The Knight's Return

by Joanne Rock

  Onora nodded, but opened the door to Sorcha’s tiny bedchamber off the shared solar.

  “So much is happening, I fear we both have many plans to make.” She kissed Sorcha’s cheek and sent her on her way. “I want you to have the veil for tomorrow. And I need to pack my own things, too.”

  More guilt weighed on Sorcha’s shoulders and she wondered how Onora could go from swearing she would not wed to packing up her things in the course of an hour. Perhaps her sister was not as rash and reckless as Sorcha had been. A dose of practical sense would bolster Onora far better than any foolish bravado might.

  “Sleep well, sister,” Sorcha told her, cradling Conn close and thinking this would be her last night as an unwed woman.

  “I think we will all feel better tomorrow once the dreadful waiting is over. Perhaps half the fear is not knowing what will happen.”

  Sorcha smiled. “Wise words.”

  They said their good-nights, but as Sorcha settled down to sleep, she feared she had missed something. Onora’s mood had shifted during their conversation from despair to resignation. It had happened too quickly. Too easily. Would Onora attempt to run away during the night to avoid the marriage?

  Worry knotted her belly. As if she didn’t have enough fears with an impending marriage to a man she didn’t really know, someone trying to hurt her and possibly Conn too, and an uncertain future in the land of her father’s enemies. Now she needed to think about what Onora might do to avoid a wedding.

  Settling Conn on the bed alone, Sorcha rose to listen at the door, hoping that if Onora made a move during the night, Sorcha would be there to talk sense into her.

  The vows had been blissfully short.

  Hugh had taken no pleasure from standing beside Sorcha earlier that morning, knowing she resented his unexpected proposal and the marriage she had little say in. They rode away from Connacht now, their marriage only a few hours old, their traveling party a small retinue of three retainers to protect the new couple. The king had demanded Hugh accept the service of three men-at-arms including Eamon, all of whom Hugh planned to send home once he regained his memories.

  Once he found a destination to bring his new bride to.

  All night he had feared she would demand to be taken to the convent rather than bind her life to his forever. She had hardly spoken to him since their meeting with her father after the fire, but he suspected she had given ample consideration to life in the nunnery. She had no reason to think she and her son would be safe traveling with a man who had no home, no troop of loyal knights, no secure keep with a moat and portcullis to fend off invaders.

  Worst of all, perhaps, was her suspicion that he was somehow related to the father of her son. But the news didn’t sit any easier on his shoulders than it must have weighed on hers. It could not be a coincidence that two Normans of similar looks would visit a far-flung Irish kingdom within such a short time span.

  “My lord,” one of his men called to him from a clearing ahead. The eldest of the trio acted as scout, setting the company’s course and ensuring they did not come across the Norman army by mistake.

  Hugh had taken the northern route to the sea to avoid the invaders, but there was a chance straggling recruits or new armies could be riding from most any direction to join the larger force marching on the northern kingdoms.

  “We can arrive at seaside by nightfall. Shall I ride ahead to search for a boat to make the crossing?”

  “How is the lay of the land?” Because Hugh had taken the southern route on his journey through Ireland, he could not envision the terrain ahead. “Is it favorable to predators or will we be able to see our enemies approach?”

  “It is hilly, but the trees sit back from the road. You cannot travel anonymously through the wood, but neither can anyone seeking attack.” The man-at-arms—Robert the Red—wore the same dark colors as the rest of the party. They sought to hide their Irish affiliation, shedding their colorful robes and tunics for more somber shades. No torcs adorned their arms or necks. No music hummed from tuneful lutes to entertain the travelers on the long journey.

  “Very well. Ride ahead and see if we can find a boatman to take us. Tomorrow morning, if possible.” Not that Hugh knew where he would head once he reached the shores of his homeland. But with trouble dogging their heels, he thought it best to leave Ireland behind.

  “Aye.” Robert nodded and sped off, his horse carrying the least of the supplies to facilitate his task.

  Hugh peered back to another man riding beside Sorcha. Peter was an experienced and strong fighter who had seen combat numerous times in the king’s army. He took his mission seriously, keeping a wary eye on the tree line ahead and behind the princess at all times.

  Sorcha rode near him, cradling a sleeping Conn in her arms. She had to be exhausted and the day was not half finished yet. The child was not heavy, but no woman should have to carry that kind of weight on horseback for hours on end. She had to be uncomfortable.

  Unguarded, she appeared worried. But Hugh knew as soon as she caught him staring, her expression would turn hard. Defensive.

  He wondered if he would ever again see her as open and unyielding as she’d been in his arms before the fire broke out.

  Behind Sorcha, Eamon brought up the rear. He’d been assigned to ensure they were not followed, but he’d had so little time as a man-at-arms, Hugh was not sure that he served the purpose all that thoroughly. Hugh did not understand why the young man seemed so distracted, but his attention did not appear to be on keeping Sorcha safe. Perhaps he missed Enid back in Connacht, but Hugh would not hesitate to send him home if he could not carry his weight.

  “Hugh.”

