Awakening His Lady

Kathrynn Dennis

King John’s summons to war in France may have taken Sir Thomas Addecker away from his beloved Lady Meriom before they could wed, but not before they shared one passionate night together on the eve of his departure. The memory of that love and desire helped Thomas survive, even after he was brutally scarred in battle.

But nothing could be more painful than the thought of Meri, believing Thomas was killed, marrying another man. Can this warrior reawaken the passion they once shared before it is too late?

CONTENTS

AUTHOR NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

AUTHOR NOTE

I hope you enjoy AWAKENING HIS LADY. Before the time of DNA testing, dental radiographs, or even dog tags, the identification of a soldier who fell in battle often relied upon recovery and return of a personal item—jewelry, armor, a shield.

But sometimes mistakes were made.

Happily, reports of a tragic death were occasionally proved wrong. Imagine the passion and the joy shared between reunited lovers—a heroine reawakens and her hero, long given up for dead, renews his faith in love.

ONE

Bouvines, France
July 26, 1214

A knight wearing nothing but his bloodstained, padded shirt and ragged leathers drew closer to the evening campfire. He stroked the ring on his little finger with the pad of his thumb and stared at the flames. God but he was tired, and after two days without sleep, could barely think. He struggled to recall the scent of the wild English roses and the periwinkle that once bloomed in his lady’s much-loved garden. But he’d been gone two long years from home—and when he drew a deep breath, the acrid smoke from the fire stung his eyes and filled his lungs.

He coughed and took a step back.

Hell to the devil. With each passing day, he worked harder to remember England, the softness of her gentle rain, the sound of the village peasants singing at the harvest feast, the taste of good English beer. These things he missed, nay he longed for, but the fading memory of his beloved Lady Meriom was most painful—his Meri, her young face an image he once vowed he would never forget. Bright blue eyes and high cheekbones, framed by hair the color of the earth…but was the tiny scar on her chin on the left side or the right?

He winced. His heart thumped so hard against his chest it hurt to breathe.

Damnation.

Was there no room in his mind for anything but war and fighting—images of an unhorsed soldier, blind, staggering across the field and gasping for air, his dented helmet too misshapen to remove, another man with, his limbs flailing, skewered through his middle, pinned to the ground by French lancemen?

He closed his eyes and rubbed the ring.

By the saints, send me thoughts of my Meri and give me peace.

A low voice called from the fireside. “What’s that yer rubbing, le broyeur?” Edward Galvon, a swarthy knight from Salisbury asked, keeping his gaze on the small charred carcass at the end of his roasting stick. The man killed for pleasure and without repentance. He’d chopped off the head of the squealing squirrel he’d captured for his dinner with more flourish than was necessary.

“I say, le broyeur, what is that?” Galvon repeated. “A talisman from the witch of Gruen?”

Le broyeur, the crusher. The words penetrated slowly, rousing Thomas.

God in heaven, how he hated that name, given to him by his garrison because he’d felled more Frenchmen in a single battle than most English knights had in the whole of the fighting season. But it was not a skill he’d perfected for the sport. It was necessary to survive. It was his duty, performed in the name of King John of England, defending English properties in Flanders against that traitor, Philip of France. When this conflict was over, as it would be after tomorrow’s battle, in victory he, Sir Thomas Addecker, heir to a baronet, would leave le broyeur here with the rest of the misery that was war.

He kicked a stone away and stretched out before the fire. “Not le broyeur, Galvon. I answer to my Christian name. And it’s your turn for the night watch.”

Nodding, Galvon squatted beside him and took a bite of charred squirrel. “Then Sir Thomas,” he sputtered out the words while he chewed. “That ring you are always rubbing ’afore we go to battle, where did you get it?”

Thomas drew a deep breath but did not answer. He watched the stars flickering against the dark sky and rested his hands on his chest. The ring was given to him by his Lady Meri. A simple gold band, it bore her family’s coat of arms. Passed to her from her grandfather, it was her most precious possession. He could not forget the forlornness in her eyes as she pressed the ring onto his finger, or the taste of her tears on his lips when he kissed her goodbye.

“I’ll wager your ring’s a lucky piece, Sir Thomas,” said another campmate stretched out a few feet away. “Blessed by the Pope himself. That explains why you’ve not been wounded or even gotten sick with gut rot like the rest of us. Did you kiss the ring while the Pope was wearing it?”

A third voice joined the discussion, that of Able, the young squire who carried King John’s standard. “You must have, didn’t you, Sir Thomas, kiss the Pope’s ring ’afore he gave it to you?” he asked quietly. “The ring is blessed. It keeps you safe.”

A hush fell over the ragtag camp.

Thomas opened his eyes. The hint of fear in the boy’s voice and the edgy silence at the fireside warranted a response.

Thomas smiled. “That it does, lad. I don’t know how I would have survived without it. Now close your eyes and sleep. In the morn, we battle back some fifteen thousand Frenchmen. God willing, England will prevail and we shall all go home.”

In the late hours of the night, Thomas turned his gaze to the campfires scattered in the fields across the countryside, the twinkling lights oddly foreboding. If he listened hard enough, he could hear men’s voices in the meadows below, and the sound of armor and horses. Then silence.

He closed his eyes, fatigue settling over his bones. He dreamed of Meri and how she’d come to him the night before he’d left, for in his dreams he could relive what he could not well remember…She’d met him at the chapel steps and walked with him in silence, hand in hand, into the stables and waited while he checked his horses.

“How can I live without you?” she’d whispered when he was finished, resting her head against his chest. “Do not leave.”

Thomas ran his knuckles over her smooth cheek. “I must, my lady.” He kissed her forehead. “The king has summoned me directly. Not to answer would be an affront.”

“Can he not wait until we are married? The banns are posted.”

“My ship sails at dawn, Meri. I’ll be back within a year, I promise. We’ll make quick work of the French.” He kissed the inside of her wrist, then pressed her palm to his chest. “When I return we’ll have a grand wedding feast, with music, fine wine and sweet cakes in the shape of magic beasts.”

She stifled a quiet cry.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her hard against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, burying his face in her hair. He could feel her heart beating hard against his own and the rise and fall of her chest with her every breath. God’s breath, she smelled like summertime and new wine and she fit him perfectly, her belly molded against his, her long legs the spanning length of his own. He’d loved her since he was a just a boy. And now her silken touch, her scent, the sound of her voice—all assaulted his senses, beckoning for more than just youthful and chivalric kisses. He ran his hands down her supple back, to the curve of her waist, cognizant of the effect she had on him. His heart raced. His breath quickened and the stirring in his gut ignited a man’s full grown desire.

’Twas worse than a sentence to hell, knowing he might never lay with his Meri, and know her the way a man should know the woman who holds his heart.

“Thomas,” she said, stepping away, loosening her hair from its long plait. “If I cannot have you for the year to come—” Her voice broke and she glanced to the loft above. “Then at least let me have you until dawn.”

