“Mayhap I should have Bridon attend it on the morrow.”
She cast him a wry glance ere forcing him to sit and kneeling before him to examine his arm.
Firelight turned her skin to shimmering gold and her hair to a waterfall of flaming red trickling down her back. Her scent of pine and wet earth and a hint of lavender stirred his senses as her nervous breath warmed his skin. And he suddenly had the urge to kiss her, especially as she licked her lips and parted them ever so slightly.
Tush, but the lady was alluring. And enchanting and intriguing. And stubborn and infuriating.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she lifted her gaze to his. Firelight brought out golden specks sparkling across her green eyes like nuggets on a field of moss. Their faces were but inches apart, and he could control himself no longer. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he advanced.
She slapped the vinegar-soaked cloth on his wound.
Pain speared through his arm and stabbed his shoulder.
“If you brought me here to make me your mistress, my lord, you shall find yourself sorely disappointed.”
“If I had brought you here for that purpose,” Ronar said through gritted teeth. “I would have done so already.”
Pouring more vinegar on the cloth, she moved to clean the gash on his chest.
“Ouch! Gentler, if you please.”
“A knight who is afraid of spiders and has no tolerance for pain?” She smirked. “And you thought I was weak. As it is, Sir, the only wound for which I have no tolerance is a libertine assault.”
“Assault?” He feigned indignation.
“You were going to kiss me, were you not?”
“The thought occurred to me.”
“Well, un-occur it at once. I am no serving wench to be taken advantage of.”
He smiled.
“You find this amusing?”
“Only slightly.” He teased her. “Very well.” He sat up straight, chin out. “On my honor as a knight, I vow never to attempt a kiss again.”
She flattened her lips and released a sigh.
“A truce? Ere you put a needle through my flesh.”
“Very well.” She frowned and returned her gaze to his wounds. “The one on your chest will not require stitches. But this one.” She peered at his arm. “’Tis too deep.” Drawing a breath, she pinched the wound with one hand and slid the needle through his skin with the other. The metallic smell of his own blood bit his nose, and he wondered at the strength of this lady who didn’t hesitate to pierce raw flesh.
He kept his gaze on her, the determination in her eyes, the tight line of her lips, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks—anything to avoid feeling the pain.
Within minutes she was done. Ronar dared a glance at his arm. Though the stitch was a bit jagged, it would do nicely. “Well done, Falcon.”
She offered him a nervous smile as she dabbed salve on the wound, then wrapped his arm with a cloth. Sitting back, she took another sip of her wine. No doubt the ordeal had unnerved her more than she let on, for she took several more gulps, then rose to refill her mug.
Ronar stretched his arm, testing the wound as she returned to her seat and stared at the flames, her thoughts elsewhere. He longed to be privy to them, to understand this fascinating woman who stitched up wounds after nearly being eaten by hounds and captured by knights. When every other woman he’d known would have taken ill to their bed by now.
Setting down her cup, she squirmed uncomfortably and stared at him, one hand on the laces of her bodice. “Avert your eyes, Knight. I wish to remove this wet garb.”
He did as she asked, though surely she could not expect him to obey entirely. Grabbing the jug, he faced the fire and drew it to his lips, peering from the corner of his eye as she removed her stiff bodice and laid it upon the hearth to dry. Beneath she wore a modest cream-colored tunic that would normally not have been revealing, but damp as it was, it molded to curves that made his blood warm.
He would have to keep his eyes elsewhere. Mayhap he should have Bridon show her to one of the chambers above. And soon. It had been years since he’d felt such desire for a lady. After the incident with Idonea, he’d nearly taken a vow of celibacy. Would have if not for the call of the Crusades.
But this lady, this wonderful lady, had the uncanny ability to make null and void every vow he’d ever taken.
“’Tis been quite a distressing night, Lady Falcon. You must be tired.” Part of him hoped she’d take the hint and demand to be brought to a chamber. Part of him never wanted her to leave his side.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she crossed her arms over them. “Distressing? Is that what you call discovering that the man I trusted with my life, the man in charge of my estate, is poisoning my sister and wants to burn me at the stake?”
