by Joanne Rock
Picking her way over the forest floor, she lifted her hem so as not to catch her skirts on the undergrowth. There were soft deer paths winding around the cottage, but she tried not to take the same trails time and again to prevent any one from receiving too much wear. Clear paths brought unwanted company—beggars, outlaws, hungry travelers seeking a meal.
“Sorcha.”
Hugh’s voice rumbled shortly behind her, all the more surprising for the fact that she hadn’t heard him approach.
“You move well through the forest for such a large man,” she remarked, hoping to hide her trepidation at seeing him.
“I grew accustomed to it on my journey here. When you are a party of one, it’s best to avoid confrontation altogether, even for a knight.” He fell into step just behind her, perhaps because the trees were too close together to allow them to walk beside one another.
“How can I be sure you are even a knight of the realm?” She did not think he could have fooled her father into thinking he was a warrior without demonstrating some sort of skill, but then again, her father’s thoughts were on his wars and not his wayward daughter’s suitors. “If you are not who you say you are, how can I be certain of anything you have told me about yourself?”
Her voice had risen by the end of her query, her frustration surely evident. They paused in front of the cottage, while in the distance, Eamon secured the horses for the night. His quarters were behind the small stable, so unless Sorcha called out for him, he would not return.
When Hugh did not respond immediately, she continued to spill her concerns.
“You must see where I would be cautious about deceptive men.” At least she was now. She’d never known a moment’s caution prior to Edward’s death and the ensuing discovery that she had not been wed by a real priest.
“Of course. But my circumstances are most unusual.” He drew her toward a bench tucked up against the cottage wall, a small space she had arranged to enjoy her roses on summer mornings before the sun had risen over the high garden walls.
She refused to sit seeing the conflicting emotions in his eyes, sensing she should have never trusted him for a moment. Cold dread pooled in her belly.
“Explain yourself, sir.”
He hesitated. A dark shadow crossed his face as he studied her.
“I do not know who I am.”
Chapter Nine
Sorcha slumped back against the rough-hewn wood of the cottage wall, trying to absorb Hugh’s revelation.
A few thorns from the climbing roses pricked her skin through her surcoat and she straightened, perplexed. “I do not understand.”
“I experienced a grave injury before I left England. A blow to the head from which I awoke confused.” He did not join her on the bench beside the cottage, but chose to pace the distance between a pair of young saplings bending gracefully in the night breeze.
“You did not remember how the injury happened?”
“I had no recollection whatsoever. I awoke in a crofter’s hut among simple peasants who had found me bleeding in a ditch and tended me for two nights until I regained consciousness.” He stilled his pacing and turned to study her, his stance wide as he crossed his arms over a formidable chest. “I had worn out their hospitality, rightly so considering their livestock shared their home. They planned to dump me in the village square and wash their hands of me, but I left the home first, fearing I’d be taken for an idiot if I appeared not to recall my own name.”
Was it possible? She had heard of such odd happenings in the stories of the troubadours, but thought loss of one’s memories was a fanciful storytelling device dreamed up for dramatic effect. She did not give it any more credence than witches stealing children from their beds or goblins arising from graveyards at night.
“Actually,” Hugh continued, perhaps seeing the startled expression that must have crossed her face, “I feel certain I am called Hugh. But as for family ties and allegiances or even the whereabouts of my true home—I am afraid I remember nothing.”
“Why call yourself Fitz Henry?” she could not help but ask, curious about this man anew. If he was creating an elaborate lie, he’d certainly chosen a difficult story to support.
“Why not?” He lowered himself to the bench beside her, bringing to mind the small size of the seat. “The name is common enough. Unlike du Bois. If anyone sought to know more about me, they would find plenty of persons who share this name.”
For a long moment, they took each other’s measure in the moonlight. The clouds had drifted away from the orb for the moment, spilling a soft white glow on them.
“Suppose I were to believe you.” She could not fathom what it would be like to awaken with no memory of the past, although she could imagine well enough what it felt like to feel alone in the world without an ally. “Why would a man with no discernible roots cast his fate to a foreign country or offer to court an exiled princess?”
She could not understand what he would gain. And mostly, she wanted to shout, why me? Was their meeting a random accident? Or had he been counseled that a fallen princess could be had by any knight willing to overlook her dubious virtue and another man’s son?
Thinking about it steeled her emotions.
“The boy who stabled my horse before I met with my injury assured me I spoke of a journey to Connacht when I first arrived in the small town.”
“What if someone told him to tell you that?” Sorcha put aside her doubts for the moment to follow his tale. “Perhaps you met with some foul play in the town and the people who harmed you paid the boy to get you well out of the way?”
Hugh shook his head, but she could see the doubt pass through his eyes as surely as the clouds moved across the moon again.
“I have staked all on his story. I believed the truth in his eyes.”
“And how can one judge such a thing?” Sorcha rose, unable to wade through his tale or the events of the day that weighed heavily upon her shoulders. “I thought I had that power once and it turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I hope for your sake you do not suffer the same fate.”
