Oswald’s jaw hardened. “Aye, so it seems,” he said, his voice flat with growing anger as he shot a look at Lady Margaret. To Lady Philippa he said, “My lady, I pray you come with us to the bishop’s court.”
“Damn you, you’ll not have her,” Lady Margaret shrieked.
Before Temric knew what she was about, she pivoted on her crutch, then lifted the thing like a cudgel. Without word or cry, Lady Philippa swiftly hunched her shoulders and turned her back. The stick caught her upon her shoulder with force enough to knock her down.
“Nay!” Temric roared as he watched her fall. He lunged for the old woman and wrenched her makeshift club from her gnarled grasp and hurled it away from him. It landed yards distant.
Terror and hatred tangled in the old woman’s blue eyes, then she turned toward the walls of her home. “Aaiye! Come, come! I am attacked!” she shouted with a helplessness she didn’t own. It was a call calculated to bring whatever forces Lindhurst owned to its dowager’s aid.
Five swordsmen against however many men Lindhurst kept wasn’t going to accomplish the bishop’s goal. Temric leapt to the fallen woman’s side. As Lady Margaret again tried to push him back, he scooped Lady Philippa into his arms, cradling her close.
The old woman gasped as if truly shocked by his actions. “Lecher! Defiler,” she trumpeted. “You soil her with your touch!”
Temric spared her a scathing glance. “If you wish to complain, come to Graistan and tell Bishop William that Temric, Henry of Graistan’s bastard, has obeyed his command and fetched Lady Lindhurst for him.”
At the announcement of his bastardy, the old woman’s eyes hardened. “Commoner,” she snarled. “I’ll have you skinned alive for what you do, see if I don’t. And if your noble brother thinks he can take what is mine from me, he’d best think again.”
With an angry hiss, she turned and hobbled toward her home, her arms pumping in rage as she went. “To me,” she bellowed to stir her already tardy retainers into action, “to me! I’m attacked and Lord Graistan’s men kidnap your lord’s wife!”
Temric was already striding toward his waiting men. “Hie, Oswald. Mount!”
As his cousin sprinted toward his fine horse, Temric bore Lady Lindhurst toward his own tall mount. His men were all watching him their faces alert for the commands sure to come. “You stay here,” he said to the one, “to protect our cart and driver as best you can. If you’re outnumbered and pressed, don’t resist. I doubt they’ll harm one under the bishop’s protection, not now that we’ve got what they want. The rest of you are with me.”
It wasn’t until he was ready to mount that he dared look at the woman in his arms. To his surprise, no tears filled her eyes at what must have been a bruising blow. Instead, she watched him in both surprise and trepidation. “You are taking me?” she asked in breathless question.
“Aye,” he told her, trying to soothe while his whole body was tensed for battle, “but fear not. I vow you’ll be safer with me than you are here. Now, up with you.”
Lifting her, he set her sideways in his saddle, her back to his shield. As she held the tree to steady herself, Temric mounted up behind her. It was a sin. He knew it was. Still, Temric pulled his half-sister-by-marriage close into the protection of his body and spurred his horse into a gallop. Mary, Mother of God, forgive him, but he feared he was hopelessly in love with the one woman on earth more unattainable to him than any other.
Philippa leaned her head against the knight’s broad shoulder and reveled in the strength of his arm around her. His care and kindness enveloped her. Despite that he was a stranger and could well be abducting her, she felt safer with him than she had since she came to her husband’s home.
The horse beneath her broke into a gallop, the movement so sudden that her clumsy wooden sabots slipped from her feet and were lost. Air rushed past her, tearing at her head cloth. It was filled with scents of places she’d never seen and things she’d never done. The very thought made Philippa smile. She was free!
Rather than return to the forest, her abductor led his horsemen south through fields of rye and wheat. Peasants screamed against the destruction they wrought with their passage, throwing rocks and rakes at them as they passed. It was only as the fields began their gentle rise into rolling hills that Philippa’s euphoria died.
What a fool she was. This knight was taking her to the bishop where her husband also awaited. After the churchman was quit of her, she must needs accompany Roger back to Lindhurst. Depression swirled into fear.
