Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (10 page)

“All right, we will look toward France,” Merry said, feeling uneasy at the oddly determined glint in Allen’s eye, but she would not push him now that they had finally reestablished this tenuous peace. “We will wait in the forest for now. But we must be ready to move at a moment’s notice. I will not sit idly and see these children captured.” She turned her attention to them.

Little Wren was attempting her forward rolls again. Merry smiled a bittersweet smile. They filled her life with so much joy and laughter. If only they did not have to live with danger crouching behind every rock, around every corner. “We must find another location deeper in the forest.”

“Go on with you, then.” Allen offered a wry grin. “Go find us the perfect spot.”

“I shall not be more than a few hours. I intend to relieve you from watch in the afternoon.” She could not resist offering him a hug. They approached each other several times in an awkward dance before settling on a position, then both remained stiff for
the quick embrace. “You are my rock, Allen. Despite all . . . this between us, that shall never change.”

“I should not ask for more,” he said. Although something in his eyes suggested he might. “But, Merry . . .”

“Yes?”

“Do not expect me to give up on you so quickly.” He winked, relieving the tension but making his intent clear. “We have a long future ahead of us.”

The searing gaze he sent her way caused pleasant butterflies to flurry in her stomach. She gave Allen’s shoulder a final squeeze and without another word headed into the forest.

Once out of his line of sight, she grinned. Perhaps when they were settled in a safer life, she might grow to care for him after all. But not yet.

For today she must attempt to put everything behind her and find a moment of peace for her battered soul.

Time seemed to stand still as she immersed herself in the flow of nature’s wonder. Her heartbeat aligned to the rhythms of the forest. Her ears attuned to the harmony of birdsong and the whisper of leaves. Her nose drank deeply the rich smells of moss and soil topped with a subtle floral bouquet.

She doubted she would actually hunt today. The mood seemed not right. And Red would be sure to return with ample supplies.

Instead she simply wandered through the woods, turned her face up to the warm, silken stroke of the sunshine, streaming through the leafy canopy in luminous ribbons, dappling the forest floor in a dance of light and shadow. She allowed its rays to sink into her skin, as she dreamed of a different time in a different patch of forest. The night she had sneaked away with Timothy Grey.

Within a grove of sweet-scented apple trees, she had stood upon her tiptoes and kissed his lips. Every bit as sweet and
inviting as the fruit surrounding them. She felt the pressure of his lips against hers even now. After she finally pulled away, he had stared at her in wonder as her heart sped and her breath grew raspy.

He had clasped her shoulders in his strong grip. “This time next year, Merry. This time next year, I shall take you as my wife. I swear to you, I shall never love another.”

Her mind skipped ahead to the sight of the grown man upon the horse in Wyndbury market. Taller and broader than she recalled, but with the same thatch of white-blond hair. The same full pink lips, pale eyes, and square chin.

Had he kept his vow to never love another? Of course not. How silly. He had been but a lad of sixteen when he made it. He had probably forgotten her soon after he thought her body cold in the ground. For certain, he must miss her dowry. But plenty of noblewomen would give up the opportunity of a title for such an attractive man. A kind man with humor and intelligence dancing in his eyes.

Or at least he had been. So why had she spied him traveling with the Earl of Wyndemere, a loyal subject to treacherous King John? Surely he did not serve the king.

Merry leaned against a tree and sighed. It seemed Timothy Grey had changed along with everything else. Perhaps even married another by now. She stroked her hand down the rough bark of the tree.

Merry again turned her face up to the sun.

And then her world went dark.

What seemed like hours later, Merry thumped along in the incessant darkness, lying on her belly across a broad horse. When first captured, though without sight, she had fought and twisted until tiring, and her captor had bound her to a horse. Though it hindered her breath, at least the flaxen sack kept her from burying her nose directly into the sweating equine flesh.

The rope passing over the sack and looping through her mouth kept her from screaming out, as she wished to at that very moment. She attempted for the twentieth time to quell her panic, even as it wrapped around her chest and threatened to squeeze out what little air she had managed to gather into her lungs. Flickers of shining stars appeared and then disappeared against the back of her eyelids.

