The Last Knight

by Candice Proctor

  She sucked in a quick, startled breath. “Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered. She set the breviary down on the grass before her, her fingers knitting together, her head falling back as she looked up at him. “I swear to you, I did not know.”

  The silence stretched out, filled with the chattering of birds in the trees and the slap of gentle waves against the reeds. “Don't you believe me?” she said at last.

  He shifted his weight, his arms coming up to cross at his chest in a way that seemed to accentuate the size of his big male body. “I don't want to.” He let his breath out in a long sigh. “But your face doesn't lie.”

  The warm afternoon sun filtering down through a leafy oak tree overhead cast interesting patterns of golden light and dusky shadows across the hard planes of his naked body. She felt her cheeks begin to flame with unwelcome heat, but she could not look away. “If you found the breviary last night, why did you wait until now to confront me?”

  “Why do you think?” he said, and she caught the gleam of dark, dangerous fires deep in his eyes. Something built within her, something unfamiliar and painful. She was aware, once again, of the isolation of this place. Of his man's body, so naked and powerful. Of her own vulnerability. The breeze gusted again, bringing with it the scents of lush green grass and damp earth, and she shivered, her wet clothes lying cold and clammy against her skin.

  “So you see,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting into a mocking smile, “you were probably right to keep your true identity from me.”

  He went to unbuckle her saddlebags from the roan's back. “Here.” He tossed the leather satchels to her, his smile widening when she caught them neatly in midair. “You might be able to catch like a boy, and throw a dagger like a boy, and you can even look like one for the most part.” His gaze drifted over her in a way that stopped her breath. “But not,” he added, his voice becoming oddly rough, “not when you're bare-legged and all wet.”

  She glanced down and noticed for the first time how the fine wet wool clung to her body, revealing the subtle curves of waist and bound breasts. She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself, and heard him let out a huff of breath that might have been a laugh as he turned away.

  “Better put on some dry clothes quickly,” he said over his shoulder. “Before I forget what few rules I have.”

  The future viscomtesse de Salers knelt beside the pool, her aristocratic head bent, her arms raised as she used Damion's soap to wash the rest of the dye from her hair.

  It was a feminine pose and a feminine occupation, even if the hair ended abruptly at her chin. Watching her, Dam-ion found himself wondering what she would look like dressed in a woman's fine, fitted robes—or better yet, he thought with a private smile, in nothing at all, with her hair still long and unbound and—

  With a muttered oath, he pulled his shirt over his head and fumbled with the laces. But he couldn't seem to stop his gaze from drifting back, inevitably, to where she knelt, totally oblivious, he knew, of the seductiveness of the image she presented.

  She had a boyish body, long-legged and slim hipped, yet soft. He remembered the way she had felt flat on her back beneath him, remembered the sweet, water-slicked scent of her, the petal-like delicacy of her flesh beneath his rough grip, the erotic tangle of her legs with his. He remembered the way her brown eyes had seemed to glow and darken as she stared up at him, and the way her lips had parted, the breath easing between them in a soft sigh.

  She had been aware of him as a man, he knew. Aware of him and afraid. But it hadn't all been fear, and he had come so close—so close to dipping his head and tasting the sweetness of that impossibly seductive mouth. Just the thought of it now was enough to make his body throb with such an unexpected rush of desire that he swore again and turned away.

  She was the comte d'Alérion's daughter, he reminded himself, not the simple servant he'd assumed her to be. A comte's daughter, betrothed to the future viscomte de Salers. What in the name of sweet Jesus was he doing, thinking about kissing her?

  Moving quickly, he jerked on his broigne, swiftly fastened his belt, and reached for his sword. She had been wise to dress herself as a boy, he thought, buckling on his scabbard. There was a reason ladies of her station traveled closed up in litters and surrounded by armed men. A reason they were kept away from hot-blooded, lusty young knights. It was a wonder to him that she had dared to set off alone with him as she had, trusting only in her disguise to keep her safe from insult or assault. She must love her brother very much indeed, Damion thought. But then, Damion had loved his own brother like that, once, before—

  He abruptly closed his mind against the thought.

