Lady of Valor

by Lara Adrian

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

  “I will have need of private quarters while I am at Fallonmour,” he answered, stepping out of the shadows and fully into her view. “I saw no reason to take the lord's chamber for myself. You may remain there if it pleases you.”

  “How very noble of you to think of me, my lord,” Emmalyn shot back, but her retort lacked the venom she intended. She could only stare at him, astonished at the transformation that had occurred in the beastly knight she had left sitting in his bath.

  Sir Cabal was clean and freshly shaven now, his jet hair still damp from a recent washing. The thick waves were swept back off his chiseled face, falling past his shoulders, their sheen as glossy as a raven's wing. The beard he had worn before had hidden somewhat the strong angles of his jaw, she noted, and as well the fine, supple cut of his mouth. And if she thought his gray eyes striking on first glance, now they were absolutely spellbinding, made all the more vivid by the harsh, masculine beauty of his face unveiled.

  Though this was no longer the savage-looking warrior who had ridden into her bailey a short while ago, Emmalyn still felt an arcane prickle of wariness in his company. Perhaps more so, now that he looked every inch a proper gentleman.

  His stained and bloodied Crusader's surcoat had been replaced with a silk tunic the color of dried rosemary, which clung to his broad shoulders and thick-hewn arms, the fabric stretching tight across his chest, even unlaced at the collar as he wore it. Matching hose encased his thighs and disappeared into dark leather boots.

  Emmalyn had to shake herself mentally to keep from staring any longer. “You're wearing my husband's clothes,” was all she could manage to say.

  One black brow rose on his broad forehead as he offered her a rueful half-smile. “All I had on return from Palestine were the clothes on my back, my lady. Would you have preferred I don my gambeson and armor for the whole of my stay here?”

  “I'm sure I could not care less what you wear,” she told him curtly, wishing it were true. Seeing him washed and dressed as fine as any noble lord, Emmalyn decided that she far preferred him in chain mail, for then she would be ever reminded of what he truly was: a cold warrior. The king's best guard, as he was quick to tell her. A trained killer, and now, her keeper.

  “Arlo advised me there is a ransom gift being assembled here on behalf of the king's release,” he said at last, watching her closely as if he could read the jumbled mess her thoughts became in his presence. “I trust all goes well thus far with the collection.”

  Emmalyn struggled to hold his steady, probing gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt for the note now en route to London. “The driver left with the coffer just a few moments ago, my lord. In fact, I saw him off myself.”

  “Really?” It was a mild query, edged with his apparent surprise. “Well, I must commend your honor, my lady. Another in your place might have sought to delay the delivery of a ransom that would ultimately speed the passing of an unfavorable edict.”

  “England needs her king,” Emmalyn replied carefully, “and you may believe me when I tell you that I am no less eager than anyone to see that the queen receives what I have sent her.”

  “Indeed?”

  Emmalyn gave a slight nod, sensing the challenge in his deliberate question, certain he knew she concealed some portion of the truth from him. But he did not press her for details. With a gaze that caressed almost as surely as it scathed, he turned back to the open window. “I have been impressed with what I've seen of Fallonmour's accountings, my lady. 'Tis a well-managed estate; doubtless the king will be pleased.”

  “I reckon no more so than the man he would choose to grant it to in given time.”

  The knight chuckled vaguely at her sarcasm. “Your seneschal advised me that your time alone had made you headstrong, Lady Emmalyn. On that score, I find I am inclined to agree with him.”

  He said it with humor in his voice, but Emmalyn found no amusement in his giving credence to anything Arlo would say. “If you were wise, my lord, you would seek Arlo's counsel on nothing of any import. Trust him even less.”

  Sir Cabal pinned her with a questioning look. “He said much the same of you, my lady. He said you would try to convince me that he was unfit and uninformed as seneschal, that you would insist that you were the one responsible for managing Fallonmour all this time.”

  “Do you find that hard so to believe, my lord?”

  “I find it interesting that Arlo professes sole responsibility for Fallonmour's prosperity, yet your hands are the ones that show the work.”

