He tugged his jerkin open and drew it over his head.
She cursed as she stubbed her toe on a rock.
He carefully peeled the bandage from his chest, and then pulled off his boots.
She scrabbled at the slippery grass of the bank, looking for purchase.
He slipped out of his hose.
She was halfway out of the water, balanced on her stomach across the muddy bank, when he stepped in front of her. She glanced up fleetingly, and her mouth uttered an astonished “oh.” Then she fell back into the water like too small catch.
Naked and unashamed, he rose above her like a Norse god. In one brief moment, every detail of his strong, sleek body imprinted itself upon her brain as indelibly as dye on raw wool. It was an image she’d never forget, even if she lived to be an old crone.
Then he dove over her head and into the pool, and she welcomed the dousing splash that shocked her back to her senses. He surfaced immediately, shaking his dark head like a wolf, spattering her with yet more icy drops.
“Are you ready to thank me?” he said breathlessly as the water dripped off his nose.
Linet struggled to find her voice. Her own emotions were confusing her. She should be furious with him. She had been a moment ago. But now she felt as giddy as a new lamb. She should be outraged by his unabashed display. Her cheeks did burn, but not out of anger. And suddenly she didn’t want to know the truth.
He was too close—too close to her body, too close to her soul. He made her forget who she was. She couldn’t let him do that. She had to do something. Without thought, she turned aside to embrace an armload of water. Then she hurled it, catching him square in the face.
Almost instantaneously, he returned the favor with a sweep of his arm and a great howl, soaking her yet again. She spat the tresses from her mouth and tried to kick away from him. He caught her by the knees of her waterlogged hose, but she cleverly wriggled out of them to freedom.
At least, she thought it was clever.
Until he tossed the hose up on the grass out of her reach and continued his pursuit.
“You will have to thank me, one way or another,” he promised, stalking her.
When he captured the hem of her surcoat, she knew she was doomed. He’d snatch her to him in no time now, and the last thing she wanted was to be any closer to him. She had to make a desperate move.
He had both hands on the floating garment now, ready to haul her in like a pike in a net. Before he could get a better grip, she ducked down under the water, loosened the laces, and slipped backward out of the garment. By the time he brought the empty surcoat out of the water, she was safely distant, peeping triumphantly at him across the waves.
The beggar laughed and, like a laundress, slapped the garment onto the bank. “How cunning you are, my lady,” he said with a mocking bow, advancing again.
Cunning? Linet could have kicked herself. She’d succeeded in delaying him a moment, no more. She’d surrendered her clothing. And she’d allowed him to position himself between that clothing and her. Nothing could be worse.
Nay, she amended, giving up would be worse. And she’d be damned if any peasant would get the best of a de Montfort. She tossed her head and prepared to fight.
The beggar came within arm’s length of her, and the battle began in earnest. Linet swam away from him, kicking up a steady wall of water. He grabbed one of her ankles and turned her onto her back. Splashing him mercilessly in the face, she was able to squirm free, but he pursued her instantly. He dove beneath her and pushed her up out of the water like a spawning salmon. She shrieked in outrage and went under, her cries making bubbles in the water.
Half wild with desperation, she decided she was going to have to take stronger measures. While the beggar stood searching for the spot from which she would emerge, she swam down and, with all her strength, yanked his feet out from under him. He succumbed perfectly, falling backward like a boulder, and she surfaced with a victorious cheer.
Suddenly, something wriggled along her leg. She had a feeling it wasn’t a fish. Squealing, she skipped away. It came for her other leg, toying with her knee, but she escaped again. Then the beggar’s head emerged slowly from the water before her, and the look in his eyes and that wicked smile told her that vengeance was his. Her heart thrummed like a hundred looms in concert. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
He dove under. She panicked.
She kicked frantically against his attack, as if her very life depended upon it. More than one blow of her feet landed heavily against his body. Then he halted abruptly.
