My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

Deidre bit her lip. Would Gilead’s father actually try to kill his own wife?

  Angus obviously took her silence as an accusation, for he threw the quill down and rose angrily. “Bel’s fires! I should have ye put in the dungeon.” He gave her a disgusted look and then turned to Gilead. “See if ye can talk some sense into the lass before I do just that.” He stomped to the door, slamming it hard behind him.

  Gilead took a deep breath. “I should warn ye, my da keeps his word. Ye’d most likely catch yer death in the damp and cold, if the rats didn’t bite ye first.”

  Deidre shuddered. Dungeons, they had; chivalrous champions, they did not. From the impassive look on Gilead’s face, he would not rescue her again. Did she dare risk his anger, too? Still, she had to ask.

  “Do you think your father capable of murder?”

  He stared at the glowing coals in the brazier for a long time before answering. “Certes, my father has killed in battle. The clans live by the sword. I don’t think he would commit murder intentionally. What would his purpose be? Formorian is not free to go to him. It’s much safer for my father to hide behind his marriage and not arouse Turius’s suspicions any further than they may already be.”

  Strangely, Deidre felt relieved by that. She really didn’t want Gilead’s father to turn out to be a deliberate killer. “I owe him an apology, then.”

  Gilead looked relieved. “Aye. That would be a start.”

  Another thought burst into her brain. “What about Formorian, though?”

  Gilead frowned. “What about her?”

  “She was here when your mother was poisoned. She arrived yesterday. And didn’t you say that your mother had her first illness strike just after Turius and Formorian had arrived that day two years ago?”

  “Aye,” Gilead answered thoughtfully.

  Deidre pressed on. “The queen carries a dirk; it wouldn’t have taken much time to rent the carpet and pull the nails. You said yourself that she is stronger than she looks.”

  “That, I did.” He toyed with the quill his father had tossed down and sighed. “I’ve tried to keep them apart by trailing my father. Perhaps I should be following her.”

  Deidre couldn’t help but smile. “She’d probably think you another conquest.”

  Gilead grimaced. “Hardly. But it would rouse my da’s suspicions, I suppose.”

  “Then let me follow her,” Deidre said. “I’ll befriend her as a way of apology to your father. It’ll be a way to watch her and keep her away from your mother as well.”

  He nodded and rose, coming to stand beside her. He touched her shoulder briefly. “I should thank ye for being so concerned over my mother.”

  Her resident butterflies fluttered all a twitter as that slight touch sent quivers straight to her tummy. She took a ragged breath. The touch meant nothing to him, just a friendly gesture, perhaps a way of his apologizing to her for being so cold. Her reaction—wanting him to tear her clothes off right there—was somewhat unwarranted.

  “Ye don’t want Da to wonder about ye, either. What will ye say to him?”

  Deidre thought about it. So far, Turius seemed not to have mentioned capturing her escort—or if he did, Angus had not connected the two incidents—and Deidre didn’t want to attract too much attraction to herself. The obvious answer was to let Formorian take over the riding lessons, but that meant Gilead would probably disappear off the horizon for her. And, as much as the attraction was one-sided, as far as she could tell, the foolish romantic in her didn’t want to let go. At least, if he continued to give her lessons, she could look and fantasize.

  “I’ll tell him I admire her talents and skills and want to learn from her.”

  Gilead gave her a lopsided grin. “To my father, her numerous ‘talents and skills’ lie in the art of seduction.”

  “There’s an idea,” Deidre quipped and then felt herself blush. She had been thinking of weaponry, but maybe if she observed the queen she’d find the secret of her ability to enchant men. And maybe it would work on Gilead… She closed her eyes, only to have a searing image of a naked Gilead rising over her, muscular arms straining, chest glistening with sweat…and that bulge. What did Gilead look like there? She gasped, her breath catching in her throat—dear Lord, what was she thinking?—and forced her eyes open.

  He had moved closer. Subtly, his face changed as he studied hers. His pupils dilated, turning the irises near purple. Slowly, a hand came up to cup her chin and he traced her lips lightly with his thumb.

