The Protector Page 18

  “She has done too much! We should never have allowed her to do so much!” Cynthia argued.

  “It is merely a faint,” Jasmine diagnosed, but without her usual brusque certainty.

  Cynthia snorted. “Stay here,” she directed the other two women, “I will watch over Veri, you watch over the bear.”

  She followed the guard as he carried Veri out of the chapel. Ignacious stood in the darkness, worrying his hands, fretting as he watched the limp form carried away.

  Cynthia pushed her way past him without a word. Jasmine and Angelica stood at the doorway, then turned to follow Veri’s progress.

  “To step on a thousand slugs barefoot would feel better than to look at that man.” Angelica admitted.

  “Aye, he is slippery danger, but there is nothing we can do.” Jasmine relented. “It is better for two healers to survive than for three to die in an attempt to save one.”

  CHAPTER 16 ~ CONFLICTS

  Roland sat by the fire, moody and belligerent. Jeffrey reported the garrison soldiers refused Sir Harold’s orders. Refused the word of his personal guard. Unfortunately, Sir Albert left in search of Kenneth. After ten years’ absence, Albert was the only one of the garrison soldiers that Roland knew, personally.

  The faces and names all changed. The original soldiers either retired, or swapped with young men from Edgewood or Glenhaven manor houses. True, both manors were under his domain and, as Hannah explained, were troubled by raiders and inexperienced soldiers. But that left Oakland vulnerable.

  The night Roland returned, when everyone else told tales of Veri, only Albert spoke about Oakland. Complained bitterly about the trade of men, claimed he was too old to prepare a herd of unschooled, undisciplined louts.

  Oakland was vulnerable, protected by impetuous young men, eager and brawny but without skill. Worse, they were rigid and censorious and keen to quarrel.

  Hannah, with her blind piety, must have picked them by hand and without consultation. She should have listened to Albert who knew more about arms than she could ever know. And why did Albert let her get away with it?

  Foolish question. Without his father, in the heir’s stead, she represented Oakland. A woman at the helm while the men, or man in this case, was away. To be fair, Albert appealed to Margaret’s husband, Sir Howard, but he sent his wife to reason with Hannah. Stubborn determination won over logic.

  Roland’s head snapped up when he heard shouts clear from outside. The outer doors flew open with the splinter of wood, rousing men sleeping on the pallets. Roland ran forward, sword at the ready, as a guard rushed in, eyes wide with worry, a limp form draped in his arms, Cynthia at their side.

  A golden mane cascaded from the man’s arm to the top of his boot.

  Veri.

  Roland damped terror with rage. “What have you done to her!?” he bellowed, striding up to the man. His brusqueness contrasted the gentle way he gathered her in his own arms. “What have you done?” he questioned again, mournfully, as he buried his face in the crook of Veri’s neck.

  She moaned, turning her face toward him. “Roland?”

  He looked her over, straining to see a wound, a bruise.

  “She fainted,” Cynthia offered.

  Despite the cold glance, Roland’s posture eased.

  “I will take her above stairs,” he informed everybody, nobody, as he stormed off to do just that. Cynthia followed doggedly behind him.

  He tried to kick the door shut, but Cynthia waylaid the action.

  “Leave us!” he roared, as he placed Veri upon the bed.

  “Nay!” Cynthia countered, “She is weak with exhaustion. Do you know how to tend to her? Do you know how to meet her needs?”

  “I just need rest.” Veri tried to interrupt, but the other two were trapped in argument.

  Roland glared at the woman, “I will see she has the peace to sleep.”

  She gentled, “And what of you, Roland. You have been through as much as she has. Allow me to watch over her.”

  “What of the other women?” He asked.

  “They have stayed with the bear.”

  “Could you not do that?” He snapped. “Stay with the bear and send another?”

  “I’ll watch over her and pray for her,” a reedy voice offered from the doorway.

  Both Roland and Cynthia spun around to see Ignacious standing in the threshold of the room.

  “Father Ignacious,” Veri breathed.

