One Winter Knight

by Townsend, Lindsay

  “This is…was my brother’s. Ye stole it.”

  Her eyes met his. Something close to fear glinted back at him, but defiance pulled her mouth into a thin line. “Aye. Johanna had naught to do with it.”

  “A likely story, thief.”

  He held the box up to the dim light. The silver inlay was tarnished and the brightly painted wood dull. The wood was gouged around the lock, which had never worked well. Lifting the lid, he took out a small scrap of cloth. Three coins fell to the floor.

  “Where are the rest.”

  “’Twas no more.”

  “There was a sgian dhubh.”

  “The black knife.” She pulled his grandfather’s small knife from the depths of a battered scrip. The blade fit the palm of her hand as if it’d been forged for her. His father had always said the small blades were a woman’s weapon, easy to use, easier to hide, and capable of slitting a man’s throat if he got too close without an invitation.

  “Come with me.”

  “This is not how it looks.”

  “I do no’ care.” He hauled her to her feet, then over his shoulder.

  “Put me down.”

  William silenced the redhead’s protest as Grym carried Alais out of the room to the only private area in the fortress, a small enclosed solar along the guard’s walk that he had filled with books, a bed, and a brazier.

  “Put me down!”

  He threw her across the bed.

  “Ow!” She landed with a bounce, then quicker than a candle’s flicker, she was on her feet on the other side of the bed. Her eyes were as sharp as the sword that hung at his waist, and Grym realized she was capable of anything to stay alive. He traced the line of her arm to the knife in her hand and stared at the pointed end of his family sgian. Jesu, had Robbie’s throat been cut with his own knife?

  Chapter Eleven

  Grym started forward, then checked his steps at the flash of movement of the sgian in her hand. Tensing, he shifted his weight to his right leg, ready to spring to the left if Alais decided to attack. Instead, she backed up a few steps, putting herself out of his reach.

  Chance or design? Most women would not have considered it; then again, most women wouldn’t be holding a knife on him in his own bed chamber.

  Heat flowed into his blood.

  If he risked blood loss and pressed her against the wall and—

  God save me. William was right. She not only knocked his thoughts askew, she set them on fire. As tempting as the thought was, Alais wouldn’t be warming his bed and body. Waiting for her to sink a knife in him would certainly put him off rhythm.

  “Put that away. I have no intention of harming ye.”

  “They why do I hear a not yet in your words?”

  “Guilt?”

  “I have naught to confess.”

  “Even if I have a right to seek justice from ye, I have given ye my protection.” He held out his hands as if he were a priest ready to absolve her crime. “That means no matter what happens, I will protect ye from myself, as well.”

  “What men say and what they do greatly differ.”

  “Then ye have been with the wrong men.”

  “As if any is the right one.”

  “If ye did not pull a knife on me, mayhap—”

  Silencing himself, Grym reached over to the table and lit a small cluster of candles. While he took care of bringing light to the discussion, he mentally sifted through his stock of maneuvers for disarming an enemy. He rejected all of them. His training didn’t leave much room for mercy in an armed struggled. He didn’t want to hurt her, even though he should want to. On the other hand, the look smoldering in her eyes clearly stated she would have no compunction about harming him.

  “You’re impressive with that knife, do you know that?”

  “Yes,” she said, and Grym noticed that she didn’t gesture with her hand for emphasis, a telltale sign that she wasn’t boasting.

  She held the knife expertly: gently cradling it in the palm of her hand, her grip loose, but secure. An amateur would have fisted the knife, limiting its movement to a downward arc. Her grip gave her full motion. Alais could easily gut him or plunge the cold steel into his heart.

  He eased around the bed.

  His thief scooted back a step, then planted her feet about shoulder-width apart and stood with her knees slightly bent. Her balance was good, and most of her weight was on her back foot. Her breasts rose and fell with the quick beat of her breathing. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glowed from fear or anger.

  A desire to get closer suddenly warred with his better sense and fierce need to avenge his brother. She may have murdered Robbie, and he could be next.

  “Stay back,” she warned. “I will not let you hurt me.”

  He made a show of sighing. “Ye protest the actions of my sex, yet I have found that women are quicker to pull a knife.”

  “Do a lot of women seek to stab you?”

  “Just one.”

  “Pity she did not succeed.”

  Her words were sharp and barbed, but the dark swirl of fear never left her eyes. No one this quick to draw a knife yet not strike was a murderer. Rather, Alais feared being murdered. Or worse. He could only imagine the dangers she’d face living as she did.

  “Jean de Mont is in my hall, demanding I turn ye over to him.”

  The hand holding the knife shook. “I told you the sheriff would come.”

  “Jean de Mont is no sheriff. If he has been knighted ’twas solely because of his father.” Grym closed the distance between them and gently took the sgian dhu from her. Her skin was hot enough to burn his flesh, soft enough to smother his breath. Grym forced himself to let go. “He says you robbed and murdered my brother.”

  The hot-as-steel gaze cooled. “I have never murdered anyone.”

  “But you have robbed them?”

