Silverhawk (10 page)

Henry’s brows lifted. “Well?”

Giles was silent. Finally he asked, “What about Lord Roark? Wouldn’t he want to settle old scores?”

“If my sister’s husband knows everything, he’ll insist upon going. But he’s needed to keep watch at home. You know we can’t risk involving anyone else. That narrows the selection to one of my men or—you.”

The threat might be real, but if Henry headed for Scotland to warn King William, Giles would not be needed. He refused to be distracted from his revenge.

“No.” His words were soft but inflexible. “This is your battle. I have my own to fight. It can’t wait.” And if he chose to search for the traitors afterward, he’d do so alone.

“Is your personal mission more important than the safety of the country?” came the insistent reply.

Giles turned to face Henry. He hadn’t realized how firmly his jaw was clenched until he breathed deeply. It popped.

“This isn’t my country. If you want to write a message to the king, I’ll deliver it.”

As he started toward the keep, he heard a whisper from Henry. “Bastard.”

Only Giles heard his own muttered reply. “Absolutely.”

The path to the hall was cluttered with villagers and guests, forcing him to alter his course to the left to avoid them. He intended to seek Osbert right away, if for nothing more than to increase the lord’s discomfort.

Various scenes of confrontation had played out in his mind when a movement at the far side of the keep drew his eye. There, slipping through a narrow gate, was the little nun. Why had she escaped the hall?

“That’s the Lady’s Garden,” a voice at his elbow confided.

Giles glanced down through slitted eyes. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I am.” Davy bounced along irrepressibly, his gangly feet flopping. “I’m keepin’ my eye on you, just like I was told. ’Case you get up to trouble.”

“Go away,” Giles growled over his shoulder. He veered toward the garden gate.

And the kind of trouble a lad wouldn’t understand.

Chapter Seven

The Lady’s Garden. Such a grand name for the stick and weed enclosure beside the keep. Giles eased open the weathered door, the faded wood rough against his fingers. He tipped his shoulder to slip through the narrow opening. The musty smell of plants gone to seed hung in the air, and he inhaled the odor. Strange, the comfort he felt, like a flash of memory.

He glanced around. Where was his quarry? Moonlight flooded the enclosure, and several bonfires in the bailey sent wavering light bobbing over the fence top.

She knelt at a patch of what looked like dead grass, undoubtedly remnants of flowers. Perhaps they’d resembled the colorful blossoms that once dotted his mother’s palm-sized yard. How she’d loved the sparse but fragrant blooms that escaped their one hen’s search for food.

His head jerked. God’s blood! Why had those thoughts surfaced just now, of a nearly forgotten long ago? This was neither time nor place for such childish reminiscence.

Intent once more on the graceful figure before him, he picked his way through the tangle of growth. She wore the same green gown as when he arrived, some kind of embroidered figures at the neck and wrist.

The color suited her vibrant auburn hair, draped now with a flimsy square of fine white linen. He should have known the color would be fiery to match her spirit.

As he advanced, the bright moonlight cast his shoulders as a darker shadow on the ground ahead.

By the rigid set of her back, he knew she heard him. He couldn’t explain what prompted him to veer off course, to seek her out. Osbert had been the object when he started across the crowded, dusty bailey.

Yet the moment he saw her disappear behind the weathered door, a voice in his mind whispered, “Follow.” It didn’t tell him why. Now he stood in the midst of a dead garden, unsure of his intent.

Emelin sat back on her heels with an exaggerated sigh. “Would you move your shoulders, Sir Knight? They block what meager light I’ve found.” If a tone could cross its arms and tap its toe, hers did.

A lightness inside him felt shockingly like a smile. That’s why he was here. She amused him.

“Where would you like me to move them, my lady?”

“London, I should think.”

He smiled in spite of himself, and he stepped to the side. “I thought you would be inside, preparing for your wedding. You seemed so eager before.”

She slanted him a vexed look. “It isn’t polite to mock. My betrothed is a fine man, and his valor is undisputed. He will protect me and our family.”

