My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (22 page)

With an inward sigh, Nicholas realized it was time to play his trump. Lifting a hand high in the air, he signaled his men along the parapet.

Sitting his mount, Nicholas gazed steadily at the Englishmen. Nicholas enjoyed the confused look on Marshal’s face. Then, the man’s eyes widened as his gaze lifted to the castle walls. His mouth dropped open with shock, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.

Upon Nicholas’s command, the bed sheet stained with Ysabelle’s virgin blood had been raised upon the castle ramparts. It was a common practice, to bear testimony that a marriage had been consummated. Everyone present witnessed the flaxen sheet as it flapped in the wind. Marshal’s expression darkened to sudden fury. Understanding covered Lambert’s face as his eyes narrowed to beady points.

Sitting his mount, Nicholas gazed steadily at the Englishmen. “I have taken her to my bed. My marriage to Ysabelle is consummated and she might even now be carrying my child.”

Nicholas enjoyed the confused look on Marshal’s face. His mouth dropped open with shock, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets. His expression darkened to sudden fury. Understanding covered Lambert’s face as his eyes narrowed to beady points.

“The Pope will be reticent to refuse my claim,” Nicholas spoke in a jovial tone. He wished to drive his point home before anyone could gainsay him. “The lady is mine. Since you have shown such concern for her wellbeing, I’m certain you would rather leave her in peace and return to your king to report all is well along the northern boundary.”

Marshal’s face turned pasty and he blurted an obscenity. Lambert sputtered in rage. The priest glared with loathing at Nicholas. Each man grasped the hilt of his sword. The grating of steel being drawn from scabbards filled the air as the mounted knights followed Marshal’s lead.

Sensing battle, Samson shifted beneath Nicholas’s weight and pawed the ground. The whoosh of bows being strung cried from the tops of the castle as the archers leaned out, prepared to fire their arrows down upon the English. Tension filled the air, pulsing with danger and the promise of death. It was so palpable that Samson snorted, waving his magnificent head. A veteran of many wars, the animal was prepared to charge.

“I will have you excommunicated,” the priest vowed.

“I will see you dead,” Marshal promised.

Nicholas didn’t move, knowing if anyone breathed too deeply, the two sides would tear into one another, spilling blood in a melee of rage. He must not lose control now. He must remember Ysabelle’s feelings of loyalty for her king. If possible, there must be peace. But he wouldn’t back down either.

“I will see you gone from my lands,” Nicholas spoke in an even voice. “Would it not be better to live and fight another day? This is a losing battle. You cannot undo my marriage to Lady Ysabelle, nor the fact that she might be carrying my child.”

“But we can still widow her,” Lambert challenged.

Nicholas’s disdainful gaze roamed over the fat man and all his folds of quivering flesh. “Do you think you are mon enough to kill me? You are welcome to try.”

Lambert blinked. His gaze retreated as he stared at the ground. The coward. Ysabelle deserved better than any of them had to offer. Because she was now his, Nicholas would have it no other way. He would spend his life trying to make himself worthy of her trust and loyalty.

“It is quite easy to bully a gentlewoman who seeks only to protect her people. It is something different to face an armed warrior, is it not?” Nicholas asked in a tone smoothed with insult.

The slur was taken. Lord Marshal, Sir Lambert, and the priest each had the grace to flinch.

“Ah, I see you do have some shame after all,” Nicholas growled.

“We have done what our king commanded,” Marshal excused. “We are bound to fight you.”

Lifting his gaze to meet Marshal’s, the thought of battle almost pleased Nicholas. When he thought of them forcing Ysabelle to wed an aging, cruel man such as Malcolm, rage burned low in his gut until he was ready to explode with it.

“If you refuse to hand over the lady, we are compelled to do battle. And when we take Sutcliffe, you will be put to death,” Marshal warned.

“Then so be it,” Nicholas said before indicating to Alex that they would depart.

Backing up their chargers, Nicholas refused to turn his back on the enemy until they were a safe distance away. Because Marshal would undoubtedly lose his own life in the process, Nicholas didn’t believe the man would attack him from behind. Not under a flag of truce. But who knew what Lambert or the priest might do?

