LadyOfConquest:SaxonBride (26 page)

With William’s ploy revealed, it would likely be regarded as an act of defiance if Maxen claimed Rhiannyn, thereby thwarting the king’s plans. Though he had been grateful these past weeks had so teemed with preparations for winter that there had been no time to pursue her, now he begrudged their every distraction.

Too late.

He stood, crossed to his chest, and thrust the king’s missive to the bottom. He would think more on it later. Now, he would join his men for the meal and, as instructed, keep close watch over the woman he should not have denied himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“The wolf!” Elan Pendery spat into the wind she rode against.

So much talk of a mere man. Others might fear him, but she did not. Though he surely reveled in exaggerated tales of his prowess, he was a mortal like all—and destined to be cut down by a Norman. Or trampled beneath her horse, she entertained and smiled at the vision born of a mind her mother said was too fertile.

It amused her to think such things, though she knew better than to own to them. And she had good reason to indulge—to resent Edwin Har
wolf
son and those of his ilk. Not until Duke William had crossed the channel two years ago to claim his throne, had she been so confined within the castle.

At ten and five, she had tolerated it well enough, especially as there had been Christophe with whom to pass the hours. But her brother had gone to Etcheverry, taking with him all the fun they had made together. Now she was forced to look for amusement elsewhere—or, considering the day’s turn of events, a place to more fully worry over her father’s announcement. Remembrance of it stole her smile and caused the scenery to blur.

Six months past, she had been too indifferent to propriety to be concerned for the future, but now those days were upon her and promised to be terrible.

This morn, she had swallowed dismay with her bread when her father announced he had made a suitable match for her. She would wed one Sir Arthur, a man of no less than fifty years, three wives passed on, four children, and a demesne equal to Trionne. The prospect turned her stomach, but not as much as that other thing which would be discovered on her wedding night.

She had made a mistake, driven by the recklessness it was said came too easily to her, but there was no way to change the past. Nor wipe away traces of it.

She heaved a breath up her face, shook her head. There would be time aplenty to dwell on it. For now, she would enjoy the hours before last light.

He saw her long before she saw him, which was as it should be. But who was this fair young woman who, from the top of her head to her fine woolen mantle, down to the toes of her slippers, looked a lady? And why was she without escort?

For all the anger that had become as much a part of him as breathing, Edwin could not help smiling. She was lovely, her ashen hair visible beneath the veil the stirred air lifted. And as she drew near the bordering wood, he saw she was not as dainty as she had appeared from a distance. She was of average form, but it was the only thing average about her. Though he could not determine the color of her eyes, they sparkled as she scanned the trees. Then from her pretty mouth came laughter.

She spurred her horse into the wood, slowing when fully hidden from sight of the castle walls—not fifty feet from where Edwin had set himself to watching the stronghold of Trionne.

She reined in and patted her horse’s neck. “Once again,” she said in clear Anglo-Saxon, “we have done it—escaped them one and all.” She grimaced, an expression which might have turned another’s face unattractive but not hers. “Not that our absence will be noted.”

A curious creature, Edwin mused. More, the lady could prove useful.

He peered over his shoulder and motioned for those hidden behind and to the sides to hold their positions.

The men nodded and sank more deeply into their hiding places.

When the lady prodded her horse deeper into the wood, Edwin moved, using the sounds of her movement to mask his. In this way, he overtook her and gained ground ahead that would arouse less suspicion than if he had revealed himself at the edge of the wood.

Then the act began. “Testra!” he called as he worked his way back over ground he had just tread, and called twice more for a horse nowhere near.

Blue eyes wide, the lady halted her mount and stared at Edwin, who feigned his own surprise. “Who are you?” she demanded.

Guessing she had passed into her twentieth year, he said, “I fear I have lost my horse. Rather, he has lost me.”

Her lids narrowed. “Who are you to come upon my father’s lands?”

Father’s?
A smile being difficult to suppress, Edwin used it as a sign of friendliness and stepped forward. “Your father’s lands?”

“Aye, Baron Pendery, possessor of all you have no doubt tramped this day.”

