“I will eat once I have checked Magdalen’s leg.”
Borden nodded and returned to the dried herbs laid out the nearby butcher’s block, likely to be made into a fresh healing drink.
Moving silently, Cyn went to the cot. Magdalen was sound asleep. How beautiful she looked while she slumbered; she was even lovelier than the maidens spoken of in the old stories he treasured. Her fair skin was smooth and unblemished. Her long, dark lashes swept against her face, while her shimmering hair trailed in unfettered abandon across the pillow.
His gaze shifted down to her lips, as pink as a damask rose and slightly parted in sleep. His hands curled at his sides, and he forced his attention away, resenting the anguish that flickered within him. He had no right to stare. To want. He was not worthy of one as innocent, as exquisite, as Magdalen.
He carefully drew the blanket away from her leg, untied a few of the bandages, and inspected the wound. The stitches looked good. Satisfied no more could be done for her that night, he put the blanket back in place and started for the kitchen.
As he walked, his gaze found Magdalen’s clothes and leather bag still drying near the fire. His strides slowed. When he’d secured the bag to the line, he’d marveled at the weight of it. Whatever she’d taken with her from Glemstow, he’d be wise to know—especially if ’twas the reason she’d run from William.
He crossed to the hearth and unfastened the bag. Guilt nagged at Cyn; he really should ask Magdalen’s permission to examine her belongings, but that would mean waking her. Moreover, he was acting in the crown-appointed role of sheriff; by law, he didn’t have to ask her consent. Cyn eased the bag open and reached inside.
Something cool and roundish in shape brushed against his fingers: A stone? As he took it out into the firelight, his breath lodged in his throat, for ’twas a ruby the size of a hen’s egg, its surface polished to gleaming perfection. White streaks shot through the gem. They branched out from the center like the antlers of a stag.
Where had she come by such a magnificent ruby? It must be worth a small fortune. As far as he knew, William hadn’t owned such a stone…which meant it must belong to her.
Some men would kill to possess such a gem, but not William. Not the William Cyn knew—which meant William had another reason for wanting to capture her.
Cyn’s uneasy gaze flicked to Magdalen, still slumbering, before he set down the ruby and reached into the bag again. He withdrew a small, clinking bag of coins and a soggy chunk of bread, wrapped in a handkerchief, along with a stack of damp letters tied with a ribbon.
Ah. The letters must contain damning information.
He quickly read through them. They were written to Magdalen by a woman named Aislinn, and unless they were penned in some kind of secret code, were merely reflections on Aislinn’s life with her husband Hugh and his daughters at a castle named Hallingstow. Frowning, Cyn put the coins, handkerchief, and letters aside, and tossed the bread into the fire. Was he missing clues that should be obvious, or had he just not found yet what William was after?
When Cyn reached into the bag one last time, cold metal fitted into his hand. The object felt familiar.
Disquiet tingled through him as he pulled the object out into the fire glow. Light gleamed on the silver doe as long as his hand and wrought from silver. A beautiful piece made by a very skilled craftsman—and one that made his heart freeze then slam hard against his ribs.
God’s holy blood.
He definitely wasn’t going to let Magdalen go. Not until he had some answers.
Chapter Five
A ragged cry pulled Magdalen from the depths of sleep. Jolting awake, she opened her eyes to inky shadows. Her head felt muzzy and sluggish, but her heart pounded as if she were once again racing through the forest.
William. He’d come for her.
Ignoring the pain in her leg, she pushed up on her elbows and glanced anxiously about the room.
All seemed to be quiet and still, not only in this area, but the rest of the house. There was no sign of William or his men.
Daring to exhale a sigh of relief, she studied the shadowed room more thoroughly. Cyn’s dogs dozed by the hearth, clearly undisturbed by the noise she’d heard. Her garments and bag still tied to the rope were akin to distorted silhouettes against the yellowish-orange light.
