Twilight Magic (16 page)

Emma grabbed her cloak and left the room, Rose at her heels.

The innkeeper noticed them immediately. “Thought I told you to keep that hound out of my taproom.”

She kept her ire in check. Until Darian found another inn, they needed shelter. “We are merely passing through. Would you, perchance, have parchment, quill, and ink?”

“I can get it.”

“Wonderful. I am sure Darian will be happy to pay you for the writing materials and your trouble.”

“You are sure he will come back?”

The question took her by surprise. “Certes. Why would he not?”

He snorted. “Never put much faith in a foreigner, and this one is Flemish, one of them mercenaries. I get three or four of them in here at one time, I make sure I get my money first and toss them out at the first sign of trouble.”

She could hardly refute the innkeeper’s opinion of mercenaries. Tales of their exploits had spread far and wide, of their lack of mercy toward enemies, of pillage and plunder. But for the innkeeper to judge Darian so harshly further pricked her ire.

“I have no doubt Darian will return. He left his horse and dog here, did he not?”

“And ye.”

Emma nearly blushed over how low she ranked on the list of what Darian likely considered valuable. But most men were no different. Anything with a monetary value ranked higher than an unasked-for wife.

“And me.”

“I can tell yer a noble lady, far too good for the likes of a mercenary. Is there someone nearby who we could send word to come fetch ye, take ye back where ye belong?”

So the innkeeper not only didn’t like wolfhounds and mercenaries, he didn’t want a noblewoman mucking about his inn, either. She was tempted to tell him she, too, was partly foreign, half Welsh, just to see his reaction. Thankfully, the urge passed quickly.

“No one. You will send the writing materials to my room.”

The man grunted, and Emma turned heel and went out the door.

Rose sniffed the ground, then made haste toward the stables. Emma let her go, knowing the hound wouldn’t go far and would come when called.

Emma kicked at the hard dirt of the yard, sending a spray of dust over her boots.

Odious innkeeper! How dare he suggest Darian would run off and abandon her? She might be low on his list of valuables, but she knew in her bones that as long as they were married, he would take care of her. Not just because he needed her consent to obtain an annulment. Not even because they made fabulous lovers—which he insisted wouldn’t happen again, but she knew it would.

Darian was simply one of those men who could be trusted to keep his word. And the hardened mercenary, who donned a mask of detachment, possessed a big heart, which he tried hard not to show.

One only had to look at Rose for proof. Darian refused to own her, but he cared about the wolfhound.

While the two of them disagreed at times, Emma suspected Darian cared about her, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have, at first, resisted her last night. She wasn’t quite sure why he’d been so harsh in the beginning, but his behavior had swiftly gone from rough to tender.

Oh, so tender and considerate. Except he hadn’t smiled. If only he had smiled.

Rose bolted from around the stables and headed up the road. She was about to call the hound when she saw Rose’s destination.

Darian accepted Rose’s greeting with a pat to her head and a frown on his face. The shorter, dark-haired man with him seemed to know the hound, too, so she assumed he must have been at Hadone a time or two and was likely one of the earl’s mercenaries. Emma stood still, firmly resisting the urge to greet Darian with as much abandon as the wolfhound.

“Why are you out here?”

Darian’s question was harsher than it needed to be. However, he asked out of concern, and she couldn’t be too angry over his discomfort.

“Because Rose refused to use the chamber pot.” Darian drolly raised an eyebrow to her comment, while a fully amused smile spread across his companion’s face.

The man gave her a courtly bow, then said, “To hear Darian tell it, there is naught Rose cannot do.”

Emma couldn’t help but smile back as Darian presented her to Philip, who was, as she’d guessed, a fellow mercenary.

Darian handed over a cloth-wrapped meat pie. “I brought this for your nooning. The food here is none too palatable.”

Emma gratefully unwrapped the meat-and-gravy-filled pastry. “How is the heft of your purse?”

“Ample. Why?”

“I asked the innkeeper to supply me with writing materials, for which he will likely charge you an outrageous sum. I must send a message to Nicole to let her know we will visit her in a few days, and I need to inform Gwen of everything that has happened.”

Now the corner of his mouth twitched with humor as he leaned forward. “Everything?”

