“ ’Tis about time,” Griffin drawled as the portcullis was raised, and he and Isabel rode beneath the heavy iron grid.
He rode in the direction of the village only until he was certain the guards on watch could no longer see him, then he veered his destrier off the road, headed toward the dark cover of the woods. Griff noticed that the horse’s gait had begun to falter slightly after they traversed a rocky patch of ground. He slowed the beast to investigate the trouble, bringing him to a halt once they were safely ensconced in the forest.
“What is it?” Isabel asked as he dismounted and pulled her from the saddle.
Griff took up each of the horse’s feet in turn, then found the source of the problem. “He picked up a stone,” he explained, working the pebble out of the horse’s hoof with the tip of his dagger. “There you are, boy, that should feel better now.”
Behind him, Isabel’s feet crunched in the dry pine needles that littered the ground. “How far do you suppose we are from Montborne?”
“About three days’ ride,” Griff told her, patting the destrier’s flank as he released its foot and made sure the beast could stand.
“Which direction?”
Griff wondered at her questioning interest, sensing that the wheels of conspiracy had begun to turn in her pretty head. Mayhap they had never stopped. “That way,” he answered, waving his hand in the general direction of the forest path.
“Oh,” she answered, her soft reply punctuated by more movement at his back. “Three days isn’t so terribly far. I think I can make it.”
Griff realized his mistake a mere heartbeat before it hit him—literally hit him—for Isabel, the sweet girl he had rescued ten years prior and sought to rescue again tonight, had found herself a hard and rather useful length of oak. Griff acknowledged the makeshift weapon as he turned his head to the side and saw her raise it.
She brought it down on him like a hammer, dropping him quite efficiently on the forest floor. The last thing Griff saw before darkness began to crowd his vision was Isabel, tossing aside her bludgeon and peering down at him as if to ascertain whether or not she had killed him.
He half wondered the very same thing as his heavy eyelids drifted closed and a thick, fuzzy silence engulfed him.
Chapter Seven
“I am truly sorry, Griffin,” Isabel whispered as she blinked down at his big, sprawling form. “But I fear you left me no choice in this.”
He groaned slightly, not quite a response, but enough to ease her mind with the knowledge that he was alive. She had not meant to kill him after all, merely distract him, until she was able to get away on her own. He certainly seemed distracted now. She did not want to think about how furious he would rightfully be once he woke. Indeed, the more distance she could put between herself and his sore head, the better. Three days separated her from Montborne; she had better get started.
Isabel took a couple of steps toward the waiting gray stallion, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt that began to needle her. Could she simply leave Griffin like this, unconscious in Droghallow’s woods? He was sure to be found by Dom’s soldiers; how could he explain his part in stealing Isabel out of the keep? Would he be punished—tortured—for her escape?
She really should not worry over him, she reasoned sternly, trying to shake herself into the same brand of disregard for others that he seemed to employ. Griffin of Droghallow was her abductor. A heartless knave, utterly lacking in honor. If he later sought to free her from the terrible situation it was only to use her further for his own gain. She owed him no consideration now. Indeed, she owed him nothing at all.
Well, perhaps that was not quite true.
Isabel paused to regard him over her shoulder, then walked back to where he lay. She took off the pendant she had worn for the past decade, his white lion medallion, a symbol of chivalry and courage that she could no longer believe in. She knelt down and slipped the chain over his head.
“I can’t keep this anymore,” she told him. “It belongs to you. I’ve been meaning to return it for a long time; I just never imagined it would be like this.”
That was as much of a good-bye as she would allow herself. Isabel stood up and turned away from him. With gentling words for his mount, who seemed to stare at her in silent scorn, Isabel took the reins and stepped into the stirrup, positioning herself astride in the saddle. The beast fidgeted beneath her, agitated with her slight weight, but she was pleased to find he cooperated well enough when she clucked her tongue and gave him a meaningful nudge with her heels.
“Let’s away now, horse,” she said to the ghost-colored steed, and started off on the path Griffin had indicated would take her to Montborne.
Isabel urged the destrier into a gallop, speeding along the moonlit trail with a buoying sense of renewed control. The forest was quiet, save for the steady pound of the horse’s hooves, and the night air was brisk and fragrant with the fresh, heady smells of pine, moss, and freedom. Isabel breathed it all in, drawing strength from her passing surroundings, never before feeling quite so confident, so devoid of doubt and fear.
It felt good to hold her destiny in her hands.
Indeed, if the past day had taught her anything at all, Isabel supposed it was that she could rely on no one, save herself. Not that she ever could. It was a disappointment she fully intended to spare her little sister. Maura would never know the hurt of betrayal. She would never see the ugliness of the world they lived in or know the aching void of loneliness. Where her parents and everyone else she knew had failed her, Isabel would not fail Maura.
It was a vow she had made in earnest. A vow she clung to with steely tenacity as the hours of travel spun off in her wake and night made way for morn.
