Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  She said nothing as she approached him and knelt before the place where he sat on the stool. He supposed the offended little sniff she made when she drew close had as much to do with his malodor from days of riding as it did with her obvious objection to his presence in her home. Without looking into his face, Lady Emmalyn set about untying the underarm laces of his worn Crusader's tunic, then stood and pulled the garment over his head. Her gaze lingered on the bloodstained, faded surcoat as if to count the number of lives that had left their mark on the pale red silk. Too many even for Cabal to hazard a guess now--the last having been this beauty's highborn husband.

  “I reckon 'tis good only for the fire,” he said, feeling somewhat relieved when she finally set the thing aside.

  Her blond head bowed, Lady Emmalyn turned her attention to the leather thongs that secured his chain mail hauberk together at the sides. With deft, fine-boned fingers, she loosened the laces and helped him shrug out of the cumbersome link armor. His padded gambeson vest came off next, then his undertunic, leaving him bared to the waist.

  The weight removed, Cabal clamped a hand to his neck and closed his eyes, trying to roll the kinks from his neck and glad for the freedom to stretch his tired muscles. When he lifted his lids a moment later, Lady Emmalyn stood before him, watching. She stared at a spot at the center of his chest, her eyes rooted in curiosity to the small object he wore suspended on a cord around his neck. The cold feel of the amulet against his skin burrowed deeper with every heartbeat that her gaze lingered.

  “I can manage the rest,” he told her, a terse edge to his voice that actually made her draw back a pace.

  She gave him her back and walked to the hearth to stoke the waning fire. Cabal removed his mail leggings, then stripped off his chausses, all the while watching Lady Emmalyn's unpracticed grace as she busied herself with gathering a wedge of soap and a folded linen drying sheet that he would need for his bath. Cabal slowed his progress on the other side of the room, if only to observe her a bit longer, marveling at the tenacity that seemed coiled so tightly within her petite frame.

  An enticingly sensual frame, which his long-neglected libido was only too eager to notice.

  “Your water grows cold, my lord.”

  Had she sensed his more than appreciative appraisal? Cabal grinned wryly at the back of her up-tilted head, then shed his braies and stepped into the steaming, spice-scented bathwater. The fragrant heat stole his breath as he sunk down into the padded tub, reclining as best he could. The vessel had not been constructed for a man of his size, but even with his knees bent and sticking out of the water and his upper arms pressing against the sides, Cabal felt a bit of his tension begin to melt away. That is, until he felt Lady Emmalyn's hands come to rest tentatively on his shoulders.

  “Shall I start with your back or your chest?”

  She asked the question with about as much passion as a butcher might inquire after a preferred cut of meat, but the combined effect of her touch and her silky voice so close to his ear rendered Cabal nearly bereft of coherent thought. “Stay there,” he growled on a throat suddenly gone dry. “Where you are is fine, my lady.”

  He shifted in the cramped tub, trying not to let his pleasure show in the tight groan that escaped his lips as Lady Emmalyn dipped her hands into the water and set to work soaping his back. Her touch was light, uncertain--exceedingly more erotic to Cabal than the practiced hands of the washerwomen sent along to Palestine to service the Crusaders. He felt her lathered fingers skim over the various battle scars that riddled his skin, heard her quiet, indrawn breath as she leaned forward to better reach his arms and shoulders.

  The rough fabric of her homespun gown grazed his wet skin, her breasts barely touching his back. Unintentional, he was certain, but the whispered contact sent a bolt of lust through him that turned his knuckles white where his hands now gripped the rim of the washtub. God's wounds. He had not been so long without female company that this woman should arouse him so effortlessly.

  Cabal exhaled deeply, searching for something to concentrate on aside from his sudden, urgent want to feel her hands all over his body. He found a bit of promise in a tapestry that hung above the hearth on the other side of the room. “Be that one of Fallonmour's high lords on the hunt?” he inquired idly.

