29. The Mock Fray #2
That’s when he realized she was ordering him back to protect her children.
But he hunkered down on the horse, forcing her against his chest, and sped to the alcove at Briarwood.
He assumed the scout would already be there, but maybe he could get there early and tell her, warn her.
He hoped she rejected his advance, for her sake, for maybe his.
How could he stop at just a chaste kiss if she kissed him back?
If she showed any love for him, his heart would tear in two. He’d have to stop, let her die alone, not kill his son with her. He had to warn her, but she was screaming at him. She wasn’t listening.
He pulled up on the reins and dismounted, lifting his arms to her, but she jumped down without his aid. Tears streaked her red, flushed cheeks.
“You!” She slapped his armor. He took her by the wrist and pulled her into the alcove.
“We must hide here, milady,” he said.
The time for warning was over.
The tree’s leaves wept overhead, and he hoped it wasn’t an omen. He walked around it, swinging the wooden handle of one of his twin battle axes into the rose bushes to get the scout to budge, to see if he could tell where they were.
Seren was yelling at him, but he couldn’t concentrate on what she said.
His heartbeat in his ears was too loud to hear, to think.
He glanced up, just tree limbs. He quickly scanned and saw nothing, but he didn’t trust his eyes.
Though he still had one wrist in hand, Seren banged a fist on his chest, bruising her soft flesh from the chain mail.
The next bang, he grabbed her wrist, pinning both wrists in one hand.
The axe in his other hand shook. He didn’t want to test her.
He didn’t want this moment, and yet, it was upon him.
Seren wept as she struggled against his grip. He swallowed the lump in his throat as her screams came full force.
“You should have saved my children! Why didn’t you save them?”
She was erratic. He’d never seen her so upset. She needed to be in her right frame of mind. He pulled her wrists closer to his neck, sliding her face closer to his.
“They are with trusted men, Lady Seren,” he said and winced. He should have addressed her with her complete title. He hoped whoever was there to report would not report that error.
“No, no!” she cried. “The attack was targeted. It was to kill Lord David! And there was only one man with him—”
“Lord Henry will ensure their safety,” he said in a deep, low voice, cutting her off.
She sucked in a breath, and she blinked back any tears.
“Lord Henry?” she whispered. The panic faded from her eyes as if she realized the implication behind his words. “Of course, Lord Henry would allow no one to harm his heir,” she said through guttered breaths.
Her hands relaxed against his neck. She knew it was a test. She had to.
Her face was too close. His eyes dipped to her lips.
He had longed to kiss her since he’d called her Valkyrie.
How to make sure he didn’t, that she didn’t let him?
He pulled her wrists closer to his neck so that her fingers grazed the skin of his cheek.
He wished he could feel the warmth of her skin without the barrier of gloves.
Her chest pumped, pushing air through parted lips.
He leaned in, going slow, to make sure she had every chance to push him away. Her gaze dipped to his lips before returning to meet his eyes. She had to know what was coming, but she said nothing.
Just as he was able to whisper so no one else could hear, he opened his mouth to whisper her name in warning.
But instead, she whispered, “Ragnar?”
His brow furrowed. More than ever, he wanted Seren as his own wife. Such a woman as she was, concerned about children not her own, and warning her friend before he made a decision that could cost the life of his son.
Rather than pull back, he whispered her name, “Seren.” He gave a slight shake of his head and continued in his descent to kiss her. They locked eyes. She was afraid. She didn’t know what to do. Frozen. Maybe she wanted him to kiss her.
So he whispered again—adjusting his tone, “Seren.”
Her whisper was hot on his lips. “Let me go.”
She blinked rapidly as if released from a trance.
“Let me go,” she said louder.
Her wrists slipped through his hand. Her fingers slid through his palm. She stepped back, two giant steps. Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes glistened with tears shed or about to be shed.
Was she going to let him kiss her? Had she wanted him to kiss her? Was she simply in shock from the attack? Thrown from her senses?
He shifted on his feet. Lord Henry told him to beg forgiveness, but he couldn’t force the words from his throat because selfishly, he wanted to feel Seren’s lips against his.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms again.
And if he had known for sure that the scout was only listening, he might have done so. She might have let him.
“Commander de Montfort,” Seren said, her voice breaking. “I told you not to wish for a life not yours.” Her voice firmed, but tears streamed down her cheeks. “Were you leaning in to whisper something or to kiss me? I hope it was the former. I do not wish to see Ragnar murdered.”
Erik smiled in bitter relief. The woman was so cunning and clever. He finally forced a clogged voice from his lips. “It was the former, Lady de Thornwyck.”
“Good,” she said. Her chest pumped. She remembered her meek voice. “For if it was the latter, I made a vow . . . to God . . . to be a faithful wife. “
“Yes, Lady de Thornwyck,” he said. “As you are.”
“And if Lord Henry found you even wanted to kiss me, he’d make Ragnar suffer for it. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, milady. I will.”
“And if he killed Ragnar, he’d have to kill you too, for he’d have lost his leverage over you. Without his blade and his shadow,” she stammered through quick words, “the northern border would only half fear Lord Henry’s reign. They could overrun the border, and you’d have doomed us all.”
He nodded, knowing the intention behind her statements—to save his son.
“Mortlande and I are grateful for you, Lady de Thornwyck.”
Her breath shook. Her lips trembled. “So then, Commander, what did you wish to whisper to me?” she said, her hands clasped with knuckles white by her belly.
“Only that . . .” His mind blanked as he took her in, remembering why she was upset with him in the first place. “The children will be safe. They are with good men.”
“Good,” she said again with a firmer voice. “Thank you for soothing my panic regarding Lord Henry’s children.”
A ruckus outside the alcove caused both of their heads to snap toward it.
Erik bowed his head to Seren and went out to meet the men who’d come to announce they’d won the fray, mock though it was. Erik brought out Seren, telling her the children were safe. She graciously thanked the men-at-arms.
He placed Seren sidesaddle on Viggo and mounted with her in front of him. They had about an hour’s ride back to Thornwyck, but they couldn’t say much with the other men around, especially Jovin, who rode on his left flank. Seren’s back was to the third-in-command.
As the retinue settled into their formations, Seren leaned into Erik’s chest and gathered his cloak into her fingers. Her head rested on his sternum, and he heard the faintest sigh. Perhaps as a thank-you for warning her, or perhaps indulging her own wish for a life not hers.
He adjusted the reins and grazed her mid-back with his forearm, pulling her a little closer. Her grip on his cloak tightened, and her whisper traveled to his ears as she turned her face toward his chest.
“Erik.”
Nothing else, just his name, whispered low enough for only his ears.
To the others, it looked like the event had drained her, slumping against him. But he knew otherwise, or at least he thought he did. The hallway, the stairwell, the council chamber, and the alcove all rushed through his mind.
Perhaps when she called him “friend,” it wasn’t so much a boundary for him as it was a gate for her.
Maybe she had to say it to keep herself from him.
Maybe that’s why when he held her in the stairwell, it was as he thought when he kissed her neck—she ached for him as he did for her.
That at least some of her tears in the council chamber were for him.
That his first whispered warning in the alcove, she thought perhaps was him whispering her name as a lover would.
But her veil brushed under his chin, a stark reminder of her marriage to Lord Henry.
He wanted what another man did not. He loved, respected, and honored what another man did not. What a twisted irony was his life, her life.
David was eight years old, still a child by all accounts. Not yet old enough to assume his father’s place or power. They had to survive until he was.