The Last Knight (11 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
Doubtless Elise herself had sought shelter at some convent and sent one of her servantsthis womaninstead.
But to what purpose? To what purpose, he wondered, tapping his fingertips on the wood of the windowsill. He remembered the girl's eyes, so huge and dark with terror when he held his sword to her breast. She had told him part of the truth, he was sure. But obviously not all of it.
Pushing away from the window, he moved softly to the side of the bed. He had a vivid image of Atticus hovering just inside the door of their chamber, the saddlebags clutched against his chestno,
her
chest, Damion reminded himself with a private, fierce smile that boded no good for the slim figure sleeping so peacefully in the faint shaft of moonlight.
He crouched down beside her. Whatever this unknown woman carried for her mistress, he thought, she doubtless bore it secreted either about her person or in her saddlebags. Tomorrow, when he had her in some isolated place where no one could hear her screams, he fully intended to search the woman herself. Now he carefully lifted the leather satchels from where she'd left them on the bench.
He subjected the bags to a quick, thorough search. One side yielded a woman's dress, stockings, and chemise, all made of exquisitely fine material. The other side contained a change of male clothing, a scattering of items for personal cleanliness, and a book.
His breath caught, for he knew what he held the instant his hand closed around the soft leather binding. He drew the book out slowly. In the dim light from the half-opened window, the deep forest green cover looked almost black, the incised lettering too small to read.
But he did not need to flip through the pages to know it for a simple breviary, copied diligently by the nuns of the
convent of Sainte-Foy-la-Petite, near Saint-Denis, and sold in vast numbers to the students who came from all over to study at the University of Paris. A common book so common that for years now, books such as this one had been used by the courtiers of King Philip of France to transport those official documents their royal master wished kept secret.
Using the unknown woman's own dagger, he carefully slit the edge of the leather covering the board that faced the manuscript, then slipped the blade tip beneath to catch the white edge of a sheet of velum that crackled softly as he eased it out and unfolded it.
My God,
he whispered, staring unbelievingly at the document in his hand.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Quickly refolding the document, Damion slipped it back beneath the binding, just as the breeze gusted, swinging the open window against the wall with a creaking
bang.
Damion's head jerked up. In the bed beside him, the girl murmured something, her head shifting restlessly against the pillow. Then she fell silent.
He stayed where he was, every muscle in his body tense as he gazed down at her. The moonlight etched the tumble of her hair and emphasized the dusky curve of her lashes lying against her cheek. She looked so young and inexperienced and yet oddly, fiercely brave. And he felt it again, that strange twist of confusion, that unfamiliar sensation composed of equal parts anger and loss and hot desire.
He wanted to dig his hands into her shoulders and shake her awake. He wanted to make her tell him who she was not tomorrow but
now
. He wanted to know why she carried one of King Philip's treacherous documents in her saddlebags. He wanted to crush her to him and cover her soft, lying mouth with his own. He wanted to rip away the
lie of that man's tunic and hose and reveal the slim woman's body they hid. He wanted to pin her to the bed and feel her laying naked beneath him.
God help him, he thought, reeling away from the bed. He knew nothing of this woman, only that she was involved in treason against the lord he served. And still he wanted her with a fierceness that left him aching and sleepless for most of the night.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered down through the high branches of the forest, casting dappled shadows over the girl's slim, straight shoulders.
Why do we stop? she asked when Damion reined in and waited for her to come up abreast of him. He rode the bay today to rest the Arab. Unfortunately, he'd had to mount her on his roan again, because whatever her real reason for wanting to keep the chestnut from the sight of the riders from Salers, there was no denying that the horse, while a splendid animal, had been pampered of late and was in no shape for the kind of relentless journey she had subjected it to.
He watched her thoughtfully as her alert gaze scanned the birch and poplars that pressed in on both sides of the track. Is something wrong? she asked. Her face looked pale and vulnerable in the gloom. Strain etched her features sharply, and exhaustion had lain dark smudges beneath her eyes, for dawn had been little more than a pale promise on the horizon when he'd dragged her out of bed and out onto the road that morning. He'd wanted to be certain they would reach Laval before nightfall and still have time for this.
