Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "Then you die," Hugh replied.

  "That remains to be seen," Taylor snapped back.

  "This can all be negotiated," Slane said. "There's no need for fighting."

  Hugh glared at Taylor, his eyes red and burning with rage and wronged pride. Finally, he looked at Slane, his gaze sweeping his body as if summing him up. "Yes," he said after a long moment. "I believe we men can work this all out." His breath wheezed in and out.

  Hugh swung an arm up around Slane's shoulders as if they had been friends all their lives. Taylor felt her teeth clench. She felt bile rise in her throat. She wanted to slap Hugh's arm off of Slane's shoulder.

  Just as she began to lower her sword, she saw Hugh's hand dip to his sash. The dull edge of his dagger gleamed from his waist as his hand slithered down to it. Taylor rushed forward, instinctively tightening her hold on her weapon.

  Hugh's hand closed over the dagger's handle and he pulled it from his sash. But he never had a chance to raise it before Taylor's weapon cut deep into his wrist. Hugh dropped the weapon, howling in pain, clutching his bleeding wrist.

  Slane turned furious, shocked eyes to Taylor. She stood at the ready, half expecting Hugh's friends to join the battle, but they remained seated at the table, watching the events play out without making a move.

  "The witch cut me!" Hugh protested, his voice thick with pain.

  "You did that for revenge!" Slane accused Taylor. "And when his back was turned."

  Amazed at Slane's verbal attack, Taylor opened her mouth to defend herself. But slowly, she closed it. She didn't need to explain her actions to anyone. Jared would certainly never have questioned her judgment. But Slane was not Jared. Taylor thrust her blade back into its sheath. Her hands were clenched so tight they ached. The thickheaded fool! She couldn't believe he took Hugh's side over hers!

  Taylor lifted her chin, refusing to acknowledge the ache in her soul. That's how he sees me, she thought. As no better than Hugh. And why the hell should I set him straight? Why should I?

  "Why did you do it?" Slane asked.

  She whirled to face him, her angry eyes lashing him with a thousand rebukes. She faced him furiously for the beat of a heart. At just that moment, the sun shone in through one of the inn's windows, capturing his sapphire eyes in its glow. She was furious with him, yes. Furious with him for being so damned self-righteous. Furious with him for being so damned noble. Furious with him for being the most handsome man she had ever seen. But she was more furious with herself for caring what he thought of her, for letting him get close enough to make her this angry.

  She brought her steaming anger under control and faced him with a cold calm. "I guess I did it for revenge," she snapped before whirling away from him and storming outside.

  Slane watched her move away. Then he looked down at the floor, where Hugh's dagger blinked up at him in the glowing light of the sun.

  They traveled the entire day, pausing only twice to rest the horses Slane had purchased in Sudbury. As the sun set, they came upon an inn. Buried in the middle of the forest, the building was more like a two-story cottage than an inn. They tethered the horses in the pen, where a stable boy promised to care for them.

  Slane stepped through the dimly lit doorway. Taylor followed and immediately ordered an ale. The tall, lanky innkeeper's gaze swept her; then he snorted in disapproval before turning away from her, only to reappear seconds later with an ale.

  Slane spoke with the innkeeper and Taylor moved by them to wait for Slane near the stairs. The inn was totally empty. Slane should be thankful for that, Taylor thought. At least he won't have to worry about me stabbing some undeserving fellow.

  Slane approached her with a weary look in his eyes. The day of traveling was getting to him, too. With a jerk of his head, he signaled her to move up the stairs toward her room.

  It was late that night when Taylor descended the stairs of the inn. She found the innkeeper in a back room, mixing water and ale. A grin curved her lips as he tried to hide the bottle from her.

  She held out a rolled parchment. With a trembling hand, he took the scroll, surveying it.

  "Give it to Corydon," she instructed. "Tell him it's from Taylor Sullivan."

