Authors: Diana J. Cosby
His Captive (17 page)
“All I am asking you to do is to try.”
His request still confused her, but intrigued her as well. “Just friendship?”
Desire lingered in his eyes. “I am only a man.”
Warmth slid through her like spiced wine, rich and sweet as their kiss. She released a shaky breath. There were so many reasons she should refuse. From the intimacy they’d shared this day, he wanted more than friendship. He wanted a lover.
Wisdom forbade her to accept his friendship, to dare such a foolish venture. But the quiet yearning of emptiness inside begged her to give him a chance.
“A truce,” she finally offered. Nichola handed him the wine flask.
With a nod, Alexander accepted the sewn-leather bag and took a long drink. Unknown to her, friendship would tempt them both even more. She wanted him as well. If not for his brothers’ interruption this morning, he and Nichola would have made love. Bedamned Patrik’s censure. His brother was wrong. Making love with Nichola would not sway his loyalties.
Even now, as he took in the soft curves of her body, his body burned with unspent energy, a hard ache that demanded he press her against the wall and bury himself into her slick heat; drive into her until he found his release. Her taste lingered on his tongue. From how she’d fallen apart at his mere touch; if uninterrupted, she would have welcomed him into her body.
So why had he offered her a bloody foolish thing like a friendship? Perhaps because as he’d stared down at her, he’d seen the loneliness, an emptiness recognized by one who had lived through the same hell. However torn he was by his own loyalties, she needed a friend. What she gave of herself would be of her own choice.
Except he intended to make the choosing easy.
The scrape of blades in mock battle below resounded through the warm day as they finished their fare. He remembered Seathan’s challenge. With his body still taut with need, mayhap a hard practice would offer relief.
“It is time I took to the field.” He wiped the last of the crumbs from his hands. “Seathan has offered up a match.”
A shadow fell over her face. “I see.”
She thought he would lock her within her chamber. If he was wise, he would. “You are welcome to come and watch.” If his prowess lured her into his bed, then so be it.
Nichola nodded her agreement.
After returning the empty wine sack to the kitchen, he filled a goblet with wine and handed it to her. At her confused expression, he smiled.
“To present to the victor of the match.”
“You are sure of yourself.”
“I know my capabilities—and the skill of my opponent.”
“Not to mention the breadth of your arrogance.”
He motioned her forward. “Come.”
With her at his side, Alexander entered the list surprised to find Duncan and Patrik sparring with each other in the center of the field, distanced from the other knights who honed their battle skills as well.
Patrik’s anger had likely caused them to end their hunt early; now his brother sought to vent his anger in a spar.
A cold breeze swept past. Alexander glanced up. The skies were beginning to darken. “We will be having a storm this night.”
Nichola lifted her gaze skyward. She shuddered.
“You are cold?”
“No, it is . . .” She fell silent, the concern in her expression easy to see. “It is naught.”
Alexander watched her, curious as to what had happened to put such wariness in her eyes. She’d tell him eventually. The sounds of his brothers’ banter had him looking toward where they sparred.
“It is a braggart’s swing,” Duncan teased Patrik as he dodged Patrik’s sword.
“You sound like a fishwife with a loose tongue,” Patrik replied, then charged.
Duncan laughed. He easily sidestepped his brother’s attack, curled his blade in a small arc and caught his opponent’s sword. Their blades locked, shuddering from the strength each man wielded.
Pride filled Alexander at his youngest brother’s antics. A skilled swordsman, he was.
“Gwen is a fine lass,” Duncan said with relish.
“Gwen?” Patrik’s voice charged. “You keep your bloody hands off Gwen.”
“Too late,” Duncan said with a smug smile. “She is a feisty wench to grace any man’s bed.” When Patrik cursed, Duncan threw his opponent’s blade back and mercilessly attacked, driving the older man back.
“Patrik should have learned by now,” Alexander said.
“What is that?” Nichola asked.
“Not to fall for Duncan’s teasing.”
She turned up to him, a light blush staining her cheeks. “But he said . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Fear not,” Alexander said, her innocence welcome when he’d experienced so much war. “Duncan’s claims have a tendency to expand with the telling.”
“That I believe.”
“But his ploy is for a reason. Watch Patrik. See how every time Duncan mentions Gwen, Patrik grows angrier?”
“Yes.”
“Duncan uses Patrik’s anger to take his mind off their match.”
“Which gives Duncan the edge,” she said, her voice filled with understanding.
“Aye. It is best to learn your weakness so you can hone your strengths on the practice field. In battle, the error could cost you your life.”
Blades scraped. Duncan maneuvered his sword with a lightning quick slice to bring the tip down upon Patrik’s throat.
“Yield,” Duncan demanded, his breath heaving, the glint of victory in his eyes.
Patrik muttered a curse.
“What was that?” Duncan demanded, his burr rich with arrogance.
“I said you won this bloody match.” Patrik shoved the blade away from his neck. “And if I find you have had your hands on Gwen, I will flay your bloody arse.”
Duncan raised a hand with mock innocence. “It is not my fault if my skills as a satisfying lover appeal to her.”
“You have had your warning.” Patrik turned. His gaze collided with Nichola’s, and he halted. Anger flared in his eyes. He looked at Alexander. “I see you have made your way back home.”
Alexander stretched his sword arm. “As you.”
“Why is she here?”
Alexander gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “She comes by her own choice.”
“We need not English eyes prying about the castle.” With a curse, Patrik stormed away.
Duncan removed his mail hood, then slid his padded coif back. Sweat lay in a sheen across his brow. He walked up to them ignoring his brother’s upset; his blade secured and his helm shoved back as well.
