Spectre of the Sword (7 page)

“Well,” he said,
examining the crumpled man with a critical eye. “If you are an assassin, you’re
the worst assassin I’ve ever seen. Do you make it a habit of breaking into
ladies’ rooms?”

The man rubbed his head
where Rhys had grabbed it as he struggled to his feet. “No, m’lord. But Raina
and I… well, we are in love. Her father is Rendell, the barkeep. He doesn’t
approve of me.” The man shrugged helplessly. “He wants her to marry better; a
knight or a merchant, mayhap. Not a smithy.”

Rhys looked at the man a
moment longer before sheathing his other sword. The red-haired man was young,
dressed in typical peasant garb of sloppy, unbleached wool.  He was somewhat
dirty, skinny, but seemed strong enough.  The longer he looked at him, the more
he knew that he wasn’t an assassin.  He was just some fool in the wrong place
at the wrong time.

“How did you get in
here?” Rhys asked him.  “I was standing outside the door the entire time.”

The man looked sheepish
as he pointed to the rear of the chamber that abutted against the stable.
“There is a small door that leads into the stable.” He went over to show him
the opening, shielded by the bed and the crude wardrobe.  It was well
concealed. “I’ve used it many a time. That is why Raina’s father has threatened
to kill me. He knows that his daughter and I… well, we have….”

Rhys held up an abrupt
hand. “Say no more in front of the lady,” he commanded quietly.  “What is your
name?”

“Watt, m’lord.”

“Be on your way, Watt,”
he gestured to the front door. “Better not to mention this little incident to
anyone and I will not tell Raina’s father about the door you have carved into
his daughter’s room.”

Watt nodded eagerly and
fled.  Rhys watched him disappear into the growing morning.  When he finally
turned to look at Elizabeau, he was struck by the beautiful picture she
presented; he’d never seen the woman in the light of day.  She’d always been
wet, dirty, angry, or otherwise shrouded in darkness. As he gazed at her clean
face of creamy skin, her pert little nose and her luminous emerald-colored
eyes, he swore he’d never seen anything so beautiful.  Her luscious golden-red
hair was straight and thick, cascading over one shoulder. She looked like an
angel and he was momentarily speechless.

Elizabeau could see that
he was studying her. He had an odd expression on his face and she lifted her
eyebrows in response. “Well?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Do you not like the
dress you picked out for me?”

He shook his head.
“No….”

“What?” she nearly
shrieked.

He half-grinned, holding
out a hand to silence her outrage. “I meant to say that no, nothing is wrong. 
The dress is lovely.”

“Oh.” She looked as if
she didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t press.  She opened up the cloak,
showing him a full view of her glorious figure encased in the yellow lamb’s
wool. “You might as well have a good look at it.  You did select it, after all.
See what manner of taste you have in women’s garments.”

He watched her twirl
around and found himself front and center of an unobstructed view of her body. 
He had a gorgeous slender neck and shoulders, and a long torso with full
breasts.  She was, in fact, quite breathtaking, healthy and curvy and in the
right places.  He was staring at her waist as it flared into delicious hips
when she stopped and faced him.

“Well? See what good
taste you have?” she said.

He almost didn’t hear
her.  It took him a moment to realize she had said something and he tore his
gaze away from her torso, vowing at that moment to never recall the most
un-knightly thoughts that had crept into his mind as he had beheld her beauty. 
He’d had visions of sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of her buttocks, of
running his tongue against her navel, and….

“Did you hear me?”
Elizabeau’s voice broke into his turbulent thoughts. “What do you think of your
taste in clothing?”

He realized his palms
were sweating as he gazed into her beautiful eyes. “Only you could do them
justice, my lady,” he said steadily. “It has nothing to do with my selection at
all. I suspect you could wear a sack and still look like an angel.”

She grinned at him,
revealing straight white teeth with slightly prominent canines. Her smile was
as beautiful as the rest of her.

