“Nay.” The lass’s single word barely had sound enough to be heard.
“What?! What did you say?” Lady Margaret’s noisy shock died away into soundless gaping. Sudden respect rose in Temric. It would appear pigs flew this day in Lindhurst.
“I’d know what a bishop wants from one so insignificant as me,” the young woman said in perfect French, her voice quivering as if it cost her dearly to offer this incredible statement. The whole while that she spoke, she never once lifted her gaze from her toes.
Temric stared at her, trying to reconcile the meek creature standing before him with the bitter image who’d haunted his dreams this past year. He and Philippa of Lindhurst were kindred spirits; raised to noble expectations, only to lose all because of their bastard birth. At last, he shook his head. This must be some imposter. The woman before him wasn’t capable of the raging missive that scorned as crass thievery her half-sister’s right to inherit all their grandsire had owned.
It was his certainty that she lied that propelled him into crossing the distance between them. He wanted to see her face when she next spoke. “Are you Philippa, wife to Lord Roger?” he nearly demanded.
Lady Margaret gave a gurgling squeak, then aimed a round-eyed look at Oswald. “Hey,” she cried out, “your man’s too close to her. Call him back.”
“Temric, is it Lord Roger’s wife?” Oswald asked, ignoring her.
The old woman made a frantic noise deep within her chest as the maid lifted her head. Temric caught his breath. Now that they were closer, there was no mistaking it. Dear God, but she was nearly her mother’s twin, despite the difference in their years. Where Edith of Benfield’s eyes were a clear green, Lady Philippa’s were both green and blue in one glorious instant. They shimmered like jewels against her creamy skin. Golden hair, a shade or two lighter than Lady Benfield’s, escaped the rough head cloth to straggle charmingly along her soft cheeks. All else was exactly the same: the lilt of the brows, the wide cheekbones, and the gentle curve of the jaw.
“I am the wife of Roger of Lindhurst,” Philippa of Lindhurst replied quietly to the cleric's question.
Temric turned to confirm her words. “Oswald, we’ve found Lord Roger’s wife.”
“Nay!” Lady Margaret cried, shoving herself between Temric and her daughter-by-marriage. “Nay, you’re mistaken. She’s nothing but the village whore, a lying slut, who pants after my son. Would any lord dress his wife thusly?” All through this declaration she glared at Temric as if she thought to intimidate him.
“There’s no error,” Temric replied mildly, “and no point in you wasting your breath in further protest. I’m acquainted with her lady mother.”
“Are you certain?” Oswald demanded. “Can she give us further proof that she’s who she claims?”
Temric again turned his attention on the shy woman, only to find her watching him with a new and lively interest as she awaited her inquisition. “My lady, can you tell me your sister’s Christian name?”
To his surprise, Philippa of Lindhurst’s cheeks flushed, her eyes took light with joy. “Rowena. My sister’s name is Rowena. Tell me,” she pleaded gently, “what do you know of my sister?” There was nothing in her tone but the longing for a beloved sibling.
Temric’s relief was gut-deep. Between her sweetness and the honesty in her face, it was obvious that Lady Lindhurst knew nothing of the legal battle being waged in her name. It had seemed dishonorable to dream and wonder about a woman who was attempting to ruin his brother’s wife. He hadn’t realized he’d grinned until she smiled at him in return. His surprise at his own open a display of emotion deepened into a subtle stirring in his heart. His dream image of Lady Lindhurst was nothing but a poor reflection of her sister’s fire and spirit. Now, as he faced the true woman, he found her gentle innocence touched him more deeply than he’d ever imagined possible.
Turning, he looked at Oswald. “I think there’s no further reason to doubt. So too does it seem Bishop William was right to suspect that Lady Philippa had no hand in the suit.”
Oswald’s jaw hardened. “Aye, so it seems,” he said, his voice flat with growing anger as he shot a look at Lady Margaret. To Lady Philippa he said, “My lady, I pray you come with us to the bishop’s court.”
“Damn you, you’ll not have her,” Lady Margaret shrieked.
