by Cathy MacRae
“Yes. You are a woman who has been forced to flee a man’s unwanted attentions, abandoning your home and your livelihood to escape. He is rescuing you, though you have rather completely destroyed the peaceful life he’d thought to create for himself.”
“As a border lord, he’d have to be daft to think his life will be peaceful,” she scoffed.
“You have a point, Milady, but after so much battle, he’d retired to the monastery to heal and give the rest of his life to God.”
“You and Sir Walter remained with him there?”
“No. We stayed in service at Belwyck and were sent to retrieve him when his brothers were killed and The Saint became Lord de Wylde.”
“So ye dinnae know what treatment he has had for his leg?”
“I know the tip of a very ill-made arrow pierced his leg, breaking off when it struck bone. Saint, Walter and I and several others were on a hunt. A boar attacked two of the horses ahead of us. One of the riders shot at the beast with his crossbow, but the shot went wild. I removed the arrow from The Saint’s leg and staunched the wound while he watched from atop his horse. As soon as I finished, he continued with the hunt, though he suffered a fever later that led to his decision to retire.”
Simon canted his head to the side. “I do not know what was done for him once he arrived at the monastery. Walter and I were summarily dismissed, and since it seemed he was to be there for at least the foreseeable future, we returned to Belwyck. Why do you ask?”
Marsaili worried her lower lip. “My husband suffered a similar wound and slowly died from it. I dinnae believe his was an accident.”
CHAPTER TEN
Simon’s face grayed. “Do you see similarities between The Saint’s wound and your husband’s?”
Marsaili thought hard. “It appears Lord de Wylde is recovering, though until the metal is removed, ’tis doubtful he will be free of the pain or have full use of his leg. Andrew’s recovery was met with several obstacles, and after an additional incident, he began his decline.”
“What caused the initial injury?” Simon asked.
She played with the folds of her skirt, gathering her thoughts. “Andrew was a scholarly man. He disliked war—and in that respect, he and I got along well. But Edmund always pushed him, telling him the villagers dinnae want their lord to read books, and wanted a fighting man instead. As far as I could tell, the people preferred a peaceful lord to a warring one, but Edmund dinnae agree, and I quickly learned ’twas not worth a bruise to oppose him.”
Marsaili rose and began to pace. “Edmund often provoked Andrew to spar with him. They had each trained with the sword as lads, but Andrew withdrew to his library after their da died and he received the title. On this particular day, Edmund had apparently angered Andrew more than usual, and their sparring took on heated tones. By the time I was summoned to the hall, a crowd had gathered and the two men had been fighting for some time. I was told Andrew had ripped a sword from a selection of ancient arms hung on the wall—he never carried a sword himself—and appeared bent on making Edmund apologize for whatever he’d said.”
She faced Simon and halted, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “To my surprise, he pounded Edmund fiercely, and Edmund lost his sword. He quickly claimed another from those on the wall, and, during a riposte, lost his footing. With what appeared to be sheer luck, his sword plunged into Andrew’s side.”
Simon’s brow furrowed. “That can be a difficult wound to recover from. In truth, Edmund could be held responsible for his brother’s death.”
Marsaili nodded. “Aye. For I believe ’twas no accident his sword pierced his brother’s flesh. But ’twas I who nursed him.”
Snow crunched beneath booted feet and limbs rustled, depositing their loads of snow in a flurry of white. Marsaili and Simon looked up as Lord de Wylde stepped near. At the other edge of the clearing, Wythevede gripped the horses’ reins.
Three men burst through the thicket, their arms bound behind them. Walter, atop his destrier, prodded their steps. They halted before Geoffrey. Simon drew his sword and stood at Geoffrey’s shoulder. Tension sang in the cold air.
The Saint eyed the men, their roughened appearance announcing Walter had taken exception to any dispute they’d offered. A thin line of blood snaked down the side of one man’s face, either dried or frozen in the frigid air. Two had ripped clothing, and one had lost his boot. The boldest of the three returned Lord de Wylde’s stare, a sly smile on his face as he caught sight of Marsaili.
