Malcolm looked at the bindings and the raw skin on her wrists, frowning. “A thighearna. Who did this?” He reached down and took her hands.
“It was by Darach’s command.”
Malcolm drew his knife and sliced through the ropes. “More likely the guard was overzealous in fulfilling Darach’s orders.” He gently examined her tender skin. “I will bring some salve.”
“You need not concern yourself. Your hostage is unharmed.”
Malcolm ignored her biting comment and left. Laurien heard him address heated words to the guard beyond the door, and he returned a short time later, with a small earthenware jar of salve, bandages, an extra blanket, and some food.
“Here.” He sat beside her on the pallet and placed an apple in her hand. “Eat.” Not waiting for a reply, he took her free hand and applied the salve with gentle strokes.
“Are you not concerned that Darach will object?” She bit into the apple while Malcolm tended her wrist. “That is his salve you are using.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I am the one who made it for him. With rosemary, arnica leaf, and clove oil, to help numb the pain of his wound. It will…” She hesitated. “It will also help with his older injuries, when they bother him. You should tell him so, since I did not have the chance.”
Malcolm wrapped her wrist in a length of linen, cutting off the end with his knife. “God has gifted you with both healing skill and a generous spirit, milady,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes. “Darach is fortunate that you were here to care for him. He owes you his life.”
“But that changes nothing.”
“I know he seems harsh, demoiselle, but he is not a callous man. I have known him since he was a lad. He is doing…” Malcolm paused. “We are both doing what we must.”
“I know that,” she said softly. “But you must forgive me for being concerned about the price I must pay.”
He fell silent as he returned to his task. Laurien shifted the apple to her bandaged hand as he tended the other.
She blurted out an impulsive question. “Sir Malcolm, what does camhanach mean?”
“Dawn, or sunrise,” he said absently. “The first light of morning.”
Her heart thudded an unsteady beat. “Oh.”
That was not at all what she had expected him to say.
“And what about leannan?” she asked lightly.
“Sweetheart.” Finished with the bandages, Malcolm sat back, regarding her with a suddenly curious look. “Milady, where have you been hearing these words?”
“He…” She shrugged. “He called them out when he was fevered. Also… aidan? And sibylla?”
Malcolm sheathed his knife. “That is not for me to tell. And he does not like to speak of it, so I would not suggest you bring those names up with Darach.”
Discovering that the last two words were names—Aidan and Sibylla—only added to Laurien’s curiosity. But the finality in Malcolm’s tone made it clear he considered that subject closed. She finished her apple and resisted asking further questions as he prepared to go.
“I will have your other garments brought to you in the morning, milady.” He picked up the bandages and salve. “We will be leaving on the morrow.”
“But he is not well enough! He should not be riding so…” Laurien stopped herself.
Malcolm arched one brow. “I thought you wanted all manner of mayhem to befall him.”
“I… that is… I do not wish to see all of my hard work go for naught.”
“Hmm.” He kept studying her with that curious look. “Darach is already on his feet and determined to be ready, milady. We have a ship to catch. We must leave at first light.”
Laurien felt the nausea return to her stomach. They were leaving France. Tomorrow.
“If you have need of anything else tonight…” Malcolm paused a moment, then crouched in front of her again, setting aside the items he had picked up. “Allow me to show you something. Place your fingers, so.” He put two fingers of one hand in his mouth.
Laurien frowned at the odd gesture. “Why would I want to—”
“Be agreeable, please, milady.” He demonstrated again, and this time, she imitated him. “Now purse your lips. Aye, now blow, softly.”
She did as he said and was amazed at the high-pitched whistle that filled the chamber. “That sound! The one that you and Darach made in the forest outside Chartres. What is it?”
“A falconer’s whistle,” Malcolm explained. “If you blew any harder you would hear it through the castle. You have seen hawking, have you not? How do the hunters induce the bird to return with its kill?”
“With a lure?”
“Aye, but if a falcon or hawk flies too high or too far in search of the prey, he loses sight of home. He cannot see the lure, and becomes lost.”
“But the whistle carries on the wind.” Laurien nodded in understanding.
“Aye. So, milady, if you have need of anything, and your guard proves irksome, call for me.” Straightening, he started for the door.
“But… Sir Malcolm, why would you do this for me?” Laurien looked down at the bandages on her wrists, the extra blanket and food he had left for her. “Any of this?”
He turned in the doorway, looking at her for a long moment. “You remind me of someone from a long time ago, a lady of gentle spirit. She had green eyes, like yours.” He gave her a warm smile. “And I have never been able to resist helping a demoiselle in distress.”
~ ~ ~
As this hour of the morning, the great hall was empty but for a few servants. Darach waited near the main entrance for Laurien’s guard to bring her below. He tried to ignore the fact that he was not entirely steady on his feet just yet, steeling himself against the pain that throbbed through his chest and left shoulder. He did not look forward to dealing with Laurien’s ire while also dealing with the dangers they would face on the journey ahead, especially when he had not yet regained his full strength.
But he vowed that he would keep himself in check from now on, stop giving in to this… attraction that had developed between them.
