A strong hand gripped the back of her head, pulled her forward. That close, she saw his eyes weren’t flat gray, but clear, layered like a winter pond winking with ice. They were silver.
“To…kiss…a nun,” came the outrageous reply before his lips met hers.
The brush of his warm mouth robbed her breath for an instant. Then she snapped back with a gasp. And, with in-born reflex, slapped him. His head jerked, his eyes closed, and he lay motionless.
“Oh, Sweet Mary,” Emelin whispered, “I’ve killed him.” Leaning close, she saw his narrow, beautifully molded lips relax. His mouth curved at the corner.
At least he died with a smile on his face.
****
First, Giles heard oxen clopping and horses blowing, metal rattling and leather creaking, a male voice cursing the road. Then he felt the jolt and sway of his bed, the throb of pain. Not bad as pain went. God knew he’d suffered worse. At least he could feel his legs and feet, his arms. The pounding was in his head.
Merde
! If he could just think.
He knew one thing. He was damned tired of misplacing consciousness this day.
His hand bumped something soft. It was lifted into a gentle warm grasp and placed on a rough-covered cushion. No. A lap. A woman’s lap. That was all right then. He inhaled. Above the lingering scent of his own blood wafted the light fragrance of flowers and a mysterious aroma he couldn’t mistake. Yes, he smelled a woman.
“Can you speak, sir?” A voice drifted, soft as peacock feathers, rich as beaten cream. He’d answer, but his mouth refused to operate. At least his mind had cleared.
He’d been attacked, taken unaware like the veriest babe. He should be grateful for the rescue, but his pride stung worse than his wounds. Bested by a mere handful.
The rescue party included a lady. A pretty one, at that. For a moment he’d thought himself in heaven when he opened his eyes to see her hovering above. Nor was she a nun as he’d teased her, but damned close. She wore the dark homespun of convent-coarse wool, and her face had glowed from an all-encompassing wimple. It was a striking face. Nose and cheeks dusted with golden-brown flecks, and a chin that was definitely determined.
He’d had an overpowering urge to free the lush lower lip caught between her teeth and suck it into his own mouth. But all he’d managed was a quick press of lips.
She’d slapped him! How could he have forgotten that? She had callously struck an injured man. Vicious piece! He wanted to laugh, but he hurt too much.
So then. Set upon a day from his destination. But for what reason? He’d been careful leaving Normandy. He’d not lived the life of a mercenary without learning to evade detection. But he’d been over-confident, damn his foolish arrogance.
Mercadier had told him the king’s message was written by Richard himself, and only the three of them knew of its existence. Someone lied. It wasn’t Mercadier. Giles bet his life on his friend and commander’s word far too often not to trust it. The king? Someone close who overheard?
Six fully armed assailants. Someone wanted him dead.
Someone didn’t want that message delivered.
With a surreptitious pat, he found his sword had been tossed in beside him. He grasped its hilt. There, armed again. The slight movement sent white specks across the black sky of closed eyelids. But he forced them open. Uttering a stifled grunt, he eased up on an elbow. Not much pain. Mostly he felt stiff.
His motion caught the attention of his little not-nun, and she turned. “You suffered a sharp blow to your head. Lie down, now.” Her soft tone carried unmistakable command.
Giles snorted. “Yes, captain.” He allowed her to guide his throbbing head back onto the folded cloak. Her fingers settled on his shoulders, the whisper of pressure through layers of fabric and armor oddly comforting. Her hands lifted too soon but lingered just above his cheek.
“Do you remember how you came to be here?” Her manner was gentle but firm, as if she addressed a child.
“Of course,” he said. “Outlaws attacked me, but your men came to the rescue.” His voice sharpened. “What happened to those outlaws?” He wanted to talk to any that lived.
“Three of them escaped, but three are dead.”
“And my horse. Did you bring it?”
“We found no spare mount.”
“Nuit must be here. He’d never run.” Giles started to rise again, but her surprisingly strong grip discouraged any movement.
“I’ll ask about your horse in a moment.” She peered at him, frank, assessing. “Where are you bound?”
The question caught him by surprise. He didn’t intend to reveal either of his missions. Still, if she lived near his destination, she might be of help.
“I’m visiting a friend, Lord Henry of Chauvere. Do you know him?”
She rested against the cart’s side, her luscious lips in a reminiscent curve. “I have heard of him. Years past, I knew his sister, before…before I went to St. Ursula. But I’ve no word since. We are some distance from Chauvere, I believe. Sir Humphrey will know.”
Before Giles could reply, she called to the little group’s leader. “Sir Humphrey, does the road pass near Chauvere? This knight seeks Lord Henry.”
“Too far out of our way, that,” the commander allowed, guiding his horse alongside. “Chauvere’s a day’s ride. Likely meet him at Langley, though. Lord Osbert’s invited half the countryside to the wedding.”
Langley. A chill crept down Giles’ back. Satan’s balls! They were on the way to Langley for a wedding. It couldn’t be the same Osbert. His head pounded like a mallet on stone. After all this time, to come all this way, he’d be delivered to the devil. In a cart.
Bitter laughter ended in a cough. So the bastard was planning to wed again. He’d buried two wives already. The third didn’t stand a chance.
He glanced at the lady beside him. “You are to attend the bride?”
“I
am
the bride. Lady Emelin of Compton.”
“Congratulations, my lady.” He nearly choked on the words. His gut burned at them. “Have you been betrothed long?”
She shook her head, a blank stare of inattention on her hem. “My brother arranged the marriage recently.” She gestured to her rough gown. “Quite recently, as you might imagine.”
A sunbeam fell across her eyes. She brushed a hand in front of her face to block the light. In the angle of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, he glimpsed uncertainty. It disappeared in a blink, but he fisted his hand against an urge to reach out. He couldn’t explain this compulsion to touch her.
