Margaret Moore - [Warrior 13] (2 page)

Nevertheless he knew full well he didn’t have the charm, the eloquence or the looks of his friends. He had always been content to wait patiently nearby, half-afraid to open his mouth in case he sounded like a fool.

Until tonight, when he had spotted the tranquil,
golden-haired woman across the hall wearing a green gown of shining samite that fairly sparkled in the candlelight. She had to be unmarried, for her long, golden hair was uncovered and done in two braids, the ends encased in bronze. Her hair had glowed in the light like a halo, and she had seemed as serenely different from the rest of the young women at the court as an angel would. So he had foolishly decided to follow her from the hall.

The die was cast, he decided, and he must see it through.

But please, God,
he silently and fervently prayed,
do not let her see me blush like a lad!

“Forgive me, lady,” he said with a contrite bow.

“I meant no insult.”

To his surprise, she didn’t immediately turn on her heel and march away. Instead, her full lips turned up in a little smile.

It was like thinking your lance was broken and discovering instead that it was whole.

“Although you seem an impertinent fellow,” she said, “I was not insulted.”

“Then will you tell me your name, despite my impertinence?”

Her shapely brow rose in query. “You wish to know my name and nothing more?”

In truth, he wanted to know everything about her, but he had achieved much already and did not dare to
hope for more. “Perhaps that should be all, lest I discover you are wed or promised to another.”

Her brows lowered as she studied him, and he cringed inwardly. Obviously, that had not been a wise thing to say.

“I am not, but this is hardly the time or place to make introductions, sir.”

He moved closer, almost as if pulled to her by an invisible thread. Maybe there was such a thread, for that might explain the tightening sensation he felt in his chest.

As if by divine inspiration, he remembered something he had heard Blaidd Morgan say to a woman once. Blaidd attracted women like blossoms did a bee. “Please, won’t you take pity on me and tell me your name? Otherwise, I may risk injury in the tournament tomorrow, being overtired because I could not sleep for wondering.”

Her brows, a shade darker than her hair, rose yet farther, and her green eyes that already sparkled like emeralds in a rich man’s ring seemed to glitter even more, and—he was very pleased to believe—with merriment. “So if I do not tell you my name, and you happen to be injured on the morrow, it will be my fault?”

To his dismay, her glittering gaze faltered, and a frown clouded her visage. “I do not want such a responsibility. I assure you, sir knight, I already have enough burdens to bear.”

The note of sadness in her voice touched his heart.

“Forgive me, my lady, if I add to your distress in any way. I do not seek to add to the troubles you may have.”

Her beautiful eyes widened, as if she was taken aback by his response. “It is a rare man who cares for a stranger’s woes.”

Reece flushed again, for her tone was full of both wonder and praise.

Then that gloriously merry glimmer seemed to light her from within again. “Besides, you have not told me your name, either.”

She straightened her shoulders and issued a charming challenge. “If you first tell me your name, humble petitioner, I shall tell you mine.”

His heart started to pound as it did before a lance charge and new hope thundered into life with it. She must not think him a complete fool after all. “My name is Sir—”

“Anne!”

The man’s bellowing voice echoed off the walls of the corridor and the unknown beauty tensed as if she had just been caught perpetrating a serious crime.

God save him, he had not considered how it would look to others if they were seen or found together. He had been too intent upon learning who she was. Be fore he could speak, she did.

“Go!” She ordered him as if he were a foot soldier.
She pointed down the corridor to the door at the opposite end. “Leave me to deal with Damon.”

Who, in the name of the saints, was Damon, and what was he to her? Brother? Cousin? Betrothed?

Not the latter, he most fervently hoped.

Whoever he was, as the dark-haired man came charging toward them, another dark-haired, bigger man following right behind, it was obvious he could not leave this fascinating young woman to deal with them alone.

If there was fault here, it was not hers. She had not enticed him or led him there, and he would certainly make that very clear.

