Wythevede clung to the man’s back, both skinny legs wrapped around the mail-clad waist. The man spun about in an attempt to dislodge the burden, causing the horse to rear up in panic. Wythevede pounded the man’s head with his fists, raining both curses and blows on the unprotected pate. A flat-brimmed metal helmet lay on the ground some feet away and Marsaili grinned.
Good for ye, auld man!
Movement caught her eye. She leaned forward, peering into the shadows, dagger at the ready, clenched in her hand. A second man, dressed much like the first, ducked beneath the picket line, creeping rapidly toward Wythevede. Quickly judging her distance to the man, Marsaili took a step back, placing one foot behind the other and to her left, blading her body toward the man. She flipped the handle-heavy dagger over in her hand and drew her arm back, sending the blade singing past her ear. The dagger slipped from her fingertips at the end of her throw and she stepped forward, adding power to her cast.
The dagger slammed into the man’s shoulder at the base of his neck, blood spurting darkly from the wound. He clutched at the blade with a cry as he crumpled to his knees. Wythevede and his soldier startled, glancing backward, pausing almost comically at the sight of the dead man. The warrior recovered first and waved his arms wildly, brushing Wythevede off his back. Stumbling forward, he disappeared into the night, leaving the horse behind.
At the camp, the attacking party faded into the darkness. Bodies lay scattered on the ground, tumbled into awkward positions like piles of children’s toys, their strings suddenly severed. Marsaili viewed the carnage with an uncertain eye as she stepped near the fire, her stomach churning at the odor of blood and something more foul.
Geoffrey appeared like the wrath of God at her side and grabbed her roughly, both hands on her upper arms, his eyes wild. “Where were you?” he demanded.
Marsaili tried to brush his hands aside, but he would not be moved. She glared at him, her temper threatening to match his. His grip painful, she gritted her teeth and refused to speak.
“She saved my life!” Wythevede shouted as he sped to her side. “God’s teeth, but she can throw a knife!”
Angry enough to spit rivets at Lord de Wylde’s handling, Marsaili did not so much as flinch in surprise at Wythevede’s unexpected championship. The old man skidded to a stop in the snow beside her, running one hand through his sparse white hair, the other hand braced on his hip.
“I was fighting off one knave when a black-hearted varlet thought to creep up on me.” He puffed his chest out as though offended. “Yon fairhead,” he said, pointing a knobby finger at Marsaili, “threw a spit-frog at him, nearly severing his head from his body!” He gave Marsaili an approving look. “Her English husband taught her well.”
Marsaili wrenched her arms from Geoffrey’s grasp, not certain if she was more offended by his unwarranted actions or Wythevede’s assured stance that an Englishman had schooled her in the finer arts of weaponry.
Geoffrey’s gaze bore into hers. “You left your position. After I told you to stay.” His voice rose and Marsaili thought she saw smoke plume from his nose.
“What do you have to say?” he snarled.
Marsaili lifted her chin, sending Wythevede a withering glance from the corner of her eye. “My English husband couldn’t teach a pig to eat scraps.”
Geoffrey’s eyes widened and Marsaili waited for him to collapse to the ground and commence having fits. Instead, he pivoted awkwardly on his good leg and stormed to the center of camp where Walter and Simon sorted through the bodies.
Wythevede nudged her elbow. “Pardon, Milady, but could you teach me how to throw like that?”
Geoffrey ground his teeth until he thought he heard a molar crack.
She defies me, then gives me a smart-mouthed answer to a question I didn’t ask—and has Wythevede championing her misconduct!
Sharp pain lanced through his leg, rebuking him for his earlier swordsmanship, doubling his anger and frustration. He gripped his thigh and sought a seat on a nearby log, soundly cursing his injury. Simon appeared at his side and crouched close.
“There are five dead. I thought we had one man we could question, but he died only moments after we got to him.” He nodded in Marsaili’s direction. “Does Milady recognize them?”
Geoffrey worked his mouth but could emit nothing more than a growl. Simon’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He took a longer look at the lady in question, noting Wythevede next to her, engaged in animated conversation.
