Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  She was mesmerized by his deep eyes. Silver ice. So clear she could swim in them, bathe in them, drown in them. Look away. Her stomach fluttered, dipped. She forced her gaze down. It caught on his narrow lips, bands of rumpled ribbon. Soft silky ribbon, memory whispered.

  Wait. She was angry, wasn’t she? She couldn’t recall why. Her breath hitched.

  Those lips were moving closer. Slowly. One corner of the wide mouth curved up.

  She was still as Lot’s wife, who also looked where she shouldn’t.

  Breath locked in frozen lungs, she watched his mouth come nearer until she could no longer focus. Eyes closed the instant lips touched. Silk. Yes. Moving silk.

  She jerked away with a gasp that filled her senses with his wild, autumn-forest scent. He looked as surprised as she felt, his expression wary as he freed her. His arms dropped, and a lonely shiver pulsed across her back at the loss of warmth. Tingles sparkled through her nerves; her chest throbbed, tight and empty.

  For once, she had nothing to say. Nor could she think. She shook her head sharply to clear it, and her hand rose to her throat. The skin there was warm as a brazier. Nothing in all her twenty years of life had prepared her for the spark that leaped between them. A deep breath, and she stumbled a step.

  In a flash, his hands were on her again, steadying, but when she glanced up, his eyes were shuttered. No expression revealed what he’d intended by his shocking act. And shock her it had. She had fought the urge to press closer, return the pressure of lips, touch him. In that moment, she’d been another woman, wanted another life. She hiccupped a sob.

  Then Emelin did something she had never done before in her life. She ran.

  The quiet garden, roiling with emotion, disappeared the moment she shoved through the gate. In the bailey was another world, the normal world, where a stable lad leaned against the wall and—Ortha searched for her. With one last ragged breath, Emelin summoned a smile and called out.

  Ortha whirled. Anxiousness replaced her usually bland expression. “My lady, you’d best come quickly. Your brother wants you.”

  “No need to be frightened of him,” Emelin reassured her. “It’s me he’s angry with.” She couldn’t begin to guess what set off his latest demands.

  He waited at the bottom of the hall steps. “Where have you been?” He kept his loud voice modulated, but his face contorted in a glower.

  “What is it, brother? You’ve sought me out more in the past few hours than you have my entire life.” There went her blasted temper again. Hadn’t she learned by now not to anger him with a sharp tongue and a show of spirit?

  If his brows dropped any lower, they’d ride on his nose. An unexpected desire to smile bubbled in Emelin. For the first time since he arrived, his glare didn’t curl her stomach.

  “The ceremony’s tomorrow morning. I wanted a last word with you.” His rough hand crushed her wrist. “You listen to your husband and do as he says. Don’t be such a damned contrary wench that he won’t come near you. I expect to see you swelling with his brat in a three-month.” The pressure on her wrist increased as he jerked her near and lowered his mouth to her ear.

  “You’re finally worth something to me. And unless you dream of living the rest of your life locked behind convent walls, you’ll do your duty.” She shoved at him with her other hand, and he stepped back, a sneer contorting his mouth. “And don’t think you’ll escape my anger because people are watching. Anyone who has heard your nagging tongue will say I’m within my rights.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll no longer have that right.” Those words felt so good to say. Marriage would have one advantage she’d not considered. Freedom from her family.

  What irony. Until now, her deepest desire had been for a family. She was getting quite an education in the power of prayer. Be careful of what you ask; those prayers might be granted.

  Garley’s lip curled, lifting the side of his moustache unattractively. “Your husband is welcome to you.”

  Odd that a handsome man could become ugly in a temper. Perhaps that’s why he’d never found a wife.

  He shrugged. “With what your desperate husband is giving up for you, I can finally wed.”

  Ah. That’s why Garley needed coin—to attract more wealth. He sounded satisfied at the prospect.

  “And I’ve already found her.” He looked up, smiled and nodded.

  Emelin followed his glance to Lady Cleo, who pretended a pleased confusion before she threw out a smug smile.

