by Lara Adrian
The instant he got to his feet, Emmalyn scrambled aside, wanting to run but having strength enough only to cower on the other side of the huge wool sack, hoping to remain hidden from whatever danger had just been unleashed on the thieves in the barn. Shielding her eyes, she waited in terror, trying to blot out the awful sounds of the violence taking place a few paces from where she sat trembling. She heard a gruff voice bite off an oath, followed by a sharp cry, then the sickening crack of breaking bones.
The barn fell into an instant utter silence, save for her own hitching sobs...and the rasping breath of the sole survivor of the carnage. Footsteps approached her hiding place but she could not bear to open her eyes and face this new menace. Shaking, sobbing, the rope bindings cutting into her wrists, she waited for fate's merciless decree.
“Emmalyn.” The deep voice was an instant balm to her rattled nerves, the sound of her name beginning to clear away some of the haze that had settled over her senses. “Emmalyn, say something. Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
Slowly, afraid to trust her ears, she looked up and opened her eyes, blinking into the darkness. She knew the figure of the man standing before her the way she knew her own shadow. “Cabal,” she gasped, dragging herself off the ground and allowing him to catch her in his solid embrace. “Oh, Cabal! They were trying to steal the wool! They said Arlo hired them, just as you thought. I only meant to stop them but they--” she could not finish, choking on a sob as he cut away her bindings and threw them aside. “Oh, Cabal! I was so frightened!”
He shushed her with gentle, soothing words as he pulled her away from him. His tunic was covered in dark sticky stains. Even his face--the kind, handsome face she loved so much--was splattered with a metallic-smelling slickness. “You're bleeding,” she said with mounting alarm, all thoughts for her own state of harm vanishing under a sudden crush of concern for him. She reached up to wipe at the ugly wetness that marred his cheek. “Oh, God, you're bleeding!”
“No,” he murmured, catching her hand in his. He shook his head, pressing her fingers to his lips. “No, Emmalyn, I'm not bleeding.”
“You are,” she insisted, shakily. “I can see it. 'Tis all over you!”
“No, not my blood. Theirs, not mine.”
And then her gaze was drawn behind him, to the four dead bodies lying scattered and broken on the barn floor. One man had fallen on a bale of wool; the stark contrast of his black-dark blood and the fluffy white fleece making Emmalyn fully conscious of her surroundings. Her stomach threatened to revolt when her mind finally began to acknowledge the awful events that had just transpired--to say nothing of what she might have been made to endure.
As if she needed further clarification of the night's shocking atrocities, a group of villeins appeared in the open doorway to the barn, their torches throwing light within and illuminating the grim scene in vivid color. Sir Miles rushed to the fore of the small clutch of folk, drawing in his breath when his eyes lit on the both of them.
“Lady Emmalyn! Sir Cabal! What happened in here?”
The captain was followed by a flurry of fretful questions, everyone inquiring at once after their lady's welfare and the meaning of the bloody havoc wreaked in the barn. “The thieves decided to come back, evidently,” Cabal answered with utter calm, totally in command of the situation. “Everything is all right now. Your lady is safe, and I warrant there will be no more trouble from these brigands.”
Emmalyn was grateful that he chose not to divulge the circumstances of her humiliating attack, grateful as well for the protective shelter of his arm as he wrapped it around her shoulders and led her out of the corner of the barn and toward the door. He seemed to take care to walk beside her, matching her steps, his body blocking her further view of the damage he had wrought on the robbers.
Once outside, he turned to Sir Miles. “Have you seen Wat about?”
“He was at the cook fire with some of the other lads just a moment ago.”
“Good. Keep him away from here; 'tis bad enough he will have to be told what happened. I don't want him to see it for himself.” Miles nodded and Cabal continued. “Make sure the shed is put back in order yet tonight, and tell the reeve to have the rest of the wool sacked for market first thing in the morn. I'm going to see Lady Emmalyn back to the castle.”