  Emmalyn glanced away suddenly, unwilling to accept the complimentary undercurrent to the knight's keen observation. It astonished her that he had divined Arlo's falseness already, but even more shocking was the fact that he would credit her efforts.

  “Arlo intends to betray you to Hugh.”

  She confessed the advice so softly she was hardly sure she had said it all. But Sir Cabal heard it well enough. “A warning, my lady? And here you've had me thinking you regarded me as your enemy, not an ally.”

  “I do it not for you or the king, so much as for Fallonmour,” she said, refusing to consider that Richard's man could ever be anything but her adversary. “Arlo's only allegiance is to himself and those from whom he feels he has the most to gain. He will pledge his support to you easily enough, but his oath means nothing. He said as much to me this morning after...”

  After she had fled in shamed alarm from her encounter with Sir Cabal in the solar.

  Emmalyn could not finish the thought. She swallowed hard, chagrined to have gotten even this close to mentioning the unsettling experience of bathing Sir Cabal. As it was, the knight studied her too closely, his sharp gaze too penetrating, his vague smile too arrogant, too knowing.

  “I thank you for the advice, my lady,” he said at last. “Whatever your reasons for offering it. I myself suspected as much of Arlo, which is why I discharged him from his duties.”

  “Discharged him?”

  The knight gave a grim nod. “He left the keep about an hour ago.”

  The news stunned her--pleased her--but the ramifications prevented her from rejoicing at Arlo's dismissal. “He will go directly to Hugh.” When Sir Cabal did not openly share her alarm, she added, “Once Hugh learns of my widowhood, he will come to claim Fallonmour by force, regardless of what the king has decreed.”

  “Then he will have to contend with me.”

  If any other man had made so bold a statement, Emmalyn would have laughed or at the very least thought him mad. But staring into the bleak, ruthless depths of Sir Cabal's eyes, she knew his avowal was not some warrior's idle boast. He was Richard's best; she did not doubt it for an instant.

  She wondered how many men he had killed for his king that Richard would be confident enough to send him alone to guard Fallonmour. Though her keep was leagues from London, she had heard the many tales of the king's warrior henchmen, terrible reports of the fear they evoked, chilling accounts of the deaths and decimation. Was this man as merciless as some of Richard's other knights? She was almost afraid to wonder.

  Emmalyn was whole-heartedly relieved when Sir Cabal freed her from his gaze, turning his attention back to the open window and the view from beyond the high tower. “Such a vast holding,” he remarked thoughtfully, almost to himself.

  And it was vast. An awesome sight, as Emmalyn verily knew. She could well imagine what greeted Sir Cabal's vision now: the boundless beauty of the lands that spread in all directions, lush fields and green meadows rolling out as far as the eye could see, every square patch of it contributing to the greater splendor that was Fallonmour.

  With the help of the peasants and her folk, Emmalyn had lifted the holding to new heights of prosperity. It was her most proud accomplishment, making Fallonmour strong, and her heart gladdened with the knowledge. Before she could stop herself, she was drifting quietly into the chamber. She came to stand a few paces behind Sir Cabal, just to look upon the land she loved so dearly
.

  “'Tis nearly a league, all told,” she volunteered hesitantly. “Our wheat and vegetable fields spread to the east; the meadows sweep northerly and to the west. That large hill over there marks the property line to the south.”

  “There?” Sir Cabal asked mildly, gesturing into the distance.

  “Nay,” she answered. “Farther south. 'Tis difficult to see from here, I think.”

  He turned his head slowly toward her and Emmalyn struggled to tamp down the tremor of awareness that skittered through her at the intensity of his gaze. “Show me.”

  It seemed a reasonable enough request, she supposed, even if it meant she had to draw closer to him. She stepped to the window and leaned slightly forward, bracing herself at the casement with one palm pressed to the cool, flat stone. “There,” she said, pointing toward the grassy embankment that marked the southernmost end of her lands.

