The Saint

by MacRae, Cathy

  “Do you not enjoy the sunlight, Lady Marsaili?” Walter asked. His concern seemed most sincere. Did he assume a proprietary interest since he had been the one to find her in the barn? Marsaili stole a look at him from within her cowl. His shaggy brown hair was covered by his helmet, which also hid his rather long nose. Though she wondered if his habit of staring down its length over-emphasized its size. He was quite tall, and she remembered him as lean beneath the bulk of his armor. Dark eyes sparkled through the visor.

  “I am cautious, ’tis all,” she said. “What if we meet with scoundrels?”

  Simon laughed aloud, the merry sound sending a startled bird to flight. “You were hardly worried about being noticed at the inn or when you took shelter with our horses.” He rested a gloved hand on his armored thigh. “Whom do you fear, Milady? Tell us that we might better protect you.”

  Marsaili scowled and tilted her chin up. “I am merely going home and wish to be about it as quickly as possible.”

  “Where is home?” Walter asked.

  Her head swiveled to the knight. “Across the border.”

  “Your accent is clearly Scottish, but I detect an English influence. Could you have lived among us for a time?”

  Damn them for their interfering interest. I dinnae wish to spend my time gabbing when I should be planning my escape.

  “A wee time, mayhap,” she allowed, the incline of her head not inviting further questions.

  Simon took up the challenge. “Have you kin in England, then?”

  Marsaili sat straight-backed on her horse and did not answer.

  “You are of an age to be married,” Simon needled. “Or mayhap you tended a family member who lives in England rather than marry. Why did you not wed?”

  Marsaili fumed silently, not bothering to send the knight the glare he so richly deserved as she could not appreciate his expression behind his visor. She kicked her mount to a slightly faster pace instead.

  “Don’t pick on the lady, Simon,” Walter grunted. “’Tis not chivalrous.”

  “And The Saint would not be pleased?” Simon’s helmeted head bent forward as though in apology. “I but jest with Milady in an attempt to pass the day. And mayhap learn a bit about this lovely lady whose life you saved.”

  “I think she’s a runaway,” Wythevede shouted from his perch atop the wagon. “I don’t know why we’re bothering with the likes of her.”

  Marsaili gasped and pivoted in her saddle, pinning the elderly man with a stare. “Not that I answer to ye, but my business is my own. If ye dinnae wish to consort with the likes of me, might I suggest ye simply abandon me to my wishes? I scarcely see how a wizened auld man can be of benefit to me.”

  “Wizened?” he screeched, rising to a half-crouch from his seat. “Fine words coming from a wallydraigle such as yourself!”

  The wagon jostled violently as a wheel slid over a rock partially submerged in the snow. Wythevede gave a cry as he clawed at the wooden seat for his balance. He sawed at the reins, hauling the team to a stop. The door to the wagon banged open and Lord de Wylde’s head appeared, the scowl on his face signaling his displeasure.

  “Have I not warned you about the use of that word, Wythevede?” he growled. “Engaging in name-calling cost your attention to duty and tossed me about in this wretched box. Again.”

  His gaze slid from the sufficiently cowed driver to the trio seated silently upon their horses. “Milady, join me in the wagon.”

  Marsaili sent him a startled look. “I willnae subject myself to that particular torture, thank ye just the same. I am quite comfortable on my horse.”

  “You appear cold, despite the sunny day, and have retreated into your cloak for warmth. I would be remiss if I did not offer you the meager warmth of the wagon. And you are perilously close to becoming the center of a most embarrassing situation.”

  Geoffrey waited as Marsaili shifted in her saddle, obviously unwilling to cede her position to join him. But he was interested to note she caught his implication without him having to spell out the consequences should she continue to defy him. Though he questioned the sanity of his decision to bring her inside the wagon where her presence would inconvenience him much more than mere thoughts of her already did, the brouhaha he’d just witnessed as his driver’s attention wavered, proved the need.

  Drumming his fingertips on the doorframe, he peered at the sky. “’Twill only become colder from this point on. Tie her nag to the rear of the wagon, Simon. Walter, help her dismount.”

