by Lara Adrian
“What do you mean?” she asked on a shaky breath of air. She backed away from him, a subtle half step that edged her closer to the wall of trees at her back. Her dusky lips parted as she stared up at him, all guileless beauty and feminine promise. “W-what is it you want?”
He was fairly certain she knew. After all, he had done little to conceal his desire for her since his arrival at Fallonmour. More than anything now, he wanted to taste that pert, rose-colored mouth. He wanted to lose himself in the moment, lose himself in Emmalyn's kiss. Lose himself in the bliss of her body.
She could make him forget his past--forget himself--if only for a few exquisite moments. God help him, he wanted nothing more than to claim every sweet ounce of her passion and fill her with his own. He wanted to take her. He knew he could have her...but he could never keep her.
He decided he damned well didn't care.
Without another word, Cabal bent his head down and pressed his lips to hers.
* * *
Emmalyn's breath left her on a soul-shattering tremor the instant their mouths met. The slim trunk of an apple tree at her back was all that kept her upright when Cabal's sensual lips closed over hers. He was bewitching her, this man she should despise. This imposing warrior whom she had every reason to fear was instead seducing her, stripping her of her will and leaving her powerless to resist him. In his arms, inexplicably, she was anything but afraid.
She might have been wholly lost in his spell if not for the sudden flight of a flock of birds overhead. They shot out from the treetops and departed the grove in a flurry of upset leaves and beating wings. Then Emmalyn's ear was drawn to a small noise nearby.
Cabal had heard it, too. He drew back slightly and stilled, putting a finger to his lips in warning to keep silent. He cocked his head and listened, as she did, to their now still surroundings. Emmalyn's heart was racing, her lips yet tingling from Cabal's brief kiss, but he seemed unaffected. All warrior once more, he took a step away from her, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword.
From within the bushes at their left, came a rustle of movement again, drawing ever closer. A twig snapped and then another, marking the clumsy gait as that of a two-legged interloper and not some harmless woodland creature.
Cabal launched into action as the sounds grew louder, his sword singing from its scabbard before Emmalyn had a chance to draw a frightened breath. Protectively, he pushed her behind him. “Who's there?” he demanded. “Give voice to yourself.”
No one answered, but the rustling footsteps grew closer to where they stood. Without a word, a thin figure took shape in the bracken, coming forward. Cabal started to advance for the kill, but Emmalyn grasped his arm. “Wait,” she whispered.
A filthy wild-haired boy of about six summers stepped into view then, munching an apple in utter contented bliss--until his eyes lit on the two of them. One look at the gleaming readied sword and his half-eaten fruit tumbled to the ground. His mouth dropped open in silent terror and he pivoted, about to flee, but Cabal was faster. He lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar of his tattered dirt-stained tunic.
The rotting material gave under the knight's firm grasp, tearing at the shoulder and nearly freeing the lad to make his escape. He bucked and twisted, a confusion of skinny arms and legs, and thrashing overlong hair, but Sir Cabal held fast, hastily shoving his sword back into its scabbard with his free hand while he held the youthful intruder tight in the other. He caught the lad by the shoulders, trapping him solidly in his arms despite the boy's desperate squirming.
“Have a care, my lord,” Emmalyn cautioned. “Can't you see he's terrified?”
“As well he should be.” Cabal's answer was as gruff as his handling of the boy. “What manner of simpleton are you, lad, that you don't answer a command to give voice? I might have cleaved you in two.”
The child ignored the knight's anger and made another feeble attempt to escape his grasp while Emmalyn came around for a closer look at the child. She had to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp of pity. The poor creature reeked of neglect, from his unwashed skin and filthy clothing to the frail skeleton of his trembling frame.
“He is not one of Fallonmour's folk,” she observed, having never seen him before and certain that none of her people would ever so mistreat their children.
“A thief's whelp, then.” Sir Cabal's voice was hard with intolerance. “No longer satisfied to steal under the veil of night, are you, lad?”
