The Wolfe (7 page)

Once again, she mounted the gigantic
horse and tried to get comfortable with her sore bottom. William bellowed for
his squire and began dropping pieces of armor faster than the boy could pick
them up. Jordan watched him curiously. When he was finished, he was armorless
from the waist up, wearing only a padded linen tunic.

He glanced up at her, rolling up the
sleeves. She detected no warmth, no friendliness in his gaze and wondered what
she had done that had made his behavior change so abruptly since leaving the
stream. He seemed cold and distant again, as he had back at Langton.

He mounted the horse behind her and
she closed her eyes for a brief moment at the sensual shock of being pulled up
against his massive chest. Without the armor, he was infinitely more
comfortable but to have him so intimately close flustered her. She should
demand that he put his armor back on, but she just could not seem to form the
words.

“I thought you might be more
comfortable without all of that armor crowding you,” he said quietly into her
ear.

She nodded shortly, puzzled. The
silky voice and the hard gaze she had just met a moment ago did not match. Was
this man always so confusing?

The caravan moved on, Jordan resting
against William’s muscular body. The heat he radiated coupled with the rhythmic
sway of the horse drew at her and she found that she was completely exhausted.
But she fought the sleep that tried to claim her, fearful that if she were to
sleep, somehow she would find herself in the clutches of an English soldier
with evil on her mind. Even though William had pledged to protect her, how
could she be sure? She didn’t know the man, his mind or his convictions. For
all that she knew, she should be trying to protect herself from him.

She tried to sit forward a little,
putting a minuscule amount of space between William’s body and her own. A
minimum safe distance. Yet between the movement of the horse and her own
weariness, she soon found herself resting against him once again.

Sweet Jesu’
, but she felt
content when she was pressed to him. It was an indescribable feeling of
pleasure and satisfaction such as she had never experience before. Although she
was still denying it, her instincts told her that William’s pledge was honorable
and true, and that he was a man of his word.

He said he would die for her.
Somehow, she believed him, although she didn’t want to. She somehow knew that
she could sleep completely in his arms and that nothing at all would harm her.

It was so queer, this trust she felt
with him. Strange and wonderful and the same time. All she had was his word,
the word of an Englishman no less, that no harm would ever come to her. And she
believed him.

Darkly, she began to feel
traitorous. What had she told Jemma? That she would show the English what Scot
pride was? That she would make her family proud? Feeling the emotions that she
was for the captain was certainly no way to make her family proud.

But she was in a new world now, and
she had to do what she had to do to survive in it. If no one but her knew what
she was feeling, then no one would suspect that she was a weak, silly woman whose
weak, silly emotions could rule her head. Only she would know her shame. The shame
in actually not hating an Englishman.

For the moment, she had stopped fighting
and fearing it wasn’t long before he felt her relax completely and her
breathing grew steady. He shifted her so that she lay across him, her head
nestled against his massive bicep and her creamy breasts half-pressed into his
chest. She slept the dead-sleep of a child, her rosy lips parted mostly in
sleep.

As tumultuous as Jordan’s thoughts
were, Williams were worse. He gazed upon her for a moment impassively, as one
sees after a weaker and smaller being. He felt secretive, allowing himself to
drink in the beauty of the woman who had infatuated him for the better part of
a year. He still could not believe she was real; not one of his faded dreams,
and he found that holding her in his arms was one of the more pleasant experiences
of his life. Better than he had imagined.

One of William’s officers, a young
knight named Jason Grey, rode alongside. He could have almost been William’s
younger brother with his darkly handsome looks. His brown eyes raked
appreciatively over Jordan in his captain’s arms.

“A beauty, to be sure,” he commented
seductively.

William felt a strange sense of
possessiveness creep into his veins. Calmly, he glanced down at his burden.

“Aye,” he said evenly. “Jason, go to
the wagon and retrieve a cloak for my lady. It looks to rain.”

Jason reined his animal around and
dashed back along the column.

William let out a sigh of release.
He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. It occurred to him that
having his angel of mercy so near him was going to create a tremendous conflict
in his mind. He had to control himself where she was concerned, no matter what
kind of debt he felt to her. It was an unpaid debt he felt toward her, correct?
No more than that, he told himself. He felt obliged to protect this woman
because she had undoubtedly saved his life, and, because he had been ordered
to.

…right?

Uncertainty flooded him.
Good
God, man, is there more to this than you are allowing yourself to admit?
he
demanded of himself
. Impossible.
He had no use for a woman, Scot or English.
He had not the time, nor the desire.

But there was one thing that tugged
at him persistently; he had met this woman a mere two times in his life and she
had left an indelible mark on him as if she had burned her presence into his very
soul. No one had ever done that. Aye; he would admit that fact and that one
alone.

As William wrestled with confusion, Jason
brought back the matching cloak to the dress she wore. Between the two of them,
they managed to cover her quite nicely. William’s horse, smelling the fox lining,
snorted and danced at the strange scent. He clucked to the animal and spoke
softly to it, and soon the warhorse calmed.

“And what, pray, do you think the
old lord is going to do with her, my lord?” Jason barged into his thoughts.

“Marry her,” William replied,
uninterested in his knight’s innuendos.

“Of course, but what is he going to
do
with her?” Jason was taking delight in his perverse thoughts. “He is fifty
years old. She will surely kill him with her vigor.”

William glanced impassively at his
young subordinate. Jason was usually mildly amusing, but not today. He sighed
and looked away.

“I have no time for this, Jason,” he
said shortly. “Send Paris to me.”

