Timeless (45 page)

“Reconsidered? A lofty position as wife to the king’s own cousin? Jewels? A life of comfort and ease? Any female would give her front teeth for...Wait.” Connor tensed. “There she is.”

Clad in a fitted blue-and-white gown and ermine-lined mantle, de Villiers’s bride stepped into the courtyard, walking unescorted toward the waiting horses. As Connor watched her move, a low whistle of appreciation escaped him. ’Twould have been a sin to keep curves like that locked away in a musty convent, hidden under a nun’s habit.

Gliding through the crowd, a wisp of softness and silk, she stood out among the glittering nobles like a graceful angel among gaudy statues.

Connor frowned, wondering where that poetic thought had come from. Verse did not number among his talents.

The lady’s throat and cheeks were hidden beneath a tightly wrapped wimple, her hair draped in a veil, and he caught only a glimpse of delicate features. She stopped when a quartet of burly guardsmen surrounded her, but met their gazes squarely. She did not demurely lower her eyes, did not curtsy to anyone—even to her betrothed. When one guard offered to lift her onto her tall bay mare, she refused his extended hand, took the reins herself and mounted in a single fluid motion.

“Pray correct me if this is a mistaken impression,” Malcolm said, “but she does not seem like the timid, docile sort.”

“I may have been wrong on that score,” Connor agreed warily. “But how much trouble could one woman be?”

De Villiers stood staring at his bride for a long moment, and she returned the look. From where Connor watched, he could not make out her expression. Finally, the comte mounted his horse and motioned to his guards. The party moved toward the street and the impatient throngs.

Connor turned to Malcolm. “’Tis time. Away, quickly. And remember, if I dinna arrive within the hour—”

“I am off to Calais, aye.
Alba gu brath!”
Malcolm maneuvered his dun-colored nag toward a side street.

“
Alba gu brath!
For Scotland!” Connor’s jaw hardened. “And for Galen.”

He turned his black stallion and headed into the crowd.

~ ~ ~

A breeze cooled Laurien’s face, chilling the sweat that trickled down her back and under her arms as the wedding party rode through the chateau gates. The air was cold, but she felt as though she were suffocating, her fur-lined cloak an unbearable weight on her shoulders. Guards positioned along the route held back the cheering crowds as she passed into the street. She heard naught but the
clop, clop, clop
of her horse’s hooves on the dirt, felt naught but the slow thud of her own heart.

The autumn sun glinted on gold and jewels as the long line of horses moved through the crowd, a stream of silk-clad ladies in purple and green and red, and knights in clinking chain mail. Laurien rode in the middle of the procession, boxed in by guards on either side, one in front, and one behind. Her numbed mind wondered why they rode in this unusual arrangement, rather than two before and two behind. She watched her betrothed at the head of the line.

De Villiers had that false smile in place as he regarded the crowds, waving occasionally, glancing over his shoulder now and then to fasten those black eyes on her. Laurien stared blankly at him, at the scene about her, feeling as if she had become only a player in someone else’s strange dream.

They passed tiny buildings, clustered about the edge of the chateau like children clinging to their mother’s skirt. She looked across a sea of haggard faces, open mouths with missing teeth forming a soundless, gaping O as the spectacle moved past. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared, filled with... What was that look? Jealousy? Envy?

They would not envy her so, Laurien thought, if ever they chanced to spend a few moments alone with the comte in his chambers.

The procession passed into the marketplace at the town’s center, and the sea of peasants went on, all clothed in gray fustian or sackcloth colored with yellow and green vegetable dyes. Pilgrims dotted the crowd in their hooded brown cloaks and wooden cross necklaces. She knew Chartres and its cathedral was a popular destination—many did not want the risk and expense of a trip to the Holy Land. But she had never seen so many pilgrims in one place.

And there were children everywhere. Some stood on upturned carts, others sat on their parents’ shoulders for a better view. One little girl, wailing, caught Laurien’s attention. She had apparently hurt her knee, but her father quickly scooped her up and cuddled her, kissing away her tears. Then he kissed her knee, as if to take away the pain.

