by Tamara Leigh
Fulke knew he should pursue what had put her in a tither, but she smiled. He strode to where she knelt on the edge of the rug. “Do show, Lady Lark.”
She swept a hand over the dirt, clearing a place to scrape out her lesson. “This is little ‘a’.”
Did she think him a fool? “That I know.”
“Good. What sound does ‘a’ make?”
“Ah.”
“Yes, and that’s not all. Listen.” She sounded the variant forms, of which he was not unfamiliar. Though he was tempted to advise her of the extent of his knowledge, he was stopped by the tilt of her head, the curve of her jaw, and her full lower lip forming the sounds. Forget the redundancy of the lesson, that for all her ability to read she spelled as one who did not know the English language—not that he spelled much better. He liked being near her, so he suffered an hour of “sounding out” and, surprisingly, learned a few things.
When the revelry outside the tent abated, she looked up. “Had enough for one night?”
He considered her mouth. It would be easy to lose himself in her, so much it might be difficult to find himself again. When he returned to her eyes and saw flight there, he reached to her. “Nay, not enough.”
She sprang to her feet and danced away. “Tell me about John and Harold.”
What held her from him? Though it was true he was not attractive, she had responded to his kiss. He stood. “What is there to tell?”
“They’re your nephews. Surely you know something about them.”
He advanced on her, and she retreated, only to come up against the tent wall. “Do you care for them at all?”
He halted. Did she truly fear him, or was this a game such as she had played with Edward? “Do you like to be chased, little bird?”
Her eyes widened. “Not one bit.”
Not even a blind man could question her sincerity. As much as he longed to know her beyond kisses, this night he would not. He sighed. “What do you want from me, Lark?”
As if surprised to find she was no longer prey, she searched his face. “To understand you.”
“Why?”
“Because. . .” She looked down. “I want to be wrong about you.”
What made her doubt what she had accused him of? Desire? “Of John and Harold, I fear I know little, though for that I am more to blame than they.” He silently cursed his brother’s death that had made him master of all he no longer wished to be. Though King Edward wanted more for him than he wanted for himself, Fulke had been content to exchange the bloody war with France for the modest barony his father had left him. And, for a while, it had seemed he might find peace, but that had been nothing more than a dream. Now he must be father to two little boys who regarded him with trembling and command men who believed him responsible for his brother’s death.
What sins the world put on him! Still, some were deserved. Memories of the massacre at Limoges rising, he doused them with a reminder of the sins Lark spoke of that had yet to pass. Not that they would. Never would he harm the boys. Though inept at fathering, he felt for his nephews and might even come to care for them if ever they came out from behind Sir Arthur.
“How are you more to blame?” Lark asked.
“When I came to Brynwood to serve as their protector, they tried to draw near me, but I had naught to give them.” He met her gaze. “What do I know of children?”
“So they turned to Sir Arthur.”
“Aye.”
“You do care for your nephews.”
He scowled. “They are my brother’s sons.”
A smile lifted her mouth.
So she thought she knew him. Far from it, but there was gain to be had in her softening, for with softening came surrender. He stepped forward, bent his head, and brushed his mouth across hers. “I wish to know you, Lark.”
She tensed. “Believe me, you don’t.”
Because she was diseased as he had suggested the day they met? “How many lovers have you had?”
Indignation leapt in her eyes. “Not as many as you think.”
He did not believe she was lying. The king’s leman, very well, but not to countless lovers as he had thought. After all, he had kissed her, and though that meager joining had awakened his body, her mouth had been less tried than most women he had known.
He turned her face up to his.
“No, Fulke. We’re not doing this.”
“’Tis only a dream, did you not say?”
She opened her mouth, blinked, and in that moment of confusion, he pressed his lips to hers. But only for a moment. In the next, she broke free and ducked under his arm.
He could have pulled her back, and he wanted to, but something—was it the desperation in her eyes?—told him this was no game she played.
