Authors: Jennifer Blake
What else could they do, after all? To continue south ward to face the wrath of the disappointed husband-to-be would be foolish. It was enough that they must report back to the bride’s relatives, Baron and Baroness Braesford, with their news.
No one was likely to follow after them then. There would be ample time to make himself known to the lady. Yes, and to discover what she made of it.
God, but she was fair to look upon, even with her hair covered by veiling. A few golden-brown tendrils escaped to curl in the damp air, accenting her delicately colored, fine-skinned face, while the dark pools of her eyes, as richly brown as the finest ale, carried every secret of womanhood. In her fine fabrics, vivid as the
sunset that stained the western sky, she was like something from another world, one he could never know. Yet she was a luscious armful, her slender curves a perfect fit against him. He had almost forgotten how soft a female form could be, how sweetly scented, how pliant…
Or mayhap not the last. She was clawing at his arm, twisting and turning in his hold while wheezing like a winded mule. She could not hurt him, nor could she escape him, as she must know, but that didn’t prevent her from—
An oath scorched his lips. He lowered his grasp to her waist, then tightened it again as she reeled in his hold, sobbing as she gasped for air. Allowing her just enough room to draw a whistling breath, he castigated himself for a fool unable to judge his own strength. Well, or one carried away by the triumph of having this woman in his power at last.
“What are you…doing, you great oaf?” she gasped. “Trying to murder me?”
“Never,” he answered at his most laconic.
She struggled upright, though without relaxing against him. “It seemed…otherwise to me!”
To that, he made no answer.
She swallowed, a movement he felt as much as heard above the thundering of hooves around him. “Where are you taking me?”
“Away.” He pulled her back against him and held her firm. After a moment, she realized how unbreakable was both his hold and his resolve and ceased her struggles, though she remained stiffly upright.
“Away from what? Away…away where?”
She sounded enraged. Now there was gratitude for you. “Away from the strutting fool chosen as your bridegroom. As to where, how should it matter?”
“It matters because I don’t know you!” She tried to turn her head to see his face, but her flapping veil and his helm made that impossible.
“You will,” he said, enjoying the way her bottom fit into the apex of his thighs, jouncing against him, the feel of her flat abdomen where his arm enfolded her, and yes, even the shiver that rippled through her at his touch, there at her abdomen where it was doubtful any other had trespassed.
She had taken his words as a threat. It was possible he had meant them that way.
“Besides,” he said, his voice a bass rumble in his chest, “how well did you know the man you were journeying to marry?”
“What has that to say to anything? Lord Halliwell had the favor of the king at the very least.”
“So Henry decided it was time you were wed.”
“’Twas certainly not my choice.”
“You meant to be a spinster the rest of your days?”
She tried to sit forward again. “What do you know of me, sir, that you can ask such a thing?”
She was quick, he thought, even as he exerted pressure to bring her back against him. “I know what I see.”
“Meaning I look the part, I suppose. In that case, I cannot imagine why you went to the trouble of taking me.”
“You mistake me. I meant nothing of the kind.”
“What did you—”
He went on without pause, his voice dulcet against
her ear. “And ’twas no trouble at all to take you, Lady Marguerite. As to why, mayhap you should think on it, think long and hard.”
If she answered, he did not hear. Nor did she speak again as the miles flowed beneath his destrier’s hooves. He did not make the mistake of thinking her resigned, however. He could almost hear the scurry of her thoughts, the half-formed plans to escape him when they were forced to stop or, at the very least, make him suffer for his daring. That she would try, given half a chance, he had no doubt. That she should succeed was something he could not permit. No, no matter how much he understood the instinct.
With him, she was marginally safe. Freed from his grasp, she would be a tender young hare dropped among slavering hounds.
She was, just possibly, too tender. She had commanded the men-at-arms with her to hold rather than fight him, preventing their efforts to save her. Any other lady he could name would have cowered behind their swords, though the blood of every one of them flowed to stain her skirts. Most telling of all, however, was that those hardened men-at-arms had obeyed her. He did not make the mistake of thinking it was from fear, whether of her or of Baron Braesford who paid their wage. No, it was a mark of their respect gained from watching her deal with fairness, kindness and generosity toward all who came within her reach inside her brother-in-law’s keep. He’d seen it before, long years ago.
The thud of hooves drawing close brought his head around on the instant. It was Oliver of Sienna, a companion of the tournaments who had become his squire
some six years back. His Italian friend did not speak or look at the lady, but only tilted his dark head to indicate a dim track that left the main road just ahead. It gave access, without doubt, to the position the squire had been sent to scout out for their retreat. As one, he and Oliver and the men behind them plunged into it, entering a dim green tunnel created by the interlaced branches of the trees that grew close upon the rutted way.
The sun had dropped below the horizon. Though twilight lingered, it scarcely penetrated this wood that had never felt axe or wedge, never heard the grunts and shouts of those who took timber for His Majesty’s ships or manor houses for nobles. Coolness crept from under the great limbs along with the dank smells of lichen, decaying leaves and bleached bones of animal kills. They swept deeper along it, the noise of their passage echoing both before and behind them until it seemed certain they were being pursued. No horsemen showed themselves, however.
In due time, the smell of wood smoke came to them on the cooling air. Small fires appeared. They multiplied, flickering in the gloom. A woodsman’s cottage, little more than a hut, stood silhouetted by their glow. Lantern light glimmered behind its rough shutters and smoke drifted from the opening in the thatched roof. Beyond it lay what had been a horse barn, with a low shed leaning against it meant to house pigs.
He pulled up before the cottage, while Oliver and the other men-at-arms cantered past to where the whiff of roasting pork drifted from the fires. The lady riding upon his thighs still said nothing, though her body
turned as stiff as a nun’s starched wimple as she sat staring at the primitive accommodation before her.
Irritation touched him. The cottage was no manse, no moat-encircled castle or nobleman’s ancient keep, yet it was clean, dry and safe. He had suffered far worse and no doubt would again. Lady Marguerite could bear it for one night.
“Why are we stopping here?” she asked finally, the words stifled in her throat.
What did she expect? A fast and lusty tupping followed by being shared among his men? Or was it only a straw mattress and shared blanket, with him to keep her warm in exchange for the right to discover what was under her skirts? He could find out soon enough, if he pleased.
The ache in his groin warned against the idea. It was entirely possible he would not be able to stop short of plundering the tender treasure he found.
Regardless, and against all reason, he was affronted that she could imagine it was possible.
“It is our lodging for the night, milady,” he said, his voice rigorously even.
“Ours.” The word held flat disdain.
“What would you? We must lie somewhere.” He could feel her quick, uneven breathing now that they were still.
“I prefer private quarters.”
“Without protection, and while sleeping among men-at-arms? Unwise, milady.”
“And you are to be my protection from them? Forgive me if that seems…less than satisfactory.”
There was defiance in that reply as well as in the set
of her shoulders, the lift of her head. He allowed himself a private smile. He did not want her cowed and afraid. “It’s how it will be.”
She gathered her veil to the side, turning her head to stare up at him in the gathering twilight. The dark slashes of her brows drawn together over her nose turned her frown into a scowl. The familiarity of that look smote him like a blow to the heart, and he was suddenly glad of the face and nose guard of his helm, which shielded his face from her view.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
He could put an end to her apprehension, might have except for some deep-felt need to gain acceptance in spite of it. It was unfair, mayhap, but there it was. “You know how I am called, I believe.”
“Oh, yes, the Golden Knight. The tales say many things, but I never heard that you make a habit of abducting females.”
“Nay. I am selective in those I snatch away to my encampment,” he drawled while enjoying the way her breasts rose and fell under her cloak with every breath she took, brushing his arms that enwrapped her.
“If it’s ransom you require, you should know that I am a ward of the king. He will pay if I am returned unharmed.”
It was a valiant effort, that suggestion. Too bad it was for naught. “You are certain?” he inquired with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “I’d heard Henry VII was a close man with his coin.”
“He has affection for my sisters, also a certain ob
ligation to our family from deeds useful to him in the past. He could be generous because of it.”
“Or not, as he has already been put to the expense of a dowry for you. Or did Lord Halliwell pay him for the great advantage of getting his hands on both you and your portion of your father’s estate?”
She was still for a long moment. “You know an uncommon lot about my affairs for one last heard of in France.”
“It is a subject of some interest.” The irony of that observation invaded his voice in spite of his guard against it.
“And why would that be? Have you gained all you desire except…except for a wife of wealth and good family?” A tremor shook her though she stilled it at once. “Is your purpose to force a marriage between us?”
“An interesting idea,” he conceded as he allowed his hand that pressed her abdomen to slip to her lower belly, just above the apex of her thighs. “How would you feel about it?”
She slapped a hand against his wrist, preventing him from pressing into the soft, warm depression he had discovered. “How do you imagine I would feel?”
“Gratified?”
“I despised the thought of marriage to a peer seen only once or twice in my life. Think you being tied to some strange knight would be more to my taste?”
