Defiant

by Jessica Trapp

  She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the morning sun and squinted up at the hawk. The way she paid attention to Aeliana, gazed at her in admiration, intrigued him. Likely it was some ruse, but it certainly didn’t seem faked. In his experience, beautiful women were interested in ribbons and jewels and fancy hairstyles, not in something as practical and useful as hunting.

  She twisted and stretched backward, further following the flight of the hawk. The curve of her waist and the swell of her hips made his groin tighten. Even wearing a plain kirtle, she was stunning. Her high cheekbones and wide blue eyes set her face apart from other women’s. Her luscious body would tempt a monk.

  Last night the way her hand had curled on his chest and her hair had fanned across his shoulder had made his body feel frighteningly alive. Hungry.

  Of all things, Gwyneth was a temptress. Even in the plain brown kirtle.

  Nay.

  Especially in the plain brown kirtle.

  He took a tight grip on his staff, vowing to not allow her to push him into doing or saying anything he would later regret. They needed to get going. He would head into town—hours later than he had planned—and look for clues for finding Rafe’s murderer. His disguise in plain sight would not last long. Soon the authorities would be after him.

  He tamped down the surge of rage at the unfairness he had suffered. Of how the scars on his legs still burned.

  Gwyneth walked slightly behind him, and he could only see her out of the corner of his eye, but it didn’t help. He could hear the way her hips swayed within her dress.

  She distracted him as no woman ever had done. His thoughts strayed all too often to her legs or her neck or her hair.

  It would be good to remember the traitorous nature of women—of how they pretended one thing while planning another—just as she had with her kiss. He had already told her too much and if she put the pieces together, she would turn him in herself.

  Aeliana rode on his shoulder, his skin protected by the leather padding he always wore, and he carried the bag with the bird’s prey inside.

  He dropped the day’s kill off at the kitchens. A flurry of excitement by the cook and servants set pots banging and fires burning. He found a young lad to take Aeliana, grabbed a white linen cloth from a peg, then headed back out to the bailey.

  “Where are we going?” Gwyneth asked as they walked under the portcullis and onto the road away from the keep.

  For his own peace of mind and to keep himself from blathering out any more about himself, he considered taking back his approval for her to speak. He blew out a breath. She had given him no reason to do so and the thought bit into his sense of fairness.

  “To the village,” he said, knowing it would not truly answer her question.

  He handed her the cloth. “I wish you to wear this.”

  “This?” She unfolded the linen, her brows drawing together.

  “To cover your hair while we travel.” Avoiding all public attention would be best. The hurly-burly with the brank had shown what a spectacle a beautiful woman like Gwyneth was to the townspeople.

  “Oh.” A keen look lit in her eyes. “Should I have retrieved my basket? Some spices for the meat would make the stew taste better. Perhaps we could stop at the—”

  “Nay.”

  Her look of anticipation dropped away. “As you wish, my lord.” She folded the linen deftly and tied it around her head like a scarf, completely covering her treasure of silver-gold hair.

  Her outright acceptance of his decision irritated him even more than if she had verbally sparred with him.

  He slid a sideways glance her direction, taking in the soft creaminess of her skin, the blue of her eyes, the pink bow of her mouth. She was a manipulative siren, not a compliant, congenial helpmate. For her to pretend to be interested in something as mundane and housewifery as spices for the kitchen made him suspicious. Undoubtedly, she wished to purchase herbs that would render a man dead, not make him a tasty meal.

  Mayhap he should lock her in a tower or send her to a nunnery instead of keeping her by his side all the day long. That is, of a certain, what an intelligent man would do.

  He gave her a harsh look. She smiled sweetly in return, looking like a misunderstood angel in her white linen hair cloth and modest attire. Blast it all. ‘Twould be better if she dressed like the vixen that she was.

  A cart loaded with turnips rumbled down the cobbled street toward them. It slowed as it passed; the jaws of the two men in the front dropped as they took note of Gwyneth.

  “'allo, there, lovely lady—”

  Not attention already!

  Jared stiffened, and he gave them both fierce glares until they sped up again.

