“A curly scarf?” Clive delighted in making him feel like a moron. “You are as blind as a mole, de Titouan. Absolutely useless.”
Dennis ignored them both. “Rist, fetch her.”
Riston made a face, preparing to argue, but he knew well the perils of arguing with his liege. It took an act of God to work Dennis d’Vant into a rage, but it could be done. And Riston had no desire to be the recipient of a trencher-sized hand to his head. Nonetheless, with an insubordinate sigh, he spurred his charger into the meadow.
“Do not forget to kill her!” Clive called after him helpfully.
The army had come to a halt. Dennis watched as Riston easily overtook the stumbling figure, but he knew that Riston would not harm the woman in spite of Clive’s paranoid demand. Riston rode a circle around the now-stationery figure, apparently in some sort of conversation with her.
From this distance, Dennis could see that the woman was clad only in a gown with no other sort of protection; no gloves, no overcoat, and no head protection. He seriously wondered why she running about in the middle of a field, miles from the nearest post. It was an odd mystery.
Suddenly, Riston reined his horse sharply to the left and took off in the direction of the distant trees. It seemed to Dennis that there was panic to his movements and instinctively, he followed. Clive was not far behind; where one of the trio went, the other two usually followed.
Dennis’ silver charger thundered across the frozen earth. Bucephalus, as the steed was called, was a mighty beast with his master’s even-temper and legendary power. They rumbled past the sobbing, flush-faced woman, and Dennis turned long enough to indicate to Clive with hand signals not to let the woman out of his sight.
Continuing across the dead landscape, he could see Riston well ahead, pulling his horse to slow near the edge of the frozen forest, where Dennis immediately caught sight of a crimson pile on the ground. Riston already dismounted and was on his knees by the time Dennis arrived.
“Who is it?” Dennis demanded, dismounting before his charger came to a complete halt.
Riston did not answer for a moment; it was obvious that a woman lay before him and he gingerly rolled her over, gazing seriously into her white face. Her eyes were closed, her body freezing to the touch. He felt for a pulse in her wrist before gazing up at Dennis.
“Your future wife.”
Dennis’ face did not change expression, though his eyes flickered. It was apparent, for a moment, he did not know what to say.
“What?” he finally hissed.
Riston put his hands around the woman, half-pulling her into his arms. “That woman in the meadow,” he jerked his head back towards the road, “is her cousin. This is the Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne.”
Dennis could not believe it. “She should be at Launceston. What in the hell is she doing out here?”
“I do not know.”
None of it made any sense, and to put it mildly, Dennis was confused. He stopped staring at Riston long enough to gaze at the woman on the ground and it took him no time at all to conclude two things: that she was almost frozen, and that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever had the fortune to gaze upon. Her delicate face was so pale that it was nearly blue and he watched her, transfixed and overwhelmed, hardly daring to believe that what Riston was saying was true.
Riston’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Dennis,” he said. “This woman is going to die if we do not warm her quickly.”
That seemed to snap him out of his trance; he knew that his knight spoke the truth. But it was too cold and damp to build a fire. That only left one alternative.
“Remove her clothing,” he instructed his knight.
Riston looked surprised at first, but then he grinned. “With pleasure, my lord.”
Dennis glared at Riston so cuttingly that the knight’s smile instantly vanished. “I jest, my lord, truly,” he said meekly, lowering his head and beginning his task. “What do you intend to do?”
Dennis’ gaze lingered on the man a moment longer before removing his helm. His pale golden hair glimmered in the weak light. “I give off more heat than a furnace.” He went to work removing his mail and woolen tunic. “Send Clive for my squire. Have the lad bring woolen blankets from the provision wagon.”
Dennis was very quickly naked from the waist up, perfectly comfortable in the freezing temperature. His shoulders were exceedingly broad and well-shaped, his skin lightly tanned from years of sword-playing under the sun. He impatiently motioned for Riston to hand over the lady, whose dress was half-off her shoulders by now. The knight gently transferred her weight to Dennis, who continued to undress her as Riston went in search of Clive.