As the two men bore down upon them, he recognized them as the men who had been sitting beside her in the king’s hall. Because she had been paying no heed to them, and she was fair while they were dark, he had assumed they were not relations or had any claim upon her.

Obviously he was wrong, and if he had not been distracted by Blaidd right before she left the hall, he might have seen her speak to them. Unfortunately, Blaidd had just chastised him for staring, then started to tease him. Reece had turned away to tell his Welsh friend that Blaidd had quite the history of being distracted by women himself, so he should keep his mouth shut. If she had talked to these fellows, he had missed it.

The woman—Anne, he now knew—shoved him in
a way no person ever had. “You may leave me to deal with them, sir knight.”

“I will not,” he said firmly. “The impropriety is mine, and mine alone.”

Clearly enraged, the two men came to a panting halt in front of him, their wine-soaked breath disgusting him. Their extreme reaction to a minor impropriety was no doubt fueled by wine.

He took the offensive as they tried to catch their breath. “Who are you?”

“We’re her brothers,” the biggest one growled, his beefy hands bunching into fists. “Who the devil are you?”

“I know who he is,” the taller one declared as his lip curled in a sneer. “It’s that bastard’s son. This lout accosting Anne is Reece Fitzroy.”

A jolt of anger shot through Reece, even as the big lout’s eyes widened and fear bloomed in his eyes. So, he had heard of Reece Fitzroy, or if not him, his father, the man reputed to be the finest trainer of knights in England, and who was indeed a bastard.

“
Sir
Reece Fitzroy,” he corrected. He made no effort to keep the scorn from his voice. “To whom have I the
honor
of speaking?”

The tall one drew himself up. “I am Sir Damon Delasaine of Montbleu, this is my brother Benedict and this lady you are bothering is my sister.”

Reece felt like a bellows with a slow leak. He had heard of the notorious Delasaines. They would be the
first on a list of all the families in the world a man of honorable ambition should avoid. He could hardly believe that this beautiful, spirited woman, so different from any woman he had ever met, was their sister.

“
Half
sister,” Anne declared, as if determined to have that difference noted at once. She then addressed Damon Delasaine. “He was not bothering me, Damon. We were merely talking.”

“Shut up and go, Anne,” he snarled in response, “before we decide to let you share the beating he has earned.”

Another jolt of anger, mixed with indignation and scorn, energized Reece. He stepped forward, the action alone—and perhaps his fierce expression—forcing Damon back. “I have heard of the Delasaines, and all I have heard is obviously true,” he growled. “You are a base coward, for only a coward would strike a woman.”

As Damon stared with glowering disbelief, Reece turned to Anne. “Thank you, my lady, for defending me, but I will fight my own battles. Go, as he says, and leave me to do it.”

“Yes, go,” Benedict snarled, pushing her roughly away.

At that sight, Reece’s self-control snapped. He grabbed Benedict’s arm and yanked him back so hard, he nearly pulled the lout’s arm from its socket. “Let her alone, or by God, you’ll regret it!”

Benedict stumbled as Reece let him go, but he
quickly recovered, and his eyes gleamed with malice and glee, the look of a man who enjoyed brawling, or beating up women. “Think so?”

Reece nodded. “Oh, believe me, you will.”

Benedict held out his arms and gestured for him to approach. “Come on and try it then, cur.”

“Reece, behind you!” Anne screeched.

Before he could turn, Reece felt an unexpected, sharp pain in his side as Damon’s dagger slid along his rib. He fell to his knees and Benedict’s heavy fist struck his face as Anne let loose with a bloodcurdling scream.

V
oices. Whispering voices. Hushed words swirling about in the darkness.

Reece’s head ached as if a twenty pound sack of grain pressed upon it and his side felt as if it was pierced with a hot iron.

What the devil had…

The memories returned, dim at first, then rapidly growing clearer.

Lady Anne. Her brothers. No, half brothers. The agonizing pain in his side. Although he had only spoken to Lady Anne, he had been most foully and cowardly attacked from behind by Damon Delasaine.

