They would stay in the town, and Guy would privately seek out a meeting with Aceline de Chabannes, the leader of the Bande de Valeur. She would be accompanying him, of course.
“A beautiful piece.”
Sabine suppressed the urge to jump. For such a large man, Guy moved with surprising grace and stealth. He stood just behind her, so close Sabine could nearly feel the heat of him.
When he reached around to grab the strips of leather hanging from the belt she’d made, Sabine did not dare move.
“My favorite of your belts that I’ve seen,” he said, fingering the leather, his arm touching her side. She stood completely still lest she accidentally lean into him.
“Mine as well,” she admitted.
With no sounds but the distant one of the water trickling through the rocks, Sabine could hear the insistent thud of her own heartbeat.
Nay. Do not. Sabine, ’twill not end well.
Her body responded to the silent plea, and not in the manner she would have liked. With the slightest step backward, she declared her intentions. And Guy noticed. His hand froze, her belt still twined around his fingers.
Still, she could not say the words.
“Sabine?”
The soft caress of her name was too much. About to turn her head, she stopped when Guy pulled her tightly against his chest.
“Do not make me say the words, Guy,” she whispered.
One moment her hair lay against her shoulders. The next, she felt its loss as Guy brushed it all to one side. His breath tickled her neck, and she instinctively bent her head, baring her neck to him.
“I am no chivalrous knight,” he said into her ear, “who would allow for such a reprieve.”
She trembled with the need to feel his touch. But she knew her husband spoke the truth. Although he was far more honorable than he believed himself to be, courtesy had not been bred into him.
“Please?”
Sabine could almost see his smile even though she dared not turn to him. It would be her undoing.
“Nay.” His mouth was but a hairsbreadth away from her ear now. “You will need to do better than that.”
Her breath came in short bursts as she closed her eyes and imagined what was to come.
“You are a brute.”
He did not refute it.
“I offer you”—she swallowed—“me.”
And finally, finally his lips brushed the flesh just beneath her ear. So gentle. And yet . . .
They moved lower, down her neck, as he pulled her more tightly against him. He felt as he had in bed. Hard. Unforgiving. Just as his mouth was as it explored every inch of exposed skin. When his hands reached up to cup both breasts, Sabine reached up to grip his wrists, to hold them in place lest he change his mind.
“You taste every bit as sweet as I’ve imagined.”
Sabine did turn her head then, and the look on Guy’s face nearly felled her. His expression was softer than she’d ever seen it, and . . . were his eyes glistening? Nay, she must have imagined it. She could hardly think.
“I know not how to proceed,” she admitted.
When Guy spun her around, grabbing her face and hauling her back against him, she realized her inexperience didn’t matter. He did know, and that was enough.
“Open your mouth,” he whispered, his voice urgent, and his lips slammed down onto hers. No sooner did she comply than his tongue delved into her mouth, seeking out hers. It took Sabine just a moment to understand, and then their tongues were twining and dancing as the kiss turned ever deeper.
Sabine gave over completely to Guy’s ministrations until a clenching gripped her core, much as it had the night he slept nestled against her at the inn.
But this time, the feeling grew stronger and stronger until Sabine wanted, nay needed, more.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, desperately grabbing at his hair. Moving upward, she was finally able to get a good anchor on him. Gripping his hair, she met his every thrust, allowed herself to be pulled deeper and deeper into the moment.
Still holding on to her, Guy pulled back suddenly and looked at her so intently that Sabine was sure he was prepared to say something profound.
“Damn, wife. You can kiss.”
Not precisely what she’d been expecting.
“I’ve had practice,” she said as seriously as she could. Waiting a moment, enjoying his scowl, Sabine finally relented and grinned. Realizing she jested with him, Guy growled and kissed her again, so thoroughly that Sabine was sure her lips would be bruised for the effort. Even so, she kissed him harder, urging him to increase his pace.
Every time she’d wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to be close to him, her imagination had failed her. This was so much sweeter.
This time, it was she who broke away. Not because she wanted him to stop, precisely. Just the opposite in fact.
“What you’re asking for”—Guy wiped her bottom lip with his thumb—“I’d not give you here.” He gestured to the uneven ground beneath them. There was no need for clarification—this particular clearing was not very private. As they approached Noreham, the road had grown wider, more heavily trafficked. Just before they’d stopped, two men, knights by their appearance, had emerged from the very riverbank by which they now stood beside.
“I did not ask for anything,” she argued.
“Oh, but you did. And I’d most willingly give it were your safety assured.”
He reached up, cupped her head in his hand, and then ran his fingers down through her tresses.
“Tonight.”
He kissed her. Hard.
When Guy did pull back, Sabine wasn’t even annoyed with his self-assured expression. He looked like a man who’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted from the start. She may be stubborn, but her father had also taught her the uselessness of being spiteful.
Instead, she smiled back. “Then I shall look forward to this evening, husband.”
She’d meant it as a promise, but that last word likely reminded them both this was no typical pairing between two people.
It would be a consummation of a marriage.
Chapter 18
“Sir Guy Lavallais!”