The dead trees provided some privacy as Dennis finished stripping her dress and freed it from her small feet. She had on soft woolen undergarments, leaving very little for his fertile imagination; she was a small woman with an enormously attractive figure. Her breasts were ripe and full, her stomach small and flat, and her hips flared into a round, sensual shape.
He was growing more enchanted by the moment, thinking that if the information were not correct and she was not, in fact, his wife to be, he would seriously consider taking her back to St Austell as his mistress. He’d never even had a mistress before. But this delicious young lady was simply too good to pass by.
But all of his lust would be in vain if he did not keep her alive. Ripping off her woolen sheath and leaving only her thick hose, he pulled her naked body against his searing torso. When their skin touched, he swore he’d never in his life felt anything so wonderful. The amazing sensation literally took his breath away and he paused, fighting to compose himself. Then, using her heavy gown and sheath, he wrapped the two of them together tightly and waited for his squire to arrive. But in truth, with his arms wrapped around the woman, he did not care if his squire ever came or not. The entire world could pass him by and he would be perfectly content to stay as he was, forever.
Forcing his feelings at bay, the first thing he was aware of other than her cold skin was how much difficulty she was having catching her breath. Every exhale wheezed and rattled, and every inhale seemed like pure torture. It took him very little time at all to realize she was having serious trouble breathing and he began rubbing her back, not knowing what else to do, in an attempt to ease her congestion.
Riston returned to find his liege holding a naked woman with an expression on his face that the young knight had never seen before. He felt as if he was intruding. “Dennis,” he said hesitantly. “Clive has been sent for the blankets as requested.”
“And the other woman?”
“I sent her back with Clive,” he said. “There are fifty soldiers to watch over her.” He moved closer to the pair, gazing at the unconscious, gasping woman. “She is seriously ill.”
Dennis’ jaw was against her forehead. “I know,” he said quietly. “Her breathing is much labored.”
Riston nodded, his usually self-assured nature subdued. “My brother suffered from the same ailment.”
“How did he treat it?”
“With camphor and peppermint until he died.”
Dennis cocked a concerned eyebrow and Riston held up a soothing hand. “He died in battle a few years ago,” he said. “At Flint Castle in Wales. Remember?”
Dennis nodded his head. “Ah, yes. An uprising against the king, as I recall.”
“A minor skirmish that took my only brother,” Riston’s blue eyes reflected sorrow for a brief moment. “At any rate, I believe we have some oil of peppermint in the provisions wagon. If we boil some water, she could inhale the vapors.”
To both their surprise, the woman in Dennis’ arms suddenly stirred. “Pep… peppermint,” she said groggily, her voice hoarse. “I shall… I shall not breathe it, do you hear? And you cannot force me!”
The top of her amber-colored head smashed into Dennis’ jaw and he grunted. “Hold still, my lady. You must not exert yourself.”
She appeared not to hear him, still twitc
hing about. After a moment, her head lolled back and her eyes slowly opened. She gazed at him, unfocused, and Dennis met her gaze steadily. Her eyes were the most amazing golden-brown he had ever seen.
“You… you are not my father,” she muttered, her delicate brow furrowing in confusion. “Who are you?”
“Someone who means you no harm, my lady.”
Her sweet lips, blue that they were, frowned. “You d… did not answer me. What is your name?”
“Dennis.”
She blinked. Her chest, struggling for air, seemed to rise and fall faster. It was a supreme effort for Dennis not to watch her succulent breasts as they heaved against his flesh.
“Dennis?” she repeated.
He nodded, once. He found himself studying every inch of her angelic face as her eyes, so incredible in color, darkened.
They darkened for a good reason; Ryan wasn’t stupid. There weren’t many men in Cornwall named Dennis. Her mind was foggy and her chest was painfully constricted, but still she could think.
