by Julia Latham
And Adam hated to be the one to reveal it all to her. There was a sympathetic pain inside him that he hadn’t imagined feeling for her.
She rubbed her wet eyes. “I cannot imagine a reason that…someone would kill…your father, and especially not…your mother.”
“Someone?” he echoed. He heard his own bitterness, saw the way she flinched. But he had a right to be bitter; his parents were wiped away, his childhood destroyed by one man.
“Can you not say who it was, Florrie?” he asked softly.
“My f-father.”
And then she started crying, hiding her face as if embarrassed.
He suddenly felt like a monster. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t his. They were only the innocents who had to suffer. He put Martindale’s pendant back in the pouch at his neck. And still she cried, her body so forlorn as it shook.
He reached for her then, and though she stiffened, he pulled her across his lap and put his arms around her. She collapsed against his chest and wept even more. He held her slight, trembling body and found himself kissing the top of her head, caressing her arms and back as if somehow he could make everything right between them.
But that could never be. A terrible murder stood between them.
She quieted at last, and he realized she’d fallen into an uneven sleep. He laid her back on the blanket, brushed a curl from her cheek, and regretted the wet tearstains he’d caused. Then he looked up and saw Robert at the edge of the clearing. His brother watched solemnly, which was so very unlike him.
Adam motioned for him, then pointed to the blanket across the fire. Saying nothing, Robert came over and lay down, still giving Adam occasional searching glances. Robert must have heard much of it, and Adam felt bad about that, because Adam didn’t often speak so emotionally about what he’d seen when he was a child, what had given him nightmares for so many years. He hadn’t wanted to burden his brothers.
Paul had left before Adam could tell him the identity of their parents’ killer. Adam had been told Martindale’s name on his twenty-first birthday, but Robert had been nineteen, Paul eighteen. He’d thought them too young to know, too young to feel this desire for justice. In some ways he was glad he’d held it inside, for Paul wasn’t tainted with the knowledge. And Adam had tried to spare Robert, had wanted to do this alone, but Robert wouldn’t hear of it. And neither would Michael, who came from a long line of knights loyal to the Keswick earldom.
At last, he lay down behind Florrie and pulled her close against him. He thought he was comforting her, but he wasn’t even certain about that.
Deep inside him was a tight little feeling of dread. Could Florrie know something important—yet not realize it? Adam was not about to angrily confront her; that would solve nothing.
Talking would. He’d already begun to coerce her with words, with the exchange of the stories of their lives. Such persuasion would work on a softhearted woman like Florrie.
Because any other form of persuasion would cost him too much. He’d almost seduced her tonight, little caring that he had to remain alert for the men who followed them, that his brother was nearby, that Michael could return at any moment.
Florrie was like a fever in his blood, an obsession he was trying desperately to fight. And kissing her, tasting her mouth and her sweet response, touching her body—all of that had only made everything worse.
Yet he wanted to experience it all again, regardless of the terrible tragedy between them. He was so disappointed in himself. He was glad she knew the truth of her father’s crimes, for surely she would want to avoid any kind of intimacy with him.
If only he could link her with her father in his mind, but he couldn’t. She must be nothing like the man he’d grown up hating, the man he’d spent the last few years learning everything about. Florrie was kind to a fault, innocent, and Adam himself was the one trying to take her innocence away. Somehow, he had to stop himself.
He fell asleep leaving several inches between their bodies, praying that Florrie would know it was for the best.
Adam awoke before dawn to the sounds of Michael moving about camp, preparing for their departure. Robert was slowly rising, giving Adam a strange look—
And then Adam looked down at Florrie, who was once again curled up in his arms, facing him, her arms about his waist.
“The truth doesn’t seem to have changed her feelings for you,” Robert said softly.
“When she awakens, she will think differently,” Adam answered.
He shook her gently, and she moaned and burrowed closer.
“Florrie.”
Her eyes fluttered and opened, staring up at him. She searched his face, her expression confused, until her memories returned. The pain was there, but not as great. Now she looked sad, but as if she’d come to terms with it.
“Good morning,” she said, blushing a little as she sat up and disentangled herself from him. “I—I guess I have no control of myself when I sleep.”
He almost said he didn’t mind—but that would be encouraging her, and it wouldn’t be right to do that. He let her rise to her feet without his help.
“Is there a stream nearby?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We have enough wine and water in our skins until we reach another.” He glanced at Michael. “By midday?”
Michael nodded. “We shall travel west of Nottingham, almost into Derbyshire, rather than toward London. We’ll confuse anyone following us—and replenish our water supplies.”
Florrie nodded, then excused herself to go several paces into the forest. Adam remained nearby, and as she returned, she was startled to see him.
Understanding flooded her face. “Surely if the men following us had found us, they would have attacked?”
Adam shrugged. “We do not know their mission. We must remain cautious. You should keep your hood up from now on.”
She sighed. “I hope the weather does not become too hot.”
