Knave's Honour
Margaret Moore
Honourable Knave Lady Elizabeth of Averette comes face-to-face with Finn – an outlaw with more honour than most knights – when he rescues her from a brutal abductor.In return Lizette agrees to help him find his brother by posing as Finn’s wife. Dishonourable Proposal Lizette hasn’t bargained on sharing a bed with her rugged knave as part of the deal.Now it’s her honour that could be compromised… She may not have had a wedding day, but the prospect of a wedding night with gorgeous Finn is seriously tempting!
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore
‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’
—The Romance Readers Connection on THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT
‘… filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.’
—RT Book Reviews on MY LORD’S DESIRE
‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore.” Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’
—RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE
‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’
—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND
‘A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.’—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis on HERS TO COMMAND
‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!’
—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR
‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’
—Affaire de Coeur
‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’
—Under the Covers
Lizette was too stunned to move.
She’d had no idea a kiss could make her wish that he’d pick her up and carry her somewhere, anywhere, where they could be alone …
Overwhelmed by desire, she ran her hands up Finn’s back, pressing her body against his. She recalled how he’d saved her from Lindall and those others. How kind he’d been to Keldra and Garreth, and how marvellous he looked …
Someone cleared a throat, and she abruptly remembered where she was, and that she had a part to play, too, as Finn did—and this kiss must be no more than a part of their ruse.
About the Author
Award-winning author MARGARET MOORE began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed ‘The Red Sheik’. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.
Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com
KNAVE’S HONOUR
Margaret Moore
www.millsandboon.co.uk
With many thanks to Karen Solem and Donna Warren for their calm guidance and sage advice.
CHAPTER ONE
The Midlands, 1204
“I FEARED I’D GO MAD if I had to sit in that wagon another moment,” Lady Elizabeth of Averette declared as she lifted the skirts of her blue woolen traveling gown and delicately picked her way toward the mossy bank of the swift-moving stream.
“Don’t you think we ought to stay with the men?” her maidservant asked, anxiously glancing back toward the escort of mail-clad soldiers who had dismounted nearby.
As such men were wont to do, they joked and cursed among themselves while they led their horses to drink or let them eat the plentiful grass by the side of the road. Some of them took out heels of bread from their packs or downed a sip of ale. The leader of the cortege, Iain Mac Kendren, did neither. He stood with feet planted and arms akimbo as if he were a statue, only his turning head giving any hint that he was alive and keeping watch.
“Last night I heard the innkeeper talking about a thief who sets upon travelers hereabouts,” Keldra said, breathless with a fearful excitement. “A huge fellow, fierce and terrible!”
Lizette, as she was known to her sisters and the people of Averette, gave Keldra a sympathetic smile. Keldra was only fifteen, and not used to travel. It was no wonder every tale of every thief, no matter how bizarre or exaggerated, frightened her. “According to a serving wench, he’s a very handsome thief. She also says he won’t rob a woman if she’ll give him a kiss, which sounds like something out of a minstrel’s song to me. Whatever this thief may be like, though, we have fifty men to guard us, and Iain Mac Kendren, too, so I’m sure we’ll be quite safe.”
“I hope so!” Keldra whispered, as if she feared the thief might be listening.
Smiling and very glad to be out of the stuffy confines of the wagon, Lizette removed her silver coronet and silken veil, then crouched down on the bank of the stream. “As long as he takes a kiss instead of my clothes or jewelry, I might even enjoy meeting this thief.”
“Oh, my lady, you wouldn’t!” Keldra exclaimed, scandalized—which showed how little she really knew her mistress.
Lizette cupped some clear, cold water in her hands and lifted it to her lips before she answered. “Wouldn’t you be willing to kiss a handsome rogue?”
“Not if he’s an outlaw!”
“I’d rather kiss a handsome outlaw than some courtier who may then assume I want to marry him,” Lizette said as she rose.
Men she might—and did—appreciate. She enjoyed their company and the teasing banter of flirtation. She envied them their easy camaraderie, although not as much as she envied them their freedom.
Marriage, however, was something else entirely. Most women might find those bonds a form of security, but after witnessing what passed for marriage between her parents, Elizabeth of Averette did not.
“I don’t have any jewels, my lady,” Keldra pointed out as she, too, bent down to drink. “He might make me kiss him!”
“Being kissed against one’s will is rather unpleasant,” Lizette conceded, as she had cause to know. More than one eager suitor who’d come to Averette seeking a wealthy bride had been swift to try seduction of the lord’s youngest, and presumably most innocent, daughter as a means to that end.
“I wouldn’t really want to meet a thief, of course,” she admitted, listening to the birds sing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “It would be frightening.”
Like the time that drunken nobleman had cornered her in the chapel and no amount of gentle admonition would persuade him to let her go, until she’d finally promised to meet him later in a more secluded place. Her older sister had gone in her stead, and while Adelaide never revealed precisely what had transpired, Lord Smurton and his entourage had departed the next day at first light without even a farewell to his host.
“Oh, my lady!”
Lizette raised her eyes at the sound of Keldra’s cry and found her maid pointing at the middle of the stream—where her new silk veil was floating away on the water.
With a curse, Lizette hiked up her skirts and immediately gave chase along the slippery bank. She didn’t dare run because the rocks were too slick, but she had to get her veil. Iain would no doubt say she deserved to lose it if she was so careless and he’d probably never let her out of his sight for the rest of the journey home.
While she tried to keep her eyes on the veil as well as look for a stick with which to retrieve it, a man suddenly appeared on the opposite side of the stream as if he’d materialized out of thin air.
“Have no fear, my lady!” the stranger called out as she came to a startled halt. He unbuckled his sword belt and put it down on a nearby rock. “I mean you no harm.”
If he was taking off his sword and was alone, he likely didn’t mean any harm. More importantly, he sounded educated and of high rank—a knight, at least, if not a lord or baron.
Whoever he was, he wore a simple leather tunic with no shirt beneath, dark breeches and plain boots. Standing by the stream with the woods behind him, he was like some sort of god of the forest—or maybe that thought only came to her because of his simple clothing and dark, waving hair.
He began to wade across the deep stream and when he reached her veil, he plucked it from the water as easily as another man might pluck a daisy from its stem, then raised the dripping rectangle of cloth like a victor with his spoils.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” he said as he approached her, the water splashing up around his shins, his deep, musical voice again assuring her he was no rough rogue. “I’m Sir Oliver de Leslille, of Ireland.”
Sir Oliver—a knight indeed. Ireland explained the slight, delightful lilt to his words that made it seem as if he were singing rather than speaking.
He also possessed a high forehead, denoting intelligence, a remarkably fine, straight nose and a chin that was exactly what a man’s chin should be, while his full lips curved up in the most incredibly attractive smile.
Something deep inside her seemed to shift, as if a mild earthquake had moved the ground beneath her feet. Or the very quality of the air had changed.
Or as if something that had been slumbering had awakened.
“I was hunting with some friends and got separated from them,” Sir Oliver explained as he reached the bank and stood beside her. Water dripped from her bedraggled veil, and she couldn’t help noticing that his wet woolen breeches clung to his muscular thighs.
“Since I had a powerful thirst,” he said, “I stopped here, and then I heard your, um, cries of dismay. Very colorful, I must say.”
Sweet Mother of God, he’d heard her cursing. She wasn’t usually easily embarrassed, but right now, she was—so much so, she almost wished the stream would rise up and wash her away. Almost.
She wasn’t usually prone to blushing, either, but she was doing that, too, even as she realized she should say something. Give him thanks, at least. Unfortunately, the words would not come—another oddity—and instead she found herself transfixed by the steady, brown-eyed gaze of this handsome stranger who’d waded through the water toward her as if he did this sort of thing every day, and as if that water wasn’t ice-cold. “You must be frozen!”
“I’ve been colder than this plenty o’ times before, my lady,” he said as he handed her the sopping veil. “It’s worth a little chill to be of service to such a lovely woman.”
“I—I thank you, sir,” she stammered.
What in the name of the saints was wrong with her? She’d never sounded like such a complete ninny.
Unfortunately, she simply couldn’t seem to think clearly, to form coherent words or a thought other than that he was the most breathtakingly good-looking man she’d ever met. “I’m very grateful you retrieved this for me. I paid a great deal for it—too much, my sister will say—and I would have been very upset if I’d lost it. It’s fortunate you were nearby, although you’re a long way from Ireland.”
God help her, now she was babbling.
“Aye, my lady, I am,” he said, a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. “And who might you be?”
Fool! “I’m Lizette.” Simpleton! “I mean, I’m Lady Elizabeth, of Averette.”
The man nodded over her shoulder. “That’s your maid, I presume? I trust you have others with you and aren’t traveling alone?”
“Yes, no, that is, yes, that’s my maid. And of course, I have an escort. Of …” Sweet savior, how many? “Fifty men. They’re close by.”
“I’m glad to hear it. There are thieves lurking hereabouts and you’d be a very tempting morsel,” he said with a look in his eyes that made her throat go dry and her heartbeat quicken as it never had before.
“So I’ve heard. That is, that there are thieves, not that I … I don’t mean to sound vain … or imply …” She gave up and silently cursed herself for a dolt.
Sir Oliver laughed softly. “Modest as well as pretty. That’s a potent combination.”
Merciful Mary, she might swoon like some giddy girl if he kept looking at her that way and she might say. anything.
If this man had cornered her in the chapel, who could say what she might have done?
“Averette—that’s in Kent, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It is indeed! Have you ever been there?”
What a stupid question! Surely if he’d visited Averette she would remember him.
“No, I’ve never been to Kent. I’ve met your sister at court, though.”
A surge of dismay and disappointment tore through her. If he’d been to court, if he’d met Adelaide, he would be comparing them in looks, if nothing else, and nobody could come out ahead of Adelaide if beauty was the measure. The men who sought her hand had all tried for Adelaide first, and been refused.
His smile grew and she supposed that was because he was thinking about Adelaide. “Actually, I asked her to run off with me, but she wouldn’t. There was another man, you see, that she liked better.”
All Lizette’s anger and envy disappeared. He’d probably felt the sting of Adelaide’s rejection—and Adelaide could be very stinging.
“How unfortunate for you,” she replied as her confidence returned, and she gave him a smile of her own. “Why don’t you ask me instead?”
It was an outrageous thing to say, yet surely he would laugh and say something clever in return, as courtiers and handsome noblemen were wont to do.
Instead, the joviality left his face, and he said, in a voice soft and low that acted upon her like a bold and intimate caress, “Would you say yes if I did?”
He must be teasing. He couldn’t possibly be serious.
Yet her heart throbbed as if it wanted to break free of her ribs. Her lungs seemed to stop functioning. God in heaven, she’d craved excitement and adventure all her life, and here it was, in the flesh. Handsome, seductive flesh.
“My lady!”
She’d completely forgotten about Keldra. And Iain. And everything else in the entire world except Sir Oliver de Leslille of Ireland.
She looked back over her shoulder to see Iain Mac Kendren marching toward them, his sword drawn and a hostile expression on his sun-browned face. Keldra must have gone to fetch him, for she came scurrying along behind him.
Iain, who was forty-five if he was a day, had spent most of the journey from Lord Delapont’s castle ignoring her complaints that the rocking motion of the wagon made her queasy. He’d also made it quite clear that he resented being sent to bring her home to Averette, although he couldn’t be any more annoyed than she at being summoned home as if she were a child.
In spite of Iain’s belligerent bearing, however, Sir Oliver didn’t appear the least disturbed, and he once again regarded her with amusement in his dark eyes.
“Who’s this, then?” he inquired, quirking a brow. “I hope not an irate father or husband?”
“No!” She cleared her throat and spoke in a more ladylike tone. “No, he’s the garrison commander of Averette, the leader of my escort.”
