Chapter Thirteen #3
Meanwhile, Thel had made her way over to the opposite edge of the table, speaking quietly to a servant.
Brogan’s eyes tracked her; to anyone else, it might have seemed he was simply interested in the dark-eyed wench, but to St. Alban, it seemed as if Brogan was going to jump out of his chair and grab her.
He wanted news of Avalyn so badly that he was nearly crazed, but if Thel noticed his stare, she never let on.
She stood near the edge of the table, waiting patiently until the servant returned from the kitchens with a trencher for the lady.
Thel thanked the man, took the trencher and passed to the rear of St. Alban and Brogan on her way from the hall.
But she made sure to pass close enough to St. Alban that he could hear her whisper.
“Stables,” she murmured. “One hour.”
St. Alban barely heard her. Brogan only heard hissing. Thel continued on her way, slipping from the hall virtually unnoticed. St. Alban leaned casually in Brogan’s direction.
“The stable,” he said, taking a bite of bread. “One hour.”
Brogan’s stomach was in knots. He couldn’t eat, but he continued to drink. St. Alban had to eventually take his chalice from him to prevent him from inebriating himself. It was the longest hour of his life.
As Brogan drank, Aubrey brooded, and Inglesbatch pondered, the rest of the room was in fine form.
Several senior soldiers milled about, enjoying the fare and pinching the serving wenches when they walked by.
Near the massive hearth, the man who had been field marshal and his companion, the sergeant, sat at the edge of a cluttered table, enjoying their brew and watching two of their men arm wrestle.
They could see the activity on the dais on the opposite side of the room, watching knights come and go.
There seemed to be quite a bit of activity.
“I wonder where the lady is?” the sergeant wondered.
The field marshal shrugged. “She’s not made her presence well known since her arrival,” he said. “Too bad, too. She’s a lovely thing. But I hear she’s de Neville.”
“Then she probably thinks she’s too good for the rest of the rabble,” the sergeant snorted into his cup. “They’re a pompous lot.”
The field marshal popped a piece of apple into his mouth. “You fought for de Neville, did you not?”
“I did. At Wakefield.”
The sergeant was about to take another sip from his wooden cup when he suddenly froze.
“Wakefield,” he murmured. His eyes widened and slowly, with great intent, moved to the dais.
Specifically, his gaze lingered on the end of the table where the new Germanic knight sat with a fat old man.
He stared hard at the knight. At his side, the field marshal noticed his expression.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked. “Is your drink suddenly foul?”
The sergeant shook his head. He put the cup down and sat forward, his eyes still on the distant table. “That knight,” he muttered after a moment. “I recognize him now. He was at Wakefield.”
The field marshal passed an unconcerned glance at the head table. “So? Many men were at Wakefield.”
The sergeant was growing more animated as he spoke.
“I realize that, but that knight… he wasn’t a knight.
He was a foot soldier. Aye, I remember him clearly now.
Enemy and ally alike were afraid of him.
He fought like an animal, just as you saw him do today.
” He was silent a moment, his mind working furiously to remember the name he had heard, long ago.
It was almost on the tip of his tongue. “But I cannot remember his name.”
“It’s Gervaise,” the field marshal failed to see any concern.
“Nay,” the sergeant shook his head. “It wasn’t Gervaise. It was something else. It will come to me.”
Lacking any interest whatsoever, the field marshal convinced the sergeant to play a game of cards. But it didn’t divert the sergeant’s attention entirely; he knew that knight was not a knight, but he could not recall the man’s name. All he remembered of him was fear.
He began to wonder if his liege knew who his new pledge really was. When the big knight left the hall a half hour later, the sergeant followed.
*
Avalyn was waiting for him.
The stable was dark, musty with hay and urine, as Brogan entered the stalls where she kept her big bay colt.
The horses shifted in their stalls, snorting softly, and he caught sight of a dark figure at the end near the bay colt.
He went straight to her, taking her in his arms before he uttered a word.
Avalyn threw her arms around his neck, holding him tightly.
“Oh, Brogan,” she breathed in his ear. “I’ve missed you.”
He kissed her neck, her ear, finally lingering tenderly on her lips. “As I have missed you,” he murmured. “Are you well? William said that you were ill.”
