The Wolfe (39 page)

“Sir William.” her voice snapped him
out of his train of thought. When he looked at her she smiled and pointed to
two bolts of material. “Will ye see that these are taken to my rooms?”

“Aye, my lady,” he looked over his
shoulder and, seeing two of his soldiers nearby, let out a shrill whistle from
his teeth and motioned them over.

The material en route to her
chambers, they resumed their walk back to the inner bailey. Ahead of them, they
saw Deinwald; he tunic-less torso gleaming magnificently under the late morning
sun. He was leading William’s destrier to the blacksmith’s lean-to. He did not
see William or Jordan as they walked behind him.

Jordan watched the back of his
shaggy blond head. “Ooch, he’s the worst,” she said. “He will probably punch me
in the nose for getting him in trouble.”

William watched Deinwald, knowing
the man’s thoughts on Lady Jordan far better than she did and punching her in
the nose was the last thing on his mind. He ignored her statement because she
knew full well his knights brought their punishment on themselves, as he had
told her before.

“His backside and my destrier’ s
look quite alike, don’t you think?” he remarked.

She burst into giggles and playfully
slapped his arm. He tried to maintain a stoic face, but in faith, he liked to
hear her laugh.

“They sway the same way, too.” His
right hand mimicked the sashay of the animal.

“Stop.” she snickered. “Poor
Deinwald, being compared to a horse.”

“Just a moment ago he was going to
punch you in the nose and now you defend him,” he shook his head. “Are you
always such a paradox, my lady?”

She shrugged lightly and smiled at
the ground. Then she stopped.

“Oh, look,” she bent down and picked
a small purple flower that was growing wild amidst all of the dust and muck. “A
violet,” she stood and half turned to him, holding it up. “My Aunt Lilith says
that…”

A high-pitched whistling interrupted
her statement a split second later than William did. He knew the sound all too
well but only had time to put his hands on her arms before she was hit in the
shoulder by a force so violent that she slammed into him, knocking him
off-balance. At the first horrified glance, William thought the arrow had hit
her in the back of the neck.

Jordan honestly wasn’t sure what had
happened.  All she knew was that the pain was unbelievable, radiating from her
shoulder down her back and into her arms. She tried to stand up straight, tried
to talk to him, but his arms were around her and he was yelling orders louder
than she ever thought it possible for a man to yell.

Her shoulder and arm felt wet and
warm and she realized it must be her own blood she felt. Her last coherent
thought before blissful darkness claimed her was,
Sweet Jesu’, another
Sassenach throwing boulders…?

William had Jordan up in his arms before
she even had a chance to go limp. Paris had practically jumped off the wall and
was at his side, along with Deinwald and nearly every other knight save Kieran
and Marc. But they were coming, William knew, for they had heard the battle
cry.

Paris held out his arms. “Give her
to me.” he demanded. “Let me take her into the castle.”

“No, Damnation.” William snarled. “I
will do it.”

Paris had taken care of quite a few
more battle wounds than William and was quite competent. He sent Corin for
Byron and tried again.

“William, she needs that arrow
removed immediately,” he said with controlled urgency. He did not like the look
in William’s eye. “Give her to me now.
Please
.”

William looked at him and Paris was
almost physically impacted by the pain he read in the depths. William was struggling
with fear such as he had never known. He was terrified that if he let go of Jordan
he would never see her alive again. But the terror lasted only a few short moments
until his years of training took over.

William knew Paris was more
experienced with battle injury. Rigidly controlling himself, the hardest thing
he ever had to do in his life was hand Jordan into Paris’ waiting arms.

Paris fled to the keep. William
resisted the urge to run after them as he turned to his men, now joined by the
rest of his knights. Around them, the courtyard was quickly becoming a chaotic
mass.

“The arrow must have come from the
north tower of the keep from the angle of it,” he said, his composure returning
quickly as he became the captain again and not the panicked lover. “Deinwald,
take some men and cover every inch of the northeast tower and the wings below it.
Kieran, Adam, Marc, to me. The rest of you with Deinwald.”

Broadswords were in hand as they
raced to the entrances that would lead into the keep. Once inside, they split up
and began a systematic search of the keep and adjoining turrets.

At least three dozen men-at-arms
joined them in their quest. Heavy boot falls echoed through the rooms and corridors
as they secured the four-storied keep room by room, nook by nook, leaving nothing
undone or unsearched. Even an unfortunate servant using the garderobe was rousted. 
Doors were thrown open and people were terrorized as the knights searched for a
killer.

With Deinwald in charge, it was a
loud and rough operation.  He was exceptionally efficient and possessed a
cunning and tactical mind, but his manner, as always, left something to be
desired. He scared more than one servant woman into tears and had Michael
corral everyone they came across so no one could escape interrogation.  As
William swept in from the west side of the keep, Deinwald swept in from the
east so they could bottle up any assassin hiding in, or fleeing from, the north
tower.

William was quieter and more
efficient in his investigation that Deinwald’s loud actions but he was by far
more brutal.  Not only did he have Kieran detain anyone they came across, but
he had the man bottle them up in a small windowless chamber that was usually
used for storage.  Worse, the room was completely dark, so those who were being
detained were existing in utter blackness.

There were reasons for his behavior,
of course. He had become unforgiving and cold, an efficient machine of a man
whose sole purpose was to discover who had injured Jordan. He was fairly
certain that if he discovered the unfortunate knave that he would run him
through before words of accusation could escape his lips.  With every step, he
was becoming more and more determined to kill first, talk later.  He didn’t
even want to know why they did it; already, he knew. And his punishment would
be swift.