Oh, dear God, but she’d let her game of defiance go too far this time. Why, oh why, had she dared to identify herself? Not only would Margaret never forgive her for it, Margaret would see to it Roger knew his wife left Lindhurst in another man’s arms. His jealousy and outrage would know no bounds. Indeed, it would be in repayment for Philippa’s defiance that Margaret would happily raise no hand to stop him, not this time.
Fear deepened. If his mother didn’t stop him, would he kill her this time? Surely not.
It wasn’t as if Roger meant to hurt her. Or, at least, that’s what he said. After each incident, he would weep in shame, then beg her forgiveness, each time vowing this was the last time. But it never was. The day would come when he would beat her until she was no more, all the while swearing that what he did was for love’s sake.
Philippa shut her eyes and turned her face against her shoulder as fear ate up every other emotion. Four and twenty was too young to die. Ach, but she’d done this to herself; she’d said her name, and this knight had touched her. Acceptance, dull and dark, crept over her. Not even God Himself could spare her from her husband’s retribution for what she’d done.
“They’re after us, Temric.” The churchman’s shout broke through her mournful thoughts.
“Then, we’ll play the fox to their hounds,” the knight behind her called in reply, his mellow voice grim. He reined his horse to a slower pace until the others were riding nearer. “You two,” the thrust of his free arm indicated two of the men who rode with them, “go more slowly and toward Benfield. Here.” A swift yank tore Philippa’s head covering from her head before she had a chance to gasp. “Drop this as you ride and do what you can to convince them you have her. Return to Graistan when you can. Robin, you’re with us.”
As he spoke he reined his horse into a sharp turn. Philippa slid in the saddle’s seat. With a gasp, she wound her arm around the knight’s waist to steady herself.
He loosed a quick sound of amusement. “Good lass. I’ve no wish to lose you now. Hold tight and I’ll keep you safe.”
Would that he could. Sorrow welled. Philippa swallowed it. Nay, she’d not waste what little life might be left to her in mourning. From this instant until she faced Roger all that mattered was the moment. She vowed to herself that she’d live each one to its very fullest, savoring every experience. With her eyes closed, Philippa opened her mouth to taste the wind.
Once Lindhurst’s men had been left behind, they stopped in a glade to rest their horses. There were but two of the original party remaining: Oswald, the bishop’s man, and the knight. They’d lost the last soldier several miles back when his horse had gone lame. Oswald was the last of them to excuse himself into the concealing brush. While she and the knight waited on his return, the knight was speaking to her about the bishop’s call.
It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when they stood in such a beautiful place. The smell of damp vegetation rose from beneath her stockinged feet in a rich wave of sensation. Towering high above her, tall oaks filtered the mid-afternoon sun until everything within the grove was dappled and gilded. The knight’s massive brown steed wore patches of light and dark, some sweat, some shade. The creature snorted and shivered as he tore at saplings and spindly grass. Beside him, the churchman’s smaller mount answered with an arrogant toss of his head.
“—reach Graistan by early evening if you can bear—”
These words caught her attention. Must she confront Roger so soon? A fl
icker of fear woke with the memory of Roger’s last rage. The aching bruises from the blows lingered for weeks. Fear dissolved into the need to escape another beating. Unfortunately, she was married to Roger. That meant there was nowhere she could go that her husband couldn’t reclaim her.
Desperately unwilling to think along these lines any longer, Philippa focused her attention on the knight in front of her.
Temric, that’s what he’d told her to call him, allowing her to set no title before his name. She rolled the odd name against her tongue a few times and decided it suited him despite its strangeness. How old was he? Surely no more than two score. She liked his mouth. His lips were finely molded and curved ever so slightly upward at the corners. The carefully trimmed beard he wore only set off its beauty. As he shifted into a patch of light, the sun laid a shadow along the crooked line of his nose and streaked gold into his deep brown hair. Philippa sighed. How could she ever have thought so bold a face ordinary?
Of a sudden, he fell silent. “My lady,” he said, leaning sharply toward her.
