Slane stepped forward and Taylor thought he would take her memorial from her. He reached out, but it wasn't the pouch he took. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.
She stiffened for a moment, resisting his comfort. But she couldn't withstand her agony, her loss. It encompassed her body, sending her into fits of grief. She slumped against him and followed him to a nearby outcropping of rocks.
Exhausted, Taylor let Slane pull her down to the ground between a sheltering pine and a large rock.
The bag of coin lay on the ground near their feet, forgotten.
Slane stared down at Taylor as she slept cushioned against his body, his arm around her. He didn't think a herd of thundering horses could awaken her now. He stroked her hairline again, running his fingertips over her smooth skin, marveling that the bruises had so completely disappeared and left such smooth, untainted skin in their wake. Her lips were not swollen and distorted any longer, but rather perfect in their symmetry, full, and sensual. He had a sudden desire to touch them.
Horrified at the direction his thoughts were heading, Slane quickly eased her to the ground and stood away from her. She groaned softly and curled into the warmth his body had left on the ground. God's blood! he thought. What am I thinking? I have to think about Elizabeth. Waiting for me. Yes, Elizabeth. He ran a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the fatigue from them. I must be tired and confused.
But he found his gaze returning to Taylor. If it weren't for me, she wouldn't be in this mess, he thought. I found her. I brought her into this hell of running from Corydon's men, of losing her friend.
Slane paced, raking his hand through his golden hair. If he hadn't found her, then it would have clearly been someone else. And she was better off with him than with a mercenary seeking the reward his brother had put out for her! Slane was sure every mercenary this side of France was looking for her.
The sun rose steadily over the horizon, the sky lightening with the coming dawn. Slane knew they would have to move on soon. They couldn't put enough distance between themselves and Corydon. A hundred miles was too little. Still, he was reluctant to wake her.
His gaze shifted back to her as she lay hidden between the rock and the pine tree. He could see one of her boots sticking out of the shelter. He couldn't wake her. She needed all her strength to deal with the future. He would let her sleep, let her have a moment's peace.
He shifted his royal blue eyes to the path stretching before them. The path that led to Castle Donovan.
Taylor had barely opened her eyes when everything came back to her in a rush of images. Jared's body splintering the door. Black-clad men swinging deadly blades at her. Slane diving at her, taking them both through the window. Slane holding her in his arms, comforting her. She sat up quickly, scanning the area, but Slane was nowhere to be seen.
She eased herself from the cover of the pine tree and the rock, stepping into the sunlight, squinting at the brightness. The sun was almost directly over her head. She lifted her eyes to regard the blazing orb with astonishment. She had never slept this long! Her gaze swept the clearing, finally coming upon Slane, who was strolling back to her, his hands cupped before him.
For a moment, she was taken aback. He looked like some ancient god, his blond hair waving over his shoulders, his bronzed face kissed by the sun. His blue eyes sparkled like treasured gems. But it wasn't their sparkling brilliance that caught her attention; it was the way he was looking at her, with a guarded reserve.
Taylor climbed to her feet. She eyed the berries he was holding in his cupped hands, then glanced back up at him.
He popped a berry into his mouth. "Are you rested? Because I think we should be moving on." He held out a handful of berries.
Taylor plucked a berry from the top of the pile. She studied it absently, not really seeing it. Moving on. To Sullivan Castle. She didn't want to see her father again. Seeing him wasn't going to change the past. Seeing him wasn't going to bring her mother back. "Slane, I think you should know that I have no intention of returning to Sullivan Castle."
She lifted her eyes in time to see disapproval cross his face. "That decision is yours to make. But I'm sure there are other mercenaries —"
She held up her free hand. "I know. You've told me. But what you haven't told me is who those black knights were."
Slane took a deep breath and lowered his hands. "They're Corydon's men. Your father and my brother, Richard, have banded together to fight Corydon. He's been threatening to take over their lands."
"Corydon?"
"Five years ago, he took over the lands west of Sullivan. Corydon thinks that with your father growing old he poses no great threat. He is just biding his time."
"And how is my return supposed to help?"
"The knights at Sullivan Castle have been growing restless. They think that with no heir to rally behind, if your father dies, Sullivan Castle will fall easily to Corydon. Many of them have left already. Your father needs an heir."
She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "And what's your brother's story?"
"Richard has squandered the treasury, depleting his funds. Castle Donovan is precariously defended. He doesn't have long. He'll be out of gold to pay his knights in two months' time."
"So my father has the gold, and Richard has the knights."
"Your father asked for Richard's help to locate you."
"And in exchange, Richard gets the gold," Taylor added knowingly. "So that's where you come in."
Slane nodded. "Richard asked me to find you. And he sought the help of a score of mercenaries as well. He's quite insistent on the matter."
Taylor sighed and stared up at the sky for a long moment.
"Taylor, there is much more at stake here than you realize," Slane said gently. "The lives and well-being of two kingdoms, of hundreds of families, depend on your returning to Sullivan Castle."
"Really?" she gasped, mockingly. His eyes were so blue, so damned... pure. "So what?"
