Only For You

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by Hannah Howell


  As she edged along, she carefully studied the man she intended to kill. He was tall and broad of shoulder. She suspected he reached the rare height of six feet, yet there was a lean graceful strength to his large frame. Saxan knew she would be given only one chance to strike.

  Pausing, she tucked an errant curl back into the cap she wore. She had rinsed out her hair that morning and, sensing that her cousins were close on her heels, she had not taken the time to braid it and pin it up. Now she wished she had taken that time. Her hair was constantly slipping free of the cap and could interfere with her mission.

  Taking a steadying breath, she began to move again. Her gaze was fixed so steadily upon the earl’s face her eyes began to sting. He held none of the fair handsomeness she was accustomed to. The man was embued with a heavy, dark somberness. He neither smiled nor laughed as fully as his fellows. His features were sharply cut. An aquiline nose and high-boned cheeks added to the aloofness of his face. He was handsome, but she felt he was also cold. Cold enough to plunge a knife into a youth given into his care, she thought, her fury so intense that her stomach ached. She clung to that thought to cure herself of a sudden hesitation.

  Slipping her dagger from her belt, she walked stealthily toward him. Her whole body tensed as she left the concealing shadows at the edge of the room. Just as she was near enough to strike, she heard a heavy footfall behind her and knew someone had entered the room. Cursing softly, Saxan lunged at the earl.

  “M’lord! At your side!” the innkeeper bellowed.

  Botolf caught his attacker by the wrist even as the knife plunged toward his heart. He bellowed in surprise as he fell backwards, the small bench he sat on crashing to the floor at the same time he and his assailant did. Every man in the room sprang to his feet. Hands gripped the hilts of swords, but none moved to interfere. Botolf felt confident that the small size of his attacker insured his victory.

  As he and his assailant hit the hard, wooden, rush-covered floor, Botolf wondered fleetingly why Cecil was sending children after him. Intent upon questioning the boy, he tried not to hurt him too badly. That hesitation made the struggle last far longer than it should have.

  He was amazed at the skill and strength displayed by the slim youth who wrestled with him. His amazement turned swiftly to stunned astonishment when, as he flipped his adversary over and attempted to pin the lad down, the boy’s cap slipped off and a thick mass of silver blond hair spilled out.

  “By Christ’s foot, ’tis a maid,” gasped Botolf even as he finally won his battle and securely pinned the thrashing girl down.

  “ ’Tis Saxan,” cried Edric, rushing to Botolf’s side only to be diverted as his two flushed sons suddenly burst into the room. “You fumbled the telling,” he accused as they also rushed to the earl’s side.

  “We did not mean to,” protested Kenelm. “Olan blurted out the news that Pitney was dead, and Saxan just stood there staring at us, not moving, not saying a word. I fear it greatly overset us. We did not even realize that we had, more or less, told her that the earl had done the murder. It was Thylda who made us see our error.”

  “Aye,” continued Olan. “Once we talked to Thylda we saw how Saxan may have misunderstood us, but Saxan was gone by then.”

  “So we set out after her,” finished Kenelm.

  “And were very nearly too late,” snapped Edric, cuffing each son aside the head.

  Although aware of every word Edric and his sons said, all of Botolf’s attention was fixed upon the girl he held. She was not watching him, however. Her wide sapphire-blue eyes darted from her cousins to her uncle and back again. In contrast to her fair hair, light brown, delicately arced brows and long thick lashes highlighted her beautiful eyes. A small straight nose led to a full mouth that sorely tempted him. Her tiny oval face was thoroughly enchanting. He almost smiled when he found himself thinking irreverently that he had never known a lovelier assailant.

  Botolf felt Saxan’s lithe body relax beneath him as she began to understand what her kinsmen were saying. He leaned on one elbow, cupping his chin in his hand as he stared at her. It was hard, but he restrained the urge to smile when she finally looked at him.

  A small part of Saxan’s now confused mind took note of the fact that beneath the earl’s vaguely winged dark brows was a pair of lovely, soft-brown eyes. “You did not kill Pitney?” she asked.

  “Nay, mistresse,” he replied.

  “I see. Who did kill Pitney?”

  “Actually, ’twas a man who was sent to kill me, but Pitney intervened.” He reluctantly stood up, helping her to her feet.

