The Heat of the Knight (9 page)

“Blasted woman, doesn't she know not to leave the security of the castle?” Beckett mumbled. His shoulder throbbed, and he could feel warm liquid trickling down his arm and soaking into the padding.

“Tiana,” he shouted as he began running. His footfalls thundered over the wood planks of the bridge. There was no sight of girl or animal. Veering off the path, he entered the forest. He followed the sound of a dog's yapping.

A high-pitched scream sent him crashing through the forest like a bull. He found them in a clearing. Tiana shrieked with delight as she and the dog played tug-of-war. The hound was the first to hear his approach. It instantly dropped the stick and bared its teeth in Beckett's direction. Tiana's face paled, and she backed up.

“'Tis only me, you foolish woman,” Beckett said softly. With effort, he kept himself from sweeping her into his arms. He doubted she would appreciate such a tender demonstration. “Why, pray tell, do you insist on driving me to the brink of madness, Tiana?”

Her gaze shifted to the bloodstain on his arm. “You are hurt.” She hurried to him, the dog protectively at her heels. “What happened?”

“Sword practice with Colin. Something or I should say
someone
distracted me.”

She lowered her eyes—long lashes made frilly shadows on her pink cheeks. “I'm sorry. Sir Rascal and I were out for a bit of stick throwing. I guess we wandered too far away from the yard.”

No longer able to restrain himself, Beckett pulled her against him. He kissed the top of her head. “There are many marauders lurking in these woods. Do not ever scare me like that again, Tiana.”

“The earl of Dareford, scared? I never thought it possible.” She raised herself on tiptoes and hooked her fingers behind his neck.

“'Tis an emotion only sparked by a certain pixie,” he said wryly. Dipping his head, he covered her mouth with his. The hound, with stubborn persistence, pushed his way between them, and Christiana giggled against Beckett's mouth. It was a little like kissing sunshine.

“You find my lovemaking amusing, brat?”

Laughter still glittered in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Shall I tend to your wound?”

He nodded. After taking a few steps, he clutched at his thigh.

“You are a wreck, my lord.” She wrapped her arm around his waist as though she intended to support his weight.

Shamelessly, he hobbled more than the pain demanded. He was not above competing with a hound for her attention.

Christiana knelt over the lavender plants and plucked out several of the overcrowded seedlings. The garden had soaked up the rain and turned a bit wild.

Sir Rascal stood abruptly and growled. Shading her eyes with her hand, Christiana watched as a slim silhouette of a boy approached. It was Thomas. She jumped up and brushed the dirt from her knees. The poor lad's face was blotchy and swollen.

“Were you stung?”

“This ain't no fault of the bees. Me mum weren't happy with me today for forgetting to milk old Bessie.” He rubbed his mottled cheek.

Christiana had never known his mother to show any violence toward him. Perhaps, she worried, the widow had followed her husband's example and taken to drink.

“Strange you askin' about the bees, though. Someone hacked up the hive. 'Tis all in pieces. The bees have left the village walls. They are in the apple orchard, and Agnes is raging 'cause I can't pay the tax in beeswax. And me mum blames me.”

“You haven't any idea who destroyed the hive?”

He scrunched up his face with a look of concern. Encrusted dirt defined his frown lines. “Some vile crank. Though I suspect Farley's John may have done the deed. He's an envious lad.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, plowing furrows in the greasy locks. “As you can see, I'm in a rough spot.” His thin chest heaved as he took a deep breath. “I've come to plead for your help. Since you once kept the bees, I thought you might be more clever at discovering where the queen might have landed. I was hoping to find where they started the new hive and carry it back home.” His eyes widened suddenly. “What happened to your lovely hair?”

With a sad smile, she quickly donned her caped hood. “Shall we go?”

Thomas had a gait as awkward as a colt's. In the short time she'd been at the castle, he'd grown taller. His sleeves exposed knobby wrists. She hadn't remembered him as a timid boy, yet a permanent blush seemed to stain his cheeks, and he kept peering sideways at her through his sparse lashes. Perhaps this unease came from his unhappy home life. She would ask Beckett to consider him for a position in the stables or as a page.