  “I can get down by myself,” she fumed, snatching her hands away as Walter reached up for her. She swung a leg over the horse’s back, landing with a bit of a totter on the ground. She clutched the horse’s tack for balance, then picked up the front of her skirts and stalked to the wagon, sweeping a swath through the snow. Geoffrey offered his hand, but she grasped both sides of the door frame and hauled herself inside.

  “’Tis cold in here, too,” she grumbled, taking the bench across from him. “At least I was getting exercise outside.”

  “Sit over here, if you please.” Geoffrey motioned to a spot beside him as he sank onto the thick cushions and pile of sumptuous furs on his seat, which were notably absent on the opposite side. “I will share my furs and what little heat remains in the stone Wythevede heated for me this morning.”

  Marsaili shrugged, irritation eloquent in the pout of her lips and the wrinkles marring her brow. “I am fine where I am.”

  “And choose to cut off your nose to spite your face. Milady, it pains me to find you continue to question my honor. Have we acted with anything less than courtesy to you?” He held up a hand as she jerked upright, her mouth open to remind him of his faults. “Other than removing your gown whilst you were unconscious—which saved your life. And I left your under-gown on to assuage your modesty in the rather unlikely event you survived your night in the cold—as well as an interesting array of weapons I am happy to note you have not chosen to wield. And let us not rehash the fact I have forced you to ride with us, forestalling a forced attack on your person in the very likely event you fell afoul of brigands and scoundrels during your journey, should you continue on your own.”

  The woman closed her mouth and sat back on the bench, averting her head and refusing to answer.

  “You will take quite a pounding over there, but suit yourself. My offer remains should you find your nether person sufficiently bruised and wish to change your mind.”

  Her gaze slowly slid to his. “Allowing me to choose for myself, Milord?” she drawled. “How kind of ye to consider I may hold an opinion separate from yers. I do occasionally have a mind of my own and appreciate when given the chance to exercise it.”

  Geoffrey knew he shouldn’t needle the woman, but she did open the door herself. “Milady, so far in our brief acquaintance I’ve observed you arguing with a stable man over the rental of a horse and rescued you from freezing to death. My first impression was of a young woman too accustomed to getting her own way, the other of a woman who needs someone to make a few of life’s more important decisions for her.”

  Marsaili arched fine golden eyebrows and stared down her nose at him. “Extreme circumstances, I assure ye. Though it tweaks my ire to have my wishes disregarded simply because I am a woman.” She shrugged. “I dinnae make a habit of traveling in a snow storm or alone. I am merely anxious to return home.”

  “So you’ve mentioned.” He braced a hand on the side of the wagon. Marsaili eyed his move with suspicion. With a grin at her startled look as Wythevede shook the team into action, he caught her before she tumbled to the floor. The wagon lurched forward then settled into a smoother mode. Tempering his amusement, Geoffrey returned Marsaili to her seat.

  “And where, exactly, is home?” He continued his questions as though retrieving young women from the floor of his wagon was a not-uncommon occurrence.

  “As I told the others, across the border.”

  “You know you’ll have to do better than that. I will be unable to send an
escort with you if you give me no better direction.”

  Her look grew cold. “Milord, meaning no disrespect, but my opinion of yer intentions, however good ye may think them, isnae verra high. Set me apace from yer company and I will find my own way home. ’Tis been a few years since I left, to be sure, but I believe the road is adequate.”

  “’Tis not the road I question, Milady, but the persons you will surely encounter along the way.”

  “Between yer noble intent and Edmund’s detestable attentions, I am certain I can breeze through the Borders with little discomfiture.” She tossed her head and the hood slipped back, revealing her shiny copper-red hair she’d gone to great trouble to comb and rebraid that morning, using an ivory comb from the small bag Walter had retrieved from her saddle. Her hair’s fiery color seemed to warm the interior of the enclosed wagon, and the shimmer drew Geoffrey’s eyes as surely as a moth to a flame. He shook off the distraction and pounced on the tiny piece of information she let slip.

  “Edmund?” He hid a grin at her discomfited scowl. “Pray tell, who is Edmund?”