Laurien swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, wondering what it was like to have such a loving father. To know that feeling, even for a moment, she would gladly trade places with a peasant girl.

The passage narrowed on the way out of the market and the wedding party squeezed through a street of timber-framed hovels, where more onlookers leaned out of windows. The air seemed to grow thick with the smells of roast meat, spilled ale, and the refuse that lined the streets. She tugged at the gold chain fastening her mantle, wanting to throw it off, trying to breathe. The movement only made her painfully aware of the bruises around her throat.

The cathedral loomed before her.

They approached from a hill to the east, and the midday sun shone through the huge windows, making the luminous reds and blues and violets seem to dance. She had read much about what many said was France’s most beautiful cathedral—but at the moment, she could not recall a single fact from her history texts. Inside that church her fate would be sealed.

They were close enough now that she could see the outlines of the statues above the doors.

A sudden commotion made her glance to her right. A lone rider mounted on a tall black stallion was jostling for position on a side street, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space between buildings. He wore the brown cloak and wooden cross of a pilgrim, but something made the milling throng give way around him.

He quieted his horse, looked up—and Laurien immediately understood why the crowd had given him a wide berth.

He looked like some kind of brigand. Dangerous. The sort of man who should be brawling in an alehouse somewhere or doing violence in a dark alley. From his muscular frame to the scar that slashed along his left cheekbone, white against his tanned skin, he was almost alarmingly... male. And menacing. A thatch of blond hair tangled over his forehead, and he had a slightly darker beard, but neither softened the hard angles of his face. Despite his garb, he did not look at all like a penitent worshipper on a holy quest.

He looked like an outlaw intent on stealing something.

And he must be the boldest of thieves, she thought, if he meant to steal jewels from any of the nobles in the wedding procession.

But then, he was not watching the procession, she realized suddenly.

He was watching her.

Every instinct urged her to glance away, her heart beating harder, but his gaze held hers fast. He studied her, his eyes the most vibrant blue she had ever seen, blue like the sheer glass of the cathedral windows, eyes that held a look of... unyielding
determination.
And somehow, though she wore no gems of any kind, she sensed that all of his fierce determination was directed at her. An unfamiliar and unsettling sensation flashed through her body, searing her as if she had stepped too close to a fire.

One of the guards noticed her stare and broke out of line to question the man. But when Laurien craned her neck to watch what happened, she saw that the rider had melted away into the crowd.

The odd encounter with the outlaw shattered her grim mood. Clearly, de Villiers did not dominate everyone in this city. The thought made her sit taller in the saddle, the anger and fear she had felt earlier flooding back. She would
not
give her betrothed the opportunity to subject her to any further abuse.

As long as she had a horse under her and her wits about her, she had a chance.

The comte stood in front of the cathedral doors, already greeting the priest. She would have to be quick. If she could break out of the procession and push her way through the crowd, she could be away before any would have a chance to react. She would ride to Tours, to Sister Emeline. Betrothals could be broken. They would find a way. She had to get away from here, from him.

She looked again at the four guards surrounding her. Realized now why they were there: not to protect her, but to keep her in. She could kick one, grab his reins. Nay, these men-at-arms would be more than able to fend off her attack. She would need to think of something...

Her
aumoniere.

Laurien wore an embroidered bag at her waist to carry alms for the poor, as was the custom among nuns and noble ladies alike. But her purse held more than coins. It also held a small silver blade, with a glimmering emerald in the hilt and an inscription in ancient lettering. The knife had once belonged to her father—her real father.

’Twas all she had of him, and she kept it close, always.

Her hand moved to the bag hanging from the silken rope that girdled her waist. She felt the outline of sharp metal.

Stabbing the guard would not work, but she could nick his horse. She did not want to hurt the animal, but if she could just make it rear, mayhap toss its rider, she would have an open path to freedom. It was her only chance.

