Anna’s heart was thundering and her mouth was dry. There was no seduction in his manner, though, merely purpose, as if seeing her clean was merely a task to be done. His cloak was cast aside and he frowned at her wet and dirty garb. “You are filthy,” he muttered.
“It is easier to hide in the forest when one smells like the forest,” she countered.
He arched a brow. “I suppose that is one excuse for it. All of it, off. It will have to be burned.”
Anna hesitated to undress before him. Though she was not shy about nudity, she felt so in such a man’s presence. She did not wish him to see the token she kept hidden between her breasts. “Will you not turn your back?”
Bartholomew grinned. “Would you in my place?”
“You wish to look upon me.”
“I wish to ensure you do not take advantage of me.” He fixed her with an intent glance. “Would you turn your back upon me, were our roles reversed?”
She could not help but smile, for she would not have done so. “Still, I would keep some modesty,” she said, trying to sound haughty. The weight of the ring on the lace around her neck was sufficient reminder of the truth. Anna turned her back upon Bartholomew and kicked off her shoes, then untied her belt and tugged her tabard over her head. She hesitated before unknotting her chausses and he cleared his throat behind her.
“Do you have need of assistance?” he demanded with impatience. “Because I should be glad to be of aid, if you have trouble with the knot.”
“Not I,” she said and shed the chausses with speed. The chemise was long enough to cover her hips, and she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“All of it,” he commanded and grimaced. “I cannot even see what color your chemise once was. God’s wounds but this water is cold!”
Anna untied the lace at the neck as she stepped into the water. It was icy cold. She tugged the garment quickly over her head, flinging it toward him, then ducked into the stream so that her nudity was hidden from view.
She did not flee, although she wished to do as much. Instead, she turned in the water to regard him. “I will stay here,” she insisted. “And you will stay there.”
“You will be quick,” he countered. She shivered, having no doubt of that. “Timothy!” he called over his shoulder and Anna sank lower into the water. A boy, clearly his squire and the one he had summoned, scrambled down the slope. He presented several thick cloths to Bartholomew and a small piece of something pale. The boy glanced at Anna but she crossed her arms over her breasts, remaining low. Bartholomew cleared his throat and the boy raced back up the slope.
“Soap,” Bartholomew said, crouching on the bank to offer the lump to her. “And a thick cloth to scrub away that mire. Be quick or I will do it myself.”
Anna eased closer, not truly trusting him, but he granted her both. Their fingers brushed and he scowled at her. “You are already chilled. Show some haste, Anna, and a care for your own welfare.” Then he straightened and stared down at her, his arms folded across his chest, as imposing as she might imagine any man could be.
Under his watchful gaze, Anna worked the filth from her flesh. The soap smelled wonderful, finer than any she had ever be so fortunate as to use, and the cloth was both thick and woven as if for this very purpose. She had never felt the like. It was most luxurious. She scrubbed so hard that her skin warmed. Had she not been so cold, it might have turned rosy. As it was, she found it most welcome to feel clean again.
“Your face,” Bartholomew instructed and she washed it as bidden. Her face was buried in the cloth when he spoke again.
“Do you need assistance with your hair?”
Anna jumped at the sound of splashing water in close proximity. Evidently he had not awaited her reply, for she felt his hands in her hair. She stiffened, thinking he meant to dunk her, but he did not. He rubbed some potion into her scalp and through her hair, then dipped her into the river for a moment to rinse. She came up sputtering and heard his chuckle as she wiped the water from her eyes. She kept low in the water to hide her treasure, knowing he would assume she meant to hide her breasts.
“Are you a lady’s maid or a knight?” she demanded, and Bartholomew dunked her again.
“You are not the first ruffian I have seen cleaned,” he said with humor in his tone when she came up for air. Anna shook her head and wiped the water from her face to find him close beside her, a twinkle in his eyes as he studied her. “Well, well,” he murmured. “There was a pearl in the mire after all.”
