The Lily and the Sword Read online

  Lily shook her head. It was pointless now to prevaricate. “No, Northumbria is my home. What do you in Grimswade, mother?”

  Gudren sighed. “I follow my husband, Olaf. He came to England as a mercenary with William of Normandy, and now he is armorer to Lord Radulf.”

  Lily’s gray eyes widened. “That must be a mighty job!”

  Gudren laughed heartily at that, her round stomach jiggling. “You are right, ’tis difficult to cover such a big man, but Lord Radulf rewards his armorer well. Olaf makes swords, too, as fine as any in England. They fit to the hand as if they were born there, and sing with joy as they slice through flesh and bone.”

  Lily felt her face lose some of its color. She was not squeamish; she had learned to face the truth about war—but there had been so much killing. Why must the Normans see every petty squabble as a chance to test their battle skills?

  “You have come from Radulf’s estates?” Lily asked quickly.

  Gudren nodded. “Aye, from Crevitch. We have been away for many months now. ’Tis soft country,” she added, with a trace of scorn. “Gentle hills and valleys, long green grass, and marshy flats. Lord Radulf longs for home, although”—she grinned knowingly—“he will never say so.”

  Lily tried to imagine Radulf longing for something, anything. The Radulf of legend liked nothing better than to slay his enemies, eat heartily, and slay some more. Nowhere in the story did it mention yearning to go home.

  Gudren poured herself more ale. “You seem curious about Lord Radulf. I will tell you the story of his life,” she announced, settling back in her chair.

  There was a scuffle beyond the tent entrance, followed by a cry, and then a man the size of a mountain forced his way past the guard and into the smoky interior.

  Lily screamed.

  Wild white hair, a face tanned almost black, and eyes as blue as the sky. He crouched double as he came toward her, his fist clenched around a lethal-looking axe.

  “Olaf?” Gudren’s voice was mildly scolding. “Why do you frighten the lady?”

  Olaf gave her a hideous scowl. “We are attacked, woman! Cannot you hear the fighting further up the hill? Bah, your tongue clacks too loud for you to hear anything! Come”—he reached out one meaty hand to Lily—“I am to take you to my lord. He would see you safe.”

  Now that the pounding of her heart had slowed, Lily could hear the sound of battle. Dull thuds and men’s shouts and the screams of the wounded. They were being attacked, but by whom? If they were enemies of the Normans, then surely they must be Lily’s friends?

  Briefly, she considered pushing by Olaf and running.

  But Olaf was enormous, and dangerous. She wouldn’t make it, and then she would have to explain her actions to Radulf. Meekly, Lily gave him her hand.

  “She speaks the language of the far north,” Gudren informed him with pleasure, as if there were nothing wrong.

  Olaf’s scowl remained, but his wife’s unflappable calm brought an appreciative gleam to his eyes. “Stay here, Gudren. I have set men to guard the women’s tents.” His voice dropped and became almost gentle. “I would not have anything happen to you.”

  Gudren smiled serenely. “I know you wouldn’t, husband.”

  For a moment their love for each other was like a fire, the sensation so strong that Lily was certain that if she reached out her hands, she would feel the warmth of it. A wave of loss and longing came over her as she thought of her terrible marriage to Vorgen and her childhood sweetheart Hew’s betrayal. Why couldn’t she have a love like Gudren and Olaf? Why must she always be frightened and alone?

  “Come,” ordered Olaf.

  Outside, the darkness was lightened by an almost full moon, which far outshone the feeble fires of the campsite. The fighting seemed to be beyond the horses’ enclosure, the sounds of battle waxing and waning on the chill breeze. Olaf’s tight hold on Lily tugged her onward between the tents and past grim, running men. The clatter of swords and shields made her head ache.

  Olaf grunted. “We will slaughter them like pigs.”

  Lily swallowed, and found her voice. “Who are they?” she managed, hoisting her skirts higher so that the wool cloth no longer impeded her progress—Olaf did not believe in taking ladylike steps.

  “What is left of Vorgen’s rebels. They have been watching us and they crept too close. I do not believe they wanted to fight, but they were discovered by our scouts. Now they are dying.”

