It was the way he said it that made her blush darken. His deep voice had suggested something other than partaking of the fruit.
They stood, staring at each other for a long moment, sharing another place in time. Around them, the leaves wavered in the gentle breeze. Birds sang to their mates.
Solace knew it could never be the same for them. He saw her as a whore and his enemy. She lowered her eyes and turned away from Logan.
“I’m going to Cavindale,” Logan finally said. “I think you should come with me.”
It was the way he said it. It was not a request. The decision had already been made. Suddenly, the berries didn’t taste so sweet. “You won’t make it to Cavindale. Winter’s coming.”
“It won’t be here in a week.”
“Be reasonable, Logan,” Solace pleaded. “You have no food, no shelter, no coin and no blankets.”
“The food is there,” he said, pointing to the berries in her skirt. “The shelter is the forest. What do I need coin for?”
Solace stared hard at him, trying to see past the stubbornness. Finally, she asked, “What do you need me for?”
“Need you for?” Logan echoed. “I don’t need you. I thought you had nowhere else to go. I know what that’s like.”
“I won’t die with you. I’m going to Westhaven.”
She saw his jaw clench, his fists twitch. “Then go,” he said.
A twinge of pain flared inside her, but she refused to acknowledge it. “I can’t go alone, Logan. It’s too dangerous. Please. Westhaven is a day’s walk. Take me there.” She straightened, pushing aside the sudden onslaught of tears threatening her. “Leave me with my friends. Then you don’t have to trouble with me anymore.”
Logan bowed his head, considering her words.
She watched the breeze blow through his soft hair like fingers raking through the strands. Longing and sadness filled her. “I think you owe me that much,” Solace whispered.
Logan stiffened. He raised dark eyes to her. “Westhaven it is. Then I never have to lay eyes on you again.”
Solace nodded and turned away from him. She hadn’t realized she’d released her skirt, dropping the berries, until she stepped on one, smashing it beneath her foot.
***
The town of Westhaven was aglow. The afternoon sunlight shimmered on the stone-and-thatch buildings making up the heart of the town. Patches of clouds drifted languidly across the sky, but somehow always seemed to leave a wide hole above Westhaven for the sun to shower the town in its golden streams. It’s some kind of beacon, Logan thought. But is this heavenly sign meant for Solace or me?
He cast Solace a sideways look. She was gazing on the town from their crouched position behind some bushes with more excitement than he had seen on her face since before Castle Fulton had been taken. If she wanted to go, let her. He struggled with uncertainty, as he had since that morning. Uncertainty and anger. He didn’t need her, he told himself for the thousandth time. He gazed at her profile, that straight nose, those high cheekbones, that sensual mouth, those large eyes filled with such joy, and he wondered how such perfect beauty could make him so sad.
Logan turned his gaze back to the town. At midday, Westhaven was a gathering of merchants and craftsmen. He watched the activity from a distance now, waiting for nightfall. His original plan was to walk into town at midday, well hidden in the crowd. Then Solace reminded him about the cross on his cheek. Every person in the town would notice it.
He was a criminal, a man marked for what he had done. Some townspeople would steer clear of him, some would mock him, others would throw stones or pelt him with rotten food. He had seen it happen to others. Logan found himself rubbing the tender skin on his face. As the pain built, he rubbed it harder, as if trying to erase it. The damn thing was a beacon for Barclay. He knew he could no longer walk through the streets unaccosted. He would have to become a creature of the night.
Perhaps getting away from him was best for Solace. He couldn’t ask her to share his nocturnal life. And I don’t want to! he told himself emphatically. He had more important things to think of.
His gaze shifted to her again. She had sat back against a tree and pulled her knees to her chest. Her tiny feet were tapping the ground beneath the dirty hem of her gown. Her head was buried between her knees, the black material hiding her face.
She would be gone soon.