Cyn didn’t seem to have been bothered the cry either. He was asleep, sprawled in the largest chair in the room: a high-backed, carved oak throne fit for a forest king. His head had listed to the side while he slept, allowing her to study his features. His eyes were closed, the strong line of his jaw relaxed. Her gaze slid down from his sensual mouth, to see that he wore different garments than he had earlier; his coppery-red woolen tunic clung to the broad muscles of his torso and drew her focus slowly down to his lap, where two cats lay curled together. The felines watched her, their eyes mere slits, as her gaze followed the powerful lines of his legs, defined by snug black hose, down to his bare feet.
Cyn stirred. She blushed, mortified to think he might wake and catch her ogling him. She dropped back down to the pillows.
His face contorted into a grimace, although his eyes remained shut. His breaths rasped between his clenched teeth; an unnerving sound.
He must be having a nightmare.
“Cyn?” she whispered.
He groaned.
“Cyn,” she whispered again.
No answer.
She bit down on her bottom lip as her attention shifted to her drying garments. With Cyn sleeping so soundly, could she use this opportunity to escape? Her clothes might not be fully dry, but dry enough that she could put them on and slip out into the night. She had to try, despite the pain in her leg. She had to deliver the missive about the murder to someone who could stop the terrible deed from happening.
As carefully and as quietly as possible, she pushed herself upright. The bedding fell to her waist, baring her shirt-covered upper body to the room’s cooler air. Dizziness suddenly overwhelmed her, and she went still, clutching her brow. Counting her heartbeats, drawing in steadying breaths, she waited for the dizziness to subside.
Her hand shook as she pulled back the blankets and bared her legs. How she hated feeling so weak. Shivering, with sweat beading on her brow, she began to shift her legs over the side of the cot. The bed creaked. Oh, but the floor seemed so far away, nigh impossible—
“What in hellfire are you doing?”
She glanced up. Through the darkness, Cyn’s gaze locked with hers.
There was no chance of her slipping away now.
Straightening in the chair, he lifted the cats from his lap, set them on the floor, and rose. In a few brisk strides, he was in front of her. “Were you trying to get out of bed?” He sounded both astonished and angry. He also smelled faintly of wood smoke and herbs, a tantalizing mingling of scents that did odd things to her pulse…or mayhap ’twas his intimidating demeanor that unsettled her. “Do you need to…use the chamber pot?”
“Nay, thank you. I took care of that need earlier.”
“Why were you trying to leave your bed, then?”
Magdalen thought of lying and saying she’d only wanted to move around a bit, to swing her legs to stretch out a cramp, but with him frowning down at her, she decided upon partial truth. “I…thought you were in some kind of trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You groaned, as if you were experiencing night terrors.”
He shook his head, and a rough oath broke from him. His attention dropped to her legs, and then he abruptly looked away, as though he realized he shouldn’t be looking at her bared skin.
A little thrill of fascination chased through her that her partial nakedness should affect him so—but surely, she should not be entertaining such scandalous thoughts.
“Were you having a nightmare?” She discreetly tried to the tug the bedding back over her limbs. While she didn’t have any prior experience with such situations—it hadn’t even been mentioned in one of the countless tale
s she’d heard—it must be highly inappropriate for a lady to reveal so much skin to a lord’s gaze, no matter how chivalrous he might be.
His face turned to her in profile, Cyn said, “I would rather not discuss—”
“You were having a nightmare.”
Reluctance etched his features. He seemed ashamed of her knowing he suffered bad dreams; ’twas his stubborn male pride, no doubt, pricking his conscience. “Can Borden not make you a potion to help you sleep?”
Cyn’s gaze, firm and uncompromising, met hers. “I am the local sheriff. I cannot take potions that will dull my senses. I must be able to ride in an instant, fight with speed and skill, if there is danger. Now, how are you feeling?”
“My head is spinning a bit, and I feel groggy,” she admitted, still tugging on the bedding that only partially covered her lap.
“’Tis likely from the drink.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. Was he irritated by their discussion, or the fact she was still baring so much flesh? How curious, that she longed to press her finger to his cheek, to soothe the tic with a tender touch.
