Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
25
HEALER’S HANDS
THE RAIN PELTED down, its patter so loud on Hugh’s helmet that he could barely hear himself think. Squinting up at the dark clouds that had settled over Stirling, and the veil of rain that obscured the top of the fortress walls, he frowned.
Not the weather to begin a siege.
Ajax snorted, pawing the ground. Reaching forward, Hugh soothed the stallion with a gauntleted hand. The destrier was eager for a fight; they all were.
Yet before hostilities could begin, they needed to hear from the castle’s governor, Sir William Oliphant.
Casting his glance left, Hugh’s gaze alighted on where the king sat upon his own great warhorse. Prince Edward was mounted next to him; the younger man’s shoulders were hunched under the driving rain, although his disgruntled expression was largely hidden by his helm.
Both men were warriors, and although the king was getting on in years, he remained in the thick of things. A line of them waited at the foot of the castle, behind wooden fortifications that the king’s men had built. Catapults were being erected behind them.
The party continued to wait in silence, tension etched into their faces. And still, the rain pattered down.
Edward’s wintry blue gaze never wavered from the road leading into town—from the direction a messenger would come.
A missive had been delivered to Oliphant the night before, demanding his surrender. They now awaited his response.
Hugh’s gaze narrowed then, as he spied a figure on horseback appearing from the murk.
“Someone’s coming,” he announced.
As if sensing his anticipation, Ajax shifted under him, tossing his head.
The lone rider slowed his horse as he approached the English front line. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a rain-slicked cloak and chainmail vest. The man’s short dark-auburn hair was plastered to his skull, his expression stern.
The newcomer’s gaze swept the line of armored men and horses, alighting upon the crowned figure in the midst.
“What news from Oliphant?” the king called out in French, impatience edging his voice. Although Edward conversed in both English and French with his kin and family, the latter tongue was used when dealing with the Scots. Few of them spoke English.
The lone rider urged his mount forward, drawing it up before Edward. “I am Hume Comyn, Steward of Stirling,” he introduced himself in heavily accented French, “and I indeed bring word from the governor.” Hugh watched the steward, silently impressed by the steadiness of his voice. After all, he was a Scot alone before a large English force. That mail shirt he wore wouldn’t help him if things got nasty.
“Out with it then,” Edward rumbled.
“The governor will not surrender Stirling at this time,” Hume Comyn replied, his gaze never wavering. “He informs you that he will need to ask permission from his superior, John de Soules, before making such a decision. Sir William asks that you wait until we hear from him.”
Silence fell after these words.
“John de Soules is in France at present, is he not?” Edward asked finally, his tone cool.
“Aye,” the Steward of Stirling replied. “We will send a missive to him without delay.”
Edward stilled, watching the steward under hooded lids.
Recognizing it as a sign his liege’s temper was quickening, Hugh tensed, waiting for the storm to break. However, Edward managed to rein it in this morning. “So, he has made his choice?”
“Aye,” Hume Comyn replied. “There will be no surrender today.”
Edward’s lip curled. “Very well … let him consider whether he thinks it better to defend the castle than to surrender it to us.” He then flashed the steward a hard smile. “Oliphant will come to regret this.”
The ‘whoosh’ of catapults loosing drew Nessa from the tent. It was audible, even over the drumming of the rain on the pavilion roof.
She wasn’t supposed to show her face in the camp; in fact, Hugh had left her with express orders not to, yet as soon as the noise started, she’d been unable to remain inside. He’d also left her wrists shackled, a wise choice since Thomas wouldn’t remain with Nessa that morning. Instead, the squire had been tasked with hauling ammunition to load the great catapults the English were erecting.
Frustration thrummed through Nessa. How could she gather details about the English siege plans while being chained up in this tent? Yet the dull rattle of the shackles as she moved to the entrance of the pavilion was a reminder that she wasn’t going anywhere.
Peering outdoors, through the murk, Nessa viewed projectiles flying toward the great walls of Stirling: huge chunks of stone that had been brought from a nearby quarry flew through the air before smashing against the walls.
But Stirling Castle was strong. It had endured other attacks before now, and Nessa was impressed to see that even the largest of the stone missiles barely dented the walls.
Drawing in a deep breath, she wished she could work a protection charm for Fyfa—but these cursed iron shackles prevented her. She hadn’t wanted her sister to stay in the fortress.
But stubborn to the last, Fyfa had remained.
Nessa’s attention shifted down, from the castle itself to the edges of the English camp. The army had been camped here less than a day, and already it appeared part of the landscape.
Stirling wasn’t without its own defenses. Fyfa had shown her the number of trebuchets assembled on the walls. Thanks to her warning, they would have had time to gather ammunition.
Nessa’s brow furrowed then. But how long could they wait the English out?
As she looked on, lead balls flew from the top of the walls, scattering the enemy lines on the hillside below.To protect themselves from the missiles, the English had erected mantlets, large wooden frames. However, she watched as one of them shattered, and shouts and cries of the soldiers taking cover behind it drifted across the hillside.
Remaining there, as rain splattered against her face and wet her kirtle, Nessa vowed she’d find a way to convince Hugh to let her out of this tent. She needed to get a look at this camp and possibly find a weakness her allies could exploit.
Eclipse was due to visit any day now too—and the crow wouldn’t find her if she remained indoors.
Hugh said little that eve when the siege finally ceased with the setting of the sun and he returned to his pavilion. He wore a distracted expression. Watching him, Nessa reflected on the shadow that battle cast over men. She’d seen plenty of warriors in the aftermath of a skirmish over the years. They often seemed weary and dislocated from their environment, as if their minds were still fighting on the battlefield.
But, of course, this man carried much upon his shoulders. He was the king’s commander—and if the siege went ill, the responsibility would be his.
Nessa wondered how the day had gone. Judging from Hugh’s shuttered gaze, she imagined the defenders were putting up a good fight.
Pride warmed her belly at the thought.
After supper, Hugh sent Thomas off to clean his armor—quite a task as dark mud now encrusted his greaves and plate armor, and hauberk.
Hugh bathed, and then, clad in his gambeson and hose, he padded over to the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, wincing as he did so.
Watching him from the corner of the tent, Nessa frowned. “What is it?”
Hugh glanced up and scowled as if he’d forgotten she was even there. “Nothing,” he replied brusquely. “I just pulled a muscle in my shoulder today.” He reached up, attempting to massage the offending muscle.
Without being asked, Nessa rose to her feet and crossed to him.
He’d removed her shackles, so she could eat and drink, and hadn’t yet put them back on.
Hugh watched her approach, his gaze wary.
“Och … don’t look at me like that,” she admonished, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. “I’m not going to cast a hex upon ye … I just want to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Aye, ye do.”
Hugh’s brows crashed together, and Nessa thought he’d argue with her. However, after a pause, he lowered the hand he’d been using in an attempt to loosen the knotted muscle, allowing Nessa to step up behind him.
The moment she laid her hands upon him, Nessa wondered at the wisdom of her actions. She’d made the offer in an attempt to rebuild trust between them—she was never going to get out of this cursed tent otherwise—yet she now regretted taking this route to achieve her goal.
The heat of his skin, evident even through the quilted gambeson, made her breathing quicken. She inhaled the warm, spicy scent of him, mixed with the perfume of rosemary from the soap he’d used to bathe.
A giddy, light-headed sensation filtered through her, as memories of those heated nights they’d spent in her drafty cottage in Dunfermline returned to her.
Stop it, she inwardly chided herself. Focus.
Pushing aside her misgivings, she probed his right shoulder to find out where the problem lay. This shoulder needed to function well, for it wielded his sword arm.
It didn’t take her long to find the knot of muscle, and when she started to knead it, Hugh muttered an oath between clenched teeth.
“It’s not that bad,” she murmured, with a wry smile he couldn’t see. “Just relax into it.”
She then started to massage that knotted muscle harder.
Hugh cursed again, yet he did as bid, and she felt the tension in his shoulders loosen under her hands.
Moments passed as she worked, and then Hugh’s chin dipped, a sigh escaping him.
