smiling softly, she rested her open hand gently against his chest, her eyes burning brighter than they had before.

Thomas clenched his fists. God in heaven, he'd not planned for this. He'd lived and breathed and fought the devil to stay alive for her. As soon as he'd been able, he'd sent word from Shropshire that he would come for her, but he'd gotten no response, no reply. Mayhap the runner had lost his way? “Or mayhap she's found another love,” he muttered to himself. “As I made her promise.”

A hopeful voice jolted him. “I'll be your love for the night, good sir.” The breweress stepped in front of him and blocked his view, the neckline of her tunic falling away from her ample bosom, revealing half of one round breast and most of the other.

Thomas craned his neck to see around her. Hell to the devil! He'd lost sight of Meri. He would not let her get away. He'd hold his Meri one last time and say goodbye before he left her to her happy life.

He fixed his mask and drove into the crowd, searching.

 

Lord Leeman, the earl of Winston, approached her with the confidence of a man who was rich and well-respected. “'Tis the bell dance, Lady Meriom. Your favorite I am told. Will you join me?” He laid his well-manicured fingers on her forearm. The cuffs of his tight-fitting sleeves were embroidered with golden thread, a color that matched his arching eyebrows and his chin-length hair exactly.

Meriom studied Lord Leeman. She'd promised not to disappoint her father. At least Lord Leeman wasn't ugly. Quite the contrary, he was handsome and well-mannered. 'Twas just a dance they'd share, nothing more. And no man could ever dance with her like Thomas—could he? She lowered her eyes. Was it possible that she could someday come to love another? Nay. Her heart would never let her.

Dutifully she held up both hands, waiting for the servants to slip the bell bracelets on her wrists.

Lord Leeman laughed. “I am not an ogre about to chain you in my dungeon. Mayhap I can make you smile.” He pointed through the throng at a round man dressed in green velvets. “See that gentleman over there with the mask? 'Tis Lord Bimly,” he whispered. “The booby has yet to notice that the large wad of wool he used to stuff his braes has escaped.”

Meriom stole a glance at the portly Lord Bimly. Indeed, he did not look quite normal. A large lump-of-something traveled down his thigh beneath his hose, stopping just below the hemline of his too-short tunic. Ladies giggled. Lord Bimly absently chattered away, assuming that his charm and his wit was the reason for their mirth.

The scene made Meriom smile a little, but she did not laugh. How could Lord Leeman know the depth of her despair? How could he know Thomas was never far from her thoughts? Were it not for her promise to her father, she'd not be standing here now, suffering the attentions of another suitor. Poor Lord Leeman. He seemed well intentioned and of a pleasant nature. Mayhap he did not deserve so rude a rebuff.

She took his outstretched arm and let the music fill her head. The rhythm of the drums and tinkling bells cast a mesmerizing spell. In the press of people, feasting commoner and nobleman alike, it was easy to lose oneself. Easy to remember the feasts of winters past, when Thomas held her in his arms…easy to believe she could see him even now, standing by the great hearth with a cup in hand, his dark eyes fixed upon her as she spun and turned, smiling, her red gown swirling around her legs…

Lord Leeman lowered his head to hers and whispered. “We've danced beneath the mistletoe, Lady Meriom. We must share a kiss for luck, like the others.” He nodded at the couples who twirled by, coming to a standstill beneath the mistletoe just long enough for their lips to touch before their gaiety and laughter swept them back into the crowd. He spun her around, his handsome face smiling at her—

She shook her head, her cheeks burning. Would that the man smiling down at her were Thomas! She did not want to kiss Lord Leeman, though he was kind and fair of face. Poor Lord Leeman. He deserved an honest explanation.

Lord Leeman let out a long breath. “Is there nothing I can do to persuade you, my lady, that I would make a good husband? I am kind and generous. I am not ugly, or so I'm told.” A slight grin fell across his disappointed face. “I still have all my teeth.”

Meriom gently rested her hand on his chest, the gesture meant to reassure him. “You are all those things, I am sure, good sir. And you are quite handsome. But I shall not marry. My heart belongs to another.”

“But he is dead, Lady Meriom, and you are too young to shut yourself away. Could you not learn to love another?”

Meriom shook her head. “Nay, Lord Leeman, I cannot. And you should seek the company of the many pretty ladies who, even now, await their turn to dance with you.”

She stepped away and gestured to the women who waited at the sidelines for the music to indicate 'twas time for a partner switch.

Lord Leeman bowed. “I bid you peace then, Lady Meriom. And thank your father.” He strolled to the assembly of ladies and was engulfed into their circle.