“D’Vant?” she whispered. “Dennis d’Vant?”
He nodded again, once, watching with amusement as Ryan’s eyes widened so big that he thought they might burst from her skull. But he could see the squall coming, and before he could quell it, she shoved her palms against his chin and propelled herself from his grip. But in that brief instant she realized she was without a stitch of clothing on except for her hose, and she howled in horror at her state. Her crimson gown and woolen sheath lay on the freezing ground and she swooped to her knees, picking them up and wrapping them haphazardly about her nakedness.
“You… you fiend!” she panted and gasped, the color of embarrassment flushing her pale cheeks. “My clothes! What have you done to me?”
Dennis struggled not to laugh. “My lady, you were nearly frozen when we happened upon you and your hysterical companion. The quickest way to warm you was to apply heat in the most direct way possible, flesh to flesh. And I see that it has worked.”
She noticed that he too was naked from the waist up. She did not know why she hadn’t noticed their naked state before this. Had she not been so embarrassed and furious, she would have realized he was absolutely magnificent; his torso was trim and muscular, covered in a fine matting of blond hair. His shoulders, wider than a door, were attached to equally enormous arms, now casually crossed.
“You… you had no right,” she breathed. “No right at all!”
His humor faded and he cocked an eyebrow, going in search of his tunic. “Your outrage is misplaced.”
“It is not!”
He pulled the woolen garment over his head, running his fingers through his straight blond hair to push it out of his eyes. “Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne, you know as well as I that it is my right to do with you as I please.” He watched her expression flicker with horror. “You are to be my wife. By all rights and God’s law, you are already my property.”
Her indignation was replaced by a genuine sorrow. Strangely, he realized that her fear of him disturbed him. In truth, he expected nothing else, considering the circumstances, but still he realized he was bothered. He did not want her to fear him.
“You… you know who I am,” she said softly.
“I do.” In truth, he’d still refused to believe until this moment. But he felt an odd satisfaction now that she had confirmed the rumor. In fact, he was damn pleased now that he thought on it.
Ryan, too, was thinking, but very different thoughts. She did not know what more to say. She could hardly believe Dennis d’Vant had found her.
“Where is Lyla?”
“Lady Lyla is well enough,” Dennis said as he reached to the ground for his helm. “She is being watched over by my men and is perfectly safe.”
Ryan was feeling faint again. She closed her eyes at the realization that she and Lyla were in the custody of Dennis d’Vant, swaying as she did so. Dennis knew she was still in a great deal of distress.
“My lady, if you will allow me to assist you,” he said, somewhat less harshly. “Your lungs require treatment. Sir Riston has informed me that we may have oil of peppermint in our…”
“No!” she shook her head. “I cannot tolerate it.”
“You would rather gasp for every breath?”
She ignored him. Her golden brown eyes opened and she gazed up into the gray, foreboding sky above. It was difficult not to notice the forming tears.
“At this moment,” she whispered, “I think that I would rather die.”
She pitched forward and struck her head before Dennis could catch her.
CHAPTER TWO
The fire in the hearth popped softly, the only sound filling the dim and fragrant room. Though three men sat in various positions around the crescent-shaped solar of Launceston, no one was talking. They all seemed to be staring at other things, and sometimes each other, but no one possessed a tongue.
Even the earl; he could make sounds, clear his throat or sigh heavily, but speech so far had evaded him. He knew what needed to be done; he and Thomas had been discussing the dissuasion of Dennis d’Vant for the past two days. To attempt to remove Ryan as the offering in the marriage contract would be a tricky thing. Obviously, she was so resistant to the union that she would risk her life to evade it and it was now up to the earl to sweeten the deal so that Ryan would never be missed.
He stared at Dennis in cold, calculating silence until the hush grew oppressive.
“Sir Dennis,” he finally said. “I am sure you know why we have called this gathering. ’Twould seem we have matters to discuss.”