“Flattery, sir knight?”
she teased gently. “Not too much or I shall become swell-headed. But tell me
this; do you think my betrothed will be pleased? I mean, do you think I look
presentable enough for a prince?”

He felt as if a bucket
of cold water had just been thrown on him. Christ, what am I thinking? he
silently scolded himself. Somehow, in the last few moments, he had forgotten
why he was there.  He had forgotten his mission as she had twirled before him
and he had studied the outline of her round breasts. She was England’s next
queen, destined for her Teutonic prince. She was not a woman to be admired as
if she was something reachable to him.  He suddenly felt very angry at himself,
and frankly, very disappointed.

“He will consider
himself a very fortunate man, my lady,” he replied in a strangely tight tone.
“You have nothing to worry over.”

There was warmth in her
gaze as she looked at him. “More kind words, sir knight. They give me courage.”

He didn’t know what else
to say.  He found himself wishing for the distraction of de Lohr’s arrival so
he could focus on something other than the lovely young woman standing a few
feet to his right.  There was no way on earth he was going to admit that he was
attracted to her, more than she should have been.

Elizabeau watched him as
he appeared distracted, his gaze lingering on the yard beyond the door and the
growing morning.  Smiling at her just a moment ago, he now seemed to be
reverting back to his cold persona again and she had no idea why.  The man was
moodier than a fickle woman.

“I fear that I have
nothing to put all of my new garments in,” she said, hoping to distract him
from whatever moodiness he was feeling. “Do you suppose our new merchant friend
would have cap cases to store these in?”

Rhys didn’t look at her
as he spoke. “I have already seen to that.  I purchased one of Marchant’s larger
satchels off of him last night.  He needed to empty the contents before giving
it to me but promised he would do so by this morn.  In fact, perhaps we should
break our fast now so that we may be ready to leave when the merchant’s caravan
is ready to move out.”

With that, he collected
the rest of her possessions and extended his free hand to her, which she easily
accepted. But when he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, she snaked
her hand up his forearm and ended up holding his hand again.  When he looked
down at her, startled by her action, she merely smiled at him. It was a sweet,
pretty smile.  He tried very hard not to return her smile, unsure of her
actions, wondering why she should try to hold his hand so tightly. He was
greatly confused.  But two seconds of holding out against her smile saw him
collapse like a weakling.  He smiled back and hated himself for it.

The main room of the
tavern was filled with bodies; some sleeping, some still drinking, and still
others breaking their fast after a night’s sleep.  Rhys took Elizabeau to their
table by the hearth and made sure she and her new possessions were comfortably
seated before going in search of a morning meal.   He kept an eye on her as he
waited for the barkeep to return with their food, chuckling inwardly at the
man’s daughter and the secret door in her chamber.  He turned his back long
enough to collect the tray from the man but by the time he turned around,
Elizabeau was no longer alone at their table.  Robinson had joined her.

“Ah, Rhys,” the merchant
greeted him amiably. “I was just telling your wife that I have never seen my
merchandise look so lovely. She is positively exquisite.”

Rhys set the tray down
in front of Elizabeau. “Aye, she is, and if you leer at her any longer I’ll
gouge your eyes out.”

Robinson snorted as he
took a piece of bread off of Elizabeau’s tray. “It would be well worth the
pain, my friend.” He took a bite and chewed noisily. “Thank God this weather
has cleared up, though the roads will be as muddy as sin. Still, we should make
decent time today.  Perhaps we’ll make it as far as Beaconsfield.”

Rhys pulled up a chair
and sat next to Elizabeau, who was busily packing her new clothes into the
large satchel that Robinson had brought with him. “Will you be selling your wares
there?” she asked the merchant.

“Probably,” he said.
“Then it’s on to Gloucester and the Marches. The savages need fine clothes and
will pay handsomely for the privilege.”  He shoved more bread into his mouth,
eyeing the couple seated across from him. “And you? Will you be returning home
from a trip to London or are you taking a sojourn from the madness that is
London?”