  “When you are cold and hungry, see what you do to survive. The church might say—”

  He put his hand over her mouth. “I care only about my brother’s murder, so do not lie, thief. I may have offered ye my protection, but that does no’ mean I will not find a spot for ye in the undercroft, if necessary. I saw ye at the hanging of the man in Carlisle. Jean de Mont says ye are the true murderer. I want the truth.”

  Her eyes searched his, and whatever she saw in them caused her to become even smaller. She hugged herself and leaned against the wall. “I…never knew your brother’s name, only that he drank for hours at the old inn at the crossroads outside of Carlisle. An old man lives there with his daughter and granddaughter. The woman brews the ale, and she argued with him about his drinking. She told him to leave.”

  “An alekeep would no’ let my brother drink?”

  “She over-mothers everyone. I kept a watch on your brother.”

  “Because ’tis easy to take coins from a drunkard?”

  She ignored his question. “He could not walk for tripping, and the old man left him to sleep it off in the stables. I…waited to make sure he was asleep, then slipped into the stables and took his script. A man came in. I hid and then he…I saw the knife and blood…” Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye. “He would have killed me, too, but I surprised him and escaped. If the man downstairs says I was there, then he was, too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Stay here!

  Ha! Alais dug through Grym’s weapon’s chest. If he thought she would simply wait for someone to come and kill her, he was a bigger fool than Roger the Jester.

  Taking a small drill, she worked loose the pins holding the latch in place.

  Her eldest brother had taught her how to pick a door lock before she celebrated her sixth year. Of course, she and her twin soon learned taking the lock apart was a lot easier than picking it. Grym had ordered her to stay in this room, but if he thought she would meekly wait for him to return with the sheriff—or the true killer—he was more naïve than a toddler.

  She had not survived these last two years by doing what she was told—or t
rusting in the protection of others.

  Jean de Mont.

  At least she now had a name to go with the terror haunting her.

  For months, this faceless man with only a bloody knife had invaded her nightmares and driven her deep into the forest. He’d sent sheriffs from three different shires to destroy her, not realizing she hadn’t seen his face.

  Pausing at the edge of the wall, she looked down. God’s gold, she hated heights. She took a breath, then froze. A man in a green cloak walked across the bailey, picking his way through ankle-deep snow. She hadn’t seen the killer’s face, only his silhouette and the knife, but the man below had the same lanky height and awkward gait, as if he thought his shoes were too fine to touch the ground.

  Her hand itched around the knife she held. If she had a man’s training, she’d hurl it at him and sink it in his heart, but she had few combat skills. Her father always said women didn’t need to know how to fight because men would protect them. God rest his soul, but Papa couldn’t have left the castle very often if he truly believed that. From what she’d seen since Roundtree was destroyed, women needed to know how to fight because of men.

  She eased back into a shadow when Jean looked around, then up. She held her breath until he started walking again, this time with a young woman who looked woefully underdressed for the cold. The castle was bulging with guests left over from Yule. If the earl’s guests were like the men and women her father used to entertain, they would be here until Candlemass. She and Jo would have plenty of opportunity to disappear amidst the busyness.

  “Plotting his death?”

  Alais started. Grym put a hand on her shoulder, holding her steady. “I cannot let you kill him, my thief. He’s my guest.”

  “You said he hunts me.”

  “I will not allow him to hunt you here.”

  “Then why I am your prisoner?”

  “Did it occur to ye that maybe I put ye there for safekeeping? At least one of my guests accuses ye of murder. Who knows how many others may recognize ye as a thief?” He handed her a folded bundled of white and maroon cloth. “That is why I brought ye clothes.”

  “How do you have so many gowns when the only woman I have seen so far is Edith?”

  Grym laughed. “The clothes belonged to my brother’s wife. She brought them to Warfield when they wed.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She died in the summer. I asked Edith to shorten the hem for ye.”

  “She wasted her time.” Alais handed the clothes back to him. “My tunic is fine.”

  “Those rags are not fit for any hall, and my guests will think it strange if ye sit at my table in them.” He shoved the clothes at her.

  “Why would I be at your table?”

  “Because I want ye there.”

  Now that de Mont knew she was here, she was in danger. If she left, he would follow. If she declared who she was, he wouldn’t be able to touch her, but that would bring a different danger to her life, one that would put Grym and everyone she loved in danger. Perhaps Grym was right. If she were openly a guest, someone obviously in Grym’s good graces, he would be less likely to do her harm under Warfield’s roof.

  Assuming he respected the code of hospitality. She laughed at her thoughts, earning a scowl from the barbarian before her. De Mont had slit the throat of Grym’s brother. The nobleman neither respected Grym nor had a code of honor.

  “Oh. Well…thank you for the offer, but I do not attend feasts.”

  “Ye are tonight.” He closed his hands over hers, forcing her to keep the gown. “Now, get dressed. Edith’s meals are not to be missed, and the children decorated the hall.”

  “I despise the stench and dreary conversation of a banquet.”

  “Then consider it pennance.” He pushed her back into the room. “Ye will be there, in the gown or out of it. Ye have until I count to one hundred.”

  “So high? You are more clever than you look.”

  With a laugh, he shut the door in her face. “One,” he fairly shouted. “Two.”

  “Three,” she answered.