  A long moment of guarded silence answered before the lady spoke. “'Tis a depiction of the Great King, Arthur. A gift from my father upon my wedding.”

  “Arthur Pendragon,” Cabal mused, needful of the distraction when in that next instant Lady Emmalyn's slick fingers skated down the length of his spine. “My father was a fond admirer as well...or so my mother used to tell me.”

  Behind him, the lady paused, letting a handful of soapy water trickle over his shoulder. “My lord, I trust you do not mean to keep me from my duties simply to engage me in discussion over England's famed, long-dead rulers.”

  Her impertinence surprised him. It intrigued him. “We will discuss whatever I deem noteworthy,” he told her coolly. “And I will keep you no longer than is necessary. Now, continue with what you were doing.”

  The water at his back lapped around him, the only audible sound as she resumed her ministrations. Obediently, she soaped his neck and shoulders, but her resentment for being forced into the task was made clear in her every brisk, efficient stroke. Her fingernails grazed his nape and Cabal half-expected to feel her tiny hands reach up and tighten around his neck.

  “You know, my lady, it was not my choice to be sent here to serve as Fallonmour's guardian. Would that your husband had lived and I had remained with my king. Your life would be unchanged, and King Richard might not be now imprisoned by his enemies.”

  It was a thought that had plagued Cabal from the day he learned of Richard's capture. He should have been there. He might have seen the danger in time enough to avoid it. He certainly would not have let the king be taken without a bloody fight. Instead he was here, sent to watch over a peaceful country demesne and a willful young widow with an angel's face and a body to tempt a blessed saint.

  And Cabal was far from saintly.

  He cleared his throat, marshaling his thoughts away from any further ruminations on her unholy appeal. “Truth to tell, my lady, I want to be here no more than you would have me stay. Less, I'd wager.”

  She scoffed. “I doubt that's possible, my lord.”

  Cabal eyed her as she came around the side of the tub and washed the length of his arm, suddenly wishing she had been the meek young woman that Richard had described. Far better than this hissing lioness who seemed intent on scrubbing away half of his skin in her spite.

  “I assure you, madam, your little plot of land and those who would squabble over it interest me not in the least,” he told her irritably. “I am a fighting man, not a farmer. I am here to guard Fallonmour simply because I am the king's best. It is my duty to look after the garrison and the castle's defenses until the new lord is installed. In the meantime, I will expect the full cooperation of you and the rest of your folk. Arlo has already assured me of his continued support as seneschal. Now I must ask for your cooperation as well, my lady.”

  She dropped his arm into the water with a negligent splash. “You ask for my cooperation and the king asks for my home and my freedom. Yet I am to expect nothing in exchange for all of this.”

  “You can expect the security of knowing that with or without you, Fallonmour will not fall into the hands of Hugh de Wardeaux or any other of Prince John's supporters. I trust that means something to you.”

  He could see that it did, but stubbornly, she would give him no answer. Perhaps she worried more over her own fate once Richard was free to choose a husband for her. Cabal could well understand it if she did; a lady of her youth and beauty would have no trouble attracting suitors for her hand, even in widowhood. She would be wed swiftly, and to the highest bidder more than likely--a dismal future for a lady who had evidently grown attached to her short-lived independence.

  But the eventual fate of one heads
trong noblewoman was none of his concern whatsoever. He had a mission to carry out, regardless of what might later befall this lady.

  “What say you, madam?” he prompted impatiently. “Will I have your cooperation in this?”

  She scowled down at her folded hands for a long moment, refusal blazing in the tight line of her mouth. “It seems that I am left with little choice.”

  Hardly a convincing declaration of good intent. “I would have your solemn vow, my lady.”

  “Very well.” Lady Emmalyn's voice was quietly serene, but there was defiance in the pale green gaze she leveled on him, contempt in her every measured syllable. “On my vow, my lord, I give you my full cooperation...for so long as you shall remain at Fallonmour.”

