After he killed Osbert of Langley.
Hatred dulled his every ache. Of all places for attack. Right outside the very holding that drew him to England.
His little nun’s God had a grim sense of humor. He glanced at the lady.
Her lush lips wedged between her teeth again; her wary eyes widened. Then her chin lifted, and her shoulders firmed. Like a warrior preparing for battle. His warrior-nun.
Well, good luck to her. God knew she’d need it, wed to Lord Osbert. The third wife. A pity for such a spirited lady to throw away her life like this.
No, she wouldn’t be forced to do so. After Giles completed his task, she would be free of the man. The perfect wedding gift. But right now, she’d draw blood if she gripped her lower lip any harder.
The tip of her tongue flicked that lip, and Giles forgot revenge. His aching muscles coursed with desire, and he longed to sooth her mouth with his own.
His cock jerked. At least one part of his body wasn’t bruised. Just as well their destination loomed near. Lady Emelin of Compton was not for someone like him. A bastard mercenary with no home.
The knowledge didn’t stop his wanting.
He turned a warrior’s eye back to the castle. It hunkered on a slight hill, the top of the old square keep peering over a curtain wall that meandered around the whole like the stagger of a drunken lord. Both keep and wall boasted stone the color of old bones. No defensive ditch in evidence, but a good half-league of open space stretched in the three directions he could see. They approached through the only trees in sight, on a road arrowed toward the now-open gates.
If he owned it, Giles would see a trench dug, filled with sharpened stakes and ready for oil. The rock walls could withstand a fire if enemies attacked. Better that, than slimy, stagnant water. He hated a moat. Nasty, stinking mess.
The wagon at last rattled past triple metal-studded gates, through a narrow passage into the bailey. A bailey lined with enough soldiers to celebrate an attack not a wedding. What could a peaceable baron intend with so many fighters?
Awaiting them stood a gray-haired man whose solid shoulders were matched by his solid girth. Shaggy gray brows pulled together as he eyed their approach. The attitude of the small crowd gathered around left no doubt as to his identity.
So this was the man he hunted. The man he swore to kill. Giles imposed his iron will on the emotion clamoring for release. This moment called for quiet reason.
He searched for something familiar in the craggy face, the sharp blue eyes, the implacable jaw.
Nothing.
Langley stood with hands propped on hips, chin thrust out. As the oxen clopped to a stop, he strode forward.
“There you are,” his voice boomed. “Let me see my bride!” He reached in, grabbed Lady Emelin and lifted her to the ground.
He frowned.
He squeezed her waist.
He growled.
His big hands shoved to her hips and gripped.
“What’s this? Your brother promised me a plain and sturdy bride. Not some frail beauty.” He stepped back to look her up and down. She seemed frozen in place, her expression one of disbelief.
“I expected a woman with some flesh to her. By God, you’d best be breeding in a fortnight, or I’ll send you back. Wait.” His wild gray brows lifted. “You are Lady Emelin, aren’t you? Sir Humphrey, did you bring the right female?”
Her cheeks flamed, throwing her freckles into relief, but she remained motionless. Even at that distance, Giles sensed her humiliation. His fingers curled around the hilt of the sword; his jaw twitched. He quelled the drive to leap out in her defense. A deep breath—two. Knotted muscles relaxed.
Not now. Now was not the time.
The little warrior-nun faced Lord Osbert. “I’ve come from a convent, not court, my lord.” Her voice was deadly placid. “It’s difficult to maintain flesh on hard work and convent food. If you’re dissatisfied, I can leave.”
She turned to the wagon, head lowered. Then she raised it; anger, not humiliation, sparked her eyes as they met Giles’.
A connection jolted through him, a lightning bolt of affinity. There, behind her anger, lurked uncertainty and the flicker of an emotion he recognized all too well. Loneliness.
“Here,” Lord Osbert shouted, “what do you think you’re doing? The wedding is set. The guests are arriving. Come along, my lady. I’ll have to make do.”
She blinked, and the bond with Giles broke. Chin lifted, hands fisted, she turned. Lord Osbert glared, arms akimbo.
