A Knight in Tarnished Armor (5 page)

She didn't respond, but seemed to be attempting to create the image in her mind. He liked that in her. She listened to him. She smiled, and he sat there, stunned by his reaction to something so simple as her smile. At that moment, had she asked, he'd have conquered the world for her.

She had busied herself by wringing out the cloth in the river. When she finished, she sat back in the grass and hugged her knees to her chest, then cocked her head. "Who was that knight?"

"I don't know." He stared at the grassy hillock where he'd first spotted the black knight. The man had taken great pains to make certain his identity was hidden. He had his suspicions that Arden had sent the knight, but he said nothing. Instead he turned back and watched the river flow.

"Why would he attack us like that?" Her voice was tentative. “Then leave?”

He glanced at her. Her face was pale, emotion and fear there for anyone to see. She was truly frightened. He hadn't thought of her reaction. He was used to violence and combat. But she was a young woman who had led a sheltered life, especially if Arden wished to keep her from marriage as he had said. He shrugged, hoping she would drop the subject.

He saw she was bravely trying to cover her fear and she rocked slightly, as if her thoughts were racing so that she was unaware of her body's motions. Finally she asked, "Do you think he meant to rob us?"

In a voice filled with feigned hope, he asked, "Did he take the cats?"

She stared at him blankly, then she must have caught the amusement on his face because she began to laugh. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He took nothing."

"I must not have had good fortune on my side today."

She laughed again. "I like it when you jest with me."

"Why is that?"

She twisted some grass, then looked up again. "Because you seem less frightening, more human, I suppose."

He didn't know how to respond to that. How to say he was human, as human as the next man, with the same fears and weaknesses. He just never let anyone see them. He wanted to admit that to her, but his pride stopped him and he changed the subject. "Why do you have twenty-five cats?"

"Twenty-six," she corrected.

"Twenty-six cats . . ." He looked at the pack animals grazing in the grass near the bridge, then added, "Five rabbits and two ducks."

She rocked back, her hands still clasping her knees and the toes of her soft leather slippers pointing daintily into the lush river grass. "Because there was no one to care for them but me. Some were starving, others, like Ignatius, Jerome, Kentigern, and Lambert were left to die. I was taught to believe that we are caretakers, put here to help care for all living things. Not to abandon them. Not to starve them, drown them, or worse. The rabbits I freed from traps. Only one of them still has four legs. A rabbit cannot live in the forest with only one back leg." She was silent.

"And the ducks?" he asked.

She smiled. "They followed me home."

His mind flashed with the image of her running back to the castle, her arms filled with wounded animals, ducks trailing behind her, and he saw himself, a knight watching her with a need that was stronger than anything he had ever felt before. Some part of him wanted to have been there when she had found the animals, instead of the day he actually had seen her, the day she danced and sang to them.

But still he felt a lightness inside, a sense too profound to name whenever he thought of that first moment he'd seen her. He must have frowned, because a moment later he felt the trickle of blood from the cut on his forehead.

She moved toward him, kneeling just inches away, and she wiped the cut.

He spent a pleasurable few moments judging the size and weight of her breasts, then eyed the tender white skin of her neck. She smelled of flowers and summer— exactly as he had imagined she would smell—clean and pure and intoxicating.

She slowly ran the cloth down his cheek and he was aware of more than just her scent and her shape. He was greatly aware of the gentleness of her touch. She still cleansed his face, then ran the cloth over his jaw which was becoming more tense the closer she shifted.

In a sudden motion, he grabbed her wrist and the cloth fell from her fingers. She blinked at him, startled. He realized his grip was too hard and slackened it, then gently stroked his thumb over the thin and fragile blue veins beneath her honey-colored skin. "Enough." he said gruffly.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." He didn't release her hand.

She returned his direct look for the longest time— time that seemed to have stopped—until she finally averted her golden eyes and stared at their joined hands.

Since the moment he had first seen her singing in the woods, he knew his life was nothing. nothing because she had not been part of it. And now, as he watched the top of her bent head, he wondered if he should give in to the urge that was consuming him. He wanted nothing more than to lie as one with this woman in the sweet grass. To li
e in her for all his tomorrows.

But something stopped him. Some emotion that tasted of a morality he hadn't known he had. Morality and something that had the sour flavor of a sudden lack of confidence—a weakness foreign to him. He had always known he could win any battle, so he had won. Whether his confidence had come from a foolish and youthful idea that he was invincible, or actually from bravery he knew not. What he did know was that his confidence had left him when it came to Linnet. He felt awkward and out of place with her, afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing, afra
id to touch her lest she recoil.

Perhaps it was because he had never had to court a woman. And he did not know how to go about it. The women he'd known needed nothing but a look that promised long nights of hot passion or a morning's reward of silver coins.

He'd known Eastern women who were schooled in the art of bedding, women whose skill and purpose was to satisfy a man, and who had taught him that his strongest satisfaction lay in firing a woman's passion to as hot a flame as his own.

There were the women who waited on the fringes of a battle, ready for men whose blood still ran wild, women who liked it rough and savage. And there were the skilled women of the court, who wanted to bed a new baron, the king's friend, or the man whose reputation made him some kind of sexual prize.

But he'd never known a woman like Linnet. A woman with a heart so big she cared for a herd of cats, ducks, and rabbits. A woman whose gentleness tamed a forest and a fierce knight's wild heart.

So for the first time in his life he played coward and stood quickly, startling her.

"William?"

