Redeeming the Rogue Knight

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘I put it back straight away, naturally,’ Sir Roger said, smirking. ‘I don’t like to show my hand unless I have to. Quite literally in this case.’

  He raised an eyebrow and looked at her as if he expected her to laugh at his feeble jest. Lucy had never felt less like laughing. Her skin crawled at the thought of his hands having such freedom while she slept. She told herself that taking the knife was the only liberty he had claimed and hoped it was the case. She wrapped her arms around herself. Shaking already from her dispute with the two pedlars, she backed against the wall beside the open door, unsure if her legs would bear her weight much longer. Her sole comfort was that the man standing before her looked equally frail. He still held the poker out, but the tip was beginning to waver and he looked like he was having to concentrate on keeping it still.

  As she remembered the way he had raged at her, demanding to be freed and his powerful hands tightening around her throat, bile curdled her stomach. Now he was free without her leave and his wound was dealt with. He had no reason to treat her kindly. She had faced down the vagrants alone and plenty more before them without being reduced to a quaking mess, but she’d seen the muscles that were now concealed so oddly beneath Sir Roger’s blanket and had felt the strength in them to her cost already.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whispered.

  An expression flashed across his face, but she read it as irritation rather than anger. He lowered the arm holding the poker, which was now visibly shaking, and leant on the end, supporting his weight as an old man might use a cane.

  ‘If I wanted to hurt you I could have strangled you as you slept,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Or used the end of this rope on your backside and thrashed you until you cried for having the impudence to tether me like a dog. It’s what you deserved and the fact I didn’t should prove you’re safe in my company.’

  Lucy met his eyes. His face was changing from ruddy to ashen and his forehead shone with sweat. Swathed in the heavy blanket he cut a strange figure, but not a threatening one. He brought to mind one of the monks who sometimes passed through the town, though the expression in his eyes was anything but holy. She noticed his feet were bare and somehow it was this that comforted her more than anything.

  ‘If you’re trying to reassure me, you’ve got a strange way of going about it,’ she remarked. ‘How long were you planning to keep up with your deception?’

  He shrugged, winced and blinked as the gesture obviously caused him discomfort. Lucy scrutinised him. He must still be weak and the longer he stood there, the less able he would be to attack her at full strength.

  ‘Until I was stronger and didn’t need to rely on you. Until Thomas returned and we could leave. Honestly, I’m not sure.’

  ‘So you were happy to lie there idle while I waited on you. Very gallant of you, my lord!’

  He gazed at her through glazed eyes. She pictured him how he must be in his everyday life. The young nobleman with his fine clothes and haughty attitude. Of course he would behave in no other way towards someone like her.

  ‘I wanted to prove to you I wasn’t a threat,’ Sir Roger explained. ‘That I could have done anything but chose not to would have signified that.’

  ‘You were going to prove to me that you could be trusted by deceiving me,’ Lucy said tartly. ‘How cunning! What made you change your mind?’

  He pursed his lips, glancing at the doorway. ‘I heard voices. I thought it might be the men who came the other night, or others like them. I decided it best to be ready to deal with them if necessary.’

  ‘But you must have realised they weren’t?’

  ‘I was going to go back up, but I didn’t like the way they spoke to you.’

  He looked almost embarrassed as he admitted it. How curious that a knight who must have sworn vows to honour and protect would seem ashamed to be caught in an act of gallantry. For a moment they faced each other uncertainly. He leaned against the poker, seemingly content to wait for as long as she liked. His knuckles were white though, and he swayed ever so slightly back and forth. His appearance now couldn’t be taken as guarantee, however.

  ‘Before I come closer I want you to swear I’m safe from harm for as long as you remain under my roof. I’ll only help you after that.’

  ‘I won’t let anyone harm you,’ he said.

  ‘I meant harm from you.’

  He blinked in surprise. A line of sweat began to trickle from his temple. ‘I’ve already said I don’t intend to hurt you, but I see that isn’t going to be enough. I have many faults, but I don’t break my word.’ He placed his left hand over his heart and looked deep into Lucy’s eyes. ‘I swear on my house, on my name and in the name of King Edward you are at no risk of harm from me. Will that suffice?’

  ‘It will.’

  Sir Roger flashed her a grin, but his eyes tightened with pain. ‘Good. Now get over here quickly, dove, because I’m about ready to drop.’

  He looked as if he was speaking the truth because by now he was swaying more obviously. Lucy crossed the room and righted the bench beside the counter. She held an arm to Sir Roger. His hand gripped before he pulled her close and threw his arm around her shoulder, his hand holding—no, caressing her upper arm. His sudden weight took Lucy by surprise and she slipped her arm around his waist to prevent them both falling to the floor. His skin was warm and where her fingers touched the smooth, bare flesh of his waist they began to tingle, the heat spreading along her hand and through her arm. Sir Roger’s stomach muscles tightened in response to her touch and a quiver passed through her at the transformation from relaxed to firmness. He bowed his head and the long exhalation of breath he gave was cool upon her lips. They were as close as they had been when he had forced his first kiss on her and Lucy realised she was parting her lips in readiness, but he made no move.

