How to Wed a Wild Lass Page 6

  It was part of their charms.

  “I am looking forward to it,” she said, rolling onto her side again and back into his embrace. “It seems to me that even though ye lost the earldom, ye still won in a sense.”

  He pulled her close, his lips on her forehead. “I won yer heart,” he murmured. “I’ve said it before – that is the greatest prize of all. The earldom cannot hope to compete with what I feel for ye, Emmie.”

  She snaked her arms up, around his neck. “It was fortunate for ye that I trapped ye that day,” she said, kissing him sweetly. “Ye can tell Duchy that the next time ye see him that ye found a bride that day, which is exactly what ye set out to do.”

  River let out a long, heavy sigh. “I saw Duchy tonight, in fact.”

  “Ye did? He’s here?”

  “He’s here,” he said. “It seems that he spent a few weeks with yer mother and sisters after we fled.”

  “Is that so? As a prisoner?”

  “Nay,” he said. “As a guest. Evidently, he is very fond of yer mother and has proposed marriage.”

  Emerald’s eyes widened. “He did?” she gasped. “Did she accept?”

  “She did, on the condition that he find husbands for yer sisters first.”

  “Then they may never marry.”’

  “I believe that is what Duchy is counting on. But he can still visit yer mother and drink all of her ale without consequence as long as she thinks he’s finding husbands for yer sisters.”

  “What a tricky old man.”

  River started to laugh. “It matters not to me what he does,” he said. “He can marry yer mother, any one of yer sisters, or not at all. All that matters is that I got what I wanted. ’Tis ye I love, lass. And I always will.”

  Those were words that fed her soul. Emerald slanted her mouth over his, feeling his instant response to her, a response so easy and fluid that it was as natural as breathing. Something flowed between them that was as innate as the moon in the heavens, the natural order of things. What they shared was something men dreamed of but seldom found. As his hot hand closed over her bare breast, Emerald whispered against his mouth.

  “As will I.”

  * THE END *

  About Kathryn Le Veque

  Medieval Just Got Real.

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a USA TODAY Bestselling author, an Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY’s HEA blog. In March 2015, Kathryn was the featured cover story for the March issue of InD’Tale Magazine, the premier Indie author magazine. She was also a quadruple nominee (a record!) for the prestigious RONE awards for 2015.

  Kathryn’s Medieval Romance novels have been called ‘detailed’, ‘highly romantic’, and ‘character-rich’. She crafts great adventures of love, battles, passion, and romance in the High Middle Ages. More than that, she writes for both women AND men – an unusual crossover for a romance author – and Kathryn has many male readers who enjoy her stories because of the male perspective, the action, and the adventure.

  Kathryn loves to hear from her readers. Please find Kathryn on Facebook at Kathryn Le Veque, Author, or join her on Twitter @kathrynleveque, and don’t forget to visit her website and sign up for her blog at www.kathrynleveque.com.

  Please follow Kathryn on Bookbub for the latest releases and sales.

  The Siren’s Kiss

  A Medieval Romance Novella

  By

  Emma Prince

  The Siren’s Kiss (A Medieval Romance Novella)

  Copyright © 2019 by Emma Prince

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact emmaprincebooks@gmail.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Summer, 1330

  Arcmare Castle, Scottish Lowlands

  Falcon de la Haye pushed through the double doors leading from Arcmare’s great hall into the open air of the yard, his mind racing over his next moves.

  He’d need a ship, but only a small one, with perhaps a one or two man crew. Hell, a wee fishing boat would probably serve his purposes. All he needed was a vessel that could cross the Solway Firth with all haste. The English town of Carlisle would only be a day’s ride inland after that. And there he would find a bride.

  He strode swiftly across the yard, ignoring the greetings from his father’s guards as he passed. There was no time for niceties when the greatest contest yet with his twin brother River lay before him.

  Falcon had to hand it to his father. Roget knew his sons all too well. He understood naught would light a fire under them quite like a competition. And he was right. Falcon and River had always measured themselves against each other, engaging in a spirited rivalry in everything from combat training to chasing lasses. With Roget’s health faltering of late and no definitive heir to the Earldom, he had presented his sons with the ultimate challenge: whoever found and secured a wife first would be named the next Earl of Drumburgh.

  And Falcon had every intention of winning. The title, lands, and keep were all well and good, but more enticing than the promise of the Earldom was the possibility of besting his brother in their greatest wager yet.

  At this very moment, River was setting off on horseback, just as determined to win as Falcon. Where River planned to find his bride, Falcon did not know, nor did he care, for he had a plan of his own.

  Their cousin Eliot, who lived north in Dumfries, had recently fought along the border against King Edward III’s encroaching army. Despite the tumult of the times, he’d managed to meet and wed an English lass from Carlisle. With her sweet temperament and gentle beauty, Sarah pleased Eliot to no end. He’d brought her back to Dumfries and gotten a child on her already.

