A Knight to Remember: Good Knights #2 Page 12

  Close to the clearing, Hugh parted the brush. Wiping the drips of water from his face, he surveyed the area. He couldn’t see any shapes moving close to the fire, yet the fire must have been tended recently or else it would have been smothered by the rain. The fire and the lack of visible targets made him even more uneasy. Had these men posted guards? Did the mercenaries know they were about to be attacked? And where was Edlyn?

  Sweet mother of God, where was Edlyn?

  The panic grew in him, dark and smothering. He had let her go. He had made the decision to allow her time to adjust to the idea of being his wife. If she were dead, it was his fault. No one’s but his.

  Those lumps at the far side of the clearing must be the men, lurking in the shadows, waiting in anticipation of his attack. He would give them what they wanted. Steel rang as he unsheathed his sword. With a roar of fury, he leaped out of the woods and into the light. Holding his blade high, he raced toward the unmoving shapes. Behind him, he heard his men, surprised by his unforeseen charge, fumble with their weapons and tumble out of the bushes. He’d never done something so stupid, so unplanned, but he’d never been responsible for the death of his wife before. He’d never lost the woman he sought to save.

  As he reached the shapes, he swung his sword, then almost jerked his arm out of its socket as he tried to pull back.

  Stones. They were nothing but stones. The blade nicked one boulder. The force of the blow sent a shiver up his wrist, and he heard the snap as he put a notch in the fine steel.

  He swore, a long string of French and English curses, and swung back to face the fire.

  His men milled about, but no enemy remained here to face Hugh’s ire. Where were they? And where was Edlyn?

  “They’ve moved on, I guess, master.” Wharton stood off to the side, well away from the reach of Hugh’s sword. “We’d best—”

  A figure moved out of the shadow of the trees, and in unison every man there swung around and faced—

  “Edlyn!” Hugh ran toward his wife, grasped her, pulled her into him. He held his sword in one hand and kept her safe with the other.

  She stood without swaying in his arms, patting him as if he were the one in need of comfort. He swung her toward the light of the fire and stared at her face. One long scratch marred the perfection of her cheek, and he wiped it with his thumb.

  “A branch hit me,” she explained.

  “Are you…ill?” He was a plain-spoken man, but he found himself unable to do more than stammer. “Did they…?”

  “Nay.”

  He lifted his sword. “I’ll kill them anyway.”

  Calmly she freed herself. Her torn cotte had dark splotches along the hem, but the lacing at the sides seemed to be intact. Grasping his wrist, she extricated his sword and handed it to Wharton. “Not while you’re holding me, I pray you.”

  “How did you escape their…?” Wharton asked. “Did you have to hurt…?”

  Embarrassed, he faltered, and Hugh noted that even his hardened man-of-arms couldn’t speak of such intimate matters.

  Edlyn tried to smile at Wharton and at the men who gathered around. “I made them sick,” she said.

  “What?” Hugh sounded as stupid as he felt.

  “I convinced them I’m a good cook—which I am, you know. I make quite a good stew and have a light touch with the…” Something she saw in his face must have warned her to stop chatting. “They grabbed me in the forest and took me with them. They’d been waiting for days for the woman they wanted, they said, and they were half-starving, poor things.”

  “Poor things,” Hugh repeated.

  “I told them I was the herbalist at the abbey, and not the lady they wanted, but they wouldn’t let me go. They said they were under orders—”

  A growl rumbled in Hugh’s chest and was echoed by his men.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter what they said.” Speaking as quickly as she could, she said, “I convinced them we would ride better on full stomachs. So one of them snared a family of coneys and I wandered along and plucked herbs and berries, and when we got here and they were satisfied we weren’t being followed, they let me cook.”

  Hugh tried to answer, but he couldn’t even form the words, so Wharton asked, “Is that how ye made them sick?”

  “Aye, with elderberry bark and roots. Given in sufficient amounts, it causes a cramping of the gut followed by an uncontrollable release of the bowels.”