  Feeling foolish, she cocked her head to the bench. ‘Sit down there.’

  He did not move, but slid his eyes to hers. ‘You’re stronger than you appear for someone so slight.’

  ‘I spend half my day lifting barrels and sacks of grain. I have to be. Come on, I can’t hold you forever.’

  She helped him to the bench and he sank on to it, stretching out and spreading his legs wide before him. He leaned his back against the counter and let his head loll back, closing his eyes. He really was very handsome, even beneath the greyish pallor that his loss of blood had given him. Lucy perched on the bench as far away from him as possible. She tucked her skirts beneath her so that not even the slightest part touched him.

  ‘Still wary, dove?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Is it any wonder? I thought you were asleep upstairs and you appear at the doorway, brandishing a weapon?’ She shifted a little further away until her buttocks were almost hanging off the end of the bench. ‘And knowing what you did while I was asleep, how your hands could have been anywhere and I’d never know...’

  She drew her arms tight across her breasts. Sir Roger rolled his head so he was facing her.

  ‘You’d have known.’ He smiled and raised an eyebrow, his face lighting with amusement. ‘If I’d had that in mind, I’d have made sure you were awake to appreciate it. I don’t waste my efforts on a partner who can’t thank me afterwards. And you would thank me.’

  Lucy watched his full lips curl into a smile and recalled his kiss that had been delivered with an intensity that had left her breathless. Her throat tightened at the memory. She snorted, determined not to let him see the effect his words were having on her.

  ‘You seem very confident in yourself. After what you’ve been through you can barely stand without assistance and your arm was trembling. How do you know I’d want to thank you?’ she scoffed.

  ‘I don’t need to stand to do what I’m talking about and I have more than one arm. And other parts, too. And let me assure you, if you take me
into your bed you’ll be begging me not to leave it! Every woman I’ve bedded has enjoyed herself.’

  ‘Every woman! You talk as if the number is a recommendation!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He looked confused. ‘Don’t women want a lover who has taken the time to perfect his skills?’

  His words wound themselves around Lucy’s mind like the rope around his wrist, beguiling her and reminding her of pleasures she had not experienced for so long, tempting her to play the wanton. It had been a long time since anyone had watched her with such open interest, but the result of accepting the attentions of the last man of any standing who had done so was now playing outside with the chickens. That was not a mistake she intended to make again. Lucy pushed herself from the bench and spun to face him.

  ‘Women don’t want a man who will bed them, then leave, or deny the association afterwards. Skill is no substitute for constancy.’

  He opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. When he looked at her again, the desire in his eyes had all but vanished, but she had no doubt it was not quenched, merely simmering beneath the surface ready to boil again if the opportunity presented itself.

  ‘I’ll add to my earlier vow, if it pleases you. I swear I will respect your virtue as long as you demand it.’ He licked his lips and grinned. ‘But if you change your mind, I’ll be more than ready to answer your call.’

  Fingers of flame began creeping around the back of Lucy’s neck, daring her to test him at his word. She remembered the sight of parts of his anatomy she found difficult to forget. Knights were supposed to be honest and keep the vows they made. She fervently hoped he would keep this one.

  ‘Thank you. Now I have work to do.’

  He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Of course, but since I dragged myself from my sickbed to save you from assault, I think I deserve a reward. Can I have a drink?’

  Lucy filled Sir Roger a cup from the flagon the two pedlars had left. He took it left-handed and sniffed it.

  ‘Smells fine to me.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ Lucy snapped. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. Those two cheats were just trying to get out of paying.’

  She watched him drink it, knocking the brew back in one swig, seemingly revitalised after his brief show of weakness. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, gazing at her over the top of his hand.

  ‘It isn’t the best I’ve brewed,’ she added. ‘I’m trying a new balance of gruit—that’s the flavourings—but I’ve been too busy this week and didn’t have the time to tend it.’

  She watched the realisation dawn on his face that he was the cause of her extra work. Some men might have apologised, or at least offered thanks, but Sir Roger said nothing. He leaned forward and the blanket slipped from his shoulder, revealing the bandages and padding she had applied. It must have taken effort to drag himself from his bed so soon after his ordeal.

  He did not look like a knight. She could not picture him in armour, urging a charger into battle—though admittedly she had never seen anyone do that in reality—but when he had stood brandishing her poker, his blanket thrown over him like a cloak, she had glimpsed the fierceness in him. She gave him a slight smile.

  ‘Thank you for your defence. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it all the same.’ She refilled his cup. ‘This one won’t go on your account.’

  Instead of thanking her, he adjusted his blanket and gave her a stern look, his dark eyes boring into her.

  ‘If I hadn’t intervened when I did, what were you intending to do?’

  Lucy sat back on the bench, still taking care there was a gap between them. ‘I’d have insisted as long as I dared, or perhaps accepted payment of another sort.’

  He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  ‘A new length of rope or a knife sharpened,’ she clarified, sensing the inevitable innuendo he was no doubt forming in his mind. ‘Round here people trade what they have when they haven’t the coins.’

