Knight Triumphant (15 page)

“I haven't the common sense of a horse—”

He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “You're young, madam, and I assume, palatable enough to some men, especially a filthy outlaw riding in the company of his family, fellow murderers and thieves. Such a man would be desperate.”

She
might
be palatable?

She was outraged. So much so that she started to emerge from the water, itching to slap him. She remembered where she was, who he was, and her own bare situation, and sank back down, wondering how it was possible to feel such absolute hatred for someone without simply exploding.

“There is nothing,” she managed to say smoothly, “that could befall me that could be worse than being your prisoner.”

He let out a disdainful grunt. “Let's hope you are never put to the test on those words, my lady.”

“If you don't leave, this will be worthless.”

“That's your choice.”

“I can stay here a very long time.”

“The bank is more comfortable.”

He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, appearing more bored than tired.

He was far more stubborn than a mule, Igrainia decided. But she could be equally determined.

She remained still in the water. He didn't move. She wondered even, after a time, if he had fallen asleep.

The whole of her body seemed to be locking and freezing. As time passed slowly, she began to realize that he might be stubborn, but she was stupid.

She moved at last, at first doing her best to swim through the shallow water just to make sure that she could still move all her extremities. Then, down the way, she saw an outcrop of rock in the water and moved to it, and was pleased to find a fine sand surrounding the rocks that she could scoop up and rub against her flesh, cleansing it. The sand was rough but invigorating and made her feel fresh, and as if she had really washed away the blood and the muck she had worn so long. She almost forgot her silent watcher in the woods, then remembered he was there, looked back, and saw him still against the tree, his eyes closed.

She moved through the water again, thoroughly rinsing her hair. It was better, much better, when she was moving. But after a while, and despite the rays of sun that slipped through the break in the trees that hovered over the water, she was freezing again.

Which led to another difficulty.

How to get out.

She rose slightly, shaking back her hair, trying to smooth it so that she wouldn't emerge to a head full of mats and tangles. She glanced to the bank again, and was startled to see that he had gone.

She went dead still, carefully looking through the trees, but he seemed to be nowhere about. Anxiously, she looked to the pile where her clothing had been flung. If she hurried. . .

She made haste, thrashing through the water, then flying once her bare feet touched the solid ground. She reached the pile of her discarded belongings and quickly dug for her under gown, only to discover it was entangled in the tunic and inside out. She began to struggle with the entwined linen, fumbling in her haste. She swore as she dropped the garments, both slipping from her numbed fingers. Then she froze, a chill arising from her spine, a sixth sense warning her of danger. She looked slowly in the direction of the encampment. He had returned, carrying a pile of her clothing.

He approached as casually as if she were fully clad from head to toe. His eyes swept over her length, wholly impassive. She might have been a horse—one without impressive stature or coloring or head shape.

“Excuse me. May I . . . ?” she inquired, reaching for the pile of clothing.

He dropped the garments just short of her hands, causing her cheeks to burn before she bent to gather them up. To her dismay, she again had problems, struggling to find the hem of the clean linen undergown he had brought.

A short, choked cry of alarm escaped her as she felt his hands taking the garment from her and slipping it over her head. As she brought her arms through the sleeves, he was waiting with the tunic, and when she had it over her head as well, she found that he was at her side, tightening the strings.

She remained absolutely dead still, not moving. When he was at a distance, he seemed a far safer man. When he was near, she felt his height. When he touched her, she felt his strength. And the heat that seemed to emanate from him.

The heat was hatred.

And hatred for all she stood for.

She barely dared to breathe, at this nearness.

“Your brush is on the ground. Get it and get back,” he said. His tone, little more than irritable and sometimes even amused in their discussions during the day, had suddenly grown harsh.

She plucked up the brush and started walking back to the camp, aware that he followed her all the while.

She managed to forget him in truth when they reached the camp. As she broke through the trees she saw that Thayer was standing up.

She let out a cry of both delight—and fear—and rushed over to him, starting to reach out to him in case he was unsteady, then stopping herself and halting a foot before him.

“You're—you're standing.”

He gave her a broad smile. “Aye, Lady. I am standing. Thanks to your very fine care, so I believe.”

“You've still got to be careful. You were sorely wounded—”

“Your stitches were excellent. My flesh has mended . . . enough.”

“Enough?”

“Aye.”

She realized that he was looking at someone who stood past her.

She turned, and of course, Eric was there.

“Tomorrow, we start back for Langley,” he said.

She looked at Thayer once more with concern, then back toward Eric, but he had already started across the copse and through the tangle of trees that led to the small patch of shaded grass where they were keeping the horses. She saw that Eric was striding straight toward the great steed he had ridden the day he had first stopped her flight from Langley. She hesitated a split second, then determinedly walked after him.

He had reached the horse. Apparently, he had been out hunting earlier. A pair of pheasants had been tied over the pommel of his saddle and he was untying the cords that bound them there, ignoring her though he was surely aware of her presence.

“It's too soon,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“I don't think he should ride yet.”

“No one has asked what you think.”

“But . . .”

“Go away, Lady of Langley,” he said in a low-toned warning.

“Go away! I would gladly go away—”

“Let me clarify,” he said sharply, stopping at his task and staring at her pointedly. “Go back to your injured friends. Get away from me.”

