Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519)

by Jillian Hart

  Just as there is no one now. She spun away, knowing her feelings showed on her face. She probably looked like a fool to him, a sentimental woman with fickle feelings. Well, fie on him! He didn’t like her kisses, so he might as well just leave. She grabbed hold of her door and shut it.

  His hand flew out, keeping the door open. Light flickered across the breadth of his shoulders and chest. His eyes were dark and pinched, filled with pain. “Elin, I need a new bandage.”

  “Oh.” She released the door and bowed her head. She’d treated every other injured man this night, but not Malcolm. He had avoided her. Now she held her heart quiet and tried not to feel any warmth for this man. “Are you bleeding?”

  “I want you to see.”

  She snatched the basket of herbs from the floor and followed him down the corridor. His solar was warm from the crackling fire in the hearth, but only a single taper gave light to the room.

  Malcolm shrugged off his hauberk and let the quilted fabric hit the floor at the foot of the bed. Her gaze became riveted to the burnished plane of his chest and abdomen, then lower. The chausses stretched tight over his groin could not hide his state of arousal.

  A very obvious arousal. She swallowed, not at all sure what to think or feel. Panic trembled in her limbs, but she could not force her gaze away.

  He sat on a stool near the light. “Do I bleed?”

  “Nay.” She’d not noticed the bandage until now, so intently did she study that part of him straining against dark fabric.

  Hands trembling, she knelt down and untied the bandage. It came away clean, without blood or seepage. The wound looked puffy, but it was healing. She smeared a thick layer of salve and sprinkled marigold and bartwart on the wound, then rolled a fresh length of cloth over it. “Unbelievable. The wound is healing well enough, but you need rest.”

  “I shall take to my bed shortly.” He stood, kicking away the stool.

  The clatter of wood upon stone frightened her. But when she saw the look in his eyes, all fear fled. No harshness or anger shone, but a truth so bright it hurt. He was sheer strength and honor. He would not hurt her. He had never truly hurt her. She saw the hard furrow between his brows and laid a hand to his shoulder. “What is amiss?”

  Malcolm’s face twisted, and his voice was filled with true concern. “’Tis my belief that Edward’s life is in danger. His cousin’s murder is just the start of it.”

  “Why would you tell me this? Because it was my father who killed her?”

  “Do you believe that?” His gaze pinned hers.

  She remembered the ruthless treatment of the serving maids, of their cries and tears when Father would trap them in the corridor or the great hall, finding pleasure in their hurt and shame. “I believe him capable. I believe many men capable.”

  “’Twas not what I asked.”

  “Aye. He was my father, and I cannot help regretting his death.” She sank to the window seat, where only shadows reigned. “I believe he was capable of taking the woman’s life.”

  “I think your father did not plot alone.”

  “Caradoc?”

  Malcolm sat beside her, his bare shoulder and hard thigh immovable stone against hers. “The king does not completely believe it, but ’tis one reason why he gave me this barony.”

  “Edward gave you the wealth you desired.”

  “Nay. ’Tis my duty to protect my king. I’m no baron and will never be, but Edward’s protector. Still. ’Tis the only reason I accepted your father’s title.”

  “To watch Caradoc?”

  “Aye. I have eyes and see what Edward cannot quite accept. Someone he trusts, and not just Caradoc, wants his throne.”

  How her skin tingled where they touched. She tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. “You’ve protected Edward a long while.”

  “Aye.” His face softened, and now there was no trace of the warrior. “I have no family who would claim me. Except for you, I am alone in this world. My mother was English born and returned to her family before she died. I earned my sword and fought for a small earl, hired for naught more than a roof over my head and food to eat. But the king had need of men, and the earl sent me to fight. During practice, I defeated every one of Edward’s knights. I earned my place, and when I saved his life during a hunt, he made me his commander.”

  Her chest filled with feeling. “You love your king.”

  “Aye.” Malcolm bowed his head, and dark locks tumbled across his brow. “He is the brother I never had, and the price of his life was worth all I suffered.”