  “Ye want to be kissed, lass?” It really wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  Dear God. She shouldn’t. He had made it clear with his strict formality that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her. This would mean nothing to him. She should pull away; she really should. He wasn’t holding her forcefully, but the gentle touch of his fingers might as well have been an iron collar. Deidre shut her eyes and parted her lips.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath and then his lips brushed hers, tantalizing her as he kept the pressure easy and gentle. It was slow torture, and finally she could stand no more. She thrust her tongue deep into his mouth.

  He hesitated but a moment and then brought his arms around her waist, pulling her to him as he responded, probing her mouth. Then, abruptly, he pulled away.

  Startled, Deidre’s eyes flew open. Gilead looked furious.

  “Mayhap ye and Formorian are a pair. Ye think to entice me for sport? As a wanton would practice, so ye’ll please Niall? Or mayhap to make him jealous?”

  Deidre felt like a bucket of frigid water from the fort’s well has just been sluiced over her. Make Niall jealous? Kiss him? She would have laughed if every nerve in her body had not been benumbed by Gilead’s outrageous accusation. Then, a raging heat melted the ice in her blood as anger and hurt took over. How dare he accuse her of being a slattern?

  She felt the tears well up, stinging her eyes. She would not let him see her cry! Pressing the knuckles of her hand against her mouth, she turned and ran out the door, slamming it behind her.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre found Formorian waiting for her the next afternoon by the stables, dressed in trews and an oversized shirt, a dirk in her belt, and a sword by her side. Somehow, she managed to look female in spite of the clothes and weapons.

  “Angus told me that ye talked with him this morning. That mayhap I could give ye a few tips on riding?”

  Deidre nodded, her eyes searching for Gilead. He probably wouldn’t show, not after their conversation. Better that way, after all. She was still angry with him.

  “He went to get yer horse,” Formorian said drily.

  Deidre feigned indifference. “Who?”

  The queen arched a delicate brow just as Gilead led Winger into the paddock. Deidre avoided looking at him, studiously studying the horse. She ran a hand along the sorrel’s neck and spoke soothingly to him. He nickered softly in response. Maybe she should stick with talking to male horses and let the human ones alone, she thought dejectedly.

  Gilead handed her the reins and their fingers brushed as she took them. Both of them jumped back as though they’d been bitten. Winger shied away, tossing his head and pulling free of Deidre’s hand.

  “Easy, there,” Gilead said as he grabbed the straps before the big horse could bolt. “The lass doona understand to move slow around ye.”

  Deidre glared at him. He had jumped, too. She snatched the reins from him and turned to lead the horse to the stoop. It wasn’t there. Now, how the devil was she supposed to mount in full skirts?

  And Formorian was watching. Out of the corner of her eye, Deidre could see her standing by the fence, arms folded along the top rail, her head tilted slightly, a partial smile on her lips. Merde. Trying to keep the queen away from Elen was one thing, but Deidre would find her insufferable if she started laughing.

  “Are ye not going to mount, Mistress Deidre? ’Twould make the lesson easier,” Gilead said with strained patience.

  Deidre glowered. “If you wou
ld be so kind as to fetch the stoop, my lord, I shall be happy to do so.” She ignored his surprised look. Fine. If he wanted formal, she could be formal. She tapped her foot.

  He said nothing, but went into the barn and returned, rolling the tree stump in front of him. He set it upright and gave a slight bow. “Do ye need assistance?”

  “I can manage quite well, thank you.” Deidre stepped up and got her balance before putting her left foot in the stirrup. The blasted skirt billowed around her knees, making her feel clumsy. She tightened the right rein, holding the horse in check. She wasn’t going to disgrace herself mounting this time, not with Formorian watching. She swung her leg over the saddle and, to her mortification, heard a rip that sounded like rolling thunder.

  The skirt had caught on the rough bark of the stump’s rim and now half of it billowed around her like a dense cloud, baring her well to the thigh. Gilead stared at her leg and then she saw him frown. What? Did he think she’d done this on purpose? That she was trying to lure him to her by exposing flesh? Angrily, she tried to gather the ballooning material. As if she would stoop to a Janet tactic!

