Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (34 page)

“So you deny that you are Lady Linet de Montfort?” Lord Guillaume growled. “You claim instead that you are this…this monk’s mistress?”

Words wouldn’t pass her lips when she saw the bleak resignation in Lord Guillaume’s face. Instead, she nodded her assent.

Lord Guillaume waved to the executioner with obvious reluctance, releasing the beggar from the whipping post. Then he closed the key to the prisoner’s shackles within Linet’s hand. “He is yours then,” he whispered, clasping her hand tightly. He dug in his pouch and pulled forth a piece of silver. “My servants will escort you to the harbor at Calais, to a ship bound for England. The coin is for your passage…home.” His eyes were bleary and red, and his chin quivered as he made the next pronouncement. “Henceforth, you are duly exiled from this holding and all lands belonging to de Montfort.”

The weight of what she’d done sank upon her like a smothering cloak. Silent tears streamed unchecked down her face as her uncle turned his back on her and prepared to take the imposter to his bosom.

She couldn’t watch. Around her, the crowd of spectators dispersed, muttering in disappointment at the bloodless outcome, and the procession filed back toward the castle. Soon no one was left on Gallow’s Hill but her, the shackled beggar, and a half dozen crows that hopped about, baffled by the absence of spoils. She wiped her bleary eyes, clutching the key in her fist. Slowly she rose on shaky legs, plucking the sticky linen from her bloody knees, and turned to face the man for whom she’d sacrificed everything.

The gratitude, the relief, the adoration she expected from him were nowhere to be found. He looked down his nose at her with eyes as flat and gray as a sea squall and a sneer of disdain so intense it almost made her recoil. Her heart felt as if it would break.

Duncan forced himself to look over her head. He ignored the bloodstains on the front of her shift and the womanly curves beneath it. He made himself think only of her deceit, her betrayal, not of the price she’d paid.

He was no fool. She’d only saved his life because she feared the damnation of her soul if he should die. The woman was heartless. Twice her tempting fire had burned him. He’d not be burned again. He closed his eyes to her and hardened his heart.

Linet felt as if she skated on the thin ice of her emotions. “Give me your shackles,” she bid him in a faltering voice. “I’ll free you.”

With a sullen glare, he turned and walked away, speaking over his shoulder. “I would rather live in chains the rest of my life than be beholden to you for my freedom.”

“Please.” she whispered after him. “Forgive me, I pray you.”

“You’ll have to look to God for absolution. After what you’ve done, I’d be a fool to offer you forgiveness.”

“Please, don’t go!” she cried.

He stopped in his tracks, but he refused to turn around or acknowledge her. She stared helplessly at the muscular back she’d caressed only last night, the thick black curls she’d run her hand through, and swallowed the despair that threatened to choke her. Dear God, she’d lost him, too.

Despondent, she circled until she stood directly before him. How she yearned to rest her head upon that wide chest, to feel his arms secure around her. But she knew she’d find no comfort there today. Fresh tears filled her eyes. She took one of his unresponsive hands in hers and pressed the shackle key into it.

Then, with a soft cry, she rushed blindly off—homeless, nameless, loveless.

El Gallo crumpled the neatly scrawled parchment in his fist and threw it to the deck. He’d have done the same with the messenger—that wool merchant’s quaking old servant—had they not been in port, under the watchful eye of the Flemish magistrate. Fury rose in him like a boil, making the veins of his forehead bulge with ire.

“So,” he bit out, flecks of spittle popping from his mouth as he spoke, “Sombra thinks to prick me with his great accomplishment.”

He twisted the hairs of his beard. This whole de Montfort ordeal had been a curse to him at every turn. First he’d been humiliated and robbed in England. Then his attempts to seek retribution at the spring fair had been foiled. There was one glorious moment when he’d held the wool merchant captive on his ship. But even that had been short-lived. He’d lost two of his best men somewhere in Flanders. God alone knew if they yet breathed.

But this! This was the crowning glory of his shame. According to the missive, Sombra had somehow managed to not only find the de Montfort wench, but also to tweak fate to his benefit. The wily Spaniard had endeared himself to the de Montfort family with an imposter. Sombra was returning to Spain a rich man.

