by Tamara Leigh
“One should not walk when one can ride,” he said and issued a shrill whistle.
Did he truly believe his destrier awaited him? Four days now, and since retrieving the packs she had seen nothing of the beast. He had to have gone—
She heard hooves. Shortly, D’Arci’s destrier entered the nave, tossed its head, and whinnied.
“Sartan!” Its master called.
The beast skirted the false crypt, causing Beatrix’s heart to lurch. She gained her feet and, as the destrier neared, took a step back, and another. Fortunately, she was not tethered so near D’Arci that she could not distance herself some. Unfortunately, he wrenched her back. “Be still, lest you discover how sore tested I am.”
He did not know her fear, and she nearly she told him of it, but it would change nothing. Unless he intended her to walk alongside his mount—and with his injury he would not squander the time—she would be going astride.
D’Arci clapped a hand to the animal’s great jaw. “For your patience, old friend, you shall be rewarded.”
The destrier lowered its massive head, thrust its muzzle into D’Arci’s open hand, and blew.
“At Soaring,” D’Arci assured him.
Then he intended to take her to his home. As he had refused the opportunity to be delivered to Lavonne, it did not surprise her. But once there, what? And how would he hide her presence from his liege? Unless she was not to be present…
She eyed the rope. Mayhap she was nearer a noose than believed.
With a stiff-legged hitch, D’Arci stepped aside. “I believe you are acquainted with Lady Beatrix,” he said to his horse as he drew the first pack from his shoulder. “Though why you yielded my packs to her, I do not understand.” He secured them behind the saddle and turned to Beatrix. “Relieve yourself.”
She gasped.
“Make haste, as we shall not pause ere we reach Soaring.”
Though they would likely arrive at the castle before nightfall, even if the journey were a sennight long, she would not tend her needs in this man’s presence. “I shall not. ‘Tis…unseemly!”
“I will keep my back to you.”
“Nay, I will wait.”
“Only a fool would believe that possible. And I tell you, I shall not wait myself.”
Then he meant to…? She swallowed and nodded toward the remains of a wall. “Do you let out the rope, we shall both have privacy. Upon my word, I shall not…escape.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Beatrix put up both of hers. “’Tis all I have to give.”
“’Tis not enough.”
She grasped the rope. “Then you question your ability to tie a knot that holds?”
Her arrow struck, causing color to seep beneath his sun-warmed skin and Beatrix to marvel at her tongue that so freely delivered words to her lips.
“My knots hold.” He nodded toward the wall. “Keep the rope taut, else I will drag you back regardless of your modesty.”
She turned and D’Arci fed out the rope until she was around the wall. Careful to keep it taut, she quickly dispensed with the task, but for all the cover afforded her, her cheeks warmed.
“’Tis no more than he does,” she whispered and pulled the mantle close about her. As she started to step from the wall, the rubble at her feet drew her gaze and she bent, scooped up two stones, and dropped one in each boot. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to use them, though if she could actually do so she did not know.
No sooner did she straighten than the rope snapped up the slack and she was pulled from behind the wall.
“Heed well my warnings, Lady Beatrix.” D’Arci reeled her toward him. “They are not idle.”
Embracing the anger that allowed her words to fly true, she said, “As I know well, my lord, for I yet suffer the gag with which you bound me to silence last eve.”
Curse her! Michael braced his good leg beneath him. And curse her smug mouth that bows just enough to turn her disheveled countenance beguiling! What a fool he was to have not gagged her. What a fool to toss about idle warnings, then boast of them. It was not like him at all.
When she was within reach, he turned Sartan to mount him from the right side. The destrier would not like it, for the horse had only ever been mounted on the left, but Michael’s injured leg would bear no weight in the stirrup.
“All is well.” Michael patted the horse’s neck.
Skin twitching, Sartan looked over his shoulder.