Jason, puzzled at William’s curt
reply, nonetheless went obediently to find Paris.

Paris de Norville was William’s right
hand. Tall, well-built, with a sensuous face and a crown of well-kept blond
hair, he was immediately at his captain’s side.  He also knew William better
than anyone and could not recall ever seeing such an expression on the man’s
face.  As he reined his horse close, he scrutinized William.

“My lord is taking a personal
interest in this treasure?” He nodded his head in Jordan’s direction.

He ignored the comment. “How is it
with the men?”

Paris looked off into the
spring-green countryside. “Rumbles, grumbles, innuendos. All that sort, but for
the most part they do not seem to care much about her.”

William nodded, absorbing the
information. “Just the same, Paris, if I am not with her, you will be. I will
take no chances with her welfare.”

Paris nodded. “Agreed, my lord,” he
replied, looking over at the figure sleeping beneath the cloak. “She is damn
beautiful for a Scot, is she not? No wonder her father was so protective.”

William did not dare look at his
friend; Paris knew him far too well and he was afraid that the man would read
the mass confusion he was feeling.  Already, he could feel the man staring at
him.

“Aye,” he said simply.

The army continued until just after
dusk when William ordered a halt. Tents were pitched and fires started. They
were just inside the English border now and he was feeling a bit easier. His
mood was lighter as well. Tonight the men would dine on roast mutton.

Jordan awoke with a start when the
horse stopped. She hadn’t awoken the whole time William was barking orders and
he smiled at the humor of it.

“What’s wrong?” she gasped. “Where
am I?”

He held her tightly to keep her from
thrashing her way right off of the horse. “We are making camp, my lady, unless you
care to sleep on a moving horse all night,” he said.

She looked at him as recognition
dawned, realizing where she was. She ran a shaky hand across her brow.

“Nay, My lord, I wunna,” she
murmured. “I am quite anxious to get off this swaying beast.”

William dismounted the destrier and
held his arms up for her. Gratefully, wearily, she slid into them and he
lowered her gently to the ground. Their eyes met and Jordan experienced a
painful, unfamiliar jolt of excitement. She was positive he could read it on
her face. Embarrassed, she turned away.

If William noticed, he didn’t say
so. While he personally saw to the settling of his men, Paris and three other
knights sat with Jordan and the two Scottish maids she had brought with her.
Paris politely built a fire, smiling openly at her, but Jordan stared at the
ground. Without William to protect her, she was terrified of the strange
knight.

The other three knights seemed to be
interested in anything other than her. Every so often they would glance over at
her, a sort of appraising glance, and then look away as if mulling over their
findings. When they looked away, Jordan would spy at them to see if she could
tell what they were thinking. She knew they hated her, just as she despised
them. She wondered darkly if they wanted to throw her into the flames of the
fire and say it was an accident.

One knight, a young, massively built
blond with untamed curls, had the surliest expression she had ever seen. She
was decidedly afraid of him, whereas the other two, a handsome dark-blond man
with massive neck and shoulders, and an extremely tall dark-haired knight
seemed to be looking at her with curiosity.

She recognized the man with the
thick neck; he had ridden into Langton with William, as had the tall blond. He
seemed to have a naturally gentle expression, one that was difficult to put
into words, and looking at the pure size of the man, she found it difficult to
believe he was gentle in any way. His eyes were inquisitive on her, honest, and
she actually met his gaze for a moment.

It was an odd stand-off game,
everyone staring at everyone else and no one saying a word. Jordan was feeling
vastly uncomfortable.

Paris stood back from the fire,
watching her intently. Educated and charming, he was an arrogant rogue who had
more ladies than he knew what to do with. Women seemed to love his cocky manner
and charisma. Looking over at his lord’s bride, he could see why William had
kept her so close to his vest. She was terribly exquisite.

“Tell me, Lady Jordan, have you
traveled from Langton before?” he asked pleasantly.

She jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Nay, my lord.”

“I see,” Paris replied. “Then you
have never been to Edinburgh?”

“Nay, my lord,” she repeated, then
added. “But my mother was born in Edinburgh. We have kin there.”

Ah, so she can speak in a
delightful honeyed voice
, he thought to himself. Her burr was distinct but
not too heavy.

“And what sorts of entertainment do
you enjoy at Langton?” he asked, making conversation. She seemed dreadfully ill
at ease.

She met his eye then. “We dance and
sing a good deal,” she said timidly. “And my Da reads aloud to us on occasion,
though I dunna understand much of Greek poetry.”

“Greek poetry.” the surly young
knight scoffed.  “God, I had no idea Scots could even read.”

Paris shot him a deadly look. “I do
not believe you have been invited into this conversation, Deinwald.”

Deinwald continued to smirk. Jordan,
startled by his loud declaration, suddenly felt as if she wanted to cry. It was
the hatred she had only felt before, now spoken aloud. The lines were
established.

“Do you have a favorite prose, my
lady?” Paris asked, warming to the conversation and ignoring the loud mouth
knight.

Her lower lip quivered. He had
inadvertently reminded her of something her father had said to her in private
the night before. He had been drunk, trying to drown his guilt in whisky, and
had sought her out. He had held her, reciting the story of Danae and Perseus,
and of Zeus who had abandoned them reluctantly. ‘Twas not her favorite prose he
spoke, but it was the one that stuck with her.

“Last night my father recalled a
song of the Greek Simonides, something he found particularly appropriate,” she
said quietly and with feeling. “‘Twas a long prose, but I remember the words he
emphasized to me, the words Zeus spoke expressing his pain at having to send
Danae and Perseus away: