Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

31

OUR PATH LIES TO THE NORTH

HUGH AWOKE IN the early hours of the morning.

Lying there, listening to the light rain that pattered against the roof of the pavilion, he soaked in the feeling of Nessa’s soft, warm body curled against his.

If he could imprint one memory of her on his mind forever, it would be this.

He didn’t want the night to end, for the treacherous sun to rise. For when it did, time would march on, and Nessa would leave him.

Even now, his belly still ached from the disappointment of her rejection. He knew he could be arrogant at times, yet even he hadn’t assumed she’d swoon at his feet at his proposal. Nessa was too fiercely independent, too resolutely Scot to do that.

But he hadn’t expected her to refuse him so adamantly.

It had stung.

Nessa had hidden many things from him—and still held her secrets close to her chest—yet he no longer cared. He only wanted her. He didn’t care about anything else.

Nessa sighed in her sleep then, murmuring something unintelligible before snuggling closer to him. Hugh lowered his face to her hair, breathing in the scent of rosemary—a scent that he would forever associate with this woman. Her hair tickled his nose, yet he remained like that a while, inhaling the perfume of her.

He still wasn’t in a fit state to swive a woman, and Thomas lay snoring on the floor just a few feet away, otherwise, he’d have been unable to resist the temptation of her lush body.

But tonight wasn’t about giving in to lust, about slaking the need that burned like a fever in his veins. The past weeks had been sweet torture. Once his anger at her had dimmed, desire had taken its place. He’d tried his utmost to quash it, but every time he’d looked Nessa’s way over the past weeks, he’d drunk her in, the memories of what they’d shared in Dunfermline tormenting him. And then, that day when she’d massaged his shoulder, he’d been unable to bear it any longer. He’d hauled her onto his lap and kissed her—and would have done much more if his squire hadn’t interrupted them.

Hugh’s throat thickened then, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Nessa’s breathing feathered across his chest; he could feel it through the thin material of his tunic.

But after tonight, he’d never do so again.

Life’s a cruel bitch. The day before, it had kicked him in the cods twice—as if it wished to teach him humility. Despite his loveless marriage, fortune had largely shone on Hugh de Burgh. He’d survived countless battles and never known the agony of wanting someone he could never have. Until now.

“That’s the last of the bags, Sir Hugh,” Thomas announced, his voice listless this morning.

“Good,” Hugh replied, his tone clipped. “It’s time we were off then.”

Nessa’s belly cramped at these words. The night had flown, and now the moment she’d been dreading was upon them.

The three of them stood with their horses in the enclosure behind the inner perimeter.

Hugh had just returned from saying farewell to the king and queen. His expression was stern when he entered the enclosure to find Thomas strapping on the last of their bags. Likewise, Nessa had saddled Honey and secured her two leather bags behind the saddle.

The time to say goodbye had arrived.

Dawn was breaking, lavender and gold painting the eastern sky. Around them, the English camp was readying itself to begin the siege anew. Men moved about, their voices rumbling over the sea of tents. Nessa could also see helmeted and armored figures moving around on the castle ramparts.

Stirling’s defenses still held.

For an instant, Nessa forgot her sadness at leaving Hugh. Thomas had admitted to her earlier that the siege was proving much more onerous than the English had expected. Now, supplies were getting low—and unless The Hammer received more provisions and reinforcements from across the border, he wouldn’t be taking Stirling.

Her gaze lingered upon the castle walls, determination gathering within her. Keep fighting, Fyfa. More of our allies will rally to yer side.

Feeling Hugh’s gaze upon her, Nessa glanced away from the fortress.

Dressed in his heavy hauberk and armor and blood-red surcoat, a dark plum cloak rippling from his broad shoulders, he was a formidable sight.

“Ready?” he asked, his gaze searching her face.

Nessa nodded.

Their gazes held then, and she let herself remember what it had felt like the night before, to lie in his arms, to listen to the thunder of his heart. She wanted to keep hold of those memories, yet they would fade—and one day, she’d forget the details of his face, the exact shade of his eyes, and the velvet timbre of his voice.

It felt hard to breathe when she thought of it. This was too raw, so much harder than she’d ever thought leaving would be.

The moment drew out, and nearby, Thomas shifted uncomfortably. Nessa could feel his gaze upon them, flicking between their faces. No doubt he was wondering at the delay.

A crowd had also started to gather, as soldiers readied themselves to say farewell to the man who’d commanded them for the past years.

But Hugh and Nessa continued to stare at each other.

“Come here, Nessa,” he said, his tone roughening.