She lowered her gaze from him and went to her horse to open one of the saddlebags. She hadn’t been able to wash, so he wasn’t certain what she—
And then her chain and pendant dropped into the bag and disappeared. So she’d decided not to wear the crest of her family. It was not as if he could forget about it; perhaps she didn’t want to be reminded.
They began the day’s journey very cautiously, taking roads that seemed more like deer paths. They were constantly wary of being followed, and when they came upon another traveler, they spoke little.
It wasn’t until they stopped for a midday meal, in a field hidden from the road, that Florrie fixed Adam with an intent stare.
“Would you mind continuing the story of your childhood?”
He looked up from the dried apple pieces that he was eating. “I am surprised you want to talk about what Martindale’s crime led to.”
“I have always faced the worst things that happened,” she said simply. “I cannot exist by pretending everything is sunny. But even when bad things happen, I have to keep going on with my life, to make it the best it can be.”
Adam hid his amazement. Many other women would be denying the facts or too upset to talk about them. But Florrie was not like most other women. She made it so easy to admire her, reluctant though he may feel.
Michael glanced between them, shook his head, and went off to care for the horses. Robert lay on his side, propped his head on his hand, and listened with open curiosity.
Florrie felt hot with embarrassment, ill with sorrow—but she was also determined to understand the path Adam had taken because of the past. “So what happened to three orphaned little boys? Did other family members take you in?”
He shook his head. “We had no other family.”
She had been hoping for some happiness in his life. But he wouldn’t want her pity, though it burned in her chest. She waited.
When he looked into the fire, she had her first inkling of unease. He didn’t want to talk about this part of his life. Was it so very terrible? Or something else?<
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“If not family…” she prodded.
“My father’s friend, Sir Timothy, took us away to protect us. At that time, though some suspected your father, there was no proof, no motive.”
He gave her a meaningful glance, and she pretended she didn’t understand his subtle query about her father.
“And, of course, I did not know any of this,” he continued. “Sir Timothy became our foster father, and he treated us well.”
A great breath of relief left her lungs.
“But we had to remain in hiding, in case there were plans to eliminate the whole family.”
“In hiding? Did you leave the country?”
“Nay, we lived with Sir Timothy in a very remote castle, away from contact with the rest of the world. We spent our days in military training, our evenings on more formal studies.”
“But…you were so young. You did not play?”
“Our toys were wooden swords and daggers. Is it not often so with boys?”
He said it almost smiling, but she thought she sensed curiosity, as if he was actually asking her. But of course he was—he was raised in a very sheltered manner. Now she knew why he had traveled so little. His guardian had been waiting for the boys to be old enough to protect themselves.
She knew that most people never traveled far in their lives. But the family of a nobleman had to move from home to home, overseeing the bailiff in charge, using up the foodstuffs so they could be replenished. And just being with Adam, she knew he had not been raised by peasants. His speech and manner betrayed his well-educated background. He would have traveled—but the death of his parents loomed over his whole life. It still controlled him even now.
But it was good that he was talking about it, trying to release its bitter hold. Bitterness was already inside him, like a disease that held a person and never let go, only sank deeper until one couldn’t get rid of it.
“Aye,” she said at last, “boys like to mimic the heroic knights in their lives. And you had Sir Timothy to follow.”
He nodded, a small smile curling one corner of his mouth. “He is a good man, and he cared for us even though it put him in danger.”
“Did his wife act as your foster mother?”
“He had no wife.”
Robert rolled on his back and muttered, “No women at all.”
Florrie stiffened and focused on Adam’s brother. “Pardon me?”
Adam shrugged. “He chose not to marry. He said it was because he never found the right woman. As I grew older, I always worried that having to care for us made him too fearful to bring a woman into such danger.”
Although that made Florrie’s heart ache for this wonderful man she’d never met, she could not help glancing at Robert. He’d said “no women at all” with long-suffering disappointment, as if it was about more than Sir Timothy’s lack of a bride. Was it only bitterness about not having a foster mother? But Adam had skillfully deflected her from questioning his brother, and she let it go—for now.
“You have already told me you did not travel,” she said slowly. “Now I understand why. So you only knew that castle, and the people within it.”
He nodded.
“But surely such restriction began to chafe when you grew older.”
Robert harrumphed and folded his arms over his chest. When Adam rolled his eyes, she felt amused, but the effort to smile was still too difficult. Her father’s sins were weighing heavily on her soul.
“We understood the need for caution,” Adam said firmly.
“Not me,” Robert said. “I escaped.”
Adam shot him a warning frown.
Robert came up on his elbow. “’Tis no secret that I have never understood your absolute dedication to…how we were raised. You know I admire Sir Timothy, but he was often swayed by others.”
Swayed by others? What others? Florrie wondered with fascination. She hoped in their argument, they would forget her presence.
“I did not allow you to escape for long,” Adam said dryly.
“So you were sent after him?” Florrie asked in surprise. “Sir Timothy allowed that?”
“I had seventeen years by then. Sir Timothy felt it best that I begin to prove my readiness. I was humbled that I’d earned his trust.”
