Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (19 page)

Nearly perfect. With her finger she traced the remnants of the mark Martin Scarlet had left on him. It would lend a permanent scar, but that made him no less desirable in her sight.

His eyes flew open at her touch and met hers; in them she saw all she ever wished, for this moment and every moment to come.

“I already want you again,” she confessed. “But not yet. I need to make this time last. Talk to me, my love.”

Instead, he kissed her cheek and let his lips trail to her mouth. Heat followed in their wake and quickened desire close after.

Linnet marveled at herself. Never had she dreamed of feeling such fierce, consuming emotion toward any man.

How long have we?
He asked her mind, his lips still otherwise engaged.
When will the spell fade?

It is not so much a spell as a gift. Sherwood wants you here, nearly as much as I.

Why?

That I cannot tell.

If Sherwood demanded my life in return for these moments, the price would not be too high
.

He moved his mouth to her breast, naked, ripe, and warm in the summer air. She felt ripe withal, ready for something she could not even fathom. But she laughed unsteadily and caught his face between her hands.

“Wait, Gareth de Vavasour. I would know you.”

Wicked light invaded his silver eyes. “I believe you just did—once again. Beautiful Linnet, you look like a goddess lying there, all part of the forest, your hair the color of those branches, and your eyes... By heaven, they are the most beautiful I have ever seen. I could sing a song of them, could I but sing.”

“You can. I hear you singing when you touch me.”

“You are the only song I will ever sing in all my life.” His voice broke. “Let me love you again.”

Aye, and he was up and ready for it, yet Linnet needed something else almost as urgently. “I would learn of you first, Gareth. I would understand the man I hold in my arms, and in my heart.”

His body stilled, though she could still feel his thoughts running. “What would you learn?”

“All,” she replied simply. She wanted to own him, to discover what it was that made Sherwood welcome him even as she did. “I have already felt much about you, your gentleness and the kindness that lies beneath your strength. But what made you the man you are?”

He eased down onto the moss and raised one arm to cover his eyes. Aye, and it hurt him to speak of his past, that much she could feel. An unhappy childhood?

“My father was a harsh man. Brother to Robert de Vavasour, he was very like him—cold and demanding, very sure of his place in this world. He took my mother to wife when she was little more than a child. The match bonded two great holdings, but she was little to his liking, a fey creature with a full measure of Celtic blood. She tried to suit him and to give him the heirs he desired, but after my brother, sister, and I were born, there were only stillbirths—one following another.”

Gareth drew a breath. “Any sensible man who cared one jot for his wife would have left it there. Not Maurice de Vavasour. He destroyed her, body and soul. After the last miscarriage, when I was only nine, she bled to death.”

“You loved her very much.” Linnet could feel that. Did this account for the vein of gentleness inside him, as well as the vast gulf of pain?

“I did. She carried beauty with her—somewhat the way you do. She used to sing songs and tell me tales of heroes and dragons and beautiful, magical lands over the water. All that died even before she did. He killed it with his cruelty.”

“And was he cruel to you, also?”

“Stern, he would have called it. The trouble was he had but two sons—and worse, a daughter—when he would have preferred ten. And as he despised my mother, he came to despise me. He could not wait to send me away to his companion at arms, Albert de Breese, for training.”

Perhaps better for the young man-child, Linnet reflected. “And was your foster father kind?”

Gareth laughed wryly. “No one could accuse Albert de Breese of kindness. But he was fair, and one way or another he saw me raised and trained.”

He uncovered his eyes and gazed into Linnet’s face again. “But such training costs money, and after my father died, Robert de Vavasour picked up the cost. He considers me under obligation to him, virtually in thrall.”

She stirred and stretched her body against his, flesh to flesh. “You could throw all that over, break free of him. Come here to Sherwood and to me.”

Desire flared in his eyes. “You think I do not want to? I confess, I have thought on it, though I doubt it would be much to your friend Falcon’s liking. Be certain there is nothing I would not do for you. Yet you are engaged in a dangerous and unequal fight. What makes you think you can win?”

