Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (14 page)

“The
doncella
is of no further use to you then. Why did you prevent Sombra? She belongs to him now,” El Gallo abruptly challenged, shattering Duncan’s train of thought.

“Indeed?” Duncan tossed back his ale to give himself time to think, then shook his head. “Philip will pay you handsomely himself for her return. You see, he has his own quarrel with her, and for that, she will suffer, believe me. I fear this Sombra, he may…damage her. Philip will not pay so highly for damaged goods.”

El Gallo grunted in agreement.

“I think it best that the girl remain under my watch,” Duncan said, “until we reach…Flanders.” It was a stab in the dark. There were de Montforts in Flanders. Perhaps they were Linet’s kin.

“Flanders!” El Gallo exclaimed. “But we sail for Spain!”

Duncan picked at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “Of course Philip would prefer to enlist
your
services, but if you have more pressing business elsewhere…”

“Oh no,” the captain was quick to deny, likely imagining all that coin slipping through his fingers, “nothing that cannot wait.”

“
Eh bien
!” he announced, saluting El Gallo with his half-empty cup. “To our alliance!”

It was twilight. The rim of the sun eased itself into the cool crimson sea, burning it to a deep blue. The stars began to wink down at the small landing boat, and the calm of the evening was ruffled only by the occasional scree of a gull and the rhythmic lapping of oars pulling against the water.

Sombra stood recklessly, defiantly, as his captive, Harold, rowed the small vessel over the waves toward the Normandy coastline. He glared across the distance at the retreating silhouette of the
Corona Negra
, which had turned tail and now headed east. Hatred etched cuts into his gaunt face, and the veins on his neck stood out like the roots of a starving tree.

El Gallo had foiled his plans.

She
was the one who could have supported him the rest of his days, that sweet-faced innocent with hair of spun gold. For years his wealthiest patron had been searching for just such a prize. And to find one who was yet a virgin…

He knew she was intact, even without examining her. Only a maiden blushed like that. The Spanish nobles would have drooled over their Cordovan boots, emptying their purses in their frenzy to bid on her. And in the end, de Seville would have outbid them all, bringing Sombra untold riches.

But that wretched one-eyed Frenchman had interfered.

Blood coursed in Sombra’s temples. In one day, Gaston de Valois had destroyed a partnership he’d spent six years cultivating.

El Gallo would profit handsomely from his new alliance. There was no mistake about that. As long as the political climate was stable, one always profited by serving as a king’s privateer. But a king would never openly condone the merchandising of flesh, the taking of another king’s subjects for profit. To do so was to flirt with the possibility of real war. Sombra’s days of shadowing El Gallo were over.

He suppressed an angry sob as he thought of his special quarters on the
Corona Negra
, the room he’d so meticulously furbished for the methodical taming of his female captives. It was a work of art. He’d labored long to perfect it. Now it would serve no purpose other than to stow the pilfered goods of France’s enemies.

If, indeed, that was Gaston de Valois’ true intent. Sombra didn’t trust him. There was something unsettling about the man’s face, some nagging memory that kept picking at the back of his brain like a pesky flea. Something told him that more than just a royal contract awaited El Gallo at the Flanders dock. Of course, the captain would listen to none of Sombra’s skepticism. El Gallo couldn’t think straight when there was silver involved. Somehow, Sombra knew, El Gallo was about to trap himself in the Frenchman’s clever web of deception.

Sombra didn’t intend to be caught in that web. He’d cheated death once already and intended to survive, even if it meant leaving El Gallo like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.

He could make his way back from whatever foreign shore he found. He had a hostage, and enough silver could pave one’s way anywhere. He’d seek retribution. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday. He’d destroy that one-eyed bastard and steal his angel-faced whore.

His lips twisted with malice as he sank down upon the hard bench and fingered the bronze medallion he’d lifted from the merchant girl’s unconscious body. This was the key, he thought, rubbing a gloved knuckle across the worn crest. There was a mystery attached to Linet de Montfort. Someone would pay dearly for the owner of this medallion. He was sure of it.