“Here, Milord. No reason for us to be at odds. I’m sure the wench is troublesome and of no use to you. You can hand her over and we’ll be on our way.”
Geoffrey’s inscrutable gaze lingered on the coarse man. “I fear you ask the impossible. Milady is with us and will remain so until she is safely home.”
The man spat on the ground, his grin gone. “We’ve been sent to retrieve her and she’s led us on a merry chase in this god-forsaken weather.”
Geoffrey leaned forward, his cloak billowing in the rising wind. “Consider this your only warning. Without paperwork proving your claim to her, you are considered hostile to a woman I have sworn to protect. If you persist, you will be dealt with harshly.”
“My claim is good.” The man jerked his head at Walter. “Check the bag he took from me. It says I am to return to Bellevue Castle with one runaway Lady de Ville, giving her over to Lord de Ville.” He nodded. “That’s her.”
Walter tossed the rough hide bag to Simon who jerked it open and rummaged inside. He withdrew a roll of velum and handed it to Geoffrey.
Spreading the single page open, Geoffrey scanned the scratchy writing. He took a moment to study the rather hastily stamped wax seal at the bottom beneath a scrawled signature.
Edmund, Lord de Ville.
“He is welcome to make his argument known in person at Castle Belwyck when I am in attendance. Tell him to bring a writ from the king.”
He shoved the vellum at Simon who returned it to the bag. Nodding at Walter, he commanded, “Cut them free but do not return their weapons.”
The spokesman for the trio sputtered. “Milord! What if we meet with ruffians on the road?”
Geoffrey spared him a sharp glance. “Such as yourself? I’d suggest you make haste.”
Walter dismounted and sliced their bonds with a small dagger he pulled from a sheath on his gauntlet. The men rubbed their arms, scowling at the weapons protruding from the pack on the knight’s destrier, completely out of their reach.
Walter unsheathed his sword and motioned them away. “Lord de Wylde said to make haste. You should listen. Milord is always right.”
The men’s actions stilled. “Lord de Wylde? We know the name. Which son is he?”
Simon took a step forward. “He is The Saint.”
* * *
Sometime later, Marsaili burrowed her hands in the plush fur spread across her lap. Uncomfortable in the pitching and rolling conveyance and bored to the point of distress, she tried conversation as a means of distraction from her woes.
“Ye arenae speaking much. Do ye not think a word or two would be better than brooding over something ye dinnae understand?”
The wagon stuttered over a series of ruts and Geoffrey gripped the walls, his knuckles white. “What do you think I don’t understand?” he asked.
“Depending on where ye wish to take this conversation, I’d say one thing ye dinnae understand is why Edmund is so persistent. There are plenty of women eager for the title and duties of Lady de Bellevue. Why not choose one of them?”
“Why doesn’t he?”
Marsaili sighed heavily. “I dinnae know. I have asked myself that question many times in the past months. My best guess is he is a bully who doesnae want what is easily his, but craves that which he cannae have.”
“And months of chasing you has not cooled his ardor?”
“Why do some men act thus?” she returned. “Instead of crying off and pursuing someone who shows interest, why must they persist where
they arenae wanted?”
The wagon jarred again, almost sending Marsaili to the floor. Geoffrey bounced on his seat, unable to bite back a cry. Instantly, Marsaili leapt to her feet, banging on the roof of the wagon to gain Wythevede’s attention. She knelt on the floor next to Geoffrey, placing her hand on his arm.
“Milord, ye dinnae look so good. Is it yer leg?”
“Stop this damn box,” he ground out between gasps. Sweat popped on his brow and a white line of pain edged his lips.
Wythevede hauled the team to a stop. A moment later, he appeared at the door. Marsaili shook her head at his open-mouthed look of surprise, knowing how her position on the floor, her head nearly in his lap, must look to the man.
“Help me get him comfortable on this bench. We wait the storm out here.”
Simon shoved Wythevede aside and stuck his head in the doorway. “Is aught amiss, Milady?” His gaze went to Lord de Wylde. “What has happened?”
“One too many bumps in this torture chamber,” Marsaili replied briskly. “He must rest. How far are we from the shelter Walter found?”
