The YIELDING (13 page)

“Eat.” D’Arci thrust something at her.

More dried beef. Though she longed to refuse, she turned her joined hands and plucked it from him.

They ate in silence, and though she felt his gaze, she kept her eyes averted. What did he see when he looked at her? She cringed in remembrance of her reflection the last time she had gone to the stream: curves nearly lost to hunger, bones that jutted, skin freckled and darkened by too much sun. Surely, a more unbecoming woman did not exist. Even if D’Arci were not injured, she would likely have nothing to fear from him as she had feared of his brother.

He offered her the skin.

Continuing to withhold her gaze, she accepted it and sipped.

“Take another swallow,” he said when she reached it to him. “You are more in need than I.”

Though she knew she should not fuss, especially as the wine warmed as the mantle could not, she asked, “How do you know that?”

“Surely you do not forget that you were beneath me much of the night?” His voice mocked intimacy. “I certainly do not. Thus, I can say that there remained little of the woman I bared at Broehne.”

Heat tumbled across Beatrix’s cheeks. She did
not
forget the press of his body and certainly not the horror felt upon regaining consciousness at Broehne to discover herself unclothed.

D’Arci smiled tightly. “I know all of you—from your narrow thighs, to your bony hips, to your jutting ribs. You were hardly a comfortable bed.” He nodded for her to take another drink.

A flush of anger pulled Beatrix up from embarrassment. Beneath his weight, she
had
suffered more than he. And she would have said so if not that she knew it would serve nothing. She gripped the neck of the skin and let the wine coat her tongue and slide down her throat.

“Aye, you are too thin,” D’Arci said, sweeping his gaze over her.

She lowered the skin. “The easier to…hang.”

A muscle in his jaw jerked. “I had not considered that.”

From some dark corner of her memory, Beatrix pulled together her departed father’s words and struggled to order them so her tongue would not stumble. “One should never overlook the ad-ad—”

“Advantage?”

She kept her chin aloft. “The advantage of lesser things.”

“Indeed.” He stuck out his hand.

She considered the long, blunt fingers that knew more of her than any man had known, including his brother. At least, she was fairly certain Sir Simon had not known her beyond the hands he had laid to her. She passed the skin to Michael D’Arci.

“And you need a bath,” he said, then put his mouth around the spout, took a long draw, and lowered the skin. “Of what advantage is that?”

His question might have made her laugh were the situation not so dire. “Of what advantage that I remain unclean?” She shrugged. “None for you, Lord D’Arci.”

“But for you?”

“Ah.” She smiled, though it was a bitter thing. “The lack of temptation for a woman who possesses little…attraction. Had I been in such a state when I met your brother, he surely would not have—”

“Cease!” His pupils smote the color from his eyes.

Beatrix glared at him. “Methinks you ought not to ask questions to which you fear the answer.”

To her surprise, D’Arci looked away and dropped the flap on a pack. “We are leaving.” He settled both packs over a shoulder, gripped the end rope, and raised himself to a knee.

As he pushed upright, Beatrix considered his injured leg, the splints of which extended past the sole of his boot. Still, he gave it little weight. Did it pain him? More, would he walk again without falter?

“Come,” he said.

And if she did not?

“I shall drag you if needs be.”

Of course he would. But though
this
she could not fight, perhaps there would be something else she could do. After all, how far on foot could they go with his injury?

She pressed her bound hands to the floor and pushed up.

Moving slowly, D’Arci led her to the breach. “You shall follow me up.”

“I cannot climb with bound hands.”

He pushed her mantle aside, wended the end rope around her waist, and pushed and pulled it through a series of knots.

Watching him, Beatrix was once more struck that, even with a face scrubbed by whiskers and hair tousled from sleep, he was handsome. And tall—at least, beside her. She felt almost a child with her head tipped to gaze full into his face. Had she really thought he looked like Simon?

“’Twould benefit you not to defy me, Lady Beatrix,” he warned.

“Do you not mean it would benefit you?”

“The justice I seek is assured.”

“But my fate is not?” This time she did laugh. “I shudder to think I might go to the noose b-bruised and beaten. Save your…threats for one of better destiny, blackguard.” Were the Beatrix of old capable of being clasped to her, Beatrix would have so welcomed her back. True, the words did not come without bump or botch, but they came.

D’Arci pulled her hands up, loosed the rope, and secured the end to his belt. Then he gripped the length of rope that hung through the breach and began his ascent. His arms were strong, easily carrying him up into the morning light, and it was not long before he peered down at her.

Despite numerous ascents, Beatrix lacked the ease with which he had climbed out. However, it wasn’t long before sunlight shone upon her face.

D’Arci curled a hand around her upper arm, assisted her the last few feet, and straightened. Beatrix settled on the edge of the breach and watched him untie the rope from his belt. The light of day showed that his whiskers were as dark as his hair, though interspersed with bits of gray, and at the corners of his eyes were fine lines as of one who often squints against the sun’s glare.

As he turned the rope around his fist, he trapped her with his pale gray gaze.

She felt a peculiar tug at her center and looked away. “Shall I make to the wood and…scavenge fallen branches to fashion crutches for the journey?” she asked.

“One should not walk when one can ride,” he said and issued a shrill whistle.

Did he truly believe his destrier awaited him? Four days now, and since retrieving the packs she had seen nothing of the beast. He had to have gone—

She heard hooves. Shortly, D’Arci’s destrier entered the nave, tossed its head, and whinnied.

“Sartan!” Its master called.