Michael gripped the pommel tight lest the horse sidle away. Though his splinted leg would have to bear his weight for a moment only, he ground his teeth against the anticipated pain. And pain there was, shooting toe to spine when he shoved his right foot into the stirrup.
As Sartan sidestepped, Michael swung his splinted leg over the opposite side and settled in the saddle. He looked to Beatrix whose eyes were wide in her flaxen-framed face, fear palpable. And Michael was not the only one to feel that fear.
Sartan shook his massive head and whinnied.
What frightened her, she who had come nearer yet to retrieve his packs? Michael clapped a reassuring hand to the destrier’s neck, then reached to Beatrix. “Come.”
“‘Twould be best if I w-walked.”
Then he had made such a fool of himself she believed him yet one. “Hours by horse, Lady Beatrix, a full day and night on foot.” He shook his head. “I shall abide no defiance.”
Gripping the rope, she met his gaze. “’Tis not defiance that makes me…refuse. I am…” Her tongue swept her upper lip. “I am frightened of horses.”
“Did you not retrieve my packs from this same beast?”
“That was different.”
“How say you?”
“You needed your…medicinals.”
Reminded that she had delivered them, braving this fear of which she spoke, and that she had stayed when she might now be on the road to Stern, Michael was pricked with uncertainty.
Enough! To attempt to make sense of her would only prove him senseless. “Aye, I needed them, and now I need you to mount.”
“Mayhap—”
“If needs be, I shall drag you astride.” He stuck out his hand.
She reached to him only to snatch her arm back. “My psalter!” She turned toward the small chapel.
Was that where she had made her bed before he had captured her on the day past? Michael caught her arm and yanked her around. “You shall not need it.”
“Pray, grant me this—”
“No amount of prayer or gilded word can change what will be, Lady Beatrix. Simon will have his justice.”
Her lips parted, but no further argument was forthcoming. Eyes dimming, she slid a hand into his and stepped her foot atop his in the stirrup.
When Sartan sidled and snorted again, Beatrix jerked free.
Ignoring the protest of his injury, Michael leaned sideways, gripped her beneath the arms, and lifted her. He turned her sidesaddle and settled her between his thighs where she went so still that her shallow breath was all that moved about her.
She truly was frightened, he conceded as he stared at her pale profile. What had happened?
She clasped her hands in her lap, drew a deep breath, and shuddered.
What was she remembering? “I assure you, ‘twill not happen again, Lady Beatrix.” Curses! Had he truly offered her reassurance?
She looked sidelong at him. “Why do you care, Lord D’Arci?”
He nearly flinched. “I do not.” He lifted a palm up. “Now give to me.”
“I know not—”
“You would have me search you again?”
Understanding opened her lids wide and transcended the fear crowding her blue gaze.
“I shall do it,” Michael warned.
“Hold,” she said and slid a hand into her right boot. A moment later, she dropped a stone in his palm.
He closed his fingers around the jagged edges intended for him. “What else have you?”
“’Tis all.”
He pitched
the rock behind, caught back her mantle, and thrust a hand inside. As she tried to close her body to his searching, he pushed onward. Every curve he swept, and though he did not allow himself to linger, he was surprised by the familiarity beneath his fingers. True, his hands had been upon her when he searched her on the day past, but that did not account for this awareness of her.
Finding no evidence that she had secured any other weapon, he started to withdraw. But only a fool would leave it be. As he slid a hand into her right boot from which she had removed the stone, she stiffened, but the covering was empty save for her leg. Then her left boot…
Her breath caught as he splayed fingers down her calf and pulled the second stone from atop her ankle.
“For me?” he derided.
Her chin rose. “Had I quill and ink, I would write your n-name upon it.”
Better her anger than the fear shown in mounting Sartan, Michael reflected only to question himself. It was the latter in which he ought to revel. Simon was dead.
Michael tossed the rock away, freed the rope from Beatrix’s waist, and thrust it into a pack behind. Then he caught up the reins and put his right heel to Sartan.