The thought had come unbidden, though Logan had tried to push it aside all day. Now, with her departure so close he found he couldn’t rid himself of it. She would be gone. A pang of remorse shot through his chest. He didn’t want to leave with her hating him. He didn’t want her as an enemy. He opened his mouth to tell her... But what could he say to her? She wouldn’t believe him anyway. Slowly, his mouth closed and his chin dropped to his chest.
It was useless to try to make amends. He remembered the fierce anger that had coursed through him when he had found his home taken, the insatiable need for vengeance. No one could have talked him out of his hate. No one could have taken his pain away.
He felt a prickling along the length of his neck and lifted his eyes.
Solace was staring at him, quietly surveying his face, each of his features. Her brow was furrowed slightly as if she were trying to figure something out. Then she looked away toward the village.
A coldness settled around him as if a biting wind had suddenly lashed his cheeks. There was a wall between them, one as thick and impenetrable as the walls of Castle Fulton.
He followed her stare to the town. From their spot behind the bushes, Logan could smell the loaves of bread one of the merchants had just pulled from his oven. Pickled fish wafted to him on a small breeze. He was hungry. He glanced at Solace. She must be just as hungry as he, even though she didn’t show it. Possibly more so. She hadn’t eaten the berries that morning.
They waited in silence, trying their best to ignore each other’s presence. Finally the sun dipped below the horizon. Just a few more minutes now and they would sneak toward the blacksmith’s shop. They had seen no sign of Barclay’s men, but Logan knew they were there.
His falcon landed on his shoulder, but Logan took little notice. He watched a group of men saying good night to each other as they moved into their houses. Shops closed their windows. Mothers called their children to come home. Husbands went to share their beds with their wives. Again, Logan couldn’t resist the urge to glance at Solace. She had put her face back into the rich darkness of her dress.
“Solace?” he couldn’t help but call.
For a long moment, she didn’t raise her head, didn’t reply.
He scowled and crawled toward her. “Are you all right?” he wondered, a knot closing around his throat.
She nodded her head, a strand of her dark hair falling forward to brush the leaves on the ground. He wanted to capture it in his palm, to hold its softness one last time. And even though he knew he shouldn’t do it, his traitorous hand shot forward to cup the silky strand. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were spun gold. His throat closed around the despair engulfing him.
He turned his gaze to her to find she had lifted her eyes enough to look at him. In the fading light he could see they were ringed with redness, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if the rays of the setting sun or tears had caused it. The light from the dying sun turned a tear golden, and he followed its lonely path from her eye to her cheek.
Anguish overwhelmed Logan, and he reached forward to brush the golden drop from her skin, only to find that it was not alone. She lifted her head higher, revealing to him her complete sadness.
Grief and shock washed over Logan. Had he done this to her? The thought tore at him, and he turned away from her. “We’ll start toward your friends in a few minutes,” he murmured.
Suddenly, she was on her feet behind him, and before he could stop her she was racing out of the cover of the bushes toward the village. Startled, the falcon took flight, leaping off his shoulder to climb into the sky.
&nbs
p; “Solace!” He lunged forward to grab a hold of her dress, but was too late.
As she ran toward the village, he heard her heart-wrenching sobs and her muttered cry, “I hate you, Logan.”
It was as if a sorcerer had cast a spell over him. He could not move. He lay on his stomach, the branches of the bush digging through his tunic into his ribs, his arm outstretched before him, his hand closed around nothing. He watched her small, fragile form race toward the blacksmith’s shop and disappear into the blackened doorway.
It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me, he told himself. She should hate me.
He pushed himself up onto his hands and then onto his feet. He cast one last look at Westhaven.
The town blurred, and he blinked quickly to clear his eyes before turning and moving away into the woods.
THE LADY AND THE FALCONER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sunshine was bright as Logan entered the village of Cavindale. It had been a long time since he had been there. As far as he could see, there were seven or eight new farms. The village has changed, he admitted grudgingly. But my memories have not.