Fortunately, she hadn’t yet taken a bite of pie or she might have choked. She knew exactly what he referred to, and the wretch had the audacity to tease her about a momentous, very personal event in front of Philip.

“Everything she must know, like of our marriage, and that I gave Earl William the petition to present to King Stephen—that sort of everything. Did you learn aught this morn?”

She took a bite of the warm pie. With her mouth occupied, she couldn’t say anything else he might twist to his advantage.

The two men exchanged looks of disappointment. “Nothing definite,” Darian answered. “I came back to check on you and Rose before we resumed our inquiries. Would you be averse to spending another night here?”

Her mouth full, she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, conveying it mattered naught to her.

“Then we will be going back to Southwark.”

She swallowed. “For how long?”

“Not sure.”

“If you intend to be out after nightfall, you should take Rose.”

He crossed his arms. “Did we not have this argument this morn?”

They had, and Darian was as resolute as before. Except this time she had another piece of reasoning to present.

“Then you will not mind when I take Rose out again. Alone. After nightfall.”

“Nay, because I will fetch a rope. Rose goes on one end and you hold on to the other. Understood?”

She understood. She was in for a long afternoon and probably a longer evening. ’Twas a good thing she had letters to write or she might be reduced to combing the tangles out of the wolfhound’s hair.

“Lovely lady,” Philip commented.

“That she is.”

Agreement came easily. Darian saw no harm in acknowledging the lady’s beauty, or her intelligence, or her wit. He still didn’t know how he’d managed not to laugh out loud at the notion of the hound using the chamber pot.

Or why he hadn’t laughed. When was the last time he’d allowed himself more than an amused smile? Too long ago, certes, if he had to look back so far to recollect the occasion.

Unwilling to contemplate his none-too-recent lack of humor, Darian turned his thoughts back to the task at hand, finding Hubert and Gib. They couldn’t just disappear. Why was it taking so much longer to get to South-wark from the inn than from Southwark back to Emma—to the inn? Surely they weren’t walking slower, were they?

“Too bad you cannot keep her.”

Keep Emma? A mercenary with a noble wife? Not an impossibility, but rare. Very rare. Besides, he wanted no wife. Darian liked his life just the way it was.

He grunted. “I need a wife like you need a wife.” “Sometimes I wonder if a wife would not be a pleasant thing to have. A cottage in Flanders. A few little ones to chase. Might be nice.”

“Oh, come now. Have you been talking to Thomas? He wants a piece of land in Kent with a plump wife to tend him. There is still a war to be fought, remember?”

“There is, but someday the war will be over.”

“Not soon.”

“Soon enough to ponder its ending. Given any thought to what you will do afterward?”

Not a single one. “I imagine I will stay in William’s service. There is always a need for mercenaries.”

“William is losing his sight. He will not be leading soldiers for much longer.”

Please, Lord, do not let that happen too soon!
“Then perhaps I will form my own mercenary band. Care to join me?”

Philip chuckled. “Perhaps.”

Darian realized that sometime during the morning he’d banished the notion of Philip having aught to do with the theft of his dagger. He’d obviously been laboring on Darian’s behalf. Spent a lot of coin, too. Repayment was due, and he would settle that account with more than coin.

Philip deserved his trust. So give it he would. That didn’t mean the other mercenaries weren’t suspect.

“Where do her sisters live?”

“You cannot have one of her sisters as a wife.” “Funny. I meant to offer myself as a courier for Lady Emma’s letters.”

Darian stopped walking. “Does not William expect you at Wallingford?”

“Aye. When we are done here, I will certainly make my way to Wallingford. That does not mean I cannot take a roundabout route.”

No, it certainly didn’t.

“The young one is at Bledloe Abbey. The other . . .” Darian had to think back to court gossip to remember. “The other is rather out of your way. Camelen is somewhere near Shrewsbury, I believe.”

“Ah, now I remember. Hugh de Leon’s daughter, right?” He whistled low and crossed his arms. “Ye gods, Darian. You are married to the daughter of a Norman baron and a Welsh princess. And you are going to give her up? Have you gone witless?”

A Welsh princess?