“Not far, but we can wait a bit. The storm seems to be passing by. But it will be good to have walls around us overnight. We will be at Belwyck by mid-day tomorrow.”
Geoffrey gripped Marsaili’s hand. “I can make it to the shelter. No need to wait.”
Marsaili turned her attention to Geoffrey. “We will take a short break, Milord, whilst ye make yerself comfortable. I willnae let Wythevede take it at more than a snail’s pace, but even that isnae without bumps.” She motioned to Simon. “Pack the cushions beneath him, especially his leg, and wrap the furs about him. I will sit with him when I return.”
“Where are you going, Milady?” Simon asked.
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “’Tis impolite to ask, but he isnae the only one who needs a wee break.”
She exited the wagon and Simon stepped inside. Wythevede jumped in front of her, his cap in his hands.
“What will happen to Milord?” he asked, eyes round with worry.
Marsaili patted his hands. “Dinnae fash. Milord’s leg pains him and he needs a moment to collect himself.” She tilted her head at the wagon. “Simon needs yer help. Be strong. Milord doesnae like to pamper his leg and is likely to be a bit testy.”
Leaving Wythevede, she called to Walter. “Simon and Wythevede are making Lord de Wylde more comfortable. We will continue in a moment.”
When she returned to the wagon, Simon helped her climb aboard. He met her questioning look with a vague shrug of his massive shoulders, and she stepped inside, fearing the worst.
Lord de Wylde glared at her from his cocoon of furs, but it was an improvement over the unfocused look he’d given her earlier when his sole concern had been the pain in his leg. Marsaili smiled reassuringly at him and sat on a pile of blankets on the floor.
“Ye overdid it last night when ye fought the rabble,” she said softly.
“You would prefer I let them have you?” he asked, his tone mild.
Marsaili’s heart warmed. She’d have thought he’d be furious with her for taking charge and telling him and his men what to do. But he seemed to know she only wished to help. Whether he appreciated it or not was another topic, but she would save that for a later day.
With a creak of the wooden wheels, the wagon moved slowly forward, taking each rut, dip and stone with unhurried ease. “At this rate we’ll reach Belwyck a week or two before I die of old age,” Geoffrey quipped with a slight twitch of his lips.
Marsaili searched his face anxiously, but though his brow furrowed and his jaw remained firm, the tell-tale white rim of pain around his lips was gone. “We will warm ye up and let yer leg rest, then be on our way on the morrow.”
“I’m sweltering now,” he complained.
She brushed his brow with the back of her hand. “Ye dinnae appear feverish. ’Tis likely ye are bundled a wee bit too tight.” She pulled the edges of the pelts apart, allowing cool air to caress his neck and shoulders. The sway of the wagon rocked Geoffrey side-to-side and Marsaili braced herself against his hip to steady him. Her gaze glided over his bundled form, lingering on his chest. It was covered with his woolen shirt and framed in plush fur, but she remembered the rock-hard feel of his muscles against her breasts.
Her hand splayed against his shirt, the heat of him drawing her closer. She lightly pressed down, her palm encountering a springiness beneath the fabric that bespoke a hairy chest. Andrew’s had been smooth. What would it feel like to run her fingers through the wiry hairs on Geoffrey’s chest?
Lost in her musing, she slid her hand up, cupping his square chin and day’s growth of beard in her palm. His lips curved upward and her gaze flew to his eyes. They glowed, searching her soul.
“Still no fever?” he queried.
Marsaili swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Nae. Yer skin is warm, but not overly so.”
“Brooding?”
“What do ye mean?” Her hand lingered on his cheek.
“You aren’t saying much. Better to talk than brood, I believe you mentioned.”
She blinked, struggling to make sense of what he said. Of course. Their earlier conversation. She’d been seeking a way to keep her mind from wandering down sensual paths it had no right to take. But she no longer wished to discuss Edmund or what his reasoning may or may not be. She gazed into his liquid amber eyes.
“What else do you think I do not understand, milady?” he prompted, his breath warm against her hand.