  “If you’re looking for money there, you’ll be disappointed,” Emelin informed him. “She has no home; she lives with her sister.”

  “The lady has a neat dowry that’s controlled by her uncle. I’ll come into a nice reward, too, before long.”

  Something in his manner reminded Emelin of the men’s earlier discussion. Her brother had been confident, boisterous even, on the topic of a possible war. Surely he didn’t intend to get involved. That would be like chasing faery lights across a bog.

  But any attempt she made to reason with him would lead to more hatefulness. She reached around and pried loose his hold.

  “You must excuse me now. I will make certain the guests have all they need this night.”

  As she turned, he muttered, “That’s what servants are for.”

  Ortha trailed along but thankfully remained silent, although surely she had heard the entire conversation. At the top of the steps, Emelin turned. “How long have you known Lady Cleo?”

  “I’ve known her and Lady Dulsie all my life, my lady.” Ortha’s tone fell lifeless as an oak plank. “They are my cousins.”

  The information didn’t shock her. Ortha was obviously not a servant, but ladies without close family or dowries had little choice in their lives. Emelin could attest to that.

  “I will tell you,” Ortha continued, her voice sharp-edged, “that Lady Cleo intended to marry Lord Osbert. When she heard of your brother’s agreement, she was furious. Now she’s set on Sir Garley.”

  What did Ortha mean? Osbert’s money had turned the deal, hadn’t it? “What agreement is that?” she murmured.

  “Sir Garley is to provide soldiers for Lord Osbert whenever they are needed. Lady Cleo’s uncle would never do that.”

  Soldiers. But Osbert should have no need for more fighters. Emelin had heard nothing of threatened war. Unless…could that be what the men discussed earlier?

  But how could Garley provide men-at-arms and knights? They cost money. Garley had no coin, no bounty of supplies to keep a large garrison. Was that why he needed Osbert’s funds?

  ****

  When Giles returned to the keep, pallets had been pulled out for those soldiers and servants who slept in the hall. Most of the honored guests had retired to their chambers. He saw Henry speaking with one of his men near the door, and when the other soldier left, Henry walked to his side. “Changed your mind?”

  Giles had known the question would come again. “No. I’ve got my own business to conduct, then I’m for home. Do you have your message ready for the king?”

  Henry swung around to face Giles. “I didn’t think you would.” His voice churned with scorn, his eyes dulled with banked emotion. “Tell Richard I’ll take care of it.” He strode away, anger giving a rigid set to his shoulders.

  Giles ignored the slice of guilt to his gut. Guilt that urged him to reconsider, to accept the king’s request to lend his sword. But the mission meant nothing to him; as he told Henry, England wasn’t his country.

  Henry could think what he liked. At the meal tonight, Giles had found a place at a table directly in front of Osbert, and several times he’d caught the lord staring at him. Did the old man see any hint of the maiden he had seduced and abandoned so long ago?

  Giles’ mother had never revealed a name, but she always insisted his father would come. For five long years, she watched the path leading to Gran’père’s hut. Her conviction never faltered. Even as congestion from a long, harsh winter closed her lungs forever, she reached out to her phantom lo
ver, smiling.

  All the English knight left her, besides a son he didn’t know existed, was a medallion hung on a cord and a vow to return. Giles had searched for the owner of that pendant for years. Finally, a soldier new to Richard’s army recognized the pattern hammered into the face of the metal disc and gave Giles a name. And now, here he was.

  True, he’d planned to postpone his revenge until after Langley wed Emelin, to give her a home. But her brother no doubt thought to overrule her claim. He’d take the holding and either marry her off again or consign her permanently to that damned convent where her spirit, like the deep flame of her hair, would fade.

  Tonight Giles must end this uncharacteristic reluctance that plagued him. Until then, he would wait unobserved, and he knew the perfect spot. The deserted Lady’s Garden.

  Hours later, he awoke in the shadow-dark corner where he’d napped against a wall.