  She pulled her cloak across her lap, staring down at it as she pleated the heavy material with her fingers.

  Plod, plod, creak, jangle. Plod, plod, creak, jangle.

  Geoffrey noted her pained expression at the Devil’s own racket the damned conveyance relentlessly repeated as it ground along the rough North road.

  After a moment, she lifted her chin and gave him a frank stare.

  “Edmund is my late husband’s brother.”

  It was Geoffrey’s turn to lift a brow, astonished at the wealth of knowledge in those few words. She is a widow, and from her tone and actions, her brother-by-marriage is not someone she cares for. In fact, she appears to place him on level with scourges, disreputable stable masters—and me.

  It was his turn to scowl. “Does he have an unnatural interest in you?” he questioned softly, realizing what he asked.

  “He is the reason I am returning home, aye,” she admitted, clenching her fists in her lap, the light of anger in her clear blue eyes.

  Geoffrey leaned forward and placed a palm on her hands in a calming manner. “Milady, ye have naught to fear from me or my men. We would not turn you over to a man who has no legal ties to you. Please believe me. Returning you to your home is the right thing to do. We will see it through to the end.”

  Marsaili bit her lower lip and the gesture tugged at Geoffrey’s heart. Her belligerence vanished and her mantle of self-assurance crumbled. Tears welled and Geoffrey was lost.

  “I thank ye, Milord. I shouldnae involve ye in my troubles. ’Tis not my desire to entangle ye with issues not of yer making. I will confess Edmund isnae a good man.” The words seemed to choke her and she swallowed hard. “He is a horrible man, capable of all manner of evil. When my husband died, Edmund took over Bellevue Castle, placing himself as lord, going through my husband’s things with no care to who he offends.”

  “’Tis the way of things at times,” Geoffrey murmured, wondering how Marsaili had changed from a woman of inconvenience to him, to one who set his protective instincts humming. “But with family close by, I do not see why you cannot return home.”

  She ducked her head, a gesture of avoidance Geoffrey knew well. He tipped her chin upward with a touch of his fingertips.

  “Milady? You must tell me the truth. Why do you fear Edmund pursues you? If he has the lordship and all it entails, why should he care where his brother’s wife resides?”

  She did not answer. He stared her down.

  “Edmund has always pursued me—even before Andrew died,” she whispered. “I have fended him off as long as I can. But he willnae give up. He is determined to make me his wife.”

  Chapter Six

  Geoffrey’s stomach clenched at the thought of the lovely Marsaili forced into a marriage to such a beast. Save ’twere by the King’s own edict, she should not have to endure such disgrace at the hands of her late husband’s brother. As a widow and not a maidenly bargaining chip between noble houses, she deserved some choices in her life.

  “He has no right to demand this?” he growled.

  Marsaili startled. “I havenae been commanded to wed the brute, if that is what ye ask.”

  Geoffrey gave a single, determined nod. “Then we will settle this. You will not live your life in fear. Honor states he should allow you to live out your life in a dower house, unburdened by his unwelcome advances.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “What are ye implying, Milord?”

  Geoffrey rapped on the roof of the wagon with the head of his cane and the wagon ground to a halt. “You should not be forced to leave your home. He cannot take that away from you. I will see to it you regain all you have lost. Just now, I require a respite.”

  He flipped back the furs and rose to his feet, rocking unsteadily on his right leg a moment before he caught his balance.

  Marsaili bounded up from her seat, clipping him on his chin, sending him tumbling back to the cushions. They slipped from the smooth wooden seat and Geoffrey toppled to the floor amid a pile of blankets and fur.

  “Och, Milord! A thousand pardons!” Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide, aghast as she stood over him. “I only meant to say—”

  Geoffrey leaned his head back and waved a hand in the air, cutting off her speech. “Enough!” Holding a palm to his chin, he worked his jaw, wincing against the pain. The door to the wagon opened and Wythevede stuck his head inside. His questioning look turned immediately to horror and he whirled about.

  “Help! The woman’s gone and killed Milord!”

