“If you don’t release me this instant, I’ll have you…put in stocks.”
This amused him. “Stocks? On what charge—kissing you?”
“You’re a…a peasant. You have no right to lay a finger on me. I carry the noble blood of de Montfort.”
He instantly released his grip on her. “Is that it?” he asked incredulously. He couldn’t believe the turn of events. Was this the woman he’d kissed a moment ago? “You think my kiss will taint your bloodlines?” he seethed. “Forgive me, my lady,” he snarled sarcastically, “if my breeding offends you!” He couldn’t resist adding, “It certainly didn’t seem to offend you when you had your arms locked around my neck.”
The sound of her slap was as stark as a whip in a chapel.
He recaptured her wrists, ground his teeth, and silently, slowly counted to ten. Then he shoved her arms back at her in disgust and stood up.
He supposed he shouldn’t be angry with her. After all, she had no reason to know he was a noble. In her mind, he’d insulted what were considered perfectly normal prejudices. She’d simply voiced what practically everyone held to be truth—that common folk were somehow inferior to those of noble blood. Yet somehow he’d expected more from her, especially considering her own dubious bloodlines.
Linet’s hand stung from the slap, but not as much as her pride. “Stay away from me. I do not want you to touch me a-“ she began to lie, then was horrified at the sudden catch in her voice.
The beggar’s eyes lingered on her mouth, and he gave her an infuriating smirk. “Nay,” he murmured, “you do want me to touch you. And there’s your trouble.”
Her heart plunged at the ring of truth in his words. She could summon up no reply.
He snatched up his clothing and donned it briskly. Combing his hair with his fingers, he slung the pouch around his hips, grabbed up two bottles of wine, and then stalked to the door.
“The bed is yours, Highness,” he mocked with a bow.
“Wh-where are you going?” she asked offhandedly, trying to mask the anxiety in her voice.
“Out.”
“But there are men here who—”
“I was mistaken. You seem perfectly capable of fending men off,” he replied, and with that, he slammed the door, leaving her alone with her slowly chilling bath.
Fool, Duncan chided himself as he leaned back against the closed door. He couldn’t believe he’d actually let his damned principles interfere with an opportunity to bed the divine creature on the other side of the door.
Of course, that was mostly his unrequited body speaking. He knew in his heart it would have been wrong. He could have seduced her easily, but he’d never been one to use women for brief pleasure, as many nobles did. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his share of them. But he’d never bedded a woman until her heart, not just her body, belonged to him.
For that reason, although he was in a brothel filled with willing wenches, he’d seek no satisfaction tonight. Nay, he decided, slumping against the chipped plaster wall, tonight he’d drown his torment in drink.
Linet couldn’t stop trembling as she rose from the bath. She snapped the linen cloth about her and rubbed vigorously, as if she could wipe away the remnants of his touch. A wayward tear coursed down her cheek, mingling with the drops of water there, as she wrapped the linen with punitive tightness around her betraying body.
It couldn’t be true, she thought with rising desperation, echoing the fear that had been pummeling at her soul’s door from that first kiss. She was a de Montfort. She was a lady, not some wanton wench, diving into the arms of the first man to whisper come hither.
Aye, it had been desire flooding her body as he bent to bestow that kiss. But surely she was better than her harlot mother, even if that woman’s blood did pollute her veins. She’d conquered that desire, hadn’t she? Hadn’t honor prevailed?
In the end, she got the privacy she wanted. She struck the beggar for his insolence, sent him storming from the room. She’d won then, hadn’t she? But somehow, the tears brimming in her eyes as she perched on the edge of the pallet felt less than victorious.
She absently reached for the comfort of her medallion, remembered its loss, and then clasped her hands together before her in a brief plea for strength. She’d betrayed her father. She would not do so again. Even if it meant she might remain a maiden the rest of her life. She couldn’t disappoint Lord Aucassin. She was a de Montfort. She was a de Montfort.