Anna felt her cheeks heat and might have retreated from the warmth in his eyes but Bartholomew reached for the lace around her neck. “What is this?” he asked, his curiosity clear.
Anna closed a hand around the ring. “A token from a loved one,” she said. “And no matter for you to see.”
His eyes narrowed. “The lace is dirty, as well.”
“The lace will remain.”
Their gazes held for a long moment and she feared he would challenge her anew, Instead, his expression turned stern and he stepped back. “Recall your vow,” he said, then scrubbed his own face and hair. He was not two paces away from her and she knew she would not get far if she chose to run. In truth, she did not wish to break her pledge.
She took the opportunity to survey him and was even more impressed by his vigor. Indeed, Bartholomew was more well made than any man she had ever seen. She dared to take a better look while he could not observe her boldness. There was a scar on his chest, one obscured by the dark tangle of hair that grew there, but she could see that the flesh was puckered and reddened there.
Of course, it would have been strange for a knight to have not been scarred. To have had a wound so close to his heart, even a small one, could not have been a minor injury. She thought to ask him after it, but wagered he would want to see what hung on the lace around her neck in exchange.
He was one for bargains, to be sure.
And not a displeasing man. Anna found herself recalling that kiss and feeling an unfamiliar warmth flow through her body. If he did it again, she might allow herself to enjoy his touch a little. She wrung out her hair, wondering how she would see it braided as a lady’s hair should be. She had no idea how the feat was accomplished.
“Don the cloak,” Bartholomew advised, as she made for the bank. “Timothy will bring me clean linen and you should be covered when he returns.”
Anna did as instructed, well aware that he watched her with care. Once she was wrapped in the fullness of his cloak, she sat on a stone and tucked her feet beneath its folds to stay warm.
Bartholomew smiled that she did not flee and she felt a curious pleasure in his satisfaction. He strode out of the stream, shaking his head like a great dog, and she had ample opportunity to see his nudity. The water beaded on his tanned flesh and she took note of his obvious strength. He would be a formidable foe in battle, and she was glad to be entering the baron’s keep under his protection. His confidence was deserved, for he moved with an ease she found most alluring.
Timothy returned, once again moving with haste, and offered a heavy cloth to his knight. He gathered up the soap and cloths while Bartholomew dried himself, then presented clean linens. Bartholomew donned the chemise, which was whiter and finer than any Anna had seen before, then clean linen braies. His dark chausses went over the braies, then he donned his boots. He indicated that Timothy should gather her discarded clothing, then strode toward her and scooped her up into his arms before striding back to the camp.
“I can walk!”
“In bare feet, in winter?” He shook his head. “Hardly fitting for my lady wife.” He winked at her then, and Anna considered that this wager might have unexpected benefits. It had been long indeed since any soul had fended for her. Usually she cared for others.
Her dirty clothing was burned, despite her protests, upon the fire that was now blazing. A thick smoke rose into the morning sky and the Scotsman shook his head. “Our presence is not a secret any longer,” he murmured, and it was true.
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Fergus and Bartholomew conferred over that Scottish knight’s collection of gifts for his betrothed, then Bartholomew brought Anna a linen chemise as fine and white as his own. A pair of stockings with red garters, fine leather shoes, and a splendid crimson kirtle with gold embroidery on the hem was also offered to her.
“I could not wear such a gown!” Anna could not hide her astonishment, which made Fergus laugh aloud.
“Consider it a wedding gift,” he teased.
“A necessary concession to see justice served,” Duncan agreed. “The hue would not favor Isobel, in my opinion.”
Fergus laughed again. “I fear you speak aright, although I like it well.”
Bartholomew considered Anna. “It will favor Anna, I believe.”
For her part, Anna was flustered by the generosity of the loan. “I shall ensure all is returned to you as pristine as in this moment,” she vowed.
“Do not pledge what you might not be able to see done,” Bartholomew said, and she wondered what they expected to find. They were all so suddenly grim that a chill struck her heart.
