by Lynn Kurland
She turned her head to the side and breathed heavily, ignoring the dust she managed to inhale. Dust and manure were good smells. At least they were honest smells. Not like the perfumed missive she'd received that morn. Damn Ralf of Brackwald to hell!
She felt herself being rolled over carefully. She lay on her back and stared up into her captain's angry blue eyes.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" George bellowed. "Concentrate or cease!"
Margaret suppressed the urge to say something satisfyingly vulgar. Instead she accepted his hand up, collected her lance and her shield, and walked away. As she did so, she realized how out of character that was. She never left the field unvictorious.
It was a sure sign she was not herself.
What was even more disturbing was the reason why she was so distracted. She wanted to believe it was because a messenger had delivered threats from Brackwald earlier. Aye, that was surely the case. She was angry, and justifiably so, at Brackwald for ruining her morning and she'd gone to the lists determined to work out that anger. Of course it had nothing to do with her captive.
Nothing at all.
One of her knights came and took her shield and lance. Several others murmured encouraging words as she passed, but she didn't pay them heed. She spoke to her men, 'twas true, but only to train them. Chatting pleasantly was not something she permitted herself. Let them find their camaraderie amongst themselves. She was their liege-lady, not their drinking companion. She wanted their respect, not their friendship.
Come, sit. Let us talk.
Damn that Alex. As if she had time to sit and speak of nothing!
Just who was he, anyway? Alex of what? Who was his sire? He came from Scotland, but who were his people? For all she knew, he could be a bastard some stone mason had sired on a kitchen wench. But, saints, it had been a fine coupling if he was what they had produced.
She clapped a hand to her head. Merciful saints above, she was going daft! The man was pleasing to the eye, she would give him that, but did that mean she must needs moon over him like a love-struck calf?
Ah, but to sit and talk. What an astonishing notion. To lay aside her cares for even an hour, to have speech with someone who did not depend on her for protection and sustenance. To just be Margaret and not Lady Falconberg. What a heady pleasure that would be.
"My lady?"
She stopped at the steps leading up to the great hall, turned, and looked at Sir Henry, George's second in command. The young man was her finest knight. Even so, she had never been comfortable around him. They were of an age, and likely should have had something in common. Yet he would never meet her gaze.
Not like Alex.
Despite herself, she found herself standing taller. Alex certainly hadn't looked at her as if she were little more than a man. Perhaps she wasn't as uncomely as she'd been led to believe.
"Aye," she said finally, realizing Sir Henry was staring through her.
"Brackwald's messenger waits without the gates still. Do we reply, or will you have him wait longer?"
Margaret considered. She could tell the man to come back on the morrow, but heaven only knew the havoc he might wreak in her countryside. On the other hand, she wasn't about to make a hasty reply until she'd learned the truth of the matter before her. Ralf had sent word, demanding the release of his "beloved Lord Alexander." Either Alex was a liar, or Ralf was laying hold of yet another tale to run to Prince John with. Margaret knew she could ill afford a false move now.
"Bring him inside and put him in the guard tower. See he's fed well, but keep him under guard. He will return to Brackwald whole. Is that understood?"
Sir Henry bowed and walked away, not having met her eyes even a single time. Was she that hard to look at?
Saints, what was happening to her? A se'nnight past she wouldn't have cared had someone not looked at her. Having Alex in her home had driven what few wits she still possessed straight from her.
She entered her hall and slowly walked past the hearths, considering Ralf's missive. Had Alex lied to her? Was he indeed a beloved friend of Ralf's?
It had been almost a se'nnight since she had fled his presence. She hadn't even had the courage to return to speak with him. Alex, however, had done nothing untoward to any of the servants she'd sent to bring him meals. Even George had braved the lion's den repeatedly, emerging to announce he found Alex to be a "fine young man with a brilliant head for strategy." That fine young man hadn't demanded to be released, though she had heard that he was becoming increasingly annoyed at being confined.
She couldn't blame him. She would have been driven mad by the first day.
She mounted the steps. After hesitating for only a moment at her father's chamber where Alex was, she continued on her way to hers. She stood at her table and looked down at the missive which lay there. Should she take it to him and confront him with it? And if she confronted him, could she bear to hear he had lied to her?
She stood and dithered for another quarter of an hour before she realized just what she was doing. By the saints, she had never dithered in her life! Snatching up the parchment, she strode purposefully from the room. She opened the door to her father's chamber and entered.
Alex was standing at the window. He turned around slowly, then leaned back against the stone.
"Are you hurt?"
Margaret looked at him blankly.
"The quintain," he said impatiently. "It bested you three times this morning."
Margaret realized with a start that her sire's chamber did indeed overlook the lists. Why she hadn't remembered that before, she surely didn't know.
Alex had been watching her. To her horror, she felt her cheeks begin to flame. He had to have been staring at her long enough to see her go flying face-first into the dust. Saints, what a fool she must look!
"I was distracted," she said stiffly.
He folded his arms over his chest and smiled.
"By anyone I know?" he asked.