She turned to Iain and spoke with what she hoped sounded like authority. “Iain, put up your blade. This is Sir Oliver de Leslille, and he means us no harm.”
Iain came to a halt, one hand on his hip as he ran a measuring gaze over Sir Oliver who was, Lizette suddenly recalled, still soaking wet.
Despite Sir Oliver’s title, Iain didn’t look impressed—but then, it took risking your life in several battles to impress the Scot.
“Good day to you, my lord,” he growled with only the slightest hint of courtesy. “Traveling alone, are you? Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”
“As I explained to your lady mistress, I’m with a party of friends, hunting,” Sir Oliver replied, still genial despite Iain’s brusque and even insolent tone. “I got separated from them. However, since the hour grows late, I should seek them out, lest I be benighted in the wood and forced to eat nuts for my dinner.”
“We’ll be at the Fox and Hound tonight,” Lizette offered. “Perhaps you could send word there in the morning as to how you are. I’ll be worried you’ve fallen ill doing me a service.”
Sir Oliver cut his eyes to the scowling, wary Iain. “I’m flattered by your concern, but I think not, my lady.”
She pursed her lips and silently wished Iain back at Averette.
“As he says, my lady,” Iain declared, “the hour grows late and we’ve dallied here long enough.”
Unless she wanted to stand on the bank of the stream and quarrel with Iain, she had to go. Besides, it couldn’t be good for Sir Oliver to be standing there in wet breeches and boots.
“Farewell, Sir Oliver,” she said with more regret than she’d ever felt bidding farewell to a young man before.
How she wished she and Sir Oliver had met another time, such as in a hall during a feast, where they could talk. He would surely be a very amusing companion. Perhaps they would dance … and touch … and slip off into a shadowed corner to share a kiss …
The nobleman bowed with courtly elegance before addressing Iain. “I commend you for your care of the lady, Mac Kendren, and you need have no fear that I’ll come creeping into the inn under cover of darkness. I’m not that sort of nobleman.”
Iain merely grunted in reply.
Such an act would be most improper; nevertheless, Lizette found herself subduing a surge of disappointment. To think she might have met one man who could tempt her to make love without benefit of marriage, and he was more honorable than most.
Despite her secret regret, it was an insult to imply that Sir Oliver would try to sneak into a woman’s chamber for any reason, and she should acknowledge that. “You must forgive the garrison commander for his lack of courtesy, Sir Oliver. He takes his duties very seriously.”
Sir Oliver bestowed another smile upon her. “For your sake, my lady, I’m glad of it. These are dangerous times, and evil men roam the land.” He backed away toward the stream. “Now I must say farewell.”
Realizing she had no choice, she inclined her head as Iain held out his arm to escort her back to the wagon. “Adieu, Sir Oliver,” she said as she laid her hand upon Iain’s chain-mail-encased forearm and let him lead her away.
She glanced back over her shoulder, but Sir Oliver de Leslille was already gone. He’d vanished like a true spirit of the forest, or a magician who’d stayed only long enough to cast his spell upon her.
LIZETTE LAY BACK upon the cushions piled in the back of the wagon as it jostled and jolted its way toward home. She would much rather be riding. However, given her illness a fortnight ago—one whose seriousness she had exaggerated when Iain arrived shortly after the wedding of Lord Delapont’s daughter, Marian and, in typical Mac Kendren fashion, simply announced that she was going home at once—she had reluctantly acquiesced to his orders, even if, as she’d told him, the motion of the wagon tended to upset her stomach.
There were certain compensations at the moment, as she closed her eyes and her maidservant dozed off across from her. She could dwell on that delightful meeting with Sir Oliver de Leslille.
To be sure, rescuing a veil wasn’t as exciting as saving a maiden from a fire-breathing dragon, but it had been exciting nonetheless, and certainly a welcome respite from this tedious journey home.
She didn’t doubt Sir Oliver would be quite capable of defeating a dragon, if he had to, or anyone or anything else that came against him. She’d met many knights who’d come to court her eldest sister, and none had possessed such magnificent shoulders, muscular arms or powerful thighs.
Maybe he’d be going back to court soon, a place she had never, ever wanted to go before because the king would be there. She hated John for the taxes he demanded to pay for the wars he fought to regain his lost holdings in France, and because he was her guardian, with the power to force her to marry if he chose to use it.
What if Sir Oliver was already married or betrothed? Maybe that was why he hadn’t told her with whom he was staying, or why he wouldn’t send word to her at the inn, although Iain’s rudeness and suspicions might explain the latter, too.
If he wasn’t married …
She remembered some of the things the girls and women at the wedding had whispered about. The younger girls had spoken of the thrill of a kiss, the brush of an arm, the sight of a bare chest.
The older women had spoken of other things, especially when they hadn’t realized the curious Lizette was nearby—more intimate things that men and women did in the dark, whether they were married or not.
Things that reminded her of the times she’d been in the woods on May Day, or Midsummer’s Eve, and heard murmurs and mutterings and soft cries in the dark. creeping forward to see what those sounds meant. seeing couples in passionate embraces, doing much more than kissing …
What would it be like to be in Sir Oliver’s arms? After all, she was no novice hoping to be a bride of Christ. When she’d vowed never to marry, she hadn’t promised to be celibate.
Nevertheless, that didn’t mean she was willing to make love with any handsome man who crossed her path. It would be too great a risk, especially if she got with child. Who could say what King John might do if he realized her value in marriage had been so drastically reduced?
Despite the risk, for once, she was sorely tempted, as well as curious to know about the handsome, chivalrous Sir Oliver, who must be visiting some noble or rich commoner who had a manor in this area. Perhaps Dicken, the wagon’s driver who’d been to this part of the country before, would know.
Moving from the cushions, she lifted the heavy canvas flap that separated the bed of the wagon from the driver’s seat. Dicken’s bulk took up most of the seat, but she could still see Iain, back straight, helmet gleaming, riding at the head of the men as if he were the king.
He was also looking at a parchment he held in his right hand.
In all the years of his service at Averette, she’d never, ever known Iain Mac Kendren to receive any kind of letter or message. Indeed, she was rather surprised to discover he could read.
Maybe that was a message come from Averette—but surely he would have said if he’d had word from Gillian. It could be from Adelaide at court, she supposed, but that seemed even more unlikely. Perhaps it was something personal, although it was difficult to imagine what that would be. Iain had no family that she was aware of.
Maybe it was a list of some kind, for arms or armor or men. Surely it wasn’t anything very important, or he would have told her, she thought, dismissing her concern. “Dicken?”
The driver snorted out of a doze. “My lady?”
“Do you know what noblemen have estates hereabouts?”
“No, um, no, my lady, can’t say as I do. Iain probably does. Want me to call him back here?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll ask him when we get to the inn,” Lizette replied.
“My lady?”
Lizette glanced back at her maidservant, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be until we reach the inn?”
“I don’t know,” she replied with a sigh, wondering if she would ever see Sir Oliver de Leslille again. “Not much longer, I hope.”
She was about to lower the flap when she saw another armed party approaching on the road ahead.
“Who’s that?” Dicken mused, echoing her own thoughts.
Perhaps it was Sir Oliver and the rest of his hunting party, she thought eagerly, until she recognized the man at the front of the group. It was most definitely not the handsome, broad-shouldered Sir Oliver. “Why, that’s Lindall!”
The short, stocky second-in-command of the garrison of Averette should be there, not riding toward them.
Had something happened at home?
Keldra joined her at the front of the wagon, looking out the narrow gap. “What’s he doing here?” she asked, as worried as Lizette.
“He’s probably been sent to escort us, too,” Lizette replied, trying to set the girl at ease and calm her own fears, as well.
But the fear would not be quelled, for she didn’t recognize any of the men riding with him. Worse, they didn’t look like soldiers of Averette; in their various bits of armor and leather, they looked like a motley collection of outlaws or mercenaries.
“I don’t like the looks o’ this,” Dicken murmured as he reached for the hilt of the dagger he carried in his belt. “Best go back into the wagon, my lady, until we know what’s afoot.”
Keldra immediately ducked inside and cowered among the cushions.
Lizette lingered longer, driven by curiosity. She watched as Iain drew his horse to a halt. He addressed Lindall, and his helmeted head turned as if he, too, were surveying the band of men.
And then, so quickly she could scarcely believe it, Lindall drew his sword and struck Iain down.
CHAPTER TWO
THE UNPREPARED SCOT fell from his horse and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood poured from the gash in the right shoulder of his mail.
Crying out in dismay, Lizette rose, hitting her head on the frame of the wagon’s roof. Dicken cursed and slapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs. They lurched forward, sending Lizette tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon, where she landed on top of a shrieking Keldra. Around them, men shouted, horses whinnied and neighed, and in the next instant, they heard the clash of sword on sword.
The wagon jolted backward, then forward, as the cursing Dicken tried to control the team. Holding tight to the back of his seat, Lizette struggled to her knees and attempted to see past the big man’s shifting body through the flapping canvas opening.
It was as if they were caught in the heart of a melee, or two clashing armies.
Where was Iain? She couldn’t see him. Nor could she tell which side was winning.
Then she spotted Iain on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
Sweet Savior, Iain—the best soldier in Averette—wasn’t moving.
More of their men were on the ground, some bloody. Several more were fighting, swinging their swords from horseback, or engaging their opponents on the ground. Riderless horses ran from the road, the whites of their eyes showing, frantic from the smell of blood. The team harnessed to the wagon jostled one another, unable to escape.
Her sore head throbbing, Lizette pushed the sobbing Keldra away and grabbed a small wooden chest. She threw open the lid and found the dagger buried beneath her undergarments.
Dicken yelped. The wagon tilted precariously to the left like a ship in a stormy sea, then fell back hard on its right wheels as Dicken tumbled backward into the wagon, his large body catching the canvas partition and ripping it from its supports.
An arrow was lodged in his chest. Blood spread out from the wound and his eyes stared, unseeing, at the now-bare frame of the wagon’s roof.
Keldra began to wail. Lizette clutched the dagger and tried to think. They had to get away from here. If the men were all preoccupied by battle, if they were concerned with their own lives, she and Keldra might be able to escape.
Inspired by that hope, she grabbed hold of Keldra’s arm and pulled her to the rear of the wagon. “We have a chance, but we’ve got to run!”
Putting the dagger between her teeth to free her hands, she climbed over the back of the wagon. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, then looked up to see Keldra still sitting where she’d left her, her trembling hands covering her face.
Lizette took the knife out of her mouth. “Keldra, come! We have to run!”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Yes, you can! You must!”
A man came around the wagon—Lindall, on foot, smiling like the devil himself, evil intent visible on his familiar, homely features.
“Looks like somebody gave my lady a little toy,” he sneered as he ran his gaze over her and her knife.
Gripping the dagger tightly, she backed away from him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, at Averette.”
“If I stayed there, what would I get?” he returned, his voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the fighting men nearby. “Some food, a place to sleep, a little money for sport now and then.”
He grinned, exposing his ruined teeth, and his eyes gleamed with hate. “I’m a rich man now—or I will be soon. A hundred marks Lord Wimarc’s promised me if I bring you to him.”
Confusion joined her fear. “Who’s Lord Wimarc? What does he want with me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, my lady,” Lindall said as he went to grab her.
She sidestepped him and turned, ready to run—until she remembered Keldra, sobbing in the wagon. Keldra, who was but fifteen, and terrified.
She spun on her heel and lunged at Lindall. He raised his shield, easily avoiding her blow, then grabbed her right wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped her dagger. He kicked it away with his blood-spattered boot.
“Don’t try to fight me, my lady,” he snarled as he hauled her close, his stinking breath hot on her face. “I’ve got your men outnumbered, and mine are vicious brutes, trained killers from all over Europe. Your men are doomed and you’re mine now—at least until I hand you over to Wimarc. So don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll regret it.”
