‘Those bastards took everything: the horses, our provisions.’
I don’t care, Cecily thought. You are alive and that is all that matters.
Lachlan twisted his head around, scowled at her. ‘Go on then.’ Above their heads, the bare branches clacked together in a sudden gust of wind. Crows squawked, lifting from their perches in a swarming black mass, wings like flashing knife-blades.
What was he talking about? ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m talking about you, Cecily.’ His blue eyes grazed her puzzled expression. ‘Why do you not run, while you have the chance? The two knights are dead and I doubt I could run after you. Go now, before anyone comes.’
No, no! ‘But I... I can’t leave you...like this.’ Her tone rose in protest.
His face was tough, incredulous. ‘Why on earth not? You have no duty of care towards me. I am nothing to you.’
You are wrong, she thought. You are so wrong. His words pierced into her, blunted arrows of rejection. ‘You’re hurt, injured.’
‘Aye, that I am, but I’m not going to bleed to death.’ He assessed her calmly. ‘And we’re not far from Exancaester now. I can walk there. What’s the matter, Cecily? Only this morning you were suggesting that I leave to go north and now you want to stay with me?’
A florid colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I...er...’ Christ, how could she stay with him without revealing her feelings? Her mind scrabbled to find a suitable answer, something with which she could fob him off so that he would never guess her true intentions. He would surely laugh in her face if he realised how much she had come to care for him.
Cecily thought quickly. ‘Because...because, as you have so rightly pointed out, if I flee now, then Lord Simon will be for ever snapping at my heels. I shall always be on the run, never able to settle. This way, if I take you to the King, you can plead leniency for me, because I helped you in your hour of need.’
Lachlan laughed softly. ‘I should have guessed your motive. But the plan might work, especially if the King sees what the outlaws did to me and did to them.’ Lachlan waved his hand in the direction of the dead knights. He reached for her hand, grabbed her cold fingers between his. ‘But are you sure about this, Cecily? I cannot predict what the King’s decision might be, even if I do plead for you. You could go abroad and live far away from here. Lord Simon might never find you.’ His heart sank deep, a hollow opening up in his chest. He didn’t want her to go. Already, in these past few days, her bright face had lightened up his days, like a rose, startling the winter gloom with its glorious burst of colour. ‘It’s a risk.’
‘I’m certain,’ she replied. ‘I have no wish to live in fear of being caught. It’s a risk I am willing to take.’
And I’m willing to take it for you, she thought.
Chapter Eleven
Scrambling to her feet, Cecily bent over to tear a strip of linen from the bottom of her shift that she wore beneath her gown. The white fabric was not exactly clean, splattered with mud from the journey, but it would suffice until they reached Exancaester.
Lachlan turned his head at the ripping sounds. ‘What are you doing? Do not ruin your clothes on my account!’ He caught the flash of her slender legs encased in fawn woollen stockings; her delicate ankles encased in leather ankle boots, sopping wet. That fleeting glimpse, the intimacy of it, drove a pulse of longing deep into his chest.
‘I must bind your wound, Lachlan.’ She held up the narrow piece of cloth. ‘And now I have a bandage.’
Lachlan hitched forward, intending to rise.
‘Nay.’ Cecily laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing down lightly. ‘Stay for a moment. Your wound is bleeding quite badly.’
‘There’s no need to bind it,’ Lachlan said.
‘Do you want to bleed to death?’ she snapped back, tearing off a clump of moss from the bark of a tree with which to pad the wound. ‘This will only take a moment.’
‘If you must, then,’ Lachlan replied reluctantly, his shoulders slumping back down. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
You don’t realise how much I care, Cecily thought, pressing the moss gently over the open cut. ‘My petition to the King will not look good if I let you bleed all over the place.’ She wound the strip of linen, carefully, tightly, around Lachlan’s head, securing the mossy pad at the same time. His hair, silky filaments of red-gold, brushed the back of her hand.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ Lachlan said lightly. ‘I knew there must be a reason.’