She cast about, expecting him to break through the surface beside her any moment. But not a ripple betrayed his presence. She held her breath. Nothing. She shivered. He was taking a long time to come up. Too long. And it was impossible to see through the murky water. They’d kicked up so much silt with their battle that the stream was hopelessly clouded.
A pale island of flesh slowly breached the dark waves. It was the beggar—his motionless back to her, his face still in the water.
Something was wrong.
She took a fearful step toward him, a worried whimper rising in her throat. Bloody hell! She’d kicked him unconscious, and he was drowning.
Her heart bolted. Triggered by fear, with a burst of strength and speed, she reached across the beggar’s back and flipped him over. She gasped. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack. Sweet Jesu, she prayed, don’t let him be dead! No matter what vile names she’d called him, no matter what ill she’d wished him before, don’t let him be dead!
CHAPTER 13
Unmindful of her state of undress, Linet seized the beggar under the arms to haul him toward shore. She’d gone but two feet when he suddenly flipped back over to grab her by the waist. In the blink of an eye, he snatched her to him, smacking her smugly on the lips. Then he laughed.
He might as well have kicked her in the stomach and been done with it.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. She batted furiously at him, shaking with rage. At least that’s what she told herself it was.
He recoiled. “What is it?” he demanded. His guilelessness was almost convincing.
“Just go away!” To her surprise, tears sprang to her eyes.
Duncan heard the waver in Linet’s voice. It wrenched the laughter from him and seized his heart. Remorse settled heavily upon him. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said tenderly.
“I wasn’t frightened.” Her chin quivered.
“Then I didn’t mean to cause you concern,” he amended.
“I wasn’t…” But she couldn’t finish the lie.
Damn, Duncan realized, the wench had been genuinely afraid for him. Though she was trying valiantly to deny that she cared whether he lived or died, the truth was in her unguarded expression, in her instinctive response. He moved forward to take her in his arms, to comfort her.
She slapped at him in aggravation.
“Shh,” he soothed, gently catching her fists.
Her emerald eyes were moist, her lips clamped to still their trembling. Only gradually did her arms relax in his patient grip. He tucked her wet hair behind her delicate ears, stroked her soft, rosy cheek. He nudged a drop of water from her eyelashes with his thumb, watching as it trickled down. It dripped from the point of her chin onto the swell of one pearly breast peeking through the tendrils of her darkened hair, calling him, beckoning him like an irresistible Siren song.
She never flinched when he lowered his head to hers. He could tell by the faint smoldering in her gaze that she desired the contact as much as he. Their lips touched. Her mouth felt as pure and cool as the stream. Delicately he approached, tasting her like a bumblebee after honeysuckle—sampling tentatively at first, returning again and again for the fascinating nectar.
Then she answered his soft kisses with the tip of her tongue. He groaned deep in his throat. He shouldn’t be doing this, he thought as he drew her wrists about his waist and hugged her to him. It would only comp
licate things. In another few days they would part ways and possibly never cross paths again. He was mad to…
God, her breasts were heaven against him.
He was mad to begin something he couldn’t consummate, that she’d never allow him to consummate. But his body paid no heed. It fed on the sweet harvest like a banquet. The velvety pillow of Linet’s bosom cushioned his ribs. Her long tresses swirled about in the rollicking waves, tickling the sides of his stomach. His wet hair dripped down onto her face, and he licked the water drops from her cheeks and forehead. With the pads of his fingers, he stroked her spine, from the base of her neck down to the sensual curve of her buttocks.
Linet moaned. The voice warning her to cease grew faint. She could scarcely hear it over the low roaring in her ears. All she cared about was the man embracing her—the man who was warm, gentle and, thank God, alive. Her flesh seemed to kindle and burn. The cold water eddying between the two of them only accentuated the places that his steaming, naked body pressed against hers. And though the firm staff nuzzling her belly left no doubt as to his desire, the dappled golden light, the whirling current, the heaven of skin on skin made everything seem ethereal, unreal somehow. She turned her head and clung to his waist, sighing against the strong contours of his chest.
