England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Elizabeau closed her eyes briefly, with sorrow. “I am sorry, Rhys. I did not mean to pry. Please accept my sympathies.”

  He shook his head as if snapping himself out of that particular train of thought. Rising swiftly, he moved to the hearth where the linen sheet lay warming before the fire. He held it up to her.

  “Get out,” he commanded softly. “You’ll catch chill if you’re in there any longer.”

  Elizabeau gazed up at him, realizing their line of conversation had taken him back to the cold, walled-up knight she had known for the bulk of their association. She further realized she was very sorry; he had proven something of a good conversationalist and she was disappointed that her line of questioning had shut him off again.

  “Rhys,” she said softly, sincerely. “I am very sorry if I upset you with my question about your wife. I did not mean to stir up sorrowful memories.”

  “You did not, my lady,” he said, though his tone was cold. He shook the sheet slightly. “Come along, now. Get out of the tub and dry yourself.”

  It was apparent he had no intention of either delving into anything more about his wife or accepting her apology. With a heavy sigh, Elizabeau reached out and pulled the sheet from his hand.

  “Turn around,” she instructed him. “You promised not to look and I see that you have already partially broken that promise.”

  She had meant it in jest, one last hope that he would loosen to her humor. But he turned away without a word and went back to the window. Elizabeau watched his stiff back a moment before climbing from the tub and wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. There was a small stool next to the hearth; she pulled it away from the wall and sat directly in front of the fire to warm up and dry out.

  She wasn’t surprised when he quit the room without a word and disappeared into the stormy night.

  *

  Elizabeau wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep on the small, lumpy bed. The fire in the hearth had died somewhat and the room was chilly when she heard the door open again. Startled, she rolled over to see Rhys locking the door behind him. She also noticed that he had an armful of material.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up with the linen sheet still wrapped tightly around her body. It was dark in the room and difficult to see just what, exactly, he had.

  “What have you got there?” she demanded sleepily. “Where did you go?”

  He moved to the bed with some kind of garment in his hands. He held it up to her, nearly striking her in the face with it.

  “I went to see our fat friend,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind that I selected your garments. You were in no condition to select them yourself, being that you only had a sheet to wear, so I selected them for you. I hope you are pleased.”

  “Good lord,” she muttered, eyeing him in the weak light. But she dutifully fingered the garment he was offering to her, inspecting it as she tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it was a lovely wine-colored damask with exquisite craftsmanship.

  She took the garment from him and padded over to the hearth where the light was better. It was a finely made surcoat of a ruby-rich fabric, lined in soft pink wool, with a square neckline and long, draping sleeves. The sleeves from the elbow down were made from the same colored brocade, giving the garment a delightfully detailed look. It was, in fact, very beautiful. Curiosity made her wander over to the chair where he had draped the other garments and she inspected her way through surcoats of cloud-soft yellow lamb’s wool, light blue Perse fabric that was similar to very soft linen, and pale green broadcloth. Upon further notice, she came across a soft leather girdle, two delicate shifts, a pair of soft woolen hose, a pair of doeskin gloves, a bleached wool cloak and a pair of bright red silk pantalets.

  The pantalets were at the bottom of the pile and she held them up to Rhys, almost accusingly.

  “Why on earth did you buy these?” she demanded, peering at him from around the garment. “They’re… they’re….”

  “The latest from Paris,” Rhys told her helpfully. “The merchant says that he cannot keep them in stock. All finely dressed women demand them.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him before returning her dubious eyes to the pantalets. She fingered them; they were very soft. She imagined they would feel nice against her skin. With a shrug, she laid them back with the other garments and turned to him.

  “I cannot pay you for these at the moment,” she said with some embarrassment. “I am afraid that my coinage is in London. We left so quickly that…”

  He waved her off. “De Burgh supplied me with more than enough to cover expenses. You needn’t worry.”

