The Wolfe (6 page)

Thomas’ eyes narrowed at the
hostility in the man’s voice. “Of course she is.”

“Very well,” William said
authoritatively and spun on his heel, bellowing as he went. “Bring forth the
wagons.”

The bailey deteriorated into a
rolling mass of running, shouting people. Jordan’s father grabbed her arm and
the two of them hurried after the knight.

William reached his destrier and
plopped his helmet back on his head, much too forcefully. His shock at seeing
Jordan was getting the better of him. He held his hand out to her.

“The lady will ride with me,” he
said.

Jordan balked. “I can well ride, sir
knight, I have my own palfrey.”

He grasped the destrier’ s reins. “You
will ride with me.”

His tone was calm but left
absolutely no room for disobedience. Both Jordan and her father sensed it. Thomas
pulled his daughter into his arms, squeezing the breath from her. Hot tears
stung his eyes.

“Jordi-girl, I miss ye already,” he
whispered. “I love ye, lass. Always remember that, no matter what.”

Tears welled in Jordan’s eyes. “I
love ye, too, Dada,” she said softly. “Come see me. Soon, please?”

Thomas pulled back. “I will, I promise.”
He turned his hostile eyes to William. “Take good care of her, Wolf. She is the
reason we willna be meeting on the battlefield anymore.”

William’s visor was up, but he did
not return the hostile look. “I am well aware of that, Laird Scott,” he
replied. “And whether or not it means anything to you, I have pledged to
protect your daughter with my life. She will be safe, I assure you.”

Thomas did not want to outright
insult the English captain, especially when he held Jordan’s life in his hands,
so he gave a curt nod before giving his daughter a nudge in the knight’s direction.

Reluctantly, she turned to William.
When she saw those hazel eyes again, peering at her though the upturned visor,
all of the shock and astonishment she felt earlier seemed to creep up anew. Her
mouth went dry and she ran a pink tongue over her full lower lip.

“Very well, sir knight, I am ready,”
she informed him with a firm voice.

William reached down and picked her
up, setting her easily atop his massive horse. Without a word, he vaulted up
behind her and heard her grunt as his armor bumped into her soft body. Putting
a thick arm around her waist, he dug his heels into his horse and was gone from
the bailey with the other two knights close behind.

The last glimpse Jordan had of her
beloved castle was the huge gates whisking past, and then, they were out into
the countryside. She knew, at that moment, that her life would never again be
the same.

CHAPTER FIVE

Not a word was said between them.

 Since the moment Jordan mounted the
charger, she had kept as still and as quiet as she could, not even so much as
turning her head to look about her. She decided the best course was to be
silent and allow the captain to begin any and all conversations. Terrified, she
concentrated on keeping her head down and her eyes averted.

When they had joined the main body
of the army, she discovered there were six more knights in addition to the
three that were riding with her. Nine massive, deadly English knights. Jordan
had never been more frightened in her entire life, and even though she could
not see their faces, she knew they were watching her intently. Head lowered and
hair hanging down to cover her face, she wished for invisibility. Or at least
she hoped they would ignore her. She was terrified that if someone spoke to
her, she would faint dead away.

They rode south at a rather
leisurely pace until the sun was high above before stopping to rest. Jordan
knew it was for her benefit and was very grateful. Her back was killing her
from sitting so stiffly against the captain and her bottom was already sore.
When he lifted her down from the horse, her legs almost gave way from sheer disuse.

Some men began to break out bread
and jerky, but she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she wandered aimlessly to a small
stream, making doubly sure to keep away from the bulk of the English soldiers
who seemed to be eyeing her with unsavory flare. The way they stared at her
made her skin crawl. She didn’t even know where the captain had gone, and she
felt very alone. Self-pity was growing.

The water was icy and refreshing and
she ran a finger in it absently, her mind far back at Langton. She wondered
what her family was doing at this moment; were they glad to be rid of her? She
wondered if they were laughing and celebrating happily to be rid of the
squeamish girl with no taste for battle. She pouted and slapped at the water, feeling
lonesome and sad and disoriented. But in the back of her mind, she knew that
all of her worries about her family were foolish; they loved her and were
terribly sad she was gone. So was she.

Above, birds twittered loudly in the
trees. She glanced up and saw a nest, knowing the birds were angry to have the
intrusion of humans. She clucked up at them and spoke soothing words, not
noticing until it was too late that there was a very large body next to her.

“Would you like some wine?” It was
the captain.

She went rigid. “Nay, thank ye.”

He sat the bladder down and pulled
off his gauntlets; he was already helmetless. Kneeling, which was no easy feat
in a suit of armor, he splashed cold water on his face and shook his head,
pelting her with droplets. She tried not to look at him, her stomach quivering
with nerves.

“Lady Jordan Scott, named for the
River Jordan,” he repeated her own words, spoken long ago. “I never thought to
see you again.”

So he did remember. She felt a jolt
of surprise and another jolt of fear. Mayhap he remembered the slip-shod job
she did in repair of his wound. Mayhap he also remembered the merciless pain of
the whisky burn. She wondered with rising panic if he were going to drown her
in the creek as punishment, although she knew her thoughts were daft.
She
was daft.

Yet…she had noticed he did not
limp. Mayhap her half-hearted repair was blessed by God and the leg had
recovered properly. Forcing herself to calm, there was only one way to find
out.

“Yer leg healed?”

He slapped the scarred thigh. “Good
as new, thanks to you,” he replied, then looked her fully in the face. She
returned his stare openly and he smiled at the astonishment he saw in her eyes.
“I did not think it possible, but you have actually grown more beautiful since
the last I saw you.”