Nothing's wrong, he said, pressing the heels of his palms against the pommel to give a deceptively lazy stretch.
But it's hot, and I would rid myself of the dust of the journey before we reach Laval. There is a pond he nodded toward the base of the hill that fell away steeply to their right just out of sight of the road.
I do not wish to bathe. He heard the nervousness she normally managed to keep out of her voice, saw the muscles in her throat work as she swallowed.
He gathered his reins and touched his spurs to the bay's sides. Then guard my back while I do, he said, and swung away from her.
After a moment of hesitation, the bay struck through the brush that grew thick at the side of the track. A shower of dirt and small stones tumbled downhill as the horse picked its way down the slope toward the vale below. He was aware of Sergei, ambling along behind, leading the spare horses toward the water. He did not look back to see if the girl followed.
A warm breeze wafted around him, sweet with the scents of grass and scattered white daisies. From deep in the forest came the repetitive call of a cuckoo and a distant, muffled snort that might have been a wild boar but was more likely just a pig, wandered from some isolated hamlet. He was aware of the woman, hanging back another moment. Then he heard the crash of the roan hurtling through the underbrush behind him, and he smiled to himself.
Surely this is unnecessary, she called after him.
You may have an aversion to cleanliness, lordling, he said, lifting his voice so that it would carry back to her. But I am considered quite fastidious.
I do not have an aversion to cleanliness, he heard her mutter beneath her breath.
Grinning, he drew rein beside a small pool formed by a fall of rock that had caused the stream to back up behind it.
He threw his leg over the cantle and slid to the ground but caught Sergei's eye before the boy dismounted, too. Sergei paused and sank back into the saddle.
I want you to go ahead, Damion said, his voice low as he walked up to his squire. Find someplace to stable the horses on the road to Le Mans, on the far side of Laval. He glanced behind him. The girl had reined in some distance beyond his bay. She had not dismounted but simply sat, her horse shifting restlessly beneath her as she stared at the pond.
He continued, Then I want you to ride Atticus's chestnut back to Laval and wait for me there, at the fountain near the castle gates. Do you understand?
Sergei's dark, exotic eyes searched his face. You're expecting trouble?
Damion shrugged. No, but it's better to play it safe. He glanced at the girl again. She had dismounted now and gone to stand on a large, flat shelf of rock that jutted out over the pond.
He wondered how he had ever mistaken her for a boy, for she moved with a grace that was all woman, long-legged, slim-hipped, and sinuous. Beneath their bindings, her breasts would be small, he decided. Small and high and round. He watched as the wind ruffled the surface of the pond, the gentle waves catching the sun to throw sparkling flashes of light across her face. She had a boyish face, for a woman, with that strong chin and straight nose. But her mouth
Her mouth was all woman. Not the mouth of a lady like Elise d'Alérion, born to silks and feather beds and passionless, arranged marriages, but the kind of lush, full-lipped mouth that made a man think of laying a woman down in a sun-kissed meadow and taking her with swift,
hot lust, all sweat and moans and naked, panting bodies entwined in raw, violent passion.
Messire?
He jerked his attention back to the squire. I'm not certain what to expect, Damion said again, his voice rough. I should have a better idea after I've had a private conversation with Monsieur le Batard d'Alérion there.
Don't hurt her, Sergei blurted out as Damion started to turn away.
Her?
Damion spun about, his boots crunching in the sand that lined the pond's edge.
Splendor of God
He broke off, took a deep breath, and said with deliberate, low-voiced calm, How long have you known she was a girl?
Sergei did not meet his gaze. Almost from the first.
Damion walked back to stand at the boy's stirrup. I won't ask how you knew, he said, looking up at his squire through hard, narrowed eyes. But what I do wish to know is,
why in the name of all the saints didn't you see fit to mention it to me?
A faint flush stained the boy's cheeks. I was afraid you might hurt her.
She deserves to be hurt, Damion hissed, feeling again that strange twist of angry betrayal and fierce lust, deep inside.
Messire, said the boy with a gasp of alarm that startled his horse. You would not!
