A Knight to Remember: Good Knights #2

by Christina Dodd

  “Lady Edlyn seems rather”—Wharton trod carefully in view of Hugh’s previous displeasure—“different than yer usual fare.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s old.”

  “Twenty-eight, if I did my numbers correctly, and handsome still.”

  “Ye deserve a virgin in yer wedding bed.”

  “Deserve?” Hugh barked a laugh, then held his side until the pain faded. “Did I deserve to almost die?”

  “Nay, master!” Wharton coughed pathetically, trying without words to indicate the dreaded lung disease that would afflict him if they remained in the mist any longer.

  Hugh ignored him. “Deserve has nothing to do with the trials and rewards of life.”

  “If ye take Lady Edlyn t’ be your wife, I know which she will be.”

  “A trial?” Hugh walked a little farther into the garden. The night was as dark as any Hugh had ever seen. The clouds blocked all light from the stars. Unlit and silent, the abbey waited for the dawn.

  The scent of burnet warned him he’d wandered off the trail, and he moved hastily back on the hay-strewn path. Edlyn, he knew, would not thank him for crushing the new plants that she’d sown. “Aye, she’ll be that. The world had not yet tested the Edlyn I knew at George’s Cross, and she looked at me with an adoring countenance. This Edlyn will fight—she has fought—for what is due her.”

  Wharton followed Hugh, staying carefully on the straw to avoid the mud. “Fighting’s not attractive in a woman.”

  Hugh had agreed with Wharton at one time, and that time had been only a fortnight previously. Now it seemed long ago, and he didn’t understand Wharton’s hesitation. “What good is a woman who can’t defend what is hers?”

  Driven beyond courtesy, Wharton said, “She doesn’t like ye.”

  “She’s a challenge,” Hugh agreed.

  “She doesn’t care fer invalids. She thinks a man flat on his back inferior t’ a man who stands steady on his two feet.”

  In the safety of the darkness, Hugh allowed himself a smile. “I thought of that, but I can’t believe it. She is so sensible, so matter-of-fact, so strong, she must be able to recognize strength in others.”

  “She is strong.” Wharton obviously considered this to her detriment. “She lifted ye when ye were unconscious.”

  “That’s not what I meant, but aye, she has strong arms and good hands.” Her nails she kept short, the better to work with. Her long fingers and blunt palms were capable and expressive, and Hugh had found himself watching those hands and wondering whether they would be capable and expressive when she thrashed beneath him on a mat or in a bed.

  “Ye like ’em delicate,” Wharton reminded him.

  “Delicate doesn’t interest me now.” Dismissing his former requirements, Hugh finger-combed the beard on his jaw as he thought. “I have the strength, and she doesn’t seem to know the role I have taken in the management of the kingdom, so her indifference must have its origins in another source.”

  “When she knows who ye are, she’ll snuggle up fast enough.”

  “You think the widow of the earl of Jagger will want me?” Hugh laughed without humor. “She’ll spit on me when she discovers the truth.”

  “Mayhap.” Wharton sounded cheered. “Why, if that is true, ye’ll not convince her t’ wed ye.”

  “She doesn’t have to know before the swearing.”

  “Ye’ve got t’ give yer name.”

  “She knows my name. She doesn’t know my title.” He could almost feel Wharton jump as the idea struck him. “And I would take it ill if she discovered it too soon.”

  Wharton mumbled something as his relish faded, and Hugh took a breath. His plan seemed riddled with hazards, but as always he rose to any reasonable challenge. He hadn’t reached his present pinnacle by seeking fights in every cobweb-laden corner, of course. He planned his campaigns with meticulous care, then fought with wild abandon to win.

  He was in the planning stages now. He would fight later. And he would have to fight, he was sure. Wharton might dismiss Edlyn’s resentment. Wharton might imagine she would find contentment with his money and his position, but Hugh didn’t think so. Hugh recognized the barriers she had erected and gave them his proper respect.

  Nevertheless, he lived to knock down barriers.

  “This whole affair smacks of madness,” Wharton said.

