A Knight of Honor

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Slane turned from the window at her movement. There was worry and a slight scowl to his brow, which seemed to vanish when he saw her sitting up in the bed. He moved to her side and Elizabeth reached out a hand for him.

  His large hand engulfed hers, sheltering it in warmth. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Better,” Elizabeth smiled. “Now that you’re here.”

  A troubled look clouded his blue eyes for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. He smiled at her, but Elizabeth could see the tension around the corners of his lips. “Is something wrong?” she wondered.

  “No,” he said. “Everything will be fine now that you’re getting better.” He patted her hand.

  Elizabeth’s gaze dropped down to his hand. He was patting her hand absently, as if his mind were on something else. “Your search for that girl isn’t over yet is it?”

  Slane withdrew his hand and stood. “No,” he admitted.

  Elizabeth felt a twinge of disappointment in her breast. He was going to leave her again. That was why he was acting so distracted. She wished he didn’t have to spend all of his time in search of another woman, but she knew that was what his honor demanded. And she would have him no other way. “It’s all right, darling,” she tried to soothe him. “Truly.”

  He studied her for a moment. Then he suddenly came forward and knelt at her bedside. He took her hand into his and pressed his forehead against her wrists. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he groaned, “I’m so sorry.”

  She stroked his golden hair. “You don’t have to be, Slane,” she murmured.

  But Slane remained in his reverent position for a long time. When he finally rose, his shoulders were squared, and there was determination in his voice. “We leave for Castle Donovan in two days.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Slane reined his horse in outside the Queen’s Inn and quickly dismounted. For three days, he had tried not to show his desperation and anxiety. John had gone out one more time to search for Taylor. But Slane knew that by then she would be long gone.

  Now he turned to John and said, “Stay here with lady Elizabeth. I will see if they have any rooms available.”

  John nodded and Slane stepped into the inn.

  The inn was a tide of bodies. There would be no rooms tonight -- that much was obvious. Slane doubted if there would even be any floor space come nightfall. Even so, something made him stand in the doorway and sweep the inn’s large common room with his gaze. She will not be here, Slane reminded himself. But I will find her again. This I vow.

  Eyes full of fear caught his stare; eyes full of hopelessness turned away. Men, women, children -- all running from an invisible enemy, not knowing where or when or whom it would strike. I’m wasting my time here, Slane realized and started to turn back to the door. That was when he caught a glimpse of something familiar. A woman’s tunic. A familiar set of leggings. He turned back to the room. She was sitting in the back, her unkempt hair shielding her face. He moved forward and the crowd seemed to part for him. She sat motionless, her hands folded on the wooden table, her hair hanging wild as if it hadn’t been combed for days. Her tunic was ripped near her shoulder, and there was dried blood around it. Her head and shoulders were slumped as if she were sleeping. He could hardly believe his eyes, his luck! “Taylor?” he wondered aloud.

  “Hello,” she muttered.

  The relief that had begun to course through him at finding her was instantly replaced by growing concern. She had been hurt recently, and badly. There were rips in her clothing, sword cuts -- he was sure of it. And from the looks of the wounds, they hadn’t been cleaned properly. “Taylor?” Slane repeated when she didn’t look up. “You don’t look so good.” A fierce protectiveness flared within him. “Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you with me.”

  She moved her hands forward so that her tunic sleeves slid back. Ropes bound her wrists tightly together, chafing her skin. “Someone else has the same idea,” she said.

  “What kind of sick joke is this?” Slane asked hotly. “Who did this to you?” He grabbed the ropes and shook them, as if that simple movement would set her free.

  She stiffened, her face twisting in agony. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that,” she managed to gasp between her clenched teeth.

  Mortified, Slane let go of the rope. “I’m sorry,” he said. He quickly slid onto the bench opposite her and learned close to her across the table. He reached out a hand and carefully wiped strands of hair from her cheek, trying to see her eyes. “Who has taken you prisoner? Where are they?”

  She looked up at him through the strands of hair that fell back over her face. Behind the limp locks, her eyes were tired and glassy. “A mercenary named Magnus Gale.”