“Quite simply, we refuse to do otherwise. Back before I was born, my mother went to Nottingham Castle and sued for justice from King John. That was after he had signed the great charter to appease his barons. She challenged him with the notion that the same law should be afforded all Englishmen, Norman and Saxon alike.”

“And she got away out of it with her life?”

“Only just. Any hope of achieving such justice was lost when King John died that next autumn—shat himself to death, as Martin Scarlet always said.”

“Aye, a flux taken during a campaign, was it not?”

“Those here in Sherwood hoped for a better reign under Henry. But it goes on as it did. The King and his nobles see us only as beasts of burden, and a source of revenue. Yet we fight for our identities. We fight for what lies here in Sherwood.”

“It is a worthwhile fight.” He touched her face almost reverently. “And that is why I cannot stay here with you, my love, but must return to Nottingham.”

Protest rose within her. “Nay.”

“Only consider, love—I am in a singular place to help you, close enough to my uncle to hear of his plans, and privileged enough to move about at will. I can warn you of his intentions, just as I did this time. I might even find ways to interfere with them. I am able to send you word in a way no one else can.”

“Aye.” Yet Linnet’s whole being protested it. She now knew how desperately she wanted him here, not at some distance, even if he could whisper to her mind.

“Let me serve you as best I may.” He kissed her again softly, a gesture of devotion. “But for that you will need to trust that I do serve you, only you. Can you?”

Could she? The scope for betrayal was wide. Yet could she fail to trust him when they had bonded so completely? Trusting him could cost all she held dear. Refusing to trust him would push away her very life’s blood.

She gazed into his eyes and caught her breath at what she saw there. For better or worse, she must follow her heart. “I trust you,” she breathed into him. “Now love me—well enough to make it last. Love me again.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“It gratifies me, Nephew, to see you beginning to prove worth your keep. You conducted yourself bravely in giving chase to those wolfsheads in the forest last month, and now you make good progress with training these young whelps.”

Robert de Vavasour meted out the words harshly. Stingy praise, yet Gareth felt a flash of satisfaction—not because he sought his uncle’s approval, never that, but because Gareth had been working so hard to allay any suspicion and garner the man’s trust.

And it seemed to be working. His uncle believed he had disappeared into the forest during the abortive battle at Oakham, some three weeks ago, merely in order to pursue those villagers who had fired upon them. In Gareth’s absence, the remnants of the troop, including Monteith and de Vavasour himself, won their way to the road, as the villagers fell back. It cost them two more men, and by no means could the venture be considered a victory, but they had made it out of Sherwood alive. Gareth rejoined them at Nottingham after leaving Linnet, fully prepared to make an excuse about losing his way in the forest. But his uncle had clearly been ready to give him credit for helping put their attackers to flight.

Far more likely, Gareth thought ruefully now, Falcon, Lark, and their companions had merely run out of arrows. God knows, they had fired enough of them.

He stole a look at his uncle, standing in the sun at the edge of the practice field where Gareth was busy drilling the younger men. Since that day in the forest, Gareth had done everything he could to keep his promise to Linnet, though he ached to be with her and though his hatred for his uncle had grown into a terrible thing. It was fortunate Robert could not hear his thoughts as Linnet could.

Robert ran a discerning eye over the youths who sparred with sword and shield. The field lay in the open, and the day was a rare, warm one. Gareth, like the lads, had stripped down to his leggings, and he glistened with sweat. But the work felt good and served to distract him from the constant ache that occupied his heart and mind.

“They are coming along well,” he answered, keeping all emotion from his voice. “One or two may make something of themselves, if they put in the effort.”

“I am glad you learned something up north and that the coin I traded de Breese for your training has reaped at least a meager return.”

Gareth nodded. He knew he must play the part of the dutiful young relation well enough to seduce his uncle into sharing any plans or information Linnet might need to know. Gareth despised Robert right well but dared not underestimate his intelligence. Like Gareth’s father, the man was equal parts sharp wit, anger, and suspicion.