She shook her head. “I am fine,” she said. “I simply did not want to spend the evening with Charles. Brogan… we must leave this place as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“Because Charles has set our wedding date. Three weeks from tomorrow.”
Brogan lifted an eyebrow. “I see,” he said slowly. “Then we must indeed leave as soon as possible. When will you be ready?”
“I am ready with the clothes on my back. Can we leave tonight?”
“I believe so. But I must get St. Alban and The Sirens to safety before I take you. Aubrey’s wrath would more than likely fall on them when you and I are discovered missing.”
“Of course,” she said as she touched his face, running her fingers along his stubble. “Where is Lake? We must take her with us.”
“She is with my mother, in the little village just south of here,” he said. “We will indeed take her.”
Avalyn looked up at him. “Your mother is here, too?”
He smiled wanly. “Everyone who cares about us has come with me. I brought quite a troop.”
She returned his smile, still touching his face. “How will your mother get back to London, then? Or will we take her with us?”
He shook his head, his body growing increasingly warm from her tender touch. “St. Alban will escort her and The Sirens back to London. All will be well. You mustn’t worry.”
She was trying not to, but there were so many people involved that she had to make sure no one was left behind to suffer when she and Brogan made their move.
As she nodded her head compliantly, Brogan swooped down and slanted his lips over hers, suckling fiercely.
Passion flared in her slender body and she allowed herself to be upswept in his power and virility.
They’d had so little time together; she’d never truly enjoyed or explored the man.
Every moment like this was more precious than the last.
In a fused pair, they sank back into the stall where the bay colt chewed lazily on his feed. And in the shadows outside the stable, the sergeant who had fought the Battle of Wakefield with the man they called ‘The Monster’ had heard everything.
He went running for the keep.
*
It was soft and dark and quiet in the stables as Brogan pinned Avalyn against the stable wall.
His mouth worked her furiously, against her mouth, her jaw, her neck.
His passion was almost frenzied, having been denied the woman so long and being unsure of their future; his tenderness knew a hint of roughness.
But Avalyn didn’t care; she, too, felt the frenzy and the passion as much as he did.
It had been pent up since the day they had met.
All she knew was that she wanted the man, in spirit and soul and body, and she had to have him or die.
The straw beneath them was clean and dry.
Brogan lay her down on her cloak, untying the fastens as his lips suckled her neck and collarbone.
When the ties fell away, she was in a yellow brocade with a plunging neckline and he took advantage of the exposed white swell of her breasts.
The rabbit fur got in his nose, however, and he sneezed more than once.
Avalyn laughed softly, as did he. But it did not stop him.
Pulling Avalyn tight against his hard chest, his fingers went to work on the laced stays that held her surcoat in place.
Avalyn would not wait to be disrobed. She helped him.
In between removing her surcoat, she unlaced the stays on his tunic and pulled it over his head.
She paused a moment in the weak light, studying his magnificent torso for a moment; his muscles were bulky and defined, the tanned skin covered with a matting of soft dark hair.
She ran her fingers over his chest lightly, acquainting herself with it, feeling him shudder when she drew a finger over a dark puckered nipple.
He captured her mouth in his again, his tongue pushing sensually into her pink recesses.
Now that her surcoat was off, he went to work on the corset, leaving her only in her shift and pantalets.
His massive hand fondled her round breast through the soft wool, feeling her nipple harden against his palm.
When he could take no more, he tore her shift from her shoulder with a growl, exposing her left breast. His mouth hungrily descended on it.
Avalyn gasped softly, feeling his wet heat on her nipple. Soon her other breast was exposed and he suckled her madly. Before long, the shift was pulled off completely and she lay nude beneath him. Quickly, Brogan lowered his hose, rubbing his enormous erection against her thigh.
Avalyn felt his hardness, torn between lust and curiosity and apprehension.
She loved the man, she was determined to be his wife, and she saw no wrong with what they were about to do.
She wanted it as badly as he did. As his mouth moved across her chest again, he shifted and settled between her slender legs.
Avalyn lifted her knees, accommodating his bulk, excitement and apprehension running side by side in her mind.