Must Love Chainmail
Page 12
He turned the meat and studied her. Clearly, she understood more and more of his speech. His regard caught her attention, and their gazes locked, the sizzling pops from the fat dropping into the fire punctuating the charged air around them.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. “Where are you from?”
For it was time for answers. Answers to explain her presence. Answers to explain his attack of chivalry where she was concerned. Answers to explain why he felt as if the gaping hollowness within ached less when in her presence.
Chapter Thirteen
And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its flesh upon skewers, around the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion to devour. While he was doing this, he heard a deep sigh near him, and a second, and a third. And Owain called out to know whether the sigh he heard proceeded from a mortal; and he received answer, that it did.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Kaytee’s head jerked back to stare at Robert, confirming his suspicions—she understood him better now.
She dropped her gaze. “Far.”
“How far?” His pulse raced at the prospect of getting some answers. Mayhap then the curious hold she had on him would lessen.
“Very far.”
He grunted and rotated their meat before the fire. “Does this far away land perchance have a name?”
She nodded, her curiously cut dark hair falling forward. She mumbled something, but he understood it not.
“What is it?”
She raised her face and beheld him for a moment. She took a deep breath. “Ahmairica.”
He knew of no such place. It must indeed be far. “Where is this land?”
She squinted at the sky. To his surprise, she pointed toward the setting sun.
“You are from a region in Ireland?”
She shook her head and waved further west. He’d heard tell of sailors who’d dared cross the great ocean, like Llywelyn the Great’s uncle, Prince Madoc the Shipbuilder, whom Welsh bards said had settled in plush lands to the west over 120 years ago. Mayhap she was a descendant returning to her ancestors’ shores? Until now, he’d thought the tales prideful boasts, told around campfires, and grown into folk tales. “How did you journey here?”
She opened her mouth and closed it. She looked down. “I don’t know.”
Had she been captured in a raid? But then how did she know her strange version of French and the peasant tongue, English? And the bits of stilted Latin.
“How do you come to be so educated?”
“How do you…know I am?”
“You speak several tongues, including Latin. Do you know how to read and write as well?”
He was not in the least surprised by her slow nod. Yes, wherever she hailed from, she was high-born. Which made her appearance in the wilds of Wales, alone with no protector, more curious.
“At the castle, why did you dress as a man?” But how she’d believed those lips could fool any warm-blooded male was beyond him.
She shook her head. “Say that again. Slower.”
He repeated his question, and she said it several times. She straightened. “Oh. Seemed safer.”
He could understand that. It had been smart to do, for certes. “Why are you alone?”
“It…it couldn’t be helped.”
He pulled the sticks holding their meat from the fire and set them aside to cool.
She was hiding something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find it in himself to believe the intent evil in nature. And he wondered at that, for his easy trust in her.
In truth, she appeared to have no agenda. If she did, she had not one now, for how could she have contrived to be wounded during the retreat and be saddled with him on a treacherous hike to Harlech Castle?
She couldn’t have planned their retreat in the first place. No, she seemed a victim of circumstance.
He tested the meat with his fingers and handed over her share. She took it and bit into it tentatively. Then with more relish.
Something primitive stirred within him at seeing her eat what he’d provided. He cooked the rest of the meat and settled beside her, eating his portion in silence.
He passed her the flagon of water, and his fingers brushed hers. The surprise contact pulled his body to attention.
Instinct made him shift away and lean back on his arms, looking out at the darkening forest. Huh. Another surprise. No, not his attraction, for he was fully aware of her charms long ere now, but that he still had a shred of chivalry lurking in his hide of a knight. No longer was she ill, so his forbearance made no sense, but there it was. She was under his protection, and to violate that would dishonor them both. The thought alone made his stomach curdle like spoiled cream. Others in his position would not forbear, he knew, and at the thought, his hands tightened into fists.
A noisy flock of siskins chattered overhead, a muted yellow mist among the autumn leaves, as he explored this odd sensation. He thought himself devoid of personal honor, a luxury expunged in the harsh realities of a landless knight. The only honor that mattered, the only that he pursued, was familial—the honors of his rightful inheritance, the honor of the king’s favor—all of which he’d lost. Lost when his treasonous father sacrificed all for his personal honor.
Youthful memories stirred of tales of chivalry—of knights who had the luxury to rescue damsels in distress, of knights who had the luxury to pursue personal honor—which only highlighted how calculated and cold he’d become in the pursuit of his goal.
This, he felt. It coated the hollow feeling inside and agitated.
Seeking distraction, he motioned to her. “Practice my tongue. You’re improving.”
She nodded and spoke some basic sentences and greetings. He corrected her pronunciation when she erred. She was a quick study.
“Tell me a story in my language, not yours.” From his surcoat, he extracted a chunk of wood he’d scavenged earlier and began whittling. The shape mattered not—it was the action which soothed.
He watched her eyes and saw her draw inward, mentally gathering herself. Another curiosity—he’d become so used to gleaning meaning from her every expression and movement, he could tell her moods, her thoughts.
