Connie Mason (6 page)

“How can I possibly help you?” he asked. “You have everything a woman could wish for. You are betrothed to a wealthy earl and will soon become a countess.”

“You still do not understand, do you?”

“Nay. The hour grows late, Lady Raven. I must prepare myself for the tournament tomorrow.”

She stopped him with a hand upon his arm. He felt a frisson of heat travel up his arm and lodge in every part of his body, particularly the lower part. The shock of it was not quite as unnerving as it had been when he had kissed her, but startling nevertheless.

“Please hear me out,” Raven pleaded. “I cannot marry Waldo. I hate him. I believe him responsible for Daria’s death, and . . . and I fear him.”

Drake composed his features. If he had one inkling of proof that Waldo had been responsible for Daria’s death, he would slay his half brother without a hint of remorse. “Why would he kill Daria?”

“I do not know; ’tis something I feel.” She touched her heart. “Here.”

“If you are so adamantly opposed to the wedding, why are you marrying him?”

“Duff and Waldo are friends. After Aric’s death, Duff promised Waldo he would not betroth me to another until Waldo received permission from the pope for our marriage. It cost him a great deal to grease palms but the dispensation finally arrived. No amount of pleading on my part could convince Duff to betroth me to another, or to let me remain a maid.”

Drake cocked a dark brow. “What is it you want from me, my lady?”

Raven cast a furtive glance toward the keep and moved deeper into the shadows. Curious, Drake followed.

“My mother’s sister lives in Scotland. Her husband is an official in the Sottish king’s court. All I ask is your escort to Scotland before the wedding ceremony takes place. I intend to throw myself on Aunt Eunice’s mercy and beg her protection.”

“I have no time to waste on squeamish damsels who fear marriage,” Drake said gruffly.

“You do not like Waldo any better than I do,” Raven charged. “Have you never envied him for being your father’s heir when you are the eldest son?”

Raven’s words opened old wounds. Over the years, both Drake’s mother and grandmother had insisted that Basil’s marriage to Leta was legal and binding, that Drake had not been born out of wedlock. Granny Nola had sworn that proof existed, and when the time was right, Drake would have it. After Drake’s father had died, it no longer seemed important to prove the legality of his birth. He had naught to prove to anyone. He was the Black Knight, a name earned through selfless acts of courage and skills honed in battle. He had no need of another name.

“Waldo is welcome to Eyre. I have Windhurst and a title bestowed upon me by the king.”

“Please help me, Lord Drake,” Raven pleaded. “I am desperate. I can be ready to leave whenever you say.”

Her face was a pale oval, whiter than the moon illuminating it. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and he had to steel himself lest he feel pity for her plight. Drake knew Raven would not have an easy life married to his half brother. Though he and Waldo had fought on different fields of battle in France, Drake had heard stories of Waldo’s cruelty to his servants, to captives, and to women from the plundered cities. Waldo and his men-at-arms raped and pillaged
at will, despite Edward’s orders to the contrary. Drake would not trust Waldo with his pet dog.

But Drake had become a hard man, immune to pity. “Nay, I cannot help you. You are naught to me, Raven of Chirk. Our friendship ended the day you betrayed me. I trusted you with a secret and you ran straight to your father with it. Find another champion, my lady.”

Raven gulped back a sharp retort, angry that Drake would not help her cause. “Is there naught I can do or say to change your mind?”

His silver gaze rested on her breasts, then slid downward, where it lingered on the place where her thighs met. For some unexplainable reason he wanted to insult her, to hurt her as she had once hurt him. He hoped his outrageous suggestion would send her fleeing. “Perhaps a tumble in the hay might change my mind.”

Raven gasped. “What! You insult me, sir. You ask for that which I cannot give.”

He gave her a mocking smile. “ ’Tis what I counted on, my lady.” Then he did something he should not have, something he would never have done had he not been uncharacteristically tempted by Raven of Chirk. He grasped her roughly and covered her mouth with his.

Her innocent response to their earlier kiss had intrigued him. Obviously Raven had never tasted passion before. That fleeting first kiss had been tame compared to what he really wanted to do to her. He wanted to probe her mouth with his tongue, to learn if it was as sweet as he suspected. He wanted to touch her virgin breasts and hear her sudden intake of breath when she felt the first stirring of arousal.