As she ripped the end of the linen into two strips in order to tie a knot, Cecily’s cheeks flushed with colour. She wasn’t doing it for the King at all. She was doing it for him. For Lachlan.
‘There,’ she pronounced, standing back from him. ‘I’ve finished.’
Lachlan rolled slowly over on to all fours, his big knees sinking into the spongy, leaf-strewn earth, then clambered slowly to his feet. He swayed, his skin grey and pale, and she darted towards him, grabbing his arms.
‘Christ, my head is spinning.’ He gripped on to her shoulders.
‘Lean on me,’ Cecily said quickly.
‘I’ll be steady in a moment,’ he gasped, looping one muscled arm along the back of her shoulders, and she staggered back a little under the force of his body.
‘I’m too heavy for you,’ he muttered.
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ she said, relishing the feel of his heavy muscles along her shoulders.
‘Believe me, I know.’ Despite his aching head, Lachlan chuckled, thinking of the risks she had taken to protect her family, to keep them safe. ‘Your fragile beauty is deceptive.’
Fragile beauty? Her heart jolted at his compliment. What on earth did he mean? Had the knock to his head sent his thoughts awry?
Lachlan saw the flash of bewilderment cross her face, wondering at it. His head was beginning to clear, his sharp intelligence returning, despite the thumping headache those rogues had left him with. Did Cecily not realise how completely stunning she was? That bright, chartreuse gaze, that full, rosebud mouth that stopped his breath?
With his arm around her shoulder, they started walking slowly back to the clearing where they had been attacked. His chin was level with the top of her head. Her white silk veil flowed down in gossamer folds over the mud-stained wool of his surcoat, clashing incongruously. Silk that was exquisite, he thought, like the woman who wore it. Too exquisite for his rough, brash ways. ‘What’s the matter? Someone, surely, must have told you how beautiful you are?’
Cecily stopped, twisting her lips together in annoyance. ‘Don’t mock me, please.’
‘But I’m not. It’s true.’ He laughed, his grip on her shoulder tightening. ‘And I can’t believe your husband never told you, that he never valued you...’
‘No! Please...stop.’ She turned and laid her palm flat against his chest, as if that very action would stop the words emerging from his chest. ‘Why are you saying such things?’
Lachlan shrugged. ‘Did he marry you for your money? Is that it?’
‘Of course he did!’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Isn’t that what most marriages are based upon? My parents arranged my marriage to Peter; they offered him a large dowry to take me off their hands.’
A single burnished leaf fluttered down and landed on her shoulder; Lachlan brushed it away. ‘Did he mistreat you?’
‘No, nothing like that. I hardly knew him. We were only together for a few days before he went off on campaign. He was a stranger to me.’ She took a faltering step forward, gripping his hand that dangled down over her shoulder, so that he was forced to walk with her. ‘Come on, we need to keep going before it gets dark.’
They walked slowly, haltingly, back to the spot where the two knights lay.
‘This is horrible,’ whispered Cecily as she eyed the fallen bodies, then turned her gaze sharply away. Her face was stark white. ‘We must bury them
.’ Tears sprung to her eyes. ‘We cannot leave them here, like this.’
He hated seeing her sadness, the swift shine of tears springing to her eyes. In all his years of battling, he had oft seen dead men; this was a familiar sight for him. But for Cecily? It must be difficult and sad for her to see something like this. Lifting his arm away from her shoulders, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, a fleeting gesture of comfort. ‘I am so sorry it happened, Cecily. I am sorry you have to see this.’
At least it’s not you, Cecily thought. I could not bear to see that.
‘It would take us a long time to dig graves for them,’ he continued. ‘And we need to cross the marshes and the river before dark. We could send someone back from Exancaester to bring them into the castle.’
‘It will take too long,’ she protested. ‘By that time, the wild animals...’
‘There may be another solution.’ Lachlan pointed through the trees. ‘Look over there.’
Following the direction of his arm, Cecily heard a familiar whinny. Her little grey mare was picking her graceful way through the undergrowth towards her! ‘Oh, she’s there!’ Cecily gasped. ‘She must have run away when the fighting started.’
