Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Here,” she bit out, shoving the cloth at him.

  The knave had the audacity to inspect the fabric, as if he would’ve known the difference between fine worsted and Kendal cloth.

  “Anything else?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  He tucked the fabric beneath his cloak, brushing it with annoying intimacy against the bare skin of his chest.

  “As a matter of fact, aye,” he replied, drawing himself up to his full imposing height before her.

  She felt suddenly overwhelmed. His presence dominated the room, and she regretted her hastiness in dropping the dagger out the window.

  “I intend to offer you my services for the duration of the fair,” he told her.

  “Your…services?” Her voice sounded high and brittle in her ears. She didn’t want to think about the pictures his words had just conjured up. His speech was innocuous enough, but somehow his body was imparting another message altogether.

  “You need me,” he murmured.

  Her breath froze in her throat. She must have heard him wrong. To her chagrin, another flush stole up her cheeks.

  “You shouldn’t be out alone,” he told her, folding his arms decisively. “I fear those two knaves in the marketplace haven’t finished with you. I’m offering you my protection.”

  “Protection.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, wrinkling his brow in concern. “A prosperous merchant like you is at great risk from thieves.” He shrugged. “And a poor beggar like me could use a spare farthing or two for a good day’s labor, keeping them at bay.”

  Linet could only stare at him. His smoky, sapphire eyes and that deep triangle of his chest were making it difficult to concentrate. “I can manage well enough on my own,” she choked out at last, irritated with herself and eager to distract him.

  “Keep me in food and clothing, and you can even defer paying my wage until you’ve sold the season’s goods,” he offered.

  “Nay, I—“

  “I insist,” he said in a voice that, while soft, brooked no argument.

  She wasn’t about to enlist the services of this too proud, too smooth, too smug commoner who wore a fake beard. He was as suspect as rotten cod. He’d probably cause more trouble than he’d prevent. She didn’t need a guardian. Harold was protection enough. She’d simply tell him so.

  She glanced up at the dark beggar again and noted the firm, stubborn line of his jaw. Somehow he didn’t look like the sort of man to do a woman’s bidding. She supposed she’d have to use her merchant’s wits.

  “You think you can protect me from thieves?” she asked, pretending to consider his offer.

  He spoke solemnly. “You may rest assured.”

  “And you have experience in this?”

  “My dagger has tasted the blood of many a varlet.”

  “So you can singlehandedly defend me from two, three, four attackers?”

  “Aye,” he said with easy confidence.

  “Then let’s put it to the test,” she told him, linking her arm through her basket of wool. “Guards!” she cried. “Help! Guards!”

  The beggar flinched, and his right hand went reflexively to his belt. It came up empty. He had one brief moment to glare at her in baffled accusation. Then the solar door burst open beneath the shoulders of two de Ware knights.

  CHAPTER 3

  Robert and Garth leaped into the room. Their bright new swords, already drawn, flashed in the sunlight as the oak door banged against the outer wall, sending a puff of dust into the pregnant air. They glanced in confusion back and forth from Duncan to the wool merchant, awaiting an explanation.

  “Well?” Linet asked, eyeing Duncan expectantly.

  So this was her game, he thought, narrowing his eyes. She wanted him to prove his skill. Very well, he decided, dropping the length of woaded wool and tossing off the cloak—he would oblige her. Weaponless, he slowly turned to his brother and his best friend. He crouched like a wolf about to spring. Then he winked at them.

  Garth was accustomed to maintaining a sober expression in the face of his brother’s wiles. Robert was not. He smothered a laugh, clearing his throat importantly.

  “Do you require assistance?” Robert asked Linet.

  “Yes. This man has gained entry here without the consent of Lady Alyce.”

  “I see,” Robert nodded, tapping his thumb on the hilt of his sword.

  “Come on!” Duncan goaded them with a snarl, a feral gleam in his eyes. “Come on and fight!”

  “It would hardly be a fair fight,” Garth remarked. “You’re unarmed.”

  “No matter!” Duncan recklessly declared. “I can best you both!”

