Never Kiss A Stranger (17 page)

“Has …?” Piers prompted, a trace of humor in his voice. “Words failing you for once?”

“Piers,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “You are not common any longer.”

“I am until Edward decrees otherwise,” Piers said ruefully.

“No. No, that is not true.” Alys couldn’t help the
stunned huff of laughter that came from her throat. “You are actually … quite wealthy, right at this very moment.”

He turned to her, his face a mask of forced impatience. “What are you talking about?”

Her smile was slow, sly, and carried the weight of her imminent triumph. “You are related to the most powerful house in all of England …
husband
.”

His frown deepened, and then realization dawned on his face. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Then Alys leaned so close to him that Piers had to draw his head back to look down at her upturned face. Her eyes played over his face, his lips.

“Now
will you kiss me?”

Piers had not kissed her. Instead he’d sent her to sleep like a troublesome child, which had stung her pride and hurt her feelings, Piers knew. But he needed time alone, to think without her constant chatter and questioning. Once he was certain she was occupied by her dreams, he sat at the edge of the overhang, one knee drawn up, one foot dangling into the blackness of the ravine.

Alys Foxe, Alys Foxe. She was either the greatest blessing or the greatest curse to ever have come into his life. Since the fateful night they had met at the old ring, he had been denying her superstitious claim to him, thinking to protect both of their interests. Certainly, what man in possession of good sense would refuse any one of the Foxe ladies? Not simply the wealthiest women in all of England, but ruling the most powerful house beyond the throne? Even the king himself seemed unable to command them.

Piers knew that no matter how flattering it was for a woman such as Alys Foxe to chase him, any attraction she felt for him was likely only novelty. Once she came to realize
the simplicity of him, the humbleness of his birth and life and home—even should he be successful in his endeavor to claim Gillwick—she would tire of him. She would long once more for the riches of her family, the wealth and luxury. Even though she only spoke of her sisters as a burden to her, Piers guessed that the women shared a close bond. Piers had no love to show her, give her. He doubted he even knew what the emotion meant.

Perhaps his mother had loved him. His memories of her—old and gray and fleeting—were warm and smiling. But he did wonder if that was naught but a sad little boy’s longing, to remember his mother as a loving protector. Had he ever been truly happy in his life? Piers could not say that he had. But he had known sadness. And loss, and anger and resentment and hate and jealousy. He had nothing to offer Alys Foxe but those things, and when she wearied of playing with him—as she undoubtedly would—his life would only be that much more miserable.

He had heard melancholy old women say that it is better to have a fleeting love than no love at all. But Piers did not agree. Having the love of his mother for those few years had only brought into stark relief the lack of tenderness and care in his life once she was gone. It had made him bitter, yes. But strong. He was strong. That was the only reason he was still alive.

Piers could not allow himself to love Alys Foxe, or to let her even think for a moment that him loving her was possible. But the opportunity she presented him now was almost too tempting to refuse. They had been completely alone together now for days, a fact that could be easily verified by her family. They had known Alys was running away to the Foxe Ring, and Sybilla herself had given her blessing upon any man Alys met at the ring who would have her. It was no secret that many in the land used the
old stones to find a mate, and the superstition was so highly regarded that most of the time a formal ceremony was not even held.

Yea, ‘twas likely that a professed union between him and Alys Foxe would stand before the king. And how much more weight would his accusation of treachery against Bevan and Judith Angwedd—not to mention his claim to Gillwick—then carry? Edward wanted Sybilla Foxe, and to have her brother-in-law in his court, claiming lands that would then be connected by marriage to the grand Fallstowe’s, might be too beneficial to the king’s own interests to deny.

Perhaps Alys Foxe was in some way the answer to his father’s riddle. Piers hadn’t sought out the tenacious little blonde—indeed, he had done all in his power to escape her. And yet as her husband, perhaps it was her own powerful blood ties that would save Gillwick and himself.

