The Wolfe (19 page)

He glowered at her, torn between
being flattered that she had called him handsome and being furious that she had
insulted him. Deep down, he knew he had been less than chivalrous to her all
along. Because she was Scot he had treated her little better than an animal and
as someone who did not deserve his respect. He had convinced himself he hated
her in spite of her beautiful face and gentle manner and he had to continually
fight to maintain his level of hostility.

He had lost a brother and a father
to the Scots. His bitterness ran deep and this woman threatened him. He was
afraid that it was possible to actually like her and thereby dishonor his
family. He let the other knights know how disgusted he was with their behavior where
she was concerned, treating her with respect, when the truth of the matter was
that he found himself wanting to respond to her that way as well but his pride
prevented it.

Jordan waited a moment for her words
to sink in and see if there would be any reaction. Not receiving one except for
a menacing stare, she sighed and turned to William.

“‘Twas a waste of time, sire,” she
said apologetically. “He is as stubborn as an ox.”

William simply nodded and moved to
take her arm. He had tried to warn her off and she knew it, so there was
nothing more to say. It was late and she was tired and if Jason was going to be
a mule, then, so be it. She would not feel sorry for him anymore.

“Wait,” Jason said. It sounded as if
the word had been kicked out of him.

Jordan turned around eagerly but
William’s eyes glittered threateningly at his knight. He would stand for no
more insults.

Jason’s eyes went back and forth
between Jordan and his captain. He then visibly braced himself.

“You may…look,” he forced, and with
a glance at William added, “My lady.”

Jordan dare not smile; Jason might
think she were mocking him. Silently, she went to him and examined his face.
His eyes watched her intensely and she was taken back several months when she
had tended William’s considerable wound. He had stared at her in much the same
fashion, but she had been much more nervous. Where Jason’s eyes were
suspicious, William’s had been openly curious. The heat she felt from Jason’s
gaze was not the same heat she had felt from William’s. Jason did not trust her
and William had trusted her implicitly.

She raised her hand to touch him and
he flinched away from her, but she smiled as encouragingly as she could and
ever so slowly put her fingers on the sides of his nose and touched him as
lightly as she could. When he realized she wasn’t going to hurt him, he relaxed
heavily.

After probing his face for a few
minutes, she dropped her hands and met his questioning eyes.

“Well, yer nose is broken,” she said
frankly. “But I think the rest of yer face was spared any major damage. I shall
pack yer nose and bandage it so that it heals straight.”

She turned to look at William. “Where
can I find some clean linen?”

He gave her a long look before
moving from the tent. She thought she detected a hint of amusement in his gaze.
Puzzled, she turned back to Jason. “I shall fix ye good as new.”

Jason looked worried and raised a
timid hand to his face. “You are going to bandage my face?”

She laughed softly. “Dunna look so
worried,” she said. “Ye’ll be wearing yer helmet anyway so no one will see ye.”

He nodded reluctantly, still
touching his face.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Malcolm, Abner, Dougal and Tate
skulked to the perimeter of the English encampment without any trouble at all.
They took the time to case the entire camp, seeing where the guard was the weakest
and trying to determine just where The Wolf’s tent might be, it was agreed that
most likely Jordan would not be in a tent of her own, and furthermore probably
in his.

On the northeast perimeter, Abner
and Tate slit the throats of two soldiers and drug them into the forest. Abner
took one of the dead men’s daggers before leaving the bodies. The four men
dashed into the camp, staying low and diving for cover behind the first
available tent. There was little activity, being as close to dawn as it was.
Silently, they began to move for the larger of the tents situated in the middle
of the camp.

***

Jordan was sleeping soundly but William
was wide awake. He did not want to miss one minute of her softness and warmth in
his arms, wondering how in the hell he was going to sleep alone again after
this. ‘Twas a terrible thing to be infatuated with his lord’s future wife.

He sighed miserably and she stirred,
snuggling even closer in her sleep and making him all the more miserable. Her
head was a half an inch from his mouth and he dared boldly to kiss her hair softly.
He should not have done it, but he could not help himself. She was the sweetest
thing he had ever experienced.

Sir Ranulf Kluge stuck his head into
the tent. The oldest knight in William’s corps, he was thick and crusty and the
best trainer of men in the realm.

“My lord?” he called softly.

William bolted from the bed, going
to his knight. Jordan still slept limply, even with the jostling.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A moment, sire,” Ranulf beckoned
him outside.

Jordan was alone, unaware of the
mortal danger she was in. She slept even as the Scots skirted the edges of the
tent, looking for a gap large enough between the ground and the staked edges
that they could slip through. They wanted to make absolutely no noise or
commotion, anything that would attract attention. The entire operation had to
be noiseless and look as if one of the English had done it, and he would
conveniently leave the dead soldier’s dagger as mute testimony.

There was a breach large enough that
Tate could stick his head into. After a moment, he drew back excitedly and
motioned to the tent. They had their target.

Tate and Dougal went in first, being
the smallest. Malcolm followed, leaving Abner still outside.

The tent was dark except for the
fading brazier in the middle of the floor lay Jordan, covered with furs and
sleeping deeply. Malcolm took a deep breath, he did not want to slay her.
Mayhap if he only kidnapped her, the point would still mean the same. Without
Abner pushing him endlessly, Malcolm came to his own decision, he would take
Jordan now. They would decide what to do with her later. He simply could not
kill his own kin.

He pounced on her and she nearly
jumped through the roof. His hand over her mouth, sealing off her screams, he
put his face close to hers so that she would see who had her.