  “Ah. And the fate of the assassin?”

  “He died a moment after he stabbed your brother.”

  “Do you have Pitney’s body?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He glanced toward Edric and his sons, then realized that they intended to leave the telling of Pitney’s survival to him. “You see, Pitney is not dead.” Botolf frowned as he watched all the color flood from her face, leaving her a sickly grey.

  “M’lord, I do believe that, for the very first time in my life, I am going to faint.”

  Botolf caught her even as she began to collapse. Seeing that her kinsmen were struck dumb by shock, he picked her up in his arms. He stepped over to his bench as one of his men righted it and sat down with Saxan settled comfortably on his lap. Edric and his sons cautiously edged closer to him.

  “Well, God’s bones, will you look at that.” Edric picked up one limp slim arm and let it drop. “She truly has swooned.”

  “Plainly she spoke the truth when she said she had never fainted before,” Botolf drawled as the Healdons seated themselves.

  Before Saxan’s kinsmen could reply, a pale, worried Lady Mary hurried into the room. Botolf realized his mother had not yet been asleep and had heard the ruckus. After all that had happened, she had naturally assumed that he was being attacked yet again. He almost laughed as she halted briefly in the doorway to gape at him. Instead of finding him in a life-or-death struggle, wounded or dead, she found him comfortably seated with a maid in lad’s attire settled neatly upon his lap.

  “Botolf,” she cried as she shook free of her shock and hurried to his side.

  Looking to heaven only to find no aid there, Botolf faced his mother. He could not really blame her for the accusation that was clear to read in her brown eyes. “’Tis not what you think, Mother.” Glancing at the Healdons he found no help from that quarter, only wide grins of amusement at his dilemma.

  “Do you know, she looks very familiar,” murmured Lady Mary.

  “The hair, is it, m’lady?” Edric inquired with an overdone innocence.

  “Why, aye, ‘tis the hair. ’Tis just like Pitney’s. Oh. Oh, my, ’tis your niece?” she asked Edric.

  “Aye. ’Tis Pitney’s sister Saxan. Just as I and Pitney feared my lads got the tale all twisted about. I blush to admit it, but Saxan came here to kill his lordship.”

  “Kill Botolf?”

  “Aye, but he caught her as she struck and we were able to explain the misunderstanding,” continued Kenelm.

  “Did you hurt the child, Botolf?” Lady Mary asked her son.

  “Nay, m’lady,” answered Olan. “My cousin fainted when his lordship told her that Pitney was not dead.”

  “Ah. Of course. Why are you holding her, Botolf?”

  “Well, he picked her up,” Olan pointed out with sweet, uncomplicated reason.

  “I see,” Lady Mary said very carefully, laughter straining her voice, laughter that matched the amusement in Edric’s and Botolf’s eyes.

  “I think the girl is coming ’round,” Wesley said.

  “Aye,” agreed Botolf. “I believe you are right.”

  Saxan opened her eyes slowly. She was suffering from a profound sense of disbelief. Never before had she done anything so weak. Then she recalled everything that had been said just before she had swooned. Her eyes widening, warily she lifted her gaze to meet that of the man who held her. Despite her high hopes a
nd rising excitement, she found herself thinking yet again that the earl had rather lovely, soft eyes for a man.

  Botolf was immediately captivated. The girl’s eyes were rich sapphire pools alive with emotion. Her lashes were even longer than he had first thought, for their light-brown color faded until they were nearly silver at the tips. Shaking free of his distraction, he hoped he did not look as foolishly spellbound as he felt.

  “My brother is alive?” Saxan demanded.

  He made no effort to recall her to the indelicacy of her position. “Aye, although he is wounded. Fear not, ’tis a wound he is rapidly recovering from. Your brother saved me from being murdered. Unarmed, he threw himself at my attacker. For that I saw him knighted.”

  For one brief moment Saxan feared she would embarrass herself by swooning a second time. She closed her eyes until she grasped some thread of control over the emotions swelling up inside her. As she grew calmer, she became all too aware of her immodest position upon the earl’s lap. What puzzled her was how dangerously content she was to be there. Subduing that feeling, she again opened her eyes. This time she turned her attention on her far-too-amused uncle.

