The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “Shall we go?”

  When Roysa nodded, Terric extended his hand to Conrad.

  Conrad clasped it, harder than was his custom. Although the Scot hadn’t said so, his gesture made it clear that, although he was displeased, their friendship remained intact. Dented, perhaps. But not broken as Conrad had once feared.

  “She will be safe here,” he reassured Terric, and himself.

  Conrad had decided to take just over fifty men. Much less than they’d originally intended, but all four of them, including his marshal, had agreed. If it became necessary to take London by force, they would send for reinforcements. With King John in Battleboro, his forces could be mobilized sooner than the king’s.

  Still so much uncertainty. But such was the case in a rebellion.

  Releasing Terric’s hand, Conrad followed him and Roysa from the hall after saying goodbye to the others, looking back one last time. Though he did not expect to see her, he was still oddly disappointed when there was no sign of Cait.

  The noise of his men, and Terric’s, reached them before they even stepped out of the keep. Although their retinue was modest, horses of all kinds—sumpters and ponies, and the destriers that would be needed in case of battle—mingled with squires and pages as they finished loading the supply carts.

  Conrad spotted the fisherman who would assist in feeding them between lodgings and his own squire, Christopher, loading Conrad’s personal packhorse. The day was cool, and Christopher handed him a thick mantle as he approached his mount.

  “Ansel will ride at the front, my lord.”

  Ansel being his marshal.

  Conrad glared at the boy of ten and five, the marshal’s own son. The boy had likely saved Conrad’s life at the last Tournament of the North. Christopher had insisted on repairing the stop-rib of his left cuisse, despite his protests that the repair was unnecessary and too time-consuming. Later, of course, his opponent’s lance grazed that very thigh. The armor had protected his groin as designed, and he’d thanked the boy, who had beamed for days, telling the tale to all who would listen.

  “Tell Ansel—”

  “I cannot, my lord,” the boy said, his cheeks slightly red. “He knew you would protest and has already ridden out.”

  “Ridden out?” Conrad boomed. He’d just seen the man moments earlier in the hall. “He cannot . . .”

  Taking a deep breath, he thought about his wayward marshal, deliberately disobeying his orders. Conrad’s father had always ridden at the front, and he’d taken up the practice despite protestations from Ansel and the captain of his guard.

  “He will hear about it this eve,” he grumbled.

  Terric and Roysa had already moved away, surrounded by their clansmen and the knights of Dromsley who had accompanied him.

  Upon closer inspection, Conrad should have known Ansel had left already with some of the men. Just half of their number remained, waiting on him. Conrad could catch him, ride to the front, and send the marshal back. But he didn’t want to shame the man or lead the men to question his authority. And so he swallowed his anger and mounted, indicating that Christopher should do the same.

  Gripping the reins, he gave the command and the entire courtyard of knights, soldiers, and servants began to advance. Turning one last time, he looked toward the direction of Cait’s bedchamber, even though he knew he’d not see her through the narrow arrowslits in the stone.

  He could not think of her now. She’d refused to say goodbye, even knowing he may never return. Even knowing he might die. That he’d allowed himself to be surprised, again, said more about him than it did Cait. Still, after all this time, he had been willing to talk again. To try to understand.

  You are a Goddamn fool, Conrad.

  He turned back, gripped his horse with his legs, and spurred it forward.

  Their journey had begun.

  Chapter 12

  If she had thought the journey from Bradon Moor to Dromsley difficult, this one was much more so. It was warmer, aye, and the sun had been out for most of the day. But she and the other ladies had not accounted for the pronounced dearth of women in Conrad’s retinue.

  Still, she had not yet been noticed among the servants, not even when she snuck off during their midday rest to relieve herself. It had been only one of many narrow escapes that day.

  She could ride as easily as the men. Her brothers had ensured that, Rory being an expert horseman, even more so than Terric. The hose and surcoat she wore as a disguise were much preferable to a riding gown, so comfort was not a concern.

  Keeping her hood raised and her mouth shut, however, was more difficult. She’d had to ignore every order or question thrown her way, and “simpleton” was the nicest of the epithets that had been tossed her way.

  Conrad’s men, it turned out, used quite colorful language when not in the company of women.

  According to Roysa, who had learned of Conrad’s plan from Terric, they would camp along the road this night before arriving at Valence Castle the following eve. Once they did stop, she would reveal herself. It was the moment she’d been dreading, and wishing for, all day.

  How would Conrad react? Would she be able to convince him to let her stay?

  Finally, it happened. Conrad yelled for the men to halt and their party stopped for the night.

  Cait tied off her mare, disappeared once more into the thick woods, and hid her belongings before joining the others. Sitting back from the fire now, she waited for the right moment. She only hoped it would not throw Conrad into a fit of anger.

  His father had indulged in them quite often. Conrad did not, but it was a constant battle.

  Cait nibbled on the provisions Idalia had secured just for her, the hard bread a welcome refreshment. As more and more men joined the one large fire in the center of camp, she thought back to one of Conrad’s letters, the contents of which she had long since memorized.