The man was going to pay for that, and if he had harmed his innocent sister, Delasaine would pay even more. He had to get up and find out what had happened, as well as where the devil he was.

His eyelids cracked open. The beamed ceiling looked familiar and the stone walls… He was in the chamber in the king’s castle he was sharing with his
brothers, and it was very dimly lit. His eyelids fluttered closed again.

“Reece?”

That was the voice of his brother, Gervais.

“He’s awake.”

That was his youngest brother, Trevelyan.

“No, he’s not,” Gervais said in what was supposed to pass for a whisper. “He just groaned in his sleep.”

What time of day was it? Reece wondered as he tried to wet his dry lips to speak. He moved in preparation of sitting up, and the pain sliced through him, wrenching another groan from his desert-dry throat.

“I say he
is
awake and we should summon the infirmerer,” Trev whispered, his voice strained from more than the effort of keeping his naturally loud voice soft. “He said we should fetch him when Reece awoke.”

“We should wait until we’re sure,” the ever-cautious Gervais retorted. “I don’t want you to go running all over the castle for no reason.”

Reece opened his eyes again and put his hand on his side. He was bare chested, with a cloth wrapped about him. A bandage, obviously, and it was damp where the worst pain was. He looked down and saw the blood as he struggled to sit up.

Gervais gently pushed him down. “Keep still, brother,” he commanded with no attempt at a muted tone, his voice as firm as a general’s but with relief in it, too. “You’ve lost enough blood, and they punched you in the face, too, the louts.”

Yes, he remembered that, as anger swept through him, albeit accompanied by humiliation. He should have been more careful of Damon Delasaine and able to triumph over both them. Two on one shouldn’t have made a difference.

“Can you see?” Gervais asked.

Reece nodded and forced his thoughts away from his own anger and shame. “What happened to Lady Anne after they attacked me?”

Gervais didn’t answer right away. He came around the bed, leaned forward and lightly covered Reece’s left eye with the palm of his hand. “And now?”

“Yes. Lady Anne—?”

“Thank God!” Gervais said with a sigh as he moved back and sat on the cot. “We were afraid he’d blinded you in your right eye. How’s your head?”

“It hurts.” Reece reached out and grabbed Gervais’s arm. The lunge made him cry out at the sudden jab of pain from his side, but he asked his question with stern authority.
“What of Lady Anne?”

“Taken to her bed, or so her brothers claim,” Trev said from the foot of the cot, reminding Reece he was there.

He didn’t like the sound of that. Either she was avoiding people because she was embarrassed or ashamed, or she had another reason, such as a bruised body, to stay hidden away.

If her siblings had harmed her in any way, they would rue the day as soon as the wound in his side had healed enough for him to challenge them to com
bat, either singly or together. He would be more than prepared for their treachery now.

“Damn, Reece, let go! You’re going to break my arm.”

“Sorry,” he muttered as he released Gervais and lay back down, panting as the pain ebbed. “How long?”

“How long since they attacked you?” Gervais asked.

He nodded.

“It’s midmorning after.”

“Those damn Delasaines stabbed you in the back,” Trev said, his voice very loud in the quiet of the room.

Not exactly the back, Reece knew, although Damon’s blow had been cowardly just the same.

“By the time the king’s guards got there, you were out cold,” Trev continued.

Gervais regarded Reece with woeful sympathy, as if he were a sick baby. “Thank God the dagger ran along a rib, so no serious harm done. All you need is rest and time to heal. Don’t give the tournament another thought. There’ll be others.”

Reece stifled another groan, this time of disappointment and dismay. He had planned to distinguish himself at the king’s tournament. No chance of that now, thanks to the Delasaines.

“What about you?” he asked Gervais, who was also to be a competitor.

His brother shrugged. “As I said, there will be
plenty of tournaments to come. I wanted to stay with you.”

So both of their chances for honor and glory had been taken away.

