Linet didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. It didn’t concern her. She’d done nothing wrong. If the magistrate’s men were coming, she’d turn herself over to them. What could be safer than…?
“Linet!” the beggar said urgently. “Take off those clothes. We have to leave at once.”
The man was clearly addled. “You have to leave at once,” she told him. “I’m waiting for the authorities. And I’m staying dressed.”
“Linet, El Gallo is traveling with the magistrate’s men. I don’t know why. But I know it doesn’t bode well for us.”
“It doesn’t bode well for you. I shall be safe enough. I am Linet de Montfort, daughter of Lord—”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re the daughter of King Neptune!” His eyes snapped. “We have to leave. Now!”
“But where will we—”
“Now!” He caught the neck of her jerkin and yanked it down hard, ripping the fabric down the middle and nearly knocking her off her feet. While she stood open-mouthed, the woman at the door rushed in with two other young wenches, carrying a bundle of cheap, flamboyantly dyed garments.
“The green one will fit her,” the woman said, quickly sizing her up. “But you, cherie…”
The beggar rummaged wildly through the clothing himself, finally seizing an embroidered, berry-colored piece.
“But that’s a cloth for the table,” the woman protested.
“Now it’s a cloak,” the beggar declared, whirling it about his shoulders.
The two young girls had thrown the ugly green gown over Linet’s head and were helping her inch into it. But it was far too small.
“We need a veil for you,” the woman told the beggar. “Celeste, fetch my plum veil.” She eyed Linet. “And one for the girl. The deep green one.” She clucked her tongue. “Ah, if only we had time to darken her hair.”
Linet squirmed in the tight surcoat. Dear God, were those her breasts pushed up above the low neckline of the garment like two over-leavened loaves of bread?
The beggar wrapped himself in the huge square cloth, and the woman secured it at his throat with a bronze brooch. Celeste returned and began fussing over Linet’s hair, coiling and pinning it into a knot, then covering it completely with the green veil and a wire circlet. The other young girl took hold of the laces at the back of Linet’s surcoat and tightened them, ignoring Linet’s protests, until the garment fit like a second skin.
But no matter how indecent she felt when they finished with her, she was certain she couldn’t look as absurd as the beggar. The makeshift cloak hung unevenly around his feet, its embroidered floral border contrasting painfully with his large, heavy boots. The plum veil, held in place with a yellow cord hastily knotted for the purpose, was draped and tucked strategically around his hair and face, making his head look like a huge grape wrinkling on the vine.
When he turned to her in all seriousness to ask if she was ready and she beheld his swarthy, masculine face—his dark brows, his shadowed jaw—peering out from beneath the delicate fringe of plum-colored sendal, she began giggling uncontrollably.
The streets were chill and as yet uncrowded when the bevy of unengaged harlots escorted them from the brothel. Somewhere, sailors still snored beneath the rumpled sheets of whores’ beds. Merchants were only beginning to stretch before their crackling hearths, filling their stout bellies with bread.
Then, marching importantly down the street toward them came El Gallo and the group of local law keepers, and suddenly Linet was grateful for the harlots’ effective camouflage. The officials passed within arm’s reach of the women, who seemed, to Linet’s horror, to be inviting their attention, cooing and waving and flashing their bare legs. But surprisingly, their actions had the opposite effect. The magistrate growled at them, ordering them to move aside. She and the beggar traveled virtually unnoticed in the midst of the ladies.
By the time they reached the edge of town, Linet was beginning to reconsider her opinion. This pack of harlots, women her father had always condemned as the worst scourge of nobility, the highest offense to God, had helped her. Without reward, without ulterior motive. Simply out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d given her a garment, and now they handed the beggar a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread for the journey. Nor would they take compensation for any of it, though the beggar dug in his pouch for coin she knew wasn’t there.
“Perhaps you will remember us one day, eh?” the proprietor of the brothel said, her old, wise eyes sparkling suggestively.