“'Tis the lord's woman.” The guard said in a rough whisper meant for her ears.

Once through the gates, escape occurred to her, but she was already becoming spoiled by Beckett's mastery in bed. Her body still ached deliciously from the attention he'd lavished on her in the night.

Instead of taking the path to the village, they made a sharp turn and traveled along the castle's outer curtain. She wondered that the bees had been attracted to the ancient orchard. Because of blight, the trees hadn't flowered in years. Thomas took her on a winding tour between the gnarled, dead trees. Finally, they stopped at the edge of the orchard. Beyond was a wide swathe of brown grass, and then the forest loomed. She peered up at the tree where the boy was pointing.

“I think I saw them swarming there,” Thomas said quietly.

“Thomas, that's impossible. There is nothing to attract them. You must mean the fruit trees by Matthew's farm.”

He began tugging on his ear, and soon it was as bright a red as the blush climbing up his cheeks. Had he always been this jittery?

“Sorry, my lady. Sorry, my lady.”

Just as she was about to explain that she was little more than a servant and not deserving of the lofty title, he bowed deeply at the waist, whipped around, and darted off in the direction they'd come.

Confused, she watched his lanky figure disappearing beyond the trees. A force of air met her back. Horses rushed by her on either side. One of the riders grabbed a handful of her surcoat and whisked her off her feet. She dangled at the side of the horse, its sweaty hide chafing against her. She attempted to unbutton her surcoat to release herself. Her captor yanked up hard, tightening her clothing around her ribs. She was lifted and slung like an animal across the saddle.

“Let's see his fancy piece, shall we?”

The capuchon was pulled from her head.

The other horse drew up beside the one that held her. Once they entered the forest, the man who'd snared her slowed his mount. “Lass has butchered her hair. Perhaps to prevent that bastard from enjoying a rut. Mayhap, he's turned her against men, and she's discovered piety. Don't worry, little thing, we shall hie you to a nunnery.” The man punctuated his loud laughter with a hard pinch to her buttocks.

“Leave me be, you heathen,” she screamed and struck out. Her fist hit his knee with a satisfying thwack.

“Bitch will bite me if I'm not careful.” His greasy hand wrapped around her face, squeezing her mouth so that her teeth cut the inside of her cheeks. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She choked back the bile that rose in her throat.

“Let me see her.”

The man shifted in the saddle, and, taking a handful of her hair, he jerked her head up. “Doubt she's such a beauty that you can overlook that hair. Cropped like a penitent.”

The man who was riding beside them lowered his face. Pale blue eyes peered out from a hawk-like mask. “Pull your horse over there. I want to take her from here.”

The horse she was flung over pulled somewhat apart from its companion.

“Damnation! Give her over!”

“Think I will hand over something pleasing for nothing?” the man holding her snapped.

“I think it would be far more pleasing for you not to have my sword shoved through your skull, you bloody ass. Now hand her over.”

Without delay, the man lifted her by gripping handfuls of her garment and passed her into the hands of the other rider.

Christiana was maneuvered into a sitting position this time, facing her kidnapper. His hand cupped her bottom, pulling her in tighter to his crotch. Pale blue eyes rimmed with red peered out of the tarnished metal mask. The disconcerting stare mere inches from her face made her tremble. His heavy breathing echoed inside the frightening disguise.

“Where will you take me?” Her words cracked as she spoke. Surely they had more despicable plans than to deliver her to a convent.

He did not answer as he continued to appraise her with his icy glare.

Probably deeming that they'd ridden far enough from the Dareford estate to make her screams useless whispers on the breeze, they brought the horses to a halt.

The rider who had held her originally peered at her through a mask fashioned of chain mail. “'Tis a shame not to enjoy her before shutting her away. We could give her some memories she won't soon forget. She'll be laying in her cot rubbing her cunt, fondly recalling our talents.”

“Disappear, old man.”

“What a fearless gallant you are, sir, to ride alone,” mocked the old man as he tilted his sheathed face upward. “Don't you smell it? Lord Revynwyll has had a very productive night. The scent of burning flesh still lingers in the air. Retribution will ride tonight. The Blacksmith will surely haunt these woods again. And soon.”