The lightness inside him sizzled out, a fire doused in rain.

“Thus saith the Lord,” he intoned. What rot. The lady who braved a bloody battle site to rescue a stranger should never give up so easily. Where was that spirit she’d shown?

“Who convinced you so thoroughly?” His eyes focused on her temple where a pulse throbbed. “Was it the sight of a sturdy home? Or are you so eager to throw off your nun’s habit that you’d bed a man old enough to be your father?”

She was up, swinging her arm so fast he hardly had time to duck the blow. His hand caught her wrist, and he jerked her forward, bringing her curved body close.

He wanted more of it. His other arm eased around her slender waist, the gown’s texture soft against his sword-roughened palm. Sweet; she smelled like lavender and woman. His body hardened, and he tightened his grip, fitting her to his hips.

Her soft cheeks glowed with anger. “You are contemptible.” She hissed through clenched teeth. “I should have left you to die in the woods.” She flattened her hands against his chest and looked up. Her eyes were the varied green of a springtime forest with sparks of sun glinting through. He felt himself grow harder.

“Come now, little nun, you wouldn’t be so cruel,” he murmured.

She balled her fists and tried to shove away. “Don’t call me that.” The light wimple had slid askew across one eye. He wanted to tear it from her head and toss it to the ground.

“No, you’re not a nun at all, are you?” Firm, full breasts pressed against him as he pulled her closer and lowered his head. Just a quick touch of those plump, moist lips that—God help him—she had just licked. That’s all. One taste.

****

Somehow, Emelin knew the moment the gate opened it was the dark, dangerous knight who prowled the garden. An unexpected thrill had quivered down her back. Now she stilled in his firm embrace.

She was mesmerized by his deep eyes. Silver ice. So clear she could swim in them, bathe in them, drown in them
. Look away.
Her stomach fluttered, dipped. She forced her gaze down. It caught on his narrow lips, bands of rumpled ribbon. Soft silky ribbon, memory whispered.

Wait. She was angry, wasn’t she? She couldn’t recall why. Her breath hitched.

Those lips were moving closer. Slowly. One corner of the wide mouth curved up.

She was still as Lot’s wife, who also looked where she shouldn’t.

Breath locked in frozen lungs, she watched his mouth come nearer until she could no longer focus. Eyes closed the instant lips touched. Silk. Yes. Moving silk.

She jerked away with a gasp that filled her senses with his wild, autumn-forest scent. He looked as surprised as she felt, his expression wary as he freed her. His arms dropped, and a lonely shiver pulsed across her back at the loss of warmth. Tingles sparkled through her nerves; her chest throbbed, tight and empty.

For once, she had nothing to say. Nor could she think. She shook her head sharply to clear it, and her hand rose to her throat. The skin there was warm as a brazier. Nothing in all her twenty years of life had prepared her for the spark that leaped between them. A deep breath, and she stumbled a step.

In a flash, his hands were on her again, steadying, but when she glanced up, his eyes were shuttered. No expression revealed what he’d intended by his shocking act. And shock her it had. She had fought the urge to press closer, return the pressure of lips, touch him. In that moment, she’d been another woman, wanted another life. She hiccupped a sob.

Then Emelin did something she had never done before in her life. She ran.

The quiet garden, roiling with emotion, disappeared the moment she shoved through the gate. In the bailey was another world, the normal world, where a stable lad leaned against the wall and—Ortha searched for her. With one last ragged breath, Emelin summoned a smile and called out.

Ortha whirled. Anxiousness replaced her usually bland expression. “My lady, you’d best come quickly. Your brother wants you.”

“No need to be frightened of him,” Emelin reassured her. “It’s me he’s angry with.” She couldn’t begin to guess what set off his latest demands.

He waited at the bottom of the hall steps. “Where have you been?” He kept his loud voice modulated, but his face contorted in a glower.