She started to open the bag and slip her hand inside when she heard a surprised shout on her right that rippled through the crowd. She turned, and what she saw stopped her breath.

She froze in shock as the blond outlaw on the huge black stallion came charging straight toward her.

The guards at her side spun their mounts to face the thief a moment too late. He plunged out of the crowd, caught her around the waist with one muscular arm.

And plucked her right out of the saddle.

Laurien screamed as she felt herself snatched into the air and pulled in tight against the brigand’s side. The crowd scattered with cries of terror. From the direction of the cathedral she heard a roar like that of an animal pierced by a huntsman’s blade.

The blond madman shifted her to an awkward position over his lap, and she could see stunned faces watching as the stallion bolted toward a side street. One of the guards managed to wheel his mount and block their path, his weapon ready. She heard the metallic ring of a sword being pulled free of its scabbard.

The horse reared, and she screamed again as she heard the clash of steel on steel just above her head. After only four thrusts, the guard was gripping a bloody wound and they were racing down the street. Behind them she heard another bellow that could only be de Villiers, then the sound of many hooves pounding after them. Terrified peasants flattened themselves against buildings as the horse thundered past.

They rounded a corner, the stallion’s muscles bunching and straining, and she could see two guards pushing a haycart into their path. She screamed again as the lunatic spurred his neighing mount onward. She felt the horse’s hooves leave the ground—and was suddenly looking down into the guards’ startled faces, then at the street rushing up to meet her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact, but instead had the wind knocked out of her by the outlaw’s knees as they landed. He urged the horse on and they raced through the streets, scattering chickens and pigs from their path. They quickly reached the edge of town and sped across the open fields, a half dozen guards only an arrow’s flight behind.

She heard the airy whoosh of a crossbow bolt, then another. The rider hunched down over the horse’s neck, covering her. Despite the protection of her mantle, she was all too aware of the heavy wall of his chest pressed against her back, the feeling of her breasts flattened against the muscles of his thigh. She gasped short, terrified breaths, watching flying hooves and meadow grass rush by several feet below. Lather from the horse’s shoulder flecked her gown.

The arrows soon stopped. Laurien knew the guards were falling behind as the outlaw headed into the forest. He straightened as they left the path, charging through the trees. She could hear the guards crashing into the underbrush far away.

She struggled to sit up. “Wait! Stop—”

He stopped just long enough to right her so that she was sitting astride in front of him—then brought out a piece of cloth from his tunic and whipped it around her mouth as a gag. She had no chance to ask who on earth he was or demand that he release her. Helpless and mute, she could only hold on for sweet life as he spurred the stallion onward.

They galloped faster through the woods. Branches whipped past, tearing at her veil and dress. The brigand wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, shielding her. He was so much bigger than her, the top of her head fit beneath his bearded chin. Surrounded by hard muscle and his male scent, she grew more frightened as they rode deeper into the wood. The gloom thickened around them, the sun only occasionally breaking through the branches overhead. What plans did this mad outlaw have for her?

It flashed through her head that, for the first time since she had arrived in Chartres, she was free of de Villiers. But the idea only struck new fear into her heart as she pictured what he would find after several days searching the forest: her body, raped and bloodied, hidden beneath a tangle of underbrush.

The trees became a blur and her eyes locked on the sword still in her abductor’s hand, the reddened blade resting across her knees. Though her mouth was bound, her mind screamed in a single, endless shriek as a cold wave of fear drenched her. She thought she would faint.

But even in shock, her mind refused to sink into darkness. The outlaw kept changing directions, turning left, left again, right, then back along their own trail until she no longer heard the sounds of other horses. She wanted to close her eyes and waken alone in her chamber at the convent, to find that all of this had only been a nightmare.

Instead, she was intensely aware of her captor’s every move as they galloped onward. She felt his powerful thighs easily guiding the charger. Felt the pounding of his heart against her back—or was that her own heart? He even filled her every breath as they raced through the forest, that unfamiliar, spicy maleness sending her senses reeling.