  That was exactly what Falcon needed—a biddable, docile English bride to cart home with all haste. If Carlisle could produce one such woman, it could likely produce another. The border was fluid of late as Edward continued his campaign to subdue Scotland to his will. Though it was easy enough to cross, Scots were far from welcome in England.

  That was where Falcon’s advantage over River lay. While River plodded along overland through dangerous territory, Falcon would be gliding across the calm waters of the Solway Firth. Hell, he could even continue up the River Esk and come within a half-day’s ride of Carlisle, find a biddable woman willing to become his wife, and sail home, all in a matter of days.

  As he trotted down to the castle’s docks, Falcon couldn’t help but grin. This just might be his easiest and swiftest victory over River yet.

  It wasn’t until the mast on the wee fishing boat cracked, dragging the sail overboard and into the churning, black waters of the firth, that Falcon could admit “easy” might have been the wrong word for this quest.

  Despite the dazzling blue sky and healthy breeze that had carried the boat onto the firth earlier that day, the weather had turned feral an hour past.

  Tully, who was both captain and crew of the tiny vessel, had steered them far off course, hoping to evade the ominous purple clouds roiling toward them from the west. They’d skirted the storm, scuttling just out of its clutches again and again, but it seemed Falcon’s luck had at last run out.

  “Cut the lines!” Tully roared over the screaming wind. He gripped the tiller with both hands, yet the storm had long ago taken control of the boat’s rudder.

  Falcon battled against the lashing rain toward the tangled mess of ropes that tethered the sail to the boat. The angry waters were already pulling the broken mast and the sail away from the boat. If he didn’t work fast, the entire vessel would capsize.

  Yanking a dagger from his boot, Falcon set upon the lines, sawing frantically. One rope frayed and snapped, then another. The wooden planks of the gunwale to his left groaned under the strain of the dragging mast. He gripped the dagger tighter in his rain-slicked hand, severing another line.

  Suddenly the boat lurched sideways. Falcon was flung against the gunwale. The air slammed from his lungs in a painful rush. This was it. The mast would pull the entire boat over, and Falcon and Tully would be swallowed by the black, churning water.

  As the broken mast tugged harder at the boat, the few remaining lines tethering it to the ship went taut and slid along the gunwale. Oh God. Falcon was directly in their path. Before he could move, the ropes lashed tight across his chest.

  He would have been hurled overboard, but his boot was wedged into something—a scupper, one of the holes in the bulwark to allow water to flow off the deck and back into the sea. As his upper body was torqued back under the force of the taut ropes, his leg remained immobilized, keeping him onboard.

  But mere flesh and bone were no match for the force of the storm. With a sickening snap in his leg, his boot came free of the scupper. Less than a heartbeat later, the lines crisscrossing his chest pitched him overboard. Falcon bellowed, but the sound was swallowed, along with the rest of him, by the violent sea.

  Chapter Two

  Maerwynn bent to retrieve another piece of water-beaten wood from the pebbled beach. She straightened with a huff. Her apron was already nigh full of driftwood. Dropping the log into the folded wool with the others, she squinted against the glare on the glittering rocks in search of another piece.

  Her gaze snagged on a tangled pile of seaweed and ropes. Much of the rope could no doubt be salvaged—one less thing she had to beg Ranulf for. She hastened her steps across the damp pebbles, but as she approached, a dark lump in the middle of the snarl became more distinct. There was cloth in the pile, and—

  Hair. Dark, tousled hair, attached to a human form.

  Maerwynn’s grip on her apron slipped and the driftwood she’d so painstakingly collected clattered to the rocks. Fear gripped her, but just as quickly, her training took over. She’d seen many horrors in her years, but a healer did not turn away from them. If a dead body had washed onto Gull Island, then she would bury it like a good Christian. And if by some miracle the motionless figure lived, then it was her duty to help.

  She hurried the rest of the way to the tangle of flotsam and dropped to her knees. With a swallow, she willed herself to look at the body.

  From the firm, stubble-covered jawline poking out beneath the hank of dark hair, it was a man. And he was in one piece, from what she could tell. Maerwynn hastily cleared away the seaweed and scraps of rope. Aye, he had all his limbs, though his skin was a disturbing shade of white. She pressed a hand against his chest. To her shock, it rose and fell with breath, slow and faint but steady.

  She brushed the salt-crusted locks from his face. A gash marred his forehead at his hairline. It still oozed blood. Was that his only injury? She ran her hands over the rest of his skull but found no other bumps or cuts. Continuing downward, she felt both of his arms for wounds, then pressed gently along his chest and stomach.

  His clothes were in tatters, but they appeared to have once been fine. His tunic was of a tight weave and dyed a deep blue to rival the Irish Sea beyond the island’s shores. Who was he, and how on earth had he come to wash up here?

  She moved lower, running her fingers along his muscular thighs. His breeches, too, were stitched neatly and fit his large body perfectly. Somehow he still wore both boots, which were waterlogged but well made.

  As her fingertips passed over his right shin, the man made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl. Maerwynn squeaked and fell back on her rump. Aye, he was most definitely still alive.