He ignored her strangled protest and deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth even as his hand sought a firm breast. But still it was not enough. He sucked on her tongue; her muted plea turned into a sigh as he found an erect
nipple and teased it with his fingertips. It hardened against his palm and he smiled. Then he pressed a knee between her thighs, separating them so she could ride him.

Her sigh turned into a moan as she worked her softness against his knee, as if seeking something elusive. He knew exactly what she needed. He would have laid her down in the soft hay and taken her had not a voice calling out of the darkness interrupted them. His arms fell away and Raven would have fallen had he not reached out to steady her. He knew the moment she realized they were not alone, for he felt her tense and glance over her shoulder.

“Raven, where are you? Your maid said you did not return to your chamber.”

“Waldo,” she said in a hushed voice.

Drake said naught. His body stiffened, as Waldo made his way unerringly toward them. He carried a torch to light his way and had already spied them, so there was no escape.

Drake’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword when Waldo grasped Raven’s arm and shoved her behind him.

“God’s blood, woman! What are you doing out here with
him?
Have you no shame? I should beat you for this.”

“I have done naught,” Raven denied hotly. “The hall was so warm I decided to take some air before retiring.”

“And you just happened to run into Sir Bastard,” Waldo taunted.

Drake’s sword was halfway out of its scabbard before he thought better of his impulse and shoved it back into place. Killing Waldo now would not win him the purse he sought. He would wait until they met in the lists to teach Waldo a lesson.

“Go to your chamber, Raven,” Waldo bit out. “You will explain this to me on our wedding night. You have much to account for, my lady, but presently I have little time to take you to task. The tournaments start tomorrow at terce and I must conserve my energy.”

Raven whirled and marched away, casting a single glance over her shoulder at Drake. Drake tried to ignore the desperation her expression conveyed as he returned his attention to Waldo.

“So, brother, you still covet what is mine,” Waldo said with a sneer. “First Daria and now Raven. You cannot have her. I wanted her even before Father betrothed me to Daria. Raven has fire in her, as you surely have noticed, and I look forward to taming her. I have spent considerable time and money acquiring Raven,” he continued. “Do anything to keep me from what is mine and you will live to regret it.”

“ ’Tis convenient, is it not, that Daria died so you could pursue Raven?”

“Aye, convenient,” Waldo repeated but did not elaborate. “ ’Tis legal, Drake. The pope himself gave me leave to wed Raven.”

“You are welcome to her,” Drake said. The words flowed easily from his mouth, though he was not certain he meant them. Raven had become an alluring woman. What man would not want her? She exuded sexuality and innocence at the same time. Or was she truly as innocent as she pretended? It annoyed him to think that Waldo had sparked passion within her. “Raven and I were merely discussing old times.”

“Stay away from her, brother. You did not get Daria, nor can you have Raven. Her maidenhead belongs to me. Keep your interests confined to the tournament.” His expression grew thoughtful, and then he gave Drake an ingratiating smile. “Mayhap I’ll send you a flagon of Duff’s private wine as consolation,” he said in parting. “As a brotherly gesture, you understand.”

Waldo’s obsequious smile went unanswered. “I understand perfectly, brother.” His penetrating gaze did not leave Waldo’s back as his brother retraced his steps to the keep.

Suddenly Drake noticed something lying on the ground
and stooped to pick it up. It was the gauzy veil that had covered Raven’s bright hair. Apparently it had fallen when he had pulled her into his arms. Smiling to himself, he stuffed it inside his doublet.

Drake’s squire was waiting up for him when he returned to camp. The lad sat on the cot, polishing Drake’s black armor and helm by candlelight. He jumped up when Drake ducked inside the tent.

“Everything is in order, my lord. Your armor is polished and your weapons in good repair. Is there aught else you need?”

“Nay, Evan. You may seek your own bed now.”

Evan ducked out the tent flap and ran into Sir John of Marlow’s well-muscled chest. “Is Lord Drake in his tent, Evan?” John asked.

“Aye, Sir John, he just returned from the banquet.”

John sent Evan on his way and entered the tent. Drake greeted him amiably. “I see you left the banquet still able to stand,” he teased.

“Like you, I compete in the games tomorrow. Too much drink dulls the wits. Besides, the ale Lord Duff served was swill. He probably keeps the good stuff for himself.”