  Horses whinnied and metal clanged in a whirling melee of sound. Marsaili sank onto her bench, crouched as though ready to spring through the smallest chink in the door should Wythevede offer an opening.

  “Enough!” Geoffrey lifted himself onto his elbows, furious he’d had to utter the word twice—and in the space of mere moments. He shook his head as he hauled himself to the seat.

  Wythevede’s wiry body was lifted away and replaced by two helmetless heads as Walter and Simon peered inside, curiosity on their faces.

  “He doesn’t appear dead to me, Wythevede,” Simon commented. “However, by the look on his face, I would imagine the next person to cross him will likely not live to regret his action.”

  Geoffrey leveled a frosty glare on his captain. “How did I come to deserve a maniacal driver and two apathetic knights?”

  He grasped his cane and stepped down from the wagon, breathing in the wintry air. He tugged his cape about him, more as protection for his leg than for warmth. The crisp air was stimulating and he longed to be astride his horse, plowing through the drifted snow, the powerful muscles of his destrier between his knees. He tapped the toe of his cane against the frozen ground and forced his thoughts to the problem at hand.

  “I wish a brief respite, and I would assume Milady does as well.” He hobbled carefully across the icy ground, motioning Simon to attend him, leaving Walter to assist Marsaili from the wagon. They moved out of earshot and halted as Geoffrey cast a look over his shoulder.

  “Milady is being chased by her late husband’s brother who wishes to marry her.”

  Simon blinked. “That explains her pique when I asked if she’d wed,” he mused.

  “Did you ask her age as well?” Geoffrey bit out, a bit disturbed by his captain’s insensitivity.

  Simon grinned. “Nay. But I admit the question appeared to have put her nose a bit out of joint.” He sobered. “I must apologize. I did not realize she was widowed.” He swiveled his bulk toward the wagon where Marsaili stood, gathering the sights around her. Geoffrey placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “We may have trouble,” he said, gaining Simon’s interest. “The brother-by-marriage is, according to her words, a brute who has hounded her for her favors since before her husband died.”

  Simon gave a speculative look. “Do you believe her?”

  Geoffrey nodded approvingly. ’Twas why he placed Simon as his cap
tain. Despite the woman’s lovely face and figure, and her image as a woman in distress—and one who’s life they’d saved—Simon could immediately set the excess aside and focus on the real problem.

  Did he believe her?

  Marsaili eyed Geoffrey and Simon speculatively. She could not hear their voices, but their gaze lingered overmuch in her direction. They either paid scant attention to what they were doing, or wished to keep her in view as they discussed her. To what end? Did they consider a faster pace in the hopes to out-distance Edmund and his ilk? Or did they plan to back-track and turn her over to the evil brute?

  She was not sure she trusted Lord de Wylde. Did they believe her?

  “Would Milady care for a bit of privacy?”

  She met Walter’s gaze with a smile. “Aye. A bit of privacy and fresh air would be grand after an hour in that contraption.” Sweeping her skirts above the snow, she followed Walter’s indication toward a thicket of trees, their bare branches wrapped with leafless vines and other sheltering debris.

  After a moment hidden in the copse, testing the knights’ scrutiny, she took the opportunity to see to her immediate needs, interested to note Walter kept watch, but did not hurry her.

  Long grey shadows planked her path back to the wagon. She paused, giving Hew-the-horse a scratch behind his ears.

  “Are ye ready?” Walter asked politely.

  “Aye. Can ye give me a leg up?” She tugged her horse’s reins free and placed a hand on his neck, positioning herself to be assisted into the saddle.

  “She rides with me,” Geoffrey rapped out as he approached, a stern look daring her to argue.

  “Ye may truly find him dead next time,” Marsaili muttered as she flipped her reins into Walter’s waiting hand. Squaring her shoulders with a snort of annoyance, she followed Geoffrey into the conveyance, her skin positively twitching, struggling with the effort to bend meekly to his command.

  Geoffrey tossed an armful of furs to the bench across from him, reserving the fluffy, comfortable-looking coverlets and thick cushion for his seat. Propping his leg against a particularly soft pillow, he motioned to the empty bench.