Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  She glanced at him, scowling fiercely and stood, swiping one of the ales from the table. "I think I'll go up to my room now."

  Slane deliberately cleared his throat, drawing her gaze. "Our room," he corrected her.

  She stopped cold. "What?"

  "The innkeeper only had one room left. It was probably the last room left in this whole town." Slane saw a troubled look sweep over her features.

  "Aren't you worried about your reputation?" she wondered.

  "I have little choice."

  Taylor whirled away from the table, her mug held tightly in her shaking hand. As she pushed her way through the throng of people, she was shoved from behind. She jerked forward, her mug flying free of her hold. It landed on the floor and rolled, leaving a trail of lukewarm ale behind it. Taylor righted herself, whirling on the hapless man who jostled her.

  Slane felt his spine stiffen. Was she going to run the poor farmer through?

  The man was apologetic, sincerely begging her forgiveness. Taylor grumbled something that made the poor farmer's face turn pale; then she stormed for the door.

  Slane shook his head and rose, clutching his mug of ale, and followed her. Once outside, he saw her sitting beneath the cover of a large tree with her head buried in her arms. Rain fell around her. He remembered that, when he had first hired her and Jared, she had seemed so cocky, so confident—confident enough to lie through her teeth about her true identity and get away with it. But the last few weeks had been too much. She had lost her closest friend. She had learned that her father—a man who had not given a damn about her in eight years—wanted to see her. She seemed overwhelmed by it all.

  The shadows thrown by the gently swaying tree cast her in darkness, allowing only a teasing glimpse of her when the moonlight happened to shine through the thin clouds.

  Slane knew he should leave her alone, knew she needed time to sort everything out, but somehow he couldn't stay away from her. He hunched his shoulders and dashed across the road through the rain. He sat down in the grass beside her, casting furtive glances in her direction.

  "I don't want your pity," she told him.

  "I'm not giving it," Slane said. "I just want you to know that you're not alone."

  She snorted softly in disbelief.

  He handed his mug to her and she cast him a speculative glance before accepting it.

  Slane knew now that she wasn't what she appeared to be. She pretended to be someone who was strong and unfeeling, someone who didn't care what was right. And yet she felt things very strongly. She had a strong sense of honor. And she had saved his life from Hugh's dagger, never once taking credit for it. He chanced a glance at her.

  In a stray ray of moonlight her hair shone like black onyx. Slane wanted to touch the dark silkiness, to see if it truly was as soft as it looked. He knew he shouldn't, but in the next instant his hand was rising to touch her hair. It was softer than he had even imagined. His eyes shifted to hers. They were so bright, so expectant. And there was pain in them—pain that Slane wanted desperately to relieve.

  He cupped her cheek in his palm, rubbing it with his thumb. Against her moonlight-white skin his shadowed hand looked black.

  His gaze returned to her eyes. The brightest most precious emerald gems he had ever seen stared back at him, brilliant, sparkling. "Taylor," he whispered.

  "Slane, don't," she murmured.

  He wasn't sure he understood.

  "I don't think I could stand —" She pulled her face free from his touch and stood. "Maybe we should go inside."

  Slane rose before her to tower over her. "What, Taylor?"

  But she would not turn back to him.

  "Have I hurt you somehow?" he asked.

  "I'm just protecting your reputation," she answered quietly. "I don't want you to be found out here alone with the likes of me."

  "Do you think you endanger my reputation so much?"

  "I think you're afraid of me," she answered.

  "Afraid of you?" Slane laughed.

  But Taylor was not laughing. She turned to him and her incredible innocent beauty did indeed make him fearful. He suddenly knew he would do anything for this creature, this woman who was driving him crazy with need. His laughter stopped instantly, catching in his throat. He knew he should look away before she saw the truth in his eyes, but when he saw her sarcastic grin he knew it was too late.

  She began to move past him.

  Slane recognized the indifference in her face, the shield she used so effectively to hide her feelings. He hated that sarcastic side to her. He grabbed her arms, halting her movement. "Don't. Don't raise that wall to me, Taylor. I've seen the person you can be. I've seen the person who hides behind that wall. Don't shut me out. I care for you." He saw the determination reinforce the wall in the way she angled her chin, in that stubborn glare in her eyes. Slane shook her slightly. "Do you hear me?"

  "I heard," she whispered. "I just can't."

  "Why?" he asked in agony, refusing to release her, afraid she would slip back behind the wall.

  Taylor's eyes darted from one of his to the other, as if desperately searching for something.

  "Why?" he demanded, shaking her hard, desperately. He had to know. She had to tell him. Why wouldn't she let him comfort her?

  "I'd destroy you," she whispered.

  Shocked, Slane released her, and she raced into the misty rain, disappearing in the shadows beyond the inn.

  Taylor spent the night walking in circles around the inn, trying to find something to occupy her mind, trying to think of anything but Slane. Anything but the way he made her feel.

  The rain had stopped, and the moon was taking its downward descent as she returned to the inn. She pushed the door open and found the common room was now virtually empty. One small boy sat in a corner, his head nodding into his shoulder. He came to his feet at once when she entered.

