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“Capturing those rogues may be difficult. Other Welshmen will surely give them sanctuary,” Albert replied. Roger’s glower was all the answer Albert got, and all he needed. “Very well, my lord. We will search for them, too.”
Father Gabriel cleared his throat deferentially. “My lord, please recall that there may be other factors at work here. If these men are simply outlaws, as you believe, try to understand that there are other lords, less wise than yourself, perhaps, who are harsh with their tenants and so create—”
“If men break the law, they must be punished.”
“Be that as it may, a little mercy—”
“They will get precisely what they deserve, Father. No more, no less.” Roger looked at Albert and tried to focus on his friend. “I don’t think they were rebels.”
Albert shook his head. “Nor I, my lord.”
“What of ransom?”
“We have heard nothing.”
“I pray Chilcott does not hear of this. Or Baron DeGuerre.”
“Should your concern not be for your sister’s safe return?” Father Gabriel asked softly.
Roger saw the rebuke in the man’s eyes. “Of course I am worried about her, man! Leave me now!”
The tone of command was unmistakable, and Father Gabriel wisely did not linger.
“Surely there will be no need to inform your sister’s betrothed,” Albert said placatingly. “At least we have not found her body. It may be that she managed to escape and is now—”
“Lost in the forest? Small comfort there, Albert! I will lead the search for her myself.” Roger threw off the bedclothes, set his feet on the ground and stood up.
Then Sir Roger de Montmorency fell back onto the bed in a dead faint, his face so pale that Albert ran down the corridor shouting for Father Gabriel.
Chapter Four
Madeline inched her way forward, hardly daring to take a breath, although the rise and fall of the Welshman’s broad, naked chest gave her assurance that he still slept. When she had first awakened and realized he was sleeping and that the rain had ceased, she had been tempted to run away, until she realized she had no idea where she was. She might find herself lost in the woods, the very same woods that harbored the outlaws who had attacked their party yesterday. Therefore, she had decided upon a different course of action.
Ever so carefully, she pulled the sword away from the Welshman’s loosened grip. There! She had it! She lifted it cautiously, amazed at the weight and the beauty of the design, and wary of its sharpened edge. Then, taking a deep breath, she placed it against the Welshman’s collarbone.
He opened his eyes—and was instantly awake. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his accent strong in his surprise. He shifted ever so slightly.
“I want you to answer my questions. I want to know who you are.” She shoved the tip forward a little to show that she expected answers, not grins.
“David,” he replied. “My name is David.”
“Very well, David, if that is truly your name and I do not fully believe it is, what are you doing dressed in a priest’s robe?”
“I told you, a pilgrimage I am making.”
“To where?”
“Canterbury.”
“Why then are you not heading south?”
“I...visit family first.”
“And you are from Cornwall?”
“Yes.”
“You are lying to me, David.”
He didn’t reply.
“We had Welsh girls serving us in the convent. I recognize the accent. What else have you lied about? That you mean me no harm?”
“That is the truth. I will not hurt you.”
Whatever else he said, she believed this. She saw the truth of it in his eyes and heard the sincerity in his voice, utilizing the several subtle skills developed in the convent, where some tried to gain superiority by claiming extraordinary piety or to gain favor with the Mother Superior. Madeline had learned to detect hypocrisy and deceit. She saw none of that when he said he would not harm her.
Even more importantly, there was something else in his eyes when he looked at her. Not fear, because she held a sword at his throat, but a kind of grudging respect, all the more rewarding because she suspected he did not give that easily, not to a Norman, and not to a woman, probably, either. “Shall I tell you what I think, David?” she asked, her tone lighter than before although still serious. “I think you are a soldier of some kind, or you were. You are no longer, because of that wound to your shoulder, or else you are traveling in disguise. I also realize that you do not like Normans. So, you are a Welshman who can fight who doesn’t like Normans. Are you, by any chance, a rebel?”
“If I am,” he said with a mocking smile, “do you think me stupid enough to admit it?”
She rose, her hands still wrapped around the grip of the sword. He rubbed his throat, watching her. “I am telling you what I suspect to prove a point. I do not care who you really are, or what you may have done. I have no interest in the truth about you beyond its pertinence to my safety.” That was not strictly true, but there was no point in letting him know that she was curious about him. “Nothing about you matters to me, as long as you assist me.”
“I said I would, but I will not take you to your brother. He hates the Welsh.”
Madeline did not respond to his blunt observation, because she didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, she could no longer be sure of anything about her brother. He seemed to have changed very much in the past ten years, and it could be that this fellow understood Roger better than she.
“And I would not be keen to have my brother see me with a lone Welshman for my escort, if I were you,” he said wryly. “Think of the scandal, my lady.”
Madeline’s eyes widened and she forgot to hide a smile of sudden excitement. Of all things, she had not considered what might happen if she returned to Roger and let it be known she had spent the night alone with a man. And worse, from Roger’s point of view, at least, a Welshman who might very well be a rebel. A scandal might be the very thing to prevent a wedding.
Then she frowned. As much as she did not like the idea of marrying Chilcott, she was not certain she was willing to lose her reputation to prevent it. Then she realized the Welshman was smiling at her. “You must have been a very poor soldier, David, to let a woman sneak up on you,” she remarked calmly.
“Give me the sword before you hurt yourself,” he said, rising.
“No.”