“You’ve got spirit,” he grumbled. His lips curled back. “I don’t like spirit. My second wife had spirit. See what it got her. A cold, watery grave because she wouldn’t listen when I said the bridge was weak. Your brother guaranteed a docile maiden who would give me no trouble.”
She tilted her head at Lord Osbert as he blustered. At last she nodded, lips set, one eyebrow arched. “Then I will try to be the wife you deserve, my lord.”
Chapter Two
In the commotion of the bride’s arrival, no one noticed the battered knight in the wagon. That suited Giles. He looked around unhampered. Servants and a few pages, those who could muster an excuse for being in the area, clustered at one side. Guards stood at intervals around the bailey.
A handful of other soldiers and knights cast a last glance at the entourage, likely verifying no threat accompanied their comrades, then headed around the keep. Giles made out shouts and the clatter of weapons coming from that direction. The training yard.
He wondered again at the large troop. But if guests had already assembled, the guards accompanying them could account for the numbers.
Ahead, the still-ranting Lord Osbert stalked to Sir Humphrey. Giles’ gaze sharpened beneath eyelids that had begun to lose puffiness. After all these years. After all the wondering, the searching. The hating. At last the lying seducer would pay for his crime.
He fought an urge to rub his chest where the medallion lay beneath a packet containing the king’s message. What if he tore that pendant from his neck and threw it at the old lord? What would the man do then?
Now is not the time. Wait for the right moment.
First, Giles must deliver the thrice-damned letter to Lord Henry. Then—then he’d be free to seek vengeance, to kill the man who fathered him.
He lounged against the side of the wagon, gathering strength, willing the drum in his head to stop. He needed to find a horse and continue the journey. Strange that the well-trained Nuit had vanished. The loyal gelding would never have gone on its own.
Mount and master had formed a bond during the past three years. Giles bought the mistreated colt earlier from a whip-happy dealer who trained his animals with violence.
Bought was, perhaps, the wrong term, although he “paid” the man the night he liberated the horse, then freed all the others penned up for sale the following day.
Giles hated a bully.
His attention swung back to Osbert. Overbearing men like the lord of Langley often were bullies. Had the man bullied
Mère
? Giles remembered his mother, Rosaline, as a fragile, loving presence, who never lost faith in the lying bastard.
Yet now, in the midst of his anger, Giles experienced a strange transformation. Looking at the man he knew as his father, the lava of hatred cooled. Pooled into hard, icy resolve.
If he’d learned anything during his years in Mercadier’s mercenaries, it was patience.
Sir Humphrey muttered to Lord Osbert, and they looked toward him at the same time. The lord strode to the cart.
“My captain tells me you were set upon by a half-dozen men, but he routed them.” Osbert’s meaty fists gripped the side of the wagon. “Do you know why you were attacked?”
Giles looked up. How easy to raise his sword, bury it in the old man’s chest. Too easy. The consequences wouldn’t be to his liking. He had no intention of dying alongside his father.
Out of sheer habit, his control took over. “Brigands, looking for an easy mark.” He shrugged, then related his carefully crafted story of a visit to an old friend.
“Can you provide me a mount to continue?” he ended. “I’ll return it, of course.”
Those heavy gray eyebrows gathered in a frown. Osbert rubbed the side of his neck. “Don’t have any to spare. Where’s yours? Killed was it?”
“No,” Giles answered, his voice low, laced with polite venom. “Your man said no other horses were around when he arrived.”
Sir Humphrey nodded. “Right. Must’ve spooked in the fight.”
Giles’ level gaze never wavered. What fool believed a trained horse bolted in battle? The words he longed to fling stilled on his tongue. Years of training taught him, a knight who spoke little provoked an enemy into incautious action.
“Wait, now.” The lord straightened. “Didn’t…”He glanced around then bellowed, “Davy! Davy in the stables!”
Turning back he said, “I remember the stable master reporting a stray horse earlier today. What did yours look like?”
