Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (7 page)

She smirked. A real lady would never have endured the way the beggar had stared at her, his eyes perusing her as if he planned to devour her, his sly smile mocking her. He was a rogue, a scoundrel with cocky airs and much more in his sapphire eyes than avarice, something more dangerous than greed.

She definitely should have slapped him.

Her basket settled, she gathered her heavy skirts to climb up on the cart.

“Wait!” someone called.

She hesitated on the step. Dear God, it couldn’t be. No one was that audacious.

“Wait!” repeated the all-too-familiar voice, still several yards behind her. “I can’t let you go!”

Damn his persistence. She took a deep breath and turned, prepared to give the beggar the scolding of his life. Then she froze.

Somehow he’d managed to wrest a sword from one of the guards. The heavy-laden sheath slapped against his thigh as he loped toward her. Dear God, she thought, had he killed them? Did he mean to kill
her?

She wasn’t going to find out. She heaved herself onto the cart. Then she took up the reins and snapped them smartly, startling the old nag into bolting down the castle road and nearly upsetting the wagon.

Recklessly she fled, determined to leave the beggar in her dust, urging the horse on with curses. The wagon rollicked over a stone, and the band of her veil slipped down over one eye. Her heart racing, she cast aside the errant thing, and with her hair streaming out in wild tangles behind her, half-stood to drive the nag onward.

The wagon careened around an egg merchant, scattering his flock of chickens in its wake. Then it bounded perilously over the rutted road, narrowly missing a fishmonger on his way to the castle with a basket full of trout. Only when the road cleared did she hazard a glance back over her shoulder.

“Shite!”

He was tearing after her like a plundering berserker.

She cracked the reins down again. A squeal of panic rose in her throat. The cart rumbled over the road like an undulating pack of hunting hounds, growing more frenetic with each passing moment. The right wheels pitched into and out of a deep rut, rocking the cart perilously askew. The basket of neatly folded fabric toppled like a drunkard.

Then, suddenly, the entire back of the wagon dipped down.

The beggar was aboard.

She turned to him, her eyes wide.

Grim determination hardened his square jaw. The muscles of his forearms bulged as he hauled himself forward over the piles of wool. He was coming after her as relentlessly as a wolf after a fawn. And like doomed prey, Linet couldn’t drag her gaze away from her pursuer.

Alas, she’d picked a poor time to shift her attention from the cart’s path. The beggar’s eyes widened as he glanced beyond her at the abrupt turn in the road. Before she could mouth a protest, he dove to the front of the cart and grabbed the reins from her, hauling back on them so hard that the nag yelped and the wagon skidded to a halt in a cloud of rocks and dust.

She would have fallen forward, out of the cart and over the horse, but the beggar barred the way with his arm. She let out a great “oof” as his elbow caught her in the stomach. Coughing and sputtering hysterically, she rounded on him.

“G-get away from me!”

Duncan’s lungs hurt to bursting, and Linet’s piercing cry only added insult to the pain. Why in God’s name he’d chased after a horse-drawn cart driven by a reckless hoyden, he couldn’t begin to fathom. Chivalry certainly had its queer moments.

By now, several interested travelers had stopped to look on, slack-jawed, but none seemed to want to get involved in what appeared to be a household squabble.

“Get away!” she squeaked, her eyes round with fright.

He cocked an affronted brow at her. What was wrong with the woman? She had no cause for fear or hostility. After all, he’d likely just saved the little wretch’s neck.

“Don’t touch me,” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. But this time, like a panicked hound biting its master’s hand, she hauled back her arm and slapped him. Hard.

The crack of flesh on flesh stung his cheek and split the air like summer lightning.

He was stunned. He’d never been struck by a woman before. No one intentionally riled the temper of a de Ware. It was like poking a sleeping wolf. Worse still, there wasn’t a shred of apology in her eyes, only mortification at what she’d dared.

He ground his teeth, wavering between shock and anger. Then he grabbed her by the forearm, forcing her to sit down next to him on the wooden seat, and snapped the reins to set the old horse in motion. Ignoring the curious stares of those who pointed at the odd pair of them wrestling atop the cart, he drove onward toward the fair.