Her gaze fixed on his face; she unfastened the laces of her kirtle and drew the bright yellow gown over her head. “Give me these last few hours before you leave. I have loved you since the day we met. Please…”

Standing there in her fine chemise with her long, wavy hair spread across her shoulders, her eyes pleading, asking him to take her—’twas enough to tempt a saint. And Thomas Addecker was no saint. What had he ever done to deserve the love of this vibrant, passionate woman?

He reached to run his fingers over her lips, across the small crescent shaped scar on her chin to the hollow of her neck. Through her thin chemise, her nipples rose erect. She raised her face to his and kissed him, tentatively at first, teasing, inviting him with feminine softness. She threw her arms around him and grasped his nape, drawing his head closer.

He found himself kissing her back, hungry, his need burning with an urgency too long denied. Her lips parted allowing him to taste her. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster to break their embrace, and when he held her at arm’s length, with his hands on her shoulders, he was shaking.

God’s bones! He’d bedded a woman before. He was newly knighted, capable and proud of his looks. What virile man his age was not?

But this was his Meri…

He could not take her as he wanted to, hard and fast, with her legs wrapped around his waist while he pumped against her, thrusting until he came to his release and she to hers. But God, what exquisite torture it would be, to spend his last night on English soil loving Meri!

He groaned and shook his head.

“Thomas, what is it?” she asked, her breath raspy and quick.

Thomas flung his cloak over her shoulders and wrapped it around her. “I cannot do this. Should you get with child, ’twould be ruinous. And who knows when next I might return?” He looked away. “If I return.”

There. He had said it. Surely she could see he loved her more than a fighting knight should. He faced certain death long before he would grow old. He braced himself, expecting to hear her heart-wrenching sobs.

“You oaf!” She slammed her small fist into his chest.

He staggered slightly, completely surprised by her response.

“I care not if there are consequences from our loving. My father will force me to marry someone if you are given up for dead or gone too long, and no man would turn away my dowered lands, even if I bore and kept our bastard.” She attacked his chest again, beat against his chest as though hitting him could fight back her tears. When she was spent, she collapsed against him, her fiery anger melting away to the warmth and softness he found so alluring.

“I love you, Thomas Addecker, and no man will ever hold my heart the way you do. No man.”

He took her hands in his and kissed her temple. God in heaven, she was unpredictable and true, strong and feminine—exactly why he loved her.

“’Tis my desire you not go through life alone. Promise me you will marry if I am killed. Promise me that, my Meri, and I will grant you anything you wish tonight.”

She flung her arms around his neck and covered his face with kisses. “I promise, knave. Now grant my wish.”

Meriom shrugged her chemise from her shoulders and let the garment fall to her feet.

Thomas let his gaze travel upward, from the slim turn of her ankles to her shapely calves, to her rounded thighs and hips. He drank in the sight of her, the gentle swell of her breasts causing him to hold his breath. God in heaven, she was beautiful…beautiful enough to rob him of all reason—and restraint if he wasn’t careful.

She slipped her hands beneath his tunic, her slim fingers searching for the ties to his braes. Her fingers grazed his belly and he flinched, though not from fear…

Thomas grabbed her wrists. “Wait,” he said. “Are you certain you—”

Meriom frowned. “Are you certain, Thomas?”

He pulled her to him. An exasperated groan rumbled from his throat. “Hell to the devil, Meri. I have been certain for the last five years. Painfully so.” Without another word, he swept her up and climbed the stairs to the loft, bounding up two risers at a time.

He laid her gently in a bed of straw. “I’d hoped to lay with you on our wedding night in coverlets of fur and silk—”

Her slender fingers pressed against his lips. “Shhhhh, Thomas,” she whispered. “There will be time for that someday. Make haste. The meadow lark is calling to the rising sun.”

Thomas pulled his tunic and his shirt over his head, pausing long enough to watch her eyes widen as he rolled his braes below his hips.

Meriom sat up and ran her hand down his chest, tracing lines of muscle, stopping just above the thatch of hair between his legs.

He tensed beneath her touch, her fingers like fire against his skin.

“God’s breath, Thomas, you are handsome, so smooth. So fair.” She studied him, her gaze drifting lower. “I should not have let you—suffer.” She kissed his belly—soft, quick kisses and moved her mouth lower than he thought she’d ever dare. Then she stopped.

Thomas’ breath hitched. “Meri, why did you—?”

She stifled a small laugh and laid back, opening the cloak he’d thrown around her shoulders. Unabashed by her nakedness, she stretched out before him. Raising her arms and reaching, she opened her legs, allowing him to settle there between them.

He lowered his head, pressing urgent kisses down the column of her neck and across her breasts. He’d dreamed of this moment from the day they’d met; he just a randy boy of thirteen years, and she a precocious, enchanting girl of twelve who’d fallen from her pony and scraped her chin. He’d caught the little beast and brought him back, and the wounded but proud little girl had let him help her dust the mud from her skirts and hose.

“Thomas, please,” she murmured, her womanly voice interrupting, reminding him the girl had long ago grown up.

He moved his hand to touch her there, to make sure that she was ready. By all indication, Meri wanted him as much he wanted her, but still he had needed to know.

“Are you really sure, Meri?”

“I am,” she’d answered evenly, though her voice was low and drunk with pleasure. “Stop asking me, you oaf.” She placed her hands on his buttocks, as if to steady and direct him.

He needed no guidance. He’d envisioned this moment for years. He slipped inside her and she cried out, causing him to pause.

She took a breath and let her knees relax, freeing his movement so he could glide deep inside her and withdraw without impedance.

Her fingers dug into his back and she squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks flushed. He kissed her, his Meri, over and over again—on the lips, on the eyes and on her chin, all the while rocking, thrusting.

A deep, throaty sound of sheer pleasure slipped from her lips.

Thomas pressed her down into the straw, feverishly thrusting as deeply as his senses would allow. She writhed beneath him and kissed him hard before a shocked cry escaped her throat. She shuddered and her spasms gripped him so, he erupted, releasing wave after wave of unrestrained pleasure.

Afterward, they’d slept little—entwined together on his cloak in a bed of straw—awakening to renew their loving. Meriom smiled, her eyes filled with bittersweet contentedness and sadness. “When you return from the war, a hero and victorious, you will find me waiting, my spirit soaring. I will love you, Thomas Addecker, always.” She slipped the golden ring from her hand and placed it on his little finger.

When the sun rose over Edmington that morning, Thomas left feeling like a different man, a whole man, larger and fuller, connected to his love, his Meri—and to life.

His brain lost in the fog of sleep, Thomas opened his heavy-lidded eyes, barely conscious of the dwindling campfire, or of the damp grass that prickled at the back of his neck. But there was movement beside him. By the saints! Meri hovered in the camp shadows. Blessed mother, he was so dirty and unkempt, and the stink of another man’s blood clung to his shirt. “Oh, Meri, I am still the man you knew, still the man who loves you.” The words slipped past his lips in a whisper.

She said nothing, but he felt her ring sliding from his little finger. Heaven help him—had she come to take it back?

Thomas snapped his eyes open to see Galvon bellowing down at him. “Get up! The French are upon us!”

