Teresa Medeiros (13 page)

Colin crooked a finger at her and stretched out his other hand. She eased toward him, shaken to realize how quickly she’d come to rely on his muscular frame to shield her from disaster. Just as her fingertips brushed his, the rustling she’d dreaded erupted from behind her.

She froze, waiting for the arrow to tear through her spine.

“Unhand that fair maiden, you lusty rogue, or I’ll lop off your head and feed it to my hounds!”

Tabitha whirled around. At first she thought they were being accosted by the Tin Man from
The Wizard of Oz
. Then she realized the man who’d emerged from the bushes was garbed from jaw to toe in glistening chain mail. A flat-topped helm obscured his face and made his voice sound as if it was echoing out of the bottom of a tuna fish can.

Feminism be damned, she took an instinctive step behind Colin. He did not disappoint. Emitting another of those bone-chilling roars, he hurled himself across the clearing at the interloper. The two men crashed to the ground with a clamor that set her ears to ringing. Arms and legs locked, they rolled away from her, then back again until they were engaged in mortal combat practically at her feet. Her heart lodged in her throat when she realized the stranger was squeezing Colin’s naked back between his mail gauntlets.

Terrified the thug would snap Colin’s spine, she jerked off his fancy helm and began to tug hard at his ginger curls.

The stranger howled, his voice no longer muffled by the helm. “Sweet Christ, Colin, get your wench off me before she snatches me bald!”

As his words sank in, Tabitha realized that the grunts
she had mistaken for curses were actually laughter, the blows nothing more lethal than mock wrestling accompanied by welcoming thumps on the back.

She backed away, dusting hair from her hands, while the two men roared with laughter like drunken frat boys at a keg party.

“I fail to see the humor in the situation,” she said stiffly, trying not to notice how attractive Colin looked with his eyes crinkled by amusement instead of gloom. “I’ve been trained to defend myself, you know. I might have gouged out your friend’s eyes or kneed him in the groin.”

“That would have been a tragedy indeed,” Colin said, “Arjon prizes his groin even more than his hair.”

“ ’Tis because my groin shows no sign of receding,” the other man retorted, ruefully fingering his high forehead as he climbed to his feet. “Sir Arjon Flenoy, my lady.” He retrieved his helm and swept her a bow that made Brisbane’s flamboyance seem almost restrained. “At your humble and eternal service.”

“For a price,” Colin muttered, rising to brush himself off.

Arjon jerked a thumb at his friend. “Pay the Scot no heed, my lady. He quibbles because I choose to sell my sword while he barters his for mere salvation. My masters always pay while his …?” He lifted his shoulders in a Gallic shrug that made Tabitha homesick for her mother.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Unsure whether to curtsy or offer her hand, Tabitha did both.

Arjon brought her hand to his lips. “Where did a clod like Colin find such a beauteous Amazon?”

Before Tabitha could reply, Colin said, “I found her in Roger’s dungeon. Imprisoned without cause just as I was.”

Tabitha shot him a glance, wondering why he didn’t warn his friend that he believed her to be a common criminal. His amber eyes were unreadable.

“Has anyone ever told you what delectable teeth you have?” Arjon asked, showering moist kisses from her knuckles to her wrist.

“All the better to bite you with,” she retorted, retrieving her hand and wiping it on her pajama bottoms.

He arched a devilish eyebrow. “An intriguing possibility. Later perhaps?”

The seductive sparkle in the Norman knight’s sherry-brown eyes might have been more persuasive if he didn’t sound like Pepe Le Pew. Tabitha laughed, charmed despite his incorrigible flirting.

Colin’s scowl had returned in full force. “If you’re done drooling on the lady, Arjon, I had hoped to make Castle Raven by nightfall.”

The sparkle fled his friend’s eyes. “I was on my way there to prey upon your hospitality when Cuthbert sent word that you’d been taken. I went charging to your rescue, but deduced you’d escaped when I found the forest crawling with Brisbane’s men.” His brow crumpled in a puzzled frown. “I feared I was done for, but at dawn, a herald blew a signal and the rats went scurrying back to their master, every last one of them.”