Gareth was well aware that Robert watched him, as he watched everyone. He had failed to include Gareth in the last two raids made on Saxon villages, and he must know Gareth had not been near Sherwood; Gareth had been busy keeping his head down and applying himself as bidden. Robert had no way of telling who had sent warnings ahead to those villagers—or how.

He said to his uncle, as if it were all that concerned him, “We shall be ready for the display at Lammastide, and do you proud.”

Robert de Vavasour grunted and turned his gaze on Gareth. “See that you do. We have had word that Henry’s agents, and perhaps the King himself, may be traveling north then.” His lips twisted in a sour grimace. “To be sure, he will be after the quarter’s taxes, which we hunt even now about the villages.”

Gareth said nothing and let his attention rest on the lads still at work, as if they alone concerned him. “Aye, Uncle. How goes the hunt?”

“We burn another village at dawn tomorrow, and will keep doing until someone tells what he knows. I am sending a full troop, this time, with instructions to take prisoners. Torture may well loosen their tongues.”

“You wish for me to accompany them?”

Robert fixed him with a cold, gray stare. Gareth met his gaze blandly, striving mightily to discern whether his uncle harbored any lingering suspicions towards him, above what he held toward everyone.

“Nay,” Robert said, hard-bitten. “You keep to your work here.”

“I will,” Gareth returned. “Indeed, and I had given some thought to the display, and have an idea to propose that might raise an expectation here in Nottingham, both with the nobles and the peasantry.”

Robert lifted an eyebrow. Gareth had learned he did not particularly appreciate initiative among his underlings. “An idea?”

“Something to motivate the lads as well as elevate your reputation—a contest, I thought, one such as my foster father held in York. Men combat against one another until there is but one ultimate champion.”

The raised eyebrow quivered. “Are these lads ready for that?”

“I believe they are ready to compete amongst themselves. I further propose a similar contest among your knights, the winner to be declared Champion of Nottingham.”

“Aye, Nephew, and would you think to participate in this contest?”

“I would hope to, my lord. I did take that title in a similar contest among Lord de Breese’s men.”

Rare approval flashed in Robert de Vavasour’s eyes. His hand descended on Gareth’s bare shoulder, more blow than mark of favor. Gareth tried not to flinch outwardly, remembering countless blows from his father’s hand.

“It would be a feather in your cap, could you take such a title here, and would go far to elevate your position. Such a contest, would it be fought in the lists, or with the sword?”

“The sword, even as you see these lads at practice now—arm to arm and man to man, my lord. One does not fight peasant rabble in the lists.”

“Do it.” Robert’s fingers clenched hard and fell away. “But make sure you can achieve the title, Nephew. Do not embarrass me.”

“Aye, my lord, I shall do my best.”

Spite glittered in Robert’s cold eyes. “I have not been much impressed with your best so far—you will have to do better than that.”

****

Dawn tomorrow, my love, another village burns. He did not say where. He does not yet trust me completely.

Linnet’s distress fluttered in Gareth’s mind. He sat atop the north tower of the castle as night came down, gazing toward the distant forest as if that could bring her closer. He found this a delicate, aching business, contacting her with his mind. He delighted in the wonder of it and at the same time longed so to be with her, to see and touch her, he had to summon all his endurance.

Soon there will be no villages left to burn.
She nearly wept.
Would he drive all the folk into Sherwood, young and old, hale and sick?

Across the distance, Gareth felt her worry and weariness as if they were his own.
He still hunts the monies taken from the King’s coffers. It is saving face that matters to him.

Those riches were spread among our needy, long since. The Sheriff will not have it back no matter how long he searches.

’Twill not keep him from trying. The King’s agent comes soon, and my uncle will not want to admit his failures then.

Thank you for the warning. I will send word at once. Falcon will organize messengers and send them to every village that still stands.

Falcon again. Emotion blazed inside Gareth; to his dismay, he recognized it as jealousy. And if he felt it, so must Linnet, linked with his heart and mind.