Guy suppressed a groan. He had one mission this eve: to get Sabine out of the camp as quickly as possible. Although Larebridge House attracted fewer unsavory patrons than The Fiddler’s Inn, it was not a place he’d care to leave Sabine unattended. As such, he’d been forced to bring his wife to a mercenary camp. Specifically, to the camp of Bande de Valeur, one of the most deadly and badly behaved companies in existence. He knew the fact well. Guy had fought with many, both while he ran with his father and since he’d left him as a young man.
Already Sabine had likely seen more violent and wanton behavior than she’d probably expected to witness in her lifetime. As they led their horses through the field, dark but for the moonlight and several campfires, she’d seen more than enough to warrant the expression she now wore.
A nearly naked camp follower bent before them, picking up a gown that had been tossed from a nearby tent. Wearing nothing other than a thin chemise, the woman yelled back inside, though her words were mumbled.
Guy turned toward the voice that had called to him, but not before the woman offered him a knowing wink as she strode away.
“Christopher.” Guy stuck out his hand. “Well met, lad.” When last they’d seen each other, Christopher had been more boy than man, but he’d grown several inches and his cheeks had narrowed. He’d always had a fondness for the lad.
“No longer that,” his former companion said, shaking his hand vigorously. He grinned as if Guy were his long-lost brother.
“Aye, you’ve grown into a man.”
“I’d not expected to see you again.” Christopher shifted his gaze to Sabine, the look he gave her much too appreciative. Nay, no longer a boy.
“Meet my wife, Lady Sabine.”
Christopher bowed prettily.
“This,” he said to his wife, “is C
hristopher Logue. Son of a right old bastard who nearly had me killed in Arbois.”
“A pleasure,” Sabine murmured.
Though he was as pleased to see Christopher as anyone in this camp, he needed to get Sabine away from these men. And quickly.
“Where is he?” Guy asked.
Christopher nodded to the tent Guy had assumed was the leader’s, being both larger than the others and at the very center of camp.
“Shall I take your horses?”
Guy handed him the reins. “Gladly, though not far, if it pleases you. This will not be an extended visit.”
His purpose this night was simply to alert de Chabannes of his presence and set a meeting for their negotiations. It would take days, if not weeks, for any outcome, much less a favorable one. Guy knew the mercenary company’s leader as well as anyone. And did not expect him to capitulate easily.
But he would capitulate. Eventually.
“Many thanks.” He took Sabine’s hand. Squeezing it, he leaned toward her to whisper as they walked toward de Chabannes’s tent.
“Say little.”
She pulled back.
“I do not ask it of you out of a desire to silence you. But to protect you. De Chabannes is cunning and will attempt to use any information you give him.”
Sabine did not appear pleased by the prospect, but neither did she refute him.
Just before they entered, he whispered again.
“I will ensure you are rewarded for your efforts later.”
His wife’s gasp was the last thing he heard before entering the tent.
* * *
Sabine hadn’t expected the man Guy described as a ruthless bastard to bound up from his seat to hug her husband.
Though she understood some of his words, it had been years since Sabine had studied French. When her tutor took ill, her mother had completed Sabine’s studies, and though she herself had been fluent in the language, as most noblewomen were, it was not an area of study Sabine enjoyed. And, as her father had said many, many times, her mother had been too indulgent of Sabine’s whims.
The mercenary leader also spoke quickly, though Guy seemed to have no difficulty understanding him.
Since she could not hope to understand what they were saying, Sabine watched the two. She was struck most by Guy’s easy manner, as if he’d not spent much of the day warning Sabine about this very man. Not that she could think of much besides that kiss, which she knew had affected them equally. Each time she looked at Guy, his expression told the tale. One of desire, of longing, and of anticipation.
“Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné,” de Chabannes spat.
That she understood, mostly. Guy had asked why he was alone in the tent, something unusual for him, and he’d responded that he’d prefer to be alone than in bad company.
Guy gestured back to her. “Lady Sabine, daughter of Robert de Stuteville, lord of Cottingham.” He paused. “My wife.”
The mercenary seemed as shocked as Christopher had been. Apparently the idea of Guy having a wife was a startling one. He recovered quickly, though, and bowed more deeply than was her due. Sabine had never met a Frenchman who would risk offense by failing to offer a proper greeting.
“The honor is mine,” he said, standing. Now that she had a better look at him, she realized he was quite a bit younger than she’d expected. His face bore a similar scar to Conrad’s, although in a different location. It was a hard face, accustomed to both battle and the elements. Though not clean-shaven, like Guy, neither did he have a beard.
De Chabannes filled two goblets with wine, which he then gave to Sabine and Guy, gesturing for them to sit across from him on a wide stool. His tent accommodated four such structures and was obviously the center of the company’s activities. It struck her that it would take some effort to transport its contents, especially across the channel.
This was no small favor Guy planned to ask for.
“What brings you, along with your wife, to my humble tent?”
