Angel of the Knight

by Hall, Diana

  “Falke, are you mad? You’ve brought the fever to us.” Ivette stepped away as he neared, placing her dainty embroidered handkerchief over her mouth.

  “Move aside, woman. I have no time for you.” Falke noted the narrowing of Ivette’s eyes and the hard pout on her lips. Cold beauty portrayed the heart within, stonelike and uncaring. He gripped his tattered bundle tightly, afraid he might lose the warmth found within, Lady Wren. Suddenly, she became the most precious bundle of rags he had ever possessed.

  Robert ran up the steps and threw open the door. Falke swept inside, issuing orders with a look that would tolerate no laxity. “Bring water and peppermint tea to—” He took one look at the long flight of steps leading to her cell-like accommodation. “Bring them to my chambers, immediately.”

  Falke climbed the steps to the first-floor gallery and kicked open his door. His lady slept on, totally unaware of her surroundings. Tenderly, he placed her head on his pillow and laid her on the majestic bed. Grabbing a corner of the velvet coverlet, she rolled on her side, rubbing the satin edging against her face. Falke looped the other end over her and tucked the corners down, afraid that in her sleep she might roll off.

  “My child—where is she?” Darianne toddled into the room, pushing aside the young men clustered around the bed.

  “She’s tired, exhausted, worked to the bone.” Guilt cut a swath of emotion through him.

  Why hadn’t he seen the extent of her fatigue? She could well have died because of his neglect, and he had vowed to protect her from her uncle and cousin. A disgusted mental voice, sounding so like his father’s, nagged inside his head. You can’t save her from herself, much less another warrior.

  Nodding, Darianne caressed Gwendolyn’s cheek. “Aye, ’tis always this way with her. She gives all she has and holds nothing back for herself.”

  “She should learn to be more selfish.” Falke wanted his words to be gruff, but they came out wistful and soft.

  A rosy-cheeked servant girl burst into the room with a tankard of tea and a bucket of steaming water. “’Ere ye are, milord.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and dropped the wooden pail.

  “Go up to Lady Wren’s room and bring down all her things. To this room.” Falke shot the girl a cold glance, daring her to shun the duty. Wide-eyed, the girl dipped another curtsy and scurried out the door.

  Nervousness twitched the older woman’s mouth. “That’s not necessary, Lord Falke. We are fine in the room we have.”

  “Nay, Wife. ’Twill be all right.” Cyrus hushed her misgivings. “Lord Falke will see to Gwendolyn’s needs.”

  “As will all of Mistedge.” Falke let his gaze fall on the knights hanging back near the door. They stood taller and prouder under his stare. “Lady Darianne, there will be a servant posted outside this door for your convenience. Anything that you or your lady should need, send the servant after it. You are to want for nothing. Understand?”

  “Aye, Milord Falke.” Darianne whispered the words, her eyes wide with amazement.

  “I will send in the servant girl to help you undress your lady.”

  “Nay, milord.” Darianne clutched her husband’s sleeve. “I can see to her myself.”

  “But surely you would want some aid in…undressing her. It would be a chore with the woman unconscious.”

  “My wife can see to her needs, Sir Falke.” Cyrus patted his wife’s hand.

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to administer to your charge.” Falke marched from the room, Robert and Ozbern following him. Closing the door, he spoke to Sir Clement. “See that one of us is always nearby.”

  “Aye, milord. I’ll trust none save those that rode with us from the village.”

  “Good. We must be on our guard.” Falke shook the knight’s hand and felt his own responsibility grow. These men followed him now and he was accountable for what befell them because of that loyalty. Surprisingly, he did not chafe under the added weight. It settled well on his shoulders and with his pride. Christ’s blood, there he went again with the most uncharacteristic thoughts. Where had these almost honorable ideas come from?

  A twitch of truth answered his question. Lady Wren. Stars, but she had gotten under his skin. And more, the truth-telling voice nudged him to admit. Somehow that misshapen little body with the sapphire eyes had slipped into his heart. Like a battered puppy, Falke reasoned with himself and stomped off, not wanting to hear his inner voice any longer.

  “Look at what happened from carrying that creature.” Jabbing his shoulder with her long, pointed fingernail, Ivette sneered, “Look at this filth on your shirt. ’Tis ruined. And if you don’t mind your ways, you will be, too.”