Her view of the battle was blocked by the wagon; nevertheless, she wouldn’t believe his men would defeat hers. Her men had been trained by Iain Mac Kendren. Outnumbered or not, it would make no difference. They would win.
“You’re going to be caught and hanged for what you’ve done,” she charged. “If you’ve harmed Iain—”
“Harmed him?” Lindall replied with a coarse laugh. “I’ve killed him.”
No! she silently wailed, her knees nearly buckling, as he tugged on her aching wrist.
“You’re caught, my lady, and now I’m going to get my money.”
Rage rose up, strengthened by her grief. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet. Whatever Lindall planned to do, wherever he wanted to take her, he would have to drag her.
Curling his lip, keeping hold of her wrist, still gripping his sword with his right hand, he kicked her left leg hard.
“I said, don’t give me no trouble. I’ll break your leg if I have to.”
She nearly fell as he tugged her toward the wagon, but she managed to stay on her feet. She squirmed and struggled and tried to hit him.
“Stay there, Keldra!” she ordered when they reached it.
Inside, Keldra lay curled up in a little whimpering ball of fear. “Whatever he says or does, don’t get down!”
Lindall hauled her close. “Shut your gob, you stupid wench—you with that pretty little nose of yours always in the air, laughing while the rest of us have to work and march and drill, shouted at by that damn Scot.”
As she continued to struggle, another sort of look came to Lindall’s face, one that threatened to send her into a different sort of panic. “Wimarc never said you had to be a virgin. No, he never said nothing about that, so I’ll have you, and maybe your maid, too. Maybe the rest of the men should have a taste of you, too, before I get my money.”
Truly terrified, Lizette fought even harder, while Keldra began to wail louder.
“Shut up!” Lindall snarled at the poor girl.
Yet in that moment, while his attention was on Keldra, Lizette saw a chance. She put her hands on his armored chest and shoved him backward with all her might. He collided with the edge of the wagon, then fell forward onto his knees.
“Come on!” she called to Keldra—and this time, her maid didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side of the wagon and started to run down the road.
Yanking up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them, Lizette ran after her. Her cloak flapped out behind her like a pennant in the breeze; her coronet fell off her head, and then her veil, but she didn’t care. Unfortunately, her bodice wasn’t laced for running and soon she could hardly breathe—but still she didn’t stop.
Until a hand grabbed hold of her cloak and jerked her to a halt.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Lindall barked as he pulled her back. “Think you’re going to get away when Lord Wimarc’s offered all that money, and I can have my way with you?”
A sob of fear and helplessness broke from Lizette’s throat as Keldra kept running, not looking back. Leaving her.
“Let go o’ the lady and drop yer sword, boyo, or I’ll be runnin’ you through and sendin’ you straight to hell.”
Lizette’s breath caught. She knew that voice. Dear God, she knew that voice! Sir Oliver, come like a hero to save her!
With a sound between a sob and a cry of joy, she turned to see Sir Oliver with the point of his sword pressing against Lindall’s back as the former second-in-command of Averette raised his arms in surrender.
“Go after your maid, my lady,” Sir Oliver said. “Now, before this blackguard’s men realize you’re getting away.”
She nodded once and gathered up her skirts, then hesitated. “And you?”
Sir Oliver gave her a smile that had no mirth or joy in it. “I’ll join you soon, my lady.”
Pleased, relieved, but far from feeling safe, she did as he told her, and ran.
THE IRISHMAN, who was sometimes known as Sir Oliver de Leslille, waited until Lady Elizabeth was out of sight, then ordered the lout at the end of his sword to go into the woods.
He hadn’t planned to interfere. He hadn’t even been following Lady Elizabeth’s cortege. Yet he’d been close by and heard the sounds of fighting, and when he’d seen the hard-nosed Scot lying dead on the ground, he’d known there was only one thing to do: find the lady and her maid and keep them safe.
Thank God he’d gotten to them in time … although he might not be such a hero as he wanted to believe. As she’d faced her enemy, her bountiful fair hair disheveled, her clothing rumpled and muddy, Lady Elizabeth had been no meek and terrified victim; he had seen the fierce courage in her eyes and knew she would have fought to the death to protect herself and, even more impressively, her maidservant.
“Hurry up,” he commanded the varlet who’d led the attack against the lady’s cortege, shoving the tip of his sword against the man’s mail-clad back to make his point.
As they entered the shelter of the trees, the lout turned around, wary, but not afraid. “You don’t want to kill me. I can get you money—lots of money. Lizette—Lady Elizabeth, the woman you let run off—Lord Wimarc de Werre’s offered me a reward if I bring her to his castle.”
These men belonged to Wimarc? They were no band of outlaws and thieves, but that man’s mercenaries?
Then this attack had been on his orders. But why?
It could be to force a marriage—except that Wimarc already had a wife.
Rape?
To be sure, Lady Elizabeth was lovely and spirited, and he certainly wouldn’t put rape past Wimarc, but abducting a ward of the king—which she must be, since her sister Adelaide was—was a far different crime from raping a servant or peasant, or even another nobleman’s daughter or wife. Wimarc wouldn’t dare do something like that unless he thought he could get away with it, or didn’t care if he roused the king’s ire. “What does he want with her?”
“Who knows?” the lout retorted as sweat dripped down his wide face. “What have men like us to do with the likes o’ them? It’s enough to watch out for ourselves, and he’s willing to pay if we take her to him.”
Giving Lady Elizabeth to Wimarc would get him inside the man’s fortress, but getting in was never the problem.
The problem would be rescuing his imprisoned half brother and getting out again.
Besides, he wouldn’t use a woman that way. Not any woman, and especially not any relative of Adelaide d’Averette.
But he wasn’t about to let this blackguard know that. “If she’s so important, maybe he’ll pay even more. That’s not so large a sum when split between so many.”
“Wimarc only offered the reward to me. Those others are Wimarc’s mercenaries. I’m not.”
The lout licked his dry lips. “And I wouldn’t try to haggle with him, not unless I wanted to wind up in his dungeon. Do you know what happens to his prisoners?”
“I’ve heard.” Slow starvation. A little food in the beginning, gradually diminishing to nothing.
Was Ryder still getting something to eat? Or had his time run out?
The lout took a step forward, only to halt abruptly as the Irishman raised the tip of his sword level with the man’s eye.
“A fellow’s got to look out for himself,” the blackguard said, desperation in his voice and sweat dripping from his brow. “Come, man, it’s fifty marks he’s offered! That’s twenty-five marks for you, and all you have to do is help me get hold of a woman.”
“You seemed to be having a little trouble with that woman.”
“That’s because she’s a hellion, but the two of us should have no trouble taming her. And Wimarc doesn’t care if she’s a virgin. Leastways, he never said she had to be, so add that to your payment. Twenty-five marks and a pretty virgin—that ought to be worth my life.”
The Irishman lowered his blade.
“I knew you were a smart fellow,” the lout said with relief. “Come on. She can’t run far. There’s her maid, too. We’ll have fine sport tonight!”
He went to go past the Irishman, but in the blink of an eye, the Irishman shoved his blade beneath the lout’s arm with a thrust so powerful, it went right through his mail.
As the Irishman held the former second-in-command of Averette in a deadly embrace, Lindall’s eyes widened with shock. Blood trickled from his lips and he tried, uselessly, to talk.
“Rape holds no appeal for me,” the Irishman said. He shoved the sword in farther. “This is for the other women you’ve raped, the men who died today, and especially the lady.”
TRYING TO DRAW IN a deep breath, perspiration pouring down her back and sides, Lizette rounded a bend in the road and saw Keldra hiding—ineffectually—behind a chestnut tree.
The girl let out a cry of relief and ran toward her.
“Oh, my lady,” she sobbed as she threw her arms around her mistress, “what are we going to do?”
Lizette gently disengaged herself from the girl’s fierce grasp. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “We have to hide and wait for Sir Oliver.”
“Where?”
“The safest place I can find.”
“How will he find us if we’re hiding?” Keldra wondered aloud as she trotted after Lizette.
“He knows which way we went, and we’ll watch for him,” Lizette replied.
As she plunged into the shadowy undergrowth, branches and brambles caught her cloak and hair. Fatigue and the stress of all they’d been through began to creep over her. She wanted to cry, too—to weep and wail and mourn for Iain, a good man dead because she had been reluctant to hurry home.
She swiped at her tear-filled eyes. Mourning and recriminations could wait. Now they had to find a safe hiding place not too far from the road so they could watch for Sir Oliver.
She came upon a thicket of beech saplings around what must have been a boar’s wallow. There was no boar using it now, or the muddy bottom and sides would be churned up. And it would smell of such a beast, too. They should be safe here.
She pushed her way through the natural fence, pulling Keldra along behind her, then knelt on the leaf-covered ground and peered through the slender branches, making sure she could see the road and anyone who came along it.
Keldra sat beside her, covered her tear-streaked face with her hands, and wept.
As they waited for what seemed hours, Lizette tried not to let despair and dismay overtake her, even though she was haunted by the memory of Iain’s death, and racked with guilt.
If she hadn’t been so annoyed at being summoned home like a child, if she hadn’t dawdled on the road, or fallen sick and then claimed she was still unwell and so must travel slowly, they would all be safely back at Averette by now.
Perhaps Iain wasn’t dead, but only wounded. Lindall might be lying, or he could have been wrong. Maybe if they went back, she would find Iain seriously wounded, but alive.
Yet she didn’t dare return to the site of the attack, at least not yet. Not until Sir Oliver arrived and told her it was safe.
Perhaps he would also know what this Lord Wimarc might want with her. All she could think of was ransom.
She finally heard something that prompted her to inch forward, moving more branches out of the way. Relief melted her fear as Sir Oliver, scanning the trees, jogged down the road toward their hiding place, his sword in his hand.
He was alone. Where was the rest of his hunting party? Where were her men?
She pushed her way out of the thicket, followed by the weeping Keldra. “Sir Oliver!”
He came to a halt and gestured for them to join him. “Stay with me and be as quiet as you can.”
“Where’s the rest of your hunting party?”
“I’ll take you to them now.”
“What about the rest of my men?”
“Dead or dying, my lady.”
“That can’t be true!” she protested, fear rising again. “Iain’s the best soldier in England and the best commander. My men are the best garrison in England. Surely no motley crew of outlaws or mercenaries could defeat them all.”
“They were outnumbered three to one, and now the blackguards who attacked you are going to be coming after you. We’ve got to get away from here as quickly as we can.”
It seemed her choice was simple: stay and risk capture, or go with Sir Oliver.
Without another word, Lizette put her arm around Keldra to support her, and went with Sir Oliver.
CHAPTER THREE
“THANK YOU for coming to our aid,” Lizette panted some time later as she and Keldra continued down the road with Sir Oliver. It had been morning when they’d been attacked; judging by the sun, it was now past noon.
“No matter,” he brusquely replied.
No matter to him perhaps, but if he hadn’t appeared, if he hadn’t stopped Lindall. She tried not to think of what could have happened to her and Keldra then.
Sir Oliver suddenly stopped and held up his hand. At nearly the same time, a youth of about sixteen slithered down a nearby tree, a bow slung over his back and a quiver of arrows hanging at his side. Like Sir Oliver, he wore a leather tunic with no shirt beneath, woolen breeches and boots, and his hair likewise brushed shoulders that were nearly as broad as the Irish nobleman’s.
He must be one of the hunting party, a servant probably, although she had no idea why he’d be up in a tree.
“Ah, Garreth, here you are,” Sir Oliver said as the young man walked toward them, his questioning gaze sweeping over them before coming to rest on Sir Oliver.
“Lady Elizabeth, this is Garreth,” Sir Oliver said. “Garreth, this is Lady Elizabeth and her maidservant.”
“Keldra,” Lizette supplied as the young man regarded them with furrowed brow and wary eyes.