His aggressive movement was too reminiscent of Roger; instantly, Philippa folded her hands and turned her gaze to the moldy forest carpet. All her senses tautened, lifting into a new and aching awareness as she awaited his reaction. She heard him draw a swift breath. She tensed, because she didn’t know him or what this might foretell.
“My lady,” he said again, speaking more softly this time, “why do you not listen? Would you rather Oswald explain this to you?” A touch of hurt filled his gentle voice, as if her inattention had somehow slighted him.
Philippa dared a sly glance in his direction and found evidence of her accidental insult in the dark cast of his eyes. That she could have hurt him struck her to the core. The need to ease the harm she’d done was strong. Still, she knew better than confess to the real reason behind her inattention; telling the whole truth, especially when it had to do with inattention, was most often the cause of her pain.
Daring much, she lifted her head to look up at him. “Forgive me,” she said and truly meant it. “You have been kind and deserve better from me. I fear your stealing of me has left my thoughts so addled I’m incapable of concentration.”
It was the wrong thing to say. With the reminder of her leave-taking from Lindhurst came the certainty of the beating awaiting her at her destination. Against that, anxious words tumbled unbidden from her lips.
“Oh, why did I let you take me? I should have stayed at Lindhurst. Would that this was but a dream. Then I might awaken to find you and this ride no more than a shadow in my mind.”
His face softened in pity. “Poor lass, are you so frightened? Take no heed of what your lord’s dam said. Oswald truly is commanded to take you to his master, Bishop William. Or, do you fret because I am your sole protector now? Know you, I’m well seasoned in the ways of battle, having been for nigh on twenty years my brother’s master-at-arms. Here,” he extended his hand toward her, palm up, fingers slightly curved, “touch my hand and be assured when you feel my strength.”
Startled by his complete misunderstanding of her fear, Philippa could only stare mutely at his bared hand; his steel-sewn gloves were presently tucked into the belly of his surcoat. His fingers were beautiful. Strong and supple, they tapered gracefully to their tips, better suited to a saint than a warrior.
Did she dare touch so large and powerful a man? Lifting her head, Philippa looked shyly up at him. He offered her a brief smile, the motion waking gentle lights in his brown eyes.
As fear of him ebbed, curiosity woke. Was one man’s touch the same as another’s? Even as that thought filled her, the echo of Margaret’s voice, screaming of indecency, rose from the recesses of her mind.
Defiance flared. Well, Margaret wasn’t here, was she? Philippa extended her hand, then laid her fingers into the rough cradle of his palm.
It was different! Where Roger’s hands were always moist, this man’s skin was warm and dry. His palm was hard and callused, yet as her hand slid against his, it was a surprisingly silky sensation.
His fingers closed around hers. Her pulse leapt. A rush of heat flashed through her, burning in her cheeks. Very different, indeed.
Lost in the sensation, she turned her hand in his to align their palms. He laced his fingers between hers. As she stared at their joined hands, an alien warmth woke, both disturbing and oddly welcome at the same time. Even as she strove to control it, the sensation grew until it seemed to consume her. Panicked, she tore free of his hold, then sighed as the intensity receded, leaving her feeling normal once again.
“Philippa.” His voice was hoarse and deep as he made her name a plea.
Stunned by his familiar address and his intimate tone, she lifted her head to look up at him again. His face had softened, and masculine need had put the golden lights in his dark eyes. She drew a quick, fearful breath. Margaret was right; all men were the same. They used any woman they could to satisfy their base needs. Temric had only disguised his carnal nature with gentle behavior; now, he would take her just as Roger did. Trapped between sharp disappointment and terror against what would surely follow, she could only stare helplessly at the knight.
A cool breeze circled them, ruffling the neat strands of his dark hair. The horses snorted and stamped. He reached for her. Frozen in fear, Philippa waited for his assault. His arms encircled her in a light embrace. In the distance, a crow loosed its raucous call. He splayed his hands against her back, the gentle pressure of his touch forcing her a step closer. His lips parted.