Despite the weight of her present obligations, Isabel found it difficult not to think about Griffin. It was hard not to picture him crumpled in the fallen leaves and abandoned. Impossible not to revisit the entirely-too-pleasing press of his lips on hers when he had kissed her so unexpectedly in the shadowy corridor of Droghallow’s tower keep. Indeed, her mouth still burned from the contact; her body still tingled with a confusion of feelings she could hardly make sense of: astonishment, outrage, and something more elusive—an enigmatic sensation of traveling warmth that seemed to move and breathe inside of her like a living thing, long-slumbering and now awakened by Griffin’s sensual kiss.
He had meant nothing by it; she knew better than to think otherwise, of course. It had been merely a clever means of shielding them from discovery. Another example of his willingness to use her in whatever way he saw fit so long as it advanced his selfish goals. If he was not above plundering her mouth to suit his purposes, what more would Griffin dare if he deemed it necessary?
It was fortunate for her that she had disencumbered herself of him, for she did not think she could bear to find out. And the urge to understand this queer feeling he had roused inside of her—despite the certain danger it would involve—was far too compelling for her peace of mind.
Yes, Isabel decided with complete resolve, it was fortunate, indeed, that she was rid of Griffin of Droghallow. She could only hope to remain so … forever.
With the first rays of dawn stretching over the horizon, Isabel turned her attention once more to her surroundings. The forest path seemed to have no end, spreading out before her as far as her eyes could see, an infinite ribbon of softly trod earth. She would have expected to reach the edge of the woods by now, or perhaps see a glimpse of open field or a distant village somewhere along the way—anything to indicate her progress. But the hours of travel had yielded no such signs of success. Indeed, for as long as she had been riding, Isabel wondered if she would be spending all three days of her journey to Montborne on this very track.
And something else began to nag at her senses now.
It was a vague feeling that the forest had eyes, that as she guided her stolen mount over a rocky patch of ground, she was being watched.
She paused suddenly, pivoting in the saddle to check the
trail at her back. It was empty. No one creeping up behind her. No cause for worry. She let out a nervous little laugh and shook her head in relief, ready to resume her trek.
“Good morn, Isabel.”
She knew the source of the deep voice without looking, but nevertheless, Isabel nearly tumbled out of the saddle to find Griffin standing in the woods to her left, leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old oak. He did not seem surprised to see her, nor did he seem overly pleased.
“You!” she gasped in utter astonishment. “How did you catch up to me? I’ve been riding for hours and you were on foot!”
“Actually, I’ve been on my arse most of the night, thanks to the blow you dealt me.”
She frowned at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“You followed the forest path,” he answered with a shrug.
“It led toward Montborne, you said.”
Griffin shook his head. “The path is used for hunting. It leads in a wide circle.”
“You lied!”
“No, lady,” he said calmly. “Montborne does, indeed, lie in the direction I told you. But this path will not get you there. I, however, can.”
“I don’t need your help,” she told him, incensed with his arrogance and disgusted with herself for wasting precious hours in folly.
When she would have given the gray stallion her heels, Griffin snapped his fingers and called out the beast’s name. To her dismay, the horse merely shifted beneath her, ignoring her instructions entirely to walk instead toward its true master.
“It’s morning now,” Griffin told her as he took the reins from her hands. “Dom is sure to be missing us in a short while. Do you wish to be sitting here arguing with me when he finds us, or do you wish me to see us on our way to Montborne?”
Isabel stared down at him in mute frustration, every bit of her pride urging her to refuse him, despite the fact that he seemed her only hope now. More than anything, she wanted to deny his help, to deny the notion that she might need Griffin, even a little bit. But logic won out over dignity.
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Very well. As I have no other choice, I suppose you should take me to Montborne.”
“A sensible decision, my lady,” Griffin said as he stepped into the stirrup and climbed up.
He seated himself behind her, the hard planes of his chest and thighs much too close for Isabel’s comfort. She might have protested his overprotective hold on her, but in that next instant, he spurred his mount and they were off, thundering along on the beginnings of a journey Isabel sensed would change her forever.
• • •
Dominic of Droghallow was none too pleased with the early morning knock that sounded on his chamber door a couple of hours later. The incessant rapping woke him from a heavy sleep, a sleep spent drunk and physically sated, blissfully entangled in the soft limbs of his pretty blond bed partner. Longchamp’s grand-niece had been a delightful surprise, a virgin, charming and spirited, yet perfectly willing to surrender her virtue to him once she learned of his many holdings purchased from the crown in exchange for funds for the crusade. Dom had half a mind to sue for the chit’s hand once his deal with Prince John was settled.
The king’s brother was building alliances with Prince Philip of France, making covert arrangements to hand over strategic holdings across the realm in exchange for the French ruler’s support once Richard was distracted by his interests abroad. John had offered Philip a presence on England’s marches, tempting him with a number of border estates, among them the holdings recently inherited by Isabel de Lamere and nearly lost through her sudden, promised marriage to Sebastian of Montborne. Prince John had made it clear to Dom that should he ensure the permanent delay of that marriage—by whatever means necessary—there would be much to gain for Droghallow’s ambitious lord.
Dom could hardly wait to collect.
The pounding on his door sounded again, louder this time, accompanied by the urgent voice of one of his guards. “My lord, are you awake?”