The destrier burst forward, forcing Beatrix back against Michael. Every place they touched, from her shoulders to her back to the outside of her thigh riding the inside of his, she trembled.
Though Michael told himself he was pleased with her fear, part of him quelled. It seemed a woman’s tears were not his only weakness.
CHAPTER TEN
Beatrix eyed the nooning sky that swept clouds toward them—bloated masses eager to turn day into night. Regardless of how hard D’Arci pressed, they could not possibly make Castle Soaring before the sky spilled its burden.
She pressed her shoulders back to ease the tension caused by the horse beneath her, the land running past, and D’Arci—most of all, D’Arci. Though she tried to ignore the blackguard’s thighs against hers and his arm around her waist, there was no escaping his presence, especially when his warm breath wended her cheek and the scent of him met her indrawn breath. Never had she been so aware of a man, and it shamed her, especially since he was her enemy. Yet more evidence she was witless?
When a gust of cool air displaced the warm and rain began to fall, Beatrix closed her eyes and tilted her face up. Having grown uncomfortably warm this past hour, she welcomed the fat, cool drops on her face and hands. Still, she knew the relief would be short-lived and she would soon huddle into her mantle to fight off the chill of drenched garments.
When lightning jagged the sky, igniting the backs of her lids, and the rain went from soft to stinging, she opened her eyes.
“Cover yourself!” D’Arci shouted.
She glanced across her shoulder, but his gaze was on the land. And from his bent brow and clenched jaw, he continued to suffer the jar of the horse. Though she had sensed it throughout the ride, the only evidence was an occasional grunt and his perspiration seeping through her mantle and tunic.
She pulled the hood over her head. Having hours earlier abandoned her attempt to hold herself apart from D’Arci, she resettled against his chest.
Silver slashed the sky and met the earth. As evidenced by the crack that followed, this strike was nearer than the last.
“Pray, go to the wood,” Beatrix whispered. It was frightening enough to be mounted, but in the midst of a storm…
Silently, Michael vowed they would not pause. Even if all the heavens split open, he would press on, but not only for his injured leg. He had been too near Beatrix Wulfrith too long to keep his mind firm to her sin. True, he had not called to Lavonne’s men lest the baron waver in his assurances that justice would be given for Simon’s wrongful death, but there was more to it.
Struggle though he did to turn away thoughts of this woman, she slipped through the cracks in him. There was something about her, something innocent, something true. And her voice… Though the words that passed her lips often broke and stumbled, they played him like an instrument strung to the sweetest pitch.
Halting the traitorous turn of his thoughts, Michael reminded himself that Edithe’s voice had surely been as sweet. If he were not more careful, he would once more fall prey to a woman. Thus, a chamber in the hind tower would be Beatrix’s when they reached Soaring—as far from the lord’s solar as possible. Then he would decide what to do with her. Then he would examine the risk of keeping her from his liege, an act of defiance that could cost him all.
Face coursed with rain, Michael searched the graying land. Unless the clouds closed up, there would be flooding, making it all the more urgent they reach Castle Soaring as soon as possible.
Ahead, lightning twice stabbed the earth and thunder rumbled. Then came the unsettling scent of eggs gone foul—sulfur—and more rain. As the latter ran over the collar of his mantle and down his neck, he acknowledged that, if not for the warmth trapped between Beatrix’s body and his, a chill would surely set in.
A few minutes later, light shuddered through the clouds and was answered by a resounding crash that caused the woman before him to startle and Sartan to veer.
The lightning was too near. Despite the vow Michael had made to press on, he would have to go to the wood.
Muttering, though normally such curses would have violated the air with as much sting and force as the rain, he turned Sartan.
Lightning rent the air again, thrust its angry heat to the ground a hundred feet in front of them, and passed its violent energy to those in its path. Michael convulsed and, for a moment, feared his heart had stopped, then he heard Beatrix’s cry. He tightened his arm around her and his thighs to the saddle in anticipation of Sartan’s reaction. As expected, the great destrier reared. If not for the injury to his leg, Michael was certain he could have stayed the saddle. Instead, he and Beatrix pitched to the side.