Hugh stood, too, his large frame and battle-hardened body assuring her that—no matter his name—he was indeed a warrior to be reckoned with.
“Will you keep my secret?” He stood close to her in the darkness, the warmth of his body making her shiver. “If only for a short while?”
“Secrets are dangerous,” she warned him, wishing she had listened to that counsel when her old nursemaid had bestowed it upon her long ago.
She should not have hidden her relationship with an unknown Norman from her father’s advisers while the king was off fighting foreign wars. Sorcha should have shared her worries and fears, enlisting the aid of those wiser than she to make the best decisions.
“Aye. All my life is a secret to me and it puts me in danger every day.” The heat behind his words presented an illusion of truth. He spoke like a man tormented by demons of his own.
“I owe you for helping me rejoin the world today, if only for a few hours.” She had enjoyed the intense interest he seemed to take in her, the dark worry over her safety as well as the insistence that she seek better protection from her father. “I will keep your secret until we may speak again.”
She might have more questions. And perhaps, with a little ingenuity, she might discover if his story was one more embroidered tale.
“When will that be?” he prodded, seeking answers she did not have.
“You may return to the cottage in daylight, but—” she pulled a wool shawl up from her waist to cover her shoulders “—let us not meet under the cover of night anymore.”
There was an intimacy about it. A sense that they shared more than secrets in the darkness.
“On the morrow then.” He nodded.
She thought he would turn on his heel and leave. He must have a horse tied nearby for him to have followed her all the way from the fair. But his feet remained rooted to the spot and—oddly—so did hers.
“It
was a pleasure to be with you today.”
The simple compliment touched her. Then, with slow deliberateness, his hand was upon her shoulder.
In a flash, she recalled the way he’d held her earlier. The way his hands’ fingers had sifted through her hair in a search for injury. She had been half-conscious at the time, alert to nothing of the outside world, yet strongly aware of this one man.
“On my oath, I have told you the truth.” He held her spellbound with words while his face lowered closer to hers. His golden eyes did not fall victim to the bluish pallor the moon cast. They remained keen upon her, his gaze heated from the inside out.
Her breasts tightened beneath her surcoat, her body far too aware of him.
“Hugh—” She opened her mouth to protest, but he chose that moment to seal his lips to hers.
He had no right to kiss Sorcha.
Hugh guessed at another time in his life that would have mattered to him, but he refused to care now when her lips were soft and yielding. When she’d given him the unexpected gift of keeping his secret for at least a little while.
But what he’d intended as a chivalrous thank-you turned sensual when her mouth parted beneath his. He’d not been expecting that. Perhaps neither had she. But he was powerless to stop himself from drawing her close and savoring the taste. Powerless to ignore the feel of her womanly form against him.
The scent of roses clung to her, permeating the night air. She tasted like sweet wine and temptation, a combination that burned clear through him.
“No!” She wrenched away from him so hard he thought they must be under attack.
“What is it?” His skin burned with the desire to feel her next to him once more. He reached for her, on instinct.
“Nay!” Her voice was less certain this time. More desperate. “What if you are wed to another?”
She stepped backward out of his reach. At least he had his answer. She was not frightened of a marauding army or hungry wolves. She was merely scared of being deceived.
“I do not have the sense that I left a family behind, but I do not blame you for your concern.” He bowed, ready to ride out of here and run his horse until the night air cooled his overheated desire. “I’ll return in the daylight hours as you suggest.”
She nodded, her eyes round with worry and lingering passion. He could see her heartbeat throb at the base of her throat, a fast-paced pulse that soothed any regrets he had about breaking off the kiss. She’d been as tempted as he had.
But rather than admit anything of the sort, she turned and entered her cottage, closing the door quickly and soundlessly behind her. He was left with no more answers about his past than he’d had at the beginning of the day, yet his heart felt lighter than it had in months.
Sorcha ingen Con Connacht kissed like an angel. Perhaps her mouth was all the sweeter since he could not recall any other woman’s lips. She had, essentially, just given him his first kiss all over again.
And no matter how their pasts were intertwined, he had the feeling no bumbling experience he might have had as an awkward lad could compare to the taste of heaven on earth he’d just received.
Hugh did not go far from the cottage.
He’d sworn a duty to the king to protect his eldest daughter and that meant day and night. The previous evening he had established a camp some distance away in the woods where he remained close enough to watch the main path that ambled nearest Sorcha’s home and still view the cottage as well. The spot required him to camp on a hilltop, a position that made him slightly more vulnerable to the outlaws and thieves that sometimes populated a forest, but he’d rigged several spots nearby to trip up those who approached. That would at least give him warning if someone tried to attack him with stealth.
Now, hours after he’d left Sorcha, he felt secure enough to sleep fitfully on the ground beneath the stars. Eamon was accustomed to rising early, so Hugh knew Sorcha would benefit from his protection while he rested. He would see the king later to speak to him about Conn’s father, and at that time, Hugh would suggest a man-at-arms to take another shift of the watch.