Dennis sat near the elaborate hearth, his gray eyes intense on the Earl of Cornwall. His face was stubbled, his pallor somewhat pale from the lack of sleep over the past two days. He and his men had been camped outside of the walls of Launceston, in perhaps the worst storm he had seen in a great while. They were all soaked to the skin; cold, and weary of the idleness.
In truth, camping peaceably on enemy grounds was a strange experience for the battle-hardened St. Austell soldiers. But Dennis would not move from where they sat. There was something inside the keep he wanted a great deal and he would be damned if he was going to leave without it.
“Matters indeed, my lord,” he said after a moment. “What would those be?”
Richard’s brown eyes were dark-rimmed. He gazed at Dennis, seeing so much physical resemblance of Rodrick in the man, yet sensing a reasonability his father had never possessed. Whereas Rodrick fought his battles at the top of his lungs or by the edge of his sword, already in just two days’ time Richard could see that Dennis did not possess such a loud, obnoxious manner. Indeed, his brooding and calculating quietness was far more disturbing, in the earl’s opinion. He could not tell what the man was thinking, and that caused him great disquiet.
“I believe that should be obvious, young d’Vant,” the earl replied. “The marriage contract must be altered.”
Dennis’ expression did not waver. “And why is that, my lord?”
Near the long lancet window, now covered in an oilcloth to keep out the rain, Thomas let out a blustery sigh. It was difficult for the knight to keep his emotions in check.
“Because my daughter is ill, for Christ’s sake,” he burst. “She will be lucky to survive the night and I, for one, an unwilling to see her through this sickness to immediately turn her over to an unwelcome marriage.”
Dennis’ gaze was unwavering. The man could positively bore holes with his icy stare. “I understand your concern, my lord. But the contract I initiated is binding. Health or no, Lady Ryan belongs to me.”
“This is not a prize to be won, Sir Dennis. We are speaking of my daughter.”
“You need not remind me whom we are speaking of, my lord. I know all too well.”
Thomas’ face grew red and the veins on his temples throbbed. “Do not be like a bulldog with a bone, boy,” he rumbled. “I shall rip it from your mouth before you can blink.”
Dennis cocked a slow eyebrow. “It will remain to b
e seen who can rip what from whom, my lord.”
Before Thomas could explode, Richard rose from his cushioned chair and held up a hand to him. Silence was only one non-verbal request. The plea to not charge the much larger, much stronger knight, was another. Truly, an unbalanced father was a volatile creature and Richard was well aware of the fact. Richard fixed his gaze on Dennis.
“Surely you know that Lady Ryan was attempting to flee this contract, which is why you found her wandering in the countryside.” Richard wasn’t about to pull any tricks with this one; d’Vant was far too cunning and the only way to deal with him was raw reason. “For a woman to go to such great lengths to avoid a marriage, I would dare not force her to go through with this. Instead of running away the next time, she could very well do something drastic.”
Dennis listened patiently. Then he turned to Thomas. “Would your daughter do something drastic, my lord?”
Thomas was staring at the floor, trying to calm himself. He knew, in spite of his own uncontrolled emotions, that Dennis was trying to paint him into a corner with his question.
“I do not know,” he said, though he did not look at him. “I never thought she would escape her third floor bower and run off, but she did.”
“Would she harm herself in any way?”
Of course she would not. Ryan wasn’t the type. Thomas closed his eyes and shook his head.
“She would not,” he said softly. “She is headstrong, but not foolish.”
Dennis cocked an eyebrow. “I would say she is both, my lord. ’Twas I who found her in the middle of a frozen meadow; not you.”
It was an insult, but it was also the truth. Thomas turned away, pacing the cold floor of the solar, wondering how on earth he was going to help his daughter against Dennis d’Vant. From the moment the knight brought her back to Launceston, cradled in his arms as if she were his most prized possession, it was apparent the man had no intention of letting her go. Before he could say anything more, however, Dennis stood up so quickly that Thomas actually started.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II Page 127