She nodded.
Geoffrey looked at her, court-bred and dainty, her delicate gown soiled at the hem, and knew that any woodsman worth his salt could have found her trail and tracked her down. It had been luck, good luck only, that no bandit had done exactly that.
"The owl's hooting never had so much quality of menace as it did last night," she said.
"Then 'tis only by great good fortune that you have come thus far in safety." Alain looked down at her sternly, "You must return to your father's house forthwith—but you must not ride alone. Come, mount! We shall accompany you!"
"I could not ask that of you." But even as she said it, gladness suffused her face. "Assuredly, you are bound to other destinations."
Alain saw those huge eyes glowing up at him, and knew that he could not do anything else. "No true knight could turn down a request from a damsel in distress," he told her. "We shall ride with you—and we shall not hear a word to the contrary."
Nor was she apt to give it, Geoffrey thought—but he did not say so. After all, he would never turn down an opportunity to escort so voluptuous a lady, either.
"I hesitate to ask it of you." She bowed her head, looking up at him through long lashes. "Surely you must be bound on a mission of great importance."
"You may say that." Alain smiled. "We are two knightserrant, wandering where we will to discover damsels in distress, so that we may give them aid and succor. I could not think of any mission more important. Could you, Sir Geoffrey?"
"Oh, nay, assuredly not, Sir Alain!" Geoffrey fought to keep both sarcasm and amusement from his voice. At least one of them was sincere.
"Then 'tis said; 'tis done." Alain stepped away from the lady, albeit reluctantly, and stepped over to the palfrey. He untied it and led it out from under the willow leaves. "Come, my lady, mount!" He dropped the horse's reins, set his hands to her waist, and lifted her up to the saddle, amazed that she felt so light. She gasped with surprise and fright, clinging to his arms, then smiled tremulously as she found herself on horseback again. She hooked a knee about the horn of the sidesaddle, arranged her skirts, and beamed down upon him. "Bless you, sir!"
She looked up at Geoffrey, and for a second, he was hit with the full force of that enchanting gaze, that adorable, piquant face, those full ruby lips... "I shall praise you in my prayers every night! How can I thank you for your mercy, to a poor, lost damsel and, aye, a foolish one. How foolish, how credulous, to believe what I have believed!"
And Geoffrey found himself reassuring her, just as Alain had done. "Your trust does you credit, even though it was betrayed—for surely, what woman would think that her own sister would play her false? What man could think less than highly of a woman who would ride to meet her lover? Assuredly, my lady, we must accompany you!"
And, as he pulled his horse into step beside hers, he realized the truth of what he had said. Thank heavens she was an innocent, for that face, that voice, that form gave her a power over men that was absolutely incredible.
Somehow, it never occurred to either of them that she might not really be so innocent, and might know exactly how much power she had. Even more should they have believed that she knew how to use that power, too.
They rode back onto the forest road, turning their horses away to the west, Geoffrey and Alain vying, with witticisms and flattery, to raise her spirits. They succeeded admirably—within half an hour her eyes were alight with mirth, and her laughter rang like music in their ears.
The bandits were on their way, and Cordelia resolutely forgot about them. Yes, she had put those dark, reckless eyes, broad shoulders, and sensuous lips firmly out of her mind, and she knew she had, because she thought of them every now and then, just to make sure. Her mind clear, she went soaring off on her broomstick to track down her brother and her suitor, cursing the delay under her breath—with far too much vehemence.
It didn't take her long to find the village in which Alain and Geoffrey had spent the night. She searched the minds of the villagers quickly and lightly, injecting a thought of the two heroes who had come through the town, and reading the memories that rose in response. Her eyes widened as she learned of the appearance of the ogre, and of the battle. She was even more surprised to learn that it was Alain who had slain the monster, not her brother—or, at least, that Geoffrey had given him full credit for the deed. She wondered, for a moment, if her brother had lied; then decided that he probably had not. Not that Geoffrey was above lying, mind you, or at least prevaricating—it was merely that, in this instance, there was more for him to gain by truth, at least in terms of his goals for Alain. Geoffrey was not the sort to lie unless it was to give him a military advantage, anyway, and never in matters of honor or glory. Chivalry, to him, was sacrosanct. How silly, she thought, but was astounded when she found no memory of their leaving; everyone in the village seemed to have waked to find them gone—except ...