She paused and took a deep breath.
“Is that what you call being chased by my own knights, attacked by dogs, whisked away against my will, and kept from my sister, who is in grave danger? Is that what you call distressing?”
Her tone pricked his guilt, and he took a swig of wine, then handed her the jug. She drank deep and heavy, then set it down and leaned her head sideways on her knees to look at him. Bronze hair glittering red in the fire fell down to her feet in waves. Seconds passed as the flames crackled and the wind whistled against the stone walls. And for the briefest of moments, she let down her guard, and he saw naught but a frightened little girl who bore a weight too heavy for one so small and young.
“Why do you not think me a witch?” she asked.
He tossed a log onto the fire. “Because you are too enchanting to be anything but a child of God.”
At this she smiled, and her gaze dropped to his bare chest, lingered for a moment, ere she snapped it back to the fire. “I am a warrior. A protector.”
“And what is it you protect?” Ronar grabbed his shirt and tossed it over his head. Though he quite enjoyed her reaction to him, he did not wish to cause her discomfort.
She didn’t answer. Instead she rubbed her temples and started to slip from her chair.
Dashing toward her, Ronar caught her fall and placed her on the floor, then plopped down beside her and drew her close.
“I’m so tired, Ronar. So very tired,” she mumbled and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I know.” He brushed hair from her face. “Rest now, my little forest sprite, rest.”
She was asleep within minutes, her deep breaths soothing Ronar’s nerves. How long he sat there, relishing the feel of her as she snuggled against him, muttering in her sleep, he couldn’t say. But finally, he realized he had better put distance between them.
Rising, he drew her in his arms and carried her out of the hall and up the stairs. With each tread he took, agony reclaimed portions of his heart—portions that had grown numb over the four years he’d been absent from his home.
He shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t be here at all.
Kicking open a door, he carried Lady Falcon inside. Though no moonlight drifted in through the window, he knew exactly where the bed was. Where it had always been. ’Twas his chamber, after all.
The one right beside his sister’s.
He laid her on the bed, covered her with a quilt and left ere he changed his mind and laid down beside her as he longed to do.
♥♥♥
Sunlight stroked Alexia’s eyelids, coaxing her from sleep. Somewhere in the distance, a bird warbled a happy tune that should have soothed her—if her head didn’t feel like it was being plowed by oxen. She attempted to raise her hand to rub it, but the movement caught her arm on fire. Moaning, she forced one eye open.
The first thing Alexia noticed was that she was not in her home with the friar. Nor was she at Castle Luxley. Nor in Emerald Forest. Instead, as she took in the rich wooden chests, chairs made of polished wood, an array of weapons housed in a cabinet, and a rather imposing wardrobe from which spilled male garments, she realized she was in a man’s bedchamber.
&nbs
p; Ronar!
Memories of last night’s events peeked out from hiding. The brutish knight had taken her to his estate. Terror flipped her heart, and she glanced down at her attire, afraid of what she would find. But beneath the quilt she found her breeches, tunic, and stockings still in place. Relieved, she tossed off the cover and swung her legs over the edge of the large four-poster bed. An ache spiraled up her back as nausea brewed in her stomach. Pain drew her gaze down to her right foot, swollen beneath her stockings. Potz! She would not be able to walk on it today.
Nor should she go anywhere with her breeches torn so high. She’d be discovered as a woman and add to her already mounting troubles. She felt for the Spear in the pocket of her chemise. Still there, thank God.
Bracing herself, she slid off the bed onto her good foot, then hopped to the window and peered out. A brisk wind entered, swirling about her with the scent of grass, horses, and sunshine. Two floors down, a wall of stone surrounded a courtyard open to the rising sun. A wooden gate led to farm land beyond. Nay, not farmland, but rolling hills of green, dotted with wildflowers and sheep. Below in the courtyard, a young lad led a horse from the stables and began brushing it down. Only then did she notice the condition of the buildings. Stones crumbled on the walls, chipped and rotting wood formed the entrance to the stables, weeds broke through cracks in the steps leading to the front door, and brambles as tall as Alexia grew from what once must have been a garden.
