The Reluctant Countess (40 page)

It is what he thinks me to be
. He thought her a thief, a trickster, a criminal. It was why he’d proposed the bargain. He thought she was experienced, he’d said as much. He thought she was a woman of the streets. She almost laughed aloud. She knew her way around a lock, it was true, but she hadn’t learned that on the streets. Oh, no. She’d learned that in the drawing rooms and country houses of the glittering society in which he moved so effortlessly. He had no idea who she was, none at all. And that was a good thing. She worked very hard to blend into the background, disguising the real Julianna behind a bland facade. That way no one would take an interest in her. It was a habit she’d learned as a child, so as not to interfere with her father’s thieving or romancing. She’d grown to like the anonymity of it. Now her disguise gave her the freedom to do as she chose while society promenaded past her, uncaring about who she was or what she did. Clearly Mr. Sharp had walked past as uncaring as everyone else.

But tonight he cared. Tonight she would drop all disguises and, for the first time in her life, she would be herself and take what she wanted, as well as get what she needed.

“I accept,” she whispered the words as she closed her eyes tightly, her stomach flipping, though not unpleasantly, at the risk she was taking.

England, 1192

“D
id you hear that?” A mailed knight jerked nervously at the reins of his mount and cast quick, furtive glances into the gloom. A mist had begun to rise like smoke, drifting along the ground in vaporish wisps. It was too quiet—too ghostly in the dim, dusky silence of the forest. Tangled tree branches of ancient oaks
formed a high ceiling overhead, as ribbed and vaulted as a French cathedral. Diffused sunlight pierced the tight-knit canopy of new leaves in thready streamers to light the narrow road, a hazy contrast to the air of expectant darkness looming beyond.

A faint tinkling sound like tiny bells carried on the wind. It faded so swiftly Rhys ap Griffyn wasn’t certain he heard it. He pulled off his helmet to listen; light gleamed on blond hair, catching in thick strands dampened from the weight and heat of his helmet. Gray eyes narrowed to steely slits as he surveyed the road and dense weald around them. Nothing. No sound but the muffled thud of hooves on soft ground and the clink of harness.

The mailed knight rode closer to Rhys, looking around uneasily. “Did you hear it?”

“I heard nothing, Brian. ’Tis only the wind.”

“Nay, this was different. It was … strange. Like … faerie bells.” Brian seemed locked in the grip of fear. His back was stiff, and one hand tightly gripped the loop of leather reins. His mount danced nervously at the strangling hold.

Knowing better than to let the idea of faeries take hold of his men, Rhys said, “It’s footsteps—the sound of our horseshoes on stones.”

Brian blanched; his face paled beneath the lifted visor of his helmet. “Don’t look behind us, for the footsteps will be those of dead men.”

Rhys nudged his mount close and spoke low so only Brian would hear. “There are no footsteps. ’Tis the wind through tree branches you hear.”

“Holy Mary—we should have stayed at the village inn for the night.” Freckles stood out like splotches of mud against pale skin stretched taut over Brian’s cheekbones and nose. “It’s Beltane Eve, and we shouldn’t be out. Spirits roam on the borderline eve between spring and summer, when it’s not one season or the other.” He paused to take a deep breath. “And it’s a borderline hour, neither day nor night, the time when the faeries and spirits roam most freely.”

Several of the soldiers within earshot began to mutter uneasily. Silently cursing Brian’s superstitions, Rhys leaned on the pommel of his saddle to gaze at him with mock amusement. “Big as you are, do you think the Tylwyth Teg will be strong enough to carry you with them, Sir Brian?”

One of the Welsh soldiers laughed, though the sound was strained. When he added in a tense mutter, “Vsbrydnos,” the Welsh name for “spirit night” did nothing to calm the other Welshmen. A murmur ran through the ranks of mounted men.

Rhys sat up straight, shaking his head. “The spirit night will not harm us. Nor will the Tylwyth Teg.”