As she struggled against the ropes binding her hands and feet, she also struggled to make sense of the situation. She had no clue who had captured her or where they might be taking her, nor if they suspected she was one of the ghosts. Though firm and thorough, her captor had not been unduly harsh. He had
been quick and sure as he secured her, but kind in straightening the hood for comfort and breathing purposes. And when he had slung her over the horse, he had done so more gently than she might have expected.

She assumed he had noticed her female form beneath her male clothing, but he had not touched her in an improper manner. The man had ample opportunity to violate her but had done nothing of the sort.

Surely her captor did not suspect her to be the Lady Merry Ellison. Most thought her long dead. She bade her heart to slow its frantic beating, wished to heaven that she could rub her bound hands to still their trembling. She must remain calm and in control of her senses. Therein lay her only chance.

Though gentle, the man could not be an ally. He had trussed her like a Michaelmas goose and said nary a word in the process. And was it only one person? She could not say for certain. It could be a son of the Baron Greyham. His lands lay the closest to the patch of forest they inhabited, and the man had raised them all to be chivalrous and kind. But most assuredly it could not be Timothy Grey. Timothy had loved her once upon a time.

King’s man or not, he would never treat her thus.

So many crimes her captor might think her guilty of, and on so many counts he would be correct. The robberies weighed upon her conscience, but whoever had caught her could have no evidence to the crimes. The ghosts had not earned their mysterious reputation in vain.

Yet to the crime of being Lady Merry Ellison, she could plead no defense. Though it would be no crime in any sort of law-honoring nation, to the treacherous King John her existence was an unpardonable sin. He might well kill her. Kill them all. Hang their remains for the birds to pick clean upon the city walls. How young would he go? Would he stop at seven, the age of legal
culpability? Or might even little Wrenny be in danger? Her mind could not bear the thought. She might have doomed them all.

Fear mounted in her chest again, squeezing tight. Her head, already light and hazy from its upside-down position, grew even dizzier. A buzzing began in her ears. No longer able to steady her heart or still her breathing, she panted against the rope, even as her blood grew cold. A bright tunnel appeared at the back of her eyelids.

Then the darkness enveloped her completely.

The sound of someone humming a happy tune pressed at the edges of Merry’s consciousness. She awoke in a bright, airy room surrounded by grey stone walls. She lifted her still-buzzing head and pressed her unbound hands into . . . a feather mattress? What sort of prison could this be?

Fear welled again, but she would not give in to her instinct to squeal and jump to her feet. She would not so much as flinch a muscle but rather maintain her restraint. Assess the situation before anyone realized she had wakened.

A quick perusal of the room revealed a washbasin upon a stand and a colorful tapestry with a pastoral scene hanging on the wall. The humming had not been her imagination, but rather came from a plump serving woman with her back to Merry as she pulled gowns from a chest. Merry guessed her to be of middle years from the streaks of grey offsetting her reddish curls. She took out a gown in an apricot color and shook it before laying it over a nearby chair. Next came a slender velvet kirtle of cornflower blue. “Ah.” The woman sighed. “This shall do nicely.”

Still coming fully awake, Merry noticed the silken coverlet of purple and pink laid atop her. Whatever in heaven and on
earth? She glanced about the room, searching every corner and crevice, but she and the woman were alone.

She eased herself to standing and moved stealthily toward the open window, her eyes trained upon the servant, but the woman did not so much as turn or cease her tune. Merry approached the window warily. No bars. Thus far the logistics appeared promising. She bounced lightly twice on her toes to prepare for a possible tumbling maneuver. Her body responded just as she wished. Her muscles strong and taut despite her recent ordeal, and her dizziness now fading.

With a bit of good fortune, she would hop out of this window, and all would be over as quickly as it started.

As she prepared herself to somersault, she paused for a breath to survey the exit. Then she slumped heavy against the window ledge as her stomach plummeted to her feet. Out the window was . . . nothing—nothing but air, clouds, and a single soaring hawk. Gazing downward she saw the castle courtyard far below her, and beyond that the bustling marketplace of Wyndbury. Her dizziness returned, and she gripped the window ledge tightly.

