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Despite Sir Oliver’s title, Iain didn’t look impressed—but then, it took risking your life in several battles to impress the Scot.
“Good day to you, my lord,” he growled with only the slightest hint of courtesy. “Traveling alone, are you? Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”
“As I explained to your lady mistress, I’m with a party of friends, hunting,” Sir Oliver replied, still genial despite Iain’s brusque and even insolent tone. “I got separated from them. However, since the hour grows late, I should seek them out, lest I be benighted in the wood and forced to eat nuts for my dinner.”
“We’ll be at the Fox and Hound tonight,” Lizette offered. “Perhaps you could send word there in the morning as to how you are. I’ll be worried you’ve fallen ill doing me a service.”
Sir Oliver cut his eyes to the scowling, wary Iain. “I’m flattered by your concern, but I think not, my lady.”
She pursed her lips and silently wished Iain back at Averette.
“As he says, my lady,” Iain declared, “the hour grows late and we’ve dallied here long enough.”
Unless she wanted to stand on the bank of the stream and quarrel with Iain, she had to go. Besides, it couldn’t be good for Sir Oliver to be standing there in wet breeches and boots.
“Farewell, Sir Oliver,” she said with more regret than she’d ever felt bidding farewell to a young man before.
How she wished she and Sir Oliver had met another time, such as in a hall during a feast, where they could talk. He would surely be a very amusing companion. Perhaps they would dance … and touch … and slip off into a shadowed corner to share a kiss …
The nobleman bowed with courtly elegance before addressing Iain. “I commend you for your care of the lady, Mac Kendren, and you need have no fear that I’ll come creeping into the inn under cover of darkness. I’m not that sort of nobleman.”
Iain merely grunted in reply.
Such an act would be most improper; nevertheless, Lizette found herself subduing a surge of disappointment. To think she might have met one man who could tempt her to make love without benefit of marriage, and he was more honorable than most.
Despite her secret regret, it was an insult to imply that Sir Oliver would try to sneak into a woman’s chamber for any reason, and she should acknowledge that. “You must forgive the garrison commander for his lack of courtesy, Sir Oliver. He takes his duties very seriously.”
Sir Oliver bestowed another smile upon her. “For your sake, my lady, I’m glad of it. These are dangerous times, and evil men roam the land.” He backed away toward the stream. “Now I must say farewell.”
Realizing she had no choice, she inclined her head as Iain held out his arm to escort her back to the wagon. “Adieu, Sir Oliver,” she said as she laid her hand upon Iain’s chain-mail-encased forearm and let him lead her away.
She glanced back over her shoulder, but Sir Oliver de Leslille was already gone. He’d vanished like a true spirit of the forest, or a magician who’d stayed only long enough to cast his spell upon her.
LIZETTE LAY BACK upon the cushions piled in the back of the wagon as it jostled and jolted its way toward home. She would much rather be riding. However, given her illness a fortnight ago—one whose seriousness she had exaggerated when Iain arrived shortly after the wedding of Lord Delapont’s daughter, Marian and, in typical Mac Kendren fashion, simply announced that she was going home at once—she had reluctantly acquiesced to his orders, even if, as she’d told him, the motion of the wagon tended to upset her stomach.
There were certain compensations at the moment, as she closed her eyes and her maidservant dozed off across from her. She could dwell on that delightful meeting with Sir Oliver de Leslille.
To be sure, rescuing a veil wasn’t as exciting as saving a maiden from a fire-breathing dragon, but it had been exciting nonetheless, and certainly a welcome respite from this tedious journey home.
She didn’t doubt Sir Oliver would be quite capable of defeating a dragon, if he had to, or anyone or anything else that came against him. She’d met many knights who’d come to court her eldest sister, and none had possessed such magnificent shoulders, muscular arms or powerful thighs.
Maybe he’d be going back to court soon, a place she had never, ever wanted to go before because the king would be there. She hated John for the taxes he demanded to pay for the wars he fought to regain his lost holdings in France, and because he was her guardian, with the power to force her to marry if he chose to use it.
What if Sir Oliver was already married or betrothed? Maybe that was why he hadn’t told her with whom he was staying, or why he wouldn’t send word to her at the inn, although Iain’s rudeness and suspicions might explain the latter, too.
If he wasn’t married …
She remembered some of the things the girls and women at the wedding had whispered about. The younger girls had spoken of the thrill of a kiss, the brush of an arm, the sight of a bare chest.
The older women had spoken of other things, especially when they hadn’t realized the curious Lizette was nearby—more intimate things that men and women did in the dark, whether they were married or not.