Robert rubbed his gritty eyes. He hadn’t shut them for more than a moment all night long. He was worried. Not for himself, as anyone who knew him might suspect, but for Duncan. Though he’d been the de Ware brothers’ companion all his life, exchanging blows and words and even women with them, he’d never misunderstood his role. Lord James de Ware counted on him to keep his pups out of too much trouble.

He’d failed this time. And if it cost him his life, he’d correct that mistake. It was his unspoken duty.

With a firm resolve and a soberness that was a better disguise for him than the merchant’s clothing he’d donned, Robert climbed the gangplank of the
Rey del Mar
.

It seemed an eternity before the vessel finally weighed anchor, an eon before it lost sight of land. All day long, every wave that sluggishly lashed the side of the ship tortured him more than a flogging. But, as Garth would have told him, there was no more he could do. He was on his way to the place where, God willing, the
Corona Negra
had sailed. The rest was up to the winds.

Robert took a deep, tingling breath of salt air and exhaled slowly, leaning back against the aft railing, squinting into the setting sun. He’d been so preoccupied with his mission that he’d hardly spared a glance for his fellow passengers. He did so now.

A weathered old sailor with a shock of white hair captained the vessel. A young lad with eager black eyes hovered about the captain like an excited puppy, jumping up to fetch his eyeglass or to bring him a drink of ale. The rest of the crew, a crusty, threadbare lot, roamed the decks like loose rats. A pair of spice merchants engaged themselves in some animated argument about the best source of cinnamon. A dozen or so bawdy London lads stood at the forecastle, regaling each other with outrageous tales. Three Spanish nobles stood apart from the others. One of them looked desperately ill, his face a deathly shade of green as he watched the ship roll over the lurching waves. Beyond them, a youth in a hooded cloak and tattered hose stood gazing out to sea, his face a haunting study of…

Robert blinked. The angle of the chin, the delicate nose and small mouth, those huge, dark, soulful eyes…God’s teeth—it was a woman.

He sauntered across the deck to get a better look, whistling softly.

She was beautiful. Her face, framed by the coarse wool of her shabby cloak, seemed like a priceless jewel set in cheap metal. Her skin, illuminated by the last gold rays of the sinking sun, was the color of honey, smooth and even. Her features were delicate, her bones fine. Her lips had a sensual pout to them, and there was the most intriguing dimple at the point of her chin. The hood hid her hair, but he could see by the gentle arch of her brow and her long, curling eyelashes that it was as black as onyx. She was a fool if she thought she could pass for a boy.

He stopped at the railing a few yards away from her and watched as two gulls fought over a fish in the distance. The woman pulled the hood closer about her head and turned aside to conceal her face.

“So you’re running away?” Robert asked offhandedly, still gazing out to sea.

Her head whipped around like a startled doe’s. Then he saw the dagger in her white-knuckled grip.

He casually returned his gaze to the ocean, though his heart was racing now. Something in her tragic, liquid eyes told him she meant to use that blade on herself.

“A young lad like you,” he continued smoothly, “sailing for Spain—no belongings, no companions—you must be running from something…or someone.”

The woman shifted her eyes forward. “Spain is my home.” Her voice was low and husky, the accent subtle.

“Ah, so you ran away to England, and now you’ve seen the error of your ways,” Robert said with an understanding nod.

“No.” Her brows drew together in a tiny frown. “I am just going home. That is all.”

“Ah,” he said with a knowing grin, chucking her on the shoulder. “It’s a woman then, isn’t it, lad? Some English wench stole your heart and left it in pieces on the cobblestones, so now you’re going home to see if you can make anything of what’s left of your miserable life.” He clucked his tongue.

The woman was staring at him as if he were mad, but not too far from the truth. He would have wagered his armor that she was running away from a man—a betraying lover, perhaps, or a cruel husband.

“No,” she said. “That is not—”

“Say no more, lad. I know the tale all too well. Here you’d come after your lady love—one of those pale-as-cream, plump-as-a-peach English dainties, no doubt, the kind with skin like velvet and a love nest as sweet as… But why am I telling you?” he chuckled. “
You
know well enough, eh, my lad? I’ll wager that young stick of yours has stirred the honeycomb oft enough.”

