Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  Falke opened his eyes wide in mock indignation. “I give you my word I’ll do nothing improper.”

  “Your word? Are you not the knight who proclaimed you have no honor and are not bound by such maudlin customs?”

  “Who are you that you know me so well? I’d stake my life I’ve never seen you before. Have you been hiding in the village?” An eerie feeling of premonition slithered along his spine. Who was this woman?

  “Nay, but do not let my absence stop you from visiting the village.” Again her voice seemed to reproach him for some unknown crime.

  Falke rested his elbow on his knee and cradled his chin in his hand. For some reason his usual charm and wit were failing to win the woman over. He gave her his seductive smile, the one that displayed both of his dimples. “And if I came, would you be there for me to find?”

  “Nay, but you might find a way to help the people of Mistedge.”

  No effect? Falke shook his head. Something was terribly wrong. That smile never failed him.

  “Lord Falke? Did you hear me? I understand the blacksmith is a terrible bully. He’s drunk most of the time and beats his family—”

  “How do you know all this? Who are you?” Falke shot off the log. How dare this woman lecture him? How was she privy to so much information about his keep? Perhaps Laron had sent her to spy on him.

  “I keep my eyes and ears open.” She backed away from him, her eyes wary and distrustful.

  Falke pondered his next move. If Laron had set her up in this espionage, she would tell Falke nothing out of fear. Better to gain her trust. If so, she might slip and reveal her identity.

  “As will I, now that I have something to search for.” He gave her a wink and waited for her expected blush.

  It did not come. Instead she straightened her back and tilted her head up in a vain attempt to look down her nose at him. “Will you take nothing seriously?” The sapphire blue of her eyes darkened to black. “One pretty face, and you forget the heartache of your serfs. These people till the soil and plant your fields. In return they expect your guidance, justice and protection.”

  Falke rubbed the spot between his brows. Never had a woman so disregarded him. If he wanted a lecture, all he need do was return home to his father, who was quite capable of making Falke feel like a failure.

  “Woman, that is enough. What business is it of mine if a man beats his wife?”

  An outraged snort was her only reply. This conversation was not going as planned. He should be plying her with sweet words and tender names. Names! He had yet to know hers.

  “Who are you that you know so much about me?”

  She dropped her gaze to the ground. Her naked toe scraped the soft dirt back and forth. Again Falke felt a glimmer of recognition in the act, as though he should know this woman.

  “I do not think my name important.” Her voice rose, as did her gaze. Falke expected to see condemnation; instead hope filled her eyes. “Will you do something about the blacksmith?”

  Disapproval he could have swept away without a thought. He could not ignore her heart-touching favor. “Aye, little angel, I’ll see to the blacksmith. Does that ease your worry?”

  “I’m sure you’ll sleep better this night for your decision.” A riot of platinum curls cascaded across her slender shoulders. Falke had to stop himself from reaching for the riches before him. There’d be no peaceful slumber for him this night. Dreams of the woman before him would keep him awake for many evenings to come.

  “Come, angel, do not fear me. Tell me your name.”

  Why was she so hesitant to tell him who she was? Every nerve in his body jumped when she took a few hesitant steps toward him.

  “I’m not afraid. After all, ’tis I to whom you owe your lot.”

  In the depths of her eyes, Falke saw a quickening of spirit and the heavy footprint of grief. She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much pain, experienced life’s hardships and survived. The mixture made her more alluring, less a child-woman, more woman-child.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “You call me angel. Was it not a kiss by an angel that granted you exceptional luck?” When she moved closer, he could smell the scent of lavender soap from her skin and hair.

  “’Tis nothing but an old wives’ tale. Village gossip.”

  With each word, her stance grew less rigid, more relaxed. Falke shrugged his shoulders, nonchalantly kicked a stone off the trail and scuffed his boots in the dirt. His shuffling steps brought him to within arm’s reach of his prize.

  “But I would gladly turn the myth to reality.” He winked at her and pulled a persuasive smile from his arsenal of charm.

  “Nay, one kiss from an angel brought you good fortune. If you should have another, ’twould turn the favored luck to bad.” She swung away from him, her dainty foot raised to escape down the path.