  He seemed to be in a better humor than he had when he had left the room earlier. It was a curious mood, as if he had blown off his depression in the past hour and then returned to her without a grudge. Not wanting to upset him again, she took a deep breath and forced a smile.

  “Then I would thank you for being so thoughtful,” she said. “You have been a chivalrous and kind escort and I thank you very much for your foresight in all matters. And I am very sorry that I called you simple back at Hyde House; it is clear that you are not a simple man at all.”

  He almost looked embarrassed; he chewed his lip briefly, displaying the deep dimples that carved through his cheeks like canyons. The brilliant blue eyes never left her. After a moment, he turned back to the chair where the pile of clothes lay and dug into the very bottom of the chair. There was a small bag there that she had missed; he picked it up and tossed it to her.

  “More items from the merchant that I thought you might need,” he said quietly. “Soap, a comb, some hair things.” He made funny jabbing gestures at his head. “And some manner of cosmetics. I do not know what they are; the merchant told me that women in Paris use them so I told him just to include them.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him before pulling open the bag and digging inside; there was indeed sweet-smelling soap, a tortoise shell comb, several decorative hair pins, two glass phials of perfumed oil, an ointment for softening the skin and a tiny alabaster pot of red ointment for the lips. Very feminine, foolish things, but she was deeply grateful. And deeply touched. With a twinkle in her eye, she sought his gaze.

  “I cannot possibly thank you enough,” she said sincerely. “It was very thoughtful and very sweet of you to procure all of this for me.”

  He dipped his head. “A genuine pleasure, my lady. Now I shall wait outside while you dress.” He pointed at her. “You’re still running about in that sheet.”

  She grinned, shrugging her shoulders in agreement. “Rhys,” she said hesitantly. “I am truly sorry if I upset you with talk of your wife earlier. Please believe me when I say that I did not mean to. You have been very kind to me and I would do nothing to intentionally upset you.”

  His gaze lingered on her. “I know, my lady.”

  “Then you are not upset with me?”

  “It is of no matter, my lady.”

  “But it is to me,” she insisted. “Your feelings matter very much and I am truly sorry.”

  He almost dismissed her again; they could both see it coming. But after a moment, he simply shook his head. “It is kind of you to be concerned for my feelings. But I truly have none in the matter. And you did not upset me.”

  She wasn’t quite sure it was the truth but she let it go. Rhys’ attention lingered on her a moment longer before he quit the room, moving out into the night that now seemed to be clearing. Even after the door softly shut, she stood there, her thoughts lingering on the massive bear of a man who had been both very cold and very kind to her. The paradox was baffling. But those thoughts vanished in favor of thoughts of her new garments, and within little time she was clad in a new shift, the red pantalets, the woolen hose and the soft yellow lamb’s wool surcoat that hugged every curve of her delicious torso.

  She pinned her considerable mane into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and wrapped herself up in the new bleached woolen cloak, a magnificent garment that was l
ined with gray rabbit. She also pulled on the gloves. Wrapped in her new clothes, she felt so warm, so cozy, that the heat invited sleep and before she realized it, she was back on the bed. Her intention had been to doze until Rhys came back for her, but she quickly fell into a deep sleep as the sun began to rise. For the first time in a day, she was at peace.

  The next sensation that infiltrated her sleep-hazed mind was that of a hand being clamped over her mouth.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “’Tis me, my lovely.”

  Elizabeau heard the softly uttered words and, naturally, being awakened out of a sound sleep, screamed in fright. She lashed out a fist, catching whoever it was in the neck and she could hear the man sputtering as she leapt up from the bed. Dawn was breaking and her chamber was still dark, so she could not see the man in her room but she could hear him gasping for air.

  “Raina!” the man was stumbling around, knocking over a small table near the hearth. “What’s wrong with you, woman?”

