Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  As he watched, the rogues caught up with the girl. One of them called to her, and she turned. Duncan tugged his hat down over his forehead to watch unobserved. From beneath the wide brim and through a break in the crowd, he got a closer view of her face.

  His memory hadn’t done her justice. She was stunning. Her eyes, which he’d been unable to see clearly before, were as green and sparkling as a dewy spring meadow. And her hair—a man could lose himself in that glimmering cloak. A corner of his mouth curved up in an approving smile. Ah, his work could be so rewarding at times.

  Then he lowered his gaze. The girl clutched a small, swaddled bundle to her breast, cradling the tiny thing with utmost care.

  His smile wilted. The angel had a babe. One of the men he’d assumed was a troublemaker was likely the babe’s father.

  Damn. Duncan shook his head in disappointment. Why were men most attracted to what they couldn’t have? He let his eyes rove over her once again in regret, wondering what delights that fine dove-gray gown concealed.

  True, he mused wickedly while the three conversed, when he became lord, he could have whatever he wished, including the archaic droit de seigneur—the right to bed with whomever he chose of his vassals, married or not.

  Then he sighed in self-mockery. He’d sooner sleep on nails than lie with another man’s wife, particularly since he’d never lacked for the company of unmarried women. He stole one last appreciative look at those beautiful golden curls, and then turned to leave the woman to her husband’s protection.

  A clear, feminine shriek of protest jerked his head back around. Amid the masking noise of the fair, most of the passersby remained oblivious to the cry. But Duncan recognized the sound of a lady in distress.

  One of the villains had laid hands on his angel. The other grabbed at her infant, tearing the child from its mother’s arms.

  “What the…?” Outrage flooded Duncan’s veins. Scowling, he forced his way through the crowd, knocking aside a hapless peddler in his haste. While he apologized to the man, the two villains took flight.

  He nodded once to his angel, who stood in open-mouthed shock, but he dared not tarry. Justice had to be served. He strode after her attackers, counting on the authority of his voice to clear a path. He swept his cloak aside, reaching for his sword.

  And cursed.

  Beggars carried no swords. He was armed with only a dagger. With a sword, he could have easily dispatched the two knaves. With a dagger, the fight might prove a more even match.

  Linet watched in wonder as the dark beggar made his way through the crowd. Before, she’d suspected he was after her for some ill purpose. Now he was acting like her hero. But that was unlikely. In her experience, beggars didn’t normally go out of their way to help others.

  Perhaps he was counting on a hefty reward for his actions.

  She supposed she’d have to give it to him, as much as her father would have disapproved of her trafficking with his kind. After all, at the moment, the beggar appeared to be her only hope.

  She glanced at her towering rescuer again as he strode off. He looked more muscular in his snug woolen leggings and sheer linen tunic than she’d first noticed. His cloak swirled about him as he moved with the power and grace of a knight’s steed. His shoulders were broad, and something about those strong, capable hands clenched in determination made her heart flutter.

  She stared silently after him, until she realized he was disappearing from sight. Unwilling to be left behind, she picked up her hay-strewn skirts and scurried after her mysterious champion.

  Duncan squeezed his fists in frustration. He kept losing sight of the culprits. As Holden had warned him, Spanish reivers were as slippery as river eels. Following no particular code of honor, bearing no respect for the rules of chivalry, they’d just as soon stab a man in the back as face him in fair combat.

  Barreling past the stalls, Duncan caught only a glimpse now and then of the two abductors as they cast anxious glances over their shoulders.

  Then, abruptly, the stalls ended. Beyond sprawled a small meadow where spectators stood in a ring for a wrestling bout. The thieves had disappeared again, melting into the crowd. He scanned the circle, sharpening his gaze. Palming his dagger, he approached the ring with measured steps, studying each face he passed.

  Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to a spot across the circle. There, huddled within the inner ring, was his quarry. One scoundrel still gripped the infant. It would be a miracle if the child were unharmed, considering the rough care it was receiving. But the babe uttered not a peep. Perhaps the poor thing was killed already.