  “A risk I’m willing to take.” He captured her wrist in his hand. A quick tug and he pulled her to his chest. He buried his lips into the wealth of hair and inhaled her scent. She twisted in his arms, arching her body, seeking to be free. The brush of her breasts against his chest thickened his longing.

  With practiced seduction, he trailed kisses down the delicate line of her jaw, then captured the moistness of her lips. Deep carnal hunger ached to be fed on the sweetness of her mouth. The kiss took on a life of its own, feeding from his passion and her awakening desire.

  Confident of his victory, Falke relaxed his hold and lifted his mouth from hers. Her upturned face mesmerized him. Lips swollen from his kiss parted, offering more delights. Quick breaths made her chest rise and fall, rubbing her stiff peaks against his chest. She slipped her arm from his grasp and rested both hands lightly on his chest, feeling the nap of his velvet tunic.

  “I thought I could make you see reason.” Falke winked at his now pliant hostage.

  “Aye, that you have, Lord Falke.” Her breath danced across the hollow of his neck, warming his skin. “You’ve made me see how blind you really are.” With a mighty shove, his dainty angel hurled him backward into the pond. Dark cold water swallowed him. He sputtered to the surface in time to see a flash of white disappear over the ridge and melt into the forest.

  Staggering to his feet, Falke trudged to the shore and twisted the corner of his tunic to wring out the water. Each squish of his wet boots as he walked up the rise reminded him of the beauty and his desire. He’d have that woman, and he would torture her with passion, until she cried for him to bring her relief. Standing atop the high point, he saw the flickering lights of the castle.

  A few miles and he would be home. He walked on, his thoughts occupying the time. He had Laron plotting against him, Ivette ready to scratch his eyes out and a plain, daft woman as his betrothed. Not to mention a mysterious woman bathing in his pond.

  Half an hour later, Falke entered the castle and shuffled over to the nearest fireplace. Ozbern rounded the corner. “Where in blazes have you been?” Noticing the damp clothes, he added, “And what have you been doing?”

  “Aye, Lord Falke.” Ivette entered in turn, with an entourage of knights and ladies. Titus, Laron and Ferris pushed their way to the front.

  “I’ve had an encounter with an angel.”

  “What?” Ozbern wrinkled his brow. “Have you gone daft?”

  “Nay.” Falke took a seat on the hearth and pulled off his boots. Water sizzled on the hot stones. His clothes hung like weights on his shoulders. “I have seen a face Helen of Troy would grow jealous of. Eyes like twin jewels, blue with fire in their depths. Hair made of moonbeams. The exact same shade as—”

  “Strands of silver. Small like a young girl, yet a body that tells all she is a woman.” Titus drew away as he spoke, his eyes wide, his voice shaking. “She knows! She knows and follows me here! Ferris, gather our men! We leave this place come the morrow.” The errant knight raced away, leaving behind a perplexed crowd.

  Ferris crossed his arms over his narrow chest. His small dark gaze studied Falk
e with unhidden intensity. “This woman—you spoke with her?”

  “Spoke. Touched. Kissed.” Falke smiled at the memory.

  “Falke!” Ivette screeched. “You shame yourself as you shame me.” She turned and waited for the ladies to follow. Falke could see their desire to hear his story and their fear of Ivette’s wrath. A snap of a fan, and the ladies meekly fell into step behind Ivette.

  “So you are certain this woman was real? No specter? No ghost?” Ferris continued to interrogate Falke.

  “Aye. Those lips were warm and inviting.”

  “And where is my cousin?” A gleam came to Ferris’s eye, one Falke found strangely unnerving. Titus was evil, but Ferris added cunning and youth to the mixture. By far, Falke found him the most dangerous.

  “In her chamber,” Ozbern answered. “You’ll find four men posted outside her door.” The information served as a warning. “While Lady Wren—Gwendolyn—resides at Mistedge, she’ll come to no harm.”

  “I would think nothing else.” Ferris’s thin lips drew into a sly smile. Letting his voice rise so that the nobles could hear, he added, “For the only way Falke can escape his commitment to her would be should she die. A man not held by honor might resort to murder to free himself. Or luck.” Placing the ember of suspicion in the minds of the assembled knights, Ferris sauntered away. Laron threw Falke a smug smile, then followed his newfound friend. The remaining knights departed, but with whispers and mumbling.