  “Out!” Roland’s anger exploded. “Both of you get out of this room and don’t ever cross that threshold again!”

  Cynthia watched Roland silently before she crossed to the priest. “Come,” Cynthia led him out of the room, as she closed the door softly.

  Roland steadied his breathing, as he stared at the door. How many dangers did Veri have to contend with, did he have to challenge? When he looked at her, her face was turned up to his, so delicate, yet so stubborn.

  They were alone, at last. He was with his wife, as a husband for, perhaps, the first time. Roland slipped her shoes from her feet, eased her under the covers. “You need rest.” He told her needlessly, as he shrugged out of his clothes.

  “Cynthia was right. You’ve been through enough yourself. You need rest as well.”

  “Aye,” he nodded, “I intend to rest, here with you.”

  As she pulled the covers back so he could slip under them to join her, he wondered if she remembered her fist night back at Oakland. The night he had wrapped himself around her, as protection. As he had that night, he pulled her close, into the curve of his body. She was still in her gown, he in no more than his braes. Still, he could feel the softness of her, was surprised by how small and yet right she felt, spooned against him as she was.

  He could protect her like this, keep her whole body enfolded in the cocoon of his, so no one could touch her. For once, he didn’t question his right to have her with him, to keep her there. She sighed, nestled in closer. He chuckled, grateful that he had slept no more than she, in the past days. Fatigue dampened his desire to mere contentment, restful pleasure in the simple feel of her body against his.

  “Sleep well, my love.” He whispered in her ear, as he slid into sleep himself.

  Still and silent, a figure stood within the darkened shadow of the Lord’s chamber, as though one with the tapestry she stood before. The couple did not see or sense another’s presence, as she blew out the bedside candle. There was no sign that the hatred surrounding them disturbed their sleep.

  Husband and wife had not shared a bed in the past. Despite the consummation, the marriage had been one of innocence. Not so now, if Roland’s slumbering posture told any tale. Even in sleep, his hand had moved to her breast. Their observer had no doubt that carnal lust would soon be expressed and a swelling belly to prove it.

  A babe.

  The shadow shifted and moved. A smile broadened on the face of the one within. It would be a simple matter of herbs to halt the blossom of a babe. It could be easily done.

  Straightening, the figure separated from the dark cover to cross over to the bed. With steady fingers, the bed curtains were pushed aside, until the two within could be viewed clearly.

  It would be so simple. So easy to kill them both and any child they might bear. But the time was not right. It must look like an accident.

  Let them grow complacent. Let them ease their guard.

  Then they could die.

  Veri curled toward warmth, as a draft of air shivered over her body. Her dress was pulled over her head, exposing her skin to the breeze. In the fog of sleep she felt large, callused hands gently smooth over her body, as they reached for the hem of her underclothes.

  Confused, she opened her eyes, blinked and stretched.

  Roland.

  His gaze met hers, checked fire, as he waited for her to accept, or decline, his intentions. She didn’t know what it meant, merely trusted her safety. Nor had she woken enough to question her own actions when she eased her hand from the tangle of bedclothes, to reach up an
d stroke his face, to pull him down until their lips met.

  It was a gentle touch. His lips a mere brush upon her own before he raised up again, to slowly remove her shift from her shoulders.

  Those tender hands were his hands. The warmth she had curled into was the heat from his body. Echoes of touch whispered through her as though he had used words to wash over her flesh, her form.

  Experimentally, she ran her fingers along his arm, up, over and down his back. He had no clothes on, had nearly removed her own. Dazed with sleep, she concluded that he meant to ease her comfort, ease the binding of garments. She sighed, shifted to aid his chore, turning her face to look into his eyes.

  But they were not the eyes of a caregiver. They were not the eyes of a friend. They spoke of those sweet shivers that coursed through her with the movement of each touch.

  He meant to bed her.

  She saw it as he watched her, waited. His hand, so rough she could feel its texture through the delicate fabric of her chemise, rubbed gently along her thigh. Ever so slightly, he lifted and lowered the silk with each movement. Restlessly she shifted her legs, brushing them along his.