When the time came, he needed to walk away from Lady Laurien without a backward glance. Just like every other woman he had known.
That was the way it had always been for him, since he had left Scotland at sixteen.
And that was the way it would always be.
The guard finally appeared with Laurien at the foot of the stairs, heading toward him. She was dressed in her masculine garb again, the brown homespun and a pilgrim’s hooded cloak, the same as him. She had plaited her hair in a single long braid down the middle of her back. Her chin was lifted to a lofty angle, her expression aloof.
It had scarcely been a day and a half since he had seen her last, but somehow she looked even more achingly beautiful.
And he could not help remembering, vividly, just how beautiful she looked without any clothes on at all.
He blinked hard, trying to banish the images from his memory.
When they reached his side, the guard bowed to Darach and departed quickly, no doubt eager for some duty that did not involve a provoked and wrathful female.
“Milord.” Laurien pulled on her gloves. “I trust you are feeling well.”
Despite the frost in her voice, her eyes held an unmistakable concern as she looked at the bandages just visible beneath his tunic.
“Well enough,” he said gruffly, taking a torch from the wall. He gestured for her to proceed him out the door and down the spiral stair that led below. “Malcolm is waiting for us in the bailey.”
“And will I have my own horse today?” she asked as she started down the steps.
He did not miss the hopeful note in her voice. “Nay, you will not.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not intend to give you any opportunity to escape.”
“I shall ride with Sir Malcolm, then.”
Darach felt a twinge of something he refused to call jealousy, that she
would choose to ride with Malcolm. “Nay, you will be with me.”
She stopped in the middle of the steps and turned to give him an annoyed look in the flickering torchlight. “Why?”
“God’s breath, men on two continents have followed my orders without question, and now I must explain my every command to a woman?”
In truth, he could not explain. Not to her, not aloud. He wanted her with him. If things turned dangerous on this journey, he wanted her under his protection. For reasons he did not want to examine too closely, reasons that had naught to do with the alliance, this mission, or his duty.
“Why not just tie me up again?” she asked dryly.
“Do not tempt me, woman.”
She clenched her fists. “I believe, milord, that I have endured my full limit of male tyranny.”
“I am afraid, milady, that you will have to become accustomed to it. It is the way of things, here in the world beyond your cloister.” He turned her forward and nudged her to continue down the stairs. “This world would fall into chaos if women were allowed to do whatever they wished.”
“Do you mean to say that the world is not in chaos now? Wars, wanton violence… random kidnappings. Aye, men are certainly doing an excellent job of it.”
“Women,” he explained, “are guided by their emotions. Men by their reason.”
“Without emotion to temper it,” she countered, “reason can become tyranny.”
They had reached the ground floor. She waited while he set the torch he carried in one of the sconces that flanked the open doorway. Sunlight spilled in from the courtyard beyond.
She folded her arms. “Did you remember to bring the salve with you, for your pain?” she asked quietly.
He turned and for a moment, he could not find his voice. “In spite of everything…” He shook his head in disbelief. “You are still determined to take care of me.”
She looked down, scuffing one her boots against the stone beneath her feet. “You told me that a gentle heart is not an asset, here in this dark, cold, harsh world. And I suppose you were right.” She lifted her gaze to his again. “But I was raised by a mother who taught me kindness, and I have spent the last eleven years in a convent dedicated to caring for others. I am afraid, Scotsman, that you are too late to change my heart.”
Her quiet declaration made everything knot up painfully inside him.
She had enough strength to defy the whole world—including him.
And she was a woman of such tenderness, down to her soul.
He warned himself to turn and walk away from her, go out the open door that was only a few steps behind him.
Instead, he moved toward her, bracing his right arm against the wall behind her. “Laurien… if I had a choice about any of this, Camhanach—”
“Sir Malcolm told me what that means.” Her voice had become a whisper.
His heart beat a hard stroke against his ribs.
But he did not try to deny it.
“Sunrise,” he murmured, lifting his other hand to her cheek. “Soft as morning’s first light.”
He could feel her trembling.
“Laurien, if I were able to give you your freedom, I would. I do not want you to be hurt. I do not want to give you back to him.” He lowered his head toward hers. “I… want…”
All at once, a call from the courtyard broke through the silence like a stone shattering glass.
“Are we ready to depart yet?” Malcolm’s voice came from a discreet distance beyond the open door. “If we delay much longer, we shall have to swim the Channel, and I, for one, am not a good swimmer.”
Darach straightened abruptly. “I… had some trouble managing the stairs.” He coughed.
“I-I am here, Sir Malcolm.” Laurien darted beneath Darach’s arm and fled into the daylight.
Darach remained where he was for a moment, leaning against the wall, lowering his forehead to the cool stone.
God help him, what he wanted did not matter. He had no choice but to send her back to de Villiers.
There was no way to save her without losing the alliance.
~ ~ ~
The man stalking the streets of Calais attracted the notice of many. He looked neither left nor right, but strode straight ahead, parting the crowd like a spear cast into the sea. He was garbed all in black but for the ruby ring on his right hand. The few who felt the touch of his gray gaze quickly looked away and hurried about their business. A few crossed themselves.
