Northcliff dropped to a crouch. Spurred by a surge of fury, Cyn lunged, careening into the lout and sending him backward into the vertical wooden post. As they collided, agony jarred through Cyn. He ground his teeth, smothered a pained yell. Northcliff’s head knocked against the post, briefly stunning him, and Cyn grabbed the dagger from the younger lord’s hand and tossed it onto the floor, where it skidded under a table.
“Bastard,” Northcliff choked out. He clawed at the front of Cyn’s cloak, trying to sink his fingers into Cyn’s wound.
Cyn slammed his fist into Northcliff’s jaw, causing the lout’s head to hit the post a second time. Groaning, his eyes rolling, Northcliff slowly slid down to the floor.
As Cyn straightened, grimacing at his discomfort, he saw William intercept two men trying to reach Redmond, who had retreated halfway up the stairs. Cyn’s heart kicked hard in his chest, for William was defending the London official. Relief rippled through him, along with intense gratitude.
Metal clashed, drawing his gaze to Redmond’s guard who had returned from the upper level and was protecting not only the London official, but his fellow guard, bleeding and crumpled on the bottom stair.
And Magdalen…
Cyn’s frantic gaze swept the room of fighters that included William’s men-at-arms, who were preventing anyone inside from leaving. A wise strategy. Magdalen wasn’t in the front part of the room, though.
Dread settling like a stone in his gut, Cyn wiped sweat from his eyes and continued to search for her. Had she found a safe place to hide until the brawling was over? Mayhap she’d gone behind the bar, where the proprietor and serving wenches were huddled, only their heads visible. He couldn’t see her there, but—
Two men crashed into a table, and as they fell, he spied her. Her hood had fallen away from her head, and her cloak had become unpinned, baring her left shoulder. Her long braid swayed at her back as she limped to the hearth.
What in hellfire was she doing?
He hurried toward her. “Magdalen,” he bellowed, hoping she’d hear him over the cacophony. By some miracle, she did. Turning, she held up her left hand, clasping a small, wrapped object: the vial of poison.
She was going to destroy it—
Northcliff shoved past, pushing Cyn sideways into a vacant chair. Cursing, Cyn tried to break his fall. He caught hold of the chair and steadied himself against the sturdy oak table, while his blood dripped onto the furniture. Willing his pain and dizziness to abate, he staggered after Northcliff.
Eyes widening, Magdalen hobbled for the fire. No doubt she was moving as fast as she could, but her injury was slowing her down.
“Hurry, Magdalen!” Cyn cried.
Coming up behind Northcliff, Cyn grabbed the back of the lord’s tunic and yanked, but Northcliff fought, punching Cyn’s wound. In acute agony, Cyn reeled back. Vomit scalded the back of his mouth.
Just steps from the hearth, Northcliff grabbed hold of Magdalen’s braid. She shrieked and lashed out with the knife Cyn had given her, but Northcliff knocked it from her hand. It fell to the hearth tiles, out of her reach.
Swallowing what was in his mouth, Cyn plowed forward. He had to save Magdalen. Her head pulled back at an awkward angle, she struggled in Northcliff’s grip.
“Give me the vial,” the young lord shouted.
“Nay!” She gasped.
Cyn clamped his right arm around the young lord’s neck. He squeezed hard. Choking, Northcliff clawed at Cyn’s arm, but Cyn held tight.
The lord’s face reddened, but he refused to let go of Magdalen’s hair; he twisted it around his hand, tightening his imprisoning grip even more. Increasing the pressure of his arm, Cyn forced Northcliff to turn sideways, in hopes of easing Magdalen’s torment. Her head still twisted at an odd angle, she was fumbling with the bag at her hip, while keeping the vial out of Northcliff’s reach.
“Beware.” Cyn tried to speak calmly. “Do not drop the vial. If it falls, shatters, and splashes poison on you—”
“I know.” She pulled her hand from the bag. Silver flashed in her fingers: the doe.
Her eyes hardened with resolve. Turning the deer so that its ears pointed down, she slammed it into Northcliff’s hand imprisoning her hair.
