Defiant

by Kennedy, Kris

  Eva lifted her gaze over his shoulder. “Lower your blade, Roger,” she said quietly.

  A long, weighty pause ensued, then Roger did as she bid.

  The moment the blade was a safe distance from Jamie’s throat, Ry kicked it the rest of the way to the ground and hauled the boy around backward. Jamie spun from the tree, pulling Eva with him.

  “Wisely done.”

  “Yes, I am very wise.”

  He turned to Ry, who had the boy’s arms bent and twisted up hard against his spine, so he was bent half over. Still, he managed to keep his head up sufficiently to eye Jamie with enmity.

  “Anything you want to tell me, Roger?” he inquired curtly.

  The hard glare became a bit more set. No reply. Eva sighed.

  “For there was a great deal you wished to communicate to me a moment ago. Care to elaborate on any of it now?”

  Roger jerked fiercely, which did nothing to budge Ry’s tight, twisting hold. Roger settled on fixing one eye on Jamie; the other was hidden behind a fall of dirty blond hair. “If you touch Eva, I will kill you. Sir.”

  “Hush, Roger,” Eva murmured. “I am in negotiations here.”

  He did not remove his glare from Jamie, and neither did Jamie stop glaring as he asked curtly, “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen,” she said.

  “If he wishes to see sixteen, counsel him not to issue such challenges when he is stripped of his weapons and bound.”

  “I am certain he is making note of that just now.”

  Jamie’s gaze sliced to Ry. “Can you manage him?”

  Ry gave a clipped nod.

  “This is your last opportunity, Roger,” Jamie said coldly. “Anything for me? Before I get it out of Eva?”

  Roger jerked again, then said in a cold voice, “Mouldin. Guillaume Mouldin took Father Peter. Leave Eva be.”

  Silence. Complete silence rent the sounds of the wood, the trilling sunset birds and soft burble of the creek.

  Jamie was staring. Nothing was revealed, neither in his blue eyes nor by his armored body.

  Then came his harsh echo: “Mouldin?”

  And in that single repeated word, Eva heard something that conjured a sensation she hadn’t thought even a witch could magic up anymore: hope.

  For what she’d heard in Jamie’s echo had been disgust, perhaps to a degree as wide as her own, for the monster of Mouldin. This odd, awful affinity brought a warming glow to the perimeter of her belly. It did not warm her cold, dark core, of course, but there at the edges glowed a pale little light.

  She marveled inwardly, while Jamie and Ry exchanged looks of the sort that were grim and unpleasant. But all she felt was a strange, floating sort of hope. A leaf on a stream, rushing to new lands.

  Then Jamie started toward her and dashed all her hopes to hell, which was no new land at all.

  “TAKE him to the horses,” he ordered grimly, moving toward Eva. “Why is Mouldin in this matter? He deals in heirs. Rich ones.”

  “Mouldin deals in humans,” she said breathlessly. “He was a slave trader before your king favored him.”

  “And why is he in this matter with the priest?”

  “He is an opportunist, no? Tell me, Jamie, how much do you think Peter of London would be worth?”

  “I do not know,” he said slowly, eyeing her from the hem of her skirts up to her lying eyes. “Why don’t you tell me: how much is he worth?”

  “I do not know either, Jamie Knight. How much is a kingdom worth to the king? The rebels? Mouldin? You?”

  He walked up to within an inch of her. “And there we are, come back around to the heart of the matter. Father Peter and the many people who are interested in him.”

  “All of the bad men,” she fired back.

  “For instance, me.”

  “For very instance, you. All of you, men who want nothing of his skills of negotiation.”

  “Except you, of course, who greatly desires peace.”

  She looked ready to bite him, if only she could move more than her eyelids. “What I greatly desire is that you all use your swords to push each other into the sea. I care nothing for the peace of England. Nor do they. All of you, madmen with swords.”

  “I agree. The likelihood of peace erupting in England is on scale with the likelihood of Cross Fell erupting.”