As she backed away, still keeping the weapon pointed at him, he suddenly dove for her, knocking the sword from her hand and sending it skittering across the packed earth of the floor. He landed on top of her and knocked the wind out of her.
“Why didn’t you run when you saw I was asleep, Lady Madeline de Montmorency?” Dafydd asked. He drew back a little and looked at her, aware of her body beneath him and his proximity to her luscious lips.
“I need an escort and, unfortunately, you are the only one available.”
“Not much cause to help you, maybe, if you put my sword at my throat,” he noted dryly.
“I wanted to know who you are.”
“I am your escort. That will have to do.”
“I suppose,” she said, pouting. She gave him a sidelong glance that was at once proud and impertinent, questioning and very enticing. “Will you please get off me? You are...”
“What?” he asked softly, leaning forward so that his lips were close to hers. “What am I, my lady?”
Gently he kissed her. At first, he simply enjoyed the long-denied sensation of a kiss. And then, miraculously, wonderfully, he realized she was returning his kiss, with a tentative innocence that bespoke passion awakening. The notion that he could inspire such a feeling within her increased his own ardor. His tongue tenderly yet insistently probed her lips, until they parted for him.
When his tongue thrust slowly inside her mouth, Madeline could scarcely comprehend the host of feelings struggling within her. The foremost was nearly overpowering surprise. Touch of any kind was forbidden in the convent, even to the touch of a hand when passing food. The kiss alone had been intoxicating; this was beyond that, sending her spinning into a realm so exciting that she could barely think beyond the pleasure as his lips moved over hers, delightfully slowly, firm and possessive.
And if a kiss could make her feel that way, what of the other things some of the other girls had spoken of, secret things, whispered about in the corner of the garden when the holy sisters were not near?
Heady with the excitement, Madeline clutched his muscular shoulders, his flesh hot beneath her hands, and instinctively began to undulate beneath him.
He had saved and protected her. He would help her still. He was strong, handsome, virile. A warrior.
And then she felt his hand upon her breast. Startled, she thrust him back. “Stop!” she cried, surprised and horrified not so much by his unexpected action as by her own lack of self-control. This was too much intimacy, too soon. What she felt must be lust, could only be lust. Blushing with shame, she shoved him away. “Stop that!”
Indeed, his grin could have been lust personified. “You like being kissed.”
“No, I do not.” She squirmed beneath him, trying to make him let her up.
In response, he moved his hips, the slight motion awakening a yearning so strong she could scarcely believe it.
She lay still, staring up at him, horrified. “I...I want to be a nun!”
“I thought you were getting married.”
“Yes. No. Get off me!”
“Very well.” Mercifully he rolled away. “You want to live among women for the rest of your days?”
“Yes.”
“That would be a great waste,” he murmured, smiling at her as he rose slowly and reached for the dalmatica.
“How dare you!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet. “I am betrothed!”
He pulled on his garment, then faced her, his expression unreadable. “How dare you?” he asked coolly.
“Me? It was you! You knocked me down, you—”
“If you do not wish to be kissed, do not look at a man that way. If you are indeed betrothed, you should act like it.”
She drew herself up. “What `way’ did I look at you? And I am acting like a betrothed woman! I keep asking you to take me back to my brother.” She had merely regarded him as she would any other man...hadn’t she?
“Are you trying to say you did not enjoy the kiss?”
“No, I did not! I could not enjoy the embrace of a...of a peasant!”
“You do not know I am a peasant.”
“You are not a nobleman.”
His infuriating smile broadened.
“Do you intend to help me or not?”
“I said I would, so I will.”
“Then you will please have the goodness to stay far away from me.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“I’m hungry. What is there to eat?”
He pulled out yet another piece of stale bread from his pack and tossed it at her. She caught it just before it landed on the ground and then watched as he picked up his weapon and walked toward the horse. “We should go soon,” he said.
She took a bite of the bread and marveled that her teeth did not remain behind. Chewing slowly and avoiding meeting his gaze, she nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“No.” He saddled the horse and tied on his pack. She kept silent as she ate and watched him. He was no nobleman, say what he would. He couldn’t be.
And he should not have kissed her. It was all his impertinent doing. Indeed, she would do well to be rid of his company. Truly, she did not enjoy his lips upon hers. How could she? He had taken a great liberty.
Would he try to take another such liberty before he left her?
“We must go.”
His blunt words roused her from her reverie. Brushing the crumbs from her garment, she joined him as he left the byre. Outside, the sky was cloudy, yet she did not think it would rain again soon. Puddles were plentiful, however, and the leaves of the trees still dripped. All in all, the scene before her was as dismal as her future if she returned to her brother.
But she had to find out what had happened to Roger—Roger, whom she had almost forgotten, just because this rascal claimed that her brother was probably uninjured.
The Welshman linked his hands together and waited, crouched beside the horse. Obviously the intention was that she should ride, so she placed her foot in his hands and let him lift her onto the saddle. Then she waited with bated breath for him to join her. She could almost feel his body behind hers, touching her, and told herself that she was dreading the contact.
He did not mount the horse. Instead, he took hold of the horse’s bridle and began to walk toward the road.
“Where are we going?” she asked coldly.
“To a Norman’s manor I know of.”
“Whose manor is it?”
“Sir Guy.”
“Sir Guy?” There was something vaguely familiar about the name, but Guy was common enough. “Is that all of his name you know?”
“Yes.”
“How is it you are welcome at a Norman’s manor?”
“Would you rather I left you to find another escort, my lady?”