  Taylor smiled at him and waved him back into his seat, shaking her head. The boy slowly, dubiously, eased himself back into his corner. He couldn't have been more than eight. He should have been in bed long ago.

  Taylor's gaze shifted to the stairs. She didn't even know which room was hers. Theirs. She sighed. Looks like I'll share the corner with the boy, she thought.

  "You ready?"

  She jumped at the deep rumble and swung around, her hand going to her sword handle. Deep blue eyes watched her movements with an intensity that saw through to her soul. She relaxed her grip, easing her hand from the weapon, even though she felt no lessening of the tension in her shoulders. Her eyes assessed him with a quick glance. "You waited for me?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Of course," Slane responded, turning toward the stairs.

  She watched his tunic stretch across his strong shoulder muscles as he reached for the banister. "Oh," she said, following him. "Had to make sure I didn't change my mind about those notes."

  Slane halted and Taylor almost slammed into his back. He turned and gazed down at her. "No," he said plainly. "I had to make sure you knew which room was ours."

  Ours. The word sent shivers through her body.

  He turned his back to her and continued up the stairs. Unnerved, Taylor glanced around the common room. She spotted the boy, again asleep in the corner, his chin on his chest. A sense of envy filled her at the peaceful look on his face, and she found herself shaking her head as she followed Slane to their room.

  She had hoped to be so exhausted she would fall asleep the instant she got into bed. But as she followed Slane into the room, she knew this was not to be. There was barely enough room in the living quarters for the bed, let alone two people. Taylor felt uneasy and out of place. She glanced down the hallway as if hoping an escape route would suddenly open up.

  "Are you going to leave the door open all night?" he wondered.

  Her sarcasm returned with whiplash severity. "I thought it might help to protect your honor." She stepped into the room.

  He turned to her then, and they were almost chest to chest. She could
see the weariness in the black lines beneath his eyes. "Maybe you should be more concerned with your own reputation."

  "My reputation?" she echoed, her voice rising a notch. "I don't think it could get worse."

  Slane took a step toward her and her breath caught in her throat. His chest just barely touched hers. "I think it could get worse," he said in a throaty whisper. "Don't you?"

  Taylor opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Her throat was suddenly as dry as parchment paper.

  Slane stared down at her with those infinitely blue eyes that reminded her of a cloudless sky. He lifted his arm and it brushed her shoulder. He's going to kiss me, she thought. Her gaze dropped to his lips, anticipating the feel of their brush against hers.

  Something banged shut behind her, and it took a moment for her to realize it was the door closing. I'm alone in a room with Slane, she thought. A small room. A very small room with only one bed. Heat flared through her veins.

  "Taylor," he whispered in something close to a sigh.

  Her body trembled and she realized that it was from desire—the desire to be kissed by Slane. Of his own free will.

  "I'm tired. We've got a long day tomorrow," he said.

  Tired. So her plan had worked. Too bad it hadn't worked on her. Disappointment flooded through her as Slane stepped away from her. There would be no kiss.

  "You should get some sleep, too," he said, bending down next to the bed to settle onto the floor.

  "You're sleeping on the floor?"

  "Where else would you have me sleep? Out in the hallway?"

  Taylor lifted the ripped fabric that covered the bed. "There's only one blanket."

  Slane waited expectantly for her to continue.

  "It's not big enough to cover both of us."

  "Then it shall cover you," he stated simply and lay down on the floor, turning his back to her.

  Taylor stared at the blanket in her hand for a moment, then dropped it back onto the bed, plopping down after it. She unstrapped her sword and laid it on the bed beside her. Then she pulled her boots off, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor, and pulled the blanket up over her body.

  She snorted slightly. Who said she wanted him to kiss her anyway?

  Her eyes drifted closed.

  Taylor awoke with a start. She was soaked with perspiration, her tunic clinging to her wet skin. She remembered dreaming of flames and Jared and black-clad men with glowing red eyes. She reached out in the darkness to find her sword and relaxed.

  In the moonlight that shone through the window, she saw Slane sleeping on the floor beside the bed. She reached out a hand to wake him, but stopped cold. What could she tell him? That she was frightened like a child?

  Taylor swung her legs from the bed, but as the straw rustled, she froze. Her eyes moved to Slane, but he hadn't stirred. Quietly grabbing her sword, she stood up. She cast another cautious glance at Slane. Then she picked up her boots and headed for the door.

  She reached for the handle.

  "Where are you going?"

  She jumped. Slane was still lying on the floor, but his eyes were open.

  "To get an ale," she explained in a whisper as if still trying not to wake him.

  "I don't think it's wise to go down to the common room by yourself."

  "Would you like to hold my hand while I go to the privy?" she quipped. "Or maybe you can spoon-feed me my meals since I'm clearly not capable of doing anything by myself."

  After a long moment, Slane answered, "At least put on the cloak I bought."

  She grabbed the cloak he tossed to her, then headed out of the room. She paused in the hallway to pull on her boots and don the cloak before descending to the common room. She ordered an ale from the weary innkeeper and took a seat in the back of the room, in the shadows.

