Love With an Improper Stranger (38 page)

“And I you, my darling duchess.”  Now they shared a thorough kiss, as the staff filled the large tub with hot water and cleaned the room.

“Blake, if you would repair downstairs, Mama and I will wash Lenore, while the maids change the linens.”  Caroline collected bloodstained cloths from the floor.  “And I will fetch you when she is tucked between the covers.”

“I must look a frightful mess.”  Lenore nuzzled him.

“Nonsense.”  Blake held his wife’s gaze.  “Never have you been more stunning.”  To Caroline, he said, “And I will bathe my bride.”

And so it was that only two hours later, in the now quiet ducal suite, Blake reclined on a pile of fluffy pillows in the massive four-poster, with Lenore to his left, curled up to his side, her head on his chest, and sound asleep, with a feminine smile gracing her always-tempting lips.  To his right, nestled in the crook of his doting father’s arm, his heir cooed.  And in that moment, Blake understood the significance of his ancestor’s words.

The best things in life most definitely required a bit, and on other occasions a lot, of work.  Yet, as he held his family in his embrace, he knew, without doubt, he would give his life to defend them.  Such was the way of love, a selfless, all-encompassing state of existence that defied every effort to define, contain, evade, or comprehend it.  Oh, no.  It manifested a delicate but inescapable web of incomparable devotion, indefatigable in its constancy, and he would settle for nothing less.

In the long mirror, which had been situated to enable him to admire his still somewhat naïve wife’s delectable derriere as she sat astride his thighs and took him, he studied his reflection.  Yes, his was the face of love.  Grinning from ear to ear, Blake chuckled, bowed his head, and wept.

DEBUTING EARLY 2016

EXCERPT FROM
DEMETRIUS

The Year of Our Lord, 1313

The cold November
wind blew in from the Thames, and Demetrius de Blackbourne hunkered beneath the blanket, as he sheltered in his small tent.  Tossing and turning, sleep did not come for him, even though he was tired after three days on the road.  Mayhap it was the purpose of his journey that rendered him restless and unable to relax.

It was only last month that he received the King’s command to wed, and Demetrius dreaded the task.  As a former Templar knight, he had been born to a life of devotion and service, and unlike his brothers in arms he preferred the simple existence.  But his previous illustrious order was no more, and he had sold his soul to England, in exchange for a new ailette, which bore the wind-star design of the Brethren of the Coast, a fledgling band of warriors sworn to protect the Crown.

The position suited him, as it seemed so similar to his previous existence—until the opposite sex entered the picture.  Was it not enough that Arucard took a wife?  And Demetrius had no complaints regarding Lady Isolde, as she was a fine woman, but he simply had no need of such a creature.

His stomach growled, and he rolled to his side.  Hungry, he peered at the tiny brazier, which he used whenever he traveled, and stared at the orange glow of embers.  A loud rumble pierced the quiet, and he tossed aside the covers and foraged for his bag of brewets, his favorite fare, which Isolde had cooked prior to his departure from Chichester Castle.  He suspected it was a consolation gift to ease the sting of his impending nuptials.

As he relished the thin slices of spiced beef, seasoned to perfection, he hummed his appreciation.  “Ah, thank ye, Lady Isolde.”

“Hello?” an unknown person called, and Demetrius’s horse whinnied.  “Thither is someone to offer a measure of respite for the less fortunate?”

“Hither am I.”  Retrieving his sword, he untied the flaps of his temporary accommodation, and snow battered his face, as he spied a diminutive shadowy figure amid the gale.  “Who art thou, and wherefore art thou on foot?”

“Oh, good sirrah, I am most grateful for thy company, as I lost my mount and know not whither I have ventured.”  To his surprise, his unexpected visitor was a woman, and her velvety voice was soft and appealing to his ear.  “Might I take refuge with ye, until the morrow?  I promise, I will not disturb ye.”

“Of course.”  Yet she already disturbed him.  As would a chivalrous knight, he stowed his weapon, led her to his pallet, and tucked the blanket about her legs.  When she drew back the hood of her cloak, rhyme and reason fled his brain, and he gawked at her beauteous visage.

With thick blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, and vivid green eyes, the lady was a vision, and the matrimonial state struck him as far more engaging, if he could ensure a maid like her was part of the bargain.  Alas, it was not to be, and he sighed, as he feared his bride-to-be had more in common with the whore Morgan recommended to school Demetrius in connubial activities, and he shuddered at the mere thought.

“My, but that smells delicious.”  His fascinating guest admired the brewets, and he reconsidered his assessment.  “Did you cook them?”

“I do not perform such toils, as such drudgery is women’s work.”  After fetching another cloak, he huddled near the brazier, as the gale lashed the canvas, and offered her some food.  “So what is a young maiden doing, alone, in this uninhabited area?”

“Can I trust ye?”  She glanced at his sheath.  “As it is a very great secret.”

“I give ye my word, as a Nautionnier knight, I will guard thy confidence.”  How charming she was, as she blushed.  “Thou art no criminal, are ye?”

“Oh, no.”  With a nervous laugh, she averted her gaze.  “I am running away.”

“From what?”  Ah, they were a pair, but he enjoyed no sanctuary.

“An arranged marriage.”  His gut clenched, given her declaration, and a mighty frown marred her lovely countenance.  “I have spent the better part of my years at the convent in Coventry, and I want naught more than to serve Our Lord, for the remains of my days.  But my father died, and my brother, bent on political prestige, negotiated a contract, which I rebuke.”

