Enduringly Yours (23 page)

He lifted his head, his brow creasing.

“Peter!”

“Oh.” He stared at her for a moment, blinking, then smiled. “Oh . . .”

Zipporah pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

It would be a lie to say that she wasn’t worried about losing another child, but she had to try again, or she would never know what it would be like. To have and to hold.

“I want you to be happy,” she said.

“I am happy.” He held her tighter.

“I mean with yourself. But please consider this.” She waited until he nodded before continuing. “You are lord, and you are going to be a father. Train, recondition yourself, do whatever you need. But do not risk your life like you used to. We need you too much for that.”

“It is not as simple as that.”

Of course he would say as much.

John walked off the field carrying Peter’s sword. Peter urged her back, and John handed it to him.

“Takes time,” John said. Then he walked away.

Zipporah closed her hand over Peter’s, on the sword hilt. “Do what you need to, to have faith in yourself,” she said. “But know that you have already won mine.”

He lifted the weapon, her hand still over his. “Zipporah.”

She leaned up, pressed the length of her body against his, and whispered, “Do not make me lose you.”

“I . . .” He looked at his sword. “I love you.” He tossed his weapon aside and wrapped both arms around her.

She was glad he didn’t say anything after that, because talking too much always got them in trouble. Kissing was better. Much better.

“I love you too.”

THE END

A Worthy Opponent

(Excerpt)

Ravenmore, England

The Year of Our Lord, 1192

Chapter One

Lady Alana of Berkley slid off her dapple-gray stallion, her legs stiff from an entire day spent in the saddle. She was an accomplished horsewoman, but unaccustomed to sitting in one position for so long. She looked around her new surroundings; Ravenmore, where she and her brother, Matthew, would be spending the summer season with a good friend of his, Lord John. Ravenmore looked little different than her home, Berkley. It consisted of a village lined with thatch roofed cottages, a stone chapel with small stained-glass windows, a kitchen outbuilding, the garrison, and the castle keep.

But there was one major difference, one that could not be seen with a quick sweep of the eye. 

Lord John of Ravenmore.

She should be damned for what she had done. She likely would yet. Fantasizing about one’s new sword master was no doubt a sin of the flesh. Especially when one was engaged to another man.

Alana slipped the reins over her horse’s head, then turned to look at the stable boy waiting for her. He was no more than two and ten—she assessed him—possibly younger. He held out a dusty hand, waiting for her to put the reins into it. His homespun wool tunic was too big. He hitched it up his shoulder with the other hand.

“On second thought, little lad,” Alana said with a smile, “perhaps I should stable him myself.”

His blond brows furrowed.

“He,” she patted the stallion’s side, “is temperamental.”

As if on cue her stallion, Chester, swung his head around and bared large, grass-stained teeth at the lad. Alana nudged him with her elbow and the horse jerked his head up.

The boy looked cautiously at her brother. Alana was a conundrum. She knew it. Strange looks and whispers behind her back were common, and didn’t shock her. But she had to admit that having it pointed out by a boy still years away from his first acquaintance with a razor blade smarted. That she happened to be dressed like a lad and wearing a sword on her hip did not help her plight any. Alana flexed her jaw.

“Show my sister where she can put her horse,” Matthew said without missing a beat.

The boy dipped his head. “Aye, my lord.”

Matthew passed off the reins to his bay stallion. “You will find that my horse is an angel by comparison.”

Alana held Chester in check as the boy led her brother’s horse into the stable.

“You have to expect it,” Matthew said softly, before she could turn to follow. Both she and Matthew had inherited their mother’s hazel eyes. She had her father’s ginger-brown hair, he their mother’s chestnut. There was no malice in either Matthew’s expression or tone of voice. He was stating a fact.

“I know,” she said, lifting her chin. “What does it matter anyway? My life is  . . .” She stopped.

“I will do something before then.”

She waved him off. How many times would they have this conversation? “What is there to do?” Alana gave the reins a tug and Chester followed her beneath the arched entrance of the stone stable.  

And then she heard
his
voice from across the bailey.