Sleep claimed him quickly, but his rest remained fitful. Although he was used to slumbering on the forest floor, he was aware of every rock and tree root beneath him now. Even his dreams were confusing scenes that plagued him with a nagging sense they were all too real …
A sword hovered above him.
Hugh tensed in anticipation of the blow, his fingers clenching in the dirt beside him as sweat poured from his forehead. The drink he’d taken in a nearby tavern had been fouled, the hostile brew dulling his wits and churning uneasily in his gut. If not for that tainted ale, he would fight this opponent. Claim victory. He’d battled multiple enemies with fewer weapons than he now possessed. But his drink had been marked, his enemy the lowest kind of coward.
Why could he not see the attacker’s face?
Time stood still for one godforsaken moment as Hugh realized this was the end. His head would be cleaved in two by a man he should recognize. A man who seemed to know him all too well.
“See you in hell, Hugh,” the false-faced dog above him shouted as his weapon fell, the whole scene far removed from him in his haze even as it played out inches away.
He had not fulfilled his life’s dreams. Had not prepared for such an end. Too die ignobly was a warrior’s worst fear.
At the last second, he realized the snarling murderer did not swing the blade end of his sword. Instead, it was the heavy hilt that lowered.
When the weapon connected with his skull, he cursed his enemy with his last breath …
Hugh awoke with a start, dripping sweat the same as in his dream. Slowly, the trees around him came into focus, the sound of a brook rushing nearby reminding him he camped just upstream of Sorcha’s cottage. His dream remained vivid, the sensation of betrayal and cunning around him strong. His gut instinct told him the dream had been an actual memory, a piece of his past surfacing through the murky darkness of his mind.
But why couldn’t he recall the attacker’s face? Had he not distinguished the man’s features even at the moment he’d been assailed? Perhaps the fouled brew he consumed had blurred his vision. Still, in his dream he felt certain he’d known the man. There lurked a sense of betrayal so deep it had to be rooted in a close relationship. A friend or trusted servant. He found it difficult to believe a fellow knight would choose such ignominious tactics for battle, but he would not rule that out either.
Someone close to him had wanted him dead. Had they wished to prevent his trip to Connacht? The idea spurred him to think about what an enemy of his might mean to Sorcha’s safety. Had he brought further danger to the princess’s door without realizing it?
Straightening, Hugh brushed off the leaves and dirt of his short rest and whistled for the horse the Irish king had lent him. He would retrieve Sorcha at once and bring her to her father’s court. If the old man was so concerned about keeping his eldest daughter safe, why would he leave her in a tenuous outpost of his kingdom with no guards but a stranger and a groom with little training to keep her safe? Hugh intended to find out precisely what sorts of threats the monarch perceived against Sorcha.
After Hugh’s dream, he could not help but think the princess and her young son were both at risk for more reasons than those the king already feared. Hugh may have unwittingly drawn a dangerous old enemy to Connacht, and he was at a treacherous disadvantage since he wouldn’t even recognize the man if he came face-to-face with him.
Chapter Ten
Sorcha could not decide which unsettled her more—facing her father for the first time since their heated argument over a year ago, or sitting next to Hugh after sharing an unexpected kiss the night before.
They waited in a small antechamber outside the keep’s great hall, a room she had never spent much time in when she lived here since she’d never been a guest. Even after seeing her at the fair the day before, the servants did not seem to know how to treat her. They nodded awkwardly and mumbled their
greetings, perhaps afraid of embracing the spurned daughter of the man who supported their livelihood.
“Is it his habit to make his guests wait?” Hugh asked, refusing the bread offered by a young maid Sorcha did not recognize. His legs sprawled from the seat of a narrow wooden chair that usually accommodated fleet-footed messengers instead of hulking knights. His fingers flexed against the arms of the seat, his jaw tight with frustration.
“That is not his intention, but it is frequently the case.” Sorcha was surprised by a desire to smile at memories of her father that were not overshadowed by their final argument. “He is a well-meaning steward of these lands, but not always an organized one. He tends to listen long and hard to whomever has his attention at any given time and woe to those who had legitimate appointments.”
In the years that she had helped him run the keep, she had spoken to him more than once about his tendency to make others wait—even when they were important visiting knights or barons. But no matter that her father agreed with her in theory, he still tended to get caught up in whatever situation arrived under his nose. That inattention of his was the only reason she’d managed to hide her impending babe from him for so long.
“We need to speak privately afterward,” Hugh told her, rising to his feet in the chamber that boasted only one small tapestry of a battle at sea and a few worn rush mats that desperately needed changing.
“I have not spent much time with Conn,” she fretted, regretting that she’d left the cottage before her son awoke this morning.
“This won’t take long,” he assured her, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword bearing her father’s crest.
Hugh must have truly impressed the king to have gained a horse and a blade. It was highly unusual for a royal house to arm its knights or its men-at-arms—except when they were mounting a large campaign and needed extra warriors.
Could Hugh have made arrangements with her crafty sire that she knew nothing about?