  Robert and Garth exchanged quick looks that indicated otherwise. It was clear that even the best swordsman alive, without a weapon of any sort, against two armed guards who were also his bosom companions, didn’t have a prayer.

  “Don’t…hurt him,” Linet requested, studiously avoiding his eyes. She collected up her basket and made her way to the door. “He’s fairly harmless. Just make certain he doesn’t follow me, please.”

  Robert, the traitor, decided in a moment of mischief to side with his antagonist. “As you desire, my lady,” he bobbed, flicking the point of his sword up to touch the tip of Duncan’s chin.

  Duncan shot Robert a clandestine look that would’ve singed his friend’s brows had Robert not been so highly amused by the whole affair.

  Damn their betraying hides, there was nothing he could do. He was trapped in his own disguise, and it was apparent that his companions weren’t about to rescue him. Robert was deriving far too much enjoyment from having his blade poised at Duncan’s throat.

  Curse the wench! She’d bested him again, coolly and completely humiliated him without a hint of remorse. Where was her gratitude? Where was the appropriate awe he always inspired in the gentler sex? He’d nobly offered her his sword arm, and she’d hurled his own gauntlet back in his face. Fairly harmless she’d called him. She hadn’t wanted to test his mettle at all. She’d simply wanted to be rid of him. And the little princess hadn’t given him a second thought as she smugly made her way out of the room.

  The instant the door closed behind her, Duncan hissed out an expletive that startled Garth. “Put up your swords, both of you!” he snarled.

  They sheathed their blades, but Robert remained undaunted, his eyes dancing merrily. “Well, we have fodder for the jongleurs now, don’t we, Garth?” he teased. “A woman has fled Duncan’s side. Perhaps she’s daft, touched by the moon, eh?”

  “Cease!” Duncan thundered.

  He paced across the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, drawn to the window every few moments as he checked for the girl’s departure. A glint of metal from the sward below caught his eye. Before he could blink, a scrawny peasant lad scooped up Duncan’s discarded dagger, furtively tucking it into his jerkin. Duncan opened his mouth to protest, then merely kicked the wall in frustration instead and resumed his pacing.

  “The fool wench wants to be rid of me,” he muttered. “By all rights, I should oblige her. She’s laid out her own damned pallet, so let her sleep in it. If she wants to risk life and limb for a pile of wool, what concern is it of mine? If she wishes to tempt fate by…by flaunting her power in front of the most notorious sea reiver in all of Spain…” He stopped in his tracks. God’s wounds—what was he saying?

  He couldn’t let her go back to the fair alone. It was a de Ware’s duty to protect ladies. He’d never turned his back on a woman in need. And she was in need. Even if she didn’t know it.

  He swept Robert’s cloak from the floor and whirled it across his back. “Your sword, Robert!” he demanded.

  Robert looked crestfallen. “My new…but…”

  Unwilling to waste time, Duncan unbuckled Robert’s sword belt himself and fastened it about his own hips. Shouldering his way past Garth, he bolted for the door. “Don’t wait supper for me!”

  Linet couldn’t have been more pleased with herself as s
he made her victorious way across the de Ware courtyard. She’d bested that meddling beggar again. Her first year as a femme sole, and already she was proving the de Montfort cleverness her father had always praised.

  The castle yard was nearly deserted. She supposed most of the craftsmen had gone to the fair. There were only a few armorers hammering hot steel over a forge and a thatcher repairing a rotted roof. In the midst of the courtyard, draped across three trestle tables, an enormous pennant was being stitched by four young ladies. Drawing near, she could see the figure of a great black wolf depicted on the green serge, the Wolf de Ware. The eyes were fierce and chilling, the mane bristling. Suddenly she was very glad she’d be done with her business here in a fortnight.

  She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The three de Ware sons were warriors not to be trifled with—powerful, cunning, ferocious. In fact, the eldest was considered by many to be the most dangerous swordsman in all of England. All three had earned their spurs at an early age, and it was said they indeed possessed the hunting instincts of the wolf so boldly emblazoned on their crest.

