The Heat of the Knight (11 page)

Christiana had not been aware that she had reacted to the woman's spendthrift demands.

“And only beeswax, if you please. I will not have tallow fouling my air and leaving smoke stains on my fine needlework.”

The candle flames flickered as the door opened. Dripping in jewels and scent, Lady Pikhorn's daughter strode purposefully across the room. Seated atop the window seat, Christiana craned her neck to peer up at the towering woman. She snatched the yarn from Christiana's hands and threw them back into her mother's basket.

“I need her to brush my hair. Come, girl.” She wedged a piece of silverplate into the shelving and took a seat in front of it. The reflection widened the angularity of her jaw line.

Christiana removed the pearl-studded snood and set it upon a trunk. Heavy hair unfurled to Blanche Pikhorn's waist. Christiana picked up the brush and began to draw it through the flame-colored strands.

“Look mother, her hair is nearly as white as your own.” Blanche tilted her head to get a better view of Christiana in the silver platter. “And those eyes. They take up half her face. What an odd, elfish creature.”

Her mother clicked her tongue. “'Tis all your future husband can provide us with, one wan, frail maid. How is she to support my weight when my leg stiffens up?”

Blanche leaned forward and squinted at herself in the makeshift looking glass. She seemed entranced by her reflection. Christiana carefully worked the brush through a snarl.

“Clumsy,” the woman said as the brush caught. She swung around and struck Christiana flat-handed across the face.

For the first time that evening, Lady Pikhorn smiled.

“Dareford is planning on hunting tomorrow, and he hasn't even asked your father to join him.” Lady Pikhorn showed her irritation with a sharp inhalation that pinched her nostrils.

“Father is a weak and useless man. He hasn't risen from his bed since we arrived. You cannot truly expect Dareford to drag an old man who requires a nurse on a hunting trip?”

“Nonetheless, an invitation should have been made. Clearly, your man will require training. Wealthy he may be, but his manners are deplorable.”

Christiana could not contain a smile. The thought of any woman, especially these two peevish, uncivil women, attempting to train Lord Dareford, the Blacksmith, was too much to bear.

Blanche scowled. “Why are you smiling, you impertinent changeling? Get back to brushing my hair, or I shall smack you again, and I will not be so gentle this time.”

Beckett was to be saddled with this wretched woman for the rest of his life. The big bastard deserved it, she thought. No fear of laughing now; her throat was tightening with tears.

Lady Pikhorn plopped her sampler on the window seat and, using a cane for support, walked around inspecting the room. “Honestly, my dear, this room is not fit for a Dareford bride. You must insist that the earl provide the funds to have it furnished properly. In the meantime, we will have to make do with what is at hand. There was a tapestry in his solar that might add some color and the gilded chair at his desk. I believe I could make myself quite comfortable on that.”

Perhaps remaining as one of Beckett's servants would have its merits after all, Christiana mused. This marriage was going to prove to be most entertaining.

* * * *

The next morning, Christiana rose at dawn despite the long night she'd spent attending to the Pikhorn women's every desire. Lady Pikhorn, her colorless hair spread over the pillows, snored loudly. Her daughter slept soundlessly beside her. The plaster meant to lighten her freckles had darkened to an unappealing mustard shade.

Christiana slipped into the hallway. She gently touched her cheek. The hot handprint that Blanche Pikhorn had given her still stung. Even the notion of watching Beckett squirm as he tried to placate his future wife and mother-in-law was not enough to keep her in the castle. Outlawry suddenly seemed a kinder alternative, and if de Saxby did hunt her down, she'd simply beg for a quick end. Didn't he owe her that much after what they had once shared?

Once in the courtyard, Christiana felt the eyes of the retainers on her. It was not her imagination. They were watching her with hawk-like vigilance from the parapets and like hulking shadows from the gateway portal. Other people milled around, free of their predatory gazes.

Fear made her mouth grow dry. Perhaps she was not quite so ready to challenge Beckett's authority. Assuming a nonchalant demeanor, she strolled toward the garden pretending it had been her destination all along. At the entrance, she nearly tripped on a stack of uprooted plants.