Damion pursed his lips and blew out his breath in a long sigh. Having a squire with the instincts of a priest could be a sore trial at times, especially for a knight-errant with his own way to make in this brutal, cut-throat world. I only intend to frighten her, lad, said Damion, keeping his voice level with effort. Just enough to make her tell me what I
need to know.
Of course
, he thought,
if she refuses to answer me
Oui, messire,
said Sergei, his face still dark and troubled as he gathered the spare horses leads.
Once more, Damion started to turn away, then swung back again as a new thought occurred to him. How did you know? he asked, his head tilted against the harsh afternoon sun. I mean, how did you know I'd finally figured it out?
Sergei swallowed. I saw it in your face. When you looked at her.
Ah, said Damion into the short, heavy silence that followed.
You won't Sergei began, then cut himself off.
Force myself on her? Damion felt his lips twist into a hard grin. I already said I didn't intend to hurt her, didn't I? He slapped the boy's mare on its hind quarters. Go on. Get out of here.
Damion saw the girl's head come up, her troubled gaze following the horses as Sergei left the clearing. He walked toward her.
Where goes your squire? she asked, her breathing so high and rapid, he could see the quick rise and fall of her chest.
I sent him ahead. Damion planted himself in front of her, close enough that his body threw a long, dark shadow across her. To prepare for our arrival in Laval.
She stepped back, one hand coming up across her chest to nervously clasp the other arm at its elbow, her face turning away so that he saw only the fine line of her profile.
His gaze still on her face, Damion slowly unbuckled the belt that supported his scabbard and sword and set it on the rock, where it would be within easy reach of the pool.
Best hurry. He pulled off his boots and unfastened his girth. I don't want to be here all day.
She didn't move.
Don't tell me, he said, his voice mocking as he stripped off his leather
broigne
. You've taken a vow against bathing. He watched a gentle flush suffuse her damask cheeks as he went to work on the points of his chausses. Or is it just against taking off your clothes?
Her head snapped around, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath as she watched him pull his shirt over his head. In the monastery, she said, swallowing convulsively, it was discouraged.
Oh? He tossed the shirt aside. And which monastery was that?
He saw her go still, as if she were drawing deep into herself. He already knew how much she hated to lie; she always got the same expression on her face, every time he cornered her and forced her to answer a direct questiona sort of hunted look, quickly smoothed into a semblance of courtly serenity that made him want to smile.
Saint-Hervisse, she said in that husky, boyish voice of hers. The monastery of Saint-Hervisse.
He untied his braies and let them fall. Oh? And where exactly is that?
He watched her nostrils flare in alarm as her wide-eyed gaze took in the sight of him naked before her. Her nose was sunburned, he noticed; she might not be a grand lady like Elise d'Alérion, but she obviously wasn't used to being in the sun all day.
In Aquitaine. She kept her dark brown eyes determinedly fixed at some point over his left shoulder. I was raised in Aquitaine.
And that, he decided, watching her closely, was probably the truth.
Christ
, he thought; Aquitaine. Home of Henry's high-spirited, hardheaded, treasonous queen, Eleanor, and more rebellious and treacherous nobles than in the rest of Henry's realm put together.
Damion swung away from her and walked, naked, to his horse to retrieve the ball of soap and length of linen he kept in his saddlebags. When he came back, it was to find her sitting scrunched up on the rocky shelf, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, her gaze discreetly lowered.
Here, he said, looking down at her determinedly bowed head. Hold these for me.
He watched her gaze shift to the bare male foot he'd planted beside her, then lift slowly to midthighbut no higher. She reached out one hand, blindly, and managed to snag the linen. He let the soap fall in her lap.
He stood a moment, looking down at her and listening to the shifting of the leafy branches up above and the sibilant hiss of the marsh grasses blowing in the wind. The sun felt hot beating down on his bare skin. The ruffled surface of the pool beckoned, cool and glistening, the water so clear he could see the sandy bottom, far below. Curling his toes over the edge of the rock, he sucked in a quick breath and dove.
The water was colder than it looked, a vibrant shock that sent a delicious shudder through his naked body as he plunged deep. He kicked out, his arms cutting in an arc that brought him back to the surface.