  Duncan shuddered. He couldn’t afford to believe that.

  Between him and the thieves were two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and covered with the mire of the meadow. Peasants and nobles alternately egged on and hurled insults at the fighters.

  Duncan focused on the Spaniards, waiting patiently for the best moment to strike. At last, one mud-covered giant of a wrestler flung the other into the muck, to the wild cheers of the crowd. In the ensuing melée, Duncan tossed aside his cloak and headed straight for his prey.

  Linet stopped to catch her breath, wincing at the slime that clung to her soft boots. When the cheer rose from the circle of spectators, she shoved her way to the fore of the ring. Once again, the village giant had overthrown a challenger from a neighboring town.

  But before the downed wrestler could rise, her champion—the intriguing, ebony-haired beggar—entered the ring, a dagger in his grip. Linet gasped.

  One of the scoundrels who’d accosted her spotted the beggar too and yelped like a kicked hound, backing out of the circle to flee. The other looked as if he might stand his ground, but then fear flickered across his face.

  For one moment, her rescuer’s eyes gleamed in triumph. Then his boot found a slippery patch of mud. His arms cartwheeled as he struggled to keep his balance. The villain, still clinging stubbornly to her bundle, seized the opportunity to escape, skittering sideways like a crab along the ring of peasants. The beggar’s other foot finally came down to steady him, but it, too, slid on the wet ground.

  Upended, he landed with a thud on his hindquarters, his fawn-colored hat dropping down askew over his forehead.

  Then, to her surprise, the beggar rolled over twice on his side, completely covering himself with mud, and came rapidly to his hands and knees before the villainous Spaniard, knife at the ready. She’d never seen a man move so quickly.

  The Spaniard squeaked as the beggar held the savage dagger just inches from his throat. With nowhere to go, the knave tossed up the precious bundle in surrender and fled.

  Time slowed as Linet looked on in horror.

  Duncan’s heart seized. He dropped the knife and dove forward, his arms outstretched to catch the babe before it fell. It seemed an eternity before his fingers contacted the soft blue of the babe’s swaddling. He willed the infant into the safety of his hands, twisting his body so he’d bear the brunt of the impact when they struck the earth.

  The ground surged up to meet him. He landed hard on his shoulder. A knot and a bruise would be there tomorrow. But the babe was safe in his arms. He’d come to the angel’s rescue.

  The angel rushed immediately to his side, bending over him. Though anxiety marred her delicate brow, the sun shone behind her head, haloing her like a heavenly apparition. When she spoke, her voice was warmer, earthier than he’d expected.

  “Ah, thank God,” she said, holding forth her lily-white hands for the bundle. “Let me see.”

  He gently offered the child to her.

  Linet hesitated. The beggar was unclean, covered with mud and probably infested with fleas. She wondered if she could take the bundle from him without touching those grimy fingers.

  Then she looked into his eyes. Their clear color, complemented by the blue wool he held aloft, startled her. They were the exact shade she’d been looking for all morning, the color of her cloth, the rare hue of sapphires and summer skies and cornflowers all blended into one
.

  She gave herself a mental shake. The man was a beggar, for heaven’s sake. Her father would’ve scolded her soundly for associating with his sort.

  Without further ado, she delicately pinched one corner of the bundled wool between a thumb and finger and shook it briskly from his grasp, unfurling it.

  Duncan’s breath caught in his throat. What was the woman doing? He reached out in shock to save the babe.

  “Hardly a mark on it!” she exclaimed. “Well, that’s amazing, considering the filthy fingers that have handled it.”

  He could only gape wordlessly. He didn’t even care that his false beard was drooping oddly on one side. Or that his heart was banging against his chest like a blacksmith’s mallet.

  The maid was absolutely mad.

  “This is the finest English wool you’ll ever see,” she confided, “woven in the Flemish style, colored with rare dye from Italy. Nowhere else could one find such a shade of blue…almost…nowhere else.” She was looking at him strangely. Then she shook her head abruptly, as if remembering herself, and her tone cooled. “But of course, you’d have no interest in that.” She fished in the leather pouch at her hip for a moment and drew forth a tiny coin. “For your trouble,” she explained, tossing the coin to the ground beside him.

