“If you would like a bath as well,” he grumbled, “I would be willing to hold your clothes.”
Before she could launch a heated retort, he moved past her to the stream. Did she truly believe she could trick him so easily? He knelt and refilled his flask, shaking his head.
This lovely demoiselle might be educated and intelligent, aye, but she was still a woman. On the whole, females were irrational creatures. Guided almost entirely by their whims and emotions. He had yet to meet a woman capable of outwitting a man.
Several minutes had passed when he realized he had not yet heard Lady Laurien move out of the bushes.
He looked over his shoulder—and saw her a full twenty yards away, hurrying into the trees.
Swearing, he leaped after her. How had she slipped away without him hearing? She had moved as silently and swiftly as a deer.
At the sound of his pursuit, she broke into a headlong run. She nearly reached the horses.
Until he dove to catch her, toppling them both. He twisted as they fell so that he took the worst of the impact when they hit the ground.
“Let me go!” she cried, snatching her arm free to strike at him.
He caught her hand as it came at him, rolling so that she was trapped beneath him. “You swore you would not try to escape, milady. Have you forgotten your promise so soon?”
“Get off of me!” She was breathing heavily from her anger and the effort to throw him off.
He held her motionless despite her struggles. “Where is my obedient lady of this morn?”
“You… you were expecting me to try something all along?” She redoubled her efforts to get free of him. “You have been laughing at me this entire time—”
“I will not make the mistake of turning my back on you again.” He stood, pulling her to her feet. “No matter what your state of undress.”
“And I will not stop fighting to gain my freedom! I will never stop! The moment will come, Scotsman, when you are not watching and I will be gone!”
When she tried again to wrest free of his touch, Darach released her arm. He could not help admiring her defiance and boldness, even as they vexed him endlessly. She might have been raised in a convent, but she had clearly been born with the grit and spirit of a warrior.
The way she stood there looking him straight in the eye—and no doubt wishing him to burn in hell—left him more beguiled than angry. “Even if you did escape, milady, you have nowhere to run.”
“Do you know how many dozens of convents there are in France? Anywhere I might go, there will be sisters to grant me sanctuary.” She clenched her fists. “I will go to ground and stay there until all of you swaggering men forget me and find some other way to play at your game of alliances and kings!”
“This is not a game, demoiselle. Thousands of lives are at risk—including innocent women and children who will suffer if English troops invade Scotland.”
“So you are willing to sacrifice one life—my life—to save others?”
Darach did not answer. He turned her around and nudged her ahead of him toward their horses. “We are wasting time demoiselle. And I warn you, I may not be so forgiving the next time you attempt an escape.”
She glowered at him silently as he escorted her to her horse, helped her mount—and then took the reins from her. He mounted his own horse and tugged hers forward so that she rode directly beside him.
“A lady cannot be expected to keep an oath to a knave,” she bit out.
Darach knew that her anger should not matter to him, or her tears. She could not matter to him.
He forced himself to tell her as much. “What you think and what you want is unimportant, milady.”
She gave him an emerald glare hot enough to burn iron to ashes.
Good, he thought. Let her hate him.
That was an emotion he understood. One that would not complicate his duty.
~ ~ ~
As dusk fell, they skirted the walls of a large town—mayhap Crecy, Laurien thought, or Agincourt. They had encountered no one wearing the de Villiers blue and white all day, though they had passed villagers, and plowmen leading teams of oxen, and peasants heading for their lords’ manors, some carrying huge, curved scythes for the autumn harvest. In the fields they rode past, long rows of barley, rye, and maslin were falling under the serfs’ tools.
Nightfall found the two of them deep in the forest once again. The Scotsman slowed the horses to a walk and they rode in silence, the only sounds the snapping of frosted branches beneath the horses’ hooves and the squeak of saddle leather.
Several times they saw distant lights flickering in the gloom around them. Cookfires, Laurien reasoned, probably warming travelers like themselves. But the hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she had a distinct feeling they were being watched.
