Her new status suited her well, he thought sourly as his gaze coursed down her body over the costly velvet surcoat belted with silver. But the gown was horribly rumpled. Someone should have told the naughty girl that proper ladies didn’t sleep in such garments. Evidently she wanted her hard-won trappings of nobility surrounding her at all times, even in slumber.
Still, as bedraggled as she was and as harshly as he felt her betrayal, he couldn’t deny that Linet was breathtaking. The fire cast a coppery glow upon her unbound hair. The deep shadows beyond her made her skin nearly translucent in contrast. The dark surcoat molded to her body as perfectly as his hands. Satan’s ballocks, he thought, how could such an angel have dealt such treachery?
Somehow, some way, he’d find out. And he’d repay her for her heart’s treason, if it was the last thing he did.
Linet couldn’t shake the queer feeling that someone was watching her. Even as she bent to speak with the little girl, she cast uneasy glances about the hall. Did reivers lurk in the black corners? Was she truly safe in this fortress? She doubted that she’d ever feel secure while El Gallo lived, not without…someone…to protect her.
Shaking off painful memories and swallowing her trepidation, she followed the little girl into the kitchen for cold meat and ruayn cheese. She never noticed how her skirts nearly brushed the feet of the monk reclined against the wall, the monk peering out at her with vengeance in his eyes.
CHAPTER 15
For several days, Lord Guillaume and his kin approached Linet with tenuous respect. She understood. They didn’t want to invest too much faith in her claim, a claim that would only bring disappointment later if it proved to be false. Still, she was astounded by the regal treatment she received from the household. Maidservants fussed over her as if she were a spun sugar subtlety. She was bathed and adorned and perfumed until she was sure she’d be attacked by bees if she went out of doors. Complex, colorful dishes she’d never tasted before were offered to her at the high table. The lord’s three daughters, pitying her lack of belongings, even slipped her a few of their older surcoats to wear.
She should have been elated. Everything her father had worked for had been achieved at last. She’d been returned to the bosom of nobility. His indiscretion had been healed. Though the de Montforts’ acceptance was tentative, already the family had begun to show a fondness for her. It was only a matter of time before they accepted her completely.
And yet it was difficult for her to fit into this new garment of nobility. She’d left too many loose ends in her life—her mesnage, the Guild, Harold…the beggar. And like a length of cheap cloth, the fabric kept threatening to unravel.
Everywhere she looked, he haunted her. She’d peruse a box of jewels and be drawn immediately to the pair of sapphires, so like his eyes. The palfrey Lord Guillaume let her borrow was the same ebony shade as the beggar’s hair. The jongleurs’ songs could never compare to his, and their wit was never as sharp.
She tried to forget the beggar, tried to immerse herself in the opulence around her. But no matter how many nobles offered her friendship and kindness, a pervading melancholy surrounded her like a thick, gray fog. She wondered if it would ever lift.
High now upon the wall walk, in a rare moment of solitude, Linet gazed off across the darkening countryside toward the place where she’d last seen…him. She wondered where he was. He’d be free by now. She doubted he’d come looking for her. She’d wounded him. Only a fool would seek out the thistle that had pricked him so sorely.
Besides, she reasoned bitterly, it was likely she was merely another conquest for him in a long line of dalliances. Commoners engaged in many such trysts. Women no doubt swooned over the likes of him, lapping up his sugared flattery like a kitten did cream. The beggar surely wouldn’t lack company for long.
As for her…
An unwelcome lump swelled her throat. She stared up at the first star of evening winking in the mauve sky until it grew blurry from the welling of tears in her eyes. Damn, she mustn’t think of him, mustn’t remember the wine-sweet taste of his lips, the clear crystal of his eyes, the reassuring strength of his arms around her. She wouldn’t dwell on the memory of the ebony hair curling about his neck, the powerful play of muscles along his arms, the large, callused hands that stroked her body as skillfully and tenderly as they did a harp.