Over and over she repeated the words, until they became a litany, lulling her to sleep at the foot of the bed, still wrapped in the damp linen.
The sun set, and the moon rose in a sky salted with stars while she slept. Sometime in the night, with the unerring accuracy of a rooting newborn, she worked her way out of the toweling and up and under the coverlet to snuggle down into the cozy bed, where self-doubt couldn’t disturb her dreams.
Long past midnight, Duncan staggered into the chamber. He banged his shin on one of the tables, but felt no pain. He wrinkled his nose. His clothes reeked of wine. Pulling his jerkin and shirt carelessly from his body, he let them drop to the floor.
He seemed to recall he’d made some arrangement about sleeping, but he couldn’t quite remember it. Only half-undressed, he fell headlong onto the bed and fast asleep.
El Gallo prowled anxiously across the flagstone floor of the Boulogne magistrate’s manor. He hated being confined. And though the manor was generous in size, it wasn’t the bow of his ship where a man had room to walk, where he could breathe, for God’s sake. He’d been here for hours, wasting precious time while his prey was escaping. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped here like a moth in the fist of the magistrate’s guard.
What did they want with him?
There was no solid evidence of his reiving onboard the Corona Negra. He’d always made sure of that. All jewels were pried loose from their settings. Coin was ultimately melted down. And until that unfortunate incident with the wool merchant, it had been almost impossible to trace raw goods to their maker. Even Sombra, who might have attracted some suspicion with his reputation, wasn’t aboard this time.
As for his brandishing his weapon at the docks, he was certain his story had been plausible. He’d told the magistrate that a one-eyed scoundrel had made off with his passenger, Linet de Montfort. He’d drawn his sword to go after her abductor.
The magistrate had grown very interested then. But he’d not let El Gallo go. He’d sent a handful of his own guards to search for the girl. And he’d left El Gallo to stew in this well-appointed gaol.
“This way, please,” came the magistrate’s voice at last through the front entrance.
A tall, grim-faced man in an expensive woolen surcoat accompanied the magistrate.
“This is Bertrand Gaillard, steward to—”
“What did she look like?” Gaillard eagerly interrupted.
El Gallo frowned.
“Linet de Montfort,” the magistrate explained. “Tell Monsieur Gaillard what you told me.”
El Gallo pursed his lips. The girl was important to this Gaillard. He could see it in the man’s eyes. Coin could be made where such emotions flourished. “She was under my care,” he lied. He hung his head guiltily. “And now she has been stolen. What will I—”
“What did she look like?” Gaillard repeated. “How old?”
He didn’t have to lie about that. “She was a young woman, like an angel—pale and blond. And her figure—”
“Did she have a crest?” Gaillard asked, his gaze piercing. “A medallion of some sort?”
El Gallo frowned in concentration. He couldn’t remember the color of the witch’s eyes, much less what jewelry she’d been wearing. But it seemed important to Gaillard. “Yes. I seem to recall—”
“And the crest. Was it a crowned mountain peak?”
El Gallo nodded. “Yes. I think that was it.”
“It’s her,” Gaillard said. “It has to be.”
“Who?”
&nbs
p; “The daughter of Lord Aucassin de Montfort. For months now, since Lord Aucassin wrote to us from his deathbed, her uncle has been searching for her, trying to make reparations for the damage done to her family. He has even announced a reward for the one who finds her. But Lord Aucassin gave us no clue as to where she lives, only that she carries the de Montfort medallion. If you’ve seen her…”
El Gallo’s mind reeled with visions of reward money. “Let my men and me search for her. It is the least I can do, considering it was I who—”
“Very well,” Gaillard said. Then he handed a pouch of coins to the magistrate. “The magistrate will provide you with four men to aid in your search.”
El Gallo bowed to the magistrate, a gesture that was foreign to him in his life of unquestioned power. But a pint of humility now might be worth a barrel of gold later. He could suffer through it.