The envy was bitter on El Gallo’s tongue. But he was not one to accept defeat, even when he could taste it. The battle was not over.

“And yet,” he thought aloud, combing his fingers through the strands of his beard, “perhaps Sombra has not been so clever, eh? He let the real de Montfort wench go. It is only a matter of time before she sails for England, for her home. There is certain to be proof of her birthright there—her father’s possessions, a legal document, some heirloom trinket perhaps, an illuminated family Bible—items that will prove beyond doubt that she is the real heiress.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And of course, it would be remiss of me to not offer my ship and my escort for her safe passage back to Flanders to reclaim her title—her title and my reward for restoring the true heiress to de Montfort.” He barked out a laugh. “To think, I for once will be doing the noble thing.” The thought tickled him immensely. “Perhaps my countrymen will return my holdings in Spain to me for my good deed, eh, Harold? What do you think?”

The servant cowered, ready to bolt. But El Gallo wrapped a companionable arm around the skinny old man, nearly crushing him in his embrace. “No, no, my friend. You will stay with me now. Together we will right this terrible wrong!”

His hearty belch and guffaw ruined the effect of nobility he was striving to achieve, but it was of no consequence. There were preparations to make—crewmen to round up from the brothels, a week’s provisions to procure, the unfortunate death of Sombra to plan. It was nearly sunset now. He wanted the
Corona Negra
to sail at midnight.

The waves lapped gently against the planking of the barnacled English vessel. The canvas of its sails snapped in the crisp breeze. Ordinarily, that sound would have stirred adventure in Duncan’s spirit. But this morning, each smack of cloth sounded and seemed like a slap across the face. His head throbbed with dull pain, and he groaned, keeping his breakfast down by sheer dint of will. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when they rounded the arm of the inlet and headed for the open sea. He was probably a sorry sight, purple with bruises and green with nausea, leaning upon the ship’s railing. Never again, he swore, would he drown his woes in drink.

Yesterday, he’d gone straight from Gallow’s Hill to the nearest alehouse in Calais. Slumping into the smoky plaster corner of the Cheval Blanc, he’d spent most of the reivers’ remaining coins, staring into cup after foamy cup of ale, believing his answer lay at the bottom of the next one. Until he’d reached the point of conversing with himself.

“I should leave her to the reivers.”

“Nay,” he’d argued. “Nay. You swore to protect her.”

“She betrayed me! I owe her nothing.”

“An oath is an oath. No matter how much you detest that angel witch, you made a vow. After all, one doesn’t have to bear affection for the king to swear fealty to him.”

Finally, he’d sunk his head onto his hands in surrender. The ale had pared his troubles down to the bone: Linet de Montfort was sailing back to England tomorrow. He’d be aboard that ship. He had to be. Someone had to keep her out of trouble.

That had been his brilliant decision last night, made upon the counsel of malted grain. Today, it seemed less than brilliant.

He glanced sideways and saw her again by the far railing. This ship was too damned small. He kept having to look at Linet’s bleak, guileless face as she gazed off across the empty sea ahead like an angel bound for purgatory.

A knot of foolish guilt began to form in his chest. He tried to squelch it. Why should he feel remorse? It was
she
who had caused this, all of it. It was
she
who had been the betrayer. He would tell her so, damn her. It was about time he set her straight. He clenched his fists. He’d march over and confront her now. Right after this bout of nausea passed.

At the aft end of the ship, Linet picked morosely at the peeling paint of the railing. For one bright moment, spying the beggar at the Calais dock among the passengers bound for England, she’d imagined he’d forgiven her. She was wrong. The rancor in his eyes had been clear. And now, a few hours into the voyage home, she was weary, wearier than she’d ever been in her life. All night, lying awake in the room her uncle’s coin had paid for, she’d languished over her losses, cursing, weeping, praying. Fortune couldn’t have cast her into a deeper pit, she was certain. She’d lost…everything.

