The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3)

by Avril Borthiry

  He missed nothing, this sentinel of hers.

  “I shall try not to.” Cristen sighed and wiped rain from her cheeks. “Though this weather does not help.”

  “’Tis a misery, aye,” he replied. “We’ll take shelter at the first inn we come to.”

  “Not on my account, Turi.” She raised her chin. “I’ll not be a burden to you.”

  “On my account then,” he said, “since I’ve no desire to travel with a poorly little lass in my arms.”

  Was he teasing her? Cristen moved her hood aside and turned to peer up at him. Turi, however, appeared oblivious to her scrutiny and kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He had a handsome jaw, she thought. She was tempted to stroke her fingertips over the dark stubble growing there. The unexpected urge warmed her cheeks anew.

  “I might be a little lass,” she said, turning away in case he noticed her sudden color, “but I’m resilient and never ill.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” A smile edged his voice. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “To be truthful, though,” she continued, blinking rain from her eyes. “I would not be sorry to see an inn around the very next bend.”

  Turi chuckled. “Nor would I, my lady.”

  A while later, when Cristen felt as if the rain had already penetrated through to her bones, an inn at last loomed out of the drizzle. It fronted the green at the center of a village and appeared welcoming enough. Turi reined Samson to a halt by the door and Cristen blinked up at the painted sign.

  “Bird in Hand,” she read out loud.

  Turi dismounted and threw Samson’s reins over the tethering rail.

  “A befitting name,” he said, reaching for her. She slid into his arms. “And a wet little bird at that,” he finished, looking worried.

  Cristen managed a smile. “I’m all right,” she said, suppressing a shiver.

  This time, with Turi at her side, she felt no fear as she entered the inn. She cringed, nevertheless, at the sour air, a blend of ale and sweat and food, shored up by the smell of damp clothes. Unbidden, the still-raw memory of Cristen’s violation rose up in her mind and her fingers tightened on Turi’s arm. He glanced at her and then swept a discerning gaze around the room.

  Curious about her surroundings, Cristen dared to do the same, only half-listening as Turi spoke to the innkeeper. The haze from the tallow candles stung her eyes. It also cast a smoky pall over the patrons. A few of them met her gaze with mild curiosity. Most seemed to be regular country folk.

  An elderly man seated at a corner table caught Cristen’s eye. His fine clothes and sword seemed to indicate a noble bloodline. He had a startled look on his face and appeared to be scrutinizing Turi with blatant interest. Then he noticed Cristen’s gaze and his expression softened. He smiled, inclining his head as if to acknowledge her.

  Cristen feigned nonchalance, tugged at her damp hood, and shifted her attention back to Turi.

  “One night only,” he was saying to the innkeeper, “unless the rain continues.”

  “Don’t look like it’ll end anytime soon, so ’tis as well ye are come this early.” The innkeeper sniffed and scooped up the coin Turi had tossed on the bar. “We’ll ’ave no rooms left by day’s end, I warrant. Up yonder stairs, third door on the right. A small room, but private. We’ll see to yer ’orse, and I’ll ’ave Winifred bring ye some food.”

  The room was, indeed, small. A modest rope bed and a rickety wooden table with two stools took up most of the space.

  Turi remained silent as he set his bow against the wall and dropped his quiver on the floor. Cristen shrugged off her wet cloak, draped it over one of the stools, and glanced about. She had no cause to complain about the humble accommodations. Of late, she had slept in far worse places. The damp chill in her bones and a mild throbbing pain in her head, however, were other matters. She hugged herself and sat down on the straw mattress. It took an effort to stop her teeth from chattering, as she offered Turi a smile.

  He answered her smile with a frown as he removed his cloak and hung it on a wall hook. Then he unbuckled his sword, tossed it on the bed, and sat beside her.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, still frowning. The sadness had returned to his eyes, she noticed. It even edged his voice.

  “Nay.” Her foolish butterflies took flight again. “I told you. I’m never ill. I’m just cold and tired at the moment, that’s all. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Neither did I.” His frown vanished. “It would appear I need you beside me in order to do so.”