  Sir Cabal seated himself behind her on the wide ledge then, his close proximity generating a nearly palpable heat at her back. In the gentle breeze lofting in through the open window, Emmalyn scented the appealingly spicy undertones of his clove-water bath and a subtle muskiness that, inexplicably, she knew was his alone. She startled when his long arm stretched out beside hers, following her gesture to the area she indicated.

  “Ah, yes,” he said beside her ear. “I see it now.”

  His breath was warm, nearly as warm as his dark, rumbling voice. Emmalyn felt something strange rouse within her, something that frightened her as surely as it sought to seduce her. It was awareness, she realized in terror. Awareness for a fighting man--someone who made his living through violence and killing. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to bar him from her senses, which ultimately failed the moment he spoke again.

  “I reckon I have never before seen such beauty, my lady.”

  Emmalyn turned, certain she had not heard correctly. Was he speaking of Fallonmour--the plot of land, which just that morning he had claimed to have no interest in--or did he refer to something else? She stared at him in stunned silence, unable to tear her gaze away from his, not daring to imagine what he meant by his remark, let alone ask.

  The air thickened around her, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think straight. Dear Lord, how had she been fool enough to put herself so close to him? He was near enough to touch her. Near enough to kiss her. As if her unwilling thoughts were laid bare for him to read, Sir Cabal's gaze drifted slowly, deliberately to her lips. Emmalyn froze, unable to draw breath, knowing she should flee yet unable to command her legs to action. What madness was it for her to crave this man's kiss? For crave it, she did, with every taut fiber of her being.

  Her heart thudded a deafening tattoo, accelerating wildly as he reached out to catch a wayward strand of her hair between his fingers. With a movement that seemed too gentle for a man of his strength and size, he swept the errant lock behind her ear. Emmalyn swallowed hard, torn between wanting his kiss and wanting him gone.

  As if he sensed her indecision, the harsh line of his mouth softened into a lazy, knowing smile. “Perhaps 'tis time you introduce me to Fallonmour's garrison, my lady.”

  Chapter 5

  Cabal followed Lady Emmalyn out of the chamber, his steps falling hard at her heels. His limbs were still heavy with the weight of his lust for her, his pulse still thundering in his ears. Seating himself beside her at the window had been pure, reckless folly. He had recognized that fact in ample time to avoid it, but, like a thirsting man drawn to the illusion of desert water, nothing could have stopped him from closing the distance between them. Once there, it had been a damned hard struggle to keep from touching her. It had been next to impossible for him to keep from sweeping her mass of silky blond hair aside and tasting the graceful curve of her neck, a spot he knew was certain to be as sweet and warm as her enticingly feminine scent.

  The knowledge that she might have let him do just that haunted Cabal as he exited the keep with her and stepped into the bustle of the castle's inner bailey.

  Lady Emmalyn's appearance drew the attention of a clutch of guards positioned at the far side of the grassy courtyard, the majority of them lounging against the shading walls of the enclosure while they drank from flagons of ale and conversed. The elder of the group came forward at once, his proud carriage and seasoned demeanor marking him as the garrison's captain.

  “Sir Miles,” Lady Emmalyn greeted warmly as the gray-bearded knight approached and gave her a deferential bow.

  “My lady, the keep has been abuzz all morning with the misfortunate news brought back from Palestine. I am sorry to hear about Lord Garrett.” The grizzled captain turned a reproachful look on Cabal. “My sympathies for the rest of the matter, as well, my lady.”

  “So everyone has heard already of the king's plans for Fallonmour?” she asked.

  “Aye, my lady. And as well his plans for you,” Sir Miles added, his old man's voice darkened with obvious defensiveness for his lady's welfare.

  “Then you must also know that King Richard has sent one of his guards, Sir Cabal, to watch over the keep until a new tenant is appointed.” The captain nodded, slanting Cabal a narrowed, cutting glance that bespoke his disapproval. “Sir Miles has served as Fallonmour's captain for many years,” she told Cabal. “He has a great deal of experience with protecting the keep, and the men trust and respect him. I'm certain he will prove a benefit to you in sharing their command, my lord.”

