Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (22 page)

The woman smiled gently, almost as if she understood Linet’s difficulty, then bid them farewell.

Duncan couldn’t have been more pleased. The harlots had broken down a barrier in Linet that he could not.

As they traveled along the winding, rutted road that meandered down to less than a path at times, stepping through mounds of sweet clover and stands of majestic elms, Linet seemed deeply lost in her own thoughts.

“She was…kind.”

“Who?”

“The…that harlot woman.”

Duncan grinned. “Aye, she was.”

She frowned then and asked softly, “Do you suppose Harold is still alive?”

Duncan spoke with more surety than he felt. “Sombra no doubt has a purpose in holding him. But don’t worry. I’ll find him if I have to search the four corners of the world.”

She returned to silence then, and the only sounds were the steady brush of their boots along the path, the random whistles and flitting of birds…and the distant footfalls of the two men following them.

Duncan didn’t want to frighten Linet with the news, but someone had been trailing them for some time now. His first inclination had been to wait for them. He had his sword, after all, and he could easily best any pair of men, save his two brothers.

But he had Linet to think about. If the pursuers were part of El Gallo’s crew, killing them would eventually bring others even more bent on vengeance, and that would jeopardize Linet’s safety.

There was only one solution. He had to get Linet to de Montfort at once. Once she was secure behind the walls of her family castle, then he’d deal with the reivers. For now, he’d lead them on a merry chase at a healthy distance. As long as the two men believed the fugitives were nearly within their grasp, they’d not bother to summon assistance. Meanwhile, he’d keep his eyes focused, his ears alert, and his lips sealed.

The moon rose in the heavens like a fierce, white saber. The shadows of twilight washed the landscape into a purple blur of foliage and sky. Through the leafy copse, Duncan could discern the faint glow of firelight through an oiled skin shutter. It was a crofter’s cottage, and beyond it stood a bakehouse and a barn.

Thank God they’d found lodging at last. For the past hour, Duncan had gently urged Linet on despite her fatigue, knowing it was foolhardy to sleep in the open with men following them. Now the poor wench looked exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, and she could barely lift her feet to shuffle along.

His heart went out to her. Although hers was not a life of leisure, Linet de Montfort was probably accustomed to far more sedate labor—bidding on wool, sitting at looms, tallying accounts. She was simply not made for traipsing off across the countryside to flee attackers. Indeed, she was so weary, she didn’t voice a single protest when he guided her by the elbow toward the crofter’s barn, pushing open the creaky door.

A shaft of moonlight slanted down through a hole in the thatched roof, illuminating the interior. The straw was clean, and a milk cow was tethered in the far corner. Geese wandered underfoot, and chickens roosted in the rafters, but they seemed to take no notice of their guests. Their clucking made a pleasant counterpoint to the gentle lowing of the cow.

The cozy, sweet-smelling stable reminded Duncan of his childhood. To the dismay of his father, he’d spent many a boyhood summer night dozing among the stable lads on a pile of fragrant straw. He gave Linet a smile of reassurance and carefully closed the stable door.

“We should be safe enough here for the night, as long as we’re away before the crofter rises tomorrow.”

Linet wrinkled her nose and peered up at the moonlit dust filtering through the hole overhead. “I’ve never slept in a stable before. Are these your…usual accommodations?”

“I’d take you to my castle…” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “But it’s too distant.”

Fatigue made Linet chuckle easily.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“We ate the last of the bread at midday,” she said ruefully.

“There’s a bakehouse behind the cottage. There’s bound to be a morsel there.”

“You can’t steal bread from a crofter.”

“Who said anything about stealing?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You said you had no more coin.”

It was true. He had no more coin. But if a man used his wits, much could be procured for little more than a good deed. “As I told you before, I have no need—”

“I know. You have no need of coin,” she finished.

He grinned.

She crossed her arms. “And just how do you—”

“Wait here.”

He could feel her eyes on him all the way to the bakehouse. It was a good feeling. He gave her a brief wave of assurance. Then he ducked in through the low door, as swift and quiet as a shadow, closing it behind him.

