Warrior's Surrender Read online

  Frey groaned, a release of pleasure and frustration.

  “Then I shall be an attentive pupil. I don’t like to be bested at anything.”

  “Ah, my dear heart, in these games there are always two winners.”

  Sebastian settled himself over her and started with nips and licks at her ears.

  Frey’s nipples hardened and rubbed against the clothes; the sensation spread and moisture pooled between her legs. She clung to his shoulders and kicked at her skirts to allow her legs to part farther and draw him near.

  Sebastian rested on his knees, trapping her restless legs between his thighs.

  “I want to see all of you,” he demanded softly, and, as he spoke, his hands stroked up the outside of her legs, bunching her skirts as he did so.

  He was agonizingly slow while she rapidly unlaced the sides and neck of her kirtle and the chemise beneath.

  With bare skin exposed, the sensation of cold danced along her body, adding to the awareness of him that infused her whole being.

  His hands released the fabric, skimmed her belly, and spanned her waist, pulling the fabric taut across her breasts.

  Frey’s hands kneaded his shoulders, demanding silently he cease his merciless tease and bring her relief. Freed from the skirts, her legs twined around him on their own and her hips rocked, enticing him to come to her.

  He kissed her lips gently before lightly nipping at them. Such acts brought added heat and color, which he soothed with his tongue.

  Sebastian’s hands dipped and with purpose pulled both remaining garments over her breasts. She aided him by raising her arms and her wadded clothing landed with his on the floor.

  Fingertips teased and touched her full breasts and Frey felt them ache, heavy with the burden of desire.

  Sebastian’s manhood slipped along the soft downy curls between her legs and they shared a mutual groan before he drew, frustratingly, away. His head dipped to taste where his fingers had trailed. His tongue darted out to flick a rosy nipple.

  Frey cried out with the sheer pleasure of it and curled her fingers tightly into the ebony waves at the nape of his neck.

  To be sure, she had never felt anything like this ever. It was as though she melted. Before another thought could coalesce, the wet warmth of his mouth covered her breast and his tongue licked and swirled.

  Please, please, please, this should be over now, Frey thought desperately. Surely such sensations were unnecessary for consummation, but…Oooohhhhhh!

  And no more coherent thought was possible as Sebastian claimed her other breast.

  Her hips moved restlessly, trying to capture the hard warmth of him she had experienced so fleetingly between her legs.

  “Did you say something, princess?” came his husky response at her chest.

  “Please,” she begged. “I need, ah I…”

  “No words,” he told her before swiftly claiming her lips. She poured her concentration into matching his kisses, and she did not feel him shift position until she felt the sensation of his fingers softly stroking between her thighs. Her legs parted and he slowly dipped a finger between her netherlips and, with his thumb, coaxed the blooming bud of her sex to life.

  One finger, then two filled her, gently stretching.

  Stroke upon stroke added sensation upon sensation until the conflagration of desire burst into life and consumed every doubt until all she could do was surrender herself to the sensation and to the man who brought her a pleasure hitherto unknown.

  Frey came back to awareness of Sebastian’s fingers still stroking and her hips rocking in counterpoint.

  “Please, Sebastian, join me,” was her breathy plea, and he did, entering her slowly inch by inch, her body stretching to accommodate his girth. He stopped and looked down at her with such tenderness she thought the sensation of her release might overwhelm her a second time.

  He rocked his hips and Frey cried out with pleasure, clenching her sex to prolong the pleasure.

  “You’re mine,” Sebastian told her.

  He stroked into her again, then again, and again until the wave of bliss rose and Frey was helpless to do anything but let it rise and overwhelm her. She abandoned herself to it when Sebastian’s movements became erratic and rapid as he called out in his own release.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Frey didn’t know why she felt different, but she did.

  Surely this day would be just like the day that dawned before it, and just like the one that would follow tomorrow.

  She hoisted herself off the stone window coping and took one last look at the blue November sky above, then turned to her wedding gown, the same shade of pale blue, embroidered at the square neck and sleeves in white and silver thread.

  It was the most expensive dress she had ever owned. It was lined in the softest white satin, which peeked from beneath the split sleeves of the outer robe.

  Two maids waited in attendance, and Frey allowed them to undress her and place the new garment over her head.

  As the stays were tightened, she watched her transformation in the reflection upon a rectangle of polished steel. The corners were engraved with the interlocked squares of the old Tyrswick cipher and, on the top and the bottom of the plate, was a lion rampant with the initials “S” and “A” intertwined. It was an expensive wedding gift from the people of Tyrswick, which touched her deeply.

  Her pale hair was brushed by the maids until it shone, then the sides plaited and curled around her head and held in place with pins tipped with pearls the size of peas. The rest of Frey’s hair was plaited with blue and white ribbons into one thick braid and coiled at her nape to be pinned in place.

  She could hardly believe she was the same woman who just this summer spent her days in rough and filthy tunics and hose. Part of her felt unworthy of such splendor. She stretched down to stroke the soft kid boots, the color of clotted cream, which had been made especially for her. They fitted beautifully.

