Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  For a moment, silence settled over them like a storm cloud moving in front of the sun. Unease speared the quiet like lightning.

  Finally, Taylor brushed past Slane and hurried up the stairs, preferring her chilly room to any company. She knew she couldn't stay here. Every day she stayed, she destroyed more of herself. She had never cared about too much in her life; so why should it hurt so much to see Slane kissing Elizabeth? She shouldn't care two coins about him. She shouldn't give a damn what he thought or whom he kissed.

  But somehow she did.

  She moved into her room and sat on the bed. She would leave; she must. Even if it meant facing another Magnus Gale. But her wound was still not healed; it ached and throbbed even now. She couldn't travel yet. The jarring movements of a horse might very well rip the stitches wide open.

  The door opened. "Taylor?"

  Taylor looked up, and the vision of Slane standing in the doorway, outlined by the dancing light from the hallway torch, made her unguarded heart stop beating. The torchlight swept over his blond hair and painted the tip of his sword gold. Then he shut the door behind him, sealing himself in the darkness. In her darkness.

  She reached for the sack on the table beside her bed.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  "You should be more concerned about your betrothed."

  "You said you'd stay until your wounds are healed."

  She raised her eyes to lock with his. "Some wounds won't heal."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Taylor stood up, her eyes searching his face. But the darkness in her room hid his expression from her. She lit the candle on the table, careful to keep her fingers well away from the flame, and turned to look at him. "It means that, if I stay any longer, one of us will be hurt."

  "Don't talk nonsense," he replied, whirling away from her.

  "Slane," she shook her head. "I can't stay."

  "Why?" he asked.

  Taylor gave a snort of laughter. "Because I don't like Elizabeth," she answered. "And I don't think she likes me."

  "Elizabeth?" Slane turned back to her, surprised. "She's gentle, kind, beautiful. What don't you like about her?"

  Taylor leaned against the table with a sigh. "I don't like her because she's gentle, kind, and beautiful." She watched anger deepen the lines near his eyebrows.

  "Don't mock me," he warned.

  "I'm not," Taylor said.

  "If you leave, you'll be hunted down like an animal. You know what Magnus did to you. I couldn't bear to see someone else hurt you."

  Taylor stared hard at him. His blue eyes sparkled with sincerity. Didn't he realize how much he was hurting her?

  "Taylor." He grabbed her wrist. "Do you want to be shackled and dragged to Castle Donovan by some heartless mercenary?"

  She glanced at his hand about her wrist. "No," she murmured. "Nor by a heartless noble."

  Slane dropped her arm as if she had burned him. "I'm not heartless."

  "But you wish you were." He frowned and she continued. "You can't even look at me with Elizabeth standing beside you."

  Slane looked away from her, his fists clenching. She studied his back with intense eyes, as if trying to memorize every detail about him. As if trying to... To what? There was no hope for them. There could be no future for them. And she didn't want one, she told herself firmly as a lump rose in her throat and tears burned in her eyes.

  Taylor sat on the bed, the wound at her side beginning to flare again. She looked down at her entwined hands. Why couldn't he just let her go? Why couldn't he be rational? Why...?

  Slane knelt before her, grabbing her arm tightly, forcing her to look into his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you."

  "Then let me go," she begged.

  "I can't."

  "Don't you realize what you're condemning us to?"

  "I'm not condemning you. I'm saving you." His grip eased.

  She stared into his confused blue eyes, wishing... wishing she had never met him. Wishing her father had never wanted to make amends. How could she live at Castle Donovan seeing Slane happy with a beautiful wife? She might as well be burned at the stake.

  "I am your friend," Slane said decisively.

  Friends? Is that all, we are? she wondered silently. Then why did it feel as if he was ripping out her heart and dashing it to the floor, stabbing it with the sharp edge of his blade? Bitterness consumed her. How dare he make her feel this way? "No," she said and it came out as a growl. She ripped her wrist free of his grip. "You're not my friend. We'll never be friends. So just go back to your little wench. I don't need your protection. I don't need anything from you."