  Hugh knew what Wharton meant. Hugh liked women, but they’d always been easy to leave. Give him his sword and his destrier, and he would be happy. “Maybe it’s the onset of age,” he suggested. “The compulsion to sow my seed and see it grow before it’s too late.”

  “Young virgin,” Wharton said under his breath.

  Hugh heard it, of course. “Lady Edlyn can bear my children, and she’s proven her fruitfulness. Ah!” He slashed the air with his hand. “Enough discussion.”

  Edlyn showed him no wiles. She was as far from a coquette as any woman could be. It wasn’t the compulsion to breed that drew him to Edlyn, it was Edlyn herself.

  He suspected the nuns all wore the same thing Edlyn wore—a shapeless cotte over a well-tied shift. The holy women probably prayed their rough clothing would discourage lustful thoughts from the men in their infirmary, but in Edlyn’s case, at least, it didn’t work.

  How could it? She had a body that would make an angel discard his wings. Burned into Hugh’s mind with the fire of fever was the memory of her breasts, the golden skin of the firm mounds, the soft nipples begging to be stroked. Whenever he saw those now-covered breasts, he observed avidly, seeing the way they lifted the material, the way they flowed when she lifted her arms to reach something from the top shelf.

  Her breasts alone had healed him.

  Her waist and hips had performed their own miracles. She had a way of walking that challenged him. He’d never met a woman with talking hips before, but sometime, somewhere, Edlyn had acquired them. Rise! her hips commanded. Come and capture me.

  And of course he did rise, although not to his feet.

  He hadn’t seen anything of her legs, but he knew the challenge must originate there, between them. After all, he had been lying on the floor, and from there he could see her ankles at any time. Strong ankles. Slender ankles. Ankles that were connected to the rest of her and to the feet she so often bared for his enjoyment. Aye, Edlyn didn’t seem to think bare feet were arousing, but every time she slipped off her shoes and padded around the dispensary, it made him think she had performed the first step of intimacy with him.

  She had a nice face, too.

  But those eyes…if he were a superstitious man, he would be stringing garlic and hoping to ward off the curse of those green eyes.

  And she did curse him. That he never questioned.

  “When ye heard her while she was healing ye—what was she saying?” Wharton asked.

  “Something about our childhood together.” Hugh frowned. “Something about…a barn.” He shook his head. “The exact words escape me.”

  “Long as it wasn’t some witchy incantation,” Wharton retorted.

  “Not that. Never that.” Hugh was firm. “She did say something important, nonetheless. I’ll think of it, don’t worry.”

  “Can we go in now, master?” Wharton asked. “I can hear th’ fairies awhispering under that oak.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Ye never hear anything.” Wharton sounded peeved. “Ye’re blessed by th’ fairies, that’s why.”

  Actually, Hugh did hear them. Slight voices that could easily be mistaken for the rustle of leaves. But he never admitted that to anyone.

  “So can we go in?” Wharton did a good imitation of a man about to expire from wheezing.

  “Soon.” Hugh stared at the darkest corner of the garden where he knew the oak stood. Slowly he moved toward it, keeping to the paths as best he could. The fairies whispered of enchantment; he countered with logic. “A brush with death brought me here, and I found a childhood comrade in dire need. She saved my life, and I’l
l rescue her from the wretched circumstances into which she’s fallen. You’ll see, she’ll be grateful to be living her old life once again. I recognize the hand of providence in my life, and her appearance here could be nothing less.”

  The mist on the leaves sounded like laughter.

  “Providence?” Wharton snorted. “Th’ hand of th’ devil, more likely.”

  Wharton’s insistence incensed Hugh, and he responded in the manner most likely to silence him. “I do not understand why you, a man of war, speak so slightingly of a mere woman. One would almost suppose she had won a victory over you.”

  “’Tis not true! Did she say so?”