Thomas scrambled to his feet, the cries of men rising from the meadow, traveling up the hillside. The sound of steel clashing and horses whinnying cracked the air, greeting the dawn sky.

Young Able let out a terrified scream. Panicked, he cowered, frozen in place, clinging to the pole beneath King John’s silken standard as if it were a shield.

Thomas jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him toward the woods. “Run, Able! Run to the other camps and tell them!”

Turning, he faced a French lanceman in a blue tunic emblazed with Philip’s golden fleur de lis. The soldier wielded a small sword, having lost his lance in the charge. Killing eyes blazed through the slits in his helmet.

Sword in hand, Thomas lunged. With an agonized cry, the man collapsed, his shoulder shattered. Blood gushed down his chest. The man looked at his wound, his face as white as ash, his eyes filled with panic. His hand covered the gaping gash as if he hoped to staunch the bleeding. He flopped back, his head lolling to the side. His eyes, unfocused, he stared into the sky. “Janette. Mon amour, Janette!” he cried.

Thomas’ stomach clenched. God forgive him, he took no pride in this. He’d taken yet another life, the life of a man whose heart had lived and loved…

“Le broyeur,” the Frenchman groaned through gritted teeth. “There are a hundred more like me, coming up the hill. God rot you.”

Berwick the picker man moved amongst the dead carefully, watching where he stepped. There were more fallen Englishmen than French, and the band of bodies he’d stumbled upon appeared to have been attacked before they’d had the chance to don their mail. He’d seen carnage in his day, but he could not recall having ever seen so many dead, heaped upon one another like broken dollies. Boys as young as twelve and men older than he had died today. The very sight before him made his eyes turn teary. Bouvines would be a battle long remembered—a French victory that’d sent King John and a handful of his noblemen running back to England, outnumbered and outfoxed.

He called to his dog. “Come, Bannie. ’Tis enough.” He patted the leather pouch on his hip heavy with rich trinkets—golden chains, bejeweled daggers and a fine pair of silver spurs, encrusted with mother-of-pearl. Under English law, a picker could keep the things a dead man’s kin or debtors did not claim.

Bannie walked slowly, awkwardly dragging a roasting stick bearing the leavings of a soldier’s dinner.

Berwick shook his head. “Leave it, ya greedy little mutt. Let the gypsies and the vultures have the rest.”

He turned and stumbled on the body at his feet. A fleck of gold in the mud caught his eye. “Eh?” He cocked his head and squinted, peering down at the dead man in the mud.

Kneeling to get a better look, Berwick spoke to his dog, unconcerned that it never answered. “What have we here?”

He tugged the ring from the man’s little finger and rubbed the dirt and the blood from the engraving. “’Tis English. From the county of Edmington.”

The dog dropped the stick and pricked his ears. Berwick smiled. “Aye, ’twill bring a pretty penny. This poor knight must be kin to a baron, or at least a high retainer in a baron’s service.”

He glanced down at the despairing face of the young English knight who lay on his back, his lifeless eyes staring at heaven. An arrow had caught him through the throat, but he must have gone down fighting. With his other hand, he clutched his well-wrought broadsword, its blade imbedded in the smashed helmet of a dead Frenchman. The Frenchman’s glassy eyes stared out the helmet’s eye holes right at Berwick with a look of disbelief.

Berwick shuddered. There were anguished souls floating all around him, spirits of the dead who could not yet believe they really were dead.

He thrust the gold ring into his leather satchel. “Come, Bannie. The last of King John’s shattered army marches out at dusk. They will not wait if we are late,” he said, his voice wavering. “’Twill soon be dark and I’m afeard of ghosts.”

The quiet beauty and the peace of the falling snow blanketed the countryside below the castle walls. There were no men training in the yard this late in the day, and the village cottages lay snuggled in white, smoke rising from their chimneys, drifting into the evening sky. Meriom wore a shapeless gray dress and a brown veil. She’d long discarded her brightly colored gowns in favor of the nunlike garb. But beneath her bodice, she’d tucked the ring—wearing it now on a leather string around her neck. It was too precious, too sanctified to display. She rested her hand on her breast, covering the cherished ring as she did a thousand times a day, and relived that moment two years ago when the picker man had come to Edmington Castle.

“My lord,” he’d said, bowing to her father. “I have sad news.” He pulled the ring from his satchel and set it on the dais. “I believe this belongs to one of yours.” He kept his eyes down. “He was felled at the Battle of Bouvines. He died valiantly with his sword in his hand. I saw to it he was blessed by an English priest and buried.”

The great hall fell silent. Even the dogs stopped barking.

Meriom’s father turned his head slowly, his face stricken. He looked at her with pity.

“Meriom, my daughter,” he’d said softly, his voice just a whisper. He reached for her hand….

The picker man was handed a small purse filled with gold coins and ushered from the hall. The guests left and Meriom sat at the dais with her father well into the night. He held her while she cried, the ring clutched in her fist.

Meriom covered her face and held her breath. The tightness in her chest never eased. The piercing pain in her heart never lessened, no matter how many times she relived the memory. And yet the world went on as if Thomas were not dead.

Why were the seasons passing as if nothing had happened at all? Why did crystal snow blanket the earth before it yielded to the spring sun—with its flowers and rejuvenating warmth, if Thomas were dead? What more did she care for life or living?

Blessedly, resignation came as it had so many times before, and cloaked her with the numbness of grief and supplication. She would take the veil and cloister herself away, shielding her from all that reminded her of Thomas—the forest paths where they’d ridden together, the bramble garden where they’d strolled for hours talking, the stable loft where they’d loved the night before he left.

Meriom closed her eyes. She could not forget the feeling of him inside her, of his heavy male scent, nor the warmth of his bare skin as they lay together afterward. Nay, she could not forget any of it, but she did not have to live here where the memories were reinforced, causing her to suffer. She would soon join the good sisters at Rothman Abbey. Already she had donned the clothing, and had long since turned away all suitors, much to her father’s displeasure.

As she sat in the window seat and stared at the falling snow, her father crossed the room to stand beside her.

“Meriom, will you do me the favor to change into your finest gown for the feast tonight? There will be masks and frippery, and noble jewels for show. At least wear the velvet damask your mother gave you, and lace your hair with the pearls she wore. Tonight we celebrate the winter feast. Save this gown and veil for Rotham Abbey.”

His sad eyes fell upon her. There were lines in his face she’d not noticed before.

Obediently she rose and kissed his cheek. “For you, I will.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled softly. “I thank you. And would that you should know—tonight a suitor comes. He will attend the feast.”

Meriom halted. “But you promised. You promised there would be no more.”

“Aye, I bid him come before I gave consent to let you go to Rotham. Now I am honor bound to let him try. What can it hurt for you to entertain him?”

“It will hurt you. You secretly hope for a miracle,” she added, lowering her voice. “You will be disappointed again. I cannot give my heart to another.”

“I could force you to take a husband, but I will not. Though my friends scoff at my weakness.” He sighed. “But if you believe you have the calling, I shall honor that because I love you. In two weeks I shall give my only daughter to Rotham Abbey.” He released her hand.

