My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (14 page)

Nicholas couldn’t help looking at Ysabelle with amazement. How different his life might have been if a woman such as her had been there when he was a young boy. A moment of cheer stole over him because Sara would have the benefit of a caring influence in her life.

And then something occurred to him. He could never take Ysabelle away from her people. They needed her, just as she needed them. Even if she agreed, it would be too cruel, too selfish. She must remain here at Sutcliffe.

“Sara will be sheltered within our home and always have a place to belong,” he vowed.

Ysabelle’s gaze swung back to him, her lips parted in surprise. “That’s very generous of you. My father took great pains to see that Sara received care. In fact, it seems you both are alike in this regard.”

Nicholas blinked, not daring to reply. If he opened his mouth, he feared the truth might tumble from his lips before he could stop it. And then, he would lose Ysabelle forever.

The rattling of the door brought him back to reality. Genevieve slipped into the room, carrying a pile of clean linens. Nicholas straightened, irritated by the interruption. At sight of the Scots Ram, the girl stopped so suddenly, the pile of linens wobbled. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open. “Begging your pardon, my lord and my lady.”

She stared at Nicholas, as if he had three eyes and eight ears. The silence lengthened.

“Thank you, Genevieve. That will be all,” Ysabelle took the cloths and set them on the table. Genevieve whirled about and left in haste.

Nicholas gestured toward the portal. “Why does she fear me?”

Ysabelle looked away, busying herself with refolding several of the linens. “Your reputation, of course.”

He frowned. “I’ve given her no cause.”

“Your size and demeanor is enough.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

Shrugging, he tried to look away, but found he could not. Her beauty mesmerized him and he longed to take her into his arms and kiss her once more.

“When I can’t sleep, I walk along the battlements,” she confided. “It’s beautiful to look out at the fields. You can see for miles around and there is always a cooling breeze to soothe me.”

“And then can you sleep?”

“Usually, if I put my thoughts aside. Sometimes I read for a while. Other times, it’s impossible to sleep no matter what I do.”

His brows quirked. “You can read?”

“Yes, very well.”

“Who taught you?”

“Father Edward. At first, my father didn’t approve, but I was so curious, the two men decided I needed something to occupy me to keep me out of trouble.”

A surge of pride filled him for her accomplishment. He couldn’t read, and his respect for her grew. “And what do you read?”

She shrugged. “Mostly the Bible.”

“Perhaps I can make use of your talents. No doubt you can aid me in the business of governing our lands.”

“Perhaps.” She looked away, a frown wrinkling her lovely brow.

“And if you still cannot sleep, what do you do then?” he pressed, hoping to keep her talking. He liked hearing her voice and wanted to learn everything about her. If only they might become friends. How he longed for a companion to tell his deepest secrets to. Someone to share his hopes and dreams. Someone to love. It was something he’d always longed for, but barely dared hope he might obtain.

She glanced at the sleeping child. “I heat some milk to drink. It relaxes me. Would you like me to have Cook bring you some?”

“Now, don’t leave just now. Tell me what concerns keep you awake?”

She gave a sad smile, her eyes glittering like gems in the night. “Mostly concern for my father. When he was so ill, I could do nothing for him, though I barely left his side for days on end.”

“I can understand your affection for Maston. Did he suffer much before he died?”

“At first. Then, I don’t think he knew what was happening. He was consumed with fever, shortly after he returned from one of his excursions into Scotland. He became delirious and didn’t know anything, I think.”

Nicholas lifted his shoulders in a shrug, trying to hide the pain her words caused him. He’d grown quite fond of Lord Maston and hated losing his friendship. “Perhaps he ate some spoiled food.”

“I thought the same thing myself. He was always insistent that he sleep and eat with his men, just as you do. They loved him for it. I’ll never be certain what took him from this world. He kept a vigilant eye on Sutcliffe, and I kept an attentive eye on him. In the end, it did neither of us any good. He died and we both have lost Sutcliffe.”

A frown crinkled his brow. “No, that’s not the case. You can remain here as long as you wish.”

“But I’m to serve under you, am I not?”

“No, I want us to serve our people together, side-by-side.”

A sigh whispered past her lips and he could see from her crinkled eyes that his words distressed her.