She saw shock in his widening eyes, in his open mouth. She felt a surge of satisfaction. Then his lips closed with disbelief. "Maybe you didn't hear me correctly," Slane said.
"I heard," she said. "I just don't care. Where were they when my mother was burning eight years ago? Where were they when Jared was being killed?" She shook her head. "I just don't care."
"But—"
"No buts. I don't give a rat's ass about the poor peasants who have worked hard all their life. Haven't we all?"
Slane studied her for a moment. "Why don't you come with me to Castle Donovan? You'll be safe from Corydon, and it will give you time to decide what you want to do."
Taylor already knew what her decision was. She would never go back to her father. Never. But the lure of a warm bed and hot meals was too much for a starving mercenary to pass up. Besides, it would give her time to think about her own plans for the future. "We'll see," she mused.
Slane nodded and started walking north.
Taylor joined him. "Are we going to walk the whole way there?"
"Until I can secure us some horses," Slane replied. He held out his handful of berries to her.
This time, Taylor scooped up a handful of her own.
After moving briskly for more than half a day without rest, they came to a clearing lined by a thick wall of trees on one side and a river on the other. "We'll stop here," Slane announced, glancing at the setting sun.
Taylor shrugged and moved to the river to clean off the day's grime and sweat.
Slane watched her for a long moment. She hadn't braided her hair today, instead choosing to let it hang down in long waves. He had caught her running her hands through the luxurious locks several times throughout the day and had to smile to himself. He was glad she had not braided it. He liked the way the sunlight reflected off the blue-black highlights in her hair. Once, he even imagined what it might feel like. He had never paid such attention to Elizabeth's brown hair. Of course, he rarely even saw her hair. She always kept
it up, hidden beneath one of those horrible coifs or ridiculous headdresses.
He strolled to the middle of the clearing and removed his tunic. A good hour of practice is what I need, he thought to himself. Just me and my blade. He liked to work shirtless, with the warm sun bathing his skin. He always felt strong in the bright sunlight, strong and energized. He removed his sword from its sheath and stared for a moment at his reflection in the polished metal.
A splash caught his attention and he raised his eyes. Taylor was on her knees by the river's edge, her small, shapely bottom pointing directly at him.
A flush of desire exploded through him. It was so startling and so unexpected he had to turn his back lest she see how she affected him. He turned the sword over in his hand. Where had that come from? he wondered, fighting down the surge of passion simmering in his blood. He took a deep breath, but it was still a long moment before his desire faded to a more controllable impulse.
He swung the heavy sword with two hands, the muscles in his shoulders and forearms straining during the practiced motion. He moved his arms in a large circle, slowly drawing the blade over his head. He stood that way for a long moment, the sword raised above his head, the fading sunlight glinting like fire from his blade. His golden hair cascaded over his shoulders to touch the midpoint of his back.
He concentrated on stretching his muscles, training them to be ready for action at a moment's notice, to keep them honed for battle. And they were. He was a warrior, a knight. He had faced and defeated every foe he had stood against.
He lowered the weapon slowly across the other side of his body until the blade was pointing toward the river. And then he froze.
A pair of hunter green eyes stared at him.
Taylor sat with one knee drawn up to her chest, watching him. But there was no sarcastic gaze chiseled across her face. No, it was not the disrespectful, mocking stare he was used to. She turned away then, a long, dark strand of her hair falling across her breast.
For just a moment, he could have sworn she had been gazing at him admiringly, like all the ladies at court did. There had been surprise in those eyes. But he must have imagined it. Because Taylor was unlike any woman he had encountered before. She was different.
He took a step toward her. "Don't you practice?" he asked.
She shifted her stare to him and the sarcasm was back in those lidded eyes, as if it had never left. "I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities to practice. Right now, I'm tired."
He watched her settle down beneath the branches of a large oak tree, cushioning her head on her arm, before he turned back to concentrate on his work.
Taylor watched Slane practice from slitted eyes. She was anything but tired. She was restless. And the strange restlessness churned within her the more she watched Slane.
"Hey, Slane," Taylor whispered, tapping her new traveling companion on the shoulder. "Can we stop at the alehouse after we finish sneaking through the streets?"
Slane turned to her, the scowl etched deep into his brow, the irritation clearly visible in his eyes. "We are not sneaking," he told her.
Taylor blew a scoffing blast of air from between her lips. "You've been hugging the shadows ever since we reached Sudbury this afternoon. I'd call that sneaking."
"And why are you whispering?" he asked.
"Isn't that what you do when you sneak around?"
A merchant rode past, his overloaded carriage jostling and jangling loudly as it moved along the pockmarked dirt road that ran through the center of Sudbury.
Slane grabbed Taylor's arm and pulled her into a pool of dark shadows. "We're not sneaking around," Slane insisted.
Taylor held up her hands in surrender. "All right. All right. Can we stop at the alehouse?"
Slane nodded. "We need flasks and drink."
"I can try to purchase us horses —" Taylor began, spying a small stable situated next to a blacksmith's shop nearby.
"No," Slane erupted. "We stick together."
Taylor stared into his determined blue eyes for a moment longer, then nodded her agreement. All she wanted right now was a good ale to quench her thirst. She didn't feel like arguing with this stubborn noble. She didn't feel like disagreeing about such petty things. She was just tired of walking. Her legs hurt and her feet were throbbing.