  Wharton looked around at the woods that pressed close. “Are ye saying those scoundrels are out there squattin’ over a log?”

  “Can’t you hear them groaning?”

  Incredulous, Wharton asked, “Why didn’t ye come back t’ us?”

  “I thought you would come to recover me, and if you hadn’t, I would have returned at first light. I didn’t trust myself to find my way back in the dark.” She turned to Hugh and rebuked him. “So you see, it’s not necessary to fight at every opportunity. Sometimes guile will suffice.”

  Hugh couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d charged a tumble of boulders to rescue his woman—and she’d already saved herself. He’d been in a lather of fear, and she’d been waiting for him to arrive! Alone, she’d routed her attackers.

  He looked around at his men; their gazes were glued to Edlyn in blatant disbelief. He looked at Wharton, who stood scratching his head with one hand while holding Hugh’s sword in the other. And in a low, controlled tone, Hugh said, “Men, round up the knaves as they come in from the woods and take them to the constable. He’ll know what to do with them.”

  “But they’re hungry,” Edlyn said as if that should excuse their villainy.

  “Would you leave them free to capture some other poor woman and have them use her as they didn’t get to use you?” Hugh demanded.

  She faltered.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the fate of those men if I were you.” He jerked her close against him. “I’d worry about your fate—and my revenge.”

  At the edge of the clearing, the noble knight sat on his horse and observed.

  He was furious. Nothing, nothing had gone as planned. He’d patiently waited for her for a year. He’d had her watched from a distance. He’d been prepared to take her when the time was right—and instead he’d received a message from his men saying she had been wed.

  And to his enemy! To Hugh de Florisoun! To the man who dared think he could take the place of his better.

  He’d abandoned everything, all his schemes, and ridden as quickly as he could to the abbey, only to find rumors flying that the bride had been kidnapped.

  By his own men. He’d laughed then, sure the devil himself was on his side.

  But nay. Edlyn had defeated him, as she had defeated him so many times before. She knew how he felt. This was a betrayal, nothing less.

  He would have his revenge, and then he would have her—and Hugh de Florisoun would be driven to hell on the point of Edmund Pembridge’s sword.

  9

  Edlyn didn’t know a lot about Hugh de Florisoun, but she knew that right now he was angry. He tromped her through the woods in the dark, in the rain, keeping her close and holding the branches away from her face as if he could heal the mark on her cheek with his care.

  Yet he was so unyielding she thought a good wind would topple him. Could she lighten the atmosphere? Would a few words, spoken in a normal tone, lessen his displeasure? She could try. “Are we walking back to the abbey?” she asked.

  “You’re not going back to the abbey tonight.”

  He hadn’t answered her question, which was how they would be traveling, but he’d raised a lot of new ones. Yet his repressive tone made her hesitate, and while she did, he stopped and raised a hand to his mouth. An owl hooted, and if she hadn’t felt the vibration of his chest against her shoulder, she would never have realized the sound had originated from him.

  Guiding her once more, he moved toward a clearing. She heard the stomp of horses’ hooves and their rumble as they blew a greeting, and a youth spo
ke right beside them. “My lord, I heard your call. Did you recover her?”

  “Aye, I have her.” Hugh’s arm tightened. “The men are rounding up the mercenaries, and I’m taking her back to camp.”

  To camp. They were going to his camp. Edlyn tried to cheer herself. If she waited long enough, mayhap Hugh would answer every question in this roundabout manner.

  The youth brought a palfrey forward, and Hugh released her long enough to vault into the saddle.

  “Shall I give your lady my horse, my lord?” the youth asked.

  “She’ll ride with me.” Hugh sounded gruff.

  Well aware of the shape of the saddles, Edlyn tried to back up, but Hugh bent far down, picked her up with his hands under her armpits, and swung her in front of him.

  She couldn’t help exclaiming, “You’ll hurt your back.”

  The only answer she got was muffled laughter from the youth on the ground.

