Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
7
CAREFUL DOES IT
THREE DAYS PASSED after Hugh’s visit to her cottage.
In the meantime, Nessa got to work.
Clearly, Hugh de Burgh wasn’t going to darken her door again unless pushed. Berating herself for using too light a hand with the knight, Nessa worked drawing charms at dawn and dusk and took care to drizzle fresh honey across the threshold each day.
But still, he stayed away.
The third day was drawing to a close when Nessa went to feed her pony. Honey—so named for the golden dun color of her coat—was impatient for her warmed mash. The cold had turned the garron ravenous, for the snow lay in a thick crust, preventing her from grazing. As such, Nessa made sure the pony had plenty of hay and a daily bucket of mash.
Picking up a hog-bristle brush, she applied a few strokes to the Highland pony’s thick coat. The repetitive activity eased a little of the tension within Nessa. She’d spent most of the afternoon whispering drawing charms over a pot of burning sage; tending to the pony was a welcome distraction. It was surprisingly cozy inside the lean-to at the back of her cottage, and she was sweating by the time she finished.
I’ll try another working tonight, she promised herself, brushing horsehair and hay off her skirts. She would sacrifice one of her fowls at dusk—Clover had recently stopped laying eggs and was ready for the pot anyway—and use its blood for a more potent charm. It was time to leave her scruples behind.
Jaw set, she left Honey to her meal and trudged around to the front of her cottage through thick snow. They’d had a fresh dusting every morning for the past few days; the spring melt still seemed a long way off.
Rounding the corner of her cottage, Nessa drew to a halt.
It was a windy, grey afternoon, the sky brooding with the promise of more snow—yet Hugh de Burgh’s chain-mail glittered all the same.
He was standing before her door and had raised a mailed fist as if about to knock.
Sensing movement to his right, the knight swiveled, his gaze sweeping to her.
Nessa stilled, relief gusting through her. Clover would have a brief reprieve—for here he was. At her door, by his own volition.
“Sir Hugh,” Nessa greeted him, favoring him with a half-smile. She was beginning to realize that seduction was a delicate art. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager, as if she’d been awaiting his return.
He inclined his head, his mouth pursing, even if his hazel eyes gleamed in the wintry light. “Nessa … have I visited at a bad time?”
“Not at all … I was just feeding my pony.” She gestured then to his right hand, presently covered by a chainmail glove. “Would ye like me to take a look at that?”
He pulled a face, revealing slight embarrassment. “Aye, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Nessa resumed her path to the door. “Come in then … it looks like it’s going to snow again. This winter seems endless, does it not?”
He gave a grunt of agreement. “My men grow restless,” he admitted. “We’ve been wintering here since November.”
Nessa cast him a glance over her shoulder as she threw open the door to the cottage. “Will ye move on as soon as the thaw arrives then?” she asked casually.
Hugh shrugged, his gaze veiling. In an instant, his manner became wary once more. “Our departure isn’t yet planned.”
Marking his response, Nessa turned away, leading him into her cottage. Her belly tightened. The man was suspicious by nature. She wasn’t going to find him easy to extract secrets from.
“A cup of warm wine?” she asked, shrugging off her own cloak and hanging it up behind the door before taking his.
He paused a moment, as if debating the wisdom of such things, before giving a brusque nod. “Aye, thank you.”
Encouraged, Nessa flashed him a proper smile and then gestured to the fireside. “Please … warm yerself.”
Retrieving two cups, she filled them with wine she’d been mulling over the fire. The evenings these days seemed colder than ever. A cup of hot wine as the sun went down seemed to keep the chill at bay.
Hugh had removed his mail gloves and was indeed warming his hands over the glowing hearth. Nessa noted that he appeared to be avoiding looking her way. Was he nervous?
“I’m looking forward to feeling the sun upon my skin again.” She passed him a cup of wine. “Are the winters this harsh where ye are from?”
Hugh took a sip of wine, and the tense set of his shoulders appeared to relax slightly. “A little less so … perhaps.”
“Where is home then, Sir Hugh?”
He did look at her then. Their gazes met and held for a moment before his mouth lifted at the edges. “Grosmont Castle … it sits on the Welsh borders.”
Nessa continued to hold his gaze. She noted the way his features softened when he spoke of his home.
“So, ye are a Marcher Lord?” she asked. “Appointed by the English king to keep control of the border.”
“Aye, when I’m at home. These days, my younger brother rules Grosmont in my stead.”
“When was the last time ye went home?”
He huffed a weary sigh. “Too long.”
Nessa viewed him over the rim of her cup. This man was one of the enemy, but he intrigued her all the same. She heard the weariness in his voice. Hugh de Burgh was tired. She wagered that if The Hammer called a truce in spring, he’d happily return to his castle on the Welsh borders.
“Tell me of Grosmont,” she asked, taking a sip of her wine. “Is the castle grand?”
He smiled, and Nessa’s breathing stilled. It was the first proper smile he’d given her, and it was devastating. His left cheek dimpled, and the expression revealed just what an attractive man he was.
Heat spread through Nessa’s belly, a warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.
Careful does it, Nessa, she counseled herself. She needed to keep her wits about her.
“It is a great stone keep, built nearly three centuries ago now, surrounded by a deep moat.” Hugh’s smile widened to a grin, revealing surprisingly white and even teeth. “To keep angry Welshmen out.”
Nessa huffed. “Of course, Edward now has control of Wales, does he not?”