Colin gazed in what Tabitha assumed was the general direction of England, squinting against the wind. “Roger probably just crawled back into his castle to lick his wounds. He always had a tendency to sulk when he’d been trounced. He’ll rally in a sennight or two.” Despite his confident words, Colin appeared troubled by Brisbane’s inexplicable retreat. He shook off his apprehension and clapped Arjon on the shoulder. “So you were rushing to rescue me, eh? You should guard your reputation with more care. ’Twould bode ill for your
purse if word got around that you were risking your neck for free.”

Arjon responded with a somber smile. “For you, my friend, I would risk all.” His smile brightened as he turned it on Tabitha. “I owe my life to this man. He dove sword first into a horde of slavering infidels to liberate me from their clutches. You should have seen him—roaring like a lion, his sword flashing in the sun like a Berserker’s blade. ’Twas a sight to drive the pagans to their knees.”

Colin rolled his eyes skyward. “Pay him no heed, my lady. Arjon tends to exaggerate my battle conquests almost as much as he exaggerates his romantic ones.”

Tabitha was torn between being impressed by Colin’s valor and shaken by yet another reminder of how casually he risked his life. “Perhaps Sir Colin is simply suffering from a martyr complex,” she said coolly.

Arjon frowned. “A martyr’s what?”

“A martyr complex. Some people who are plagued by feelings of guilt or unworthiness feel compelled to thrust themselves into life-threatening situations. They believe they can only prove their worth and redeem themselves by offering up the ultimate self-sacrifice—their life.”

Colin’s thunderous expression warned her that she had struck a raw nerve.

Arjon grinned. “Beauty
and
wit in a woman. ’Tis a dangerous combination, my friend.”

“Aye,” Colin said softly, his gaze lingering ever so briefly on her lips. “More dangerous than you know.”

The remainder of their journey passed surprisingly smoothly, accompanied by the music of Arjon’s chattering. Colin readily traded banter with his friend, but all Tabitha got from him was a few terse grunts. She
suspected he regretted confiding in her and was now trying to put distance between them.

It was easy enough since Arjon insisted she ride with him. His dappled gelding didn’t have the unpredictable temperament of Colin’s stallion. When Tabitha worried aloud that their combined weights might fatigue the horse, Flenoy scoffed that her dainty weight could surely be borne by a dragonfly. His observation earned them both a look of withering scorn from Colin.

Arjon’s gallantry, however, did not extend to Lucy. He broke into a fit of violent sneezing each time he looked at the little cat. Tabitha suspected allergies were not the cause. Her Uncle Sven also suffered from a fear of felines. To Colin’s chagrin, Lucy seemed perfectly content to bob along on his lap.

As the afternoon waned, the sunlight melted to gloom and mist began to creep out from the fern-shrouded hollows, dampening even Arjon’s merry spirits. Colin paused beneath the sheltering boughs of an elm to peel off the cloak and pass it to Arjon.

“How gallant of you,” Arjon exclaimed. “I was in dire fear of taking a chill.”

Colin glowered at him. “ ’Tis not for you, but for the woman.”

Lips pursed in a mock pout, Arjon handed Tabitha the cloak. Before she could thank Colin, he drove his horse up a stony crag, seemingly impervious to the tendrils of mist caressing his naked back.

Tabitha drew the cloak up over her hair. The masculine tang of leather and woodsmoke clung to the wool, warming her more than its sturdy weave. But as the spectral twilight deepened, even hugging the cloak tight around her couldn’t keep out the damp fog.

By the time they reached the peak of the hill, her teeth were chattering. Colin had dismounted and stood gazing
across a sweeping valley. Arjon drew the gelding alongside him, the last of his exuberance seeping out of him on a low whistle.

Needing to stretch her aching legs, Tabitha slid off the horse and squinted through the mist, picking out the shape of a blackened ruin on the opposite cliff. Perhaps Colin had given up all hope of reaching his castle by nightfall and decided they should seek shelter, however dubious, in that charred crypt.

