by Shari Anton
“Then come feast.”
Darian accepted the invitation with a feral growl, making her giggle until he pounced onto the bed and smothered her amusement with consuming kisses.
Emma mewed her approval, the small sound increasing his appetite. But knowing the final course worth the wait, Darian hushed his cravings, refusing to gorge.
He took his time to sip at and savor her mouth, to enjoy the sweet taste and revel in how hungrily she kissed him back. Without need for words, with venerable caresses and reverent touches, he worshiped her body from breasts to calves, until the lady refused to any longer endure his homage.
Darian gave Emma what she loudly begged for, hoping none of the nuns lurked outside the hut. Then he feasted in powerful, lengthy strokes, making good her claim of his potency. Was there any grander sight than Emma reaching her bliss and coming apart? Nothing in his experience could compare.
Her pulses gave him permission to give in to his screaming need, and joined to the hilt, he surrendered.
Spent and replete, determined not to dwell on the morrow or the days to come, Darian drew Emma into his embrace and defied fate to tear her out of his arms.
Emma missed supper. Morning came too early.
And the most direct and safest route to Canterbury ran through the heart of Southwark. They would have to pass Bishop Henry’s palace to cross over the London Bridge.
Chapter Nineteen
Late in the afternoon on the second day of their journey, Darian pulled the horse over to the side of the road.
Surprised and wary, Emma asked, “Is aught amiss?” “Nay, just a last rest before we reach London.” Emma slid off Darian’s horse, doing her utmost to hide her nervousness.
She’d managed to part from Nicole without becoming overset. Passing by the spot on the road where they’d been attacked and buried the wolfhound, Emma had kept her ire under control.
Spending her days and nights with Darian had proven delightful until his offer to forgo the annulment drifted through her thoughts and she wondered if she’d been wrong to refuse him.
Sweet mercy, she would have agreed in a trice if he’d given any sign that he wanted to remain married, that he didn’t offer out of a sense of obligation or duty. She didn’t want to be the cause for which he sacrificed his freedom.
She might love him, but he apparently hadn’t fallen in love with her. The marriage wasn’t meant to be, and while the knowledge distressed her, she’d managed to hide her emotions.
But now, as they neared Southwark, she was having trouble keeping her hands from shaking and her heart from pounding.
Darian dropped lightly to the ground and looked her over, something he’d done several times before to her delight. This time, however, no enticement or appreciation sparked his inspection.
“I beg pardon, Emma, but only a blind man could mistake you for a peasant.”
She glanced down at the rough-weave gray gown she now wore.
They’d slept in yet another barn last night, and the farmer’s wife delightedly traded one of her old gowns and mantle for Emma’s topaz bliaut and gauzy veil. The new owner hadn’t minded the faint traces of blood the laundress at the abbey hadn’t been able to remove. The rough-weave gown was warm and comfortable as long as she wore it over her chemise to protect her skin.
Emma considered the trade a good one.
“Perhaps, but I should not draw undue attention. A pity we cannot make your horse less noticeable.”
“People are more accustomed to seeing horses on the streets of Southwark than a noblewoman, particularly at this time of day.”
Darian had timed their arrival, believing the safest time to pass through Southwark was just before nightfall, when the shops were closing and most everyone was more concerned in gaining a safe haven for the night than in other people’s business. When the bishop’s guards who patrolled the streets should be more interested in their supper and evening entertainments than closely inspecting whoever wished to cross London Bridge.
His plan sounded reasonable, and since she had no other plan to offer—other than abandoning the trip to Canterbury—she hadn’t voiced an objection.
He reached beneath her cloak’s hood and tugged forward the mantle that covered her hair. By the time he was done wrapping and tucking, she could barely see, much less breathe.
She grabbed his wrists to halt further arranging. “I cannot breathe.”
“What?”
Emma pulled the mantle away from her nose and mouth. “I need to breathe.”
“Oh. Beg pardon.”