The sound of his Christian name on her lips almost broke his resolve. He wanted to hear her say his name again. He wanted to hear her say his name in passion.

She frowned up at him.

The look he gave her was hard and emotionless, the opposite of how he felt inside. But his stony manner covered his weakness for her, a weakness that frightened him because it came upon him so strongly. He turned away.

"What is wrong?" She sounded hurt.

He had been so concerned that he would do the wrong thing. And now he'd done so. He had hurt her. He took a deep breath. "We've tarried here long enough. Half the day is gone!" he barked over a shoulder and strode toward the horses. Away. Safely away from a battle he had no idea how to win.

“One for you, Wenceslas, and one for you, Ximenes." Linnet turned and put the last of the salted fish into the cage with Yves and Zeno, then secured the latch. They had ridden with few words between them until William had finally grunted something about resting here.

A moment later he crossed the small clearing and stood behind her. "Come," he ordered. "Feed yourself." He gestured to some bread and cheese that lay upon a huge flat rock a short distance away.

She quietly followed, wondering what she had done to anger him. He hadn't looked at her again with anything remotely close to kindness. He just stared into the woods around them, like he was doing now. She followed his gaze, but saw nothing of interest. She looked at their meager meal, then said, "I need to fetch something." She hurried over to one of the pack animals and untied a heavy sack. It plopped to the ground. She grabbed the ties and began to drag it through the dirt.

An instant later William was beside her. He hauled the sack easily over his broad shoulder and strode back toward the rock, muttering.

She followed, rushing to keep up with his long strides. "Did you say something?"

He stopped and gave her a wry look, then shook his head. He dropped the sack on the ground and sat down on the rock
where he drank from a wineskin.

She knelt and untied the sack. "I brought a few things."

He snorted.

"Food from the larder." She bent and looked inside, then sat up, pulling things out. "I have pears and grapes and apples . . ." For the next five minutes she unloaded the sack. ". . . Capon with herbs, honeyed figs, and"—she held up a small crock—"pickled eel!" She frowned down at the crock. "Who eats pickled eel?"

William wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the pile of food she had brought.

"What would you like?"

Now he looked at her.

"A honeyed fig?" She held up the fruit.

He did not look pleased. He was staring at her with the oddest look. Finally he shook his head and looked away.

She stared at him, her throat suddenly tight when she realized she could not do anything to please this man. She had never had anyone treat her so coolly. Her grandfather adored her, and she could always make him laugh. Her sisters' husbands treated her like a younger sister. But William de Ros had a wall around him that she couldn't penetrate. And it hurt her to think he might dislike her. She stared at the food for a long time before she finally whispered, "I'm sorry."

She could feel his stare.

"What?"

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong."

He sighed, then said, "You did nothing wrong."

She glanced up, not understanding his mood, searching for answers. "Do your wounds pain you?"

"My wounds?" He frowned as if he had forgotten about them. "No."

She plucked at the grass and asked, "Why are you so angry."

He looked uncomfortable and raised the wineskin and squeezed a spigot of wine into his mouth. He swallowed, then looked at her again.

She was still waiting for his answer.

"Eat," was all he said.

She didn't eat.

He took a deep breath, then shook his head. When he looked at her again there was at last a small glimmer of kindness in his expression. "I'm not angry with you," he said in that same gentle voice he'd used in the tavern. "I'm . . ." he paused as if he were trying to make a decision, then he said, "I have things on my mind."

At least she had an answer of sorts and she felt better knowing she had not angered him. They ate in a companionable silence. He even ate honeyed figs and some meat after she had offered it to him three more times.

He swallowed a fig and picked up the wineskin. He leaned down from the rock and handed it to her. "Here."

She took the wine, sensing that it was an offering of peace and knowing that he would not explain himself to her. He sat on that rock, one leg drawn up, resting his weight on one tightly muscled arm.

The small cross on his earring swung a little as a small breath of cool wind flew by them. His face was shorn of feeling, rigid as that rock he sat upon, and yet there was a sense of depth to this man, a vast and complex mixture of distance, hardness, and kindness all together. His thoughts were as unknown as the identity of the black knight, but she could sense his isolation. Odd how it drew her, how it called out to that natural and fey part of her that could befriend God's wild and precious beasts.

He needed time and to be left alone. She understood that. With a small sigh, she distractedly raised the wineskin high above her face as he had done and squeezed.

Wine shot onto her forehead. She burst out laughing, knowing what a fool she must look. Her reward was to see amusement in his expression. But no smile. For some reason she knew not why, she needed to see this man smile. He looked as if he desperately needed some laughter in his life. She tried to drink again and came closer to her target. This time, she hit her ear. "How did you do that?"

"Experience," he said. "Years of experience."

She was determined to do this. She tried again. And hit her chin. She laughingly swiped at the drips of wine, then licked the wine from her fingers.

His amusement drained away. He was still as stone. The look he gave her was filled with an intense hunger.

Frowning, she set the skin aside. "Do you want some grapes?" He said nothing. He stared at her mouth, so she wiped it again. She held out the wedge of cheese. "Cheese?"

He didn't move.

"Wine," she asked hopefully.

His answer was to stand up suddenly. "I need to water the horses." Then he gathered the leads and disappeared into the forest behind their camp.

‘Twas some time before William came back. He had stayed away until his blood had cooled. But he'd had to wade into the stream to cool it. Water dripped from his chausses onto the ground and his hair was soaked and stuck to his neck. He didn't care. He reached up to tie the leads to a nearby tree.