He set his hand over hers still fumbling with the bedding. She immediately stilled, startled by the feel of his skin against hers. Her mind acknowledged warmth, roughness…
His movements swift and efficient, he lifted the bedding, scooped up her legs, and slid them under. Then he gently pressed her shoulders, urging her to lie back down.
Defiance stirred, but truth be told, she suddenly felt as though she’d been knocked down by a battering ram. As she finally gave in and collapsed against the pillows, she said, “My leg hurts.”
“I am not surprised. You should not be moving it about.” He tucked the blankets around her. “Would you like another herbal drink? I can wake Borden.”
“Please do not trouble him. I am sure he needs his sleep.”
A wry smile curved Cyn’s mouth. “He would not mind being woken if you needed his healing brew. He is quite taken with you.”
“I like him very much, too. He is a kind soul.”
“He is indeed.” Gesturing to her leg, Cyn added, “In a day or two, the pain should diminish. I expect your wound will heal quickly.”
She nodded and fingered a loose thread trailing from the topmost blanket. “Thank you for tending to my injury. I am grateful for your and Borden’s care.”
Cyn sighed, a harsh sound. “Believe me, I never meant for you to be hurt.”
His words sounded heavy with guilt, but memories of his pursuit in the forest filled her thoughts. “Why did you chase me? Did William order you to catch me?”
“He did. I happened to be in the forest, hunting for poachers who had been laying traps, when William’s men found me. They relayed his orders. William wanted me involved because I know these woods better than anyone.”
“You helped William because you are the sheriff of these lands?”
“In part.” An emotion she couldn’t quite define flickered in Cyn’s eyes. “I owe him a great deal. He and I have been friends since we were boys.”
Friends. Oh, God. Was Cyn also involved in the ghastly plot detailed in the letter?
She wanted to ask—needed to ask—but Cyn left the bedside to collect some unlit beeswax candles, which he set on the nearby side table. He crossed to the fire, ignited one of the tapers, and then used it to light the rest, enveloping the cot in a circle of golden light.
“I need to check your wound,” Cyn said, returning the taper he held to its pewter holder. He spoke gently but firmly, his words not seeking permission but telling her what was about to take place. He rinsed his hands in the bowl of water on the table then drew back the blankets to bare her bandaged calf. A draft chilled her toes.
As he untied the bandages, reviving memories of his hand pressing upon hers moments ago, she asked quickly, “You said you have known William since you were boys.”
“We were squires at the same keep, and we trained together to earn our knight’s spurs. Together, we joined King Richard’s Third Crusade to the Holy Land.”
“You fought Saracens?” She’d always been curious about far-away lands and peoples. The journey by sea and land must have been arduous, but also exciting and full of adventure; the battles truly horrifying.
“We did battle Saracens.” Cyn’s expression hardened as he pulled back the last of the bandages to inspect her stitches. “We were both knighted by King Richard at Acre—”
She gasped. “The King himself knighted you?”
“He did indeed.”
“What a tremendous honor.”
Cyn’s features, etched by candlelight, didn’t soften with even the slightest hint of pride. “When we returned to London many months later, we were hired as personal guards for several of the King’s ministers. As you no doubt know, since you have been part of William’s household, he was eventually awarded a fortress—Glemstow Keep—for his service to the crown.”
A curious edge had crept into Cyn’s voice. ’Twas as though he was withholding details, important ones.
“And you?” she asked, unable to stop herself from being so bold. “Were you not also awarded a keep?”
“I declined the King’s offer.”
He’d practically snarled the words. “Declined?” she echoed.
“Aye. More than once.”
Such a refusal made absolutely no sense. The gift of an estate from the King was one of the highest honors that could be bestowed upon a nobleman. “Why would you decline?” she asked, astonished.
Cyn’s mouth flattened, and his movements stiffened as he retied the linen bandages. “Despite your foolishness a short while ago, all looks fine. I will check your wound again in the morning.”