She launched into a tale about a cow leaping over the moon, of all things, and some of her words he did not understand. At those times, he stopped her and asked their meaning. Once he understood, he either corrected her pronunciation or her word choice. She would nod, start the sentence again, and continue.
By the time she finished her strange story—the cow befriended a mouse and went on many adventures--it had grown dark. She sighed. “That helped. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” He blew off the last bit of shavings from his carving. A cow. He’d carved a cow.
“I need to see to my…wound again. I think this bandage is dry.” She fingered it. “Do you have any soap?”
He nodded and retrieved the small pungent ball of ash and goat tallow from his trunk. She washed her hands and rolled up her sleeve. He sat beside her again and leaned forward to watch, telling himself he was this close to lend assistance, not because he craved her nearness, craved catching an enticing whiff of her scent. All day in the saddle, it had filled his senses and…he missed it.
She ripped another strip from her mantle, wet it with water, and lathered on the soap. She untied the bandage and pulled it away, wincing.
“It appears to be healing well,” he ventured.
She poked around the pale, reddened edges and breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, thank God.” She wiped the area with the soap mixture, rinsed it, and looked at him for a moment.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Can you wash your hands and then bind this around the wound?” The glow from the fire highlighted the smooth curve of her cheek.
“Why do you wish me to wash my hands first?”
“I notice you wash your hands before you eat dinner. Same reason. Our hands are dirty.”
When he was done, she held her arm toward him. “Is that also why you boiled this?” He plucked the bandage from where she’d left it drying. “Were you washing it?”
“Yes.” She offered a quick smile.
He ignored the close proximity of her body, ignored how he was so close all the fine hairs on her arm were visible, ignored the irrational urge to shift even closer and place his lips at the inside of her elbow. To touch his tongue there and…taste the heat she emitted. He ignored all and securely bound her arm.
“Thank you.” Her soft, warm whisper near his ear tightened his cods.
“You are most welcome.” His voice was rougher than usual.
“No. I meant, for not abandoning me at the castle. And…and when I was sick.” The hesitation in her voice caught his attention, for he sensed it was more than mere confusion with the language this time.
He shifted his gaze to hers--her lip, the side of her jaw so close--and beheld an odd vulnerability and a latent fear. He gave a slow nod. It cut him, as surely as a sharp sword, to know she so readily expected such ill treatment to be surprised at its lack. And hadn’t he contemplated it? Did he deserve her thanks?
She pulled in a ragged breath, her exhalation soft against his cheek, her gaze still locked with his. “I just… Thank you.”
Yes. She was out of her element, for certes. However, for someone left to her own devices in a strange land, she was handling it rather well. She’d maintained her calm throughout. Admiration filled him, for not many men could say the same.
He returned his attention to her wound and laid his hand on her bandage to indicate he had completed the task. From underneath her moisture-tinged lashes, she watched him, and her breathing quickened. He slid his fingers from the cloth and brushed the bare area just above, watching her closely for any sign that this attraction that swirled and pooled between them was not a figment made large in his mind. Her reactions to his closeness could be mere distress.
His senses were not in error--her eyes darkened, and the air between them thickened with carnal possibility.
He yanked his fingers away and jerked to a stand, his agitated movements kicking a spray of dirt into the dying fire. “We need more kindling.” He threw his carving into the fire. “It’s time for us to retire.” He stomped into the forest, eyes intent on finding more kindling.
Christ on a cross, how was he to lie beside her and not touch her?
Even if he were free to indulge, it could be no more than a dalliance. As a landless knight, he could not marry, and his goal for rectifying that circumstance seemed even further away than it had a fortnight ago.
Frustration—at the delay, and at his sexual desires—lanced through him, roiling within, clouding his judgment. Tomorrow, he must push hard on their march. The sooner they reached Harlech—and his situation secured, and her presence removed—the better.
What had just happened? Katy shuddered. Heat still pooled in her lower belly, and the air around her held a latent but powerful charge. Despite the man responsible being now fifteen feet away gathering firewood. This was not good.
Preston, Preston. Remember Preston.
But then she froze. Preston? Her image of him was slightly fuzzy, just a general impression of good humor and a friendly smile. Instead, the sculpted features of a dark-haired knight intruded, a knight who looked as if he hadn’t laughed in a good while.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Not good. She fingered the lighter shade around her ring finger and tried to pull up the feeling she’d had when Preston had proposed over dinner one night. But couldn’t.
She eyed her bag. Oh, how she itched to pry it open, pull out her phone, turn it on, and look at their engagement pictures. She’d been happy, right?
Besides, shacking up with some hot guy clad in chainmail—in the past, no less—was not part of her ten-year plan. Getting married was. Reliable, steady Preston would never abandon her. Unlike her father. The father who’d skipped out on her eighth birthday when Katy had indulged in some stupid tantrum, allowed herself to lose control of her emotions. A father who had never responded to her letters. Letters she stopped sending when she’d turned seventeen.