  Sorcha’s voice surprised him. She had not spoken to him more than was strictly necessary since he’d come to terms with her father about a wedding. He had thought about visiting her chamber the night before—not to claim her, of course, but only to discuss his plans for the future—but thought better of it. Talk of Hugh visiting her bedchamber might have stirred trouble, when the princess had already been banished for allowing her passions to rule her. Besides, he had been up most of the night making preparations for the journey, pressing the king to supply him with as much as possible to maintain Sorcha’s safety.

  “Aye?” He’d been tempted to call her wife, just to try the name on for size, but guessed the word might not yet be welcome.

  He would not push her patience when she had willingly chosen him over the convent.

  “I ride no farther until you tell me where we are going, when we arrive and what accommodations will be at the other end for my son.” Her green eyes glittered with thinly veiled hostility. Dark shadows beneath them suggested she had not slept any more than Hugh had the night before. “It is not too late for me to ride to the convent if you are not going to consult with me on our future plans.”

  Hugh could not tell what surprised him more. That she expected him to consult her or that she would wave the empty threat of the convent at him.

  “Do you not think it’s a bit late to change your mind about taking a nun’s vows?” He reined in, waiting for her to catch up to him. “I do not think you can promise God a life of chastity when you have promised yourself to me in front of witnesses.”

  Hugh noticed Peter never varied his watchful observance of the woods around them during the exchange. Eamon was too far behind to hear what was being said, so did not concern him.

  Sorcha slowed her pace as she reached Hugh’s side, shifting Conn’s position from her arms to one shoulder.

  “You think you have fooled me as easily as my father?” She fluffed her long, red hair out behind her, a bright auburn banner in the sunlight. “I only ride with you for as long as it pleases me, sir, since I am bound to you by no other obligation than my goodwill. I have promised myself to Hugh Fitz Henry, a man who does not exist.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sorcha had never camped beneath the stars.

  The experience appealed to her old adventurous self with t
he crisp night air tickling her nose and the moon bathing the trees in pristine white light. Her father’s dark and damp keep kept out most natural light with its need to maintain defenses, while her cottage had sat in the shadow of the high garden walls. The moon would have only been visible from a window for a few scant hours.

  But as much as the natural setting appealed to her wilder instincts, Sorcha could not stifle the sense that they were followed. Watched. She had not voiced the concern, knowing Hugh had posted Eamon behind the rest of the party to ensure no one came upon them unaware. But that did not dim the voice in her head that told her eyes looked out at them from the forest.

  At least Conn slept peacefully. Her son had weighed heavy in her arms all day on horseback, but he’d been a very good boy, tolerating the unfamiliar discomforts with only an occasional cry. Now she hoped she could join him in slumber before too long to keep her mind off her second biggest worry.

  Hugh.

  She rearranged a blanket beneath her head, trying to find a comfortable position that would also prohibit her from peering over at the knight’s strong, imposing form resting nearby. He had hardly spoken to her since they’d exchanged vows, refusing to rise to her bait when she’d informed him they weren’t legally wed.

  Of course, she understood he couldn’t do anything about the false marriage since he didn’t know his rightful name in the first place. But understanding that did not stop a certain sadness that not one but two men had avoided real marriages with her by using false identities. At least this time she could be assured the priest had been genuine. Father O’Reilly had been listening to her confession since she was old enough to understand the nature of sin.

  “Do not leave—”

  Behind her. Hugh mumbled in his sleep. The words were muffled, half of them incomprehensible, but she thought she understood that much.

  Do not leave?

  She wondered if he spoke to her in his nighttime imaginings. Lifting up on her elbow, she veered away from Conn to hover closer to where Hugh lay.

  “Hugh?” She did not keep her voice down, as Conn usually slept heavily and the men-at-arms had been placed in a strategic circle around them. “Are you all right?”

  No response.

  Her ears strained to hear any other noise, but the only sounds around her were the distant crash of waves on Ireland’s northeast shore, the hum of night bugs and Hugh’s even breaths.

  Sorcha lay back down, certain she would never rest this night. What if the men-at-arms grew tired and did not hear an attacker’s approach? She peered over at Conn’s small hand peeking out of the blankets and rested a finger in his tiny palm. He gripped it reflexively, holding her tight.

  He held her heart just as securely. She leaned in to brush a kiss on his forehead, vowing to keep him safe.

  “Rosa.” Hugh’s voice sounded again, only this time it was sharp. Clear. A name spoken with a world of meaning.

  Freeing herself from Conn’s grip, Sorcha crawled the few feet between her bedroll and Hugh’s, knowing he would want to hear about this new clue.

  Did he know a woman named Rosa in his old, forgotten life?

  “Hugh.” She shook him gently, her heart stirring at the sight of such a big, strong warrior so vulnerable beneath her hands.

  How many other women had seen him thus? She could not deny a peculiar sense of pride that he trusted her enough to sleep with his back to her. He might have felt betrayed that she did not confide in him about his resemblance to Edward, but clearly he did not think her capable of any dark deeds.

  “Hugh,” she repeated, squeezing his arm through the chain-mail shirt he wore even in sleep.

  Her fingers pinched between two of the metal links.

  “Ro—” He woke up with a start, his shoulders springing up from the ground as his hand went for his sword.