Hugh nodded, his grin fading. “Aye, his son, Edward of Caernarfon, rules those lands at present.”
Nessa cocked an eyebrow. “At present? Ye don’t believe he’ll hold onto Wales?”
Hugh shrugged. “Power shifts in the blink of an eye, Nessa,” he murmured. “Who knows who the ruler of Wales will be a decade from now.”
Nessa took another sip of wine, eyeing him under her eyelashes. She didn’t want to like Hugh de Burgh, and yet she found herself warming to him. There was something irreverent about him, something she hadn’t expected to find in The Hammer’s commander.
Setting his wine aside, Hugh held out his right hand to her. It wore a fresh bandage. “Did you want to take a look at your handiwork?”
Nessa put down her cup, and taking hold of his wrist with one hand, unwound the bandage with the other. Those angry red lines had faded. The wound had now scabbed and was no longer swollen and pus-filled. “It’s healing well,” she observed.
“Thanks to you,” he murmured.
Nessa raised her chin, meeting his eye once more. The way he was looking at her now made the heat in her belly spread up to her chest and throat. There was an intensity to his gaze that caused awareness to prickle through her.
Her attraction to this man was a boon indeed—it would certainly make this task easier.
“I thought I’d frightened ye away the other day,” she replied softly. She was taking a risk, being so candid, yet she sensed this man preferred directness. “Ye looked at me as if I were about to sprout devil horns.”
Hugh snorted, although awkwardness flitted across his features. “Your methods are … unusual … I’ll admit,” he replied. “But they clearly work. I appreciate what you did, Nessa.”
Her pulse quickened. The low timbre of his voice, the way her name slid like honey off his tongue, made her feel a little light-headed.
“Healing is my gift,” she murmured, wishing her cheeks didn’t feel as if they were on fire. “I couldn’t let such a trivial wound carry off a man like ye.”
“A man such as me?” His voice developed a wry edge. “I’m one of the hated English, remember?” He paused then. “And you are a very odd Scotswoman.”
Nessa’s chin kicked up, her gaze meeting his once more. He was challenging her, the reticence she’d felt when he’d first entered the cottage gone.
“English or not, it didn’t seem fitting that a knight who has fought bravely at his liege’s side for years … should die of a scratch to his hand,” she replied.
Hugh gave a humorless laugh. “And yet even kings have choked to death on their supper. The Grim Reaper cares not for rank.”
Nessa snorted, dropping her gaze to his hand. She reached for a clean bandage and started to wrap it. “Are ye mocking me, Sir Hugh?”
“Not really,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “If I’m honest, I don’t know what to think of you.”
Nessa huffed a laugh, even as her breathing quickened. “Is that why ye left so abruptly three days ago?”
Three days. Mother’s milk, did she have to let him know she’d been counting the days since she’d seen him last?
Silence stretched between them for a few instants, and then Hugh reached out with his left hand, placing it over Nessa’s. She’d just finished securing the bandage, although she hadn’t yet let go of his hand.
“Aye,” he said softly. “I don’t trust myself around you.”
Nessa stilled. The Three give her strength, she hadn’t expected such an admission from him. Slowly, she raised her chin, meeting his eye once more. Hugh was studying her with an intent, hungry look. “And now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I still don’t,” he growled.
With that, Hugh caught her by the wrists and drew him to her.
The moment his lips grazed hers, relief slammed into Nessa. No, she hadn’t imagined it. This man did indeed want her.
Hugh drew away slightly. His gaze held a pained edge as if he still fought his desire for her. Nessa’s breathing caught. She’d cast no love charm on this man—the heat between them wasn’t feigned, and he’d kissed her of his own free will. Nonetheless, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from deciding against taking things further.
Nessa swallowed. This moment was a crucial one; she wouldn’t shatter it by speaking.
Their stare drew out, and then he dipped his head once more. His kiss was achingly gentle at first, teasing. Nessa leaned into him, breathing in the scent of clove on his skin. He’d recently shaved, and when she reached a hand to his cheek, she found it smooth, with just a faint rasp under her fingertips.
His tongue parted her lips then, and he pulled her up so that she straddled his lap. A chill draft from the shuttered window feathered across the exposed skin of her legs as her skirt rode up, yet Nessa barely noticed.
Linking her arms around his neck, she kissed him back.
Hugh de Burgh tasted of apple wine. And once he started kissing her, she lost herself in his embrace. Her tongue slid against his, teasing him. And when he groaned, his hands sliding down her back to cup her bottom, heat flared in the cradle of her hips.
She couldn’t remember ever enjoying a kiss as much as this one.
At thirty winters, Nessa had taken a handful of lovers over the years, even if it had been a while now since she’d done so. The nomadic nature of her life meant that she had never been able to settle down with anyone.
She’d known some good men, and passionate ones, yet none kissed like Hugh de Burgh. He feasted on her mouth, tasting, teasing, and giving as much as he took. He unraveled her, and for a few instants, Nessa forgot that this was supposed to be a seduction. She was supposed to be in control, yet this kiss left her witless.
They drew apart, both breathless now. The need in his eyes made Nessa’s heart pound a tattoo against her breastbone. It was clear what they both wanted. The sensitive flesh between Nessa’s thighs ached. She sat upon his lap, but he hadn’t pulled her hard against him. She thought he would merely lift her skirts, unlace his hose, and take her that way, yet he rose to his feet, letting her slide from his lap.
Nessa tensed, panic fluttering up. He can’t just leave—not now.