As a full moon rose, she could make out the silhouette of a large chateau on a hill just ahead. She assumed they would ride around it, as they had the town—but the Scotsman turned onto an almost hidden track that branched off the main path, heading directly for the keep. She started to question him, but decided to save her breath.
She had already learned that Sir Darach of Glenshiel was not a man to explain himself, certainly not to a mere woman. He had made it abundantly clear today that he did not care what she thought, what she felt—or what would happen to her if she were forced to marry the Comte de Villiers.
The path through the woods was so narrow, they had to ride single file. With Darach in the lead, they were halfway to the chateau when three horsemen charged out of the trees to block their way.
“Hold!” one of them challenged. “Your name and your purpose here.”
Laurien’s heart beat wildly. They had been caught! They were closed in on three sides, with no room to turn around.
“LaRoche, a torch!” another voice bellowed.
She heard the click of flint and steel and a brand flamed to life in the gloom.
Squinting in the light, she saw that the riders’ tunics were not blue and white, but yellow and red, their surcoats marked with the symbol of a white dragon. All three men wore chain mail and had longswords lashed to their saddles. The leader brandished a steel-tipped pike. The two men behind him rested battle-axes across their knees.
These were not guardsmen on a search; these were warriors equipped for battle.
Darach clearly drew the same conclusion. “We are but humble pilgrims, sir,” he appealed to them in a mild tone. “We seek only shelter from the cold.”
“Liar!” The leader leaned forward in his saddle. “I have seen this trick before. I say you are mercenaries, thinking to sneak through in disguise to help Varennes. The lad hidden beneath the cloak there is doubtless your squire.”
“Nay, sir,” the Scotsman insisted. “We do not know who is lord of yon castle. We had hoped to make it to Boulogne by nightfall, but—”
“Two men traveling this deep in the forest, at night, heading for this particular castle? Do not mistake me for a fool.” The man drew his sword.
“It is a sin, sir knight, to accost travelers on holy pilgrimage.” Darach moved one hand to the sword hidden on the back of his saddle.
Laurien saw the movement. He would get them both killed!
She urged her mount forward suddenly, forcing Darach’s horse to the side. “Please, sir,” she appealed to the leader. “He is telling you the truth.” She threw back her hood. “I assure you, I am no squire.”
The man stared and appeared to forget all about the weapon he had drawn.
When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its belligerence. “I would know your name, milady.”
Darach remained still beside her, but his hand rested inches from his sword.
“I am Emeline de Poitiers.” Laurien took the name of her dearest friend and tutor from the convent, trying to keep her voice steady as her heart pounded frantically. “And this is…” She nodded to her captor, thinking quickly. “My husband.”
The leader took the torch f
rom his man-at-arms and studied them more closely. Laurien knew that any knight was honor-bound not to interrupt pilgrims on their holy travels.
Unfortunately, this one seemed to want more proof before releasing them.
“And why do you travel in men’s garments, Lady Emeline?”
“The fault of a thief, sir. We chanced upon a river one evening, and when I stopped to bathe, a peasant woman stole my gown. I have worn my husband’s spare garments ever since.” She held his gaze for a long moment, then lowered her lashes. She hoped he was a more trusting soul than the Scotsman. “What is your name, sir knight?”
“Sir Anton de Moulin, milady.”
“I pray you, Sir Anton. We need shelter for the night and I am most fatigued.” Her mouth had gone dry, adding a convincing note of frailty to her voice. “If you refuse to let us pass, I shall simply collapse here on this path.”
The knight measured them both, stone-faced.
Then at last, he moved his horse out of the way. “Pass.” He signaled to his men, who melted back into the trees.
Laurien immediately urged her horse forward, not wanting to give him time to reconsider, the Scotsman following right behind her.
~ ~ ~
Sir Anton de Moulin watched the two of them ride down the path, wondering if he had made the right decision.
But surely, if the rough-looking blond pilgrim was a warrior hired by Varennes, he would know better than to bring such a lady into a castle that was to be attacked on the morrow.