  Apparently finished with him, she carefully rolled up her damned cloth and flashed him a curious smile. Nodding in farewell, she picked her dainty way back toward the stalls.

  CHAPTER 2

  For a moment, Duncan was paralyzed with fury. Then he scooped up the coin, shoved his dagger back into its sheath and scrambled to his knees.

  Damn his eyes, he’d made a fool of himself! Nay, he corrected, she’d made a fool of him. She’d let him risk life and limb for a mere piece of cloth. And furthermore, the townspeople, his townspeople, were making furtive sport of him, whispering and chortling behind their hands.

  Crawling to firmer ground, he at last found his footing and broke through the circle of spectators. Peering easily over the tops of the merchants’ heads, he glimpsed the maid bustling her way through the crowd, as carefree as a lark.

  Enraged, he pressed the coin she’d given him into a dirty urchin boy’s hand, and then took off after her. Men made way, pulling their mistresses aside as he stormed past.

  Oblivious to the chaos behind her, Linet strode happily toward Woolmaker’s Row, congratulating herself. Again, she’d emerged victorious, handling another messy situation with the grace of a lady.

  At least she felt graceful. Until her sleeve was suddenly enclosed in a grip as tight as an iron cuff and she was spun around with such force that she nearly lost her precious cloth again.

  His fierce cobalt gaze made her gasp. Never had such palpable rage been directed at her, not even from El Gallo’s beady black eyes.

  “Damosel,” the beggar bit out, “I believe you owe me something.”

  Her fear soured to disgust. She should have known. Men of the beggar’s ilk were never content. If you gave a peasant one coin, he’d only want another. She looked with distaste at the smudge of mud the man had left on her sleeve, and then sighed heavily.

  “I suppose one can’t expect chivalry from a beggar,” she smirked. “I gave you a farthing. And that’s all I intend to give you.”

  “A farthing!” the beggar roared, attracting the unwanted attention of several nearby merchants. Scowling furtively about, he lowered his voice. “I don’t want your coin.”

  She looked up into his stormy blue eyes, undaunted. He really was quite handsome for a peasant, she thought, or at least he might be under all that mud and without that scraggly…

  She frowned. Then she lifted a brow at him. “You’re sure you don’t want my coin? Not even to purchase a new beard?”

  The beggar’s fingers flew up reflexively to what remained of his false beard. When he discovered its bedraggled state, he ripped it fiercely from his face.

  Linet winced. It must have hurt. The man said a very bad word, throwing the beard into the dirt and grinding it under his heel as if it were a loathsome, hairy caterpillar.

  She couldn’t help the unladylike laugh that escaped her as she looked up at his mud-spattered face and the two flinty daggers of his eyes. His hat was nowhere to be seen, and his once lustrous black hair was now caked with drying slime. His cloak was missing, and there was a huge tear in the shoulder of his matted linen tunic. To her discomfiture, she could see the considerable muscle beneath it flex as he breathed.

  “Come with me,” he grumbled at her, since their combative discourse was beginning to attract attention.

  He paced off, clearly expecting her to follow. She stood her ground, regarding him with amused scorn. The man was apparently accustomed to being obeyed. Her stubborn refusal incensed him.

  Pressing his lips together in a nasty grimace, he turned and marched back to her. Then, with all the warning of a snake striking, he shot out his hand and snatched the precious wool from her, dangling the prize before her like an apple before a horse.

  “Nay!” she gasped, reaching in vain for the fine material.

  He kept it just out of her reach. “Come with me,” he repeated.

  She swore she’d see him rot in hell for this. It was on the tip of her tongue to scream for the authorities. But the last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of the other Guild members by wailing for help. Not now, not her first year as a femme sole.