Christiana gasped. The garden was nothing but a plot of soil. A lone servant turned the naked earth with a hoe. It had been emptied of all the promise she'd planted. The coral-colored roses that had never had a chance to flower. The lavender that would have sweetened the honey. Instantly tears pooled in her eyes. The man absolutely despised her.

There could be no other explanation for the destruction to her little piece of paradise.

Christiana clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. She could not blink back the tears. Was she crying over her crushed plants or over her crushed heart? She had convinced herself that she could easily leave this castle and its lord without leaving any of her soul behind. But that suddenly seemed impossible.

“What is it, sweeting?” Colin's sudden presence caused her to swipe the wetness from her cheeks, but she could not seem to stop new tears from coursing down her face.

She looked at him distrustfully out of blurry eyes. Was Colin stalking her as well?

Was he in league with his cousin?

“He's had it torn up.” The smell of freshly turned loam obliterated the delicate scent of lavender that lay dying on the ground. She bent down and picked up a sprig, crushing the fragrant blossom between her fingers.

Colin curled his hand around her neck and urged her forward. She inched reluctantly into his arms. “Christy, deep down you had to know how this would all end.” His words did not comfort her in the least.

She shook her head within the circle of his arms. “I'm a damned fool,” she mumbled into his tunic.

“How cozy,” Beckett drawled.

She wasn't the least surprised that Beckett had discovered them. He'd obviously been alerted to her early morning wanderings. She tucked herself in tighter to Colin. Her tears had dried, but her shoulders heaved with silent hiccups.

“Why the devil is she weeping?”

“Because, cousin, you are a bloody bastard. You couldn't even let her have this patch of dirt.”

Beckett made a move to touch her. She ducked his hand. “You can't think me that cruel?”

Christiana turned to scowl at him. “But I do, my lord. I think you exactly that.”

He reached out for her again, his fingers grazing her cheek. “Who struck you?”

She wiggled out of Colin's embrace. “Do not lay a finger on me ever again.”

As she strode away, Christiana could hear Beckett addressing the gardener.

“Say, man. Who gave the orders to pull this up?”

“'Twas milady. The one with red tresses.”

Colin chuckled. “She isn't even lady here yet, and already, she's giving orders. Couldn't happen to a more deserving fellow.”

* * * *

Beckett felt as though he were weighted with stones. Sweat poured from him, making his wool gambeson stick like a shroud. His black armor seemed to absorb all the sun's heat.

“Fuck! Arnulph, why the bloody hell did I have to be the one in this black cage?”

Arnulph rubbed his good eye. “It suits you, my lord, with your black temper.”

Beckett knew that for the last week he had been a man best to avoid. He had been trying to fight his way out of a hellish hole and not succeeding. His seductive, blonde kitten had turned feral. She wouldn't let him near her. Her pale gray eyes accused him.

Yet she'd betrayed him. She was the one who offered her delectable backside to a stranger in the forest. He shut his eyes and groaned in remembrance. What a mix of emotions had surged through him then. Even with a broken heart, his body had been willing. How sweet and tight her cunt was. Would he ever stop craving her? He let a volley of vile oaths fly. He managed to agitate a few of the horses, but his men did not even blink. They had become inured to his furious outbursts.

“Answer me this, is fidelity too bloody much to ask of a woman?”

Arnulph glanced behind him, clearly hoping Beckett was addressing someone else.

After some hesitation he replied, “Once you’re married you could demand—”

“But then what can I expect?” Beckett interrupted. “The woman damn well hates me.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

Beckett pointed an accusing finger at Arnulph. “No she doesn't hate me.” He shrugged. Had he ever felt this sorry for himself? “Because if she did, that would at least mean she had some feelings for me.”

Stinging sweat trickled into Beckett's eye and he awkwardly wiped it away with his gloved hand. “If Revynwyll happens this way, I shall bloody make him pay for keeping me roasting in this heat.”

“I've got to piss,” Wat announced.

“You'll have to rust your chain mail,” Arnulph said, dropping his voice. “They are here.”

They all watched as Hennings, slithering on his stomach, appeared over the ridge. He dropped over to their side. “They are strolling across the meadow like drunken sheep to the slaughter.”

Beckett raked his sweat-soaked hair from his face. “He's a cocksure bastard.” After incinerating a local village and plundering the forest, Revynwyll and his entourage were spreading out across the meadow as if they had not a single enemy. “How many?”

