Authors: Diana J. Cosby
His Captive (22 page)
And she soared. She’d thought that after the last time she couldn’t feel anymore, but under his skilled hands her nerves fled. On his next stroke, her doubts diminished in a blazing inferno.
When Alexander positioned himself above her, she hesitated, but as he worked his hands over her body, his touch stripped her of her last fears. Then he eased within her, watching her, his eyes hot with passion.
She’d expected discomfort, but instead, his presence within her ignited a new urgency. He stilled within her dewed entrance and began pressing kisses on the curve of her breast, nibbling until heat kindled inside her. Needing all of him, she pressed against him.
At her boldness, he slid deeper inside her, just a degree only to pull out again. He continued to move, again the pressure began to build inside her. With his next stroke, needing relief, she drove her body up to meet his. He penetrated her inner shield and sheathed himself fully inside her; a sharp pain lanced through her.
He laid still, his breaths ragged. “I am sorry for that. It will never hurt again.”
She shook her head and smiled, her body already adjusting to his size. “I feel naught but love.”
He groaned, claiming her mouth in a heated kiss and began to move within her.
Nichola basked in his every stroke, amazed by what his every touch made her feel. When his fingers slid down to intimately caress her, his mouth seducing hers, she helplessly raced up and spiraled into an explosion of light.
“Alexander!” She clung to him, taking him as he filled her over and again, amazed that even now, with her mind awash with sheer wonder, he could take her higher. Then, with her name spilling from his lips, he plunged deep and filled her with his seed.
For a minute they lay there, him poised above her, their heat, their bodies, mingled in sweat. If he never moved, she wouldn’t complain.
The wild glaze in his eyes warmed to tenderness. He leaned down and kissed her with a sultry heat. “That,” he whispered, “is making love.”
“Is it always the same?”
Alexander rolled over and drew her to his side. “No.” He stroked her face with his fingers, her lips, then lay his palm along her cheek. He kissed her tenderly. “I have never felt this way with any other woman.”
Nichola smiled, for once in her life finding herself at a loss for words and not caring. Alexander nestled beside her. He rested his arm over her naked body, but this time she found no shame in his touch.
Only peace.
The haze of sleep claimed her, but throughout the night, much to her surprise and joy, he claimed her over and again; until her mind was filled with nothing but him and the pleasures of their lovemaking.
As dawn peeked into the sky and he finally slept with her in his arms, she smiled, happy, sated, and never feeling so loved. Then the ramifications of their intimacy crept through her, a consequence she’d not considered.
What if she carried his child?
Chapter Sixteen
The irate grumble of men spewed through the room with an angry bite. Torchlight flickered over the brawny mass of Scots, lairds of their clans who’d joined in the rebellion against the English king.
Alexander scoured the room. Seathan would have his hands filled this night to keep the tempers under control. A task his brother was more than capable of.
On the dais, Seathan stood. The room quieted to an unruly murmur. “My brothers and I have devised a plan to aid in Wallace’s escape,” he said, his voice strong as his gaze moved around the room in a slow, lingering sweep.
“If he is not bloody dead,” a fierce, red-haired laird yelled. “The bastards are slowly starving him, feeding him naught but rancid herring and water.”
Anger carved through the tight calm of Seathan’s face. “We will free Wallace, and the English will pay for the injustices to our people.” Heads nodded. “I have sent word to Wulfe to meet us outside of Ayr.”
With detail, Seathan outlined the strategy he and his brothers had plotted out over the past few days. When he finished, debates of their plan began in earnest.
From the back of the room, a commotion stirred. Wallace’s man pushed through. “Lord Grey, I have important news.”
Everyone turned toward the messenger, whose eyes were red, wrung with grief.
Expectancy hung like a noose over every man’s head. The rebels stepped aside. Not a man said a word as the messenger hurried forward.
The runner reached the dais, his breathing coming in sharp rasps, dirt coating his garb; both a testament that he’d traveled hard to reach them.
Seathan nodded. “What word do you bring?”
“It is Sir Wallace,” the man said. Shaking with exhaustion, he turned to face the crowd. “He is dead!”
The rebels exploded into an uproar. Curses flew. Angry shouts calling for an immediate attack on Ayr rent the air.
Dazed, Alexander wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger and squeezed tight. Wallace was dead? What in God’s name were they to do now?
“Silence,” Seathan ordered, his face ragged with the keening loss that was reflected on every warrior’s face in the room.
Alexander stepped up to his brother’s side, his heart raw. “We cannot let our anger destroy our cause. Whatever happens from now on, it must be as a unified front. We will neither let Wallace, nor our people down.”