He counted on being in and out of the bakehouse in the wink of an eye. He counted on finding some poorly risen loaf or over-baked roll left behind. He didn’t count on intruding upon the crofter’s wife.

The woman looked as shocked as he. But then he supposed it wasn’t every day an oversized beggar, salivating with hunger, came bursting in through her bakehouse door after dark. Her eyes grew round, and she opened her pudgy mouth to scream.

He acted without thought, following instincts that never seemed to fail him. Rushing forward, he placed a hand on each side of the woman’s generous jowls and planted a resounding kiss square on her still open mouth.

She squeaked once like a mouse caught by a cat. But after an obligatory protest, she melted predictably into his embrace. The poor woman must have been starved for affection. She leaned against him, savoring the moment as if it were her last.

When Duncan felt assured she wouldn’t cry out, he withdrew, smiling down at her with tenderness. By the candlelight, he could see her flushed fat cheeks and the dreamy quality to her eyes as she smiled weakly back. Not for all the silver in the world would she cry out now.

“I mean you no harm, my lady,” he assured her. “But I’ve traveled far and eaten little. When I smelled your fine bread baking, I admit I…lost control.”

The woman’s blush deepened. “Please, sir,” she gulped, “help yourself to what you will.”

He grinned. The woman swayed on her feet.

“I believe I already have,” he said.

Her eyes danced with pleasure for a moment. Then panic creased her brow. “Paul, my husband—”

“I’ll be brief.”

She grabbed up three still-warm loaves of brown bread and eagerly pressed them into his hands.

He closed his fingers over hers. “Don’t be surprised if by sunrise the milking is done for you, my lady.” He tucked the loaves beneath his arm and winked at her. Before she could utter a word, he gave her a courtly bow and made his exit.

Linet could almost smell the loaves the beggar cradled as he stole across the yard. Faith, she was so hungry she could eat alms bread. Her stomach growled like a pack of hounds.

The beggar was still a dozen yards away when the door of the cottage began to swing slowly open and he was forced to make a mad scramble for the barn. Just as he dove past Linet and out of sight, the crofter emerged from the cottage, rolling his sleeves down over his forearms and heading off for the bakehouse.

“Mathilde!” the farmer called out.

Linet peered back through the crack of the door. Mathilde? Was there a woman in the bakehouse? She frowned. “How did you…?” she whispered.

“Come,” the beggar said, ignoring her question and easing the door shut. “I’ve brought a feast.” He broke off a piece from one of the loaves.

She eyed the bread, involuntarily licking her lips. She hated taking it from him. Her father would have burst a vein to know a de Montfort was relying on the charity of a peasant. But the demanding trek had left her famished. She accepted the tidbit, murmuring her thanks, and perched on the edge of a milking stool to eat.

The bread was still warm. Between savory bites, she gave the beggar a sidelong scrutiny. He appeared untouched by the fatigue that plagued her bones. While his hair hung in unruly curls and his clothing was hopelessly rumpled, there was a sparkle in his eyes that the long day hadn’t dimmed. He sighed with contentment, as if the coarse bread were the finest pandemayne.

And for the hundredth time, she furrowed her brow and wondered what he wanted from her. Why would a beggar risk his life for her?

It could only be for profit. Though why he thought she had any reward to give him she didn’t know. Still, there could be no other reason, no matter how he protested that he had no need of coin. No need of coin. Pah! Even a king could not make that claim.

But the beggar had managed to procure much in the last few days—camaraderie from El Gallo, assistance from the harlots, bread from the crofter’s wife—all without silver, save that which fell from his tongue. Maybe he was right. Maybe he did have little need of coin. Still, never in all her years of lucrative business had she seen such a thing.

Popping the last morsel of bread into her mouth, she wondered how the beggar had convinced the crofter’s wife to part with her loaves. She peered speculatively up at him for a moment as he licked his lips between bites. And with the sudden clarity of a seer, she knew. After all, how did he always manage to get his way with
her
?

“You kissed her.”

He almost choked on his bread. “What?”

“The crofter’s wife. You kissed her. That’s how you got the bread.”

A lazy grin stole over his face, and he raised a brow. “Now why would you think that?”