  She shivered involuntarily. She hoped Lady Alyce would be content with the cloth she’d purchased. Spanish captains and an overzealous beggar Linet could handle. But she wasn’t sure she could face a trio of disgruntled, sword-wielding wolves. She wondered how sweet Lady Alyce managed to keep her pups on their leashes.

  She cleared the portcullis and nodded to the guard for her cart. Beyond the wall, the balmy spring breeze soughed through the elms and maples and wafted the fragrance of bay up the hill. It was the best time of year, with the grass new and sweet, sprinkled with periwinkles and daisies, and the willows tipped with vivid green. The sky was riddled with tufts of clouds, reminding her of shearing time and the wool harvest, which reminded her in turn that she had little time to waste on savoring the spring day. There was business to attend to before night dropped its dark cloak over the land.

  As she slipped her basket into the cart’s bed, she couldn’t help but think about the beggar with the azure eyes. Who was the cocksure knave, she wondered, and what did he want? Of course, his story about protecting her was nonsense. After all, he was only a commoner. He was probably just eager to get his hands on her cloth or her coin. He wouldn’t be the first to entertain such a notion. Like the others, however, he’d find himself in peril of his good health should he attempt to cheat Linet de Montfort out of her hard-earned living.

  She shook her head as the breeze tugged at the edges of her cloak. She should’ve slapped the cur for his insolence. Her father had warned her about dealing with peasants, how they were not to be trusted, how they possessed few manners and fewer morals. The de Montfort family was not to stoop to their level—so he’d drilled into her time and time again. Despite his own fall from grace, he never let Linet forget that, by blood, she was a real lady.

  She smirked. A real lady would never have endured the way the beggar had stared at her, his eyes perusing her as if he planned to devour her, his sly smile mocking her. He was a rogue, a scoundrel with cocky airs and much more in his sapphire eyes than avarice, something more dangerous than greed.

  She definitely should have slapped him.

  Her basket settled, she gathered her heavy skirts to climb up on the cart.

  “Wait!” someone called.

  She hesitated on the step. Dear God, it couldn’t be. No one was that audacious.

  “Wait!” repeated the all-too-familiar voice, still several yards behind her. “I can’t let you go!”

  Damn his persistence. She took a deep breath and turned, prepared to give the beggar the scolding of his life. Then she froze.

  Somehow he’d managed to wrest a sword from one of the guards. The heavy-laden sheath slapped against his thigh as he loped toward her. Dear God, she thought, had he killed them? Did he mean to kill her?

  She wasn’t going to find out. She heaved herself onto the cart. Then she took up the reins and snapped them smartly, startling the old nag into bolting down the castle road and nearly upsetting the wagon.

  Recklessly she fled, determined to leave the beggar in her dust, urging the horse on with curses. The wagon rollicked over a stone, and the band of her veil slipped down over one eye. Her heart racing, she cast aside the errant thing, and with her hair streaming out in wild tangles behind her, half-stood to drive the nag onward.

  The wagon careened around an egg merchant, scattering his flock of chickens in its wake. Then it bounded perilously over the rutted road, narrowly missing a fishmonger on his way to the castle with a basket full of trout. Only when the road cleared did she hazard a glance back over her shoulder.

  “Shite!”

  He was tearing after her like a plundering berserker.

  She cracked the reins down again. A squeal of panic rose in her throat. The cart rumbled over the road like an undulating pack of hunting hounds, growing more frenetic with each passing moment. The right wheels pitched into and out of a deep rut, rocking the cart perilously askew. The basket of neatly folded fabric toppled like a drunkard.

  Then, suddenly, the entire back of the wagon dipped down.

  The beggar was aboard.

  She turned to him, her eyes wide.

  Grim determination hardened his square jaw. The muscles of his forearms bulged as he hauled himself forward over the piles of wool. He was coming after her as relentlessly as a wolf after a fawn. And like doomed prey, Linet couldn’t drag her gaze away from her pursuer.

  Alas, she’d picked a poor time to shift her attention from the cart’s path. The beggar’s eyes widened as he glanced beyond her at the abrupt turn in the road. Before she could mouth a protest, he dove to the front of the cart and grabbed the reins from her, hauling back on them so hard that the nag yelped and the wagon skidded to a halt in a cloud of rocks and dust.