  It was not a flippant admission, nor did it carry a seductive undertone. It was simply a sharing of truth. The pure sincerity of it chased the chill from Cristen’s bones.

  Later that afternoon, after wolfing down two bowls of mutton stew and gulping a half-tankard of ale, Cristen curled up on the bed and listened to the rain hitting the roof.

  “You look better.” Turi tucked the blanket around her and settled at her side. “Less like a corpse.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  She didn’t remember falling asleep.

  When next she opened her eyes, it was to absolute darkness and in the relaxed embrace of Turi’s arms. She lay quiet, listening to his steady breathing. From downstairs came the muffled sound of voices and occasional laughter, which made her wonder at the hour. As the innkeeper had predicted, the weather had undoubtedly driven other travelers to seek shelter in the inn. Cristen cocked an ear toward the ceiling. It seemed the rain had now stopped, however, which meant they’d be on their way in the morning.

  Thoughts of Jacob drifted into her mind. She had fallen asleep so quickly, she’d not offered up her usual prayer for him. Hands clenched beneath her chin, she closed her eyes again and uttered the familiar pleas for her child’s well-being. Then she turned her painful thoughts away and tried to focus on other, less distressing, issues. The most relevant was the journey ahead. A mystery to her, for now, since she was unsure of their eventual destination.

  North.

  A broad description. Come morning, she would ask Turi about his home. Its location. Was it a humble house? A farm? A castle? And what of family? He’d never mentioned it. All she knew of him was that he’d been betrayed by a lover whose name was Nareen. A woman who still haunted his dreams.

  The same twinge of jealousy caused Cristen’s throat to tighten. Ridiculous, she told herself. She had known Turi only a few days, although they had shared much in that short time. That explained why it felt longer and why she had willingly engaged in certain behaviors that might otherwise be deemed questionable. Unacceptable, even.

  Like now.

  Sharing the night with a man she barely knew. Resting in Turi’s arms, her body tucked shamelessly against his. His warm breath brushing the top of her head. Such things, however, did not cast shadows on her conscience. Turi had saved her life. He had killed for her. He’d stepped out of the fog, offered his hand, and sworn to protect her. At first, Cristen had shied away from his touch, fearing where it might lead. Men, in her experience, lusted like untamed beasts. Her marriage bed had been an ordeal of frenzied thrusts and rough hands.

  Fortunately, Turi had not made any carnal demands. True, he touched her constantly, but never in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. There was nothing suggestive or seductive about it. She felt protected and safe, as she did now, snug in his arms. She also felt lucky to have met a man who had such steadfast control of his urges.

  Then again, perhaps he didn’t find her appealing in the carnal sense.

  That unbidden thought, and her dismayed reaction to it, caught Cristen by surprise. She fidgeted. Why would such an idea bother her?

  A sudden guffaw of laughter outside the door made her jump. Heavy footsteps rattled the floor and then faded as they descended the stairs.

  “Naught to fear,” Turi mumbled, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “The place has filled up since we arrived. I expect it’ll be a noisy night.”

 
; “How long have I slept?” Cristen shifted onto her back, her spirit brightening at the sound of Turi’s voice. “Is it very late?”

  “A few hours only.” He untangled himself from her and sat up. “And nay, not very late. Are you hungry?”

  Cristen placed a hand on her stomach as if seeking the answer. “A little,” she said. “More thirsty than hungry, I think.”

  “There’s some ale left.” The bed creaked as Turi slid from it. A moment later, there came the telltale spark of tinder and the candle flared to life. Cristen sat up and took the proffered goblet from Turi’s hand.

  “My thanks,” she said.

  He nodded, reached for his sword, and fastened it about his hips. “I’ll go and find some food for us. Bolt the door when I leave and do not open it to anyone but me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Turi waited till he heard the bolt snap into its cradle before he headed down the stairs. In an odd reversal of necessity, he welcomed an excuse to leave Cristen’s side. He needed to step away, to breathe and gather himself. The lass’ ability to soothe his mind had not waned in the least, but it seemed it was no longer enough. Curse his bones, he wanted more from her.