Having memorized the place so thoroughly not two weeks earlier, she understood exactly where she was being held. The north tower high over the town, attached to the castle wall. Behind her lay the forest and the only exit. She must have been brought in through that back entry, no one in the castle the wiser.

“Ah, there ye are, miss,” said the maidservant. “I’ve been sent with clothing for ye, and a warm basin of water to wash. My master wished ye to have a bath, but the guards, they balked something fierce at the thought of toting water up so many stairs.”

Merry sifted through the clues. The master of Castle Wyndemere held her captive. His guards at the ready. There would be no quick escape from this place. But a bath? Many people
did not bathe more than a few times per year. Did the man yet wish to steal her virtue? She knew little of his reputation. A king’s man, thus never a friend to her father. If a kindly knight had captured her, her true fate might still await.

But being fully upright and in control of her senses, she resolved not to faint into oblivion again. She rubbed her hands together. “So, am I a prisoner of the Earl of Wyndemere?” she inquired of the woman.

“Now, now.” The woman winked. “Why don’t we call ye a guest, m’lady?” Though her wary glance toward the door belied her words and told Merry that the guards stood just beyond.

And the woman had called her
m’lady
. Did the servant know Merry’s true identity, or had her highborn speech given her away as a member of the upper class in those few words? She should have thought to disguise her voice, but it was too late now. “Then . . . a guest of the Earl of Wyndemere?” Merry persisted.

“So sorry, m’lady. I’ve been bid to tell ye nothing. But my master shall speak with ye before long. Let’s get ye out of those grubby boy’s clothes and into this fine kirtle.” She held up the cornflower gown and shook it before her.

Merry approached it slowly and reached out to touch the smooth velvet. It would indeed look lovely against her skin. Although she had no clue as to whether the gown would prove an asset or a liability, a part of her longed to dress in fine velvet once again. No doubt that same traitorous portion that longed for love.

She gave one last look to the door. A sturdy door, indeed worthy of a prison, with guards just beyond. She brushed the back of her hand over her belt, but found her dagger—her last hope of escape—missing.

In that moment she decided, if she must face her fate, why not do so with dignity and style? This woman seemed to hold
no ill will against her. Perhaps Merry’s future had not yet been determined.

Before the sun traveled far across the sky, Merry stood bedecked in her noble finery. Her tight-laced blue gown swept to the floor with its long elegant sleeves hanging past her knees. As her hair was too short to pull into a braid or twist as befitted a maiden, it had been tucked beneath the scarves of a flowing ivory wimple and secured with a circlet of gold atop her head.

Although her rather benevolent captor had not spared a costly mirror for her tower prison, she could picture herself well enough. The old Lady Merry Ellison had risen from the dead—like a ghost, indeed. She waited at the window, although she could not see the tower entrance, which lay to the back, only the courtyard and market below. No doubt a strategic maneuver on the part of the castle designers.

Even if her men could ascertain her position, the circuitous route from the courtyard near her window to the entrance near the forest would complicate matters.

A scuffle upon the stairs outside her door alerted her that it would not be long now. Men exchanged low, gruff greetings. Then a key turned in the latch.

She braced herself for her first meeting with the famed Earl of Wyndemere.

The door opened, and a figure emerged from the shadows.

Not the broad figure topped with a balding head and greying beard that she expected. Rather, a more slender figure with pale hair and light eyes.

For the second time that day, Merry’s world swirled and grew hazy.

Love, hope, fear, and confusion all battled to the forefront
of her mind. Then in a moment of great clarity, the swirling sensations solidified and formed into a singular emotion. Her world seeped to red in a hot blaze of anger.

How dare he? The treachery! The betrayal!
She balled her fists at her sides, as a desire to punch him in the jaw overtook her.

Two armed soldiers entered at his heels.

His eyes met hers, soft at first, then the look upon his face turned to stone. So it seemed he would side with the king against her after all.

“You!” she cried.

It had been Timothy Grey all along.