“The only payment I ask,” he said with a shrug, interrupting her thoughts, “is a small measure of gratitude.”
“Thank ye, m’lord…again,” Harold repeated, thinking the reminder was meant for him.
“He is not a lord, Harold!” Line hissed, bristling. Then she turned on the beggar. “And just what do you mean by ‘gratitude’?”
“I’ve purchased you a fine meal,” the beggar explained, “and I’ve kept the robbers from your stall. Surely that warrants—”
“Robbers? Aye, you’ve kept the robbers away, and the lords and their mistresses and everyone else with coin in their purse! I’ve not sold enough today to keep a pauper alive since you took up residence across the lane, watching me like…like some hawk on the hunt.”
“Really?” he drawled with that irritatingly smug smile. “Well, if you had kept your eyes on your patrons instead of letting them rove in my direction every few moments…”
The blood rushed to her face. “My eyes!” she gasped. “I never…You were…”
Linet could see by his knowing smirk that the beggar didn’t believe anything she said. And she knew she’d only dig herself further into that pit of shame if she continued. She shoved the half-eaten pasty at him, dusted off her hands, and, with as much dignity as she could muster, resumed her task of folding the cloth.
The man was an arrogant fool, she thought, snapping a square of broadcloth, if he thought she’d have any interest in looking at him. He was a peasant, for heaven’s sake—a filthy, unscrupulous peasant, and she—she was a lady. Or nearly a lady. Nay, no matter what he said, he had been staring at her. She was sure of it.
She slammed the folded broadcloth down on the counter and began with another.
Harold continued to eat with untamed enthusiasm, licking his fingers and rolling his eyes in ecstasy. She should have made him stop as well. He was her servant, after all. She could order him to cease eating that ill-gotten food. But he looked so happy. And the pasty had been delicious. The beggar was eating the rest of hers now, but there were plenty remaining. Her stomach growled in complaint.
She smacked the broadcloth into quarters atop the counter.
She glanced at the fruit coffyns. They were balanced precariously on the beggar’s thigh as he leaned against the booth. If he weren’t careful, he’d drop them and waste all that delicious fruit. Apples wouldn’t be so bad, but cherries…
Her mouth watered.
She smoothed the material with wide, brusque strokes.
She glanced up. A drop of rich brown juice hovered on the beggar’s lower lip.
She bit the inside of her cheek and creased the fabric.
“Mmm, there’s nothing like tender English lamb, is there, Harold?” the beggar crooned, lapping up the juice.
“Nothin’, m’lord,” Harold agreed, then glanced up quickly at her in apology. “Er…nothin’.”
Linet gripped the edge of the counter to keep from screaming. Her supper of salted cod seemed less and less appetizing by the moment. “You may leave as soon as you finish your meal,” she told the beggar tautly.
“I can’t eat all this myself,” he said reasonably. “Come have a bite. I promise I won’t make you blush again.”
Of course, those were the very words to turn her flesh pink once more. She tried to ignore his teasing blue eyes.
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “Especially not for…for apple coffyns.”
His smile was like honey poured slowly over pokerounce. “They’re cherry.”
She swallowed hard. She loved cherry coffyns. But they’d been purchased with the beggar’s coin, coin no doubt pilfered from innocent purses.
“And they’re still warm.” His languid eyes were as tempting as the sweet he offered, no doubt as tempting as Satan’s when he’d enticed Eve to taste the forbidden fruit.
She wavered in indecision.
“I won’t even make you eat all your nasty cod first,” he teased, wiggling his dark brows.
She had to crack a smile at that. “Just this once,” she decided, “and then you’ll go. I don’t make a habit of living off the charity of others.”
Duncan tried to contain his amusement. The toplofty merchant acted as if she did him a favor, taking the coffyn off his hands. But with what eagerness she came to retrieve it. She bit gently into the pastry, her eyes closed with delight. A smudge of cherry lingered on her lips, and Duncan longed to taste it there. But her tongue flicked out to catch the stray juice, savoring it with almost improper ardor.