Though Simon shouted from his cold grave for Michael to release Beatrix and save himself, he could not. He had given his word no harm would befall her upon Sartan—that whatever had happened to her would not happen again.
The impact with the pooled ground was made only slightly worse by the thrust of the small woman atop Michael. Though he had managed to turn and give his good leg the brunt of the fall, the jar to his injured leg worked pain through him.
Breathing hard, lids narrowed against the rain’s assault, he watched Sartan rear again ten feet away. When the destrier’s hooves returned to earth, it was with a resounding crack—born of the storm, though it seemed of the beast.
For a long moment, all was still, then Beatrix rolled off Michael and onto her knees. The hood fallen away to reveal her luminous eyes, she hovered over him and he saw concern part her fear, followed by realization.
Straining for purchase amid the mud, Michael reached for her, but she hurtled backward and arrested her flight only when she was well out of reach.
Cursing himself, Michael watched her shoulders move with frantic breath. It would be impossible for him to overtake her on foot, but he could do it on Sartan—providing the lady did not immerse herself in the wood before he made it astride.
He glanced to where his destrier trotted a restless circle twenty feet out and quickly returned his gaze to Beatrix. Rain darkening her hair and running off her face, she watched him. Why did she not flee?
Beatrix hardly saw D’Arci past the pieces of memory that had burst upon her when they had fallen from the horse. Slowly, the pieces fit and refit until, at last, remembrance swept through her in one long, unbroken vision—running to Sir Ewen’s destrier, Sir Simon trapping her between his horse and the other, his cruel grip on her wrist, being dragged onto his saddle, his hands and mouth on her, raising the dagger, the pommel striking the horse, the horse rearing, falling…
She dropped to her knees and, amid the sodden grass, gripped a hand over her face. Though she now knew why she feared what she did, she was not sure she should be grateful. Still, she had survived Sir Simon’s assault, the fall into the ravine, and this other fall broken by Michael
D’Arci. Not at all like—
Nay, not at all. D’Arci had assured her that whatever had made her fear horses would not befall her again. To his detriment, he had stayed true. Still, she ought to run, not only from D’Arci but this present danger that marked her for further lightning strikes.
She pulled her hand from her face and saw that D’Arci had made it to his feet. Though she had been granted another chance to escape, here she knelt as if she lacked wits!
She thrust upright, but as she turned away, lightning lit the sky again and revealed the suffering on D’Arci’s face.
Telling herself she did not care if he was further injured, she turned halfway around and stilled. She could not leave him now, just as she had been unable to abandon him to the crypt.
Once more wishing she could ignore God’s hold on her, she lifted a hand from beneath her mantle, dashed the rain from her face, and considered Sartan. The destrier’s gait revealed it was yet agitated.
Beatrix looked to D’Arci who would have her to ground were he sure of foot. The rain plastering his hair to his head, he watched her. Knowing what she must do, she pushed her shoulders back and stepped toward Sartan.
“Curse you, halt!” D’Arci shouted as she skirted him, doubtless expecting her to run.
From the corner of her eye she saw him move to follow her and gauged that at least twenty feet separated them. When Sartan ceased his circling and turned to her, she drew a deep breath.
“Stay back!” D’Arci shouted.
“I am not afeared,” she whispered. After all, these past hours she had been astride the beast.
As the destrier jerked its head and snorted, D’Arci issued a shrill whistle and, for a moment, it seemed the horse might answer the summons. However, he held.
“Go no nearer!” D’Arci roared.
Beatrix slowed and offered a hand to the horse. “I shall not harm you.”
Rain pouring off its coat, the destrier stared at her with one ear forward, the other back.
“I shall not.”
“Move away!” D’Arci persisted.