  “Mayhap ye should wear trews for this,” Formorian suggested as she opened the gate and came toward them. She glanced at Gilead. “Are ye just going to stand there? Help the woman dismount.”

  He moved stiffly forward and Deidre willed herself not to react when she felt his big, strong hands at her waist, lifting her as though she were light as a pillow. For a brief moment she was pressed to his chest and inhaled his soapy, spicy scent, but he stepped quickly back once her feet were on the ground, as formal as ever. Formorian gave him a curious look.

  “Wait here,” she said to Gilead. “I’ll lend Deidre some trews and then we’ll go for a real ride, instead of prancing around in circles.”

  He opened his mouth to retort, but she had already turned away. The last thing Deidre wanted to do was borrow clothes from Angus’s paramour, but she had promised Gilead that she would help protect his mother. She would stick to that promise and that meant being friendly to Formorian.

  Gilead had Malcolm and Formorian’s white Arabian mare saddled when they returned a short time later. The trews really did feel good, freeing her legs of those cumbersome skirts. Formorian was tall and slender where Deidre was short and curvy, so she’d had to roll up the legs, but the buttery soft leather clung to her, hugging her hips and thighs.

  Gilead stared at her and then quickly averted his gaze. He cupped his hands to give her a leg up. For a moment, she almost refused. He probably just wanted to see her bottom when she turned. Well, let him. She might as well enjoy what little sexual power she had, not that it was going anywhere.

  Formorian mounted with graceful ease, fitting herself into the saddle even as the mare spun, eager to be off.

  “Have a care,” Gilead said gruffly as the horse pranced in place. “Dee—Mistress Deidre—be a beginner.”

  “Aye. I always walk the first mile out and the last mile in. Unless,” she added with a mischievous grin, “I’m under attack by unscrupulous men.”

  Gilead grunted. “I dinna know ye thought any man unscrupulous.”

  Deidre cringed, waiting for a sharp retort. Gilead might not like the queen, but insulting her might not be the wisest thing to do.

  Formorian laughed. “Ye think to wound me with that barb? Ah, lad, ye misjudge me based on yer own misconceptions.” She turned to Deidre. “I canna teach ye anything at a slow walk. Are ye game for a run?”

  Deidre managed to hide her own grin. She’d been wanting to feel this charger’s power under her since the first day. She looked appropriately apprehensive, however, as she gulped and nodded.

  “Good. We’ll start with a sharp trot,” Formorian said and touched her heels to her horse’s flanks.

  Winger, being a good hand-and-a-half higher than the dainty mare, jogged along contentedly. Deidre made an effort to bounce around so she wouldn’t raise suspicion and only hoped the poor animal would forgive her.

  “I’ve not been off the castle grounds,” she said between bumps. “Are there other castles or ruins or anything?”

  Formorian furrowed her brow. “Ye have not been to Niall’s place yet?”

  “No.” Not that it was a place she wanted to see or ever intended to go to.

  “We could ride that way,” Formorian said. “It’s but two leagues in that direction.” She pointed toward their left.

  “Not today,” Deidre said quickly. She would be seeing Niall at dinner tonight, unfortunately. He’d invited himself, stating some sort of business with Angus. Not that she listened to him prattling on. She pointed right. “What’s in that direction?”

  Formorian shrugged. “Woods. Streams. Probably a good place to avoid unless ye have a well-armed guard.” She winked. “Or unless ye want to meet unscrupulous men.”

  Behind them, Deidre heard Gilead snort. If they were to succeed in protecting Elen from Formorian, he really needed to stop being churlish. She glanced back at him, only to find him glowering frightfully at both of them. She shook her head slightly and turned around. She might as well make use of the situation to see if there was a place the Stone might be.

  “Would there be any ancient places around? Historical ruins? Standing circles of stone maybe?”

  Formorian gave her a slanted look. “Ye mean like the priestesses use in their rituals on High Days?” When Deidre nodded, Formorian considered her thoughtfully. Finally she said, “’Tis strange. When Turius and I returned home, we found we had…er, guests—from Gaul. They asked the same question.”

  Her escort! The men had not been killed. Careful to sound nonchalant, Deidre asked, “Why would Franks be this far north?”

