But the ordeal wasn’t over yet. Helena was still outside. If The Shadow found her… Faith, there was no telling what the villain might do, confronted by the intrepid Scotswoman. Nor what reckless Helena might do to endanger herself.
Colin wrenched at his bonds with renewed determination. But no matter how he twisted his wrists against the tough rope, he only succeeded in scraping away his flesh.
By the time he heard a noise at the door, his brow was dripping with sweat, and his forearms stung where the skin was shredded.
The door swung open to reveal Helena, unharmed, thank God, a coney slung over one shoulder and a clump of herbs in her hand.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” he said in a rush, breathless with relief. “Did you see him? Is he still outside?”
“Who?”
“The Shadow.”
“The Shadow?”
“Aye. He was just here.”
She smirked. “Indeed?” She closed the door with a nudge of her hip.
“He was! He stole my silver. If you cut me loose, I may still be able to catch him.”
She shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
If not for his bonds, he’d have hauled her forward by the front of her surcoat and shown her just how serious he was. “Damn it, wench, ’tis true! Now cut me loose before he gets away.”
She gave him a knowing smile and moved with infuriating nonchalance toward the hearth.
Frustration boiled inside him. “You don’t believe me.”
“That’s right.”
“Then how do you explain that?” He jutted his chin out toward the satchel the thief had unwittingly left behind.
She followed his gaze, frowning down at the black cloth bag. Slowly, she dropped the herbs into one pot and slung the coney over another. “Where did this come from?”
He growled. “I just told you.”
“The Shadow?” She glanced over at him. “Really?”
“Aye!”
“You’re certain ’twas him?”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “All in black? Small? Nimble? Quick as lightning?”
At last, to his great relief, Helena seemed to believe him. She nodded, drawing her dagger.
“Good wench. Cut me free.” He twisted to give her access to the ropes. “Stay in the cottage,” he commanded. “He won’t look for you here. If I’m not back…”
But Helena didn’t appear to be listening. Nor was she moving from the spot. He scowled. What was going through that wayward head of hers? She still gripped the dagger in her hand, but she seemed in no hurry to come sever his bonds.
“I pray you, damsel. Time’s a-wasting. By now, he’s probably halfway…”
She stared at the door, her eyes narrowed with grim intent. Suddenly he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Bloody hell. She couldn’t mean to…
“Wait!” He felt like a knight discovering his horse was charging toward a precipice. “Wait!”
“Which way did he go?” she demanded, clenching her fingers around the haft of the weapon.
“Oh, nay. You’re not going out there yourse—”
“Which way?”
He clapped his mouth shut, refusing to answer. He’d be damned if he’d help her get herself killed.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll track him on my own.”
“Nay! Wait!”
“I have no time for this, Norman. As you said, time’s a-wasting.”
“But I…” He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I lied.”
“What?”
He sighed and stared at the ground. “I lied,” he muttered, shrugging. “’Twasn’t The Shadow at all.”
She hesitated, weighing his words. “You lied.”
He nodded.
“You lied?” She glanced at the abandoned bag. “Then who—”
“There was a thief,” he amended, “but he…he left an hour ago. I was hoping…”
Her gaze slowly curdled with disdain. “Aye?”
Lord, how it bruised his pride to have her look at him that way, as if he was a spineless churl. But her scorn was a small price to pay for her safety. “I thought…”
“You were hoping,” she finished for him, “that I would cut you free so you could run away.” She sheathed her dagger again, and he exhaled an invisible sigh of relief. “Like I said, Norman,” she sneered, “no ballocks.”
He scowled. It rankled him to play the coward. God’s wounds, he was a bloody Knight of Cameliard! And even within those illustrious ranks, Sir Colin du Lac was renowned for his valor. He’d led the charge at the Battle of Moray. He’d won countless trophies in tournament for his bravery. Once, he’d even rushed into a burning demesne to save a bevy of harlots. No ballocks, indeed.
Helena sighed, strangely disappointed. She’d almost begun to think this Norman was different, that he might possess some small sliver of courage. But nay, he’d proved himself as craven as the rest of his countrymen.
She supposed it was just as well he was a coward. After all, cowards were easier captives to manage than heroes. Still, she couldn’t help but be displeased.
With a disapproving smirk, she crouched beside the black pouch the outlaw had left behind and loosened the drawstring. She should have realized the Norman was lying. The Shadow was scrupulously cautious. He wouldn’t be so careless as to leave behind a satchel. Indeed, the only evidence anyone had ever recovered of The Shadow was the signature black knife he sometimes lodged in a wall after the commission of his crimes.
Helena opened the satchel. Inside were several small parcels. Perhaps the robber had left behind something of value. She gingerly unwrapped one of the cloth-covered packages. It contained two kinds of cheese. Another parcel held a dozen oatcakes. The third cloth enveloped a sizable hunk of salted pork. And bundled loosely into a knotted rag were ripe cherries. The thief had unwittingly provided a veritable feast for them.
“Maybe your coin was well spent after all,” she called to Colin. “There’s enough provender here for another day at least.”