“What is it, brother? You’ve sought me out more in the past few hours than you have my entire life.” There went her blasted temper again. Hadn’t she learned by now not to anger him with a sharp tongue and a show of spirit?

If his brows dropped any lower, they’d ride on his nose. An unexpected desire to smile bubbled in Emelin. For the first time since he arrived, his glare didn’t curl her stomach.

“The ceremony’s tomorrow morning. I wanted a last word with you.” His rough hand crushed her wrist. “You listen to your husband and do as he says. Don’t be such a damned contrary wench that he won’t come near you. I expect to see you swelling with his brat in a three-month.” The pressure on her wrist increased as he jerked her near and lowered his mouth to her ear.

“You’re finally worth something to me. And unless you dream of living the rest of your life locked behind convent walls, you’ll do your duty.” She shoved at him with her other hand, and he stepped back, a sneer contorting his mouth. “And don’t think you’ll escape my anger because people are watching. Anyone who has heard your nagging tongue will say I’m within my rights.”

“Tomorrow you’ll no longer have that right.” Those words felt so good to say. Marriage would have one advantage she’d not considered. Freedom from her family.

What irony. Until now, her deepest desire had been for a family. She was getting quite an education in the power of prayer. Be careful of what you ask; those prayers might be granted.

Garley’s lip curled, lifting the side of his moustache unattractively. “Your husband is welcome to you.”

Odd that a handsome man could become ugly in a temper. Perhaps that’s why he’d never found a wife.

He shrugged. “With what your desperate husband is giving up for you, I can finally wed.”

Ah. That’s why Garley needed coin—to attract more wealth. He sounded satisfied at the prospect.

“And I’ve already found her.” He looked up, smiled and nodded.

Emelin followed his glance to Lady Cleo, who pretended a pleased confusion before she threw out a smug smile.

“If you’re looking for money there, you’ll be disappointed,” Emelin informed him. “She has no home; she lives with her sister.”

“The lady has a neat dowry that’s controlled by her uncle. I’ll come into a nice reward, too, before long.”

Something in his manner reminded Emelin of the men’s earlier discussion. Her brother had been confident, boisterous even, on the topic of a possible war. Surely he didn’t intend to get involved. That would be like chasing faery lights across a bog.

But any attempt she made to reason with him would lead to more hatefulness. She reached around and pried loose his hold.

“You must excuse me now. I will make certain the guests have all they need this night.”

As she turned, he muttered, “That’s what servants are for.”

Ortha trailed along but thankfully remained silent, although surely she had heard the entire conversation. At the top of the steps, Emelin turned. “How long have you known Lady Cleo?”

“I’ve known her and Lady Dulsie all my life, my lady.” Ortha’s tone fell lifeless as an oak plank. “They are my cousins.”

The information didn’t shock her. Ortha was obviously not a servant, but ladies without close family or dowries had little choice in their lives. Emelin could attest to that.

“I will tell you,” Ortha continued, her voice sharp-edged, “that Lady Cleo intended to marry Lord Osbert. When she heard of your brother’s agreement, she was furious. Now she’s set on Sir Garley.”

What did Ortha mean? Osbert’s money had turned the deal, hadn’t it? “What agreement is that?” she murmured.

“Sir Garley is to provide soldiers for Lord Osbert whenever they are needed. Lady Cleo’s uncle would never do that.”

Soldiers. But Osbert should have no need for more fighters. Emelin had heard nothing of threatened war. Unless…could that be what the men discussed earlier?

But how could Garley provide men-at-arms and knights? They cost money. Garley had no coin, no bounty of supplies to keep a large garrison. Was that why he needed Osbert’s funds?

****

When Giles returned to the keep, pallets had been pulled out for those soldiers and servants who slept in the hall. Most of the honored guests had retired to their chambers. He saw Henry speaking with one of his men near the door, and when the other soldier left, Henry walked to his side. “Changed your mind?”

Giles had known the question would come again. “No. I’ve got my own business to conduct, then I’m for home. Do you have your message ready for the king?”