“May God have mercy on my soul.” His words were barely a breath.
He lowered his head until his mouth brushed hers. The rasp of his beard against her jaw was rough-soft. His mouth was gentle against hers, a quiet caress, the taste of him surprisingly pleasant.
Philippa’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. There was no hurt!
Ever so slightly, his lips moved on hers. A shiver wracked her. This was better than touching his hand.
And wrong—terribly, terribly wrong.
Oh Lord, what if Oswald saw and told Roger? What little hope Philippa cherished that her husband might forgive her for this day’s events shattered. Fear of Roger’s fists grew until it overwhelmed her fear of Temric’s reaction should she refuse him. She dared to take a small step back from him.
Temric only sighed, making no attempt to grab her back. His hands slid down her back to rest upon her hips. Confused and unsure of what next to do, Philippa watched silently as he opened his eyes. The gold was gone, leaving the brown dead and dull.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded in a whisper. “I had no right.”
His words were shattering her. In that instant Philippa knew Margaret was wrong. This man was not like Roger in any way.
Suddenly, his touch was welcome and his nearness ceased to be frightening. Instead, the need to have him closer filled her. She ran her tongue over her lips and savored the taste of his kiss. To think there’d been no pain! Could this be why some of Lindhurst’s serving women spoke with fondness of their men?
Temric watched her, the longing in his gaze so intense it hurt her. “You should have been mine,” he said, his voice filled with despair. “How I wish I’d known of your existence before you were wed. I’d never have let another have you. To see how his dam mistreats you tears my heart in two.”
Stunned, Philippa stared at him. Fear gave way to a new ache. What pain might she have escaped if she’d been given to this knight instead of the one who’d bought her. It was like catching a glimpse of Heaven, only to be turned away from the gates.
He made a sound deep in his throat, then his hands were smoothing upward from her hips to once again embrace her. This time, Philippa knew no fear. When his arms tightened, begging her to come to him, she leaned willingly against his chest, her hands splayed against his surcoat. It was she who raised her mouth to his. Their lips met, her mouth softening beneath his, as this time she found much pleasure in the way his lips moved against hers.
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��By the curly hairs on Christ’s holy ass! What is this?!”
Oswald’s cry rang through the glade. Birds screeched from the trees. His temperamental palfrey leapt into a nervous, whinnying dance.
Terror shot through Philippa. She shoved free from Temric’s embrace and whirled to face the cleric. Oswald yet stood where shock had halted him, his blue gown hitched high above his scarlet-stockinged knees. When he realized she watched him, he swiftly tied the drawstring of his chausses and dropped his gown.
Philippa shot a panicked look at Temric. He shook his head at her. “Nay, no fear, ma petite,” he said quietly, “not on my account. I’ll see you bear no blame for this.” Shooting her a swift smile, he turned to face Oswald.
The cleric’s brows were yet perched high upon his forehead. “Temric, I cannot believe what my eyes have seen.”
“Would that you had not seen it,” Temric retorted with no sign of shame or embarrassment in his manner. “However, if you choose to relate to her husband how I so cruelly forced my attentions upon his wife, then I will accept the responsibility, and he may have my head.”
Philippa started in horror. Sweet Mary, but it wouldn’t be just her whom Roger would kill over this, but him as well. Fear for herself disappeared beneath a new and desperate need to save him from her husband.
“Nay,” she cried out, “you must not believe him. Temric seeks only to protect me from my sin, when it was I who tempted him. Mother Margaret knows that I am Eve incarnate. Now you have seen evidence of how right she is in her judgment.” As she lied, she folded her hands in supplication.
Temric shot her a quick frown. “My lady, you must not abase yourself on my behalf,” he said hoarsely. “Oswald, this would never have happened had I not ignored Father Edwin’s warnings and spent this past year in conversation with Lady Lindhurst.”
Astounded, Philippa whirled to look at him. “What sort of explanation is this? You make it seem as if we’d been lovers, when I have never seen you before this very day,” she protested, glancing between the cleric and the knight to gauge their reactions. “This I vow, Oswald,” she told the cleric.
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