“Father, I—”

He waved her away. “Go on, daughter. Ready yourself. Try to be gay this evening and dance with all the handsome lords and knights.” He eased into the chair. “’Tis the end for both of us.”

The grave finality of his tone discomforted her. He was not old and sick. She was not going to her death, but to an abbey, a sanctuary where there was peace. He would come to visit her as often as allowed, wouldn’t he? She would still look upon the stars at night, and feel the autumn breeze on her cheeks, still take comfort in the sound of children laughing and the taste of pears soaked in honey—wouldn’t she?

And nay, she’d not forgotten she’d vowed to Thomas to marry if he were killed, but she was stronger then and truly believed he would come back. Surely he couldn’t blame her for her decision.

She slipped from her father’s room to her private apartments, where her ladies had already laid out her clothes in preparation for the feast, hoping past hope that she might actually wear them.

Mayhap she should try, just once, to honor the vow she’d made to Thomas. It would also please her father. Tonight was her last chance. If she failed in her quest, her conscience would be free.

She pulled her brown veil from her head. “Elinor!” she called. “Fetch my silver belt and pearls!”

Thomas Addecker kicked the snow from his riding boots and stepped beneath the archway that opened into the great hall. Boughs of evergreen and dried apples hung from every sconce and mantel. The high table, draped in cloth of red and white, was filled with guests, silver plates and food. Below them sat the merchants and the town officials, and below them sat the peasants. The poor devoured the only decent meal they’d have this winter, while those more fortunate, or drunk, took to the center floor and enjoyed the bell dance—where lovers angled to pass beneath the mistletoe and steal a kiss.

Blessed saints, he and his Meri had once waited for the bell dance like children waiting for a plate of sugared plums. They’d held hands and exchanged secret looks of impatience until the musicians brought the baskets filled with bells. They’d danced, he and Meri, stopping beneath the mistletoe to kiss at every pass. And when the music ended, she’d slipped the players a coin or two to start again. By the end of the evening, he, Sir Thomas Addecker, so in love with the woman he’d vowed to honor always, could barely keep his hands off of her. And she, Lady Meriom, laughed and sweetly teased him, slipping her hands beneath his tunic and caressing him just so, driving him to blessed madness. ’Twas the dreams and memories like this that had kept him alive, when by all accounts he should be dead.

Thomas scanned the hall, his eyes searching desperately for Meri. He’d donned a half-mask to cover the puckered red scar that slashed his forehead, lest he frighten her before he had the chance to warn her. By all rights he should have been a dead man, left on the battlefield to die, his leg shattered at the hip by a blow from a mace, his sword arm nearly severed at his shoulder. The last he remembered of the Battle of Bouvines were the great cleated hooves of a destrier thundering toward him while he lay in the mud, bleeding and too weak to move. He felt the ground shake beneath his head and all went dark. When at last he awoke from the apothecary’s drugs, he’d been unable to move or speak, so close to death he’d come.

He owed his life to Able, who’d run to the next camp and returned with a small garrison of knights, enough to beat the French back down the hill. Able had somehow managed to drag him to safety. England lost the war.

It had taken months to learn to speak again, and more before he could walk or ride. Had it not been for the smooth ocean seas and strong headwinds that carried him quickly home from France, and the good brothers at Shropshire’s monastery, he’d not have recovered as quickly as he did. That he was here now, a year after the war had ended, standing in the great hall on the night of the winter feast, and finally returned to see his Meri, was nothing short of a miracle. Able and the monks had saved his body, but ’twas Meri who saved his soul.

He rubbed his aching shoulder, an ever present reminder of how close to death he’d come. The pain would always be with him, either there or in his injured hip. He limped when he was tired, but he did his best to hide it.

“Beer, my lord?” The breweress batted her eyelashes and held up a cup. “’Tis my finest. ’Twill revive you.”

Thomas lifted the cup to his lips, savoring the rich warmth and pungent taste of hops. The finest French wines paled in comparison. He smiled at the pretty woman. “’I thank you. Tell me, madam, for I have just arrived, where I might find Lady Meriom?”

A flash of disappointment graced the breweress’ face. She shrugged and pointed. “She be over there, my lord. Dancing.”

Thomas’ eyes came to rest on Meri, dressed in red damask, her face flushed, a flicker of a smile on her lips. She’d threaded strings of seed pearls through her long, dark hair and it trailed down to her waist like a silken mantle. Praise the saints! She was well and happy—and dancing. ’Twas all that he could do not to leap over the heads of the hundred guests that stood between him and his love.

The breweress turned to leave.

Thomas caught her by the arm. “Who is the man she dances with?”

“’Tis Lord Leeman, my lord. Rumor has it tonight they are betrothed. She seems to like him…” Her sly gaze shifted to the dance floor.

Lord Leeman had whisked Meri beneath the mistletoe, and there he’d bent his head closer to hers as if he meant to kiss her. Smiling softly, she rested her open hand gently against his chest, her eyes burning brighter than they had before.

Thomas clenched his fists. God in heaven, he’d not planned for this. He’d lived and breathed and fought the devil to stay alive for her. As soon as he’d been able, he’d sent word from Shropshire that he would come for her, but he’d gotten no response, no reply. Mayhap the runner had lost his way? “Or mayhap she’s found another love,” he muttered to himself. “As I made her promise.”

A hopeful voice jolted him. “I’ll be your love for the night, good sir.” The breweress stepped in front of him and blocked his view, the neckline of her tunic falling away from her ample bosom, revealing half of one round breast and most of the other.

Thomas craned his neck to see around her. Hell to the devil! He’d lost sight of Meri. He would not let her get away. He’d hold his Meri one last time and say goodbye before he left her to her happy life.

He fixed his mask and drove into the crowd, searching.

Lord Leeman, the earl of Winston, approached her with the confidence of a man who was rich and well-respected. “’Tis the bell dance, Lady Meriom. Your favorite I am told. Will you join me?” He laid his well-manicured fingers on her forearm. The cuffs of his tight-fitting sleeves were embroidered with golden thread, a color that matched his arching eyebrows and his chin-length hair exactly.

Meriom studied Lord Leeman. She’d promised not to disappoint her father. At least Lord Leeman wasn’t ugly. Quite the contrary, he was handsome and well-mannered. ’Twas just a dance they’d share, nothing more. And no man could ever dance with her like Thomas—could he? She lowered her eyes. Was it possible that she could someday come to love another? Nay. Her heart would never let her.

Dutifully she held up both hands, waiting for the servants to slip the bell bracelets on her wrists.

Lord Leeman laughed. “I am not an ogre about to chain you in my dungeon. Mayhap I can make you smile.” He pointed through the throng at a round man dressed in green velvets. “See that gentleman over there with the mask? ’Tis Lord Bimly,” he whispered. “The booby has yet to notice that the large wad of wool he used to stuff his braes has escaped.”

Meriom stole a glance at the portly Lord Bimly. Indeed, he did not look quite normal. A large lump-of-something traveled down his thigh beneath his hose, stopping just below the hemline of his too-short tunic. Ladies giggled. Lord Bimly absently chattered away, assuming that his charm and his wit was the reason for their mirth.

