My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (27 page)

Alex waggled his brows at Ysabelle. “I can safely vouch that Nicholas’s singing voice is atrocious. Don’t let him sing you a tune, my lady. Please, I beg you, spare us all that horror.”

Ysabelle bit her bottom lip to hide a smile. She didn’t want to like these two men. But she did. She loved them both. Very much.

“She’s fine, as you can see,” Nicholas pointed out in an insulted tone. “Now, kindly remove your odious presence from our company.”

“Oh, all right,” Alex agreed, nodding with good nature before he winked at Ysabelle and left the room.

Ysabelle moved away from Nicholas, tidying the room, hoping he would put his shirt back on. The sight of his muscular back, chest, and arms, was more than she could ignore. Though marred by scars, he was a sensuous man and she was mightily affected. If he touched her, she would melt in his arms.

He walked to her and she held her breath. If he kissed her, she wouldn’t be able to resist him. He lowered his head, his lips poised above hers. Before he could make contact, she quickly asked her own question. “Why did the jester laugh up his sleeve?”

He blinked. “I know not.”

“Because that is where his funny bone is.”

The corners of Nicholas’s mouth curved ever so slightly in a smile. Again, his sculpted mouth brushed against hers. She could feel his warm breath against her lips and longed for his kiss.

“Why do dragons sleep during the day?” she asked in a hurry, trying not to stare at his mouth.

“I don’t care,” he growled and tried to kiss her.

She moved her face away but couldn’t evade his strong hold around her. “So they can fight knights.”

He smiled, but his eyes glinted with determination. He gazed into her eyes, holding her prisoner. He smelled of the sandalwood soap he’d used to wash earlier that morning. She longed to throw herself at him but hated for him to know how much she wanted him.

“Did I tell you I am a wizard?” he asked in a silky tone.

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t know.”

His eyes gleamed and his voice lowered to a husky murmur. “Shall I make your clothes disappear?”

He loosened the ties of her burgundy gown and Ysabelle gasped at his boldness.

“My! But you are a beautiful damsel in dis-tress,” he whispered hoarsely. “Allow me to help you out of it.”

He gave a tug and the bodice of her dress gaped away from her. Bending down, he kissed her and a blaze of desire tore through her. Her breath caught with delight.

With a vague cry, Ysabelle stepped backward. If she did not stop him soon, they would end up spending the next hour sequestered in their room. “My lord, the sun is yet high and I have much work I must do. You must return to the siege.”

“Later, my lady.”

Stepping away, she held up a hand to ward him off. He stalked her, his hooded eyes looking determined. “That isn’t what I had in mind. Father Edward wouldn’t approve.”

A sultry smile curved his mouth, lighting up his face, making his eyes gleam devilishly. He dazzled her.

“I may not be a priest, my lady, but I can take you to heaven,” he told her as he advanced.

With a squeal, Ysabelle made a break for the door. He caught her there, backing her up against the portal, his hands planted on the solid oak on either side of her as he moved closer.

His amorous wit left her breathless. She refused to look at his face, for fear she would latch on to him and never let go. She wanted him. Now and forever. She stared at the gleaming flesh of his shoulder, entranced by the solid muscles flexing beneath his skin.

He leaned into her and kissed her forehead, nuzzling her hair, breathing deeply of her. Every one of her senses were focused on him. His presence seemed overpowering and she realized she was lost.

“You should be glad I’m not a Viking, my lady.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Her voice squeaked.

“You would have already been ravaged and plundered by now.”

He captured her lips with his own and it was just as Ysabelle knew it would be. Pure rapture.

Wrapping her arms around him, she held on tight as he kissed her. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt faint for want of air. Lifting her, he carried her to their bed. And as promised, he did take her to heaven.

*

Time passed, the days flowing like the river to the sea. Ysabelle wondered if the English would ever give up and go home. She longed to venture outside the castle walls and walk along the river or across the flowered hills where the English hadn’t set fires. It was impossible until King William’s men gave up the siege and left.

To keep busy, Ysabelle worked in the kitchen, helping extend their dwindling supply of food. Great haunches of meat roasted over the open fire pit. The heat from the baking ovens was immense and sweat beaded on her brow. Rolling up her sleeves, she wiped her neck with a damp cloth, then sprinkled thyme into a bubbling pot of soup.

