The King's Favorite (Daughters of Avalon Book 1)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Nevertheless, after all that was said and done, he was also quite livid she had judged him and found him unworthy of her trust. Malcom was honor-bound to help the girl, but he couldn’t help her if she refused to divulge the details of her circumstances. And regardless of his reputation, he had no intention of torturing a woman to compel the truth from her, and so, his only option was to allow her to confide in him, of her own accord, which was proving far easier said than done.

  Unfortunately, Malcom had a growing sense that he had embroiled himself in something larger than he’d first supposed, and the longer she kept silent, the greater his foreboding.

  And far and above all the day’s happenings, he had his own troubles to contend with. Either his sire was ill—near to death, so the missive had said—or he wasn’t ill at all, and there was something significant afoot, something portentous enough that they would summon a known king’s man from a commission in Wales and put his entire demesne at risk. And this was yet another reason he did not relish the thought of facing Beauchamp: He was a damned poor liar, despite his duties for the king. He was struggling to form a plausible story—and she would thank him for his consideration by stealing his horse. God’s blood, he didn’t wish to be angry now that he had begun to wrest a few smiles from the lass, but there it was. And here they were.

  As they slipped through the brush, Elspeth followed quietly behind him, although Malcom sensed she had a hundred questions perched on the tip of her tongue.

  Malcom tossed his towel over a tree branch, then proceeded to peel off his coif, thereby revealing the damage to his hauberk beneath the shoulder mantle.

  Refusing to look at Elspeth, he settled the armor into a dingy pile of ringed metal and inspected the damage to his hauberk.

  The blood was mostly gone, with a bit of it crusted here and there. Nevertheless, he was in a good deal more pain now, and he wished he’d seen to the wound sooner, with or without his squire. Indeed, he had meant to stop as soon as he could commit himself to the considerable time and effort it would take to divest himself properly. But he hadn’t counted on meeting Elspeth—or her need to escape. He cast her a glance now, and found her watching him with wide, curious eyes.

  “You’re injured,” she said softly, surprised, and Malcom nodded, acknowledging the truth of that matter.

  He was grateful now that he’d opted in favor of his old hauberk. Much to the armorer’s dismay, he’d chosen not to wear the new arming doublet, with the fancy chainmail gussets sewn into the vest and the sigil of his house emblazoned on the front. As handsome as it might be, and easy as it might have been for travel, he would have incurred a far more serious wound had he been wearing the doublet. For all its weight and discomfort, there was something to be said for old-fashioned ingenuity. But the hauberk was ruined now and in need of repairs. His jerkin was also pierced all the way through, attesting to the force and speed of the missile. And the sherte itself was rent.

  He sighed. As much as it galled him to have been left to defend himself, he was glad for the fact that his squire fled whilst he could. Malcom hoped Daw found himself refuge, and whatever ill humor he’d borne over the man’s desertion, he was over it now. The lad was young—perhaps too young to have taken him into battle. And so much for thinking the embattled Welsh would prove to be easier foes. It was inconceivable that Stephen should ever hope to subjugate those people.

  He cast another glance at Elspeth. He could manage on his own, if he must, but the hauberk was heavy and unwieldy. With a sigh, he moved to lift it up by the hem, finding that his arm ached. “Wouldst ye, please?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes!” she said, and at once, she tossed his grandfather’s cloak over the same branch where he’d hung his towel and rushed to aid him.

  Gratitude tempered Malcom’s ire as he sank to his knees before her, allowing her the height she would need to negotiate the armor.

  “I am so sorry,” she said.

  Malcom arched a brow. “For what, precisely?”

  “For the wound…”

  His brogue was thicker now that he was weary. “If ye dinna shoot me, lass, ye ha’e naught to be sorry for.” What he wanted her to be sorry for was her stubborn silence and her readiness to flee. And then he wondered aloud, “Ye dinna shoot me, di’ ye?”

