A Knight to Remember (11 page)

Dewey’s eyes bulged. “Then what happened?”

“I served the Scottish lord—Hamish Maxwell, by name—until I rendered him such service he let me go.” Hugh’s men shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, embarrassed for him that he had served such a lowly creature as a Scottish lord. Hugh didn’t care. To Dewey, he said, “That is why, to this day, I can speak Scottish, eat haggis, and sing every clan song from start to finish. ’Tis good to know your enemies, Dewey—never forget that.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Now,” Hugh said, “I smell meat roasting, and I’ve had too little of that this last moon. Would you bring me something to eat?”

Dewey jumped to his feet, chagrined that he’d had to be nudged into doing his duty. “As you wish, my lord. We’ve put together a wedding feast for you and your new lady.”

As the squire disappeared toward the fires set among the tents, Sir Lyndon said, “Too bad your new wife isn’t here to share in it.”

Hugh ignored his counselor and looked again to the woods. Had he made a mistake by letting her go? Would pride make her stay longer in the forest than was wise? She’d already demonstrated an overabundance of regard for the wisdom of her actions.

In sooth, he could depend on Wharton to watch over her.

“So the rumors are true.” Sir Philip combed his beard with his fingers. “You lived with the Scots. Are they truly the barbarians of legend, or are they nothing more than superb fighting men?”

Hugh grinned at Sir Philip’s choice of words. “Nothing more than superb fighting men,” he said. “Before you go into battle against them, have the priest give you last rites and pray you don’t need them.”

“I always do, my lord. I always do.”

Hugh studied Sir Philip. He was a quiet man, older, and at his age nothing could make him Hugh’s best fighting knight. He had lost his youthful quick reflexes and he had only one eye. Yet Sir Philip still lived, he still fought, and Hugh had come to treasure his thoughtful advice, both before and after battle. Hugh needed to raise Sir Philip’s status in the hierarchy of his knights, but for now he said only, “Where have the enemy retreated?”

Sir Philip opened his mouth, but Sir Lyndon hastened to reply first. “The barons who support Simon de Montfort scattered. De Montfort himself is in the area of his stronghold at Kenilworth. Most of the others have moved to the north. Richard remains close—he’s besieging Castle Juxon.”

“I told Juxon to strengthen his defenses. I hope he listened,” Hugh said dispassionately. The earl of Juxon was the kind of nobleman he most disliked. Juxon had been born with lands and through his own negligence allowed them to fall into ruin. He squawked loudly that the prince should protect him since he had remained loyal, yet he sent less than the minimum of knight service he owed while he lounged in his great hall impregnating his serving girls. Nay, he’d get no assistance from Hugh, who’d got his winnings the hard way.

“Easy pickings.” Sir Lyndon dismissed Castle
Juxon. “Richard is the most ruthless mercenary I’ve ever had the misfortune to face, and the earl—he’s a fool.”

“I’ll not argue with you there.” A movement at the edge of the forest brought Hugh to his feet. Wharton approached at a run, and Wharton wouldn’t run for less than an emergency.

Shoving Lyndon aside, Hugh met Wharton just outside the circle of his knights. Wharton panted in huge gasps, his great chest working like a bellows. “Master…master…they’ve got her.”

Hugh grew cold at the ragged note of panic in Wharton’s voice, and he wrapped his hands around Wharton’s arms. “Who’s got her?”

“Thieves. Rogues. Mercenaries. Got her. Took her. Headed south.”

Hugh dropped Wharton as if he were a cold-blooded snake. Captured? Edlyn was captured? Impossible! She was a woman under his protection, and he would never have failed so fully.

“Master.”

But he had. Fear exploded in his chest. His fingers tingled with it, his head swelled.

“Master.”

And rage—God’s glove, how he wanted to bellow his rage, to paw the ground and charge off after her.

“Master.”

Hugh looked down at Wharton.

“Ye may slit me throat fer failure, if ye wish.”

At the sight of Wharton’s bared neck, Hugh gained control. Bellowing, pawing the ground, giving vent to his emotions would accomplish nothing. His men all stood now, staring at Wharton and at him, prepared to go to battle on his command. They’d done it before, this sudden preparation to attack or defend, and they
all understood what Hugh would do, and their duty, without words.