“The English bastards will not win,” Duncan added, stepping up beside Seathan.
Eyes hot with hatred, Patrik joined his brothers. “If need be, we will slaughter every last one.”
Angry cheers of the outraged men boomed in agreement.
Seathan gave Patrik a quelling look, then he turned toward the rebels. “To massacre the English for the satisfaction of killing will earn us only King Edward’s wrath.”
“As if the bloody bastard does not slay our babes in our sleep now?” Patrik demanded.
“If we lowered to Longshank’s methods, it makes us no better than him,” Alexander threw out to the crowd. Damn Patrik for stirring up the men further. Couldn’t he see his outburst was driving the already grief-stricken men into a frenzy? Or was that his intent?
“By God, I will have silence in the chamber!” Seathan demanded. His gaze swept the incensed men within the room. Amidst grumbles and curses, the warriors gradually quieted. “What Alexander said makes sense. To attack without a plan is foolhardy.”
“So we wait?” Patrik said with contempt.
Seathan shot Patrik a hard look. “Aye. We will. To allow our tempers to rule would be our greatest error.”
“What are we to do now?” asked a stocky man with a grizzled beard.
“First,” Seathan said, “we retrieve Sir Wallace’s body and give him the burial he deserves.”
“Like they would open the gates to Ayr and bloody allow us in,” a laird from the back said.
Grunts of agreement rolled through the room.
Seathan shook his head. “No, the odds are they will not let us in without a fight.”
“But they might allow his nurse inside,” Alexander added, the plan he and his brothers had devised, brilliant in its simplicity.
“His nurse?” another laird shouted in disbelief. “Christ’s blood. Why not send in a child of six summers to dicker with the English scum? It would be as effective.”
Mutters of agreement backed up his claim.
“The sheriff of Ayr will not be suspecting a woman to aid in our recovery of Wallace’s body,” Seathan reasoned.
The laird snorted. “It is a man’s job.”
“And what the English will be thinking and expecting as well,” Alexander shot back.
“What of Wulfe?” a man near the front asked.
Seathan nodded. “A runner will be sent to meet him and bring him to meet us at Ayr.”
After a pause, Patrik turned to the crowed. “I would be agreeing with the plan.”
“As I,” Duncan stated.
Pride filled Alexander at his brothers’ unity. In strife, they put their differences aside. United as one.
The room hummed with fervor. One by one the rebels agreed.
With the anger of moments ago fading, Alexander thought of Nichola up in her chamber. The sweet warmth of her as they’d made love still thrummed through him. Her innocent touch. Her complete surrender.
He’d not meant to touch her. But what man in his right mind could have resisted such temptation when she’d reached out to him? Even now, hours after he’d left her, memories of their bodies entwined, her slick sheath taking him deep inside her blistered his thoughts. Of how after, she had trustingly curled up next to him and fell into a deep, restful sleep.
His body throbbed at the thought of waking to find her curled up next to him in his bed. However tempted to wake her and make love with her again, he’d left her sleeping in her own bed. Speculation of her being his mistress was one thing, but anyone finding her in his chamber would provide proof.
And tarnish any remainder of her reputation.
As if his abducting her hadn’t done as much? A thought that’d come too late. He would rectify his discrepancy. He hadn’t told his brothers of his decision to claim her hand in marriage and to have her remain here. Though she’d not agreed when he’d asked her at the chapel, once she calmed, he was sure she would cede. He wouldn’t lose her.
Now or ever.
But he’d not speak of a union with Nichola now. Especially not with Wallace’s death so fresh.
Alexander awaited the guilt of his decision to hand-fast with an Englishwoman. The self-condemnation of marrying a woman who should be his enemy. Instead, a sense of rightness filled him. A sense of wanting her remained.
Wallace’s death would further fuel the dissent toward the English. Nichola’s presence would give the people within the castle a focus for their anger. He frowned. If she agreed, would her remaining in Lochshire Castle as his wife be putting her life at risk?
At this moment, he couldn’t be sure.
“And what of the rebellion?” a laird from the right corner asked, breaking into Alexander’s musings.
“Our plans to regain Scotland’s freedom are unchanged,” Seathan replied. “De Moray is en route to my home as we speak. Wallace had gained his employ prior to his arrest.”
“How can that be?” a large Scot from the left called out. “De Moray was imprisoned after the Battle of Dunbar with his father.”