“Pardon granted. I am not the one Bishop Henry is most anxious to dangle from a rope. You should hide your face.”
He smiled. “Not hardly. You remember all I told you.” They’d gone over the plans twice and her memory wasn’t faulty. But his fussing with her mantle said he worried for her safety. She worried, too. If they were caught, Bishop Henry might do away with them both, especially if he’d taken umbrage over Darian brazenly sending his dead soldiers back to him.
To assure him, she repeated his instructions. “We ride up the street as if we belonged, at a steady, unhurried pace. I will look no one in the eye, if I need not, but I should watch for patrols. Once over the bridge we will ride through London and out the east gate, then find another barn in which to spend the night.”
“One more thing.” He tucked a finger under her raised chin. “Show no fear. Always assume your enemies can smell it.”
Here she thought she’d done an excellent job of hiding her fear from Darian. The man missed little where she was concerned, always seemed to know what she needed, and when, and then provided.
She might love him, but loving him was like trying to hold the wind in a fist. The closer they got to Canterbury, the more he would slip through her fingers because she couldn’t bring herself to agree to his offer.
He glanced west, where the setting sun would hail the end of day if the clouds didn’t conceal it. “A hard rain would be welcome. Patrols dislike getting wet as much as ordinary folk.”
In their dark clothing, with the hoods of their cloaks covering their heads, they might look like ordinary folk if they weren’t atop a horse. But the horse was also a weapon they couldn’t afford to leave behind.
“Then I shall pray for a nasty storm!”
“Nothing in excess, please. I need to see, too.” He swung up into the saddle and reached for her hand. “Ride pillion. I want you behind me.”
Emma preferred riding in front of him, but could see the sense in his request. He needed to observe what was going on in front of them without hindrance, and his hands must be without encumbrance. She truly hoped he found naught amiss and need not draw his dagger.
Settled behind Darian, all she could do was clutch his cloak and pray. As the minutes passed, the sky darkened, casting welcome shadows over the whole land. The rain came just as the buildings of Southwark came into view, but fell too lightly to chase anyone inside.
Unable to see completely around Darian, she could observe only what was to the sides. On her left were the wharfs and stews, the warehouses and coaching inns. On the right, the bishop of Winchester’s palace.
Straight ahead would be London Bridge.
She might as well have kept the mantle over her nose and mouth because now she couldn’t breathe anyway. The horse’s hooves hit the road too loudly. Too many people looked their way.
Still, they made steady progress. Emma forced herself to breathe and chastised herself for worrying overmuch. Darian’s plan seemed to be working nicely.
Darian slowed down and softly said, “Guards.”
So much for eased fears.
Two men leaned against a building, paying little heed to anyone on the street as they talked to each other. Emma easily recognized their livery as that of the bishop. The sight of it pricked her ire.
“Do we go on?”
“Straight on to the bridge.”
They passed the bishop’s soldiers without mishap.
She took a deep gulp of air.
“Nearly there, Emma. Hold on.”
She could see the bridge. A few more moments and they’d be safely out of the bishop’s liberty.
“You there, on the horse! Halt!”
Emma’s stomach flipped. Darian quickened the pace as much as he dared on the busy street, expertly veering around a lumbering ox cart, then a group of sailors.
On the edge of her vision, she caught sight of a bishop’s guard running toward them. And then another.
“Darian, on the right,” she warned him, unsuccessful at hiding her rising panic.
“The left, too. Something is amiss, Emma. These guards should be out patrolling the streets, not loitering near the palace.”
To make her nightmare complete, four guards, with spears at the ready, came off the bridge.
Too many to fight. Surrounded.
Darian slowed to a halt and sighed deeply. “I believe we are about to accept the bishop’s invitation to view the innards of his palace.”
Emma closed her eyes and prayed Bishop Henry was elsewhere, like his main residence—Wolvesey Castle in the city of Winchester, several leagues west.