Her gaze fell to his lips.
“This.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marsaili rose on her knees, leaning close as she slowly lowered her face to his. For a brief moment their breaths mingled, and she ached to press her lips against his. His hand slid from beneath the layers of fur and captured her wrist. With a sharp tug, he pulled her against him, and Marsaili offered no resistance.
Her lips molded to his, perfectly, as though they’d been made only for him. They moved against his, pledging a hundred things she could not voice. Regaining her balance, she cradled his face in her palms as though she feared he would leave her before she’d drank her fill. His lips parted, his tongue twining sensuously with hers, and Marsaili’s world came apart.
His hand slid up her arm, pushing its way inside her cloak, stopping to cup the fullness of her breast. She gasped as his thumb rubbed the sensitive peak, creating friction that exploded through her into shards of need. His other hand broke free of the furs and he palmed the back of her head, his fingers winnowing through her hair.
She moaned against his mouth and Geoffrey abandoned her breast, reaching behind her, fingers fumbling with the lacings at her back. Jerking them free, he loosened the gown over her shoulders, drawing it forward until the neckline gaped downward. Breaking their kiss with a groan, he cupped both hands beneath her breasts, spilling them over the top of her dress. Marsaili’s exposed flesh tingled in the cold air, and in the heat of his hungry gaze.
She shifted slightly, bringing her breasts closer, offering them to him. He accepted, running his mouth over the sensitive skin, circling the rigid crests with his tongue. His heated breath played havoc with Marsaili’s insides, twisting them like a banner in a tempest.
Raking the sleeves of her dress down from her shoulders, he scooped her breasts free, hefting them gently in his warm palms. “My God, Marsaili! You are perfect.”
His admiration wrung a wry smile from her as it sparked less-than-fond memories. “’Tis kind of ye to say so, Milord,” she whispered.
“There is no kindness meant, but the very truth. You cannot begin to imagine how much you fascinate me.” He smoothed his fingers over the tops of her breasts. “Though I confess I still do not understand.”
Marsaili sagged backward, finding a comfortable niche in the crook of his elbow. “What do ye not understand, Milord?”
Geoffrey’s eyes darkened and he tilted her chin upward until their lips met. “This.”
* *
*
The sway of the wagon settled as it eased to a halt. Voices rose, growing louder. With a muffled shriek, Marsaili slipped from her half-sprawl across Geoffrey’s chest and landed on the floor of the wagon, her back to the door. Geoffrey yanked the hem of his tunic down, regretting the loss of her hands on his skin, and pulled the edges of the furs across his over-heated body.
“Easy, Marsaili,” he murmured, hiking the fold of a dense pelt over the aching ridge of his bulging manhood.
She shot him a look from the corner of her eye distinctly at odds with the passionate woman he’d held in his arms only moments before. Jerking her gown into place, she reached behind her for the laces. She fumbled beneath the heavy fabric of her cloak, her face growing redder as she struggled.
With a sigh, Geoffrey tossed his coverings aside and sat, leaning over her. “Let me,” he offered. Before he could decide if she was going to punch him or allow him to help, the wagon’s door opened, and Wythevede stuck his head inside.
Geoffrey turned smoothly, reaching for his cane as he rose to his feet, blocking the old man’s gaze. Crouching, he angled out the door, then turned back and reached inside for Marsaili.
She batted his hand away. He leaned in and caught her arm, pulling her gently but firmly to his side. She met his gaze with a flash of her eyes, and he noted her almost uncomfortably upright posture. Casually sliding a hand beneath her cloak, he splayed a hand at her back, encountering rumpled cloth and jumbled laces.
“The old hut only has three walls, Milord,” Wythevede whined. “I can only hope the roof doesn’t cave in on us during the night.”
“’Twill be sufficient,” Geoffrey replied. “Walter has done an excellent job with what he has been accorded.” He jerked his head at the horses. “See to it they are watered and fed, then bring them to the opening in the wall. They can enjoy the protection of the roof and form somewhat of a barrier at the same time.”
Wythevede beamed at him. “Excellent suggestion, Milord! I will take care of it now.”