Except the village priest, who had risen early for Matins, and seen them ride into the forest ... Cordelia arrowed off toward the trees.
CHAPTER 8
Cordelia sped high above the treetops, a speck in the sky, listening for thoughts from her brother and ... yes, suitor. But flying takes time, and broomsticks move considerably more slowly than jet planes. The sun was dropping toward the western horizon before Cordelia finally "heard" Alain's mind with her own. Not Geoffrey's, of course—he habitually kept his mind closed, his thoughts guarded, and he took considerably more concentration to read, if he did not choke off all contact. But Alain ...
Alain was besotted.
Cordelia sat rigid for a moment, wide-eyed, horrified, all attention riveted to Alain's words reverberating in her mind, gallant and flattering. Why, he had never spoken to her like this! Through his ears, she heard the musical, belllike tones of the female voice answering him. She sat frozen, unable to think, unable to spare the slightest thought for anything else ...
She was falling.
She was plunging toward the earth, broomstick in a nosedive, falling out of the sky! She truly had become distracted, not even sparing a thought for telekinesis! Anger flowed; at herself, for such carelessness; at Alain, for his fickleness; at Geoffrey, for having led him into this; but most of all, at that scarlet hussy who dared to steal the affections of her man! Never mind that the girl probably knew nothing of Cordelia, or Alain's proposal—she was loathsome anyway!
But Cordelia was not about to be outdone, nor to see her prize stolen from her. She would match the hussy on her own ground, and win! She brought the broom out of its nosedive and sped above the treetops, scolding herself for having let Alain get away. Surely there must have been some way to say no and insist on a proper courtship, without packing him off to the arms of such a vampire as this! And that, without ever having met the girl.
There they were, on the roadway, visible for a moment between the leaves! But neither of the boys noticed her in the slightest, and the girl certainly didn't. Just as well, Cordelia thought, and sped ahead of them until the road curved close to the river in an open meadow. Cordelia decided that they would not pass by so ideal a camping place with the sun already low. She landed in the woods a short distance from the edge of the clearing, leaned her broom against a tree, and waited.
They came riding into the meadow through the shadows of trees stretched long across the grass—a golden young knight and a dark young knight, with a blonde beauty between them, laughing and chatting as they came out of the woods, both men seeming mightily pleased with themselves. Cordelia lingered a few minutes longer under the shelter of the leaves. Both of them were looking quite lively; their color was heightened, their eyes sparkled. So did the woman's; she looked down with frequent blushes—very coy, very demure, very calculating! Cordelia hated her on sight, not only for her golden tresses and baby-doll face—after all, the poor child could scarcely be eighteen!—but also for her deliberate manipulation of the men. Couldn't the fools see what she was doing?
No. Of course not. They were enjoying it too muc
h.
What was worse, Cordelia found herself feeling dowdy for the first time in her life—at least, in comparison to this paragon of pulchritude.
Oh, but what a scheming creature she was! The high neckline seemed demure and innocent—but the clinging fabric showed her for what she was, in every sense. Shameless, brazen! Cordelia must learn how she achieved the effect. The blushes, the coquettish glances, looking up at Alain with spaniel eyes, every movement planned, every modulation of her laugh, and no doubt, the choice of every word, though Cordelia could not hear them. She fumed inside, but also felt a sinking despair. How could she possibly compete with such an accomplished man-eater?
And she had to admit, after all, that the woman had been blessed with uncommonly good looks.
