An Outlaw's Honor Page 2

  “Your words of warning would be better spoken to my father, Aunt.” Annora shrugged. “I am the one least able to heed your counsel. He cares little for me since I am neither a son to continue his claim here, nor am I the biddable daughter he demands.”

  “You can be used for his purposes, Annora. So, you have value to him. Your blood will continue his line. Your marriage will keep these lands in his family, under his control.”

  “But how, Aunt Eldrida? With no male heir...”

  “The king decides the fate of the title and the lands,” her aunt finished her words. “Or the man who holds his authority does. I would expect to hear news of arrangements for your betrothal, if not marriage, in the coming weeks.”

  As Annora realized the truth in her aunt’s words and the enormity of the implications, a clatter rose near the entrance, drawing her and her aunt’s attention. And the attention of everyone in the Great Hall, whether servant, visitor, or kin. Annora stood as a huge man entered.

  He was at least a foot taller than most in the hall, who gaped at his every move. Reaching up, he lifted his helm from his head and pushed back the hood under it, exposing his lack of hair at once. Wearing a mail hauberk that reached down his long legs to his knees and heavy boots beneath it, his every step could be heard as he made his way towards the front of the hall, following one of her father’s men. But he did not follow meekly. Nay, he surveyed everything and everyone there as he walked with the assurance of power in his stride. His gaze fell on her, and Annora could not help the gasp that escaped her.

  ’Twas not the polite expression of some supplicant knight. Nor was it respectful. After he directed a question to and received some answer from his escort, the man changed his path and walked to where she stood. Annora resisted the urge to seek cover. Her feet had backed her up towards the stone wall behind her before she realized it, and she knew how it would look to those observing this encounter. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched his approach.

  “Know thy enemy,” her aunt whispered, startling her. She’d not even noticed Eldrida at her side.

  “Enemy, Aunt?”

  “Well, a man like that is not your friend.”

  A shiver coursed through her body as he grew close enough for her to see that his eyes were brown. He was indeed more than a foot taller than even her and she was known to be tall for a woman. Gathering her wits about her, Annora watched him stride through those nearer her with the grace and manner of a predator. Though his gaze rested on her mostly, he never stopped studying the place, the people, the path and, she noticed, the ways out of the hall.

  When he stopped before her, she lost the ability to think.

  He was the most beautiful, most arrogant, most masculine person she’d ever seen. Annora stared at his face with its slight scruff of beard unshaven and its hard angles that made him terrifying in a male way. Her gaze moved down to take in the width of his shoulders, the massive size of his arms and thighs visible and intimidating under the chain mail and gambeson he wore.

  He tucked his helm under his arm and smiled at her. ’Twas not a welcoming, warm smile. For a moment, she felt like his prey, waiting and holding her breath for him to make the first strike against her. Her body filled with an awareness she’d never felt before—parts of her ached, while other places tingled. She struggled to draw in a breath as the anticipation surrounded her like a vice.

  The knight moved closer and leaned over to her, holding out his hand for hers. He wore no gauntlets or gloves; they lay tucked under his belt at his waist, and so his hands were revealed to be strong and as large as he was. Without thought, she offered her hand, and as he took it, Annora felt the callouses created by hard use rub against her palm. Lifting it higher and higher, he paused until she was forced now to look up to meet his eyes.

  Hunger.

  His gaze was hungry.

  When he brought her hand to his lips in a gesture of greeting and honor, Annora could not be sure that he would not bite her. Another wave of aching, terror, want and anticipation filled her as he held her hand beneath his mouth for a moment without moving. Then, his brown gaze locked with her own, and he inhaled slowly before touching his lips to her skin. Scenting her as a predator did before the attack.

  Without moving his gaze from hers, he opened his mouth and kissed her hand in a most inappropriate way. Insulting, really, for his mouth lingered too long, and his tongue touched her skin. The heat of him moved through her, overwhelming her in a way she could not describe. Then, he smiled.

  A smile should soften one’s expression. It should show pleasure or acceptance or happiness. It should.

  This man’s smile simply confirmed what she already knew about him—he was handsome, he was strong, and he was dangerous in a way she’d never encountered before. Yet, as he watched her in those few moments, she did not feel the fear that she should. Nay, she was certain he would not harm her. Instead, Annora thought he would simply consume her. He would take everything she had to give and want more. He would do things to her...

  “My lord and the Earl of Northumberland await within, sir!”

  His escort spoke in a loud enough voice to wake the dead or to interrupt this strange encounter. And yet, the man still held her hand close to his mouth, never releasing it and keeping it positioned so that she could feel his breath, his heated breath, on her flesh.

  “My lady Annora, I fear I must tend to my duties. ’Twas a pleasure.” He paused and kissed her hand once more. Before she could withdraw it, he turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  “Sir!” Annora pulled her hand free at the scandalous, intimate action.

  He laughed then, and, with a bow to her, he turned to follow the escort.

