“If Sir LeGode has wanted you dead for these many years, do you think he will allow anything to stop him now that he knows you are alive?”
“It matters not. I cannot leave my sister. She’s in grave danger.”
“Jarin will watch over her.”
“Not like I can. He does not have access to her as I do, nor does he care for her welfare. Please, let me go!” She began squirming again and attempted to pry his arm from her waist. But ’twas the appeal in her voice that almost made him turn Penance about and grant her wish. Almost. But he would not allow her to bewitch him again.
They exited the wooded area to a blast of wind and sting of rain. She ceased struggling and shifted to look at him. What he wouldn’t give to see those eyes of hers, such an exquisite shade of green and so sharp and yet soft all at once. “I don’t understand you, Knight. I do not want your protection. I have no more secrets for you to discover. Why, when I’ve lied to you, deceived you, and even poisoned you, do you wish to save me?”
He chuckled and wiped wet hair from her face. “Ah, yes, how could I forget the tea?”
Lights flashed up ahead. The Crooked Billet Inn. Good. Just another hour of riding and they’d be at Rivenhall. He urged Penance into a gallop in order to speed past the tavern lest the lady decide to draw unwanted attention.
She did. In the form of a scream so loud it would wake a man who’d been in his cups for a week. He shoved his palm atop her mouth and sped past the two-story inn. Horses neighed from the stables, and a lad peeked out from the window. But no one followed.
He leaned in to say, “Your efforts are fut—” when a sharp pain stabbed his hand.
♥♥♥
Alexia was cold, wet, her arm hurt, her back ached, and her ankle throbbed. And now she tasted blood—the knight’s blood, salty and metallic. Releasing her teeth’s grip on his hand, she glanced over her shoulder. The lights of the inn flickered and disappeared. No shouts, nor neigh of horse, or any commotion at all, save the tapping of rain. Potz!
Ronar shook out his hand. A growl rumbled from his throat to match the thunder overhead—a growl of fury that set her ill at ease. She’d seen this man fight, felt his strength even now in the arm across her waist and his rock-hard chest. He could break her in two with one move. Was it wise to anger him so?
“Did you consider, my lady,” he ground out, his mouth so close to her face that his breath burned her cheek. “That the devil you know is far better than the devil you don’t?”
“If you refer to yourself, I quite agree. As to the rest, it depends on what you wish to do with me.” Since Ronar—when had she begun to think of him by his Christian name?—had already questioned her about the Spear and searched for it among her things, she could think of no other reason why he would take her against her will. Save one. The friar had attempted—in a rather blundering way, she might add—to explain the ways of men and women. She smiled even now as she remembered him so tongue-tied and red of face. Finally, he asked one of the village women to step in. Hence, Alexia was not some naive maiden, ignorant of the desires of men.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “I have no ill intentions toward you, Lady Falcon. Rest assured. I am an honorable man who abides by God’s laws.”
“The Church’s laws, you mean, and I’ve seen how some twist those to serve their own purpose.”
Still, from what she’d seen thus far, this knight possessed an integrity not found in most men. He’d protected her, kept her secrets, and now had saved her life.
Aye, she’d admit to that much. She’d also admit to experiencing real terror for the first time when LeGode’s knights and hounds had surrounded her. Her mind had shifted through a plethora of scenarios for the best escape—there had always been an escape—but she’d found none. In the treetops, armed with bow and arrow, she could easily defeat ten…twenty knights, but not on the ground, unable to even walk.
God had answered her prayer. The Spear had saved her by sending Ronar and his men to her aid. Yet, what confused her now was why God allowed this beast of a man to steal her away. Every gallop into the darkness took her farther away from her sister, farther away from protecting her from Sir LeGode.
They emerged from the trees to pellets of rain that pasted her hair to her skin and slid into her eyes. Wiping away the moisture, she drew the knight’s cloak tighter about her neck. His scent rose from the fabric and filled her nose. Not an unpleasant scent, but one that was distinctly his—all leather and steel and musk.
A brisk wind made her tremble and brought him close to whisper in that soothing, deep tone of his, “We are almost there, my lady.” His breath on her neck sent a chill down her that had naught to do with the cold.