Chapter 19
The castle and surrounding courtyard stood quiet when Cabal escorted Emmalyn through the barbican gates, she leaning heavily on his strong arm. Only the few guards who had remained on watch were there to see their lady's ashen face as she trod weakly into the bailey alongside the bloodied grim knight. He met their concern with the same calm he had shown the rest of the folk, wasting no time on explanations, his focus centered wholly on Emmalyn's current welfare and seeing after her comfort.
“Bring Lady Emmalyn a cup of wine,” he told a maid who had come out of the hall when they entered the keep. “Heat a bowl of water for her as well and deliver it to her chamber at once.”
The maid stared for a moment at his ruined clothing, clearly unsure what to make of his frightful appearance, but, without a word, she bobbed her head and dashed off to carry out the order. His arm gentle and steadying against Emmalyn's back, Cabal guided her to the stairwell.
“Thank you,” she said, turning toward her tender protector. She was scarcely able to resist the urge to lovingly cradle his grizzled cheek in her palm. Instead she wrapped her arms one over the other and tried to fight off a chill that permeated her bone-deep. “It hardly seems enough merely to tell you how grateful I am that you were there,” she told him, her thready voice belying her inner shakiness.
“'Tis more than enough for me, my lady.”
“No.” Emmalyn shook her head, indebted beyond explanation and unwilling to let him discount this further act of valor performed on her behalf. “You risked your life for me tonight. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come when you did.”
But she did know, she realized, her chest still constricted with fear at the thought of the horrors she had been spared. An involuntary shudder coursed through her, and from the corners of her eyes, her vision began to cloud over. She braced her fingers against her temple and tried to blink away the queer and spreading haziness.
“Come,” Cabal prodded gently. “Let us get you abovestairs, my lady. You need to lie down and rest awhile.”
Emmalyn started to protest his further care, but as she moved to take the first step, her legs suddenly began to buckle beneath her. Before she knew it, Cabal had swept her up into his arms.
“Cabal, please,” Emmalyn said on a weak breath. “You do not have to do this for me.” But she clung to his strength just the same, needing him despite her desire to be sound and able on her own. Wrapping her arms around the warm, solid column of his neck, she nestled her cheek against his shoulder as he carried her easily up the stairs and into her chamber.
The room was dark, save for the distant glow of the village bonfires and a pale wash of moonlight coming in through the open window. Cabal crossed the floor, bringing Emmalyn to her bed and setting her softly upon the mattress. Using the flint that lay on a table at her bedside, he lit a tallow candle then reached around her to plump the feather bolsters at her back.
“Is that better?” he asked as he loosened the coverlet and brought it up over her body, securing her within the warm, woolen cocoon. Emmalyn nodded. “You're still shaking,” he said, his voice edged with concern and something less easy to discern.
When the maid came in a moment later bearing the wine and basin of water that Cabal had ordered, he directed her to set them down beside him, then dismissed the girl with idly murmured thanks while he brought the cup to Emmalyn's lips and bade her drink of it. The wine warmed and soothed her almost immediately, though no more than Cabal's continued gentle treatment.
Emmalyn watched him tend her in the wavering light of the single candle, astonished at the compassion she saw etched in his features, the tender care evident in this warrior's every
touch and movement. He dipped the swatch of linen into the water and wrung it out, gingerly applying its warmth to her brow. Emmalyn studied his face, noting the gentleness in his eyes, the sympathy softening the blunt line of his mouth.
His hands were still stained from the confrontation with the robbers; his face marred with blood and bruises, streaked with sweat and grime. If she had not seen it with her own eyes, it would have been difficult to believe him capable of the swift violence she had witnessed this eve. He had seemed so chillingly efficient with the brigands, so detached from himself. Four men dead at the end of his blade and he left standing among them with nary a scrape nor any reaction whatsoever to the deed. The hauntedness she had seen in his eyes then in the barn was yet evident in his gaze, though even that was dissipating the longer he sat at her side.
