Carried Away (The FitzRam Family Medieval Romance Series) Page 3
He resolved to concentrate on the hard reality of the failure of his mission. But his body betrayed him again as Lady Blythe’s soft breasts pressed against his back in cadence with the movement of the horse.
CHAPTER THREE
The mood of the men with whom she rode was sombre. They were keenly aware they had failed in their mission and it had cost their comrades’ lives. They rode all day, slowed down by the injured men and, Blythe knew, by her presence in their midst. It was clear from several hushed yet heated exchanges between Dieter and his men that they questioned his bringing her. Did they advocate killing her to rid themselves of the encumbrance?
They camped at night. Every amenity and courtesy was extended to her. Unfortunately, there were no amenities. Her bedraggled dress weighed her down like a stone. She longed for a good tub soak, and privacy. Her braids had come partly undone and she despaired of ever combing her hair again. Her bottom was raw. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d ridden so far.
The Black Knight was sensitive to the discomfort of her sore derrière, sometimes having her ride before him. She was dismayed and embarrassed by the hard male length pressed against her when the movement of the horse caused unavoidable contact—which was most of the time! He smiled his crooked grin when she eased her body away from his obvious interest. While she hadn’t known a man, her mother had enlightened her as to what that particular swelling meant. The thought of lying with this powerful, enigmatic warrior sent a thrill racing up her spine.
Lacking expertise as a healer, she nevertheless did her best to ease the pain of the wounded men. None of the wounds were severe enough to be fatal, but fever could carry off the strongest of men in a trice. Her linen underskirt served to make bandages to stem bleeding, but she’d no salve to offer. Her efforts to ease their suffering seemed to soften some of the censure. The sacrifice of her underskirt was a relief in the heat.
The second night they made camp close by a small lake. She looked longingly at the water.
“Do you wish to bathe, my lady?”
She’d been so preoccupied with gazing at the shimmering lake, she hadn’t heard her captor approach. The accented voice broke into her reverie and heat suffused her chest and throat. She shook her head. “No,” she said, longing to say yes.
He gave her a quizzical look. “With your permission, I intend to avail myself of the lake to cleanse my body and revive my spirit.”
He bowed slightly and left her by the campfire. He’d spoken to her as if they were friends, equals, intimates—how dare he? He was a brigand who’d abducted her. Chivalrous knights were supposed to rescue maidens, not carry them off. Yet his familiarity felt strangely—arousing!
She turned her attention to doing what little she could for the wounded men. It would be a while before the cook in the group had food ready. She was afraid to fall asleep if she sat by the fire. Perhaps she could steal away and at least wash her face in the lake. There was no possibility of removing her clothing surrounded as she was by foreign bandits.
She deliberately strolled away in the opposite direction her captor had taken, hoping to find a secluded spot on the bank.
***
The chill of the water had eased Dieter’s anger at the failure of his mission. He prized cleanliness and felt calmer now he’d cleansed his body and hair. In an effort to rid himself of his tension, he’d walked almost the whole way around the small lake before finally stripping off and plunging in.
He waded to the bank and strode out of the water, raking his wet hair back off his face, trying to recall the words of a ballad about Parsifal he’d heard a minnesinger perform. As he bent to pick up his drying cloth, a squeal startled him. The song died on his lips. He’d thought they hadn’t been pursued, but now he reached for his sword and dagger, bracing to either flee or fight. He peered towards the source of the sound. The woman he’d kidnapped stood ten feet away, gaping at him, her mouth open. She’d undone the neckline of her gown and rolled up her sleeves. The sight of her bare arms sent blood rushing to his groin.
Nein, Dieter, not a good idea with this woman. No time to be getting entangled.
He held the cloth over his erection, embarrassed for her that she’d stumbled upon him naked. “Lady Blythe—”
“I thought—I came this way—you had gone the other way—” She was frantically pushing down her sleeves, still staring at him.