“I have received news this morn from one of Sir de Moray’s men that he has escaped. I suspect with the help of several of Wallace’s men. Sir de Moray had planned to meet with Sir Wallace and Wulfe here on the morrow,” Seathan explained, “but with Sir Wallace dead, I am confident Sir de Moray will step into the position as our leader without hesitation.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
Alexander stared at his brother, stunned by the news of Sir de Moray’s escape as well as filled with relief that their rebellion would continue with strong leadership.
Unbeknownst to the English, they had made a critical mistake. The loss of Sir Wallace would but rouse the Scots further. Aye, the English had struck a fierce blow with the death of Sir Wallace, but their butchery would not go unanswered. With Sir Moray to lead them and Wulfe to slip them English troop movements, the Scottish forces would teach the English bastards a lesson.
One they would never forget.
“I will be waiting within the edge of the forest when they bring out Wallace’s body,” the red-haired man stated.
“As I,” a laird from the back agreed.
Seathan nodded. “I will choose several more men from this room, plus I will add my own knights to ride along as well.” His gaze moved from man to man. “It is time to pull together.” His gaze lingered on Patrik. “Not strike out in anger. We cannot allow our actions to be guided by emotions. To do so could jeopardize the very freedom we strive to reclaim.”
At Seathan’s bolstering words, lauds to Scotland rang out in fierce shouts.
The angry churn of voices arrowed into Nichola’s heart. She pressed further into the shadows at the back of the room where torchlight didn’t reach.
William Wallace was dead.
The stories of the mountain of a man, as lethal as he was charming, spun through her mind. She experienced a moment’s regret.
But as dangerous as their deceased leader was, the men within the room presented a more viable threat. More so with the news of Sir de Moray’s imminent arrival. And this English lord they called Wulfe.
The rebels’ righteous anger would fuel them to lay siege to England with an even deeper hatred. And Sir de Moray’s reputable cunning would ensure lethal attacks that would strike fear in the hearts of the English.
All too easy she could imagine the terror, the carnage. Her stomach rebelled at the thought. Lord help them all.
“It is unwise to eavesdrop when a country makes plans for war,” a low voice hissed against her ear.
Nichola whirled to find herself boxed in by a large, muscled body. She looked up. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into Patrik’s partially shadowed face, his expression carved with contempt.
Mary’s will! “I—I did not mean—”
“To listen in? To slink in the darkness of the corner to garner information to pass on to your English king?”
He leaned closer, his body blocking out any light, his face drenched in shadows. The rawness of his fury smothering her.
Terrified, Nichola pressed back. The cold stone wall dug into her shoulders. “No, that is not the truth.” She wet her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, understanding how furtive her actions must appear to him. “I had come to see Alexander. When I heard the angry voices I was curious to the reason why and . . .” His skeptical grunt made her hesitate.
“To see Alexander?” His mouth curled in a sneer. “You expect he would want to see you now that he has gained your bed?”
Coldness vibrated through her. Alexander wasn’t the shallow man Patrik painted him. He hadn’t said he loved her, but his actions spoke of a deeply caring man. “It is the truth.”
He angled his face. Yellowed torchlight illuminated the temper in his eyes that she’d witnessed in his spars with Alexander on the practice field.
“Treachery is no game,” he said.
“I know.”
“If I dragged you into the chamber of Scots behind us, exposed you as an English spy, it would be their justice you would taste.”
After Patrik had almost thrown her down the turret, she had no doubts he would. Panic swept her. The act of spying in these unstable times dealt her a swift blow. She imagined the noose slipping around her neck, the rough cord as they yanked it tight. Even if Alexander tried to intervene, with the rebels’ outrage this night, no leniency or compassion would be offered.
Sir William Wallace’s brutal death ensured that.
“Please,” she whispered. “I am innocent of your charge.”
Nichola glanced back toward the stairway and wished she’d never left the safety of her chamber. After making love to Alexander, for the first time since her arrival, she’d let down her guard and had foolishly followed her heart. “If you let me go, I will naught say a word to anyone. I swear it.”
“Patrik,” a Scot from inside the room yelled. “What are you about hidden away in the corner?”
Panic surged through her as his calloused hand seized her arm. She tensed.
“A word of this to anyone,” he hissed, his face dark with menace, “and I will serve you death beneath my own hand. Do you understand?”
Unsure what spawned his reprieve, she nodded. He released her and turned, leaving her hidden in the darkness. Patrik shoved his way to the front of the crowd where his brothers and other men argued tactics.
Keeping to the shadows, Nichola fled. Only after she’d reached her room, thankful not to be dragged before the outraged Scots and slain, did she crumble upon her bed. And to think, before she’d worried about something as mundane as carrying Alexander’s child.
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