“Wythevede’s manner toward her has changed,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “What do you suppose caused that?”
“Bah!” Geoffrey spat, warning glittering in his eyes. “Tell me of the men who attacked us and leave that tittering pair alone.”
Simon shot Marsaili and Wythevede a last glance, returning his attention to Geoffrey. “I can tell little from their attire, though they appear to be English, not Scots. No insignia that I’ve found. All were armored in a random assortment of leather, chain mail, and a few kettle hats among them.” He eyed Geoffrey. “Are you sure you don’t know what’s going on between Wythevede and Milady?”
Geoffrey’s breath huffed out. “She saved his life.”
Simon canted his head, his interest clear. “And?” he prompted. “What did our lady do? One of the rabble caught sight of her sweet face and stood dumbstruck whilst Wythevede clanged him over the head with a stout limb?”
“She knifed a man who eased up behind Wythevede whilst he fended off a scoundrel who would take the horses.” To his surprise, a sense of pride edged its way past the anger in his breast, and he realized he was not furious at her, but at the way he’d felt after the battle when he noticed she was no longer hidden behind the log where he’d left her. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, but he quelled the movement, jamming his eyebrows together fiercely.
“According to Wythevede, she saw the man creep up and threw her dagger at him.”
“And she hit him?” Simon’s voice rose in wonder.
“Nearly severed his head to hear Wythevede tell the tale. I imagine the knife struck a major artery in the man’s neck and he quickly bled to death.”
Simon rose to his feet. “I will find out.” He called to Walter, and the two strode to the picket line where the horses still snorted and stamped, shying from the smell of blood in the air and the recent violence.
Geoffrey massaged his thigh absently as he watched Marsaili and Wythevede’s conversation. Her coolness was a marked contrast to the little man’s animated gestures. After a moment, she broke free and strode to Geoffrey.
“A word?” she asked, though she clearly expected him to sit and take whatever she had to say without question.
He motioned for her to be seated. “The accommodations are somewhat sparse, but you are welcome to such as I have.”
Marsaili did not accept his offer, but folded her hands before her as though readying to address a particularly recalcitrant servant. He tamped down his rising ire, swearing to listen calmly to what she had to say.
“Milord, I believe the men were sent here by Edmund. I appreciate the fact ye appear to believe I am being followed. For that I thank ye. But I am uncertain our small group can withstand another assault such as this.”
He quirked a brow at her. “Is battle-planning another of your skills?” Motioning vaguely at her skirts, he indicated the presence of the daggers he knew were hidden beneath the fabric. “You have admitted to a fine hand with a needle, and demonstrated a bit of skill with a knife. You should speak to Simon about replacing him as my captain.”
Her deprecating look nearly drove him insane. “Milord, I understand ye dinnae wish to hear a woman’s opinion, but come out from under yer rock and at least admit what I say could be true.”
He slapped his thighs with the palms of his hands and rose to his feet, deriving a bit of satisfaction to tower over her. “I have already realized this and will have Wythevede ready the wagon. If he can be persuaded to leave off fawning at your side and attend
his duties.”
He glanced past her stormy visage, a twinge of remorse at his treatment of her tugging at him. He tempered his voice. “When Walter and Simon have finished admiring your handiwork with a knife, we will take to the road. Dawn isn’t far off and lingering is, as you suggest, a poor idea.”
He moved past her, but she placed a small hand on his arm. Halting, he gave her a bland look. “Milady?”
“I am sorry ye have such a poor opinion of me,” she began, a pained look on her face. “I have run the keep at Bellevue since my marriage, despite Edmund’s meddling. I learned not to dither when decisions need to be made, and I do realize a sweet smile oft wins more than a sour visage. However, you and I seem to butt heads at every turn. Please know I appreciate what ye are doing for me.”