It would not be the behaviour of a gentleman to move towards her, yet he wanted to take her in his arms, apologise for her kidnapping, kiss away the fear and embarrassment on her reddened face. A decisive man, his indecision hobbled him. Why had he burdened himself with the complication of Blythe Lacey FitzRam?
Before he could explain that he’d walked around the lake, she’d turned and fled, leaving him with the problem of what to do with his rock hard arousal.
***
Blythe was drowning in a whirling nightmare of trees and lengthening shadows as she staggered back to camp. She should have looked away immediately when she saw the man striding from the lake, water sluicing off his body, his hair dripping wet. The sheer size of him had held her gaze as her mouth fell open.
She paused in her flight to catch her breath, leaning her arm against a tree and resting her head atop it. She closed her eyes, but the image of his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and powerful thighs would not leave her. And his manhood—oh God, who knew they were so big!
The song he’d been singing in his rich baritone voice echoed in her head, though she hadn’t understood the words. Swallowing hard, she hastened to the campfire. She wrapped the blanket set out for her tightly around her shoulders, refusing the roasted hare offered by the cook. She dared not look to the woods from where her captor would soon emerge.
***
Blythe was a physical and emotional wreck when they rode into Köln two days later. Neither she nor her Black Knight had uttered a word about the encounter by the lake.
They came to an impressive two-story house. Its stone facade was ornamented with statues of what she supposed were saints. The front wall seemed to soar to the heavens, tapering to a point topped by an ornate crucifix. She’d never seen such an elaborately decorated home. Two similar structures stood either side. In the far distance she could see the sun glinting off the Rhine and beyond it the fortified town.
The Black Knight nodded in that direction. “There in Tuitium lurks your friend, Heinrich.”
They rode under a curved arch into the courtyard, leaving behind the bustle of the street. She opened her mouth to explain the Emperor was nothing to her, but suddenly a dog barrelled out of the house and leapt at the Black Knight as he dismounted. He bent to accept the joyous welcome of the black and gold dog, laughing and fondling its ears. It licked his face, ran around in circles panting, then licked him again. He fell over as the animal showered him with love and laughed like a small boy as the dog’s tail wagged ferociously.
“Ja, Vormund, ich bin es.”
When the dog calmed, the Black Knight came to his feet. His face was flushed. It came to her that her tongue was hanging out. She wished she’d been the one crawling over him, licking his face, making him laugh. “Your dog loves you,” she murmured.
He smiled. Her belly clenched. “Ja, Vormund is a good dog. He’s our watchdog. His name means—how do you say in English—Guardian.”
She was surprised. The dog didn’t look big enough or fierce enough to be a watchdog. She reached out her hand. “He doesn’t look threatening.”
The dog growled and she withdrew her hand quickly.
Her captor calmed the animal. “He is a Hovawart. They are excellent watchdogs. It will take him a while to get used to you, but then he will protect you with his life.”
A while? How long was a while? The intensity in the Black Knight’s eyes filled her with the fanciful notion that he too would lay down his life for her.
Her knight put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her into the blessed coolness of the house, issuing order
s to several servants who appeared as if by magic. He handed her over to a squat little woman with grey hair. “Anna will take you to bathe.”
She wished there was something she could hold on to as the opulent surroundings tilted around her at the mention of bathing. Would she ever forget the sight of him emerging from the lake? “But my clothes—I can’t—”
He put his hand under her elbow. “Don’t worry. Anna will take care of you.”
Feeling steadier, she trailed after the little maid, who chatted away in German, not ceasing when Blythe simply shrugged her shoulders wearily in a sign of incomprehension. The woman didn’t seem taken aback by the sudden arrival of an unkempt Englishwoman. Anna took her to a well appointed room where she peeled off Blythe’s sweat-stained dress, hose and chemise, wrinkling up her nose as she did so. She barked an instruction to one of the other maids who were busily filling the bathtub. The girl left her task and reached up to unpin and unbraid Blythe’s hair. She should resist, but longed to have the tight braids gone. Relief surged through her when her hair sprang free and fell to her waist. She was impatient for it to be clean again.