And very much against her will, her anger toward him subsided, replaced by an odd comfort in his presence. Much needed after her harrowing night and the shock of LeGode’s betrayal.
Nay! She chastised herself. She must not be taken in by this man’s charms. At the first opportunity, she would escape and make her way back to her sister.
Ronar said not another word, and soon they came upon a massive iron gate framed by stone walls with a blazon overhead she could not make out in the darkness. After dismounting and opening the gate, which screeched in complaint, he gained the horse again with one leap and urged them down a long winding path lined with ancient trees that seemed to reach for her with crooked claws.
Thunder roared, distant and muffled, and the rain lessened to a drizzle. Alexia wiped water from her lashes as they rounded a corner and descended a hill to a scene that must be beautiful during the day, but in the dark appeared as black mounds of land with a walled-in manor perched in the distance.
She could feel Ronar tense behind her as they moved toward the structure. The sound of sheep baaing and cows lowing joined the patter of rain sliding from leaves onto the wet ground. A cloud moved ever so slightly, allowing a sprinkling of starlight to penetrate the storm. It landed on a castle atop a hill beyond the house—a large, imposing structure, gray and black, all sinister sharpness and deep gloom. Then it was gone, swallowed by the night once again. An odd sense of sorrow came over Alexia, though she couldn’t say why.
Ronar led his charger through yet another gate into a courtyard before the manor and dismounted. Before she could attempt to slide off the horse, he reached up, took her in his arms, and carried her to the front door, which opened to reveal an older man wearing a night tunic, a candle in his hand, and a look of utter shock on his face.
“Lord Rivenhall! I did not expect you.”
Lord Rivenhall? Alexia pushed against Ronar’s sodden doublet. “Let me down. I’m no invalid.”
“No need to fret, Bridon,” Ronar replied as he carried her through the dark house, down a hall, and into a room cloaked in shadows. “I did not expect me either. Light a fire and wake Cook. We’d like some mulled wine. Oh, and have James attend Penance.”
“Aye, my lord.” The man’s shadow scurried about the room, tearing white sheets from furniture. “Pardon my attire, my lord. I hadn’t time to dress properly.”
Ronar set her down on a cushioned chair. She immediately rose in defiance, but pain speared up her leg until she feared she would cry out. Huffing, she sank back into the chair. Why did the servant address Ronar as “my lord”?
Flint struck steel and a spark lit up the old man’s face for but a second. Then another and another and soon a tiny flame glimmered from the fireplace. Kindling and wood were added and the flame grew, crackling and spitting as if angry at being awakened so abruptly. Light revealed a large room filled with cushioned chairs, tables, a desk, and shelves of books.
A coat of arms hung above the hearth depicting a shield bearing a red cross with a sword laid across it. It was framed by two dragons breathing fire, while on top perched two birds, a dove and, oddly, a falcon.
The old man rose from the fire and smiled at Ronar. “Good to see you again, my lord. I’ll see about Cook.”
“Thank you, Bridon
. And bring some blankets, “ he shouted after him.
Alexia could only sit and stare, her mind and heart overwhelmed with far too many surprises for one night.
Ronar, hair dripping, tore off his wet doublet and knelt before the fire, holding out his hands. Blood marred the front and sleeve of a white shirt that clung to his rounded muscles. Wounds he had received when saving her life.
“My lord?” She asked with sarcasm.
Rising, he dipped his head in her direction. “Allow me to introduce myself, Lady D’Clere. I am the Ronar Meschin, Earl of Rivenhall.”
Chapter 20
“You are an earl,” Alexia heard herself say, though she meant to keep the words cloistered in her thoughts—thoughts that refused to settle into reason. “With an estate of your own?” she added absently, unable to take her eyes off Ronar. Firelight shifted over the right side of his face, accentuating the scar slicing his eyebrow. He stared at her with those sharp blue eyes of his. The playful gleam within them faded as sorrow clouded them, and he turned, hands on his waist to stare at the flames.
“Do you find it so surprising?” he said.
