Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Nay!” he roared.

  Heedless of the menacing sword, he charged. He collided hard with Sombra and held him close, almost as if wishing a fond farewell to a dear friend.

  “I’m going to finish what my brother did not,” he hissed.

  Sombra’s eyes widened in terrified recognition.

  Then, drawing back the blunted knife, Duncan shoved it forward with all his might. The dull remains of the blade drove in between Sombra’s ribs.

  The Spaniard stood dazed for a moment. He swayed with Duncan in a grisly embrace. His black glove crept up Duncan’s chest like a spider, as if he’d claw what life remained from Duncan with his bare hand if need be. But then his eyes went glassy. His hand curled shut. His sword dangled from nerveless fingers, then fell futilely to the cobblestones. And Sombra rattled out his last breath.

  Duncan eased the body to the ground, shaking with the violence of what he’d done. Gradually, he grew aware of the activity around him. Women laden with heavy buckets struggled past, and men poked at the burning warehouse with long poles, trying to control its demise. Ashes floated like drab snow over everything.

  Amid the maelstrom, in the soot-frosted grass, knelt Linet. She stared at him almost reverently. He swore under his breath and wiped his bloody hands on his braies. He felt awkward before her, oddly unworthy of her awe, ashamed of the grotesque act he’d committed before her.

  But then she came to him, her robe billowing out in the warm draft, her figure a stark silhouette against the orange inferno. And all Duncan’s guilt vanished.

  Linet gazed at her beggar in wonder. Her knight—and she now believed that no man more richly deserved that title—had risked his life for her sake. Faith, he’d even risked his life for the sake of her servant.

  He’d vanquished the enemy and ended the nightmare.

  She flung herself into his arms with abandon. Never had she felt so safe, so warm, so welcome. Here was her champion. Here was her noble knight. Here was her destiny.

  Nestled against his chest, she wondered how she could have ever doubted it. She took a deep breath, inhaling the smoky, sweaty, masculine scent of the man in whose arms she so certainly belonged.

  She was still clinging to him when Margaret came tearing out of the cottage, Lord Aucassin’s sword in hand. The maid stopped cold when she saw them. Linet cleared her throat and pushed the beggar gently from her. It was time, she decided, to set matters straight once and for all.

  “Margaret,” she began.

  “Are ye puttin’ out a fire or startin’ one?” Margaret asked.

  Linet took one of the beggar’s large hands in her own two and clasped it defensively. “You’ll keep your nose out of it, Margaret. This is the man I love,” she declared as the fire snapped behind her. “He’s noble and good and brave and…” She raised her chin. “And he’s a commoner. But I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what my father believed. I intend to marry him…if he’ll have me,” she added hastily.

  Margaret looked back and forth between the two. She blinked. “Commoner.”

  “That’s right. He’s a commoner,” Linet confirmed with a stubborn set of her chin. “But he’s worthy, Margaret, the most worthy man I’ve ever met. He saved Harold from the fire, and he slew that Spaniard, the one who abducted me. He followed me on the ship to Flanders and kept me safe from the reivers and…well, he threw me into the sea, but it was all for the best, and…” Linet felt herself chattering like a squirrel, and she could tell by the puzzled frown on Margaret’s face that she was making little sense. “Say what you will, Margaret. Curse me for my father’s fool, but I will follow my heart in this. I love him.” She looked up into her beloved’s sapphire eyes. “I love him.”

  Margaret still scowled.

  Linet sighed. “I’ll discuss the changes in the household later, Margaret. At the moment, we have a fire to quell. But I warn you, no matter how you argue, I won’t change my mind.”

  She pressed a quick kiss to the beggar’s cheek.

  Before Duncan could frame a reply, Linet was off in a flash of linen, whirling away to help organize the battle against the fire.

  “Hmph,” Margaret snorted as her mistress departed. “Well, I suppose ye won’t be needin’ this, then?”

  She held out the sword. He took it from her. It was heavy but well-balanced, a nobleman’s weapon.

  “Ye know, I was upstairs last night,” Margaret said, “tryin’ to get to sleep with the racket ye two were makin’, when it came to me all at once.” She tapped her temple. “Duncan de Ware. Ye’re the eldest of Lord James’s brood, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Aye.”