“I got separated from the rest of our party,” Sir Oliver explained. “I assume you did, too, and were up there searching for me, or one of the others. I have no idea where the rest of the hunting party’s got to, but thankfully I was able to come to this lady’s aid when her cortege was attacked, although I couldn’t do much more.”
Nodding, Garreth tugged his forelock. “A pleasure, my lady,” he replied, in an accent quite different from Sir Oliver’s. If she had to guess, she’d say he was from London, not Ireland. “And as you say, my lord, I was looking for the others. No sign of ‘em, I’m afraid. That gamekeeper’s going to have some explaining to do—and that dog boy, too,” he added with righteous indignation. “Telling me to go north and then disappearin’ with the dogs. I’d like to get my hands on him, I would, and teach him a thing or two about—”
“In good time,” Sir Oliver interrupted. “For now, we’d best get this lady and her maid to safety, to the convent.”
“The convent?” the young man repeated, although he wasn’t nearly as surprised as Lizette.
“Will your host not give us sanctuary?” Lizette asked.
“The convent would be better,” Sir Oliver said shortly, with no more explanation. “Now come.”
Lizette made no move to follow. Perhaps she’d been a fool to trust this nobleman after all. What did she really know about him except what he himself had told her?
She began to back away. “Where are you taking us?”
“To safety,” Sir Oliver impatiently answered.
“Not Wimarc?”
“Wimarc?” Garreth cried as if her suggestion wasn’t just ludicrous, but sinful.
“Apparently he’s offering a reward for this lady, but he’s not going to get her,” Sir Oliver replied.
Get her? He made her sound like a bone two dogs were fighting over.
This was not good. Not good at all.
Taking hold of Keldra’s trembling arm, she moved back more, ready to run again even if they died of exhaustion.
Sir Oliver realized what she was doing and frowned with frustration. “I’m not going to hurt you and I’m not taking you to Wimarc. I give you my word that I’ll not give you, or any woman, into his keeping, whether there’s a reward or not.”
That promise didn’t assuage her dread. “I don’t know you. I’ve never met you before, never heard your name. How can I be sure your word’s worth anything?”
His handsome features hardened to a stony mask. “Unless you want to be taken by Wimarc’s men, my lady, I don’t think you have much choice except to trust me.”
Garreth nodded as he plucked the string of his bow against his chest. “You can trust him, my lady. Finn never hurts women.”
Finn?
“Nor robs them, either, if they give him a kiss.”
God help them! “You’re the thief!” she gasped while Keldra moaned softly.
The thief apparently named Finn both scowled and—surprisingly—blushed as he darted an annoyed glance at his young confederate. “As I said, I don’t hurt women, so I’m not going to hurt you, or take you to Wimarc, who does. He’s a bad, wicked man and whatever he wants with you, it can’t be anything good. There’s a convent a few miles from here. I’ll take you there and you can write to your sisters and tell them what’s happened.”
“How do you know my family?” she demanded warily.
“He’s been to court,” Garreth supplied, as if insulted by her question. “He’s even met the king.”
She had believed this thief an Irish nobleman; perhaps he’d been able to fool the courtiers, too, as impossible as it seemed—but that didn’t mean she and Keldra were safe.
Not even when a sparkle of amusement appeared in the Irishman’s eyes. “Your sister wears a gold-and-emerald crucifix that was your mother’s.”
Merciful heavens—that was true.
“And because I have met her and she’s a good woman, I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”
He reached into his belt and drew out her dagger, presenting it to her by the handle. “Here. If I wanted to do you harm, I wouldn’t give you this, would I?”
She grabbed it, gripping it tightly. “This doesn’t mean much. You’re stronger than I am and could probably get this away from me in a moment.”
“Aye, I probably could,” he conceded, “but if I wanted to rape you, my lady, I’d have done it by now, and if I was going to hand you over to Wimarc, I wouldn’t have let you run away from his mercenaries. Now, unless you want to meet up with some of Wimarc’s men who will take you to him, I suggest we get moving.”
He was a liar, a thief, an outlaw—and yet he expected her to trust him?
Right now, what other choice did she have, except to try to get back to Averette on her own, on foot, with the distraught Keldra and without a coin to her name?
And she did have the dagger if he tried to touch her. “Very well,” she said at last. “Take us to the convent—but I’m a ward of the king, so if you think to—”
“I assure you, my lady, you’ll be perfectly safe with me. I’d sooner touch an adder than a ward of the king’s. Or Lady Adelaide’s sister.”
IAIN MAC KENDREN groaned softly. Pain racked his body. His head throbbed as if he’d been drunk for a week. His back was sore, and his chest ached with every breath.
He was dying. Dying, here in a ditch. In the darkness. In the cold. He’d let that bastard Lindall kill him.
Where was Lizette—merry, frustrating, aggravating Lizette? Was she alive, or dead? Had she died quickly, or was she still alive and suffering?
He was still alive, at least for now, and while he lived, he was the garrison commander of Averette, charged with keeping Lizette safe. As long as he had breath in his body, there was a chance … a hope … he could do his duty.
Iain moved his fingers, then his feet and legs.
His back wasn’t broken. He tried to move his right arm and blinding pain nearly rendered him unconscious again. He remembered the blow from Lindall’s sword and the man’s grunt as he made it. Lindall had cut deep. It was a wonder or a miracle that he hadn’t bled to death already.
A wonder or a miracle. Maybe God wasn’t ready for him to die.
Iain licked his dry, chapped lips. He was so thirsty.
With a groan, he rolled onto his side. There was a trickle of muddy water in the bottom of the ditch. He tried to cup it with his right hand, but the pain was too much, and the effort useless. He tried with his left and succeeded, greedily slurping the gritty water that tasted of his leather glove, and blood.
He struggled to his feet and looked around. His men lay dead nearby, some killed in the fight, others who’d been wounded had obviously had their throats slit later. He could see the signs of looting, the thievery of cowards.
His right arm useless at his side, he reached for his own throat with his left. His ventail was still closed. Either they’d not taken the time to finish him off, or they’d thought him already dead.
A horse, he thought vaguely as his eyesight blurred and he started to sway. He needed a horse.
“God help me, a horse,” he whispered hoarsely. “God, please, a horse.”
ELSEWHERE IN THE DARKNESS, two fires burned in the shelter of a small, tree-encircled clearing. The Irishman and his companion were seated at one, Lady Elizabeth and her maid lay by the other, sleeping, or trying to, Finn supposed. No doubt the lady wasn’t used to sleeping on the ground.
His sword lay across his knees and his dagger was within easy reach in his belt. He was tired, but not about to sleep, not with that scum of Wimarc’s after them. And with Lady Elizabeth’s vibrant presence to distract him.
“Is there any more bread?” Garreth asked, shifting to a cross-legged position after swallowing the last of the loaf of coarse brown bread they’d bought in the last town they’d passed through.
Finn shoved another stick into the fire before answering. They’d been careful to use only dry wood to ensure there was as little smoke as possible. He would have preferred not to have any fire at all, but the women would be too cold and Garreth liable to spend most of the night complaining without one.
Unfortunately, it seemed the day’s events had not wearied Garreth at all, but only served to energize him. The youth showed no signs of wanting to lie down and rest any time soon, and he was a bottomless pit for food. Too bad for him, most of their meagre provisions had been given to the women. “No, it’s all gone.”
Garreth shrugged and scratched and then nodded at the other fire. “So, that’s a lady.”
“Aye, that’s a lady,” Finn replied, careful not to so much as glance at the women.
It had been difficult to ignore them as they’d prepared to sleep on the rough beds he and Garreth had made of branches and leaves, with only their cloaks for coverings. Even in a stained and wrinkled gown, its hem inches deep in mud, with her hair a tangled, riotous mess that she’d tried to comb with her fingers, he’d found himself fascinated by the lady as she moved with brisk, yet graceful, movements, and never once complained.
“Are all the ladies at court like her?”
“She’s not like any noblewoman I’ve ever met,” Finn truthfully replied.
Lady Elizabeth wasn’t even like her sister. Lady Adelaide was cool and dignified, aloof, like an angel sent down from heaven to be admired by mere mortals below.
Lady Elizabeth was something else entirely—spirited and fiery and defiant. Even from the first, her flustered, honest manner by the bank of that stream had been very different from the attitude of the haughty ladies of the court. Later she’d gotten an intriguing spark of mischief in her eyes.
Even so, he could just imagine the look on her face if he’d told her who he really was and what he’d really been thinking by the banks of that stream. My name is Fingal, my mother was a whore, I’ve been a thief since I was five years old, and I’m thinking it’d surely be a grand thing to lie you down right here in the grass and make love with you, my lady.
Despite the impossibility, his mind persisted in imagining taking that lithe, shapely body in his arms and capturing those full lips with his own, kissing her until she was breathless while his hand moved slowly along the curve of her hip, her waist, her full, rounded breasts …
He mentally gave his head a shake.
“So what’s she doing traveling about the countryside?” Garreth asked. “If she’s a ward of the king, shouldn’t she be with the court?”
“I suspect she was on her way home to Kent when they were attacked. The king and his court are at Salisbury, and that’s the other way.”
“Maybe her family will give us a reward for helping her,” Garreth suggested.
“Maybe they will,” Finn agreed, although he wasn’t planning to find out. He didn’t want to see Lady Adelaide, or her husband, again. “We’ve no time to go to Kent and find out. If we don’t get Ryder out of Wimarc’s dungeon soon, he’ll be dead.”
Slowly starved to death, like all Wimarc’s prisoners.
Garreth tossed another stick into the fire, sending up a small shower of sparks. “So we’re really taking them to St. Mary’s-in-the-Meadow?”
“Aye.” He caught the look of displeasure in his companion’s eyes. “We can’t leave them to get there on their own.”
“Her maidservant looks at me as if I smell bad.”
“She’s afraid.”
“Why? We helped them, didn’t we? Lady Elizabeth doesn’t look at us that way, and she was frightened, too.”
“I daresay she was,” Finn replied, “but she’s older, and I think she’s learned to hide her feelings. Keldra’s only a girl and a servant. She can’t count on her rank to protect her, the way a lady can.”
Unfortunately, from what he knew about Wimarc, rank wouldn’t necessarily protect Lady Elizabeth, either.
“Why do you suppose Wimarc sent his men for her?”
“Politics. She’s allied by marriage to men loyal to the king, and Wimarc is not. He probably hopes to use her against them.” He slid Garreth a glance. “Sometimes being a noblewoman has its shortcomings.”
“All right, so we’ve got to take them to the convent—but I hope that stupid girl doesn’t keep sniveling tomorrow. It’s enough to set my teeth on edge.”
“She’s not stupid, she’s frightened,” Finn explained again. “And you should rest. We’ve a long way to walk tomorrow, and the sooner we can get to the convent, the sooner we can go back and get Ryder.”
Garreth nodded and after a moment’s hesitation, he quietly asked, “You think he’s still alive then?”
“I have to,” Finn replied as he reached for another stick.
Or it would be his fault his half brother was dead.
THE NEXT MORNING, Lizette put her hands on the small of her back and arched to relieve the ache as she followed the silent Irishman along the narrow path that had probably been made by deer or some other creature through the wood of alder, beech, oak and chestnut. Finn had a leather pouch containing food and a few meagre articles of clothes slung over his back, and he seemed to have a knack for finding such paths.
Garreth was just as quiet and, mercifully, Keldra wasn’t crying as they both struggled to keep up with the Irishman’s brisk pace.
Was he really taking them to a convent? They could be anywhere as they marched through trees and the small valleys made by streams and brooks.
How could she trust this man? How could she have any faith in anything he said, or be sure he would help them? He was a thief, outside the law, perhaps even a murderer … yet he’d been true to his word and not touched her, or Keldra. She’d even been able to sleep a little, dozing off, then waking with a start to find him still sitting by the fire.