“How else could you keep her from caterwauling for her husband?” She crossed her arms importantly, sure she was right. Yet she couldn’t stop the sense of irritation that bristled at her like a teasel comb at wool.

He shrugged, and a lock of hair fell enticingly over his forehead. “Perhaps I threatened her.”

She knew better. “You kissed her,” she accused.

He slowly licked a crumb from his thumb. “You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” she scoffed, silently cursing the blush that rose in her cheeks. “Don’t be absurd. I’m…disgusted.”

“Disgusted?” he smirked, his eyes twinkling. “I doubt the crofter’s wife found me disgusting.”

Outrage simmered in her veins. How cocky the beggar looked, grinning down at her with his wry mouth, a mouth no doubt still warm from that wretched Mathilde’s kissing… Curse his hide, she didn’t want to think about it. And she wasn’t going to let him unnerve her with mere words.

“The crofter’s wife,” she stated, folding her hands primly in her lap, “is no doubt accustomed to the crude embraces of a peasant.”

A laugh exploded from him. “I believe you’re insulting me, my lady!” Then he turned on her with a sudden interest that made her want to squirm. “So I’m crude, am I?” he murmured.

He took a step closer.

She shot up from the milking stool. Had the stable walls always been so narrow, so confining? She made a valiant attempt to hold her ground and stare him down. “I suppose you can’t help it,” she said, gulping. “But it’s really no matter to me. I don’t care.”

He took another step. “Oh, I think you do, my lady. I think you care a great deal.”

Her haughty scowl was no match for his sultry azure eyes. They melted her like butter on a hot cross bun. She quickly averted her gaze to the straw at his feet.

“In fact,” he added, coming so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her face, “I think you rather enjoy my…crude embraces.”

Guessing she intended to slap him for that remark, he caught both of her wrists, trapping her.

Time stood still as he turned his smoky, teasing gaze upon her. For an eternity he studied her, his eyes flickering over her face, memorizing each detail, burning into hers as if he could divine her very soul. Then, with an abrupt chuckle, he released her.

She sucked in a cool breath. She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing. Or that his eyes crinkled so charmingly at the corners when he was amused.

“You, Linet de Montfort,” he said, “are afraid of me.”

Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say in her defense.

He shook his head. “You, who so boldly insulted El Gallo on the docks, who dared to confront Sombra himself, you’re afraid of a lowly beggar.”

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered in denial. Yet deep in her heart, she knew it was true.

“You cower from me. You pretend it’s disgust,” he announced with self-mocking arrogance, “but I hardly think—“

“I
do
find you disgusting,” she tried to convince him. But she couldn’t look him in the eyes with the lie, not while that wild black curl fell across his forehead, not while his eyes shone with blue mischief.

The last thing she expected was his roar of laughter.

“Oh, aye—disgusting! And what in particular do you find disgusting?” he inquired, closing in on her again.

She eased backward. Nothing about the beggar was disgusting. Everything about him was fascinating—fascinating and dangerous.

“My nose? My eyes?” His voice softened, luring her in even as she retreated across the barn. “My mouth?”

She started to take another step away, but a spade abandoned on the stable floor tripped her up, making her stumble backward. The beggar reached out for her elbow just in time to keep her upright. But by then her back was against the planking of the stable.

“Perhaps it’s my…touch that disgusts you,” he said.

She was trapped now, pinned between a wall and a man whose sheer, raw masculinity rivaled the wood for strength.

“Shall I show you,” he whispered, “how I kissed the crofter’s wife?”

“Nay.” She stiffened like a stick. Not a kiss—anything but a kiss, she thought, even as her lips tingled in anticipation. No matter what he did to her, no matter how her heart raced, she refused to bend beneath his onslaught.

“I placed my disgusting thighs here.” He stepped between her legs, nudging them apart with his knee until his body was pressed intimately against hers, leaving her breathless, leaving no doubt as to his desire. “Then I placed my vulgar arms thus.” With one hand, he trapped her wrists against the solid wall of his chest, slipping the other gently around her throat. His fingers were like Lucca silk against her skin as they slid up the side of her neck and tangled in the curls at the back of her head.