But to what purpose? To what purpose, he wondered, tapping his fingertips on the wood of the windowsill. He remembered the girl's eyes, so huge and dark with terror when he held his sword to her breast. She had told him part of the truth, he was sure. But obviously not all of it.
Pushing away from the window, he moved softly to the side of the bed. He had a vivid image of Atticus hovering just inside the door of their chamber, the saddlebags clutched against his chestno,
her
chest, Damion reminded himself with a private, fierce smile that boded no good for the slim figure sleeping so peacefully in the faint shaft of moonlight.
He crouched down beside her. Whatever this unknown woman carried for her mistress, he thought, she doubtless bore it secreted either about her person or in her saddlebags. Tomorrow, when he had her in some isolated place where no one could hear her screams, he fully intended to search the woman herself. Now he carefully lifted the leather satchels from where she'd left them on the bench.
He subjected the bags to a quick, thorough search. One side yielded a woman's dress, stockings, and chemise, all made of exquisitely fine material. The other side contained a change of male clothing, a scattering of items for personal cleanliness, and a book.
His breath caught, for he knew what he held the instant his hand closed around the soft leather binding. He drew the book out slowly. In the dim light from the half-opened window, the deep forest green cover looked almost black, the incised lettering too small to read.
But he did not need to flip through the pages to know it for a simple breviary, copied diligently by the nuns of the
convent of Sainte-Foy-la-Petite, near Saint-Denis, and sold in vast numbers to the students who came from all over to study at the University of Paris. A common book so common that for years now, books such as this one had been used by the courtiers of King Philip of France to transport those official documents their royal master wished kept secret.
Using the unknown woman's own dagger, he carefully slit the edge of the leather covering the board that faced the manuscript, then slipped the blade tip beneath to catch the white edge of a sheet of velum that crackled softly as he eased it out and unfolded it.
My God,
he whispered, staring unbelievingly at the document in his hand.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Quickly refolding the document, Damion slipped it back beneath the binding, just as the breeze gusted, swinging the open window against the wall with a creaking
bang.
Damion's head jerked up. In the bed beside him, the girl murmured something, her head shifting restlessly against the pillow. Then she fell silent.
He stayed where he was, every muscle in his body tense as he gazed down at her. The moonlight etched the tumble of her hair and emphasized the dusky curve of her lashes lying against her cheek. She looked so young and inexperienced and yet oddly, fiercely brave. And he felt it again, that strange twist of confusion, that unfamiliar sensation composed of equal parts anger and loss and hot desire.
He wanted to dig his hands into her shoulders and shake her awake. He wanted to make her tell him who she was not tomorrow but
now
. He wanted to know why she carried one of King Philip's treacherous documents in her saddlebags. He wanted to crush her to him and cover her soft, lying mouth with his own. He wanted to rip away the
lie of that man's tunic and hose and reveal the slim woman's body they hid. He wanted to pin her to the bed and feel her laying naked beneath him.
God help him, he thought, reeling away from the bed. He knew nothing of this woman, only that she was involved in treason against the lord he served. And still he wanted her with a fierceness that left him aching and sleepless for most of the night.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered down through the high branches of the forest, casting dappled shadows over the girl's slim, straight shoulders.
Why do we stop? she asked when Damion reined in and waited for her to come up abreast of him. He rode the bay today to rest the Arab. Unfortunately, he'd had to mount her on his roan again, because whatever her real reason for wanting to keep the chestnut from the sight of the riders from Salers, there was no denying that the horse, while a splendid animal, had been pampered of late and was in no shape for the kind of relentless journey she had subjected it to.
He watched her thoughtfully as her alert gaze scanned the birch and poplars that pressed in on both sides of the track. Is something wrong? she asked. Her face looked pale and vulnerable in the gloom. Strain etched her features sharply, and exhaustion had lain dark smudges beneath her eyes, for dawn had been little more than a pale promise on the horizon when he'd dragged her out of bed and out onto the road that morning. He'd wanted to be certain they would reach Laval before nightfall and still have time for this.