Most of the time he’d been motionless, as still as a stone, but every so often he’d lean forward to add more wood or stir the ashes. Then the flames would flare up, and she could see his handsome visage as he stared into the fire as if trying to foretell the future. Or maybe he’d merely been trying to stay awake.
At dawn he’d risen and told her they had to start moving, and so they had, with the thief in front and the youth behind.
Now, her feet felt as heavy as millstones, and her stomach growled with hunger. Every impulse urged her to ask the Irishman to stop and let them rest and eat whatever he had in that leather pouch he carried. But her pride was stronger than both her fatigue and her hunger, so instead, she quickened her pace until she was near enough to talk to him.
Since she didn’t want to anger him, she started with something relatively unimportant. “Is Garreth your son?”
The Irishman checked his steps. “Jaysus, no.”
He started forward again, pushing a low branch out of their way, and slid her an aggrieved look. “I’m not that old.”
“I thought perhaps he was because he so obviously admires you,” she replied, worried she’d offended him as she likewise moved the branch back, not above a little flattery if it would encourage him to talk.
“If he admires me, it’s because I treat him decently. Garreth was born in the gutter, my lady, same as me, so being treated with respect’s a rare thing.”
Could this Irishman who passed for a nobleman really be of such humble origin? “Are you truly of low birth? You sounded exactly like a courtier.”
“Because I took the time and trouble to learn.”
“Why?” she blurted, her curiosity overcoming her desire to be subtle.
“Why else but to make thieving easier? If you can talk like a noble, you can get yourself invited into a hall or manor with no trouble at all.”
She realized she’d been hoping he wasn’t really an outlaw—a hope now dashed.
He laughed with sarcastic mockery. “Ruined your little fantasy, have I? Want to think me some bold, brave fellow who’s only fallen on hard times temporarily? Well, I’m not. I’ve been thieving since boyhood, because it was that, or die of cold or starvation.”
His expression changed to one of aggravating condescension. “I don’t expect you’d know much about suffering.”
“Perhaps not in the way you mean,” she replied, her temper flaring, “but it wasn’t easy living with a father who drank too much, cursed you for being born a girl and sometimes used his fists when he was angry, which he often was.”
The Irishman’s brown eyes darted to her face. “On you?”
“No, not me. My poor mother and sometimes Adelaide when she tried to protect us. But we could never be sure he wouldn’t hit us, too, Gillian and me. I was always afraid when my father was at home. I confess I was relieved when he died last year, even though that means the king now has the right to decide my fate. At least John doesn’t live at Averette.”
“I was glad when my mother died, too,” he quietly replied. “She made my life a living hell during her last years.”
Surprised by that revelation, Lizette wasn’t as careful as she should have been and tripped over her muddy hem. He immediately reached out to steady her. Taken aback, she tried to ignore his touch, and the strength apparent even in that simple act, and pulled away the moment she was steady on her feet.
“I didn’t have any motive other than to keep you from falling flat on your face,” the Irishman coolly observed, “so I hope you’re not thinking of killing me for daring to touch you.”
Was he trying to be funny? “Not now,” she tartly replied. “Garreth called you Finn yesterday. Is that your real name?”
The man’s frown deepened as he stepped over a rock that she had to walk around. “Aye. It’s short for Fingal.”
“So you’re really from Ireland?”
“My mother was.”
The mother who had made his life a hell. “Did she teach you to speak like a courtier?”
“God, no—and that’s all you need to know about me or my mother, my lady.”
There could be no mistaking the finality of his tone.
“Tell me about this Lord Wimarc,” she said, starting to pant as the path went uphill. “I’ve never even heard his name.”
The way was muddy and slick, the ground damp and covered with dead leaves, and she had to keep her eyes on the ground so she wouldn’t fall. Behind her, she could hear Keldra likewise struggling to stay on her feet.
“Garreth, give the girl a hand,” Finn ordered as he looked back. He was finally starting to sound a bit winded, too.
“Wimarc’s rich, he’s recently wed the daughter of a minor but wealthy earl, he hates the king and he’s an evil brute.”
Merciful Mary! “Is that all?”
Finn reached the top of the rise and, holding on to a slender branch, put out his hand to help her. “He’s dangerous and you don’t want to get anywhere near him.”
“Have you any idea why he’d want to abduct me?” she asked as she clasped his offered hand and let him pull her forward, his grip sure and strong and warm.
Keldra, huffing and puffing, reached the top of the hill, an obviously disgusted Garreth supporting her, and Finn let go of Lizette.
“It could be because of your older sister’s husband,” the Irishman proposed as he started walking again.
She gasped with surprise, then ran after him and grabbed his arm to make him stop. “Adelaide isn’t married!”
He regarded her with obvious confusion as he folded his arms over his broad chest. “Yes, she is. She recently married Lord Armand de Boisbaston.”
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. “That’s a lie!”
The Irishman’s well-cut lips turned down for a moment, then he shrugged and started walking again. “If it’s a lie, it was told to me as truth—and that marriage would give Wimarc a reason to want you in his power. The man loathes John and rumor has it there’s a conspiracy afoot against the king. Armand de Boisbaston’s the sort of loyal idiot who’ll protect John because of his oath of fealty and his faith in the Earl of Pembroke, no matter what he might think of the king himself. If Wimarc thinks Armand’s in his way, how better to get at him than through his family? If your sister’s his wife, that makes you family. Could be Wimarc plans to hold you hostage to force de Boisbaston to do what he wants.”
“But my sister can’t be married to this Lord Armand de Boisbaston!” Lizette persisted as she hurried after him.
Adelaide would surely sooner lose a limb than break her word. To be sure, she hadn’t actually seen Adelaide in months, not since Adelaide had gone to court after their father’s death, and she had gone to stay first with Sir Merton’s family and then to Lord Delapont’s estate. But surely her sister couldn’t have changed that much—and after all, their solemn promise had been Adelaide’s idea.
Even if the impossible had happened and it was true … “She would have told me in her letter, or had Iain tell me when he came to fetch me home.”
“Unless she was waiting to tell you in person,” he suggested, sliding her an enigmatic glance.
No, she wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t. Adelaide had been too certain, too adamant, that marriage would only bring pain and heartache. This man must be lying, or misinformed.
They came upon the massive trunk of a downed oak. “We’ll rest here awhile,” he said.
Still stunned and suspicious, Lizette sat heavily, while Keldra sank down upon the trunk and sighed with relief.
“If what you say is true, as ludicrous as it seems, and Adelaide is married,” she said, “and there’s a conspiracy against the king led by this Wimarc, my sisters could be in grave danger.”
“They may be,” he agreed. “From all I’ve heard—and I’ve heard a lot this past fortnight—Wimarc is a very cunning, dangerous and ambitious man. He may stop at nothing to gain his ends, and if he thinks your family might be a hindrance—”
Suddenly terrified for her sisters, Lizette jumped to her feet. “Then we have to send word to Adelaide at court and Gillian at Averette immediately!”
“You can do that from the convent,” the Irishman replied with aggravating calm. “I’m going to go back a bit and make sure we aren’t being followed. Your men may all be dead, but Wimarc’s aren’t. Garreth, give them what we have left to eat, and have something yourself.”
With that, he turned and headed back down the path.
CHAPTER FOUR
LIZETTE WATCHED the Irishman disappear through the trees. Could Adelaide really be married? Why would he lie if she wasn’t?
As she tried to convince herself that he must be mistaken if he wasn’t lying, Garreth rummaged in the pouch. With the flare of a magician producing a bag of gold coins, he brought forth an apple that looked rather the worse for having been battered about in the pouch.
“It’s not as fine as you’re used to, I’m sure, my lady,” he said, offering it to her with a sheepish grin, “but apples are all we’ve got.”
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” she replied, giving it to Keldra.
“You have it, my lady,” she demurred. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’m ordering you to eat it,” Lizette said. “You need to regain your strength.”
“That was the best one,” Garreth muttered as Keldra reluctantly took it. “I meant it for you.”
“I’ll gladly take the second-best one.”
Although still obviously displeased, the young man dived back into the pouch and this time, he produced a smaller apple. He polished it on his sleeve, which didn’t look overly clean, before handing it to her with a shrug.
“Thank you, Garreth,” she said, hoping to assuage his wounded feelings with a warm smile. Ignoring her qualms about the dirty sleeve, she bit into it.
It was indeed not as fine a fruit as she was used to; however, she was very hungry and they needed to keep up their strength. They had to get to that convent as quickly as possible.
Looking slightly mollified, Garreth brought forth another apple, slightly smaller than hers. He removed his bow from his back, settled himself on the ground at Lizette’s feet and started to eat, gobbling it up as if he hadn’t eaten for days.
Perhaps he hadn’t, or didn’t get many good meals, which was often the lot of peasants and poor folk, she knew. Iain and Gillian would believe she did not, or that she chose to ignore such unpleasant facts of life. Yet if she rarely mentioned such things, it wasn’t from ignorance or because she thought them unimportant. She didn’t speak of them because such things always made her feel helpless, and guilty.
“Have you been … traveling with Sir Oliver … Finn … a long time?” she asked, trying not to think of Iain, or home.
“Since last Christmastide,” Garreth replied.
That took her aback. “I assumed you’d known him for years!”
Still chewing his apple, Garreth said, “He saved my life. This candle maker thought I’d stolen from him and he came up behind me and hit me with one of his molds. Finn saw and grabbed the man’s arm before he could hit me again. I’d be deader than that tree you’re sitting on if it weren’t for him. The candle maker threatened to call the reeve, and Finn told him to go ahead, but he’d be sorry. It wasn’t exactly a threat, my lady, but the candle maker let go quick enough.”
Tossing away her apple core, Lizette wiped her fingers on a part of her cloak that wasn’t spattered with mud or bits of leaves from pushing through bushes. “No wonder you admire him.”
“Lots of people do—although he’s not as good with a bow as me.”
Keldra sniffed scornfully.
“What, you don’t think I’m good?” Garreth demanded, rising. He grabbed his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at his side. “Pick a target, my lady.”
She saw no reason to stop him from proving his mettle. “How about that rowan branch there?”
“Too close and too easy.”
He was certainly a confident young man. “Then that low branch on the chestnut there,” she said, pointing at a branch about twenty yards away.
Garreth took his stance, nocked his arrow, drew his bow, took aim and let fly. The arrow zipped through the air and struck the branch, making them both quiver.
Lizette was impressed, and said so, after Garreth had trotted to the tree and retrieved the arrow.
Garreth gave Keldra a smug glance while he loosened the string again. Her maidservant ignored him, apparently more absorbed in picking bits of greenery off the skirt of her gown than watching Garreth show off his skill.
“I thought perhaps you were Finn’s son,” Lizette said as Garreth plopped down again.
“I wish to God I was.”
“Does he have any family living? His mother? A father?”
“His mother’s dead. He doesn’t like to talk about her, and he’s never mentioned a father. He’s got a half brother, though, named Ryder.” Garreth frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think I should tell you about Ryder. Finn probably wouldn’t like it.”
The man himself was a thief; how much more shame could his half brother bring to the family? But she didn’t think prying on that subject would yield any answers from Garreth—at least not at present.
“Finn’s certainly a clever fellow. He can sound just like a nobleman,” she remarked instead, noting that Keldra had found a place to lean back against a branch. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth gaped a little. If she could sleep, that would do her good.
“He fooled all the nobles at court the same way he fooled you,” Garreth replied, clearly not caring if he woke Keldra up or not. “He said they’re thieves and beggars, too, only dress better and ask for more. The king’s the worst of them for lying and cheating, Finn says.”
She couldn’t disagree. “What do you suppose Lord Wimarc wants with me?”
Garreth flushed and looked away. “Well, my lady, you’re pretty and Lord Wimarc likes pretty women.”