And yet, she considered, letting reason steer her course where emotion had failed, nothing had changed. She was still a de Montfort in her soul, whether anyone believed it or not. She was still a successful wool merchant, even if her profits might suffer this year. As for love…

She took a deep breath to drain the dregs of her melancholy. She’d made mistakes. And like a poor business decision, nothing could be gained by dwelling on them. She had laid in her course, and whether for good or bad, she would sail onward. It was the noble thing to do. She’d just have to salvage what she could.

No sooner had she begun to imagine dealing with the sobering life ahead of her—a life of reduced pride, reduced respect, perhaps even reduced livelihood—when the bottom fell out of even her most humble aspirations.

Dear God, she thought with a jolt, what if she carried the beggar’s child?

She gripped the railing to steady herself. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? They were two healthy adults. They had committed the required act. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that it was likely she
had
conceived. And that would be devastating.

She couldn’t subject a child to the humiliation and ridicule that came with bastardy. She knew how cruel people could be. No matter what she’d done to lose her own dignity, she couldn’t sully that of an innocent child. She swallowed the lump in her throat. There was only one solution to her dilemma. She’d have to marry. And it would have to be soon. She might not be able to afford the luxury of a long courtship if she was with child. It was the only way, she thought. She had to wed for the babe’s sake, to salvage the child’s honor.

But even as she resigned herself to the decision, she steeled her jaw against the sudden, inexplicable urge to weep. What was wrong with her? She was aware of her duty, her responsibilities. Hers wouldn’t be the first marriage made for practical reasons. Surely, with her merchant’s skills and her not uncomely appearance, some eligible man would overlook her less than pristine condition in the marriage bed.

But the thought made her throat close. She couldn’t envision anyone in her marriage bed except that wild-haired, fiery-eyed beggar. She couldn’t conceive of letting someone else touch her in that intimate way, couldn’t imagine losing her soul to another man.

Faith, she wanted only him. Honor be damned, pride be damned, she wanted the beggar.

And he despised her. She chewed at her lip. Or did he?

A stray gust of wind blew the hood of her cloak back, lifting her hair away from her face. And suddenly the answer was clear. Aye, she’d seen hatred in the beggar’s eyes when he glared at her from the whipping post—icy, raw hatred. His words had dripped with acid scorn. Still, there had been something more, something beneath the rage. And it hadn’t been loathing. There had been…pain in his eyes, terrible hurt and longing.

Why hadn’t she noticed it before? He was like a wounded wolf, snarling and biting and hiding his injuries so he could be hurt no more. Linet’s heart lifted, and a glimmer of possibility was born in her breast.

Once, he’d confessed his love. And while that love might lay buried deep beneath a mound of betrayal and mistrust and pain, perhaps it wasn’t dead. Perhaps she could earn it again.

Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer for fortitude. She had a strong will when it came to business. She never backed down from a fight. This battle might prove difficult, but she vowed she’d do whatever it took to regain the beggar’s affections.

The hand suddenly gripping her shoulder startled the resolve right out of her. She whipped around to look into the beggar’s scowling face, her newfound hope completely deserting her.

“Do exactly as I say,” he commanded under his breath.

She frowned. His tone didn’t bode well.

“Come!” he barked.

She pulled away.

“For the love of God, woman,” he quietly snarled, “do not defy me. Not now.”

He nodded toward the north, around the last narrow point of land. A ship was rapidly approaching, a ship bearing the unmistakable colors of El Gallo.

“Nay,” Linet whispered, clutching his sleeve, her voice as insubstantial as air.

“I’d wager my blade our Spanish friend is searching every vessel that crosses from Flanders to England,” Duncan muttered. “He must want you very badly.” Instantly, he regretted his words, for Linet’s eyes widened in terror. And for all the hell the wench had put him through, he didn’t have the heart to frighten her. “I won’t let him have you,” he promised.

At best, it was a tenuous vow. There was nowhere to run. And no time. In another moment, the vessels would be close enough to pick out individuals by sight.

He cast about for a suitable place to cache a small wench. His eyes alit on a wooden trunk beside the mainmast. He was upon it in two strides and had broken the rusty lock in another moment. Ignoring the captain’s indignant protests and the passengers’ remarks of outrage, he upended the chest, emptying its stash of raw wool across the deck.