Emmalyn looked up at him--this fighting man that she was somehow falling in love with--wanting so badly to understand him. That his life had been spent in violence should have repelled her, and in some small way it verily did, but more than any fear or revulsion she held for what he might have done in his past, Emmalyn found she was instead compelled to know him better. She needed to know what he was feeling, where he had been. Hesitantly, she asked, “Have you...killed many men?”
At first he didn't answer. He dabbed at her abrasions then met her gaze as if he had to force himself to do so. “More than I care to remember.”
“And it does not bother you?”
He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, but rather a harsh, bitter-sounding laugh. “It used to, I suppose, a long time ago. I've seen too much death and killing to give it much thought anymore.” His expression became stony. “What bothers me is that you had to see it. Would that I could cleanse it from your memory.”
Her heart squeezing with affection, Emmalyn tried to adopt a light tone, hoping to ease some of the somberness she saw in him. “Do you think it now your responsibility to shield me from every unpleasant facet of life, my lord?”
“There are times, my lady, when I want nothing more in this world than to do just that.”
The intensity of both his voice and his gaze nearly swept all the breath from her lungs. Emmalyn stared at him unblinking, unable to say a word, unable to look away. She was afraid to suppose what he may have meant, unwilling to hope that she might have come to mean something to him in their short time together. She parted her lips, nearly at the brink of confessing the breadth of her own confusing, steadily growing feelings for him, when the heavy pound of approaching footsteps sounded on the plank flooring outside the chamber door.
The oak panel swung wide as Bertie rushed in, frantic, and clearly having not given a thought to pause and first announce herself. “Milady! Oh, my dear, dear child! I just heard what happened in the village! I hadn't even been aware that you had come down to the festival! Are you all right? Were you hurt? Can I do anything for you...” The nurse's panic-stricken voice faded off to nothingness as her wild eyes settled on the knight perched at Emmalyn's bedside.
“'Tis all right, Bertie. I am fine.” Emmalyn was surprised she was able to find her voice, let alone make it sound so calm. “My nerves are a bit rattled, but I am for the most part unharmed, thanks to Cabal. He came to my aid with the brigands and has since been personally seeing to my welfare. Quite admirably, at that.”
Cabal cleared his throat and made to rise. “Perhaps now that your maid is here, you would be more comfortable if I left you in her care--”
“No.” Emmalyn's answer was swift, her hand reaching out as if of its own accord to catch his fingers before he could leave her side. “Please, stay,” she said, softer this time, lest she belie her desperation to be near him longer, even if it should be for just a little while more.
He looked surprised at her request, and perhaps a bit reluctant to oblige, but he nodded and remained standing beside her.
“As you will, milady,” Bertie said, glancing at the two of them for a long moment.
Once the door had closed behind the maid's retreating figure, Cabal turned back to regard Emmalyn with intense, searching eyes. “Why would you want me to stay with you any longer after all that has occurred this eve? Indeed, after all that has occurred since I came here.”
“Because,” she answered simply, “I feel safe with you.”
He took his place on the edge of the bed once more, but a long moment passed before he spoke. “This was my fault.”
“No,” Emmalyn whispered, shaking her head. “How could you possibly be to blame for any of this? You saved my life.”
“Only after my actions put it in jeopardy.” His voice was bitter as he retrieved the cloth and pressed it gingerly to her brow. “If I hadn't been such a...beast...down there at the festival, you would have had no reason to run off alone.”
“I ran because I was frightened,” she admitted quietly.
When he cursed under his breath and hung his head, Emmalyn reached for his hand, the gesture drawing his gaze back to her. Something about his present apparent vulnerability lent her a measure of strength. She did not want him to hurt, or blame himself, even if it meant exposing a bit of her fragile heart to him now. “I was not frightened of you, Cabal, but of myself. I was afraid of the way you make me feel.”
For a beat that stretched into an eternity, he stared at her, saying nothing. “And now?”
“I am still afraid.”
At her breathless confession, Cabal smiled wistfully as if weathering some inner, untold pain. “I could never hurt you,” he said, his intense whisper sounding so like a fervent, lover's vow. A vow that Emmalyn wanted more than anything to believe.