“He's a child, my lord. A hungry child, from the looks of him.” Emmalyn crouched down before the poor creature, ignoring Cabal's growl that she keep a wary distance.
“What's your name?” she asked the boy, brushing a stringy lock of brown hair from his eyes. She tried again, this time in English, and though he seemed to register the words, he did not answer, merely stared at her with a wild-eyed look of desperation. “'Tis all right,” she assured him, in case he did indeed understand. “We mean you no harm.”
She hooked the length of hair behind his right ear and drew in her breath, wincing in sympathy. At his temple and riding high on his sallow cheek was an angry, fist-sized, red bruise. There were more marks, uglier than the first, on his neck and about his shoulders. “Good lord,” Emmalyn breathed, heartsick. “This child has been beaten horribly.”
Feeling an instant maternal urge to comfort this mistreated waif, she reached out to touch his face. The boy flinched, recoiling before beginning his struggles anew. He thrashed frantically, like a desperate rabbit caught in a snare, and Emmalyn feared that he would hurt himself further should he not gain release from the knight's firm hold.
“Let him go, my lor--”
She started to rise as she said it, and suddenly, without warning, the boy kicked out. His rough-shod foot struck her squarely in the shin and knocked her off balance.
With a growl, Cabal pinioned his captive under one arm and grasped at the air with the other as if he meant to catch her. On her behind in the grass, Emmalyn waved him off, shaking her head. She was in no pain beyond the sting of a rising bruise on her leg, but she nearly thought Cabal intended to crush the lad for the affront.
“Beg the lady's pardon, boy!” he commanded in a voice that made even Emmalyn jump. He gave him an angry shake. “Beg it, you disrespectful son of a cur!”
The child was panting now, his small chest heaving in fright, but still he said nothing. Not even an outcry for the certain bite of Sir Cabal's strong fingers pressing into his shoulders, a fact that Emmalyn attributed more to the boy's pride than an inability to voice his pain. She looked into his deep, brown eyes and saw the spark of intelligence within, a wiliness that had likely saved him from many a tangle. Would that he had been cunning enough to elude whomever the brute was that had delivered his horrible bruises.
Emmalyn could not bear to contribute to his troubles by detaining him any longer. “Release him, please,” she commanded Cabal.
Immediately, the knight's grip on the boy became less punishing, if nonetheless sure. “Are you certain, my lady? If he has caused you harm...”
“No,” she insisted. “I'm in no great discomfort, and you yourself tried to warn me away from getting near him. This boy is frightened beyond reason. He only did what instinct commanded him to do. Please, Cabal, just let him go.”
“I should have him take me to the rest of his kind instead. 'Twould be a swift end to the thieving.”
When the boy began thrashing in earnest, Emmalyn knew her suspicions were sound. He heard and he understood, he merely chose to keep his silence. “My lord,” she implored Cabal, placing her hand on his forearm. “Please, let him go.”
The very moment Cabal released his grasp, the boy slipped out of his arms and broke for the shelter of the bracken. At the edge of the thicket he hesitated, glancing backward as if he expected them to give chase, then plunged into the greenery and vanished, nothing more than a retreating flurry of snapping twigs and swishing branches.
Sir Cabal was at Emmalyn's side in the
next instant, assisting her to her feet. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“Yes,” she said, smoothing down the rough skirt of her wool tunic. “I'm fine.”
She met his gaze and felt her cheeks flame for what might have transpired between them before the boy's stumbling into their path. “I think it best if we head back to the castle now, my lord.”
“Of course,” he agreed, his eyes having lost none of their indecent smolder under the glint of steely battle-readiness. “I'll see you back to the keep, then set the garrison to ridding the area of the boy and his thieving kin.”
“No,” Emmalyn countered, loath to think of causing any greater harm. “They are only stealing food, my lord. I do not think it necessary to drive them off.”
He shot her a dubious look. “You have a kind heart for those less fortunate than you, my lady. Mayhap too kind, for wariness of these vagabonds might keep you farther from danger.”