Before Temric knew what she was about, she pivoted on her crutch, then lifted the thing like a cudgel. Without word or cry, Lady Philippa swiftly hunched her shoulders and turned her back. The stick caught her upon her shoulder with force enough to knock her down.
“Nay!” Temric roared as he watched her fall. He lunged for the old woman and wrenched her makeshift club from her gnarled grasp and hurled it away from him. It landed yards distant.
Terror and hatred tangled in the old woman’s blue eyes, then she turned toward the walls of her home. “Aaiye! Come, come. I am attacked,” she shouted with a helplessness she didn’t own. It was a call calculated to bring whatever forces Lindhurst owned to its dowager’s aid.
Five swordsmen against however many men Lindhurst kept wasn’t going to accomplish the bishop’s goal. Temric leapt to the fallen woman’s side. As Lady Margaret again tried to push him back, he scooped Lady Philippa into his arms, cradling her close.
The old woman gasped as if truly shocked by his actions. “Lecher! Defiler,” she trumpeted. “You soil her with your touch!”
Temric spared her a scathing glance. “If you wish to complain, come to Graistan and tell Bishop William that Temric, Henry of Graistan’s bastard, has obeyed his command and fetched Lady Lindhurst for him.”
At the announcement of his bastardy, the old woman’s eyes hardened. “Commoner,” she snarled. “I’ll have you skinned alive for what you do, see if I don’t. And, if your noble brother thinks he can take what is mine from me, he’d best think again.”
With an angry hiss, she turned and hobbled toward her home, her arms pumping in rage as she went. “To me,” she bellowed to stir her already tardy retainers into action, “to me! I’m attacked and Lord Graistan’s men kidnap your lord’s wife.”
Temric was already striding toward his waiting men. “Hie, Oswald. Mount.”
As his cousin sprinted toward his fine horse, Temric bore Lady Lindhurst toward his own tall mount. His men were all watching him their faces alert for the commands sure to come. “You stay here,” he said to the one, “to protect our cart and driver as best you can. If you’re outnumbered and pressed, don’t resist. I doubt they’ll harm one under the bishop’s protection, not now that we’ve got what they want. The rest of you are with me.”
It wasn’t until he was ready to mount that he dared look at the woman in his arms. To his surprise, no tears filled her eyes at what must have been a bruising blow. Instead, she watched him in both surprise and trepidation. “You are taking me?” she asked in breathless question.
“Aye,” he told her, trying to soothe while his whole body was tensed for battle, “but fear not. I vow you’ll be safer with me than you are here. Now, up with you.”
Lifting her, he set her sideways in his saddle, her back to his shield. As she held the tree to steady herself, Temric mounted up behind her. It was a sin. He knew it was. Still, Temric pulled his half sister-by-marriage close into the protection of his body and spurred his horse into a gallop. Mary, Mother of God forgive him, but he feared he was hopelessly in love with the one woman on earth more unattainable to him than any other.
Philippa leaned her head against the knight’s broad shoulder and reveled in the strength of his arm around her. His care and kindness enveloped her. Despite that he was a stranger and could well be abducting her, she felt safer with him than she had since she came to her husband’s home.
The horse beneath her broke into a gallop, the movement so sudden that her clumsy wooden sabots slipped from her feet and were lost. Air rushed past her, tearing at her head cloth. It was filled with scents of places she’d never seen and things she’d never done. The very t
hought made Philippa smile. She was free!
Rather than return to the forest, her abductor led his horsemen south through fields of rye and wheat. Peasants screamed against the destruction they wrought with their passage, throwing rocks and rakes at them as they passed. It was only as the fields began their gentle rise into rolling hills that Philippa’s euphoria died.
What a fool she was. This knight was taking her to the bishop where her husband also awaited. After the churchman was quit of her, she must needs accompany Roger back to Lindhurst. Depression swirled into fear.
Oh, dear God, but she’d let her game of defiance go too far this time. Why, oh why, had she dared to identify herself? Not only would Margaret never forgive her for it, Margaret would see to it Roger knew his wife left Lindhurst in another man’s arms. His jealousy and outrage would know no bounds. Indeed, it would be in repayment for Philippa’s defiance that Margaret would happily raise no hand to stop him, not this time.