  Slane rose up before her, towering above her like a statue. "I am bound by my oath. I pledged to bring you to Richard. And I will."

  A sudden suspicion started to form in her thoughts. Why had he made a pledge to bring her to his brother? Why did Richard need to have her at Castle Donovan? Maybe my father is there, she thought, waiting for me, knowing that I'll refuse to see him.

  But then the suspicion drifted away as Slane's deep blue gaze reached into her mind, clouding her thoughts.

  Fool, she thought. Fool. You used to be such a practical woman. With a few looks from those deep eyes you're nothing but mud in his hands. She hugged her elbows, shaking her head, her body trembling.

  Slane stared down at her for a long moment, unmoving.

  Her back stiffened, but she didn't lift her eyes to him. She chuckled and it came out like a strangled laugh. "Don't worry, Slane," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm and tears. "I won't die."

  There was a long moment before she heard his footsteps move away and the creak of the door before it closed.

  Taylor stood for a moment, unmoving, letting the anguish of being such a fool wash over her. Then she pressed her face into the pillow and sobbed...

  Slane stood with his hand on the doorknob, listening to Taylor's sobs. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to throw open the door and take her in his arms and whisper soothing words to her.

  "Slane?"

  He raised his eyes to see Elizabeth, worry etched in her brow. For a long moment, he just stared at her. His fingers wouldn't release the handle of the door. "She wants to leave," he whispered, and he was surprised at how broken his voice sounded.

  Elizabeth laid a soft hand on his arm. "Then by all means let her."

  Slane shook his head, drawing himself up. "I gave my word to Richard to see her safely to him."

  Elizabeth sighed, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, Slane."

  Where once Slane's body would have relaxed in his future wife's arms, it now only stiffened.

  Moments later, Slane bid Elizabeth good night and softly closed her door. He turned to his room across the hall, but his gaze was caught by another door. Taylor's door. He stared hard at the wooden barrier, wishing that the door would fade away so he could see her sleeping peacefully behind it. Finally, he turned to his room.

  "Slane?"

  The voice spun him around.

  "Are you all right?" John asked.

  Slane nodded, running a hand over his brow. "Just tired."

  John nodded. "I suppose it has been rather a trying journey," he said. He stared thoughtfully at Taylor's door for a moment. "She's nothing like I expected."

  Slane dropped his hand from his brow. "What do you mean?" He felt a surge of defensiveness rise inside him.

  "I don't know," John continued. "I never expected to find her a mercenary. Maybe an alewife or a seamstress, but not a mercenary. A woman who fights with a sword..."

  Slane forced the protectiveness from him and nodded. "It was a shock to us all." He slapped John's shoulder. "At least I found her." He moved to take a step past his friend, but John's whisper stopped him.

  "There's a man downstairs. He entered a few moments ago. I think he's a mercenary."

  Instantly Slane moved past John and descended the stairs. Was it one of the mercenaries Richard had sent? Slane cursed the reward his br
other had offered for the return of Taylor.

  He saw the man as soon as he cleared the second floor. He was warming himself by the fire, his brown hair brushing his shoulders. His leather armor was worn and barely reflected the light of the flames. The man glanced over his shoulder and Slane recognized him immediately. Colm Duffy—one of the men Richard had hired to find Taylor.

  Colm rose as Slane approached. "Lord Donovan," Colm greeted, holding his hand out to him.

  Slane clasped his forearm. "Duffy," he said and studied Colm's face. But the pale blue eyes gave away nothing.

  "What are you doing here, m'lord?" Colm wondered.

  "You've tracked her here, haven't you?"

  Colm dropped Slane's arm. "It's true then." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn. That reward money would have come in handy."

  "She is under my protection now," Slane said firmly.

  Colm spread his hands before him. "You'll get no argument from me, but how'd you find her? I've been tracking her for weeks now."