“Come down,” a guard ordered, directed at her. “Back up and give the lady room,” Darian commanded. “Should she land on your spear, the bishop will not be pleased.”
The guard hesitated, but then obeyed. “Easy now. Keep yer hands outside yer cloak.”
Emma almost wished she had a weapon. Almost. She slid off and stepped to the side to give Darian room to dismount. But before he could, the guard with the spear lunged at Darian.
She screamed, and for her trouble, she suffered a harsh, dirty paw over her mouth. Thankfully, the spear stopped short of Darian’s leg.
“Hand yer dagger over first. No tricks, now.”
Darian flipped his cloak back and slowly reached down and retrieved the dagger. He released it to drop in the dirt.
The guard kicked the dagger sideways. “Here ye go, Captain. His Eminence will sure be glad to see it again.”
“That he will. Come down, Darian, gently. Hate to have you bleed all over the palace floors.”
Darian did as bid, his hands in clear sight. “Unhand the lady. She is no threat to you.”
“Nor are you any longer,” the captain bragged. “Let her go and let us get them inside. There may be a bonus in this for all of us.”
Released, Emma took Darian’s outstretched hand, seeing no sign he was worried in the least. That was probably good. She was scared enough for the both of them.
Henry, bishop of Winchester, dined in sumptuous surroundings so ostentatious Darian couldn’t help but gape. He’d heard rumors of the wealth Bishop Henry commanded from the stews and merchants and wharfs of Southwark. Now he knew the rumors true.
At least a dozen elegantly garbed servants were arrayed behind the bishop at a respectful distance. Each held a bowl or platter heaped with food, or a washbasin and towels, or flagons that likely held fine wine. All awaited the command of the man seated in a thronelike chair, dining alone at the most pretentious table Darian had ever seen.
With Emma’s hand clasped firmly in his, Darian followed their armed escort to the foot of the long table while the patrol’s captain traversed the length to place the lion-headed dagger within the bishop’s reach.
Bishop Henry, just because he could, Darian supposed, took his time to acknowledge the captain and pick up the dagger.
“Darian of Bruges,” he said flatly. “Your audacity amazes me.”
“How so, Your Eminence?”
For his audacity, Emma squeezed his hand—hard. But now he had the bishop’s full attention, narrowed eyes and furrowed brow and all.
“First you lie to the king in his chambers and allow this farce of a marriage. Then you and Philip brazenly poke into my affairs in Southwark. Were that not enough, you killed five soldiers who meant you no harm. And now you have the gall to pass through my liberty?”
Darian had done all those things—in a fashion—except one, the most important one at the moment. “I did not lie to King Stephen. I did not kill Edward de Salis, as you know very well.”
The bishop sighed. “De Salis was found with his throat slit, your dagger beside him. I see no reason to doubt the evidence, no matter Lady Emma’s confession.”
“Then you might wish to speak to your captains about what they do in your name and then do not inform you.”
“Are you accusing one of my men of disloyalty?” the bishop asked, his tone taking on a hard edge.
“Most certainly not. I am sure they are all as steadfast in their loyalty to you as you are to the king.”
The insult sliced as cleanly as would his dagger. The bishop reddened at the reminder that he’d once abandoned his brother’s cause in favor of Maud’s. Not that the bishop had been given much choice, or so he’d claimed later to Stephen. However, Stephen hadn’t been pleased.
The bishop waved an angry hand at his captain. “Take them down to the Clink until the mercenary learns to respect his betters.”
Beside him, Emma drew in a sharp breath. This time Darian squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her and tell her to remain silent at the same time.
“We appreciate your offer of hospitality, Your Eminence, but I fear you have no choice but to release us.”
“Ha! Neither you nor Lady Emma will see the light of day for a very long time, if ever.”
Darian shrugged a shoulder. “Then you will need to answer to the king for my and the lady’s disappearance.”
Bishop Henry broke into wicked laughter, giving Darian pause. “You think my brother cares what happens to either of you?”