At some point, they ended up on the
fourth level of the keep near the north tower.  Marc was on the third level
guarding William’s prisoners while Kieran and Adam were flanking William in his
search.  They could hear Deinwald nearby, yelling at someone, and they knew
their search was drawing to a close.  Whoever had done it must either be
trapped or in their custody.  There were only two rooms left at this level. 
They were closing in.

William threw open the door of the
first room, entering sword first.  It was a bedchamber, normally used by
guests, and he sent Kieran to the last unsearched chamber while he and Adam
tore the chamber a part. A wardrobe was ripped to shreds and still they found
nothing.  As they were preparing to upturn the bed, they heard Kieran’s shout
from the next room.

William and Adam raced next door. As
they neared the chamber entry, they could see Deinwald and Michael running at
them from the opposite direction. William was through the door first, spying
Kieran over near a second doorway that led to a small corridor between
chambers, normally used by servants.  As William approached, he could see that
Kieran was crouching beside a prone body.  He had a dagger in his hand.

William pointed at the corpse. “Who
is it?” he asked. “Did you do this?”

Kieran shook his head as he rolled a
man, dressed in the clothes of a man-at-arms, onto his back.

“He was dead when I found him with
this dagger stuck in his ribs,” he replied, holding the dirk aloft to show
William. Then he threw a thumb over his shoulder, back into the servant’s
passage.  “Someone had propped him up just inside the door and when I opened
it, he fell out.”

William surveyed the body, the room,
and the rather elegant dagger before returning his attention to the corpse. “I
do not recognize him. Do you?”

Kieran nodded. “I have seen him,” he
said, peeling the man’s tunic apart as he began to search him. “I do not know
his name.”

Deinwald eyed the corpse closely. “I
do,” he muttered after a moment. “His name is Scully. His brother was killed
last year in the same battle that nearly killed William.  This man was a
troublemaker.”

William glanced up at him. “Enough
to make an attempt on a Scotswoman’s life?”

Deinwald could only shrug.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Surely this does not surprise you, my lord. It could
have been this man, or another man, or any number of them. I fear this will not
be an isolated incident.”

Kieran, who had been searching the
dead man’s tunic and clothing, suddenly pulled forth a necklace from inside the
man’s undergarments. As he held it up, they could all see that it was a gold
necklace with large, rough-cut emeralds.  It was an exquisite piece and Kieran
looked at William, puzzled by the trinket.

“This is not the usual possession of
a soldier,” he commented.

William stared at the jewelry.
“Nay,” he said slowly, “it is not, but it is the possession of a woman of some
wealth.”

Kieran said what they all were
thinking. It was far too obvious. “A woman that perhaps does not want a new
step-mother?”

William looked at Kieran a  moment,
their gazes locking, before emitting a grunt of disgust and realization.

“Aye,” he muttered. “A woman like
that. I did not believe her capable of stooping to that level but I suppose
anything is possible. Pay a man enough, a man who recently lost his brother to
the Scots, and he will do her dirty work.”

Kieran handed William the necklace.
“What will you do?”

William stared at the very expensive
piece of adornment.  He didn’t have an answer.  Without another word, he turned
on his heel and left the room, leaving his men in stunned and repulsed silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jordan came out of her haze when
Paris laid her upon the bed. She could hear Jemma crying and struggled out of
her unconsciousness to reassure her cousin.

“Be still, my lady,” Paris’ voice
was soft but firm. You must lay still.”

“What had the bloody bastards done
to ye this time?” Jemma cried, rushing to the other side of the bed to better
see her cousin.

Paris grabbed Jemma’s arm and pulled
her away from the bed. When she opened her mouth to scream at him, he clamped
his hand over it. The look in his eyes frightened her.

“Be still, Jemma,” he growled. “If
you want to stay in this room then you must be still and quiet and do as I say.
Otherwise, I will physically remove you. I will not have you upsetting Jordan.
Do you understand?”

Something in his tone told her that
he would stand for absolutely nothing but blind obedience. She nodded once and
he removed his hand. Calmly, they both returned to the bed.

Jordan was wide awake, her right
hand touching the shaft that protruded from the top of her left shoulder.

“An arrow?” she gasped as she met
Paris’ gaze.

“Aye,” he took her hand away from
it. “I must remove it. Lady Jemma, will you find me all of the clean linen you
can get your lovely hands on, please?”

Jemma, her eyes wide with fright,
obeyed without a word. Paris took his dagger and tore away the material from
around the wound, baring her entire left shoulder, arm, and the top of her
breast. His expert fingers gently felt over it, his touch as soft as a baby’s
but Jordan whimpered anyway, frightened, as she closed her eyes and turned
away.

A lone tear trickled down her temple.
She was sickened by the arrow in her shoulder, crying from the shock of it more
than the pain.

Sympathy clutched at Paris’ heart.
It was a good thing William wasn’t in here, making his job more difficult than
it already was. He wondered angrily what in the hell was keeping Byron.

“Did you enjoy your walk this morn?”
he asked pleasantly, trying to get her mind off the object in her shoulder. “I
saw that you obtained some new material.”

Her eyes opened. She looked so pale
and fragile and lovely lying on the pillow. Tempting, too, but he chased that
thought away as quickly as it came.

“Aye,” her voice was shaking. “I was
going to have some new dresses made.”

Jemma dashed back into the room,
dumping a load of linen on the bottom of the bed. Paris glanced at it.

“Good,” he said to her calmly and
patiently. “Now go into the hall and see if you can see Byron coming.”