He howled.
Again, she struck him. Blood beaded on his skin.
“Bitch,” he croaked, spittle flying from his lips. His face was purple now.
“Let her go,” Cyn commanded.
She hit Northcliff again, this time smacking the doe against his cheek. Northcliff yelped. His hold on her slackened.
With a sharp cry, Magdalen broke free. She lunged for the hearth. The vial flew from her fingers. The linen-wrapped parcel was briefly illuminated in the fire’s glow before it fell into the flames and shattered.
The blaze hissed. Black smoke rose in an inky cloud, and then the fire returned to normal.
Her head drooping, Magdalen collapsed to sitting on the hearth tiles, her cloak and gown spilling around her. With a metallic clatter, the doe landed beside her. Magdalen looked exhausted, but never had Cyn seen a more beautiful woman. Pride swelled within him for what she’d done.
Still in Cyn’s grasp, Northcliff made a strangled sound. Cyn became aware that William stood beside him.
“My guard will take him now,” William said, summoning over one of his men.
Cyn held tight to Northcliff until the young lord’s hands were bound. After grudgingly releasing Northcliff into the guard’s custody, Cyn assessed the rest of the room. Five traitors, their hands tied in front of them, were sitting on the floor, being watched by William’s men-at-arms. Others were being restrained by Cyn’s lackeys. Still more men were sprawled between tables, some unconscious, others examining their bruises and bleeding wounds. Redmond stood at the bottom of the stairs, talking to his wounded guard while the other guard tended to his colleague’s injuries.
Catching Cyn’s gaze, Redmond crossed to him. “I am very grateful for your efforts tonight, Sheriff. You as well, Lord Langston.”
Cyn bowed. “I am glad all went in our favor. You did exceptionally well, milord, acting as though you had no forewarning about tonight’s plot.”
“Plot?”
William shifted his stance, clearly uneasy.
“The plot to poison you, milord, as I detailed in my missive. The one I sent you a few days ago?”
Redmond’s face creased into a worried frown. “I did not receive a missive from you, Sheriff.”
Shock plowed through Cyn. He’d sent the missive through contacts he trusted. “Are you certain?”
“I am. I will ask my clerk about it, though, the instant I return to London.” Frowning, Redmond added, “The King has suspected for months that the treachery growing throughout England has taken root in his London court like a foul weed. I will do my utmost to see it destroyed.” Spying the red-haired wench, tears streaming down her face, Redmond nodded to Cyn and William, and then hurried to comfort her.
“You sent a missive to London after all,” William said quietly.
“I did. ’Twas my duty as sheriff. I did not mention your name, though, only that I had discovered the parchment and what was written on it.”
A faint grin tilted William’s mouth. “I told you I could be trusted.”
“Indeed you did.”
One of William’s men summoned him. When he strode away, Cyn crossed to the hearth and dropped down beside Magdalen, taking care not to jostle his wounded shoulder. She raised her head, wisps of loosened hair framing her face. Tears glistened on her cheeks, and with a tender smile, he brushed them away with his fingers.
“Well done,” he murmured.
“You as well,” she said softly.
“Why are you crying?”
She sniffled. “Moments ago, I was not sure…that I would manage to destroy the vial. I wanted so much to succeed—”
“And you did.” He kissed her brow. Thank God she was finally safe. “You were incredibly brave. Come. Let me help you to
your feet.”
She gestured to his wound. “Your shoulder—”
“I will have it tended to shortly. You are more important right now.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “Do not be silly.”
“I am never silly,” he said with a wink. “If you do not believe me, ask Borden.”
She chuckled and then wove her fingers through his. “You are always very gallant, though, and honorable, and clever.”
Now she was embarrassing him. “All right. Enough.”
She held his gaze, her stare breathtakingly poignant. “Promise me one thing.”
Ah, God. Was she going to ask for his ever-after love, the one thing he couldn’t offer her? Remorse weighed upon him, even as he said lightly, “What is that?”
“Promise me tonight’s adventure is over. I have had quite enough for one day.”
He squeezed her hand, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips. “That, Fair Maiden, I will gladly promise.”
