A Tavern Wench to Bed
Page 12
Unable to finish a sentence, she turned away.
Henry wrapped his arms around her. “You’ll be safe there.” He pulled her tight back against him.
“My father’s legacy is destroyed.” Her despondent tone crushed him.
“His legacy is you.” He kissed the side of her head. “His pride and joy could not have been any greater than having a daughter to teach all that he knew about dragons.”
“But I have nothing left. Nothing.”
“You have Charger.” He reminded her.
She turned her head and looked toward the top of the hill where he had left her dragon. Charger was not much more than a silhouette against the setting sun. What was he thinking?
“He put on a spectacular show of skill and agility. He commanded perfectly.” Henry added, wanting to give Sorcha some hope. “We won the event. You’ll have dragon knights lining up to have a dragon raised and trained by you. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”
“Not without a female for Charger to breed.”
“We’ll use one of Ware’s females. I need a new dragon trained for tournament. I’ll be your first customer.”
“It won’t work. It takes conditioning of the male for the rigors of mating. He wouldn’t be able to compete for three to six months. You shouldn’t have to wait that long. I want you to have Charger.”
“You’re not to blame for this, Sorcha.”
“I don’t want to discuss it any more.”
“Later then.” He scooped her up into his arms. “For now, I’m going to see to your safety.”
“I can’t leave.” She wiggled against him, trying to break free of his hold.
“And I say you’re not needed here.”
“My dragons need—” The screech of a dragon in pain took their attention away from arguing.
He stood Sorcha on her feet and rushed across the field. He unsheathed his knife again. “Turn away, milady.”
Stubborn as usual, she shook her head. He resisted the urge to argue. She knew what fate the dragon faced, and killing the animal swiftly was better than leaving it to die in pain.
Henry winced, a reflex following the insertion of his knife into the animal’s chest. The dragon had no energy to thrash. He simply breathed out a final puff of hot air that sounded like a sigh of relief.
When Henry looked to wipe his blade on his tunic again, he found Sorcha with a plan of her own. She lifted her skirt and ran the cloth down the steel in a smooth stroke. He didn’t like the blood staining her garment, but there was nothing to say about something already done.
She turned around, obviously surveying the carnage. Then she turned to him. “You know who did this.”
“We don’t know that any Tulanes were part of this.”
“See, I didn’t even have to say a name and you said the very one I’m thinking.”
“Reven was competing against me when it happened.”
“You know as well as I do, he or his brother wouldn’t do their own dirty work. They’d threaten, coerce or pay someone else.”
Henry took her arm. “You’re leaving.”
“The dragons. They have to be taken care of.”
Henry glanced at the villagers wandering around the site. “You men,” he pointed to two he knew from the tavern. “Burn these dragons where they lie.”
“I’m going to stay until it’s done.” Sorcha jerked free of his grasp.
“No, you’re going with me. The shock of this devastation is too much for you to have to bear any longer.”
“I’m staying, Sir Henry.”
“I said you were going, and I’ll not take any argument.”
“Unhand me, Sir Henry. Don’t let past intimacies fool you into believing you have a say over my life.”
“I’m so not taken in by your wiles that I’d let you dictate to me, either. By the power of my knighthood, you, my fair wench are under my protection whether you like it or not.”
“You’re going after the men that did this. I knew it. Admit it. You do think it was the Tulanes.”
“Reven had no way of knowing he’d lose the tournament, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t upset that I won you. And his brother has always had a big influence on Reven’s actions. I don’t know if it’s he’s afraid of him, or desperate to please him. Uther is more like their father than Reven. Perhaps, Reven feels inferior and thinks doing as his brother says will be proof he is not.”
“Men,” she scoffed with a snort of disgust. “You’ll do whatever it takes to get your will, but a woman’s will is an outrageous concept.”
Henry reached for Sorcha’s arm.
“No,” she spun away from him, a defiant gleam in her eye.
No maneuvers in his dragon fighting repertoire availed to grab her. She ran, forcing him to pursue. He pushed to catch her. Without breaking stride, he snatched her up.
“Put me down.” She kicked and thrashed. “Henry, please.”
He carried her toward Charger, the last of her dragons.
“Henry, look.” She pointed to the ground.
“You think an old trick like that will distract me?”
“Henry, let me down. There’s something on the ground.” She kicked again, and he lost his grip.
She twisted, landed on her feet and bent down.
“What is it?” He stooped and took the sword cross from her hand.
“It’s Sir Reven’s. I’ve seen him wearing it,” Sorcha said.
Henry turned it over in his hand. “He does, but so does his brother.”
“I’ve never see Lord Uther with one.”
“Their father gave them each one, a symbol of unity between brothers. As long as I can remember, Rev and Uther have worn them.”
“Then let’s go find out who is missing theirs.” She marched over to Charger and climbed on.
He got up behind her. “You’re going to Pembroke. I’ll deal with the Tulanes.”
“No. I want to hear for myself why he had my dragons killed.”
“I’ll accept no argument.”
“You are a brute, Sir Henry.” She sat on the saddle in front of him.