“I have heard of a Lord Osbert of Langley. But he was older, with children grown.” He looked away, forcing his voice into calm disinterest at the leading lie.
“Then you know more of my future husband than I do.” Her voice sounded rueful. “I was told only that his last wife died young, and he was in need of an heir.”
The same man
. Bitter hatred tasted sweet on his tongue. Who could have predicted such an unexpected turn?
Duty to the king be damned. Giles could finish his personal mission now, deliver the message to Henry later. The temptation was great. But acting quickly would not allow him to savor his revenge. He’d abide by the original plan. Soon, however, he’d confront Langley.
Then.
“Ah, not the same man.” Those who knew him would recognize the flat tone and begin to arm themselves. “Later, if we don’t come across Lord Henry, you can provide me direction to Chauvere. I’ll be grateful.”
The lady inclined her head.
****
Emelin watched the knight examine the countryside. The air of ease he adopted was deceptive. Injured, covered in dirt and blood, he still appeared dangerous. Beneath the bulk of light mail jacket, he was lean but broad-shouldered. Prominent veins mapped his muscular hands, and his long fingers were callused but well-shaped.
He must be a stranger to the country. His speech was Norman French, as was that of the lords here, but carried an accent she couldn’t identify.
Why was he in England, alone, vulnerable to brigands? Surely he knew better than to travel unattended. The inflexible set of his jaw warned he was not given to thoughtless behavior. Even at rest he seemed poised for action.
“You were separated from others of your party?” She almost winced when her words popped out. Mother Gertrude had tried so hard to curb Emelin’s curiosity. Or at least the frequency with which she voiced it. Still. How would she know if she didn’t ask?
His head turned, and she gazed into icy silver pools. Hot tingles danced across her skin. Then two things happened: a back wheel dropped into a hole and her hand flew to her throat. The rough lurch sent Emelin forward, her elbow jabbing into the injured knight’s chest.
A muffled oath was the only indication he felt the contact. Before she could straighten, those strong, beautiful hands she’d admired moments earlier curled around her waist, set her upright.
Her jaws locked in mortification. Warmth crept up her neck, into her cheeks. It was nothing compared to the sensation at her sides. A blacksmith’s iron burned cooler than the white hot brands left by his fingers.
“Your lord husband’s road could do with a bucket of dirt to smooth the way,” the knight said as he rested against the cart’s side once more. Calm. Unaffected. Unlike the bumping of her heart.
She’d like to douse him in water. He’d react to that.
Oh, no. Even her thoughts were turning rebellious. “I’m so sorry,” she said, jabbing her hands in her lap. “I hope I didn’t injure you more.”
“Not at all.” He nodded behind her. “Is that our destination?”
She twisted to look. “I’ve never seen Langley before. But it must be.” She glanced back. “How do you feel?”
His gaze caught hers. “How do
you
feel?”
Emelin’s stomach knotted. Her palms itched with nervousness. For the last hours, she’d concentrated on the injured man. Now, her new life lay just ahead.
She wasn’t as resigned as she should be. Foolish, Mother Gertrude called her apprehension. Many ladies met their husbands on their wedding day, the abbess had pointed out. Several times.
Emelin
would
be happy for this marriage.
“I’m pleased.” Her tone wouldn’t convince a child. She swallowed, tried again. “This is what I’ve always longed for. A home, family. They are every woman’s dream, are they not?”
Her teeth gripped her lower lip. She wanted to shout, “I hate it. I hate that I have no say in my life. I hate that my brother can sell me like a cow.” Instead, she turned to gaze ahead. Serenely. She hoped.
What in God’s blessed name had Garley been thinking when he agreed to Langley’s offer? Emelin’s soft snort was unladylike as she answered her own question. What he always thought of—Garley.
“You said your brother arranged for the betrothal?”
His question returned the steel to her spine. She nodded.
“When did he tell you?”
“He didn’t.” The calm that angered her earlier in the knight now served to cushion her. “Lord Osbert’s captain, Sir Humphrey, brought my brother’s message yesterday. I have not seen nor spoken with him for five years.”
Since Stephen disappeared on crusade. Since Garley rid himself of an unwanted dependent. Since he confined her to the convent.
“We did not part on the best of terms.”
The knight didn’t speak again, and she didn’t look at him, afraid she might see pity. She didn’t need pity. She was through with pity. She’d thought herself through with her brother, too.
But he remembered her existence readily enough when money jangled before his nose. The note delivered to her made that clear. The words burned in her mind.
Sister,
his steward had written, for Garley could not,
I have at last found a use for you. Lord Osbert of Langley has need of an heir and I have assured him you will provide one. As the daughter of a proven breeder
—how she hated for him to speak of their mother that way—
you will give him many sons. This is your last chance. It’s a better one than you deserve.
So she’d packed her bag and set out for her new life. No illusions were tucked away amidst her scant garments. For another line from her brother’s message assured her that the groom
has offered to overlook your deficiencies of face, figure, and marriage portion. So keep your tongue in your head and be thankful
.
She
was
grateful for an answer to her secret dream. And perhaps one day, she
could
thank Garley. But not today.
The rest of the short journey continued in silence. Better that way, Emelin decided. She slanted one last gaze at the man beside her, felt the same strange energy reach out. It must be the unusual warmth of the sun, the unexpected excitement after so many dull years.
It was not the knight.
It must not be the knight.
As they drew closer to the curtain wall, rattling metal signaled the portcullis being raised. Emelin lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Mother Mary,” she whispered, “be with me.”
****
Giles’ silence hid a banked fury. His little nun didn’t deserve such cruel and thoughtless treatment. No lady, no female did. Her brother needed to learn consideration. Perhaps he, Giles, might point it out before he returned to Normandy.