Geoffrey waited for the rest of her words, bracing for whatever ultimatum she planned. She cocked her head at him, the hint of a smile playing about her lips. The pale light of the waning moon cast its light on the snow, sending a myriad of white sparks twinkling about her. The early morning shadows hid the stains on her gown and her regal bearing lent her the presence of a queen. His fingers itched to smooth the fiery strands of hair from her brow.
“Milord? Have I said something amiss? Would ye accept my apology?”
Geoffrey’s lips curled back from his teeth in a feral grin. “That was an apology?” He inclined his head. “My honest mistake. I feared you asked for my regrets.”
She blinked at him. “They are yer knights, yer wagon and driver. Other than underestimating me, what do ye have to regret?”
Damning the consequences, he snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. Bending his head, he whispered, “This.”
Chapter Nine
Marsaili gasped, the sound becoming a moan as his mouth covered hers. For a moment she stood paralyzed with shock. Geoffrey’s lips caressed, teased, demanded. The tip of his tongue lightly traced the seam of her lips, and they parted without so much as a query to what Marsaili thought was proper.
His tongue nudged hers, inviting it to a mating dance. She accepted, the kiss turning feverish and wild. She leaned closer until there was no space left between them. Her breasts, crushed against his chest, ached with longing, straining against the confines of her gown. Steel-clad arms encircled her, tightening, offering her no chance to escape. With a whimper of sound, she struggled to pull her arms free. His embrace relaxed only a fraction, but it was enough to slide her arms up, wrapping them about his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair.
Her body soared upward on her toes. She pressed her lips tighter against his, savoring him, consuming him as though she’d forgotten what a man tasted like.
She had.
The ridge nudging against her belly grew harder and Geoffrey’s big hands cupped her bottom, fitting her against his length. The heat of him seeped through the layers of fabric between them, and something reckless threatened to unleash inside her.
Geoffrey’s hands fell to her waist, holding her in place as he took a step backward. His lips parted from hers and she stared at the storm gathering in his eyes.
“I fear I dinnae understand the English,” Marsaili murmured, touching a fingertip to her swollen lips. “Ye dinnae much care for me, yet ye swear to protect me. Ye said ye would regret kissing me, yet I find I dinnae regret it at all.”
Geoffrey scowled. “I should not have acted on the impulse. It was inexcusable and wrong. Please accept my most humble apology, milady.” He shoved his hands behind his back and Marsaili smiled.
“Dinnae tell me ye arenae astonished to find the snow hasnae melted in a swath about our feet.” She pivoted gently and tossed him a look over her shoulder. “’Twas not proper, and it shouldnae happen again.”
Damnation! Geoffrey shoved a hand through his hair, gripping his skull as though testing the presence of the brain within.
Why on earth did I kiss the wench? I knew I’d regret it. I even told her I would.
But did he?
Her voice taunted him. It shouldnae happen again.
But would it?
“Simon! Walter! Make ready to ride.” He hobbled closer to the campfire and released some of his frustration by kicking apart the smoldering brands.
“Do we not wait for dawn?” Simon asked as he approached, wiping his blade on a scrap of cloth.
“There is enough moonlight and ’twill be sunrise soon enough.” Geoffrey favored him with a scowl. “Or mayhap you wish to wait and see if the scoundrels rally and attack again?”
Simon rammed the cleaned length of sword into its sheath. “With us expecting them this time? They don’t stand a chance in hell.”
“Let’s not stay and find out.”
“The team is ready, milord,” Wythevede called. “And a warmed stone waiting for you inside the wagon.”
Geoffrey’s mood took a turn for the worse, finding the overprotectiveness an affront to his status as a knight. His previous status. Damn his leg.
Horses whinnied and stamped their hooves, the sounds vivid in the crisp night air. Geoffrey spied his cane lying partly beneath the log he and Marsaili had been sitting on, half-covered by churned snow. Wincing at the pain in his thigh, he snatched up his stick and made his way to the waiting conveyance.
Opening the door, he stepped a booted foot to the threshold and halted. Even in the dim interior, he could see Marsaili seated on the front bench, wrapped in a fur.
“Get her horse,” he snapped over his shoulder, not caring who carried out the order.