  “Veri.”

  His voice, quiet and harsh, held as much meaning, as much contradiction, as his hands.

  She said nothing, as she lifted her hips enough that her chemise could glide down, free her of all restraints. The heat of his unsteady hands warmed her as she raised her legs, lifted. Roland eased the material down, kicked at it with his feet until it was lost somewhere in the tangle of covers at the bottom of the bed.

  So this is how it should be, what drew women to men and men to women.

  It was so different from the bedding. Veri felt neither fear nor anger. The awkwardness of that night failed to surface. She felt free to luxuriate in his touch.

  As Roland’s gaze moved over her body, his hands molded to her form. Each caress of his trembling fingers created a swath of fire that radiated to the depths of her.

  She was melting; he was the fire that melted her. His intense gaze focused on each dip and swell his hands explored. He murmured, his voice husky with the smoke of their passion, “I did not think it would come to this.”

  Aye, the awkwardness was, most certainly, gone, and in its place Veri found fluidity as she arched and stretched to his sensual discoveries.

  He smiled, chuckled knowingly, “you are natural to this.”

  She stilled, not certain his words were kind. In response, his gaze left her body as he looked at her. “You were born to feel my hands on your flesh,” he explained, his voice low, as soft as a purr. He continued his tactile survey, “as you were born to feel my lips upon your mouth.”

  Again, he offered a sweet, simple brush of his lips. Back and forth, a tease, until Veri whimpered, pressed closer for more. Her movements were the key to his undoing. Roland’s mouth grew more insistent, firmer, against her burgeoning desire.

  “Veri,” he whispered his way to her ear, laving, nipping,“it will be too much for me if I do not stop.”

  She smiled with the age-old knowledge that she had power in this dance they danced.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. She welcomed the pause, the time to help her adjust to what was happening, what was to come. Yet, nothing went as she expected. To her surprise, abruptly he lifted from her, removed the weight she had welcomed, rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.

  “Stop?” Did he really mean to? How could he? Her power vanished. She faced shame in that instant, with the knowledge that he could control her with this . . . wanton desire.

  His only response was to nod, that yes, he did mean to stop. Yet Roland would not shame her, not on purpose, she was certain of that.

  She looked to see what he meant, but could not see his eyes for the muscular arm that covered them. She shoved against him, but his weight was like a great stone.

  “You cannot stop!” She insisted. “You must go on!”

  To her anger, she spotted his satisfied smile, a definite smirk. Sitting back on her haunches, she watched him intently, wondering at the game they played.

  “You promised to give me a child,” she countered petulantly.

  He shook his head. “Nay, I did not promise to give you a child.”

  “Nay?” She snapped, “well, then, I want to take a child!”

  There was a nod, a shifting of his arm.

  Softly, tauntingly, he asked, “Is that all you want?”

  Naked as she was, sitting upon the covers, cool air swept over her. Not at all the way she’d felt when exposed but for the cover of his caress.

  “I want your warmth.” She stated imperially.

  At that, he lifted his arms enough that she could see a raised eyebrow. Then he lowered it again.

  “Is that all?” He taunted once more.

  Her heart surged, sending blood throughout her body. She did not know where he was going, only that she trusted him to lead her gently, if not teasingly. She shook her head, swallowing against an unfamiliar shyness.

  He would not withhold. She was certain of that now, though he was certainly toying with her.

  “Nay,” she told him swiftly, sweetly. “That is not all that I want.”

  “What else do you want?”

  In sport, better to taunt than be taunted. She splayed her hands against his chest, running them up his body, her fingers combing the hair upon his breast. Slow, fingertips barely skimming, she explored his torso.

  He flinched.

  She shot away.

  He grabbed her wrists, pinioned her hands to his chest. “Again,” he told her gruffly.

  Ah, a challenge of sorts.

  She repeated the action, watched his response, mesmerized as she learned. Until she recognized the blossom of hunger. A new appetite.

  But no fun to play alone.