He’d never felt such anger—never. It wasn’t like him to handle women roughly, but the urge to throttle this one overwhelmed him. She should be grateful. It was thanks to him that her neck was still attached to her shoulders, considering the company she’d kept lately. But nay, the silly wench probably thought she could walk through
hell
unscathed.

They rode along in frosty, bone-jarring silence until the castle diminished and slipped from sight behind a hillock. When they reached the cover of the trees, he drew back on the reins to stop the nag in the middle of the road.

Linet held her breath, her trepidation rising. The beggar had purposely brought her to this isolated spot. What in the name of God did he intend?

His hand felt like a shackle around her arm. Maybe, she dared to hope, he only intended to rob her. Maybe he’d take her coin and be gone.

But her worst fears were confirmed as the rogue reached into the pouch at his waist with his free hand and pulled forth a small vial, uncorking it with his teeth.

Poison!

She tried to pry loose.

“Cease, woman!” he commanded, his eyes blue steel beneath the dark brows.

Casting her pride to the wind, she sucked in a great breath and began yelling at the top of her lungs. “Murder! Help me! Murder!”

“Quiet,” he snarled, shaking her.

Some of the contents of the vial dripped out onto her cloak. She gasped in horror, half expecting the fabric to melt away.

The beggar glanced about to insure that no one had heard her cries. Then he glared at her, not in anger, but rather a kind of bemused disappointment. “Murder?”

Her heart still beat wildly, and she stared at the spot on her cloak, waiting for the material to dissolve. He followed her gaze. One corner of his mouth crooked up in a sardonic smile.

“It’s pine sap,” he told her.

Then he released her arm to pull something else from his satchel, something black and hairy and dead. She recoiled instinctively. But it was only his fake beard, a bit worse for wear from the stomping it had endured. He must have retrieved it from the fair.

“Perhaps this will cushion the blow next time,” he grumbled. With that, he dabbed some of the sticky sap onto his cheeks and chin and affixed the scraggly beard to his face.

A bit of the tension drained out of her shoulders. But she wasn’t completely satisfied. “Did you kill the guards?”

“Of course not.”

“But you bested them.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted—proof of my skill?”

She supposed she might have misinterpreted his actions. Perhaps he truly meant her no harm. Still, she wasn’t about to let down all her defenses. She sat on the verge of the seat, ready to bolt.

“If you wish to retain custody of your horse and cart,” he said calmly, as if he could read her mind, “I’d advise you remain where you are.”

She had little choice. She could ill afford to lose her wagon or the nag. She sat helplessly by while he patted his beard into place.

Suddenly the craziness of the whole episode struck her. Here she was, the hostage of a man who claimed to want only to protect her, who had no use for coin, and who possessed a penchant for wearing false facial hair. Slowly her fear began to diminish in the face of burning curiosity.

“Why do you wear that…that ridiculous thing anyway?” She waved toward his beard. “Can’t you grow your own?”

“A beard?” He glared at her. “I used to be able to grow one,” he said pointedly. “Although a few more harrowing days like this one may leave me both beardless and bald.”

She peered at his thick ebony mane. He could probably lose half his hair and still have enough left for two men. It curled sinuously about his ear and teased the broad column of his neck. It looked soft.

He curved a brow at her, and she realized she’d been staring. She jerked her head around and trained her eyes on the nag. “I have work to do. So if you’ll leave off your morning ablutions and tell me just what it is you want from me…”

His cursory perusal of her from head to toe made her regret her choice of words. Thankfully, he didn’t rise to the bait. He took a deep breath as if to collect his faculties. “I made a promise when I earned my spurs to protect all women,” he announced. “I intend to honor that promise.”

She could only stare at him. For all his strange antics, it had never occurred to her that he might be genuinely mad. Until now. “Your…spurs?”

“I do not take my vows lightly.” His eyes took on a faraway cast. “Wherever there is one in need, there will I go.”

Linet was silent for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. “You expect me to believe you’re a knight?”

He thrust his jaw forward haughtily, which only made her laugh all the more.

“Well, Sir Whatever-You-Call-Yourself, you’re the first knight I’ve met with no horse, no armor, and absolutely no sense of honor.”