The scene made Meriom smile a little, but she did not laugh. How could Lord Leeman know the depth of her despair? How could he know Thomas was never far from her thoughts? Were it not for her promise to her father, she’d not be standing here now, suffering the attentions of another suitor. Poor Lord Leeman. He seemed well intentioned and of a pleasant nature. Mayhap he did not deserve so rude a rebuff.

She took his outstretched arm and let the music fill her head. The rhythm of the drums and tinkling bells cast a mesmerizing spell. In the press of people, feasting commoner and nobleman alike, it was easy to lose oneself. Easy to remember the feasts of winters past, when Thomas held her in his arms…easy to believe she could see him even now, standing by the great hearth with a cup in hand, his dark eyes fixed upon her as she spun and turned, smiling, her red gown swirling around her legs…

Lord Leeman lowered his head to hers and whispered. “We’ve danced beneath the mistletoe, Lady Meriom. We must share a kiss for luck, like the others.” He nodded at the couples who twirled by, coming to a standstill beneath the mistletoe just long enough for their lips to touch before their gaiety and laughter swept them back into the crowd. He spun her around, his handsome face smiling at her—

She shook her head, her cheeks burning. Would that the man smiling down at her were Thomas! She did not want to kiss Lord Leeman, though he was kind and fair of face. Poor Lord Leeman. He deserved an honest explanation.

Lord Leeman let out a long breath. “Is there nothing I can do to persuade you, my lady, that I would make a good husband? I am kind and generous. I am not ugly, or so I’m told.” A slight grin fell across his disappointed face. “I still have all my teeth.”

Meriom gently rested her hand on his chest, the gesture meant to reassure him. “You are all those things, I am sure, good sir. And you are quite handsome. But I shall not marry. My heart belongs to another.”

“But he is dead, Lady Meriom, and you are too young to shut yourself away. Could you not learn to love another?”

Meriom shook her head. “Nay, Lord Leeman, I cannot. And you should seek the company of the many pretty ladies who, even now, await their turn to dance with you.”

She stepped away and gestured to the women who waited at the sidelines for the music to indicate ’twas time for a partner switch.

Lord Leeman bowed. “I bid you peace then, Lady Meriom. And thank your father.” He strolled to the assembly of ladies and was engulfed into their circle.

With the change in cadence, the music quickened. Meriom found herself swept away by a pack of laughing dancers, her hand resting on the arm of another, a tall knight who wore a half-mask and dressed in black, his riding boots still wet with snow. He kept his face turned so that she could not see the color of his eyes or the shape of his mouth. But a jagged scar tracked from his hairline above his forehead, dove beneath the mask and reappeared just below the hollow of his gaunt cheek, almost reaching the corner of his mouth. Despite his disfigurement, his countenance was powerful and sensual, engrossing, and though she knew she should be afraid, she was not.

To the contrary, the man intrigued her.

He danced with a slight shortness in his gait, a limp he struggled to disguise, but his presence dominated the room and those around them gave them space. His hand tightened on her waist as they danced toward the mistletoe.

She’d uttered only, “Good sir, who are—?” before she caught sight of the bough of greenery directly above her head.

His warm lips suddenly covered hers, demanding her full attention. The music, the laugher and the buzzing conversation instantly fell into the distant background.

Shock trembled through her body. A feeble protest rose from her throat but she’d neither the wit nor strength to a make sound. Their footsteps slowed until they were barely moving, lingering beneath the mistletoe, swaying, their bodies pressed against one another.

Her lips parted, slightly opened. By the saints, he tasted of sweet hops. His mouth was passionate and hungry, and its warmth made her heart beat faster than the drums.

She closed her eyes. God’s breath, this was bliss. All of her senses focused on his lips and he continued, his tongue probing, as if he cared not for the whispers emanating from the flashes of silk and finery that danced around them. He kissed her as if his soul were scorched by thirst and she was the wine he needed. Meriom’s fingers curled into her palms, making a fist, a small attempt at resistance, but then she spread her hands open against his broad chest and inched them upward until they encircled his neck. She was kissing him back, his embrace as thrilling and as all consuming as that of her beloved Thomas’. Even his scent, of beer and of horses, reminded her of Thomas. God, that Thomas still walked upon this earth!

When the dark knight ended his kiss abruptly, a cry of disappointment escaped her lips. By the heady rush of his breath and the fire in his dark eyes, she knew he’d shared her pleasure.

Stunned and confused by what had passed between them, Meriom lowered her gaze. “Whoever you are, thank you for saving me from a dismal eve…I know not what,” she mumbled breathlessly, not knowing what else to say.

“I thank you for saving me,” he said, his voice husky. He squeezed her fingers.

She halted. “Me saving you? I do not understa—”

The dark man staring down at her from beneath his mask tightened his hand around hers, as if he meant to send some silent signal. He said nothing else, and for a moment, she thought she recognized that look in his eyes—amused, loving and teasing all at once.

Was it possible?

Nay, this knight could not be Thomas. He was too thin, his face too gaunt, too scarred and injured. Yet it felt as though she knew him; his touch, his scent, the bemused look in his dark eyes and the passion in his kiss—so much like Thomas!

A flicker of hope ignited in her heart.

Mistakes had been made in battlefield reports before. ’Twas possible Thomas had survived. Jack the Crocker had come back from war and all had thought him dead. So had Samuel Elliot, mistaken on the battlefield for his fallen brother.

Meriom squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples, the pain there so sharp it felt like knives driving into her skull.

But nay, she had the ring. Thomas was not here, could not be here. There was no hope for that, and in that hope lay the way of madness. Her mind was tricking her again. How many times in the years since he’d left had she believed she’d seen him at the market, at the fair, at the tournament in Glesson? A hundred…maybe more? They say those grieving oft see their beloved when they are not there. God in heaven, ’twas a fact grounded in reality—Thomas Addecker was dead. And yet, even now she could feel his soul surrounding hers, as though he lived and breathed in the dark knight who stood before her.

Mother Mary! She was losing her mind.

Turning, she picked up her skirts to flee, the room tilting, spinning around her, colors streaming, people laughing. Blessed saints, the air had grown hot in the hall, and her stomach heaved as if she was standing on the deck of a rolling ship. She felt her knees wobble beneath her and she staggered, the floor rising up to meet her. If she did not get away from him, this dark stranger, and all that reminded her of Thomas, she would be sick.

She bolted, darting through the crowd.

“Wait!” the knight called after her.

Meriom stumbled through the great wooden doors that opened into the snow-dusted center courtyard, the moonlight beaming down in rays of blue and white. A handful of guests huddled around a small bonfire. She took a deep breath and waited for the biting cold to restore her. Thoughts of the dark knight immediately filled her head—a knight who inexplicably stirred her desire—and made her think of Thomas.

Nostalgia crept into her thoughts—a kiss she’d once shared here with Thomas, an impassioned, lingering kiss, the kind that lasted longer than her breath, much like the kiss she’d just shared with a stranger.

Heaven help her! Had she lost her senses? What of loyalty and love?