Anna tested the temperature of the water with her elbow before she allowed Blythe to step in. “Gut!” she announced, handing Blythe the soap, once she’d assisted her into the tub. She swept from the room with a self-satisfied air, shooing out the other maids.
Blythe had never enjoyed a bath more. She lay back in the luxurious tub and soaped her aching body, then dunked her head and washed her hair. Her nipples hardened and she blushed. Thinking of the Black Knight had sent warmth throbbing between her legs and up into her belly. She contracted her muscles, tightening her bottom. The movement sent pain radiating through her, an abrupt reminder of the soreness caused by her journey.
“Stop thinking of him that way!” she chided herself. “He has kidnapped you. You don’t even know who he is. Don’t show him any weakness. He may intend to sell you.”
She leapt to her feet in the tub. “Holy Mother of God! That is what he plans to do!”
Fear washed over her, stealing away the pleasure of the bath.
Maman, pray for me. Pray for your little girl.
She would never see her beloved parents again, her fate sealed like those of young women in lurid tales, sold into slavery to satisfy the appetites of eastern potentates.
She sat back down and soaped her face quickly to hide her tears as Anna tapped at the door and entered. She was accompanied by several maids carrying dresses, chemises, hose and shoes. Anna fussed over the laying out of the clothing on the bed, while the maid who’d unpinned her hair rinsed it with clean water. She assisted Blythe out of the tub, enveloping her in a luxurious drying cloth. Anna shooed the girl away and took over the drying. Once her body had been scrubbed dry, Blythe examined the dresses, all of fine woven scarlet fabric, reds, whites, blues, and greens. The gowns were not new, but of the best quality. She would be much more comfortable in this wardrobe. The Black Knight had been very generous to his prisoner. How had he arranged all this so quickly? He must have sent word ahead?
She selected a green surcoat dress and a fine linen chemise and the maids helped her dress. Anna’s scrubbing with the drying cloth had fortified her and now the maid brushed her long hair until it was almost dry. It felt good to have the tangles out.
Blythe indicated she wanted crown braids, determined to keep the severe style she’d worn to deter the men of Heinrich’s court. She didn’t want anything about her appearance to encourage the Black Knight. There wasn’t much she could do about the décolletage of the dresses which she considered much too revealing.
When Blythe was ready, Anna beckoned her through the door, making signs to show she was taking her to eat something. “Kommen!”
Blythe was hungry, having eaten only camp food on the journey, and not very much of that, since her stomach had been knotted with fear. She followed Anna willingly. The servant brought her to a large room where the Black Knight sat at an enormous wooden table laden with plates of food and drink. He too had washed away the evidence of their journey, though his eyes betrayed his fatigue. He evidently favoured black clothing. Tunic, leggings, boots—all the same midnight colour as his long hair, blood red the only relief in the slashed sleeves of his doublet. Now three dogs lay at his feet. Only Vormund got up when his master did. The Rottweiler and the greyhound raised their heads and studied her, their tongues lolling. The greyhound yawned.
Her captor took her hand and brushed his lips to the back of it. “Ah, Lady Blythe, I see you’re refreshed.” His English was flawless.
Her nipples tingled and pulsating warmth spiralled between her legs. She would have to stop reacting with such wantonness to his touch. She was a woman of nineteen after all, not a silly girl. She bowed slightly to him, withdrawing her hand quickly. “Thank you for the gowns. I am sure I don’t know how you managed to find clothing to fit so quickly.”
He frowned and seemed uncertain of his answer. Then he smiled his enigmatic smile. “Sit and dine with me. I’m like a starving man after our journey.”
He watched to see if she caught his double meaning, and her blush as she glanced at his arousal told him that she did. How to tell her where he’d procured the dresses? The lighter gown showed off her figure more than her own unattractive garb. Her hips promised fertility. Her breasts were fuller than his dead wife’s, and the fabric strained to contain them. Better not to allow his thoughts to wander in that direction.