  “An angel, Falke?” Ozbern murmured. “Do you seek to turn these men against you? And what of Titus? I thought the old man feared nothing except the devil himself. What has this strange woman to do with him?”

  “I know not.” Falke warmed his hands at the fire. “But one thing is certain—I will find her again. And she will not escape me.”

  “This woman can wait. But Titus cannot. Lady Wren cannot leave come the morrow.”

  A deep growl rumbled in Falke’s chest. Ferris and Laron must have sealed a deal. If Gwendolyn died suspiciously, Laron would have a good chance of stirring the vassals to mutiny. Falke had counted on Titus’s greed to keep him at Mistedge longer, giving him time to arrange a convent stay for his betrothed.

  “Give the Cravenmore men ample drink. ’Twill be hard to move so many with heavy heads. We may delay their leaving for a day.”

  “And then?”

  “I will think of something.”

  “’Twould seem our luck has gone from good to bad.” Ozbern stirred the fire with a long iron poker.

  Falke brought his head up and stared at his friend. The warning of the woman in the woods reverberated in his mind. Who was she? How came she to know him so well? Once again he wondered if she might be in league with his enemies. Hadn’t the mention of her sent Titus scurrying for his home?

  Falke had been kissed by angel twice now in his life. Was he twice blessed? Or twice cursed?

  Chapter Six

  Gwendolyn peered out the window of her room, watching the serfs in the inner yard just beginning their daily chores. The knotted strands of hair over her eyes seemed like prison bars, trapping her soul within. Why couldn’t she be outside, laughing and singing in the sunlight? Why couldn’t she dress in soft gowns and flirt with young knights?

  Defiance exploded her well-built armor of caution and she combed back her hair, exposing her face. The filtered light from the room’s only window bathed her cheeks with warmth. She closed her eyelids and let the sunshine cause speckles of light to dance on the insides of her eyelids. The soft warmth made her remember Falke, the way his hand had felt on hers, and the heat of his lips when he had kissed her last night.

  Nay! Falke had not kissed her, Lady Wren, the plain, squat woman who was his betrothed. The knight had tried to seduce a beautiful woman. A stranger to him.

  Jealousy raked a stinging wound in Gwendolyn’s heart. Falke had no idea that his angel near the pond had been, in truth, drab Lady Wren. To him, she was a dullard, a jest of nature. Gwendolyn snorted at the absurdity of her emotions, how could she be jealous of herself?

  Temptation teased her better judgment. Just a bit of hair dye, swaddling around her waist and playacting built her disguise. Falke would welcome a union with his night angel, but Gwendolyn dared not tell the truth, not yet. She still had doubts about the knight’s integrity.

  “My child?” The door creaked open as Darianne entered, followed by Cyrus.

  With reluctance, Gwendolyn opened her eyes and gave her foster mother a quiet smile. “Titus should be ready to leave soon. I’ve just a few more things to collect.” She bit back her disappointment and returned to packing her few possessions in a vain attempt to drive away the heartache.

  Word of the “angel” in the woods had swept through the castle. Her carelessness had levied a heavy toll. Titus had ordered all of the Cravenmore entourage to depart. As dawn brightened the sky, her optimism dimmed. Looking around the tiny cell, clean and tidy now from their work, she sighed, “I don’t know if I can stand going back.”

  “Only for a year,” Cyrus said, trying to reassure her. He gave his wife a helpless glance. “’Tis just this talk of ghosts and such that has Titus running scared. We’ll be back for another chance.”

  “Gwendolyn…” Darianne folded her fingers together and studied her foster daughter. “The talk is Lord Falke spoke with…kissed…this woman, this angel.”

  Heat blossomed across Gwendolyn’s cheeks as warmth swirled in the pit of her stomach. “He saw me before I had time to reapply the dye to my hair. Falke has no inkling ’twas me he tried to seduce.”

  “And did he, child?” Darianne tilted Gwendolyn’s chin up and studied her. “No man would wait a year to claim you.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “He took but a kiss, but I’ve lived under Titus’s roof long enough to know he wanted much more. Would he have taken more and showed the true mettle of his worth? I know not, for I escaped before he had the chance. Now ’twill be another year before I can find answers.”