Drake heard footsteps approaching and reached for his sword. “Who goes there?”

“Lord Waldo’s man. My lord sends a flagon of wine to aid your sleep.”

“Did the man say wine? By all means bid him enter, Drake.”

“Come,” Drake called gruffly. Ordinarily Waldo was not a thoughtful man. Drake wondered what his brother was up to.

The man-at-arms, wearing Eyre colors of blue and gold, ducked into the tent and set the flagon down on the camp table.

“Lord Waldo sends wine with his compliments to the Black Knight,” the man recited.

Drake eyed the wine with suspicion.

“ ’Tis good French wine,” the man was quick to add. “The best the castle has to offer.”

“Ah.” John sighed with none of Drake’s reservations. “Good French wine is hard to come by. Break out the cups, my friend, and we shall toast to success tomorrow.”

The man-at-arms started to back out of the tent when Drake stopped him with a harsh command.

“Wait! What is your name?”

“Gareth.”

“Have you been in Waldo’s service long, Gareth?”

“Aye, since before he became earl. I fought with him in France as a foot soldier.”

“Waldo must trust you.”

The fellow puffed out his chest. “With his life, my lord.”

“Then you must drink with us.”

John stared at Drake curiously. “Come now, Drake, why waste good French wine on this fellow when he obviously prefers ale?”

“That is so, master,” Gareth said with alacrity. “Pray enjoy your wine.”

“But I insist,” Drake said.

“God’s toenails, Drake, what has gotten into you?” John chided.

“There are cups in my war chest, John,” Drake said. “Please bring one for each of us.”

John obeyed, though he was obviously puzzled by Drake’s insistence that the man drink with them. He found three pewter cups and set them on the table beside the flagon of wine. At Drake’s nod, he poured wine into each of the cups. John held his cup to his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

“Ambrosia,” he said, bringing the wine to his lips.

“Nay, John, do not drink . . . yet,” Drake added as he brought his own cup to his nose and inhaled the heady
aroma. “Gareth will drink first.” He handed the cup to Waldo’s man.

Drake watched Gareth closely, smiling with satisfaction when Gareth stared into the cup with horror.

“Drink up, man,” Drake invited. “How often do you get to drink good French wine?”

“Are you daft, Drake?” John said.

“Drink, Gareth,” Drake ordered harshly, stilling John’s protest with a slash of his hand.

“Nay!” Gareth cried, spilling his wine on the ground. “I cannot.” Whirling on his heel, he made a hasty exit.

John stared into his own cup, a perplexed expression on his handsome face. “What the devil!”

“Put the wine down, John,” Drake said quietly. “ ’Tis not fit to drink. ’Tis tainted.”

John shuddered and carefully set the cup on the table. “God’s blood, Drake, are you sure?”

“Nay, but you saw how Waldo’s man acted when I asked him to drink first. You may test it if you like, but I would not recommend it.”

“Nor would I,” John said in a hushed voice. “I will take your word for it. What made you suspect?”

“Waldo does naught without a reason. He has ever hated me. Sending the gift of wine is so unlike him, I immediately suspected trickery. Mayhap the wine would have made us too ill to compete tomorrow, but more likely it would have killed us.”

John shuddered again. “Poison. Why does Waldo hate you? He is the earl, not you. You said there was never any question about Waldo being your father’s heir, and that you are . . .”

“A bastard,” Drake said, finishing where John left off. “Heed me well, John. One day I will prove that I am the rightful heir of Eyre. I have never doubted that proof exists.
Granny Nola said that one day I would want to learn the truth, and that when I am ready, she would help me find it.”

“Your granny is a wise woman,” John said.

“Aye, she is also hale and hearty and her memory sharp. Besides myself, you and Sir Richard are the only men who know where to find her village in Wales. I trust no others. For a time I worried she might not be safe from Waldo, but no one but Lord Nyle and my father knew where she lived, and they are both dead.”

“Your trust humbles me,” John said. His gaze rested on the flagon. “What shall we do with the tainted wine?”

“Spill it on the ground behind the tent. Pour the wine from the cups into the flagon.” Drake held the flagon while John poured the wine into it. John’s hands shook so badly he splashed some of the wine on his hose. Then he followed Drake outside and watched as the thirsty ground soaked up the poisoned wine.