  Slane stared at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. It was late, but he had been unable to fall asleep. The straw was too stiff, the inn too quiet, the night too chilly. He wondered if Taylor was cold. They had traveled most of the day in silence. Now he stared at the door separating their adjoining rooms. Was she asleep? Was her hair fanning her pillow in luxurious waves of spun silk? Were her lips parted as she took in sweet breath after sweet breath? Was she naked beneath the blankets? Cursing silently, he turned onto his side, away from the door. What right did he have envisioning such things?

  He forced his thoughts in another direction. Why hadn't she told him about the dagger Hugh had pulled? He had tried to talk to her while they rode, but she refused to listen, raising her defiant little chin and blatantly avoiding his efforts to apologize.

  He had wrongly accused her when all she had done was defend him. Defend me? Slane thought. She very possibly saved my life! He shook his head and turned on his back again. But she had taken none of the credit she was due. She had let him believe she cut the giant for selfish reasons. And what had she done that made Hugh believe she owed him coin? He wanted to ask her, but he knew he had already done her a great disservice by assuming her guilt, so he kept his prying questions to himself.

  He looked back at the door, remembering the fury in her bright eyes. She was a creature of uninhibited emotions. She was stunning, defiant, bold, and brave. Things that did not describe Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth. He thought of her frail figure, her kind eyes. Her lips. But it was not Elizabeth's lips his imagination summoned. These lips had a sarcastic curve to their fullness.

  Suddenly, a short cry came to his ears. A cry that had somehow been cut off. A cry coming from a very familiar voice. Taylor's! In the next instant, Slane was out of bed, sword in hand, throwing open the door that separated them.

  The sight that greeted Slane tensed every muscle into fury. One man with a cleft lip was at the bottom of Taylor's bed, holding her legs apart. Another man with a ragged scar under his left eye had a hand over her mouth and a fist knotted in the thick strands of her hair.

  But that wasn't the sight that caused waves of anger to crash over Slane. That wasn't the sight that caused him to grip the handle of his blade so hard that his knuckles crackled with rage. It was the sight of Hugh straddling Taylor, pinning her arms to her side with his legs, that brought up a snarl of outrage the likes of which he had never heard coming from his own lips.

  The fat man's lascivious eyes were wide, feasting on Taylor's exposed breasts. "You'll bring me more than my share," he snarled happily, his breath wheezing out in a shrill threat. "Bruised or not."

  "No!" Slane roared, launching himself at the nearest man, swinging his sword in a blind rage. The scarred man dove away from Slane's wild strike, falling over Hugh and Taylor, crushing them beneath him.

  The cleft-lipped man at the foot of the bed quickly released Taylor's feet and drew his sword. Slane engaged him, crossing weapons, but his rage so consumed him that his blows were ineffective, the man cleanly deflecting them into harmless swings.

  "Get off of me, you fat pig!" Taylor yelled, kicking and thrashing, trying to get free.

  Hugh grabbed hold of the scarred man and pulled him off of Taylor; then he moved his bulk down her legs, effectively trapping them beneath his weight. He tried to grab her flailing arms, but one of her clenched fists smacked his chin. He immediately lashed out at her, catching Taylor in the side of the head. She went limp for a moment and Hugh took advantage of her dazed state, shoving her hands beneath his legs. "Kill him," he ordered the men. "Then we'll break her in."

  The cleft-lipped man joined the first in confronting Slane with a dagger, blocking Slane's view of Taylor. A savage fury ignited Slane and he shoved the scarred man away from h
im, following with a whirlwind of vicious blows. The man tried to parry again, but the rage boiling inside Slane was too great for him to deter. Slane cut through the man's defenses and shoved his blade into the man's gut. The scarred man gurgled and went down, dropping like a stone. Slane turned wild, feral eyes to the cleft-lipped man.

  Fear flashed across the man's eyes. He glanced at the dagger in his hand, then at the blood-stained sword in Slane's. He let the dagger fall to the ground.

  Behind the man, Slane saw Hugh pull the blanket down from Taylor's torso over her flat stomach. "Get out of my way," Slane snarled.

  The man took a hesitant step toward the door.

  "Now!" Slane demanded.

  The man turned and ran, fleeing the room. Slane watched him race past the door and disappear into the hallway beyond.