Now he wished he’d paid a great deal more heed to court gossip. He’d known of Sir Hugh de Leon, of the knight’s allegiance to Empress Maud and his death at Wallingford. He hadn’t known the man married a Welsh princess. Did that make Emma royal?

His hands sweat with the notion that he’d bedded royalty. He tossed those same hands in the air. “Emma is not loot that I can decide to keep or discard. I did not win her, nor did she expect to be trapped into marrying me. We will end the marriage as soon”—as soon as he figured out how to go about obtaining an annulment after consummating the marriage, a consummation he would never in his lifetime forget—“as we are able. Now, might we get on with the task at hand?”

“Certes, Darian. Whatever you say.”

Chapter Twelve

T
he day had been long and disturbing. Darian still had too many questions and too few answers to de

Salis’s murder. The same could be said about his thoughts of Emma.

He rapped on her door, unable to hold back from checking on her, almost hoping she was asleep and wouldn’t answer.

“Who is there?”

Her voice didn’t hint of sleepiness. The sun had set hours ago. Apparently she’d waited up for him.

“Darian.”

The bolt slid; the latch snicked; the door opened. Emma stood before him, garbed in her chemise, her bare toes peeking from beneath the hem. Her reddish brown hair hung loose and flowing down around her shoulders. A spark in her wide brown eyes said she was glad to see him, the slight smile on her lips both welcoming and tempting.

He stepped into the room that seemed different than the night before, though he could see little had changed. Coals glowed in the brazier. The shutters were closed. Lumps bedeviled the mattress under a fern-green woollen coverlet.

In the corner of the room sat a small table and stool that Emma must have requested from the innkeeper. On it rested a bottle of ink, a quill, and two rolled pieces of parchment. Emma’s letters to her sisters, no doubt.

“I came to ensure you are well.”

She closed the door. “Rose and I passed the day without mishap. Are you going back to Southwark?”

“Not tonight.”

She slid the bolt. He tossed his cloak on the bed and reached down to pet the wolfhound, who had bumped up against his leg to gain his attention.

“Any progress?” Emma asked.

“A bit. We learned de Salis visited one of the brothels and laid wagers on a cockfight.” The last bothered Darian. If Perrin had lost money to de Salis and couldn’t pay, the results could be fatal. “There are two men we have yet to find who could prove useful. Perhaps they will turn up on the morrow.”

Emma picked up his cloak and hung it on the peg, covering hers completely, as if he were staying the night. Heaven knew he wanted to, but he didn’t dare.

“Philip seems a nice man,” she said.

“He can be.” Darian waved a hand at the table, struggling to keep that same hand from reaching for Emma. “Philip has offered to act as courier for your letters. Will that do?”

“If you trust him, I have no reason not to. Do you wish food or drink before we retire?”

“Nay.” He wasn’t staying. In a few minutes he’d leave for the large room down the hallway. “I know the hour is late, but as long as you are awake, I have a question or two.”

She crossed her arms under her bosom, pushing her breasts up and against the thin fabric of her chemise. His mouth went dry with the memory of suckling her dark nipples.

“What about?”

“Philip said you are the daughter of a Norman baron and a Welsh princess. That makes you royalty.”

With a self-deprecating smile, she shook her head. “Not really. Oh, my heritage is ancient. Some say the lineage goes back to King Arthur, but—”

“King Arthur?”

Her smile widened. “One would think my heritage would command respect. But since it cannot be proven, it counts for little. True, my mother was the daughter of a Welsh prince, but in England it is my father’s blood that makes me noble, and he a minor baron and considered a traitor. Those at court chose to judge me on those merits alone.”

Ye gods, if the blood of Arthur Pendragon flowed in her veins... she was not only noble but the descendant of Britain’s most legendary king.

His ire rose higher than it had earlier this afternoon when contemplating her treatment at court. The king had abominably overstepped when giving her in marriage to a Flemish peasant, subjecting her to the further scorn and pity of her peers.

“Have you no relation on either side with enough power to protest our marriage on your behalf?”

“I have cousins on my father’s side who I am sure are reluctant to do aught in my favor. They are allied with King Stephen and have been appalled by my father’s support of Maud. Of my Welsh kin, they have been told of what happened after my father’s death and none have come forward to protest our treatment. I look for no aid from anyone.”