by Lara Adrian
He held up his hand, shaking his head. “'Tis not necessary. I am contentedly stuffed as it is, my lady. Besides, I wouldn't want to take anything away from the miller; I reckon he, more than I, is deserving of your special consideration.”
Whatever did old Jack Miller have to do with anything? Emmalyn wondered. She tilted her head at Cabal, brow pinched in confusion.
“The miller, my lady. I trust that cake is meant for him, is it not? In reward for his actions in leading us to the brigands this afternoon?”
“The brigands?” Emmalyn echoed. “I don't understand. What has Jack done?”
“If not for him, I doubt very much that the men and I would have been able to locate the thieves' camp. Thanks to his keen eye, I believe we may have finally put a stop to the filching.”
Suddenly, Emmalyn's heart began to pound with dread. She thought of the little boy, so shy and mistreated. She closed her eyes and saw his bruised face, his frail torso, skinny limbs. Her promise made to him in the garden, that she would never hurt him, came back to her like the cruelest jest, and all at once a cold knot started to form in her stomach.
“What do you mean, put a stop to it?” she asked, her voice thready. “What have you done?” Emmalyn could scarcely think for the deafening rage of her pulse thrumming in her temples. She swallowed past the bile that threatened to rise in her throat. “Did you...kill them?”
“No,” he said lightly, reaching for his tankard. “The camp was empty when we came upon it.” She thought he might have sounded disappointed, and felt a new anger stoke to life within her. “We did confiscate some of their belongings,” he continued after quaffing a mouthful of wine. “The rest we burned.”
Emmalyn gasped, recoiling and thoroughly appalled. “Good Lord! Is that why you're all so smug tonight? Because you drove off a group of starving defenseless misfortunates?”
“Not so defenseless as it turns out,” he murmured, but Emmalyn was not about to listen to another word. Her concerns focused wholly on the boy she had befriended and now inadvertently betrayed, she shoved her chair back and stormed off the dais, heedless of the sea of confusion she left in her wake.
She was out of the keep and halfway across the dusk-filled bailey when Cabal caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”
“To find him!”
She wrenched herself free and started off again, this time at a more urgent pace. Three long-legged strides carried Cabal past her. He stopped in front of her, grasping her firmly by the upper arms. “Who, Emmalyn? It's nearly dark outside and I just told you there are thieves yet on the loose. Who is it you would be willing to risk your life and limb to run to at this hour?”
“I am concerned for the boy,” she informed him tightly.
He did not respond; indeed, at first he did not even seem to recall the pitifully abused urchin they had encountered together on their ride around Fallonmour's borders. “Evidently the sight of a neglected child makes very little impression on you, my lord.”
“I remember the boy,” he said at last. “'Tis your continued regard for him that puzzles me. What care you about a thief's lowly whelp, my lady? Particularly one who sought to cause you harm the first opportunity he had.”
“He was frightened that day in the orchard; 'tis the only reason he lashed out. When I saw him this afternoon, he was sweet and very shy--”
“You saw him again today? Where?”
“In the flower garden near the castle.” His scowl darkened and she hastened to explain further. “I was cutting roses for my chamber when I found him hiding amongst the bushes. He left me some daisies--”
Cabal looked at her as if she were a toddler who had just been playing with a venomous serpent. “You were by yourself with him and you didn't call a guard to apprehend him?”
If she was not quite so outraged, Emmalyn might have laughed at his over-cautious reaction. “He's not a criminal, my lord, just a young boy in need of care and kindness.”
“You could have been killed.” He swore vividly and raked a hand through his hair. “How can you be sure he was alone? How do you know that he was not bait, meant to lure you from the safety of the castle? God's wounds, my lady, are you truly that naive?”
“Are you truly that unfeeling?” she countered. “That boy is an innocent, mistreated child. You saw as much yourself, or have you forgotten how he was covered in ugly bruises? Today his condition was even worse.”
Cabal regarded her dubiously. “How do you know those marks were not earned in the getting of stolen goods? Can you be so certain that they weren't delivered in defense of an attack--mayhap the very one made on the old miller today?”
Emmalyn shook her head. “He's naught but a shy, neglected little boy, not a monster as you would have me believe. And I'm not going to listen to this for another moment when I should be out trying to find him and bring him back where I can make sure he's safe from further harm.”
“Leave him to his own kind, my lady. That's where he belongs. Don't tempt him with promises of a better life that can never really be his.”
“How can you say that? How can you possibly know what's best for that child?”
“I know because I have--” He broke off then, as if his anger had devoured the rest of what he meant to say. A deep exhalation seemed to steady him enough to meet her gaze once more and continue. “I know, because I have seen their kind before. Given the chance, I warrant that boy and any one of his kin would be more inclined to lace open your pretty throat than they would be to thank you for your noble charity.”
Cabal's gray eyes were steely in the gathering darkness; not a bit of mercy or understanding softened the hard gaze staring down at Emmalyn. The dim glow from a lantern hanging outside the stable reflected on the planes of his face, making his features appear all the more harsh and unyielding. Perhaps it was the diminishing light that let her see him so clearly now for what he was: a dark, uncaring warrior. A man of swift violence, his heart blackened by savagery, and utterly devoid of remorse. Not so very different than Garrett.