She did. Yet…of a sudden, nay, not as she took in the regal way he stood, heard the authority in his voice, remembered the commanding way he moved and held himself—as a King’s Guard, aye, but as a man also accustomed to giving orders. Why had she not seen it before?
Rain dripped from the tips of his hair onto his shirt. A few dark strands hung over his stubbled jaw, suddenly so stiff.
Stooping, he tossed a log onto the fire, and the heat finally reached her. “Why?” was all she could utter.
“Why do I present myself as a mere knight in the King’s Guard?” He faced her with a sad grin. “A tale for another time.”
The old man hurried back in, dressed in a presentable livery this time, his arms full of blankets. Ronar took one and flung it around Alexia. Despite the instant warmth, she could not stop trembling.
“Mulled wine will be ready anon, my lord.”
“Thank you, Bridon. I will need vinegar, thread and needle, bandages, and Mistress Yonk’s mint and yarrow rub.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Hefting one of the wooden chairs, Ronar placed it before the fire. “Come sit and warm yourself.” He approached to help her, but Alexia held up a hand. “I am quite able.”
But she wasn’t able. Her ankle throbbed, and the slightest attempt to stand forced her back to her chair.
Sliding his arms beneath her, Ronar lifted her without effort and placed her on the chair. Flames crackled and instantly cocooned her in warmth. The shivering lessened, and she suddenly felt self-conscious in her wet attire with her sodden hair matted to her head and falling to her lap like seaweed. Especially before this man who was an earl—one of only twelve in all of England.
“Seems I am not the only one proficient at deceit,” she said, drawing his gaze and a glimmer of a smile.
“You never asked if I was an earl.”
“You never asked if I was Lady of Luxley Manor,” she returned, garnering another smile, and hating herself for the warmth flooding her at the sight.
“Mayhap neither of us are what we seem.” His glance lowered. “Take off your boots. I must check your foot.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“Your foot could be broken, my lady. I can and I will. We need tend your arm as well.” He gestured toward her ragged, bloody sleeve where the dogs had bitten. In all the excitement, she hardly felt the pain anymore.
“You are wounded as well, Sir Knight, and worse than I.”
“I am accustomed to it. You are not.”
She raised a brow. “Might I remind you, I am the Falcon of Emerald Forest and not some pampered lady of the manor. Unlike you, I was not raised in such luxury.” She glanced around at the polished oak, silk-woven rug, and rich tapestries.
He smiled. “Ah, yes, the wild forest sprite who lays her head on a mossy nest amid squirrels and hares.” He gave her a pointed gaze. “We shall still attend your wounds first, withal.”
The old man entered, tray in hand. “Your wine, my lord.” Steam rose from mugs, filling the room with the scent of pungent grapes and spices. Two jugs also sat upon the tray, along with strips of cloth, a needle, a small jar, and a plate of cakes that smelled of butter and cream.
Alexia’s stomach rumbled.
Ronar stood. “Thank you, Bridon,”
“Very good, my lord. Will there be anything else?” His hooded gaze sped to Alexia. “One of the gowns in your—”
“Nay!” Ronar’s tone sent the poor man back, brows raised, but then in a softer voice he added, “That will be all. You may retire, Bridon.”
The man scurried off as Ronar knelt before Alexia and tugged on her boot. Only then did she notice her breeches were torn clear up to her thigh, exposing her stockinged leg.
Her nerves heightened. “Is there no lady to tend me?” She’d never allowed a man to see, let alone touch her leg. Well, save for the friar, of course.
“I keep no servants but Bridon, Cook, a scullery maid, and stable boy.”
“Then why did Bridon mention a gown?”
He yanked on the boot. Agony sped up her leg and emerged in a shriek from her mouth.
“Apologies.” He handled her stockinged foot with the tenderest of care, pressing gently and then turning it ever so slightly.
“’Tis sprained, not broken. With rest, it will heal in a fortnight.”
“A fortnight?” She couldn’t possible stay here that long.
“Now, let’s see to your arm.”
“My ankle you have seen, Sir, I mean my lord, but I will keep my shirt on, if you please.”