“You don’t wish to dominate me?” she asked in a skeptical tone.

“Of course not. It would be foolhardy to dominate a woman such as you. Like my stallion, you’ll serve better if I leave your spirit intact. I value your strength of mind and your input. I want us to work together for the good of Sutcliffe.”

Her soft laughter filled the room. “Again you compare me to your horse. You know nothing but horses, weapons, and ruling men. I think you’ve been fighting war far too long.”

“I agree. Now, I seek peace and to run our estates in prosperity. I seek to learn gentleness. Will you teach me?”

Ysabelle looked at him, not knowing what to say. How could she answer him? For several moments, she considered her predicament. His request disarmed and surprised her. “I can’t teach you such a thing.”

He stepped nearer and her gaze lifted to his mouth, finding it softened in the vague light of the room.

“Can’t you see any good inside me, Ysabelle?”

His question took her off guard. “I believe there is good in all God’s creatures.”

He showed a wry smile. “That is a verra safe answer, Ysabelle.”

She knew she was a coward not to acknowledge the compassion she sensed in him. To do so would open her heart and she didn’t dare trust him that much. At least, not yet. “You seek peace, but you have brought war to us.”

He inclined his head. “Freedom is won at the price of blood. It’s not something anyone should take for granted.”

“It’s wrong to ask that my people shed their blood for your cause.”

“They made that choice for themselves,” he argued softly. “They are weary of your king’s oppression.”

“Do you seek freedom from the English king, or from your past?” she asked.

He stilled and Ysabelle regretted being so blunt. He looked at her so intently that she began to squirm. His icy gaze raked her and she feared she may have pushed him too far this time.

“I look to the future now. My past no longer matters,” he insisted.

“It matters to me.”

His gaze didn’t falter, his eyes hard as flint. In the end, it was her that looked away.

“On the morrow, I believe you’ll do what is right,” he growled.

“Right for whom?”

He blinked as if she’d struck him in the face. For a fleeting moment, his eyes showed an inkling of dejection. Then, the emotion was gone so quickly that Ysabelle thought she must have imagined it.

“You should trust me,” he said.

“Trust?” she cried in a fierce whisper. “You ask me to trust you?”

“Maston trusted me. Why can’t you do the same?” There was conviction in his voice.

She exhaled and turned away. “You evoke such overpowering emotions in me that I’m almost overcome by them,” her voice was hoarse with sentiment as she confessed the truth.

He walked to her and she felt him at her back. When his hands cupped her shoulders, she inhaled sharply. She could neither accept nor deny this man. The morning was her enemy. Even in the night, Nicholas haunted her. There seemed no place for her to find solace.

“Ysabelle, don’t fear me.” He turned her to face him, his voice soothing.

Staring at his chest, she saw he still wore his sword, though he’d removed his hauberk. His gray linen chainse hung loose at the neck, showing soft black hair at the base of his throat. The urge to touch him swept over her. He pulled her closer and she reached her hands up to place her palms against his chest.

He was hot to the touch, his muscular body solid and comforting. Spice and sandalwood wafted near and she breathed deeply. His scent laced around her in a snare of seduction. Looking into his eyes, she found herself lost in the obsidian darkness of them. His nose brushed against hers as he placed a gentle kiss against her temple.

“I wish I could take all sorrow from you,” he muttered. “I meant not to bring you misery. Nor did I plan war for our people. Indeed, I had hoped our wedding day would be one of celebration and lasting joy.”

His confession left her speechless. He wanted happiness? With her? Her heart leapt at the thought of him valuing her as well as her rich lands. All her life, she’d longed for a man who would cherish her. But now, she wasn’t sure she dared believe him.

The tips of his fingers were gentle as he brushed the moisture from her eyes. Tilting her face up to his, his hands twined in her hair as he kissed her brows, her cheeks and nose.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Trust me, lassie,” he breathed.

She was in his arms. As his mouth covered hers, his kiss was no longer gentle. Melting against him, emotion almost overwhelmed her. Blood pounded in her veins. Her legs wobbled and she would have fallen had he not held her to him. The strength in his arms told her she couldn’t fight him should he decide to take her.

It was a moment to have faith. To learn trust.