From where she put ten feet between them, Kennedy stared at him. She almost feared her desire as much as his, for the reminder this was only a dream held the promise of pardon. After all, things happened in dreams that one could not control. But this was a lucid dream, more lucid than any she had known.
“Answer me one question,” he said. “Why do you refuse what we both desire?”
She pulled her bottom lip through her teeth. “The. . .time isn’t right.” It was the truth, in more ways than one.
After a moment, he said, “I vowed you would come to me willingly, and you will—without accusation or regret.”
Then it would never happen. Kennedy returned to her bed and watched as he dragged a blanket around him. But sleep did not come soon for either of them. Through the deepening cold that made her long for the warmth of another body, the sound of Fulke’s restlessness reached her. A half hour unfolded, and several more before she heard his breath deepen. Only then did she doze.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Smug. There was no other word for how Kennedy felt. In spite of Fulke’s efforts to ensure against her escape, she had foiled him. Awakening at dawn to find him gone, she decided to go in search of the pool he had spoken of. However, one peek past the flap had revealed a soldier stood guard outside.
If not that her “menses” had had a field day with her during the night, that might have been the end of it, but the remains of Fulke’s tunic wouldn’t hold out much longer. Knowing it could prove dangerous to accept his offer to escort her, she had opened a seam down the rear of the tent by breaking the strong thread with her teeth.
She smiled at the thought of Fulke’s reaction when she strolled back into camp. Even if he discovered her missing, he wouldn’t expect her to return. Her smile dissolved. Until that moment there had been no question of her returning. Why? Because of a touch? A kiss that made her melt?
She focused on the pool that shimmered in morning’s first light. Satisfied she was the only one to brave the chill water, she straightened from the tree and removed her clothes. As it was best to get the shock over with, she rushed the pool and, a few moments later, gasped as she surfaced.
It was as if the pool were fed by a polar ice cap. Teeth chattering, she tried not to dwell on the squish between her toes and whatever brushed her calf as she rubbed her hands over her limbs in place of soap. When she emerged from the water, the morning air felt almost warm in comparison. She pulled the chemise on and dragged the undies up over her goose-bumped legs. As she bent to retrieve the undergown, something hit her from behind.
Her cry was caught in the hand that slammed over her mouth, her attempt to flee squashed by an arm around her waist.
“You are too quick to cover yourself,” a graveled voice heated her ear.
She thrust backward, causing her assailant to shift his center of balance and drag her harder against him.
“A pity I must kill you, though I see no reason we cannot delay the inevitable.” He pushed her against a tree and held her there with his body.
Kennedy tried to bite the hand that fed her screams back to her, hooked her fingers and swept her arms over her head. She clawed air, her efforts causing her to abrade her cheek on the bark. Hoping to connect with
his groin, she kicked a leg back, but he was too near.
He pulled up her chemise, only to still when he reached her undies. “What is this?”
Knowing her attempt at being a seamstress wouldn’t keep him from his goal, Kennedy threw her head back and slammed it into his nose. A loud crack was followed by curses. And the release of her mouth.
As her screams resounded through the wood, her assailant grabbed her hair, wrenched her head back, and slammed it into the tree.
Kennedy collapsed. Though the man’s face was a blur above her, she could see the bloody mess she had made of it.
A dagger appeared, but as he came at her, so did shouts, thundering feet, and the rustle of ground cover. The blade streaked toward her, but she rolled to her hands and knees and the dagger plowed the ground where she had been.
As he pulled it free, a bellow split the air. He sprang up to meet his attacker, but a sword swept down and sliced through sleeve, muscle, bone. He wailed, dropped his dagger, and slapped a hand over the gushing wound.
The man who was said to have murdered Lady Lark had just saved the woman he thought her to be. Kennedy stared at Fulke. It was over—until another dagger, thrown by someone behind Fulke, caught her assailant in the chest. The man dropped to his knees and stared at the hilt protruding from his tunic like a climber’s flag atop Everest.
