Elizabeth turned her attention to Joseph, standing next to her little brother. The servant looked pointedly at the boy and then nodded to Elizabeth. With a little nod of her own, Elizabeth acknowledged that he would do what was necessary, and continued on her way.
She had made up her mind that she could wait only one more day. Then she would leave. And tonight, while the soldiers slept, Thomas would be taken by Joseph. If only the Baron would cooperate! If he would just wake up and listen to her! With these thoughts Elizabeth returned to her patient.
Roger had taken control of the dogs, seeing to their food and exercise, a task he disliked immensely if his grumblings were any indication. The reason was the dogs’ strange behavior whenever Roger approached the sleeping knight. “They act as if I would harm my lord,” he muttered with disgust.
“They protect him,” Elizabeth said, smiling. She too was surprised by the animals’ obvious loyalty to the warrior and could not explain it.
Several times during the second day Roger left her alone with his lord and Elizabeth acknowledged that she had finally gained his trust.
It was the middle of the second night when Elizabeth, sitting beside the sleeping form, again took up the damp cloth and bathed his brow.
The warrior now lay in a deep, seemingly untroubled sleep, his breathing no longer shallow. Elizabeth was pleased with his progress but thought that the fever still held him prisoner.
“What manner of man are you,” she whispered, “that so many are so loyal?” She closed her eyes then, for the quiet was soothing, but when she reopened them, she was shocked to find the warrior’s deep brown eyes intently watching her. Elizabeth’s reaction was instinctive; she reached out to touch his forehead. His left hand intercepted hers and slowly, effortlessly, he pulled her toward him. When her breasts were pressed tightly against his bare chest, and their lips were but inches from each other, he spoke. “Protect me well, nymph.”
Elizabeth smiled at his words, sure that he spoke with delirium.
They continued to stare at each other for an eternity of seconds and then the lord’s other hand moved to the back of her neck. With gentle pressure he forced their lips to meet. His mouth was warm and soft and the feeling was not unpleasant, Elizabeth decided. As soon as it began, the chaste kiss ended, and again they studied each other.
Elizabeth could not seem to draw her gaze away, for his eyes, rich and velvet and as dark as his hair, seemed to hypnotize her with their intensity.
Like a child who knows he will not be caught, Elizabeth grew bold and gave in to her innocent curiosity, carefully sliding her hands behind the knight’s neck to rest entwined in his hair. The softness against the hard muscles surprised her and she slowly began to massage his neck. Still they watched each other. If Elizabeth had been more astute, she would have noticed that his eyes were no longer glazed over with fever.
She made her decision. This time it was she who pulled him to her and touched his mouth with her own in a sweet, gentle caress. She did not really know how to proceed, for she was totally unskilled in the art of making love and was much like a struggling toddler taking his first cautious steps as she experimented against his lips. A warm tingling sensation began to spread through her limbs and she enjoyed this novel feeling.
Her curiosity satisfied, she tried to pull back but the lord was no longer passive in her embrace. His hold tightened and he became the aggressor, his mouth suddenly hard and demanding as he forced his tongue deep into her parted mouth, bruising her tender lips in his assault. Elizabeth’s body reacted swiftly to his sensual attack, tentatively touching his tongue with her own in the beginning of the duel as old as time. It was an amazing moment. Feelings Elizabeth had never known she possessed fought for recognition, urging her onward in this new unsatiable quest. Alarmed more by her uninhibited response than by his assault, Elizabeth jerked back from his rapidly weakening hold. She fought to control the trembling of her body, rubbing her swollen lips with her fingers, looking everywhere but at his face, for she knew her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
Finally she willed her gaze to return to his face and sighed with relief. The warrior was falling asleep. Within seconds his eyes were closed.
With a soft laugh she whispered, “You burn with fever, my lord, and will remember none of this.”
To her consternation, the warrior slowly smiled.
Chapter Two
ON THE SIXTH DAY THE LORD AWAKENED.
The mist from the drug-induced sleep was slow to recede and in its wake, confusion and momentary disorientation clouded the warrior’s mind. He opened his eyes to bright sunlight and stared at the area visible to him from his position on his side while he struggled to remember where he was. It looked so familiar and yet so strange and new. A frown marred his rugged features as scenes of the battle flashed before his eyes, interfering with his need to know what had followed.
With a muttered oath of frustration, the knight rolled onto his back. A stab of pain, not unlike the initial thrust from the enemy’s sword, shot up his shoulder blades and he inhaled deeply in an effort to stop the tremors coursing through his body. The brief flicker of pain in his eyes was his only acknowledgment of the injury, for pain was an accepted constant in his life. To give it voice was to weaken. Strength, invincible and absolute, was Lord Geoffrey’s power, and weakness, the hated antithesis, belonged only to lesser men.
“Welcome back to the living, my lord.” The gruff voice of his faithful vassal, Roger, removed the scowl of concentration from the knight’s face. Now he would have some answers. He nodded, noting his vassal’s haggard appearance. The proof of his companion’s vigil during his illness was obvious. His loyalty pleased the lord.
“What day is this?” Geoffrey asked, his voice rough from sleep.