A range of emotions raced through her mind. Guilt. Shame. Surprise. No man could replace her Thomas, could he?

Withdrawing the ring from her bodice, she freed it from the leather string and slipped the golden band on her middle finger. She needed to see it…to remember. She cried silently, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her quivering chin.

A cloak settled over her shaking shoulders, its warmth comforting and soft.

Meriom lifted her eyes to see the face of a young squire. There was kindness in his youthful eyes.

“I thank you.” She looked away, discouraging his company.

The squire stood beside her, unmoving. “I’m not much for feasting,” he said, softly. “Too crowded. Too loud. I much prefer the quiet of a campfire and the open road.”

Meriom kept her voice distant. “You traveled far?”

“From Flanders and then from Shropshire to here—in the snow. I was in service to the king.”

“Ah, you served in France then. Were you at the Battle of Bouvines?” She’d met only a handful of knights who’d served in King John’s army and survived. She knew not why she even bothered to ask.

The young squire took a drink. “I was there, my lady.” He swallowed hard and looked away. “I am amongst the last to return, stopping here to rest before I travel home.”

Beneath his new traveling clothes, he looked alarmingly thin.

Meriom took pity on him. “I’ll make certain you get a sack of food for the rest of your journey.”

He bowed his head and raised her hand to his lips, as chivalric code commanded. “Thank you for your kindness, great lady.”

Meriom nodded, only to startle when he shoved her fingers toward the firelight.

The squire’s face paled. “This ring. Where did you get this?”

Meriom snatched her hand from his trembling grip. “’Twas a gift from my grandfather. Why do you ask?”

He stared at her hand. “My master wore one like it once. He—”

“Your master! What was his name?”

“He was called le broyeur. Sir Thom—”

Meriom’s knees went weak. “Thomas Addecker?”

The squire drew his brows together and nodded.

Meriom swayed. Grief came crashing down, just as punishing and as unrelenting as it was the night the picker man had set her ring upon the dais.

“Tell me about your master. Did he slay many Frenchmen?” she asked, her voice shaking. “What words did he say before he fell? Did he speak his lady’s name?”

The young squire stared at her, his mouth agape. “Lady Meriom?”

Meriom nodded, unable to utter a single word.

He knelt before her and bowed his head. “Oh, great lady. He is not dead.”

Meriom picked up her skirts and bolted.

Able called, “Lady Meriom, I bid you stop!”

She would find him. She would find the dark knight in the hall, the man she knew in her heart was Thomas. Despite his scar, his limp and the drawn face beneath the mask, the man was Thomas!

Why in God’s name had he not revealed himself?

Feet pounding, Meriom flew from the courtyard into the hall, where the great press of people had stilled for the moment, all eyes upon the bawdy jugglers and the magicians in the center of the floor. ’Twas easier now to move amongst the guests, most of whom were seated on benches or in the rushes. A few leaned languidly against the wall, the women flirting, the men drinking, the torch lights sputtering their last.

Meriom wove her way around the room, ducking in and out of the shadows like Diana, the goddess of the hunt. She would find him. She’d dreamed of this moment a thousand times. She spun her ring, turning it around and around her finger. Thomas was alive and he was here! What would she say?

A juggler forced a fiery torch down his throat, causing the crowd to release a collective gasp. They clapped and rose from their seats slowly, the energy of the evening extinguished like the juggler’s flames.

The firelight from the hearth dwindled low and servants suddenly appeared, taking down the trestle tables and stowing all the benches. It was her father’s way of telling everyone ’twas time to leave or bed down on their pallets. The crowd diminished by the hundreds, and still she’d naught a glimpse of Thomas.

Mayhap the dark knight was not him. Mayhap he was here, dressed another way. Three times she’d circled the room and she’d not seen him and now she stood on the highest stone step at the back of the hall, craning to see over the crowd, while revelers flooded past her, stepping around her and stumbling, filing out of the hall. Already, old men and women snored on their pallets by the fire, and the dogs had curled up in the choicest spots between them. Soon, there would soft murmurings of lovers drifting around the hall, girlish giggles, followed by shushing, and whispers pleading for discretion.

The night was over. And Meriom felt her life coming to an end—for the second time. She wondered if Thomas had truly come back for her. Mayhap that’s what his young squire had been trying to tell her when he called her back, and she so desperate to find her Thomas had not stopped to listen. That Thomas might not want her was as cutting as the grief that engulfed her when she thought him dead. Hope faded into numbness and frustration.

Hands trembling, she pulled the ring from her finger. Best to keep it safe on its leather string and tucked inside her bodice. It might be all she’d ever have to remember Thomas.

Her fingers fumbling, she felt the golden band slip from her grasp. The ring tumbled, bouncing from step to step, pinging softly until it hit the rushes at the bottom. In an instant Meriom was on her knees sobbing, searching through the rushes. The ring was just a material thing, made precious by a once important moment in her life—and yet she could not bear the thought of living one day without it.

Her effort futile, she wiped the tears from her cheek with the heel of her hand. Mother Mary, she missed the comfort of her brown veil and gray dress. After tonight, the peace she was certain she would find at Rotham Abbey was all the more appealing.

“You dropped this, my lady?”

That voice.

That soft, deep voice fell upon her like the warmth of the setting summer sun.

She froze, unable to speak. She merely looked up to see the masked face of the dark knight, of the man who was surely Thomas peering down at her, his hand extended with her ring in his palm.

Thomas!

He smiled. “I believe this belongs to you, Lady Meriom.”

Meriom attempted to clamp her mouth shut, aware that she sat there with her lips parted, as if she meant to speak but had suddenly been struck dumb. He set the ring in her hand, his warm fingers grazing her palm. She shuddered. Why did he not reveal himself? Did he think she would forget those beautiful lips, that strong square chin, that mat of dark hair that curled at the base of his neck?

What kind of fool did he think she was?

“Might I be of some assistance—again?” he asked. “You ran off during the dance as if you’d seen an ogre.”

Her fingers curled over the ring and she rose. “No ogre, just a ghost, mayhap,” she quipped, forcing a tone of detachment. “But I thank you, sir, for my ring. I am tired. ’Tis time I go to bed.”

He caught her by the elbow. “I will escort you, then. ’Tis not safe for a lady to wander ’round the castle alone in the dark.”

She cast a glance from the corner of her eye. “Am I safe with you, good sir? You are a stranger, a guest at my father’s feast, arrived too late to be announced.”

Not waiting for an answer, she turned and climbed the steps leading to her private apartment. Thomas walked beside her, so close she feared he could hear her heart hammering.

“You need not fear me, Lady Meriom. You are the lady of the house, your father’s noble daughter. Guards would come running if you called.” He smiled, his white teeth shining in the shadows.

“How is it that you know my name, and I do not know yours?” She walked slowly, noticing that he limped, giving him time to catch up with her.

“I asked a servant when I saw you dancing.” His voice was tight.

Meriom halted. So he’d seen her dance beneath the mistletoe with Lord Leeman and thought her besotted? Could it be that Thomas was jealous?