“Thine is a noble endeavor.”  And how he approved of her uncommon sense, which mirrored his own.  “I applaud thy fortitude and courage, to remain true to thy dreams, and I share thy partiality for a modest fate.”

In that instant, she smiled, and he would have swore the sun shone in his tiny abode.  “What is thy name?”

“I am Demetrius.”  Now a union with her did not strike him as so bad, as he could do worse.  An image of the snaggle-toothed Matild flashed before him, and he winced.  “And thine?”

“Thou mayest call me Lily, as do my friends.”  She untied her cloak, revealing a swan-like neck and an ample bosom, not that he took much note, sampled the brewet, and moaned.  “I should be honored to count ye as such, and this is delicious.”

“What is thy destination?”  For some reason he could not fathom, he wished to know her plans, even though he it improbable they would ever meet again.  “Given thou hast no means of travel, how wilt ye make the trip?”

“I know not, but I will not go back to London, and no one can force me.”  Lily studied him, and he shifted beneath the weight of her perusal.  “I intend to join the abbey at Rochester and, if they permit it, make my final profession of vows.  Then I shall have what I have always desired, an austere life spent in service to the poor and hapless.”

“I am humbled by thy virtue, fair Lily.”  In that he did not lie, as he might have found a rare equal to Lady Isolde, and yet his incomparable charge belonged to another.  “Mayest I inquire after thy age, as thou dost seem quite young, despite thy wisdom?”

“I am seven and ten, sir.”  She sniffed, and he spied tears, which she tried but failed to hide.  “Far too old to be a new bride.”

“Wherefore canst thy brother not see that?”  Demetrius snickered.  “As thou art almost middle aged.”  No doubt that falsehood would haunt him.

“Thank ye, and thou art truly the most intelligent man of my acquaintance.”  And then Lily sagged, as a flower thirsting for water, and she yawned.  “My, but I am tired.”

“Wherefore dost thou not rest, while I stand watch?”  At her expression of skepticism, he chuckled.  “Dear Lily, I will not harm ye, as I could have done so, already, if that were my aim.  Wilt thou not trust me, as thou hast availed thyself of my hospitality, and I have asked naught of ye?”

“Well, I suppose I should sleep.”  Her thickly lashed lids drooped, and she dozed almost as soon as she reclined on his pillow.

Captivated by the handsome creature, he looked his fill while she was unaware, as never had he spent so much time alone with a lady of her estimation, and her mouth held him spellbound.  As the hours ticked past, as counted by the moon’s journey across the night sky, a thin sliver of shimmering gold appeared on the horizon.

Demetrius had just relaxed, when the rumble of hoofbeats brought him alert.  Grasping his sword, he checked on Lily, but she did not stir.  After shrugging into his heavy cloak, he untied the flaps, bent, and stepped outside.

The King’s guard approached, and a familiar guise led the patrol.  When Briarus, the Crown’s faithful messenger and sergeant, waved, Demetrius responded in kind.  The men drew rein, and Briarus extended his hand in friendship.

“Good morrow, sirrah.”  Demetrius considered his impromptu guest and realized he needed to divert his comrades, as he would not ruin the unlucky lady.  “It is remarkably pleasing to see ye, but what manner of mischief brings ye beyond the borders of London, proper?”

“I am about the Sire’s business, and it involves ye, Sir Demetrius, and a misplaced mate.”  Briarus untied his leather drinking bag.  “But I have been searching these hills since last night, and I cannot return without my ward.”

“
Sir
Demetrius?”  Rubbing her eyes, Lily appeared in the opening of his tent, and Demetrius cringed.  “Thou art a servant of the realm?”

“Great abyss of suffering, thou hast solved my dilemma, my friend.  Why did ye not tell me?”  Briarus signaled his soldiers, and they marched on the wayward waif.  “At last, I can go home to a hot bath, a warm bed, and amiable companionship.”

“Prithee, a moment.”  In a fit of insanity, Demetrius gripped the hilt of his sword, and the guards halted.  “Wherefore dost thou accost an innocent?  Of what is the harmless woman guilty, to merit such treatment?”

“Thou dost not know?”  For a second, Briarus just stood there.  Then, without warning, he burst into laughter.  “Oh, this is too adventitious to miss, and it will be the talk of the garrison.”

“What is so funny?”  Confused, Demetrius scratched his chin.  “And what, pray tell, is adventitious about thy arrest of a virtuous maiden?”

“Let me go.”  Lily bit the wrist of one unfortunate warrior and kicked another in the shins, and he groaned and hopped.  But Demetrius adored her spirit and fit of temper.  “Thou wilt not succeed, as I refuse to assist ye in thy nefarious aims.  Thou cannot force me to take a husband.  I will fight ye to my last breath.”

“Wait.”  With another guffaw, and an upraised palm, Briarus halted his men and said, to Demetrius, “Thou art truly ignorant of her personage, and the lady is similarly afflicted?”

“Aye, in some respects.”  Demetrius nodded and pondered how to liberate her from her predicament.  “But I know she is called Lily.”

“Is that what she told ye?”  Again, Briarus erupted in unrestrained mirth, as he hugged his belly.  “Permit me to make the introductions.”  Waggling his brows, the sergeant clicked his heels and sketched a mock salute.  “Sir Demetrius de Blackbourne, may I present Lady Athelyna Des Moutiers, thy future wife.”