As confidently as if emotion had never touched him, Hugh said, “Let’s go rescue my lady, then.”

They stirred into motion. Someone gave Wharton a drink and his stool while Dewey and Lyndon—usually it was Dewey and Wharton—brought Hugh his hauberk and weapons and prepared him for battle. Someone had gone to get his destrier, too, he knew, and the thought of settling into the saddle of that mad warhorse calmed him as nothing else could do.

But when they brought him his gentle traveling palfrey instead, he found the rage had not retreated so very far. In a tight, controlled voice, he asked, “What do you expect me to do with that?”

“Can’t ride a destrier where we’re goin’,” Wharton said. His breath had been restored, but he kept his message brief. “Anyway, we lost your Devlin during the battle.”

“Dead?” Hugh demanded.

“Aye, master.”

Another strike against the rebels. Devlin had been the best destrier he’d ever owned, and he wanted to catch the worms who had murdered his magnificent beast. But since he couldn’t, he would take out his ire on the men who had dared steal his wife.

His wife. His fists clenched. Edlyn.

As soon as Dewey had finished belting the sword around Hugh’s waist, Hugh said, “Follow me, then, for I’m going to rip the hearts out of these renegades with my bare hands, and their bloody carcasses will warn all men not to ever steal a woman for fear she is
my wife
.”

The fire flickered in the clearing, burning bright in spite of the mist of rain that had descended with the night. Hugh crept through the underbrush, climbed over boulders, every sense on the alert, and focused on that one light in the dense dark of the forest. There he would find his wife, and he feared for her fate with a deep and abiding fear.

Would he find her raped by an endless parade of men who valued women less than sheep? Would he find her beaten, taken to task for her unending impertinence, and treated to the taste of a man’s brutal fist?

Would he find her dead?

Around him he could hear his men moving with him, but he had instructed them to stay back until he had rescued Edlyn. He wanted a chance to shield her from the stares of his men—and if it was too late, he wanted the chance to kill each and every one of the mercenaries responsible for her death.

The clearing before him seemed unusually quiet for a camp of eight men. Wharton had reported that number, but a silence hung over the forest. Occasional moans sounded on the still air, and Hugh heard his men muttering as they reacted to the unearthly noises. These weren’t fairies. They weren’t anything he understood, but he didn’t care. He cared only about Edlyn.

Close to the clearing, Hugh parted the brush. Wiping the drips of water from his face, he surveyed the area. He couldn’t see any shapes moving close to the fire, yet the fire must have been tended recently or else it would have been smothered by the rain. The fire and the lack of visible targets made him even more uneasy. Had these men posted guards? Did the mercenaries know they were about to be attacked? And where was Edlyn?

Sweet mother of God, where was Edlyn?

The panic grew in him, dark and smothering.
He
had let her go.
He
had made the decision to allow her time to adjust to the idea of being his wife. If she were dead, it was his fault. No one’s but his.

Those lumps at the far side of the clearing must be the men, lurking in the shadows, waiting in anticipation of his attack. He would give them what they wanted. Steel rang as he unsheathed his sword. With a roar of fury, he leaped out of the woods and into the light. Holding his blade high, he raced toward the unmoving shapes. Behind him, he heard his men, surprised by his unforeseen charge, fumble with their weapons and tumble out of the bushes. He’d never done something so stupid, so unplanned, but he’d never been responsible for the death of his wife before. He’d never lost the woman he sought to save.

As he reached the shapes, he swung his sword, then almost jerked his arm out of its socket as he tried to pull back.

Stones. They were nothing but stones. The blade nicked one boulder. The force of the blow sent a shiver up his wrist, and he heard the snap as he put a notch in the fine steel.

He swore, a long string of French and English curses, and swung back to face the fire.

His men milled about, but no enemy remained here to face Hugh’s ire. Where were they? And where was Edlyn?

“They’ve moved on, I guess, master.” Wharton stood off to the side, well away from the reach of Hugh’s sword. “We’d best—”

A figure moved out of the shadow of the trees, and in unison every man there swung around and faced—

“Edlyn!” Hugh ran toward his wife, grasped her,
pulled her into him. He held his sword in one hand and kept her safe with the other.