  “Oh, nay! I would never… and still…” Her gaze met his briefly, before bearing up the hauberk, and Malcom could never have anticipated the thoughts that assailed him as she prepared to undress him. His blood simmered over the look of concern in her bonny blue eyes. God help him. For too damned long he’d yearned for a proper home—a gentle woman who might see to his needs… and more… someone who would greet him with warm spiced mead and sweet, gentle kisses—someone who might soothe his soul, if not his body. Elspeth was not his intended, nor was this his bed chamber, but he swallowed convulsively, because, far from leaving him cold, her proximity stirred a fire in his blood that Malcom couldn’t deny. She shifted to give herself leverage, gingerly pressing her knee against the side of his chest and the warmth of her thigh made him instantly hard. For but an instant, a vision appeared before his eyes, and he saw they were not surrounded by trees or a gurgling brook, but by a warm, crackling brazier and a fine curtained bed… He saw her face much as it was now, but her lips were bruised by his kisses, and her cheeks were flushed with desire. She was naked and unashamed, her skin lit copper by the fire burning in the brazier, and her breasts were bounteous enough to fill the palms of his hands.

  He blinked and saw her straddle him with a smooth-skinned thigh, pushing him down on the bed with a splayed hand, then climb atop him with a siren’s smile.

  Elspeth gasped, startled—as though she too had shared the vision—and remembering herself, she tugged up the hauberk over Malcom’s head, scraping his nose during the process, successfully shifting his focus from one aching appendage to another.

  The instant he was free of the hauberk, Elspeth stepped back, and Malcom avoided her gaze as he shrugged free of the leather jerkin, and then the long-sleeved cloth sherte he wore beneath, inspecting each in turn. All the while, Elspeth stood, watching.

  When finally he dared to look at her and her eyes fell on his wound, he watched the play of emotions that crossed her features. Sorrow—for his injury? Confusion—why? And something else… something Malcom daren’t acknowledge. Desire. It was as though she too had borne the vision, and it was an excruciating long moment whilst they stood, staring into one another’s eyes.

  Finally, she said, “Why did you not tell me you were injured?”

  Malcom peered through his lashes. “When would have been a good time? Whilst we were fleeing your captors? Or whilst you were sleeping and snoring?”

  A rosy flush crept into her cheeks, but she let his jibe pass. “We have long since departed Wales,” she said. “And still… you said naught.”

  He answered peevishly, “I suppose you are not the only one who likes to keep secrets.”

  She averted her gaze. “But… it was stupid. You could take a fever.”

  “I am fine,” Malcom assured as he rose from his knees to retrieve his washrag.

  He went to the brook to dip the cloth, and perhaps realizing what he meant to do, Elspeth rushed forward to take it from his hands. “Sit,” she demanded. “I can do it better.”

  Lifting his brow, Malcom did as she bade him. He found and sat on a nearby log and waited whilst Elspeth dipped the towel into the burn, then wrung it free of excess moisture. Alas, whilst he appreciated the effort, it didn’t do much to cool his ardor.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “I would presume one of your Welsh compatriots.” He lifted his brow. “Perhaps Rhys ap Hywel or Owain Gwynedd or mayhap Madog ap Maredudd…”

  Elspeth said nothing, but her brows twitched, and Malcom instantly regretted trying to bait her. To make up for it, he meant to set her mind at ease. “I know I offered, lass… but dinna worry… if ye dinna wish to travel all the way to Aldergh, I ken. We are not willin
g companions and, clearly, ye dinna trust me.”

  “But… I do trust you,” Elspeth said, surprised to discover how much she meant it. And yet, why she should trust any man was a mystery as perfect as the Virgin Birth.

  Evidently, Malcom would have her reveal everything, but he evidently had no intention of returning the favor. What did she know of him, after all? Naught more than the fact that he was a northern lord, sworn to her cousin. And once again, she’d found him prying.

  Naturally, she held her tongue, unwilling to share more than she’d already revealed. Trust went only so far.

  It would never serve Elspeth to confess that she was a daughter of the late king.