“I do not please.” He gave her a devilish grin, which quickly faded at what must have been fright in her eyes. “Never fear, you may retain your modesty, Lady Falcon.” Before she could protest, he grabbed her sleeve and ripped it asunder, exposing two rows of bloody teeth marks. The sight soured her stomach, and she placed a hand over her wet bodice and attempted to breathe.
“’Tis not as bad as it looks.” Grabbing one of the jugs, Ronar poured vinegar on a cloth, then knelt beside her once again. “This will hurt.” He gazed up at her with eyes so blue and full of concern, she swallowed a burst of emotion.
She nodded her assent and in the process shocked herself by realizing she trusted this man, this King’s Guard, this earl who had saved her more than once.
He hesitated, his eyes peering into hers as if seeking out her very soul. He smelled of wet leather and smoke, and she looked away, uncomfortable.
He touched the cloth to her wound. Pain radiated through her arm, and she bit her lip, not wanting to scream, not wanting to reveal her weakness. Pulling back, he gripped her hand and held it tight as he continued. His hand was warm, rough, callused and twice the size of hers, and his strength and care brought her more comfort than she dared admit.
Burning spasms rippled up her arm. She closed her eyes and sought the Spirit, praying for relief.
Ronar continued his ministrations for what seemed an eternity, tending her wound with a tenderness in sharp contrast to the brash, brave warrior she’d witnessed earlier that night. Yet each time he poured vinegar on her arm, it took all her strength to not cry out. But she wasn’t some weak female who swooned at the sight of blood. She was the Protector of the Spear, a Warrior of God.
Finally, he placed a sweet-smelling salve upon her wounds and gently wrapped them with strips of cloth, tying them off at the ends. Before she knew it, he drew her hand to his mouth. She opened her eyes just as his lips touched her skin, igniting her in a vastly different way than the vinegar had done.
A strand of hair fell across his scar, and she resisted the urge to brush it away.
“All finished now. It should heal nicely,” he said.
She tugged her hand back. “Thank you, Sir Kni… I mean, my lord. I cannot get used to your new title.”
“Call me Ronar, then.” Gathering the bloo
dy clothes, he rose and set them on the table, then picked up mugs of mulled wine and handed her one. “I fear ’tis not too warm now.”
He sipped his and sat on a stool before the fire, and she wondered at the sorrow she sensed in him since they’d arrived at this place. She wondered why he hid his title and why this vast estate sat in ruins.
“Now ’tis your turn.” She gestured to his arm and chest.
He glanced down at his bloody sleeve. “It will heal.”
“We both know ’twill need to be stitched.”
“I will attend it later.”
“I will attend it now.” Setting down her mug, Alexia rose on her good foot and hobbled toward the table.
Ronar was at her side in an instant. “What are you doing?”
She turned and found him within inches of her, his eyes adoring her as if she were a king’s ransom and not a criminal who had caused him naught but trouble. But that couldn’t be. She looked away. “Getting the needle and twine your man brought.”
“What do you know of such things?”
“I have stitched wounds before.” Only once and it was a squirrel, but he had no need to know that. “Take off your shirt.”
“Very well.” He poured more wine into his mug and returned to the fire.
Heart racing at the thought of stitching human flesh, Alexia retrieved the needle, twine, cloth, and vinegar. When she turned around, she suddenly wished she hadn’t ordered him to remove his garment. Sweet gracious saints. Waves of iron billowed over his stomach and continued over arms of rounded metal. A bloody slice marred an otherwise perfectly formed chest sprinkled with black hair. Rubbing his bearded chin, he gave her a grin that told her he knew exactly the effect he had on her and he was enjoying it immensely.
♥♥♥
“Forsooth, is the Falcon of Emerald Forest blushing?” Ronar teased the lady as an unmistakable red hue crept up her neck and blossomed over her cheeks. Huffing, she averted her gaze from his chest and approached.
“You flatter yourself, my lord. ’Tis merely the heat from the fire.” She busied herself threading the needle, then doused a cloth with vinegar. Her trembling hands, along with the harried rise and fall of her chest, made him suddenly question his safety.
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