No, she thought with a keen, dawning sense of regret; he was not so different from him at all.
“You think I was wrong to destroy their camp, do you, my lady? You must think it an excessive retaliation for a bit of harmless pilfering. Or do you rather believe it was naught but an act of heartless barbarism?”
Emmalyn did not have a chance to voice her reply. He grasped her by the hand, his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her in tow as he crossed the bailey with long, purposeful strides. “I don't appreciate being strong-armed in this manner,” she hissed through gritted teeth, experiencing more than a little trepidation at seeing him behave so boldly with her. “Where are you taking me?”
He was not inclined to tell her, evidently. He grabbed the lantern from its iron hook as they passed the stable, and, with the wobbly flame lighting a dim path, he stalked with Emmalyn past the smithy's alcove and toward the armory, an outbuilding used to house the garrison's shields and heavier weapons in times of peace. Somehow, she doubted that in bringing her there at such a brisk pace, Cabal intended anything of a peaceful nature.
She was about to take further issue with his treatment of her when they neared the last armor stall and he released her. Emmalyn rubbed her wrist, admittedly more in nervous anticipation than out of any inflicted pain, and watched as he set the lantern down on a wooden shelf behind them. Before she realized what he was about, he grasped her shoulders in his hands and pulled her in front of him, facing her toward a heap of helmets, knives, and crossbows.
“Look,” he instructed tightly, his heated breath rasping at her ear. “This is what I found at their campsite. Does it appear to you that these miscreants would have been happy for long with stealing just a bit of barley and a few chickens?”
Emmalyn sagged against his solid chest, her anger and fear leaking out on a heavy, ragged sigh. She shook her head, staring at the jumbled cache of confiscated weapons. He turned her around in his ar
ms then, his touch calmer now, but nonetheless firm. When she would have looked away from him, he brought her gaze back with a gentle lift of her chin. “'Twas food they took thus far, but what might have been next? A beast or two? A village woman? Where would you have had me stop it, Emmalyn?”
“I--I don't know,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I didn't know...”
Embarrassed that she could have been so wrong--about the thieves, certainly, but also, as it again appeared, wrong to doubt him--Emmalyn grew very silent. He would ridicule her now; he had every right. Were Garrett here, he would assert he'd had the right to beat her for such incompetence and reckless, poor judgment. Would Cabal feel likewise?
She edged away from him, a cautious half-step backward that she took nearly without forethought. Through the wavering glow of lantern light, she kept her focus trained on his eyes, knowing all too well that it was there she would first see a portent of the rage to come. But what she saw in his dark-fringed gaze was nothing like the reproach and loathing she had so often seen glittering in her husband's eyes. She was nearly tempted to call Cabal's steady regard affectionate, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand rising up out of the darkness beside her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Eyes squeezed shut, chin tucked against her shoulder in protective reflex, Emmalyn did not dare so much as breathe.
Cabal swore softly. “How is it you are willing to trust the motives of common thieves yet recoil from me as if I would strike you?”
Unable to answer, neither could Emmalyn look at him, desperate that if he did not already know the depth of her shame, he would not plainly see it now swimming in her eyes. He reached out when she drew a shaky breath and brought her close once more, tipping her chin up until she was forced to meet his eyes. She trembled as Cabal's hard, warm knuckles skated down the slope of her cheek with aching tenderness. “What are you so afraid of, Emmalyn? Do you truly think I would ever mean to hurt you?”
Emmalyn was unsure what she thought anymore, unsure she could trust her feelings. In that moment, though her conscience warned her to be wary, she wanted nothing better than to revel in Cabal's touch. She wanted to remain there in the semi-darkness, studying every plane and angle of his handsome face until she could picture him in her mind whenever she closed her eyes. She wanted him to press his mouth to hers and kiss her with the same desire as he had likely kissed Jane the night before. She wanted to feel like a woman--innocent and earthy, protected and powerful--and knew deep in her soul that this was the man who could take her to those heights.
She wanted to believe that there was something honorable in this dangerous man, this man who had made his living through violence and destruction. And that was verily the greatest folly in her line of thinking.
Reminding herself of who and what he was, Emmalyn pulled out of Cabal's embrace. “I think I've seen quite enough in here, my lord. You have proven your point about the thieves, and now I would like to return to the keep--”
“Are you going to run from me each time we end up alone, Emmalyn? What are you afraid might happen?”
His challenge rooted her feet where she stood, two paces from him. Meeting his serious, probing gaze, she crossed her arms one over the other and rubbed off a chill that wasn't there. “I'm not afraid.”
“Yes, my lady, you are. You may not be afraid to stand up for yourself and what you believe in, nor, from what I've seen, are you afraid of hard work and responsibility. But you, dear lady, are very much afraid of me.”
“If I am afraid, then so are you, my lord. Afraid there might be one woman walking the earth who hasn't fallen the fool to your charms.”
He acknowledged the barb with a casual lift of one black brow. “Indeed?”