  Muttering curses to herself, she accompanied him out of the marketplace and into the woods. Here, the sounds of the fair were muted, but Linet knew she could still scream for help as a last resort.

  “May I have my cloth now?” she asked as civilly as possible.

  “Not until I receive my due,” the beggar replied, slinging the wool carelessly over one muddy shoulder.

  She bit the inside of her cheek to check her temper. “I gave you a farthing,” she said tautly. “I’ll not give you more, you greedy rogue.”

  “I told you, I have no desire for your coin.”

  She forced her expression to remain calm. Dear God, if her father were alive to see her…

  “What sort of payment do you expect?” she asked, though she had a fair idea. He was a man, after all. But if he thought she’d let him put those massive, grimy hands of his on…

  He drew his broad frame up haughtily and dared to look down his nose at her. “An apology,” he stated matter-of-factly, “and a little gratitude.”

  “What?”

  He nodded. “You’ve made me look the fool. It’s an unbecoming thing in a lady. I risked my neck for the sake of your…your…”

  “My cloth,” she supplied, puzzled now. “Why did you risk your neck? Only a weaver or a dyer would know its value, and you’re clearly neither.”

  “You were holding it like an infant,” he accused.

  “An infant?” Mortified, she clasped one hand to her breast. Dear God, had he believed the bundle to be a babe? No wonder he’d gone to so much trouble, the poor fool. A babe!

  The corner of her lip twitched. A giggle escaped. And once begun, her laughter couldn’t be stopped. Each time she ventured a glance up at the beggar, who stared at her as if she were addled, his comical appearance spurred a fresh round of giggles. How the Guild would roar when she told them the tale of her wool’s “rescue”!

  The beggar apparently didn’t share her amusement. Calmly, deliberately, he raised his muddy hands and proceeded to wipe them on her pristine dove-gray skirts.

  She froze in mid-laugh, unable to assimilate what he’d done. There was a moment of stunned silence as their eyes met. Then the beggar’s eyes softened, crinkling at the corners, and he began to chuckle.

  It was a deep, rich, pleasant sound, as warm as mulled wine and smooth as sheared velvet. But that didn’t make it any more welcome. The knave had sullied her fine English worsted surcoat.

  After the initial shock wore off, Linet forced herself to smile, nodding her agreement that she deserved as much. She even began to laugh softly. Of co
urse, it was a ruse. She hadn’t survived in the merchant’s world by losing gracefully.

  Still smiling, she reached out and drew the dagger from his belt, raising the point of the blade up beneath his chin to put an instant halt to his gloating. With the other hand, she snatched back her cloth. There’d be time later to inspect it for damage. For now, she had to make her escape.

  “I’ve dealt with rogues before, beggar,” she warned him, though the tremor in her voice belied her words, “and I’m…quite skilled with a dagger.”

  It wasn’t exactly true. The extent of her talent with a blade was that she’d been able to shave her father without spilling a drop of blood, which was fortunate, since the sight of blood made her feel faint. But the truth wasn’t about to stop her from putting up a good bluff.

  Duncan was struck speechless. It took every bit of his willpower not to burst into delighted laughter. How he could have ever described this little imp as an angel he’d never know.

  Of course, he could’ve easily knocked the knife from her puny grasp. But if he did, he wouldn’t find out what she intended next, and that, more than anything, he wanted to know. The little spitfire fascinated him. She piqued his curiosity. He decided to play along with her.

  “Make no mistake,” she told him. “I thank you for your good deed, but I already paid you for it. I won’t apologize for making a fool of you. You were obviously one to begin with. Now, I have business to attend to, so I won’t linger. I’m sure someone will come along to free you soon enough.”

  Free you? Had she said free you? What the devil was she plotting?

  She cleared her throat as a blush stole up her cheek. “Now. Remove your tunic…slowly.”

  “Remove my—?” Just what did the maid intend?

  “Do it! I can throw a dagger and kill a man at twenty paces.”

  She probably could throw a dagger, he thought, but he doubted it would knock a fly from a wall. He hid a grin and pulled the tunic slowly over his head.