by Stone, Lyn
“Cease!” Trouville thundered. Everyone stilled.
Honor knew the end had come. She braced herself to face it as bravely as she knew Alan would have done. Might still have to do. At least Christiana would live. Thank God Trouville had not asked her about her babe. Honor did not feel she could have lied as well as Alan, despite all her experience. Chin up and tears in check, she stood straight and waited.
The comte stared long and hard into her eyes. “Then God help—”
“Trouville!” Alan thundered. “If yer so certain God is listening to ye and thinks ye right in this, then I demand a trial by battle! I stand for the lady.”
“Unarmed?” the comte asked, amused.
Alan pursed his lips as if to think on it, and then grinned menacingly at the comte. “Well, aye, if that’s the only way ye believe ye can win.”
“Bring his sword,” the comte ordered abruptly.
He looked down past the men sitting on top of Alan and those pinning his limbs to the flagstones. “Men will no longer call you Alan the True after this day, Strode. You have foregone your reputation with these lies of yours. Would you now forfeit your life for this woman?”
“I would forfeit my soul for this woman,” Alan stated.
Trouville raised his brows, nodded, puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “So you love her.”
Alan simply looked at him and did not answer, probably because it had not been a question.
“As do I, unfortunately,” the comte declared with a sudden grimace.
Chapter Nineteen
Did she not stand in fear of Alan’s life and her own, Honor would have laughed at the absurdity. Oh, of course Trouville loved her. Just as he must have loved the other two women who were given to him like sweets on a plate. Now he planned to take her as well. How would he love her to death, she wondered.
Trouville motioned the men to allow Alan to rise, and then turned to Honor. “If I engage in a fair battle with this fellow, Lady Honor,” he said, nodding toward Alan, “and if I best him, will you wed me as you should have done?”
“I have told you, I will not,” Honor said calmly and resolutely.
“If he should win, my men will leave you in peace to live out your life here in this pile of rock. You have my word, which is worth a great deal more than yours or his. If I prevail, then you must promise to marry me willingly within the hour and return with me to France.”
Alan interrupted her next refusal. “Aye, she will.”
Honor stared at him, suddenly furious that he would agree to anything Trouville proposed. She would not allow Alan to risk his life when she had just done all within her power to save it. The comte’s reputation with a sword made him one of the most feared men in France. “I will not!”
“Dinna be daft, woman! Refuse and one of us is goin’ to die. Most likely you, since ye seem so bloody well set on it!” Alan declared. He quirked his lips and raised his brows at the comte. “You will forgive her, my lord, she is a wee bit—”
“Overwrought?” the comte supplied.
“Aye. Not always contentious, though. Ye need not think that of her,” Alan confided dryly. “She can be sharp-tongued, but spirit in a lass is to be admired, wouldn’t ye say?”
“An overabundance of that quality does not sit so well at times,” the comte argued.
“But ye will make allowance for it, aye? Have I yer hand on that?”
Trouville extended his arm and they shook hands together. Like old friends.
The sight rendered Honor speechless, and knew she had better stay that way. If she voiced the thoughts she was thinking at present, neither man would wish her to live. She looked down at the blade resting beside the comte’s left leg, imagined it slicing into Alan’s flesh, and her anger quickly shifted back to fear.
“Honor?” Alan said gently. “Do this for me. Agree.”
She looked deeply into the eyes that held such love for her and knew she had no choice at all. After what Trouville had just said, Honor did not feel he would kill her. Later, mayhaps, but at least not where she stood, as he had threatened. But he would kill Alan just to clear his way to have her and the lands her father had promised him.
“Very well,” she muttered, almost choking on the words. “I will.”
Trouville nodded and turned to the man holding Alan’s sword. “Give the man his blade. A outrance?”
“Aye, to the death.” Alan stretched his arms above his head, to the side, and back, muscles flexing beneath the rich green wool. Honor watched as Alan accepted his sword, kissed the hilt and stood ready.