  Slane’s eyes narrowed at the man’s name. He had worked with the man before. Magnus was obviously intent on collecting Richard’s reward money.

  “He cornered me and we fought. He’s a very good fighter, you know. Or else I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  He was horrified to see a dark bruise on her cheek, her cut lip. Anger simmered and boiled his blood. “Magnus. I partnered with him once. But he was such a brutal bastard I couldn’t work with him anymore.” Slane frowned, scanning the common room again. “Where is that vermin?” And why are you just sitting here? he wondered, but didn’t ask aloud. Could Magnus have already put that fire of yours out?

  “He went to get food,” she said. “He’ll be back. If he’s not watching now. Slane...” she whispered imploringly, but stopped.

  Slane turned his eyes back to her. He saw the desperation in her eyes and stood. “To the devil with him. Come with me now.” He moved to her side of the table. “Wouldn’t you rather be in my care? Even though you want to spit in my face?” he asked, his voice sincere. “At least I won’t bind you like some slave.”

  She looked at him, gratefully. “Only if you’ll buy me an ale when we are very far from here,” she said, holding her hands out to him.

  “I’ll buy you two,” he said with a smile. He reached into his boot and, after retrieving a throwing dagger, quickly cut her hands free of the rope.

  She rubbed her chafed wrists, but suddenly froze as if that simple movement had caused her pain. “Slane,” she gritted. “I don’t know if I can walk. The wound in my side hurts like the devil. It’s still bleeding.”

  Slane felt his teeth clench. That bastard will pay for this, he vowed silently. He would have to carry her, but there was no way he could make it through this mass of bodies without aggravating her wounds even further. Then a sudden thought dawned on him. It wasn’t pleasant, but there was no other choice. He ran the dagger across his forefinger and then replaced the dagger in his boot.

  “What are you doing?” Taylor asked.

  “Getting you out of here,” Slane replied. He scanned the area around them until he spotted a drunk lying on the floor in a stupor. He bent down and wiped his finger near the corner of the man’s mouth, smearing blood across his skin. Then he stood and backed up until he bumped into a farmer. The farmer turned and, upon seeing Slane’s horrified look, followed Slane’s gaze to the drunken man.

  The farmer gasped and pointed a shaking finger. “Look!”

  “My God, he has the plague!” someone shouted from behind Slane.

  “The plague is here!” another woman cried as she saw the blood near the drunken man’s lips. “The Black Death has come to the inn.”

  Everyone who could stand bolted for the front door, pushing and shoving frantically to get out. A satisfied grin stretched across Slane’s lips as he watched the mad dash for the door. But then, a little boy stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, and Slane’s grin vanished. Feet pounded around the boy as people stampeded away from the Black Death. Slane leapt a fallen table to race to the boy, but he knew he was going to be too late.

  Then Taylor was there, pulling the boy into her, shielding him in her embrace, hugging him close to her chest. Slane saw a man stumble over her, knocking her to the floor.
He rushed toward her instantly. But even as he moved, Taylor scrambled to her feet and slammed into the wall, cradling the child against her protectively as the crowd swarmed past.

  Slane reached them, pressing his own body against them to protect Taylor from the pushes and jabs of the mad crowd. With the child squirming between them, Slane dipped his head to meet Taylor’s eyes, a swelling of pride in his chest. But when she lifted her exquisite eyes to his, Slane saw the brightness of pain reflected in them. She began to slide down the wall, but Slane caught her around the shoulders with one hand and removed the child from her arms with the other. In the next moment a woman appeared at his side and took the boy from him. Slane barely saw her embrace the child and rush him away into the night.

  Slane scooped Taylor up in his arms, refusing to acknowledge the dread racing up his spine, encircling his stomach, and squeezing until he could hardly breathe. He gently moved her to a nearby table and eased her onto the bench.

  “That was downright deceitful, Slane Donovan,” Taylor muttered, but stopped as she closed her eyes, swaying. When she steadied herself, she lifted her left arm and glanced down at her tunic.