“Provender? That’s what he left?”
“Aye, and ’twill serve him right to suffer an empty belly tonight for his crime.”
“At the price I paid, it had better be gold-encrusted swan’s eggs,” he sulked. “I had six shillings on my person.”
She raised a brow. “Shillings won off my father, no doubt.”
Lord Gellir indulged his weakness for gambling almost nightly, which was why the folk of Rivenloch had made a habit of secretly surrendering the bulk of their winnings to the sisters, to be returned to the castle treasury. That way, the lord’s frequent losses didn’t affect the coffers. Strangers, however, were a different matter. They took their winnings with them, sometimes only to lose them to The Shadow.
“Anyway,” she said, setting out the packages, “now we won’t starve.”
“I’ll get started on that coney if you’ll loose me.”
“Loose you? After you tried to run away?” She shook her head. “Nay, I don’t trust you.”
“But I give you my word—”
“Your word? The word of a liar?”
His jaw tightened with shame, and she almost felt sorry for him, but damn his eyes, he’d brought mistrust upon himself.
“You must free me,” he insisted. “You left me helpless before, at the mercy of a thief. What if he’d been a murderer? What if he’d decided to kill me?”
She swallowed. That wasn’t something she’d considered. What if Colin had been slain? What if she’d returned to find him dead? Grisly images of Colin in a pool of blood and a vengeful Pagan stringing her up at the gallows squirmed through her mind like a menacing serpent.
“Listen, my lady. ’Tis true I lied to you before,” he confessed, “but no more. I swear it on my honor as a Knight of Cameliard.”
She hesitated. Knights did not bargain lightly with their honor. Still, only a fool trusted a liar.
“My lady, with thieves loose in the
wood, we ought to, both of us, have our limbs free.”
“Why? So I can fend them off while you flee?”
He scowled at the ground, muttering, “I’m not the coward you believe. I would never leave a woman defenseless.”
Helena smirked. She’d seen little proof of that thus far. Still, Colin had a point. The two of them were adversaries, but against a common enemy, it was a better defense to band together. Nonetheless, it was with some reservation that she finally decided to release him.
“I’ll keep the dagger,” she informed him, squatting to slice the rope from his ankle.
When she circled behind him to cut his wrists free, she saw that he’d torn his flesh on the bindings, trying to escape. Guilt furrowed her brow. The poor, spineless wretch must have been in fear for his life when the thief arrived. And it was partly her fault for not realizing she’d left him so vulnerable.
As the ropes dropped off, he flexed his fingers and cursorily scanned his abraded wrists.
“There may be a salve in one of the chests,” she offered.
He shrugged. “They’re only scrapes. I’ve done worse, sparring.” He rose and rubbed his palms together. “Now let me at that coney. I promise you a feast, my lady,” he said, with a slight bow and a twinkle in his eye, “to make your mouth water and your tongue sing Norman praises.”
She shook her head at his nonsense. Indeed, she was so hungry, she’d sing praises for pig slops.
While Colin acquainted himself with the cookpots and jabbed the coals on the hearth to life with a stick, Helena kept watch, half-reclining on the pallet, slowly twirling the dagger between her hands. She’d been able to find him rosemary and mint, but no wild onion. He didn’t seem to mind. According to him, a Norman could make soup from a stone.
“I need a knife,” he said.
She stopped spinning the dagger. The only knife she had was the one in her hands. Was it wise to surrender her only weapon?
“Don’t worry. I’ll give it back when I’m done.” Then he added pointedly, “Even if ’tis my dagger.”
She vacillated, her belly growling in anticipation of the feast, her heart uneasy with the idea of arming him. Just before her belly won the argument, he volunteered, “If you don’t trust me, why don’t you borrow the thief’s knife?” He gestured toward the window. “He left it in the shutter there.”
Helena’s heart dropped when she beheld the familiar black blade with its lightning-keen edge and slim haft. Rivenloch possessed three of the curious weapons. They had all come from the same source, confiscated from victims of The Shadow.
Chapter 6
Helena frowned, deep in thought, as she ran a finger over the silk-smooth haft of The Shadow’s dagger. If the notorious outlaw had been here, why had Colin changed his story? Why had he claimed it was another thief?
There was only one possible answer.
He’d been telling the truth.
And he’d only varied his tale when Helena had threatened to go after The Shadow. He’d lied to protect her.
She should have been insulted. His intervention meant that he considered her incapable of defending herself.
But try as she might, the only emotion she could muster was grudging admiration. In order to protect her, Colin had made himself look a coward when he was clearly nothing of the kind. He’d sacrificed his pride to keep her from harm. It was the sort of thing only an exceptionally gallant knight would do.
She glanced sidelong at the inscrutable man as he tended the coney, turning it slowly over the flames. Was he truly the fainthearted weakling she’d assumed? Or did his flowery speech and uncanny skill with a cooking spit have nothing to do with the man inside? Was it possible he was so chivalrous that he’d lie to protect even his foe?