“It has been six days since you were felled,” Roger answered.
The lord frowned over this information, glancing around the room once again while he formulated questions in his mind. The sight of the banner hanging above the hearth halted his wondering gaze. For a long silent moment, Lord Geoffrey studied the design. Suddenly the memory of his “vision” blocked all thought, all movement. She was alive, she was real, and the scenes of what had transpired within this room were as clear and fresh as the new day.
“Where is she?”
“You remember?” Surprise sounded in the vassal’s voice.
“Yes,” Geoffrey answered in a soft voice. “Bring her to me.” The terseness of the command after the gentle acknowledgment jarred Roger.
“She has gone.”
Lord Geoffrey’s bellow of outrage could be heard in the courtyard below, and was both intimidating and somewhat heartening. It clearly stated his displeasure over some matter, but also indicated that he was well on the mend. Roger took the verbal blows with practiced ease, knowing full well that the tirade would soon end and that he would then be allowed the opportunity to explain all. Lord Geoffrey possessed a fierce temper that was quick to ignite, but he was a fair man. One only had to wait until the anger eased, provided one was courageous enough, Roger mused, and then state his case.
The command finally came. “From the beginning, Roger. Tell me.”
Roger’s narrative was swift and without interruption. Only when the telling was complete did he pause for breath, for though he had served his lord nearly five summers, it was a fact that his leader still had the power to undermine his ability to think clearly when he was as upset as he now appeared.
“My lord, I would have bargained with the devil, and met his terms willingly, to save your life.” It was said as a fervent vow, and Geoffrey could find little fault with his friend. His loyalty was absolute. “Still, I did try to find out where she lived. Yet everyone I questioned seemed not to know her.”
“Do they speak the truth?”
“I do not think so. I think they try to protect her, but I do not understand why.”
“The boy she asked about . . . bring him to me,” Geoffrey commanded. He for
ced himself to control his frustration and alarm. She was gone! Outside the walls, unprotected . . .
Roger hurried to the door and gave the order to one of the sentries. He then returned to the chair before the hearth and sat down. “The boy almost got away,” he began, shaking his head. “One of the guards intercepted the girl’s servant stealing away with the lad. I have questioned the servant but he will tell me nothing. I thought I would wait for you to make sense of all of this.”
“The boy will tell me all I need to know,” Geoffrey said.
“He still does not speak, my lord. How—”
“Do not question me,” Geoffrey interrupted, his tone sharp. “I must be certain.”
Within short minutes, the child stood before the lord. He showed neither fear nor timidity, meeting the leader’s probing stare with a wide grin. Geoffrey was amused by the lad’s fearlessness, for it was true that grown men were known to quake in their boots when Geoffrey turned his attention to them, yet this wisp of a boy acted as if he was about to break into a fit of giggles. He was dressed in peasant garb and in need of a bath.
The child wasn’t afraid. Thrilled was a far better description, for the man who had saved his life, the warrior who destroyed the band of men waylaying his protectors on the isolated route to London, was finally awake. The child’s memory began with Lord Geoffrey, and although the leader could have no knowledge of this fact, he was impressed with the innocent acceptance and trust in the lad’s eyes.
“You will not die now?” the child asked. Both Roger and Geoffrey showed surprise that the boy could speak, but before either of them could remark on the matter, the little one continued, “Everyone heard you yelling and they smiled.”
The child sounded so relieved and so sure of himself that Lord Geoffrey found himself smiling.
“Tell me your name,” he commanded in a gruff voice.
The child opened his mouth, frowned, and then shrugged his shoulders. His voice held surprise when he replied, “I do not know my name.”
“Do you know where you came from, how you came to be here?” Roger asked the question and the boy turned to stare at him.
“He saved me,” the child said, pointing at Geoffrey. “That is how I came to be here,” he explained. “I am to be a knight.” The boy’s shoulders straightened with pride. He had figured that out all by himself.
Lord Geoffrey exchanged a look with Roger and turned back to the boy. “Who do you belong to?” he asked, although he already held the answer.
“To you?” The child no longer looked so sure of himself. He clutched his hands together while he waited for an answer.
The nervous action was not missed by the warrior. He had rarely dealt with one so young, but the instinct to protect, to guard, pulled at him. “Aye,” he answered, inwardly wincing at the harshness in his tone. “Now leave me. We will talk again, later.”
The child looked relieved. The lord watched him run to the door, wishing the boy to smile instead of frown and wondering why he felt this way. The fever must have left him weak in spirit as well as body, he decided.
“My lord?” the boy asked from the doorway, his back facing the leader so that his expression was hidden.
“Yes?” the lord answered impatiently.
“Are you my father?” He turned then, and Geoffrey had a clear view of the torment and confusion on the boy’s face.
“No.”
His answer brought tears to the youngster’s eyes. Lord Geoffrey glanced at Roger with an expression that clearly stated, “Now what?” Roger cleared his throat and muttered to the boy, “He is not your father, lad. He is your lord. Your father was his vassal.”
“My father is dead?”
“Aye,” Geoffrey answered. “And you are in my care now.”
“To train to be a knight?” the boy asked with a frown.
“Yes, to train to be a knight.”