Chapter 4
The path widened, then emptied into a clearing as they approached a wide moat surrounding the chateau’s massive curtain wall. Laurien released a long-held breath and started to raise her hood when Darach’s voice halted her.
“Leave it,” he rumbled.
With a shrug, she left her hood down. It might be nice to hear a word of gratitude, after she had just helped him avoid bloodshed in a dangerous situation. But if giving orders assuaged his male pride, so be it.
A helmeted head appeared at one of the gatehouse towers near the edge of the water. “Your name and your purpose?” the guard bellowed.
He reinforced his challenge with a crossbow aimed at the Scotsman. Laurien noticed other steel arrowheads glittering in the moonlight as guards hidden on the parapet drew their bowstrings.
Her breath caught in her throat and she turned to her captor with questioning eyes. He had come here apurpose. Did he not have a plan for gaining entry?
As if in answer, he took off one of his gloves, put two fingers into his mouth, and whistled—the same odd, high-pitched sound he had made yesterday in the forest outside Chartres.
The guard instantly disappeared, and a moment later the drawbridge clanked down, landing with a thud in front of them. Darach motioned for Laurien to ride across.
Puzzled, she complied, wondering what awaited them inside.
They passed under the gatehouse and into the outer bailey, where the same man who had challenged them from the parapet waited to greet them as they both dismounted.
“Good ev’ntide, Sir Darach.” He took their reins, passing them to a servant who led the horses away. “My apologies for the trouble. We were not told you were coming.”
Laurien noticed that the guardsmen seemed to be looking at her with curiosity. She pulled her homespun cloak more closely around her.
“The trouble is quickly forgotten.” Darach moved to her side. “Especially if you ease my humor with a hot meal. And mayhap a flask of wine?”
“Aye, come, you must be tired. And I am sure milord will be eager to see you.”
The man led them across the open practice ground, past the stables and over the drawbridge of the second gatehouse. After entering the keep and climbing what seemed to Laurien’s aching legs an impossibly long spiral stair, they came at last to the great hall.
It was like opening the door to a field of battle. An incredible din burst upon her senses.
Burly warriors ate at haphazard trestle tables, pounding their sword butts on the tabletops to emphasize their shouted demands. Servants scurried to bring more food, more wine. In one corner, a cheering crowd swept cups and trenchers to the floor and assembled around a pair of arm wrestlers. In another, a pair of huge, shaggy dogs snarled over remnants of venison. There were no women to be seen anywhere.
A dark-haired warrior at the table before the hearth rose and crossed the room with long strides, straight toward them. His white silk surcoat was emblazoned with the symbol of a black lion. As he drew near, a smile lit his handsome features, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners, and he stretched his arms wide. Laurien noticed his imposing height—and the way his black tunic strained over his broad chest and shoulders.
She stepped back instinctively, while Darach stepped forward to grasp the man by the forearm. “Varennes.”
“Glenshiel, mon ami, welcome back. How go the negotiations?” The lord of the chateau turned toward her. “I see you have brought a pretty visitor this time. Most thoughtful of you, Darach. I am always in need of charming feminine company to brighten my keep.”
The noise in the hall lowered to curious murmurs, as more and more heads turned to see what was happening at the entrance.
“Nay, old friend.” The Scotsman slipped an arm around Laurien’s waist, pulling her to his side. “This is the lady we spoke of before, the one from Touraine? My new wife.”
The last three words, he said loud enough for his voice to carry to the ends of the hall. Laurien tried to push him away, too tired to endure any more of his teasing, but he held her locked against him.
Clearly disappointed that this new arrival would not be offered for their amusement, the warriors turned back to their pursuits, and the hall was quickly drowned in a fresh din.
The dark-haired knight regarded the two of them with confusion for a moment, then his features brightened in apparent understanding. His deep laughter echoed to the chamber’s ceiling. “Aye, of course.” He clapped his friend soundly on the back. “I must hear the whole tale. Come, we will eat in my solar.”