Suddenly, the wretched truth hit her with numbing force. She’d betrayed him. She’d betrayed a man she was trying desperately to make into a scoundrel—faithless and cruel and uncaring.
But it wasn’t true. He’d been more than kind. He’d been patient, gentle, understanding. He’d protected her with savage swordsmanship and made love to her with savage grace. He’d shown her nobility—this peasant—nobility and honor and strength. Possessing no title, he’d shown her dignity. Possessing no wealth, he’d shown her generosity. She closed her eyes as the terrible, wonderful truth poured into her soul.
She loved him. God help her, she loved him.
He was gallant and clever and intelligent and brave, all the things she’d ever imagined a nobleman to be. He could enflame her desires with a glance and stop her breath with a word. For as long as she lived, no voice would ever sound as pure as his. No arms would feel as secure. No smile would light up her heart the way his could. She’d fallen wholly, desperately in love with the beggar.
For one sweet moment, she rejoiced in the confession, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. Never would she deny him again, she promised, clutching her hands to her breast as if to enclose him within her heart. Never.
Yet, even as her tears dried, she realized it was too late for absolution. There was nothing to be done. She’d made her choice. She’d chosen her father’s dictates over her own heart. She’d denied true love in the name of honor. Now she’d have to live with that choice.
She raised her trembling chin and gazed solemnly at the early rising moon. She was a lady now. There would be no more trafficking with peasants. Hers was a world of refined airs, civilized manners, tamed passions. She must forget what had passed in that bittersweet entanglement as thoroughly as if it had never been. And let her heart be damned.
Perched high atop the wall walk, her figure a graceful silhouette against the low-slung moon, Linet resembled an archangel haloed by the orb of golden light. But Duncan knew better. He spit the dregs of his ale onto the straw of the stables. Linet de Montfort was no angel.
She’d readily discarded her past life and dismissed him with nary a backward glance. It didn’t matter that for days now she’d wandered the castle like a lost soul, her face drawn by some wistful yearning. It didn’t matter that the smiles she offered her newfound kin never quite reached her eyes or that her step seemed heavy upon the wide stone steps of the keep. Whatever misery she suffered, he told himself, she deserved no less. If she believed that untold riches would ease her suffering conscience, she was mistaken. And if she was lonely…
She turned gracefully on the parapet, appearing to float down the steps on a wave of green velvet. Her hair was arrayed in a fantastic tangle of braids and ribbons that tumbled artistically over her bare shoulders. She was the very picture of nobility—her skin paled with powder, her lips stained a dark shade of crimson, the rich verdant fabric of her gown making her skin an even more delicate shade of cream.
But he could see by her shadowed eyes that she’d been crying. Pity welled in him like leavening in bread, and he cursed his own weak will. Never had he been able to endure a woman’s tears.
Surely she’d bewitched him. For days now he’d been able to think of little else. He remembered too well the silkiness of her skin and the weight of her in his arms. His lips hungered for the soft flesh of her neck. His eyes craved the sight of her pale bosom, her narrow waist, the gentle flare of her hips. When she chanced to pass near, her clean, sweet scent intoxicated him like no wine could.
But it went far deeper than that. He felt incomplete, as if a part of him had been severed. His heart thumped hollowly in his
chest. For days, he’d found pleasure in nothing, but only flailed along like a falcon with a bent wing, anchored miserably to the earth for want of her.
It was madness. And he was a fool to torment himself by remaining here. Tonight he’d finish it, he decided, clenching his fists within the concealing sleeves of his cassock. Tonight he’d confront her with her crime and break her hold over him. Tonight he’d end his suffering.
Linet sipped at the spiced wine in her heavy silver chalice, peering over its lip. The tables groaned with their succulent burden—steaks of venison, galentyne sauce, cold shrimp in vinegar, pandemayne bread so light that it melted in the mouth, a colorful salad of parsley and fennel, watercress and mint, tossed with petals of primrose and violet, and dried and sugared figs.