As one body, Nicholas and his men hurried across the drawbridge and through the portcullis, into safety. Once they reached the bailey, Nicholas was conscious of Alex staring high up at the ramparts. Nicholas lifted his gaze.

Ysabelle! She stood on the parapet, facing the river. The wind beat against her dress, lifting the thin scarf she had pulled around her shoulders. Her face looked ashen with shock. Staring at the English army, her arms were wrapped tightly around her, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Nicholas swore.

“If it were me, I would rather face Lord Marshal and his army,” Alex quipped. “It’s a good thing Ysabelle couldn’t hear your conversation with the English.”

“Yes,” Nicholas agreed with a heavy sigh. “I had hoped she would remain inside the keep until this ugly scene was over. I should have known she might venture out to see what was going on.”

“You should have sent a servant to keep her occupied elsewhere.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. She is too clever for such a ploy.” As he spoke, Nicholas felt a moment of pride and regret.

“Will you tell her Sir Malcolm is still alive?” Alex asked.

“It might be a lie. A ruse to get me to hand her over. I don’t wish to worry her until I can verify the truth,” Nicholas responded as he stepped down from his charger.

“If Malcolm is truly alive, do you think she’ll want to return to the fat knight?”

A coarse laugh slipped from Nicholas’s chest as he remembered the bruises on her face and arms caused by Malcolm de Litz. Nicholas swore to himself that he would never allow the man to touch Ysabelle again.

“No, she could not want such a mon. I will never give her to him.”

But a twinge of doubt nibbled at his mind. He only hoped that, now he had made her his own, she would want to stay with him always. Because losing her now would be his complete undoing.

*

Ysabelle shivered as she watched Nicholas climb the stairs leading upward to the battlements. Her hands trembled and she wrapped them about her arms. Her only hope now was that the English would relent and leave them in peace.

As he approached her on the allure, Nicholas’s powerful shape loomed before her, yet she no longer feared him. Her heart beat faster and she remembered every gasping pleasure they had shared the night before.

Her face flooded with heat. It was shameful for her to think such thoughts. She must protect her heart. She must harden her will. She wouldn’t allow Ada to murder her husband in cold blood, but there was still so much they could lose. She had just come from Ada’s side, having told the woman in no uncertain terms that if she committed the crime of murdering Nicholas, she would see Ada locked in the dungeon for the rest of her days. Ada had sobbed pitifully and vowed never to try such a heinous offense again. Ysabelle had resisted the urge to hug the woman and offer comfort. Instead, she had driven her point home by turning her back on the woman and walking out of the room.

Now, Ysabelle looked at Nicholas. He moved with the supple grace of a man poised, strong, and self-assured. Her pulse tripped into double-time. She struggled with her emotions and her common sense took over. She could not allow her heart to addle her mind. She must retain her self-control at all cost.

His brows lifted expectantly. Ysabelle jutted her chin, ignoring the intense feelings that flooded through her. Now was not the time to remember their time alone in their chamber. She dared not admit that he had defied even her greatest yearnings. Perhaps what she had shared with Nicholas was a once in a lifetime event. Something to be cherished for its rarity.

Now, he was a craving in her blood. But it would bring her nothing but pain.

He advanced, observing her with a severe frown. “You shouldn’t be here, my lady.”

Passion was not something she understood, but anger was. She lashed out with it now. “And why not? This is my home. Don’t I have a right to go where I will?”

“Of course. But it isn’t safe to stand upon the wall where an English arrow might pierce your lovely breast.”

The wind whipped against her as thunder boomed low in the eastern sky. A few raindrops struck her hands and face. A summer storm was upon them. It was unwise to stay here any longer.

Unable to shrug him off, she shot him an impatient glare. “Why does it matter to you? Sutcliffe is now yours. My death will not change that.”

“I have sworn to protect you. You are my wife.”

“That is something I have never understood.” she confided. “Why did my father betroth me to you? Surely you know why.”

He did not answer and confusion filled her mind. He had wealth of his own, but no land. No claim to renown other than his fierce brutality in battle. Surely this was not what her father had wanted for her. But she had no idea why her father had insisted on their betrothal.