“I would rather help them if I could.”
“By allowing them to steal from your stores and orchards?” He shook his head, chuckling as if he thought her a soft-hearted fool. It was a mantle Emmalyn had worn too often for Garrett to accept it easily now.
“You would have them go hungry instead?” she challenged, somewhat piqued that he could be so apathetic when it came to the poor. “I'll not have them starve while Fallonmour's trees bear so much fruit it lies rotting on the ground or goes to waste in our stores.”
“The brand of help you prescribe will only corrupt them further, my lady. And I warrant it can bring naught but trouble to yourself and this keep. I have no intention of letting that happen.”
“Regardless of what I think is best?”
He did not answer her challenge, merely let her stand there fuming in his shadow for a long moment. “I will return you to the castle now, my lady.”
Perhaps she needed a stern reminder that this man was not her ally, but her keeper. Emmalyn stared into his hard gray eyes, forever grateful that she had not been fool enough to let herself become just another of his conquests. But the realization of precisely how close she had come to surrendering to him a few moments before haunted her as she followed him back in stony silence to their mounts.
Mother Mary, but even though she fought it, her mouth yearned for another taste of his kiss. Her body yet sang with the memory of his touch. Heaven help her, but despite her fears, despite her anger for him and all he stood for, some foolish part of her wanted him still.
Chapter 9
Pete crouched low, ankle-deep in the muddy filth of the back bailey, his arms spread wide. The noontide sun beat down on him relentlessly, adding heat to the sweat of his exertion, but the soldier-in-training did not seem to notice. He blew a hank of hair out of his eyes and pushed up the loose sleeves of his tunic, preparing himself for another round of battle. Positioned several paces before him, his opponent snorted, meeting Pete's determination with an unruffled beady-eyed stare.
“Come on, ye wretched son of a swine,” Pete goaded. “Let's see if ye can get past me this time!”
With a growl, Pete lunged.
The fat little piglet squealed and darted right, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, Pete executed a fruitless frontal dive into the slick stinking mud. He lay there face-down and slammed his fist into the muck, swearing a vivid oath before he rose up on his knees and wiped the dirt from his face. On the other side of the enclosure, the piglet had begun to root along the base of the fence, munching blissfully on the few blades of grass that poked in between the slats.
Pete surged to his feet. With a murderous roar, he ran slipping and sliding across the width of the sty, bounding toward the piglet once more. Another rushing charge, another failed capture. Angered now beyond reason, Pete gave chase, circling the small fenced-in area like a mud-encrusted madman while the little pig oinked merrily, zigzagging and dodging its way out of Pete's flailing grasp.
Cabal watched the contest from the other side of the fence, careful to betray none of his doubts as Pete picked himself up off the ground yet again and launched into a further unavailing attack. The pitiful sequence repeated until, at last, huffing from exhaustion, Pete threw up his hands in surrender and dragged himself toward Cabal. At the opposite corner of the pen, his chubby pink opponent trumpeted his victory with a round of ebullient snorts.
“Milord, I beg ye, please give me the infidel blade so I can be done with this exercise once and for all.”
Wincing under the foul stench that wafted off Pete's person, Cabal held out his hand to prevent him from coming too close. “The idea is not to slay the piglet, Pete, but to catch it.”
Pete scowled petulantly. “At the moment, I would rather gut the accursed squealer.” He mopped his brow with his soiled sleeve, then spluttered to expel some of the grit and mud from his mouth. “Milord, what I know about warring and knighting is not much, but I don't see how I am to learn anything from spending the day chasing after that stupid beastling.”
“Ah, Pete, you will never be a knight if you maintain a defeatist attitude. And I warrant that piglet has exhibited far greater intelligence this past hour than you have.”
Pete looked crushed.
“I'm not saying that you aren't smart,” Cabal assured him. “I'm saying that you must learn to fight smart. That piglet is just a simple barnyard beast, surely no better thinker than you. You are more intelligent and you're ten times his size, yet you were the one who surrendered. Do you know why?”