She lost what little appetite she had, however, when she looked beyond the high table. There the smoky candles guttered, and the stench of unwashed bodies competed with the aromas of peppered meat and thick ale. The peasants supped on the meager leavings of the nobility—the stale, stew-soggy trenchers, the tough ends of the meat, the coarse ale, the food to which he was accustomed. She lowered her gaze. She couldn’t eat.
She only toyed with the sumptuous fare all through supper. Even her appetite for entertainment was curtailed when Lord Guillaume presented a long list of diversions to catch her fancy. Nothing would lift her melancholy.
A consort of viols played, then a harpist, and a lutist. Finally a quartet of dancers demonstrated the latest steps from Italy. She feigned interest, nodding at her uncle’s remark that the circling and twining of the dance seemed like the intricacies of weaving cloth. She politely applauded the completion of a particularly complex dance pattern and repressed a sigh as the musicians played a seemingly endless roundelay.
Linet glanced at her silver chalice. A servant had filled it yet again with wine. She pushed it away. If she drank any more on her empty stomach, she’d never be able to keep her eyes open for the remainder of the entertainment.
A shrouded monk hobbled up to the dais, a harp clutched to his chest. The hall quieted. Linet stifled a yawn. He struck a single soft chord. Then his fingers caressed the strings one by one. There were murmurs of awe about the hall as he played with sweet delicacy at first, then embraced the music with the fervency of an impassioned lover.
Linet studied him intently. His playing was beautiful, but there was something…
A prickling began at the back of her neck, as if she’d backed into a spider’s web. Those hands, those broad shoulders, that music… It couldn’t be.
When the monk raised his voice at last in song, Linet’s heart leaped unbidden, and she sucked in a quick breath of recognition. Lord Guillaume looked sharply over at her, and she forced a reassuring smile to her lips. But it took all her resolve to keep from throwing herself at the beggar’s feet to plead for forgiveness.
The song was a melancholy ballad, his voice ragged and compelling. But as the words of love and treachery spun outward, the relief Linet had felt upon seeing him slowly curdled into fear. She knew for whom he sang.
The blood drained from her face. The beggar had come after her—not for a sweet reunion, but for vengeance. Sorely wounded by her betrayal, he’d come to ruin her, to expose her. The song was a message for her ears alone, but soon, he’d tell the tale of how this de Montfort lady had lifted her skirts for a commoner. Her father’s dream would be shattered, and she’d relive his nightmare.
Everyone stood and cheered for the shrouded monk with the heavenly voice as the song came to a close. Linet groped for her chalice, accidentally sloshing its contents over the rim onto her precious surcoat. She gasped, using her cloth napkin to mop up the nasty stain before it could set. By the time she looked up again, he’d disappeared.
She had to flee. That was all she could think about. She must excuse herself, go to her chamber, and bolt the door. She didn’t even want a servant with her tonight. She must be alone to think, to plan. Dear God, she couldn’t let him corner her here. He could destroy her with one word whispered in the wrong ear.
She shuddered. She mumbled to Lord Guillaume that her head ached, that she wished to retire. Alone. He shrugged a concerned consent and bid her good night.
Once out of sight, she dashed up the steps with her skirts in her fists, running as if ghosts pursued her. She pushed open the heavy door of her chamber and slammed it behind her. Her heart pounded painfully in her breast. Only when she shoved the bolt home did she turn and lean back against the door in relief.
Too late, she saw him.
He was only a black silhouette against the fire on the hearth, standing motionless, but she recognized him at once. With a panicked gasp, she turned and began scrabbling at the bolt with suddenly clumsy fingers. In a moment he was behind her, his breath hot upon the back of her neck.
She took a gulp of air to scream. But before she could even turn to face him, he clapped a hand over her mouth and shoved her against the door. For an endless time he held her there, immobile, as her panicked breath moistened his palm. When he finally spoke, it was in a harsh whisper.
“Why?”
Her eyes darted about nervously, cataloguing the whorls of wood grain on the door. His scalding breath at the back of her neck sent shivers along her spine. What did he want from her?