‘She has more wits than my horse, anyhow.’ His tone held a grim ruefulness.
‘I am sorry, Lachlan, that they took him.’
‘He belonged to Lord Simon, not me. But he was a good horse and those bastards knew it. They will get good money for him.’ He angled his gaze down to her. ‘But at least now we can take the knights back to Exancaester with us. We can lift them on to your horse. Think you can help me?’ His eyes twinkled. The colour was returning to his cheeks.
‘I think it may be a case of you helping me,’ she replied, smiling gently. ‘Can you stand on your own, while I fetch the horse?’
Lachlan lifted his arm up, away from her shoulders, demonstrating his answer. In truth, his strength had gradually returned as he walked through the forest with her, yet he hadn’t wanted to pull away, enjoying the sweet bump of her hip against his own.
Cecily walked over to her horse and took up the trailing reins. Swallowing deeply, she led the mare over to the two men on the ground. ‘How on earth do we do this?’ she asked.
‘If you can grab his ankles, I will lift his upper body.’ Hunkering down beside the first knight, Lachlan wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders, hoisting him upwards under the arms. Cecily bent down and clutched at his leather boots, lifting the dead weight. As Lachlan slung the man’s upper body over the back of her grey mare, Cecily supported the knight’s legs. They proceeded to do the same with the other knight.
Cecily crossed herself. ‘Christ, this seems so wrong,’ she whispered. Her eyes shuttered briefly, dark lashes brushing her bright cheeks.
‘At least, this way, they will receive a Christian burial,’ Lachlan replied. ‘And their families will know where they are laid.’ He swayed momentarily, the exertions of the past few moments catching up with him. His head felt light, and dizzy. He reached out for her and Cecily took his hand, steadying him, his big fingers knotting into hers. The fitted sleeve of his tunic had ripped open, the buttons gone and the buttonholes all torn. Fine golden hairs dusted the bare muscled flesh of his forearm.
‘You should not have done that,’ Cecily murmured. ‘It was too much for you.’
He laughed faintly. ‘You talk as if I’m an old crone on her deathbed, Cecily. I’ve been in far worse situations than this.’
‘I can imagine,’ she replied, her glance touching the bodies slung over the back of her horse. How many dead men had he seen? How many had he killed? She dropped her gaze to the ice-hard ground. ‘Do you think you are able to walk to Exancaester?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled at her. ‘I am not about to collapse on you.’
Colour had flooded back to his cheeks; his eyes sparkled, blue sapphires. ‘I suppose...you are looking better,’ Cecily said, almost to reassure herself. ‘I mean, if you want, we could stay here a while, if you wish to rest.’
‘I am feeling better!’ Lachlan laughed. ‘Besides, I am in no mood to stay in this forest. We are too vulnerable here. Let us move, now.’
* * *
From the west, the sun began to sink towards the horizon, painting the land in a luminescent gold. Leading the grey mare, Lachlan and Cecily squinted in the brightness as they emerged from the chill somnolence of the forest, searching for their path across the gently sloping grassland. The track was easy to find, leading down to a wide marshy area alongside the river, then narrowing to cross the bridge into the city. The many spires and turrets gleamed in the glowing evening light.
‘We head for that bridge now.’ Lachlan indicated a series of pointed arches, initially spanning the marshy ground, then across the river and into the city. A sturdy gatehouse, with a round tower either side of the archway, sat at the city end of the bridge. A scramble of timbered buildings, built from the same reddish-purple sandstone as the bridge, clung to the parapets. Wooden posts, driven into the shallow river bed, supported the backs of the houses which overhung the flowing water. Ribbons of laundry were strung out from the windows over the river.
Even from this distance, Cecily could see people moving across the bridge: loaded carts, horses and packhorses, all jostling for space. Fear pinched at her heart—this city would be the place where her future would be determined. ‘I never thought it would come to this,’ she said quietly, turning to Lachlan. The crude white bandage on his head stood out incongruously against his flaming red hair. The east wind tugged at her words, cruel and biting, but he heard her.