  He did not trust the stubborn set of her jaw, no more than he trusted her carefully phrased pledge of support. She was plotting something. Perhaps she had already set the wheels of conspiracy in motion. The lady had demonstrated that she was defensive of her home, but would she defy him to retain it? Would she defy her king?

  “If you have no more demands of me at the moment, my lord, I will thank you to finish your bath without my further assistance.”

  She pushed against the tub and started to rise. Before she could take the first step in retreat, Cabal pivoted and caught her wrist cleanly in his hand. She gasped. Startlement and outrage warred in her eyes as she tested his grasp and found it firm and unrelenting. This close, he could not keep his gaze from straying over the length of her, from her strikingly beautiful face to the dampened fabric that clung to her breasts; from the rise and fall of her bosom, to the subtle flare of her hips and the slender outlines of her thighs.

  A potent hunger stirred to life inside him as she stared into his eyes, her tiny fist clenched, her lips parted in silent protest. All it would take was a slight tug and she would be in the tub with him, sprawled across his lap. God's wounds, but the image was so vivid, he could almost feel her there now. His grip on her arm tightened of its own accord, his every muscle coiled with tension as his thoughts sped forward on an increasingly illicit path.

  He might have let her leave without issue, had she not seemed so sure that he would. But she was testing him, pushing the boundaries to see how far he would let her go before reining her in. Touching her had been a mistake, however, even if he meant just to quell a bit of her rebellion. Touching her made it all too easy for him to want more. More of something that already belonged to another.

  Something he had forsworn himself long ago.

  Cabal released her as if to thrust away the temptation. She stumbled back a pace, staring at him in wild astonishment and rubbing her wrist where he had held her. “Go,” he growled when she hesitated to take her leave.

  He sunk lower into the tub and closed his eyes, eternally grateful when he heard the sound of her footsteps hastening to the door. He did not move a muscle, not even to draw breath, until the echo of her retreat had vanished down the winding hallway.

  Then he shuddered with the sheer power of his want for her.

  “Damnation,” he swore on a grating whisper. What had he done to offend Richard so that he would sentence him to this brand of torment?

  Chapter 4

  Emmalyn fled the solar, awash with confusion and panic. She could still feel Sir Cabal's strong hand where it had engulfed her wrist, could still see the hungry look blazing in his ruthless gray eyes. Heaven help her, but the image of his warrior's hard body was still resonant in her mind, every ridge and plane and scar a vivid testament to the violence through which he made his living. She looked at him and saw everything she despised in man: savagery, domination, mercilessness.

  Why, then, was her heart still pounding so fiercely in her breast?

  She tried to tell herself it was fear that set her pulse racing, worry for her people and her future that made her head spin. Certainly it was anger that fired her cheeks now, outrage over this brash soldier and his arrogant demands that made her blood course hot and furious in her veins. Nothing more.

  Dear Lord, she could not allow it to be anything more!

  She had to be rid of Sir Cabal, she resolved with new determination. She had to be rid of him as soon as possible. If only the queen would oblige to hear her case. Composing her appeal in her mind, Emmalyn dashed to the stairwell that led to her chambers abovestairs. Arlo met her halfway up.

  He took one look at her disheveled, water-stained appearance and gasped. “Saints' blood! What did the cur do, force you to bathe with him?” His probing gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on Emmalyn's flushed face, and his eyes narrowed. “Or does the high color of your cheeks suggest free will instead, my lady?”

  Emmalyn glared at Arlo, refusing to answer to him for anything now. Her problems were far greater than the petty manipulations of Garrett's despised seneschal. She took a step to the side but Arlo countered, blocking her path up the stairs. “You cannot actually mean to suffer this guard's continued presence here at Fallonmour,” he challenged. “Particularly when you must know that all it would take is a message to Lord Hugh and you could have Richard's man ejected from the place on the prince's order.”

  “I thought you had given Sir Cabal your oath of support,” Emmalyn replied caustically. “Although I cannot say that your suggested duplicity comes as much of a surprise, Arlo.”

