Song of the Heart (Medieval Runaway Wives Book 1)

by Alexa Aston

  Before she slid from the saddle, Garrett was there. His hands closed about her slender waist, lifting her easily.

  Her feet touched the ground and she met his eyes. “Thank you,” she said meekly.

  His hands rested around her waist a moment longer than necessary before he dropped them to his sides and turned to take Ebony’s reins.

  Ashby dismounted, too, and the party walked slowly, stiff from their many hours in the saddle. Light was beginning to ease upward, erasing the stars that had been scattered across the sky. A few birds began calling to one another, singing in the new day.

  *

  A brisk wind rose as they continued onward. It surprised Madeleine when Sir Garrett removed his heavy cloak in order to drape the heavy fabric around her shoulders. He even tightened the laces around her neck to secure the welcomed warmth.

  She’d become unaccustomed to kindness and lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. “’Tis thoughtful of you, Sir Garrett,” she managed to say quietly and turned her head away to wipe a tear before it fell. She knew he studied her intently and refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the road ahead.

  They walked in companionable silence for a short while, soon reaching a small gathering of cottages. As Sir Ashby had said, a blacksmith shed sat directly next to a shabby cottage.

  “I’ll awaken the smith,” Ashby told them and sauntered off to knock at the door.

  Within minutes, he roused the smith from his sleep. The man appeared quite agreeable to be able to service well-dressed gentlemen at such an early hour. As they led their horses toward the shed, Madeleine touched Sir Garrett’s arm lightly.

  “I fear at any moment my stomach will grumble fiercely, my lord,” she whispered. “Mayhap we could break our fast? This smith’s wife might be persuaded to prepare us something.”

  “A fine idea, Lady Montayne.” Garrett fished out two coins and handed them to her. “Offer these to the good woman and I’ll wager she can accommodate us in no time.”

  “Yes, my lord. I shall take care of personal matters and then speak to her straight away.” Madeleine scanned the area, plotting for a way to get out of this impossible situation.

  She could not accompany these men into London. With no idea where the Montaynes lived, she could not direct them to her supposed residence. Even if she pointed out a random house and tried to shake them off, good manners would insist that these gentlemen see her safely inside the abode.

  Madeleine hobbled toward the cottage as Garrett made his way to the shed. She didn’t take time to rap on the wooden door. Instead, she opened it and quickly slipped inside. She needed as much time as possible to put her scheme into action.

  The smith’s wife was bent over, stirring the fire on the opposite side of the compact room. She started when she caught sight of Madeleine.

  Before the older woman could address her, Madeleine crossed the distance between them and took the woman’s gnarled hand in her own. Her eyes met those of the peasant and she blurted out, “You must help me. Please,” she begged. “I have been taken from my father’s house.” Madeleine burst into tears as she began to spin a new set of lies.

  Uneasily, the woman gave her a cautious pat.

  Madeleine did her best to look distraught. “My father refused to give me in marriage to one of the men outside,” she told the wife. “He is desperate to marry a fortune, having gambled his own away. He is mean and cruel, and he has taken me from my home.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and turned back to the woman. “It’s the dark-haired one who’s a devil. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and stole me from my very bed. We ride to London as soon as his horse has been shod. Will you help me? I beg you.”

  The woman studied Madeleine carefully. Her eyes lit up as Madeleine slid the coins Sir Garrett had given her from her pocket and offered them to her.

  “Help me hide and these are yours. After they leave, I can find my way to my brother. He lives just inside the southern gates of London. He will protect me.”

  Madeleine’s lips trembled as she felt the desperation she tried to portray.

  After a moment, the older woman finally spoke. “I will help you,” she agreed, taking both coins and placing them under a pot. They spoke briefly and hatched a quick plan.

  Opening the door, Madeleine saw the blacksmith hard at work, Ebony’s hoof in his hand as he attached a new shoe. The two knights appeared deep in conversation, both men facing the smith, watching him. Madeleine nodded and stepped back as the smith’s wife approached her rescuers, two cups in her hand.