“And you like me for it. Now sit still. Charger doesn’t need to be here amidst all this death of his breed.”
The moonlight let him see Sorcha’s expression, her watery eyes, the plumage of her dark lashes fluttering, tears welling at the corners. She looked ghostly. He touched her cheek, gliding his fingertips down her cool, satiny soft skin. She was delicate boned, almost fragile and he’d been too harsh. The death of his dragon, a loyal creature if ever there was one, hit him harder than ever, now that he had time to think. Sorcha had to feel it ten times over.
He slid his hand around her head and encouraged her close. She leaned and buried her face against his neck. He nudged Charger to go, and as they rose into the sky. Sorcha’s arms folded around him. Shudders rattled her, accompanied by muted sobs. Her tears wet through his tunic and shirt. He circled, confirming the fires were set as he ordered. The smell of charring animal flesh rose to him. Sorcha looked below without speaking. Then she laid her head back against his shoulder and tightened her hold around him.
He guided the dragon for home. It seemed the best place to take Sorcha to keep her safe. They rode in complete silence. Except for the gentle whoosh of dragon wings flapping gracefully, not another sound interrupted the air of peace.
At the castle, Sorcha sat up, instinctively giving him the proper room to steer the dragon to Earth. He rushed the animal to get to the ground and they landed with a slight jolt.
He lowered Sorcha down. “Stay here,” he told her.
“Where are you going?” She looked up at him, teary-eyed, and he realized she’d been weeping silently all along.
As Thomas ran out to greet them, Henry continued for his hearing, too, “You have the freedom of the castle. My servants will do your bidding. You can stay inside or out, at long as you don’t wander too far. But I expect to find you here when I return, Sorcha.”
“You’ll stay put?” he asked, hoping for confirmation.
“Come inside for moment.” She walked away from him.
He dismounted Charger. “Sorcha, answer me. Tell me you’ll stay put.”
She climbed the steps to the castle’s entrance. Thomas hurried past her and opened the tall wooden door. She entered his home with an air of nobility. No tavern wench he’d ever met was as brazen, and he had to admit to himself how much he enjoyed that. Stopping in the great hall, she looked straight at Thomas and the other servants.
“Bring me clean rags and a basin of water,” she ordered. “Sit, Sir Henry. Let me clean the wound on your head.”
He reached up and felt the sore spot where Reven’s lance had whacked him in the head. When he lowered his hand, he looked at the dried flakes of blood. “It’s nothing.”
“I’ll see for myself,” she said.
“Milady, here are the items you requested,” Thomas said returning.
“Thank you. Please set them on the table and leave us.” She moved to the table.
Henry propped his hands on his hips in amazement. Thomas had not glanced at him at all. When he said his servants would do her bidding, he hadn’t meant for Thomas to ignore his presence.
“Sir Henry, if you please.” Sorcha motioned to the chair.
“This can wait until I’ve seen to the dragons.” But he sat down.
“They’re dead, Henry. There’s nothing to be done for them that can’t wait. You on the other hand have a cut that could become infected if not cleaned.”
She wet a cloth and gently washed the side of his head. Her hands trembled.
He reached up over his shoulder, grabbed her wrist and pulled her around in front of him. She stood face to face, eye level, beautifully positioned to kiss. He need only draw her between his open legs and press his mouth to hers.
“Let me finish,” she said.
“And after, you’ll stay here as I asked?”
She looked down and wiped at the dried blood on her dress. “Thomas?” she called out.
“Sorcha, promise me you’ll stay here.” Henry demanded an answer.
Thomas appeared.
“Would you and Metta prepare me a bath and find me something clean to wear?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Sorcha, are you going to stay put?” Henry asked again, not liking she hadn’t answered.
“Did you not hear me ask to have a bath prepared? I’m not fit to go anywhere. All I want is to take off this bloodstained dress and bathe.” She moved back around him and resumed wiping and dabbing at his skull.
He flinched when she probed the tenderness of the open wound.
“You have to be still, Henry.” She pressed the wet cloth harder, stinging him on purpose, he suspected.
“Ouch,” he grumbled and reached up to stop her, but she swatted his hand away.
He clenched his jaw and let her finish.
Then, he got up and took her wet hands in his. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Have your bath and get some rest.”
Sorcha headed for the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder at him, giving him more of her rebellious glare, proving he was right—she thought him an overbearing lout. There was nothing he could do now to sooth her ruffled temperament. He hoped her bath calmed her by the time he returned.
Chapter Nine
The castle wasn’t as intimidating to Sorcha this second visit. Servants of the keep, guards of the fortress, and tenants of the lands were all there to protect the Pembrokes’ domain. She felt safe within those thick walls, surrounded by loyalty.
While Thomas fixed her bath, she went to the dining hall. By the fireplace again, she stood looking up at the aged tapestry. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself remembering the connection she felt to Henry when he told her about his mother. Her heart ached for him.
Curious about his family, she walked back across the spacious foyer. Her shoes tapped against the big stone slabs of the flooring and echoed in the spacious rooms. The solitary sound chilled her. A fragment of loneliness gave her an understanding of what Henry must feel in the castle that had once housed him and his family.