  He wanted her. A complication he had not foreseen and one he did not relish. Until that morning, touching Cristen St. Clair had been a balm to his angst, but an otherwise benign exercise. Apart from a passing curiosity about how it might be to lie with the lass, he’d had no real inclination to do so. Until now.

  Desire had crept up on him like a backstreet pickpurse, stealing some of his attention here and pilfering a little more there. Without being aware of what it meant at first, he’d begun to notice things about Cristen as they’d traveled. The curl in her hair. The fullness and shape of her lips. The way her hands moved when she spoke. How a flare of color in her cheeks seemed to darken the blue of her eyes. The way she looked at him. Trusted him.

  It aroused him.

  Remorse and desire. Touching Cristen eliminated one, but now intensified the other. The gods were laughing, no doubt. Turi had dared to embrace his desire that afternoon, holding her as she slept. The soothing scent of thyme did little to cool his ardor. He wanted to awaken her, touch every part of her, and ignite a flame of passion in her eyes. He longed to feel her hands on him. Her mouth on him. Her inner heat, wrapped around his cock. Even Nareen, curse her treacherous soul, had not affected him like this.

  But Nareen had not harbored a fear of coupling. Unlike Cristen.

  “Shite,” he muttered, adjusting his wayward arousal as he stepped off the bottom stair and wandered into the barroom.

  Then again, he mused, exploring possible resolutions, Cristen did admire him. She looked up to him. Relied on him. Maybe he should try seduction. Maybe she would not refuse him. Then he cursed himself inwardly for thinking such things. More than anything, he valued her trust. He could not – would not – risk destroying it. It was going to be a challenging night, however. Maybe a goblet or two of wine would help.

  The inn had, indeed, absorbed a fair number of travelers, all undoubtedly seeking relief from the rain. Turi’s nostrils flared at the odor of sodden clothes and unwashed bodies as he approached the bar. He passed a swift glance over the patrons to see if anything poked at his instincts, but sensed nothing untoward.

  “I hope you’re not in a hurry, lad,” someone said, a hint of levity in their voice. “The service isn’t too swift right now. In fact, I was clean shaven when I first came in here.”

  Turi turned and regarded the speaker. He recognized him as the elderly man who’d been seated in the corner earlier – a man who’d shown obvious interest in their arrival. Turi had wondered at it, yet perceived only curiosity, nothing to indicate a threat. Now, up close, he saw an honest gleam in the man’s eyes. And the lines on his face revealed someone who smiled more than he frowned. Despite his advanced years, he possessed a solid build and boasted a full head of gray hair. His chin was, indeed, stubbled. The fine sword, fine clothes and ruby ring bespoke his status.

  Nobility.

  “Nay, no big hurry, my lord.” The formal address tasted a little sour on Turi’s tongue. “I’m not leaving till the morning, at least.”

  The man grunted. “I noticed you earlier, when you first arrived with your wife.” His gaze flicked to Turi’s sword. “’Tis a fine weapon you carry. Whom do you serve?”

  Turi, not in the mood for banal chit-chat, gave the man a thin smile. “Myself.”

  “Ah, a mercenary.” The man nodded. “There’ll be a lot more of you before long, I should think.”

  Turi frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “The blue sickness. It is here and already claiming souls. Two people dead in Melcombe yesterday and others falling sick. And I’ve heard rumours that Bristol is also affected. Many will die, including the high-born. Allegiances, then, are bound to die with them.”

  “So.” Resolved to a previously uncertain decision. Turi gripped his sword. Rain, hail, or snow, they would be leaving in the morning. “It has begun.”

  “Aye, and may God have mercy on us all.” The man fixed Turi with an intent gaze. “May I know your name, lad?”

  Turi hesitated for a moment. Something undefined had arisen in the man’s eyes. Unsettling, but not dangerous. A spark of interest that went beyond polite conversation. Another orchestrated crossing of souls, perhaps?