“My little water nymph,” he murmured. “What a tempting sight you are.”
The hair along his arms brushed her skin as he reached beneath the water to cup her breast, letting the current tease at its peak. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her ear, settling again upon her lips.
She gasped, but the sound was lost within his mouth, altered into a soft moan as his fingers tugged purposefully at her eager nipples. He nibbled and sucked at her lips, showing her what he could do with those nipples, until her entire body swelled with a nameless ache. She shuddered as his mouth breathed flame into her body. She grew weak, as if a whirlpool had come to dance with her and drown her in its watery embrace.
Unable to get enough of him, she let her hands roam over his wet body. She stroked his broad shoulders, felt the pulse that pounded in his throat, tangled her fingers in the thick curls at the back of his neck. No longer was she a noble’s daughter. No longer was he a peasant. They were kindred spirits of the woodland stream. The world around her receded as she surrendered to the enchantment of the moment.
Then, without warning, he froze. With cruel abruptness, he tore his hand from her bosom and clapped it over her mouth. He stilled her twisting movements with his body, and his nostrils flared as he fought to silence his own erratic breathing.
Linet saw instantly in the smoky wariness of his eyes, in the tilt of his head, that he’d heard something. She listened as well, willing the tingling distraction in her body to subside. Then she heard the faint whicker of horses. Someone was approaching.
The beggar mouthed a curse of profound regret, releasing her and motioning her to silence with a finger against his lips. As the riders neared, her heart mimicked the dull thump of hooves on the hard-packed ground. She tried to scramble away, but the beggar grimaced, holding her fast. Soundlessly, he swept her off her feet, carrying her up the bank of the stream, his eyes vigilant.
It took all of Linet’s resolve not to dive for her clothing, but the beggar motioned for her to step quietly into the bushes as he scooped up their garments. Dragging his jerkin to cover their footprints in the dust, he joined her in the thicket, and they waited.
Within a moment, two sable mares ambled to the water’s edge for a drink, followed by their wary masters.
“See? Nothing.” It was the reiver, Tomas, and he looked relieved to find the place empty.
“I tell you I heard something,” the ferret insisted.
“Probably your ears ringing. That beggar crowned you well with that—“
“Still your cursed flapping tongue, Tomas!” He yanked on his horse’s bridle and spat into the stream. “They can’t have gone far.”
“But they could be anywhere,” Tomas grumbled. “We could be searching for days.”
“You heard El Gallo. She’s a de Montfort. She could be worth a fortune. Once we have her and that medallion…”
The breath froze in Linet’s throat. A fortune? The medallion? She suppressed a hysterical giggle. She could barely claim the title, let alone the wealth of the de Montfort estates. Not only that, but the medallion was no longer in her possession.
“So what do we do with that guardian of hers?” Tomas asked.
The ferret ground his teeth. “The bastard is mine.” He pressed a hand to his head. “I owe him for that blow. It is a wonder I can still think properly.”
He wrenched his horse from the stream and led it off along the path, with Tomas in close pursuit.
After they’d gone, Duncan let out the breath he’d been holding. He slipped his fingers through his wet hair. Somehow, some way, he had to get Linet to safety.
“What’s this medallion?” he asked, snatching up Linet’s garments and shoving them toward her. She looked so delectable, huddled there in the curtain of her damp hair, that he almost regretted handing her the clothes.
“The de Montfort crest,” she said, hugging the wet things to her chest. “I’ve worn it since I was a little girl.” Then her eyes dimmed. “But it was taken from me on El Gallo’s ship.”
“Taken? By whom?” He pulled his jerkin on over his shoulders.
She shook her head.
He nodded at her bundle of clothing. “We must leave at once.”
“And go where? We can’t continue traipsing aimlessly around Flanders.”