“Let the demon come. I am ready for the bastard. Now take your clacking tongue and go elsewhere.”

With a curse, the old man yanked his horse around and rode off through the trees.

Christiana's captor cupped his hand under her bottom, nesting her tighter into the apex of his thighs. “So silent. Are you still curious of your destination?”

“I assume it can only be to hell. Why else would you want to capture a lowly servant?” Her body shook with fury and fear.

“'Tis a rare servant who finds a permanent spot in the master's bedchamber.” His voice whistled through the tubular beak. He squeezed her waist painfully. “A wisp of a thing, yet breasts that a man could suckle with great satisfaction.”

“If you are hoping to collect a ransom, you will be sadly disappointed.”

He stroked one gauntlet-clad finger under her chin. “I do believe that Lord Dareford would pay a fortune to get you back, but he won't be offered a chance.”

Her body was shaking so violently now that her teeth were clacking together.

“Calm yourself. I'm no beast. Nothing like that mannerless cur you bed every night. I will take you when you are good and ready.”

Even through his well-padded garments she caught a whiff of his sweat. There was a repellant, gamy odor to it. His criminal actions seemed to excite him.

Instinctively, she struck at his face, doing little more than knocking the mask askew.

He threw his head back and released a laugh that chilled her blood before kicking his horse forward.

They traveled the main road for a short while. The sky was heavy with smoke.

Suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, he veered his mount toward a narrow path. “To hell it is, my sweet thing, or at least a detour through it. Let us admire the inventive methods the Duke of Revynwyll employs to tame the rabble and keep their lords obedient.”

They followed the pungent scent of charred wood. Wisps of gray still drifted from the remains of the tiny village. Huts and lean-tos were now only piles of ashes. While it looked as if most of the people and animals had fled with their lives, a few charred corpses remained. With a cry of revulsion, Christiana quickly looked away.

“Indeed, a grisly sight. 'Twill not be long before Revynwyll will control this entire county. And those who do not agree with him will end up like those blackened bodies hanging from the walls. Take a closer look. The man's a master of intimidation.” He sounded as if he relished the scene of the smoldering village.

When Christiana refused, he took hold of the back of her head and forced it around.

She shut her eyes at the sight of a head atop a spike, the mouth twisted in terror, the teeth and gums exposed.

“You find his work ugly. But I think it efficient. In truth, I would eagerly welcome Revynwyll as my brother-in-law. And I'd have the opportunity too, if only my sister weren't lusting after another man merely because she likes the looks of him.”

Once back in the cover of a heavy thicket, he reined his horse in and lowered himself to the ground, his armor slowing his movements. Roughly, he lifted her off the saddle and set her on her feet. From a pouch on his belt, he drew out a length of rope. Trapping her arms beneath one of his own, he bound her wrists together. The rough hemp chafed.

Christiana knew it would not be long before her hands lost all feeling. They were already so chilled, that she was having trouble bending her fingers.

While her captor was securing the horse to a tree, Christiana whipped around and began running. He slammed her to the ground, her face hitting the dirt first. Her bound hands were wedged painfully beneath her. It felt as if a boulder had been hurled at her stomach. She spat the dirt from her mouth and gasped for air. Nearly wrenching her arm from its socket, he yanked her to her feet and dragged her back to the camp.

“Sit,” he commanded as he pushed her down, hard, on her bottom. After removing his gauntlets, he built a meager fire and then squatted before it, hogging the heat. He appeared more animal than man as he shoved dried meat through the gap in his mask. An animal with expensive taste, she thought with a start. His thick, freckled fingers glittered with gold rings. This was a man of some significance, judging by the crest ring he wore.

Was the boar a family emblem?

“I'd offer you some, but I fear, my vixen, that you'd make a feast of my fingers.”

“This convent you spoke of earlier, will we reach it before nightfall?” she asked, the bitter taste of dirt still coating her tongue. At this point, she could only dream of being within the safe, confining walls.

There was an ominous rustling, then the clearing in the woods was breached. Large men in armor surrounded them like a nightmare, the hide of their steeds steaming in the frigid air.