For answer, the beggar whisked off the veil and cloak, handing them to the proprietor. He lifted the woman’s hand to place a kiss upon the back of it—a noble kiss, the kind a knight might bestow upon a lady. Then they turned expectantly to Linet.
She hardly knew what to say. She’d never spoken to a harlot. God’s eyes—before she met the beggar, she’d spoken fewer than a hundred words to any peasant, save her own servants. But though she was much discomfited by their presence, she realized they’d done her an enormous service. She straightened, looking the woman directly in the eyes. “My thanks to you.”
The woman smiled gently, almost as if she understood Linet’s difficulty, then bid them farewell.
Duncan couldn’t have been more pleased. The harlots had broken down a barrier in Linet that he could not.
As they traveled along the winding, rutted road that meandered down to less than a path at times, stepping through mounds of sweet clover and stands of majestic elms, Linet seemed deeply lost in her own thoughts.
“She was…kind.”
“Who?”
“The…that harlot woman.”
Duncan grinned. “Aye, she was.”
She frowned then and asked softly, “Do you suppose Harold is still alive?”
Duncan spoke with more surety than he felt. “Sombra no doubt has a purpose in holding him. But don’t worry. I’ll find him if I have to search the four corners of the world.”
She returned to silence then, and the only sounds were the steady brush of their boots along the path, the random whistles and flitting of birds…and the distant footfalls of the two men following them.
Duncan didn’t want to frighten Linet with the news, but someone had been trailing them for some time now. His first inclination had been to wait for them. He had his sword, after all, and he could easily best any pair of men, save his two brothers.
But he had Linet to think about. If the pursuers were part of El Gallo’s crew, killing them would eventually bring others even more bent on vengeance, and that would jeopardize Linet’s safety.
There was only one solution. He had to get Linet to de Montfort at once. Once she was secure behind the walls of her family castle, then he’d deal with the reivers. For now, he’d lead them on a merry chase at a healthy distance. As long as the two men believed the fugitives were nearly within their grasp, they’d not bother to summon assistance. Meanwhile, he’d keep his eyes focused, his ears alert, and his lips sealed.
The moon rose in the heavens like a fierce, white saber. The shadows of twilight washed the landscape into a purple blur of foliage and sky. Through the leafy copse, Duncan could discern the faint glow of firelight through an oiled skin shutter. It was a crofter’s cottage, and beyond it stood a bakehouse and a barn.
Thank God they’d found lodging at last. For the past hour, Duncan had gently urged Linet on despite her fatigue, knowing it was foolhardy to sleep in the open with men following them. Now the poor wench looked exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, and she could barely lift her feet to shuffle along.
His heart went out to her. Although hers was not a life of leisure, Linet de Montfort was probably accustomed to far more sedate labor—bidding on wool, sitting at looms, tallying accounts. She was simply not made for traipsing off across the countryside to flee attackers. Indeed, she was so weary, she didn’t voice a single protest when he guided her by the elbow toward the crofter’s barn, pushing open the creaky door.
A shaft of moonlight slanted down th
rough a hole in the thatched roof, illuminating the interior. The straw was clean, and a milk cow was tethered in the far corner. Geese wandered underfoot, and chickens roosted in the rafters, but they seemed to take no notice of their guests. Their clucking made a pleasant counterpoint to the gentle lowing of the cow.
The cozy, sweet-smelling stable reminded Duncan of his childhood. To the dismay of his father, he’d spent many a boyhood summer night dozing among the stable lads on a pile of fragrant straw. He gave Linet a smile of reassurance and carefully closed the stable door.
“We should be safe enough here for the night, as long as we’re away before the crofter rises tomorrow.”
Linet wrinkled her nose and peered up at the moonlit dust filtering through the hole overhead. “I’ve never slept in a stable before. Are these your…usual accommodations?”
“I’d take you to my castle…” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “But it’s too distant.”