  He laughed again and continued counting.

  Alais set the clothes on the bed, then ran her fingers over the soft, rich fabric. She hadn’t seen clothes of this quality since Roundtree fell.

  Never forget who you are, my daughter. The world will not.

  Papa’s words came back, and she realized his remembered wisdom was as timely as his words had ever been. She knew Papa would be proud of the way she’d survived these past years, even as he grieved at the loss of his sons. But she couldn’t continue living wild. Eventually, she would be caught and hanged. With de Mont on her trail, disappearing into obscurity in Scotland was no longer an option. Which left her with but one path to walk.

  Clean hose and a pair of dainty boots were on the chest, a slender girdle made of woven strands of silver and copper curled like a snake beside the boots. A knife with a matching hilt lay beside the girdle. He’d left her a knife. Her heart warmed and swelled, and nearly burst when she picked it up. Papa would have loved Grym as much as she did.

  Love. The thought left her queasy, so she ignored it. She would do what she must to survive, even if it meant putting herself into the middle of a political melee.

  When Grym hit eighty-seven, she opened the door. “Well?”

  Appreciate lit his eyes, then he frowned. “This is no’ good. This will not work.”

  Oddly disappointed, Alais tugged one sleeve straight. “I think ’tis a beautiful gown.”

  “Aye, my little thief. Ye look every inch a daughter of the royal house.”

  “Ware your words, Grym.”

  “I only mean the gown looks most becoming on you,” he said, his eyes fixed on her. Alais turned from his gaze, but felt it linger on her shoulders and back, stroking her flesh with imagined contact.

  When she had been a very small girl, her father had brought home a velvet dress. She had never tired of running her fingers over the soft, earth-brown material, even after she had outgrown it. She felt as if she were now the velvet, and Grym the awed wearer. She tried to ignore the prickly sensations sweeping up and down her spine as his eyes caressed her.

  “Ye will have to keep yer head down, yer voice low.”

  “If you want meek and mild, you should invite someone else.”

  “I have yet to want a woman who is meek or mild.”

  “You want…” She pushed away the question and fiddled with the heavy girdle at her waist. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Or, what she wanted. “Keeping my head down and my voice low will do naught if he recognizes me.”

  “Even if he does, he will no’ touch ye.” He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head upward until she met his gaze. “Remember, ye are under my protection.”

  Alais laughed and shook her head.

  He drew back. “Do ye doubt my honor?”

  “I know the inconsistency of men. De Mont has no honor.”

  “Do ye doubt mine?”

  “Nay.” She pressed her palm against his chest, imagining the thump, thump, thump of his heart beneath the thick wool and leather of his clothes. “I know you well enough to know you believe giving me your protection makes me safe. I also know that your good will matters only to those who wish to retain it. I have lived wild for almost two years now.” She looked him in the eye, marveling how at such a muddy blue could hide a heart so unsullied. “I know how the world staggers along on the other side of high walls and stocked pantries. De Mont killed your brother. Your good will is not what he wants.”

  “And what do ye think he wants?”

  “What you have.”

  Grym shook his head, but she grabbed his hands, pressed them together between hers.

  “Laugh if you want. Call me a doubting Thomas, but do not go unarmed while he is a guest in your home.”

  “To go armed? Without honor and the customs of hospitality, no man would sleep well in another’s home. To go armed to my own feast will insult my gues
ts.”

  “Better they be insulted than you be dead.”

  His smile faded. “Careful, thief, lest I think ye care.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered, say naught. He was noble. He believed in honor and loyalty. To him, chivalry was like the Word of God instead of an elaborate game to cuckold a husband. She couldn’t trust him—not because he wasn’t trustworthy, but because he trusted others.

  If she said aye, though, he might do as she asked; he might protect himself despite his better nature. But there was more than one question in his eyes, and her aye waited quietly to be spoken.

  She squashed that thought. He was not someone she could take for a lover.

  “’Twas no’ a hard question.”

  She bit back the aye that seemed determined to spring forward. She’d known him for a day, if that long. Her reaction to him was not rational. Fear and exhaustion were driving her emotions, making her imagine affection where it didn’t exist. Still, every instinct said he was in danger, and not once in two years had the niggling doubts in the back of her mind been wrong.

  “If I say I do, will you wear a weapon?”

  The last echo of humor faded from his expression. His eyes turned as dark as sea coal. “Only if I think you mean it.”

  He reached out and touched her cheek, sending shivers down the back of her knees. And when he slid the tips of his fingers to the curve of her neck, then along her collarbone, she nearly collapsed.

  “Do you? Mean it?”

  She tugged at her sleeves. Even her skin felt several sizes too small. “God help us both, I do. Please. Get a weapon.”

  He kissed her then, brushing his lips across hers as softly as a wisp of fog, yet tugging her closer. She met his tongue with her own. Heat prickled through her. Her hands felt heavy, her feet light. She rose on her toes, feeling as if she could melt against him.

  Then, he was gone.

  For the space of a breath, he stared at her, his gaze dark and depthless in the light. With a small shake of his head, he took a long, thin dirk from the chest. Grinning, he slid it into a sheath in his boot. “Satisfied?”