“But, Saint . . . .” Walter began.
Geoffrey quelled the knight’s protest with a look. “She wants exercise.”
After Marsaili vacated the cart, the time passed with excruciating slowness. Sunshine cast pale fingers of light through a small window in the door of the wagon which Geoffrey had opened, allowing the biting cold air inside, and torturing him with the sound of Marsaili’s and Wythevede’s voices as they chatted back and forth. Occasionally, Simon and Walter joined them, and Geoffrey huddled deeper into his furs and self-castigation.
I had no right to kiss a woman under my protection. She should never feel it is a condition of her safety. I have broken my sworn oath as a knight and my studied vows at the monastery.
The conveyance pitched and tossed over the rocky road, jarring his leg, the pain setting his teeth on edge. Wythevede finally pulled the team to a stop and opened the wagon’s door, his cold-reddened face wreathed in a smile, tufts of white hair sticking out from his cap.
“Milady wished a break and a bite to eat, Milord,” he said, moving back to allow Geoffrey room to step down. “And the weather looks to be taking another turn for the worse.” The old man struck the doorframe with his fist. “Damn, but milady can sit a horse!”
Geoffrey glanced up as Marsaili walked past, her horse following. “Dinnae think my English husband taught me to ride,” she warned, a merry lilt to her voice.
Geoffrey stared at her as though she were the first drop of water he’d seen after a week in the desert. She tied her horse to the back of the wagon and brushed her gloved hands together, giving him a bright smile.
“I’m starved.”
I am, too. He gripped the top of his cane, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg as the ache in his groin took precedence. But not for food.
“May I have a word, Milady?”
“Of course. Though I should help Sir Simon prepare a small meal.” She peered at the sky. “Walter has gone ahead to seek shelter. I dinnae like the look of the sky.”
“Marsaili.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Milord?”
They were alone. Wythevede had pulled the team across the small clearing and busied himself watering the horses. Simon dug through his pack, four mugs placed on the ground next to him.
“I should apologize for making you ride this morning instead of joining me in the wagon.”
Marsaili tossed her head, her red-gold hair straying from its braid, glinting in the sun. Th
e cold and exercise tinted her creamy skin with roses, and her eyes sparkled. “Ye should apologize, but ’tis clear ye willnae. But ye likely cast me out for my own good, aye?”
He could have lied, but he didn’t. “No. For my own good. After I kissed you, I did not want to ensconce myself in the wagon with you. I had taken unfair advantage of you and I did not want it to happen again.”
Marsaili propped a hand on one hip. “Are ye saying ye cannae control yerself around me? ’Tis a weighty thing to think on, ye being a saint and all.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you finished punishing me, or shall I bare my back for more of your tongue’s lashes?”
The thought of running her tongue over his muscled back took the wind out of her sails. She flipped her fingers at him and strolled toward Simon, her voice trailing behind her. “Och, dinnae fash, Milord. ’Tis forgotten and forgiven.”
Forgiven? Och, ’tis naught to forgive, but Milord seems anxious to receive absolution and I see no harm in granting it.
Forgotten? Not in a thousand years!
She gave Simon a small smile and began pouring wine into the mugs, her thoughts far from the task. Had Andrew kissed me like that I’d have enjoyed marriage far more. The memory of Geoffrey’s chiseled lips on hers sent a ball of warmth pooling low in her belly. She closed her eyes, savoring the rich taste of the man—a bit of cinnamon from the last of the bread they’d brought from the inn, the savory spice of the dried meat they’d eaten for supper, and the lush taste of wine . . . .
Wine! Her eyes flew open, aghast at the sight of the deep red liquid cascading over the rim of the mug. She tilted the flagon up, halting the flow, and glanced up, meeting Simon’s curious stare.
“Is aught amiss, Milady?” he asked. “I hope the memory was worth the loss of good wine.”
The heat in her belly vanished and Marsaili touched fingertips to her cheeks, hoping they weren’t as flaming red as she feared.
The Saint Page 6