  By God’s body, you will not hang my nephew. You’ll see two hundred lanced knights on your land before you hang him!” Those were the words my father once spoke against the king, and this, while he was still one of his advisors. Later, when King Henry put the case up for trial, my father appeared in court with two hundred knights, just as he’d promised. A bold move, even for an earl. But my cousin did not hang. And I think the king respected him more for it, for a time at least.

  Ofttimes I wish to be as cool and collected as your brother, but others, when I see spittle coming from my father’s mouth in a fit of rage, I wish to inherit that fire but perhaps without the brimstone.

  It was hard to imagine him angry, just now. He sat casually atop a log between his squire and his marshal, the boy’s father. She’d heard there was some disagreement between them earlier, but you would never know it at this moment.

  They laughed as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Conrad looked younger when he smiled, the white of his teeth evident even from this distance. His surcoat abandoned, his linen shirt rolled to his elbows, he looked more relaxed than he had since she’d arrived at Licheford.

  Perhaps it was because he thought he’d left her behind . . .

  “Move off, boy.”

  With a hard shove, Cait was pushed off the flat rock she’d found behind the rest of the camp. Before realizing she’d done so, Cait let out a sound, startled.

  A very ladylike sound.

  “Is that . . . are you . . . ?”

  She had no time to react before her hood was tossed down. The churl who’d done it, and who had pushed her from the rock, looked as surprised as she felt.

  A bushy auburn beard covered so much of his face, Cait focused on his eyes instead. Blue. Very blue. And extremely confused.

  “A woman?”

  She dared not look at Conrad. By now, the man’s accusation had attracted the attention of the men closest to them. It would only be a matter of time before he came over. So be it. Cait had known she would be discovered before too long. The plan had always been to tell him before it was time to sleep. A woman alone amo
ng over fifty men? Nay, she wouldn’t risk it.

  With the crowd that had gathered around her, she could not see him coming. But that voice was easily recognizable.

  “What the devil?”

  They parted to allow him a closer look.

  At the woman. Disguised—poorly—as a boy. Idalia had braided her hair, but Cait had relied on the hood to keep her hidden. Without it, she was very much on display.

  “Cait?”

  Her small shrug was meant as an apology for deceiving him, for destroying the easy moment he had been enjoying with his marshal.

  “Good eve, my lord.”

  “Good . . . ,” Conrad sputtered, unmoving. “What are you . . . Cait, no.”

  She gave him a smile. “Aye.”

  He was not placated.

  “You cannot . . . what are you doing here? Nay, don’t tell me. It does not matter. You are going back.”

  She gestured to the night sky. “In the dark?”

  He glared at the half moon as if it were King John himself.

  “Come. With. Me.”

  She didn’t move even when he turned from her. Even when she was gently pushed by one of Conrad’s men.

  “Now,” he barked. And as much as she disliked orders, Cait followed this one. She couldn’t stay outside with the men, after all, and it was unnecessary to make him even angrier. She tried to ignore the stares and whispers as she walked by.

  His was the largest tent, large enough for him to stand inside. Pushing back the flap, he allowed it to close behind him, not bothering to keep it open for her. Oh, he was angry.

  Cait took a deep breath, her hand on the flap. This was precisely what she wanted, was it not? Conrad as a captive audience. A chance to explain, as best she could, and find out if coming to England had been as big a folly as it seemed.

  Ignoring the snickers behind her, Cait opened the flap and stepped inside.

  Chapter 13

  Conrad didn’t know if he wanted to shake Cait or kiss her.

  In fact, he did know. He would do both if given the chance. To think the ladies had so deliberately misled him.

  They’d been planning this. She’d been planning this, and now she was here. Opening his tent. Standing before him.

  He would not look down. Nor would he notice the curve of her legs in those hose.

  “You’re angry.”

  Ah, God. Yes. No. He was confused as hell.

  “Cait, do you realize the kind of danger you’re in? Tomorrow morn you must go back. With two men. You cannot be here.”

  That look, the one she gave him now—it was one of the reasons she’d so attracted him at the tournament all those years ago. She’d had the same mixture of innocence and resolve, even then.

  “The others have gone as well. With their husbands. You should let me stay.”

  Sabine. Idalia. Roysa.

  Conrad shook his head. “I am not your husband.” He waved his hands frantically around them. “You are alone. Unchaperoned. There’s not one other woman to be found in this camp.” He shook his head. “No, I cannot. We cannot. Terric will kill us both.”

  Cait rolled her eyes. “Terric will not kill you. ’Twas my choice to come. Mayhap you’ve not noticed, Conrad, but I’m not a young girl any longer. Terric is, in fact, my junior.

  Though Terric was only younger than him by one year, Conrad and Cait the same age at nine and twenty, she spoke the truth. But that didn’t mean his friend would not still kill him when next they met.

  “I promised him,” he ground out, unable to form a coherent thought.

  Cait planted her hands on her slender hips. “You promised what, precisely? That you would not find yourself alone with me? That you would not do . . . what did you promise?”

  “I promised to act honorably.”

  “This is not honorable? Us speaking? We are simply—”

  He moved quickly.