Thomas offered her his arm, as if he thought her too fatigued to walk without him. She rested her open hand on his sleeve, praying he could not feel her trembling. Would that she could rip off his mask and cover his face with kisses.

“Ah yes, I danced with Lord Leeman,” she spoke softly, the rush torch at her apartment door sputtering its last light. “He is a worthy suitor, and wanted to kiss me beneath the mistletoe, but I fear I have offended him tonight.”

“How so?” By the twist of his beautiful lips and the spark in his eye, Thomas was bemused.

Meriom slowed and held him by his sleeve.

“I declined. I am a poor kisser, my lord,” she whispered, imparting seriousness to her tone.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Mayhap I could help. Show me how you do it—our kiss under the mistletoe was too brief, and I’ll suggest improvements.” He steered her around and placed her back against the wall.

Meriom quirked her eyebrow. What game was this?

She shook her head, refusing to get angry, determined to play this scene as he appeared to want to play it.

He shrugged. “Let me demonstrate how a man would like to kiss a woman, then you can show me how a woman thinks it should be done.”

Before she could object, Thomas lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips with a gentle kiss that soon became more urgent, more intense with desire that was not disguised. Blessed saints, she could not help herself; kissing Thomas had always been like eating honey from a spoon. She parted her lips and accepted him, let his tongue inside to touch her own, the silken slickness of his mouth and his sweetness pure heaven. His warm breath rushing against her cheek, she could feel the thunder of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts before he pulled away.

God’s teeth! She could barely catch her breath!

“That, Lady Meriom, is how a man wishes to kiss a woman. Now show me how you would have kissed Lord Leeman that he should have taken such gross offense.”

She touched her tingling lips. “I do not know how I would have kissed Lord Leeman, because I did not want to kiss him. I turned him down and allowed another man to take his place. A stranger. I kissed the stranger,” she whispered, glaring at him.

“Ah, would you have rather kissed Lord Leeman?”

“I think not, sir, but had he insisted I would have endured it for politeness sake.”

With a fluid movement, Thomas pressed his lips against hers and kissed a searing trail from her mouth, moving to the scar on her chin, then down her neck, pausing to nip at her earlobe and nuzzle in the hollow just above her collarbone.

He raised his head, his dark eyes penetrating, glinting. “Kissing, Lady Meriom, is not to be endured.” His voice was low and languid. Seductive.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Nay,” she replied, her voice ragged. “Nay, not to be endured—”

His lips covered her mouth again, this time with the pressure of featherlight kisses that sent her blood racing through her veins.

Blessed saints, when had the stony castle turned so warm! Why did he pretend to be a stranger? Any other man she could have resisted. But not Thomas. Never Thomas, no matter how angry she was at him, or how hurt she was by his refusal to reveal himself.

Hell to the devil. She would give him what he asked for.

She kissed him back, pressed her lips lightly to his mouth, tentative and soft, a bare whisper of a kiss. She took his lower lip between her teeth and sucked, gently humming, knowing it would drive him mad—as it had years ago.

He moaned and drew his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, exactly what she’d hoped for. Slowly she slid her hands from his shoulder to his hips, all the while, covering his neck with distracting kisses, touching his skin with her tongue.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, the weight of him pressing her against the wall. She could not have moved if she’d wanted to. Thomas wedged his knee between hers, and with his free hand, he dragged her skirts up to expose her thighs. Deftly he untied the garters that held her stockings up.

Not caring who might catch them, she pulled his tunic up, found the ties to his braes and exposed him.

Thomas gripped her shoulders. “Lady Meriom. You are bold.”

She pressed her finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” she commanded, sinking to her knees.

She held him in her hands; she touched him with her tongue before she took the whole of him into her mouth.

Thomas sucked in his breath, his hips thrusting. “God in heaven, Meri.”

At the sound of her name, Meriom stopped and pulled away. “Meri” he’d called her, and only he had ever called her Meri.

She choked back a sob. ’Twas hard to believe he was alive! How could he toy with her? What excuse did he have for this charade?

She felt his hands beneath her arms, lifting her, drawing her to her feet.

He cradled her nape and stared into her eyes, his own belying what he wanted, peering at her from beneath his mask. “You are temptress, driving me to madness. If you want no more of this, then tell me so now. I will leave you.”

Meriom clasped his face in her hands, her breath rushing from her mouth, her lips wet and swollen. “Stay!”

Her words were stronger than his will. By the devil, he’d spent nights beside the campfire in France dreaming about this moment and days on end thereafter, laid low on a cot with just a thread of breath connecting him to life.

Here she was, his Meriom, living and breathing, and asking him for more.

He pushed her gown from her shoulders to her waist, baring her breasts, covering her nipples with his mouth. She smelled of lavender and thyme, her warm skin was smooth beneath his tongue. She gasped when he held her tips between his lips and gently sucked.

“By the saints, I’ve longed for this,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

His blood coursing through his veins and pounding in his hears, Thomas pressed his damp cheek against hers. With his good arm against the wall above her head, he braced himself, and with his free hand, slipped his fingers into the slippery cleft between her legs.

“Let me,” he whispered, his chest heaving.

She was warm and wet, and when he rubbed her small mound, she groaned her acquiescence, the throaty sound buried in the fold between his neck and shoulder.

She writhed against him, riding his hand as he moved in tune with her rhythm.

Thomas shifted, her weight braced against his good hip, though at the moment, he felt no pain on his bad side, as if the old wound was never there.

He lifted her legs around his waist, pressed her back against the wall and plunged deep inside her.

She cried out. He paused to give her time to adjust, then he raised her up to lower her down again. And again, letting her ride him slowly at first, then quickening the pace. He could feel her tighten around him and quivered.

Blessed saints, ’twas nothing better on earth than this. This was worth living for; worth the pain he’d endured this last year, recovering from his wounds—fighting to stay alive for her.

The thought of what they must look like together—she against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist, and he pumping hard against her—drove him on, kissing her with passion, thrusting until his body shook, until at last blessed relief spilled forth. “Meri,” he murmured, his body arched against her.

Meriom shuddered and gripped him down below, clenching around him with one final spasm before she released him. She let her legs fall away from his waist, her skirts dropping down as she came to her feet.

Breathing hard, she tipped her head back, resting against the wall, her mouth wet and swollen. Her gaze never left his, her eyes, cloudy with passion.

Thomas struggled to find the words he wanted to say, to tell her he had dreamed about this moment in his darkest hours. The days and nights so black with pain, only dreams of his Meri and their passion had sustained him.

He kissed the tiny bites on her breasts and on her neck, and rested his forehead against hers. “I am sorry,” he said, quietly, pulling up the bodice of her gown.

She shook her head, dismissing his concern. Her hands moved beneath his tunic. God in heaven, she was pulling up his braes, adjusting his hose, putting him back together, tending to him.

Thomas smoothed her damp hair from her flushed face. She was still breathing hard, and the look in her eyes was impossible to read.

“My lady, I should not have—”

She took one step and stumbled, her legs giving way. “Help me into my room, good sir.”