A sidelong glance revealed that the woman had blanched to the color of parchment. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in shock. Now he had her attention. Her fingers had loosened on the dagger.

“So you’re bound for Spain now, is it?” He continued. “Well, I can tell you how that will go, my boy. You’ll drown your woes in Spanish wine for a while. And then you’ll get yourself in a fight or two—black your eye, bloody your lip. And finally you’ll decide your English poppet wasn’t so irreplaceable after all, and you’ll scour the streets looking for some cheap harlot with honey hair and skin like milk. But you won’t find her, lad. You won’t find her.”

He glanced down at her dagger as if noticing it for the first time. “Is that Toledo steel? Mind if I have a look at it?”

By now the woman was so confused and caught up in his chatter that she readily handed him the knife. He turned it over in his hand, pretending to study the blade.

“But you know, if it were me,” he confided, twirling the point of the dagger atop the wood railing, “I’d head for France. If you think the English ladies are delectable…lie on French linens sometime with a perfumed whore on each arm.” He rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy.

“I beg your—” she choked.

“But Spain…” He shuddered dramatically and handed the dagger back to her. “It’s a fine blade, lad. You’d be wise to keep it sheathed.”

She took the knife and his advice. Then curiosity got the best of her. Her chin came up. “What about Spain?”

“What? Oh. Well, you know what they say about Spanish women.”

He could almost see her hackles begin to rise. “No. What do they say?”

Robert shrugged. “It’s nothing. Probably rumor.”

She was facing him now. A fire had begun to smolder in her enormous dark eyes. “Rumor?”

“Some say they’re, well…”

“Yes?”

“And of course, having no real experience myself with…”

“What?” she asked impatiently. “What?”

Robert tried not to smile. So the woman had a quick temper. He loved quick-tempered women. They were so spirited, so full of life, so passionate. “They say they’re as cold as frost, as passionless as eels.”

The woman blinked.

“They say their hearts are like stone.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“They say kissing them is like kissing a dead trout.”

She nodded. Anger emanated from her like heat from a gray coal. “Is that what they say?”

Robert expected a long tirade in Spanish after that, or a healthy slap across the face, or some other expression of her rage. He expected to comfort her afterward, to confess that he had known all along she was a woman, and then offer her what ease he could.

He never expected her to kiss him.

The woman’s lips were as soft and sweet as ripe berries. He’d never tasted such heady drink. Her cheek was like velvet against his. A cloud of fragrance surrounded her and enveloped him, like the first whiff of unkegged apple wine. She’d taken his head in her hands, bending it down to hers with a strength she’d not looked to possess, like a Siren pulling him to his doom. And yet he had no desire to escape that fate. He’d willingly let her drown him beneath waves of seduction.

She’d caught him so by surprise that his arms still hung limp at his sides. In one instant, his world had been reduced to just the delicious pair of lips pressed to his and the warm breath stirring his stubbled jaw.

Only gradually did he become aware of the silence around him. She must have, too, for she pulled back, releasing him. But her eyes didn’t let him go for one moment. They held onto him, smoky with desire, as dark and liquid as two great pools, reflecting his own sense of wonder, of amazement.

It was then he lost his mind.

He tossed her hood back and coiled his hand in the rich, weighty cascade of her hair. Then he swooped down on her like a hunting hawk, claiming her mouth as if he deserved it, as if it had always belonged to him. He crushed her to him, arching her back impossibly and pressing the evidence of his lust against her like a rutting animal.

And she clung to him. It was like tasting fire—dangerous and compelling. She never fought him. Even when he knew he was scraping her frail skin with his bristled, devouring jaws. Even when he squeezed her so fiercely that he left her gasping for air. The only time she cried out in protest was when he paused, wrenching her tunic aside to sample the supple curve of her shoulder. But that moan was followed by a purr of such longing that he felt as if he’d been pushed over the precipice of madness.

How they managed to make it to the hold, he didn’t know. How he came to be unclothed, he couldn’t remember. But by the time the moon dropped its silvery threads down through the cracks of the hatch, lighting the cabin with an ethereal glow and illuminating her eyes—her beautiful, shining, happy eyes—Robert knew he’d found a treasure.