Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
4
HE WILL COME
NESSA MADE HER way to market through a world blanketed in white.
Basket slung over one arm, her boots crunching into the pristine ermine crust, she breathed in the sharp air and enjoyed the sting on her face.
She didn’t appreciate winter’s numbing chill, but there was a beauty to this season all the same that she loved. Nessa was nature’s child—and had always felt strongly connected to the passing seasons. It was a connection that aided her use of the craft.
Breathing in the scent of wood smoke, which mingled with the heavier, more pungent odor of burning peat, she navigated the narrow streets of Dunfermline and made her way to the small square at the heart of it.
Even on a snowy day such as this, the farmers, bakers, and merchants were hawking their goods, their cries reaching Nessa before she caught sight of the snow-encrusted awnings. A number of men and women moved through the square, their faces ruddy with cold.
Nessa greeted the vendors she passed with a smile. She never missed the daily market. It was a source of news, but also companionship. As much as she was used to her own company, she’d found herself succumbing to loneliness of late. It was likely the long, cold winter, she told herself—but these days she often lingered at the market, chatting to the woman who sold hot pies, while she sipped a hot cup of mulled wine.
But she wasn’t here just to gossip with the local women today.
Gaze narrowing, she surveyed the milling crowd, in search of the glint of chainmail, the flash of a crimson cloak. Now that she’d made contact with Hugh de Burgh, she intended to press her advantage. However, there was no sign of the knight, as yet.
Eclipse had flown off with the dawn, taking word of her progress to the High Bandruì. Colina, usually so serene, had developed an urgency of late. The English were gaining a foothold in Scotland, and nothing seemed to be able to halt their progress. Nessa desperately needed to learn where and when the enemy would strike next—but gaining such information took time and patience.
Moving through the market, Nessa’s brow furrowed. The English were a plague upon this land. She didn’t want to lie with a man who had spent the last few years slaying her countrymen. Yet she would—for Scotland.
Of course, to seduce Hugh de Burgh, she had to meet up with him again.
Now that she had made contact, she had something to anchor her witching upon. She suspected he would come to her eventually, after their encounter at the gates, but decided there was no harm in giving him a little nudge. That morning, as the grey light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the shutters, she’d written a charm upon a scrap of parchment as she’d burned mugwort. She’d then whispered those same words to the rising sun. She carried the parchment with her at present, rolled tight and slipped into the bodice of her kirtle, against her heart.
He will come.
She knew it with a certainty that sat heavily in her bones, as it often did when she worked a charm. She just needed to exercise some patience.
Hugging her basket close, Nessa walked over to where a man was selling fruit and vegetables. There wasn’t much to choose from this time of year, but Nessa bought some apples. They were the winter store, and as such, a little wizened. Yet they would taste sweet, and she could stew some with honey.
The vendor flashed her a smile. “Chilly enough for ye, lass?”
“Aye, let’s hope it’s frozen the English in their beds,” she replied, grinning back.
The man snorted before leaning close. “I was at TheDrovers’ Inn yester eve and heard a rumor … that those whoresons are planning to push north once the snow melts … to take Inverness.”
Nessa’s gaze widened, her pulse quickening. “Aye, Darach … and who told ye such?”
“One of the serving lasses told me an English soldier bragged of it to her … said that Longshanks wants the Highlands next.”
Hot and then cold swept over Nessa. The Hammer’s warmongering knew no bounds. “Bastard,” she muttered. Tucking the detail away, she promised herself she’d investigate this rumor further. She’d pay a visit to TheDrovers’ Inn later and speak to this serving lass herself.
Handing the fruit and vegetable vendor a penny, Nessa wished him a good day, turned—and ran straight into a wall of chain-mail.
Reeling back, she raised her chin and stared up into a sneering face.
Clad in a hauberk and stained surcoat, and reeking of onions, the English soldier had just deliberately collided with her. The man’s blue eyes glinted before he murmured in English, “Watch where you’re going.”