  “I thought so.” She wrinkled her nose affectionately at him. “We’d best be lendin’ a hand with the fire, don’t ye think?”

  Duncan nodded and reached for an overturned bucket near his feet.

  “Of course, her father wouldn’t have approved,” Margaret said.

  “Nay?”

  “He’d always wanted to present her at Court.” Margaret picked up another bucket and hobbled to the well. “Let her choose a husband from among the nobles there, settle into a nice, old, established family.”

  “My family is—”

  “I knew Linet was headstrong,” Margaret said with an indignant sniff, “but I never thought she’d pick a husband without my blessin’.”

  Duncan hefted his bucket stop the well’s stone wall. “Actually, I was the one—“

  “Ye will marry her, of course.” There was no doubt in the old woman’s voice as she tied the rope to her bucket and lowered it into the well.

  Duncan raised a brow.

  Margaret continued. “She’s a proper lady, no matter what the rest of her family says, and I assure ye the de Montfort lineage goes back at least as far as that of de Ware.”

  “Margaret.”

  “She has a fine talent and a keen mind. She’ll keep yer household in good order.”

  “Margaret.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I should have known she could no more govern her heart than her father could. Well, at least she’s had the wisdom to choose well. As far as the dowry—”

  “Margaret.”

  “What is it?” Her round eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ye aren’t promised to another?”

  “Nay, Margaret. I love Linet, and I fully intend to wed her.”

  Margaret grunted in satisfaction. “Now then, what’s this nonsense about…a commoner?”

  Duncan was spared having to answer that question. The warehouse suddenly collapsed with a great whoosh of flame. Every man available was needed to douse the burning tinder.

  The midnight sky had paled by the time the fiery beast was at last brought to its knees. Blackened timbers lay about the yard like the smoking bones of a dragon, their heat only an impotent reminder now of the savage animal that had reared its destructive head.

  Duncan leaned against the wall of the well. Linet trudged toward him, rubbing an arm across her forehead, smearing soot over her face. She looked exhausted. Her hair hung in clumps about her shoulders, her clothing and skin reeked of smoke, and there were black streaks at the bottom of the overlong velvet robe where she’d waded through the charred remains of the warehouse. But Duncan had never seen a more beautiful sight.

  The way she’d organized the extinguishing of the fire to save her neighbors’ homes—putting idle children to work to watch for live cinders that might rekindle, pushing up her sleeves and climbing into the wreckage herself—she’d do the de Ware household proud.

  “Will you marry me, Lady Linet de Montfort?” he called.

  Linet smiled weakly and made her way to her beggar. She knew she looked like hell. Her eyes felt scraped raw. Her father’s blue velvet robe was streaked with oily black. God only knew what color her hair was. Of course, he’d have to propose to her now.

  And yet, nothing could be more appropriate. His face, too, was grimy with soot. Blood from his gash had dried on his chest, and his hair was dull with ashes. But his w
as the face she wanted to dream about each night and wake up to each morning.

  “If you’ll have me,” she murmured. She collapsed against him, happier than she’d ever been in her life.

  “Ye’re near dead on yer feet, m’lady,” Margaret interrupted, dusting the ashes off her hands as she came up. “Will ye see her to bed, then, m’lord? I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full with Harold. That moon-eyed alewife down the lane put so much drink in the dodderin’ fool—to cut the pain, she says—I doubt he’ll be able to find his own feet.”

  “Please put Harold in my chamber,” Linet said. “His burns could use a softer pallet.” She looped her arm around her intended’s waist. “As for me, I’ll curl up before the fire. From now on I’ll sleep in no better quarters than he who is to be my husband.”

  Margaret harrumphed. “Oh no, ye won’t. I’ll not have ye and ‘he who is to be yer husband’ dallyin’ on the floor of the hall again and disturbin’ everyone in the house. Harold can have yer father’s bed. Ye’ll both go to yer chamber…and secure the door.”

  Linet’s jaw was still hanging open when her beggar swept her off her feet and carried her up to her bedchamber. A hundred questions rattled at her brain, but she was too exhausted to seek answers. By the time he’d laid her gently on the feather pallet, all emotions save longing had deserted her.