He’d seen that expression a hundred times on the faces of the children he’d saved from the streets—that ecstasy at their first taste of an orange or a piece of sugar loaf. But Linet was no starving waif. Surely she’d eaten her share of sweets.
Then again, he was certain she’d never experienced the touch of a man. And as lovely as she was, with her sparkling eyes, her flawless skin, her supple lips and glorious mane of hair, that seemed harder to believe.
She was an enigma, this wool merchant who was so worldly and yet so enchantingly innocent at the same time. The combination was intriguing, but dangerous. It was indeed fortunate he’d undertaken to see to her safety.
She licked the last drop of sticky juice from the tip of her finger.
“Would you like another?”
She lowered her eyes. She’d finished the pastry off as quickly as a starving hound did a bone, and she knew it. “Nay. Thank you.”
He smiled. She’d said it. She’d said thank you. “It was my pleasure.” And had been, indeed.
Linet looked up and felt the warmth of the beggar’s smile all the way to her toes. Then she endured an awkward moment of silence when her hands seemed to turn to useless extensions, fidgeting with her skirts. “Hadn’t you better go while it’s still light?” she finally blurted out.
“Go?”
She stiffened.
“I told you I was here to protect you,” he said. “The night can be even more dangerous than the day.”
“But surely you can’t mean to—“
“I couldn’t possibly leave you now. To abandon you when you need me the most? Nay, that would be unchivalrous.”
“But I don’t need—“
“Nonsense.” He scooped up the leftover food and placed it on an empty space on the counter. “I’ll stretch out right here before the pavilion. You needn’t worry about me. This cloak will keep me as warm as a nesting cuckoo. And I’ll keep at least one eye open for trouble.”
She supposed it would have been rude to suggest that she hadn’t been worried about his comfort at all, that she really was more concerned about her reputation. Still, how would it look to have a vagabond sleeping on the de Montfort doorstep? Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do. A man could sleep where he willed as long as it wasn’t within another’s private domain. The lane belonged to everyone.
The beggar yawned and stretched his arms. He was right about one thing. A troublemaker would think twice before crossing the path of a man with arms like that.
The sky was darkening faster than hot water spiked with indigo dye. There was still Lady Alyce’s order to write up and accounts to settle. Linet had no time for this nonsense. She supposed she’d just have to grit her teeth and endure the night. It was too late and she was much too tired to discuss the beggar’s meddling. Ousting him would have to wait till tomorrow, when she’d have a fresh outlook and more resolve. Come morning, she’d know just what to say to the man to send him packing.
Hours later Linet finished her work inside the pavilion, and Harold began snoring from behind the linen modesty screen. But she was wide awake. She nibbled on a morsel of pasty left from dinner, listening to the nightjars whirring in the woods, thinking about the man slumbering but a single serge panel away.
She wondered if he was chilled. The pavilion’s walls and a wealth of fabric kept her as cozy as fleece kept a sheep. But outside the pavilion, the cruel English mist, even in spring, could cut through a man like shears. She
looked guiltily about her at stack upon stack of thick, warm wool. Even one ell of it could mean the difference between hours of shivering and getting a good night’s sleep. And she seemed to remember that somewhere there was a piece of woaded wool, stretched a bit askew, dyed a little unevenly, that probably wouldn’t profit her more than a pound at most. She supposed she could afford to part with it. Besides, it was likely the only way she’d get a good night’s sleep herself.
Before she could reconsider, she dug the piece out from under a pile of cheap cloth. Silently she stepped through the pavilion flap and into the dim night. The cool grass chilled her bare toes, and she curled them protectively. Holding her breath, she tiptoed toward the front of the stall and leaned over the counter. Just below her, the bulky shape that was the beggar huddled on the ground. Unfolding the cloth, she took a few practice swings, and then tossed the fabric over his slumbering form.
The material landed askew, half atop him, half on the ground. She cursed under her breath. Balancing precariously on her stomach upon the ledge of the counter, her toes inches above the ground, she stretched out an arm and painstakingly tugged the cloth up over what she presumed were his shoulders.