  It wasn’t a good fit. She didn’t know what to do with her legs—astride? to the side?—so Hugh arranged her, lifting her and placing her as he wished. She ended up sideways across his body and held up so the saddle wouldn’t pinch.

  The rain fell harder. The darkness loomed so thick she blinked and couldn’t tell the difference. One of Hugh’s arms lifted her bottom while his hand cushioned her from the thrust of the stiff leather. His other arm held her under her thighs. She wanted to ask who was guiding the horse, but his body moved as he controlled the palfrey with his knees. “Who trained this horse?” she asked.

  “Sir Ramsden. He handled my horses.”

  “He does so no longer?”

  “He is dead in the last battle.”

  His brevity convinced her of Hugh’s displeasure with her. So she supposed if she wanted to lighten his mood, she ought to ask him about that battle. Men loved to talk about battle. They belabored every slash of the sword and every arrow’s flight. And if they weren’t talking about a battle past, they could be coaxed to talk about a future battle, or even a legend about a battle.

  Unfortunately, she’d already heard it all, and she didn’t care to hear Hugh’s stories. She’d sworn she would never again listen to battle tales, and marrying a warrior—sweet Mother, another warrior!—only reinforced her determination.

  There had to be another way. “Can your poor horse carry us both?” It was a stupid question; obviously it could. It was.

  He ignored her.

  “Your arm must ache from the strain of holding me. Would you like me to walk?”

  He stopped her almost before she tried to free herself. “Save your breath,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  She didn’t like that. What did he mean? Was he going to beat her? Hugh didn’t seem the type to beat a woman for being kidnapped and causing him trouble, but really, how much did she know about him?

  Robin had hit her in anger when she’d complained about his tomcat habits. Her duke had hit her in frustration when he couldn’t get his manhood to function. Hugh was her husband now, and he’d spoken of revenge.

  Lights shone through the trees. When they broke out of the forest, she saw the abbey ahead. He’d said they weren’t going to the abbey, but…he turned the palfrey toward the stable.

  Of course. He had to get his horse under cover. The stable boy came running out and held the palfrey’s head while Hugh eased Edlyn down. When her feet touched the mounting block, he dismounted himself and took her hand. Tossing a coin to the boy, he dragged her through the muck toward a community of tents. They hunkered down around a fire like fat maidens around a well, and Edlyn remembered seeing them in her flight into the woods. She’d been so upset she hadn’t paid attention to them or realized they housed Hugh’s men.

  Another youth—the fire-tender, Edlyn guessed—stepped out of the shadows at their approach. “My lord, you found her! Is she well?”

  Hugh ignored his query. “Put a light in my tent.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The lad popped a quick bow and took off at a run.

  Trying to reassure him, Edlyn called, “They didn’t hurt me.”

  If Hugh had been a bear, he would have snarled. “He’ll hear the story soon enough.”

  He moved toward the largest tent, a behemoth of felt and ropes. The youth walked through the front flap with a lighted candle and darted out empty-handed, and Hugh didn’t even thank him. She’d have to take his manners in hand…if he didn’t beat her.

  Edlyn paused to take off her shoes before she entered the tent, but Hugh said, “There’s no delaying your fate, my lady,” and hustled her inside.

  Her housewifely soul cringed at the marks his great boots made on the woven hemp rug.

  The large room was spotless. Trunks lined the wall. A table held the lighted candle. A large pallet of skins lay on the floor in the corner, the edge turned back in invitation…she jerked her attention away.

  Obviously someone worked hard to keep the area tidy for the master. Pointing to the mud, she said, “That’s going to have to be cleaned up.”

  He barely glanced down. “Not tonight. No one’s coming in here tonight.”

  He turned to her, and for the first time she saw his face.

  He was angry. He was so angry. “Let us get this out of the way now,” he said. “I captured your husband and sent him to London to be executed. ’Tis a piece of misfortune I was the commander to do so, but he was ripe for hanging. He took chances, Edlyn, that no knight should have taken.”