  The seneschal chuckled. “And where has your sense of honor gotten you, my lady? Dispossessed and under guard. How the thought must grate on your haughty ideals,” he added slyly. “I should think you would be only too eager to seek Lord Hugh's protection now, in light of these new circumstances.”

  “What Hugh and the prince would offer me is not protection,” Emmalyn said. “Do not think for a moment I am naive enough to believe that Garrett's brother would give a thought to my welfare when he's cared little for my rights these past three years. If I must lose Fallonmour, I would rather see it go to any one of the king's chosen vassals before I let Hugh within a league of claiming it for his own. Fallonmour has already endured one tyrant lord; I'll not let it fall into the hands of another.”

  “A martyr's lot for you, then, is it, my lady?” Arlo jeered. “I wonder to what lengths you would go in this fool's quest to deny Lord Hugh his rightful claim to Fallonmour. Would you sacrifice yourself to Richard's beast if you thought he might somehow help you?” He snickered with malicious humor. “Mayhap you already have.”

  Incensed, Emmalyn reached up and slapped Arlo across the face. Without a word, she lifted her skirts and brushed past him up the stairs.

  “You're making a grave mistake this day,” Arlo growled after her. “I might have been persuaded to beg Hugh's lenience on your behalf, but no more. You've chosen your path, my lady; you tread it alone.”

  Emmalyn refused to acknowledge the seneschal's warning, despite the fact that she knew his ominous words to be true. She was alone in her fight to maintain Fallonmour, now more than ever. She felt that weight tenfold as she climbed the rest of the steps and shut herself in her chamber to pen her letter to the queen.

  * * *

  An hour later, Emmalyn stood in the bailey, watching as the cart carrying a coffer filled with the bulk of Fallonmour's spring profits drove out of the massive castle gates accompanied by two armed guards. She had given the driver an extra tithe on his promise to see her sealed letter was delivered directly to the royal palace. Now, all she could do was wait...and hope.

  Satisfied for the moment that she still had a hand in the shaping of her own destiny, Emmalyn entered the keep. Under her arm, she held a large basket of wool brought up from the village. This year's shearing was more bountiful than she had dared anticipate, the quality of the wool among the finest she had ever seen. They should fetch a handsome price for it at the Lincolnshire market next week. Pride swelled in her breast at the thought. The venture that Garrett had refused to consider and what Arlo had called an irresponsible risk, was in fact, paying off.

  Emmalyn dropped off the basket in the women's solar, looking forward
to spinning some of the wool that evening. Her step lightened, she mounted the stairwell. At the top of the winding ascent, she felt something keenly amiss, something that made the hairs at the nape of her neck rise in warning. Turning in the opposite direction from her chambers, she saw a nimbus of sunlight pouring into the dark hallway through the open door of Garrett's personal chamber, the place where, when she was fortunate, her husband had spent his nights away from her before he left on Crusade.

  Since he had been gone, the room had been opened only for cleaning and an occasional airing out. Emmalyn saw no reason to set foot in it elsewise, and she really had no desire to do so now, save to find out who might have invaded the private chambers.

  Stepping cautiously, she approached the open doorway and took in the room with one quick glance: the small collection of bound texts lining the far wall, the hooded, deep-set fireplace with its orderly stack of logs, the upholstered chair and richly-carved desk that her husband had so prized, the papers and ledgers arranged neatly on its surface...everything precisely how Garrett had left it. Even her husband's scent seemed to remain, faded certainly, but perceptible enough to chase a cold shiver up Emmalyn's spine.

  At the window, with his back to the door, stood a fine-clothed, dark-haired man. The sun blazed from without, casting his large frame in silhouette as he leaned one shoulder against the stone embrasure of the window. In a moment of wild panic, Emmalyn could have sworn this man was Garrett, somehow returned and now bigger than life. She must have gasped, for he turned and she found herself face to face with Sir Cabal. At least she assumed this handsome man and the dark-visaged knight were one and the same. His expression hardened when Emmalyn could only stare at him, frowning.