Elizabeau secured the
satchel and went for a piece of cheese; she would let Rhys handle the
questions, which he did so admirably. “We are returning home,” he said evenly.

“You must have a great
castle,” Robinson said, a bit leadingly.

“Why would you say
that?”

“Because it is evident
that you are powerful and wealthy. From the money you spent last night on your
wife’s wardrobe, it is clear that money is of no concern to you. I’ve been up
all night attempting to figure out whom, exactly, you really are.” He lifted
his brows. “An earl in disguise? A Marquis? A runaway prince perhaps?”

Rhys was chewing his own
bread and cheese.  He lifted a black eyebrow at Robinson’s attempt to probe
him. He decided to take the nosy old merchant for a ride just to shut him up.
He knew the type; they would never have any peace as long as there was a
mystery surrounding them.

“Very well,” Rhys
suddenly took on a hint of animation; from a man who was perpetually
stone-faced, it was a definite departure. “But you must swear you will keep our
secret.”

Robinson was very
serious. “Of course, Rhys.”

Rhys sat forward, his
arms on the table and his big hands carefully folded.  “I am Lord of the
baronetcy of Rhayder.  Chrycan Castle, my seat, is situated on the edge of the
Radnor Forest and our village holds nearly five thousand villiens at any given
time. Now, the Rhayder baronetcy is know for its unusual populace, mostly
people with webbed feet or forked tongues, but I myself find it charming
because it is, in fact, my home.  I had a brother who was born with an extra
set of teeth and I myself was born with a strange affliction that I shall not
delve into, but it is certainly nothing to be ashamed of.  Now, I do not wish
to be bothered by the rabble because everyone knows that Rhayder is a place of
curses and cures, which is why I do not travel with a retinue. It draws too
much attention and I’m sick to death of healing the sick with the power of my
third eye, but that is to be expected with someone of my gift.  Do you
understand what I have told you so far?”

Robinson was horrified
and impressed at the same time. “Of course, my lord.”

“Then you will keep my
secret.”

“To the grave, my lord.”

“Good,” Rhys sat back in
his chair and took a large hunk of bread with an equally large hunk of cheese.
When he noticed that Elizabeau was staring at him as if he had grown another
head, he reached out and stroked her hair gently. “Eat your meal, angel. We
have a long day ahead of us and you will need your strength.”

She lifted an eyebrow at
him but said nothing. Obediently, she returned to her food, listening to
Robinson strike up a conversation about the possibility of selling his wares in
the Rhayder baronetcy. It would seem that the man was an opportunist in spite
of all of the bizarre things Rhys had told him.  In fact, it had been difficult
for Elizabeau to keep a straight face.  When Rhys told Robinson he had a
brother with an extra set of teeth, she had nearly choked on her cheese.

After listening to
Robinson’s inane chatter for several long minutes, they were mercifully
interrupted by two of the merchant’s men. There was apparently an issue with
reloading some of the stock in the wagon and Robinson rose from his chair,
bellowing at his men that they were imbeciles. But it removed him from Rhys and
Elizabeau’s presence.  Rhys stopped stroking her hair the moment the merchant
left the room.

“Webbed feet and forked
tongues?” Elizabeau blurted in a hushed tone. “My God, what a horrendous place
you described.”

Rhys looked at her,
noticing that she was nearly choking on her food in her attempt to suppress her
laughter. “I thought the extra set of teeth was a particularly good touch.”

Her laughter broke
through then and she struggled to swallow. “Appalling.” She took a drink of
watered ale to wash down the cheese. “Do you really have a brother?”

“I do. He’ll punch me in
the face if he knows I told such a tall tale about him.”

Her laughter faded as
she gazed at him. “Is he the duke’s son, also?”

Rhys shook his head and
took a healthy bite of bread. “Nay. He is my half-brother, born to my mother
and her husband three years after I was born.”