If she were not a lady, she might give that explanation more credence. As it was, she doubted ravishment would be his goal and worth so much effort. “I’m also a ward of the king, so surely Wimarc wouldn’t dare to assault me.”
“If you say so, my lady,” the young man replied with a shrug—and skeptical expression. “But that’s not what we’ve heard.”
And this man was after her? God help her, and her sisters, too.
Too agitated to sit, wondering where Finn was and why he hadn’t returned, she jumped to her feet.
The sudden motion of the tree trunk woke Keldra, who looked about her with confusion until she remembered.
“You don’t need to worry about Finn, my lady,” Garreth said, again ignoring Keldra. “Wimarc’s men won’t catch him. He’s like an eel in water if he’s chased. The only time he came close. But I shouldn’t talk about that, either, I suppose.”
Why not? Why shouldn’t she know more about the man who claimed to want to see her safely to some alleged convent? “He got away, I assume. By himself, or did you help him?”
Garreth shot a proud glance at Keldra. “Aye, I helped him. I shot him.”
“You shot him?” Lizette repeated incredulously.
“Put an arrow in his foot, or he would have run after Wimarc’s men and got caught himself instead of just Ryder.”
Garreth plucked his bowstring like a minstrel about to start playing a tune. “Don’t tell him I told you about that, eh, my lady? I don’t think he’d like it, and you don’t want to see him in a temper.”
No, she didn’t believe she would. “I won’t.”
He glared at Keldra. “Nor you, neither.”
“I don’t want to talk to him, and I certainly don’t care to repeat anything you might say!” Keldra retorted.
Wanting to lessen the tension between them, Lizette turned the subject to Garreth himself. “What about you, Garreth? Where are you from?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know where exactly I was born. London, I suppose. The first thing I remember is running through the streets with a hot loaf of bread and being chased and called a thief.”
His jaw clenched as he regarded her. “No need to pity me, my lady. I wasn’t the only lad living rough in the alleys. We was like a family, most of the time. And we had some jolly times.”
With youthful bravado, he proceeded to regale her with a few adventures, clearly proud of the narrow escapes and illegal adventures that, Lizette knew, could have ended with his death at the end of a rope. But there were a few other stories, too, of camaraderie and friendship and loyalty that made it easy to see why Finn would take him under his wing and consider him a trustworthy friend and ally, despite his lack of years.
Even Keldra’s expression held a dollop of admiration by the time he came to his rescue by Finn. “And I’ve already told you about that,” he finished.
“I hope you’re not talking the lady’s ear off.”
Lizette nearly jumped out of her skin.
Finn had come up right behind her. Blushing, although she’d done nothing wrong, she got to her feet and smoothed down her skirts to give herself a moment to regain her composure.
“I trust you’ve eaten and rested enough,” he said, starting down the path. “Even if you haven’t, we can’t stay here any longer. Wimarc’s men aren’t close yet, but they’ve got horses and we don’t.”
Garreth grabbed the pouch and hurried after him, leaving the women to follow.
“I didn’t tell them anything important,” he said as he reached Finn.
“I didn’t think you did,” the Irishman replied. “But be careful of beautiful women, Garreth. They can weave a spell around a man and make him tell all his secrets.”
As he had recent cause to know.
LADY JANE DE SHEDDLESBY knelt in front of her mother’s memorial plaque in the small church. It was an expensive thing, finely carved, the name and dates deeply etched, just as her mother had directed before her death.
“I want it to be legible forever!” she’d decreed, as if that would somehow ensure she would live on in people’s memories.
She would anyway, at least in her daughter’s, although perhaps not in quite the way she’d hoped. Lady Ethel de Sheddlesby had not been a font of gentle kindness to her daughter, or anyone else, during her long life.
In spite of that, however, her death had left a void in Lady Jane’s existence. She had her small household to oversee, of course, and since it was unlikely she would ever marry, given her age and lack of beauty, she must find her joy in that. Or become a nun, and that she didn’t want to do.
No, she would maintain the estate until she died and it passed to a distant male relative, and she would go to the church to pray for her mother’s immortal soul, although she rather expected her mother was not in heaven and never would be, no matter how many prayers and masses were said in her behalf.
Still, the building, made of stones that came pale from the earth, then turned to a warm brown, was not an uncomfortable place to spend some time, and the lingering scent of incense and damp wood and stone was a comfort in its own way.
“My lady! My lady!”
At her maidservant’s panicked cry, Jane glanced at the double doors, where Hortensa pointed a shaking finger into the yard. “There’s a … a man!”
Despite her maid’s agitation, Jane saw no need to be frightened or rush to the door. Hortensa was prone to hysterics, so this man could be a peasant, a tinker, a soldier or even a priest passing by. Instead she rose, made the sign of the cross and then, wrapping her cloak more tightly about her, started toward the door.
“I think … I think he’s dead, my lady!” Hortensa cried with ghoulish relish.
That made Jane quicken her steps. When she reached the door, she peered into the churchyard.
There was indeed a man lying prone among the gravestones. He wore chain mail and a surcoat, and his arms were at his side as if he’d been crawling toward the church when he’d collapsed on the ground. He had no sword in his scabbard, or helmet on his head, and his gray-and-black hair looked damp, no doubt from the dew. He’d probably been there at least a portion of the night.
Most disturbing of all was the dried blood on his surcoat. He’d obviously been attacked—but by whom and how had he come there? Was he alive, or dead?
Jane opened the door wider, intending to go to him, until Hortensa stuck her arm across the opening to bar her way. “If he’s alive, he might be dangerous!”
“If he’s alive, he’s unconscious,” Jane replied, certain of that if nothing else. “Look at his surcoat—that’s no thief or outlaw’s.”
“He could be one of them mercenaries riding about the countryside! Terrible men they are, robbing and raping and God knows what else!”
There was a chance Hortensa was right, yet Jane didn’t think she was. “I’ve seen the sort of mercenaries Lord Wimarc commands, and they don’t dress like that.”
“That fellow could have robbed a knight. I wouldn’t put nothing past those blackguards Lord Wimarc hires.”
Hortensa was right about that, too, and yet.” I can’t leave a man in such a state,” Jane declared as she pushed away Hortensa’s none-too-slender arm. “He might die before our very eyes.”
“What if he’s a thievin’, rapin’ murderer?” Hortensa protested as she reluctantly followed her mistress, trotting to keep up with Jane’s brisk pace. “What would your poor sainted mother say?”
Her mother had never been poor, and she would never be a saint. “Probably exactly what you’re saying.”
Despite what Hortensa might want to believe, her mother’s postmortem censure had no power to influence Jane. She’d lived too long under her mother’s thumb while she was alive not to enjoy her freedom now that she was dead.
Jane knelt beside the man and gingerly parted the torn surcoat of thick black wool where a blade had cut through both surcoat and mail into the right shoulder; the mail, cloth and flesh beneath were now crusted with dried blood.
How long had it been since he’d been wounded? How had he managed to live despite that grave injury? He must have lost a quantity of blood.
He groaned.
Startled, she sat back swiftly.
“Careful, my lady!” Hortensa unnecessarily warned.
Jane looked up at her anxiously hovering maid. “He’s too seriously injured to do us any harm,” she said before she gently rolled the stranger onto his back.
He moaned piteously and his arms flopped as if they had no muscles. More blood trickled from his full lips and matted his grizzled beard and hair. His nose arched like one of the Roman emperors whose busts she’d seen in London, and his skin was brown from hours in the sun. A soldier, surely, and perhaps a knight.
“Sir?” she ventured as she looked for more wounds. She couldn’t see any more, thank God. “Sir?”
When he didn’t answer or open his eyes, she laid a hand on his forehead.
“God’s wounds, he’s burning. Hortensa, run back to the manor and fetch two men with a wagon. We’ve got to get him home and in a bed. Then go for Brother Wilbur. This man’s wounds and fever are too severe for my skills.”
“But my lady, we don’t know nothing about him—who he is nor how he come here. Your mother would never do such a thing.”
Jane pressed her lips together. No, her selfish, querulous mother would never bring a wounded stranger into her household—but she was not her mother.
“My mother is dead,” she said firmly, “and I’m chatelaine of Sheddlesby, so if I order you to fetch my men to take this poor Samaritan back to my hall, you will do it.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hortensa replied, suitably chastised by Jane’s forceful words.
As Hortensa ran off toward Sheddlesby, Jane took the stranger’s callused hand in hers.
“You’re going to be all right,” she softly vowed. “I’ll take care of you, whoever you may be.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NORMALLY, LIZETTE enjoyed being in the cool, quiet woods. Many a time she’d fled to the forest outside Averette to get away from the conflict in the household: her tyrannical father raging at her poor, sick mother; Adelaide doing her best to come between them and make peace; in more recent years, Adelaide’s unwanted suitors, who could be amusing or interesting, but just as often a lascivious nuisance; Gillian gravely looking on or going to the kitchen to be with the servants, endearing herself to them with her quiet, competent ways.
Alone in the forest, Lizette could pretend to live the exciting adventures she craved. Sometimes she was a poacher sneaking up on a mighty stag; sometimes she was a ‘Gyptian girl, telling fortunes or dancing for money. Other times, she was a bold knight tilting at trees with a long stick, guiding her imaginary trusty steed. or else she was simply Lizette, singing with the birds—exhibiting her one true talent to them alone.
Unfortunately, this forced march through trees and undergrowth, over a barely visible path, fleeing men who wanted to do her harm, led by an outlaw who’d pretended to be a knight, was something else entirely.
Finn abruptly held up his hand to halt them.
They had come to a road, Lizette realized. Keldra sat on the ground and tried to catch her breath, while Garreth trotted up beside Finn.
After looking up and down the road, Finn glanced at the panting Keldra, then addressed Lizette. “I think it’s safe enough to use the road a ways.”
Thank God—but if he was expecting her to thank him, he was going to be disappointed. He’d been silent and sullen, brooding and grim since his return, although it was his own fault if he was annoyed that she’d spoken to Garreth. If he’d been less mysterious and more forthcoming, she wouldn’t have had to ask questions of his friend.
“It can’t be so very far now,” she said to Keldra to encourage the girl.
“I hope not, my lady, or my legs are going to give out entirely.”
“Mine aren’t much better,” Lizette confessed as she helped her maid to stand, and that wasn’t a lie.
If they had to keep walking at such a brisk pace for much longer, she’d have to ask Finn to let them rest again, and she didn’t want to do that. She would hate to imply that she couldn’t keep up with him.
As they started for the road, Finn ordered young Garreth to help Keldra. He looked as if he’d like to refuse; however, she could tell from the set of Finn’s shoulders that he wouldn’t welcome a refusal and so, obviously, could Garreth.
Then the Irishman said, “My lady, I would have a word with you.”
It was a command, not a request, which did nothing to assuage her ill humor. “So, you deign to speak to me now?”
He gave her a sour look as he started down the road, expecting her to follow as if she were his trained hound. Unfortunately, since she had absolutely no idea where she was, she had no choice but to follow him.
“During the rest of the remaining time together we may share, if you have questions, ask them of me,” he said. “Leave Garreth in peace.”
“I didn’t think I was upsetting him,” she countered, “and your secretive manner left me no choice. Is it really so surprising that I’d want to know about you? I’ve put our lives in your hands.”
Scowling, Finn stepped over a puddle in the rutted road. “Very well, my lady. Ask me what questions you will, and I’ll do my best to answer.”
Now that he was willing to respond, she wasn’t sure what to say. She would start, she decided, with his half brother. “What has your half brother done that’s more shameful than stealing?”
The Irishman’s jaw clenched and his strides lengthened a little, as if he’d like to hurry away from her. She wasn’t about to let that happen, so she quickened her pace. “You said you would answer my questions,” she reminded him.
Before he could, a pheasant, roused from the verge of the road, flew up into the sky in a flurry of wings, and they both checked their steps. In the next moment, an arrow caught the bird, sending it plummeting into the bushes ahead of them.