Nessa did as bid, moving from Honey and crossing to him. However, as she drew near, her step faltered and she halted.

Hugh bridged the distance between them, reaching out and hauling her into his arms.

Crushed against his chest, bent over the iron strength of his arm, Nessa raised her face to his. Hugh’s mouth covered hers, his tongue delving between her parted lips for a deep, passionate kiss that had the men nearby whistling and cat-calling.

The knight paid none of them any mind. Instead, he continued to kiss Nessa as if they were alone. Reaching up, Nessa wrapped her arms around his neck, returning the embrace with equal fervor.

The taste of his mouth, the slide of his tongue against hers, the rasp of his shaven chin—she imprinted all of it onto her soul.

It was a kiss that spanned the gulf between them, between two different worlds. The Scottish witch and the English knight were never meant to be, yet that wouldn’t stop either of them from kissing as if their lives depended upon it.

They were both out of breath when they broke apart.

Hugh’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll never forget you, lass,” he said huskily. “And if you ever change your mind, Grosmont Castle awaits.”

Blinking back tears, Nessa managed a nod. She couldn’t speak; if she did, she’d start weeping. She was aware then that they’d amassed quite an audience now.

Dignity was the only thing she had left.

They mounted their horses: Hugh upon Ajax, Nessa upon Honey, and Thomas upon a shaggy cob weighed down with saddlebags. In single file, Hugh leading, followed by Thomas, with Nessa bringing up the rear, they rode out of the enclosure and down the path that led out of the camp.

Hugh’s comrades were there to see them off.

One of them, a big, heavily-muscled knight with a bald head, raised a hand as Hugh passed.

“Stay well, Nicholas,” Hugh said, raising a hand in farewell. “And try not to catch the pox.”

The knight barked a laugh. “And a safe journey home to you,” he replied. His gaze then shifted to Nessa, his dark eyes curious. “To all of you.”

They rode down the avenue of men. The knights and men-at-arms all formed a column, and many of them raised a hand to Hugh as he passed, while others slapped a fisted hand over their heart.

On the way toward the gates, Nessa spied another figure in the crowd—one she’d done her best to avoid over the past fortnight.

A woman wearing a fine silver-blue cotehardie that matched her eyes stood behind the ranks of soldiers, silently looking on. Lamia Delamare watched her intently.

Nessa stared back—a silent challenge passing between them. Foreboding prickled her skin. She had the uncanny feeling that the Guardians of Alba hadn’t seen the last of Lamia.

Something else caught her eye then. Gold glinted in the first rays of the morning sun—and it was then that Nessa spied a couple standing back from the crowd.

The Hammer had come to see his commander off. He stood with an arm draped around the shoulders of his queen, his expression veiled. Hugh had already said his farewell to the king and queen, yet they’d ventured out to see him leave nonetheless.

Hugh looked to the king then and raised a hand to him.

The men’s gazes fused, and then The Hammer smiled.

Nessa glanced away, her belly tightening. She now saw Edward of England as a man, and not merely as a symbol of oppression. However, that didn’t mean she liked him any better for it.

The trio rode on, passing through the gates and taking the road that would bring them to the River Forth and the great stone bridge that spanned it. The English and the Scots had fought here, a few years earlier—a battle that had ended in a resounding English defeat. William Wallace had been the hero of that victory, yet so much had happened since that it seemed a lifetime ago now.

Hooves clattering on stone, the three horses crossed the bridge and reached the other side. Here, the road forked: one path leading south, and the other north.

Hugh reined in Ajax. The destrier snorted, tossing his head. The stallion was impatient to be off, as was Thomas’s cob. The squire’s horse jogged on the spot.

Nessa’s attention settled upon the squire. “All the best, Thomas,” she said, noting the brittle edge to her voice. “I’m sure you shall make a fine knight one day.”

The lad’s cheeks reddened. “It was a pleasure to know you, Nessa,” he mumbled through his embarrassment.

Nessa smiled back. She then shifted her attention to Hugh.

“A safe journey to you,” Hugh spoke up, his lips lifting at the corners. However, his eyes were solemn. He then spoke in Gaelic. “May life treat you well, Nessa.”

“And ye, Hugh de Burgh,” she whispered back in the same tongue. Her heart suddenly felt as if it were lodged in her throat.

She watched, as the knight and his squire turned their horses south and urged them into a canter, away from Stirling.

Honey issued a shrill whinny after them, pulling at the bit to follow. Nessa held her back before reaching down and stroking the mare’s neck, soothing her. “No, lass,” she murmured. “Our path lies to the north.”