  “I know.” She did know. Robin had thought himself invincible. He’d embraced danger much as he’d embraced women—indiscriminately and with great appetite.

  “He almost threw himself into my clutches.”

  “I believe you.”

  He loomed over her so quickly she didn’t even have time to stumble back. “Then why did you run away?”

  Would he understand? “Because you’re a warrior just like him.”

  He didn’t understand. “I’m not just like him. I’m nothing like Robin of Jagger.”

  “Except that you live for combat.”

  “I don’t live for combat.”

  “What would you do if you couldn’t fight? If you’d lost a leg or an eye and could never ride into battle again?”

  He flinched. “That won’t happen.”

  “Even now, after you were so badly wounded, you still can’t wait to get back into the field, can you? Your hand itches to take up your sword. You could scarcely wait to attack those outlaws tonight!”

  “Because they had you.” He wrapped his hands around her chin and lifted her head. “It doesn’t matter why you run or who takes you prisoner, I’ll always get you back and I’ll always take vengeance on those who hurt you. I’m sorry I captured your husband, but that’s nothing between you and me, so tell me you’re angry and let me soothe your ire, and then let us go on with our marriage.”

  He was right. Capturing Robin had nothing to do with them, and she didn’t blame him for Robin’s death.

  And she was right. He didn’t understand why she refused to lavish her love on him. “I’m not angry.”

  He was so big, and he smiled at her widely. “For tonight, I’ll let you get away with that falsehood. Because—I am.” Turning to one of the trunks, he flung it open, gathered up an armful of different kinds of cloth, and placed them on the table. Lifting the tent flap, he stepped outside.

  She stood in the middle of the tent and shivered and wrung her hands. Would he hurt her? She couldn’t contemplate the humiliation of going to the abbey and asking for help in bandaging her own wounds. Was there an escape from this trap?

  A rush of fresh air alerted her to his return, and she looked at him with haunted eyes.

  He was naked.

  Huge and naked.

  Ready and naked.

  It wasn’t his anger she should be fearing. It was his passion.

  Her head whirled as she tried to adjust. She’d been dreading him, but from what she could see, he was just like any other man. He had nothing on his mind except a wed
ding night.

  Well, not exactly like any other man. And not exactly on his mind. But she’d been married before. Why should she care? It was just an act, quickly over and pleasurable only to the man.

  Her body tightened as she gazed at Hugh. He must have stood out in the rain, for all trace of mud had disappeared. The blond of his hair had turned dark with water, and moisture gathered on the sides of his face where his beard now showed one day’s growth. Drops of water clung to the light dusting of hair that covered his legs and his arms. They collected at the top of the arrow of hair on his chest and ran in rivulets past his navel down to…

  Who was she kidding? She loved this part of marriage. It had been the only thing she’d missed—and she’d missed it for longer than she cared to remember.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  It wasn’t a request; it was a demand. His rough voice betrayed anger still, and she didn’t understand.

  “My squire helped me undress. Shall I help you?”

  He took two big steps forward and she stumbled back. “But you’re furious!”

  “Aye.” She’d lost her wimple, so he went to work on her cotte, slipping the sleeves over her shoulders and letting the garment drop to the ground. “I almost got you killed today.” He stepped back and stared, then smiled. “You’re soaked all the way to the skin.”

  She looked down. The white linen shift had been transparent before; now, plastered against her skin, it showed every curve, every dimple. Her nipples, puckered against the chill, thrust themselves toward him like two blushing wantons begging for attention. The cloth had just slipped between her thighs, and the mound of brown hair struggled to free itself from entrapment. Independent of her volition, her whole body spoke, and too obviously he comprehended every message.

  “’Twasn’t your fault I ran off.” She’d done better at other conversation gambits, but never under more pressure.

  “I let you go.” Reaching out, he molded her breasts in his hands. His forefingers rubbed the highest point, creating a sweet friction. “You’re cold.”

  “Nay.”

  He chuckled, the first time she’d heard that common sound of mirth from him. “You’re shivering, and your lips are blue.”