  Reaching for her composure once more, she returned her attention to the leg. No blood marred his breeches, nor was the material torn, yet a few careful prods revealed that the bone was broken beneath the skin.

  A curse slipped from her lips. He needed more care than she could administer here on the beach. But how in heaven was she to get him back to her cottage, which sat several stone’s throws back from the shore?

  She would simply have to find a way. There was no alternative. He needed her.

  Bending over him, she took each one of his wrists and lifted his arms overhead. She leaned back, attempting to pull him by his arms. But besides another muffled groan from the man, naught happened.

  Heaven above, he was big. And heavy. His waterlogged clothes weren’t helping, but the fact was, his frame was large and powerfully built.

  Maerwynn lowered his arms, considering how to proceed. Her gaze landed on the snarl of ropes around him. If she could fashion a harness of sorts, she might be able to drag him along the beach.

  Separating out a long line, she wedged it around his broad chest, under his arms. Then she made a loop at the end of a short lead and fitted it low around her hips.

  The fleeting image of a plow ox made her snort. She might have fetched Biddy, but the old cow was for milk, not labor, and she wasn’t trained to a harness. Nay, Maerwynn was to be the work animal this time.

  She leaned forward against the rope. With all her strength, she drove one leg and then the other ahead of her. Miraculously, she gained a few inches of ground. The man moaned as he slid along the rocks. At least they were tumbled smooth by the sea.

  Besides, there was no helping his discomfort until she could get him to her cottage. That spurred her to take another step, then another, straining against the rope tethering her to the stranger.

  By the time she’d crossed the beach and made it over the small rise upon which the cottage sat, her legs trembled and her lungs burned with each ragged breath. She let the rope go slack and sank to the coarse grass beside the man. He had not come to, but his dark brows were pinched together as if he were in even more pain.

  As she caught her breath, Maerwynn scanned the beach below. From here, she could survey the entire flat, rocky expanse. No signs of a shipwreck marked the beach, but that must have been how the stranger arrived. Had the driftwood she’d been collecting come from this man’s ship? Unlikely, as none of it had been fresh.

  Her gaze drifted eastward to the mainland. The village of Edelby sat huddled in the alcove directly across from the island. Had he come from there? She knew all those who lived in the village. Mayhap he was passing through. But the crossing from Edelby to Gull Island was relatively short and quite safe. Nay, the man must have come from the sea beyond.

  Rallying the last of her strength, Maerwynn rose and dragged the man the last few feet into her cottage. The comforting scents of lemon balm, yarrow, and an assortment of other herbs greeted her inside. Stepping out of the rope harness, she wobbled her way to the ladder at the back of the hut. Somehow, she managed to fumble her way up to the loft and pull down the hay-filled mattress she slept on.

  She slid the mattress against one stone wall across from the fire, then with a mighty heave, she rolled the injured man onto it. Panting, she planted her hands on her hips and considered what to do next.

  He’d need a tisane of St. John’s wort to ease his pain and ward off the risk of fever, and have his head wound cleaned and possibly stitched. The worst would be setting his leg, though. She would just have to manage that when the time came.

  It was a relief to set about her tasks. She knew what needed doing, and how to do it. Soon the water was boiled and the herbs steeped for the tisane. Meanwhile she’d gathered the supplies she would need to treat his head and leg.

  Easing his head up, she poured the tisane down his slack throat one sip at a time. He was at last regaining his color, but she’d need to remove his wet clothing—another challenge given his large body. Hating to cut away the fine cloth with a knife, she opted instead to shimmy his tunic over his head. His bare torso was contoured with muscle. No wonder he was so damned heavy. He was lean yet stacked with strength. A warrior? Or a blacksmith, mayhap?

  She pried off his boots but left his breeches for later when she’d deal with his leg. Instead she turned to the gash on his forehead. Dipping a linen cloth in a boiled concoction of yarrow and chamomile, she began dabbing at his forehead.

  His brows knitted further in discomfort, but his eyes remained closed. As she blotted away the crusted blood and salt, she was relieved to find that the gash was not as big or deep as she’d initially feared. He wouldn’t need stitches after all.

  With the wound cleaned, she used the damp cloth to wipe the grit and salt from his face. A strong brow fell away into deep-set eyes and a straight nose. His jaw was square and defined, in strange contrast to his surprisingly soft-looking lips.

  She dragged the cloth along the thick column of his neck, pondering if she should continue lower over his broad chest and corded shoulders.

  When she glanced at his face again, she nearly fell back on her rump once more. His eyes were slitted open and fixed on her. They glittered like two dark, sea-washed pebbles from the beach.

  Before she could gather her wits, he spoke in a low rasp.

  “Are ye a siren, then?”

  Maerwynn felt her eyes widen. He was a Scot, judging by his accent. He must have been blown off course and into the English coast. Unless he was a pirate or other such rogue, having sailed into hostile waters willingly.

  And he thought her a siren? That she’d lured him to her and caused his shipwreck?

  “Nay,” she replied. “Just a woman. A mere mortal.”