  “Welcome, my fine gentlemen. I have brought you some refreshment. You are parched, I am sure, from a long ride. Come, have a bit of ale.” She circled around them so that both men turned away from the smith to face her.

  “Many thanks,” Sir Garrett said.

  “We are most obliged,” Sir Ashby told her.

  As they held the cups up and tilted the cool contents to their dry mouths, Madeleine sneaked quietly from the doorway and went to the back of the shed. As promised, she found the loose board. She lifted it and slipped through the tight space, hearing the woman’s noisy conversation in the distance.

  Mother of God. She is loud enough to awaken the king in London. Gratefully, though, Madeleine found herself at the far end of the shed, where the hay was plentiful. She remained low to the ground, covering herself with the dry stalks until she was hidden from view.

  *

  Garrett could feel the slight tinge of a headache as the woman prattled on.

  “’Tis a great day when two such fine lords visit our humble establishment. Many ride on to London but my husband does a better job than any smith around. May I get such important gentlemen some bread? More ale, perhaps?”

  Garrett replied, “Bread and more ale would be nice. And I know our traveling companion would like some, too.”

  The woman stared blankly at him. “My lord?” she asked, her brown face wrinkled in puzzlement.

  “The lady with us,” Garrett insisted. “She went to ask if you would provide us a small meal.”

  The smith’s wife shook her head. “I spoke to no one.”

  Garrett instantly knew that the unknown woman had fled their company. He might never discover her identity. Despite her lies, something about her spoke to him. Touched him. He needed to find her now. Learn her name. Learn why she pretended to be his wife.

  He broke out into a full run toward the cottage then slowed to an awkward trot as his sore body protested the sudden movement. He rounded the back of the cottage, searching in both directions.

  She wasn’t there.

  Quickly, he raced back to the front, slamming straight into Ashby as he came around the corner.

  “What’s the matter, Garrett? Lose something? Or someone?”

  Garrett brushed him aside and burst into the thatched bungalow. He growled low in his throat, storming about the tiny space, lifting a stool and tossing it aside, pushing the straw mattress around with his foot, then picking up a dish and catching himself before he sent it slamming to the ground.

  Ashby entered and watched his antics.

  Garrett shook his head. “Not a trace of her, Ash. She’s gone.”

  By now, both the smith and his wife had followed them inside. The couple exchanged frightened looks.

  Garrett could only imagine how he must appear as he tried to control his rage. He felt the familiar pounding at his temples and could feel heat rise to his face. “There was a lady with us,” he said evenly, through gritted teeth.

  “I spoke to no lady, my lord,” the wife insisted, shaking her head slowly.

  “Then where has she disappeared to?” he mused aloud. He paused and then suddenly chuckled, in spite of the situation. “And with my favorite cloak!”

  Chapter Four

  Ashby watched Garrett leave the small confines of the cottage to restlessly pace the yard in front of the barn, his hands behind his back. Ashby knew well enough to leave his friend alone for the time being
. Garrett always needed solitude when he mulled over issues that troubled him.

  The beautiful stranger was definitely something that troubled his friend.

  The entire adventure had brought Ashby a powerful thirst. “About that ale, madam?” he asked the smith’s wife, his usual smile doing the trick.

  “Coming right up, my lord,” she responded quickly.

  Soon, he’d inhaled several pieces of bread and cheese and drunk more than a good share of ale. Ashby peered out the doorway of the cottage. Garrett still wore a deep frown but his pacing had slowed. It was safe to approach him once again.

  Taking a fresh mug and a plate of food toward the barn, he approached his friend. “Need a respite from your pacing, my lord?” he inquired. “You’ve worn a trench into the ground.”

  Garrett turned to him. Seeing the mug, he reached for it and quaffed its contents. Ashby took it from him and had it refilled. When he returned again, Garrett had moved near the horses, seating himself on a bale of hay just inside the barn. Ashby went to him and handed him the second cup of ale and the plate.

  Seating himself beside Garrett, he asked, “Do you really think she was a lady?”