The tree just beyond Marion’s farm was where he had watched as his cousin, William, had carved his name into the tree with a heart and Elizabeth’s name. Logan had been too busy with thoughts of vengeance to care much for girls. He had carved a name into the tree, too. But it had been Farindale’s, with an X through it. Logan lifted his hand to his cheek. Now, he was the one who bore the mark.
Logan moved through the village, his head swiveling to the west. The windmill was on the outskirts, near the stream. He and William used to go swimming there. William for fun, Logan to strengthen his body. Logan turned his head to the east. The meadow just past Widow Jane’s shop was where they used to practice sword fighting.
He kept to the shadows when he entered the main part of town, kept his head lowered, a hand across his cheek to hide the brand.
The streets were crowded and memory upon forgotten memory invaded Logan’s mind. The stand of apples was still in front of Copplepot’s. Years ago, Logan had knocked the cart over and gotten a sharp reprimand from old Copplepot, as well as Uncle Hugh.
At the thought of Uncle Hugh, Logan’s eyes rose to the distance. Cavindale Manor stood like a great rock, its square structure looking sturdy and strangely comforting. A fond grin spread over Logan’s lips. What would they think upon seeing him? It had been so long. All the tension suddenly drained from his body, like a sigh. He was home.
A part of Logan still seemed empty and this surprised him. There was something missing. He knew what it was, and before he could block the vision, a pair of brilliant green eyes came to his mind. He pushed the image aside.
As Logan neared the home, he saw an old man speaking with a younger man. The older man’s hair was completely white, and he was very thin. Logan narrowed his eyes slightly. Could it be?
As he moved forward, he heard the man’s droll voice and he smiled. Crox! Logan stopped just behind the white-haired man. After a moment, the man turned familiar blue eyes to him, assessing him. Then a scowl creased his wrinkled brow. “Can I help you, sir?” he wondered.
He belonged in court, Logan thought as he had all those years before. Always so proper. But Crox hated it there. He preferred the countryside. Logan smiled. “After all this time, you’re still a rambling old man,” Logan said, jovially.
Crox’s eyes slowly lit with recognition. Then a smile came to his weathered face. “Logan, old boy, is that you?”
Logan embraced the man. “Good Lord, Crox, don’t you change at all?” he asked.
Crox slapped Logan on the back. “No need to change perfection,” he answered, stiffly. When Logan released him, he stepped back to look at him. “It’s been years, lad. We were starting to wonder if you were dead.” A caw sounded from the sky, and Crox raised his eyes to it. “Oh, good heavens! You don’t still have that wretched bird!”
Logan shrugged. “Can’t seem to get rid of him.” He started toward the large wooden door of Cavindale Manor. “Where’s Uncle? And William?”
“Master Hugh is at the castle, not to return for two days. Master William is in the fields.”
“Thanks,” Logan said.
“Logan,” Crox called. “Might I inquire what happened to your face?”
“You might,” Logan answered evasively and continued inside.
The Great Hall was strangely empty. It was as large as he remembered. To his right, the stairs to the upper apartments disappeared into blackness. Two tables lined the back wall and behind these were the kitchens. The walls of the room were whitewashed and bare. Logan felt like a stranger. He was not the same man... boy... who had lived here.
“May I help ya?” a voice wondered.
Logan turned to find a young boy standing beside him, staring at him with large dark eyes. This child was new to Cavindale Manor. Logan hadn’t seen him before. But before he could answer, a booming voice came from the table at the far end of the room.
“There’s no help for the likes of him!”
Logan squinted at the man clothed in a black tunic and leggings, tipped back in one of the chairs. There was something familiar about him. Logan stepped by the boy, moving toward the man. Slowly, a grin slid across Logan’s face; the same grin that faced him.
“Just get him an ale,” the man instructed. “From the looks of him, he hasn’t tasted one for quite some time.”
“What are you doing here, Alexander?” Logan wondered.
“Heard about Fulton and knew you’d come here,” Alexander replied, placing a booted foot on the table.