“You are not my father, but you are my lord,” the boy stated very matter-of-factly. “ ’Tis almost the same thing,” he announced, challenging Lord Geoffrey with an unwavering stare. “Is it not?”
“Yes,” the warrior answered with exasperation. “ ’Tis the same.”
Neither the lord nor Roger said another word until the door was closed behind the child. They could hear him boasting to the guards posted at the door, and Roger was the first to smile. “Thomas surely had his hands full with that one,” he chuckled. “And he was not a young man when the boy came along, if my mind serves me well.”
“How could I have forgotten?” the leader asked. “Thomas had several children, all female, and fully grown before his wife gave him a son. His pride reached London,” Geoffrey added.
“And the girl?” Roger asked.
“She is his sister. You have only to look at the boy’s eyes, Roger, to see the truth. They are replicas of hers.” Geoffrey swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His legs felt weak but he braced them against the side of the bed and took a deep breath, willing himself strength. “She hides from me, Roger, and I will know the reason.”
“We were told that the entire family was killed,” Roger said. “And the boy was dressed as a peasant . . .”
“Obviously for his protection, for he is heir to Montwright. . . . ”
“The servant who tried to take the lad, perhaps he can tell you the answers to this riddle,” Roger advised.
“Yes. I am sure he knows where his mistress hides,” Geoffrey agreed. “He will tell me why she is afraid.”
“Afraid?” Roger laughed. “I doubt she is afraid of anyone or anything. Why, she had all of us doing her bidding. Horace tells all who will listen how the golden one walked into the great hall and enchanted all who were present. All but me,” Roger added.
“You were not enchanted?” the leader inquired with one raised eyebrow.
“Humbled,” Roger admitted with a sheepish grin. “I am too old to be enchanted.”
Geoffrey chuckled and walked over to look out the window. He stared out at the forest while he listened to Roger.
“When I first saw her, I was filled with anger. I did not expect a slip of a girl to tend you and I was convinced that you were dying. But she knew what she was about. Her lack of fear intrigued me. She was a contradiction,” Roger admitted, “but I noticed the vulnerability in her when she asked me about the boy. I was too exhausted at the time to put two and two together. I see the connection now.”
“Why did she leave, knowing that her home was once again secure? To chance the outside when she could be well protected here . . . ” Geoffrey turned from the window and added, “I will find her.”
“And when you do?” Roger asked.
“I will make her mine,” the warrior answered in a hard, determined voice. “She will be mine.”
The vow was made.
It took less than an hour to conduct the necessary business of righting Montwright. Roger had been most efficient, and the men were all hard at work reinforcing the walls. Lord Geoffrey dressed—all in black, as was his mood—and waited impatiently in the great hall for the servant to be brought before him.
He was becoming wild with anger, frustration, and worry. Finding the girl before harm befell her was becoming an obsession. He admitted as much but could not explain it. He only knew that seeing her in the forest before the battle to regain Montwright Manor was indeed an omen, and the omen had become reality, had it not, when he awakened to find her caring for him? His reasoning reeked of superstition, yet he was powerless to control it, and for the first time in his twenty-seven years, he found himself ruled by emotion. It was a chilling admission. Emotion had no place in his life. It clouded reason. Discipline and logic, as cold and sharp as the blade he swung for power’s sake, ruled his every action. And it would be so again, he pledged, just as soon as the girl was found. Found and claimed.
“Here he is, my lord,” Roger said from the doorway. He shoved the trembling servant to the floor in front of the lord.
Lord Geoffrey turned from
his position in front of the hearth and gave the servant a hard look. “Your name?”
“I am called Joseph, my lord. Loyal servant to Thomas,” he added. The servant knelt and bowed his head, showing his respect.
“You have a strange way of proving your loyalty to Thomas,” Geoffrey said in a hard voice. “Trying to take his heir to the outside could well cost you your life.”
“I meant him no harm, my lord,” Joseph whispered. “I was trying to protect him.”
“Protect him from me?” Geoffrey’s bellow fairly unnerved the servant.
He shook his head and tried to find his voice. “Nay, my lord! We only thought to keep little Thomas safe until you were recovered.”
“And you thought him unsafe here?” Geoffrey asked.
“It was overheard that Belwain, uncle to little Thomas, had been sent for. My mistress believes that Belwain was behind the murders of her family. She did not want Thomas here when her uncle arrived.”
“And that is why she has left?” Geoffrey asked, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful gesture.
“Aye, my lord.” Joseph sagged his shoulders and chanced a look at the fiercesome man before him.
“And are you loyal to me?” Geoffrey asked.
“Aye, my lord,” Joseph answered, placing a hand on his chest where his heart beat a wild pace.
“Stand and prove your loyalty,” Geoffrey demanded in a harsh voice.
Joseph immediately obeyed. He stood with his head slightly bowed and waited for the next order. It was not long in coming.
“Tell me where your mistress hides.”
“Near the waterfall, about an hour’s ride from here, my lord,” Joseph answered without hesitation. “When she learns that you are awake, she will return to talk with you,” he predicted.
Julie Garwood - [3 Book Box Set] Page 4