  “You need to rest, Linet.”

  “Aye.” Rest was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “You’ve had a long day.”

  “Aye.”

  He loomed over her, his black hair hanging in dirty locks, his forehead streaked with soot, his eyes red-rimmed—a guardian angel as handsome as the devil. “We’ll have to assess the damages tomorrow.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’m afraid you lost…everything,” he said softly.

  She gave him a sultry gaze. “Not everything.”

  Duncan took a deep breath. His chest swelled with quiet joy. Linet looked beautiful, lying there on the silk coverlet, even with strings of her hair sprawling across the pillow, her eyes smoke-ringed, her cheek smudged with ashes. And if she only knew what that look of hers did to him, how he longed to kiss those sweet lips.

  “It’s late,” he said hoarsely. His eyes locked with hers.

  She stared back. “We should get some sleep.”

  He cleared his throat. “You need your rest,” he repeated, more to himself than her.

  “Aye,” she lied.

  And then he bent toward her, drawn by the clear message in her eyes as irresistibly as a spiraling eddy in a stream. Hell, he’d starve if he didn’t taste those lips. He lowered his head until Linet’s trembling breath mingled with his. His mouth tentatively closed over hers, and his tongue flicked out once to sample the yielding petals of her lips before he finished the kiss.

  He intended to withdraw, tell her good night, and let her rest. Foolish man. She melted into his embrace as smoothly as a hand into a well-worn glove. Her tongue gave answer of its own, licking delicately along his bottom lip. Before he could stop himself, he was deepening that kiss and beginning another. His arms curved to surround her more fully, and he tucked her securely against his chest. Her matted hair seemed silky in his fingers, her grimy skin like velvet to his touch. No woman had affected him so profoundly.

  It was the moan that pushed him over the edge, the little mewling sound she made against his lips. What little control he’d mastered was gone in an instant. He covered Linet’s face with eager kisses. He slipped the velvet robe from her shoulders, fairly devouring the exposed flesh. His hands explored further, tracing the contours of her throat and bosom, seeking the ripe fruit still hidden from his view.

  She gasped as his fingers closed around one vulnerable nipple, hardening it to a stiff peak. He groaned as she pressed impatient hips against his thigh.

  He tugged her stained garment down past her waist. She wriggled out of it the rest of the way. The breath caught in his throat. His dark, massive hand looked almost brutal against the pale flesh of her stomach.

  Her fingers scrabbled impatiently, ineffectually, at Duncan’s braies, and she frowned as if she could will them away. Duncan half-chuckled deep in his throat. The poor lass obviously had little experience undressing men. But her determination was encouragement indeed. He had his braies off in a heartbeat.

  Their embrace stole the breath from both of them. Everywhere they touched was fire, purer and more powerful than the flames they’d battled earlier. Flesh burned against flesh. His coarse, muscular textures rasped across her soft, sensitive places. Their lips sought to quench their thirst on silken nape and rough-stubbled cheek. Their hands caressed and teased and persuaded until rapture took them both up into its arms.

  With a soft roar that was like a claiming, he pressed into her, and she received him with a sweet wantonness that brought tears to her eyes. Their consummation was gentle, languid, loving. He moved against her with care and tenderness. She answered him with exquisite leisure. They savored each glance, each kiss, each moment.

  Only in the final throes of desire were they forced to abandon their measured grace. Then they strove against each other with the devotion of novice nuns and the recklessness of new-trained knights.

  Linet sobbed in ecstasy as her patience was at last rewarded. It felt as if a halo of fire surrounded her and burst into a thousand flames, each brighter than the sun.

  Duncan’s seed pulsed out like an endless fount of honey, and he shuddered with the force of his release. He kissed her on the mouth—a firm, grateful kiss. Then, at a loss for words, he settled for merely sighing her name.

  She hugged him to her with what strength she had left. As the sun began to lighten the sky, she drifted off, dreaming of their long and happy future together.

  It seemed to Duncan just moments ago that he’d fallen blissfully asleep in Linet’s arms. But the sun streaking in through the eastern window and penetrating Duncan’s slumber was already high enough in the sky to light up the straw-covered floor of the chamber. His eyes were gritty, and his throat burned. He gave a great stretch of his arms, groaning at the ache, the result of several hours of hoisting heavy buckets of water.