“I got tired,” Pete muttered defensively.
“Precisely. And now you know the secret to winning most any battle, Pete.”
He grunted in confusion, scratching his forehead. “The secret, milord?”
“Do you think 'tis always the strongest man who wins a fight?” Cabal asked. “Do you think 'tis the man possessing the greatest skill with a blade who always proves the champion?” When Pete looked pressed for an answer, Cabal shook his head. “Endurance, lad; that's the secret. You have to be able to pace yourself while you strive to tire your opponent. You have to be faster on your feet, anticipate his every move, and be ready to counter it, even before he strikes.”
Dubiously, Pete asked, “How?”
“The piglet had only his instincts with which to elude you,” Cabal pointed out. “He didn't have to see you to know you were coming; he could sense it. He could tell which way you were going to attack from the way you held your body, the way you shifted your weight when you were standing before him.”
“Mean ye, milord, that if I can learn to think like that little pig, I can be a good knight one day?”
“Well, instinct alone is no match for good training,” Cabal advised him. “But a truly great knight appreciates the value of both and will take care to hone his skills in equal measure.”
Pete glanced back to the grazing piglet. “May I try again, milord? I think I can do better now.”
“Give it your best.”
Pete stripped off his soiled tunic and tossed it to the ground, stalking toward the far edge of the pen. The piglet, munching on a clump of twigs and muddy grass, raised his head, velvety ears twitching in awareness of the returning intruder. This time, Pete's steps became more calculated the closer he got to his quarry. He loomed before the piglet, completely still. Then, without warning, he surged forward.
Pete's arms closed around empty air, while his curly-tailed prey ambled off with an exasperated oink.
“What are ye training here, Sir Cabal, a soldier or a swineherd?”
Taggart's gibe was answered by the taunting laughter of four other Fallonmour knights walking along at his side. Cabal turned to face the approaching men, trying not to grimace when he heard Pete take another graceless spill in the pigsty.
“What do you want, Taggart?”
“Why, nothin', lord. We heard ye was out here with Petey, and we was curious to see yer schooling put to action, is all.”
“Oh?” Cabal gave a sardonic lift of his brows. “In that case, stay as long as y
ou like. Mayhap you'll learn something.”
One of the men at Taggart's side choked back a guffaw; the others looked too stunned to utter a sound. For his part, Taggart seemed shocked as well, reddening to a shade of anger nearly as vivid as his scarlet tunic. “All I mean to learn is how loudly I can make yer peasant-warrior scream before I skewer him on my blade come two days hence.”
As if to punctuate Taggart's threat, a great complaining squeal rang in the pigsty, followed by Pete's exuberant shout of victory. “I did it! Milord, I got him!”
Cabal broke from the knight's slivered regard and glanced over his shoulder to the pigpen. Covered from head to toe in mud and dung, and grinning like an addle-pated farmhand, Pete stood in the center of the mire, clutching the squirming piglet by its hind legs and proudly holding it up for all to see. “Milord, did you see? I did it! I caught the wily little bastard!”
At Cabal's side, Taggart chuckled humorlessly. “Don't let us keep ye, lord. Yer swineherd awaits.” With a chortle, he nodded to his companions and the group moved off, back toward the practice yard of the front bailey.
Cabal watched the men saunter away, vaguely aware that Pete had released his quarry and now jogged across the pen to his side. “Is something amiss, milord? Have I displeased ye in some way?”
“No. 'Twas good work out there, Pete. I knew you could do it.”
Evidently, Pete could tell that his mentor's thoughts were yet on the retreating knights. “What did Taggart want?”
“Trouble,” Cabal answered. “And trouble we'll give him, in due time. What say you that we take our training elsewhere now, where we can work uninterrupted with the swords?”
Pete nodded enthusiastically, sending little clumps of dried mud flying from his hair.
“I think a bath in the river should be the first order of business for you,” Cabal told him as he led the malodorous youth out of the bailey.