When neither man showed any sign of breaking the pensive silence, she touched Colin’s shoulder. “Where are we?”

“Home,” he whispered hoarsely.

CHAPTER
11

C
astle Raven had been aptly named. The towering fortress perched on top of the jagged bluff like the nest of some mythical bird. Although it was twice as imposing in size, it looked nothing like the Disney palace Tabitha had envisioned. But then again, Sleeping Beauty’s dainty abode had never suffered Brisbane’s vengeful wrath. Its crenellated ramparts had never been shattered by massive rocks hurled from a catapult. Its delicate walls had never been licked by flame, nor had its iron-banded door ever splintered beneath the relentless blows of a battering ram.

As they rode through the gates of the meandering wall that encompassed both village and castle, Colin’s eyes mirrored the desolation surrounding them. Tabitha wondered how many times he must have dreamed of returning to this place in the past six years. He had probably expected to be welcomed by a flourish of trumpets and the delighted cries of his family, not the wind wailing a lament through the broken stone. She shivered at the melancholy sound, reminded of how very far she was from her own home and family.

Perversely enough, the mist had disappeared while they crossed the valley, blown on its journey by stubborn
gusts that scattered the clouds and tinted the sky with a mocking hint of sunset. The ruins of several wattle and daub huts huddled in the shadow of the wall that had failed to protect them. Their thatched roofs had been scorched bald by flaming arrows, their timbers cracked and battered. Nothing stirred in their wreckage.

“They’ve gone,” Colin said bluntly. “Nor can I blame them. There was naught left for them here. No shelter. No food. No laird. Only death.” His gaze swept the barren courtyard, lingering on the fresh graves that scarred the trampled grass. Tabitha wondered if one of them belonged to his father. His jaw hardened. “Roger didn’t even value the castle enough to seize it for his own. He simply wanted to destroy it because it was mine.”

“How could your God let such a thing happen?” Tabitha asked softly.

“ ’Twas the Church that was pledged to protect my property. Why should I blame God for the greed of a handful of priests who would prefer to grow fat on Roger’s bribes than fulfill their vows?”

“Let’s take our leave of this accursed place,” Arjon suggested, his nervous gaze darting over the carnage. “I know many a nobleman who would be willing to pay handsomely for a sword as bold as yours. We’ll have great adventures and bed scores of comely wenches—” He grunted in pain as Tabitha involuntarily dug her fingernails into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I thought I was falling.”

Leaving Lucy perched on his saddle, Colin slipped off the stallion and picked his way over the rubble. Arjon withdrew their horse to a respectful distance, allowing his friend to make peace with his past.

When Colin hesitated, frozen in a posture of waiting stillness that was almost painful to watch, Tabitha wondered
if he was seeing the castle as it must have been before he went crusading—a bustling, thriving community, ringing with laughter and song.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement. If Arjon hadn’t tensed, she might have thought she’d imagined it. But the flicker materialized into a tall, gaunt woman emerging from beneath a collapsed timber. A hollow-eyed child clung to her skirts.

The woman’s boldness seemed to act as a catalyst. Tabitha held her breath as other shadowy figures came creeping out from the ruins. Two. Three. Five. Ten. Sixteen. Thirty. A small army of women, children, and old men, dressed in rags, yet armored in pride, bowed but not beaten. At first Tabitha thought all the children were girls, but squinting revealed that many of them were boys. Hard-eyed, long-haired boys teetering on the brink of manhood, young enough to have been spared death, but not the devastation of its aftermath.

They were all so riveted by Colin’s abrupt appearance that they didn’t even seem to see Arjon’s horse standing in the shadow of the wall.

Colin stood deathly still as they drew near to him, as if he feared any sudden movement might send them scurrying back to their burrows.

The first woman stopped directly in front of him. Her little girl hung back, eyeing Colin with disturbing apathy.

“Is he a ghost?” a plump woman whispered.

“Don’t be a dunce, Iselda,” the tall woman replied, her tart voice warning that she had little tolerance for nonsense. “Of course, he’s a ghost.”