Page 63 of Midnight Conquest

“Follow me,” she whispered and entered through a secret door, closing the opening behind them. They stood on the other side of the wall, behind a stone and wood building shrouded in shadow. The scent of horses and hay drifted on the air, and the faint rustle of straw carried on the breeze.

“We can meet here after everyone has bedded down for the evening,” she whispered. “Be sure not to let anyone see you. Tell no one of this entrance.” Pointing to the building, she added, “These are the stables.”

Rosselyn clutched his hand and led him around to the side. She gestured for silence, pressing a finger to her lips before peering around the corner to scan the grooming area. The horses stood quiet in their stalls, their ears flicking as they chewed contentedly. Harnesses and tack hung in neat rows along the timbered wall, gleaming in the lantern light.

Fife was nowhere about, so she tugged Nicabar in after her. “There is fresh straw in the loft,” she said, pointing to the wooden ladder.

Nicabar smiled in the dim glow of the stables and took Rosselyn by the hand. “Just how freshisthe straw?” he teased as he coaxed her up the ladder before him.

When they reached the top, his mouth found hers, mufflingher laughter. They tumbled into the hayloft, fumbling with their clothes in breathless haste. Dizzy with desire and a delicious sense of freedom, Rosselyn tumbled and frolicked with Nicabar beneath the sweet scent of straw and the sheltering shadows of the rafters.

∞∞∞

“Jealous?” Nicabar teased.

Veronique squared her shoulders. “Non! I am not jealous. I just want to know who she is.”

“It is no business of yours.” He turned and continued chopping wood. The axe thudded against the chopping block in a steady rhythm, sending chips flying. Veronique’s relentless pursuit of Broderick amused him. He knew she struggled with the rampant emotions of a young woman just awakening to the sensations of her body—nothing more. Granted, Broderick had a way with women. They fawned over him like bees to honey, so Nicabar assumed Veronique fancied herself queen bee, especially since they shared the same caravan.

She was convinced it was true love, but one day she’d reflect on it with understanding—and laugh, just as he did now.

“That Davina was with her the first night they were in Aberdeen,” she resumed. “Is she her maid?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, not missing a swing.

She hesitated. “I just do.”

“Then I still say it is none of your business.”

Nicabar kept swinging. He split logs in clean, quick bursts, each strike punctuated by the crack of splitting wood.Occasionally, he glanced at her, hiding his curiosity behind the shadow of his lashes.

Veronique stomped her foot and cursed in French, her golden hair glinting in the sunlight.

“This Davina woman is coming between me and Broderick, and I want to know more about her. If your mistress is her maid, then she knows everything about this Davina.”

Nicabar chopped wood for several long minutes before he answered. “Aye, she is her maid.” He chopped again, the wood giving way with a satisfying crack. “Do you think to become her friend and learn something of Davina?”

“Non, I hoped you would tell me something about her.”

“What makes you think I will tell you anything?” Nicabar stopped and met her gaze, his chest rising and falling with exertion. “There is a price for my services, Veronique.”

She shifted on her feet, then dared to ask, “What kind of price?”

He smiled slowly, sauntered up to her, and tilted her chin with a curled index finger. His breath, hot from labor, ghosted over her cheek in bursts of warmth against the afternoon chill. His bare chest glistened with sweat, each breath heavy in the crisp air. “Let me be your first.”

Veronique recoiled. “I am saving myself for Broderick!” she protested.

Nicabar shrugged and turned back to his work. The rhythmic chopping resumed.

After a moment, Veronique stomped off, muttering in French. Nicabar chuckled and kept chopping, shaking his head. What a foolish girl.

Chapter Eleven

“Whatever you’re doing, Rosselyn,” Seamus said as he trailed behind her determined pace, “be quick about your deeds. With all these suitors coming and going, I’ve too many things to buy at the market this day to waste time at a Gypsy camp. These extravagant suppers have emptied the cellar!” He snorted. “And I’ve extra honey to purchase to satisfy a sweet tooth.”

Rosselyn pursed her lips. “You don’t have to wait for me. I told you, I just needed an escort to the camp.”

Seamus trudged ahead, his grumbling as relentless as the crunch of their feet on the path toward the village. The late morning sun spilled over the treetops, casting a golden glow on the thatched rooftops ahead. Chickens clucked in the distance, and smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, but Seamus had no mind for the beauty of the day.

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