  Slane followed her gaze. Her tunic was soaked with fresh blood. Worry sliced through him like a blade.

  “Get away from her, Donovan.”

  Slane whirled to see Magnus Gale, a trencher of food in one hand, the hilt of his sword in the other. He was a muscular man, encased by a protective shell of chain mail armor.

  “She’s mine,” Magnus added, his teeth clenched. “And so is the reward that goes with her.”

  “There will be no reward, Magnus,” Slane corrected him, rising to face the man. “I am bringing her to my brother’s castle.” Slane turned back to Taylor. “We need to get you to a doctor,” he said. He searched the room with his eyes, finally lifting his own tunic over his head and pressing it tightly to her wound. He took her hand and noticed how cold it was. Outrage engulfed him. He placed a kiss to her knuckles before pressing her hand firmly against the wound. “Keep pressure on it or you’ll bleed to death.”

  Magnus slapped his hand against Slane’s bare shoulder. “She’s not going anywhere with you. I’m taking her to Castle Donovan.”

  Slane whirled and struck with the speed of a cobra, wrapping his hand around Magnus’s throat. The trencher fell to the ground, spilling the food across the floor.

  Slane drove his body forward, forcing Magnus to stumble backward, picking up speed as he pushed the other man along, finally slamming him hard into the wall with such force that the entire building seemed to shake. Slane ripped the sword from Magnus’s sheath and tossed it across the room. Then he tightened his hold on Magnus’s throat.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, you filthy scum,” Slane said through gritted teeth. “The lady travels with me.”

  Magnus struggled for a moment. Then he went absolutely still.

  “My lord,” the barkeep called. “I want no trouble here. Please. Take your argument outside.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Slane called out to the barkeep. He held Magnus still and turned to glance at Taylor over his shoulder. “Can you make it outside?” he asked.

  “I -- I don’t know,” she answered quietly.

  Suddenly, Magnus lashed out his foot, swiping Slane’s feet from beneath him. Slane landed hard on his back. Immediately, the mercenary retrieved a dagger from his belt.

  “Now you die, Donovan,” Magnus sneered, bringing his blade crashing down.

  Slane grabbed Magnus’s wrist, stopping the strike, the deadly tip of the blade hovering only inches from his chest. Slane jerked his feet up, flipping Magnus over his head.

  Both men quickly shot to their feet, eyeing the other warily. “What is she to you, Donovan, that you risk your life for her?” Magnus snarled, backing toward Taylor.

  “If she dies because of your foolishness, then you will die.”

  Magnus chuckled, still inching back. Slane jerked forward, but Magnus slashed the blade at him, halting his movement. Then Magnus moved suddenly, racing toward Taylor.

  A small scream escaped her throat as she instinctively swung her hands at him. But her reflexes were slow and Magnus easily ducked her arms, encircling her waist with his large hands. His brutal touch, so close to her wound, made her cry out as he lifted her off her feet.

  Slane dove to his left, twisting his body in midair, rolling off the nearby table top to come to his feet right in front of Magnus. His fist wasted no time in connecting with Magnus’s nose. He smiled with grim satisfaction as he heard bone crunch with the blow.

  Magnus took the punch, his head rocking back, his hold on Taylor tightening. When the blood started to flow from his shattered appendage, he smiled. Then his booted foot lashed out, hitting Slane in the stomach. “She’s mine,” Magnus shouted. “You can have her after I get the reward.”

  “She’s worth nothing dead, you fool,” Slane snarled, fighting back the pain in his stomach. Slane reached for the hilt of his sword, and when he saw Magnus’s eyes shift to follow the movement, he grabbed a nearby mug of ale with his other hand and hurled the liquid at Magnus’s face. The ale splashed into his eyes, and Magnus blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear his vision.

  Slane seized Magnus’s wrist, then grabbed Taylor’s arm, yanking her from the other man’s hold. Slane pulled back and delivered a stunning blow to Magnus’s already bleeding nose, then followed with another lightning-fast strike to his chin.