“Good shot, Garreth!” the Irishman exclaimed. “No need to worry about our supper tonight.”
“Aye!” Garreth replied as he jogged down the road toward his fallen catch, leaving Keldra and the others behind.
“While Garreth’s getting the bird, we’ll rest a bit,” Finn said. He gestured at a nearby stump. “Keldra, you sit here. Garreth won’t be long.”
He turned an inscrutable gaze onto Lizette. “If you’ll walk over there with me, my lady, I’ll answer your questions in private.”
Lizette told herself it was proper that he speak so formally. That denoted respect, and a necessary change from his casual insolence. After all, he was an outlaw and a thief. She was a lady and the king’s ward.
The Irishman led her a little farther down the road and pointed at another stump for her to sit upon, out of earshot of Keldra, although not out of sight.
Finn leaned his weight on one leg, crossed his arms over his broad chest, fixed his steadfast brown eyes on her and said, “Ryder and I had the same bitter, broken mother, but different fathers. For the past ten years, Ryder’s been in a monastery in the north, studying, or so the plan was, to be a priest.
“Lately he decided against the priesthood. Celibacy, apparently, was not for him.”
If Ryder looked anything like Finn, Lizette thought, celibacy would be a waste.
Embarrassed by that thought, she immediately lowered her head so Finn wouldn’t see her blushing, even as she tried to stifle her wayward imagination and the vision of Finn in a bed, smiling and waiting for … some woman.
“So Ryder left the monastery and came looking for me. He thought being an outlaw an exciting life. He managed, by a miracle, to find me and when he did, he quickly learned the folly of his notions. Life as an outlaw is not adventurous, or even comfortable—sleeping rough, eating when and where you can, hiding, always on the move, never at home, never at peace, wondering every day if your luck’s going to run out and you’ll be caught and hanged.”
Although she’d always craved an adventurous life, at least she’d had a home—a place to lay her head, and where she could always be sure of food and a certain respect, if not happiness. “I’m not surprised you wanted something else for your brother. Yet surely there were alternatives other than the priesthood and thievery.”
“Aye, and so I told him,” Finn replied. “But he’s young, like Garreth, and he resented my advice and my refusals to let him try his hand at robbery. He took to finding solace in drink and picking fights to prove he could defend himself, that he was as tough as his brother and worthy of respect. One night, he laid into some of Wimarc’s men—too many, as any man of sense could have told him, but Ryder was drunk and I was with a woman.”
Lizette swallowed hard and stared at the toes of her boots. Of course he must go with women. Between his handsome face, magnificent body and the romance of being outside the law, he probably had to beat them off with a stick. She shouldn’t think the less of him for that. He was a very masculine man, after all, and men had their needs …
“Disgusted you, have I?”
Disgusted? No. Rendered envious of the women who enjoyed his nocturnal company, yes—although she wouldn’t say so. “It’s a little disconcerting to hear a man admit he was with a woman.”
“I’m no priest,” Finn replied. His gaze seemed to grow even more penetrating. “How do you know I wasn’t with my wife?”
Wife? Lizette thought, stunned. “I didn’t think outlaws married.”
“Oh, they do—common law, same as peasants.” He smiled as if enjoying her discomfort. “Not that I have.”
“But you said—”
“I said, how do you know I wasn’t with my wife? You assumed I was with a whore, didn’t you?”
He was right, so she didn’t reply.
“I may not be married, but I don’t use whores. I know what that life did to my mother.”
It had clearly affected him, too. “Yet you’ll make love with a woman outside of wedlock?”
“Aye, if she’s willing, and I am.” He regarded her with cool deliberation. “Would you hold a peasant to a higher standard than the nobles of the court? Even the courtiers who are wed take their pleasure wherever they can get it.”
She had heard that from Adelaide, too. Nevertheless, she had no intention of commenting on the morality of the court, or thinking about his conquests, so she returned to the original subject of their discussion. “And while you were with this woman, your brother was captured by Wimarc’s men.”
“Aye,” Finn said grimly, “and by the time I heard what was afoot, three of them had him pinned, and when I went to help him, Garreth stopped me.”
Remembering that she’d assured Garreth she wouldn’t reveal what he’d told her about that, Lizette didn’t let on she already knew how.
Finn gave her a wry little self-deprecating smile. “He shot me in the foot. Well, my boot. He thought he was doing the right thing, so I don’t fault the lad. I blame myself for Ryder’s capture. I should have taken better care, but I did not. Fortunately, Garreth did more harm to my boot than he did to me.”
She could see and hear his remorse and guilt for not saving Ryder. But whose fault had it really been? His, for being with a woman, or his brother’s, for starting the fight?
She, who’d dawdled and left her cortege open to attack, knew—and it was not the older brother’s. “Garreth probably thought you’d have been imprisoned, too, and then where would you be? Now at least you can try to rescue your brother—although that won’t be easy if Wimarc’s men are like the ones who attacked my cortege. How do you plan to do it?”
“If I had a plan, I’d be acting on it already.”
“You impersonate a nobleman very well. Could you not use that to your advantage?”
“Aye, if getting into Wimarc’s castle was all I needed to do. Unfortunately, it’s finding Ryder and getting out again without being caught that’s the trouble.”
Garreth burst out of the trees as if he’d been flushed like the pheasant he carried by its feet. “Somebody’s coming!” he panted. “Just round the bend. Men and horses, and I heard a woman, too.”
Finn stiffened as if he’d seen Medusa. “Into the trees,” he ordered.
Garreth obeyed at once, while Keldra jumped to her feet, panic in her face. She was about to follow Garreth, until Lizette ordered her to wait.
“I don’t want us to get separated,” Lizette lied when she saw Finn’s brows contract in consternation.
Paying him no more heed, she hurried to her maid.
“What are you up to, my lady?” he demanded.
Since he’d guessed she wasn’t simply going to Keldra to ensure they stayed together, she decided to be honest, or at least partly, and if he were truly taking them to the convent as he claimed, he should agree with her plan.
“If there are women in the group approaching, it must not be Wimarc’s mercenaries,” she said, meeting his querying gaze steadily. “These must be other people—farmers, perhaps, or merchants, or maybe even nobles. I’ll ask them for assistance, and surely they’ll give it when they find out I’m a noblewoman.”
Then she wouldn’t have to worry about trusting an Irish outlaw, or be troubled by her attraction for him, which was risky and unwise, no matter how handsome he was.
Surprise, and something that looked rather like dismay flashed in Finn’s eyes, although it was quickly quelled. “You don’t know who these people might be. I can tell you, my lady, that there are bands of outlaws who have women among them. There’s no guarantee the people approaching will be any more likely to treat you honorably than Wimarc’s men.”
“I’m grateful for your assistance, but Keldra is exhausted, and so am I. We can’t keep going at such a pace, and it’s just as likely these people will help us as the nuns at the convent—which you’ve never named,” she noted.
“St. Mary’s-in-the-Meadow,” he shot back. “And I didn’t risk my life to have you put yourself—and your maidservant—in danger again.”
She’d obviously wounded his pride as surely as if he were a knight of the realm and she had called him dishonorable, but that could not be helped. “I don’t think that’s likely, so unless you want to be seen, you should hide.”
“Oh, now you will protect me? How generous, my lady,” he replied, making a mocking imitation of his formerly elegant bow.
“Will you linger to disparage me and get caught?” she demanded, more worried about his safety than upset by his sarcasm. “It would be poor recompense for you if I let that happen.”
She would never see him again; what harm to say more if it encouraged him to leave? “Indeed, I would regret it very much if you were to suffer because you helped me.”
He didn’t reply. He simply continued to look at her with those intense brown eyes of his.
“What will happen to your brother if you’re taken?” she demanded at last, determined to have her way in this and prevent his possible capture.
Finally she had said something that would make him go, and he turned on his heel.
She was relieved. She had to be.
“Godspeed!” she called out as he strode into the woods with Garreth quickly following. “And thank you.”
Finn didn’t even look back.
CHAPTER SIX
LIZETTE WAITED by the side of the road with a trembling Keldra and tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing.
After all, could she really be sure that Finn and Garreth were helping them? He could be taking her to Wimarc, or some other place where he could hold her for ransom, since he knew who she was and to whom she was related. She was surely right to get away from him as soon as she could.
Brushing her tousled hair back from her face, she realized she must look more like a peasant than a noblewoman with her disheveled, matted hair and dirty face. Hopefully her accent and demeanor would mark her for the noblewoman she was. Nevertheless, she smoothed down her mud-stained skirts and pulled her cloak more tightly about her over her soiled gown.
Two soldiers rounded the corner—proper soldiers, not mercenaries in motley armor probably stolen. Their helmets gleamed in the morning light, no spots of rust marred their mail, and they wore matching woolen surcoats of scarlet and green. There was something vaguely familiar about those surcoats and the arms upon them, and the banners flapping from the pikes they carried.
Before she could remember to whom those soldiers belonged, a knight in gleaming chain mail seated on a marvelous destrier, with a woman dressed in a cloak of green-and-gold damask trimmed with fox fur, rode around the bend. The man had pushed back his coif and wore no helmet, so his fair hair, smoothed and cut in the bowl shape the Normans favored, shone in the sunlight.
She knew that hair, and she knew that face, and now she remembered whose standard it was: Lord Gilbert of Fairbourne, who had once visited Averette in the hopes of winning Adelaide’s hand in marriage. Or Gillian’s, if Adelaide said no. Or even hers, if he were desperate, although that’s not the way he’d put it when he’d cornered her in the stairwell.
She’d heard Gilbert had got himself a bride from Lincoln, the daughter of an earl who had no sons, so her dowry was considerable. Helewyse was the girl’s name; Lizette remembered because Gillian had commented she must not be a very wise woman to accept Gilbert.
One of the soldiers at the front of the cortege nodded at Lizette and Keldra and said something to his companion, who grinned and made a disgusting gesture.
Perhaps this was a mistake, after all, and they should run for the trees—except that Gilbert’s men had spotted them and if they gave chase, they might also find Garreth and Finn. No doubt Finn could come up with some kind of explanation, speaking with that noble accent he managed with such ease, but these soldiers might simply assume they were poachers or outlaws and kill them before Finn could say a word.
And despite her personal dislike of Gilbert, he was noble. He should help a noblewoman in distress, even if she’d slapped his face.
“Here, you, out of the way!” one of the lead soldiers shouted at them before he addressed Lord Gilbert over his shoulder. “There’s a couple of beggar women in the road, my lord!”
“Beggars?” the lady said, loud enough for Lizette and Keldra to hear her as she spoke to Gilbert. “You assured me Wimarc’s lands would be free of such troublesome creatures.”
Wimarc’s lands? Gilbert and his lady were headed for Lord Wimarc’s estate?
She’d thought Gilbert arrogant and greedy, but not evil. Perhaps she’d been wrong—and if he was in league with Wimarc, she would much rather take her chances with Finn.
Throwing the hood of her cloak over her head, she moved to the side of the road. “We can’t go with these people after all,” she whispered to Keldra. “Say nothing, not even if one of them speaks to you.”
Keldra must have also heard them speak of Wimarc, for she immediately did as she was told and sat abruptly on the ground, pulling her hood over her head, too.
The first soldiers were only about twenty feet away when Lizette rounded her shoulders, clutched her cloak about her throat with her left hand and held out her right hand in a begging gesture.
“Alms, noble lord!” she called out in a hoarse voice, imitating the sickly mother of the alewife at Averette. “Alms for a poor woman and her dumb daughter!”
“Out of the way, hag!” one of the first soldiers growled, raising his foot as if he meant to kick her.
Lizette scurried out of range and stayed there as the cortege passed.
“We should be at Castle de Werre before nightfall tomorrow,” Gilbert said, giving his wife a slightly peeved glance. “You didn’t have to come. I told you this was no courtesy visit.”