Jordan could not help but see who it
was. Her eyes opened wide with surprise and fear at the sight of her cousin’s
sweaty face. It never occurred to her that he had come to kill her, but she did
believe he had come to bring her home.

She did not want to go home. She
shook her head at him, her muffled cries managing to squeeze out from between
his closed fingers.

“Be quiet.” Malcolm hissed into her
ear. “Do ye want the whole of England to hear ye?”

She did, in fact, because she needed
help. She did not want to get Malcolm into trouble, but she could not comply
with his wishes.

Malcolm was hauled her to her feet as
she tripped over her bed robe, putting a dagger at her neck. Panic filled her
veins as she wondered why Malcolm had a knife at her throat and it began to
occur to her that Malcolm was not here to take her home. He was here to kill
her.

Malcolm… the black sheep of the family.
He had never fit in with the Scotts and he had never tried. He spent most of
his time away from the keep doing God only knew what and caused his parents
great grief. He was strange and volatile and she realized that he was going
against her father’s alliance with the English that he would do anything to
sabotage it. Yet with all of her panic, she had to get control of herself if
she was going to survive. She had to remain calm and not allow Malcolm to
suspect what was racing through her mind.

She put her shaky hand on his,
hoping he would think she was going with his plan and take his hand away. Tate
and Dougal, having taken a few of William’s possessions for keepsakes, began
backing out of the break in the tent. Malcolm began to move, too, and in his distraction
pulled his hand away from her mouth slightly.

It was all she needed.

“William.” she screamed at the top
of her lungs.

What happened next occurred with
blinding speed. Abner, hearing her scream, used his dagger to slit open the
entire side of the tent to create a quick exit for his men. William, several
feet away from his tent listening to Ranulf and Corin, moved faster than anyone
could ever remember seeing a mortal man move. He was into the tent like a dark
shadow, his huge fists dropping Dougal where he stood and grabbing Malcolm
around the neck in the same motion.

Malcolm released Jordan as William
fell on top of him. Abner, panic-stricken that The Wolf was only a few short
feet away and realizing that the entire camp was alerted now, took off at a
dead run. Corin tore after him, running as only a young man can, while Ranulf
felled Tate with a crushing blow to the jaw.

The warning horns went off all
around the camp and the soldiers were up and moving, ready to take on the army
of invaders they were sure were upon them.

Paris heard the horns and bolted
from bed. Jemma, alarmed, watched his face fearfully as he pulled on his boots
and strapped on his sword. He was grim and severe, not at all like the knight she
had come to know over the past couple of hours. He looked deadly. He turned to
her.

“Get up,” he said. “I shall not
leave you alone.”

Back in William’s tent, Jordan was
crying hysterically as William grappled with Malcolm. However, it took only a
few seconds for William to pound the man once in the temple and leave him passed
out on the floor. Swiftly, he rose and went to Jordan to see if she was
injured. To his astonishment, she threw herself at him and clung to him for
dear life.

“Are you all right?” he demanded
hoarsely.

Tears wetting her cheeks, Jordan
could only nod. Before she could speak, the tent flap flew open and the majority
of William’s knights were there, swords in hand and ready to do battle.

Brusque Ranulf took charge,
thrusting Dougal at Kieran and jerking Tate to his feet for Michael. Deinwald
went to stand over Malcolm, looking severely at the man.

“What in the hell happened?”
Deinwald demanded.

William looked at Jordan for an
explanation. She swallowed, struggling to calm her tears.

“That is my cousin, Malcolm,” she
said in a shaky voice. “He came to me and put a knife to my throat.”

“How in the hell did he get into the
camp?” William wondered, then jerked his head at Deinwald. “Better check the
posts, man, see who is missing.”

“Aye, My lord,” Deinwald was gone.

With the tent clearing and men on
the move, William returned is attention to Jordan.

“Why?” he asked. “Did he want to
kidnap you? Take you back to Langton?” Before she could answer, he turned back
to the other knights. “I would wager good money he had something to do with the
attack on us yesterday morn. Put those other bastards in irons. I shall deal
with them in a minute.”

“What about him?” Ranulf pointed to
semi-conscious Malcolm.

William’s face was like ice. “I
shall deal with him now.”

Ranulf and Marc hoisted Malcolm to
his knees, flanking the man with their swords in hand.

Paris entered the tent with Jemma
clutched in one hand. It took Jemma all of one second to see her brother on his
knees in the middle of the tent and she went mad.

“Malcolm.” she shrieked. “Sweet
Jesus, what in the name of hell are ye doing here?”

Paris looked confused but glared
dangerously at the figure on his knees. “Who is that?” he asked to anyone who
would answer him.

“My brother.” Jemma yelled.

“My cousin.” Jordan cried on her
heels.

Paris pointed to the man with his
sword. “Is this why the alarm sounded?”

“Aye,” William replied. “Better go
calm the troops. Might as well get them assembled, too. It’ll be dawn in an
hour or so.”

“Malcolm Scott, what in the bloody
hell are ye doing here?” Jemma demanded again.

Jordan was still crying. “I shall
tell ye, Jemma,” she sniffled. “He was going to kill me. He held a dirk at my
throat.”

Jemma’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
“Is that true, Malcolm?” she asked, outraged. “I shall kill ye myself, ye
little bastard. What goes on in your brainless head?”

William did not need Jemma’s anger.
He had quite enough of his own. “Take her out,” he told Paris.

Jemma protested loudly as Paris
literally carried her from the tent. He could feel Jordan shaking behind him
and turned to her, gently guiding her onto a stool.