"As if you would distract me," she said, trying to sound as haughty as she could. Somehow, it wasn't working very well, and her voice came out as more of a squeak.
"I wasn't suggesting myself," he said, his eyes twinkling. "But now that you bring me up—"
She drew her sword and brandished it. "You be silent!"
He only laughed. If she'd had the spine, she would have run him through. Somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. It would ruin his clothes. Aye, that was a sensible enough reason for restraint.
"Does everyone in Scotland dress as you do?" she blurted out. His clothing was powerfully odd, especially his hose. His tunic, however, was clean. Perhaps one of the maids had seen to it.
"How nice of you to notice what I'm wearing." Along with his clean tunic, he was now wearing an infuriating grin.
"I didn't come to discuss your clothing!"
"Then what did you come here to discuss?"
"This," she said, shoving the missive at him. "Read it, then endeavor to convince me Ralf lies. I vow I think you're the liar here."
Alex gently pushed aside her blade and took the piece of parchment. He held it up to the light from the window and stared at it for several minutes. Finally he shook his head.
"Lousy penmanship."
Margaret wished he would stop using those foreign words. "Penmanship?" she echoed.
Alex smiled grimly. "The way he writes."
"I'm certain Ralf's scribe fashioned this. Ralf can barely sign his own name."
"Then his scribe is a lousy writer. I can't make out half of what he says."
Margaret looked at him closely. "Perhaps it is that you cannot read."
"I can read," Alex replied. "It's just this medieval Norman French that's throwing me."
"Medieval French?" Where by all the saints had this man learned to speak? Perhaps the Scots were more uncivilized than she'd thought.
"Just ignore me," he said with a sigh. "Come here and help me puzzle out some of these words. I am assuming you can read them
well enough."
"Of course!"
"I meant no offense, Margaret." He stepped closer to the window. "Please come over here. I promise not to bite."
Margaret made the grave mistake of looking at him. The sunlight fell down upon him softly, as if it were pleased to caress something so perfectly made. It seeped into his dark hair, warmed his strong features, rested on his muscled form. She noticed, with a start, that he was cleanshaven. She frowned. It had to be Cook's doing. The woman, who Margaret never dared cross, had obviously fallen completely under Alex's spell. Margaret could hardly blame her. How could a body look into those pale eyes and not feel a little faint? Were they blue? Nay, perhaps green. Margaret stared into them, fascinated by their color. Perhaps a bit of both blue and green.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Saints, what finely fashioned lips he had. She had the overwhelming urge to reach up and touch them. Were they as soft as they looked? She chewed on her own lip to distract herself. It only made matters worse. She'd kissed her father and brothers, but not on the mouth, and definitely not with what she was feeling at present. Teeth appeared between those tempting lips and Margaret realized with a start that Alex was laughing at her.
With a growl of mortified, hapless fury, she whirled away from him.
She didn't get far. The lout had the temerity to grab her by the wrist! She jerked back toward him, her knife already drawn in her free hand. The missive crumpled violently as Alex grasped both the parchment and her wrist with his other hand. He held her hand well away from his belly. A pity, as her fondest wish was to embed her blade there.
"I wasn't laughing at you," he said quietly.
She stared up at him, open-mouthed. "How did you—" She clamped her lips shut. As if she should allow him to know what she had been thinking! She glared at him. "I care not what you think."
"I know," he said, his expression grave. "I know you don't care what I think, Margaret. But for the record, I was laughing at myself. Because I now realize how my food must feel when I'm looking at it."
Suspicions as to what that might mean developed furiously in her mind, but she chose to ignore them. He hadn't been laughing at her. She would take that and call the battle a standoff.
"You are a very strange man, Alex."
"I know. Now, do I dare let you go?"
"As if you could keep me captive," she said haughtily. She ignored the fact that his hands were like vises around her wrists. She would be damned if she would admit she'd met her match in this man. If he just hadn't distracted her with those bloody lips of his, she would have had the jump on him and she wouldn't have found herself practically standing in his embrace against her will.
"You're right, Lady Shieldmaiden," he said humbly. ''Would you be so good as to put away your blades and read this to me?"
She knew she should have been offended at his title for her, but somehow with the way he said it, it sounded almost like a compliment. She nodded. He released her wrists and she put away her sword and dagger. He stepped back into the alcove, and she followed him to the window. He smoothed out the parchment carefully and held it up to the light.
"The 'Lady Falconberg' part I understand," he said. "Now, what is this business here about grief and distress?"
Margaret had to agree with Alex about Ralf's scribe's penmanship. It was very poor.
"He says he is suffering terrible grief and great distress over the theft of his beloved friend Alexander of Seattle." She looked up at him. "Is that where you are from? In Scotland?"
"Actually it's not in Scotland. It's on another continent."
Well, he wasn't telling all the truth. And where Seattle actually was she couldn't have said. The man was obviously hiding something. Margaret frowned. A finely fashioned face had turned her reasoning to mush. She would have to be more careful.
"What are you doing in England?"
"I was out riding and took a wrong turn."
"You're lying."