“You might find it so,” he murmured close to her ear. Heat mounted to his head, burning under the metal of his helm, while the drawing sensation in his groin brought a stabbing pain worse than a battle wound. The fluttering of her belly muscles under his hand was so
intriguing he cursed his gauntlet that prevented fuller appreciation.
“Never!”
“Ah, well. ’Tis a prospect you need not face as marriage is not my aim.”
She swallowed, for he heard it plainly above the dull thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. “Then…”
It was time to end this, for the torment was not restricted to the lady in his arms. He made no answer, but shifted her forward to gain room. Swinging from the saddle, he eased her down and set her on her feet. He did not release her, but drew her with him toward the cottage door.
It opened as they neared it, spilling light out upon the leaf-strewn path they trod. A short figure stepped beneath the lintel, one that came nowhere near filling the low doorway. The lantern light behind her showed a miniature veil over fair hair that trailed near to the ground behind her, a tiny gown with a skirt scarce longer than a child’s, short, well-formed arms and hands, yet the face and torso of a woman full grown.
“Lady Marguerite, at last!” the dwarfed lady exclaimed as she tottered toward them. “What joy to see you safely brought here! Aye, and that no harm has come to the gallant knight who rode to your rescue!”
“Astrid…”
The name was a whisper as the lady at his side stumbled to a halt, dragging against his hold. The color in her face drained away then surged up again with flame-kissed redness. Slowly, she turned to face him, spoke in stunned accents. “You have Astrid. She is here, here with you.”
“As you see.” Her amazement should have pleased him. Instead, it was near unbearable.
“Who are you, sir? Who are you in truth?”
He closed his eyes an instant, oddly reluctant to satisfy that question. Still, it could be delayed no longer. Releasing Lady Marguerite, he reached up and unfastened his helm and steel mesh coif, drawing them off slowly over his head. He tucked both under his arm, squared his shoulders and faced her.
M
arguerite stared at the sun-bleached gold of the knight’s hair that was darkened in streaks by sweat, the rich blue of his eyes, the regular features that followed exact Greek proportions for male beauty. He had a scar in one eyebrow which gave it a slight ironic lift, and his nose had been broken at some time in the past so it had a slight hump in the middle. These small imperfections merely added a rugged, almost dangerous allure. He was taller than the doorway beyond them and had the muscled shoulders earned by a master of the broadsword, while about him, like a comfortable cloak, hung an air of natural command. Facing her, he waited, features grave, his well-formed mouth unsmiling.
Marguerite’s heart tripped in her chest, accelerating to a suffocating beat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely think.
“Milady,” Astrid said in scolding incomprehension, placing her tiny hands on her hips. “Do you not know him?”
Marguerite stirred, shaking herself from her odd reverie. Yes, of course she knew him. How could she not?
“David,” she whispered.
“My Lady Marguerite.” His gaze held hers as he made that solemn acknowledgment.
How different he was from the boy she had once known. It was not just that he was older, taller, broader, stronger, but as if the very essence of him had changed. It seemed an alchemist had burned away all warmth and tenderness, forging him into something harder and brighter than he had been before.
The Golden Knight
.
He was a stranger.
And yet. And yet, not quite.
For long moments, he stood unmoving. Then he went to one knee before her, his armor creaking in its metal joints and his cloak settling in deep folds around him. With one gauntleted fist clanging against his cuirass over his heart, he bent his head, exposing the strong column of his neck where the curling gold of his hair grew thick at his nape.
“Ah, David.” It was insupportable, that gesture of homage. She sank down in front of him, reaching to touch the chain mail that covered his bent knee. “You received my summons after all.”
“Astrid found me something over a month ago and a far journey away, almost to the Aegean Sea.”
“I had given up hope, thought you dead or else that you had forgotten…”
His head came up, though something guarded remained in his expression. “Forget you? Never, my lady.”
He had remembered. The astonishment of it, and the pleasure, swelled her chest until she could hardly speak. “It has been a long time, so very long.”
“An endless age,” he said in simple agreement, “each year the span of a life.”
Consciousness of his size and his strength struck her again as she ran her gaze over his shoulders, his chest under his tunic embroidered with an odd device almost like a crown of thorns. She moistened her lips. “You…it seems you have done well. We heard you were following the tournaments, had taken a nom de guerre, but never dreamed you had gained such fame.”
“No. Why should you,” he said, cutting across all mention of his renown.
“You might have sent word to Braesford that you had become this Golden Knight.”
He lifted a shoulder with the quiet rattle of its steel mesh covering. “It was nothing much to boast of as a title, being based on the French king’s whim and a pretty suit of armor. I only kept it as I had none of my own.”