  Formorian shrugged, but her eyes never wavered from Deidre’s. “They said Childebert had sent them looking for Bishop Dubricius’s cup.”

  Deidre stymied the sigh of relief. Her loyal guards had not given her away! Were they even now looking for her? “Did your husband allow them to search for it?”

  Formorian shook her head. “Turius thinks the cup exists only in the bishop’s dreams. And he was not fond of the idea of allowing Frankish soldiers to roam and get the lay of the land. We never know who might be a spy.”

  Deidre ignored the comment, although she saw Gilead glance her way. She had to ask one more question, though. “Did…did King Turius kill them?”

  Formorian gave her another thoughtful look. “Nae. He offered them the dungeon or escorted passage to the docks. They really dinna want to go, but eventually they took the ship to Calais.”

  Deidre took a deep breath. Dion and her men were safe then, although they would not be able to return to Childebert’s court without her. Deidre’s mother had lands in the Languedoc, well away from Childebert’s clutches. Dion would go there, no doubt. They’d probably try to send word to Caw, but her father was dead. A small chill ran through her as she realized that she was truly alone now. “That was kind of the king,” she managed to say.

  “Aye. Turius sees no point in shedding blood needlessly. To answer yer question, though… There be a circle, but to get to it and return home before Angus sounds an alarm, ye’d have to gallop that brute.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gilead said as he rode alongside.

  Deidre ignored him. “Show me the way,” she said.

  Formorian grinned and leaned over and whispered in her mare’s ear. The horse took a huge leap and stretched out in a full gallop. Winger didn’t wait to be prodded.

  Behind her, Deidre heard a muffled Gaelic curse and then the pounding of Malcolm’s hooves as he strove to overtake them.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre could hardly conceal her excitement that evening during supper. The stones existed, and they were within a few hours’ ride! She wished there had been time to go down into the valley where they stood, but Formorian had stopped on a hilltop some distance away to rest the horses, and Gilead had been firm that they were turning around and heading home. Nothing Deidre cou
ld say would sway his mind. He was as obstinate as his father, but at least now she knew where the circle was.

  She relaxed and noticed for the first time that Drustan was not in his usual place. Instead a visiting bard was strumming his harp, and telling stories of his travels throughout Britain and across the Channel. An idea began to form in Deidre’s head. If the bard were to return to Gaul soon, maybe she could slip him a note to take to Dion, to let him know she was well.

  “Ye have a dreamy look in yer eyes this eve,” Niall said beside her at the table. “Could ye be thinkin’ o’ our wedding night?”

  Not hardly. Not now, with the possibility of finding the Stone and leaving. Still, she must keep up the charade so she wouldn’t lose access to the horse. She’d caught Formorian watching her more than once during the meal and she had a hunch the queen didn’t miss much. If Formorian suspected anything, she might tell Angus about their conversation today. Deidre planted a smile on her face. “I might have a surprise for you by then.”

  Niall leaned forward, a lecherous smile twisting his face. “Would it have to do with pleasing me between the sheets?”

  Mon Dieu. The very thought was repulsive; the man’s breath was fetid and his body soft and fat with too much drink. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  Apparently, he thought that meant “yes,” since his chest expanded visibly and he smiled broadly.

  “Let’s have a wee dance, then!”

  “Ah, no. I’m really tired,” Deidre said quickly. “In fact, I was about to ask that I be excused to retire.”

  “No such thing!” Niall pushed back his chair and yanked her out of hers, his fingers around her arm in a death grip. “We will dance.”

  Deidre held on to the back of her chair and glared at him. “I don’t want to.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I do.” He jerked her hand loose of the chair and brought an arm around her waist, strong holding her to the cleared floor.

  He held her much too close and Deidre struggled to gain some space between them. She saw amused looks from some of the men who danced by with ladies held at an appropriate distance. Damn them all. Would no one cut in and rescue her from this ogre? Probably not, since they were handfasted. She glanced at the high table. Gilead had escorted his mother upstairs and she doubted that he would interfere again, anyway. Angus was involved in a discussion with Turius. Only Formorian was watching, her green eyes slightly narrowed.