He smiled. She flinched. She wished he would stop doing that. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up her guard when he looked at her like that.
"I'm not lying," he said. "I really did take a wrong turn. I never meant to wind up here. But here I am, and I think I'm here to help you. So, finish this ridiculous letter, Margaret, and let's see what can be done."
She sighed and looked at the letter again. "He says if I do not deliver you within the se'nnight, he will have no choice but to take drastic measures to accomplish your recovery. He speaks of vengeance. I've no doubt he will also send a messenger to Prince John to snivel out his sorry tale."
Alex smiled. "He didn't say exactly that."
"Nay, but he meant exactly that, the miserable wretch. Now," she said, taking a pair of steps backward and putting on her most intimidating frown, "what say you of this foolishness? Are you indeed his beloved Alexander?"
"No, I'm not."
Margaret liked to believe she had skill in discerning a man's character. She could readily believe Alex was lying about where he came from, but she was equally ready to believe he wasn't lying about this.
"Then you truly have no ties to Brackwald."
He shook his head. "Edward just offered me help. I was planning to leave the day after you so kindly spirited me away. If I'd had to stay any longer in Ralf's hall, I would have killed him."
Margaret understood that completely. It also occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn't have stolen Alex so soon. He would have solved all her problems for her if she'd just left him at Brackwald another few days.
"He really is unbelievable," Alex said with a shake of his head. "Doesn't he think we'll talk? Or is he counting on you having thrown me in the dungeon, gagged and bound?"
"Likely so."
"Your reputation precedes you, then."
Suddenly, and without warning, weariness descended. Margaret sat down. She shook her head at her own actions. She never sat. For as long as she could remember, she had been on her feet, in command of herself and her men. Perhaps this Alexander of Seattle was a demon made of flesh and was sapping her very will to go on. She watched him as he sat down on the stone bench that faced hers. The sun continued to fall on him, leaving her in the shadows. She smiled without humor.
"My reputation, I fear, will not save me this time."
She tried to keep up her show of spine, but, for the first time in years, she couldn't manage it. She put her head in her hands and sighed.
"By the very saints of heaven," she whispered, "I wish it would."
She felt a hand on her head. It surprised her so, she jerked back and narrowly missed smacking her head against the stone. She looked at Alex in shock. He held up his hands.
"I was just trying to help," he said.
"I need no aid of that sort," she replied, shaken. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched her. That Alex had dared the like did not surprise her. The man couldn't string two words together without throwing in something from a foreign tongue. Perhaps his manners were as haphazardly put together as his language.
"No one touches me," she managed, trying to regain her balance.
"That's too bad. You could stand some touching. But," he added, "maybe later."
Margaret let her hand fall away from her dagger hilt— only then realizing she had the blade halfway from its sheath. She pressed herself back against the wall and stared at the man facing her. She had no idea what to say. She didn't want his help. She certainly didn't need his help. But she was so very tired.
"What does Ralf mean by vengeance?" Alex asked.
Margaret forced herself to shake off the bleakness. "More of what he's done already. Murder my serfs, steal my cattle and sheep, humiliate my knights."
One of Alex's eyebrows went up. "Humiliate your knights? What has he done to them? They seem to be very skilled. Perhaps not as ruthless as Ralf's, but more than able to hold their own. Did he best them on the field?"
Margaret sighed deeply. "He ambushed several of them, sheared them like
sheep, and sent them home naked."
"He didn't."
"Ah, but he did. I haven't had the heart to rotate them in for their forty days' service since."
"What a slimeball."
"Aye," she agreed. "A slimeball." Heaven only knew what that was, or what language it came from, but it seemed to fit Ralf very well.
"So, how did you retaliate?"
She shrugged. "What could I do? Murder his serfs? Risk my own men to take his? I did nothing. I cannot kill innocent people."
Alex smiled at her. Margaret could have sworn the sun began to shine more brightly as a result.
"I take it that's why I'm still alive?" he asked.
She met his pale aqua eyes unflinchingly. "Aye, my lord. That is why you are still alive."
"You're not as ruthless as I thought, Margaret."
She rubbed her hand over her face. "I used to be. As of late, I scarce recognize myself."
"Hmmm," he said.
"I haven't been sleeping well," she retorted.
"I see."
"I've been distracted!"
He only smiled.
"And not by you," she snarled.
"That's too bad. You've certainly been distracting me." He smiled at her again, a marauder's smile that sent heat flooding to her cheeks. She knew how his supper felt, because he was looking at her in that same devouring way.
"By the saints," she spluttered, "I am not a leg of mutton, for you to be regarding me thusly!"
"Oh, Margaret," he said, shaking his head with an amused smile, "you really are something else."
She glared at him. But she didn't rise to her feet and flee the chamber. She was weary. Aye, that was it. If she'd had the strength, she would have hied herself down to the lists immediately, just to escape Alexander of Seattle's questionable self. She surely had no desire whatsoever to remain and listen to his foolish words, nor to melt under his heated gaze.
But she had no strength, so she remained where she was.
"You're very beautiful," he said, still wearing that mercenary's smile.