For a moment, her heart quailed, but only for a moment. Then she saw the men dismounting, vying with one another to see who would help the lady from her perch. Laughing, she chose Alain—of course!—and his hands closed about her waist, lifting her down. Of course, she slid a little too hard, a little too far, and fetched up against his chest. For a moment, he froze, still holding her toes off the ground, then put her down with a little, forced laugh. She laughed, too, then turned away to blush—each movement exactly timed, head bent at exactly the right angle. Cordelia seethed, but she had to admire the sheer artistry of the wench.
Well, she would learn to outdo the minx at her own game! No, not her own, Cordelia reflected—if she tried to compete with the woman on her own terms, she was lost. Honesty and innocence were Cordelia's strong suit—being forthright without being forward. She must somehow make those qualities into advantages—and she would!
She set forth from the trees, strolling closer, waiting for them to notice her. It was the woman who looked up first, then looked again, surprised, staring. The men noticed and broke off their laughing, looking up. Geoffrey stared, as startled as though he had seen a mouse walking about on the bottom of a river, and Cordelia had the immense satisfaction of seeing Alain turn pale. Then he blushed beet-red and turned away—as well he might, Cordelia thought grimly. But she smiled as boldly as she could and stepped forward. "Well, brother! At last I have found you!"
"Indeed!" Geoffrey smiled. "You are well met, sister. But wherefore did you seek me?"
He knew very well who she was seeking! "I have wearied of my duties at home, and have come to see that, if you may go adventuring, so may I."
"A woman, adventuring?" The vixen stared, scandalized. "It is not seemly!"
Well, she should know, if anyone should. "Quite so," Cordelia agreed. "A woman alone may not—but in her brother's company, there is surely nothing improper."
She had the satisfaction of seeing the look of dismay flit across the hussy's features, though it was quickly masked. It was even more gratifying to see the look of delight that crossed Alain's face, even though it was hidden so quickly as to leave Cordelia wondering if she had really seen it. She felt a stab of remorse—how badly had she hurt him, that he dared not show pleasure in her company?
"Well, this will be pleasing." Geoffrey smiled, amused. "And timely: we are about to concoct supper. Surely you will join us—must she not, companions?"
"Oh, surely she must," said the vampire, all syrupy sweetness. Alain mumbled something that sounded vaguely affirmative and looked away. He certainly should, Cordelia thought, with a flame of white-hot anger—but she suppressed it with a self-control that was new to her; she had more important things to fry than Alain's conscience. She advanced toward them, doing her best to simulate the movement of a cat on the prowl. "Do you gentleman fetch some game for us, and we shall set about building a fire for it. We shall see what we may do to spark a blaze among kindling—shall we not, damsel?"
"Indeed!" For a second, the minx looked startled. Then she smiled in amused anticipation.
Geoffrey cast a dubious glance from one to the other, then shrugged. He, protect Cordelia from another woman?
As well to think of protecting a lynx from a kitten! Besides, he had a notion of what was about to follow. "Well enough, then. Milady, this is my sister, the Lady Cordelia." He almost said "Gallowglass," then thought better of it—an instinct to caution, Heaven knew why. But they were, after all, supposed to be incognito. "Cordelia, this is the Lady Delilah de Fevre."
"Delighted," Delilah purred.
"The pleasure will be all mine," Cordelia assured her, carefully not specifying what she would take pleasure in. "Come, Alain, let us seek out game!" Geoffrey turned his horse back toward the woods. With a dubious backward glance, Alain rode after him.
The clearing was quiet for a moment, only birdsong and breeze, as the two women regarded one another, both with slight smiles. Cordelia only wished that she really felt as confident as she looked. Well, anger would have to serve in place of confidence, and she surely had enough of that at the moment! "Perchance we may come to know one another," she said. "Come, let us chat, whiles we gather firewood and tinder."
"Gladly, if you will show me what it is," Delilah said. "I would not know what to seek, for my servants have always done such chores."
Cordelia held down her indignation and forced a saccharine smile. "'Tis the curse of we who are well bred," she agreed, "that we cannot care for ourselves when the need arises."
"The need has arisen for you, then?" Delilah said sweetly. "And you know that it will arise again?"