She stood without swaying in his arms, patting him as if he were the one in need of comfort. He swung her toward the light of the fire and stared at her face. One long scratch marred the perfection of her cheek, and he wiped it with his thumb.

“A branch hit me,” she explained.

“Are you…ill?” He was a plain-spoken man, but he found himself unable to do more than stammer. “Did they…?”

“Nay.”

He lifted his sword. “I’ll kill them anyway.”

Calmly she freed herself. Her torn cotte had dark splotches along the hem, but the lacing at the sides seemed to be intact. Grasping his wrist, she extricated his sword and handed it to Wharton. “Not while you’re holding me, I pray you.”

“How did you escape their…?” Wharton asked. “Did you have to hurt…?”

Embarrassed, he faltered, and Hugh noted that even his hardened man-of-arms couldn’t speak of such intimate matters.

Edlyn tried to smile at Wharton and at the men who gathered around. “I made them sick,” she said.

“What?” Hugh sounded as stupid as he felt.

“I convinced them I’m a good cook—which I am, you know. I make quite a good stew and have a light touch with the…” Something she saw in his face must have warned her to stop chatting. “They grabbed me in the forest and took me with them. They’d been waiting for days for the woman they wanted, they said, and they were half-starving, poor things.”

“Poor things,” Hugh repeated.

“I told them I was the herbalist at the abbey, and
not the lady they wanted, but they wouldn’t let me go. They said they were under orders—”

A growl rumbled in Hugh’s chest and was echoed by his men.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what they said.” Speaking as quickly as she could, she said, “I convinced them we would ride better on full stomachs. So one of them snared a family of coneys and I wandered along and plucked herbs and berries, and when we got here and they were satisfied we weren’t being followed, they let me cook.”

Hugh tried to answer, but he couldn’t even form the words, so Wharton asked, “Is that how ye made them sick?”

“Aye, with elderberry bark and roots. Given in sufficient amounts, it causes a cramping of the gut followed by an uncontrollable release of the bowels.”

Wharton looked around at the woods that pressed close. “Are ye saying those scoundrels are out there squattin’ over a log?”

“Can’t you hear them groaning?”

Incredulous, Wharton asked, “Why didn’t ye come back t’ us?”

“I thought you would come to recover me, and if you hadn’t, I would have returned at first light. I didn’t trust myself to find my way back in the dark.” She turned to Hugh and rebuked him. “So you see, it’s not necessary to fight at every opportunity. Sometimes guile will suffice.”

Hugh couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d charged a tumble of boulders to rescue his woman—and she’d already saved herself. He’d been in a lather of fear, and she’d been waiting for him to arrive! Alone, she’d routed her attackers.

He looked around at his men; their gazes were
glued to Edlyn in blatant disbelief. He looked at Wharton, who stood scratching his head with one hand while holding Hugh’s sword in the other. And in a low, controlled tone, Hugh said, “Men, round up the knaves as they come in from the woods and take them to the constable. He’ll know what to do with them.”

“But they’re hungry,” Edlyn said as if that should excuse their villainy.

“Would you leave them free to capture some other poor woman and have them use her as they didn’t get to use you?” Hugh demanded.

She faltered.

“I wouldn’t worry about the fate of those men if I were you.” He jerked her close against him. “I’d worry about your fate—and my revenge.”

At the edge of the clearing, the noble knight sat on his horse and observed.

He was furious. Nothing,
nothing
had gone as planned. He’d patiently waited for her for a year. He’d had her watched from a distance. He’d been prepared to take her when the time was right—and instead he’d received a message from his men saying she had been wed.

And to his enemy! To Hugh de Florisoun! To the man who dared think he could take the place of his better.

He’d abandoned everything, all his schemes, and ridden as quickly as he could to the abbey, only to find rumors flying that the bride had been kidnapped.

By his own men. He’d laughed then, sure the devil himself was on his side.

But nay. Edlyn had defeated him, as she had
defeated him so many times before. She knew how he felt. This was a betrayal, nothing less.

He would have his revenge, and then he would have her—and Hugh de Florisoun would be driven to hell on the point of Edmund Pembridge’s sword.