Maxen and Christophe’s sister, though had he not heard she was ten and seven? Regardless, a better pawn he could not have hoped for. But how to convince her to come down from her horse so he might steal her away?

“I am Bacus,” he said, using the name of his brother who had fallen at Hastings, “come from across the wood to seek winter shelter in yon castle.”

Something measured showed in her eyes. “Of what village are you, Saxon?”

“Of no village. Thus, I seek to enter Trionne.”

“You and hundreds of others. Have you something to offer they have not?”

With steps made to appear casual, Edwin began to close the distance between them. “I have good knowledge of the training and care of horses. But tell me, by what name are you called, daughter of Pendery?”

She smiled faintly. “I am Lady Elan.”

“I should have known, for much is told of your beauty.” Much he had not heard, though there had been mention she was lovely.

This time, she smiled with her teeth.

Edwin used her moment of vain unguardedness to draw half a dozen steps nearer. And halted, certain a single lunge would have her off her horse.

“Aye, my lady, you make a man’s eyes ache to look upon you,” he fed her more.

She fluttered her lashes, slowly moved her gaze down him. Returning to his eyes, she asked, “What do you hope to gain with such flattery? Is it truly winter shelter you seek?” She leaned forward, and in a conspiratorial tone, added. “Or a tumble up my skirts,
Bacus
?”

Edwin could not hide his surprise over her unladylike daring, nor how astute she was. Might she have guessed who he was? Instantly, he rejected the possibility. She was suspicious, but she could not know—unless this was a trap laid for the
wolf.
It seemed hardly possible, for he had advanced on Trionne with the tightest control of his forces, and those he had left a short space behind had not called out a warning.

“What do you think I seek, my lady?” he asked.

She shifted in the saddle. “I think you are neither Bacus, nor come to beg shelter at Trionne. And Testra—your horse’s name, eh?—is likely tethered nearby.”

If a trap, she played her part poorly by voicing her suspicions, but still he was wary. He arched an eyebrow. “Then who might I be, and what think you I do in your wood?”

He nearly startled when she put out a hand, beckoning him to assist in her dismounting.

Now the trap would be sprung if it was indeed a trap, he thought. Eyes watchful, ears alert, sword and dagger a hand away, he strode forward. When he raised his arms to her, she came into them.

No whisper of a breeze begot by advancing soldiers, no vibration of their coming beneath his thin-soled boots. Not a trap. Merely a woman filled with foolishness.

When he released her, she did not step back as a lady ought to, but tipped her face up, frowned, and touched a finger to her lower lip. “I think…” she played at thoughts he did not doubt she knew well.

Something he had long ago pushed down rose in Edwin as he looked upon her comeliness and felt the warmth of her body across the small space. In her face were eyes of blue framed by long lashes; beneath, a fine nose; and below, a mouth full and red. It was by no artifice she was lovely. God had made her so.

Affecting revelation, the lady gasped. “I think you are one of those Saxons who does not accept his Norman master.”

Perceptive, he allowed, but not in the safeguarding of her person. In this, she was unwise. “If you believe that, why are you unafraid?”

She stepped nearer, causing him to be filled with a longing distant from revenge. “Because, Bacus of no lord, I like what fills my eyes.”

It was Edwin who stepped back. The woman had set herself to seducing him! Might it be a lie that she was Elan Pendery? No lady he had known was so brash and provocative. Certainly, Rhiannyn had not acted in this manner, and she had been a lady only by Thomas Pendery’s decree. Indeed, the only women Edwin had known to behave in this manner were those who took coin for favors upon the sheets.

“Have I put you off?” she said.

“It surprises me to hear a lady speak so. Indeed, it makes me question if you are, indeed, a lady.”

“There is a time to be a lady and a time to be a woman,” she said. “This day I deign to be the latter.”

Whoever she was, he did not doubt he would enjoy knowing her better, but he remained too taken aback to do more than stare.

“How much more invitation would you like, Saxon?” She unfastened the brooch from her mantle and let the garment slide from her shoulders to her feet, revealing a bliaut of finely woven material and a figure as lovely as her face.