  He reached to adjust her scarf so that more of her forehead was covered.

  She blinked and pulled slightly back when his hands touched her face. “What are you—”

  “Shush.”

  A line formed betwixt her brows, but she did not finish her question or fight him as he tucked a wayward strand of hair beneath her covering. Perhaps he should insist she mask her face as well. He could not very easily ask covert questions about Rafe with everyone staring at his wife.

  “Do not speak with any other men,” he instructed.

  “I didn’t!”

  “I do not want you causing another public hurly-burly.”

  “I wasn’t! You were the one who—”

  “I do not want men challenging my rights as your lord.”

  “They weren’t!”

  He glowered at her.

  “I had naught to do with the men looking at me.”

  “Do not dress in ways that attract attention.”

  She glanced down at her plain kirtle and blinked a few times.

  “The lady of the keep should dress in a respectable manner so that men do not leer at her.”

  She laid a hand gently on his shoulder and looked up at him. Her blue eyes were guileless. Likely she had practiced for hours to be able to give just that look to a man. “If you dislike my clothing, my lord, I will wear whatever pleases you.”

  Why was she being so bloody congenial? He knew she was doing it apurpose. Likely to drive him daft. Or get him to trust her so that she could get away with murder.

  He shrugged her hand away.

  “Which of my garments displeases you? I will have the maids burn it when we return to the keep.”

  He looked her up and down. Her plain dress elegantly swept her curves.

  “Is it the brown kirtle?”

  “Nay!”

  “The yellow shift?”

  “Nay!”

  “My wimple?”

  “Nay!”

  “Then?”

  Her clothing was perfectly respectable. Modest. Plain, even. Furthermore, except for one sapphire ring, she wore no jewelry nor any kohl or rouge as the harlots or the ladies of the queen’s court were inclined to do. Her natural brilliance set her apart from other women, not any outlandish behavior on her part.

  His ravings about her clothing were unfair even to his own ears.

  “What you are wearing is acceptable,” he groused and marched farther down the street, picking up the pace for both of them.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  As you wish, my lord. Why did the woman have to be so bloody vexing! “Do not pretend softness when you feel none for me,” he growled.

  She lowered her eyes and bowed her head. “Aye, my lord.”

  He huffed. Why did she not snap at him? Of a truth, her prickliness had been easier to deal with than her submissiveness. When she was fighting him, he could justify himself, but he had no weapons against a woman being soft and adaptable. Even Aeliana seemed to welcome Gwyneth’s presence this morning. Traitorous bird.

  Shops lined the streets and a flurry of motion went on around them. Children ran back and forth kicking sticks. Vendors plied their wares in the streets, pushing carts and holding up everything from cooking pots to embroidered sleeves. Several men gazed at Gwynet
h, but Jared grasped her arm and none called out to her.

  He rubbed his thigh, feeling the bumpy scar that ran from his knee to his groin. If he was recognized, he would be thrown back into prison. Bloody nuisance to have a beautiful wife who attracted attention just by walking down the path.

  He pulled his hood up so that his face was in shadows and felt a surge of outrage. He was innocent, by God! He should not have to hide while the killer was free to roam.

  She looked at one shop longingly, but Jared shook his head and pulled her forward through the crowded street.

  He needed to stop thinking about his wife and find out what the man knew about his brother’s boots.

  But even now he could feel the skin of her lips on his. His groin tightened as the taste of the sweet nectar of her mouth lingered unbidden in his mind. If he thought he could trust her to not gather poisonous plants or rally every man on the grounds into taking up arms against him, he’d send her back to the keep to do something, anything besides keeping her tightly by his side. ‘Twas excruciating.

  “Hey! Hey, pretty girl! Look at me, pretty girl!” a street performer called to her as he did a handstand. “Leave your lord and be my bride, pretty girl. I’ll stand on my head for you.”

  Even knowing the man’s contemptible and outrageous speech was just part of his act, Jared latched on to Gwyneth’s upper arm and marched her past him like a prisoner.