  “In the Outremer.” She could see it, the shining knight Malcolm must have been, strong and young, with a power that rivaled all in the land. But she could see the harshness in him. And she remembered what Justus had told her of his capture. “That is where you received those scars on your back.”

  “Many of them. And the rest as a slave in the desert.”

  She hung her head. What had this man endured? Of what depth of loyalty was he capable? What was the breadth of his heart that he would trade his own for the life of another?

  She was ashamed that she’d hated him so much. He was just so mighty and fierce, hewn of twilight and shadow, and he frightened her. And fascinated her, too.

  “I need your help, Elin.” He leaned his elbows on his massive knees and studied her, speculative lines etched into a hard face touched by too much sun and pain. “’Tis not my life that concerns me overmuch, but I am Edward’s greatest ally.”

  “You are still his protector.”

  “To my last breath.” He bowed his head and studied his hands, callused and battle scarred. “How did the mercenaries get inside the walls? You said the bolt-hole.”

  Surely he did not still suspect her after all this? Her heart wrenched, but she answered his question. “It is in the wine cellar. There is a shallow door in the wall, where some spices are stored. If you look behind the shelves, there is another door.”

  “Who knows of it?”

  “I think only Father and I did. Not even Brock knew, and he was the commander of my father’s garrison.”

  “I’ll tell Ian.” He rose and strode from the room, leaving her alone in the shadows. He was gone a long while.

  Since the first day she’d scared her father off with the sharp end of her sword, Elin knew she’d never again be victim to a man’s dominance. Never again let him have control over her life.

  She’d not forgotten it was Malcolm who’d chained her in the dark recesses of the king’s towers, who’d left her alone, terrified of the vermin and cold and death.

  And yet she knew now he was not a cruel man.

  You are mine, dove.

  His steps drummed in the corridor, uneven and weary, announcing his return. She looked up as he broke through the darkness and into the solar, where light and shadow met.

  Surprise softened his warrior’s face. “You stayed.”

  “Aye.” She stood, not afraid and not unafraid. “I’ve not changed the bandage on your arm.”

  “’Tis fine.” He held out his hand, palm up. “It grows late. It has been another busy night.”

  “Life is not uneventful around you, Malcolm.” She stood and laid her hand in his. Her fingers burned with his heat.

  A dimple quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Trouble often follows me. But you, Lady Elinore of Evenbough, have been a handful of trouble.”

  While he meant to jest, his voice rang low and neither of them chuckled. Her hand on his felt weightless, yet as substantial as fire. Her small fingers curled around his greater ones with need.

  Shadow played upon her face and painted her angelic beauty with a rare light. Her eyes shone luminous, like the richest of gems, and they drew his greedy gaze and held it. He no longer saw the rebellious girl, but a young woman of tenderness and heart.

  She needed a landed gentleman, a titled son of a wealthy man who’d known only leisure. Who had not faced his greatest demons and lost. Who had not seen all he believed in destroyed. Who was not so ha
rd that love would never grow in his heart.

  Malcolm was wrong for her, and yet he wanted her. He looked at her body, and his blood thickened. A woman in chausses was a sight to behold—a luxury of lean, curving thigh and hip. It made him iron hard.

  The tip of her tongue flicked over the bountiful curve of her lower lip, now damp. Fire raked through him, a thousand points of torture and need that made him shake with want. His fingers caught the hem of her tunic. When he tugged it up over the span of her stomach and chest, he saw the flash of creamy skin and the perfection of her breasts.

  How he wanted her. He tossed the garment to the floor. Fierce with need, he knelt before her, his gaze drinking in the loveliness of her full breasts and pearled nipples.

  Flame scorched his veins and made his shaft pulse and ache. He pulled down her hose, revealing a smooth belly and pale thatch of hair, creamy thighs and legs so sculpted he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from bringing her hard against his hips.

  She would be both soft and tight, fire and sweetness, virgin and goddess. She smelled of spice and sweet apples, like passion and heat. He leaned his brow against the curve of her stomach. He tugged off his own chausses, and his aching shaft sprang free.