  She drew back slightly and regarded him in suspicious silence. Long trails of vines snaked down the rough bark behind her head, and the tiny white flowers within framed the dark tumble of her hair. It was surprising how regal and graceful she could look, backed up against a tree in a forest glen.

  “What do you think they want instead?” he asked. “If not to negotiate, then why call for him at all?”

  “I’ve no notion.”

  He slid the back of one knuckle down the side of her cheek. “Now that is a paltry lie.”

  Her face retained its whiteness, but her eyes fairly shot flames into him. “Upon a time, before England’s interdict and the king’s excommunication, Father Peter was present at a great many of your king’s events. Contracts and writs and royal eyres, when the courts went out, when witnesses were needed. And, unfortunately for your king, when they were not.”

  “Unfortunately for you, Eva, you keep telling me things I already know. Why not try for things along the lines of, who sent you here?”

  She closed her eyes, hopefully in surrender, then opened them. For a brief moment, he could see a wash of green from the branches above reflected in their gray depths.

  “No one sent me. As I have said, Father Peter is a friend. I served as a nurse in a noble household for a time. The father was . . . died.” She tripped slightly over the word. “Mouldin came for the heirs. My services were no longer required. Perhaps I was not so good at it. In any event, I left. Roger and I.”

  “And your own parents?”

  This provided a full-on dam to the flow of information, for a good ten seconds. He counted them off, two beats of her heart for every one that slid by. “We have no parents. It happened when we were very young.”

  He showed no response, he was certain of this. A decade in the king’s service required one to become skilled at revealing nothing more than a mirror would: the viewer’s own self. But inside, he was thinking, She was an orphan. Like me.

  Sunset was on them. The gloaming would not be far behind, when spring mists would slide out from the wet places of the earth.

  “So,” he said slowly. “You are here for a debt of the heart. And this thing with Father Peter is to do with papers and contracts. Nothing more.”

  She met his gaze sadly. “I know not all the things in Father Peter’s head and heart. But I do know he is a friend, he once saved my life, and if ’tis within my power, I will now save his.”

  Which was absurd. This sparrow elf, to thwart vengeful kings and warring barons and Jamie, who had more secrets, had foisted more intrigues, and knew so many ways to kill he’d never fit through the gates of Heaven, and she was going to save Father Peter? Foil them all?

  And yet . . . she had. Outwitted him. Aye, she was currently bound in ropes, hyperventilating against a tree, but there was something about her. Something deep set. Determined.

  Resolute, he amended wryly, as he held her gaze. She was scared, but she was unwavering. With depth. Like wind or water or air. Like a storm at sea, or the pressing sun on the deserts of Palestine.

  Indomitable.

  Perhaps the wonder at finding such expansive elements in such a small fire explained why he did not push her any further, why he thought more of bending to run his lips down her arched neck.

  Or perhaps it was the telltale crack of a stick under someone’s boot. He jerked his head around. Ry stood there.

  “Where the hell is Roger?” Jamie said sharply.

  “Tied the hell to the tree.”

  He pushed away from Eva. The hilt of his sword bumped his elbow as he shifted. He had a variety of other blades strapped across his body and wore mail that would protect ag
ainst all but the most powerfully shot arrow.

  Eva wore a blue skirt.

  Some of the small white flowers that had framed her face had pinned themselves in her hair. They floated amid the curtain of dark tresses that swirled down to her hips, looking like little faraway candles on a river.

  What would it feel like when he ran his fingers through it?

  There was the smallest, oddest twinge of something in his chest. He shrugged it off and turned to Ry, who stood, arms crossed, watching him.

  Miniature trails of mist started forming in the stream valley and tendriling up. Twenty years of friendship meant Ry had been subjected to twenty years of mayhem, triggered by a plethora of furious, focused choices by Jamie.

  Fights of the angry sort on the London streets at eight, afterward limping to Ry’s home in the Jewry, where Ry’s mother would patch him up with scolding love and stinging tinctures, only one of which ever did any good. Intrigue of the precocious sort at twelve, involving barons and horses and messages gone awry; recruitment at thirteen, albeit an awful one, binding himself to King John with a larger goal, always the larger purpose in mind.