  “There will be only one captain of this garrison, my lady,” Cabal interjected, intent to put a damper on any notion of shared command--to say nothing of past alliances between the guards and their beloved lady. “By the king's order, that man is me.”

  He was not sure which of the two looked more opposed to surrendering their authority; both the lady and her old guard gaped at him in futile outrage. Sir Miles withered quickly under Cabal's flat stare, developing a sudden interest in his boots, but Lady Emmalyn did not so much as flinch.

  “Sir Miles,” Cabal instructed, “assemble all of the men. I will join you in a moment to address them.” The deposed captain flicked a questioning glance to his lady, hesitating as if to await her confirmation of this new arrangement. “Do it now, Sir Miles.”

  When the knight had ambled out of earshot to dispense the order, Lady Emmalyn turned to Cabal. “Was it entirely necessary to be so disrespectful of him?” Holding his gaze with a tenacity Cabal was coming to appreciate, as much as it aggravated him, she folded her arms one over the other and glared her reproach. “Sir Miles is a proud man, my lord. If he is defensive of my wishes, it is only because he has Fallonmour's best interests at heart--”

  “And I have the king's.”

  Her slim jaw hardened mutinously at his blunt reminder, an angered flush filling her cheeks. Cabal expected a fiery challenge from the lady, but was instead surprised to see her gaze soften almost sadly. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, imploring. “My lord, I realize that you are duty-bound to the king, and I fully understand that you care little for what happens to me or this place. When your mission is over, you will go back to whatever life you left behind and we will all be easily forgotten. But while you are here, I would ask you to have a care with these folk. They are good people, hard-working, devoted. Perhaps that means nothing to you, but it matters to me. They matter to me.”

  She waited for his reply, staring at him for a long moment as if searching for some trace of compassion in his eyes. Foolish woman; he possessed none. He supposed she would learn that soon enough. “Your concerns have been noted, my lady,” he replied, deliberately avoiding an answer. “Now, if you will, I have a garrison to command.”

  He could feel her hot stare behind him as he pivoted on his heel and walked away from her, striding toward the company of knights gathered near the wall. He heard her infuriated huff as she spun and marched back to the keep, a clear indication of her ill regard for him. She was coming to despise him, Cabal knew, more and more with every hour that he was there. The idea should not have troubled him i
n the slightest; he had not come there to win the widow's admiration. But strangely, he found that he respected her anger. Her devotion to Fallonmour and its folk intrigued him, perhaps more than he cared to admit.

  All the better reason that he should endeavor to keep himself occupied outside the castle and away from her. He needed to be in his element, sword in hand and back on the field, even if it was just in practice. Fortunately on that score, it looked as if he would have no shortage of work with Fallonmour's meager garrison.

  Most of the knights were of a middling age, and, if Cabal's initial assessment was true, none seemed in any manner of fitness, let alone ready for battle. “Tell me this is not the whole of Fallonmour's army, Sir Miles,” Cabal drawled as he approached them.

  The captain cleared his throat. “This be it, sir, the whole lot. Two dozen-odd men I reckon, if you count the fostering squires.”

  God's bones. Less than thirty guards at most and from the looks of them, long unused to combat. That the keep had managed to escape a serious attack in these three years was in itself a miracle, but to hope that the motley collection of knights assembled before him might one day make an army was utter lunacy. Or impending suicide.

  “You have heard, I'm certain, that this keep belongs once more to the king,” he told them. “Until he decides on a suitable heir, he has charged me with protecting Fallonmour against all contenders...including the prince and the brother of your former lord. If any among you has sworn fealty to John or to Hugh de Wardeaux, speak now and gain your discharge from this garrison.”

  When no one answered, Sir Miles spoke for the group. “We are pledged in service to this keep, Sir Cabal. We would each of us lay down his life for Fallonmour, and for Lady Emmalyn as well.”

  “You may be called upon to do just that,” Cabal replied. “I expect that once de Wardeaux hears of his brother's demise, he will waste no time in bringing his forces to Fallonmour to secure the holding for himself in the name of Prince John. Our king does not want to see that happen. Neither, for that matter, does Lady Emmalyn.”