“Let me go,” she begged. “Don’t shame me when we aren’t wed yet.”

A low growl of frustration came from his throat but he released her. Backing away, Ysabelle lifted a hand to her lips where she felt the throb of his kiss still burning her. In denying him, she also denied herself.

She stared at him in the fireglow. Hulking shadows played across the tapestry-covered stone walls. He didn’t move, but stood where she’d left him, hands at his sides, watching her in silence. His eyes blazed with temptation, his face harsh.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That you are worth far more than the lands of Sutcliffe, Scotland, and England combined.”

His candor left her breathless with anticipation. Part of her felt suspicious. She wondered why a man accused of heinous crimes would speak compliments to her unless he wished to gain an advantage.

A sudden movement from the bed brought Ysabelle’s attention and she turned to see that Sara had awakened. The child’s eyes opened and she looked at them both, her little chin quivering as if she might cry.

“How do you feel?” Ysabelle asked as she went to the girl and held her gently.

A deep sigh was Ysabelle’s answer. Nicholas stood near.

“You must answer, child,” his deep voice held no sting of disapproval but only an urgency for the girl to respond.

Sara blinked as she stared at the tall man. “I’m hungry.”

Ysabelle laughed and hugged the girl again. “That’s good news.”

Placing a gentle kiss upon Sara’s brow, Ysabelle laid the child back against the pillows and came to her feet.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Drawing away, Ysabelle faced Nicholas. “Stay with her until I return. I must see if there is some broth and perhaps some bread for her to eat.”

Nicholas nodded. When she smiled sweetly and brushed past him, leaving her scent of heather to tease the air around him, he froze.

“Who are you?” Sara asked once Ysabelle had left.

“You may call me Lord Nicholas,” he supplied as he came nearer. “I will wed Lady Ysabelle on the morrow.”

Sara’s eyes crinkled with pain and tears flooded onto her cheeks. “My arm hurts.”

Her chin quivered, her forehead creased. By the saints, she was going to cry. What could he do?

“Shh, child. Your lady will return soon. All will be well.” He reached out and patted her good arm awkwardly.

The girl shifted on the bed. A fat tear rolled down her cheek. Sweat broke out on Nicholas’s brow. Backing away from the bed, he glanced helplessly at the door. If he bellowed for Ysabelle, he’d awaken the entire household.

Another tear followed the first and then a whimper. What should he do?

Throughout his life, he’d seen much of death and maiming. But never, ever, had he harmed a child. This small girl’s predicament left him bereft. He’d rather face a hundred foes than this little girl. Even Lord McDonald’s bullwhip and the lashing pain seemed a better choice right now.

Sitting beside the girl, he took her into his arms. Cradling her in his lap, he held her broken arm against his chest.

“There, Sara,” he ventured, wishing he had a diversion. Perhaps a story might help, like the time he’d routed a rival clan after they’d attacked Dalhousie. “Have I told you of the soldiers that came to Sutcliffe yesterday?”

“No.” Sara sniffled, still obviously in pain but momentarily distracted.

“They’ve come to fight for freedom against your English king’s tyranny.”

Sara’s eyes widened. “What is tearnie?”

“Tyr-a-nny,” he spoke the word slowly. “It’s when the English king seeks to force his will on the people of Sutcliffe after Lord Maston has already made his will known to all.”

“Oh,” her mouth rounded with awe. “Will you kill King William?”

“No, he won’t come to fight his own battles. He sends other men instead.”

The little trickle of tears had stopped. His strategy was working!

“You’re going to be Lady Ysabelle’s husband?” the girl asked.

Nicholas hesitated. “Yes, if she’ll have me.”

“I’m sure she will,” Sara whispered. “You’re so handsome. Surely Lady Ysabelle will agree.”

Nicholas felt the blood drain from his face. Never had anyone said such a thing to him. The child’s compliment left him speechless.

Rocking Sara, his gaze locked onto her cherubic face and pert nose. He raised a hand and brushed the blond curls back from her tear-streaked face. With a deep sigh, her eyes began to droop wearily. Hearing a noise, he looked at the door and found Ysabelle there, watching him. She held a tray with a cup and small loaf of bread, her eyes soft and gentle as she gazed at his face.