  Rosalind entered the chamber carrying a small inlaid casket. Frey envied her, in her gown of deep red, the color of garnet, how she carried herself with a poise and grace Frey struggled to master.

  “Frey, you look beautiful!”

  Frey blushed, mortified by her uncharacteristic skittishness.

  “I want to be worthy of your brother.”

  Rosalind hugged her tightly, and when they parted, Frey was surprised to find tears dancing at the edge of her lashes.

  “That’s all I ever wanted for him—a woman who would understand his honor and loyalty, who would take her equal share in his responsibilities. I didn’t dare hope he would find a bride who would love him as well.”

  Love?

  Frey cast her eyes downward, afraid Rosalind would see what a fraud she was.

  She couldn't love Sebastian.

  Love was a fable. The best a woman could ask for in a marriage is for a husband to be kind and fair. On that score Frey had no complaints. She had no dowry, no lands to offer an advantageous match, and he showed unmerited consideration to her brother and even furnished her wedding finery.

  Frey swallowed against the lump in her throat and raised her head to give Rosalind a truthful answer.

  “I promise that I will give him no cause to regret taking me for wife.”

  Rosalind’s response was a beaming smile. She turned away to unlock the casket she placed on the small table. Light from the window struck the contents within, and the glittering silver and flashes of blue made the interior glow.

  “You’re soon to be the baroness of Tyrswick, one of the most prosperous counties in Northumbria, so you need to look the part,” she said.

  The maids stepped aside to allow the baroness of Goscote to place around the neck of their mistress a necklace of silver. Fine links looped a thicker rope of silver and, at the end of each of these festoons, held an oval of polished blue topaz only a shade or two lighter than Frey’s eye color. A square sapphire set in gold with round rubies at each corner was placed on Frey’s finger.
/>   “There, now you look like the wife of a baron,” Rosalind approved.

  Frey looked at her reflection once more and wondered who the noble woman was whose reflection stared back at her. The more she stared the less she recognized herself.

  Frey started as bells from the chapel in the outer bailey began to peal.

  “It’s time, Lady Alfreya,” said Rosalind, her voice serious with the gravity of the occasion.

  Frey swallowed before standing and steadying herself. Across her shoulders, the maids draped a woolen mantle of the softest wool from Scotland, trimmed in light yellow rabbit fur along the cowl and hem.

  There was a knock at the chamber door and Rosalind called, “Enter.”

  The door opened and Larcwide and Orlege stood at the entrance dressed in mail and the red and rich blue that proclaimed them to be in the service of Sebastian de la Croix, the baron of Tyrswick.

  They stood to attention as the bride emerged, but then Larcwide breached protocol and took Frey’s hand, kissing it.

  “You are the most beautiful creature who walked the face of God’s earth,” he told her.

  “Should I get too big for my boots, I shall have you to blame, dear friend,” Frey laughed and squeezed his hand.

  Frey took Orlege by the hand too and squeezed it. It grounded her.

  “Thank you, both of you,” said Frey, taking a deep breath. “You are more than men-at-arms, you have been true friends to me and Brice, and you will always have a special place in my heart.”

  Orlege said nothing and looked away, clearly embarrassed by the informality and the heartfelt words. Larcwide gave her a paternal smile and squeezed her hand back in response.

  “Let’s get thee wed, my lady.”

  * * *

  Frey emerged from the keep, flanked on each side by her two trusted knights. A crowd followed behind her to the chapel.

  It was different from her first visit all those months ago. The air was heated with the bodies of witnesses and well-wishers standing shoulder to shoulder. At the end of the aisle stood Sebastian, surrounded by the glow of candlelight and flanked by his two witnesses, Lord Rhys and Henry Gaines.

  Dressed in fresh brown robes, not travel-stained and dusty, stood Friar Dominic, who would be conducting the service.

  In the corner, a clutch of brown-robed monks, intermingled with white-robed novices, stood with their heads bowed in prayer.

  To Frey, the crowd disappeared as she kept her eyes fixed on Sebastian dressed in full court regalia. Warmth filled her from the smile he offered and the one she found herself offering him in return.

  At the altar, Sebastian took his hand in hers and they knelt for the service.

  Dominic’s rich, deep voice filled the space.

  “The Apostle Paul writes to the church in Ephesus, ‘Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord, because the husband is the head of the wife as also Christ is the head of the church, he himself being the savior of the body. But as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself for her.’

  “Sebastian de la Croix, do you give yourself to Alfreya of Tyrswick to have as your wife from henceforth as you both shall live?”

  Sebastian’s response was strong, sure, and affirmative.

  “Alfreya of Tyrswick, do you give yourself to Sebastian de la Croix to have as your husband from henceforth as you both shall live?”

  For a moment Frey panicked, fearing her voice lost, but as she drew breath her answer came equally certain.

  “I do.”

  She received a smile of encouragement from Dominic, who continued, “For as you have confirmed before our Lord God and the people assembled here as witnesses, I declare ye man and wife.”

  There was a sacred pause before a sweet, pure sound of a young male voice filled the chapel.