The guardsmen cleared a ring around the two combatants. “If I fall,” Trouville shouted, “every man in my employ is to quit this keep on the instant. My brother will see to you when you return. And, mark me well,” he said, eyeing every one of the hardened soldiers. “If one of you interferes, I shall kill you myself. Any last words, Strode?”
Alan looked strangely at ease as he spoke. “Aye, to you, my lord. Should you by some off chance be the victor, I would you treat my lady well. Your word on it?”
“My solemn oath. She will fare far better in my bed than yours, my friend.” He jumped back with a harsh oath as Alan’s blade nicked his tabard.
Neither uttered anything further save grunts and curses as they swung the heavy swords. The clanging of steel echoed off the stones in the cavernous hall, punctuated with yelps and cries of encouragement from those watching. Honor could not make a sound. Eyes round with fear and throat closed in terror, she followed every move, unable to look away.
Trouville drew first blood when the tip of his blade nicked the top of Alan’s wrist. With a redoubled effort, Alan attacked driving the comte back against the table on the dais. Swords locked at the hilt.
Honor marked the distended veins in Trouville’s neck and the redness of his face. Alan seemed unaffected except for the thinning of his lips and the green fire in his eyes. He sprang away and held his sword before him with both hands until the comte regained his footing.
Again they clashed, sparks flying off the blades. On and on they fought, neither able to find a weak defense to plunder. Sweat soaked their hair, poured off their faces and ran into their eyes.
Suddenly, Trouville sneezed.
“Bless you,” Alan muttered.
“Merci,” said the comte with a loud sniff. He blinked.
Clang! Honor jumped.
As though Alan had been resting up for it, he suddenly pushed forward, swinging madly. Trouville’s defense turned wild and frantic. Desperate. Honor clasped her hands beneath her chin and prayed.
With one mighty thrust and twist, Alan sent Trouville’s blade flying. It tumbled into the circle of knights, nearly severing one man’s foot.
A cheer rose above the shouts of outrage as Alan pinned the comte to the floor, sharp steel at his neck just above the silver gorget. “Yield!” Alan demanded.
“To the death. We agreed,” Trouville taunted.
“I’d not like to kill a mon for an untimely sneeze,” Alan said, smiling. “But if ye say ye canna live without the lady, then I guess I must. Could ye find another to love, d’ye think?”
“Possibly,” the comte admitted, eyeing Alan’s blade with wary eyes. He swallowed hard as the point drew a few drops of blood and quickly added, “Probably.”
Still, Alan did not remove his blade from its position. “Honor is mine. I’ll keep the lady one way or the other. Give me your vow as a brother knight that you will leave us be,” Alan demanded. “’Tis no disgrace on yer head, Trouville. I ask yer solemn word as ransom for yer life. A fair request.”
The comte lay there considering, his brow furrowed. After a long, tense moment, he replied, “Well, if you must beg, Strode, then I suppose I shall have to agree. Let me up.”
“Say it,” Alan ordered and raised his head to insure attention. “Witness all, this vow!”
“She is yours! I vow to leave you be!”
Alan released him and offered his arm. When they w
ere both upright, Trouville turned to his men. “Form up and march out. Hume, come with me.”
Alan moved to Honor’s side and slid his arm around her. She hugged him, relishing the feel of his heat against her. Bless God, he lived. All had lived.
“My lord,” her father said to Trouville, “I would stay and make amends to my daughter.”
Trouville marched over and angrily snatched him up by the front of his padded jack. “Do not think I’m unaware of how you once treated her, Hume! And I know it was not solely on my account. I do not hold with beating and starvation of the weaker sex. There is no way to amend it!”
“You killed two of them! Is that better in your eye?” her father shouted. He quailed and shrank away, belatedly realizing what he had said.
Trouville, obviously still shaken by his fight with Alan, abandoned his calm reserve and answered heatedly, “My first died in childbed and the other in a brangle with her lover! That bastard I did kill, and rightly so!”