Heat fluttered to life in the pit of Nessa’s belly as she recalled how she’d made him sigh like that before—although for an altogether different reason.
She looked down at his broad shoulders, her gaze alighting on the nape of his neck. Hugh wore his hair cut short and so the back of his neck was exposed.
The urge to lean down and kiss him there welled within her, the impulse so strong that Nessa bit down on her bottom lip to quell it.
Some acts were pure folly, and succumbing to such an urge would only destroy the trust he’d extended to her by allowing her to help him this evening. And she needed Hugh to lower his guard if she was ever going to learn anything useful.
“You have strong hands,” Hugh murmured after a spell.
Nessa huffed a soft laugh. “Healer’s hands,” she replied.
The muscle beneath her fingers was slowly unknotting, and so she softened her massage so as not to bruise it.
“Do ye have any clove oil?” she asked. “I should rub some on so that your shoulder doesn’t stiffen overnight.”
“Aye,” he replied. “There’s some on the stand next to the bed … in the small brown bottle.”
Nessa stepped back. “Take off yer tunic then, and I’ll rub some on.”
Hugh hesitated for a moment, although his face was still hidden from view, so she couldn’t see his expression. Pretending not to notice his discomfort, she moved to the side table, picked up the bottle, and unstoppered it. The spicy scent of clove drifted up to greet her. Clove was often used on sore muscles; as such, she wasn’t surprised Hugh carried some with him.
When she turned back to Hugh, she saw that he’d indeed stripped off his gambeson and the thin tunic he wore under it, revealing his heavily muscled shoulders and back.
Mouth dry, Nessa returned to him. Then, trying to ignore the heat from his body that reached out and wrapped itself around her like a lover’s caress, she poured some clove oil onto her palm and began rubbing it into his shoulder.
Hugh issued another soft groan then, his head dipping once more.
Heat started to pulse between Nessa’s thighs. Maiden’s blood, she wished he wouldn’t make sounds like that. It made her ache for him.
Treacherous body—he was her enemy, her captor, yet she found him as attractive as ever.
She rubbed in the oil, and was just smoothing the last of it across the top of his shoulder, when he reached up with his left hand, his fingers covering hers and stilling her progress.
“I think that’s enough.” His voice had a slightly strangled edge to it, betraying that the intimacy of the massage had aroused him as much as it had her. “Thank you.”
Nessa stilled, reveling in the strength and heat of his hand over hers. Yet he didn’t lift it, didn’t release her from his grasp. The moments drew out, desire shimmering in the narrow space between them.
Heart pounding, Nessa drew in a slow, steadying breath. What was he doing?
And then, Hugh twisted on his seat, pulling her onto his lap.
An instant later, his mouth claimed hers.
Nessa gasped, although the sound was muffled by the kiss. His tongue swept her lips apart, plundering her mouth. With another gasp, Nessa melted against him.
The Three Curse her, she shouldn’t want Hugh de Burgh this much—but she did.
The feel of his powerful hands as they slid down her back to grasp her hips made her tremble. Deepening the kiss, he lifted her up, so that she sat astride him. He then possessively cupped her backside and hauled her against him.
Wild excitement swooped low in Nessa’s belly when she felt the rock-hard length of him pressing against her core.
Whimpering low in her throat, she kissed him back with equal fervor, the embrace turning hungry, desperate. And when she ground herself against him, the growl he issued made her forget herself. Gently, she bit his lower lip.
A draft of chill, damp air gusted into the pavilion.
Hugh’s body went rigid against hers. Breathless, Nessa tore her lips from his and looked up. Thomas Charlton appeared, his arms filled with Hugh’s clean armor. Spying his master and the woman he’d taken prisoner in such proximity, the squire skidded to a halt, his blue eyes snapping wide, his face flushing deep red.
“S—sorry,” he stuttered. “I was just—”
“Don’t apologize, Thomas,” Hugh said roughly, cutting the squire off. He rose to his feet, letting Nessa slide from his lap, depositing her on the ground. Still not looking her way, Hugh reached for his tunic. “We’re done here.”