He leaned forward then, reaching out to cup her face in his palm. As he did so, the candlelight played over his dark skin and spilled between his fingers, illuminating the bloodstains and abrasions that riddled his hand. He saw the grim reminder of the night's events at much the same time Emmalyn did. He swore an angry, guttural oath, and instead of touching her as she so wanted him to do, he abruptly drew his hand away, attempting to conceal it from her further view.
But Emmalyn stretched her arm out to him, tenderly placing her hand over his. She rose up off the mattress and retrieved the damp cloth from beside the wash basin, then uncurled his tight fist. With gentle strokes, she wiped the ugly stains from his fingers, swept clean his callused palm. “You've done so much for me this eve,” she told him softly, “'tis only fair that I tend to you in return, my lord.”
She could feel his eyes on her as she carefully washed his other hand. When he spoke, his voice was heavy, reflective. “In Palestine, my hands were so bloody at the end of each day, no amount of scrubbing would make them clean. So often I think that's all they are good for, even now...killing, destruction.”
“No. You mustn't think that, Cabal. Not when you have done so much good around here. Not when you have done so much for me. Don't believe yourself a monster. I don't believe it.”
His answering chuckle caught in the back of his throat, a strained, grating sound. “No? Mayhap you would be less inclined to defend me if you knew everything I have done...”
“It does not matter,” she whispered, reaching out and grasping his thick, strong fingers, curling her hand around his. She brought his palm to her lips and pressed a kiss against the roughened skin at its center. “I don't care if you have killed a thousand men in battle. None of that matters to me. Not now.”
He stared at their entwined fingers, scowling. A queerly distant look washed over his features, hardening the line of his jaw. “Emmalyn, if I spend another moment in this chamber with you, I will not want to leave at all.”
There was an edge of warning in his tightly reined voice, but Emmalyn felt not even the smallest tremor of apprehension for what she was about to invite. Wordlessly, she rinsed out the cloth and brought it up to his face, using the pretense of washing away the grime of battle as an excuse to touch him. Her gaze locked on his, she stroked the linen swatch down the sharp slope of his stubbled cheek, then skimmed it a
cross his broad, furrowed brow, scarcely able to breathe for the smoldering look in his eyes.
Cabal's own breath leaked out of him on a harsh groan when Emmalyn let her hand caress the other side of his face, her touch lingering against his skin. “Please, Emmalyn,” he growled. “Tell me to go.”
But she would tell him no such thing. Instead, with trembling fingers, she set aside her cloth and quietly took his hand, bringing it to her mouth, pausing to kiss his bruised, abraded knuckles. He watched her through hooded eyes, his jaw clenched, as she then placed his hand over her breast in silent invitation. Her heart was racing under the weight of his warm palm, pounding with anticipation and longing for this gentle warrior at her side.
From some distant corner of her mind she heard the warning that this was far more dangerous than anything she had ever known with Garrett. If she was wrong about Cabal, wrong to entrust him with this gift of herself, her soul would never recover, but she did not care. All she knew--all that mattered--was this moment. All she needed was this night. All she wanted was Cabal. She would take whatever he was able to give her and if her heart broke for her folly in these next few hours, then so be it.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice gravelly, constricted. “After everything that has happened tonight--”
“After everything that's happened, I just want to feel safe...”
“With me?”
Emmalyn nodded once, squeezing his hand beneath hers. “I haven't been with a man since...” She broke off, wincing in light of painful memories, suddenly reminded of her woeful relations with Garrett. “It has been a long time,” she confessed, “and I'm afraid I'm not a very skilled lover.”
Smiling, Cabal leaned forward to brush a wisp of hair from her brow. “It has been a long time for me as well, my lady.” He bent down, pressing his lips to hers in a chaste, gentle kiss, even though his eyes fairly smoldered, heavy-lidded and dark with passion's fire. His fingers shook as he traced the line of her jaw. “God's bones, what you do to me, Emmalyn. I become like a fumbling, lovesick youth whenever I'm near you. I've never known this desire.”
