Chapter 6
The pain of training for seventy times seventy hours in the baking sun of Cyprus would have been preferable, Damien had decided, to the experience he had endured these past two weeks as lord of Glenheim Castle.
Frustration had become as familiar to him as breathing, and he had been pushed to his limit in ways he’d felt woefully unprepared to face.
He could not deny, however, that some of what he had accomplished had been of worth.
He had settled into a semblance of daily routine and had begun trying to forge a working relationship with Fitzgibbon, the captain of the castle guard.
He had met with more of the men under his command, the rest of the servants, and many of the remaining tradesmen and women from the village.
And after putting it off for as long as he could in all good conscience, he had finally sat down with Edgar Charmand, the quiet, educated man who served as the castle steward.
Damien had dreaded that meeting almost most of all, aware that it would require him to look over the holding’s accounts…
knowing that, as acting lord, he would be called upon to make assessments and give direction for what was to be bought and sold, not to mention the role he would be taking, soon, in listening to disputes between people of this demesne and dispensing rulings of justice at the manorial court.
But while his years as a high-ranking Templar Knight had ensured that he could take charge and make important decisions if called upon to do so, the same could not be said of some of the finer skills that would have made working with the knowledgeable steward more tolerable.
They were skills reserved, generally, for titled noblemen and senior clergy—because as was true of most men from the knightly class, Damien had never learned to read or write.
Edgar had been patient, however, and Damien was stronger in his aptitude for numbers, managing to redeem himself in that area; but in all, his first real encounter with the steward had been humbling, to say the least.
And yet that had not been the most challenging aspect of this past fortnight. Nay, not by far. That distinction belonged to Alissende.
It had taken less than a day to realize that being so near to her was going to be a sensual torment the likes of which he’d never known.
Her very presence in the chamber could drive him to distraction.
Her graceful movements and her delicate scent—even the gentle resonance of her voice when she spoke—set him ablaze with desire.
And nighttime was even worse.
Aye, night brought with it its own special tests and trials.
Evening had always been more difficult, even when he’d served with the Brotherhood; the veil of dark had somehow invited hidden thoughts he’d been able to control better in the light of day.
But what he was enduring now at Glenheim surpassed by a thousandfold anything he’d known back then.
He had conceded to sharing the bed with Alissende once he’d realized that resting on the hard floor would prove far more likely to encourage the violent nightmares and memories of the Inquisition that often tormented his sleep.
Yet when he was stretched out beside her he was like a man parched with thirst, denied all but the merest drop of water on his lips—a man who felt the licking heat of flame but who could not pull away from the fire.
He felt consumed by longings and yearnings that teased him, with images that would not let him rest. His cursed body played the fool, even when his logical mind knew better than to soften in any way toward the very same woman who had cast him away so bluntly five years ago.
Always, it would begin innocently enough.
He would keep very still and quiet, trying to avoid touching Alissende as she slept, when suddenly a vision would slip into his mind…
a fragment of dream, almost, of stroking his palm down the smooth, naked expanse of her back.
He would feel a twinge of delicious wanting in the imagining of it, but like the besotted fool he was, he would not heed the warning.
Nay, he would allow his mind to drift further into the fantasy, to think of slipping his fingers through her soft hair, of tasting the delicate place just beneath the lobe of her ear.
Of kissing the fullness of her mouth. He would imagine brushing his hand along the smooth path of her arm and then across her belly…
and further still, up to her pink-tipped breasts, before sweeping down to the sweet apex of her thighs…
And then he would be lost, swept up in heated, tortured memories that consumed him and left him lying there in aching, rigid need.
His only saving grace had been his refusal to sleep unclothed, regardless of custom or the warmth in the chamber.
He did not trust himself to do so. Nay, at least when wearing garments, he could sometimes force his mind away from the seductive images and half-convince himself that he was sleeping alone.
But at best it was a temporary delusion.