A faint blush crept into her cheeks
and she choked on a swallow. “‘Twas dark that night, sir knight. ‘Twas
difficult to see much at all.”

“I could see you,” he insisted
softly. “Have you been well?”

She nodded curtly, her only answer.
She found herself looking away from his consuming gaze, staring down at the
bubbling water.

“I was surprised to see ye,” she
said after a moment. “Yer wound was so terrible I was sure ye were to die from
it.”

“Nay, my lady, I did indeed survive,”
he replied, “but I am sure I would not have had you not come to my aid. I owe
you my life.”

She shook her head nervously. “All I
did was stitch ye up and leave ye there to die. I dinna do much at all.”

“‘Twas enough,” he said. “And I
shall be forever grateful to you. Thank you.”

She was blushing furiously by now,
much to her horror.
Sweet Jesu’
, what an effect this man had on her.
Never in her life had she met anyone who could make her feel like melting with
a word or a glance. Her fear was abating quickly.

“Ye lied to me,” she blurted after a
moment, shifting the subject away from her.

He looked concerned. “When did I do
this disgraceful thing?”

“Back on the battlefield after I
sewed yer wound,” she said. “I asked ye if ye were The Wolf and ye told me no.”

He looked thoughtful. “As I recall,
I told you my name was de Wolfe, not
The Wolf
. I never actually lied.”

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “A
technicality, sir knight. Ye should never lie to a lady.”

He nodded his head as if admitting
his error. “There was no point in frightening you even more than you already
were. I saw no harm in evading your question.”

She had to admit she agreed with his
reasoning. Lowering her lashes, she glanced down at the stream again. “When did
ye recognize me?” she asked.

He rose to his full height. “When I
first laid eyes on you,” he said. “There is no mistaking your face, my lady.
‘Tis the most beautiful face in all Scotland and England.”

She smiled and looked away,
embarrassed to the hilt. To be truthful, William was embarrassed, too. He was
gushing like a smitten boy, not at all within his character.

“I am being too bold, my lady,” he
said softly. “Forgive me.”

She simply nodded, not knowing how
to respond to him. His manner made her feel extremely comfortable and her
terror was gone, although it was replaced by a new sort of nervousness that
made her cheeks grow warm. In a struggle to change the subject, she again took
note of the armor that had so impressed her.

“Does yer sword have a name, sir
knight?” she asked. “I have heard that all Sassenach knights name their swords.”

He glanced at his blade, strapped to
his waist and thigh. “I gave it a name, once, in my youth. I called it mighty
Jupiter. But I have not used that name in years. Now I simply call it Friend.”

She nodded, repressing an urge to
comment about The Wolf’s reputation for swordsmanship. “My Da has read to us
the story of the Anglos and the Saxons,” she said. “I know that Charlemagne’s
sword was named Joyosa and that good king Arthur bore Excaliber.”

He inclined his head. “That is
correct. I am surprised your father saw it fit to read to you the legends of
the English. Up ahead, at Carter Bar, is where the line is drawn between the
Celts and the Norman-angles.”

She looked at him. “I know. ‘Tis why
I am here.”

He found himself studying her face,
ingraining her features into his brain for future reference when he needed
something pleasant to think on. He hoped he had not offended her by his last
remark.

“You seem to know a bit about
knights, my lady,” he commented.

She smiled shyly and looked away. “Just
what my Da tells me. He used to be a good soldier when he was younger. Now he
is content to command from afar.” She suddenly became distant. “He keeps his
armor, his mail and plates, everything, hung in a closet. His manservant still
polishes it regularly, as if someday he will be called into service again. But
it just sits, alongside his mighty sword.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I was
under the impression that your father was an active commander in battles.”

“He is active, but he doesna lead
his men as he should,” she said. “He lets Uncle Nathaniel and Uncle Matthew do
that. He commands the entire battle from the rear.”

William had fought the man many
times and hadn’t known that. “Why?” he found himself asking.

“‘Twas a promise he made to my
mother on her deathbed.” She looked at him, her eyes soft. “He promised her he
would never again lead an army into battle so I would have less of a chance of
becoming an orphan. I was their only child, ye see. It nearly killed my Da to
make that promise, but he did to please my mother. My uncles said he was the
best swordsman they had ever seen.”

William didn’t reply, puzzled and
strangely touched by the story Jordan seemed distant a moment longer before
suddenly smiling, as if forcing herself from the subject.

“I am glad ye did not acknowledge ye
knew me in front of my kin,” she said. “My Da would have become suspicious and
run me through for sure.”

“For what?” he demanded.

“For consorting with the enemy.” she
insisted. “If my Da even suspected that I had ever tended an English wounded,
then he would brand me traitor and kill me.”

William pulled his gauntlets on. “Nay,
he would not have,” he said. “I have pledged my life to protect you, Lady
Jordan, be it at Langton or at Northwood. Your father would not have laid a
hand on you.”

The chivalrous declaration flattered
her. When he extended a gloved hand to her, she accepted and he pulled her
effortlessly to her feet. Their eyes locked and Jordan felt volcanic emotions
swirling between them. The feelings were so intense that her arms tingled
painfully in response and she had no idea what she was feeling or why her whole
body ached when he had simply touched her hand. It was disarming but not at all
unpleasant, and she wondered if he had felt it, too.

She was embarrassed for feeling that
way from the touch of an English knight. She should be insulting him, cursing
him at the very least for being her enemy, but instead she was letting him
touch her… and she was liking it. What an unworthy Scot she was.