  Garrett exhaled loudly and sipped on the ale before replying. “Yes, Ash, I’m certain of that. She held herself as one and had the demeanor of one highborn. No common thief or whore could ever match her bearing. It’s in the blood and can’t be imitated.”

  Garrett drank again from the cup. “Her speech, too, was refined. She spoke the King’s English very precisely, even better than you or I, as if she’d spent time at court. Her dress was well-cut, her hands soft, except for calluses on the tips. I noticed that when she grabbed at my hand a time or two when the road became rough.”

  Ashby nodded. “Possibly because she plays her lute often.”

  His friend roared with satisfied laughter. “Yes, her lute,” Garrett said, a smug smile upon his face.

  Ashby looked over at the horses. Still tied to his mount was the lady-in-question’s instrument. He smiled, too. “You both have something the other desires.”

  Garrett nodded. “I would have that cloak back. It’s the warmest one I own. I almost didn’t bring it since spring is upon us but I changed my mind at the last moment. A lute for a cloak? If I catch the chit, I’ll return her lute—after I smack her bottom with it—and take pleasure in doing so.”

  Ashby grinned at the image Garrett painted. “Would you dare hurt your own wife?” he asked, not masking his amusement.

  “Egads! Could you believe the audacity of that creature, Ash? Claiming to be married to me?”

  Ashby chuckled. “It was a smart ploy on her part, Garrett. Since Ryker’s death, you do own the blackest reputation in these parts, even if I know it’s all for show. The woman was clever enough to throw out a name that would stop most men in their tracks. Do you think she is from this area?”

  “I doubt it. It’s just a feeling I have, but if she were, I’m sure we would have heard of her beauty. Why, if I’d met her, I might never . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “. . . have married Lynnette,” Ashby finished.

  A scowl darkened Garrett’s face. Ashby wished he could take back his words as Garrett threw his cup to the ground, banging his toe in the process. An oath escaped his lips.

  “Let us be off, Ash. I tire of this place.” Garrett stalked to the cottage, likely to pay the smith for his work and their meal.

  “And look what damage your marriage to Lynnette did you, my friend,” Ashby said sadly to himself. “You are no longer the carefree Garrett of old.”

  He sighed and mounted his horse. Garrett strode from the cottage and threw himself into the saddle. Spurring on their horses, they quickly shot out of the yard and toward London.

  *

  Madeleine finally released her sneeze, blowing hay upward with great force. Her nose had burned and itched since she had shoveled the mounds of hay on top of her. Several times, she feared she would sneeze and reveal her position to her rescuers. Fortunately, they left without guessing she’d hid under their very noses as they discussed her. The thought made her groan aloud.

  Why, of all the people she could have met on the road to London, did it have to be Lord Montayne? She could have met thieves or murderers, loners or secret lovers, even a wild animal or two. No, she had to come across the one man, other than Henri, that could jeopardize her plans, ruining them before she’d even had a chance at escaping England.

  Lady Montayne, indeed! Why had the man allowed her to continue her charade? Oh, yes, he was Sir Garrett, simply a knight ready to aid a lady in distress. She wished that Henri had never mentioned doing business with the man. It would have been better if she’d simply pulled a name from the air, rather than a potential business associate of Henri’s.

  She sat up abruptly, brushing hay from her hair, and sneezed again. She tried to stand but became entangled in the cloak—his favorite cloak—and promptly fell back into the pile again. The sweet rush from the hay filled her nostrils, causing them to tingle. Another loud sneeze escaped.

  Madeleine attempted to stand again. She succeeded this time and exited the shed.

  The smith’s wife rushed up to her. “Oh, my lady, he was an angry one, that dark devil!”

  “Yes,” Madeleine agreed. “I owe you my life, good woman.” She took the older woman’s hands in hers and squeezed them gently. “You are a brave woman for standing up to him as you did.”

  She relaxed for the first time since she’d left Henri. “He’s mad that his heiress fled his clutches,” she continued. “Now I hope that he will drown in his debts and have to marry an ugly second cousin.”