He had neatly avoided answering her question, but now she was even more intrigued. There must be a very good reason why he’d refused the King’s gift. Cyn clearly had no intention of telling her, though, for he turned his back to her and blew out the candles, returning the area around the cot to shadows.
“Cyn?”
His shoulders tensed. He glanced back at her, his gaze narrowed.
“Please. Why—?”
“Because I did not deserve it.”
Chapter Six
Cyn leaned his head against the carved chair back, closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the rustle of Magdalen’s blankets while she settled for sleep. With a raspy brrrt, Tristan jumped up into his lap and lay down, purring.
Stroking the feline’s silky fur, Cyn silently recited the names of the knights of King Arthur’s court. He knew them all, had memorized them even before he’d inherited his sire’s cherished leather-bound book of old folk legends, along with the carved chair—the only two things he’d told his brother he wanted from the fortress that had belonged to the Woodrow family for almost seventy years—before he’d ridden away, his heart ripped to shreds.
That hellish day nine years ago, Cyn had returned from the East, filled with hope for a joyous reunion with his parents and brother, to find his sibling the ruling lord—their parents had died from a sickness seven months after Cyn left for Crusade—and Francine the lady of the keep. She’d hardly let the dust settle on the castle road after Cyn had left before she’d married his brother.
“I thought you had likely died in battle,” she said, when he’d asked why she hadn’t waited for him.
Deceitful bitch. She hadn’t loved him, not the way Cyn had loved her. She’d been his reason to live when he’d wanted only to die. Knowing she was waiting for him back in England, and that he’d promised to return and marry her, had kept him focused in battle after gruesome battle. He’d entrusted her with his soul, and coming home to find she’d spurned him had been akin to being run through with his own sword.
Anger burned anew in Cyn’s veins, fueling the bitterness and hurt that lived within him day after day. Anger gave him courage; rage bolstered the iron shield around his heart that maintained his emotional distance from women, especially ones as tantalizing as Magdalen.
Sighing into the
darkness, he dragged his free hand over his face, for his efforts to distract his wayward mind hadn’t helped one bit. Still, he saw Magdalen sitting on the cot and wearing his shirt, the fine linen molding to her body and tempting him with the outlines of soft, womanly curves beneath.
And her legs… Long. Shapely. The most enticing legs he’d ever seen on a woman.
He swallowed the groan tickling his throat. Damnation. ’Twas the middle of the night and he wanted to sleep, not be both furious and aroused.
Yawning, he focused on the rumbling sound of Tristan’s purr. ’Twas a happy, soothing sound. Closing his eyes, Cyn prayed that one day, he’d enjoy such contentment…
Wearing chain-mail armor, Cyn stood alone on the parched ground near Acre. He waited, tensed for an attack, his sword glinting in the blistering sunlight.
Saracens lurked nearby. He couldn’t see them, but he felt their presence. They were watching him, waiting for the right moment to attack and slay him. He searched the landscape for somewhere to run, to take cover, before they struck.
Fear was a leaden weight crushing his innards. The sun beat down, causing sweat to drip into his eyes and forcing him to squint.
Nowhere to hide.
Dirt crunched behind him. He spun, his breaths coming in harsh rasps. A fellow Crusader—Andrew—walked toward him, strides purposeful. He seemed unaware of the impending attack.
“Run,” Cyn shouted. “Danger.”
Andrew continued to approach, as though he hadn’t heard.
“Danger!” Cyn bellowed again. Why didn’t Andrew listen?
Suddenly, the sword in Cyn’s hand changed into a crossbow. He yelled, startled by the change. As though his body had a will of its own, he lifted the crossbow and aimed it at Andrew.
“Nay,” Cyn cried. “Nay!”
The crossbow fired. The steel-tipped bolt pierced through Andrew’s left eye. Blood ran down his face, frozen in an expression of shock. He fell to the ground, dead.
“Nay,” Cyn gasped, choking on his horror. “God’s blood, nay—”
One Knight in the Forest: A Medieval Romance Novella Page 4