“Fifteen at the most. He's flanked on either side by mace carriers. A few in the back look as if they can hardly stand. Must have been celebrating,” Hennings replied.

“And the pennant?” Beckett asked.

“Unprotected except for the axe wielder to his left.”

“Give Wat the arbalest. Crawl back up the hill. I want you to take out the pennant carrier. First thing, I want that flag in the dirt. William, eliminate at least one of the men guarding his lordship,” Beckett said.

“Wound only. Do not inflict death if you can help it.” Arnulph held up his hands in a calming gesture.

Beckett intended to ignore Arnulph's reasonable suggestion. He'd grown tired of this game. Lord Revynwyll had confiscated three estates in the last month. He was starting to create an island of his own in the midst of England, choking off the main roads with his henchmen. The soldiers he'd assembled were a gathering of cowards and criminals. They would be easily disbanded. Beckett jammed on his helmet and donned his gauntlet.

William loaded a quarrel in his crossbow. He dropped his visor into place, signaling Wat to ready the arbalest.

The horsemen topped the ridge as a flurry of arrows thinned the enemy. The pennant carrier and his guard crumpled to the ground first. Soon after, William fired into the right flank, wounding two.

“No mercy,” Beckett shouted before spurring his destrier into a gallop.

“No fucking mercy,” one of his men seconded.

Gilbert rushed the field, swinging his battleaxe. His scream alone sent Revynwyll's rear guardsmen scattering into the woods. Gilbert dispensed with the first man in his way, with a thunderous blow to the top of the man's helmet.

Beckett sliced his sword through the air cutting down the mace carrier who'd moved to guard Revynwyll. From behind, a soldier bounced a spiked flail off Beckett's shoulder, denting his armor and sending him rocking on his heels. Beckett swiveled, his sword finding purchase beneath the man's unprotected arm. A stroke and a pull and the blade came away crimson.

“Cur, you've been snarling at my heels for too long,” Revynwyll shouted as he dismounted. His spur caught on the embroidered robe he wore. He stumbled but quickly regained his footing. He threw aside the princely garment, revealing that he was suited for battle. “Discard your helmet. Let me see you before I dispatch you to the devil.”

Beckett dragged off the helmet and chain mail hood and hurled them away. He gave his head a shake to whip the sweat-plastered hair from his face.

“Dareford, just as I suspected,” Revynwyll crowed. “Did I not tell you, you bloody fools?” He glanced around, but there was not one of his soldiers left standing to heed his boast. He shrugged. “They are easily replaced.”

Beckett sensed Arnulph approaching on his right. Without turning, Beckett warned him off. “The whoreson is mine.” He shifted the sword in his hand.

Revynwyll showed his teeth. It was meant to resemble a smile, but it made him look more like a cornered animal. “After our shared experience on crusade, we should be bound as brothers. It is not too late to join forces.”

“Loathsome coward.” Arnulph's fury vibrated across the blood-strewn field. “A de Saxby align himself with a butcher such as yourself?”

“Back away, Arnulph. I told you, the bastard is mine.” Beckett followed his threat with a thrust. The duke deflected with his shield. Beckett could feel the ringing in his bones up to the elbow.

The hair on the back of Beckett's neck suddenly bristled. “You deserve worse than hell, you bastard. The abduction was at your behest.”

“Such outrage could only be due to a woman.” Revynwyll stepped back, taking the opportunity to take some heaving breaths. Sweat drizzled down his slick, bald head to his beard. “Not me, sir. I avoid that red-haired harridan you're betrothed to. Just the thought of her makes my cock shrivel.”

The extreme tension in Beckett's shoulders eased.

Revynwyll narrowed his eyes. “'Tisn't the Pikhorn bitch at all.” For an instant he held his sword and shield aloft as if in jubilation. “A chink in the great warrior's armor. Pity that I will be the one delivering the sad news of your demise. I pray you do not tire me overmuch, for certainly, you will wish me to provide a certain degree of comfort to your waiting mistress.” He lifted his eyebrows in lewd suggestion.

“Could we continue this now? I'm bored,” Beckett said. “Or perhaps you only use that blade for picking your teeth.”

Revynwyll's face purpled, and he took a wild swipe at Beckett.