  She had finished washing her hair now and disappeared behind the rocks, presumably to change into dry clothes. Damion pulled on his boots and went to tighten the girths of the saddles. He was leaning against a rock and watching a bee investigate an orchid when he heard her come up behind him.

  “I can't find the breviary,” she said in that husky voice of hers. “Did you take it?”

  He swung to face her. She had changed into a fresh surcoat of dark crimson velvet trimmed with midnight blue damask, the same color of blue as the wool tunic beneath it. Her freshly washed hair framed her face in soft, honey-brown curls that seemed to accentuate the delicate bones of her face.

  “You made a better boy before you washed your hair,” he said, his voice coming out harsh.

  He watched, bemused, as a light band of color stained her fine cheekbones. “Perhaps I should not have done it,” she said, glancing away. He was aware of an awkwardness hanging in the air between them, a kind of ambiguity and uncertainty that hadn't been there before. Before they had been simply a knight-errant and a youth, traveling together in that rough camaraderie that can form so quickly between men. Now they were a man and an unescorted maiden, each aware of the drastic change in their association. More, each carried the memory of that burning moment when she had lain beneath his wet, naked body in a posture so evocative of the familiar position for lovemaking that neither of them could forget it.

  And they both knew that the only thing that had kept him from taking her then—the only thing that kept him from taking her now—was a code of conduct he himself professed largely to scorn.

  “Don't worry,” he said, pushing away from the rock and straightening. “We should be in Laval in an hour. I don't expect much trouble.”

  He took a step toward her and she skittered backward, as if she were afraid to tempt fate by letting him come too close to her again. “And the breviary?” she asked.

  He brushed past her to where he had tied the horses. “I have it.”

  She followed him. “I will take it back now, please.”

  “I don't think so,” he said, gathering the bay's reins and reaching for the stirrup.

  “And why not, pray tell?” she demanded haughtily as he swung up into the saddle, the leather creaking as he settled himself.

  His laugh was low and a bit ragged as he stared down at her tense white face. “You play the grande dame very well, my lady.” He rested his forearm along the high pommel of his saddle and leaned into it. “But I'm still not giving you the breviary.”

  He saw her hands clench into fists at her sides, and kept a careful eye on her. He hadn't forgotten the way she'd thrown her dagger at that routier.

  “And what would you do with it?” She tilted back her head so she could stare down her nose at him.

  “Take it to Henry, of course.”

  He watched her forehead crease in a surprised frown. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “I mean, what possible motive can you have? You, who scorn the conventions of chivalry and acknowledge no lord?”

  He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “Greed, of course. Henry will reward me well.”

  Her chest lifted sharply on an indrawn breath. “How do I know you won't take the breviary to John or Philip, rather than to Henry, as you say?”

  He
let his smile turn mean. “With all due respect, demoiselle, I'm not the one who's spent the last day and a half pretending to be something and someone I'm not.” Then it occurred to him that he hadn't been exactly honest with her, either, for he hadn't told her of his own association with Henry. Tightening his jaw, he straightened and said roughly, “Now, are you going to mount up, or not?”

  Belatedly, he thought he probably should have offered her a leg up. As much as he was aware of her as a woman, in some ways he still thought of her as Atticus; it would take some adjustment to remember to treat her as my lady Attica d'Alérion.

  Her cleft chin jutted forward. “I hired you to escort me to Laval, not to interfere with what I am doing.”

  He stared at her, his gaze narrowing. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached two fingers into the purse that hung at his waist. “Here.” He sent the ring spinning toward her.

  She brought up her hand, catching the ring deftly in her fist. She looked down at it, then up at him.

  “I'm glad you reminded me. Now get on that horse.”