  She found his hands clenched at his sides and thought that a good sign. Gently, she opened them, placing them upon her own chest, below the curve of her breast. No exploration, no investigation, just one swift roll. She lay on her back looking up at him.

  “I cannot do this,” his moan washed over her, as he bent his head into the curve of her neck. “I cannot take this torment.”

  “Nor I,” she moaned.

  His head jerked up. “No?” His breath hit her face, fanned along her cheeks, inciting a fire already ablaze. He lowered his head, waited, for what she didn’t know, though she searched his face to find an answer, sighing when finally his lips lowered to hers.

  Unable to speak, unable to analyze or think or do anything akin to what she’d been trained to do, Veri allowed her body sway over her mind.

  Somehow it knew, understood, the yearning, how to reach, move, without any instruction. She curved into each caress, her hips raised in hunger toward his. She wanted, deeply, desperately. Gracefully her body translated want. Roland eagerly fueled her desire, greedily fed his own.

  “Please,” she twisted and squirmed, beyond comprehension. “Please!”

  “Mmmmm,” he murmured and touched her, between her legs, a secret place, forbidden, and swallowed her cry in a rugged hungry kiss that had her clawing at his back, frightened by sensation, desperate for more. He took her higher, higher and higher. Touch, whispers, gruff and erotic nonsensical words and caresses. Distracted her frenzy, played over her senses, gentled her pleas to abandoned whimpers.

  She stroked, where before she had clung, explored where she had stampeded. She wanted desperately, he gave generously, then finally, finally, he rolled over, covering her. His weight an answered cry, the turgid press of him a final response. At last, she sighed heartily, certain the riddle was solved, the storm would calm.

  Instead, it billowed the fire to swirl and flourish, and stretched from the outer most parts of her to deep, deep within. Her cries and senses spiraling, calling out, mournfully, ecstatically, echoing need of an elusive goal.

  When it came, when her body found that mysterious pinnacle, release so cravenly sought, she shuddered and s
creamed. Tremors rode through her, wave upon wave upon wave.

  Roland’s mouth covered hers, drinking in the sound of joy as his own body tensed, taut and tight, moving swiftly, joining again and again with her own. In one sudden thrust of power, he exploded within her, his body flowing into hers, throbbing against her pulsing release.

  Neither moved.

  Stunned by what they shared, neither could do more than grapple for breath. Roland braced above her, barely holding his weight from crushing her, Veri’s arms wrapped about his wide back, urging him to lower fully upon her. They held each other thus. Secure, desperate. Satisfied, yearning.

  Roland shifted, pulled her to him, rolled them onto their sides. He fitted her head in the curve of his shoulder and Veri knew, with her husband’s love steeped deep within, they were now truly one.

  Love, an explosive expression from deep in her heart. This thing that turned Healers away from their art to be satisfied as naught but normal women. She understood it now, could see the exclusiveness of each.

  She was no Healer.

  She could not leave but she did not yet know of her husband’s determination for her to be gone.

  CHAPTER 17 ~ INFLUENCES

  “Cynthia?” Sir Harold stood within the vestibule of the chapel. Cynthia lifted her head from the pallet, where she lay alongside the bear. She had stayed throughout the night, with Jasmine and Angelica, to watch over Cin.

  “Cynthia.” Her heart skipped as she checked to see if the others had heard the call. Quietly, so as not to disturb them, she rose and went to him.

  “Harold?” She crowded him in his corner, close enough to see his form, too sleepy-eyed to trust the truth of the shadow surrounding him. Eagerly, she lifted her hands to his beard roughened face, stroking it as though he had returned from the dead.

  “Aye,” he whispered, on a gruff sigh, as he pulled her close within his embrace. “‘Tis me.”

  “Oh, yes,” her hands ran through his hair, “I thought you would never come. I thought he would forbid you.” She pressed into his hold, her cheek against his chest, letting the moment embrace them both. They had so few moments to meet and then it had to be in shadow and darkness. It was torture, to be so near yet remain so divided.