  "She came to me," Slane said evasively.

  "Is it true she's injured?" Colm asked.

  Slane gave him a sharp look. Then he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and shifted his gaze to see the innkeeper duck out of the room. Damn fool, he thought. He's got a mouth bigger than an abyss. Slane nodded in answer to Colm's question.

  "You can't stay here," Colm whispered. "It's too dangerous."

  "I can't move her," Slane replied, turning his back to Colm to stare into the flickering flames. "Not yet."

  "Corydon's men are all over. And they have no interest in any reward. They just want her dead. You can't stay here."

  Slane's jaw clenched tight. It could be a week before she was able to travel. And every day would lead Corydon closer and closer to them. "I have no choice, right now."

  "I'm glad I don't have to make that decision," Colm murmured, turning back to the fire. "I'm not spending but the night and I'll be on my way."

  "Where are you headed?" Slane wondered.

  "Not sure yet. I suppose wherever there's pay to be made," Colm answered. He glanced up the stairs, then back at Slane. "Is it true your betrothed is here, too?"

  Slane nodded.

  "M'lord, if the Sullivan woman is hurt, she has no choice but to stay. But lady Elizabeth should not be here."

  As long as she was trapped at the inn with them, Elizabeth's life was in as much danger as Taylor's. The constant tension Slane felt in his shoulders suddenly renewed its intensity, tightening his muscles until they were as taut as a freshly strung bow.

  "I'd be willing to see your lady safely to Castle Donovan for only a few gold pieces," Colm suggested.

  Slane's body stiffened. He knew escorting Elizabeth was his responsibility. He should be the one to see his future wife safely to his brother's castle. But he couldn't. Not with Taylor lying hurt. He couldn't do two things at once. And Taylor needed his protection more. She was the one Corydon was after. She was the one Corydon wanted to kill.

  Elizabeth should not be where the danger was. Two men could offer Elizabeth the protection she needed to travel safely to Castle Donovan. John and Colm. He would send John with Elizabeth and pay Colm to accompany them. She would be safe that way. No harm would befall her. And he would see her again when he and Taylor reached Castle Donovan.

  He nodded his head in acquiescence, not at all surprised at how easy the answer had come.

  Slane leaned against the wall just outside Taylor's door. He knew she wouldn't leave through the window. She had to know her wound would start bleeding if she tried to hang from a rope. No, he thought. She's stubborn, but not stupid.

  The shadows of the hallway would keep him hidden long enough to see her face as she emerged from her room. She would come this way. He was sure of it.

  He had waited all night and was beginning to wonder if she had played him for the fool when he heard the creak of a door. His head snapped up and he saw a shadowy figure emerge from her room.

  He sighed and straightened, preparing himself for the confrontation. He waited until she started down the hallway before moving silently up behind her.

  Suddenly, she whirled on him, halting his movement. Those fabulous green eyes were slitted, but he couldn't help but stare into them as if he were caught in a spell. Then something glinted in the torchlight and he dropped his gaze to see a dagger, the tip pointing at his stomach.

  "You're up rather late tonight, eh, Slane?" Her voice was rich and soft.

  "What are you planning to do with that?"

  She turned the blade over in her palm. "No one makes me stay where I don't want to. And I got the distinct impression that you weren't going to let me leave."

  "You think to run me through with that?" he demanded in disbelief.

  "I don't need to run you through to disable you," she replied.

  Slane thought he heard sadness in her voice, but he couldn't be sure. Anger surged within him. "You would have to do more than run me through to disable me," he retorted.

  "Don't make this difficult," she said, taking a step backward.

  "I can't let you leave," he said, his voice rising a little.

  "I don't think you have much choice." She took a step down the stairs.

  Slane surged forward, catching her wrist in his hand. They stood that way for a moment, glaring into each other's eyes. "It will get you nowhere to leave. Face your destiny."

  "My destiny is not to see my father," Taylor said.

  "At least talk to him," Slane urged.