“I am now,” he growled, sweeping aside Felice’s arms and watching in rapt appreciation as she yawned and stretched cat-like beside him. “Don’t move,” he told her as he sat up and extricated himself from the tangled bed sheets.
Dom retrieved his braies from the floor and gathered the linen undergarment around his hips, fumbling to hold them up as he opened the door. “What is it?” he demanded of the big knight standing at the threshold.
“ ’Tis the woman, my lord. The Montborne bride.”
“What of her?”
“Well, she’s gone, my lord.”
Dom narrowed his gaze, certain he had not heard aright. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Sh-she’s not here, my lord.” The guard cleared his throat as if what he was about to say next refused to come to his tongue. “She’s just gone. Sir Griffin went to see her late last eve. He gave me leave to quit my post, said he would send for me once he finished with her, but he never came to get me.”
“What are you telling me, man,” Dom said, not at all as calm as his voice made him seem.
The knight shook his head helplessly. “I must have fallen asleep in the hall, but when I returned to my post this morn, she was gone. Her chamber was empty.”
“Jesu!” Dom slammed his palm against the door frame, his head spinning with rage. “How could this have happened?”
“I-I don’t know, my lord.”
“Fetch my foster brother,” Dom ordered. “Tell him I want to see him immediately. And have him assemble the garrison. The woman can’t have gone far—tell Griffin I want her found and I want her found now.”
But the guard did not move. He merely stared at Dom, blinking dumbly. “Er, my lord … Sir Griffin is gone, too. The night watch said he left the castle around midnight. He had a woman with him, my lord. Said he was taking her to the village on your orders.”
Dom chuckled like a man suddenly gone mad. “That conniving bastard. If I needed a reason to see him dead, I wager this is as good as any.” He turned the full measure of his angry gaze on the knight standing before him, taking great satisfaction in the way the big man blanched. “Inform the garrison that Griffin of Droghallow is now a wanted man. Tell the guards I’ll pay a thousand marks for the woman, twice that for him. And I don’t care if you have to kill him to bring him in, just bring him in.”
Chapter Eight
They traveled hard for the better part of the day, maintaining as brisk a pace as they dared through the dense woods and leaf-strewn bramble that was their road. Isabel’s body was aching from the jostling, laborious ride. Her throat was parched, stomach empty and gnawing with hunger, but she did not dare ask Griffin to stop. She would not admit weakness to him; she doubted very much that he would care.
For his part, Griffin seemed unfazed by the day’s taxing journey, fully intent to press on ceaselessly to Montborne. She should be happy for that, Isabel supposed. The sooner they made it to Montborne, the sooner she could be away from Griffin of Droghallow.
The sooner she could banish the memory of him to the farthest reaches of her heart.
It was a feat that seemed impossible so long as she was pressed against the hard planes of his chest, feeling the thundering rhythm of the horse’s hooves reverberate through his body and into hers, feeling his arm wrapped tight around her waist. It was easier to imagine spending all her days with him, knowing the warmth of his touch, the strength of his embrace.
When he finally slowed his mount some hours later, pausing near a small brook and murmuring that the beast needed to rest and refresh, Isabel was only mildly relieved. When he then released his hold on her to dismount, against all logic and reason, she found that she missed the contact. Despite her contempt for his purpose, she missed his possessive, protecting presence.
And that, surely, made her the veriest sort of fool.
She tried to act indifferent, tossing him a haughty look as he reached up and helped her from the saddle and gently set her feet on
the ground.
“We can’t afford to tarry for long,” he said, unfastening a leather saddle pack and handing it to her. “You’ll find some bread and cheese and a skin of wine in there. Take of it what you want. I’ll get us more supplies when we stop for the night.”
He did not wait for her response. Taking his destrier’s reins, he led the gray stallion to the edge of the stream and stroked its thick neck and mane as it bent to drink. Isabel heard the low rumble of Griffin’s voice as he spoke to the animal, heard the plain affection in his timbre. That he was gentle with his horse intrigued her somewhat, even as it confused her. She could not help staring at him as he returned to the embankment where she had seated herself on a patch of soft moss.
“You and that disagreeable beast are well suited,” she remarked, munching on a crust of dark bread. “Indeed, you seem to prefer his company to that of persons, my lord.”
“I generally do,” he answered.
There was no pretense in his blunt reply, only frank honesty. And, to Isabel’s astonishment, she sensed the slightest hint of loneliness. She well understood that feeling, difficult as it was for her to admit any affinity of emotion with the hard man now staring down at her.
She brushed her sympathy aside and offered Griffin some food and wine, not at all surprised when he declined to share it with her. He remained standing, positioning himself several paces to her side, his back leaned against a tall pine—a solitary man, distant, aloof.
He tipped his chin up and looked to the sky, but whether he sought to gauge the hour or change the subject, Isabel could not be sure. When he spoke, it was as if he spoke to himself, as if she was not there at all. “The day is half gone. Dom’s guards will have been on our trail for some time now. ’Twill be difficult to outpace them when we have just the one horse.” He shook his head slightly and let out a thoughtful sigh. “Would that we had taken two instead.”
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