Fingers of sunlight poked at Linet’s eyes to wake her irritably from her slumber. Whatever was tickling her ear wasn’t helping her mood. Squinting, she turned to brush the offending object away and found herself face to face with the softly snoring beggar.
Her eyes flew wide. She scrambled away from him. “Get out!” she hissed with morning harshness.
He winced and eased over onto his back.
“Out!” she insisted.
He groaned and covered his ears.
She kicked frantically at him. But the pathetic misery in his red eyes as he bore her punishment moved her to mercy. She ceased, pulling the coverlet high under her chin, and tried to control her panic. “What are you doing in my bed?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but his parched throat could make no sound. “Drink,” he finally croaked.
She supposed she’d get no cooperation from him until she complied. She slipped the wrinkled, still damp jerkin over her head. “Close your eyes, then.”
Duncan didn’t need the admonition. He had no desire to open them again until the sun set. After a moment, a cup of watered wine was pressed to his lips.
“Here,” Linet breathed.
He half sat up. The wench nearly spilled the cup in her haste to be rid of it and away from him. When he’d drained the tankard, he fell back again, all his energy expended on that one motion.
“Well?” she prodded.
“Please…” he began, then flinched at the volume of his own voice and continued in a whisper, “please ask me later.”
“Later?” she cried, making him squirm in discomfort. “But you…you had no right…”
“Wait,” he pleaded.
“…to sneak into my bed…”
“Not now,” he begged.
“…like I was some strumpet…”
“Please—”
“…you had purchased!”
He’d had enough. He sat up and rounded on her. “Look! I paid for this room and the bed in it with my own coin. Sleep elsewhere if you don’t like the arrangements.” He groaned, holding his throbbing head in his hands.
Linet balled her fists, thoroughly frustrated. Was there no end to the man’s audacity? She hated being in his debt. It was too much like being…owned. And she really hated that a tiny part of her was attracted to the idea of being possessed by the handsome beggar.
As angry with herself as she was with him, she picked up his cup and slammed it onto the table, vowing she’d take no more of his charity and no more of kisses. She kicked his boots from her path and stomped across the cold oak floor to collect her things.
Duncan would never have believed that such a tiny woman could make so much noise. There was no point in trying to get any more sleep this morning. Between Linet’s crashing about the room and the blacksmith hammering at his head, he knew he wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. He flung off the covers and stood up, reeling as a wave of dizziness hit. Whatever had possessed him to drink so much?
“I won’t encumber you any further,” Linet announced when she’d finished her noisy ablutions. She’d dressed, he saw, in the rumpled clothes, and she stood straight now before him, her eyes carefully averted. “You’re hereby released from your vow to watch over me. I need neither your protection nor your charity.” She paused. The next words she muttered in a rush. “I thank you for your assistance thus far, and I promise that payment for your services will be forthcoming.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at her little merchant’s speech, even if it did make his ears ring. How unconvincingly contrite she sounded. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t know how single-mindedly persistent he could be.
Once when he was a boy, he’d boasted he could fight as well with his left arm as his right. That boast cost him no few nicks and bruises. But in the end, his skill with either arm became equal. His stubbornness triumphed.
A few years later, he similarly undertook the obligation of knighthood. Nothing could distract him from the responsibility that entailed. Chivalry was everything.
“You wouldn’t last a minute here without my protection,” he grumbled, pulling up his sleep-wrinkled hose. “Besides, you have no coin…unless, of course, you’d planned to seek employment here.” He indicated their room. He could see her temper struggling at the bit like a peevish mare. “The proprietor, however, usually requires you do more than slap the patrons,” he couldn’t resist adding.
Her eyes flared like emerald flames, and she fought to speak to him in a civil tone. “If you could spare a small amount of coin to see me home,” she choked out, “I promise I will repay you in full for your trouble. I shall be getting a goodly sum from Lady Alyce de Ware. I can send your money to you within a fortnight.”