Nicholas clenched his jaw and she sighed. She was fast learning his expressions and knew he was going to be stubborn.

“You would have to ask your father that question,” he said.

She snorted. “What a comfortable answer, since my father is dead.”

He was silent, his eyes fierce, his demeanor proud.

“There must be a reason. My logic tells me you are keeping something from me,” she persisted.

He watched her calmly, opening his mouth as if he wished to speak, but then closing it again. Ysabelle stared at him with rapt attention, praying he would answer and set her weary mind at ease. She sensed indecision in him. A desire to explain something so intense that he could not bring himself to utter the words.

“You are mine,” was all he would say.

Frustrated, she turned and looked downward at the English soldiers where they set up camp beside the river. A beehive of activity. Garrisons of men felled trees while others dug trenches. More men battened down large canopies and tents against the approaching storm.

“They prepare for siege,” she observed. “They prepare to tunnel beneath the castle walls.”

“We will be there to meet them should they succeed,” Nicholas’s voice chilled her as he gently took her arm.

“They are cutting trees to build ladders and battering rams. No doubt the catapult will soon be prepared.”

“You seem well-versed on siege,” he observed as he caressed her arm.

With her back to him, she closed her eyes, wishing he would leave her alone. How could she fight him when he touched her so tenderly? How could she deny this hold he had over her? She longed to turn and offer her lips for his kiss. When she spoke again, her voice sounded quivery. “I’ve watched my father withstand numerous battles. The only fear he had was if our water and supplies gave out. We are well-provisioned, but a siege can last for months.”

“Do you doubt I can hold against the English?”

She gave a dry laugh. “No, your reputation precedes you and I know you have faced worse. But Lord Marshal will not give up so easily. The king will send more and more men. They may not even need to fight but simply wait us out until we starve.”

“We willna starve nor will we surrender.”

Turning, she faced him. “You should flee now while you have the chance. You cannot win this battle. You have won today, but what about next month, or a year from now? They will kill you.”

“Why do you care?”

Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away. “I don’t seek your death.”

“Would you mourn my passing as you do Sir Malcolm?”

She looked away as a shudder of repulsion swept her. “I do not mourn Sir Malcolm.”

“And neither do I believe you would mourn my death. Hopefully my memory will make you tremble with longing.”

True! She wanted to shout at him. Opening her mouth to reply, she closed it quickly. She would never admit what he already knew. It would give him too much control, too much power over her. And when he died, her heart would break in two.

“I hope one day you will mourn me as you do Lord Maston,” he said.

She would! And this knowledge left her uneasy and confused. After all, she barely knew the man. So, why did she care if he lived or died? She didn’t understand. No, not at all.

He shook his head, his eyes growing shuttered as the corners of his mouth became severe. “You doubt my abilities. Because we have only just met, you don’t know the kind of mon I am. I willna compromise. I willna relent. I would rather you gave me your loyalty to me and accept our marriage. If we present a united front, we can fight the English and drive them from our lands. It is what Lord Maston wanted.”

Stepping back from him, she threw him a frosty glare. “I know the kind of man you are. Nothing else matters to you but victory. But I seek to protect my people. There are women and children within these walls. The old and young will die first, of famine and disease. And when we run out of food, we will resort to eating rats. The outlying lands will suffer when the English burn everything for miles around. It will take years to recover before we can plant our crops again. My people will starve. And once you are dragged from the castle and beheaded, think what King William will do to the rest of Sutcliffe. My father would want his people safe. He would want them to live.”

Nicholas did not acknowledge her words, but the planes of his face tightened, his cheekbones high and chiseled.

“It isn’t safe for you here on the battlements. Return to the keep,” he ordered in a frigid tone.

Ysabelle dared not defy him. A slow tick pulsed in his cheek and she saw his hands clench. She wondered if he might strike her. Until Malcolm de Litz, never had anyone raised a hand to do her harm, even in anger. Except for their consummation, Nicholas had never hurt her. But that could change if she challenged him. How far could he be pushed before resorting to violence?