When Preston had proposed, relief had lightened her limbs, lightened her heart.
Relief. Cripes.
And the fact that it was easier to think about Robert than Preston… Robert’s surprise at her gratitude for not abandoning her…
She scrambled to her feet and snatched her mantle. Before he returned, she should be “asleep” inside the hut. It would make the situation easier.
She made her bed along one side of the wall and burrowed under the thick layer of hide and wool blankets. She shivered and concentrated on breathing. She could hear his movements outside as he stoked the fire and performed other unknown activities.
How many more nights would she have to sleep next to him before they reached Harlech?
Bright morning sun filtered through the canopy of overarching trees, bathing their trail in dappled light. Birds Katy couldn’t name chirped overhead, providing the only sound other than the steady clop of their horses and the creak of the saddle that propped up her aching butt. They’d been in the saddle already for two hours at least.
“Robert!” She pointed at a horizon smudged dark with smoke that had come into view as they rounded a bend. Unease tightened her stomach. He reined in the horse, which danced sideways, head jouncing up and down as it settled.
His hand reached around her waist and gripped his hilt. She moved to the side, giving him room as he drew his sword.
“That much smoke bespeaks of the destruction of something large.” He paused, eyes narrowing in concentration, and then widening. “The abbey.”
With a decisive kick, he spurred his horse forward, following the curve of the slope westward, and panic seized her. Was he going to race into a dangerous situation with only his sword? And with her death-grip-clinging to the weird pommel? “Robert, wait!”
But along the slope, directly above the smoke, he kicked his legs from the stirrup, swung to the ground, and sprinted forward. She slid down, much less gracefully, and followed as he crouched behind a stand of alder buckthorn. Below them lay a valley of unrelenting tree tops in a palette of early fall golds, oranges, and browns. A river bisected the expanse, and a cleared area hugged the bank, roughly circular in shape. In the center stood a stone church with a longer building running perpendicular to it and a hodge podge of smaller stone buildings huddled close. Black smoke streamed from every building, along with gouts of flames.
Chapter Fourteen
Bendigeid Vran, the son of Llyr was the crowned king of this Island, and he was exalted from the crown of London. And one afternoon he was at Harlech in Ardudwy, at his court, and he sat upon the rock of Harlech, looking over the sea.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Katy’s heart beat in time with the plumes of flames and smoke which throbbed and raced through the complex below.
“I see only monks.” Robert’s voice was flat, perfunctory near her ear. “Do you see aught else?”
“Nothing, just men in white robes.”
He surveyed the valley for a few minutes more. His features were as flat and impassive as his voice had been, but his eyes tightened subtly, his jaw and shoulders a bit tenser. He stood and whistled for Perceval.
She got to her feet and wiped the dirt from her mantle. “You’re angry. What do you suspect?”
“Something I would rather not contemplate. I pray it is from an accident, a careless monk with an oil lamp, but if not…”
“You think someone did this on purpose?”
“The Marcher lords,” he spat. “For that is an old Welsh monastery that supported the Welsh princes in years past.” He removed the lead to the packhorse from Perceval and swung up onto Perceval. “Let us see if we can lend assistance.
” His strong hands gripped her hips and raised her onto his lap.
“What about your other horse?”
“She knows to follow.”
Robert eased the horse down the hill. Little was visible through the thickness of the trees and scrub, but as they drew near, shouts echoed, and the smell of burning wood assaulted her nose.
They cleared the dense forest, and Robert spurred his horse into a canter on the approach to the monastery.
A weird sense of loss flooded Katy, watching the flames chew through the complex. Before her stood a once proud testament to medieval masonry and faith, a site in her time that would be cordoned off and preserved for its architecture alone. Now it was completely engulfed in flames. What treasures were lost today? Did historians in her own time bemoan this very fire?
Three white-clad monks burst from the nearest building and collapsed onto their knees, hands clasped, tonsured heads bowed, repeating words over and over, inaudible from their distance.
Robert reined in his horse, dirt and pebbles flying. One monk shakily stood, the ring of red hair around his head nearly the same hue as his flushed face. He waved at the burning complex, hands expressive, and then vaguely to the east, all while speaking way too fast. Besides, it sounded vaguely like Welsh.
Robert spoke in reply, voice authoritative but calm. He spoke Welsh?
“It is as I feared,” he muttered. “Lord Powys’s men raided this place. I convinced them I was not a member of that cursed party, that we mean to help. See to the injured, and I will assist with the last of the fire.”
Her breath caught. “The injured? From the flames?”
He cocked his head. “No, from sword thrusts.”
Her gut twisted in horror. “What? Those raiders attacked defenseless monks?”
“It grieves me to admit that is so.” He leaped to the ground and helped her down. He hobbled his horse and sprinted inside with the lead monk. By then, the packhorse had ambled up and set to grazing near Perceval. Two monks waited patiently, their faces smeared with soot.