“Aye.” A second soldier stepped up next to him, grinning. “Clumsy bitch.”
Nessa viewed them, her mouth pursing. They were both young and not as finely clad as the three Englishmen she’d met the day before—men-at-arms rather than knights. She’d worked a charm in order to cross paths with Hugh de Burgh this morning, not these two louts.
“Apologies,” she replied in English, her tone cool. “It won’t happen again.” Then, dropping her gaze even as ire now boiled in her belly, she stepped aside.
“You speak our tongue?” The first soldier frowned. “How’s that?”
“It’s easy enough to learn,” she replied. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Going somewhere?” The man side-stepped, following her. “I think not … we’ll have some fun first.”
Nessa glanced up, twisting her head to see that, still grinning, the second soldier now moved behind her. He caged her in, while his friend loomed over her, smirking. The smell of onions was so overpowering that her eyes started to water.
“How about a kiss?”
Nessa’s mouth twisted, the reply slipping from her lips before she had the wisdom to check it. “I’d rather kiss a dog’s arse.”
The soldier’s leer faltered. “Mouthy Scot bitch.” He then shoved her, sending Nessa into the arms of his friend. “That can be arranged later.”
“Aye.” The second soldier grabbed Nessa, roughly squeezing her backside. “But right now, we’ll take what we—ooff!—”
Nessa drove her elbow back, into the man’s chest, cutting him off. Around her, she was aware of a rumble of angry voices. However, none of the vendors had yet come to her aid. Nessa’s belly twisted, heat washing over her. These people all hated the English, but none were bold enough to intercede.
And yet part of her understood their reluctance. Both soldiers wore longswords at their hips and knives strapped to their thighs. They were also huge men with hard eyes—folk were wise to be wary of such individuals.
That wasn’t of any help to Nessa though.
Snarling a curse, the first soldier grabbed her by the hair and hauled her against him. A large hand fastened over her breast, pinching hard. “I’ll take that kiss now.”
Meanwhile, his friend had recovered from the jab to the ribs. Growling curses, he crushed himself up against Nessa once more, grinding his groin into her backside. She was now jammed between them.
Fury kindled hotter within Nessa, igniting in her veins. She’d not tolerate this—even if defending herself would draw unwelcome attention. It was too public a place for using the craft, yet she had other methods of protecting herself.
Nessa’s hand strayed to the dirk hidden under her heavy winter cloak. These two would soon regret laying hands on her.
An instant later, the brute whose foul breath gusted across her face jerked away.
Staggering, Nessa realized someone had just yanked him backward. She then caught the flash of a fine crimson surcoat. A third figure, taller than either of the soldiers, stood between them now.
Hugh de Burgh grasped both men by the lowered coifs of their hauberks and smashed their skulls together. A satisfyingly hollow ‘clunk’ echoed through the marketplace.
He then sent the pair of them careening into the fruit stand. Apples went flying, scattering like large blood-red rubies onto the snow.
Drawing her cloak tightly about her, Nessa looked on while the king’s commander surveyed both soldiers coldly.
“Your names?” he growled.
A beat of silence followed. The soldiers looked scared now, the whites of their eyes stark against their flushed faces.
“John Fullar,” one of them rasped.
His friend, the one that reeked of onion, swallowed hard. “William de Clopton.”
“Get back to camp … and I’ll deal with you both later.” The knight’s voice was flint-hard and as icy as the wind that cut through the market.
Neither soldier argued with him. Nessa knew by the look on their faces that they were aware exactly to whom they were speaking—and they feared him.
Scrambling to their feet, they hurried away, leaving the ruin of the fruit stand behind them.
Heart still pounding in her ears, Nessa watched them go.
“Look what ye’ve gone and done,” the vendor spluttered. His round face purpled as he glared at the knight who remained behind. “My apples will be bruised! No one will buy them now!”
Nessa cast the man an irritated look. He rushed to the defense of his wares but not women in peril.