“What was within that saddlebag?” she asked and all but Bartholomew turned away.
“It is not for you to know,” he said tersely. “But any who looks upon it will not surrender it readily.”
What burden did these knights carry?
Would Percy pay for it with his life?
The notion was terrifying. She had to aid Bartholomew in making this ruse work.
* * *
Anna was beautiful.
Astonishingly so.
There could be no doubt that she was a woman, and once again, Bartholomew wondered at her age. Younger than him, he would guess, but not quite as young as Leila. Perhaps of an age with Lady Ysmaine’s maid Radegunde. Once garbed in the finery intended for Isobel, she would indeed look to be a noblewoman. Bartholomew dressed, donning his aketon and hauberk, glancing at Anna at intervals. She donned the stockings and shoes, then the chemise and he saw her marvel at its weave.
“It is so fine,” she murmured, then impaled him with a glance. He had just tugged on his hauberk and Timothy was fastening his belt. He noted again the shadow between her breasts, the one caused by that token that hung upon the lace, and wondered what she treasured.
Anna sat down, drawing his cloak over her shoulders again. “But there is one matter I cannot see done,” she said. He thought she meant to defy him, but she lifted the weight of her wet hair. “I do not know how to braid it as noblewomen do.”
Bartholomew was flummoxed. “Nor do I,” he admitted, seeing the flaw in their scheme.
“She should have a maid,” Fergus added, though his tone was more indicative of a man with a solution than one finding a problem.
Of course. Bartholomew turned to Leila, who was watching him keenly. The Saracen girl had been his friend in Jerusalem and had journeyed this far in their company disguised as a squire.
She cleared her throat and spoke gruffly. “My cousin oft asked me to braid her hair,” she said, maintaining the guise of being a boy. “I could be of aid.”
Bartholomew knew that Leila had fled a marriage arranged by her uncle and, though she had never confessed the details, he was certain she must have good cause to have left all she knew. Fergus had offered Leila the position as his squire. He said no more, for the surrender of her disguise had to be Leila’s choice. He assumed the tale of the cousin was a lie, meant to disguise the fact that she had braided her own hair once.
What did she intend to do in Scotland? Had she considered her future, now that Outremer was far behind them?
Leila rummaged in her small bag of possessions and removed a comb. It was carved of a fine golden wood. Duncan started at the sight of it and Leila smiled at him.
“Radegunde gave it to me,” she admitted and he nodded. Apparently the man-at-arms had seen it before. Fortunately, none of those unaware of Leila’s truth found it odd that a maid would give a comb to a squire.
Yet.
Leila went to Anna’s side and reached for the ends of her hair. Anna wrinkled her nose and gave Bartholomew a disparaging glance. “What is the point of a bath, if the squire who aids me smells of dung?” Before he could reply, she turned sharply to face Leila. Her eyes narrowed, her gaze dancing from Leila’s hands to her face.
Bartholomew knew the moment that Anna realized the truth, for her lips parted in surprise. She tried to hide her reaction, but he had already noted that she had little talent for subterfuge. Indeed, she turned to him, a question in her eyes.
Leila, meanwhile, put the comb in Anna’s hands. She straightened and turned to Fergus, then bowed. “My lord,” she said in her usual voice, speaking French. “I believe it is time.”
“The choice was always yours to make,” he replied, inclining his head and smiling approval.
The Templars looked between them with evident confusion, a reaction shared by their squires. Anna clearly did not understand the exchange, though she had guessed the truth of Leila’s sex.
Leila retrieved the small bag that she had carried since their departure from Châmont-sur-Maine, and Bartholomew realized that Radegunde must have given her more than a comb. The two women had seemed to become friends after the party’s departure from Paris. Had that been Duncan’s doing? He looked indulgent in this moment, as if all came to pass as he had anticipated.
Leila put out a hand before Timothy, requesting the soap. The boy surrendered it after confirming with Bartholomew that he was permitted to do so. He looked no less confused than the Templars, but Hamish and Duncan were unsurprised.