Fear deepened. If his mother didn’t stop him would he kill her this time? Surely not.
It wasn’t as if Roger meant to hurt her. Or, at least, that’s what he said. After each incident, he would weep in shame, then beg her forgiveness, each time vowing this was the last time. But, it never was. The day would come when he would beat her until she was no more, all the while swearing that what he did was for love’s sake.
Philippa shut her eyes and turned her face against her shoulder as fear ate up every other emotion. Four and twenty was too young to die. Ach, but she’d done this to herself; she’d said her name, and this knight had touched her. Acceptance, dull and dark, crept over her. Not even God Himself could spare her from her husband’s retribution for what she’d done.
“They’re after us, Temric.” The churchman’s shout broke through her mournful thoughts.
“Then, we’ll play the fox to their hounds,” the knight behind her called in reply, his mellow voice grim. He reined his horse to a slower pace until the others were riding nearer. “You two,” the thrust of his free arm indicated two of the men who rode with them, “go more slowly and toward Benfield. Here.” A swift yank tore Philippa’s head covering from her head before she had a chance to gasp. “Drop this as you ride and do what you can to convince them you have her. Return to Graistan when you can. Robin, you’re with us.”
As he spoke he reined his horse into a sharp turn. Philippa slid in the saddle’s seat. With a gasp, she wound her arm around the knight’s waist to steady herself.
He loosed a quick sound of amusement. “Good lass. I’ve no wish to lose you now. Hold tight and I’ll keep you safe.”
Would that he could. Sorrow welled. Philippa swallowed it. Nay, she’d not waste what little life might be left to her in mourning. From this instant until she faced Roger all that mattered was the moment. She vowed to herself that she’d live each one to its very fullest, savoring every experience. With her eyes closed, Philippa opened her mouth to taste the wind.
Once Lindhurst’s men had been left behind, they stopped in a glade to rest their horses. There were but two of the original party remaining: Oswald, the bishop’s man, and the knight. They’d lost the last soldier several miles back when his horse had gone lame. Oswald was the last of them to excuse himself into the concealing brush. While she and the knight waited on his return, the knight was speaking to her about the bishop’s call.
It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when they stood in such a beautiful place. The smell of damp vegetation rose from beneath her stockinged feet in a rich wave of sensation. Towering high above her, tall oaks filtered the mid-afternoon sun until everything within the grove was dappled and gilded. The knight’s massive brown steed wore patches of light and dark, some sweat, some shade. The creature snorted and shivered as he tore at saplings and spindly grass. Beside him, the churchman’s smaller mount answered with an arrogant toss of his head.
“—reach Graistan by early evening if you can bear—”
These words caught her attention. Must she confront Roger so soon? A flicker of fear woke with the memory of Roger’s last rage. The aching bruises from the blows lingered for weeks. Fear dissolved into the need to escape another beating. Unfortunately, she was married to Roger. That meant there was nowhere she could go that her husband couldn’t reclaim her.
Desperately unwilling to think along these lines any longer, Philippa focused her attention on the knight in front of her.
Temric, that’s what he’d told her to call him, allowing her to set no title before his name. She rolled the odd name against her tongue a few times and decided it suited him despite its strangeness. How old was he? Surely no more than two score. She liked his mouth. His lips were finely molded and curved ever so slightly upward at the corners. The carefully trimmed beard he wore only set off its beauty. As he shifted into a patch of light, the sun lay a shadow along the crooked line of his nose and streaked gold into his deep brown hair. Philippa sighed. How could she ever have thought so bold a face ordinary?
Of a sudden, he fell silent. “My lady,” he said, leaning sharply toward her.
His aggressive movement was too reminiscent of Roger; instantly, Philippa folded her hands and turned her gaze to the moldy forest carpet. All her senses tautened, lifting into a new and aching awareness as she awaited his reaction. She heard him draw a swift breath. She tensed, because she didn’t know him or what this might foretell.