“And it was a good thing he did, to stave off the rumors those Delasaines started to spread this morning,” Trev declared. “You won’t believe what they’re saying, those no-good, disgusting—”

“Leave it, Trev, until he’s more himself,” Gervais ordered.

Reece wasn’t in so much pain that he didn’t see the concern flit across Gervais’s face.

“What?” he demanded, once more trying to sit up. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t worry yourself about anything except healing,” Gervais commanded, again pushing him down, although not so gently this time. “We’ll deal with those blackguards.”

The Delasaines were his problem, not Gervais’s and certainly not young Trevelyan’s. “Leave them alone.”

“But Reece—”

“Until I am better.”

A look of understanding appeared in Gervais’s worried eyes. “Ah. You’ll have your own vengeance, is that it?”

Reece nodded, although vengeance was not precisely the term he would use for what he intended. A lesson was more like. The Delasaines’ anger might have been justifiable, but not the attack, or its sav
agery. He would instruct them on the concept of a punishment appropriate to the crime, one at a time. And if they had harmed one hair on Lady Anne’s head, they would learn another lesson.

Trev gasped. “By the saints, I should fetch the infirmerer!”

He didn’t wait for his older brothers to concur; he dashed from the room like a startled rabbit.

Regardless of Gervais’s attempts to hold him down, and despite the throbbing in his head, Reece finally managed to sit up. “Now, what exactly are the Delasaines saying?”

Gervais frowned, reminding Reece of their father when he was displeased. “I would rather we didn’t talk about this until you’re more yourself.”

“Tell me.”

“They’re saying you were…threatening…their sister.”

“Threatening?” That was bad enough. Unfortunately, he was certain, by Gervais’s tone, that there was more—or worse.

Gervais shrugged, as if the exact wording wasn’t important. “Attacking.”

“Attacking?”

Reece’s heart began to pound. That was a very serious charge indeed, yet one that would justify their “punishment,” and so the safest one for them. No one could assault a knight and not have to give a good reason. A simple breech of propriety was not nearly good enough.

Gervais’s expression held resignation, and a confirmation Reece did not really want to see. “Aye, that’s what they’re saying, to excuse what they did. Nobody believes—”

“The king?” Reece interjected, naming the one man whose opinion in this business truly mattered, the one man who had the power to reward or punish or accuse as he saw fit. “Surely Henry doesn’t believe it.”

“We haven’t heard what Henry thinks.” Gervais cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the Delasaines are related to Eleanor. Distantly, but related.”

That was not good news. She might back them simply for the sake of a family tie.

Reece leaned against the wall behind the cot and closed his eyes again. This was bad. Terrible. With one impulsive act he may have put his whole future in jeopardy.

All his life Reece had had one dream: to be in the king’s retinue, his inner circle, one of his trusted advisors. He could represent the minor lords whose ancestors did not come from the noble families of Normandy but whose forebears had more humble origins, winning their titles by skill and intelligence rather than solely by their birth. Now, by making enemies of relatives of the queen, he might have destroyed his chances.

Worst of all, if he had troubled himself to find out who the beauty was beforehand, he would have known
to steer very clear of her, and her vicious brutes of brothers.

“The French make no protest about the Delasaines’ accusation, of course, because of their relationship to Eleanor. Everyone else refuses to believe them. There have been several arguments already, and I think Blaidd Morgan’s been in three fist-fights.”

“Oh, God.”

“Aye, Reece, it’s not good—but they started it.”

“I started it,” Reece muttered. “I shouldn’t have followed her.”

“Harmless, that was.”

“Obviously, it was not.”

Gervais studied him closely, as if trying to read his thoughts. “It’s, um, not like you to talk to a woman you haven’t been introduced to, or even one you have, Reece.” He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair. “God’s wounds, brother, it’s not like you to talk to a woman at all, especially one as beautiful as that. What got into you?”

“I wish I could say it was the king’s wine,” Reece muttered, feeling the heat of a blush and recalling Blaidd’s teasing comments that made him want to squirm.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. He shrugged, then winced.