“Cook?” she called.

Carrying a basket of potatoes, a matronly woman waddled over to her and set her burden on the trestle table. “Yes, my lady?”

“I think we should add more water to this soup. We need to make the meat stretch further.”

Cook’s brows lifted in question. “You think the siege will continue much longer, my lady?”

Ysabelle sighed. “I hope not. In the meantime, we must eat. Do what you can to make what we have last as long as possible.”

“That I will, my lady,” Cook agreed.

Picking up a small bag of grain, Ysabelle walked to the roasting pit.

“Myles,” she called to the young lad who was busy basting a side of pork.

The boy turned to look at her, his face flushed from the heat of the fire. “Yes, my lady?”

“Take this grain to the allure and entice doves and larks to land upon the battlements. If you catch fifty or more, I will see that you get the fattest one all to yourself at this evening’s meal.”

“Truly, my lady?” the boy beamed, his large ears reddening with delight.

She smiled and ruffled his hair. “I promise.”

Whooping with delight, Myles ran out the door.

“Be careful that you don’t fall off the roof. And watch out for the catapult,” she called after him.

He waved an arm to indicate that he’d heard her, then raced toward the wallwalk. Laughing, she shook her head. What would it be like to have a son of her own? A lad so full of life, so innocent that he knew not how ugly the world could be. Would he feel so exuberant about catching fowl to supplement the table during siege? She prayed her children never saw such a day.

A miniature version of Nicholas came to mind, with saber-sharp cheekbones and dark, intense eyes. Her heart leapt with joy, yet a shadow wavered in the back of her mind.

The castle had been under siege for weeks and their supplies were shrinking. When her father had been lord here, they had never become desperate against starvation. They had never faced such a deadly threat. Nor had they endured siege for this long.

Sara sat at the workbench, sampling a piece of buttered bread. Ada stood close by, chopping carrots to add to the soup. Nicholas surprised them all when he walked into the room, ducking his head as he passed through the low portal.

“My lord, we are honored by your presence,” Cook sputtered with delight.

He nodded his head and looked about, his gaze taking in the order and cleanliness of the busy room.

“You do our table proud,” he told the woman.

His words of praise brought a rosy flush to Cook’s cheeks and she showed a toothy smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

Eyeing Nicholas with suspicion, Ada moved to one corner of the room where she began to churn butter. Ysabelle tensed. She’d told Ada that Nicholas was quite gentle with her. Hopefully, the handmaiden believed her.

The woman’s gaze followed him, thoughtful and brooding. Ada looked at Ysabelle, assessing her from head to toe, as if searching for signs of abuse. Finding none, the woman turned back to her chore, a frown wrinkling her brow.

“Lord Nicholas,” Sara cried and ran into his arms.

The servants gave Nicholas wide berth as they continued their work. Beaming with pride, Cook swept past him as if it were an everyday occurrence for the lord of the castle to visit her humble kitchen. Even Ysabelle’s father had never come here and Ysabelle was surprised to see how much it meant to Cook.

A few women smiled when he hugged Sara. Some looked surprised as Sara placed a solid kiss on his chiseled cheek. The men nodded with respect and moved out of his way, lifting large sacks of potatoes to be scrubbed before cooking. They were still in awe of the fierce Scots Ram. Ysabelle hooped they would have the chance to come to respect him as they had done Lord Maston.

Ada frowned as she watched the two together, her eyes no longer filled with loathing. Praise the saints. Maybe they all were beginning to see Nicholas in a different light. A fierce man with compassion and mercy.

Nicholas lifted Sara and the girl raised her splinted arm so she could grasp his neck.

“Be careful,” Ysabelle cautioned.

“Don’t you think it’s time to remove this cumbersome thing?” Nicholas asked as he studied the splint.

“Yes, please-oh-please,” Sara chimed.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Ysabelle agreed, mentally counting the weeks since the injury. Time had passed so quickly. If the English would go home, she thought they could find happiness here at Sutcliffe.

“Hooray!” Sara cheered. As Nicholas placed her back on her feet, she chased after a servant boy who carried a bowl of dried apples.