Chapter Fifteen
Magdalen gently pressed a warm, wet cloth to Cyn’s wound. He hissed in a breath. His hands tightened on the seat of the chair he’d sat in once a quiet, controlled calm had finally settled inside the tavern.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Do not apologize,” he ground between his teeth. “You did not stab me.”
True, although that fact didn’t make tending him any easier. After considerable grumbling, he’d removed his cloak, tunic, and shirt to allow her to clean his injury. His clothing, stained with an alarming amount of blood, lay on the table beside him.
The wound was still bleeding, although more slowly now. Equally unsettling, when she’d insisted that she clean the injury as swiftly as possible to help stave off corruption, she hadn’t thought ahead to the fact that she’d see him naked from the waist up. She’d seen half-naked men before, of course, in Glemstow Keep’s bailey, when they’d washed off after an afternoon of weapons training in the tiltyards or after wrestling one another in friendly matches. Witnessing Cyn in this state of undress, though… This was different. Her hands were unsteady and for some reason, ’twas difficult for her to breathe.
Cyn is hurt, the voice of reason inside her scolded. Tending his wound is far more important than your foolish anxiety.
Indeed, ’twas. Vowing to remain focused, she asked, “Why was Northcliff so determined to get the vial of poison?”
Cyn flinched as she shifted the cloth. “Only he can tell us for certain. However, the vial—the style of it and the materials ’twas made from—might have led us to the person who made the poison. That man, or woman, likely has information on the traitors and their upcoming plots.”
“I see.” She rinsed the cloth in the bowl of boiled water the bartender had brought along with a few linen towels; a couple of them she’d torn into strips for bandages. She pressed the damp cloth once again to Cyn’s shoulder. His eyes closed, he pressed his lips together, clearly stifling a groan.
“I remember the vial well,” she said. “Once I find a quill and ink, I will draw it for you.”
His eyes remained closed, but he nodded. “Thank you.”
Water trickled down the left side of his chest—her fault, for not thoroughly wringing out the cloth. Setting it aside, she snatched up a dry linen towel and wiped away the reddish-colored water, noting the scars on his skin as she worked. Some were small, others as long as her hand. Yet, the scars didn’t detract from his masculine beauty. His torso, rippling with muscle, was one of the most impressive she’d ever seen. How shameful that she wanted to run her fingers over his skin, to feel his bare flesh beneath her fingertips.
She dragged her gaze back up to his face. His eyes remained shut. He was clearly bracing for more torment.
“You will be glad to hear that I am almost done.” She rinsed the cloth once more, hating to see him in such pain. “I am sure that with a few stitches and Borden’s ointments, the wound will heal well.”
Cyn grunted as she again pressed the cloth against his broken flesh.
Water dripped down his ribs and spattered on his woolen hose. A few drops had even landed in the middle of his lap, where his hose bunched over his male parts. After dropping the wash cloth back into the water, she grabbed the dry cloth and wiped his skin—
His hand curled around hers, trapping it and the cloth against his ribs. Her gaze met his, and her breath hitched, for what she saw now in his eyes wasn’t pain.
Slowly, so slowly, his gaze slid down to her mouth. Sensual hunger smoldered in his eyes, and her lower belly clenched in anticipation. She ached to kiss him; ached all the way to her soul, the need sharpened by the turmoil of all that had taken place moments ago. She’d been so afraid of losing him. Thinking about what could have happened, if the fight had gone differently…
How she longed to climb into his lap and kiss him, over and over, to drown in the joy that he was alive and going to be all right, and that they had the rest of their lives to be together.
The brush of Cyn’s thumb was her only warning; she became aware of approaching footfalls. Cyn’s hand fell away, and, fighting a blush, she tossed aside the cloth and sorted out several lengths of bandage on the table.
“How is his wound?” William asked, halting by the chair.
“’Tis clean and ready to be stitched.”
“Not stitched. Sealed,” Cyn said, looking at William.
