Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (26 page)

Then she answered his soft kisses with the tip of her tongue. He groaned deep in his throat. He shouldn’t be doing this, he thought as he drew her wrists about his waist and hugged her to him. It would only complicate things. In another few days they would part ways and possibly never cross paths again. He was mad to…

God, her breasts were heaven against him.

He was mad to begin something he couldn’t consummate, that she’d never allow him to consummate. But his body paid no heed. It fed on the sweet harvest like a banquet. The velvety pillow of Linet’s bosom cushioned his ribs. Her long tresses swirled about in the rollicking waves, tickling the sides of his stomach. His wet hair dripped down onto her face, and he licked the water drops from her cheeks and forehead. With the pads of his fingers, he stroked her spine, from the base of her neck down to the sensual curve of her buttocks.

Linet moaned. The voice warning her to cease grew faint. She could scarcely hear it over the low roaring in her ears. All she cared about was the man embracing her—the man who was warm, gentle and, thank God, alive. Her flesh seemed to kindle and burn. The cold water eddying between the two of them only accentuated the places that his steaming, naked body pressed against hers. And though the firm staff nuzzling her belly left no doubt as to his desire, the dappled golden light, the whirling current, the heaven of skin on skin made everything seem ethereal, unreal somehow. She turned her head and clung to his waist, sighing against the strong contours of his chest.

“My little water nymph,” he murmured. “What a tempting sight you are.”

The hair along his arms brushed her skin as he reached beneath the water to cup her breast, letting the current tease at its peak. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her ear, settling again upon her lips.

She gasped, but the sound was lost within his mouth, altered into a soft moan as his fingers tugged purposefully at her eager nipples. He nibbled and sucked at her lips, showing her what he could do with those nipples, until her entire body swelled with a nameless ache. She shuddered as his mouth breathed flame into her body. She grew weak, as if a whirlpool had come to dance with her and drown her in its watery embrace.

Unable to get enough of him, she let her hands roam over his wet body. She stroked his broad shoulders, felt the pulse that pounded in his throat, tangled her fingers in the thick curls at the back of his neck. No longer was she a noble’s daughter. No longer was he a peasant. They were kindred spirits of the woodland stream. The world around her receded as she surrendered to the enchantment of the moment.

Then, without warning, he froze. With cruel abruptness, he tore his hand from her bosom and clapped it over her mouth. He stilled her twisting movements with his body, and his nostrils flared as he fought to silence his own erratic breathing.

Linet saw instantly in the smoky wariness of his eyes, in the tilt of his head, that he’d heard something. She listened as well, willing the tingling distraction in her body to subside. Then she heard the faint whicker of horses. Someone was approaching.

The beggar mouthed a curse of profound regret, releasing her and motioning her to silence with a finger against his lips. As the riders neared, her heart mimicked the dull thump of hooves on the hard-packed ground. She tried to scramble away, but the beggar grimaced, holding her fast. Soundlessly, he swept her off her feet, carrying her up the bank of the stream, his eyes vigilant.

It took all of Linet’s resolve not to dive for her clothing, but the beggar motioned for her to step quietly into the bushes as he scooped up their garments. Dragging his jerkin to cover their footprints in the dust, he joined her in the thicket, and they waited.

Within a moment, two sable mares ambled to the water’s edge for a drink, followed by their wary masters.

“See? Nothing.” It was the reiver, Tomas, and he looked relieved to find the place empty.

“I tell you I heard something,” the ferret insisted.

“Probably your ears ringing. That beggar crowned you well with that—“

“Still your cursed flapping tongue, Tomas!” He yanked on his horse’s bridle and spat into the stream. “They can’t have gone far.”

“But they could be anywhere,” Tomas grumbled. “We could be searching for days.”

“You heard El Gallo. She’s a de Montfort. She could be worth a fortune. Once we have her and that medallion…”

The breath froze in Linet’s throat. A fortune? The medallion? She suppressed a hysterical giggle. She could barely claim the title, let alone the wealth of the de Montfort estates. Not only that, but the medallion was no longer in her possession.

“So what do we do with that guardian of hers?” Tomas asked.