  “My name is Turi.”

  “Turi.” The man blinked as he appeared to mull over it. “Unusual. What is its origin?”

  “An ancient one.” A practiced reply to a question asked many times before. Turi wondered, this time, who was asking. “May I know yours, my lord?”

  The man straightened his shoulders. “Gilbert Allonby, Baron of Eamont.”

  “Eamont.” Turi pondered. “A northern barony, is it not?

  Gilbert appeared mildly astonished. “Aye. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it. ’Tis a small holding, but a fine one. As far north as you can get and still be in England. With a good southerly behind me, I can climb to the roof of my keep and spit across the Scottish border.”

  As far north as you can get.

  “You’re on your way there?”

  Another nod. “Returning from Italy and France. Came through Melcombe yesterday, which is how I know about the deaths.” Gilbert cocked his head. “And you? What is your direction?”

  “North, my lord.”

  “Aye, but whereabouts?”

  Turi hesitated and Gilbert grimaced. “Sorry, my friend,” he said. “I can’t help it, I’m afraid. I’m a naturally curious fellow. Got me into all kinds of trouble as a lad. You’re not obliged to give me an answer, of course.”

  Turi knew the man meant no harm. To the contrary, he thought, Gilbert Allonby might well be someone useful.

  As far north as you can get.

  “I do not have a definitive answer to give,” Turi said. “For now, we are heading anywhere north of the pestilence.”

  “You think to run from it?” Gilbert grunted. “I’m not certain that’s possible. It casts a large shadow. I’ve seen first-hand what it has done to Italy and France.”

  “As have I,” Turi replied. “I arrived from France three days ago.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Gilbert scratched his stubble. “You’re fortunate you both got out alive.”

  Turi didn’t feel inclined to explain. “As are you.”

  Gilbert chuckled. “Perhaps, although I’ve long since stopped worrying about my fate. This is my seventy-sixth summer. God, for some reason, doesn’t seem to want me.”

  Turi raised a brow in genuine surprise. He had thought the man aged, but not quite so burdened by the years. They sat well upon him, considering he possessed a mortal body, of course.

  “I’ve been to see my daughter.” A shadow crossed Gilbert’s face as he continued. “My wife died seven years ago and Henry, my only son, perished two years ago in the king’s service at Crecy. I have but one child left. Marie is married to an Italian noble and lives near Floren
ce with their three children. I tried to persuade them to return to England with me, but they refused. Marie hates the English climate and especially up north where it can be quite harsh. ’Tis maybe as well, in hindsight. The journey back to England was far from pleasant. They are likely better off where they are.”

  Despite his words of affirmation, Gilbert failed to hide his obvious regret.

  “Could you not have stayed with them?” Turi asked.

  “Not indefinitely. Besides, unlike my daughter, I prefer the cooler climes of England. My heart and my home are in the north. ’Tis where I belong.”

  “I understand, and I’m sorry for your losses, my lord.” Turi fidgeted. His ardor had cooled, but his angst remained. “So, you’re traveling alone?”

  “I am now. I left my squire in France. His family lives near Paris and he begged permission to return to them. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t refuse, although it will likely be the end of him.” Gilbert frowned and cleared his throat. “Listen, lad. Since you’re heading north –”

  “God’s bollocks! I can hardly believe it. There I was thinkin’ I’d never see you again, and here you are.” A generous pair of breasts pressed against Turi’s back. Then a hand wandered around his waist and slid down toward his groin. “’Tis my lucky night and yours. You didn’t get your money’s worth t’other night, Turi, my love.”

  Turi pulled in a breath as the hand brazenly caressed his cock. “Edyth,” he said, dislodging her hold on him. He turned to face her. “By all the gods, what are you doing here?”

  “Pleasurin’ you.” She pulled a seductive pout and groped him again. “I hoped you’d come back the other night, but you never did.”

  Turi again moved her hand away. “Someone else had need of me.”

  “Oh.” She appeared to mull over his response. “Anythin’ to do with that man who was killed?”

  Turi shrugged. “What man is that?”