  “Did you not happen to notice that I am seated upon a strange man’s lap?” she asked with a false idleness.

  “Well, he is not really strange, lass. ’Tis the earl, our liege lord.”

  “I do realize that, Uncle. Do you think that the next time a message of any importance must be sent to Wolfshead, you could use someone other than these two wooden-headed fools?” The one clear thought which came through all the others thrashing about in her head was that, due to her cousins’ ineptitude, she had almost killed an innocent man.

  “Saxan!” Olan protested, looking highly outraged.

  Slowly, she rose from Botolf’s lap, glaring at her two cousins all the while. “Aye, mayhap fools is a poor choice of word. Idiots is a better one, or doffs, or even tomfools.” She swung at Olan, who had already nearly fallen from his seat in his frantic attempts to avoid her steady advance. “Mops!”

  “Now, Saxan, ’twas only a misunderstanding,” Kenelm said in a nervous attempt to soothe his furious cousin. “Surely you can forgive that?”

  “I will show you my forgiveness!” She threw Kenelm’s tankard at his head, savoring his curses when her aim proved true.

  Olan grabbed her even as she reached for something else to throw. He was too slow. She had already grabbed a plate, and the metal made a clear, ringing sound as she slammed it down on his head. Saxan found it a highly gratifying noise, then cursed as she and Olan tumbled to the floor. Her curses increased when Kenelm dashed to his brother’s aid only to end up in the scramble himself. Saxan was aware of the laughter of Botolf’s men, but she was too furious to worry about being the object of their amusement.

  Botolf looked at a heartily laughing Edric. “Do you not think you ought to put a stop to this?”

  “Nay. Saxan will not hurt the boys too badly.”

  “Sir Edric,” Lady Mary scolded softly.

  “Be at ease, m’lady, I will put an end to it shortly. The lads deserve a bit of abuse, and methinks Saxan needs to give her anger some release. I will step in when the lads forget that their cousin Saxan is a lady and start to really fight back or when she takes to cursing too loudly and too profanely.”

  Laughing, Botolf realized such an occurrence was common, for Edric. was right at hand when the change of circumstances he had mentioned took place. Only a man accustomed to such rows could be so alert and skilled Just as Kenelm. drew back a fist to deliver a very ungallant tap to Saxan, Edric grabbed his son. The other two combatants turned on Edric, glaring at this unwelcome interference. Botolf struggled to control his laughter.

  “Just let me hit her the once,” protested Kenelm. “The shrew bit me.”

  “Now, you know you cannot bloody her nose,” Edric said calmly. “She is a girl.”

  “Well, there is naught to stop me from bloodying his,” Saxan proclaimed as she leapt to her feet, swinging one small fist at Kenehn.

  With remarkable agility, Edric tossed Kenelm aside. The man not only deflected Saxan’s blow, but caught her firmly in his arms. It was done so neatly Botolf was confident the move had been developed for just such an incident Botolf had to bite the inside of his cheek to repress his grin as Edric dragged the still-furious Saxan back to his side.

  “Now, my omnipotent niece, allow me to introduce you to your liege. You do recall the man you nearly skewered but a moment ago?”

  “Aye, but you need not sound so condemning,” Saxan grumbled, embarrassed and a little afraid, but determined to hide her discomfiture. “ ’Twas an honest mistake, and I missed.”

  “This impertinent wench is Saxan Honey Todd, m’lord. Saxan, your near victim is Botolf Corwine Lavington, Baron of Merewood and Earl of Regenford.” Edric eased his hold on her. “Make your curtsey. Let him see that you have at least a few manners.”

  Saxan scowled at her uncle, but smiled sweetly at Botolf. Despite her attire, she managed to pantomime a credible, graceful curtsey, then sat on the edge of the bench next to her uncle. Now that her fury at her cousins had eased, her thoughts centered on one thing. The possibility of punishment for her attack troubled her only briefly. She was beginning to feel confident that there would be none.

  “May I see my brother now?” she asked politely

  Botolf suppressed the urge to laugh aloud. The impudent girl revealed neither embarrassment nor repentance despite her attempt to kill him and her undignified brawl with her cousins. He felt sure she did not understand that her behavior was highly unusual amongst young ladies. It was evident she fully expected to be accepted for what she was, oddities and all; and, if she were not, she cared not a fig.