Fatigue made Linet chuckle easily.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“We ate the last of the bread at midday,” she said ruefully.
“There’s a bakehouse behind the cottage. There’s bound to be a morsel there.”
“You can’t steal bread from a crofter.”
“Who said anything about stealing?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You said you had no more coin.”
It was true. He had no more coin. But if a man used his wits, much could be procured for little more than a good deed. “As I told you before, I have no need—”
“I know. You have no need of coin,” she finished.
He grinned.
She crossed her arms. “And just how do you—”
“Wait here.”
He could feel her eyes on him all the way to the bakehouse. It was a good feeling. He gave her a brief wave of assurance. Then he ducked in through the low door, as swift and quiet as a shadow, closing it behind him.
He counted on being in and out of the bakehouse in the wink of an eye. He counted on finding some poorly risen loaf or over-baked roll left behind. He didn’t count on intruding upon the crofter’s wife.
The woman looked as shocked as he. But then he supposed it wasn’t every day an oversized beggar, salivating with hunger, came bursting in through her bakehouse door after dark. Her eyes grew round, and she opened her pudgy mouth to scream.
He acted without thought, following instincts that never seemed to fail him. Rushing forward, he placed a hand on each side of the woman’s generous jowls and planted a resounding kiss square on her still open mouth.
She squeaked once like a mouse caught by a cat. But after an obligatory protest, she melted predictably into his embrace. The poor woman must have been starved for affection. She leaned against him, savoring the moment as if it were her last.
When Duncan felt assured she wouldn’t cry out, he withdrew, smiling down at her with tenderness. By the candlelight, he could see her flushed fat cheeks and the dreamy quality to her eyes as she smiled weakly back. Not for all the silver in the world would she cry out now.
“I mean you no harm, my lady,” he assured her. “But I’ve traveled far and eaten little. When I smelled your fine bread baking, I admit I…lost control.”
The woman’s blush deepened. “Please, sir,” she gulped, “help yourself to what you will.”
He grinned. The woman swayed on her feet.
“I believe I already have,” he said.
Her eyes danced with pleasure for a moment. Then panic creased her brow. “Paul, my husband—”
“I’ll be brief.”
She grabbed up three still-warm loaves of brown bread and eagerly pressed them into his hands.
He closed his fingers over hers. “Don’t be surprised if by sunrise the milking is done for you, my lady.” He tucked the loaves beneath his arm and winked at her. Before she could utter a word, he gave her a courtly bow and made his exit.
Linet could almost smell the loaves the beggar cradled as he stole across the yard. Faith, she was so hungry she could eat alms bread. Her stomach growled like a pack of hounds.
The beggar was still a dozen yards away when the door of the cottage began to swing slowly open and he was forced to make a mad scramble for the barn. Just as he dove past Linet and out of sight, the crofter emerged from the cottage, rolling his sleeves down over his forearms and heading off for the bakehouse.
“Mathilde!” the farmer called out.
Linet peered back through the crack of the door. Mathilde? Was there a woman in the bakehouse? She frowned. “How did you…?” she whispered.
“Come,” the beggar said, ignoring her question and easing the door shut. “I’ve brought a feast.” He broke off a piece from one of the loaves.
She eyed the bread, involuntarily licking her lips. She hated taking it from him. Her father would have burst a vein to know a de Montfort was relying on the charity of a peasant. But the demanding trek had left her famished. She accepted the tidbit, murmuring her thanks, and perched on the edge of a milking stool to eat.
The bread was still warm. Between savory bites, she gave the beggar a sidelong scrutiny. He appeared untouched by the fatigue that plagued her bones. While his hair hung in unruly curls and his clothing was hopelessly rumpled, there was a sparkle in his eyes that the long day hadn’t dimmed. He sighed with contentment, as if the coarse bread were the finest pandemayne.
And for the hundredth time, she furrowed her brow and wondered what he wanted from her. Why would a beggar risk his life for her?