  Looking down, Falke saw an unsightly brown stain on his shoulder. The aroma of cool forest greens perfumed the air. Lady Wren. He rubbed the spot with his fingers in slow circles. ’Twas not grime; he had seen her too often in the village scrubbing her hands and arms to think she would tolerate dirt on her person. Yet ’twas the second time he had held her, and the second time the stain had appeared. What in the devil caused it?

  Falke flipped his dagger point into the wooden trestle table, pulled it free and then flipped it again. He stared at the staircase leading up to his chambers. For two days he had waited for word on Gwendolyn’s health. Every day came the same message: “She sleeps.”

  Ozbern leaned back in his chair and rested his foot against the time-worn table. He swirled the last swallow of warm amber wine in the heavy bronze goblet.

  “The gown you commissioned for Lady Wren is quite lovely. The color exactly matches her eyes.” Ozbern drained the goblet, set it on the trestle table and let his foot drop to the floor. “As you ordered, it will be completed by the morrow. ’Twill make a lovely wedding dress.”

  Standing, Falke paced the length of the table, his eyes darting to the staircase at every turn. “I want that gown perfect. If the women should need more time—”

  “’Tis not the seamstress that dawdles, ’tis you.”

  “Me!” Falke turned on his second and balked. “We must go careful here. Only the fear that the lady may have the fever has kept Titus from gathering his wastrel lot and departing, with Lady Wren.”

  “You haven’t visited her once since we returned.”

  “She needs her rest.”

  “You’re afraid to ask her, aren’t you?” Ozbern leaned forward, a sly smile on his lips. “You’re afraid she’ll refuse to wed you.”

  “Nay.” Falke flipped his hand elegantly. “Lady Wren? Refuse me?” Then with quiet emphasis, he added, “She has no choice but to wed me.”

  “And is that how you want her to make her decision? You or Titus?”

  “She cares about me.” Falke slumped into a high-backed chair and draped his legs over the sides. “At least she did.”

  “Ah, now we have it.” Ozbern poured two goblets of wine from the jug and pushed one toward his friend. “Did you think I would not notice how she was never at your side those last days? What happened?”

  “I was a fool.” Falke gulped the wine, letting the tart liquid burn his throat. “That woman I saw before in the woods—well, I found her again.”

  “Your angel?”

  “Aye, and if her kiss brought me misfortune, lying with her brought me heartache.”

  “You made love to the woman?”

  “Nay, not lovemaking.” Falke sat up straight in the chair. “Well, at the time mayhap…but on reflection…Nay, I’ll not deny it. I made love to the woman and asked her to return to the village, as my mistress, in full knowledge that Angel knew Lady Wren.”

  “And you believe this Angel told Lady Wren of the tryst?”

  “Aye. Though for some reason, ’twas not the tryst that riled Angel so, but my request that she return to the village as my mistress, right under Lady Wren’s nose.”

  “Discretion, my friend, has always been your strong suit. How is it this woman made you forget lessons learned long ago?”

  Falke relaxed his neck and tapped his head on the high bac
k of the chair. “Is it possible to love two women at the same time?”

  “Rumor has it that you already have.” Ozbern gave Falke a salute with his wine goblet.

  Falke threw up his hands in exasperation. “My body lusts for Angel, for her beauty is without comparison. The passion we kindled in those few hours has not dampened.” He struck his chest with his fist.

  “Yet my heart longs for Lady Wren. I would lay down my very life if she would grant me one of her smiles.”

  Ozbern stared at his goblet, turning the dull metal to catch the sunlight from the high window. “There are many women that stir a man’s desires. And in your case, I do stress many. But, Falke, how many women have entered your heart?”

  “Only one other, my mother.” Falke poured his goblet full and drained it. “At first I resisted marriage, for I would not be dictated to. Then I resisted in order to spare Lady Wren, for I would not have her suffer a marriage of unrequited love as had my mother.” Pouring himself another drink and gulping it down, he spoke the bitter truth. “Now, my friend, I fear ’tis I that will suffer my mother’s fate. Ozbern, I do believe I’ve fallen in love with Lady Wren.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Just how long do you intend to hide in this room?” Darianne pulled back the thick curtains surrounding the rope bed. Sunlight flooded Gwendolyn’s dark, secure cocoon.