  Magnus fell heavily to the ground, his dagger clattering across the floor.

  Rage burned through Slane’s body and he charged forward.

  Magnus kicked Slane back and rose, speeding toward him, catching him around the midsection and falling on top of him.

  Slane lashed out, landing a heavy blow to Magnus’s throat. He heard a sickening crunch. Then, suddenly, Magnus fell heavily on top of him, his full weight crushing down on Slane mercilessly. Slane struggled to get free, finally managing to wedge a knee between himself and Magnus. He pushed with his leg, moving Magnus enough to be able to slide out from under him. He quickly moved to his feet and towered over the prone mercenary, waiting for him to rise.

  But he never did.

  Slane waited a long moment before finally bending down to grab Magnus’s shoulder and turn him over. The mercenary’s eyes were wide and glassy. Lifeless.

  “My bar,” the barkeep groaned, appearing from behind an overturned table. “Who’s going to pay for all the damages? And the loss of my revenue?”

  Slane’s gaze slid to Taylor. She hadn’t moved from the spot where she had fallen. She was face down, her hair fanned out over her face, drops of blood beginning to drip from her side through her tunic.

  “Fetch me a doctor,” Slane said heatedly, “before I destroy the rest of your inn.”

  Slane moved to Taylor, kneeling at her side. His own thoughts mocked him. She’s so strong, so brave. She’ll be all right. His throat closed. She wasn’t moving. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that he would never see her eyes open again. “Taylor?” he whispered in a husky voice. He reached out a hand, only to discover that it was trembling. He gently touched her neck and prayed, holding his breath. With a relief so intense that it drained him, he felt her blood pulsating beneath her hot skin. “Oh, God,” he whispered in gratitude. He quickly grabbed his fallen tunic and pressed it tightly to her wound. He smoothed her hair from her brow and leaned over to see her face. “Taylor? Taylor, can you hear me?”

  Her eyes opened halfway, as if she would fall asleep at any moment. “Oh,” she groaned, and tried to push herself over. Pain stiffened every joint as it coursed through her veins. She curled her knees to her stomach and lifted her hand to grab her wound. Her hand brushed Slane’s and her eyes opened to meet his stare.

  The agony in her gaze tore at his soul.

  “It hurts so bad, Slane.”

  He brushed the loose hair from her eyes, cursing himself for being too slow. “The innkeeper went to fetch a doctor. Yo
u’ll be fine,” he tried to assure her, attempting to hide the doubt in his voice.

  “I could really use...” She stared up into his eyes for a long moment before agony tore across her face. “Slane,” she gasped, tears coming to her eyes.

  He pulled her body closer to his, pressing his face into her hair, kissing her temple. “I’m here, Taylor,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

  “Slane?” A man’s voice called from the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  Slane glanced up to see Elizabeth and John standing just inside the inn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Slane’s first impulse was to let go of Taylor and ease her back down to the floor. But his body refused to obey. His second impulse was to explain everything all at once in a torrent of words. But his lips refused to obey. His third impulse was to pull Taylor even tighter to his body as if she needed protection from the slender woman standing in the doorway with sharp, questioning eyes. His arms obeyed that one.

  Elizabeth’s brow furrowed; then her gaze swept the room, taking in the broken tables, the dead man on the floor. When her eyes returned to Slane, they were scowling in confusion. “Darling, what happened? Are you all right?”

  As she approached, Slane noticed the haughtiness and the slight tilting of her chin as she gazed at Taylor. He felt the stirrings of resentfulness somewhere deep inside him. But hadn’t he been the same way when he had first met Taylor? “Yes, I’m all right,” Slane answered. “But she’s not. She has a bad cut on her left side that needs to be sewn shut. I sent the barkeep to fetch a doctor, but I don’t know if he’s going to find one in time to help her.”

  “Let me do it,” Elizabeth said, kneeling beside him. “I’m quite capable. You know I am.” She tried to nudge him aside, but Slane refused to release Taylor. “Darling, fetch me some clean towels and warm water. I have a bag on your saddle. Bring it to me.”