Edlyn didn’t know
a lot about Hugh de Florisoun, but she knew that right now he was angry. He tromped her through the woods in the dark, in the rain, keeping her close and holding the branches away from her face as if he could heal the mark on her cheek with his care.

Yet he was so unyielding she thought a good wind would topple him. Could she lighten the atmosphere? Would a few words, spoken in a normal tone, lessen his displeasure? She could try. “Are we walking back to the abbey?” she asked.

“You’re not going back to the abbey tonight.”

He hadn’t answered her question, which was
how
they would be traveling, but he’d raised a lot of new ones. Yet his repressive tone made her hesitate, and while she did, he stopped and raised a hand to his mouth. An owl hooted, and if she hadn’t felt the vibration of his chest against her shoulder, she would never have realized the sound had originated from him.

Guiding her once more, he moved toward a clearing. She heard the stomp of horses’ hooves and their rumble as they blew a greeting, and a youth spoke right
beside them. “My lord, I heard your call. Did you recover her?”

“Aye, I have her.” Hugh’s arm tightened. “The men are rounding up the mercenaries, and I’m taking her back to camp.”

To camp. They were going to his camp. Edlyn tried to cheer herself. If she waited long enough, mayhap Hugh would answer every question in this roundabout manner.

The youth brought a palfrey forward, and Hugh released her long enough to vault into the saddle.

“Shall I give your lady my horse, my lord?” the youth asked.

“She’ll ride with me.” Hugh sounded gruff.

Well aware of the shape of the saddles, Edlyn tried to back up, but Hugh bent far down, picked her up with his hands under her armpits, and swung her in front of him.

She couldn’t help exclaiming, “You’ll hurt your back.”

The only answer she got was muffled laughter from the youth on the ground.

It wasn’t a good fit. She didn’t know what to do with her legs—astride? to the side?—so Hugh arranged her, lifting her and placing her as he wished. She ended up sideways across his body and held up so the saddle wouldn’t pinch.

The rain fell harder. The darkness loomed so thick she blinked and couldn’t tell the difference. One of Hugh’s arms lifted her bottom while his hand cushioned her from the thrust of the stiff leather. His other arm held her under her thighs. She wanted to ask who was guiding the horse, but his body moved as he controlled the palfrey with his knees. “Who trained this horse?” she asked.

“Sir Ramsden. He handled my horses.”

“He does so no longer?”

“He is dead in the last battle.”

His brevity convinced her of Hugh’s displeasure with her. So she supposed if she wanted to lighten his mood, she ought to ask him about that battle. Men loved to talk about battle. They belabored every slash of the sword and every arrow’s flight. And if they weren’t talking about a battle past, they could be coaxed to talk about a future battle, or even a legend about a battle.

Unfortunately, she’d already heard it all, and she didn’t care to hear Hugh’s stories. She’d sworn she would never again listen to battle tales, and marrying a warrior—sweet Mother, another warrior!—only reinforced her determination.

There had to be another way. “Can your poor horse carry us both?” It was a stupid question; obviously it could. It was.

He ignored her.

“Your arm must ache from the strain of holding me. Would you like me to walk?”

He stopped her almost before she tried to free herself. “Save your breath,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

She didn’t like that. What did he mean? Was he going to beat her? Hugh didn’t seem the type to beat a woman for being kidnapped and causing him trouble, but really, how much did she know about him?

Robin had hit her in anger when she’d complained about his tomcat habits. Her duke had hit her in frustration when he couldn’t get his manhood to function. Hugh was her husband now, and he’d spoken of revenge.

Lights shone through the trees. When they broke out of the forest, she saw the abbey ahead. He’d said
they weren’t going to the abbey, but…he turned the palfrey toward the stable.

Of course. He had to get his horse under cover. The stable boy came running out and held the palfrey’s head while Hugh eased Edlyn down. When her feet touched the mounting block, he dismounted himself and took her hand. Tossing a coin to the boy, he dragged her through the muck toward a community of tents. They hunkered down around a fire like fat maidens around a well, and Edlyn remembered seeing them in her flight into the woods. She’d been so upset she hadn’t paid attention to them or realized they housed Hugh’s men.