  And it would serve her even less to disclose her relation to Morwen—even if he did not personally know her mother. Of course, Morwen would be discreet, but if anyone had ever spent any good time in Stephen’s court, they would certainly have encountered her mother. She was not so easily overlooked. Whether or not she’d ever meant to heed the queen’s warning, she would never be so bold—or so stupid—as to make her counsel to the king so widely known. She would, in truth, be discreet, if for no other reason, because she wouldn’t wish to remind anyone who she was—a daughter of Avalon.

  She realized she must make a decision soon—to seek sanctuary at Amdel or continue on to Aldergh, and if she sought sanctuary with Malcom, she would be forced to confess. But at the moment, she was leaning toward Amdel. Even if Beauchamp was loyal to Stephen, perhaps he could still be a reluctant vassal. Malcom was not. Quite obviously. But there were many, many barons who were. Shortly after her father’s death, Stephen had divested his enemies. And now, so many of her father’s barons found themselves dispossessed, sheltering amidst Matilda’s Norman holdings and living off the good graces of a Would-be Queen. Elspeth would hardly be surprised to learn that, in order to protect their holdings, many of the old guard were simply biding their time, remaining quietly loyal to her sister, waiting for the opportunity to renounce their vows.

  Forsooth, even the king’s own brother, the Bishop of Winchester, was waffling. Elspeth knew this only because the Bishop had come to Llanthony a few weeks past, counseling with Ersinius. Elspeth overheard their conversation in the garden.

  Elspeth’s good sense told her that Malcom might not love his king, per se, but his loyalty would never be in question—and even so, she sensed a darkness in him… an aura of fury that burned hotter when he spoke of his fealty to Stephen. There was something about his vows to Stephen that gave him grief. But, alas, his was a confusing mix of emotions, and Elspeth wished, not for the first time, that she had her sister’s skill to read his thoughts. It might give her a clue as to what she should do… beg for help from the lord of Amdel… or trust Malcom to see her through.

  Sad to say, she only knew what she wanted to do… and this made too little sense.

  In truth, she had begun to think of Malcom as her champion, reluctant or nay. And now, after that vision they’d shared… she feared he could be something more.

  Goddess save her, she would never again be able to look at him without seeing the bare-chested image of a man with heavy-lidded eyes leaning back on one elbow, watching her, with smoky blue eyes that glinted by firelight, and sun-kissed hair that curled about his face.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone less curt, “if you ask it of me, Elspeth, I will speak to the lord of Amdel on your behalf. However… I should impress upon you to consider this very carefully as I mistrust that man.”

  Elspeth wiped carefully at his wound. “So you have said… but has he done aught to incur your ill-will?”

  “Not to me,” he said cryptically.

  “To someone you care for?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “Why then should you detest the man?”

  He eyed her pointedly. “Have you never simply had a feeling? A sense of something you cannot name? You can’t see it… you can’t smell or touch it… but you know in your heart it simply is?”

  Elspeth averted her gaze. Of course she had. She was having one now—with him. This, after all, was the essence of the hud, and some people knew how to sense things more deeply. She bit her lip as she cleaned Malcom’s wound, considering the “feeling” he had but couldn’t name. And in the midst of these thoughts, she had another far more startling thought: She could dare to be happy with a man like Malcom. Couldn’t she?

  Wincing over the torn, raw flesh, she parted the damaged skin to peer closer at the wound, making certain there was no detritus remaining. To his credit, Malcom did not complain, allowing her to do as she would. “We are but hours away from Drakewich,” he persisted. “I would warrant d’Lucy would serve you better.”

  Elspeth studiously avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see how much it discomfited her to hear that name, even despite that she knew this lord of Drakewich was not the same d’Lucy who’d been awarded their beloved estate. She also realized that sharing the same blood did not mean those two men shared the same heart. There were many families torn asunder by Stephen’s tumultuous reign—including her own. At long last, realizing that Malcom must be expecting an answer, she said, “Thank you.” But, clearly, that wasn’t the answer he sought, and he must have realized she was being evasive. After that, the silence between them lengthened, until it grew uncomfortable.