“My lady,” he said again, speaking more softly this time, “why do you not listen? Would you rather Oswald explain this to you?” A touch of hurt filled his gentle voice, as if her inattention had somehow slighted him.
Philippa dared a sly glance in his direction and found evidence of her accidental insult in the dark cast of his eyes. That she could have hurt him struck her to the core. The need to ease the harm she’d done was strong. Still, she knew better than confess to the real reason behind her inattention; telling the whole truth, especially when it had to do with inattention, was most often the cause of her pain.
Daring much, she lifted her head to look up at him. “Forgive me,” she said and truly meant it. “You have been kind and deserve better from me. I fear your stealing of me has left my thoughts so addled I’m incapable of concentration.”
It was the wrong thing to say. With the reminder of her leave-taking from Lindhurst came the certainty of the beating awaiting her at her destination. Against that, anxious words tumbled unbidden from her lips.
“Oh, why did I let you take me? I should have stayed at Lindhurst. Would that this was but a dream. Then, I might awaken to find you and this ride no more than a shadow in my mind.”
His face softened in pity. “Poor lass, are you so frightened? Take no heed of what your lord’s dam said. Oswald truly is commanded to take you to his master, Bishop William. Or, do you fret because I am your sole protector now? Know you, I’m well seasoned in the ways of battle, having been for nigh on twenty years my brother’s master-at-arms. Here,” he extended his hand toward her, palm up, fingers slightly curved, “touch my hand be assured when you feel my strength.”
Startled by his complete misunderstanding of her fear, Philippa could only stare mutely at his bared hand; his steel-sewn gloves were presently tucked into the belly of his surcoat. His fingers were beautiful. Strong and supple, they tapered gracefully to their tips, better suited to a saint than a warrior.
Did she dare touch so large and powerful a man? Lifting her head, Philippa looked shyly up at him. He offered her a brief smile, the motion waking gentle lights in his brown eyes.
As fear of him ebbed, curiosity woke. Was one man’s touch the same as another’s? Even as that thought filled her, the echo of Margaret’s voice, screaming of indecency, rose from the recesses of her mind.
Defiance flared. Well, Margaret wasn’t here, was she? Philippa extended her hand, then laid her fingers into the rough cradle of his palm.
It was different! Where Roger’s hands were always moist, this man’s skin was warm and dry. His palm was
hard and callused, yet as her hand slid against his, it was a surprisingly silky sensation.
His fingers closed around hers. Her pulse leapt. A rush of heat flashed through her, burning in her cheeks. Very different, indeed.
Lost in the sensation, she turned her hand in his to align their palms. He laced his fingers between hers. As she stared at their joined hands, an alien warmth woke, both disturbing and oddly welcome at the same time. Even as she strove to control it, the sensation grew until it seemed to consume her. Panicked, she tore free of his hold, then sighed as the intensity receded, leaving her feeling normal once again.
“Philippa.” His voice was hoarse and deep as he made her name a plea.
Stunned by his familiar address and his intimate tone, she lifted her head to look up at him again. His face had softened, and masculine need had put the golden lights in his dark eyes. She drew a quick, fearful breath. Margaret was right; all men were the same. They used any woman they could to satisfy their base needs. Temric had only disguised his carnal nature with gentle behavior; now, he would take her just as Roger did. Trapped between sharp disappointment and terror against what would surely follow, she could only stare helplessly at the knight.
A cool breeze circled them, ruffling the neat strands of his dark hair. The horses snorted and stamped. He reached for her. Frozen in fear, Philippa waited for his assault. His arms encircled her in a light embrace. In the distance, a crow loosed its raucous call. He splayed his hands against her back, the gentle pressure of his touch forcing her a step closer. His lips parted
“May God have mercy on my soul.” His words were barely a breath.
He lowered his head until his mouth brushed hers. The rasp of his beard against her jaw was rough-soft. His mouth was gentle against hers, a quiet caress, the taste of him surprisingly pleasant.
Philippa’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. There was no hurt!
Ever so slightly, his lips moved on hers. A shiver wracked her. This was better than touching his hand.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 33