She reentered the great hall. This was an important room, the place war councils were held and treaties were drawn up. Marriages were arranged here, and tenancies of the land discussed. Along the walls hung portraits of past residents, the lords and ladies of Pembroke Castle. She strolled to the far end of the room and stared up at the painting of Henry’s mother, Lady Gwyneth Pembroke. The artist had captured her warmth and kindness, and her great beauty. This was not an image of a woman that had betrayed her husband, not with that smile and those loving eyes.
“I swear to you, Lady Gwyneth, I will do all I can to protect him for you.” She turned from the portrait with tears in her eyes.
“Milady,” your bath is ready.” Thomas announced from the doorway.
“I shan’t have need of it.” She hurried past him, out of the castle and across the bailey court.
She ran through the castle’s gate and across the drawbridge. Looking south, she estimated how far away the field of Pembroke dragons lay. Over the first rise and halfway up the next valley. Too long to walk. She rushed back to the stables. Without asking, she grabbed a bridle, and opened the first stall she came to. Leaving the stall door open, she bridled the horse and swung up on his bare back. A servant shouted for her to stop, but she ignored him. She rode like the wind over the bridge, down the hill, along the valley, and to the top of the next rise.
Six female dragons grazed contently on the slope. She jumped off the back of the horse and began walking cautiously toward the closest one. Slowly she approached, knowing the animal watched her suspiciously.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing, beautiful coloring, sturdy straight legs. Sir Ware must be proud of you.”
The dragon lifted her head, eyeing her.
“I should like to ride you if you don’t mind,” she said in a soothing voice. “I have to. . . . We have to help Sir Henry. His mother would never approve of me letting her youngest son get hurt.”
The dragon’s eyes widened taking on a sympathetic expression. However, her nostrils flared and her neck scales fanned up slightly.
“There’s nothing to be concerned with girl. I’ll be as gentle a rider as you’ve ever had. I don’t have on any armor and I don’t weigh anywhere near what a knight does.” Sorcha moved forward. She watched for defensive signs, making cautious steps. Without a twitch of her head, the dragon spun, sweeping her long tail around.
Skilled with such reactions, Sorcha dove over the tip and rolled. She got to her feet quickly, anticipating another sly maneuver.
“I’m not that easily surprised,” she informed the dragon, moving in closer.
The dragon answered with a snort.
“Please,” she held out her hand. “I have to get to Sir Henry.”
The dragon’s big dark lashes dropped down and then lifted halfway. Her tranquil gaze shifted to the lush grass. She gave Sorcha another look and then bowed her head and resumed grazing.
“Aren’t you the persnickety one,” Sorcha shook her head in amusement.
She had only seen it a few times in her life, a dragon that preferred to be mounted on the right. She neared from that side, remaining alert. Then she took hold of the reins and gave the commanding tug for the dragon to lower.
“Good girl. That’s all you needed from me, wasn’t it? Just to do things in the proper manner.”
The dragon turned her head, gave a cordial glance and went down on her knees.
Sorcha tucked her fingers under a thick scale and used it to hoist herself onto the dragon. Since there was no saddle, she seated herself comfortably in the swell of the dragon’s back.
“Now let’s just see how well
you’ve been trained to carry a rider bareback,” she said calmly and nudged the mare in the side. “Up.”
The dragon looked her way, unmoving.
“Maybe you’re not used to a feminine tone or a gentle kick of my heels.” She kicked harder and growled the command again with a deeper voice. “Up.”
Instantly, the dragon moved forward.
“What a good girl,” she praised.
She leaned forward and hooked her fingers over the edges of the wither scales to keep herself low and close to the animal. They trotted a few paces and took off in a smooth motion as if the animal floated off the ground. Sailing over the lush pastures, they circled Pembroke castle. She then steered the dragon toward Tregarth.
She thought about Henry as she encouraged the dragon to fly faster. She’d made a promise to Lady Gwyneth’s portrait. That meant she had to push the dragon to move swiftly, and the best way to do that was to keep the dragon low, hugging the terrain. Close objects like trees and buildings made dragons nervous and they reacted by flying quicker past them.
“Easy girl, keep your feet tucked up.” She patted the dragon’s neck, soothing the animal with gentle commands. “Head down. We haven’t much farther.”
When she neared Tregarth, she watched the sky for competitors. Bringing a third dragon into the gaming field was looking for trouble. If any were stallions, having a female would be disastrous.
“We’ve arrived between matches, or else the tournament is over,” she said, and then ordered, “Land.”
While the dragon should stay where she left her, she decided not to take a chance of losing one of Sir Ware’s prized breeders. She led the dragon to a corral far from other dragons. Then she ran toward the village to find Henry.
Sir Reven came across the tournament field. His cocky strut showed arrogance. Had he and Henry already had a fight? No. He looked too refreshed. His clothes hung neatly on his frame and his face showed no signs of fresh cuts or bruises.
“What is this?” He held his arms out, hands open, palms up in question. “No Sir Henry tagging along, hanging on your skirts, milady?”