  Were those poor souls the “friends” Father Luc meant? Lily hoped not. She did not want men to die for her, for a war already lost. If only she could speak to her people, to make them understand that further fighting would gain them nothing but more misery, and that their only hope now lay in Lily’s making peace with William of Normandy.

  And Radulf.

  They reached Radulf’s tent and Olaf unceremoniously pulled her inside. “Stay,” he barked at her, and was gone. Lily was left, disheveled and panting, in the place she had so recently escaped.

  “My lady!” Stephen, big-eyed with excitement, suddenly looked very young. “My—my lord asked that I stay here with you until he comes. Do you wish for wine? I have wine.”

  He obviously needed something to do. Lily nodded and allowed him to pour her a goblet. The sounds of fighting were growing sparser as the rebels escaped or were slain. Lily shivered, lifting the goblet and spilling some droplets in her haste. The wine slid down her throat, warmed her, and gave her back her courage. Her mind began searching for some hope to hold to, a spell against despair. More and more, she was beginning to believe she was Northumbria’s only chance of avoiding total devastation.

  Suddenly her legs felt weak with the responsibility. Lily sank down onto one of the stools, the goblet still grasped between her fingers.

  “My lady, you are ill?” Stephen asked from his place by the door.

  Lily shook her head. Silence fell, and so they stayed for some time.

  Until the heavy tread of men drew nearer.

  Lily lifted her head, listening. Voices called. She heard Radulf, his husky tones too low to be understood. Others answered him. A horse snorted and stomped. A man laughed—Olaf? And then Stephen straightened his back, like a soldier, and Radulf entered the tent.

  Chapter 4

  Radulf was an imposing figure in his hauberk and helmet. To see him so gave Lily a tingling shock. It was as if they were back in Grimswade church, at the very beginning, and strangers.

  They did not feel like strangers now.

  Lily comprehended this with some surprise, for they were barely more. Besides, he was her enemy, and furthermore an enemy she must persuade to her point of view if she was to regain her lands and save her people.

  Radulf removed his helmet, and Lily’s agitated thoughts came to a halt. His dark gaze was fixed on her, and suddenly it was as if nothing else mattered but being here with him. The moment was broken as Stephen hurried to assist his lord in unbuckling his sword and removing his hauberk. When Radulf sat once more in only his linen shirt and breeches, the boy carried away the chain mail, staggering under the enormous weight of it.

  Radulf ran a hand through his short black hair, flexing his shoulders, and lifted the goblet of wine Stephen had poured him. He did not appear to be cut or bruised, and the only sign Lily could see of the recent fighting was the reopening of the scab across his knuckles. She tried to view him dispassionately, telling herself it was the other men who deserved her concern, the pitiful remnants of Vorgen’s rebel army.

  But her heart told her she lied.

  Lily found her voice. “Have you taken any prisoners?”

  Radulf shook his head. “The leader and half the band escaped before my men could surround them. The rest of them preferred to fight. No one surrendered, they all fought to kill, and so did we. Brave men, if misguided.”

  “Who were they?”

  Radulf shrugged, and then winced when it hurt his wounded shoulder. “Vorgen’s men. Outlaws. Maybe both.”

  Stephen poured more win
e and asked in a murmur if his lord was hungry. Radulf shook his head. “Go to bed, boy. I will return this lady to Gudren’s tent myself.”

  When the squire had gone, Radulf gulped down the rest of his wine. The quiet of the tent seeped into him, and outside his camp returned to slumber. The attack had been countered and won, and he was whole and safe, and once more alone with her.

  The elation of battle had passed and left him, as always, light-headed with weariness. In such a state, he might have expected the lust to have died. It hadn’t; if anything it was worse than ever. And it was not that familiar lusty longing for a woman, any woman…no, this was different.

  For why had he sent for her? She had been safe enough in Gudren’s tent; Olaf would have seen to that. There had been a suspicion that her presence in the camp and the rebel attack were connected, but Radulf didn’t really believe that. He had thought only of having her close, protecting her.