The ferret ground his teeth. “The bastard is mine.” He pressed a hand to his head. “I owe him for that blow. It is a wonder I can still think properly.”

He wrenched his horse from the stream and led it off along the path, with Tomas in close pursuit.

After they’d gone, Duncan let out the breath he’d been holding. He slipped his fingers through his wet hair. Somehow, some way, he had to get Linet to safety.

“What’s this medallion?” he asked, snatching up Linet’s garments and shoving them toward her. She looked so delectable, huddled there in the curtain of her damp hair, that he almost regretted handing her the clothes.

“The de Montfort crest,” she said, hugging the wet things to her chest. “I’ve worn it since I was a little girl.” Then her eyes dimmed. “But it was taken from me on El Gallo’s ship.”

“Taken? By whom?” He pulled his jerkin on over his shoulders.

She shook her head.

He nodded at her bundle of clothing. “We must leave at once.”

“And go where? We can’t continue traipsing aimlessly around Flanders.”

“Aimlessly?” Was that what she thought? “I know exactly where we’re bound.”

She lifted an inquisitive brow.

“The de Montfort castle, of course,” he said.

Linet could only stare at him. The de Montfort castle? The place of her father’s birth…and exile? She’d be about as welcome there as a rat in the buttery. “We…can’t,” she said lamely.

“What do you mean, we can’t?” he asked, pulling up his hose. “You’re a de Montfort. They’re your family. They’ll offer you protection against El Gallo.”

She looked at him. There was such kind comfort in his face, such optimism, such faith, and such simplicity. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that even if they succeeded in making it to the castle, they’d be turned away at the gates of de Montfort like lepers.

Duncan could see Linet was worried. “Don’t fret about your medallion. They’ll know you. You’re family.” He smiled reassuringly. “But it might be to your benefit to be wearing something when we arrive.”

She glanced at the wet clothes and wrinkled her nose.

He chided her with a look. “Someday, my lady, you may hire servants to fan your garments with griffin feathers until they’re dry,” he said sardonically. “Until then, I suggest you slip these on.”

She grimaced as she tried to smooth the clammy garments clinging to her curves into some semblance of modesty. She didn’t succeed, and the effect was most engaging. But there were miles to cover and no time to spare. He donned the rest of his garments, detailing in his mind their next move.

They needed a refuge. The forest wasn’t safe. Hopefully, there’d be a castle or manor house nearby where they could find shelter without arousing too much suspicion, without divulging their identity.

Getting in would be easy enough. He’d never found a keep whose portcullis didn’t fly open once he announced to the lady of the castle that he was a jongleur.

He shouldered their bag of meager belongings. “Tonight, my lady, I promise you shall sleep on a real bed in a real manor house.”

Linet folded her arms skeptically. “And how do you propose to pay for it, this real bed?”

“Ah, my lady,” he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “this day we become jongleurs. Tonight, we shall sing for our supper.”

Linet’s heart dropped with a resounding thud. “Sing?” she asked bleakly. Dear God, she thought, if they were going to sing for their supper, she’d surely starve. She couldn’t hold a note if it were handed to her on a silver platter. “Nay!” she said, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice.

“Nay?” His brow clouded with disapproval.

“Nay.”

The beggar clamped his jaw tight, and she could almost read the murderous thoughts in his eyes.

“Surely there’s another way,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her surcoat. “You’ve come this far, having no apparent source of income or marketable skills…”

He raised a brow. “No skills?”

She supposed she’d insulted him, but at least she’d managed to change the subject. “Other than a talent for deception.”

“Really?” he drawled, pulling her after him along the path.

“Mmm,” she answered, and then began to muse aloud nervously to herself as they ambled onward. “Where
do
you come by your sustenance anyway? I can think of only two possibilities. Either you have a tremendous amount of money cached away from whatever wealthy family thrust you from its bosom…or you’re a thief.”

When she looked over at him for his opinion, he only smiled enigmatically at her.

“Well, which is it?” she asked.