She felt as if a cold wind lashed against her face. “I'm forced to be with you. Forgive me if I can't make the taking of a hostage an easier affair for you!”

“Don't make me move you.”

“Don't make Thayer ride when he isn't ready.”

“Igrainia, after a battle, men move while dripping blood from a dozen different injuries, and many survive to tell their tales of valor.”

“And many die.”

“Thayer is ready to ride. It is his choice. And I must return.”

“Then . . . you should go.”

She was startled when something that almost resembled a smile curved his lips.

“Where I go, my lady, you will come as well.”

“Then . . .” she began, and swallowed hard. “Then we should go, and you should give them some more time here, by the cove.”

“We all ride out tomorrow. We'll rest in beds, at Father Padraic's village tomorrow night.”

She started. “You know the village?”

“Of course. We followed your every step.”

She felt a deep sense of unease. “You didn't . . . you didn't . . .”

“Raze the village, pillage the stores, ravage the maids and behead the men? No, my lady. We refrained—especially since most of the people there do recognize a Scottish king. Now, go back where you belong.”

“I belong in London.”

He didn't reply right away, but finished untying the birds. “I refuse to play word games with you.”

“I don't think of any of it as a game.”

She was startled when he suddenly thrust the birds at her. “Pluck these, madam. We want to make sure your gentle injured fellows are well fed before they ride.”

“Pluck them?” she repeated.

“Aye, my lady. It means that you should take the feathers out, so that we can cook and eat them. A task with which you're not familiar? Perhaps you should become so.”

“I don't know how,” she informed him angrily. “I've never plucked a bird, and I don't care to become familiar with the task.”

“Such a well-educated, highborn lady! Alas, of course, I forgot. All your life, your birds have been cooked for you, your wine has been poured for you, your clothing washed, your steaming bath brought to you by the backbreaking labor of others! And you thought that you could run from the barbarians who rightly claim your castle—and make it on your own all the way to London! Well, this will help prepare you for your future dreams of flight. Pluck the birds. The task is not hard. You'll figure it out.”

She really didn't have anything against plucking pheasants. They were for a meal, and she ate as everyone else did. He simply had a talent for making her completely and irrationally furious.

He took the reins to his great warhorse, drew the animal from the trees, and mounted. Once he was mounted and staring down at her, she dropped the birds.

“Captives don't pluck pheasants,” she said, dusted off her palms, and turned to walk away.

She never heard him dismount.

In fact, she had no idea that he was directly behind her until his hands suddenly fell on her shoulders and he spun her around.

She was startled breathless, yet she wondered ruefully just what she had expected, instantly angry with herself for her own action, yet the regret was far too late.

“You
will
pluck the birds.”

He reached down for the birds, retrieved them, and caught her wrist before she could back away. He dragged her to a fallen log where he sat before forcing her down before him, first on her knees. But it wasn't where she was intended to stay. He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her so that she was forced to sit in the space on the ground between his legs, against his chest.

A bird landed in front of her.

His arms wrapped around her again.

“This, my lady, is a feather. Not good to eat. These are fingers. Place them so upon a feather. Pull. Take care not to break the feather off in the skin—the little stubs do not taste good at all, and they stick in your teeth. Do it over and over and over again, and then, without too much stress upon thought, expertise, or education, you have a plucked bird.”

She was miserable, stiff, so locked in by his body that she wanted to scream.

“I can pluck the birds!” she strangled out.

“Indeed, you can.”

But now, even his hands were on hers, his fingers curling with her own, so that he guided them to another feather.

He seemed combustible behind her. Like a caged creature, ready to pounce. She desperately longed to be free from the power of his hold.

“I can do it.”

“I was certain that, with your keen intelligence, you would quickly figure it out.”

“I have done so.”

“Good. Let's keep working then. There are many more feathers here.”

“I can do it alone. You were going somewhere. I didn't mean to stop you.”

“But you must have. Why else throw the birds into the dirt?”

“I dropped them.”

“Dropped them? Really? But then, I must show you that we're not all rude, uncouth, unchivalrous, and so on, by helping you now that they are picked up. Come, another feather, and another.”

His hands were so large, yet his fingers so adept. Covering hers, and gaining feathers all the while. She felt the prison of his heavily muscled thighs, and heard his every breath. She clenched her jaw, praying for restraint.

Then a single word burst from her lips.

“Please!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please.”

“Once again. I'm hard of hearing. All that clash of steel in the midst of battle and mayhem, you know.”

“Damnit—”

“Damnit? Is that what you said?”

“You heard me perfectly.”

“I'm afraid I didn't.”

“Please!”

He released her hands and straightened on the log, but remained sitting so that she was still imprisoned before him.

“Yes, I imagine you will pluck the fowl just fine. You are expert with a task when you choose to be. Young Thayer fares extremely well.”

“Yes.”

“You do remarkable stitches.”

“Stitches are not difficult.”

“You're far too modest. One could say that you indeed saved the lad's life.”

He was mocking her, and she bit back at him, far too quickly. “One could say that I saved
your
life.”

“But Aileen is dead. And Margot died. In your hands.”

Her shoulders stiffened, then, despite her position, she twisted and looked up into his eyes. “You are a bitter fool! Don't you think I would have saved her ten times over rather than you had it been in my power?”

He stared down at her. She heard the lock of his jaw, and for a moment, really feared violence as she saw the blue fire in his eyes.