  The acknowledgment was like an ache in his chest and memories of his father clamored for his attention. That worn, hard face the last time Radulf had seen him, twisted with a pain so vast there was no escaping it. He had died, they said, of a broken heart. Radulf had felt as if he, too, had died that day.

  He had vowed, after that, that never again would he allow any woman to penetrate his wounded heart. Love was for fools.

  Now he searched blindly for the well-worn phrases and reminders that had always worked before, on the few occasions he was tempted to forget.

  He could not find them.

  All of that was suddenly unimportant. He was lost in a foreign land, alone and confused and frightened. A land he had visited but once before, with disastrous consequences. Dare he try again?

  Slowly, Radulf lowered his goblet and let his gaze settle on Lily.

  He forced his mind to be cold, objective. She was only a woman…Only a woman…

  She was standing near the wall of the tent, her fair hair neatly plaited, her hands clasped at her waist. He wondered how old she was, and then dismissed the thought—she was old enough. He let his gaze run over her breasts, where the curves were clearly outlined beneath the red gown. Her waist was so trim he could span it with his hands, and her hips were rounded despite her slenderness. The long line of her thighs was clearly visible, and before he could prevent the thought, Radulf was wondering if the curls nestling between those thighs were as wondrous fair as her hair, or as dark as her lashes and brows.

  She was only a woman.

  Beads of sweat stood out on his broad brow. Slowly his eyes lifted to Lily’s, the banked fires in their depths alight and burning out of control. She would run now, he thought. Run screaming from his tent.

  “My lord?” Lily managed. He realized, in shocked surprise, that her voice was as constricted as his. Could she possibly be feeling something of what he was feeling? He didn’t know and in another moment wouldn’t care. One thing was certain: she was not running, and if she did not run soon, then he would have her.

  She was only a woman and he was the King’s Sword. Had he not the right to take what he wanted?

  “You are wondrous fair, Lady Lily,” he whispered, his voice deeper even than usual. He watched her lashes flicker, her breath quickening between her lips. Could she…was it possible that she was caught up in the heat of a passion just as great as his?

  The thought gave him just enough strength to control the powerful urge coursing through him. He would not grab her and take her like a wild animal. Instead he would woo her, turn her willingness into submission. He knew—that damned ache in his chest again!—that he wanted her to want him. To take her and afterward see nothing but fear and loathing on her face would be worse than dying.

  “Come here, Lily.”

  He held out his hand and she stared at it as if she didn’t understand what he meant.

  “Please?” he murmured thickly. His fingers flicked softly, beckoning. The great Radulf, begging! Yet in this moment he was no more than a man, and she was only a woman.

  It was the please that drew Lily to him. Hesitantly she gave him her fingers. Slowly and with infinite care, Radulf drew her forward until she stood in the space between his knees. Lily’s eyes half closed until they were nothing but a silver-gray gleam through her thick lashes. Her breath quickened.

  But she did not move away.

  Radulf leaned closer and lifted his other hand, again so slowly that Lily had more than ample time to tell him no, or to run away. His hand trembled. Again she waited, her breasts rising and falling as though each breath were a labor. At last his fingers brushed her lips, hardly a touch at all, and then slid quickly down over her throat, fingertips callused against her softness, and closed over her left breast.

  Lily gasped, her body stiffening, a heat rising in her such as she had never experienced before. In the befuddlement of her mind she wondered at the power Radulf had over her. His touch was certainly magic. Her breast seemed to swell in his hand, the nipple growing taut. He brushed his thumb against it. The movement caused a new rush of hotness, and Lily’s skin felt flushed all over, from her head to her toes.

  With a groan, Radulf swept her off her feet and onto his lap. His arms closed about her, encircling her in a warm, safe cave of flesh and muscle. Yet Lily knew the feeling of safety was an illusion.

  Halfheartedly she pushed her hands against his chest, thinking he would ignore her feeble attempts at self-preservation, not really wanting him to stop. But Radulf stopped as if she had struck him with his own sword. There was a moment of heavy breathing silence, and then he lifted her chin and searched her eyes with his own. His face was taut with desire, his mouth a thin, hard line.