  For the first time in a long while, Botolf found himself keenly interested in a female for far more than lust. Covertly appraising the lithe frame revealed so clearly in her black jerkin and hose, he admitted to himself that lust was certainly there as well. He was fascinated by her. Botolf wondered fleetingly if Saxan’s oddness was the basis of his attraction for her. If she lacked so many of a lady’s delicate airs, did she also lack the faults? Shaking his speculations aside, he set his mind firmly upon the matter of her brother.

  “Of course. I will take you there myself.” He rose, holding out his hand.

  Saxan hesitated. Holding hands was not the usual way a gentleman escorted a lady. Then she shrugged and placed her hand in his. The way his large hand closed so completely around her tiny fingers stirred an unfamiliar feeling within her. She fought to keep her sudden confusion from showing in her face. That chore was made easier when she risked a glance at his cool features. Plainly, he was not feeling a thing.

  Botolf suddenly felt strongly inclined to drag Saxan upstairs to his bedchamber. Glancing down at her, he was ashamed of the wave of blind lust that had swept over him as she had placed her delicate hand in his. She was such a tiny woman, fragile. The sensuous plans whirling in his mind would probably break her if not terrify her.

  “You say Pitney heals well?” she asked Botolf as he escorted her up the narrow stairs toward the bedchambers.

  “Aye,” Botolf replied, pleased to hear none of his lustful thoughts reflected in his voice. “My mother has stayed at his side since he was wounded. He was well enough this eve to flirt with the innkeeper’s eldest daughter.”

  “He would flirt with a maid if he were on his deathbed,” Saxan remarked with dry sarcasm. “Even Kenelm and Olan, for all they have naught but air between their ears, can turn a pretty phrase and a maid’s head. My kin seem to be born with the skill.” She tensed when Botolf halted before a door.

  Pitney was asleep when she and Botolf entered the room, as was young Farold. Botolf roused Farold and sent him away. He kept a close watch on Saxan as, slowly, she approached Pitney’s bedside and decided it would be best if he left the pair alone. He hesitated as he started out the door, pausing to assure himself that the reunion went well. If Saxan swooned again, Pitney
was in no condition to help her.

  “Pitney,” Saxan whispered as she reached out one trembling hand to touch his cheek.

  Pitney’s eyes fluttered open and he fixed his sleepy gaze on Saxan, smiling weakly. “Greetings, Ugly. The fools told you wrong, did they?”

  “Aye,” she answered in a voice thick with tears. “Rest easy, I have not slain the earl.”

  “That is news to ease my fears, although I cannot fathom why you should ever wish to kill the man. Confound you, you are not going to start weeping on me, are you?”

  “Aye, I believe I am.”

  As Pitney wrapped his arms around the weeping Saxan, Botolf slipped quietly from the room. It was moving and somehow reassuring to see that a family could be tied together as closely as the Todds and their kin seemed to be. He wondered briefly if that was one of the things that made them seem odd to so many people. Such familial love was becoming sadly rare. Botolf saw only good in it. He knew it was yet another reason he wanted to keep a close eye on Saxan Honey Todd.

  Three

  Botolf bit back a smile as he caught his mother watching him. It was a wary, intent observation that had endured throughout the morning meal. She had clearly sensed his distraction, and her motherly instincts told her that his deep thought was inspired by one Saxan Todd. Botolf felt she should be pleased that he was regaining some interest in women other than the harlots and paramours he used to serve his manly needs. The look on his mother’s face, however, hinted that she was not sure she liked his choice. Lady Mary probably found Saxan Todd confusing. Botolf sipped his cider calmly, waiting for his mother to garner up the courage to ask the questions so clearly troubling her.

  “Saxan does look remarkably like Pitney,” she finally said, glancing at Sir Edric, who sat on Botolf’s left.

  Edric smiled faintly. “And acts much like him, too.” He chuckled when she blushed and began to falter for a denial. “Nay, m’lady, do not waste your kind words. I speak the truth, and we both know it. The poor girl’s mother died thirteen years back, and mine was already long buried by then. She has two sisters, but they were wed and gone ere she was much more than a bairn.”

 

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