His keep looked much like the d’Amboise chateau where Laurien had spent her childhood. He escorted them toward the solar, a spacious meeting chamber just off the great hall. It boasted a large window with clear glass, making it the warmest room in the castle by day, while its nearness to the main hearth would hold the heat at night.
The Scotsman released her once they stepped inside. Laurien walked over to the chamber’s fireplace, grateful for a chance to thaw herself—and happier still for an excuse to extricate herself from his touch.
Keeping her back to him, she removed her cloak and gloves. The warmth of the room seemed almost steamy after spending an entire day in the autumn chill. Darach’s friend cleared away some parchments and other items from a trestle table before the fire, and summoned a servant to bring food and drink.
When the three of them were alone again, her captor took her elbow and turned her toward their host. “Sir Gaston de Varennes, I present to you the Lady Laurien d’Amboise.”
Sir Gaston swept to one knee, taking Laurien’s hand in his. “Ma demoiselle, I pledge myself to your service. If there is aught you have need of, simply ask and it shall be yours.”
“I do not imagine you would include my freedom in that offer?” she asked wryly as he kissed her hand.
“Nay, that I cannot give you. Yon blond knave would strike me down if I dared.” He nodded toward his friend and smiled. “But if you ever tire of this husband, you now know where to find better.”
He gave her a wink as he straightened and looked at his friend, who stood with arms crossed as he watched this display of wanton chivalry.
“Glenshiel, mon ami, why did you send no word that you were coming? From your last message, I gathered that you were returning to France to deal with de Villiers—but I did not think you were serious about attempting this.” He glanced again at Laurien with a look of bemusement.
“None but Malcolm know that we are here. I d
id not want to trust messengers with the information.”
“A wise caution.” Sir Gaston’s expression turned serious. “But I could have warned you. This is not the best time for you to have come.”
“Aye, we were stopped by three men in the forest, heavily armed—wearing a dragon crest that looked familiar. You still have not settled your feud with Beauvais?”
“The old sot refuses to acknowledge me as lord of this chateau. I have had to hire those you saw in the great hall to defend it.”
Servants arrived with platters of food and set them on the trestle table before the hearth. The mingled aromas made Laurien’s stomach growl, reminding her that she had not had a hot meal in two days. There was venison and rabbit, bowls of thick soup with bacon, a small wheel of cheese, trenchers of hard bread, and three tankards of warm spiced wine.
Sir Gaston politely motioned for her to take a seat on the bench nearest the fire.
Laurien smiled at him. “Thank you, milord. I cannot remember the last time I met a genuinely chivalrous knight.”
He returned her smile and started to sit beside her, only to be nudged out of the way by the Scotsman.
Biting back a protest, Laurien sat as far to the left as possible. Unfortunately, Darach’s brawny frame filled so much of the short bench, she found herself pressed against him.
She refused to voice the objection that sprang to mind, determined to eat her meal in peace and not be baited into any further arguments. She had provided more than enough of his entertainment for one day.
“Those men in the hall are a ragged lot, Gaston.” Darach’s leg rested against hers, startling her so much, she dropped the piece of cheese she had just picked up.
“Since you and I retired, mon ami, there are no decent mercenaries available,” Sir Gaston said wistfully.
“’Twas your idea to retire, not mine.”
“How could I resist the chance to claim this chateau? It may not be so remarkable now, but I have plans.” He picked up one of the parchments he had set aside earlier, unrolling it in front of his friend. “My master stonemason delivered this last week. He is soon to begin work on a new curtain wall, so that we can enlarge the bailey, in this direction. I have already planted a grove of apricot trees, here, a gift from my brother Gerard. New stables will go here, a granary, dovecotes, falcons’ mews.” He pointed out each feature on the mason’s drawing. “I have even hired an artisan from Paris to fit the windows on the upper floors with stained glass.” He withdrew a brightly colored sample from inside his tunic and held it up in the firelight. “Within two years, three at most, this chateau will be one of the finest in the Artois region.”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 7