“My apologies, my lord. But rumor—”
Trouville cursed roundly and shoved her father away. He looked at Alan. “What say you, Strode? Would you have him here?”
“I believe Honor wishes retribution,” Alan said, cocking one brow as he looked down at her.
Honor leaned into Alan’s side as her father approached and dropped to one knee. “Daughter, I have wronged you.”
She understood him better now. Perhaps he had tried to save her from herself by forcing obedience, but there were better ways to do it than with the rod. “Go back to France, Papa,” she said in a whisper.
“Honor, I truly do regret—” He buried his face in his hands and wept, his final words unintelligible. The sight of so mighty a man undone stirred her pity. And he had lied for her this night to try to save her life. She looked to Alan, not knowing what to do.
He hugged her to him, reassuring her without words that she would always be safe now. Then he nodded toward her father as though she should do something. Honor dropped to her knees beside her sire and put her arms around him. He only wept harder. “’Tis done, Papa. Naught can undo it, but I will forgive you.”
He twisted around and caught her to him, a tight embrace that frightened her just a little. “Will I never see you again? Your mother—”
“Go home, Papa. See to Maman. Give what you promised to the comte de Trouville for his troubles. Perhaps we may visit again some day. ’Tis too soon to know.”
He got up, moving wearily as an old man might. Words seemed beyond him as he traced the side of her face with one finger. Then he nodded once and let her go, hurrying past the comte and heading for the door to the hall.
“A moment, Hume,” Trouville called out. “Come here.”
Her father obliged reluctantly, tears streaming down his face unheeded.
Honor sucked in a horrified breath as the comte approached Janet, who was holding Christiana in a death grip. Alan’s hand clutched his sword and held it ready.
“We would see this babe of yours, madam,” Trouville said to Janet. “Uncover it if you please. Come, Hume, and see how spindly these Scots grow their infants. Look at this one.”
Both men stared down into the blanket Janet had moved aside. “Lovely for a dead thing, eh?” He shot Alan a smirk. “Strode? If you cannot find a man to brave wedding this poor little ghost, come and see me when she grows. My devilish son is ten and likely game for things otherworldly.”
Alan shrugged and slipped his free hand over Honor’s mouth. She watched as Trouville dragged her weeping father away from the granddaughter he had just seen for the first time.
The comte had known all along, Honor thought. Either someone had told him or he had guessed from her frightened looks in Janet’s direction.
Trouville’s spurs rang on the stones as he marched Hume out and slammed the door behind them.
Honor felt her legs give way. Alan caught her close to keep her from sinking to the floor. Weak with relief and exhaustion, she pressed her face to the front of his tunic.
“’Tis done and done, sweeting.” He had bowed his head low, near her ear as he whispered the words. “Dig deep and find some more courage for me, eh? Our folk need yer assurance now, and I need to make certain Trouville goes.”
Honor locked her knees and pushed away from him. She inhaled deeply and raised her chin. Her fingers plucked at his sleeve. The sword cut the comte had given Alan looked wicked, but the bleeding had nearly stopped. “Hurry then and see them off. You will need sewing.”
“Honor?” he said softly, looking at her so intently as he brushed her tangled hair back from her cheek.
“Aye?” she answered, suddenly breathless again for different reasons.
“I want ye to know this, lass. Ye faced death wi’ the truth just now. Th’ bravest thing I ever saw a woman do.” He grinned down at her and raised one ruddy brow. “However, ‘twas a mite overdone. A body can take honesty to extremes, y’know.”
Honor punched him in the gut. “Not your body, you lying knave! What the devil were you about spouting all those lies at Trouville? Trying to die?” She paced away angrily and then stalked back again, throwing up her hands. “Lord, deliver me from martyrs! If you ever—”
He kissed her. He grabbed her arms and held her while his mouth ravaged hers. All anger, along with all her other thoughts melted away like summer snow as his lips grew softer, enticing her to return what he gave. Suddenly Alan released her and turned her sharply around. He slapped her lightly on her backside and gave her a little push. “Go and find yer needle, hinny. When I come in again, ye can stitch yer lesson in my hide.”