“They’ll be fine,” she muttered. Wondering why she was aiding someone who hadn’t bothered to assist her, Nessa then sank to her knees and started to gather the fallen fruit. The snow had indeed broken their fall.
“Here.” The deep rumble of a man’s voice rolled over her, and Nessa’s skin prickled with awareness. “Let me help you.”
An instant later, a large hand plucked a red apple out of the snow, leaving a perfect spherical imprint in its wake, and passed it to her.
Bracing herself for the impact, Nessa took the apple, raised her chin—and looked into a pair of appraising hazel eyes. The knight crouched before her, his gaze level with hers.
“Tapadh leibh, Sir Hugh,” she thanked him, viewing him under her lashes. She placed the apple he’d passed her back in her basket before reaching for another.
Hugh de Burgh caught her eye once more. “You remembered my name,” he said gruffly in the same tongue.
Nessa favored him with a coy smile. There was no time to waste—she needed to start working her seduction upon this man now. “Aye … it was only yesterday we met, after all.”
His head inclined. “You know my name … but I do not know yours.”
“That’s easily fixed.” She continued to look at him, even if she was aware they were still drawing curious stares from vendors and market-goers alike. “My name is Nessa.”
He gazed back at her, no trace of a smile upon his face. “Nessa,” he said after a brief pause, pronouncing her name carefully as if committing it to memory. “I must apologize for the behavior of those men … they will be dealt with.”
Nessa stilled at the hard edge to his voice. She didn’t doubt him.
The knight’s expression softened then. “Did they hurt you?”
Nessa shook her head before gathering up the rest of the scattered apples. “No … thanks to ye.”
Together the pair of them rose to their feet.
Lifting her chin to meet his gaze once more, Nessa reflected that Hugh de Burgh was indeed ruggedly handsome. The fine lines around his eyes and the grooves bracketing his mouth confirmed that he was a mature man, in his mid-thirties at least. The knight was dressed as he had been the day before, in a glittering hauberk and blood-red surcoat that made him stand out in the crowd of men and women in checked plaid, fur, and wool.
Sir Hugh didn’t seem to care that folk were staring at them. He wore a longsword at his hip and carried himself with breathtaking arrogance. It was almost as if he dared anyone to aggress him.
Nessa could feel the suspicious looks of the vendors and market-goers alike boring into her. They’d all be wondering why she was conversing with this Englishman.
“What are ye doing at market?” she asked then, deliberately injecting a breathless note into her voice. “Apart from rescuing women.”
“Just making sure the folk of Dunfermline are behaving themselves,” he replied.
Nessa arched an eyebrow. He’d said that too in Gaelic, heedless of the scowls surrounding him. “And are they?”
The corners of his mouth lifted just a fraction. She couldn’t believe it: the dour knight was close to smiling. “It appears so.” His expression sobered once more. “It was my men who were not.”
Nessa’s attention drifted down to his right hand, which she noted was still bound, although it appeared to have a clean bandage. “Ye’ve had that wound tended to then?”
“Aye,” he grunted. She glanced up to see he was frowning. “Although the camp physician tells me it just needs time.”
“Has he treated it?”
The knight shrugged. “Not really.”
Nessa’s gaze held his. “Such wounds are dangerous. If ye come with me, I can take a look at it.”
His mouth thinned. “So, ye can mend injuries better than a trained English physician?”
Nessa swallowed the sharp response that bubbled up within her. In her experience, such men were often butchers who killed as many patients as they cured. But since she was trying to charm this man into her bed, she choked the rebuke down.
“I am only trying to help ye, Sir Hugh,” she said, careful to keep her voice soft and inviting. “But if ye do not wish it, I shall bid ye good day. However, if ye do wish to keep that hand, ye know where to find me.” She paused then, favoring him with one last smile. “I thank ye again, for coming to my aid.”
Nessa then turned and walked away. And as she went, she felt the weight of his stare upon her.
Nessa’s smile widened as victory thrilled within her. The trap had been well and truly set—now all she had to do was wait.