The truth was that none of his former methods of pushing thoughts of Alissende from his mind, practiced so oft during his time with the Brotherhood—prayer, fasting, the shock of icy cold water, or immersing himself in weapons training until he ran with sweat—seemed to be working any longer.
He was certain that he was slowly driving himself to the brink of insanity with his constant, unsatisfied yearning for her.
It was a desire for her body he reminded himself, nothing more. Nay, she was not to be trusted with anything more meaningful than that. He had learned that lesson too well. But the fierce and sharp need for physical completion with her bit at him nonetheless.
Desperate to find some distraction from it, he had decided to convene his first group training session in the yard today, calling upon Fitzgibbon to assemble a score of his best men to participate.
Ben had agreed to assist at the beginning, at least, to run through some of the exercises they had perfected together during the months spent training while Damien had healed; Damien hoped that the example they could provide together would speed the men’s process of mastering the techniques, which would allow them all to delve into the kind of hot and sweaty weapons-work that could not help but keep him focused on something other than the woman who seemed to occupy his every waking thought and sinful dream.
First, however, he had to gain the men’s trust. It was the primary rule of command: Earn the respect of your men, and all else would follow.
But somehow he sensed that task was not going to be easy.
He’d felt a vague animosity simmering beneath the surface whenever he’d made visit to the quarters of the castle guard, and he knew he’d have to put that to rest before anything else could happen.
“I cannot believe that I let you talk me into this.”
Damien turned to the sound of the voice, grinning at its owner, who strode toward him from across the yard.
Ben had exchanged his Franciscan habit for the same kind of sturdy, serviceable leggings and shirt he’d made use of during their exercises in Dover—all except for the new sword he had buckled at his waist. The enormous new sword.
Ah, yes. Ben was opening himself up to some good-natured jesting with this one, Damien thought, and his grin deepened. He gave a half nod in the direction of the new blade, waiting until Ben reached him before he spoke.
“I’m thinking that’s quite a weapon you have there, my friend. Especially for a man of your calling. It’s rather…large, wouldn’t you say?”
It only took an instant for Ben to react to the ribald nature of the comment, his razor-sharp glance taking in the lesser contours of Damien’s own sheathed weapon before he raised his brow. “You are wise to note it,” he retorted, “and to remember whose is bigger, be I a holy man or nay.”
Damien let go a laugh. Ben chuckled as well, and they gripped each other by the forearm for a greeting, slapping each other’s backs in affection.
But there was no time to continue the exchange further, because at that moment Fitzgibbon emerged from the guardhouse across the yard with a dozen or so men behind him.
All were fully equipped for a training session, it seemed, though by the expressions on many of their faces, they were anything but pleased at the thought.
Whether their irritation stemmed from being made to engage in training at all this day, or whether it was the result of that underlying hostility he had been thinking about earlier, Damien did not know.
Likely, it was a bit of both. A few seconds later, Fitzgibbon reached him, and Damien nodded in greeting.
The captain stood at attention for a moment before tipping his chin.
“I have assembled an even score of my top guard, my lord, as directed. We await your order to commence this training session.”
“Good,” Damien said brusquely, letting his gaze drift over the men standing behind Fitzgibbon. “Let’s get started, then. For the first exercise, we will need two groups. Ben will lead one set and I the other. When each group has mastered its own set, we’ll work them together.”
The men began to shift into two parts at his command, reluctant and slow. As they moved, Damien heard grumbling coming from the back of the group, and he stiffened, the muscles in his back tightening in response to the parts of the complaint he could hear in detail.
Swiveling his head toward the source of the mutterings, he grated, “If any of you have aught to say before we begin, I pray you speak it for all to hear. Unless, of course, what I’ve feared is true, and I’ve been given leadership over a clutch of gibbering hens, rather than well-trained fighting men. ”
His pronouncement had the very effect he had hoped for. All movement stopped, and though none of the men spoke, several of them cast baleful glares his way.