The beast skirted the false crypt, causing Beatrix’s heart to lurch. She gained her feet and, as the destrier neared, took a step back, and another. Fortunately, she was not tethered so near D’Arci that she could not distance herself some. Unfortunately, he wrenched her back. “Be still, lest you discover how sore tested I am.”

He did not know her fear, and she nearly she told him of it, but it would change nothing. Unless he intended her to walk alongside his mount—and with his injury he would not squander the time—she would be going astride.

D’Arci clapped a hand to the animal’s great jaw. “For your patience, old friend, you shall be rewarded.”

The destrier lowered its massive head, thrust its muzzle into D’Arci’s open hand, and blew.

“At Soaring,” D’Arci assured him.

Then he intended to take her to his home. As he had refused the opportunity to be delivered to Lavonne, it did not surprise her. But once there, what? And how would he hide her presence from his liege? Unless she was not to be present…

She eyed the rope. Mayhap she was nearer a noose than believed.

With a stiff-legged hitch, D’Arci stepped aside. “I believe you are acquainted with Lady Beatrix,” he said to his horse as he drew the first pack from his shoulder. “Though why you yielded my packs to her, I do not understand.” He secured them behind the saddle and turned to Beatrix. “Relieve yourself.”

She gasped.

“Make haste, as we shall not pause ere we reach Soaring.”

Though they would likely arrive at the castle before nightfall, even if the journey were a sennight long, she would not tend her needs in this man’s presence. “I shall not. ‘Tis…unseemly!”

“I will keep my back to you.”

“Nay, I will wait.”

“Only a fool would believe that possible. And I tell you, I shall not wait myself.”

Then he meant to…? She swallowed and nodded toward the remains of a wall. “Do you let out the rope, we shall both have privacy. Upon my word, I shall not…escape.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Beatrix put up both of hers. “’Tis all I have to give.”

“’Tis not enough.”

She grasped the rope. “Then you question your ability to tie a knot that holds?”

Her arrow struck, causing color to seep beneath his sun-warmed skin and Beatrix to marvel at her tongue that so freely delivered words to her lips.

“My knots hold.” He nodded toward the wall. “Keep the rope taut, else I will drag you back regardless of your modesty.”

She turned and D’Arci fed out the rope until she was around the wall. Careful to keep it taut, she quickly dispensed with the task, but for all the cover afforded her, her cheeks warmed.

“’Tis no more than he does,” she whispered and pulled the mantle close about her. As she started to step from the wall, the rubble at her feet drew her gaze and she bent, scooped up two stones, and dropped one in each boot. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to use them, though if she could actually do so she did not know.

No sooner did she straighten than the rope snapped up the slack and she was pulled from behind the wall.

“Heed well my warnings, Lady Beatrix.” D’Arci reeled her toward him. “They are not idle.”

Embracing the anger that allowed her words to fly true, she said, “As I know well,
my lord,
for I yet suffer the gag with which you bound me to silence last eve.”

Curse her!
Michael braced his good leg beneath him.
And curse her smug mouth that bows just enough to turn her disheveled countenance beguiling!
What a fool he was to have not gagged her. What a fool to toss about idle warnings, then boast of them. It was not like him at all.

When she was within reach, he turned Sartan to mount him from the right side. The destrier would not like it, for the horse had only ever been mounted on the left, but Michael’s injured leg would bear no weight in the stirrup.

“All is well.” Michael patted the horse’s neck.

Skin twitching, Sartan looked over his shoulder.

Michael gripped the pommel tight lest the horse sidle away. Though his splinted leg would have to bear his weight for a moment only, he ground his teeth against the anticipated pain. And pain there was, shooting toe to spine when he shoved his right foot into the stirrup.

As Sartan sidestepped, Michael swung his splinted leg over the opposite side and settled in the saddle. He looked to Beatrix whose eyes were wide in her flaxen-framed face, fear palpable. And Michael was not the only one to feel that fear.

Sartan shook his massive head and whinnied.

What frightened her, she who had come nearer yet to retrieve his packs? Michael clapped a reassuring hand to the destrier’s neck, then reached to Beatrix. “Come.”

“‘Twould be best if I w-walked.”

Then he had made such a fool of himself she believed him yet one. “Hours by horse, Lady Beatrix, a full day and night on foot.” He shook his head. “I shall abide no defiance.”

Gripping the rope, she met his gaze. “’Tis not defiance that makes me…refuse. I am…” Her tongue swept her upper lip. “I am frightened of horses.”

“Did you not retrieve my packs from this same beast?”

“That was different.”

“How say you?”

“You needed your…medicinals.”

Reminded that she had delivered them, braving this fear of which she spoke,
and
that she had stayed when she might now be on the road to Stern, Michael was pricked with uncertainty.

Enough! To attempt to make sense of her would only prove him senseless. “Aye, I needed them, and now I need you to mount.”

“Mayhap—”

“If needs be, I shall drag you astride.” He stuck out his hand.

She reached to him only to snatch her arm back. “My psalter!” She turned toward the small chapel.

Was that where she had made her bed before he had captured her on the day past? Michael caught her arm and yanked her around. “You shall not need it.”

“Pray, grant me this—”

“No amount of prayer or gilded word can change what will be, Lady Beatrix. Simon
will
have his justice.”

Her lips parted, but no further argument was forthcoming. Eyes dimming, she slid a hand into his and stepped her foot atop his in the stirrup.

When Sartan sidled and snorted again, Beatrix jerked free.

Ignoring the protest of his injury, Michael leaned sideways, gripped her beneath the arms, and lifted her. He turned her sidesaddle and settled her between his thighs where she went so still that her shallow breath was all that moved about her.