“You should have at least told us where you were going.”

Reece quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, and you and the
others would not have joked and teased and made sport of me all the more?”

Gervais wisely did not even try to disagree.

“I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.”

“Aye, but you cannot change it now. Still, Father isn’t going to be happy, and Mother will have a fit when she sees your face and hears you’ve been stabbed.”

Gervais always was a master of understatement. His father was going to think he had taken leave of his senses and acted like a fool. As for his wounds, his mother would want to examine him and fuss over him and generally make him feel about six years old.

He gingerly touched his swollen cheek, wondering how he looked. “Is it bad?”

“It’ll take a while for the swelling to go down, and you’ve bled in your eye, so it’s as red as a demon’s. The infirmerer says you should regain your strength soon enough, since you are—” Gervais assumed a learned, pompous air “—a healthy young man in the prime of life.” He resumed his normal manner. “Mother and Father will both be glad you’re not dead, of course, but I think maybe we should leave Anne Delasaine out of it when we tell them what happened.”

“How can we?”

“The important thing is that you were viciously attacked on a poor pretext.”

Reece shook his head. “I made a mistake, and there’s no point lying about it.”

“I’m not saying we should lie,” Gervais retorted, mightily affronted. “I’m simply suggesting that we leave the lady out of it.”

“What reason would you have me give for my beating? And unless you plan to muzzle everyone at court or swear them to secrecy, they will hear the truth eventually. It would be better if they heard it from me.”

Gervais’s brows lowered as he regarded his brother’s resolute face. “You won’t say you deserved it or some such nonsense?”

“The Delasaines were wrong to attack me as they did, but I was wrong to follow Lady Anne and speak to her alone. I will say that to anybody who asks or speaks of what happened.”

“Damn your honorable hide,” Gervais muttered as he plucked at Reece’s blanket. “I should have known better than to suggest anything less than the full and complete truth to you. Well, Father will make them sorry, whatever they say.”

Reece tensed. “This is for me to deal with, Gervais. My lesson to teach.”

Gervais’s brown eyes flared with bright understanding and a warrior’s approval. “I should have known you were going to say that, too.”

“Then you agree to let me deal with this matter as I see fit?”

Gervais got to his feet and bowed with a flourish. “As you command, my liege, thus it will be.”

“Good,” Reece mumbled, knowing he could trust
Gervais to keep his word, no matter how jestingly he spoke. “Make sure Trev understands this, too.”

“I will, brother, I will.”

Standing at the window of her chamber in the king’s castle assigned to her use during her family’s residence in Winchester, Anne watched the sun set. The rest of the night and a whole day had passed since she had encountered Sir Reece Fitzroy in the corridor.

Closing her eyes, she again saw Damon’s vicious, dishonorable blow. She had grabbed his arm and pulled him back, but he had shaken her off the way a dog might shake a rabbit. Thank God the king’s guards had arrived.

They had listened to Damon explain, aided by Benedict, as some of the other soldiers carried away an unconscious Sir Reece. Once she knew he was safe, and seeing her half brothers occupied, she had slipped away and fled to her chamber. She had not seen Damon or Benedict since, but someone had turned the key in the lock of the door to her chamber later that night, and she was imprisoned yet.

As the hours had slowly passed, she had hoped Sir Reece’s injuries were not life threatening. He had lost blood, the damp stain on his tunic evidence of that, and a terrible bruise had been forming beneath his eye the last time she had seen him.

She had remembered other things, too—the excitement most of all. She had never felt that way in her life and probably never would again. She doubted any
of her brother’s choices for a husband would be able to create even an instant’s desire or passion. Unfortunately, if Sir Reece survived—and please God, he must!—she was sure he would never want to have anything to do with her again.

How long Damon intended to keep her here without food or water she could not guess, but this was the king’s castle, not Montbleu, so her continued absence would be more difficult to explain. Surely they could not keep her here without food or water for much longer.