  Elizabeau threw open the door just as Rhys was opening it. He pushed her out of the way, barreling into the room with both swords drawn. Elizabeau tripped over her own feet and ended up on her knees over by the chair where Rhys had sat the majority of the night. As she watched in astonishment, Rhys bore down on the man still struggling to stand with his feet tangled in the table. With the door open, more light filled the room and made clear the inhabitants. The man with his feet stuck in the table looked up at Rhys with his weapons drawn and screamed like a woman.

  “Don’t kill me, m’lord!” he threw up his hands for protection. “Don’t kill me, please!”

  Rhys was a hair away from taking the man’s head off in the literal sense. But he sheathed one of his swords and grabbed the man by his snarled red hair, yanking his head brutally and forcing the man to look at him. His brilliant blue eyes were full of fury.

  “Who sent you?” he demanded.

  The red-haired man threw his hands up, partially in self-defense, but mostly in surrender. “No… no one sent me, m’lord. Did Rendell send you to kill me?”

  Rhys’ brilliant eyes flickered with some confusion that was just as quickly vanished. He yanked the man’s hair again, listening to him whimper. “I will ask the questions and you will give me answers. Who are you and why are you here?”

  The man’s hands were shaking. “I came for Raina. This is her chamber.”

  For the first time, Rhys’ offensive posturing seemed to relax somewhat. “Who?”

  The man made a weak gesture towards the bed. “Raina,” he said. “She sleeps here. I… I thought the lady was her.”

  Rhys took his eyes off the man long enough to look at Elizabeau, now picking herself up off the floor. “Did this man harm you in any way, my lady?”

  She dusted off her coat where her knees had hit the floor. “Nay,” she said, eyeing the man warily. “He did put his hand over my mouth, however.”

  Rhys’ fury was back as he looked down at the man in his grip. The man could read his death in the brilliant blue eyes and he began to blubber like an idiot.

  “I thought it was Raina and I didn’t want her to scream,” he wailed. “Her father told me he would kill me if he ever saw me here again so I put my hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make any noise. Please, sir, ’tis the truth!”

  The fury faded again from Rhys’ eyes; he understood quite a bit in that babbled explanation. But he wasn’t done with him yet. In a flash, he put the razor-sharp edge of his blade against the man’s throat.

  “I do not tolerate liars,” he growled. “Know that I protect this lady with ferocity and I will not hesitate to slit your throat for the fact that you have touched her.”

  “Rhys,” Elizabeau had moved up beside him, watching as he terrorized the man. “Please let him go. I really do not believe he meant me any harm. He would have had ample opportunity while I slept and, to be honest, the hand on my mouth was not harsh. It only startled me.”

  Rhys took his gaze off the man, looking into Elizabeau’s deep green eyes and, for a moment, finding himself lost in the emerald depths. She had the most amazing eyes. When she smiled timidly and put her hand on his wrist as if to pull it away from the man’s throat, he felt himself folding like a complete idiot.

  He let go of the man’s hair, watching him fall to his hands and knees. But the sword was still out, still ready to move in a flash if needed.

  “Well,” he said, examining the crumpled man with a critical eye. “If you are an assassin, you’re the worst assassin I’ve ever seen. Do you make it a habit of breaking into ladies’ rooms?”

  The man rubbed his head where Rhys had grabbed it as he struggled to his feet. “No, m’lord. But Raina and I… well, we are in love. Her father is Rendell, the barkeep. He doesn’t approve of me.” The man shrugged helplessly. “He wants her to marry better; a knight or a merchant, mayhap. Not a smithy.”

  Rhys looked at the man a moment longer before sheathing his other sword. The red-haired man was young, dressed in typical peasant garb of sloppy, unbleached wool. He was somewhat dirty, skinny, but seemed strong enough. The longer he looked at him, the more he knew that he wasn’t an assassin. He was just some fool in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “How did you get in here?” Rhys asked him. “I was standing outside the door the entire time.”