Duncan studied her thoughtfully. She was furious, that much was clear. But beneath that fury something else flustered her, some war she waged upon herself.
“Nay,” he said. The idea of letting her go on alone was, of course, absurd.
“Nay?”
“Nay.” He calmly pulled his tunic on over his head.
“You don’t trust me?” she gasped. “I’m of noble blood.”
“Trust doesn’t reside in the blood,” he said, reaching for his belt. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of obligation. You will stay by my side until I have fulfilled that obligation. And then you can pay me, if you like…for my inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience!” she stormed. “These accommodations have been quite convenient for you. How many harlots did you purchase last night, by the way?”
The ensuing silence was excruciating for Linet. She clamped her teeth together so tightly that her jaw ached. She didn’t know why she’d asked him that.
Duncan knew why she’d said it. She was jealous. She may have scorned him, the high and mighty queen, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him.
That discovery warmed his heart. And nothing Linet could do or say afterwards, no amount of denial or protest on her part, could alter the profound effects this newfound knowledge had on him. “I purchased no harlots. Indeed, a couple of them offered to purchase me,” he lied matter-of-factly.
CHAPTER 11
The pockmarked cutpurse squirming at the point of Sombra’s dagger nodded rapidly. “Aye, I’ve seen it!” he said, nervously licking his lips and staring at the bronze medallion.
Finally, Sombra thought, someone recognized the crest. He’d been in Normandy for two days now, and this miscreant was the first one he’d questioned to give him anything close to the answer he wanted.
“Where?” he demanded.
“It’s de Montfort. From Flanders. I don’t know where.”
“Fool!” Sombra bit out, nicking the man’s throat.
“Wait! A…a man from…from de Montfort came through,” the wretch stuttered, “m-months ago. He had a drawing like that—a m-mountain, with a crown.” The man squeezed his eyes shut. “Now please let me go, sir. You can have your purse back. You can have all the purses I cut this morn.”
Sombra growled. He wasn’t done with the man yet. “What did the man say?”
“Oh.” The man screwed up his face, tryi
ng to remember. “Something about a mmissing heir, a lady, something like that.”
Sombra let the breath seep out between his taut lips. This was good news indeed, more than he’d anticipated. “And was there a reward offered?”
“Oh, a reward, yes,” the man said, gulping as Sombra caressed his throat with the dagger.
Sombra snorted. The fool probably couldn’t really remember if there was a reward or not. He’d likely been too busy cutting purses to hear. But where there was a missing heir, there had to be a reward.
Sombra had what he needed now. Someone, somewhere, was looking for Linet de Montfort, someone willing to pay for her return. He could hardly contain his pleasure. Not only would he collect the reward for restoring a missing heiress to her rightful place. He would also wreak sweet revenge on Linet de Montfort by replacing her with an imposter.
“C-can I go now, sir?”
Sombra glanced at the thief. In his excitement, he’d forgotten about him. He reached down with a gloved hand and retrieved his stolen purse dangling from the thief’s belt. Then, with an easy twist of his wrist, he slit the man’s throat, leaving him to gurgle out the last bewildered moments of his life at the end of the alley.
Sombra carefully wiped his fine Toledo blade on his victim’s cloak and sheathed it. He dusted off his Cordovan gloves. All he had to do now was find a pretty, green-eyed, blond-haired young wench willing to sacrifice her sagging crofter’s cottage for a spot at the high table of de Montfort castle. All the way back to the inn, where Harold lay in chains, Sombra couldn’t stop grinning.
Linet heard a soft scratching at the door.
“Sir,” some woman whispered. “Sir.”
“Ah,” the beggar said with a broad smile, “that must be one of the women desiring my services now.”
Linet wished she had something to throw at him.
He opened the door a crack. “What is it?”
“The magistrate’s men are coming. They’re searching all the establishments.”
“Damn!” He pounded his fist on the edge of the door.
“I have an idea,” the woman offered.
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