It could only be for profit. Though why he thought she had any reward to give him she didn’t know. Still, there could be no other reason, no matter how he protested that he had no need of coin. No need of coin. Pah! Even a king could not make that claim.
But the beggar had managed to procure much in the last few days—camaraderie from El Gallo, assistance from the harlots, bread from the crofter’s wife—all without silver, save that which fell from his tongue. Maybe he was right. Maybe he did have little need of coin. Still, never in all her years of lucrative business had she seen such a thing.
Popping the last morsel of bread into her mouth, she wondered how the beggar had convinced the crofter’s wife to part with her loaves. She peered speculatively up at him for a moment as he licked his lips between bites. And with the sudden clarity of a seer, she knew. After all, how did he always manage to get his way with her?
“You kissed her.”
He almost choked on his bread. “What?”
“The crofter’s wife. You kissed her. That’s how you got the bread.”
A lazy grin stole over his face, and he raised a brow. “Now why would you think that?”
“How else could you keep her from caterwauling for her husband?” She crossed her arms importantly, sure she was right. Yet she couldn’t stop the sense of irritation that bristled at her like a teasel comb at wool.
He shrugged, and a lock of hair fell enticingly over his forehead. “Perhaps I threatened her.”
She knew better. “You kissed her,” she accused.
He slowly licked a crumb from his thumb. “You sound jealous.”
“Jealous?” she scoffed, silently cursing the blush that rose in her cheeks. “Don’t be absurd. I’m…disgusted.”
“Disgusted?” he smirked, his eyes twinkling. “I doubt the crofter’s wife found me disgusting.”
Outrage simmered in her veins. How cocky the beggar looked, grinning down at her with his wry mouth, a mouth no doubt still warm from that wretched Mathilde’s kissing… Curse his hide, she didn’t want to think about it. And she wasn’t going to let him unnerve her with mere words.
“The crofter’s wife,” she stated, folding her hands primly in her lap, “is no doubt accustomed to the crude embraces of a peasant.”
A laugh exploded from him. “I believe you’re insulting me, my lady!” Then he turned on her with a sudden interest that made her want to squirm. “So I’m crude, am I?” he murmured.
He took a step closer.
She shot up from the milking stool. Had the stable walls always been so narrow, so confining? She made a valiant attempt to hold her ground and stare him down. “I suppose you can’t help it,” she said, gulping. “But it’s really no matter to me. I don’t care.”
He took another step. “Oh, I think you do, my lady. I think you care a great deal.”
Her haughty scowl was no match for his sultry azure eyes. They melted her like butter on a hot cross bun. She quickly averted her gaze to the straw at his feet.
“In fact,” he added, coming so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her face, “I think you rather enjoy my…crude embraces.”
Guessing she intended to slap him for that remark, he caught both of her wrists, trapping her.
Time stood still as he turned his smoky, teasing gaze upon her. For an eternity he studied her, his eyes flickering over her face, memorizing each detail, burning into hers as if he could divine her very soul. Then, with an abrupt chuckle, he released her.
She sucked in a cool breath. She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing. Or that his eyes crinkled so charmingly at the corners when he was amused.
“You, Linet de Montfort,” he said, “are afraid of me.”
Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say in her defense.
He shook his head. “You, who so boldly insulted El Gallo on the docks, who dared to confront Sombra himself, you’re afraid of a lowly beggar.”
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered in denial. Yet deep in her heart, she knew it was true.
“You cower from me. You pretend it’s disgust,” he announced with self-mocking arrogance, “but I hardly think—“
“I do find you disgusting,” she tried to convince him. But she couldn’t look him in the eyes with the lie, not while that wild black curl fell across his forehead, not while his eyes shone with blue mischief.
The last thing she expected was his roar of laughter.
“Oh, aye—disgusting! And what in particular do you find disgusting?” he inquired, closing in on her again.
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 17