  Wrapping his hand behind her head, Conrad brought her lips to his. The shock of it took him aback—he’d intended to honor his word to Terric. And Cait clearly did not know how to react.

  What to do.

  He showed her. Gliding his tongue against the folds of her lips, he told her, without speaking, to open for him.

  She did.

  Slanting his head, he pulled her closer, touching his tongue to hers.

  Cait immediately responded. Within a few moments, she understood completely. Her mouth moved effortlessly against his, and the sweetness she gave, Conrad willingly took.

  When her hands settled tentatively on his forearms, her warm touch only served to inflame him. He should go gently, but Conrad had dreamed of this moment for what felt like his entire life.

  She was not his.

  She’d stopped writing.

  Her brother would certainly kill him.

  But this was Cait. She stood in his tent, looking at him as if he would save her from the confusion they both felt. And God help him, Conrad wanted to heal the breach between them. He wanted to be the man he’d once been, the one who had killed her attacker, the one who had opened his heart to her.

  He just did not know how.

  But this . . .

  As she became accustomed to him, Conrad pressed for more. Deeper he fell, or they fell together, until he didn’t know where he ended and Cait began.

  Kissing her was not what he’d expected.

  It was so much more. The sound she made, deep in her throat, only encouraged him.

  She’d learned quickly, and Conrad took advantage of it. Her lips, so much sweeter than he had imagined. Deeper and deeper, until . . .

  “My lord?”

  Conrad broke away with the same force he had used to pull her to him.

  Their eyes met briefly before he opened the flap of the tent.

  “Pardon, my lord,” his captain said, not daring to look past him. “One of the men wounded his leg this morn.”

  “How? We’ve done nothing but ride all day.” His tone was harsher than normal, but he was desperate to speak to Cait.

  “He . . . it appears he scratched it on a branch while . . . while relieving himself, my lord.”

  “A scratch? You come to me because a man’s leg is scratched?”

  “’Tis festering, Lord Licheford. He can hardly stand.”

  A foolish complaint, this early on in their campaign, but he could hardly ignore it. “Attend to him until I come.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Letting the flap drop, Conrad took in the sight before him. Those damned breeches were much too fitted against her legs. And though her hair was pulled back, her surcoat covering all but her calves, he’d never seen a more enticing picture.

  “There is a bedroll there.” He nodded to the darkened corner of the small tent. Had he known she would be staying here . . . “It appears we have a wounded man. You can return to Licheford with him in the morning.”

  She opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, but he would not relent. Cait would not be coming with him to London. He would not risk her.

  “I will return if I’m able,” he said.

  “Conrad, wait.”

  He was almost through the opening when she said it. Despite himself, Conrad complied.

  “Please come back.”

  A retort nearly flew out of his mouth. He’d asked the same of her, many, many times. Begged her to write to him. Begged her to explain why she’d disappeared. But bitter rebukes would serve no purpose now.

  “I am so sorry.”

  Conrad ignored her beseeching tone, which was nearly enough for him to ignore his duties and stay with her. He would not do this right now.

  Leaving, Conrad stalked to the other end of camp, where a crowd gathered around the fool who’d been bested by a branch.

  Scattering, the men left him alone with the wounded fool, no doubt sensing his dark mood. There was no physician here. But he didn’t need one to see the wound had already festered, dangerously so. After inspecting it, he found Ansel and made arrangements for the ma
n to be sent back to Licheford. Two others would return with him to guard Cait.

  Later, much later, he sat by the fire watching as each of the men settled down for the night. Only two remained awake, on guard. They would tend to the fire, watch the camp. The area was relatively safe. Though they’d traveled far south of Licheford, their camp was on the property of a dear friend of his father’s. An old man who had no children, despite having tried with three separate wives.

  Children.

  Unbidden, he envisioned Cait sitting in his bed, holding a babe, their babe.

  He could go to her now, but Conrad knew it would make it near impossible to keep the vow he’d made to Terric. He’d been alone with her for mere moments earlier, and he’d kissed her in a way no man should kiss a noblewoman, other than her husband.

  Please come back.

  He was not punishing her for the pain she’d caused him. Staying away was the honorable thing to do.

  Though I am not glad for how it happened, nothing pleases me more than your friendship with my brother. He speaks so often of you and the others that it sometimes angers my brother. Rory and Terric may be twin brothers, but they are so very different. But you. More than any of the others, you are most like him. Honorable, decisive. Though Terric will admit he is more even-tempered than you. Someday I would like to see it, these legendary Licheford outbursts. Did your father truly threaten the king with two hundred lanced knights if he harmed your cousin?

  He smiled, remembering his response, a missive telling Cait that, aye, indeed, the story was true. And that he never wished her to see his outbursts, though they were, inarguably, milder than his father’s. In truth, he’d learned to control them better for that very reason.

  Conrad had become a better man. For Cait.

  But she’d never known, because she had never come to see him. Until now.

  Do not do it. Do not tempt yourself this way.

  Conrad had gotten to his feet without realizing he intended to do so, and he could no sooner sit back down than he could watch his country, his people, suffer for the injustices of a cruel and corrupt king. He moved toward the tent even as he told his legs to stop.