  And Ry had hurled himself into the fray after Jamie each time, for some unknown and much appreciated reason. Jamie owed Ry his life a dozen times over, from the day they first met, when Ry had seen him at his weakest, his lowest, bloody and reeling down the street, half-dead, wanting to be fully so. Ry had coaxed him into his house like the wild thing he’d been. Jamie had vowed to repay him one day, a thousand times again.

  At the moment, Ry was waiting for him to look over, at which point he met Jamie’s gaze impassively, arms still crossed. He lifted a brow.

  “Are you finished?”

  Jamie turned on his heel and started back to the clearing. “Seeing as you haven’t anything useful to do, why don’t you loosen the cinches on the horses? Let us go see about Eva’s little hut and discover what mischief is afoot.”

  “I do not engage in mischief,” she said primly.

  “You engage in something,” he muttered, reaching back to tug on her arm. He added to Ry, “Be prepared for anything.”

  Eighteen

  Eva went ahead of them, pushing through the thick, untouched underbrush that enclosed the hill path. Twilight trickled down between the thick latticework covering of branches like water through a sieve. It was dim, but not dark.

  She remembered it just like this, the haunting glossy gray glow, silvery when the moon was bright, the green leaves looking black in the shadows and moonlight.

  Did Roger recall it as well? She could not risk a glance back.

  Who knew what it might reveal to Jamie?

  Moss dripped from the tree limbs, the pale green roughness almost glowing in the twilight. Huge trees were downed right and left, their decaying bodies topped by mushrooms and baby trees, nursing on the rot. The sound of their footfalls and breath seemed to bounce back against the wall of green, rejected by all the silent growing things.

  They reached the top of the hill. In the center of a large clearing was a small hut. It was utterly dilapidated.

  Eva felt a small rush of relief. The south wall had collapsed entirely, and what was left of the roof had crashed in atop it. The other three walls stood, but barely, bowed in, crumbling, covered in moss and mushrooms. It was decaying, nondescript, and unremarkable in every way.

  Except for the door.

  Her heart sank.

  Below the bowing triangulated eaves was a small, off-set door. It was a sturdy, no-nonsense sort of door, except that even now, a decade later, one could still discern it had once been painted a wild, reckless red and covered with vivid black sketchings.

  She felt her captors exchange a silent glance.

  “What the hell is that?” Ry muttered. “It looks like witchcraft.”

  Jamie shrugged. “’Tis like what Eva has done to her fingers.”

  Ruggart Ry turned blankly. “Her what?”

  Eva curled her painted fingernails into her palms, but Jamie only tipped his head in her direction. “See, if she’ll let you.” He swiveled and she found herself staring into his eyes. “What of this place, Eva?”

  “It is old,” she said in a low voice, looking around. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”

  “Cannot, or will not?”

  “You think I am lying?”

  “I know you are lying. Just not about what.”

  “I do not tell lies about that hut. ’Tis as safe a place to spend the night as I have ever known.”

  He considered her. His boots were spread shoulder-width apart so his thighs formed a V. Powerful arms were crossed over his chest, and despite the faint, regarding smile playing on the edges of his mouth—he knew she lied, about almost everything—nothing about him denoted ease.

  A scar cut through his right eyebrow, and she was certain the growth of beard concealed more such. His face was all hard planes, his nose ever so slightly crooked, as if broken a long time ago. His hands were absolute weapons on their own. Her throat still felt tight where he’d wrapped his mailed hand around it. God alone knew what had stayed him from squeezing the life out of her earlier, because his eyes would not reveal the reason—they were beautiful and absolutely unreadable. Sea deep, indigo blue in the fading light, filled with danger and concealed thoughts. He felt like the sort who’d lived a hard life and was dishing it back out.

  “That is a good skill,” he finally said, in that quiet, rumbling way he had. Jamie had many ‘ways’ about him. They were all dangerous. “You are not lying about this hut.”

  It left open an entire range of things she might be lying about, but neither of them ventured there.