“Sealed?” Magdalen’s gaze shot to the fire in the hearth. Surely he didn’t mean—
“A hot iron will stop the bleeding,” Cyn said evenly, his attention returning to her. “As sheriff, I have much to do this eve. ’Tis vital to stop the flow of blood.”
Feeling ill, Magdalen pressed her hands to her middle.
“I will see to it.” William strode to where the proprietor was righting chairs and overturned tables, and then the two men disappeared into the back of the tavern.
Cyn caught hold of one of her hands. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed it. “’Twill be all right.” He smiled, although the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “Many knights had their wounds sealed in such a manner on Crusade. ’Tis quick and effective.”
He spoke calmly enough, but somehow, he seemed despondent. What wasn’t he telling her? He was going to be all right, wasn’t he?
“Cyn?” she whispered, a chill of dread crawling down her spine.
“I look forward to getting your drawing of the vial, as well as a written statement of what occurred here today.”
“Of course. I can do that now. I will ask the barman—”
He squeezed her fingers. “You can work on it once you reach Glemstow.”
“Glemstow?”
“’Tis best if you leave now. I will have a couple of my men escort you home.”
He spoke as if ’twas the right course of action for her. Yet, she didn’t want to leave his side, especially not when he was going to have a red-hot iron pressed to his flesh. No matter how brave he intended to be, the pain would be horrendous.
“I know what you are thinking, Magdalen, but I want you to go.”
Her heart ached so badly, she could hardly breathe. “Why?”
“I need to get accounts from all of the folk in this room. I must also take the traitors to the town gaol. My duties will demand all of my attention for the rest of the night.”
“I understand. If I can help—”
“There is also another matter I must resolve.” His tone roughened. “One I should have settled long ago.”
His killing of Andrew while on Crusade. That long-simmering torment shadowed Cyn’s gaze and threaded through his words. How she yearned to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him, but he seemed determined to shut her out.
“I will not go,” she said, pressing her other hand over his.
Sadness flickered across his features. “You must.”
“But—”
“I care about you Magdalen. I care a great deal. For us to be together, though—”
Oh, God. “’Tis what I want, t
oo! So very much.”
He shook his head, averted his gaze. “I must be worthy of you.”
She choked down a sob. “You are!”
“Nay, I am not.”
Despair knotted inside her, tangling her joy, hopes, desperation into a snarl of confusion. As he pulled his hand free of hers, she asked, “W-what will you do?”
“I will ride to London to speak with the King; there is no greater authority in this land. I am going to confess all that happened that day on Crusade, and I will accept his judgment.”
Tears burned her eyes. “What then?”
Cyn shrugged. “Then I pray that my soul will be free. If I deserve punishment for my actions and for all of the years I kept my silence, I will face it with dignity and honor, knowing that I am a better man…because of you.”
“Oh, Cyn,” she whispered, tears trailing down her face. “Please, do not make me leave you.”
“We found an iron that will work,” William said, returning from the rear of the tavern with a metal stick as long as her arm. He shoved it into the blaze.
“Good,” Cyn said over his shoulder. “Magdalen should return to Glemstow.”
“Agreed,” William said. “I will send some of my men to escort her.”
“Please, Cyn,” Magdalen said, hating how lost she sounded. “Please, I lov—”
“Go,” Cyn rasped, gently pushing her in William’s direction.
Oh, God, she was losing him.
“Cyn!” she sobbed.
The chair scraped as he rose and headed for the hearth. “Be well, Magdalen, until we meet again.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Look at that cheeky robin,” Magdalen said, her arm curled around Timothy, balanced on her hip, while she pointed up at one of the blossoming apple trees in Glemstow’s orchard. The bird, perched on a low branch, twittered and tilted its head as it looked down at them.
Timothy burbled and grinned. Magdalen kissed his cheek and then set him down on his back on the blanket she’d spread out on the grass in the shade. Edwina was taking a nap, and Magdalen had decided she and Timothy could do with some fresh air and sunshine. ’Twas a glorious day, mild with a light breeze that whispered through the tree boughs overhead and carried the fragrance of thousands of blooms; ’twas certainly better to spend such a day outdoors than inside, nursing a shattered heart.
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