“No jobs available so you’ve come to harass me?” Logan asked, sitting in a chair beside him.
“I was in Lexington when Barclay’s men arrived,” Alexander explained. “Apparently, you’ve made yourself quite indispensable to the Baron. He’s willing to pay a pretty sum for your return.”
Logan shrugged slightly. “He won’t find me here.”
“Are you so sure? I did.”
“You know I grew up here. He doesn’t,” Logan explained.
Alexander shook his head in disapproval. “Nothing’s a secret if you have enough coin. There are men willing to sell you out.”
“Only friends know about Cavindale.”
“Friends like Barclay?” Alexander wondered.
Logan clenched his teeth and looked away from Alexander toward the door. “I already told you, he doesn’t know about Cavindale.”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that mark on your face a gift from your friend?”
“No,” Logan replied, raising his hand to absently massage the scar. “Barclay didn’t do this.”
“That’s going to make it harder with the ladies, eh?”
“Perhaps one,” Logan murmured.
“Solace?”
Logan glanced up sharply at Alexander.
“Barclay’s men were looking for a branded man and Farindale’s daughter,” Alexander said.
Logan grit his teeth, staring off into the distance. Solace’s large eyes appeared in his mind’s eye, as bright as the most precious of gems. They were beguiling in an innocent, sultry way. He remembered the way her lips curved in a tender smile that seemed to brighten his day. He clenched his jaw tight against the images threatening to chip away at the wall he had erected around his heart. She hates you, remember? he asked himself.
“Why didn’t you ask me, Grey?”
Logan glanced up to see Alexander staring into his mug of ale pensively. “Ask you?” Logan echoed.
“I kept waiting for you to ask me to help you retake Fulton.”
The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Logan had no gold, nothing to offer Alexander as payment. Besides, he had Barclay to help him. “I didn’t think I would need you,” Logan said.
“Didn’t think you needed me?” Alexander echoed in disbelief. “The man who saved your hide from that axeman at Willow’s Ridge? The man who took that arrow in the shoulder
for you at Woodland Hills? You didn’t need me?”
Logan shrugged. “I heard you were doing pretty well with your Gypsy hunting. And still making good coin from it, I warrant. You certainly dress better these days.”
Alexander’s look sobered. “You could have used me to watch your back,” he said. “I could have helped.”
Logan stared at him for a long moment. Yes. He should have asked Alexander. He should have asked Blade or Goliath or McColl. But he had looked to Barclay, and all of Barclay’s wealth and resources without nary a thought of his true friends.
The boy brought an ale and some bread, and placed them in front of Logan. Logan immediately took a long drink of the smooth ale. It wet his parched throat. Then he wiped at his lower lip with the backs of his fingers. “Yes, you could have.” Logan took another drink.
“A guest?” a voice called from the doorway. A man about Logan’s age rushed in. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
Logan stood, knowing the man immediately, even though he was gazing upon William for the first time in years. His cousin was a slender man, always happy and jovial. When he entered the room, it seemed to come to life. A servant appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Crox followed William into the room with a grin on his face.
William approached Logan. “Good day, sir,” he greeted. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure...”
“Pleasure? Last time I was here, you called me a warted piece of dung before shoving me into a trough.”
William slowed as recognition dawned on his face. “Logan? Is that you?”
“Didn’t you see the falcon?”
“Ha ha!” William leapt over the table to embrace his cousin. “It’s been years! Years! We thought you were dead!”
“Crox told me,” Logan said.
William pulled back to gaze at Logan’s face. His smile vanished beneath a scowl as he saw the brand. “A criminal?” he wondered. “For what? Striking a noble?”
“For killing one.”
“I warned you,” William said. He shook his head, and his mane of golden hair shook with the movement. When he next locked eyes on Logan, there was sincere concern in his gaze. “Are you in danger? Do you need shelter?” he asked.
Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels) Page 84