  Her nostrils flared. “If you would be so good as to direct your squire to deliver my chestnut to the castle at Laval, I shall see that your roan is returned to him.” She stepped back. “I thank you for your escort and wish you well on the remainder of your journey.”

  There could be no mistaking her meaning. An icy silence opened up between them. He heard the gentle trickle of the stream that fed the pool and a faint rustling in the bushes as something moved—a deer or perhaps a fox. A fly buzzed; the bay shook its head, rattling the bit.

  Damion knew their discord had less to do with the breviary than with what had happened between them as a man and a woman lying tangled in each other's arms beside that pond. But that didn't make his anger any less intense. He tightened his jaw. “As you wish. My lady.” He pulled the bay's head around and touched his spurs to the horse's sides.

  And left her standing there, looking haughty and righteous and just a bit scared.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Left alone in the forest with only her raging emotions for company, Attica cast a quick, uneasy glance about the small vale where she stood.

  The forest grew thickly down to the edge of the pool's small clearing, the great chestnuts and oaks undergrown with dense brush. She heard the splash of a frog hitting the water and a faint rustling, as if something moved through the bushes. Something heavy.

  Attica froze, her imagination conjuring up wolves and bears and desperate, hunted men. “Don't be a fool,” she whispered through her teeth, annoyed with herself for this weakness, refusing to give way to it. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. She felt its strength pour down on her golden and warm out of a vivid blue sky, and some of the uneasiness began to drain out of her.

  She sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “God rot you,” she said aloud, although the man to whom she spoke was no longer there to hear it. She opened her eyes. “God rot you all the way to hell, Damion de Jarnac,” she said again, her voice echoing about the clearing to drift away with the breeze.

  Running her fingers through her wildly curling hair, Attica walked to one of the boulders that had tumbled down from the hillside above and sat upon the hard, warm surface. Gripping her elbows with her hands, she hugged herself, hunching over, trying to stop the fine trembling deep within her, trying to make sense of the confusing tumult of emotions that swirled through her.

  She thought about the men she had known—her father, that rough, uncouth warrior that her mother hated because she had never been able to look beyond his lack of letters and refinement to see the brave, honorable man Robert d'Alérion was; she thought about Stephen, so intense and devout, so loyal and brave—everything a chivalrous knight should be. She thought about all the clerics and knights, the lords and squires who had passed through the courts of the Langue d'oc where she had grown to womanhood. But she had never known a man like Damion de Jarnac, so wild and lawless and ruthlessly ambitious. No one she had ever known had prepared her for him.

  She didn't understand the way he stirred her, the way he made her feel. The things he made her want. The things he made her need. Wants, feelings, needs she had no place for in her life, bound as she was by duty and obligation and honor.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, pressing her fingertips to her lips. It was wrong, all wrong, the way she had responded to the shock of finding herself beneath his naked man's body. The way her senses had reeled with unexpected delight, her insides clenching with a swift, searing need as unwanted as it was undeniable. She felt betrayed by her own woman's flesh.

  Oh, he had angered her, with his arrogance and his high-handedness and the way he used that big male body of his to threaten and intimidate her. Yet she knew it was her own shame that had made her turn on him afterward, that had led her to drive him away. Her shame and confusion and fear— not of him but of her own treacherous, unexpected impulses.

  The sound of de Jarnac's roan pawing restlessly at the soft earth brought her head around. The horse stood alert, its head up, its ears pricked forward, listening. Watching that proud, well-bred animal, Attica thought of the man who owned it, thought of the things she had said to him, the way she had treated him. And she felt suddenly small, less than the person she liked to think of herself as being.

  She slid off the rock. The day was growing late, and she wanted to be in Laval before the shadows lengthened into dusk. She wondered if de Jarnac would stop the night in Laval, then decided he probably wouldn't. He was too anxious to reach King Henry, too intent on claiming his reward—whatever that might be. She would probably never see him again.