Maybe not, but William cared, and Emma’s sister Gwendolyn cared, and perhaps between the two of them, they could convince King Stephen to care.
“He most certainly cares what happens to Lady Emma. You see, we are on our way to Canterbury—”
“So said the rumors at court.” Bishop Henry finally looked at Emma. “You should be more careful in whom you confide, my lady. Some women simply have no head for what to keep secret and what not.”
Emma spit out a vile oath Darian didn’t think a lady should know. “Julia de Vere. She knew we might go to Canterbury. That is why there were so many guards at the bridge. They were watching for us. I beg pardon, Darian. I should have told you Julia was aware of what we might do.”
“Precisely.” The bishop gloated. “I appreciate your arrival in timely fashion.”
Darian sighed inwardly. He hadn’t expected an ambush, and Emma looked so forlorn he couldn’t hold her responsible.
“No matter,” he told Emma. “We will still be on our way to Canterbury come morn, all because the good bishop prefers to sit on his arse in his comfortable palace instead of attending his brother at Wallingford.”
“You dare!”
To get them safely out of Winchester Palace, Darian knew he had to boldly dare the bluff he’d begun.
“Were you at Wallingford, you would know that Earl William knows how Edward de Salis was killed, and by whom, and is at this moment investigating why de Salis was in Southwark to begin with. Tell me, was it you who invited de Salis to negotiate a treaty, or did he invite himself?”
Bishop Henry came up out of his chair. “Preposterous!” “Your first mistake was to let Hubert out of the Clink. He overheard one of your guards say that de Salis squealed like a pig when stuck. Once we knew who killed de Salis, the rest fell into place rather easily.”
The captain paled, but Henry actually relaxed.
“If William believes the king will trust the word of a lowly worm over mine, he is mistaken.”
“Then you should not have held Hubert for several days to be certain his words would not be heard by the king, nor should your guards have lied to Philip and Marc about his having been held. Marc already knew otherwise, so the guard’s lies only confirmed our supposition.”
Henry glanced tellingly at the captain and Darian prayed he was also r
ight about the rest of his conjecture. William had told him he could figure it out with some thought, and everything he’d learned mulled around in his head until he concluded only one person could have given Bishop Henry the dagger.
“Your second mistake was to involve Perrin. Too many people saw him and de Salis together at a cockfight. Perrin must have lost a goodly sum he could not immediately make good on and ended up in your cellar. Whatever you offered Perrin to steal my dagger must have covered the wager, and then some. I do hope he is still alive and in the Clink, or Earl William will be very unhappy.”
The bishop puffed in ire. “Your Earl William is not long for his command, mark my words. Nor have I heard anything that convinces me I should not hang you and the lady right now.”
Darian’s heart thumped against his ribs, and only his training kept the stink of his fear from leaking out.
“Hang me, if you will, but should Lady Emma disappear, the king will be most upset.”
“Over a traitor’s daughter? I think not.”
Darian took a deep breath. “Were you at Wallingford, you would know the earl of Chester has reminded King Stephen of how valuable a princess of Wales, a descendant of Pendragon, might be in future dealings with the Welsh. You know we are on our way to Canterbury to annul our marriage, which will return Lady Emma to King Stephen’s wardship, which at this moment he very much desires. If aught untoward happens to her, the king will want to know why, and how and by whom. You may be hard-pressed to explain why several people saw her enter your palace and never come out.”
The bishop merely stared at him, his eyes widening in both shock and dismay.
Darian held out his free hand, feeling victory within his grasp. “You may as well give me my dagger and horse and release us. And Perrin, too. Holding us will only cause you further grief.”
Bishop Henry pounded his fist on the table, rattling the plates and knocking over a goblet of ruby-colored wine.
“Stephen takes advice from Chester? The fool! He knows the man is not to be trusted. Captain, lock up these two and make ready for Wallingford on the morn.”
His silk robes billowing out around him, the bishop stalked out of the room through a tall, ornately carved side door.