With the change in cadence, the music quickened. Meriom found herself swept away by a pack of laughing dancers, her hand resting on the arm of another, a tall knight who wore a half-mask and dressed in black, his riding boots still wet with snow. He kept his face turned so that she could not see the color of his eyes or the shape of his mouth. But a jagged scar tracked from his hairline above his forehead, dove beneath the mask and reappeared just below the hollow of his gaunt cheek, almost reaching the corner of his mouth. Despite his disfigurement, his countenance was powerful and sensual, engrossing, and though she knew she should be afraid, she was not.

To the contrary, the man intrigued her.

He danced with a slight shortness in his gait, a limp he struggled to disguise, but his presence dominated the room and those around them gave them space. His hand tightened on her waist as they danced toward the mistletoe.

She'd uttered only, “Good sir, who are—?” before she caught sight of the bough of greenery directly above her head.

His warm lips suddenly covered hers, demanding her full attention. The music, the laugher and the buzzing conversation instantly fell into the distant background.

Shock trembled through her body. A feeble protest rose from her throat but she'd neither the wit nor strength to a make sound. Their footsteps slowed until they were barely moving, lingering beneath the mistletoe, swaying, their bodies pressed against one another.

Her lips parted, slightly opened. By the saints, he tasted of sweet hops. His mouth was passionate and hungry, and its warmth made her heart beat faster than the drums.

She closed her eyes. God's breath, this was bliss. All of her senses focused on his lips and he continued, his tongue probing, as if he cared not for the whispers emanating from the flashes of silk and finery that danced around them. He kissed her as if his soul were scorched by thirst and she was the wine he needed. Meriom's fingers curled into her palms, making a fist, a small attempt at resistance, but then she spread her hands open against his broad chest and inched them upward until they encircled his neck. She was kissing him back, his embrace as thrilling and as all consuming as that of her beloved Thomas'. Even his scent, of beer and of horses, reminded her of Thomas. God, that Thomas still walked upon this earth!

When the dark knight ended his kiss abruptly, a cry of disappointment escaped her lips. By the heady rush of his breath and the fire in his dark eyes, she knew he'd shared her pleasure.

Stunned and confused by what had passed between them, Meriom lowered her gaze. “Whoever you are, thank you for saving me from a dismal eve…I know not what,” she mumbled breathlessly, not knowing what else to say.

“I thank you for saving me,” he said, his voice husky. He squeezed her fingers.

She halted. “
Me
saving
you
? I do not understa—”

The dark man staring down at her from beneath his mask tightened his hand around hers, as if he meant to send some silent signal. He said nothing else, and for a moment, she thought she recognized that look in his eyes—amused, loving and teasing all at once.

Was it possible?

Nay, this knight could not be Thomas. He was too thin, his face too gaunt, too scarred and injured. Yet it felt as though she knew him; his touch, his scent, the bemused look in his dark eyes and the passion in his kiss—so much like Thomas!

A flicker of hope ignited in her heart.

Mistakes had been made in battlefield reports before. 'Twas possible Thomas had survived. Jack the Crocker had come back from war and all had thought him dead. So had Samuel Elliot, mistaken on the battlefield for his fallen brother.

Meriom squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples, the pain there so sharp it felt like knives driving into her skull.

But nay, she had the ring. Thomas was not here, could not be here. There was no hope for that, and in that hope lay the way of madness. Her mind was tricking her again. How many times in the years since he'd left had she believed she'd seen him at the market, at the fair, at the tournament in Glesson? A hundred…maybe more? They say those grieving oft see their beloved when they are not there. God in heaven, 'twas a fact grounded in reality—Thomas Addecker was dead. And yet, even now she could feel his soul surrounding hers, as though he lived and breathed in the dark knight who stood before her.

Mother Mary! She was losing her mind.

Turning, she picked up her skirts to flee, the room tilting, spinning around her, colors streaming, people laughing. Blessed saints, the air had grown hot in the hall, and her stomach heaved as if she was standing on the deck of a rolling ship. She felt her knees wobble beneath her and she staggered, the floor rising up to meet her. If she did not get away from him, this dark stranger, and all that reminded her of Thomas, she would be sick.

She bolted, darting through the crowd.

“Wait!” the knight called after her.

 

Meriom stumbled through the great wooden doors that opened into the snow-dusted center courtyard, the moonlight beaming down in rays of blue and white. A handful of guests huddled around a small bonfire. She took a deep breath and waited for the biting cold to restore her. Thoughts of the dark knight immediately filled her head—a knight who inexplicably stirred her desire—and made her think of Thomas.