  Sorcha placed a restraining hand on his chest, hoping to claim his attention while his thoughts still drifted close to whatever dream he’d been having.

  In an instant, he was on top of her, pinning her to the ground with one hand, his blade drawn with the other. She stared up at him in the moonlight, a wildness seizing his eyes for a moment until he tossed the knife aside.

  And kissed her fiercely.

  He pushed off of her again, gasping for breath as he rolled to one side and sat up. Her head was spinning, her own breath ragged, to say the least. She was stunned that he could arouse heat in her after brandishing a weapon at her.

  “I could have killed you.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “My instincts—”

  He broke off, hanging his head between his knees as he seemed to struggle for control.

  She touched her lips with trembling fingers, remembering more tender kisses. And yet, even at his most intense, she did not recoil from his touch. His taste.

  “A warrior is always alert. On guard.”

  Nodding her understanding, she remained as confused as ever inside. While she didn’t blame him for what had happened, she questioned her own heated response to him that had not dimmed since he had vowed not to touch her.

  “I tried to wake you because you were dreaming of someone.” She spoke softly, not wishing to startle him any further. And, in spite of herself, she reached out to touch him. To reassure him she was safe. “Can you recall who she is?”

  His heart beat beneath her hand, the drum of it forceful enough to thrum right through the chain-mail shirt.

  “Rosamunde.” He sounded certain as he picked his head up, his eyes locked on some distant point in the past. “She betrayed me.”

  His gaze moved to Sorcha, his focus sharpening. She eased back on her heels, her hand falling away from him.

  “I woke you because—” She felt out of sorts. Unfairly accused. “I thought it would help you recover a lost memory.”

  “I did.” He nodded, his attention moving back to the canopy of trees overhead as he lay down again.

  “What do you recall?” She could not deny a wave of jealousy churning in the pit of her belly as she asked. Who was this woman who claimed Hugh’s past?

  Hugh swallowed hard, the planes of his face hardening into those of a stranger.

  “I can recall this woman well. And I know she was promised to me, but she betrayed the betrothal by taking a lover before we were to wed.”

  Sorcha recoiled, seeking comfort in the warmth of her bedroll from the bitterness in his voice. And, perhaps to a greater extent, from the hurt she felt upon hearing he’d been betrothed to someone else.

  “Where are you in your dream?” She tried to think about him and not the ache in her heart for what might have been between them if they had not met each other after such painful experiences. “Can you see what is around you?”

  She hesitated from asking him directly if his memories had returned, afraid to put too much pressure on a difficult process. Perhaps she was a bit scared of what other hurts those memories might bring. Would he be the same man she knew once he reclaimed his past?

  “Nay.” His voice threaded through the darkness, winding about her and awakening feelings she could not name. “I see only the woman.”

  It was strange speaking to a man while they lay so close in the night. A man she knew so well, yet not at all.

  “Is she well garbed?” Sorcha tucked her head close to Conn’s to remind herself of her son’s presence. To remind herself that she could not afford to indulge tender emotions for Hugh. “Recalling her adornments might help you discover your station in life.”

  “She wears a bright blue robe trimmed in ermine. And there are jewels—” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t remember any more than that. The dream is fading.”

  “If she was not a dream, but a true part of your past, you must be a wealthy man.” Few women could afford the garments dyed in a blue hue, let alone a rich shade of it.

  “Not so wealthy that she feared the consequences of breaking our marriage contract.”

  “Will you be quick to break ours when your memory retu
rns? I wonder.” She turned on her side to face him and old leaves crinkled beneath her blanket despite the spring weather.

  He turned to study her in the moonlight, his face only partially visible in the shadows that separated them. He was not close enough to touch, but she found her hand stretching toward him anyway, her fingers coming to rest in a patch of grass between them.

  “I could ask you the same question, Princess.” His hand extended to the same piece of earth, his fingers a mere hand span from hers. “You already threatened to do so this afternoon when I refused to tell you my plans.”

  She had been scared all day, unsure of their destination and worried for the safety of Conn.

  “I fear for my son,” she told him honestly. She saw no need to hide the truth from him any longer. She’d already revealed the only real secret she’d ever had from him. “If someone wishes harm upon us—on him—I am afraid we are vulnerable on the road.”

  “When my memory returns we will have more men to guard him and the safety of castle walls around us.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” She had attached her name and her future to his. Regardless of the validity of the actual ceremony, she had still publicly tied her future to his. There would be no hiding this marriage as there had been the one that produced her son. What would become of her and Conn if Hugh’s past remained a blank slate? They would have no family to call upon for help. No home.

  And no matter the appeal of sleeping under the stars on a clear spring night, Sorcha would not wish for such a vagabond existence every day for her child.

  “I will remember. The memories are closer every day. My dreams bring back small pieces like a puzzle.”

  “Memories like Rosamunde.” Speaking the woman’s name aloud brought with it a unique pain, reminding Sorcha she could not shut off her feelings for Hugh just because they were dangerous to her heart. “You cannot recall her surname?”

  Helping Hugh recover his memory would help Sorcha in the end, so she would trudge through the painful parts concerning other women if it meant Conn would have a safe home all the sooner.