Thomas scooped her up and kicked the door open to her private apartment. He limped, his bad leg straining, his good arm bearing most of her weight.

He set her down amongst the furs and downy linens on her bed. She lay there still and quiet, staring at the ceiling.

Thomas stepped away and poured wine from a ewer into her cup. “Drink this. ’Twill restore you.”

Meriom sat up and waved the cup away. “Take off your mask.”

Thomas eased down on the bed beside her. “I think you should know—”

“I know who you are, le broyeur. You called me Meri. No one calls me Meri but you, Thomas. Take it off.”

Thomas balled his hands into fists. Hell, he could not hide behind the mask. He would not. But if his Meri went running from the room at the sight of him, he’d not blame her. He was not the handsome boy-on-the verge of manhood she loved two summers past, a proud, young knight eager to see the battlefield and prove his mettle. He was a different man, on the inside and the out. The brutal things he’d done in the name of the king he could shield her from, but she would bear witness to the whole of the Frenchmen’s work on his body before she declared her love.

Without answering, Thomas rose from the bed. Slowly he drew the mask from his face, staring past her, looking into the darkness beyond her bed. He could feel her eyes upon him, but he heard not a sound, not a gasp, not a whimper.

He slipped his tunic from his head and his padded shirt. The skin on his wounded arm puckered at his shoulder, making it a struggle to remove the garment. The dull ache in his ruined hip joint plagued him less now, but he untied his hose and his braes and removed them all, baring the crooked, red and purple scars from the stitches that had been hastily used to sew him back together.

He stood there, naked in the firelight, waiting for Meriom to run from the room.

Meriom fought back a gasp. God in heaven, what had they done to her Thomas? ’Twas a miracle he lived!

She swore an oath beneath her breath. God rot the French bastards.

Thomas held his fists clenched at his side, thrust his chin up, but she knew him well enough to know that he worried he would frighten her, and most of all, that he feared rejection. He was proud of his looks in his youth, and he was a good and noble knight, but not the victor. The war had turned out so differently from what they had imagined their last night together. They had both lost so much.

She made no sound, her face stoic, but she rose from the bed and stood before him, one hand tenderly tracing the scar on his injured shoulder and the other on his hip.

“Does it hurt, Thomas?”

He showed no emotion, as if he waited to be sure she would not turn away. He kept his hands at his sides. “Not as it did.”

Hot, wet tears trickled down her face. “Why did you not send word? I thought you were dead. I could not marry someone else as I’d promised. I vowed to take the veil.”

She leaned her head against his chest, her arms thrown around his neck. Only then did she sense the muscles in his back and shoulders relax. He brought his arms around her. “I did send word, my love, when I was well enough. I hired a runner, paid in gold to get my letter to you—”

“Your man was errant or a thief. I got no missive. Had I known I would have come to you—!”

He set her from his arms. “Meri, you have to know I’ve seen and done things I am not proud of. I am not a hero.”

“My spirit died when I learned you had been killed. Life seemed pointless. My soul has been empty. The war has taken its toll on both of us, Thomas, but I love you no less now than I did three years ago.”

“As soon as I could ride, Meri, I made my way home. You, my Meri, are the only reason I am still alive.”

More tears. Meri wiped them on the back of her sleeve and moved to the edge of the bed. “I was lost without you. You think I could be happy with Lord Leeman, or any of the other fifty suitors who’ve come sniffing, bartering for me likes beads at a bazaar? In a few weeks, I am to enter Rotham Abbey. I could not marry anyone if I could not marry you.”

A slow smile spread across Thomas’ face. “You? A nun?”

He crossed the room and knelt before her, unabashed at his nakedness, undeterred by the cold. “Marry me, my Meri. Bring a dead man back to life.”

Meriom bolted to her feet. He expected she would throw her arms around him, and sob with happiness.

But what he got from Meri was never what he quite expected.

Her open palm smacked his cheek—his cheek, the only part of his body that didn’t already hurt.

“You oaf. Why the disguise? Did you think I would stop loving you because of this?” She swept her hand skimming over his scarred and battered body. “I loved you from the day I’d fallen off my pony and you picked me up and dusted off my muddied skirts and wiped my bloodied chin like I was the Queen of England. How could you think for a moment that scars and broken bones would matter?”

Thomas rubbed his cheek. “I—”

“I’ll show you, le broyeur, a woman who was crushed to think you dead, who’d rather sleep alone in a nunnery for the rest of her life than live without you.”

She jerked her gown and chemise over her head and kicked off her shoes. Standing there with her hose around her ankles, she was as naked as he was. Beautiful and luscious in her fury. “Now, come to bed, Thomas Addecker. We’ve three years of practice to make up for before we are married. You are well enough recovered.”

Thomas laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, the kind of laugh he’d not experienced in years. He raised Meri’s hand to his lips and kissed each fingertip, pausing to examine the gold ring on her middle finger.

Sadness filled her eyes. Her voice cracked. “When the picker man brought it to my father, my heart broke in two…Thomas how…?” She raised her gaze to him in quiet appeal.

“’Twas the night before Bouvines…” he said, pausing, searching for the words, thinking of Galvon. “A frightened, desperate thief. May God forgive him.” he added softly.

The tears he had been waiting for finally came pouring forth, streaming down her cheeks in rivulets. She lowered herself to the bed, drawing Thomas down with her, pushing him to lie on his back. “Enough of the past. Tomorrow morn, I wish to reawaken free of grief and sorrow, filled with love and hope instead. My Thomas lives, and he’s been too long from England.”

Thomas smiled. “And here I shall stay, with you, my love, forever.”

Meri straddled him, the look in her eyes anything but sleepy.

He leaned his head back, joyous with the rapture imparted by his Meri’s kisses.

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HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION by Joanna Maitland

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE by Terri Brisbin

DISROBED AND DISHONORED by Louise Allen

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH by Diane Gaston

A NIGHT OF WICKED DELIGHT by Joanne Rock

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY by Bronwyn Scott

THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER by Ann Lethbridge

NOTORIOUS LORD, COMPROMISED MISS by Annie Burrows

THE UNMASKING OF LADY LOVELESS by Nicola Cornick

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS by Bronwyn Scott

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE by Michelle Willingham

SHIPWRECKED AND SEDUCED by Amanda McCabe

Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

Kathrynn Dennis is so excited to be writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE! Like most romance writers, she is an avid reader of the genre, and has been reading Harlequin Historicals since she was old enough to sneak a flashlight under the covers and read until her mother insisted it was really time to turn out the light. Kathrynn loves and writes earthy, sensual medieval romance.  Her stories have a hint of the mysticism/paranormal element that was a part of everyday life in the middle ages. Kathrynn is a wife, a mother with a full-time job, and when she isn’t writing, she spends her time exercise-walking around her home in sunny Northern California and dreaming up more stories. AWAKENING HIS LADY is Kathrynn’s debut novel for Harlequin Historical UNDONE. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at Kathrynn.Dennis@gmail.com, or visit her website at www.kdennis.com.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-4884-1

Awakening His Lady

Copyright © 2009 by Kathrynn Dennis

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