  She and the smith’s wife giggled companionably and headed for the cottage. The woman tied a handkerchief filled with a wedge of sharp cheese, an apple, and a generous slice of bread.

  “Best be on your way, my lady. I’d hate for you to run into the likes of that one again.”

  Madeleine nodded in agreement. “I would like to avoid the two gentlemen. I’m sure you understand. I thought first about going to my brother in London but I’m afraid they might spot me before I reach him.” She paused and then added, “I have an uncle who lives just southeast of London. Mayhap you could tell me which road to take to seek him out?”

  The smith’s wife gladly explained to Madeleine the best passage to take then she headed north again, waving goodbye. Best to take her time and avoid both London and Lord Montayne for now. He was the last person she wanted to see. She would take a day or two and enjoy her newfound freedom and then make her way to the famous city and its waterfront. Her only trip there with Henri had been short and far from pleasurable. Perhaps this time would be different.

  The sun had now fully risen. Warm sunshine melted into her, and she slipped the cloak off, draping the heavy fabric over her arm. The loss of her beloved lute saddened her. Mayhap she could trade the cloak for another instrument. She stopped to go through the pockets and found several loose gold coins within.

  She smiled, slightly mollified that Lord Montayne had lost both his cloak and coins. His trick canceled any regret she might have about appropriating his property. He knew she was a liar but he had played along, taking her almost all the way to London. What would have happened when they arrived?

  Yet she remembered his small acts of kindness. He had generously wrapped the cloak about her on both the cool ride of last night and again this morning as they walked after dismounting the horses. And, for a brief while, she felt so safe and secure in his arms as she rode atop Ebony.

  Madeleine closed her eyes, imagining for the moment being enclosed again within Lord Montayne’s embrace. She could feel the hard muscles of his chest against her back, his arm tight about her, holding her near him. He smelled of soap and horses, his breath light and fresh in her ear. She had an immense longing to be back on Ebony with him, the sweet ache filling her.

  Then Ashby’s voice popped into her head. Married to Lynnette rang in her ears, and Madeleine’s ey
es flew open. That black-hearted lord was married, she thought bitterly. A sigh escaped her lips, breaking the morning quiet.

  “As if I were not,” she mused aloud. It was interesting that the Earl of Montayne’s wife apparently made him as unhappy as Henri made her. “Could never be,” she murmured, fingering the pebble in her pocket, and continued down the road. Her heart, though, still ached at the waning memories of the dark, handsome devil.

  *

  Henri de Picassaret pushed the matted hair off his brow. He finally dared to open his eyes. Harsh light streamed through the dull windowpane. As often was the case upon awakening, his head felt ready to burst, as did his bladder. He struggled to sit up, the pounding in his head almost unbearable. He was in a foul mood. He’d lost in cards to his host, Lord Ancil. Didn’t the English have the decency to lose to a guest?

  Henri massaged his temples lightly, hoping to still the roaring noise. He rose and shrieked for Bertrand. The man lurked behind every crack and cranny.

  “You wish to dress, my lord?”

  Henri let loose a stream of profanity, finally quieting when the thunder in his head became too loud to hear his own words. “Yes. Dress me, you fool. I must get to mass.”

  Once there, he would feel better. He always did. Henri knew he was one of God’s chosen. By doing this daily duty to God, his Father honored him with riches beyond his dreams. Now if only God would see about finding him a wife that would give him children. It was his own cross to bear that none of his wives could get themselves with child, especially this latest one. She could do nothing but look pretty and speak well. Granted, his guests loved her singing and the games she invented. They even enjoyed the little sketches she did of them. A good time was promised at Henri de Picassaret’s and he always delivered. Now, though, he’d grown tired of hearing her praised by his guests.

  “How talented she is, Henri. How clever of you to find such a jewel.”

  But she was not the jewel for which he had hoped. She was barren, like his previous wives. He had already begun searching for a new wife. One more docile and more fertile than Madeleine Bouchard.