She would, too, Honor promised herself as she watched him go. His happy laughter as he left the hall wrung a reluctant smile from her heart.
What more could she wish for now? All the enemies were vanquished, all her fears dismissed. But at what cost to Alan? Oh, he seemed joyous enough at the moment. He had just defeated one of France’s most dreaded knights. What would he feel, however, when he finished crowing about that and realized fully what he had done this night? Would Alan be able to forgive himself for what he had sacrificed trying to save her life?
Trouville had been right. Tonight’s witnesses were numerous and certain to spread word of these doings. No man would remark on Alan of Strode’s honesty again when they spoke of his feats. The one thing he had put above all others, he had thrown to the winds in her defense. How would he live with that?
Honor cursed her runaway tongue. She should never have railed at him for the lies. Fright for him had simply stolen her wits.
With a dispirited sigh, Honor put aside that worry and set about calming the women and children of Byelough who remained in the hall. The men had followed Alan out to watch the invaders leave. It must be nearing dawn and all would be ready to break fast when they returned. In any event, she could not imagine anyone returning to bed and sleeping after this night’s occurrence.
Chapter Twenty
Alan had a final word at the gates with Trouville and Honor’s father. As he hoped, they parted from Byelough on more or less amicable terms.
For all of Trouville’s prating about his love for Honor, he seemed remarkably sanguine about his inability to wed her. Or mayhaps he was simply relieved to be alive. Alan smiled at that. He had very nearly killed the man. Would have done had he not promised to leave Honor be. Now Alan felt glad it had not been necessary to administer that coup de grâce.
Hume begged again to be allowed to stay a while. Neither Alan or the comte hesitated in denying him that right. In that they agreed. Hume should go home, and that home did not lie in Scotland. In a few years it might be possible for Honor to put all the bitterness behind her. If so, and if she wanted to, Alan knew he would take her to visit her parents.
For now, however, Honor needed a long spell of peace and contentment. He meant to see she found it. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and then wiped it on his tunic. Truth told, he needed the same as Honor. This past year had taken its toll on him
.
He had dispatched all of Honor’s dragons—Ian, her father and Trouville—without slaying a single one. Most knights would take little pride in that fact, but Alan felt immense relief that no one had suffered death at his hand. All life seemed infinitely precious at the moment.
More than he’d ever wished for, he had now. Alan felt humbled by that and enormously thankful.
The first pale rays of morning sun crept over Byelough as Alan walked alone back to the keep, exhausted more by the profound fear he had endured than by the sword fight.
He could honestly say he had never known such terror as he had experienced since meeting that wife of his. Even now his mind’s eye reconstructed those imaginings. Honor in the throes of childbirth, bleeding out her life. Honor buried in a bog, clutching Kit, expelling her last breath of air. Honor lying decapitated on the floor beside him tonight. He shuddered and shook off these horrors which had plagued him in turn with their near reality.
“No more,” he muttered to himself. “All’s well. All over and done.” His steps quickened with the urgent need to see her, hold her and assure her he would keep her safe.
Everyone had gathered in the hall by the time he arrived. Honor darted here and there, speaking to this one and that, issuing orders and pointing. Several of the men busily assembled the tables as for a meal and maids stood waiting with the usual linens to spread. They might think it a new day, but he was not finished with the night’s business yet. Not by a long mark.
Short of hauling her off to their bed and ignoring the daylight, Alan wondered how he would manage to get her alone. The lord of this keep could order it so, he supposed. She would comply as was her duty. But where lay the fun in that? He hid a smile behind his hand.
He moved closer to her, staggered and grabbed his injured wrist. The piteous groan he issued drew her immediate attention. Honor whirled and threw her arms around him as though she could support his full weight. “Alan!” she cried. “Oh, you are worse than I thought! Come, sit!”
