by Ruth Kaufman
Logan's eyes flashed open, full of suspicion and recrimination. He snapped his wrist toward her and easily slapped the dagger from her hand. “Branding's not good enough, eh, Solace?”
She pulled back, surprised and shocked. She rubbed her smarting fingers, staring at him in total bewilderment.
Logan grabbed the dagger off the ground and stood, slipping the thin blade into the belt at his waist. “You don't mind if I hold onto this for you, do you?” He tapped the dagger's leather-bound handle. “I wouldn't want you to accidentally cut anything you weren't supposed to.”
Confusion washed over her. “Why did you hit my hand?” she asked.
“Did you think I would just lie here while you slit my throat?” he growled.
“What?” she gasped. “I -- I wasn't going to slit your throat. I wanted...” His words penetrated her bewilderment. She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes. “I'm afraid I'm not as bloodthirsty as you.” How could he accuse her of a thing like that? She wasn't the one who had betrayed him. She smiled coldly at him. “Although, it's not a bad idea.”
Logan took a threatening step closer. “Then what were you doing with the dagger? Contemplating giving me a shave?”
Solace raised her chin, refusing to budge a step. “How dare you accuse me of lying! All you have done is lie to me. Use me for your own vile purposes. It must have been very hard for such an accomplished lover to pull the wool over a virgin's eyes!”
“Virgin!” Logan exploded. “You were no virgin.”
Solace tried to keep his hurtful words from cutting her. “I have been with no other man,” she proclaimed, facing his accusations with all the bravery she could muster.
“There was no blood,” Logan said, but doubt had crept into his words. “All virgins bleed.”
“Not this one,” she replied and turned away from him. Whore, harlot, slut. The words of her sister and her stepmother echoed in her memory. She couldn't explain the fact there had been no blood. And she knew Logan would never believe her. He would think the same thing Alissa and Beth had. So what did it matter?
Everything.
She returned to the tree, sat down and drew her knees up to her chest. She was just as cold and hungry as she had been when she'd approached Logan. But now she was without a dagger.
The root sat there in the ground at her feet, half dug out, refusing to release its hold on the life-giving earth.
As Solace laid her head on her knees, a tear trickled over her cheek.
Logan stood over her, watching her sleep. She was curled tightly in a ball, on her side, shivering. Most women would have broken down by now, crying out against the injustice of the world. They would have lost their will to fight.
Moonlight washed over her small frame, caressing her with a pale kiss, giving her more warmth than her mother and sister, giving her more tenderness than he had bestowed upon her. In the shadows of the night, he felt hidden, free to explore his feelings. And as he stared at her, an emotion rose within him so strong that it threatened to choke him. In her small body, Solace possessed more courage and determination than most knights he had known.
Logan thought back to her declaration of innocence. He had never heard of a virgin who did not bleed. But as he thought back on their encounters, there were other things, other signs, which now seemed to confirm her inexperience. The way she had first kissed him, with reserved passion. Everything she had done had been filled with an innocent curiosity. That was what had drawn him to her. Now it was more than that. He admired her defiance, her will, her strong spirit.
A chill breeze wrapped Logan in a blanket of cold. They had brought nothing from Castle Fulton. No blankets, no food, no water. They had fled only with the clothing on their backs.
A caw came from the tree above him, drawing Logan's attention. His falcon was perched on a branch to their right, drawing one of its legs up under itself to sleep.
“Wretched beast,” Logan grumbled, even though he was secretly glad to see the falcon. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”
He turned his dark gaze back to Solace. She was everything a man could learn to love, to care for. But he was not any man. He had no time for tenderness, no time for love. He had to get his castle back. He wouldn't let himself fall under her spell, not the way Peter had. Peter. Had he survived yet another siege? Logan's heart ached for his brother, for the kinship that could never be.
He turned his back on Solace, but as he walked away he couldn't resist a glance over his shoulder.
The warm sun streamed in through Solace's bedroom window, warming her face. She turned her head to the sunlight and a sharp pain flared in her back. Something was sticking her in the spine. She reached under her to discover it was a solid chunk of earth. Her arm brushed the dirt from beneath her. Then she realized that in her room the sunlight didn't reach her bed. She opened her eyes to see a canopy over her, but it was not the soft velvet canopy of her bed; it was a crisp canopy of leaves.
She had not been dreaming. Her castle was in the hands of Baron Barclay. Alissa had been brutally killed. Beth had welcomed the enemy into her bed.
The wind whistled around her, its icy breeze kissing her body, weaving its way beneath her skirt. She pulled her skirt over her feet to block it out. Then she sat up, her gaze searching the trees for Logan.
He wasn't there. He had left her. The thought didn't shock or surprise her. Then why did she feel disappointed? She rose, using the tree as support. Logan had done what he said he would. He had seen her safely away from Fulton. There was no reason for him to remain with her. There was not an ounce of chivalry in him. In that strong body. The body that had hovered over hers before he'd filled her with his manhood, sating the desire and passion that had seized every part of her. The body that had protected her from the arrow attack.
“Solace?” Logan called.
She whirled, surprise and guilt written on her face. She gaped for a moment, then masked her look, afraid he was able to read every one of her thoughts.
Logan walked up to her, his hands cupped in front of him. “Here,” he insisted, nudging her with his fingers.
She dropped her gaze to his hands, her cheeks flaming. Her mouth dropped open. But not in agony or embarrassment over her unkind thoughts of his desertion. In wonderment. In his cupped hands were berries. She pooled her skirt into a pocket and Logan deposited them into her lap.
Her stomach grumbled in anticipation as she popped one into her mouth. Sweetness exploded on her tongue, and she chewed the berry slowly as if she were savoring the most delicious delicacy from France.
When she opened her eyes, she found Logan gazing at her. The smoldering flame she saw in his eyes confused her. She hadn't seen that look since he'd bedded her in his room days ago. A heated flush crept into her cheeks. She quickly indicated the berries with a nod of her head. “Eat,” she suggested.
A wry smile formed on his lips as he studied her berry-stained mouth. “I already have,” he replied.
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, try
ing 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.
“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.
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.