Some called him John the Merciless. 

She called him her new sword master—among other things—but only in the silence of her heart.

Alana halted, sucking in a long breath to steady herself. The polite thing to do would be to turn back and greet him. She wanted to greet him. She wanted to do a lot more than greet him—like run into his arms—but at the moment she would settle for making her heart stop fluttering. Chester snorted in annoyance.

“I know, sorry,” she muttered to the horse, laying a palm on his chest and giving him a little push. “Back,” she told him. He compliantly back-stepped until they were no longer standing in the doorway.

John neared with a lazy swagger and a smile. Could she actually have forgotten how handsome he was? With his shoulder-length sandy hair, leaf green eyes—even though she couldn’t quite see them yet, she already knew what color they were—and some quality she couldn’t begin to describe.
Masculine
didn’t say enough.
Confident?
Nay, that wasn’t the word she was looking for.
Virile?
She cleared her throat. Best she not go there. Well, whatever it was, it had her entranced.

John and Matthew clasped hands, then began slapping one another on the back. They talked, and she waited. Chester swished his tail at flies. She began to wonder if both men had forgotten about her. Matthew laughed at something John said. Alana lifted her chin to them. What did she care if John acknowledged her or not? Her throat constricted.

She cared.

A lot.

John was her brother’s best friend. She’d known him before, when she was a child, but she had paid little attention to him. Then the Crusade took him from English soil. She saw him again for the first time a few weeks ago at a friend’s wedding.

Things had changed.

She was of age now. And he was a seasoned warrior.

“My lady,” John called.

Alana straightened. A shot, like lighting, jumped through her limbs. Chester bumped her shoulder as if to remind her that she was supposed to be taking care of him.

Suddenly, she was hyperaware of the way she was dressed, in one of her brother’s old tunics, her favorite brown leather jerkin over it, and wide-legged leather riding trews she had made herself. Her sword was sheathed at her belt. The last time she’d seen John, she was in a yellow kyrtle with draping sleeves, her hair loose, and a silver circlet atop her head.

For the first time, she was putting on no airs. Life as she knew it would end come autumn, and she no longer had anything to hide.

She certainly didn’t care what Lord John of Ravenmore thought—so she told herself—or what her soon-to-be husband might think. Not that the man ever bothered to look at her. At least not the way she wanted her husband to.

With affection.

Her betrothed only wanted her as payment for the gold they owed him. And the heir she could potentially provide.

John smiled, hesitated, then thrust out his hand. It took her a moment to respond. She had made it clear in her correspondence with him that she did not want to be treated like a lady. She was there to take the next step in her study of swordplay, not to be coddled because she was a woman. She clasped his hand in what she hoped was a firm grip. His fingers closed neatly around hers.

“Lord John,” she said, managing not to stammer. “I am looking forward to studying with you this summer.”

“As am I.”

His voice had changed over the years he’d spent at war. Bellowing orders on the battlefield had given it a deeper, hoarse quality.

It made her heart beat faster.

He still had her hand. She realized it was probably because she was latched onto his. Alana pulled free, her face warming.

Some things in life just were not fair. One of them being how beautiful he was, the second how attracted she was to him despite her best efforts not to, lastly was the little matter of her being betrothed to another man.

Chester nudged her and she tore her gaze off John. “I should see to my mount,” she said.

“My lads can do that.”

“He is temperamental. I would not want anyone getting hurt.”

“A nuisance is what he is,” her brother added, coming up to them. He laid a hand on Chester’s neck. The horse pinned his ears and Matthew pulled his hand away. “See?”

John considered her stallion. “Good blood lines,” he said, walking around the animal. Alana gave the reins a tug to remind Chester to behave. “Nice muscle tone.”

“Stubborn and hard-headed,” Matthew added.  

“Stamina?”

“Excellent,” Alana said.

“He’s wide in the chest. Means he has good lungs.” John came around front. Chester rolled wide eyes at him, blowing air loudly through flared nostrils. “And only you can ride him I take it.”