  Wharton’s quick reply told Hugh much, yet as he stepped into the deepest shadow beneath the tree, he knew he could not allow Wharton to continue to speak of Edlyn with such disrespect. In spite of the dark, Hugh turned and looked at the faithful Wharton to impress him with his displeasure. “Who she is and what she has done to you is of no interest to me. All I care is that my manservant will treat my wife with the respect due her. You, Wharton, seem unable to comprehend this, despite my repeated warnings. Perhaps it would be better if I found another servant.”

  “Master!” Wharton must have dropped to his knees, for his voice slithered downward. “Ye wouldn’t leave me?”

  “Not willingly.” Hugh stepped forward so he loomed above Wharton. “So I will have your sworn word you will protect and defend Lady Edlyn as you do me.”

  “Master…”

  Hugh didn’t care for the whine in Wharton’s voice, and he stepped back.

  “Master!” Wharton crawled forward. “I swear, I swear.”

  “On what shall I have you swear?” Hugh wondered. He knew his manservant, and not much impressed Wharton as holy.

  “On a cross?”

  “I think not.”

  “In th’ church?”

  “Not effective enough.”

  “On yer sword?”

  “We’re getting close.” Hugh stuck out his closed fist. “On me. Put your hand over mine, Wharton, and swear fealty to Lady Edlyn on my life.”

  Wharton’s hand trembled. His voice trembled. But he swore while kneeling in the mud beneath the oak.

  “Once again, Wharton, you show your wisdom.” His man stood, subdued and obedient, as he should be, and Hugh leaned wearily on his shoulder and turned back to the dispensary. “Let us make our plans to capture the elusive Lady Edlyn.”

  Edlyn squinted into the morning sun as she scanned the open road for travelers. Specifically, for a monk and two boy-children trudging at his side. But the rutted, narrow track remained empty, and she turned toward the dispensary with a sigh.

  When the monk had suggested he take Allyn and Parkin on a short pilgrimage, she’d been enthusiastic. The task of tending two tireless eight-year-olds in an abbey stretched her imagination and her resources, and she looked forward to the peace of solitude. And she freely admitted she had enjoyed it. She also missed her sons more than she ever thought possible, and she wanted them back.

  Putting her hand on the gate to the herb garden, she hesitated to open it. Before her lads came home, though, she wanted Wharton and his wretched master gone. She hadn’t slept well last night because of Hugh. Because of his kisses. She worried that she’d hurt him too much, then she wished that she’d struck twice as hard. The scoundrel. He had been insulted when she thought he would take advantage of her lowly state to make her his mistress rather than wed her, then he had taken advantage of her weaker muscles to kiss her!

  Why that even rankled, she didn’t know. She’d had enough experience with men to have taken their measure. Nevertheless, she’d slept too long and missed Mass, and Lady Blanche had glared when they’d met in the square.

  Shutting the gate behind her, she turned—and gasped. Hugh rose out of the patch of thyme, his long legs steady. “What are you doing up?” she demanded. She hurried between the paths, her feet crushing the herb. Then she saw the ruddy color in his face. Clearly, his energy the day before had been no fluke. He was well, or soon to be. She slowed. “Get out of the beds, you fool, you’re crushing the plants.”

  He rebuked her, his voice slow and measured. “That is no way to greet your betrothed.”

  “We are not betrothed.”

  “Then let us go now and remedy that state.”

  She cocked her head and examined him. The ragged growth of his beard had been shaved clean, baring the lines of his cheeks and chin. He wore clothing, not the robe she’d confiscated for him. Hose and boots and a knee-length tunic with laced-in sleeves. They fit him and were of fine workmanship, a further indication of his success. She found her mouth set in petulant lines and tried to smooth them from her face. After all, why should it matter to her if he’d won a title and the lands he’d always longed for? She, more than anyone, understood how temporary were the trappings of wealth.

  “Will you not go to the church and have them read the banns?”

  He said it as if it were her last chance to do as he wished. If he were giving up his pursuit, that should surely please her, but somehow she expected more tenacity from Hugh. “You are a warrior. I have no wish to be betrothed to you.”

  He moved so quickly she had no time to run, and she found herself wrapped in his arms. It reminded her of yesterday and made her angry all over again. “I didn’t expect to see you standing so soon after that blow I gave you.” A slight shudder shook him, and that satisfied her need for respect.