  He placed his trembling hands on her hips. A need so great rolled through him it was like a wave battering the shore. It dragged him under so that he couldn’t breathe, and then there was only this raging need and this beautiful woman.

  He stood and caught her mouth with his, intent on taking her under with him, where passion and breath mingled. Her lips blazed against his, laving him with a searing sensation that drove him further. He caught her up in his arms and settled her at his hips.

  He held her, cradling the back of her thighs as her magnificent legs wrapped around him. She clung to him, his erection trapped intimately between them. He felt her velvet heat moist against his shaft and wanted her so much he quaked.

  But as he carried her to the bed, her shallow and rapid breathing dragged him to the surface, where logic reigned. If she was aroused by him, it was nothing compared to her fear.

  He laid her on the bed. He could not look at her or he would take her, so great was his need. Not just for a woman, but for Elin. He needed her brightness, her softness, her sanctuary.

  He stood at the window a long while, but his blood did not cool and his heartbeat did not slow. Need hammered and pulsed, and he could think of little else but the woman naked and vulnerable on his bed, and how it would feel to lose himself within her.

  When he heard her sobs, quiet and sorrowful, he grabbed his clothes and left the solar. He did not glance at her, for his control was tenuous. Calling himself a fool, he closed the door behind him. For once he was grateful for the dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  She heard footsteps outside the solar door. She pulled the fur to her chin. It was not Malcolm returning. She knew he did not desire her, and that humiliation was worse than the sexual act she feared.

  The hinges whispered open and Ian stood on the threshold. “Lady Elin? Lord Malcolm leaves at first light. He’s bid you to come.” A note of distaste soured the commander’s voice. “Do as he orders, for he’ll not wait.”

  The cold cloak around her heart remained. She climbed out of bed and shivered in the cool air. Why had Malcolm left her last night on his bed, breathless both with fear and a strange excitement? And now, when he had a chance to be rid of her, invited her to go with him?

  She packed quickly, then dressed for the trip. She chose an unadorned kirtle and tugged on the borrowed chausses beneath it. She pulled her hair back with a length of ribbon and then buckled the sword at her hip. She found a dagger and wore that, too, hidden beneath her wool riding mantle. She grabbed her sack and hurried to the bailey, where already the men gathered.

  Malcolm was avoiding her. She did not find him in the yard directing his men or in the stable where horses were being saddled.

  “’Tis a dangerous thing, escorting fifty prisoners,” one stable boy said to another. “Lord Malcolm said I might journey with them and take care of the horses. My mother cried, thinking I’d be run through if the prisoners escaped.”

  “Lord Malcolm is the finest of knights. None shall escape his guard,” the youth answered.

  Elin heard a sharp welcoming whinny and tugged the apple from her pocket. The sorrel mare snatched the treat from Elin’s palm without even a hello. “Has been a long time, Blaze.” She rubbed the white streak down the middle of the horse’s pretty nose. “Did you miss me?”

  The horse, the treat consumed, pressed her nose against Elin’s hand, inviting more caresses. Her heart warmed. Blaze had been Peter’s gift for her birthday five years ago. A fine blooded mare, and powerful, Blaze would have no trouble keeping up with the warhorses. Elin grabbed Peter’s old saddle and cinched it on. She led the mare out into the bailey, unnoticed in the fray.

  It wasn’t until she mounted up that she spotted Malcolm leading the prisoners, ringed by fierce knights, toward the outer bailey. Even on horseback he towered above the others. His dark locks tangled in the wind, rakish and untamed. He emanated power and authority, but he looked pale. Far too pale.

  “Lady Elin?” Justus galloped to her side. “Malcolm wishes you to stay with me. I’ll be riding postern, and mayhap you can help me watch for a rear ambush. I packed an extra crossbow with the arms. Just in case.” He winked, but he did not tease.

  She pressed Blaze into a slow trot as the squires, horse boys and knights fell in line. “This is a dangerous journey.”