  Blinking her eyes, she argued, “I’m not hiding.” She burrowed beneath the mountain of pillows stacked on the bed and inhaled the masculine scent of the linens. Though Falke hadn’t slept in the room in over two months, his essence still lingered on the sheets of his bed.

  An ache started in the pit of her stomach, though she knew ’twas not food that could curb it, only Falke’s kiss. Since making love to him, her body had developed a ravenous hunger for his touch and caress. ’Twas a famine her traitorous body would have to learn to deal with. There would be no appeasement.

  “If ’tis not hiding, then ’tis sulking,” Darianne suggested.

  “I am most certainly not sulking.” Gwendolyn bolted upright, outraged fixed on her face, while the truth pricked at her heart. She had awakened yesterday, her limbs heavy with fatigue and her soul weighted from Falke’s betrayal.

  “Falke de Chretian cares for no one, save himself,” she declared.

  Lust ruled his loins and he cared not a whit for her feelings. Had he thought of loyal Lady Wren at all while he was making love to his angel of the woods? Gwendolyn doubted he thought of anything but ravishing a beauty. Well, he hadn’t really ravished her, she had been more than willing, but he hadn’t thought to naysay the union, either.

  Falling back onto the goose down pillows, she watched a few stray feathers puff into the air. Like her hopes and dreams, the white down drifted toward the open window and disappeared.

  “Sir Falke insisted you take his chambers.” Darianne swept her arm to encompass the large room. “I’ve had a servant to wait on me hand and foot. And he’s stationed a guard to keep Titus from you.”

  A guard? ’Twould be harder to sneak out now that Falke and most of the knights knew she had two good legs. Nor could Gwendolyn count on Darianne’s help. ’Twould seem Sir Falke had charmed his way into her cautious good graces.

  As if to prove her point, Darianne continued with her litany of Falke’s good works. “And he’s ordered Lucas to tend to Greatheart in the stable.”

  “Nay, Greatheart will trample the lad.”

  “’Twould seem the horse and Lord Falke have come to an understanding.” Darianne beamed as she lauded the errant knight. “Greatheart obeys him as he did your father. And Sir Falke has put an end to Greatheart’s tantrums. Lucas is safe.”

  Deserted! Even by her one true friend. Gwendolyn took little consolation from her horse’s change of heart. Even faithful Greatheart fell beneath Falke’s appeal.

  “And—” Darianne’s voice grew smug “—Lady Ivette’s been asked to leave Mistedge, along with her brother.” Almost crowing, she added in a hushed voice, “Lord Falke intends to wed you. He told Cyrus so himself, but ’tis a secret. Should Titus know, he would whisk you away before the ceremony.”

  Gwendolyn threw herself across the coverlet, despair and anguish deepening her voice. “Oh, what am I to do?”

  “Saint’s be praised! Rejoice, child.” Darianne came to her side and tried to comb back the tangled snarls.

  “He…he means to marry me!” The words came out in great sobs. Falke meant to sentence her to a loveless marriage, cementing his hold on Mistedge and subjecting his wife to a parade of mistresses.

  “From the sound of your voice, ’twould seem you’re in misery.” Darianne’s confusion wrinkled her brow.

  “I am, ’tis horrible news.”

  “Horrible?” Darianne echoed.

  “Aye, horrible.” Stronger sobs took command and Gwendolyn let the full brunt of her sorrow seep into a pillow.

  “But why? I know at first we feared Sir Falke was not an honorable man, but Cyrus has told me the man’s changed.”

  “Mayhap on the surface Falke gives honor lip service, but cut deep, and he’s not changed at all.”

  Gathering strength from her self-righteous anger, Gwendolyn bounced from the bed and paced the long room. “He lusted for and seduced a woman, then had the impudence to request she return with him to the village.”

  Darianne sputtered at the news, but Gwendolyn gave her foster mother no time to comment. Like a rock building speed down a mountain, an avalanche of Falke’s crimes tumbled from her lips.