“In Ireland,” Brian said darkly, “we call them the Daoine Sidhe. And it’s been said about more than one man that the faeries captured him.”

“Yea, but it’s my belief that more than one wayward husband had to invent an excuse for his angry wife,” Rhys retorted with a grin. “Claiming capture by the faeries would be enough to convince almost any goodwife that her husband was detained beyond his will.”

“You mock me,” Brian said irritably when several of the men laughed. He glanced around, tugging off his helmet. Sweat plastered his red hair to his head. Splinters of light filtered through the roof of leaves, providing enough illumination to see the narrow road, but in the trees beyond, it had grown dark. Looking back at Rhys, he complained, “We should have lingered in the village, I tell you. The maypole was lifted on the green, and there’s feasting and merrymaking.”

“And winsome maids to go a’maying with—perhaps to get lost in the woods with while picking whitethorn flowers?” He grinned when color flushed Brian’s face. “Nay, I know your way with the ladies. If we’d lingered, we’d not get to Coventry by Saint John’s Eve, much less by the day after May Day.”

Brian turned his mount on the close road, scowling at Rhys. Before he could speak, his horse gave a shrill whinny and half reared, huge hooves thrashing in the air. Leaves shuddered as the animal backed into a hawthorn hedge thick with white flowers and thorns, and Brian cursed loudly.

It was infectious. Suddenly all the horses began to plunge and snort, throwing the knights into turmoil. When his own stallion threw up his head and snorted, Rhys drew his sword and adjusted his shield. He’d been too long a soldier and knight not to trust the instincts of his warhorse.

Brian’s sword flashed in the gloom, as did those of the other men. Some muttered curses, others offered prayers as they tried to calm their mounts without being unhorsed. Then one of the men gave a shout.

Rhys looked up. The hair on the back of his neck prickled a warning, and he fought his destrier to a standstill before he was able to focus on the object of this terror. His blood chilled, and he choked back a curse.

In the middle of the road just ahead stood a small figure, wreathed in shreds of mist as if newly sprung from the very ground. Flowing robes of deepest purple completely draped the motionless form. Rhys made the sign of the cross over his chest before he could stop himself. A light peal of mocking laughter greeted his instinctive movement, and he clenched his fist. Embarrassed anger replaced the irrational spurt of fear.

He curbed his plunging mount and spurred forward a few steps. “Move from the road,” he ordered. Instead of immediately yielding, there was the
sound of more amusement, and a brittle tinkle like tiny bells.

“
In nomine Patris
,” Brian moaned, crossing himself in a clink of chain mail that was echoed by the others. “
Confiteor Deo omnipoténti, beátae María semper Vírgini
 …” His prayer faded into silence.

Rhys lifted his sword; a runnel of sunlight skittered along the wicked edge of the blade. Light splinters reflected from chain mail and shield in glittering sparks. “Did you not hear me?” he demanded.

Again, he was greeted with open amusement. His jaw clenched. He tried to see the face, but the hood was pulled too far forward, leaving only a dark blur beneath. He considered putting an end to the mockery with a quick thrust of his sword, but something made him hesitate.

“
… beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptíste
,” Brian wheezed.

Enough. If he didn’t halt this, his men would be scattered through the weald like crows. He kneed his mount forward, but Turk only pranced nervously, tossing his head and snorting instead of charging. Rhys swore, uncertain if he was more angry or amazed at the horse’s refusal to obey a command. Finally, the figure moved. One arm lifted slowly. A small hand was barely noticeable beneath the flowing garment. Rhys saw only a deep shimmering green on the underside; no weapon was visible in the folds.

The horses grew still, and an unnerving hush descended on the forest road. Tiny bells tinkled on the wind, and from the shadows of the hooded cloak came words in an exotic language Rhys
had never heard—high, soft, and mysterious.

Again the stallion shuddered, sleek black muscles rippling as he pranced in quick, mincing steps. Rhys tried to control the animal, but with a jangle of curb chain and bridle bit, the great head shook hard enough to whip the long mane about in a stinging brush. It wasn’t until the figure spoke again that the stallion calmed, but the voice was almost drowned out by Brian’s droning Latin prayer.

“… Sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus sanctis, et tibi pater …”

Brian’s confessional entreaty grated on Rhys’s already raw temper. Devil, faerie, or enemy, this creature would not be allowed to make a mockery of him.

Clenching his teeth hard, he snarled, “Move from the path, or be ridden
over. I have no time for this foolishness.”

A snort of unfaerielike laughter greeted his command, and a gust of wind blew, shaking tree limbs. His eyes narrowed. No mystical faerie bells, just the wind.

“… quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et òpere …”

“Enough, Sir Brian.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder in exasperation. When he turned back, the purple robe was gliding toward him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Nay, this was no reckless man barring the road, but a woman. There was a fluid grace and fragility to the dainty form that could not be achieved by any man he’d ever seen. It was almost as if this were a faerie on winged feet.

His mouth tightened. Curse Brian’s talk of elves and faeries—he had no
intention of allowing those superstitions to affect him.

None of the men had moved after the horses quieted, and Rhys felt their gazes on him as they waited tensely to see what he would do. Wind rustled tree branches overhead with an eerie clacking sound, then it grew very still. No birds chirped, no normal forest sounds could be heard. Mist crawled along the ground, rising slowly, curling around the specter.

Irritated by an unexpected chill coiling down his spine, Rhys stared coldly at the robed figure barring his way. “Why do you block the road?” he demanded, switching from French to English. “We would pass.”

A sudden wind eddy lifted a spiral of dry leaves into the air in a slight whisper, and the figure stepped forward. A graceful lift of one hand pushed back
the hood of her cloak. Rhys stared at her.

She was beautiful. Faerie-fragile and as luminous as moonlight on dark water, the maid staring up at him with a faint smile left him speechless. Lustrous hair, black as a raven’s wings, straight and shining, fell around her dusky face, and her eyes—Jésu, but her eyes were as deep and dark as the night. She stared directly at him, and he was caught by the intensity of the eyes holding mysterious promises in their depths.

For what seemed like hours but in truth could only have been a moment, he stared into that liquid gaze. Until she broke the spell.

“Greetings, fair knight,” she said in soft, perfect French. “I bar your path only to warn you. The bridge ahead has been washed away, and is not easily
seen until too late to stop. I thought you should know of the danger.”

“God’s mercy on you for the warning.” He cleared his throat and gestured with his sword. “I barely saw you in the road. Did we frighten you?”

A burst of laughter was accompanied by the tinkling of tiny bells as she shook her head. The movement dislodged a skein of her unbound hair; it fell in a gleaming ribbon over one shoulder to her waist.

“Nay, brave knight. I was not frightened. Were you?”

“Frightened? By a wisp of a maid? Do you think we are children?”

“I thought perhaps you would fear the Beltane Eve, as many do.”

Christ above, but she was bold to taunt him with a subtle, feline smile and sly words. “I fear nothing,” he said shortly.

“Is that so? Courage is always needed in these fearsome times.” She took a step to one side, scattering shreds of mist that curled up around her like smoke. The mocking smile still played at the corners of her mouth.

Provoked, he said, “Times would be fearsome indeed, if the king’s knights were to fear a simple maiden in the midst of the road.”

The maid paused. Her gaze was eloquent, and rich with scorn. “Yea, English knights are valorous indeed, as courageous as the king is said to be. Yet I’ve heard that Richard slaughters children.”

Rhys swung his shield over his shoulder again. A sharp ray of sunlight caught the metallic edge and flashed into his eyes. Blinking, he looked back at her. He could hardly deny it when it was true, but it didn’t sweeten his
temper to be reminded of it. “Are you Richard’s enemy?”

The air grew radiantly bright. A thin shaft of light speared the gloom to fall directly on the maid’s face. She waved an imperious hand, and the sunlight shifted from her eyes as if commanded away.