  “Who are you?” she called out as he moved swiftly away from her now.

  He’d heard her, for he stopped and faced her.

  “I am called Thomas of Kelso, my lady. And who I am depends on many things. At the least, I am your enemy. At the best, I will be your...” When he would have said something more, the escort called him again, this time louder to gain his attention.

  “Sir Thomas! Now!”

  With those provocative words, he disappeared into the chamber where her father and his liege waited, adding to the mystery of the situation. The only things not a mystery to her were the danger of him and the threat he offered to her, body and soul.

  Ignoring what he’d claimed, she prayed to the Almighty then that this man was simply a messenger. One who overstepped. One who insulted. One who was not part of her father’s plans. That she would never see him again. He was too…much in too many ways. Annora was no fool, though, and she understood that a man like this one was not what she wanted him to be—a simple messenger. Nay, he was more a portent of doom and she feared for the poor soul that would be his target.

  Suddenly, the door to the chamber where they discussed this matter swung open, and this Thomas of Kelso strode out, leaving a trail of angry voices behind him. Everyone in the hall scattered to avoid him now as his expression turned dark and menacing, and his hands clenched in fists as he strode towards the entryway of the keep. Her father charged from the solar then, only to be held within by his liege lord, the earl. When they slammed the door once more, she turned and watched Thomas of Kelso as he left.

  Annora pulled away from her aunt, followed him out into the yard and watched as he mounted one of the largest horses she’d ever seen. Only when he began to ride away without a backwards glance, did she let out the breath she’d been holding in forever. She savored the relief of his exit for only a moment. As they rode through the gates, she caught sight of and recognized the standard flying over his party.

  Dear God in Heaven, protect them!

  The banners carried the symbol of the rampant lion, red on a yellow background.

  He rode under the banner of the king of Scotland.

  King William. King Richard. Prince John. All forceful. All dangerous. All
relentless in their pursuits.

  What in the name of heaven was her father doing? What kind of plans could involve the most powerful men in the world? She shivered then as the group rode through the gates. Her body trembled and shook, reacting now to what had happened and her fears of what was to come.

  Somehow, Lady Annora of Prudhoe, daughter of Lord Robert de Umfraville and the late Lady Mildred of Northumbria, knew in her bones that she was in the middle of it. So, when the call came to travel to the west of England to a tournament of lords and knights and ladies from England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland and the continent, Annora realized the danger she faced.

  With the backing of the Scottish king, Thomas of Kelso had challenged her father, and she was the prize. He was laying claim to her—body, soul, life and lands.

  Chapter Three

  Gracious Hill, England

  The Middle of June, in the year of Our Lord, 1193

  The market abounded with people of all sorts, even now, days before Lord Yves’s tournament was scheduled to begin. Though many merchants had set up tents nearer to the field where the main events, challenges, jousts and such would be held, the center of the town was busy as usual. Carts with all manner of foodstuffs—fresh from the summer fields or baked or cooked—lined the area. Roasting meat and fowl on spits and the honey-sweetened aroma of cakes and treats filled the air for blocks around. Those selling their wares were no fools—’twas those smells that drew customers.

  Indeed, ’twas those that had drawn him there. Thomas’s belly was not empty, so he should not be hungry, except that he always was now. Once he’d been granted a reprieve from the slow death of starvation or the quicker one of execution, all he seemed to do was eat.

  Well, eat and fight.

  Actually, his days were now filled with eating and fighting and fucking.

  As a man deprived of all those things did when they were given back to him. Lucky thing for him, the king had provided enough gold to make certain he could have as much as he wanted. And, oh, he wanted.

  Two months had passed since he’d walked out of that cell in the dungeon at Edinburgh Castle, and he’d not missed any chance to do those three things every time they were a possibility. Eating was the first thing he did with relish since his body was in no shape for the others for several weeks. When his strength returned, so did his need and want to bury himself in the softness that only a woman offered. So, he did, every night and most days since his freedom was granted.

  Even now, walking through the market without the armor that marked him as a combatant in the coming tourney, Thomas noticed the glances thrown his way by the women there. His height drew their attention first, for since his youth, he had stood above most. His height had its advantages and challenges. ’Twas both in battle, when being able to see over attackers helped, and yet being clearly seen by enemies and the like did not.

  When his appearance matured into a countenance that pleased women, he began to draw attention for that. He refused to be vain, but he accepted the truth of it.

  As he bought three meat pies from one tent and two small cakes from another, he thought about the disadvantages of his looks and height when it came to women and could come up none. Neither his bed, nor cot, nor chamber or tent was ever empty of a willing woman or women.

  Walking through the rest of the marketplace as he ate, Thomas took note of other knights and lords as they passed him by. By week’s end, the fields and town and the Rose Citadel would be filled. There would be little open ground or places of privacy once everyone arrived. The cream of nobility and the dregs of the rest would be in attendance. Right now, Thomas was more the latter than the former.