  Blast! She wore a plain dress and a hair covering, and she was still the most brazenly gorgeous, exotic female he’d ever seen. What to do with her vexed him.

  If she wasn’t kept under tight rein, heaven only knew what might happen. Rebellion? Treachery? An uprising? ‘Twas no wonder Montgomery was so glad to be rid of her.

  “Are we in a hurry, my lord?” she asked after a few moments. He noted that she was panting trying to keep up with him and he slowed the pace somewhat.

  “Nay,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” She looked around, taking in a nearby baker’s shop that had a rack of fresh pies in the window. The warm scent of apples and cinnamon hung in the air.

  They had reached the cobbler’s shop: Jared’s destination. Ignoring her inquiry, he pushed open the door, glad to be able to not delve further into this conversation.

  At that moment a small street urchin came barreling up to them. “Lady Gwyn! Lady Gwyn!”

  Jared grabbed Gwyneth to get her out of the way before she could scream.

  Too late, they were both pushed back by the force of the child projecting itself at her. Filthy hair, skinny legs, and a grime-splattered tunic was all he could make out as the child plowed straight into Gwyneth, smearing dirt all over her kirtle. He wasn’t sure if it was male or female.

  He cringed, fully expecting Gwyneth to give the child a dressing down for ruining her kirtle.

  The memory of running across the castle lawn, with open arms, came sharply into his mind. He was four years old and the falconer he lived with had confessed to him that morning that the lady of the keep was his real mother. She had been gorgeous that day—arrayed in a rich velvet houppelande with an ermine collar. He’d wanted to hug her, be held in her arms the way that Rafe was. As he approached, she’d turned to one side. He kept running toward her. “Mama,” he’d said. His body jerked as he remembered the way she’d cuffed him. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that. Go back to that dirty falconer.”

  Jared shook himself. He was no longer a child.

  “Kiera!” Gwyneth stooped and picked the child up, completely heedless of the dirt.

  Kiera? Gwyneth knew the urchin? The grime-coated girl looked to be about six and had fuzzy brown hair that was caked with mud. The stench rolling off her was biting.

  Another memory, this one of Gwyneth holding a child on her hip at the faire and how he’d wanted her as a wife to fill her with his own heirs floated unbidden into his mind.

  “Mama said you got married,” said the child, her small hands burying in Gwyneth’s luminous mane of hair.

  “Aye.” Gwyneth nodded. “Where have you been? You are filthy. ”

  “Farmer Matthew let me feed his pigs.”

  “Did you have to wallow in their muck?”

  Jared wiped his hand over his nose to diminish the stench.

  “I was hungry. ‘e said ‘e would give me a scone.” The girl plucked at Gwyneth’s wimple, smearing more mud on the white cloth. “Why are you wearing this?” she asked.

  Gwyneth spared a quick glance at Jared. “My new lord wishes it of me.”

  “Mama says all men are lumbering jackasses.”

  “Well.” Gwyneth looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Um. ”

  “Look what me gots for you, Lady Gwyn.” The girl reached into her tunic and pulled out a set of carved bone buttons.

  “That’s wonderful, Kiera. Did Farmer Matthew give those to you?”

  “Oh, no, Lady Gwyn, me gots it from the vendor over yon.” She pointed down the street at a tinker pushing a cart piled with all manner of goods—cooking pots, feathers, hats, tools.

  A furrow formed on Gwyneth’s brow. “You bought buttons for me?”

  “I sees ya coming up the street a bit ago, Lady Gwyn, so I sneaks in real nice and easy and"—the girl leaned close to Gwyneth and whispered something in her ear.

  Jared cocked a brow as Gwyneth’s face paled. Of a truth, the child had just confessed she had stolen the baubles.

  “Kiera.” Gwyneth set the child down and gave her a stern look. “You mustn’t steal buttons.”

  “But I gots them for you. Why did you not bring a haircomb to me like you promised, Lady Gwyn?”

  “It… it just was not possible right now.”

  “Why nots?” Kiera wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  Gwyneth looked from the child to Jared and back again.