  Voices moved nearer: a man and a woman. The pair sat on an earthen bench near his hiding place. He recognized Sir Garley’s voice.

  Rotten luck, trapped and forced to listen to a drunken couple’s grunts. But after a few words, he realized this was not just a lover’s rendezvous. Then, only years of discipline prevented him from sinking his dagger in the braggart’s throat.

  When the two at last left, he unclenched his cramped hands and hissed out a furious breath. Sir Garley’s eagerness to see his sister wed took on new meaning. Giles didn’t understand the tale the brother spun. He did understand the bastard’s intent.

  Lady Emelin would not survive her marriage.

  Giles could not leave her to such a fate. That meant postponing, yet again, his own plans.

  By Satan’s own hell. Was he never to have revenge?

  He should be biting back howls of frustration. Instead, anger spread cold tentacles down his spine, across his shoulders, through his arms.

  The wedding ceremony was set for tomorrow. That meant he must move tonight.

  Yet where could he take Lady Emelin? He knew no one in this God-cursed country. To the convent? No. The good nuns had no defense against Sir Garley’s demands. The brother would have her returned, wed, and dead.

  Giles could think of only one place she might be safe. Chauvere. This time his growl of frustration echoed through the garden. Lord Henry would get what he wanted after all. Giles’ help. In return, Henry must vow to keep Lady Emelin safe from Sir Garley.

  As for Lord Osbert of Langley? The lying seducer would see another sun, after all. Giles had waited twenty-eight years. Another few days made little difference. Let the bastard live a while longer before he finally discovered he could have had the heir he longed for, long ago.

  And that heir would be the last thing he saw before he died.

  Chapter Eight

  The cool air in the bailey braced his mind as Giles stalked through the darkness. At this hour, Lady Emelin would be abed. How could he steal her from her chamber, down the stairs, and through the great hall cluttered with sleepers?

  He moved swiftly, slipping into the large chamber where the floor was, indeed, littered with men and women. Some lay on pallets pulled from storage along the walls. Other people lay where they’d fallen after hours of drinking.

  Giles inhaled the rancid smells of stale food and drink, stale breaths, stale bodies. The noxious fumes burned away any uncertainty, focused his thoughts. He’d discover a way to spirit his lady from the keep.

  He guessed her chamber lay in the opposite direction of Osbert’s. Now he just needed to determine which direction that might be. The knowledge would prove valuable later.

  Odd. He’d thought he would feel more hatred for the man, more victorious now the end drew close. Instead, he felt only resolve, as if an onerous task neared completion.

  Would he feel relief later? Pity Langley wouldn’t suffer more. Giles knew a dozen ways to kill a man slowly and painfully—too bad he wouldn’t use one.

  Still, perhaps a quick kill would be too easy, the revenge too brief. After all the agony and disappointment the man had caused, what would harm him the most? Arrogance fed on possessions. With the loss of Lady Emelin, he’d also lose the chance at the object he wanted above all else.

  A son.

  Satisfaction put a slow curve to Giles’ mouth. Of course. When the lady disappeared before the ceremony…He chuckled with anticipation of Osbert’s fury. Let the old man simmer over the coals of uncertainly and frustration.

  The thought energized Giles even more. Time to move. The first hurdle—to extricate the lady from her chamber. She wouldn’t come quietly. His smile widened at the thought of how he might silence those tempting lips.

  He’d crept to the far wall where he could make his way easier, when a movement near the stairs sent him into the shadows.

  Flickered torchlight lit the figure. His quarry. Hah. His luck held. She worked toward the door, picking her way carefully through the sleepers.

  Giles rocked back further into the shadows and watched her progression. As she disappeared into the maw of dark night, he followed. She was out of sight by the time he reached the door. But if his hunch were correct, she’d headed for her favorite hiding place.

  The Lady’s Garden was bright with moonlight. She sat on the same earthen bench the couple had occupied earlier. He knew the moment she sensed him. Her shoulders squared and her chin lifted.