He frowned as if in deep thought. “The only thing I’ve ever stolen was a lady’s heart. And I don’t believe I was ever thrust from anyone’s bosom,” he added suggestively, “save yours, of course.”

The corner of her lip curved up in spite of her efforts at seriousness. “If you’d spent as much time sharpening an axe when you were growing up as you did honing your wit,” she quipped, “perhaps you’d have a useful occupation.”

“Ah, but tonight, my lady, you’ll see what sustenance that keen wit can provide.”

She glanced away. How quickly the conversation had turned against her again. “I don’t intend to participate in your silly games. I’m a wool merchant,” she muttered, “not a minstrel. I refuse to sing for my supper.”

The beggar’s voice took on a subtle hard edge, and his eyes grew serious. “You have no choice in the matter. It’s not safe here in the forest. El Gallo’s men may surround us for all we know. We need to find lodging where—”

“I’m not going to sing,” she said, halting in her tracks. “It’s…beneath me. You, as always, may do as you wish, but—”

“As I
wish
?” A humorless laugh exploded from the beggar. “Do you think I wished to be put out to sea? To face the notorious El Gallo? To battle a pair of outlaws with a pitchfork?” He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her forward after him. “I don’t do this because I wish it. I do it because we’re in grave danger. Unless we can find a way to take refuge for the night behind castle walls, it’s possible we’ll not wake in the morn. Do you understand?”

His words and his tone startled her, but she wouldn’t let him see that. “I won’t sing,” she insisted, raising her chin.

He wheeled to shake his finger at her. “You will!”

“I will not!”

“Give me one good reason!”

“I can’t sing!” she hissed.

There was a shocked moment of silence.

“I can’t sing!” she snapped. “Do you understand now? I can’t sing matins. I can’t sing madrigals. I can’t sing roundelays. I can’t sing anything that requires more than one blessed note. So
you
may sing for your supper, but I, I shall remain silent, thank you.”

She turned on her heel, mortified that she’d made that admission to him. It had always been an embarrassing secret she’d kept hidden away. Now it was out. She braced herself for the mocking laughter sure to follow.

Duncan felt no urge to laugh. He looked at Linet de Montfort’s stiff back in disbelief. “Is that all?”

He shook his head. Everyone could sing. She was only being modest—modest or shy. He smiled with warm confidence. There was no doubt in his mind that, with a little encouragement, he’d have her singing like a lark.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Linet felt her knees buckling beneath her. Her limbs were as useless as wet wool, and her tongue sat like lead in her mouth. Her head felt odd, like it no longer belonged to her body. Her eyes kept going out of focus as she tried in vain to count the row upon row of nobles clad in silk, velvet, and samite, and beyond them, the common folk in Kendal cloth and rags seated at trestle tables.

“Damn,” she muttered sluggishly, losing count again. She fanned her face with her hand. Good Lord, it was hot in this castle, even with the laces of her kirtle undone. Perhaps she’d just remove the stifling wool garment altogether.

Sweet Mary, what was she thinking? A giggle bubbled up from her well-lubricated throat, nearly throwing her off balance, and she clutched at the beggar’s sleeve for support.

It was all his fault—that beggar devil. She punched him once, ineffectually, on the arm. Damn the handsome scoundrel. He’d given her far too much to drink. And now she couldn’t count past twenty.

Ah well, perhaps the counting could wait. She fluttered forgiving eyes up at him and sighed. There was something wicked about the way she felt, like the nap of her skin was being combed up by a teasel. By the Saints, the beggar was handsome. And what a delectable-looking mouth he had, she mused, licking her lips.

Duncan felt every supple curve of Lady Linet de Montfort’s body as she inclined against him on the dais in that sheath-snug bit of wool the harlots had seen fit to call a kirtle. It hung perilously low across her shoulders now. God forbid she should take a deep breath.

There—she was doing it again—slipping her tongue out between her lips, looking at him from beneath heavy lids with those dazzling green eyes. Hell, if she didn’t stop it, he swore he was going to swive her atop the high table right here and now. Entertainment? He’d show the lord of the castle entertainment.

He strummed a brisk chord on the borrowed lute, and then proceeded with a melody he could play almost without thinking.