But if he used her so to gain what he wanted, what would happen to Alys in the aftermath? How would they ever disentangle their lives from each other’s? Would Edward indeed take Alys for ransom, reining her powerful sister to him?

What would you care if he did?
a nasty part of him argued.
She will leave you any matter, deny you. Have you not kept her safe in this reckless petulance she has carried out by running away from her family? Have you not potentially saved her from a marriage she did not want? Should you not be rewarded for choosing not to leave her alone to die in the wood with her damned monkey, which nearly took your fingers off? She would not die at Edward’s hands—the king is not stupid. And her sisters would surely save her, any matter. Let Alys Foxe for once pay the consequences of her actions. She
will then be free to again do as she pleases, and you will have Gillwick. And your revenge.

Piers sat for a long time, staring into the blackness over the river and listening to that voice, while the fire faded and then died quietly behind him. His fingers throbbed, his stomach roiled, his head pounded. The night seemed to have become inexplicably warmer to him, so much so that his face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He told himself it was naught but the excitement of having his victory only as far away as the king’s court.

Some time before dawn, he sought a cool, smooth stone for a pillow and lay down to sleep.

Although he was indeed even more handsome in the daylight, sporting his new hairstyle and clean jaw, Alys thought Piers looked unwell the next day. She knew he had likely stayed up long after she was asleep, considering his newly arrived at decision to let her accompany him all the way to London and perhaps aid his plight with the king, so perhaps it was only fatigue that she saw. She hoped so. But it had been she who needed remind him of eating the last of their food before they started out once again on their long journey, and Piers had done little more than nibble at a small piece of apple before shoving the uneaten portion into his pack.

She felt a strange coolness from him, and it didn’t stem from his lack of conversation. She could feel him, in the way she’d felt Etheldred Cobb’s shame, the way she sensed that she must rescue Layla. Alys’s mother had once told her long ago that there was a way in her family blood, of sensing certain things other people could not discern. Some might call it witchcraft, Amicia had warned her, and advised that it was best not to announce her talent. But Alys’s mother had also instructed her to
heed these feelings, and cultivate a notice of them. Alys had never given the idea much thought.

But as she now trudged along the forest floor behind Piers, she tried to sharpen her awareness of him—something she’d not done before in more than a purely superficial manner. Her steps fell in rhythm, the crunching leaves became a sort of heartbeat, her breath like ocean waves, rising and falling, rising and falling. He was clear in her sight—his broad back swaying with his steps, his pack bouncing, his head performing a choreographed dance of looking in turn down at the way before him and then left and right, always alert for anyone following them.

And as she stared at him, although his form was crisp and clear, the areas of her peripheral vision began to blur out. She stared for a long, long time, until at last she saw a light around him—yellow, but not the sweet gold of sunlight. It was more akin to smear of old mustard, and where it lined his body, it darkened to a fungus green. And instead of radiating from him in sharp, brilliant points, the light was rippled, like heat.

Alys blinked, and her vision cleared, although now her heart beat faster and her stomach clenched.

Was he ill? She wasn’t certain.

“Piers,” she called, her voice high-pitched and breaking from fear and disuse.

He glanced over his shoulder at her in answer.

“Could we stop for a moment, please?”

He kept walking. “Do you need the bushes?”

“No. I need to talk to you.”

“Walking has never prevented you from doing that before.”

“Yes, but I need to look at you while I do it,” she insisted. “It’s important.”

“You can look at me when we stop. Perhaps another
hour. It looks to rain soon any matter, and we’ll need make camp early.” She could hear the frustration in his voice and something else, a weariness, perhaps.

And Alys was bone-cold—the air she breathed into her lungs felt loaded with ice crystals. The day was frigid. If any precipitation fell on them, it could be nothing other than snow—being a man of a farm, surely he of all people realized that.

She frowned. “Alright, Piers. In an hour then.”

He walked on without reply.