‘You thought you would get away with it,’ he replied. She had pulled up the hood of her cloak against the wind; the bulky wool framed the sweet delicacy of her profile, emphasised the velvet bloom of her skin.
‘Yes, we did,’ she said, lifting her skirts above the muddy track. Ice still clung to the long tips of the grass either side of the path. Her eyes met Lachlan’s, bold and brilliant. ‘We were stupid. Back there, in Okeforde, it all seemed so easy. But now, when I see the city, all those buildings...’ Her voice faltered. ‘I’m frightened, Lachlan. Frightened of what is going to happen. I wish I had never done it.’ Tears brimmed along the bottom of her eyes, pearly gems of sadness.
Lachlan dropped the reins, wrapping his big arms about her, drawing her close. The golden bristles on his chin grazed the top of her woollen hood. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, that he would make it all right. But how could he reassure her about something of which he knew nothing? True, he had the ear of the King and he had fought for him, advised him successfully on battle strategy on many occasions, but he had little idea of how much influence his relationship would have in the light of Cecily’s deception.
‘Cecily, you are the bravest woman I have ever met,’ he murmured. His deep voice rumbled through her slender frame. ‘I cannot think of another woman who would have done what you did, back in the forest. You came and found me. Most women would have collapsed in a heap and cried until someone had found them. But you found me and you treated my wound. You helped me load two dead men on to a horse. Remember that, when you face the King. And I will be there, beside you, every step of the way.’
Her body sagged with relief against his. His speech curled around her: a blanket, wrapping around her. She revelled in the sheer deliciousness of it, of his warm body, against hers. Even when her husband had been alive, she had been wary, always on tenterhooks, unsure of his protection, even though she carried his name. And yet this flame-haired warrior, who had burst so unexpectedly into her life, made her feel cared for. Loved. The word sprang in her brain, a tremulous, flaring spark. Aye, he made her feel loved.
‘I...thank you.’ The wool of his tunic tickled her cheek.
‘Thank me when it’s over.’ His chin nudged the top of her head as he spoke. ‘All you can hope for is that the King is lenient. And
I will tell him—’ His thoughts stopped suddenly, jerking to an abrupt halt. His mind was heading in a direction that he was not sure he wanted to go. What would he tell the King? That he would take care of Cecily? That he would be responsible for her? After his family had been slaughtered, he had vowed never to be close anyone, ever again. But Cecily was different. Cecily was not just anyone.
* * *
As they walked up through the main thoroughfare of the city, a cobbled street lined with merchants’ houses, people stared openly at them, at the odd ensemble: a lady and her wounded knight, with two dead soldiers slumped over a grey palfrey. By the time they reached the castle at the northern end of the city, dusk had fallen. Firelight glimmered behind wooden shutters, and the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke mingled and rose in the cooling air of evening. Above the castle gatehouse, the luminous disc of a full moon rose, illuminating the midnight-blue nap of the sky.
Lachlan reached up, pulled the bandage from his head.
‘No, you must leave it on!’ Cecily said, watching him stuff the bloodied linen beneath the grey mare’s saddle.
Lachlan touched the wound at the back of his head and winced. ‘It’s stopped bleeding.’ He waggled his clean fingers at her, as if to prove a point. ‘And I need to look presentable if I’m going to meet the King.’
‘What about me?’ Cecily asked in a horrified voice, smoothing her hands down her purple over-gown, staring in dismay at the tide mark of mud around her lilac-coloured skirts. She patted her veil, brushing her cloak down self-consciously. ‘Do I look presentable enough, too?’
He sucked in his breath, setting his mouth into a firm line. She looked beautiful. The exquisitely cut lines of her gown beneath her cloak hugged her slim figure, highlighting her firm, high breasts; the neat indentation of her waist. In the chill air her eyes shone out like chips of leaf-green glass, her cheeks glowing with the cold. She took his breath away.
* * *
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