Balafre at last left the pier and turned down a side street, satisfied that his quarry had not yet arrived. He and Kenton were taking a chance in concentrating all their efforts in Calais, but the puzzle pieces supplied by de Villiers had brought them straight to the small northern port. Relying on Balafre’s instincts and Kenton’s logic, they had gambled that their quarry would flee, running headlong for home.
They were looking for one man and the girl, or possibly two men and the girl. The men were Scots, and all three were likely traveling in disguise.
He ducked into the little hovel that had served as his quarters for the past two days. “Kenton.”
At his summons, the Englishman strolled in from an antechamber, bare to the waist. “Am I to have no rest? All is in readiness. What more is there to be done?”
“Have we a man on every gate?”
“Aye, and the pier. And all roads leading to the city. The four who guarded Lady Laurien during the wedding procession have been placed at the south gate. Those who chased the blond rider into the forest are at the main gate and—”
“Why have you not changed?”
“It was my task to think of a plan,” Kenton replied with a look of distaste, “not to don the garments of a peasant and participate. I thought I would remain here in our quarters—”
“Change. You will take charge of the men along the pier. Prepare our ship and stand ready in case it is needed.”
A feminine voice called out from the antechamber. “Milord… are you returning or not?”
“I have a guest,” the Englishman explained to Balafre with a smile. “Not a bad-looking little piece, once I washed off the dirt. There are so few women worthy of my attention to be found in this wretched port—”
“You will find another wench later. Garb yourself and get to the pier.”
Kenton gave an aggrieved sigh. “Very well.”
Balafre turned without a word of farewell, leaving just as quietly as he had entered.
Reaching the main gate, he nodded to the two guards positioned there, one disguised as a beggar, the other as a merchant selling religious relics. Balafre sat under a shade tree, turning the ruby ring on his finger as he watched the steady stream of people entering the city.
If this went well, by the morrow the girl would be on her way to de Villiers and her abductors would be dead.
As always, Balafre meant to ensure that this went well.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 11
Laurien paced the small clearing where she and Malcolm waited. As soon as they had ridden within sight of Calais, Darach had insisted on going in alone to check on the ship that would take them to Scotland. Leaving his horse behind, he had carried only the weapons hidden beneath his cloak.
He had not allowed her a single chance to escape all day, keeping her within arm’s reach every moment. They had scarcely spoken to each other at all, though he had commented on the way she held her back so straight and stiff during their long ride.
In truth, she had not done it from anger, but because she wanted to avoid hurting his injured shoulder.
Sir Malcolm sat near his grazing horse, half dozing now, just alert enough to stop her should she try to slip away. She knew because she had already tried.
Laurien sank down in the shade near him, sadness settling over her as she rested her hand on the aumoniere at her waist. This morning, Yolande had brought her coin purse along with her freshly washed tunic and leggings—and Laurien had realized that her little knife was missing.
During her fight with Beauvais’s man, she remembered, it had flown from her hand and into the rushes in the guardroom. Yolande had kindly gone to look for it, but it was nowhere to be found. One of Gaston’s mercenaries must have claimed it for his own.
Laurien blinked away the dampness in her eyes. After everything she had endured in the past several days, it seemed silly to cry over something so small as losing her knife. Her wooden cross necklace, broken in two by de Villiers, was still in her aumoniere. But the knife was lost, forever.
It had been a final gift from her mother. And her only link with her real father. She had carried it with her from childhood.
Must she leave everything behind?
Angrily, she wiped her eyes and cast a look of longing at the horses. Chances to gain her freedom were dwindling rapidly. Once on the ship, once in Scotland, how would she ever make her way back to France?
Noisy white gulls with gray-and-black tipped wings wheeled overhead, and the sun glanced low through the trees, spreading long shadows across the grass. Darach had left at midday.
Laurien chided herself for being concerned about his long absence.
She was starting to care about Darach in a way that went beyond what a healer should feel toward her patient.
And far beyond than what a novice nun should feel toward any man.
Yet she could not keep herself from asking the question. “Sir Malcolm… should we not go and look for him?”
A movement at the edge of the trees caught her eye. Malcolm was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn.
Then he smiled, sheathing the blade as Darach strode into the clearing. “A thighearna, lad. I was beginning to think you had tired of us and sailed alone for home.”
Darach’s features were grim and he ignored his friend’s jest. “Our ship has gone. It sailed yesterday.”
Malcolm swore. “We will have to find another.”
“Already done. But there is more bad news.” Moving to his horse, Darach started emptying the pack behind his saddle. “De Villiers’s men are watching the city.”
“Mhic na galla. How many?”
“I could not tell. I was about to enter the main gate when I saw one of the guards who chased me out of Chartres. The man was dressed as a beggar. Clever bastard has them disguised.” He buckled a second sword around his waist. “I went through the north gate instead. I did not recognize anyone, but he would be a fool not to have men at every entrance.”
His Stolen Bride (Stolen Brides Series Book 0) Page 14