  Another year with Titus. Another year of groveling at his feet and pretending not to understand the cruel jokes and blows. Despair washed over her like a summer flood. The wavering flame of hope washed away in the tide. Why couldn’t Falke de Chretian be a man she could trust and believe in?

  Her arm still tingled when she remembered the warmth of his fingers. Goose bumps ran down her neck as she recalled the soft whisper of his words against her ear. Flutters of excitement buffeted her stomach. A gentle touch and kind words, the first she’d ever experienced from a man other than Cyrus… Then to have it all collapse with that ominous announcement of their departure. Another year!

  “Have you discovered anything of Lord Falke’s character, other than he is enraptured by this angel?” Darianne asked with a smile.

  Volumes, Gwendolyn thought. Though nothing that helped their cause. Falke de Chretian disavowed any trace of honor. Grimaced at the code of chivalry. Thought a witty smile would buy him anything or anyone he chose. Ignored his villeins and disregarded the soldiers’ disrespect.

  But one trait remained dear to her heart—the camaraderie he shared with the knight Ozbern was forged in true friendship.

  Two men, so vastly different. Falke, tall with broad shoulders and the gait of man at ease in battle. Hair the color of sunshine, a smug grin on his full, sensual lips. Ozbern, shorter than many knights, yet taller than most when it came to conscience and morals. His dark curly head was ofttimes shaking in censure over some sharp retort of Falke’s. They would share a laugh, a toast, a bawdy remark, and then Gwendolyn would experience the pangs of loneliness.

  No one knew that in the shadows of the castle, occasionally right at their heels, she listened attentively. But always alone. Never included. Seeing the ladies dressed in fine wools and silks made Gwendolyn long for the trappings of feminine youth. What she would give for an opportunity to dance in the hall, to share laughter with a friend, to share life with a man who loved her as she was!

  ’Twas useless to wish. Her dreams
would not come true. As she plopped down on a trunk, Gwendolyn answered, “Though tongues wag about me, thinking I cannot understand, I have learned little. Chretian’s men brag of his fighting ability and quick wits. His enemies condemn him for his brashness and uncanny luck.”

  “Someone’s coming. ’Tis probably the guard.” Darianne spread her skirt to hide Gwendolyn from view. “Hurry, cover your face.”

  The racing footsteps echoed off the stone walls, heading toward their tiny room. “’Tis me.” Lucas’s pale face peered around the door. His sandy topknot waved like a flag of friendship. “I come to say ye need not hurry.”

  The sound of her foster parents’ collective sigh resounded in the room. Cyrus asked, “And why is that?”

  “The ale and wine flowed freely among Cravenmoor last night. Lord Falke entertained the whole crew, with orders that as this was to be their last night, their cups should never be empty. There’s not a man among them that can seat a horse. Titus is nursing a heavy head and a churning gut. The only one with clear senses is the dark one.”

  “Ferris?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Aye,” Lucas agreed. “He’s out swearin’ in the stables. ’Twill be noon before most Cravenmoor knights rise, and then they’ll be sufferin’ the drops and thick heads.”

  Gwendolyn shot her foster parents a worried frown. Overindulgent hospitality did not seem a likely reason for Falke’s sudden generosity. Why didn’t he want Titus to leave the castle? How long did he intend to detain them?

  Lucas sidled over to Gwendolyn and looked at her with wide brown eyes. “The salve ye gave me for me back eased the pain from them bruises.”

  “I’m glad my medicine—” Gwendolyn clamped her lips tightly together. She had almost forgotten to stammer. “—help.” Darianne shot her a chastising stare.

  Lucas’s smile faded. “Milady, it’s been three days that me mum’s been feelin’ poorly. Da says she’s just lazy, but ’tis not like her. I wish ye could see her and help her.”

  Gwendolyn’s heart melted, for she knew well the fear the boy experienced. But wandering the castle unnoticed was difficult enough. To enter the village and administer there undetected would be nearly impossible. Tending the ill required that she ask questions. Insightful questions that would strip her of her masquerade.