“Oh, but…”
“I was a bastard called David at the will of the good sisters who reared me, milady,” he said, his features like iron. “Though I styled myself David of Braesford when I became squire to Sir Rand, I had no surname then and have none now.”
The facts of his birth might be true enough, but he had proven himself over and over during the time he’d lived at Braesford Hall. Though some few years older than Marguerite, he had served as friend, companion and self-appointed protector on her rambles over the vast estate. He had been Sir Randall of Braesford’s good right hand, had won a knighthood for defending Henry VII and protecting the king’s standard in battle. His lack
of a known father mattered so little to Marguerite that she seldom thought of it.
It had mattered to him. It seemed that it did still.
Astrid, standing in the doorway, took two steps toward them. “Milady? Sir?”
Marguerite paid no attention to the little serving woman as she studied the face of the man before her.
“You used your fame to overawe my escort,” she said on a note of discovery. “That was well done. Yet you might simply have come to Braesford when you reached England. Sir Rand and my sister Isabel, also Cate and her Scotsman husband, would have been glad to welcome you, to show you the fine broods of children they are rearing.”
“Come to Braesford?” A shadow passed over his face. “What is there for me? Sir Rand, Baron Braesford, has no use for my sword while peace reigns.”
“You are more to him, more to all of us, than a sword,” she protested.
“Beyond that,” he continued without pause, “descending on Braesford for your rescue would surely have involved Sir Rand. To cause bad blood between him and the king would be unworthy.”
“Yes,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “I suppose that would not have done.”
“Besides, you might have decided I was too laggard, after my delay in arriving, might even have changed your mind about being wed.”
“Hardly that!”
He watched her, his eyes darkly blue, giving nothing away. “Why not? Many a woman has married where commanded in hope of children as her reward.”
She shook that away with a small movement of her head. “I was content to remain in my sister’s household, to be fond aunt to her little ones. I would be there still but for Henry’s decree. But you must indeed have duties elsewhere, have lands, castles, people and men-at-arms dependent upon you. It was wrong of me to take you from them.”
His smile was grim. “You had every right, Lady Marguerite. There was a vow between us.”
“You remember that, too.”
“Aye,” he answered, his voice deep and sure. “I vowed to defend you with the last drop of my life’s blood, to serve you in all things as a knight should serve his lady, to protect you, holding you in chaste reverence, keeping you forever pure in my heart. ’Twas the day I rode away to battle. How could I forget?”
“So do I recall,” she answered, her voice not quite even. It had taken her breath away, that solemn oath given as he knelt before her. She had relived it in a thousand dreams, thrilled to the touch of his hands upon hers, the blaze of exultation in his eyes, the nobility of his sentiments. She had revisited it in daydreams, touched somewhere deep inside that she did not care to examine, though uncertain she was worthy of the honor. Yes, and while half suspecting the sentiments were too exalted by half.
“Ah,” he whispered.
Her smile trembled at the edges. “We…we were young, and you have traveled far from that time, far from Braesford’s great hall where the pledge was given.”
“Still I am bound by it, and will ever be so.”
Was that all? Had he answered her summons from
no more than the obligation of honor? She had no right to think anything else or to expect it. Yet she had, she had.
“Milady?” Astrid said again.
Marguerite glanced at her small henchwoman, then back to David. “In spite of it, you never came back,” she said, shielding her eyes with her lashes, aware of a trace of accusation in her voice that she had not intended.
“To be squire to Sir Rand was no longer possible or necessary after I was knighted, and I had my way to make in the world.” He tilted his head. “And you? You were never tempted to take any other man as husband?”
“The offers that came my way did not suit.”
“Did they not?”
She wished she could be nonchalant about it, but that was impossible. “Not that there were so many, given the reputation of the curse of the Graces. Henry let me be, mayhap out of gratitude for past aid from my family or, more likely, because I slipped his mind, being so seldom in his sight except for the occasional court visit. That was until this past winter. His decree ordering me to marry came without rhyme or reason.”
“You first sent for me at that time.”
“Soon enough, as it began to look as if Lord Halliwell, my erstwhile groom, would remain hale and hardy despite the curse.” She shook back her veil. “I sent far and wide, a dozen messages, two dozen and more, though all for naught. It was Astrid who suggested she should go after you, to seek the road you traveled.”
“’Twas a tavern where I found him,” Astrid said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You should have seen her when she approached me,
a miniature gentleman with her hair wound up inside a hat big enough for her to sleep under, strutting about in doublet and hose as if ten feet tall. I thought her mad when she flung herself upon my lap and would not get down.”