Another youth—the fire-tender, Edlyn guessed—stepped out of the shadows at their approach. “My lord, you found her! Is she well?”

Hugh ignored his query. “Put a light in my tent.”

“Aye, my lord.” The lad popped a quick bow and took off at a run.

Trying to reassure him, Edlyn called, “They didn’t hurt me.”

If Hugh had been a bear, he would have snarled. “He’ll hear the story soon enough.”

He moved toward the largest tent, a behemoth of felt and ropes. The youth walked through the front flap with a lighted candle and darted out empty-handed, and Hugh didn’t even thank him. She’d have to take his manners in hand…if he didn’t beat her.

Edlyn paused to take off her shoes before she entered the tent, but Hugh said, “There’s no delaying your fate, my lady,” and hustled her inside.

Her housewifely soul cringed at the marks his great boots made on the woven hemp rug.

The large room was spotless. Trunks lined the wall. A table held the lighted candle. A large pallet of skins
lay on the floor in the corner, the edge turned back in invitation…she jerked her attention away.

Obviously someone worked hard to keep the area tidy for the master. Pointing to the mud, she said, “That’s going to have to be cleaned up.”

He barely glanced down. “Not tonight. No one’s coming in here tonight.”

He turned to her, and for the first time she saw his face.

He
was
angry. He was so angry. “Let us get this out of the way now,” he said. “I captured your husband and sent him to London to be executed. ’Tis a piece of misfortune I was the commander to do so, but he was ripe for hanging. He took chances, Edlyn, that no knight should have taken.”

“I know.” She did know. Robin had thought himself invincible. He’d embraced danger much as he’d embraced women—indiscriminately and with great appetite.

“He almost threw himself into my clutches.”

“I believe you.”

He loomed over her so quickly she didn’t even have time to stumble back. “Then why did you run away?”

Would he understand? “Because you’re a warrior just like him.”

He
didn’t
understand. “I’m not just like him. I’m nothing like Robin of Jagger.”

“Except that you live for combat.”

“I don’t live for combat.”

“What would you do if you couldn’t fight? If you’d lost a leg or an eye and could never ride into battle again?”

He flinched. “That won’t happen.”

“Even now, after you were so badly wounded, you
still can’t wait to get back into the field, can you? Your hand itches to take up your sword. You could scarcely wait to attack those outlaws tonight!”

“Because they had you.” He wrapped his hands around her chin and lifted her head. “It doesn’t matter why you run or who takes you prisoner, I’ll always get you back and I’ll always take vengeance on those who hurt you. I’m sorry I captured your husband, but that’s nothing between you and me, so tell me you’re angry and let me soothe your ire, and then let us go on with our marriage.”

He was right. Capturing Robin had nothing to do with them, and she didn’t blame him for Robin’s death.

And she was right. He didn’t understand why she refused to lavish her love on him. “I’m not angry.”

He was so big, and he smiled at her widely. “For tonight, I’ll let you get away with that falsehood. Because—I am.” Turning to one of the trunks, he flung it open, gathered up an armful of different kinds of cloth, and placed them on the table. Lifting the tent flap, he stepped outside.

She stood in the middle of the tent and shivered and wrung her hands.
Would
he hurt her? She couldn’t contemplate the humiliation of going to the abbey and asking for help in bandaging her own wounds. Was there an escape from this trap?

A rush of fresh air alerted her to his return, and she looked at him with haunted eyes.

He was naked.

Huge and naked.

Ready and naked.

It wasn’t his anger she should be fearing. It was his passion.

Her head whirled as she tried to adjust. She’d been dreading him, but from what she could see, he was just
like any other man. He had nothing on his mind except a wedding night.

Well, not exactly like any other man. And not exactly on his mind. But she’d been married before. Why should she care? It was just an act, quickly over and pleasurable only to the man.

Her body tightened as she gazed at Hugh. He must have stood out in the rain, for all trace of mud had disappeared. The blond of his hair had turned dark with water, and moisture gathered on the sides of his face where his beard now showed one day’s growth. Drops of water clung to the light dusting of hair that covered his legs and his arms. They collected at the top of the arrow of hair on his chest and ran in rivulets past his navel down to…

Who was she kidding? She loved this part of marriage. It had been the only thing she’d missed—and she’d missed it for longer than she cared to remember.