  The man looked sheepish as he pointed to the rear of the chamber that abutted against the stable. “There is a small door that leads into the stable.” He went over to show him the opening, shielded by the bed and the crude wardrobe. It was well concealed. “I’ve used it many a time. That is why Raina’s father has threatened to kill me. He knows that his daughter and I… well, we have….”

  Rhys held up an abrupt hand. “Say no more in front of the lady,” he commanded quietly. “What is your name?”

  “Watt, m’lord.”

  “Be on your way, Watt,” he gestured to the front door. “Better not to mention this little incident to anyone and I will not tell Raina’s father about the door you have carved into his daughter’s room.”

  Watt nodded eagerly and fled. Rhys watched him disappear into the growing morning. When he finally turned to look at Elizabeau, he was struck by the beautiful picture she presented; he’d never seen the woman in the light of day. She’d always been wet, dirty, angry, or otherwise shrouded in darkness. As he gazed at her clean face of creamy skin, her pert little nose and her luminous emerald-colored eyes, he swore he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Her luscious golden-red hair was straight and thick, cascading over one shoulder. She looked like an angel and he was momentarily speechless.

  Elizabeau could see that he was studying her. He had an odd expression on his face and she lifted her eyebrows in response. “Well?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Do you not like the dress you picked out for me?”

  He shook his head. “No….”

  “What?” she nearly shrieked.

  He half-grinned, holding out a hand to silence her outrage. “I meant to say that no, nothing is wrong. The dress is lovely.”

  “Oh.” She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t press. She opened up the cloak, showing him a full view of her glorious figure encased in the yellow lamb’s wool. “You might as well have a good look at it. You did select it, after all. See what manner of taste you have in women’s garments.”

  He watched her twirl around and found himself front and center of an unobstructed view of her body. She had a gorgeous slender neck and shoulders, and a long torso with full breasts. She was, in fact, quite breathtaking, healthy and curvy in all the right places. He was staring at her waist as it flared into delicious hips when she stopped and faced him.

  “Well? See what good taste you have?” she said.

  He almost didn’t hear her. It took him a moment to realize she had said something and he tore his gaze away from her torso, vowing at that moment to never recall the most un-knightly thoughts that had crept into his mind as he had beheld her beauty. He’d h
ad visions of sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of her buttocks, of running his tongue against her navel, and….

  “Did you hear me?” Elizabeau’s voice broke into his turbulent thoughts. “What do you think of your taste in clothing?”

  He realized his palms were sweating as he gazed into her beautiful eyes. “Only you could do them justice, my lady,” he said steadily. “It has nothing to do with my selection at all. I suspect you could wear a sack and still look like an angel.”

  She grinned at him, revealing straight white teeth with slightly prominent canines. Her smile was as beautiful as the rest of her.

  “Flattery, sir knight?” she teased gently. “Not too much or I shall become swell-headed. But tell me this; do you think my betrothed will be pleased? I mean, do you think I look presentable enough for a prince?”

  He felt as if a bucket of cold water had just been thrown on him. Christ, what am I thinking? He silently scolded himself. Somehow, in the last few moments, he had forgotten why he was there. He had forgotten his mission as she had twirled before him and he had studied the outline of her round breasts. She was England’s next queen, destined for her Teutonic prince. She was not a woman to be admired as if she were something reachable to him. He suddenly felt very angry at himself, and frankly, very disappointed.

  “He will consider himself a very fortunate man, my lady,” he replied in a strangely tight tone. “You have nothing to worry over.”

  There was warmth in her gaze as she looked at him. “More kind words, sir knight. They give me courage.”

  He didn’t know what else to say. He found himself wishing for the distraction of de Lohr’s arrival so he could focus on something other than the lovely young woman standing a few feet to his right. There was no way on earth he was going to admit that he was attracted to her, more than he should have been.

  Elizabeau watched him as he appeared distracted, his gaze lingering on the yard beyond the door and the growing morning. Smiling at her just a moment ago, he now seemed to be reverting back to his cold persona again and she had no idea why. The man was moodier than a fickle woman.