  "Wonderful job."

  Slane whirled from the door, looking back towards the bed. He glanced up to face Hugh, and dread shot through him. The fat man was now standing, clutching Taylor to his rotund body. Hugh's wounded hand held Taylor tight against him, while his good hand pressed a dagger to her white throat. The blanket was now wrapped around her body, cocooning it from Slane's view. The brown blanket dipped provocatively beneath her breasts, and Slane couldn't look away from her bared skin.

  "We can share her, you know," Hugh suggested, following his gaze.

  Sickened at the thought, Slane lifted his sword.

  "No, no," Hugh warned. "You will let us pass or she will die."

  Taylor seemed dazed and weak. Limp in Hugh's arms. "I can't believe you let his friend go," she whispered.

  Slane gritted his teeth. She was right. He should have killed the man. He should kill them all. His fist tightened around the handle of his sword.

  "Let us pass," Hugh warned again in his raspy voice. He pushed the blade tighter against Taylor's flesh.

  "If you hurt her, your death will be a most unpleasant one," Slane replied evenly.

  "Your brave words don't fool me," Hugh snorted. "I know of your kind. Your code. You're supposed to protect her. If I kill her, you've failed—a dishonor that my death could never repair. Now step back or she dies!"

  After a long, troubled moment Slane slowly lowered his weapon. He couldn't risk Taylor's life. He knew it and Hugh knew it. Damn the fat man and the ugly truth of his words. He took a step away from the door.

  "I'm disappointed, Slane," Taylor said as Hugh pulled her toward the door. Her familiar mocking smile stretched across her lips. "At least spit on him or something."

  Hugh moved closer and Taylor was now within a foot of Slane, held before the fat man like a shield. Taylor and Slane locked gazes for a quick second. Something flashed through her eyes. Something that was not the least bit dazed nor limp. Slane tensed, sensing something was about to happen.

  Suddenly, Taylor dug her finger into the wound in Hugh's hand and pushed the dagger away from her neck with her other hand.

  Hugh tossed her away with a yowl of pain, but Slane's thrust cut his cry short. Hugh glanced at his bloodied hands; then he lifted his stare to Slane. Slane pulled his sword from Hugh's stomach. Hugh grimaced, revealing yellowed teeth; then he lurched forward.

  Slane easily sidestepped his rush and the giant fell heavily to the floor. He wheezed once more and then was silent.

  In the instant quietness, Slane could hear his heart hammering in his chest, could feel it beating in his throat. He whirled toward Taylor. She was sitting very still on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her body. Anxiety swirled through him. Had she been hurt? He could see no blood.

  The blanket swept about her body like a casual cloak. Slane could see her tiny foot peeking out from beneath the blanket. His eyes moved upward, inspecting her for a wound. They moved up to her chest and the bared skin just above her breasts. In the soft light of the moon, which shone in through an open window, her skin looked as soft as a rose petal and just as delicate. His eyes moved up to her neck, but it was untouched by Hugh's dagger save for a small red welt that was quickly disappearing. Relief surged through his body. He swallowed in a parched throat. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  Taylor nodded and a lock of her black hair fell forward across her shoulder.

  Slane stepped closer and extended his hand toward her. She turned her gaze from Hugh's body to Slane. She lifted her hand and grasped his outstretched fingers.

  The touch seared him through to his bones. He tore his gaze from hers and stared at her hand, marveling at the smallness of it before enfolding it in his. He pulled her to her feet. She rose as regally as a goddess to stand just before him, her dark hair cascading about her shoulders like a waterfall. The blanket slid a fraction lower.

  Slane had a sudden desire to ease the blanket over her breasts, to gaze on their luscious, perfect peaks.

  "It took you long enough," she whispered.

  Suddenly, his throat felt even drier. "Did they... hurt you?"

  "Just my pride."

  Slane felt something move in his hand, and he glanced down to see that he still held her hand in his. He knew he should let go of her now, but something in his stubborn fingers refused the command his mind had given them.