“Yes,” she averred, suddenly feeling that she was gaining ground. “Why else would you insist on pursuing me when you could have any one of the maids in this keep?”
“Simply put, I don't want any of them.”
“Or is it rather that you have already sampled and tired of them all?”
“I think you know better than that, Emmalyn.”
“I don't know any such thing. I don't know anything about you.”
He pursed his lips, a wry sound escaping his throat. “Yet you are very willing to think the worst of me.”
“I was wrong to doubt your decision this afternoon and I have told you as much--”
“That's not what I'm referring to, Emmalyn. I'm referring to your thoughts regarding me and that maid of yours...what was her name?”
“Jane,” Emmalyn supplied reluctantly.
“Yes,” he said, smiling now. “Jane.”
Emmalyn frowned. “I admit I had no right to say what I did in the stable this morn. I assure you, my lord, it makes no difference to me whom you should choose to spend your time with.”
Those silver eyes bore into her. “Regardless of what you might have heard, I did not take her to my bed.”
“But I saw you--” Too late, she bit back the horrible admission. “Please don't feel you have to deny anything to me. 'Tis none of my concern.”
He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, as if she were a dull child. “I did not make love to Jane.”
“You didn't?”
He shook his head and Emmalyn cursed the wave of relief that flooded her senses. “She came to me with food and drink,” he said, “and, truth be told, an offer I likely would have taken at one time. But I turned her away. Do you know why, Emmalyn?”
She did not know if she shook her head or even if she managed to stammer an answer, for in that next moment, his mouth was descending on hers, brushing her lips with an aching sweetness that swept all conscious thought from her mind.
She could not remember the last time she had been kissed--surely, never like this. Cabal commanded her mouth as he did everything else: expertly, with easy confidence and gentle mastery. Without her being aware, he freed her hair from the confines of her wimple, startling her with the sensual feel of his fingers wading through the heavy tresses to caress her scalp. He kissed her reverently, passionately, as if he were a long-thirsting man at last fallen upon a well of fresh, clear water. Emmalyn went pliant in his arms and let him drink her in.
She did not know what to do with her hands at first. Hesitantly, she let them relax until they fell gently against his arms. She skimmed up their hard, muscular length, tentatively resting her palms on his broad shoulders. Her fingers found the soft hair at his nape and she twined them into the glossy waves, marveling at how he could be such an abundance of both steel and silk. He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a growl and drew her up against his chest, breaking their kiss to look down at her, his gaze heavy lidded and tender in the lantern light.
Neither one of them said a word. All Emmalyn could hear was her frantic heartbeat, pounding in the silence of the armory. Her shallow breaths mingled with his. She wondered if he would want to make her his lover, right there where they stood.
She wondered if she would have the strength of will to stop him....
Distantly, she began to hear noises in the bailey. Voices coming from one of the outbuildings. The haste of leather-shod footsteps on the path leading from the stables to the castle. Then a shout. “Milady, are you out here?”
Emmalyn looked up at Cabal, now desperate. How could they explain their presence together in the unseemly quiet of a darkened outbuilding? How could she explain her kiss-swollen lips and her disheveled hair? No explanations would be necessary, she reasoned, for it would be clear to all what had transpired--indeed, what might have further transpired, had they been given any longer to consider it.
A long beat passed before Cabal answered the page's hail. “In the armory, Jason.”
The lad entered the building, but remained at the threshold, peering inside. “Milady, Thomas sent me to fetch you. He says he needs you in the stables.”
“Minerva?” Emmalyn guessed, feeling her heart suddenly gladden despite the discomfiture o
f her present situation.
“Aye, milady. 'Tis about the mare.” Though the near darkness concealed the lad's expression, nothing could mask his concern. “Thomas says to come at once, milady.”
Chapter 13
With Cabal following behind her, Emmalyn raced to the stables, her heart clenched in fear for the fate of her beloved mare. At the threshold, the silence within the humid outbuilding nearly stole her breath away. Twin candles, half-burnt on the iron holders affixed to Minerva's stall, provided only the dimmest light to guide her to where Thomas's voice cooed in low, soothing tones.
The old stable master knelt beside the mare, mopping the sweat from her neck with a square of damp linen. When Emmalyn's feet crunched in the soft hay of the stall, Minerva's eyes rolled in her direction. The matron bay nickered, lifting her head. She made an effort to rise up, but Thomas held her down with a tender hand placed on the horse's shoulder.
“Something is not right,” Emmalyn said, noting the fatigue on Thomas's face.
“She broke water a quarter of an hour ago, milady.” He shook his head. “This foal hasn't got much time left if Minnie won't push him out.”
“Why won't she push?” Emmalyn asked. “What is wrong with her?”
Thomas shrugged hopelessly. “'Tis her first birth, so it could be any number of things. Mayhap she's distressed. Could be the foal is too big, or not right in some way.”
“Oh, Thomas, you don't think it's gone already...”
“Nay, 'tis alive and warm, and Minnie's body will sustain it for a short while.”
“Is the foal misaligned?” Cabal had brought the lantern, Emmalyn noticed; he set it down where it would give off more light in the stall and stood beside her.