  It was a thought that brought with it a savage wrench of sadness, of loss. Attica pushed it away and went to check the girth of her saddle.

  The roan moved skittishly, tossing its head, snorting. Attica laid a calming hand on the warm satiny neck. “Easy boy. What is it?”

  And then she smelled it. A faint but unmistakably familiar sour stench that brought her head up and around.

  It stood at the edge of the trees, a great black boar, bristly and grizzled and mean. Giant tusks, thick and long and lethal, curled up from an open mouth of sharp teeth dripping saliva. As Attica watched, it dropped its long snout, routing for a moment among the dirt and dead leaves at its feet. But its eyes—its beady, pink-rimmed eyes, remained fixed on Attica.

  She forgot to breathe. Once, on a hunt, Attica had seen a man gored by a boar. The animal's great tusks had caught him in the groin and ripped up, gutting him. She would never forget the way that man had screamed.

  She moved her hand slowly, inching her fingers over to slip her dagger from its sheath. But it was a pitifully small weapon, less than a third the length of the boar's tusks. And the boar watched her every move.

  She thought that perhaps, if she were lucky and remained quite, quite still, the boar might amble along on its way and leave her alone. Behind her, the roan danced nervously, throwing its head, pulling at the reins that tethered it to the sapling. The reins suddenly snapped. With a high-pitched squeal, the roan lunged sideways and, finding itself free, cantered up the hill.

  The boar shook its head, snorting, its ugly tusks waving in the air, its gaze fixed on Attica, its small hooves kicking up dirt and grass as it savaged the soft ground. Attica's sweaty fingers tightened around her dagger. She could throw it, she thought. Although, even if the thin blade did manage to penetrate the bore's thick hide, she knew it would simply enrage the beast without doing any serious damage.

  Her only hope was to try to run—to make it to one of the larger trees in time to scramble up into its branches. Or into the depths of the pool, she thought, glancing sideways. The problem was, the water was shallow here. And boars were good swimmers.

  She had sucked in a deep breath and tensed her muscles, ready to sprint, when she heard de Jarnac's calm, cool voice say, “Don't move. If you try to run, you'll only provoke it into charging you, and you'll never make it deep enoug
h into the water or to the trees in time. It'll simply gore you in the back.”

  She stiffened, not believing at first that he could be there. Yet he was, at the edge of the forest, still astride his big bay, one knee hooked around the pommel in a casual pose belied by the coiled alertness of his well-trained body.

  “Then, what should I do?” she somehow managed to ask, her voice gritty, her gaze flicking between the man on the horse and the restlessly intent boar between them. “Can you reach me in time to swing me up onto your horse?”

  “No. Boars are fast, and it's closer to you than I am.” He shifted his weight slowly, carefully. “I'm going to have to distract it. Get it to charge me. And when it does, I want you to run.”

  “But you don't have a spear.”

  “I know. I'll face him on foot. With my sword.”

  She shook her head. “You must be mad. You'll be killed.”

  Unbelievably, he threw her one of his reckless, devil-damn-the-world grins. “Then you can have the breviary back,” he said. And slid out of the saddle.

  “Hey,” he shouted, clapping his hands and waving his arms. “You big, ugly piece of pork. This way.”

  The boar swung about, grunting angrily, its great head lowering threateningly.

  “That's right,” said de Jarnac, falling back a step, luring the boar farther away from Attica. “Come to me, piggy-piggy.” He took another step back, his right hand on his sword. He had the blade half out of its scabbard when a loose stone rolled beneath his boot heel and he went down, landing with a thump on his side—just as the boar collected its powerful haunches and charged in a great snorting rush.

  “De Jarnac!” She threw herself forward, knowing it was too late, knowing she could never reach him in time, knowing her only hope was to distract the animal long enough to give de Jarnac time to get back on his feet. She shouted again. Then she remembered the dagger she still clenched in her fist, and she drew back her hand to send the blade whistling through the air.