“And you said you’d never met the man.”
“I haven’t, which was why I was surprised by the invitation.”
“Which was to both of us,” his wife reminded him with a pout. “So of course I ought to come.”
Her husband didn’t respond, but rode on in sulky silence.
In addition to the soldiers, the knight and his lady, there was a wagon full of baggage, no doubt bearing all the items the lord and his lady considered necessary for their comfort, regardless of who their host might be.
Keeping her head down, Lizette waited until the last of the soldiers were out of sight before she straightened, her back aching. Then a frowning Finn emerged from the trees, his scabbard slapping his thigh as he marched toward them.
She couldn’t blame him for being angry; she’d as good as admitted she didn’t trust him, and then not done what she’d said she’d do.
Garreth, however, rushed past him, grinning with delight. “Damn, my lady, you’re good!” he cried. “Not as good as Finn, mind, but you could have fooled me! You sounded just like an old crone.” He gave Keldra a condescending smile. “And you make a good simpleton.”
“You look like one,” her maid snapped back.
Finn ignored them both. “So, my lady, may I ask what prompted your change o’ mind? Didn’t like the looks of him, after all?”
“As a matter of fact, I know him. That was Lord Gilbert de Fairbourne, who once came courting my sister. I’m quite sure he would have helped us if I’d chosen to ask.”
Finn cocked a brow and waited expectantly.
“He’s on his way to Lord Wimarc’s castle.”
That removed the contempt from Finn’s features. “What for?”
She lifted her chin with haughty disdain as she swept past him. “I didn’t inquire.”
As he hurried after her, Finn cursed himself for a fool. He’d been as peeved as a child who loses a friend when she’d told him what she was planning, silently condemning her for an ungrateful wench when he’d given up time and trouble to help her. God save him, he’d even been tempted to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder and carry her into the woods.
Because unlike the lady, and even though she had the bearing, speech and manner of a noblewoman, he couldn’t believe anybody would simply take her word that she was Lady Elizabeth of Averette. They’d more likely think her a peasant who was trying to trick them, or perhaps a courtesan who’d fallen on hard times. Either way, they would treat her with disdain and disrespect.
Or worse. Once, when he was ten years old, he’d seen what soldiers might do to a peasant woman alone and unprotected on the road. A pack of wolves would be more merciful.
So in spite of knowing what a brave, spirited woman she was and that she could probably hold her own with any nobleman and get the respect and aid she deserved, he’d hidden and watched, ready to rush out to her defense again if necessary. He simply couldn’t abandon her to her fate, any more than he could leave Ryder to die in a dungeon.
And even if that made him a fool. “My lady, you’re going the wrong way!”
She halted and turned abruptly. Without a word, she marched past him, going back the way she’d come.
He hurried after her, leaving Garreth and the girl to follow. “So this Gilbert was going to Castle de Werre?” he asked, hoping to achieve some kind of truce.
“That’s what he said.”
“What sort of fellow is he?”
“Greedy. Arrogant. Like most men.”
“Then he might be allied with Wimarc if the man’s up to no good.”
“Perhaps. He’s ambitious, too.” She cut her eyes to Finn. “Gilbert came to Averette to court Adelaide—or Gillian, if Adelaide refused him, or me, if they didn’t want him, which they didn’t. He had the audacity to kiss me, too.”
She hadn’t enjoyed it, obviously. He was fairly certain he could kiss her in a way that would make her remember it with something other than contempt.
“He’s a pompous, arrogant fool,” she continued, yanking Finn back to the here and now. “I can believe he would turn traitor if he felt slighted or exploited. Perhaps Adelaide and Gillian were right to worry that John’s the sort of king who forces men to rebel because of his greed and lust.”
Finn had seen and heard enough at court to know how deep the hatred of John ran among the nobles. “Lots o’ the barons hate him. He’s not just taxed them for his wars, they’ve lost sons in his quest to get back his lands in France and he’s seduced their wives and daughters, too.”
“He may be a terrible man, but he is the king,” she replied, “and rebellion will only lead to more death and destruction.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there, my lady,” he said. “It’s always the poor who suffer most when the nobles go to war.”
Lady Elizabeth suddenly came to a dead halt and turned to him with the fire of resolve in her lovely eyes. “I’m not going to that convent. I’m going to help you get into Lord Wimarc’s castle.”
She couldn’t be serious—or else she didn’t appreciate the danger there.
“No, you’re not,” he replied with equal conviction, while her maid turned as white as washed fleece and Garreth’s mouth fell open. “I’m not going to let—”
“I’m not asking your permission,” the lady interrupted. “To protect my family and prevent war, I’ve got to find out what Wimarc’s up to. I’ll need some proof of his plans, too. He must have powerful allies if he thinks he can overthrow the king, so my word may not be enough to convict him or even have him arrested.”
She fixed Finn with her steadfast gaze. “You need to get into Wimarc’s castle to rescue your brother. Together, we can do both.”
He felt a surge of hope, until reality intruded. “Just like that, eh, my lady? We’ll just walk up to the gates and ask to be allowed to pass? You’ll demand to know what Wimarc’s planning, and I’ll go to the dungeon and order my brother freed. Then we’ll all saunter out the gates as easy as you please.”
Lizette drew herself up, not the least dissuaded by his mockery. “We won’t walk up to the gates. We’ll ride—if you can steal some horses. I hardly think Lord Gilbert and his wife would arrive on foot.”
As Finn stared at her, she continued, clearly growing more enamored of her harebrained notion. “Gilbert’s wife said they haven’t actually met Wimarc, so he doesn’t know what they look like. I know enough about Gilbert and Helewyse that we should be able to fool him.”
“It’s still daft and far too dangerous,” Finn declared. “Even if we could fool Wimarc, what about Gilbert’s escort? They’ll likely notice the difference.”
“Aye,” Garreth reluctantly agreed. “If it was just you and Finn—”
“Oh, my lady, you mustn’t! You’ll be killed!” Keldra wailed.
“You’ve no better plan, have you?” the lady countered, ignoring both Garreth and her maid. “As for their escort.”
She fell silent and as she puzzled over that problem and her plan, Finn was sure she would reconsider—until her eyes lit up like a torch bursting to life in the dark.
“You and Garreth can pretend to be a new escort sent from Wimarc. Tell Gilbert Wimarc doesn’t like any soldiers but his own on his estate. He should send his men home.”
“As if Gilbert would believe that!”
“If he’s on Wimarc’s land, why would he need his own soldiers? And we could say that Wimarc’s a suspicious fellow who doesn’t like unknown soldiers in his fortress. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
Finn blinked, amazed at the rapidity with which her mind worked, and the way she dealt with his rational objections … a way that just might be viable.
A nobleman and his wife. Without an escort … They could claim they’d been set upon by thieves and their escort … fled. The louts. He’d deal with them when he got home!
“If you aren’t willing to take the chance,” she said, interrupting his ruminations, her expression fiercely determined, “I shall find a way inside that castle by myself. No doubt Wimarc would welcome a pretty serving wench.”
“Aye, he would,” Finn retorted, horrified by that suggestion. “And when he’s done with you, he’ll pass you around to his men.”
Her gaze faltered for a moment, but then that stubborn, determined gleam returned to her beautiful eyes. “With or without your help, I must do whatever I can to find evidence of Wimarc’s treachery. My family’s safety, and the welfare of the entire kingdom, could depend upon it. And would you let your brother die in that man’s dungeon although I offer you a way to prevent it?”
“Oh, my lady, you mustn’t try such a thing!” Keldra pleaded, her hands clasped like a supplicant before a shrine. “It’s too dangerous! You could be killed! And what would your sisters say if you were?”
“I would hope they would be proud of me,” she answered without hesitation, and with the merest hint of wistfulness that suggested she didn’t believe her family had much cause to be proud of her now.
He understood how painful wounded pride could be; he’d had his own pride injured many times by the taunts of village children when he was a boy. He knew how much a person would want to heal those wounds by proving himself. He’d done that every time he tricked someone into believing he was a nobleman, and never more than when he was at the king’s court.
Why else had Ryder picked those fights, except to assuage his wounded pride?
So she must prove her worth by exposing Wimarc for an evil, plotting traitor. Yet her need would be putting her in danger … although her rank would surely offer her some protection, whereas if he were caught …
“Finn, we could do it,” she persisted. “I know you can act the noble. I’ve seen you do it, and I can tell you things about Gilbert to avert any suspicion. As for playing the man’s wife, it won’t be very difficult. I am a lady, and this marriage is recent, so any ignorance or awkwardness between us can be easily explained—and most important of all, Wimarc has never met them.”
“That isn’t the only problem,” Finn said, still hesitant to put her life at risk. “It may take time to find out where Ryder is as well as get the evidence of Wimarc’s treachery. We’d have to keep Lord Gilbert and his wife imprisoned all that time, which would be risky—or kill them,” Finn concluded, loath to murder. He was a thief, not a cold-blooded killer.
“I know where we could keep ‘em,” Garreth eagerly offered. “That deserted charcoal burner’s hut we stayed in a few days ago. It’s in a lonely spot and nobody’s likely to come near it.”
“Yes, we can keep them imprisoned until we’ve succeeded,” the lady agreed with obvious relief, if no appreciation for the additional risks that would entail.
“And if they escape?”
“They must be watched.”
Finn’s gaze instinctively went to Garreth, who frowned and shook his tousled head. “Not me! You need me, Finn. How can you rescue Ryder and get out of there without me?”
“We were never going to be able to fight our way out,” he replied, which was true. That had been one of the reasons he’d not been able to come up with a plan of rescue. “Who else can I trust with such a responsibility? All will be lost if Gilbert or his lady escapes and reveals us to Wimarc. It’s you or no one, Garreth.”
The young man reluctantly nodded.
“Keldra can help guard them, too,” Lizette suggested.
Finn didn’t disagree. If they did attempt this, it would be best to keep the girl away from Wimarc, and not just because of Wimarc’s reputation. Finn was unfortunately sure Keldra would betray the ruse by a slip of the tongue or other mistake.
“I don’t need some sniveling girl’s help,” Garreth protested, a mountain of scorn in the word girl.
Keldra ignored him and looked beseechingly at Lizette. “You’ll need me, my lady. A lady always has a maid. Who will dress your hair? Who will help you with your clothes?”
“I daresay Wimarc will have women servants who can do such things,” Lizette replied. “Besides, Garreth can’t watch Lord Gilbert and his wife all by himself. He’ll have to sleep sometimes. And then there’s Lady Helewyse. She’ll suffer with no maidservant to help her.”
Lizette put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and regarded her with confidence and respect, as if they were equals. “Keldra, I need you to do this for me, and for Adelaide and Gillian, too.”
The girl’s shoulders slumped, but she nodded her agreement nonetheless. “Yes, my lady, for your sake and your sisters’, I’ll do what you ask, even to putting up with that stupid boy.”
“Boy? I’m not a boy, you … you girl! Finn, tell her I’m in charge!”
It seemed the plan had been agreed upon, with or without his consent. Yet what plan had he come up with since Ryder had been captured that had any less risk, or more chance of success?
It was this, or … what?
He walked over to the maidservant and gave her a companionable smile. It was troubling to think of their fate in the hands of these bickering young people, but if they were to have any chance at all, they had no choice.
“Keldra,” he said, “it’ll be an ease to my mind if you stay with Garreth. As Lady Elizabeth says, he can’t keep watch all the time. He must sleep.
“However,” he grimly continued, “in any battle, there must be a general, and in this case, it has to be Garreth. He’s been through tricky situations before, so if trouble comes, I ask that you defer to him.”
The girl blushed as red as cherries. “Well, if you think I should …”
“I do.” He turned to the triumphant Garreth, who had a lot to learn about women. “I trust that you will treat Keldra with respect.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/margaret-moore/knave-s-honour/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.