Sorrow weighed upon her heart, making her wonder, yet again, what had happened in this place. What had happened to Ronar?
Pushing from the window, she made her way to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. Tunics, breeches, capes, and doublets spilled onto the floor, leaving behind similar items hanging within—all smelling of Ronar. The scent stirred something within her she dared not admit—could not admit. Not when her sister’s life was in danger. She scanned the clothing. There, just what she needed. A pair of linen breeches. As speedily as she could with only one good foot, she stepped out of her breeches and into the new ones, then stuffed her tunic inside. The breeches were large enough to fit two of her, and she quickly found a belt and tied it around her waist, then donned an equally large leather doublet, which she laced up as tight as she could. If she were to make any progress, she’d have to hide her sex and keep off the King’s Highway. Now, to retrieve her boots from the hall, her bow and arrow from the stables, and steal a horse.
Alack, steal wasn’t the correct term. Borrow sounded better, for she would surely return it. But for now, what choice did she have?
Creeping, or rather hobbling into the corridor, she made her way to the stairway, noting how dark and quiet the house seemed.
The stairs proved more difficult than she expected, and more than once, she put too much weight on her foot and stifled a cry of pain. Finally, down in the hall, she found her bodice on the hearth where she’d left it.
Red coals simmered in the hearth, and she hesitated, remembering the tender moments she’d shared with Sir Knight, with Ronar—the gentle way he’d tended her wound, the way he’d looked at her as if she were a treasury full of gold.
She smiled. An earl, of all things. A well-bred man of title and fortune. She spotted the jug of wine. Had she drunk too much? What had she said as the night progressed? Naught to be done for it now.
Sitting, she tugged on one boot and shoved the other one beneath her arm. She’d have to wait for the swelling to go down ere she attempted to put it on, or she feared she’d not be able to silence her howl of pain. Hopping out of the hall, she passed through the entryway and slowly opened the front door. A newly risen sun barged into the dark foyer, scattering dust into glittering specks and bringing a welcome cheerfulness into the gloomy home.
She hobbled onto the front porch.
“Where do you think you are going, Lady Falcon?” Ronar’s voice penetrated her hope. “And wearing my breeches!”
Chapter 21
Sir LeGode sifted through the parchment littering his desk, the numbers blurring in his vision. Tossing down his quill pen, he strode to the narrow window where a brisk wind entered, spiced with rain. It did naught to cool the angst burning in his gut. Nothing was going right. His inept knights had crawled and hobbled back to the castle looking as if they’d fought against a horde of thousands. How could one woman thwart ten of his best knights? The cowards claimed they’d been attacked by a demon, a specter from Hades with the power and skill of twenty men.
Bah! ’Twas just an excuse for their incompetence. He could have sent thirty of them, and the results would have been the same. Soon, however, more of his own knights would join these ill-bred Luxley minnows, and at least Alexia would have a force to reckon with. As it was, the joint-heir to Luxley manor was running about the countryside, no doubt plotting her return to power. And his demise. But what to do?
His door creaked open, and he turned to chastise whoever dared disturb him, when the bishop entered in a flurry of black robes and gold-embroidery, wearing his usual pious smirk—one that had begun to grate on LeGode of late. No doubt the bishop’s fare at the noonday meal had not been to his liking, or mayhap ’twas too cold or too damp in his chamber, or the chamber maid had resisted his latest advance, or only God knew what other complaint longed to leap from the man’s dry, thin lips.
LeGode rushed forward, bowed, and kissed his hand. “Your Grace. Forgive me for not attending the noon meal. I have not been feeling well.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” One gray brow arched, though LeGode detected no concern in his tone. The bishop dropped into a chair and waved at his assistant who had followed him in. “Do fetch me some of that sweet mead we had at our last meal.” The boy bowed and started off. “And a bowl of those sugared peaches,” he shouted after him.