She needed to look at him, yes, but perhaps it was better that they make camp first. The farther along they were, the better chance they had of coming across a village of some sort for supplies. Her knowledge of the countryside surrounding Fallstowe had run out just past the little village of Pilings, and she had no idea now where they were or how far away London lay. She did know that they would be needing more food, of course, and if Piers was ill as she suspected, perhaps herbs, a potion—she didn’t know. Cecily was the sister learned in the healing arts. Alys knew little about caring for the sick, save that they needed a soft bed and a warm hearth and Cecily Foxe—none of which were at her disposal, or even within reach.

Perhaps for the first time in her life, there was truly no one for Alys to call on save herself.

Alys had the dreadful feeling that wherever they stopped for the night, Piers would not be able to leave, for a while at least. Until he got better, of course. He would certainly get better.

She concentrated on him once again as she worked her legs like machines, telling herself that the green color
close to his body was simply a very dark shade of green now, and not black.

Not black.

The voices were coming to him again for the first time in days, whispering in his ear with a vividness that was frightening. Piers fancied he could feel Judith Angwedd’s cold breath against his sweaty neck.

Filthy, dirty, foul little beast! Your whore mother burns in hell.

Piers’s head whipped to the left—surely his stepmother must be hiding behind that tree.

But no—no one peeked around the trunk at him. Only moss and dead-brown vines.

Hit him again!
The voice echoed and was so loud, Piers winced at the bright pain it caused.
Again, Bevan!

“Stop!” He tried to shout, but to his horror the word came out as little more than a whimper. His eyes felt as though they were bleeding and he swiped a hand across his face. He looked down at his palm and saw that it was wet.

Bloody hell, he was hot. And the bandage covering his fingers was damp with yellow and brown stains. Fucking Layla …

“Piers?” He heard Alys call to him from leagues away, it seemed. He glanced over his shoulder at her, noticing with dread how little range his neck had with the pain. His head swam and he looked forward once more lest he fall over his own feet.

You are my only heir.

“Piers, it’s been more than an hour,” she called faintly.
“I do think we should stop—you don’t look well. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.” He tried to make his voice carry back to her, strong and certain. Each word caused his vision to pulse, the wood around him bulging with heat. “Just a bit farther.”

My son, my son!

He looked around him, trying to evaluate their surroundings as to suitability for camp, but he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything. There were only trees … and he could not discern forest floor from trunk or slope or rock. How far away was the road from where they walked? They should have come across one of Gillwick’s rock walls by now, and the barn would not be far beyond. How far had they come? Where was that bastard, blistering sun hiding?

Spill his brains onto the ground …

Bevan is no brother to you, Piers …

“Piers, I … I think I do have need of some bushes now.”

Are you certain he’s dead? Hit him again …

My son, my only son! Can you ever forgive me?

“Piers!”

“Shut up!
” Piers screamed, coming to a swaying halt and gripping his head in both hands. He fell to his knees. “All of you, just … shut up!” His breath roared in and out of him, sounding like great slides of rock down a mountainside. The ground seemed to undulate before his eyes.

He couldn’t pass out. The cows needed to be brought in for the night still, and there had been reports of wolves north of Gillwick. The beasts were lazy in the height of summer, and he could usually frighten them away with a rock or two. Yes, he might need to keep watch, keep them safe. And Alys would need a place to sleep where Bevan would not find her …

“Piers?” Her slippers came into view, shifting the damp leaves in fuzzy slow motion.

“It’s alright,” Piers said, and his words sounded slurred. “Just give me a moment, Alys. I have work to do. Wait for me in the mew.” He would gladly share his pallet with Alys, but that damned monkey would have to bed elsewhere.

Then her face was before his, her neck bent so that she could look up at him, and her fingers were like rounded icicles stroking his cheeks and forehead.

“My God, you’re burning up!”

“Be cooler once the sun sets,” he promised her, the spoiled girl, used as she was to her dark, stone castle. She’d never make a proper farm wife, but she was so pretty and fiery …