“It has always been that way. Since he was a colt, only I could handle him.”

“If it were not for my sister, I would have gelded the beast long ago,” Matthew said.

“Interesting . . .” John ignored her brother.

“What is?” she asked. She was enjoying the attention, even if he was looking at her horse instead of her.

“I always suspected, but so few ladies ride stallions.” He leaned back against a wooden fence, arms crossed casually over his chest, pressing hard, lean muscle into an ivory tunic. He still hadn’t answered her question, but she didn’t say anything about it. She was too focused on his arms. “If a stallion might bond more intimately with a mistress than a master.”

Did he have to use those
exact
words? He seemed unfazed, which was all well and good—for him.

Chester ducked his head. Velvety lips reached out to toy with the folds of her tunic. She wound her fingers into his heavy gray mane, glad for the distraction.

“I’d wager that beast would protect you with his life,” he said.

“He would protect her.” Matthew came around to lean against the fence next to John. Her brother was half a head taller than John, having come from the same family tree that had produced herself. Alana was taller by a head than most ladies. It made her as tall as John.

Yet another strike against her.        

“That horse has bitten me twice now,” Matthew said, rubbing his arm. “Keep your distance from his mouth.” He looked at Alana then, his eyes softening. “But it is a small price to pay for her safety.”

She swallowed the lump forming in the back of her throat. “Matthew . . .”

He seemed to shake himself, then pushed off the fence. The moment of familial affection had ended, but that was all right. She already knew her brother had a soft heart.   

“Why do I not show you my stable,” John said.

“Thank you, my lord.” It was nice to know he wouldn’t question her choice in horseflesh.

“You wear your sharp?” He said as they walked under the stone arch and into the familiar scent of fragrant hay and horse manure.

It took her a moment to understand what he meant by
sharp
, then she patted the sword at her hip. “Aye. I do not normally wear it, Matthew does not like it.” She gritted the last words. “But we brought no retainers with us, and we thought I should be armed with a functional weapon.” They would have brought retainers, had they any to spare. But they were so poor they hardly had enough men left to guard the walls at Berkley. “I brought my dull training sword as well.”

“I can understand the necessity of being armed, but now that you are safe . . . We will train with dull swords only, my lady.”

“Of course.” She worked her jaw. “And if I were a lad?”

“If you were a lad,” he said quietly. A lock of sandy hair fell over his brow. “You would be a knight by now.”

Her heart dropped into her feet. She was old enough to have earned her Knight’s Spurs. “But I am neither,” she said, barely managing to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“Nay, you are neither.” She had the insane notion that he could read through her skull. If he did, he would be shocked by what he found there. She had quite an imagination, after all. She broke the attachment, feeling self-conscious, and more than a little guilty.

John gestured down the aisle. “You might as well stable him near mine. They will need to become accustomed to each other anyway.”

“He is fine with other horses.” She followed with Chester in tow. “As long as they do not get too close to me.”

“You are important to him,” John said from over his shoulder. He opened a stall door for her.

Alana patted Chester’s neck. “Sometimes he is the only one who understands me,” she whispered. Chester’s ears twitched toward the sound of her voice.

Glancing behind her, she found Matthew scratching the delicate black nose of a small-boned horse.

“A Saracen mare?” Alana led Chester into his stall.

“Aye,” John said. “An acquisition of mine. I thought I might cross her with one of my stallions.”

Alana lightened Chester of saddlebags. 

“He cannot be too big though. What I need is a small stallion.” John leaned over the half door of the stall.

She set her bags aside, then loosened the cinch on her saddle, beginning to feel more comfortable around him. “Like Chester?”

“Exactly like Chester.”

Alana stifled a groan as she lifted her saddle into her arms. He opened the door, reaching out to take it from her.

“Well, he has had plenty of experience at . . .” She cut herself short, her face warming, her arms still around the saddle.

He took it from her grasp, lips quirked into a knowing smile. Brows arched as if daring her to finish what she’d almost said. It embarrassed and thrilled her at the same time. Turning, he walked off with the saddle, presumably heading for the tack room.