  "I don't think so." She attempted to yank her arm away.

  Slane held it tightly. "It's the only way you'll be free of this. Do you think —"

  She brought her foot down hard on his foot. Pain exploded up his leg, but he did not release her wrist. On the contrary, his grip tightened until he saw agony glitter in her eyes, and she opened her hand, dropping the dagger to the floor.

  Her eyes danced with anger and determination. Slane knew she would try to flee again and again. And he couldn't watch her every moment. The more he held her, the more she would fight to be free.

  Slowly, he released her wrist.

  Shock made her eyes round. She backed up one step, then another, never taking her eyes from him.

  Slane watched her back away. What was he thinking? He couldn't let her go! But he couldn't hold her either. There had to be a way.

  Another step.

  He wanted to cry out to her. He wanted to beg her to stay. If she walked out that door, he was sure the next time he saw her she wouldn't be capable of drawing a breath.

  Another step.

  He felt despair burn in his chest. He remembered when he first laid eyes on her. Her face might have been bruised, yet her spirit was indomitable. It always had been.

  Another step.

  But Slane was sure she couldn't get through this. Not alone. Not with Corydon and the mercenaries after her. Thanks to him, they knew who she was now. They knew her face.

  Another step.

  And he would miss her. Terribly. Miss her smile, her bright eyes. Her quick wit. Her unique outlook on life. She wasn't as unfeeling as she wanted everyone to believe. He remembered the child she had saved from being trampled at this very inn.

  He took one step down the stairs to stop her, but halted.

  She had reached the bottom stair. She too stopped, her hand resting lightly on the railing.

  His hand curled over the wooden banister as if in answer. As if it would convey all of his feelings to her—the things he couldn't say.

  A sad smile touched her lips and Taylor removed her hand. She turned her back on him.

  Slane watched her. She was such a little fighter. Such a risk-taker. But it angered him that she was gambling with her life. She would be so much safer... Gambling! That was it! "Taylor!" he called.

  She stopped, then slowly glanced at him over her shoulder, her dark hair curling around her in thick waves.

  "You're a gambler. Care to make a little wa
ger?"

  Taylor lifted her head, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. She turned to face him.

  Slane moved down the stairs. "I'll wager your freedom and a month's pay against your staying with me until we reach Castle Donovan." He saw the glimmer of interest in her eye. Bless her greedy little heart, he thought as hope blossomed in his chest. "You're pretty good with that sword." He saw her glance down at the sheathed weapon at her waist. "But I'll bet I'm better."

  She lifted her eyes to his. Her full lips curled slightly. "That's hardly a fair fight," she said softly. "I'm wounded."

  "We'll fight in a week's time, if you're up to it." He saw the doubt in her eyes as she glanced at her wounded side. "And I'll fight left-handed."

  Taylor lifted those glorious eyes to Slane, a smile lighting her face.

  After spending most of the morning resting in bed, Taylor sat at the back of the common room, well removed from the hearth. Her legs were stretched out before her, her head tilted back over the chair so that her long black hair spilled almost to the floor.

  She heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs. A man clad in boots. The footsteps halted at the bottom of the stairs and her body came to life, tingling with fire. Slane. She knew without a doubt that it was him. It was unnerving the way her body instantly reacted to him. And she was just thinking about him; she hadn't even seen him!

  The footsteps drew closer and she heard the scrape of a chair on the floor.

  "You shouldn't be down here alone."

  A smile stretched across her face. It was Slane all right. "You're here," she couldn't help but goad.

  And Slane fell right into her trap. "I wasn't a few moments ago," he said, his stern voice faltering a little as she parroted the words right along with him.

  Taylor chuckled, opening her eyes to look at him. "You're so predictable."

  Slane stared quietly at her for a long moment, and she waited for a tirade. Instead, Slane sighed and sat back in the chair.

  "Do you know me so well?" he wondered. "How is it possible, when I know nothing of you?"

  Taylor turned away from him. "I have to know people to survive."