They moved down the road, passing the tightly packed houses. Some of the merchants had additional stands set up on the streets to sell their wares, but most used their homes as a front for their shops, their brightly colored awnings and hand-carved wooden signs indicating what goods they sold. Peasants filled the streets, gathering around the merchants' shops and stands, haggling over price. Market day was in full swing.
Slane paused at one of the carts to negotiate with a leather maker. No doubt trying to purchase a few decently made flasks or wine pouches, Taylor mused as she moved on.
She meandered down the row of storefronts, inspecting some loaves of still steaming bread on a ledge outside a baker's shop, sampling a shred of some salted venison at another merchant's stall. Then she reached the stall of a spice vendor. Bowls of chopped herbs, peppers, and salt filled his long wooden table. Taylor caught herself staring at a large oak bowl filled with freshly chopped garlic. A tremendous tide of sadness welled up inside her. Jared had always loved to visit the spice merchants. Garlic had been his favorite. She always told him he stunk for days after eating it, but he only laughed at her and told her he'd rather stink of garlic than of the horrible perfumes the nobles soaked their skins with. He would stay and talk to the merchants for hours, discussing the best ways to use aniseed or ginger or pepper to enhance the flavor of food. He never seemed happier than when arguing over the best way to spice a rabbit or duck.
"Ah, you like my onion?" Taylor heard someone say. She glanced up to see the merchant, a surprisingly thin man with a freckled face and a mere growth of red stubble on his chin.
"What?" Taylor asked, not certain if he had been talking to her.
"My onions. You find them to your liking, I see."
Taylor squinted at the man, confused.
The freckled merchant pointed to her eyes. "Only a good onion can do that, no?"
Taylor reached up to her eyes to find the edges were moist. "Yes, you have good onions," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Very good onions."
She moved on, still careful to remain within sight of Slane. She wiped her eyes dry, hoping Slane hadn't noticed her moment of weakness, and swatted aside a strand of hair that had come loose from the braid she had wound tightly in her hair that morning. She glanced into the street, at the peasants scurrying by in their hurry to reach their destinations.
When she looked away again, a reflection of light in the middle of the road caught her eye. She spotted something half buried in dirt, but Taylor could see the silver sparkle in the sun. She bent down and came back up with a muddied metal band.
Just then, from the stand nearest her, a loud voice called, "Thief!"
Taylor's knees bent slightly and her hand flew to the hilt of her sword. The short merchant bedecked with gold jewelry was not pointing an angry, quivering finger at her however, but at a man dressed in ripped leggings and a soiled tunic who was standing near the merchant's stall. The man had a thick beard, its sandy brown hairs littered with the crumbs of what probably had been his last meal. He certainly didn't look like a thief, nor did he act like one. Most thieves would have raced into the crowd to disappear amidst the throng of people, but this man just stood there with a bewildered, almost frightened look on his face.
"Thief!" the merchant screamed again as he lunged forward and grabbed the man's arm, pulling him roughly against the stall's display counter. "Give me back that ring!"
The bearded man's eyes went wide with surprise. "I... I didn't take anything," he protested meekly.
Taylor glanced down at the ring in her palm, scowling slightly.
"That's an interesting piece of jewelry," a familiar voice mused, jarring Taylor. She looked up to
see Slane studying the ring she held in her hand. He raised his eyes to meet hers. "Did you purchase it with that overstuffed bag of coin you carry around with you?"
Taylor's brows furrowed. "I found it in the road," she answered.
At the stall next to them, the merchant had a tight grip around the man's wrist and was holding the struggling man's hand flat against the counter. The merchant turned and reached for a large, menacing blade hanging on the wall behind him.
"I think it belongs to that merchant, don't you?" Slane asked.
Taylor opened her mouth to reply as the merchant growled angrily at the man, "Do you know what I do to thieves?" But Slane interrupted her before she could explain. "You'd let him chop off that man's hand just so you could wear a new trinket?" He did nothing to hide the anger in his tone.
Her eyes narrowed at his painful accusation. He thought so low of her! Well, she'd let him think what he would. She turned away.
Slane darted his hand forward and grabbed Taylor's wrist, squeezing it painfully, forcing her fingers open. He snatched the ring from her. Slane turned to the merchant just as he was about to bring his blade down on the bearded man's immobile wrist. "Hold!" he commanded. "I have your ring!"
The merchant looked up at Slane and slowly lowered the blade. But he still kept the peasant in his grip. "So where is it?" the merchant asked sharply.
Slane held out his hand and dropped the ring onto the merchant's counter. "Now let that man go."
The merchant eyed Slane suspiciously. "And where did you get it?" he wondered hotly.
"It had fallen into the street." Slane stepped forward toward the merchant, fingering the hilt of his sword. "Now let that man go."
The merchant obeyed and released his grip. The bearded man wasted no time running as fast as he could into the crowd, disappearing into the swarming mass. Slane stepped even closer to the merchant. "Maybe next time you won't be so quick to judge a man before your anger blinds you."
Knights of Valor Page 61