  She would have fallen forward, out of the cart and over the horse, but the beggar barred the way with his arm. She let out a great “oof” as his elbow caught her in the stomach. Coughing and sputtering hysterically, she rounded on him.

  “G-get away from me!”

  Duncan’s lungs hurt to bursting, and Linet’s piercing cry only added insult to the pain. Why in God’s name he’d chased after a horse-drawn cart driven by a reckless hoyden, he couldn’t begin to fathom. Chivalry certainly had its queer moments.

  By now, several interested travelers had stopped to look on, slack-jawed, but none seemed to want to get involved in what appeared to be a household squabble.

  “Get away!” she squeaked, her eyes round with fright.

  He cocked an affronted brow at her. What was wrong with the woman? She had no cause for fear or hostility. After all, he’d likely just saved the little wretch’s neck.

  “Don’t touch me,” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. But this time, like a panicked hound biting its master’s hand, she hauled back her arm and slapped him. Hard.

  The crack of flesh on flesh stung his cheek and split the air like summer lightning.

  He was stunned. He’d never been struck by a woman before. No one intentionally riled the temper of a de Ware. It was like poking a sleeping wolf. Worse still, there wasn’t a shred of apology in her eyes, only mortification at what she’d dared.

  He ground his teeth, wavering between shock and anger. Then he grabbed her by the forearm, forcing her to sit down next to him on the wooden seat, and snapped the reins to set the old horse in motion. Ignoring the curious stares of those who pointed at the odd pair of them wrestling atop the cart, he drove onward toward the fair.

  He’d never felt such anger—never. It wasn’t like him to handle women roughly, but the urge to throttle this one overwhelmed him. She should be grateful. It was thanks to him that her neck was still attached to her shoulders, considering the company she’d kept lately. But nay, the silly wench probably thought she could walk through hell unscathed.

  They rode along in frosty, bone-jarring silence until the castle diminished and slipped from sight behind a hillock. When th
ey reached the cover of the trees, he drew back on the reins to stop the nag in the middle of the road.

  Linet held her breath, her trepidation rising. The beggar had purposely brought her to this isolated spot. What in the name of God did he intend?

  His hand felt like a shackle around her arm. Maybe, she dared to hope, he only intended to rob her. Maybe he’d take her coin and be gone.

  But her worst fears were confirmed as the rogue reached into the pouch at his waist with his free hand and pulled forth a small vial, uncorking it with his teeth.

  Poison!

  She tried to pry loose.

  “Cease, woman!” he commanded, his eyes blue steel beneath the dark brows.

  Casting her pride to the wind, she sucked in a great breath and began yelling at the top of her lungs. “Murder! Help me! Murder!”

  “Quiet,” he snarled, shaking her.

  Some of the contents of the vial dripped out onto her cloak. She gasped in horror, half expecting the fabric to melt away.

  The beggar glanced about to insure that no one had heard her cries. Then he glared at her, not in anger, but rather a kind of bemused disappointment. “Murder?”

  Her heart still beat wildly, and she stared at the spot on her cloak, waiting for the material to dissolve. He followed her gaze. One corner of his mouth crooked up in a sardonic smile.

  “It’s pine sap,” he told her.

  Then he released her arm to pull something else from his satchel, something black and hairy and dead. She recoiled instinctively. But it was only his fake beard, a bit worse for wear from the stomping it had endured. He must have retrieved it from the fair.

  “Perhaps this will cushion the blow next time,” he grumbled. With that, he dabbed some of the sticky sap onto his cheeks and chin and affixed the scraggly beard to his face.

  A bit of the tension drained out of her shoulders. But she wasn’t completely satisfied. “Did you kill the guards?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you bested them.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted—proof of my skill?”

  She supposed she might have misinterpreted his actions. Perhaps he truly meant her no harm. Still, she wasn’t about to let down all her defenses. She sat on the verge of the seat, ready to bolt.