  “He was so beguiling. ‘I’ve searched for you.’ ‘I’m so alone.”’ Rolling her eyes, she added, “‘…a kiss to bring back my luck.’ My eye. ’Twas not his luck that drove him, but his lust.”

  Twirling around to face Darianne, she pronounced Falke’s greatest crime. “Under my very nose he would parade his paramour. After all we’ve been through, after all of our talks. After the day he held me when that soldier died. When he kissed me, I thought I meant something to him. Something more than Mistedge. I thought he cared about me.”

  “I can see how you would feel betrayed, but how came you to know so much of this private encounter?” Suspicion lifted Darianne’s gray brows in a high arch.

  Would it be best to relate the truth bit by bit or just jump in with the most startling news first? One look at Darianne’s stare, and Gwendolyn decided to take the plunge.

  “The woman in the woods that he seduced…’twas me.”

  “You! And Falke! Have lain together?” Darianne took three deep breaths. Then three more. “You’re the woman Falke asked to be his mistress?”

  “Well, not me exactly. Not Lady Wren.”

  Plopping down onto an upholstered ottoman, Darianne rubbed her temples. “Pray, child, have pity on this old woman. Did you or did you not give your virginity to this man?”

  Heat flamed across Gwendolyn’s cheeks as she nodded. “Aye, I did. But he thinks he made love to his angel of the forest. Falke has no idea she and Lady Wren are one in the same.”

  “Giving yourself to a man before marriage! By your blessed mother, how could you?”

  Kneeling at her side, Gwendolyn leaned her head against Darianne’s skirt. “Something happened here—” she placed her palm over her heart “—when he looked at me.” She stared at the pure gold beam of light that spilled in from the high arched window. “His hair glowed in the sunshine. His eyes were so blue, like a calm sea in summer. And his voice, ’twas so sad and lonely. I wanted to comfort him.

  “I know ’twas wrong,” she confessed, “but I just wanted the chance to be—”

  “What you are, a beautiful, young girl.” Darianne gave her a quick, fierce hug. An understanding smile softened the lines of reproach in her kind face. “And you love him. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice.”

  “Aye.” ’Twas no use denying it. Even after all the disappointment, love still filled the most sacred place in her heart. “He’s arrogant and self-centered and full of pride, and
loves to tease me. But he can be tender, and merciful, and kind, and humble. And I love him. But as Lady Wren, I have no hope to gain his heart. Though I had trust that his friendship was mine. That he held Lady Wren in regard. And that is what made me weak.”

  “But I was wrong.” Gwendolyn huffed as she added, “He thought nothing of bringing another woman into my home as his mistress. He’s only marrying Lady Wren to gain control of Mistedge, and mayhap out of some misplaced friendship. I want him to marry me—”

  “Because he loves the woman you are—Lady Wren. Not the vision of his angel.” Darianne completed the explanation.

  “You understand?”

  “Of course, child.” Darianne patted Gwendolyn’s hand. “You love Sir Falke with all his faults and want that love returned in kind. But wed him you must, for without the protection of marriage, Titus can order you back to Cravenmoor. And he is not pleased to learn you are no idiot and have duped him all these years.”

  “I am doomed to torture, either by Titus’s cruel hand or Falke’s careless heart.” Gwendolyn slumped against her foster mother’s knee. “Is it so rare for a man to love a woman for who she is?”

  “Aye, my child.” Darianne stroked Gwendolyn’s hair. “’Tis why it is a prize every woman longs for.”

  “I’ll slit the nag’s throat and feed the wench the pieces.” Titus removed his dagger and approached the stall door. His grin widened as Greatheart’s nostrils flared, as though sensing his doom.

  Ferris knocked his father’s hand aside. “Kill the beast now, and Falke will have reason to delay our departure. We must get away from Mistedge before Falke weds Gwendolyn.”

  His fingers whitened around the hilt, but Titus managed to see reason. He growled low, the anger within him boiling like a thick stew. “You still believe Falke de Chretian intends to marry her? ’Tis true she’s no idiot, but she’s still a pig.”

  “He intends to marry her. He has no choice.” Ferris leaned against a stall and heard an animal scurry to the far side. “The peasants and the soldiers owe Gwendolyn their lives. If Falke should send her packing, all of Mistedge would rise up in arms against him.”