“Black.” Bedamned if he’d say more. Giles climbed to the ground. His muscles were stiff, his arm hurt like Hades, and one eyelid felt crusted with blood. Jaw set, he turned toward the stables. His spine popped as he stretched. Holy Hell, his ribs ached.
A scrawny youth scurried up, sending dirt divots ahead of his gangling feet. “Milord?”
“Was there a stray mount found outside before midday?”
“Yes, milord. A big, strong black ’un.” The youth flipped aside straw-colored bangs.
Lord Osbert’s mouth disappeared into his moustache. “Good sturdy horse, you say?”
“And a devil ’e is, too.” Davy nodded. The ragged bangs slid back to tickle his nose. He puffed them aside. “Kicked my brother when all Tom did was tap ’im with a whip to get ’im in the stall.”
“You whipped my horse?” Giles’ quiet voice dripped menace.
Defiant eyes stared up at him. “Well, an’ ’ow would you’ve made ’im go where ’e didn’t want to?”
Lord Osbert stepped forward, hands lifted. “There’s no proof that horse is yours.”
“My pack was behind the saddle.”
A cunning look crossed the other man’s face. “There wasn’t a pack on that stray animal, was there, Davy?”
The boy didn’t bother to answer.
“A stranger can’t just claim any mount he likes. I’ll take a look at him and see if he might be yours.”
“I’ll come along.” Giles wasn’t about to wait outside for the inevitable lie.
The lord led the way, Davy hopping along behind. Alert for any movement from the guards lining the bailey, Giles followed.
The close heat of the stables caught at his nose as he walked down the rows of stalls. Horses popped their heads up over the gates, tossing manes and snuffling. Although the smell of manure and warm hay was strong, the place was remarkably clean. Langley got credit for that, if nothing else.
At last they reached the back where the stray had been placed. Arms crossed on his chest, Lord Osbert observed the large gelding. It stood, muscles trembling, and eyed him in return.
“Good looking animal,” he allowed. “Seems calmed down now. Of course, there are many black horses around. This one’s got no other markings; don’t see how you can claim it.”
He turned, squinted his eyes to see Giles in the shadows where he stood. “Now that I think on it, I might have one to lend until you come back this way. There’s Jonah I could spare.”
Davy’s snicker confirmed Giles’ mental picture of Jonah. “Bring the black outside,” he said. “I can identify him there.”
At the sound of Giles’ voice, the gelding tossed his mane and whickered. For a moment it seemed Lord Osbert would refuse. At last his head bobbed in a nod. Keeping his distance, Davy slipped the bar free, then leaped back. The gate swung open, and the horse ambled out.
Giles went ahead into the bailey. There, still beside the wagon where her eager betrothed had deserted her, stood his little warrior-nun. Even garbed in that drab clothing, she looked like a rose among rocks.
Their eyes met. An unfamiliar warmth welled through his veins. In the large and noisy home of his enemy, he relished a moment of connection. Then she blinked, and the sense of recognition evaporated.
Don’t be a fool,
he chided himself.
He turned to watch the others stalk forward, followed by the black. He smiled.
“So, old friend,” Giles called softly, “got lost, did you?” Nuit tossed his head again and trotted across the space to his master. He halted close, then nudged Giles’ shoulder playfully. Giles smoothed a hand along the glossy dark neck before he moved aside.
Lord Osbert gave a chagrined “humph.” “Appears he’s your horse. Can’t deny that.” Sucking in a breath he shrugged, then rubbed his hands together. “Well, sir, I’m glad I was able to save your life and give you back your horse. That I am.”
Walking forward he added, “You’ll want to rest here for the night before starting for Chauvere. Fact is, Lord Henry may be coming this way right now. Invited for the wedding, he was.”
In bluff good humor, he clapped Giles’ shoulder. The blow was hardly a friendly cuff, but Giles didn’t move under its force.
Osbert continued, awash in conviviality now. “The lady who tended you is my bride. Brought her from St. Ursula Convent where she’s lived these past years.”
Giles plucked the bridle from Davy’s hands, looped it over the black’s head. “My thanks for your hospitality, but I’ll continue my journey. I’ve delayed too long already.”