  But he said, “I never underestimate my opponents twice.”

  A warning, and she took it as such. “I never use the same tactics twice.”

  He inclined his head. “I will remember. My thanks for telling me.”

  Stupid, she railed at herself. As if he needed help with his schemes.

  He quelled her attempt to withdraw. “You left too quickly yesterday.”

  “Not quickly enough, I’d say,” she answered.

  “I would have shown you more.” He pressed a tender kiss on her forehead.

  “You showed me quite enough.” She tried to slither down out of his grip, desperate to get away, to get him inside. The high stone wall around the garden might shield them from watching eyes, but anyone could walk through the gate.…

  He followed her down. She’d sprouted these plants through the late winter, cherishing them through the last cool nights until they could be placed in the ground, and now this big oaf wanted to roll in them. “Let me up,” she said. “It’s muddy.”

  “It rained last night.”

  “I know that!” Did men take instruction to be aggravating, or was it bred into them? “And it smells like a stew down here.”

  “Um.” He lay on his back and drew her over him. “The stew of love.”

  She couldn’t help it; she half laughed at his poor analogy. “You’ll never be a poet.”

  “I’ll never be a lot of things, but I will be your lover, my lady.” He pushed off her wimple. “And soon.”

  It was getting to be annoying, his habit of removing her hair covering, and she snatched at it. He tossed it away and went to work on her braid. She was still irate about the night before, but she had to work to maintain her animosity. He seemed different this morning, pleased with himself and frolicking in the sunshine.

  In the sunshine. “We have to go inside,” she said. “Someone may come by and see you.”

  “Um.” He buried his face in a handful of her hair.

  “Hugh, please.”

  He blew the strands away. “I like it when you beg me.”

  “Then I beg you. Let us go in. I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t need help. I’m almost well.”

  “Aye,” she said doubtfully. She didn’t know how that was possible, but she couldn’t send him on his way just yet. “The nursing nuns come first thing for their medications, you know that, and—”

  Catching her chin, he brought her face down to his and kissed her. It wasn’t the nice kiss of the night before, but a bruising kiss, oddly
forceful and not in the spirit of playfulness he had previously displayed.

  When he let her raise her head, she touched her lips. “What did you do that for? It hurt!”

  He didn’t answer but stared at her. “Your mouth is swollen.”

  “I would suppose!” She didn’t like his expression; triumph mixed with a rather attentive regard.

  Then he rolled her onto her back, one way and then the other. First the straw on the path stuck through her clothing, then her shoulders and hips mashed the small thyme plants and sank into the damp earth. “Have you gone mad? What is wrong—” She heard voices outside the wall, and they were moving this way. “Listen!” He grabbed at her waving hands. “We’ve got to get you to your feet.”

  He held her when she would have scrambled up. Just held her.

  “Hugh.” She tried to extract her fists. “Hugh, you—”

  Wharton’s voice suddenly boomed out. “There they are!”

  And Lady Blanche said, “I told you, Lady Corliss!”

  Still held tight against Hugh, Edlyn twisted around. A great mass of eyes stared at her in shock, horror, and ill-concealed glee from the garden gate. Half the nuns. Some of the monks. Lady Blanche and Wharton. Baron Sadynton. And the abbess, who stood fingering her beads.

  7

  “I did nothing wrong.” Edlyn sat on a bench in the middle of the square and repeated what she’d said many times since this mockery of an inquisition had begun. Every nun in the abbey, every monk in the monastery, every servant, every peasant, and every patient who could hobble stood assembled in a circle around Edlyn and her accusers, and Edlyn imagined the circle was closing.

  “Then why do you have mud and straw and green marks on your back?” Lady Blanche looked around, her mouth pinched in triumphant disapproval. “That looks like evidence of wrong to me.”

  “Because he”—Edlyn pointed at the decorous Hugh sitting across from her—“tried to make it look as if we’d been fornicating in the dirt, that’s why. But I tell you, we haven’t!”