His attraction to her puzzled and fascinated him. He should return her to the Imperial court, but for some reason wanted to get to know her. He wasn’t a man who could afford to mire himself in domesticity, nor even in a meaningful relationship. His ambition to serve Duke Lothar left no room for that. He’d endured a hellish marriage to a mad shrew, and had no intention of reliving such a nightmare again. Besides, he had a son. A young noblewoman wouldn’t want to take on the mothering of a child not her own.
He still seethed over the failure of the kidnapping plot, and hoped fervently the Duke would never find out he was involved in the debacle. He didn’t look forward to meeting with his co-conspirators. They would demand explanations he couldn’t give.
Failure didn’t sit well with Count Dieter von Wolfenberg, and he’d lost good men in the fiasco. How to cut his losses? Mayhap his captive was the child of a wealthy family—very likely since she’d been a lady-in-waiting to Matilda. Perhaps there was something to be gained from capturing her after all?
He resolved to put her at ease and garner some useful information at the same time. “Tell me about your family, Lady Blythe.”
She looked away, chewing her bottom lip. “My father is Sir Caedmon FitzRam. My mother is Lady Agneta, daughter of Eidwyn Kirkthwaite, my grandfather who was murdered by Scots and their Saxon allies two years before the battle of Alnwick.”
“Alnwick?”
She related the details of the historic battle between the Scots and the Normans in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Ninety-three that had left the King of Scotland, Malcolm Canmore, dead on the bloodied field. “It’s where my parents met. My mother rescued my father from the battlefield. He’d been wounded.”
Her voice, now she was calmer, held none of the passion that had washed over him when she was afraid. She was guarding her tongue. He offered her a succulent piece of roasted chicken.
“You like dogs,” she said, looking down at the three hounds draped across his feet. “We have dogs at home in Northumbria, but they’re not like these dogs of yours. Ours are mastiffs.”
All three animals abruptly got up, as if they knew they were the subject of current conversation. Dieter stroked the Rottweiler’s head then pummelled the dog’s haunches. “This is Löwe, so called because he has the heart of a lion.”
The greyhound nuzzled his master’s hand. “And this is Schnell, because he is as swift as the wind when he chases hares.”
“Will they let me touch them?”
“Perhaps once they get used to
you. You told me your father is part Norman, part Saxon?”
She sank her teeth into the meat with relish. Dieter had a sudden urge to jump up and lick the juices from her lips. “Yes,” she replied noncommittally.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she licked the chicken grease off her fingers. He raked his hand through his hair, trying to recall what she’d just said. “Is he titled? What lands does he hold?”
“He’s the Lord of Shelfhoc Hall in the Welsh Marches.”
“But you mentioned a home in the north.”
“Yes, Kirkthwaite Hall. It was destroyed as I mentioned, but rebuilt by my—” She glanced up at him sharply.
She was trying to give away as little as possible. He decided not to push her. “More chicken?”
She nodded and accepted with a smile. “I am very hungry.”
It was the first time he’d seen her do anything but sulk. Her beauty stunned him. Why did she insist on pouting and frowning? Why didn’t she want him to see her loveliness? “How old are you, liebling?”
Her face reddened and she straightened her back, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “A gentleman doesn’t ask such questions.”
He’d been right. She didn’t understand the endearment he’d used. “But I am no gentleman.”
She squirmed in her seat. “I am nineteen.”
His mouth fell open, but before he could speak, she rushed on. “I know most young ladies are married by my age, but I wasn’t allowed to marry.”
Dieter frowned. “Why not?”
“I am in service to her majesty.”
Indignation washed over him that such a beauty, made to pleasure a man and bear him sons, had been denied the opportunity. “This seems unfair. Surely you have had many suitors?”
She made a snorting sound. “A lady-in-waiting is considered fair game by many suitors, most of whom don’t have noble intentions. They’re aware we cannot marry.”