  Leave it be, Elspeth. There were more urgent matters to tend to anyway. His wound was festering, and she marveled that he could have ridden all this way without so much as a complaint.

  Considering her own foul temper, all day long, she felt abashed. He’d had far more reason to grouse than she did, and he never did once.

  In fact, most of the time he’d answered her own complaining with good humor, and for all his poor judgment in sovereigns, he seemed to be a decent man. Realizing he needed intervention, she stared at his wound, hesitating….

  She could heal him now if she chose to… and she did wish to. But the last thing she meant to do was to reveal herself this way. She could see it now—the marvel in his eyes when the wound closed before his eyes, and then afterward, once clarity returned, and the wonder and gratitude subsided, he would revile her, calling her a witch and a devil.

  A thousand lifetimes might pass, and Elspeth would never forget the way those people had treated her grandmamau, tossing stones to bash her head, even as the flames had engulfed her.

  Tears pricked at her eyes, and she pushed the image away, focusing on Malcom’s wound. Pressing the blood-soaked cloth against his skin, she considered what Seren might do…

  Her sister had a true gift for healing. Elspeth now found herself lamenting the fact that she’d not learned more of her skills—as well as her temperament. Her middle sister was far more even tempered than she was. Indeed, she could have been their father’s favorite, save for the simple fact that she had not yet grown into her wit and beauty before Henry’s death. As often as her father had lamented Matilda and Elspeth could not exchange places, he would have found himself bemoaning it all the more with Seren. Matilda was too willful, he’d so often said—and once, when Elspeth was ten, she’d witnessed her father’s fury over Matilda’s bad temper. Cursing the day his eldest daughter was begot, he’d hurled his crown after her departure.

  “Don’t be like her,” he’d said once she was gone.

  But, as was the case with all her sisters, Elspeth found she could not help but admire her eldest, who, by the age of twelve had already wed a holy Roman emperor, and who, at three and twenty, had stood before their haughty sire, unyielding in her resolve. Any lesser woman would never challenge Henry’s barons.

  And, yet, make no mistake, her father had fully intended to install Matilda on his throne, for inasmuch as he’d loathed the fact that she could be so headstrong, he’d also said she was the only one of his children who was strong enough to keep his peace. As far as Elspeth was concerned, Henry would no more have abdicated his crown to his lying nephew than he would have crowned a bastard son he’d loved so well�
�not whilst he had a legitimate heir to pass the realm to.

  So then, her cousin was a liar. For all those years she’d spent at court, he’d been a boot licker, bowing to every word her father said. “Yes, your grace, no, your grace.” And then, behind Henry’s back, he’d worked his wiles the same way Morwen did. There was little wonder those two were close.

  In truth, Elspeth suspected they’d been in cahoots from the beginning, and if that were true, her mother might also be responsible for her father’s death. After all, it was Morwen who’d introduced Henry to those eels, and it was she, as his mistress, not his wife, Adeliza of Louvain, who’d been with him on the day he’d died. If it be the last thing Elspeth did, she intended to discover what treachery befell her father… and perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but someday, her sister would return to England, and she would not stop until she wore their father’s crown.

  In the meantime, Elspeth’s loyalties must remain absolute. She didn’t know how or when, but she fully intended to join her sister’s crusade, and considering that—and the fact that she would be remiss to reveal herself and take any chance of failing Matilda—she continued to clean Malcom’s wound, wiping away the last traces of blood and grime.

  So, nay, she decided. She would not heal him now. First, she would advise him to cauterize it. “You are fortunate,” she said, after a while. “The wound is deep, and it festers a bit, but it will heal. I would put a hot blade to it as soon as you can.”

  He sought her gaze, his blue-green eyes gleaming. “We haven’t any fire,” he said. “I did not mean to kindle one… not if we intend to call upon Amdel…”

  It was a question, Elspeth realized.

  Evidently, he was leaving the decision up to her. If she wished for him to seek refuge there, he would do so. She handed him back the towel, but she did not mean to say what she said next. “Kindle a fire. I will help you cauterize your wound.”