This time Robert snorted and fell back on his blanket. “You always had their trust. You were the good boy.”
Their trust. Again, he’d referred to more than one person, not just Sir Timothy. It almost sounded as if they were raised by a group of men.
“So was it dangerous chasing after your brother?” she asked almost playfully.
“Oh, dangerous,” Robert said sarcastically. “There were women everywhere.”
She covered her mouth, surprised that she’d almost laughed aloud. She liked Robert’s sense of humor.
“It could have been dangerous,” Adam said with a sigh.
He wasn’t offended by his brother, which Florrie liked to see.
“You were fifteen, Robert, and we look like our father,” Adam continued. “Who knows what trouble you could have found yourself in if you’d been recognized? Or if you’d been challenged by other boys? Thankfully, I got you away before any of that happened.”
“You got me away before the dairymaid could—” Robert broke off and glanced at Florrie.
Was that a blush staining his cheeks?
“I may have only had sisters,” she said, “but there were many boys living in our castle or in the village. Boys are definitely preoccupied with girls. My sisters sometimes could not escape them.”
“But not you?” Adam asked.
She smiled. “I was the good friend, the one boys confided in. I did not mind. Life was much more peaceful that way.”
“They wanted your help with your sisters,” he said, shaking his head.
“Aye, but they were good companions, too.”
“Like us?” Robert said, suddenly smiling again.
His moods were so mercurial, Florrie thought with exasperation. “I am not so certain good companions begin with a kidnapping, but I might be willing to overlook your flaws.”
Chapter 10
For the rest of the afternoon, Adam made sure their small party wound through the Bardon Hills of Leicestershire, hoping to confuse anyone who might have picked up their trail. The Charnwood Forest flowed through hills, and he led them west for several miles through the trees, then backtracked to the south dragging branches behind them to disguise their trail.
That evening, he decided to make good on his promise to give them more protection while they slept. After dusk, they crept into a farmer’s barn, overly warmed by an ox, a mule, and several goats. Though the animals gazed at them with interest, they seemed to take no other notice. Moonlight streamed in several small windows, giving them enough light. He sent Michael and Robert out to scout their surroundings, and then they would each take turns keeping watch through the night.
Adam looked around at the small barn, with its piles of straw below, and a loft above filled with hay. Florrie hugged herself and looked up at the loft uncertainly.
“You and I will sleep up there,” he said.
Before she could answer, they heard the sudden deep barking of a dog somewhere outside.
“Damn, the men must have strayed too close to the cottage,” Adam said in a low voice. “We have to leave at once.” He grabbed the reins of her horse and led the two animals toward the door.
But it swung open before they reached it, and Florrie caught his arm. A man carrying a torch and an ax stood there. He brandished them both menacingly. Florrie gave an exaggerated cry and flung herself against Adam, surprising him.
“Oh, I knew we could find no rest!” she cried forlornly, then began to weep with great sobs.
Though he already had a dagger hidden in his hand, Adam held her instead of defending her.
The farmer’s broad, creased face was gradually changing from fury and fear to wary curiosity. But he didn’t lower the ax.
“Who
are ye and what are ye doin’ in me barn?” he demanded.
“Sir,” Adam said with hesitation, “me wife and me could afford to stop no place else for the night. I could not make her sleep outdoors again, sir, not in her condition.”
He felt her stiffen in his arms, but her weeping only lessened as if she were too exhausted to do more.
The farmer looked beyond them to their horses. “There be only…two of you?”
Just as Adam nodded, Florrie suddenly swooned, giving him enough warning to scoop her into his arms. She gave the perfect approximation of being dazed.
She looked around with incomprehension, then saw the farmer. She cringed against Adam without speaking, as if the stranger frightened her.
The farmer lowered his ax and moved from foot to foot. “I never have hurt a woman,” he grumbled. “No cause to look at me like that.”
“She means it not, sir,” Adam said. “We’ve just been travelin’ so long, tryin’ to start a new life where there’s more work.”
But that was a mistake. “A big man like ye should have no trouble,” he said, suspicious again.
Adam nodded. “Me wife cannot take the cold, sir. I hear ’tis pleasant down by the Channel, and I’m a good soldier.”
“Young fools always think the livin’ is better somewhere else,” the farmer mumbled as if to himself. He shook his head. “Well, ye better come inside and be fed, or me wife will have me head for leavin’ a girl out here.”
“Nay, sir, we could not be imposin’,” Adam said quickly. “With your kind permission, the barn will be fine on a summer’s night.”
“Get in the cottage. She’s cookin’ stew, and she’s known for the dish clear to Bosworth.”
Adam gently set Florrie on her feet. “Let me remove the saddles, sir, to ease the horses. I’ll return to see to them after your kind offer of a meal.”
Helpless to do anything else, Adam finally strode before the farmer toward the cottage. It couldn’t be much more than a single room, made of wood with clay mixed with straw in the cracks to keep out the drafts. Florrie hung on his arm.