Things that reminded her of the times she’d been in the woods on May Day, or Midsummer’s Eve, and heard murmurs and mutterings and soft cries in the dark. creeping forward to see what those sounds meant. seeing couples in passionate embraces, doing much more than kissing …
What would it be like to be in Sir Oliver’s arms? After all, she was no novice hoping to be a bride of Christ. When she’d vowed never to marry, she hadn’t promised to be celibate.
Nevertheless, that didn’t mean she was willing to make love with any handsome man who crossed her path. It would be too great a risk, especially if she got with child. Who could say what King John might do if he realized her value in marriage had been so drastically reduced?
Despite the risk, for once, she was sorely tempted, as well as curious to know about the handsome, chivalrous Sir Oliver, who must be visiting some noble or rich commoner who had a manor in this area. Perhaps Dicken, the wagon’s driver who’d been to this part of the country before, would know.
Moving from the cushions, she lifted the heavy canvas flap that separated the bed of the wagon from the driver’s seat. Dicken’s bulk took up most of the seat, but she could still see Iain, back straight, helmet gleaming, riding at the head of the men as if he were the king.
He was also looking at a parchment he held in his right hand.
In all the years of his service at Averette, she’d never, ever known Iain Mac Kendren to receive any kind of letter or message. Indeed, she was rather surprised to discover he could read.
Maybe that was a message come from Averette—but surely he would have said if he’d had word from Gillian. It could be from Adelaide at court, she supposed, but that seemed even more unlikely. Perhaps it was something personal, although it was difficult to imagine what that would be. Iain had no family that she was aware of.
Maybe it was a list of some kind, for arms or armor or men. Surely it wasn’t anything very important, or he would have told her, she thought, dismissing her concern. “Dicken?”
The driver snorted out of a doze. “My lady?”
“Do you know what noblemen have estates hereabouts?”
“No, um, no, my lady, can’t say as I do. Iain probably does. Want me to call him back here?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll ask him when we get to the inn,” Lizette replied.
“My lady?”
Lizette glanced back at her maidservant, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be until we reach the inn?”
“I don’t know,” she replied with a sigh, wondering if she would ever see Sir Oliver de Leslille again. “Not much longer, I hope.”
She was about to lower the flap when she saw another armed party approaching on the road ahead.
“Who’s that?” Dicken mused, echoing her own thoughts.
Perhaps it was Sir Oliver and the rest of his hunting party, she thought eagerly, until she recognized the man at the front of the group. It was most definitely not the handsome, broad-shouldered Sir Oliver. “Why, that’s Lindall!”
The short, stocky second-in-command of the garrison of Averette should be there, not riding toward them.
Had something happened at home?
Keldra joined her at the front of the wagon, looking out the narrow gap. “What’s he doing here?” she asked, as worried as Lizette.
“He’s probably been sent to escort us, too,” Lizette replied, trying to set the girl at ease and calm her own fears, as well.
But the fear would not be quelled, for she didn’t recognize any of the men riding with him. Worse, they didn’t look like soldiers of Averette; in their various bits of armor and leather, they looked like a motley collection of outlaws or mercenaries.
“I don’t like the looks o’ this,” Dicken murmured as he reached for the hilt of the dagger he carried in his belt. “Best go back into the wagon, my lady, until we know what’s afoot.”
Keldra immediately ducked inside and cowered among the cushions.
Lizette lingered longer, driven by curiosity. She watched as Iain drew his horse to a halt. He addressed Lindall, and his helmeted head turned as if he, too, were surveying the band of men.
And then, so quickly she could scarcely believe it, Lindall drew his sword and struck Iain down.
CHAPTER TWO
THE UNPREPARED SCOT fell from his horse and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood poured from the gash in the right shoulder of his mail.
Crying out in dismay, Lizette rose, hitting her head on the frame of the wagon’s roof. Dicken cursed and slapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs. They lurched forward, sending Lizette tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon, where she landed on top of a shrieking Keldra. Around them, men shouted, horses whinnied and neighed, and in the next instant, they heard the clash of sword on sword.
The wagon jolted backward, then forward, as the cursing Dicken tried to control the team. Holding tight to the back of his seat, Lizette struggled to her knees and attempted to see past the big man’s shifting body through the flapping canvas opening.
It was as if they were caught in the heart of a melee, or two clashing armies.
Where was Iain? She couldn’t see him. Nor could she tell which side was winning.
Then she spotted Iain on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
Sweet Savior, Iain—the best soldier in Averette—wasn’t moving.
More of their men were on the ground, some bloody. Several more were fighting, swinging their swords from horseback, or engaging their opponents on the ground. Riderless horses ran from the road, the whites of their eyes showing, frantic from the smell of blood. The team harnessed to the wagon jostled one another, unable to escape.