  When the last crumbs of the cakes were consumed, Thomas made his way back through the town to the gate nearer the castle. The fields outside the castle would host the tournament, and that was where his tent, or rather the king of Scotland’s tent, was located. Thomas would rather have remained unidentified until his private challenge of de Umfraville was called, but the king had other things in mind. Being a king, he did not deign to share all the important bits with Thomas. There was more, much more, to the king’s reasoning about this entire endeavor that Thomas had not been told.

  Oh, anyone who knew about the jostling that went on between the kingdoms of Scotland and England knew of William’s anger over losing Northumberland to the English. He’d held the lands and titles until the present king’s father had taken them away. Even William’s attempts to capture them back as part of the Young King’s uprising against the Old King had ended with him as a hostage in Normandy and paying a huge ransom for his release.

  When that treaty was dissolved by the present king’s need for gold for his crusade, William had still not been able to regain Northumberland or the title he craved, and Thomas only knew that Prudhoe and the de Umfraville family played some part in it all.

  “Take the castle and the girl. I have plans for the castle, but the girl is yours,” William had commanded.

  Thomas’s lands and title and wealth would be returned to him as a reward as well. The girl was a complication at best and a problem at worse. What did a man do with a highborn woman if marriage or fucking were not part of the bargain?

  Oh, after his encounter with the lady Annora, he understood that he could swive her from morning till night and then until morning again. Her eyes were intense and intelligent—the aquamarine color of the water off the shores of a distant western isle he’d visited in his outlaw years. He’d never seen the like anywhere else in his travels, nor on another woman.

  That mouth tempted him in his dreams. When she’d watched him lift her hand to his mouth and gasped, her lovely lips had formed the shape any man would want to feel on his cock—his flesh had hardened and waited for her attentions. That mouth would drive him mad. Her lush body would push him to the end of his control. The scent and taste of her skin, even that tiny sampling he took without permission or regard for manners or propriety, made him hunger in so many ways.

  Even now, just remembering her face, the curves of her body and the way her curling blonde hair swayed around her hips as she moved, caused his cock to harden once more. He shifted his breeches and walked on, knowing with every step that the girl would be a problem.

  Thomas strode through the gates, nodding to the guards as he passed. He’d arrived dressed in his armor to bring greetings to the Baron de la Rose from William, and the two guards standing here now had escorted him to the castle and their lord. Even without the accoutrements of battle, they recognized him now, and he knew the whispers would begin.

  Brisbois. Bone-breaker.

  By the time the tourney opened, there would be a list of challenges for him. The king told him to take any challenge he wished and to ignore any others, but that none of that should interfere with the fight William had machinated with de Umfraville’s champion. Nothing should.

  Thomas followed the road through the collection of buildings and cottages and such that lined the road to the gate. He found the path that led out to the area where tents were being assembled and places assigned by the baron’s steward. Each day brought more and more people; the highest ranking of the nobles would be housed within the castle, while any others would remain in the camps. As the king’s champion, Thomas had been granted a chamber inside, but the damp, enclosing walls of stone offered him no welcome. Nay. ’Twas better to be out in the open, under the stars, where he could breathe more freely.

  “Eating again?”

  Thomas glanced over to find the man William had sent there waiting and watching. Without hesitation, Thomas brushed any crumbs, present or non-existent from his cloak and tunic.

  “Have you nothing better to do than wait and insult me, Martel? Is that what the king ordered you to do in my service?” Thomas passed by the man and entered the tent, ducking low to ensure he did not injure his head. “Has the Lord of Prudhoe arrived yet?”

  “If you had accepted Lord Yves’s invitation to sta
y within the keep, you would have been better apprised of those arriving and departing,” Martel said in a flippant tone.

  Thomas’s first reaction was to strike the arrogant man for those words and the insult that dripped from each one. Sadly, Martel was not just Thomas’s manservant and most times his squire—he was also the king’s man. And he conferred with others sent by the king, whether servants or knights seeing to other “matters.” ’Twas the duties Thomas did not know of that worried him the most. So, he flexed his fist and moved across the tent.

  “Set someone up to watch. He must present his champion to the baron, and I would know who it is sooner rather than later.”

  “Aye, sir.” Not so much mocking that time.

  “Have challenges been made of me?”

  “Only informal ones, sir. Most will come before the banquet.”

  “I wish to practice, so if some come to you inquiring, tell me. Or choose the best and set a time. If any Scots are among them, say aye.” He’d seen several other Scots at the king’s castle and understood that his was not the only play in this game. He’d rather train against countrymen than unidentified foreigners. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck, he knew he was almost back to his best condition physically. But staying with his training, or retraining, rituals would maintain his strength and agility now that he had reclaimed it.

  The process of going from half-starved and half-dead to fighting strength had taken every day of these last months since he’d been freed from the king’s dungeon. No expense was spared, no demand unmet as the convicted traitor became Sir Thomas Brisbois of Kelso once more.