  By Your grace I’ve been set free

  By Your grace I’ve been set free

  Following the descending scale, the bowed heads of the monks raised and baritone and bass voices reverberated in harmony as they chanted.

  No eye has seen, no ear has heard

  The wonders of Your glory

  The Kindness of Your mercy

  No eye has seen, no ear has heard

  The mysteries revealed to me on the Cross of Calvary.

  Although her head was bowed, there was something about the voice of the boy that seemed familiar, and she found herself listening for it as the hymn continued.

  Finally curiosity won and she raised her head, finding her brother standing in the front row of the choir.

  Frey was unaware she trembled until she felt Sebastian’s fingers intertwine with hers. He leaned in to whisper in her ear.

  “Happy wedding day, my love.”

  * * *

  Despite her lovely new kid boots, Frey wished for nothing more than a stool and a tub of warm water to soak her toes.

  The wedding feast went long into the night and with it a seemingly unending round of dances, toasts, and greetings from well-wishers.

  The servants had outdone themselves for the wedding feast of their master. Expensive beeswax candles filled the room with light as well as the sweet aroma of honey. Grand tapestries in jewellike hues of red, blue, gold, and green were especially brought out for the occasion. The head table glittered with the treasure of Tyrswick; silver and pewter platters filled the table. Turned wooden cups used every day had been replaced with pewter goblets.

  Ten courses, including oysters steamed in almond milk, jellied eels, roast capon, goose, and pork stuffed with truffles, filled the tables.

  Freshly baked bread made from the flour of Tyrswick’s own mill was served with fresh butter, honey, and fruit preserves.

  Honey mead was gifted by the monks of St. Cuthbert’s and shared liberally among the wedding party while red wine spiced with cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, ginger, and cardamom warmed the hearts and the bellies of other guests.

  Having lost sight of Sebastian some little while ago, Frey took the opportunity to search out her brother and speak to him for the first time since she embraced and kissed him following the wedding service.

  The monks, twelve in all from St. Cuthbert’s, were seated along one side of one of the large trestle tables, talking in groups of two or three, while a knot of brown-robed clerics was holding what appeared to be quite an earnest conversation with Friar Dominic.

  Brice was seated at the end of the table. A carved walking stick stood by the edge of the table within reach, a permanent reminder of the cost of their father’s folly.

  “Did you know? I have permission to stay with you and the baron until Twelfth Night.”

  “So I've learned. I’m glad,” Frey answered, tousling his hair. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

  Brice shook his head in protest of the ministration and continued, “But you didn’t know I’d be here, did you Frey? At your wedding?”

  “No. That was a very great surprise and I haven’t yet had the chance to thank Sebastian,” Frey replied, looking about the room for her husband.

  She felt Brice clutch her hand. When she looked at him, she found his young face was in earnest.

  “Frey? Are you happy? With Lord Sebastian as a husband?”

  Frey squeezed his hand and considered her answer.

  She had never given much thought to the idea of actually being happy. An end to constant day-to-day uncertainty for Brice and her father’s men had been her only focus before, and, over the past three months, she felt the satisfaction of a job accomplished.

  Under other circumstances, she might have been content with just that, and yet…there was something to be said for being wanted by such a man as Sebastian.

  Whether it was the wine or the long day, the face of Drefan briefly swam into her mind's eye before she ruthlessly crushed it.

  Drefan would never darken the door of her heart and mind again. She made that promise to herself when she
went to Sebastian’s chambers, and to keep her word meant as much to her as the wedding vows she spoke.

  “Are you thinking about—”

  Frey silenced him with a finger to his lips.

  “His name is never to be spoken. Do you understand?”

  Brice vigorously nodded, and Frey pulled her finger away.

  “Sebastian is a good man and I will make him a good wife, and that’s all that needs to be said of it.”

  Her younger brother grinned at her impishly.

  She raised an eyebrow in response and allowed the flicker of a grin to wipe away the severity of the expression.

  “Tell me what has you amused little brother.”

  “I was thinking about St Alfreda.”

  Frey remembered the story of the tragic saint.

  “I think Tyrswick Keep is much nicer than any swamp.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sebastian nodded in all the appropriate places but paid little attention to the conversation going on in front of him.

  He watched, captivated, as his new wife produced the most radiant smile in response to an apparent jest made by her brother. Something had changed between them and it had nothing to do with having Frey in his bed. Well, perhaps not nothing.

  The significance of her coming to him was not lost on him. He knew Frey made an important decision last night. He did not believe she loved him; it was too early to make such a declaration, but it was a start.

  What they had between them was very new and tender, like the spring shoots that would emerge from the ground in a few months’ time. Given warmth and nurturing, their marriage would flourish and strengthen like a mighty oak, but until then this sprouting tenderness needed special care.

  Although unaware of being observed, Frey looked up and their eyes met. Her smile broadened as though including him in the joke.

  A warmth flared in his chest more satisfying than the mead that filled the silver goblet in his hand. Sure, he must be grinning like a lunatic, but tonight, he didn’t care.