“Aimlessly?” Was that what she thought? “I know exactly where we’re bound.”
She lifted an inquisitive brow.
“The de Montfort castle, of course,” he said.
Linet could only stare at him. The de Montfort castle? The place of her father’s birth…and exile? She’d be about as welcome there as a rat in the buttery. “We…can’t,” she said lamely.
“What do you mean, we can’t?” he asked, pulling up his hose. “You’re a de Montfort. They’re your family. They’ll offer you protection against El Gallo.”
She looked at him. There was such kind comfort in his face, such optimism, such faith, and such simplicity. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that even if they succeeded in making it to the castle, they’d be turned away at the gates of de Montfort like lepers.
Duncan could see Linet was worried. “Don’t fret about your medallion. They’ll know you. You’re family.” He smiled reassuringly. “But it might be to your benefit to be wearing something when we arrive.”
She glanced at the wet clothes and wrinkled her nose.
He chided her with a look. “Someday, my lady, you may hire servants to fan your garments with griffin feathers until they’re dry,” he said sardonically. “Until then, I suggest you slip these on.”
She grimaced as she tried to smooth the clammy garments clinging to her curves into some semblance of modesty. She didn’t succeed, and the effect was most engaging. But there were miles to cover and no time to spare. He donned the rest of his garments, detailing in his mind their next move.
They needed a refuge. The forest wasn’t safe. Hopefully, there’d be a castle or manor house nearby where they could find shelter without arousing too much suspicion, without divulging their identity.
Getting in would be easy enough. He’d never found a keep whose portcullis didn’t fly open once he announced to the lady of the castle that he was a jongleur.
He shouldered their bag of meager belongings. “Tonight, my lady, I promise you shall sleep on a real bed in a real manor house.”
Linet folded her arms skeptically. “And how do you propose to pay for it, this real bed?”
“Ah, my lady,” he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “this day we become jongleurs. Tonight, we shall sing for our supper.”
Linet’s heart dropped with a resounding thud. “Sing?” she asked bleakly. Dear God, she thought, if they were going to sing for
their supper, she’d surely starve. She couldn’t hold a note if it were handed to her on a silver platter. “Nay!” she said, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice.
“Nay?” His brow clouded with disapproval.
“Nay.”
The beggar clamped his jaw tight, and she could almost read the murderous thoughts in his eyes.
“Surely there’s another way,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her surcoat. “You’ve come this far, having no apparent source of income or marketable skills…”
He raised a brow. “No skills?”
She supposed she’d insulted him, but at least she’d managed to change the subject. “Other than a talent for deception.”
“Really?” he drawled, pulling her after him along the path.
“Mmm,” she answered, and then began to muse aloud nervously to herself as they ambled onward. “Where do you come by your sustenance anyway? I can think of only two possibilities. Either you have a tremendous amount of money cached away from whatever wealthy family thrust you from its bosom…or you’re a thief.”
When she looked over at him for his opinion, he only smiled enigmatically at her.
“Well, which is it?” she asked.
He frowned as if in deep thought. “The only thing I’ve ever stolen was a lady’s heart. And I don’t believe I was ever thrust from anyone’s bosom,” he added suggestively, “save yours, of course.”
The corner of her lip curved up in spite of her efforts at seriousness. “If you’d spent as much time sharpening an axe when you were growing up as you did honing your wit,” she quipped, “perhaps you’d have a useful occupation.”
“Ah, but tonight, my lady, you’ll see what sustenance that keen wit can provide.”
She glanced away. How quickly the conversation had turned against her again. “I don’t intend to participate in your silly games. I’m a wool merchant,” she muttered, “not a minstrel. I refuse to sing for my supper.”
The beggar’s voice took on a subtle hard edge, and his eyes grew serious. “You have no choice in the matter. It’s not safe here in the forest. El Gallo’s men may surround us for all we know. We need to find lodging where—”
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 20