Her task completed, she began to scoot backward.
Before she could make her escape, he snatched her wrist. She gasped in surprise.
“Shh.”
She frowned. How dared he hush her? He’d frightened the wits out of her! “What do you think you’re—” she hissed.
He squeezed her wrist to silence her, and then turned her hand purposefully over in his. He let his thumb nest in the palm of her hand, his fingers splaying across the back. Then a moist warmth enclosed the tips of her fingers.
Dear God…he was kissing her hand.
She should have done a hundred things—slapped him, snatched her hand back, cried out for Harold—but the contact seemed so innocent and so fleeting that in the morning she’d wonder if she’d dreamt it.
“Thank you,” the beggar murmured against her fingers.
Then he released her.
The chill of the night descended, making her shiver, calling her back to the safety of the pavilion. But for a long while, until she finally drifted off in slumber atop her straw pallet, her fingers tingled with a current she could neither name nor understand.
It was summer in the dream. Duncan was swimming in the south pond, letting the cool water slide over his naked body, breaching like a whale, upward into the sun’s warmth, then falling again into the refreshing depths. The current caressed his flesh, swirling about him in waves that turned from blue to green to gold.
And then the waves were her hair—silken curls of amber brushing against his skin, pouring like honey down his chest, wrapping like spun gold around his thighs, until the delight of liquid sunlight brought him to the brink of ecstasy…
The nightjars suddenly stopped their trilling.
His eyes popped open.
Night crashed down around him as black as a hood over a condemned man. His heart thrummed in the calm but quick beat of a seasoned warrior. He placed his right hand over the pommel of his sword.
Someone was near. He could feel a presence. Slowly, stealthily, he peered out from beneath the cocoon of his cloak and the wool coverlet.
It wasn’t yet dawn, but enough morning light filled the sky for him to recognize the silhouette of a rascal up to some mischief. The man stopped less than a yard from where Duncan lay hidden. Though he didn’t dare take a closer look, he’d have wagered his blade it was one of El Gallo’s men. He’d known the reiver wouldn’t surrender so easily. Just as he’d been fairly sure the slimy bastard would strike in the anonymity of night.
And he was ready for him.
At least he’d thought he was ready. Until the man let out a low whistle, summoning two companions from the wood.
Duncan narrowed his eyes. One man he could take by surprise. Two he could play against each other. But three…three were going to be messy.
The familiar harsh whisper of steel against leather told him the men had unsheathed. They were splitting up, sidling around opposite ends of the counter. He would have to subdue the first man, and then leap over the counter before the other two could gain entrance to the pavilion.
He grinned. It was a good thing he liked challenges.
He let three heartbeats pass. Then, like a wild beast, he pitched forward, bowling the first ruffian over. The man grunted, kicking at him. Duncan threw off his cloak, entangling the man’s legs in the fabric, and shot to his feet.
Wheeling about, he drew his blade. Too late. The other two had vanished. Mother of God, had they already run inside the pavilion? His heart in his throat, he leaped atop the counter.
It wasn’t as sturdy as it looked. The wood creaked and whined as he tottered on its edge. Then he catapulted free, and the whole thing crashed in splinters to the ground.
He dove for the flap of the pavilion and flung it aside. The interior was as black as pitch. The odds were against him. It was no longer a question of frightening the intruders away now. He’d have to incapacitate them before they could harm Linet.
He heard a snort from Harold and the maid’s sleep-befuddled murmuring from the rear of the pavilion.
He shouted, “Harold! Linet! Stay back, both of you!”
He swung his left arm blindly about and touched heavy wool—a man’s garment. Snatching viciously at the sleeve, he stabbed forward. But his target seemed to disappear.
He whipped his sword to the right. Damn it! Where were they? His foot nudged what felt like a boot, and he sliced outward, slashing through another tabard. But there was no scream, no falling body, not even a whisper of protest.
“Come forth, you cowards,” he growled, squinting against the impossible black.