“You have brought me wine for my victory, lass,” Duncan said.
“It is for the winner of the match.” When he reached for it, she moved the goblet from his reach.
Duncan stood a hand’s length before her. “And have I not won the match?”
“Aye,” she said. She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders, and Alexander’s interest piqued. He recognized the signs of her taking a stand, and was proud she’d not let Patrik’s anger subdue her. He remained silent, intrigued to see what her intent would be with his younger brother.
“You have won, but not a spar with Alexander,” Nichola said. “The wine is for the victor of that challenge.”
Practiced sadness curtained down his younger brother’s face. “Lass,” he said, his burr thick with the honeyed smoothness that Alexander had witnessed him using to seduce many a woman. “You have left me hurt by your shun.”
“I doubt I have done but bruised your pride.”
Warmth filled Alexander at her bravado. Though a prisoner, she refused to give into her fears and dared to stand up to his brother.
“Cede, Duncan,” Alexander said. “The lass believes not your sweetened words.”
Nichola turned toward Alexander, nerves lingering in her eyes, but a tingle of warmth as well.
His heart slammed against his chest as he watched her, wanting to take her to his chamber and finish what they’d started this day.
From the corner of his eye, Alexander caught Patrik returning. His brother’s temper still smoldered, but ’twould seem he’d calmed.
“I came here to spar,” Alexander said.
Patrik pulled his padded coif and mail hood into place, his sword in his hand. “I will have a round with you.”
“I welcome such.” Alexander withdrew his sword in a smooth sweep.
Patrik walked toward the open area of the practice field where he’d sparred with Duncan.
After securing his own gear, Alexander strode forward, the anticipation of the upcoming spar surging through him. When he reached the center of the clear space, he turned and lifted his sword.
Patrik raised his own. “I will not be giving you an advantage so you can be impressing the lass.”
“I have no need to impress her,” Alexander replied.
“No?” Patrik lunged forward.
Alexander swung his blade to intercept the blow. The blades clanged.
“You are bedding her,” Patrik charged, then began to circle him like a rabid wolf who’d cornered its prey. “I saw her flushed face this day, that of a woman pleasured. And the looks you give her.” He grunted with contempt. “Like those of a love sore fool.”
He didn’t love her. He cared, aye. But love? He couldn’t allow such a decision into his life. Alexander attacked with a merciless bite. He let his blade convey his thoughts.
Patrik tried to evade his blow, but he wasn’t quick enough.
Their swords clashed over and again until sweat poured down both their faces, their breaths labored, and a cacophony of striking steel raked through the air with a furious hiss.
At the next blow, Patrik deflected the hit, rotated, and thrust his sword upward in a quick slash.
Alexander fended off the attack. Barely. He caught Nichola’s horrified expression, then focused back on his brother.
“Is she worth it,” Patrik demanded as he wielded another fierce swing. Their swords met, shuddering from the strength of impact. Wildness gleamed in his eyes as he shoved Alexander back. “Is the bedding fine enough to make you forget she is English?”
“Leave it,” he snarled. He evaded Patrik’s next swing, but his brother surged forward, wielding his blade and forcing him to take a step back. Alexander stumbled.
Patrik took full advantage of his momentary weakness. He lunged forward in a punishing assault.
Alexander had no room to maneuver. In a last ditch effort, he repelled the next thrust, dropped, and rolled to the side before jumping to his feet. Only by the sheer surprise of his act did he escape Patrik’s blade.
Madness glittered in Patrik’s eyes as he drove forward.
“By God’s eyes, Patrik, it is practice!” Alexander parried, swung, thrust, then dodged Patrik’s blade, only to attack once again.
Patrik brought his weapon low.
He had to end it. Patrik’s anger had stolen his rationality. He could not allow his brother to harm him, or himself by forcing Alexander’s hand.
Alexander made his move. Twisting his sword, he caught Patrik’s own and flung it to the side.
Patrik lost his balance.
Alexander jumped forward, slipped his foot against Patrik’s legs and jerked them up, hard.
With a yelp, Patrik’s arms flailed as he tumbled back onto the ground. Before he could scramble to his feet, Alexander stood over him, the tip of his blade pressed firmly against his throat as Duncan had held his own against Patrik’s a short while before.
Nichola’s sharp intake of breath from the side reached him. As did Duncan’s calming words to her. “Yield,” Alexander demanded, his breathing hard.
Patrik glared up at him. Slowly, the madness in his gaze faded. “I will yield,” he said, “but I almost beat you because your mind is tangled with the English lass.”
Alexander grunted, unconvinced. His brother had used Duncan’s ploy to distract him during the fight. That he’d lost concentration during the spar at the mere mention of Nichola’s name said how important she was becoming in his life.
But more worrying was how Patrik’s temper had turned to madness during their fight. Until he’d pinned Patrik beneath his blade, Patrik had intended to do him harm.
All because of Patrik’s hated of English blood.
He would speak with Seathan. Patrik would not escort Nichola home. Alexander removed his blade from his brother’s throat, then extended his hand.
Patrik took it and allowed Alexander to help him to his feet.
“A good match,” Seathan said as he walked up, garbed in mail, his sword still sheathed. “I saw the last of it. For a time, I thought Patrik was going to best you.”
“His mind is on the Englishwoman,” Patrik spat. “The fool has bedded the wench.”
Seathan’s gaze cut to Alexander, dark with reminder of their early-morning discussion. “The bedding of her is his decision and hers. For our reasons, she’s only here for one purpose.”
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