The door closed and the bishop examined the room with the usual look of disdain.
“What may I do for you, your Grace?” LeGode folded his hands in front of him, lest he do as he longed and strangle the man.
The bishop snapped his droopy eyes toward LeGode and grinned. “’Tis my belief we can help each other.”
LeGode held back a sigh of frustration. He hadn’t time for this. He must find and kill Alexia D’Clere or force her sister to marry Cedric before she returned. And before the king sent another suitor—or worse, an inquiry to determine why five men had died on their way to marry the lady. If LeGode failed, these past nine years of hard work and sacrifice would all be for naught.
“How is that, your Grace?” He smiled.
“I understand you wish your son to marry Cristiana D’Clere.”
An icy breeze tore in through the window and sent the candle flame sputtering. LeGode tried to hide his shock.
The bishop brushed dust from his vestment. “Yes, yes… I am quite observant. ’Tis part of my calling from God. I see things others do not.”
Suppressing a snort, LeGode sat on the edge of his desk. “’Twould be a good match. They are suited, and Cedric adores her.”
“It would be a good match for you, you mean to say.” The bishop chuckled and glanced at the sapphire ring on his finger. “Cedric is the son of a mere knight, and the lady the daughter of a baron. The prestige of the title and all of Luxley would be Cedric’s upon the union.”
Heat stormed up LeGode’s neck. Fear followed. “If you mean to imply…” he began to bluster.
The bishop held up a hand. “Tsk Tsk. Calm yourself, Sir. I am no judge of good-hearted ambition. ’Tis what runs the world.”
Despite his relief, LeGode studied his opponent, unsure of how to proceed. “What are you suggesting?”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The bishop rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I wish to leave this meager estate and return to my proper place by the king’s side. But, alas, he has sent me on this futile mission with orders not to return without the Spear of Destiny.”
“But what can I do on that account?”
“The King’s guard abide by a certain moral code.” A sinister twinkl
e filled the bishop’s eyes. “If you understand me.” He steepled his hands before him. “There are things they will not do, methods they will not employ.”
“’Tis unclear what you mean, Excellency. I have granted you the use of Luxley’s knights in your search for the Spear.”
“Aye, as was your duty.” He waved him off. “Though, by all accounts, the village milkmaids could have done a better job. Alas, I have sent for fifty of my best knights whom I expect to join us in a fortnight. Then, mayhap some progress will be made.” He stroked his golden crucifix and eyed LeGode as if they shared a secret. “In the meantime, I speak of other means to find the Spear. Darker means.”
Alarm halted LeGode’s breathing.
The bishop grinned. “As I said, I know all that goes on in this castle.”
And he took no issue with a warlock? Nay, surely he was not aware of Drogo. LeGode forced a placid expression. “’Tis possible I could help you, but the risk would be high.” High if this was a trap and the bishop burned him for sorcery. High if Drogo’s fury was pricked, and he turned LeGode into a gnat.
“What if I give you my troth that when I return to London, I will advise the king to appoint Cedric to marry Lady D’Clere. He will listen to me, I assure you. But alas, I must have the Spear first in order to return to the king.”
LeGode pursed his lips. Curse that blasted Spear! How could one piece of ancient metal have so much power? If so, mayhap he’d keep it for himself and use it against this pompous windbag. LeGode rose, approached the bishop and bowed. “I believe we have a bargain, your Grace.”
♥♥♥
Ronar leaned back against the cold stone outside his bedchamber and watched the light from the sconce cast dancing shadows on the wall. A single narrow window at the end of the corridor admitted but a sliver of sunlight into the dark hallway he knew was not only full of dust and cobwebs, but nightmarish specters from his past as well. Through the thick wooden door, he heard fabric rustling and the faintest of moans. Good. Despite her ardent protests and her insistence, she preferred men’s clothing, Lady Falcon was donning the cote and surcote Bridon had fetched her.
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