Duncan wanted just one thing from the woman quivering like a trapped bird.
“Why?” he repeated. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, still pressing her against the door.
“What do you want?” she asked breathlessly. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just please don’t tell them—”
“Don’t tell them what?” he rasped. “That I trusted you and you betrayed me?”
“Nay, I—”
“How long did you plan it all?” he snarled, anguish rising in him like a boil. “From the very first? Keep me as long as you have to, let me risk my worthless neck, use me as a plaything, then desert me when my services are no longer required?”
Linet’s gasp tore at his heart. But now was not the time to weaken.
“And now your greatest fear,” he continued, “is that I might humiliate you by telling your precious newfound loved ones about us. Am I right?” Her lack of a reply was answer enough. “I trusted you,” he growled. “Damn you, I trusted you!” There was a long silence as he battled the hurt that threatened to unman him.
“I meant you no harm,” she murmured feebly.
His chuckle came out hard and bitter. It would be a wintry day in hell before he’d believe that. He was no fool. Despite the innocence in those wide emerald eyes, he wasn’t going to leave himself vulnerable this time. As bad as the beating had been, it was nothing compared to the suffering she’d caused him. “No harm?”
The fire popped on the hearth. Linet flinched.
His voice turned deathly quiet. “You left me naked and unarmed, bound to the bed. Do you know what happened to me after you left?”
He wheeled her around to face him. It was time she saw what she’d wrought. He slammed her back against the door and flung off his hood.
“Jesu!” Linet covered her mouth, stricken with horror. She staggered. Her eyes darted wildly as she surveyed his injuries—swollen eyes, purpled jaw, split lip, a long gash healing on one cheek, a lump rising from his forehead. His beautiful face had been…ravaged. She braced herself against the door for balance, hardly able to speak. “How…who did this?”
“El Gallo’s reivers,” he said flatly. “They followed us. They found it great sport to have their victim trussed up for their pleasure.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed. She felt sick to her stomach. “They did this to you?” She shook her head. “You must believe me,” she said weakly. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t wish this…on my worst foe.” She reached out a hand to brush a bruise on his collarbone. He recoiled, but she sensed it was not so much from pain as it was from her touch. “Your wounds need tending,” she murmured. “Please allow me to make amends.”
“You can�
��t make amends for the damage you’ve done.”
Linet’s chin quivered. She forced it to still. As much as his attack hurt, she deserved it. She’d injured him profoundly, more profoundly than just his superficial cuts and bruises evidenced. His eyes were bleak with a deeper pain, like once lustrous gems clouded by neglect.
Driving the lightheadedness from her brain by sheer will, Linet met his gaze. Somehow, she vowed, she would make things right. Somehow, she would heal him. Even if it broke her heart in two, she’d render him whole again.
“I have no excuse for what I did,” she said, “but I tell you this.” Her voice quavered. She had to look away. “Never have I…and never shall I…love another as I have you.”
Duncan’s heart leaped into his throat. For a long moment, he didn’t breathe. Surely he’d heard amiss. She had wronged him, logic argued, turned her back on him, abandoned him, left him as reivers’ carrion. “Nay!” The word was wrenched from his throat.
“Aye,” she whispered. And it was there, within the anguished depths of her eyes—she spoke the truth.
The memories of their sweet coupling—how he’d felt beside her, inside her, possessing her—came rushing over him like the quenching sea over parched sand. And yet he knew he had to stem that tide for the sake of his sanity. “You think your words absolve you?” he asked quietly.
“Nay,” she hollowly admitted. “I’ll never be absolved, neither by you nor by my father. But I owe you the reason, at least.”
He remained silent as she drew a deep, shuddering breath and began to explain.
“On his deathbed, my father made me swear him an oath. I didn’t question him. He was dying, and I…I thought the vow an easy one to keep. I was wrong.” She swallowed hard. “You see, I promised my father I would never…never fall in love with a commoner.”
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 24