  He directed her to sit, while Roger was enlisted to help gather downed wood. Jamie swiftly dug a small, deep pit beside her, then said, “You can begin the fire, even with your hands bound.” He tossed her a small flint from his pack and walked off.

  Eva stared at the little gray stone glumly. This was not true. She could not light a fire, not to save her life, and on some winter nights it would have been exactly that. Oh, the shame of it, a five-year-old making fire for a thirteen-year-old.

  She stared fiercely down into the dark pit, her jaw clamped tight, dismally doing the only thing she was capable of at present: feeding small bits of kindling—little twigs, skeletal leaves—into the cold fire pit.

  They returned. Jamie looked down at the dark fire pit, at the small mountain of kindling, then at her. She sniffed and looked away. He swept up the flint, and soon a small flame caught on one of the cobwebbed leaves. He leaned forward to blow on it, the angular planes of his face lit by the sharp amber light. The flames licked higher, crackling up to catch the twigs.

  Eva stifled a sigh of relief. How she hated the dark. Roger pressed close to her side.

  From across the fire, Jamie glanced at them, then slid a knife from its sheath at his side, a careless, graceful move, and began slicing a wrinkled onion into thick chunks and skewering them on a stick. She swallowed.

  “Eva?” Roger ventured in a whisper.

  “Aye?”

  “I oughtn’t have got caught. I’m sorry.”

  She patted his knee absently. “’Tis no fault of yours, Gog.”

  “Aye, it was.” Jamie’s low voice drifted like hot silk through the flames.

  This snapped her full attention to him. “Pardon?” she asked coldly.

  He laid the onions beside the flames and gave a careless shrug. “I heard him banging through the brush like a bear for all of our ride.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “And yet you seemed most surprised, there at the end.”

  Roger stared at her. Jamie looked up but said nothing, just looked at her a moment, then turned to Roger. “You must be more circumspect when you are tracking.”

  “Aye, sir!” Roger agreed with alacrity. He appeared . . . delighted by the feedback.

  “Gog,” she said wearily. “Please remove your knee from my . . .” She glanced at Jamie, who seemed to be awaiting the
next word out of her mouth with apparent interest. “Hip.”

  It was a silent meal. The fire crackled and spit little fiery twigs into the dark air. Cool drafts lifted them higher, until they burned out and became gray ashes that blew into nothing.

  Within ten minutes, Ry was out on watch, and Gog was asleep, on his side, mouth open, a hand tucked beneath his cheek, looking like a child and snoring like a man. Or bear. Yet he was neither man nor boy.

  But he was certainly doomed. Unless she could save him.

  The tumble-down hut loomed at the edge of her vision. It looked like a swaybacked horse. Birds had made nests in what remained of the roof. Surely rodents found its sod walls quite warm. She once had. Now, it was uninhabitable. All that work, all that worrying, and running, and hiding, and now scurrying things held sway nevertheless.

  And so falls the past, she thought, trying to be rueful, blowing on her hands. Rue did not ordinarily lodge in one’s ribs though, just before the heart. Perhaps it was something else.

  In any event, she did not pine for the past, so this was just as well. The past was a millstone of memories. She was weary of it.

  But then, being weary of a thing had never signaled its end.

  Across the fire, Jamie’s silhouette was dark and large. He sat motionless, his head bent, staring into the flames. He was the most lethal, most capable man she’d ever known, and he’d never spoken above a rumble.

  And he was capable. In all things. Capable, clever mind; capable, scarred hands; capable, smashed-up heart—even to one who did not care about his heart, such as her, this was clear. He’d been terribly hurt. Like knows like.

  The world was full of chances. Choices and chances.

  “Have we settled the matter of our alliance?” she asked, a bit too loudly for the night air.

  Nineteen

  Jamie gave a small laugh.

  She ought to be seeking any sort of assistance she could just now, for somehow, this bright slip of a woman had treaded into royal swampland, a quagmire that involved King John, his chief lieutenant (that being Jamie), the rebel barons, an outlawed henchman who once dealt in ransomed heirs, and an unfolding civil war.