“Just one,” Ysabelle called after her.

Nicholas stepped near Ysabelle, a wide smile on his face. She was very aware of this difference. Lately, he smiled often. It delighted her, wrapping around her heart, warming her through-and-through. She could hardly resist him anymore.

She no longer wanted to try. She preferred to live in this idyllic world the siege had forced upon them. With the hope that they’d one day be free from fears. But the specter of the English made her wonder how long before her world was shattered once more.

“You’re flushed with heat. Would you like to go outside for awhile, to catch a cooling breeze?” he asked.

“Do you think it’s safe?” she said.

He nodded. “The English have run out of rocks, for the time being. They are bored and have gone back to digging trenches. It’ll do them no good, but I believe Lord Marshal keeps them busy so they’ll have less time to murmur. They must be as tired of this siege as we are.”

Ysabelle agreed. “Do you think they will succeed in collapsing the castle wall?”

He grinned. “No. We have buckled their tunnel. Just now, they are busy trying to dig their men out.”

She swallowed against a hard lump in her throat. Englishmen were dying. Several of her father’s men had also been killed. “They are my people. I find nothing to be happy about.”

“Your king would only use you for his gain.”

She threw him an angry glare. “Isn’t that also what you have done?”

His brows drew together in a frown. “I have made you my wife and would defend you with my life.”

His pledge touched her deeply. When he spoke such words to her, it warmed her heart and she could deny him nothing.

She sighed. “I wonder how it will all end.”

Turning away, she didn’t give him the chance to respond. Walking outside, she noticed the ruined kennel had been torn down, the thatch and wood used for fire. The newborn pups had been removed to the guardhouse. As they ran out of fuel, they would burn other structures. What was next? The dovecote?

Nicholas was vigilant as he led her to the stable. Inside the dimly lit room, it seemed most tranquil. More and more, she found herself slipping easily into the role of his wife. If not for the imminent threat of the English, she could almost convince herself there was no danger and all was right within their world. How she longed to saddle her horse and race the mare across the open fields. And she wondered if she’d ever have that freedom again.

“How many men have we lost today?” she asked.

Drafts of sunlight filtered through cracks in the walls. Dust motes floated on the air along with bits of straw. The pungent scent of animals and matted hay filled her nose. Unfortunately, they could not change the straw while the siege lasted. The horses were taken out into the bailey and walked as often as possible to give them exercise.

“None,” he brushed Samson’s muzzle when the warhorse nickered softly to him. “Though I fear the English have been toying with us thus far. Our scouts sighted several garrisons of English soldiers departing, no doubt returning to their homes now that fresh reinforcements arrived early this morning. I believe they plan to starve us out. It takes little effort to fight a war that way, else I believe they would be more aggressive and try to breech our walls.”

“Do you think they’ll succeed?”

“In starving us?”

“Yes,” she nodded, searching his face for the truth.

“No, their men cannot be happy about this predicament. Their own families will suffer as they leave their crops to come fight this war for William. They also need to return to their homes if they hope to have food set aside for the coming winter.”

He shook his head as she went to the stall where her Barbary mare was housed. The animal nickered in appreciation as she offered a precious handful of grain.

“I will leave you for a few minutes,” Nicholas told Ysabelle. “Don’t depart the safety of the stable until I return for you.”

At her obedient nod, he left, and she busied herself by brushing the mare’s coat until it gleamed. It was a chore Ysabelle found relaxing. This side of the castle was well protected by the fosse, the sounds of battle muted. The afternoon was almost peaceful.

A rustling overhead disturbed her pleasure and she turned. Bits of straw floated down from the loft above. A brief shadow crossed the wall. The fluttering wings of a dove could have caused it, but she wasn’t sure.

“Who is there?” she called.

Silence greeted her. Shafts of light streamed through the thatched roof. The sounds of horses snuffling and stamping in their stalls filled the air.

Returning to her work, Ysabelle offered fresh water to her horse. The mare dipped its muzzle into the bucket. Thank goodness they had plenty of water. Ysabelle placed the bucket on the floor, leaning against the rough wall as she allowed the animal to drink at leisure.