Her sore head throbbing, Lizette pushed the sobbing Keldra away and grabbed a small wooden chest. She threw open the lid and found the dagger buried beneath her undergarments.
Dicken yelped. The wagon tilted precariously to the left like a ship in a stormy sea, then fell back hard on its right wheels as Dicken tumbled backward into the wagon, his large body catching the canvas partition and ripping it from its supports.
An arrow was lodged in his chest. Blood spread out from the wound and his eyes stared, unseeing, at the now-bare frame of the wagon’s roof.
Keldra began to wail. Lizette clutched the dagger and tried to think. They had to get away from here. If the men were all preoccupied by battle, if they were concerned with their own lives, she and Keldra might be able to escape.
Inspired by that hope, she grabbed hold of Keldra’s arm and pulled her to the rear of the wagon. “We have a chance, but we’ve got to run!”
Putting the dagger between her teeth to free her hands, she climbed over the back of the wagon. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, then looked up to see Keldra still sitting where she’d left her, her trembling hands covering her face.
Lizette took the knife out of her mouth. “Keldra, come! We have to run!”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Yes, you can! You must!”
A man came around the wagon—Lindall, on foot, smiling like the devil himself, evil intent visible on his familiar, homely features.
“Looks like somebody gave my lady a little toy,” he sneered as he ran his gaze over her and her knife.
Gripping the dagger tightly, she backed away from him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, at Averette.”
“If I stayed there, what would I get?” he returned, his voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the fighting men nearby. “Some food, a place to sleep, a little money for sport now and then.”
He grinned, exposing his ruined teeth, and his eyes gleamed with hate. “I’m a rich man now—or I will be soon. A hundred marks Lord Wimarc’s promised me if I bring you to him.”
Confusion joined her fear. “Who’s Lord Wimarc? What does he want with me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, my lady,” Lindall said as he went to grab her.
She sidestepped him and turned, ready to run—until she remembered Keldra, sobbing in the wagon. Keldra, who was but fifteen, and terrified.
She spun on her heel and lunged at Lindall. He raised his shield, easily avoiding her blow, then grabbed her right wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped her dagger. He kicked it away with his blood-spattered boot.
“Don’t try to fight me, my lady,” he snarled as he hauled her close, his stinking breath hot on her face. “I’ve got your men outnumbered, and mine are vicious brutes, trained killers from all over Europe. Your men are doomed and you’re mine now—at least until I hand you over to Wimarc. So don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll regret it.”
Her view of the battle was blocked by the wagon; nevertheless, she wouldn’t believe his men would defeat hers. Her men had been trained by Iain Mac Kendren. Outnumbered or not, it would make no difference. They would win.
“You’re going to be caught and hanged for what you’ve done,” she charged. “If you’ve harmed Iain—”
“Harmed him?” Lindall replied with a coarse laugh. “I’ve killed him.”
No! she silently wailed, her knees nearly buckling, as he tugged on her aching wrist.
“You’re caught, my lady, and now I’m going to get my money.”
Rage rose up, strengthened by her grief. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet. Whatever Lindall planned to do, wherever he wanted to take her, he would have to drag her.
Curling his lip, keeping hold of her wrist, still gripping his sword with his right hand, he kicked her left leg hard.
“I said, don’t give me no trouble. I’ll break your leg if I have to.”
She nearly fell as he tugged her toward the wagon, but she managed to stay on her feet. She squirmed and struggled and tried to hit him.
“Stay there, Keldra!” she ordered when they reached it.
Inside, Keldra lay curled up in a little whimpering ball of fear. “Whatever he says or does, don’t get down!”
Lindall hauled her close. “Shut your gob, you stupid wench—you with that pretty little nose of yours always in the air, laughing while the rest of us have to work and march and drill, shouted at by that damn Scot.”
As she continued to struggle, another sort of look came to Lindall’s face, one that threatened to send her into a different sort of panic. “Wimarc never said you had to be a virgin. No, he never said nothing about that, so I’ll have you, and maybe your maid, too. Maybe the rest of the men should have a taste of you, too, before I get my money.”
Truly terrified, Lizette fought even harder, while Keldra began to wail louder.
“Shut up!” Lindall snarled at the poor girl.
Yet in that moment, while his attention was on Keldra, Lizette saw a chance. She put her hands on his armored chest and shoved him backward with all her might. He collided with the edge of the wagon, then fell forward onto his knees.
“Come on!” she called to Keldra—and this time, her maid didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side of the wagon and started to run down the road.