  “Why are you not in bed at this hour?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Brave of you to navigate all the revelers.”

  Her startled glance met his. “You were in the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence resounded with what she did not say.

  Quiet steps took him closer. He loomed over her.

  She glanced up and frowned. “Oh, sit down and stop circling me like a bird for the kill. You don’t frighten me.”

  “I should,” he whispered, dropping close. Her subtle essence, light and sweet, permeated the air. “I could swoop down, carry you away, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Her voice was tart, any remnants of wavering gone.

  “I’m not being foolish. I leave tonight. Come along.” Could he persuade her to accompany him voluntarily? If she agreed to his suggestion, he wouldn’t be forced to smuggle her out of the gates. Not much likelihood, but he’d try.

  Emelin turned to him. In the moonlight, her eyes glowed with indignation; her lips parted to answer. His body stirred at the sight. He’d rather kiss her than talk.

  Touching her would be a mistake.

  Oh, what the hell. He jerked her to him.

  Her mouth fit his like a lock to a key. Something inside him shifted, eased as he searched, breathed her breath. It was sweet as morning, soft as twilight.

  Closer. One arm slid around her trembling shoulders, the other anchored her narrow waist.

  He wanted to absorb her, to lay her down in this dried up garden and lose himself in her.

  She would be warm, not cool. Her body would clench his, all soft, moist tightness.

  Her shudder jerked him back to reality. This woman was not for him, no matter how she felt in his arms. Just a lady to rescue and a means to revenge.

  If he could just convince his cock of that.

  ****

  His arm lay warm across her back. His muscles undulated as he dragged her nearer. She had meant to pull away when he sat, but a moonbeam flashed across his face. It lightened his darkness and turned those remarkable eyes to gray fog. She had just a glimpse before his lips brushed hers.

  No dream could prepare her for the power of that whisper touch of mouths. No imagination could create the wash of sensations that swirled from her forehead to her toes. As in a flood, she felt adrift.

  She clung to his arms, followed their insistence. Closer. For a moment, she couldn’t tell where she stopped and he began.

  His head lifted. “Come with me.”

  The whisper made her stop. What was she doing? Tomorrow she was to wed, but t
onight she lay in the arms of another man. And not just any man. A mercenary. No better than an outlaw.

  She tried to twist free, but he grasped her shoulders. The magic created by his kiss vanished, replaced by a frisson of fear. But he would never hurt her, she knew it as deeply as she felt his touch. One last shove at his chest. Might as well try to move a rock wall.

  “This is ridiculous.” She wanted to escape, but her mouth still tingled from his.

  He pressed her head against his heart, the grip light but inflexible.

  “Shhh. You like my kisses. I promise you can have all you want after tonight.” He caressed her back in small, soothing circles. A part of her wanted to linger, to follow, to have more of the drugging kisses. His lips promised delights she’d only dreamed of on her narrow bed in the austere, convent cubicle.

  “You’ll have no worries. I’ll take care of you.”

  The words were ice to her fevered mind. Take care of her indeed. As if she were some camp follower looking for handouts. What did he think she was? Yet for a moment, Emelin had allowed herself to dream.

  She inhaled. He smelled of cool air, warm man, and secret longings. Bumps rose on her arms; her nipples puckered. What might it be like to lie in his arms each night, surrounded by this mysterious aura? Travel to faraway lands. Did he even possess a home?

  But eventually he would tire of her. And where would she be then? Perhaps truly a camp follower, begging for handouts. A shiver coursed down her spine. Never.

  After all, she had a duty. To wed.

  Lord Osbert was not the man she would have chosen, but what ladies ever had the luxury of such a decision? They wed at the direction of their families and, if lucky, found contentment.

  And oh, how she longed for a real home, children of her own. Little Margaret would be the beginning. The child needed a mother’s firm love.

  She refused to jeopardize her chance. No matter how exciting this stranger, she would no more run away with him than she would stand naked in the bailey. Yet he held her still, as if he thought she would change her mind. What would convince him?