  The green of her eyes shone through the tendrils coiling around her face, blazing like hot emeralds sparkling in bright sunlight. How could she stand there looking so beautiful after being viciously attacked? he wondered. God's blood! She was almost glowing. Didn't she know what she was doing to him? She knew. Slane was sure of it. The little vixen was trying to seduce him, to draw him away from his code, his oaths.

  And it was working. He quickly let go of her hand and took a step back, almost tripping over his own feet in his hurry. "Yes, well..." He cleared his throat as he shifted his gaze to Hugh. "I'll have the innkeeper remove these bodies and —"

  She straightened up, and he could have sworn he saw something akin to fear cross her face before the familiar look of nonchalance entered her eyes.

  Slane faltered. Who knew what other men were looking for her? He already knew Corydon was hunting her, and if this buffoon Hugh could enter her room so easily... How could he just leave her on her own after all this?

  How could he not?

  "How did they get in?" Slane wondered.

  Taylor shrugged and pulled the blanket up. "They were here when I woke up."

  Slane felt a twinge of disappointment as she turned her back on him. He wanted to keep looking at her beautiful face forever.

  Gripping the blanket close to her chest, she looked imperious as she stepped over Hugh. When she sat on the bed, it was as if she were a queen taking her royal throne.

  "Did you lock the door?" he asked her.

  "Do I look like a fool?"

  No, he thought. He knew she had locked the door. He had reminded her to do so at least twice. Then there was only one other answer, only one person who could have opened the door. Or allowed it to be opened. The innkeeper. Slane turned to the door.

  "Slane?"

  He slowed his steps at the softness in her voice, not quite sure he had ever heard such hesitant uncertainty in her words before.

  "Maybe you could... stay for a little while," she suggested.

  Slane faltered. "Stay?" he repeated. Lord, how he wanted to. But Elizabeth. No. Taylor was dangerous. He couldn't stay. Not another moment. "I can't." A long silence stretched between them. "You'll be all right if you lock the door," he urged, trying to reassure himself more than her. When she didn't reply, he looked over his shoulder at her... and knew he shouldn't have.

  She sat with her back as straight as a board, her toes just barely touching the floor. She held the blanket in a balled fist at her chest. Her hair hung in dark waves around her shoulders, down her arms to her waist. She was a damned goddess.

  "Yes," she whispered. "I suppose you're right."

  Slane took a deep breath. He was glad she was being rational. He was glad she could see his side of the dilemma. He reached for the handle of the door, a great weight lifted from his shoulders.<
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  "After all, we wouldn't want to compromise your reputation. It would be most dishonorable for you to spend more than five minutes in a room with the likes of me. Why, what would those toothless farmers think of you?"

  Slane's shoulders slumped as her words stung him. Because they were the truth or because they made a mockery of who he was? Or was it both? he wondered. Slane hesitated for a moment his sense of duty warring with his sense of right and wrong. Then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Slane cleaned his sword in his room with a rag, sheathed it and then headed down the stairs. His eyes took in everything: the empty room, the dying fire, the long shadows on the wall. He was certain the man he had let live had long since fled the vicinity. Finally, he spotted the innkeeper seated at a table near the back of the common room, his head slumped forward, resting on his chest. As Slane moved over to him, he could see that the innkeeper's eyes were closed.

  So that's how they managed to sneak by, Slane thought as he stopped before the man. He was sleeping and they lifted the keys from him. His outrage grew, simmering in his blood, ready to explode like an angry volcano. When he thought about what could have happened to Taylor because of this fool...

  "Sir, I am displeased with the service here," Slane snarled in a clipped tone.

  The innkeeper did not move.

  Slane reached across the table and placed a firm hand on the innkeeper's shoulder. "Listen, you bloody fool —" he began, but stopped short as the man slumped forward, his face hitting the table.

  Slane pulled back at the sight of the dagger protruding from the innkeeper's back. His gaze shifted up the stairs toward Taylor's room. What had he gotten himself into? he wondered.

  Slane spent the entire morning explaining to the Sheriff what had happened at the inn. Taylor would have left their corpses to rot without saying a word to anyone. But not Slane. She doubted he could even conceive of such a thought.