Leila made for the stream with purpose, even as the rest of the party stared after her. Moments later, she could be heard splashing, out of sight. At a nod from Fergus, the boys served the last of their bread and cheese that they might break their fast. There was a wineskin with a last measure of red wine from Gaston’s abode, and a few apples yet, but it was time for them to find more provisions. Bartholomew doubted that he was the sole one who would have welcomed a hot meal.
Anna ate with haste, showing an astonishing appetite and one that made him wonder when last she had eaten at all. By the time Leila strode up the slope from the stream, they were preparing to depart. Every man and boy in the company turned at the sound of her footsteps and each one of them stared.
Anna was not the sole one transformed. Leila wore a simple kirtle of a green hue and a leather belt. She wore yet the same boots and her dark hair curled around her face. Though she had cut her hair in Jerusalem, there could be no doubting that she was a maiden, and an alluring one.
Bartholomew smiled, even as many of his fellows stared in astonishment.
Chapter Three
“But, but, Laurent,” Timothy whispered, his shock clear.
“Leila,” Leila corrected as she returned the soap to the astonished squire. She cast her filthy garb on to the fire with evident satisfaction. She plucked the comb from Anna’s fingers and set to work on her hair, as the Templars began to consult with each other in agitated murmurs. They were both frowning when they raised their voices to confront the other knights.
“So, we have unwittingly journeyed with a woman in our company?” demanded one.
“It is against the Rule!”
“It is not against the Rule to protect those in need of our defense,” Fergus replied.
“But it was a lie!”
“It was a scheme to protect this maiden, and one endorsed by the Grand Master in Jerusalem,” Bartholomew supplied. The Templars appeared to be slightly more at ease with this additional information, but still eyed the remainder of the company warily. He wondered whether they expected more women to be revealed in their ranks.
“Not all was a lie,” Leila said softly, smiling at Fergus. “I do have a cousin whose hair I braided.” She combed Anna’s hair deftly, braiding it and coiling it with all speed. “You will need to open your bags again,” she said to Fergus. “A lady has need of a wimple, a veil and a circlet.”
&
nbsp; “Glad I am that I brought so many trinkets for my betrothed,” Fergus jested, even as he unfastened his saddlebags anew.
“’Tis no coincidence, lad, and you know it well,” Duncan murmured. Fergus smiled in acknowledgment.
“What do you mean?” Bartholomew had to ask for he did not understand.
“This lad was born to the caul. He has the Sight, though he seldom tells what he has seen.”
“Witchery,” whispered one Templar, and they crossed themselves as did their squires. The other scanned the forest, seeking yet more unwelcome surprises.
But the sole one for Bartholomew was the sight of the thief transformed. He could not tear his gaze from Anna as Leila finished the braiding and coiling of her hair, for the elegant length of her neck was revealed. She looked fragile and feminine, as he had not guessed her to be. The wimple and veil gave her an alluring mystery, and it seemed to him that her eyes sparkled in new awareness of her charms. She cast a shy glance at him, then smiled and blushed a little, evidently noting his reaction and finding it discomfiting.
She had been abused by a man then. He would have to treat her gently.
Truth be told, Bartholomew found the blend of traits in her nature most beguiling. Perhaps he had never been smitten with a woman because they seemed to be concerned with their garb and their embroidery, or their likelihood of bearing sons. He admired that Anna possessed a crossbow and acknowledged that she had given him a fair contest in the woods. He doubted that any who had known her as a ruffian would recognize her like this.
Bartholomew was intrigued by this maiden and sensed that state would not abandon him soon.
Anna rose to her feet as Leila laced the sides of the crimson kirtle, then turned in place with obvious delight at her garb. “Sir, I thank you for your generosity,” she said to Fergus and bowed low in her gratitude. Even her way of speaking had changed, as if the garb wrought a transformation in her very nature.
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