  She turned away, not wanting him to see the thoughts that churned through her mind. There had been times she had resorted to methods of an unsavoury nature to clear her own debts. She bit down on her lip, reminding herself she had sworn to feel no shame over what she had done. She sighed, dropping her shoulders, and faced him once more.

  ‘Most likely they’d have refused, laughed and left no matter what I said. It wouldn’t have been the first time. My father kept a stave beneath the counter in case he ever faced that problem.’

  ‘You’d have had it taken and used on you!’ Sir Roger’s voice took on an edge she was not expecting. A warning and a prediction but also, surprisingly, a touch of concern. ‘Better to lose your profits than an eye or your teeth.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t use it,’ she said, chilled at the idea of what he described and the memory of a hand across her cheek or backside on more than one occasion. He stared at her gravely. She stood and paced around. Agitation flowed through her limbs, tightening them and making them feel too short. Resisting Sir Roger’s advances had left her feeling like a flagon corked too tightly, threatening to explode.

  ‘Now you’re up, at least I can sweep the room,’ she said. Without a further word to him she picked up the besom that stood in the corner and stalked upstairs. She began to sweep the dust, determined to work off the energy that had built inside her.

  * * *

  Roger waited until the thudding of Lucy’s feet from above stopped before following. She had her back to him, her broom attacking the wooden floor with violence. She jumped when she heard him, spinning around with her hand rushing to her breast.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need a bath and fresh clothes,’ Roger began, indicating the blanket he wore.

  Lucy’s expression eased. ‘I can find you some clothes,’ she said. Before he could explain he had his own wherever his saddlebags had been stowed, she had opened the lid of the chest and was on her knees delving inside. She produced a tunic and held it out to him.

  ‘Here. It was my father’s. He was a shade taller than you, but it should do for the time being.’

  Roger ran the cloth between his fingers. The linen was thin and a rougher weave than Roger would have liked. Ordinarily he would have scorned something so threadbare, but he bit back his objections. He began to shrug off his blanket, but stopped when it became clear Lucy was not about to grant him privacy. He tilted his head to one side and met her eyes, expecting her to look away in embarrassment.

  ‘Is there something you want?’

  ‘I thought I should examine your dressing. On your shoulder.’

  ‘Or just watch me dressing?’ Roger asked suggestively.

  ‘That’s a good shirt. I don’t want you to bleed on to it.’

  She reached out and unfolded the edge of the blanket with the same determined care Roger would take over undressing a lover. He stood naked to the waist, feeling disconcertingly exposed. That Lucy had no interest in what should follow only added to his sense of vulnerability.

  His thoughts of lovemaking were replaced with anxiety as Lucy’s forehead wrinkled.

  ‘How does it look?’

  ‘I’ll give you fresh bandages. Sit down, you’re too tall for me to do it standing.’

  Too tall without coming closer than she was now, Roger thought. Nevertheless, he obeyed and sat as she unwound the old dressings and replaced them.

  ‘There’s no infection that I can see.’ She wound the long strip of bandage across his shoulder and beneath his arms. ‘How does it feel?’

  Roger raised his arm and felt the same pulling ache in his shoulder that he had when holding the poker aloft.

  ‘I have no strength in my arm.’

  He looked at Lucy and the unexpected pity on her face curdled his stomach. He sighed and began to pull the tunic over his head
. His arm spasmed and he gave an involuntary gasp. His head was inside the tunic so when he felt Lucy’s hands close over the hem and skim his upper arms he almost moaned aloud in astonishment as her fingers on his bare skin awoke his desire. She helped him lower the tunic, pulling it down to his waist. She smoothed the tunic. Completely unnecessary, but Roger did not protest.

  ‘The strength will return in time.’ Her voice was too comforting for Roger to bear, not when pity rather than desire was governing her actions.

  ‘Not soon enough,’ he snapped. She jerked her hands away as if he had struck her. It was too much to stand. He began pacing around. Six paces covered the room. ‘In the meantime I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere in ill-fitting clothes with a woman determined to rebuff my advances.’

  Lucy’s lips twisted. She crossed her arms tightly.

  ‘There’s nothing keeping you here. Leave when you like.’

  ‘I will as soon as I am fit,’ Roger retorted. ‘In the meantime I’ll wear my own clothes. Lucy, where are you keeping my horse?’

  She stared at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Horse,’ Roger repeated. ‘The large, brown animal I arrived here on. Four legs. About as tall as you, but less contrary. Carrying my saddlebag. Where is it?’

  ‘I know what a horse is.’ Lucy huffed indignantly. ‘It isn’t here.’

  ‘I can see that he isn’t in the bedroom,’ Sir Roger growled. A sense of unease was beginning to grow. He walked to the window, but the oiled linen frame was nailed to the ledge and he couldn’t see anything. His throat constricted.

  ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing!’ Lucy exclaimed. She twisted her hands and took a step away as if fearing his reaction. ‘I told you before. Thomas left, causing a commotion. He took both horses with him.’

  Roger felt the blood drain from his face. He shook his head in disbelief as the implications of Lucy’s words sunk in. Beneath the tunic his skin was clammy and hot. He felt a hand on his arm and raised his head to find Lucy gazing up at him, her large grey eyes filled with unhappiness.