“Take off your clothes.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a demand. His rough voice betrayed anger still, and she didn’t understand.

“My squire helped me undress. Shall I help you?”

He took two big steps forward and she stumbled back. “But you’re furious!”

“Aye.” She’d lost her wimple, so he went to work on her cotte, slipping the sleeves over her shoulders and letting the garment drop to the ground. “I almost got you killed today.” He stepped back and stared, then smiled. “You’re soaked all the way to the skin.”

She looked down. The white linen shift had been transparent before; now, plastered against her skin, it showed every curve, every dimple. Her nipples, puckered against the chill, thrust themselves toward him like two blushing wantons begging for attention. The cloth had just slipped between her thighs, and the
mound of brown hair struggled to free itself from entrapment. Independent of her volition, her whole body spoke, and too obviously he comprehended every message.

“’Twasn’t your fault I ran off.” She’d done better at other conversation gambits, but never under more pressure.

“I let you go.” Reaching out, he molded her breasts in his hands. His forefingers rubbed the highest point, creating a sweet friction. “You’re cold.”

“Nay.”

He chuckled, the first time she’d heard that common sound of mirth from him. “You’re shivering, and your lips are blue.”

Reaching down, he snagged the shift’s hem. With his fingertips on her skin, he raised the shift. His eyes blazed with fierce pleasure and that strange fury. He liked making her uncomfortable, he liked stripping her, and she shut her eyes to seal out the sight of his intrusion.

As if that helped. She knew his every movement. His touch alerted her as he skimmed her thigh, then her hip, her waist. As physical as his touch, his gaze sought out her bare parts and relished them, and she didn’t know now whether she shivered from cold or from embarrassment.

Suddenly with both his hands he stripped the shift off over her head. Her eyes sprang open as he cupped her breasts again.

“Look at them. They’re beautiful, and they’re
mine
.”

His possessiveness brought the sound of choked amusement to her lips. “So you said.”

Startled, he asked, “When?”

“When you were sick. You grabbed me and said, ‘Mine.’”

Tilting back his head, he laughed out loud. “Did I? Did I indeed?” The water was drying on his skin, each drop evaporated by his heat. “If you were going to run, you should have done it then.” He dropped to his knees in front of her.

She tried to scramble back. He caught her with one arm around her rear. In a soothing tone, he said, “I’m just going to take off your hose.”

Her hose. The only things left between her and…“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Aye, you can.”

He looked up at her, and she cursed the stupid impulse that had led her to reveal her anguish when he was kneeling at her feet. Pressing her legs together didn’t lessen her discomfiture, nor did staring out into space above his head. He was examining her, and he probably saw every flaw. After all, she wasn’t fifteen anymore.

Then he said the same thing, but with a totally different intonation. “You’re not fifteen anymore, are you? You’re not that scrawny little lass who used to follow me around. You’re a woman now.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say.

“Aye, you’re going to give me what I want. Call it a debt fair paid.”

He said that in a more businesslike manner, and she wondered how to get him back to that other, more worshipful tone.

He sat back on his heels. With both his hands behind her, he separated her legs, and before she realized his intentions, he tasted her.

“Hugh!” She shrieked his name as if she were calling on a saint. She tried to step back. He held her too closely and used her wild action to widen her stance.

“You taste just as I remember,” he said, looking up
at her but obviously not interested in meeting her eyes. “That night you gave me the fairy remedy.”

If anything, that appalled her more than his lascivious plans. “You remember—what do you remember?”

“The taste of you.” Again his tongue flicked out.

“You didn’t taste me!”

“I sucked some part of you.” He burrowed closer, using his lips to open her and his tongue to torment her.

“My fingers.” She gasped as pleasure tightened its grip on her.

He didn’t answer. He had found a place in her flesh that made her try to escape and get closer, both at the same time. And when her legs started shaking, he took his mouth away. He was done, thank the saints. If he hadn’t stopped, she would have humiliated herself by collapsing, by pulling him on top of her and begging. He’d given her a reprieve.