“I’m here to negotiate on behalf of the Order of the Broken Blade.” The change in Guy’s demeanor caught her off guard. His easy grins and teasing jests had slipped away, leaving the very serious, very driven man she remembered from that first night at the abbey.
De Chabannes sat up a bit straighter.
“An order,” Guy continued, “formed to force the English king to heed the pleas of his barons.”
And there it was. Treason against the king.
“What, precisely, do you hope to negotiate with your visit?”
Guy placed his wine goblet on the bench beside him.
“Your return to France.”
De Chabannes took a long sip of wine as he stared at her husband, his eyes revealing nothing. “I’ve not heard of this order,” he said at last.
“You will.”
It was as if a gentle wind had run along her body, riffling her hair.
“The hour is late, and we’ve traveled far,” Guy said. “My intent this eve was simply to alert you to our presence in the village, as I know you’d have learned of it by morn. And to arrange another meeting between us.”
The leader looked at her. Sabine said nothing.
“We have been paid handsomely to sit in these tents and wait,” de Chabannes remarked simply.
He did not have to explain what his men waited for. All three of them knew King John would rather unleash a foreign army of mercenaries on his people than listen to their concerns. Or so it seemed at present.
“I am aware.”
Sabine took a sip of her wine, trying to appreciate its fine quality.
“Who’s paying you?” De Chabannes’s jaw flexed. A fair question to ask a mercenary.
“No one.”
Sabine did not understand the look that passed between the men, but she did know it held some significance. She would ask Guy about it later. For now, she fought her very nature and said nothing, continuing to sip the wine she’d nearly finished.
De Chabannes stood abruptly. Sabine held her breath as he walked toward them, but at the last moment he reached for the pitcher and held out his hand for her silver goblet. Somehow, he knew she’d already finished her wine. After refreshing both her drink and his own, de Chabannes sat back down.
Guy had not so much as sipped his wine.
“This order?”
Guy did not hesitate. “The Earl of Licheford. The chief of Clan Kennaugh and Earl of Dromsley, and Sir Lancelin Wayland of Marwood, now lord of Tuleen.”
He had just named all three men as traitors, but Sabine supposed it was necessary to gain de Chabannes’s trust before he would be swayed. Still, the boldness of his speech terrified her. One whisper in the wrong ear, and all four of them could be branded as traitors to the crown.
And me as well.
She took another long sip of wine.
De Chabannes nodded, more to himself than as a gesture to Guy. After a few moments, he stood again.
“It seems we have much to discuss.”
Guy stood as well and reached for her goblet. Taking it, he handed both to de Chabannes and offered Sabine his hand. She took it gladly, grateful for its strength. When Guy laced his fingers through hers, a calm settled within her for the first time since they entered the tent.
“Aye, we do. Sabine and I will be staying at Larebridge House.”
“I will send for you.”
Guy nodded. With a few parting words, Sabine found herself walking away from the tent, still holding her husband’s hand. She tried to imagine him as one of the men still milling about camp, despite the late hour. So many seemed to know of him, and his deeds, but to her, Guy was more than the greatest swordsman in all of England.
He was her husband.
“You did well,” he said at last as they walked toward their horses.
She made a sound in her throat.
“By not speaking? That was hardly my best performance.”
Guy stopped and looked at her with admiration.
“A performance nonetheless, for I know remaining silent went against your very nature.”
Indeed, it did.
“Thankfully, I requested the only room at the inn set apart from the others.”
“I do not understand.”
But his wicked grin explained his meaning even before he spoke. “You’re welcome to make as much noise as you’d like when we return. ’Tis my turn to perform for you.”
Chapter 19
There were many things Guy lacked, but coin was not one of them. He’d been trained at the French court by one of the most renowned swordsmen in his mother’s country, experience that had helped him win almost every tournament he entered.
But never had he been so pleased with his success as he was at this moment. Sabine had shrieked with pleasure upon seeing the room he’d secured for them, complete with a steaming hot bath that sat in the middle of it. He’d left her there to enjoy it, heading downstairs to the hall to enjoy an ale while he waited.
The additional coin had also offered them some much-needed privacy—a wooden bridge connected their second-floor room to the rest of the inn. He’d learned about this space on his last visit. The owner of Larebridge House, a man as large as Terric but with the stomach size to match the girth of his wide shoulders, had taken a liking to him.
“Ya remind me of my son,” the man had told him. The two had gotten drunk together, a rarity for Guy. But then the innkeeper had told him the full story of his lost family, and he’d quickly sobered. The man had woken up one morning to find his wife had left him, taking his son.
The story had reminded Guy too much of his own mother. She’d left overnight too, only she hadn’t taken him with her. His last memory was of her smiling down at him. But apparently she loved France far more than she loved him, for she’d returned to her home country without him. Without saying goodbye either.
Guy silently reminded himself to thank the innkeeper again for the use of the “bridge room.” Although he was grateful for the privacy it afforded, it would serve another purpose—he could see the bridge from where he sat in the inn’s small hall. Which meant he could ensure no one disturbed his wife. He was certain Burge was no longer a concern, but that did not mean Sabine was ever completely safe unless Guy was near.
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