He hated that he must seem like an untried boy, but though his pride was in danger of being ground beneath her pretty slippers, it was she who came into his arms. Lady or not, Elan Pendery or pretender, he claimed her mouth—or perhaps she claimed his.

She was no more Elan Pendery than he was Bacus, Edwin determined, certain the elder Pendery would not tolerate such behavior from his daughter who must wed with her virtue intact. But whatever the name of this woman who was surely several years older than Pendery’s daughter, of three things he was certain—she was of the nobility, was not inexperienced, and was a pretender through and through.

She scooped up a handful of water, sipped it, and let the rest trickle between her fingers as she straightened. When she turned back, she smiled prettily.

And thus, they regarded each other.

“Methinks you are a brooder, Bacus.” She closed the distance between them, leaned up, and lightly kissed him. “Still, I may be in danger of falling in love with you.”

Liar,
he wanted to name her. Instead, he forced a smile.

She
tsked,
set herself back on her heels. “You could at least lie and tell me you feel the same.”

Not for the first time, he wished he had not taken what she had given. The little bird might have pretty feathers, but he sensed the beak and claws of a hawk.

“How is it you came alone to the wood?” he asked, determined he would speak no more of what had transpired between them. “I would not think your
father
would allow it.”

“He would not,” she said with such pleasure it allowed a glimpse of the child beneath the woman.
 

Might he have been wrong in believing she was a score of years aged? “Who allowed it?” he asked.

“The guard at the postern gate. We have an understanding.”

Lovers, then. “I am sure,” he said derisively.

She wagged a finger. “Not that kind of understanding, Bacus.”

“Then?”

She adjusted her veil. “As I am fond of freedom, so he is fond of fine drink. One for the other, you see.”

Norman greed, Edwin labeled the man’s conduct. No lady ought to be allowed to leave the castle without escort. “The man should be flogged and clapped into irons for making such a bargain. No Saxon would allow what he did.”

She laughed. “He is Saxon,” she said, reminding him the Penderys had resided on English soil when it was still English, their association with the Saxons going back more than twenty years.

“A Saxon turned Norman,” he said.

“One or the other, it is no concern of yours. Unless…” She touched a finger to his flesh above the V of his tunic. “…you are in danger of falling in love with me.”

Though Edwin knew she could prove a useful pawn regardless of who she was to the Penderys, in that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to send her away. Of course, when he held all of Trionne come the morrow, they would meet again.

“You are back to Trionne?” he asked, turning toward her horse.

She drew alongside him. “Unless you would like my aid in locating your mount.”

There was teasing in her eyes. Certes, she knew there was no horse that needed finding, that he lied the same as she, but still she showed no fear.

He halted alongside her mount. “Nay, the beast cannot be far off.”

“As you will.” She offered her arm. “Do you hand me up, I will be on my way.”

He lifted her into the saddle with nearly as much ease as when he had lifted her down. “Fare thee well,” he said and stepped back to allow her to turn her horse.

She did so. However, when some distance separated them, she reined around and smiled. “I know who you are, Edwin Harwolfson.”

He stared.

“I knew the moment I happened upon you.”

He jerked free of his stupor. “What is your game?” he demanded, knowing he stood little chance of reaching her before she put heels to her horse.

“Farewell,
wolf!
” With a snap of her wrist and a nudge of her heels, she spurred her horse away.

Knowing if he was to salvage his plans for Trionne he must apprehend her, Edwin bolted after her. Over thicket, muddy ground, and stream he bounded, around trees and beneath low-hanging branches he raced. But though twice his prize was nearly within reach, he was forced to surrender the chase.

Breath heaving, he stood at the edge of the wood staring out upon the meadow, into the midst of which sped horse and rider. Gradually, the two diminished in size until they were a speck against the castle walls.

Edwin berated himself for his stupidity in allowing the vixen her freedom. There had been little danger in her thinking it was but a discontented Saxon to whom she had given herself, but that she knew he was Edwin Harwolfson…