Something toppled to his left, something heavy. He drove the point of his sword downward, impaling the foe.
“What’s going on?” Linet demanded.
“Stay back!”
He waved the sword in a wide swath before him. One was down. Where was the other one hiding? He strained his ears for some telltale sound, but all of Woolmaker’s Row had come awake at the disturbance and were making a clamor outside. He swung around and backed up one pace, and another.
Then he stepped straight into the folds of the intruder’s cloak.
He dropped like a stone, raising his blade behind him. With one violent backward thrust, he skewered both the man and the pavilion wall.
The breath he expelled was shaky. It had been a long time since he’d stabbed a man. But his angel was safe. That was all that mattered.
Linet swore that lunatic beggar was making enough din to rouse the dead. “What’s going on?” she persisted.
“Nay!” he exploded. “Stay there. You don’t want to see this.”
Linet pursed her lips. No one would tell her what she could or couldn’t see, not in her own pavilion. She gathered the selvages of her chemise together tightly and made her way forward.
“Nay! Remain where you are!”
“What have you done?” she said, ignoring his command. “All of Woolmaker’s Row is awake.”
She breezed past him and tossed open the pavilion flap, shedding what little glow lightened the sky on the scene within. A pile of worsted slumped in the middle of the pavilion like a drunkard. She frowned. What was it doing there?
“May I be of assistance?” intruded a voice from outside.
Linet turned. Standing just beyond the ruins of what had been her counter was a tall, dark gentleman—a foreigner, by the sound of his voice, flanked by two servants. He held aloft a candle, and by its fulvous glow, she saw a gaunt face framed by an impeccably trimmed sable beard. His eyes were so dark they were colorless, shining like ebony beads in the candlelight. She could make out enough of his attire to see that his velvet surcoat was lined with fur and that he wore a large silver medallion on a long chain.
“Do you need help, my lady?” he asked again.
My lady. The wor
ds took her aback for a moment.
“Nay…sir…or aye.” She smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit confused. If I could borrow your candle?”
A drop of wax slithered down the candle and onto the man’s hand, but he didn’t so much as flinch. “Of course. Allow me.” His eyes glittered as he passed her and ducked into the pavilion.
Nothing could have prepared Linet for the utter devastation the light revealed. Ruined cloth lay everywhere. Rent wool was strewn across the pavilion rug. Stacks of broadcloth had been knocked over and bore multiple imprints of muddy boots. A pile of worsted was run through like a boar for supper. And her best Italian blue—the cloth she’d promised Lady Alyce—hung skewered by a sword against the pavilion wall, like a dying butterfly pinned by a naughty boy.
Only this naughty boy was one meddling beggar, crouching in bafflement at the foot of his handiwork, looking for all the world as if he had no idea how this had happened.
Linet’s eyes began to tear up with anger and dismay. So much work. So much time. Ruined. And all because of that peasant. It would take months to replace the cloth. Years to repair her reputation.
“Get out.” Her voice wavered. But she clamped her jaw. A de Montfort didn’t cry.
The beggar rose to his feet. “But I—”
“Get out!”
“Will you listen—”
“I think the lady has made herself clear,” the man with the candle said.
“Linet, you don’t understand,” the beggar implored.
“Nay,” the man said, the threat thick in his voice, “it is you who do not understand. The lady asked you to leave.”
The beggar turned to her. His look of hurt confusion was almost convincing. But then she should have known better. She should never have trusted him. He was a peasant. Just like her mother.
“Linet, listen to me. Three men came here to do you harm. I had to protect you. I followed them into the pavilion. You must believe me.”
The foreign gentleman stepped between her and the beggar in challenge. “Three men? I see no men.”
“They came in here. They had to have.” Duncan scanned the pavilion in desperation. This was ludicrous. He knew what he’d seen. But had he seen them? Not really. He’d never really watched them enter the pavilion. “Wait. There was one outside. Surely you saw him as you came in. I left him tangled in my cloak—”
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 7