  “Aye, and no place for a lady, as others argue. But ’tis my opinion Malcolm could not bear to leave you behind.”

  She remembered how Malcolm had abandoned her on the bed last night. How he’d turned his back to her then and kept from her presence now. “’Tis because he fears I am a better warrior and might lock him out of his own castle when he tries to return.”

  “I heard that, Elin.” Malcolm’s voice rang out above the clomp of hooves and the musical jingle of chain mail.

  Her heart constricted. He did not look happy to see her. His jaw appeared to be clenched tight, his brows tugged together in a frown. His gaze slid over her, as if she were unimportant.

  “From this point on there will be silence. That includes you, dove.” Malcolm spun his destrier toward the front gate.

  She could not help her flash of anger. “See? ’Tis his fear,” she whispered to Justus.

  The knight smothered a chuckle. She looked up into Malcolm’s gaze. She read censure there and something she could not name. Longing speared through her heart. She wished she did not repulse him. She would enjoy riding at his side. But it was not to be.

  Malcolm drove his men and prisoners hard. They’d not stopped, despite the storm, but rode straight through, their journey lengthened by the inclement weather. It grew harder and harder to hide his exhaustion and the pain that worsened instead of fading.

  As rain again fell, toward the last of their journey, he held his destrier back to check the prisoners chained upon their mounts. His knights silently endured the hard ride and kept a good vigil. He caught sight of Justus and Elin riding postern. Elin’s hood cloaked much of her face, but his chest ached at the sight.

  He did his best to avoid her through the length of the trip. He truly wanted her to check his wound, but that meant being near her and feeling her touch upon his skin. By the Book, he did not think he could restrain his base urges if she brushed her feather-soft fingers against him one more time. The image of her naked and vulnerable beat in his blood. Aye, it was best to keep distance between them.

  “This journey has been a hard one, but no one attempted to ambush us on the road.” Ian rode close, exhaustion bruising his face. “What think you of that?”

  “We were watched. I felt it.”

  “But not attacked?”

  “Nay. We number two hundred knights. And two of the best in the land, you and me. But I had the squires check the prisoners’ chains often, noneth
eless.”

  The roads through the city were quiet and the guards at the gates came running, ready to take charge of the prisoners. Glad that burden was off his shoulders, Malcolm rubbed the rain from his eyes. Stable boys ran to take the horses, and he dismounted.

  “A private chamber in the south tower awaits you, Lord Malcolm.” Irwin greeted him at the door and summoned a page to lead the way. “’Tis good to have you here again. And your lady.”

  Elin. He saw her at Justus’s side. She tromped through the rain without a care for her skirts or hair. The wind battered her mantle against her slender body, accenting the curves of her breasts and hips. Simply looking at her made his blood thrum. ’Twas not a good thing. “Irwin, I must see Edward. Escort Lady Elinore to my chamber and see her taken care of. My thanks.”

  He said not a word to her as he strode away, ordering the men to their tasks. Weakness and pain gripped him and he ached for her soothing touch, but he did not want anyone to know how ill he truly was. When this was over, when all was safe, he would rest. But for now, danger fell like the rain from the sky. He would not sleep and he would not stop until he knew Elin and Edward were safe.

  “Where is my husband?” she demanded of the polite Irwin, who’d sent a boy to show her to a luxurious chamber. “I need to speak with him. ’Tis urgent.”

  “He’s speaking with the king and they cannot be disturbed. I’ll send up a meal and a hot bath.” He spoke as if she were a child, easily pleased by distractions.

  “By the saints! I watched my husband grow paler throughout this trip to the king. Edward could have sent his own army to take the prisoners. He could have spared Malcolm the journey.”

  “He’s no weakling, lady. Be content with your bath.”

  She stormed back up the stairs. Anger and concern tore at her. Malcolm had refused to even look at her during the trip. He’d ridden with a commanding authority, but she recognized the pale tint to his face and the silent wince when his wound pained him.