The flicker in his eyes warned her she had just trod on perilous ground.

“I have more honor in my little finger,” he ground out, “than you have in your entire body.”

“Oh ho!” she cried. “My father was Lord Aucassin de Montfort of Flanders.” Her hand went reflexively to the family medallion she wore against her bosom.

His laugh was a snort of disbelief. “Indeed? Your father’s a lord, yet he allows you to toil in the wool market?”

She blanched. He had no right to question her, none at all. A nobleman would take her at her word. She owed him no explanation, and she certainly had no intention of divulging her family’s blemished history.

“Ah, I see,” he said, his eyes softening. His voice grew curiously gentle, the amusement gone. “You’re a by-blow then?”

“No!” she exploded. “I am not a by-blow! Don’t ever call me that. My mother and father were properly wed. It wasn’t my father’s fault if…”

“If…” he prompted.

The care in his eyes seemed genuine. But she wasn’t about to let a stranger know the humiliating circumstances of her birth. She straightened on the seat.

“You’ll drive me to Woolmaker’s Row,” she informed him coolly, “and you’ll leave me there…alone.”

He shook his head. “I’m not
leaving
you anywhere. You may be in grave danger. I’ve taken a vow to see you safe, and—”

“Safe? And who’s to keep me safe from the likes of you?” She shook her head. “Nay, I have no need of your protection. I have my servant, Harold—”

“The old man?”

“He’s…stronger than he looks.”

The beggar coughed.

She clenched her fists in the folds of her surcoat while her anger smoldered.

He clucked to the horse, and the cart lurched forward.

“You may escort me only as far as the fair,” she told him, pretending she had a choice in the matter.

He made no reply. She knew better than to mistake his silence for assent, but it was useless to argue now. Once they turned down Woolmaker’s Row, she’d have Harold and the entire Woolmaker’s Guild to back her up. Then she’d be rid of him.

She’d likely never see him again.

She’d never learn the reason he wore that infernal beard, or why he claimed to be a knight, or why he was singularly obsessed with protecting her. But it was no concern of hers. She had her own life to live—a life of warp and weft, numbers and accounts, profit and tax—a comfortable, secure, predictable life. She had no time for eccentric beggars and their crackbrained chivalrous fantasies.

She sighed and clasped her hands in her lap as they bounced along the road, wondering uncomfortably if her father was scowling down from heaven. This was the closest she’d ever been to a commoner. Likely the closest she’d ever get. And as long as she was never going to see him again, she supposed it would do no harm to take a quick peek at the man, just out of the corner of her eye, solely for educative purposes.

Who was the mysterious beggar? The fists holding the reins were massive, the veins prominent. They were hands accustomed to hard work. His thighs, too close to hers for comfort, were long and heavily muscled beneath the crumpled hose, like a laborer’s legs. And yet there was a laziness about him, a sensual languor that made him seem as if he worked at nothing.

Then there was his behavior. He was certainly as vulgar and boorish as the crudest peasant, and yet he possessed the natural authority and speech of a nobleman.

His clothing, of course, revealed the truth. While the wool of his trews was coarse and riddled with tiny moth holes and his leather boots worn thin, his cloak was fashioned of the finest English worsted. No coin had been spared in the making of that garment.

There was but one conclusion to be drawn. The man was a thief.

“You must have paid handsomely for that cloak,” she muttered, raking him with a knowing glare.

He smirked. “Actually, it was given to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Given to you! No doubt given at the point of a dagger. It’s too fine a garment to give away. Indeed, sirrah, you do the thing an injustice by wearing it over threadbare rags.”

“Indeed?” The corner of his lip curved up. “You think I should cast it aside?” Then he clucked his tongue. “Ah nay, you little wanton, I perceive your trickery now. You won’t get me out of my clothing that easily.”

She was sure she turned the color of Norwich scarlet, especially when he began to chuckle deep in his chest.

“And as for doing the garment an injustice, I must object. I’m always grateful for gifts, and I respect their value.” His lip twitched with repressed humor. “Unlike some I could name. Why, only yesterday, I heard some ungrateful wench dumped a gift of Spanish wine into the sea.”