"Perchance," Cordelia said between her teeth, "and then, perchance not. It was my mother's teaching that every woman should know how to fend for herself if she must, that she not be dependent upon a man's whims and cruelties."
"Your mother was no doubt wise," Lady Delilah purred. "Had she cause to know?"
That stung worse—because, of course, Gwen had had cause to learn how to take care of herself, until Cordelia's father Rod came into Gwen's life. Cordelia was a little hazy on the details, knowing only the story of how they met, courted, and wed, with very little about how Gwen had occupied her time before Rod had come unto her life; she knew only that they had not married until Gwen was twenty-nine—very late for a medieval woman. "My father did not think so," she said sweetly. "Did thine?"
A frown creased the smooth perfection of Delilah's brow. "My what?"
"Your father," Cordelia explained. She sighed, as though striving for patience in explaining something elementary to a five-year-old. "Did your father find need for your mother to be dependent upon him?"
"Surely she did rely on him, and he proved ever reliable," Delilah said, amused. "In truth, I thought she fended for herself most excellently in that."
Cordelia frowned. "How so?"
"Why," said Delilah, "the lady who fends for herself, and has no true need of a husband, will not have one." Cordelia stared at her, frozen for a moment, fuming—but she kept the fumes inside, forced them into a curdled smile, and said, "She who does not need a man for living will have naught but the best of men—and only for love, true love."
"Ah! True love!" Delilah looked away toward the trees. "How each of us does long for it! But what if it comes not, Lady Cordelia? How then shall we fare?"
"As well as we wish," Cordelia snapped.
"Oh, nay!" Delilah turned huge, demure eyes upon her. "We shall do as well as we may."
Alain, Cordelia saw, was as well as Delilah had decided she might do. A change of subject was obviously in order. She turned away, stooping to pick up a twig here, a stick there. "How came you here, maiden, to the company of my brother and his friend?" She put perhaps a little more emphasis than was necessary on the word "maiden."
"Alas!" Delilah lamented. "I came at the behest of him whom I love—but he betrayed me, and did not come." That snatched Cordelia's poise away from her. She stared, aghast. "Truly he did not mislead you so!"
"Aye," Delilah sighed. "I fear I am ever too trusting."
Cordelia knew, with dead certainty, that "trusting" was one thing Delilah was not—except, perhaps, trusting in her own ability to manipulate a man. "Did you not fear the outlaws
of the forest?"
"Oh, aye!" Delilah touched her eyelid, where a tear had presumably formed. "I feared they might hurt me soreyet not so sorely as my lord has hurt me." She looked away—and sure enough, fat tears trembled in her eyes, then rolled free. For a moment, Cordelia almost embraced her in a rush of sympathy—but it was replaced with a rush of anger. So the female serpent could actually weep on demand! Her admiration for the woman's artistry rose one notch higher, even as her opinion of the woman's honesty dropped even lower.
Still, she strove to sound sympathetic. "The night must have been long indeed."
Delilah said, "Any night is long, when one's love is not near one."
Cordelia had been wondering about Delilah's right to the title "maiden," but she was fast becoming sure. "I would not know," she said sweetly.
Delilah gave her a sudden, searching stare. "Nay," she said, nicely seasoned with scorn. "I think you would not." Cordelia felt her cheeks flaming—why, she did not know; to be a virgin was something to be quite proud of. How dare this flaunting flirt make it sound like a deficiency!
"How came you here?" asked Delilah. "I see you have no horse."
Cordelia did some quick mental jockeying, trying to decide whether she was better served by Delilah's ignorance, or her probable awe of esper powers. Discretion won out, and she said, "I do not believe a beast should be tethered, but should be free to roam as he will, till I have need of him."
"Then he must be well trained indeed, to come at your call."
Cordelia wondered at the tone of mockery in Delilah's voice, or why it stung. "I shall whistle him up when I wish," she assured the wench.
Delilah sighed in a parody of longing. "I have never learned to whistle."
"Then you have not had the bittersweet fortune of having brothers," Cordelia said, with a sardonic smile.
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