Nothing's wrong, he said, pressing the heels of his palms against the pommel to give a deceptively lazy stretch.
But it's hot, and I would rid myself of the dust of the journey before we reach Laval. There is a pond he nodded toward the base of the hill that fell away steeply to their right just out of sight of the road.
I do not wish to bathe. He heard the nervousness she normally managed to keep out of her voice, saw the muscles in her throat work as she swallowed.
He gathered his reins and touched his spurs to the bay's sides. Then guard my back while I do, he said, and swung away from her.
After a moment of hesitation, the bay struck through the brush that grew thick at the side of the track. A shower of dirt and small stones tumbled downhill as the horse picked its way down the slope toward the vale below. He was aware of Sergei, ambling along behind, leading the spare horses toward the water. He did not look back to see if the girl followed.
A warm breeze wafted around him, sweet with the scents of grass and scattered white daisies. From deep in the forest came the repetitive call of a cuckoo and a distant, muffled snort that might have been a wild boar but was more likely just a pig, wandered from some isolated hamlet. He was aware of the woman, hanging back another moment. Then he heard the crash of the roan hurtling through the underbrush behind him, and he smiled to himself.
Surely this is unnecessary, she called after him.
You may have an aversion to cleanliness, lordling, he said, lifting his voice so that it would carry back to her. But I am considered quite fastidious.
I do not have an aversion to cleanliness, he heard her mutter beneath her breath.
Grinning, he drew rein beside a small pool formed by a fall of rock that had caused the stream to back up behind it.
He threw his leg over the cantle and slid to the ground but caught Sergei's eye before the boy dismounted, too. Sergei paused and sank back into the saddle.
I want you to go ahead, Damion said, his voice low as he walked up to his squire. Find someplace to stable the horses on the road to Le Mans, on the far side of Laval. He glanced behind him. The girl had reined in some distance beyond his bay. She had not dismounted but simply sat, her horse shifting restlessly beneath her as she stared at the pond.
He continued, Then I want you to ride Atticus's chestnut back to Laval and wait for me there, at the fountain near the castle gates. Do you understand?
Sergei's dark, exotic eyes searched his face. You're expecting trouble?
Damion shrugged. No, but it's better to play it safe. He glanced at the girl again. She had dismounted now and gone to stand on a large, flat shelf of rock that jutted out over the pond.
He wondered how he had ever mistaken her for a boy, for she moved with a grace that was all woman, long-legged, slim-hipped, and sinuous. Beneath their bindings, her breasts would be small, he decided. Small and high and round. He watched as the wind ruffled the surface of the pond, the gentle waves catching the sun to throw sparkling flashes of light across her face. She had a boyish face, for a woman, with that strong chin and straight nose. But her mouth
Her mouth was all woman. Not the mouth of a lady like Elise d'Alérion, born to silks and feather beds and passionless, arranged marriages, but the kind of lush, full-lipped mouth that made a man think of laying a woman down in a sun-kissed meadow and taking her with swift,
hot lust, all sweat and moans and naked, panting bodies entwined in raw, violent passion.
Messire?
He jerked his attention back to the squire. I'm not certain what to expect, Damion said again, his voice rough. I should have a better idea after I've had a private conversation with Monsieur le Batard d'Alérion there.
Don't hurt her, Sergei blurted out as Damion started to turn away.
Her?
Damion spun about, his boots crunching in the sand that lined the pond's edge.
Splendor of God
He broke off, took a deep breath, and said with deliberate, low-voiced calm, How long have you known she was a girl?
Sergei did not meet his gaze. Almost from the first.
Damion walked back to stand at the boy's stirrup. I won't ask how you knew, he said, looking up at his squire through hard, narrowed eyes. But what I do wish to know is,
why in the name of all the saints didn't you see fit to mention it to me?
A faint flush stained the boy's cheeks. I was afraid you might hurt her.
She deserves to be hurt, Damion hissed, feeling again that strange twist of angry betrayal and fierce lust, deep inside.
Messire, said the boy with a gasp of alarm that startled his horse. You would not!