Fulke swung around. “Cardell!”
Teeth chattering, Kennedy looked to the others who had answered her cry for help. There were more than a dozen, among them Sir Leonel and the baron.
“Why?” Fulke roared.
Baron Cardell stood taller. “I feared he might slay you. As your man, ‘tis my duty to protect you.”
“I do not need protecting!”
“But, my lord, do you not recognize the miscreant?” Hand on sword hilt, Cardell took a step forward. “’Tis the assassin, Moriel.”
A fierce chill gripped Kennedy, and when Sir Leonel knelt beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder, she shrank from him. She didn’t want anyone touching her.
Fulke stared at Cardell. He needed none to tell him of Moriel, none to apprise him of what would have happened if Lark had not called out. Her cry yet echoed through him and he longed to go to her. He looked around. Chemise tangled around her thighs, face bloodied, eyes reflecting the horror of the vile thing done to her, she made him long for Moriel’s blood, which would have been his after the blackguard told all. Curse Cardell!
He turned back to the baron. “I recognize Moriel.” At Limoges, Fulke had commanded the knight errant and witnessed his insatiable appetite for killing and unquenchable greed. Thus, he had not been surprised to learn Moriel had turned assassin.
“Then you know his reputation,” Cardell said. “A moment more and he would have buried another of his daggers in your heart.”
“Or yours, friend,” Moriel grated.
Fulke strode to the assassin, with a booted foot shoved him onto his back. “Speak, knave!”
Virulent eyes raked him. “’Twould seem I am much in demand where you. . .are concerned.” He dragged breath past a froth of blood, looked to Cardell. “You thought I would reveal you? I would not have, but now. . .” He heaved the dagger from his chest. “Now I have.” Eyes beginning to empty, he looked up at Fulke. “Your brother’s death was. . .not an accident. . .but you know that.”
He did. Though more a man of prayer, his brother had been an excellent horseman and savored the hunt. Thus, when he had been found dead after spurring ahead of his men, Fulke had been certain his broken neck had nothing to do with being thrown from his horse. Here was his proof.
The assassin nodded. “’Twas I who ended him.”
Fulke’s muscles bunched. Though he and his older brother had been distant much of their lives, they had shared moments of kinship. In fact, months before the earl’s death, he had summoned Fulke to advise him on matters of estate. No doubt, Cardell had felt threatened. Fulke looked to the baron who was breathing fast, his shoulders heaving.
“Aye,” Moriel rasped, “’twas wardship of your nephews he wished.”
“He lies!” the baron burst.
All of it, Fulke reminded himself. When I know all of it, then I will slay Cardell.
“But you were not given. . .wardship. . .were you, baron?” Laughter gurgled from Moriel. “All that coin wasted.”
Cardell stepped nearer Fulke, causing the knights left and right of him to take defensive stances. “Lies, I tell you! I loved your brother—”
Fulke trained his sword on the man’s convulsing throat. “You loved the power you wielded through him.”
Cardell looked to the others, but he stood alone. Even his man, Sir Waite, appeared ready to land a blow to him.
Though Fulke knew his men would defend him, he had never relied on another to keep him alive. Thus, he settled his senses on Cardell before returning his attention to Moriel. “Did Cardell also pay you to murder Lady Lark?”
“I did not!” the baron shouted.
“Ah,” Moriel breathed, “the king’s trollop. . .”
“Was it Cardell?” Fulke asked again.
Moriel’s eyes rolled.
Turning sideways to keep Cardell in sight, Fulke dropped to his haunches. “Why Lady Lark? Why not me, Moriel?”
“That you could not. . .wed her.”
As it followed that Cardell would have struck at the one who came between him and his prize—Fulke—it made little sense. “Was it Cardell?”
Moriel turned his head, considered Lark through slit eyes, and smiled grimly. It was the face he wore on his descent from life.