  Staring into her ale, Taylor pondered the feelings that had coursed through her when Slane had touched her. She had felt warm and... loved. Love? Ha, she scoffed at herself. She knew there was no such thing as love. What she and Slane could share would only be lust. She wondered if what she was feeling was the same feeling that had gotten her mother killed.

  Her mother. Even now, eight years later, the memory was still very painful. Taylor raised the mug to her lips. Maybe it was so painful for her because she never understood how her father could have killed her mother. Or what kind of love would cause her mother to have so much faith in a man who never showed up to rescue her. It couldn't have been love. Her father couldn't have loved her mother. You didn't burn someone you loved.

  There was no such thing as true love. Her father had told her that, and now she believed it with all her heart. Love was an illusion—something people whispered into their partner's ear but never truly felt. What she felt for Slane was only lust.

  Suddenly, the door burst open and she glanced up to see six black-clad men entering the inn! Her heart froze. One of the men pointed to the rear of the inn and then to the stairway. Three men moved to the rear of the inn and two hurried to the stairs.

  Taylor eased the edge of the hood forward, concealing her face deeper within the shadows of the cloak. She waited until the men passed her; then she stood and moved for the stairs. She walked slowly, carefully measuring each step, hoping the leader wouldn't see her, holding her breath in anticipation of discovery. Above her, she heard the soldiers methodically kicking in each door, searching.

  She pulled the cowl closer around her face as she began her slow climb up the stairs. One of the guards appeared at the top of the stairs and raced down them toward her. Taylor hesitated as he approached, but continued her ascent. He sped past her, knocking against her shoulder. She stopped, gritting her teeth as he continued by her. She made it to the second floor and saw two soldiers kicking open a door three doors down from her room. She hurried to her own door and pushed it open, entering unseen. She had no sooner shut the door when a hand wrapped around her waist, dragging her against a rock-hard chest, and another hand pressed a dagger to her throat.

  She held her breath for a long moment before she heard an exasperated exhalation. "Taylor?" the harsh whisper said in her ear.

  "We can't stay here, Slane," she murmured. "Corydon's men are searching the inn."

  Slane released her. "How many?"

  "Six. Probably more." The sound of wood splintering nearby made her jump. Her heart beat frantically in her chest.

  Slane grabbed her hand, paused to seize a sack on the table, and moved to the window. He shoved open the shutters and urged her out with a nod of his head.

  Taylor climbed onto the ledge and looked down. The ground was only about fifteen feet below. Slane grabbed her arm and eased her out, dangling her down the wall. When she was down as far as he could reach, Slane released her. Taylor landed in a crouch and quickly rose to her feet, moving to press her back against the wall of the inn. On the far horizon, the sun was barely beginning to appear; the world was still cloaked with night's darkness. She hid in the gloom, searching the murky street for any sign of Corydon's men.

  Slane dropped silently to the ground beside her, making as much noise as a ghost would have.

  They exchanged a glance and Slane started to move toward the road leading away from the town.

  "What about our horses?" Taylor asked in a hushed whisper.

  "They're in the stables around the front of the inn. We can't risk it."

  Just then, a whinny reached Taylor's ears, and she glanced over her shoulder to see several horses tied to some trees. She slowed her pace for a moment, straining to see any guards. Slane joined her, whispering, "What is it?"

  "I've got a better idea," she replied and led the way toward the horses.

  The horses skittered nervously as she approached them, but she quieted them with soft words. She glanced over her shoulder at Slane, who was standing guard nearby. He signaled her to hurry with a quick flick of his wrist.

  Taylor grabbed the bridle of the closest horse and the one beside it. She led them toward the gate with a triumpha
nt look.

  "You do this often?" Slane wondered as he took one of the horses and mounted.

  Taylor pulled herself onto the other horse and cast an ingratiating smile at him. "Only from people I don't like." She jerked her head at the brand on the horses' flanks. Corydon's mark. Then she kicked her horse, urging it down the road.

  With a satisfied grin, Slane kicked his own steed, following the impulsive little imp.

  The incessant, persistent misting of drizzle covered Slane with a fine layer of moisture. The rain had started just as they sighted the small city of Bristol.

  Slane hunched his shoulders, his clothing and hair already soaked. He cast a glance at Taylor. She looked like a drowned rat but somehow she was still lovely. She even managed a crooked smile. Slane couldn't help but return it. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss once since it happened. Slane refused to even think about it... except in the darkness every night before he fell asleep.

  And now Slane found he couldn't take his gaze from Taylor. She was proud and courageous and... God's blood, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Slane tore his gaze from her.

  She was also out of reach. And she always would be.

  As they approached Bristol, a man dressed in a dark tunic and brown breeches blocked the road, waving his arms at them. Slane's eyes darted around the road for any sign of Corydon's men, but the flat lands held no hiding places. Frowning, Slane brought his horse to a halt.

  "No sick people allowed in the city," the man announced, moving up beside Taylor's horse. He walked around both of them, studying them intently, taking particular notice of any exposed skin. "Are you ill?" he questioned.

  Slane shook his head and exchanged a befuddled glance with Taylor.

  "Then God be with you if you enter this town," the man murmured, stepping aside to allow them to continue their journey.