  “Lily?” The question was a husky rasp.

  Lily sighed languidly. Her body felt warm and liquid, awakening to sensations so new and exciting, she did not want him to stop. She hardly recalled the reason she was there. Whatever happened later, she would savor this moment.

  He must have read her answer in her eyes, because abruptly, as if he had lost his slender grip on self-control, Radulf bent his head and claimed her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. Lily heard her own soft groan.

  She ran her hands blindly over his face, tracing the scar across his cheek, and then up into his hair, tugging him closer. Beneath her thighs his hard muscles tightened, while his manhood jutted boldly against her hip.

  And still the kiss went on, as if it would never end.

  Lily allowed Radulf to open her mouth with his, to taste of her as if she were his goblet of wine. His tongue slid inside to tangle with hers, and brought with it a vivid impression of her body catching fire from his. And burning.

  When at last he drew away, he looked dazed, as dazed as she. “It is too late to run now. You are mine,” he breathed against her throat. His mouth began to move downward in soft, quick kisses, seeking the sweet flesh beneath the neckline of her chemise, while his hand reached up to once more encircle each breast. The feeling of his hot mouth closing over her nipple catapulted Lily to a place she had never known before. How could she have imagined such sensations were possible? How could she have known from Vorgen’s frustrated, angry fumbling, or Hew’s boyish kisses, that passion such as this existed? Radulf reached a place inside her that she hadn’t even acknowledged was there.

  It frightened her. If Radulf could so easily turn her from the woman she had always been, how could she stand against him? How could she leave him?

  Lily pushed at his head, as if to force him away from her breasts, but, contrarily, when he lifted his gaze to hers, she felt the loss of him. He was watching her again, his tanned cheeks flushed. What was he always seeking in her face?

  Worried and afraid, Lily tried to stand, saying in her most censorious voice, “No, Radulf. Is this how a knight cares for a lady under his protection?”

  Radulf grinned. He stood up, following her cat-footed as she backed toward the bed. “If the lady is willing, yes.”

  “What if the lady is wed?” she burst out.

  That stopped
him. He frowned at her, tension in every line of him. “Are you wed, Lily?”

  Reluctantly, the truth was forced out of her. “No. Not any longer. He is dead.”

  A smile curled his lips once more. A victor’s smile. “Then come to me, mignonne,” he murmured, and drew her to him. Lily gasped as his hands smoothed over her back and hips, closing on her buttocks, pressing her firmly against him. She felt the hard length of him, and hot visions of her touching him, holding him, opening to him, took hold of her fevered mind. There was a terrible yearning ache in the pit of her stomach, and the need to satisfy it overshadowed all other considerations. If there had ever been a time to draw back, it was now gone.

  “Radulf,” Lily gasped.

  He was peeling off her red gown and then her chemise, his hands unintentionally rough against her bare, smooth skin. She was naked from the waist up. Lily cried out softly when he found her breasts and began to knead the full warm flesh. He made a low sound in his throat and bent his head, his mouth fastening on a swollen bud.

  Lily’s head fell back, her long plait spearing over her arched spine. Only Radulf’s arm about her shoulders prevented her from falling. Her body had lost all strength, had turned molten. She groaned again, her hands creeping blindly beneath his shirt and running over the hard, curving muscles of his chest. There were scars there, too, and she smoothed them with her fingertips, as if her touch would heal all past hurts.

  Perhaps, she thought dizzily, they could heal each other.

  Radulf finished with one breast and turned his attention to the other. Lily swayed, offering her flesh to his hands and lips. Still it wasn’t enough. As if he sensed as much, Radulf swung her up into his arms and in one fluid movement laid her upon his bed. Lily opened her mouth to protest, dazed gray eyes turning to him, and stopped in wonder.

  Radulf was stripping off his clothing, tearing at the cloth in his haste. Lily’s awestruck gaze wandered over his broad chest, down to his flat stomach and narrow hips and rampant masculinity. Vorgen had never been so…so big, so hard. Lily had not known that a man’s body could become so proudly arrogant, and yet so beautiful.