  “Oh.” The urchin backed up and put her hands on her hips. “Ye thinks yer too good for us now that yer married. Mama always said that would ‘appen.” At once, Jared realized where he’d seen that look before. This was Irma’s daughter. Her frizzy hair and big brown eyes gave her away.

  “Nay, Kiera, ‘tis not like that at all.”

  “But ye don’ts come see us anymore. Mama said we’s count on you. And you didn’t bring me a comb even though you promised!”

  Gwyneth looked at Jared.

  “You won’t be going to the brothel, wife. “ He could scarcely walk down the street without men trying to steal her away from him.

  Kiera glared at Jared, her little jaw jutting out.

  “You should bathe,” he said. “You stink.”

  “Mama used to bathe you—” Kiera started.

  “Mayhap your mother would let you come see me,” Gwyneth said brightly, obviously trying desperately to change the subject.

  “She won’ts. She says nobles are bad peoples.”

  Jared could see the pain dance across Gwyneth’s face.

  “We have to be going now, Kiera,” he said firmly. The sooner he cut off this unhealthy relationship, the better. His wife would no longer be cavorting with harlots and their children. Irma had been part of the scheme to kidnap him. If Jared didn’t need to avoid the authorities, he would have her brought before the judge and thrown into prison.

  “Asides, Mama’s taken with fever.”

  “With fever?” Gwyneth clasped Kiera by her shoulder. A look of concern crossed her face. “What fever?”

  “She’s in bed.” Kiera turned to Jared. He noted that she had the same large brown eyes, the same jut of her jaw, and the same boldness as her mother, Irma, did. “I wants to show Lady Gwyn me new doll.” She took Gwyneth’s clean, lily-white hand in her dirty one. “Come, Lady Gwyn.”

  Jared stepped forward and placed his hand on Gwyneth’s shoulder. “Time to go. I have people I must speak with.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Kiera.”

  A wash of anger clouded the child’s face. She glared up at Jared, yanked her hand out of Gwyneth’s, and shook her finger at him. “Mama
was right. Big lumbering jackasses, every last one of ‘em.” Whirling, she fled down the street.

  Chapter 22

  “Heave! Ho!”

  Frustration worked through Gwyneth’s body as she shielded her eyes from the glow of the morning sun. Men lined up on the banks of the moat and pulled carriage wheels, branches, waterlogged fabric, rotted carcasses, and other garbage from the green, slimy water. A cloud of flies buzzed the area and waves of stench wafted into the air.

  Five days had dragged by with Jared insisting that she follow him around night and day like a puppy. She was useless here, watching the men. She needed to be in the great hall supervising the maids, overseeing the meals, making new tapestries for the walls.

  Elizabeth’s wide green eyes slid into her thoughts. She wondered if the child was still sitting by the filthy prison wall hugging herself or if she had gotten free. If only she could bring the girl here—give her skills to work. Teach her to communicate.

  Aeliana’s talons tightened around the leather glove on Gwyneth’s hand as she flexed and released her fingers.

  She looked longingly at the keep, then turned to watch the progress. With luck the river would be un-dammed and fresh water would flow through the moat by noon.

  Jared, unlike any lord she knew, did not stand idly by watching the servants. He was stripped to the waist and pulling in tandem with the other men. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and sweat trickled down the curve of his spine. But it was not his bronze, godlike body that fascinated her: For the past week, he had been designing and building a contraption with a series of pulleys to make the lifting easier. That he was a man of intellect and not mere brawn fascinated her.

  The book he had given her tickled her mind and she wondered what had happened to it. It had been with her on the wedding night, but she had not seen it since Jared had rescued her from the man who had attacked her behind the brothel. Likely it had fallen from her bosom into the alleyway.

  A wave of sadness hit her that she had never learned to read. Her time had been spent making and selling embroidery and taking care of Windrose. She shook her head; the women at the prison needed her and the sacrifice she had made—using her time to get enough money to be able to rescue them—was worthwhile. Perhaps it was a foolish dream and her father had been correct that teaching women to read was a worthless waste of resources.