Damion pursed his lips and blew out his breath in a long sigh. Having a squire with the instincts of a priest could be a sore trial at times, especially for a knight-errant with his own way to make in this brutal, cut-throat world. I only intend to frighten her, lad, said Damion, keeping his voice level with effort. Just enough to make her tell me what I
need to know.
Of course
, he thought,
if she refuses to answer me
Oui, messire,
said Sergei, his face still dark and troubled as he gathered the spare horses leads.
Once more, Damion started to turn away, then swung back again as a new thought occurred to him. How did you know? he asked, his head tilted against the harsh afternoon sun. I mean, how did you know I'd finally figured it out?
Sergei swallowed. I saw it in your face. When you looked at her.
Ah, said Damion into the short, heavy silence that followed.
You won't Sergei began, then cut himself off.
Force myself on her? Damion felt his lips twist into a hard grin. I already said I didn't intend to hurt her, didn't I? He slapped the boy's mare on its hind quarters. Go on. Get out of here.
Damion saw the girl's head come up, her troubled gaze following the horses as Sergei left the clearing. He walked toward her.
Where goes your squire? she asked, her breathing so high and rapid, he could see the quick rise and fall of her chest.
I sent him ahead. Damion planted himself in front of her, close enough that his body threw a long, dark shadow across her. To prepare for our arrival in Laval.
She stepped back, one hand coming up across her chest to nervously clasp the other arm at its elbow, her face turning away so that he saw only the fine line of her profile.
His gaze still on her face, Damion slowly unbuckled the belt that supported his scabbard and sword and set it on the rock, where it would be within easy reach of the pool.
Best hurry. He pulled off his boots and unfastened his girth. I don't want to be here all day.
She didn't move.
Don't tell me, he said, his voice mocking as he stripped off his leather
broigne
. You've taken a vow against bathing. He watched a gentle flush suffuse her damask cheeks as he went to work on the points of his chausses. Or is it just against taking off your clothes?
Her head snapped around, her lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath as she watched him pull his shirt over his head. In the monastery, she said, swallowing convulsively, it was discouraged.
Oh? He tossed the shirt aside. And which monastery was that?
He saw her go still, as if she were drawing deep into herself. He already knew how much she hated to lie; she always got the same expression on her face, every time he cornered her and forced her to answer a direct questiona sort of hunted look, quickly smoothed into a semblance of courtly serenity that made him want to smile.
Saint-Hervisse, she said in that husky, boyish voice of hers. The monastery of Saint-Hervisse.
He untied his braies and let them fall. Oh? And where exactly is that?
He watched her nostrils flare in alarm as her wide-eyed gaze took in the sight of him naked before her. Her nose was sunburned, he noticed; she might not be a grand lady like Elise d'Alérion, but she obviously wasn't used to being in the sun all day.
In Aquitaine. She kept her dark brown eyes determinedly fixed at some point over his left shoulder. I was raised in Aquitaine.
And that, he decided, watching her closely, was probably the truth.
Christ
, he thought; Aquitaine. Home of Henry's high-spirited, hardheaded, treasonous queen, Eleanor, and more rebellious and treacherous nobles than in the rest of Henry's realm put together.
Damion swung away from her and walked, naked, to his horse to retrieve the ball of soap and length of linen he kept in his saddlebags. When he came back, it was to find her sitting scrunched up on the rocky shelf, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, her gaze discreetly lowered.
Here, he said, looking down at her determinedly bowed head. Hold these for me.
He watched her gaze shift to the bare male foot he'd planted beside her, then lift slowly to midthighbut no higher. She reached out one hand, blindly, and managed to snag the linen. He let the soap fall in her lap.
He stood a moment, looking down at her and listening to the shifting of the leafy branches up above and the sibilant hiss of the marsh grasses blowing in the wind. The sun felt hot beating down on his bare skin. The ruffled surface of the pool beckoned, cool and glistening, the water so clear he could see the sandy bottom, far below. Curling his toes over the edge of the rock, he sucked in a quick breath and dove.
The water was colder than it looked, a vibrant shock that sent a delicious shudder through his naked body as he plunged deep. He kicked out, his arms cutting in an arc that brought him back to the surface.
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