“Shame we haven’t neeps and peas,” Colin murmured, distracting her from her musings. “A good, strong mead to go with it. Peach tarts to finish.”
Done with the dagger, he handed it back to her, haft first, and she tucked it into her girdle.
The savory scent of the roasting meat wafted past her nose, rich with rosemary and a light touch of mint. True to his word, the fare was making her mouth water. She cast him a dubious look. “You can cook all that?”
His smile exuded confidence. “Oh, aye. No Norman knight worth his spurs cannot cook. ’Tis in our blood.”
Helena frowned. She couldn’t cook, not well. Cooking required too much patience, too much attention. Her impulsive nature wouldn’t let her sit still long enough to tend to a meal. “If you prove yourself worthy, maybe I shall let you continue with your kitchen duties.”
Colin suppressed a grin. The wench wasn’t fooling anyone. She was about as familiar with a cookpot as a monk was with a broadsword. Let him continue, indeed. After she tasted this meal, she’d be begging him to cook for her. Already he’d caught her twice, licking her lips.
He ladled the drippings he’d collected over the coney again, drenching the roast with the herb-infused liquid and making the coals beneath sizzle.
“Pity we have no fine white pandemain to sop up the juices,” he said.
“We have oatcakes.”
He screwed up his features in distaste. “Oatcakes? Those bland atrocities you Scots are always packing about? The ones that suck all the spit from your mouth?”
She straightened indignantly, her green eyes burning fiercely. “There’s nothing better when you ride into battle. A Scot can bake an oatcake on his shield, have it for breakfast, and still have the strength by afternoon to lay a foe flat with that same shield.”
Her pride was admirable, but it was her passion that fascinated him. “Peace, little Hel-fire. We’re not at war.”
“Don’t call me that, Norman.”
He smiled as he lifted the spit from the fire and inspected the roast. “Don’t call me Norman.”
Checkmate, he thought, as she stewed in silence.
“Is it done yet?” she grumbled at last.
He grinned. “To perfection.”
Despite his own hunger, as they sat together beside the fire, it was all Colin could do to concentrate on swallowing as he watched Helena enjoy the meal. She ate with relish, smacking her lips, licking her fingers, and, though she tried to hide it, making small sounds of pleasure in her throat. He wondered wickedly if she made those same moans when she coupled.
“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked, pausing to lap the juice from the corner of her lip.
He wasn’t eating because, watching her devour the roast, he suddenly craved something even more appetizing than food. His loins ached with a hunger he hadn’t fed in weeks. But he didn’t dare tell her that.
“I was just wondering,” he hedged, pulling a morsel of meat from the bone, “how long you plan to keep me here.”
She frowned thoughtfully, and then popped her thumb into her mouth, sucking off the last of the grease with sensual leisure. The sight stirred the beast in his braies. “However long it takes,” she said, casting her half of the stripped carcass into the fire.
However long it takes. He wondered how long it would take to tame a wild wench like Helena. How long would it be before he had her eating from his hand?
“Did you enjoy the coney?”
“’Twas…” Her answer was guarded. “Adequate.”
“Adequate?” He nodded ruefully. He supposed that was the highest praise she could offer an enemy. But he knew the coney was superb. And before his time as a hostage came to an end, he determined he’d win over his captor, if not with his turn of a phrase, then with the turn of a spit. “My skills are prized among the Knights of Cameliard.” He neglected to mention that his most prized skills had nothing to do with cooking but with swordplay.
“If you’re so prized, then why has no one come to ransom you?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. How could he explain that his captain likely thought the whole ransom affair a grand jest?
“Nay,” she continued, “I think you must be worthless.”
If he’d blinked in the next instant, Helena’s punch would have knocked him backward into the fire. But luckily his reflexes were swift. He brought his arm up in time to deflect the blow, losing his half of the coney in the process. On instinct, he made a grab for Helena’s wrists.
She instantly twisted against his grip. “No one,” she spat, “tames a Warrior Maid of Rivenloch.”
Her proud declaration sounded like a challenge to Colin’s ears, and the passion of her claim kindled his blood to new heat. Indeed, so startled was he by her sudden attack and her vehement oath that it took a moment for him to realize that he now held her in his power. And another moment for her to realize it.
Her eyes widened, and she began to fight in earnest.
He could have overpowered her. He could have crowed in triumph and asked her, who’s the captor now? He could have trussed her up and tied her to the bed for the night to see how she liked it.
It was tempting.
But he was a noble Knight of Cameliard. He was a man of chivalry and honor. Mostly, he was Colin du Lac.
“Let me go!” She struggled against his stronger hold.
He held firm.
“Let me go!”
“On one condition.”
He knew she had no leverage. She knew it, too. He could see it in the desperation of her gaze.
She spoke through her teeth. “Name it.”
“You won’t tie me to the bed tonight.”
She emitted a humorless chuckle. “And will you slay me in my sleep, or will I awake to discover the cowardly pigeon has flown?”
“Neither. You will trust me.”
“Trust you,” she sneered. “A Norman?”
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