Fulke looked to where Lark sat unmoving with Sir Leonel at her side. Though once more gripped with the longing to hold her, to press her face into his neck, he stood and unsheathed his sword.
Kennedy sprang to her feet. “Fulke!”
Sir Leonel pulled her back. “He will prevail, my lady. None stands against Lord Wynland.”
Perhaps not, but this time could be different. This time Cardell could be the one left standing. Please, no. Please don’t let Fulke fall.
The clash of steel on steel, accompanied by grunts and growls, made Kennedy startle and wince and ache to awaken from this nightmare, but she soon found solace in those very sounds. It was the absence of clanging steel that she came to fear as, time and again, the two men circled, swung, and lunged. Though the sound of steel on flesh was deceptively benign, the grunts that evolved into shouts and the blood that stained their clothing and darkened the dirt over which they danced was more vivid than any violence she had ever witnessed. The only blessing was that, in the end, it was Cardell who fell.
A whimper crept from Kennedy’s throat, and it was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling.
Fulke swung around. Sweat darkening his blonde hair, chest heaving, he pinned his gaze to her. They stared at one another across the distance for what seemed minutes but, finally, he blinked and his shoulders eased with a great exhalation. It was as if he had returned from some place none of them had been.
He looked to the man over Kennedy’s shoulder, “I thank you, Sir Leonel.”
Though the knight was dismissed, he didn’t ease his hold on her until Fulke thrust his stained sword in its scabbard and strode forward.
Sir Leonel stepped back. “In your service, my lord,” he murmured and retreated with the others.
As Fulke neared, Kennedy scrutinized the crimson places on his cheek, his shoulder, and his thigh. There were no gaping wounds that she could see, but that did not mean he was not seriously injured.
He halted before her, and she gasped when he clasped her face between his hands. “You are hurt.”
The urgency in his voice made her shudder. “I-I am fine.”
“Are you?”
The question went deeper than the cuts, lumps, and bruises. They went to that darkest place that Moriel had meant to take her. “He didn’t. . .” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t let him.”
Fulke’s lids momentarily
lowered, and his shoulders dropped a degree more. “Then you will be fine. This I promise.”
But would he be fine? “You are bleeding—”
“I will heal soon enough.”
She held his gaze. And knew. Though last night she had acknowledged he could not have committed the atrocities history had laid at his feet, she now saw him more clearly than she would have believed possible. There was the warrior, sword sounding a death knell; the brother, steadfast; the uncle, determined; and her redeemer. Fulke Wynland was a man terribly wronged. But all she could think to say was, “I’m sorry.”
Without a word, he lifted her high into his arms. As he carried her past Moriel, she forced herself to look at the dead man. Cardell’s dagger jutted from the assassin’s chest between the lacings of his tunic. Remembering his foul breath and his hands on her, she squeezed her eyes closed. If he was behind the attack on Lady Lark, he couldn’t have done it alone, not with so many casualties.
Fulke’s arms tightened around her. “’Tis over, Lark.”
No, there was something wrong with the equation. Fulke knew it too, as evidenced by his questioning of Moriel about the attempt on Lady Lark’s life. And there was more he did not know to ask. Specifically, why would Cardell murder John and Harold when they were his ticket to Sinwell?
She looked up. “It’s not over. There’s more to it.”
“Hush, Lark. I have you.”
He did. And he wouldn’t let her fall. Knowing there was no safer place, she buried her face against him.
Blood slammed through Fulke’s veins. Why had she done it? He looked from where she huddled under the blanket to the seam she had opened in the back of his tent. Not to escape him, but to bathe. She had nearly been killed!
Abruptly, he turned down his inner raging. Her foolishness was not where his thoughts ought to dwell, but on Moriel. If John and Harold were all Cardell sought, why Lark? In the hope her murder would fall upon Fulke, inducing Edward to grant wardship to the baron? Perhaps, for if it had been Fulke marked for death, Cardell’s hand in it would show.