Astrid gave a screech. “You thought what?”
“You will admit it looked odd in your male garb.” David threw her a crooked smile. “I did listen when you began to whisper in my ear.”
“And set forth to come to me,” Marguerite said, refusing to be deflected. “You are here, even if you did terrify me.” Her gaze darkened as she recalled other things he had done, other liberties he had taken while she was in his arms.
“Your pardon, milady, but it was necessary. I preferred you not know me while in earshot of your escort, not identify me too soon.”
She took his meaning, though in her opinion it did not explain all. “No, I would not have you become an outlaw over this business.”
He shifted a shoulder in a deliberate movement that sent golden glimmers over the engraving at the neck of his cuirass. “That part matters not.”
“It might, should Henry learn what you have been about. Yes, and discover this encampment. But what’s to do now?”
To return her to Braesford would be useless, she saw easily enough, as Henry would likely send after her again with a larger company of men-at-arms as her wedding escort. Such a troop could not be barred from entry, for Henry might then lay siege to the manse and its pele tower as an example. That would endanger
Rand, Isabel and their children, as well as their people and holdings. Rand might feel it worth the risk, but David seemed determined to avoid it.
What else had she expected, however, when she sent Astrid after him as her messenger?
She hardly knew, in all truth. It had been an instinct based on the safety she had always felt in his company, aligned to unconscious faith in his pledge to serve her. Or mayhap she did know, but cared not admit it even to herself. She had hoped David might make a stealthy return, after which there could be a quiet wedding that would forever bar her marriage to Lord Halliwell. The friendship between them would have made any solution more bearable than the alternative.
She must have been dreaming, still.
“For now, we eat,” Astrid said in interruption, a fierce scowl on her small face that dared them to disagree. “The soup is hot and I hate when it grows cold. Besides, the ground is damp, and the two of you look ridiculous kneeling there when you could be inside where it’s warm.”
She was privileged to say such things because she was one of the Little People, and had been with Marguerite for nine long years. Once assigned to Elizabeth of York as the Queen’s Fool, she had been riding on a pleasure barge that capsized in a sudden storm during the entertainment for Henry’s second royal year. Marguerite had been on the same barge and gone into the water with everyone else. She’d fought her way to a floating ale barrel, then, seeing the doll-like person sinking under the waves, reached out and snatched her to safety. Henry, applauding the rescue, said that Mar
guerite, having saved Astrid’s life, must be responsible for her forthwith.
Astrid had been thankful to be quit of court life, of the need to perform every moment of her day, to watch her every word and be eternally watchful against cruel jests. A tempestuous creature too small to punish, she was used to having her way. She soon routed Gwynne from her tasks as Marguerite’s serving woman, taking these upon herself. She served Marguerite at table, overseeing every bite she ate. She entertained her upon the lute while she sewed in the solar, and was her close confederate in her more daring larks and outings. So determined was she in her guardianship that it sometimes seemed she felt Marguerite belonged to her rather than the other way around.
She ladled soup into carved wooden bowls and put them in front of Marguerite and David, placed a round, dark loaf on the deal table that sat in one corner, added beakers of water and then joined them. They ate in silence for long moments. Marguerite was hungry as she’d taken only dry bread and a slice of cold beef early that morning. She could feel her strength and her spirits reviving as she enjoyed chunks of bread dipped into the rich soup. She looked up after a moment, making ready to question David further about her future.
He was not eating. Instead, he gazed at her with his bread hanging forgotten from his fingers and a suspended look on his face. He met her eyes an instant before his lashes came down, shuttering his expression. Muttering something about seeing his men were supplied with food, he picked up his wooden dish and vanished into the night.
Marguerite stared after him with a frown gathering between her eyes. She turned to Astrid. “Has he been like this since you came upon him?”
“Worse,” Astrid answered while using a bit of bread crust to chase a beef chunk around the bottom of her bowl. “He drove his men so hard I was astonished there was no rebellion. As it was, a quarter of them fell by the wayside before we reached Calais.”
“It must have been a hard journey for you,” Marguerite said with a sympathetic wince.
“Not so bad.” She lifted a small shoulder. “Sir David found a pony for me that was much better for my short legs than my rouncey from Braesford. Then being in hose and doublet, I was able to avoid a sidesaddle.”
Marguerite looked down at her bowl, and then pushed it away. With the edge of her hand, she wiped bread crumbs from the table, watching them fall to the packed earth floor. Clearing her throat, she spoke in careful neutrality. “Did David chance to say what he meant to do with me once he had me in his keeping?”