  Someone was scratching on the chamber door. “M’lady.” It was Margaret.

  Beside him, Linet stirred.

  “M’lady, ye must come down.”

  “It can’t be morning yet,” Linet rasped, her voice smoke-roughened. She sat up and groggily peered out the window, as he had, to gauge the time. She shook her head to clear the fog of sleep. Suddenly her red-rimmed eyes grew round. “God’s wounds!”

  “What?” he shot back, startled, fearing another fire had begun.

  “What day is it?” she demanded.

  He only stared stupidly at her as she flung herself from the bed. She began hurtling aimlessly about the room, wringing her hands. The fact that she was completely nude helped to wake him.

  “I have to… First… Nay! Margaret. Margaret!” she called, trying to run her fingers through the hopeless tangle of her hair. “Hurry!” she yelled at him. “There’s no time!”

  Duncan ran a filthy hand across his unshaven chin, still baffled by her panic.

  “I promised Lady Alyce her cloth today,” Linet explained as she struggled into a kirtle, “and the day’s half gone. She’ll think I’ve cheated her.”

  Duncan smiled. So it was her reputation she worried about. Her concern was unwarranted. Cloth was probably the last thing on his mother’s mind. It was the last thing on his mind as well when Linet drew her hands up the graceful length of her thigh.

  “Oh,” she wailed in misery as she found a huge rip in the kirtle, “this will never do. I stink of smoke, my clothing is a shambles, and I have no goods to deliver. Just look at me. Margaret!”

  Duncan just looked at her indeed. He couldn’t help but grin at the spectacle of his bride-to-be dashing about the room, deliciously half-naked. She snatched up a robe from her clothing chest and threw it on just as a knock sounded at the chambe
r door.

  “M’lady?”

  “Margaret! Come in, come in. Fill a basin with water as quickly as possible. We’ll need food and the horse and cart—”

  “But, m’lady, the villagers wait—”

  “And make sure the nag is fed well. The way we’ll have to drive her, this may be her last journey!”

  “Journey? But, m’lady, what shall I tell those who wait below?”

  “Those who…” Linet stopped her pacing. “Who waits below? Is it the Guild?”

  “Nay, m’lady. It’s the villagers.”

  “The villagers?” Linet frowned.

  “Tell them she’ll be down as soon as she’s dressed,” Duncan said.

  Margaret went swiftly to do as she was bid.

  When the basin arrived, both of them scrubbed ruthlessly at their blackened skin and sooty hair until the cold water resembled a murky moat.

  Linet wriggled into a surcoat of deep green wool. But Duncan had no change of clothing. He pulled on the filthy braies and the tunic he’d worn yesterday. The tunic was still fairly clean, but someone had lain atop it all night, so it was creased in several places. He smoothed his tangled hair as best he could with Linet’s silver comb.

  “M’lady,” Margaret crooned from behind the door.

  Linet’s nerves were stretched to the limit. “What is it?” she snapped. Then she sighed. She didn’t mean to be rude to the old woman, but her reputation as a wool merchant rested upon how she handled the awkward situation today. Every moment was critical.

  “M’lady, ye must come below.” Margaret seemed unaffected by Linet’s tone. Indeed, she sounded absolutely delighted. “They’re waitin’.”

  “The villagers?” Linet asked. “What do they want?”

  “Please hurry, m’lady.”

  Linet looked askance at the beggar, who only shrugged. Then she tossed her wet locks over her shoulder and opened the chamber door. When she saw what awaited her in the great hall, she came within a hair’s breadth of retreating and closing her chamber door on the impossible sight.

  All the peasants of the village must have come to camp at the de Montfort mesnage. The hall was packed with their milling, unwashed bodies and the various meager possessions they carried. A leather-skinned crofter grinned toothlessly up at her, lifting a basket of leeks in salute. A grimy-faced old woman clutched a bundle of rags to her sagging bosom. A pair of dirty young lads drove a small pig forward with sticks. A buxom lass cradled a clucking hen in her bare brown arms. And more still pushed their way through the front door.