The Saint--World of de Worlk Pack Page 8

  Gripping the edges of Marsaili’s gown closed beneath the cover of her cloak, Geoffrey gave her a small bow. “Let us repair your disarray and see what Walter and Simon have for us to dine on this night. ’Twill be warmer inside, and noted if we remained without.”

  Together, they stepped inside the partially destroyed hut. Simon glanced up from preparing their evening meal and Walter stomped past with an armful of wood for the fire. Geoffrey gave Simon a curt nod.

  “A mug of heated wine as soon as you can, please,” he said as he moved behind Marsaili, taking advantage of the shadows to mask his actions. Within seconds he had the back of her dress laced and tied, her cloak smoothly in place. She thanked him with a grim smile and walked to the fire, hands over the flames. Simon handed her a mug and she accepted the offering, wrapping her fingers around it as she sipped.

  Walter tossed a stack of pelts over a pile of fresh-cut pine boughs. “This is your space, Milady,” he said. “I hope you are comfortable this night. We cannot give you much privacy, as I’ve placed you between us and the fire for your protection.” He gave her a helpless shrug. “We’ll try to keep our backs to you.”

  Marsaili laughed softly and touched his arm. “My thanks, sir knight. I have no fear for my person with ye and Sir Simon close by.” She slanted a look over her shoulder at Geoffrey. “Mayhap ye could form a comfortable spot for Lord de Wylde, also. He’s having a difficult time keeping his mind off the pain in his leg.”

  “A night on the cold, hard ground would not be as pleasant as one spent in a soft-bosomed embrace,” Geoffrey noted, pleased to see Marsaili’s cheeks redden at his innuendo.

  Walter obligingly scattered springy boughs on the ground several feet away and dropped furs atop the pile, looking to Geoffrey for approval.

  Geoffrey waited for Marsaili’s reply, but none came. “Though the cold ground is perchance my penance for some disreputable action in my not-so-distant-past.”

  Walter fisted his gloved hands on his hips. “Do you want the boughs or not, Milord?”

  Geoffrey held Marsaili’s gaze a moment longer then turned to the knight. “Yes, thank you. I’ll take the first watch after we sup.”

  * * *

  Marsaili sat on her pallet, pleased with the springiness of the boughs Walter had cut. She sipped a mug of hot wine, letting its warmth course through her insides. The fire Simon tended gave off a pleasant heat and the horses’ heavy bodies added a musky warmth to the room.

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, remembering the taste of Geoffrey’s skin.

  This has gotten out of hand. He cannae possibly want me. And even if he did, I must get to Scotland and out of Edmund’s reach.

  Marsaili couldn’t say what exactly it was that drew her to Lord de Wylde. Her only experience with men had been casual indifference from Andrew and repulsive lust from Edmund. The others at Bellevue and the nearby village had kept their distance. In part from the lack of desire to incur Andrew’s wrath at giving too much attention to what was his, and part because of her Scot’s heritage. Though Bellevue nestled at the farthest reach of the Borders, nearly every family had lost someone to the wars, and Marsaili understood she was only a sacrifice to the elusive delusion of peace. No one, least of all she, was required to like having a Scot in their midst.

  She allowed her mind to linger over Lord de Wylde’s features. They certainly were enough to interest a woman. Even though he wore minimal armor, his broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs bespoke the rigorous lifestyle of a warrior. The past months of recovery at the monastery appeared to have done nothing to soften his appearance. His hawk-like dark amber eyes were often inscrutable—when he wasn’t undressing her with his gaze. ’Twas a peculiar sensation. Edmund had done it often enough, but Lord de Wylde made her feel singularly significant. As though the man beheld a banquet and wished to indulge his senses and hers. Beneath Edmund’s lustful drool, she’d felt like a common meal—quickly eaten and perhaps tossed into a convenient ditch later if it didn’t suit.

  But what perplexed her the most, beyond her own overwhelming interest in the man, was his attitude. Cool to her in the beginning, he’d nonetheless cared for her and took her under his protection. Though she’d certainly not wanted his help, he’d held fast to his code and she quite possibly owed her life to him. There was no guarantee Edmund’s men wouldn’t have caught up with her before she reached Lokardebi, despite her greater speed on her own. The thought was enough to cause her blood to run cold.

  Though there’d been sparks between them, it had taken Lord de Wylde’s first kiss to see her utterly undone. And she certainly couldn’t blame their nearness in the wagon for her boldness later. She’d had none of the nurturing feelings of a healer toward a patient. No, there was something about the man that caused her to lose all reason. It both intrigued her and frightened her to death.

  I’ll simply make sure the occasion doesnae occur again. ’Tis certain we can manage to conclude our journey in politeness and without rancor. Satisfied with her decision, Marsaili set her mug aside and curled on her make-shift bed, inhaling the tang of pine beneath the thick furs.

  Even if he wishes to explore this madness further, I will simply explain to him why our relationship can go no further. I am going home to Scotland, and he is an English border lord. Other than a few passionate kisses, we have nothing in common.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gray clouds masked the sun, permitting passage of pale light but little warmth. Wind blasted in frigid gusts around Marsaili, dipping its icy fingers inside her cloak. Even with one of the furs from the wagon wrapped about her and snuggly tied, she couldn’t escape the dreary day and for the hundredth time wished she’d not insisted on riding Hew. Wythevede had trundled three nice-sized stones into the wagon, smoke rising from them before he’d wrapped each in a pelt. Inside the conveyance was the warmth she craved. But therein was also Lord de Wylde.

  She huddled deeper within the fur. At least his lordship probably has warm feet. I dinnae think I can feel mine.

  Simon had warmed some wine before they left the hut and added it to an empty flagon, giving it to her to place beneath her cloak. The heat had been very welcome, but the wine was quickly cooling in the wintery weather and Marsaili’s mood was suffering as well.

  Though the men had each taken a turn at watch during the night, they attended their morning duties pleasantly, seemingly undeterred by the blustery weather or their lack of sleep. Marsaili envied them their indifference, though they appeared warm enough beneath their armor, and she had no one but herself to blame for declining a seat in the wagon. Herself and Lord de Wylde.

  “Are you well, Milady?” Simon asked, reining his horse close to hers. Marsaili startled out of her dark thoughts, but her horse plodded on undeterred, head down against the snow hurled back into the air by the wind.

  She nodded, both hands tucked beneath her cloak for warmth. There was little fear Hew would bolt more than a few steps in the drifts. They’d all realized from the outset the icy ground was no place for a gait faster than a steady walk.

  “We should arrive at Belwyck in another hour or so,” he added. “There will be a fire in the hearth and a hot drink waiting.”

  Marsaili knew he meant to encourage, but she was miserable and couldn’t summon the effort to find pleasure in his words. Fire and comfort seemed a very long time away. She frowned. “How can ye tell? We’ve scarcely seen the sun today. It could be the morrow and we’d not know it.”

  Simon laughed. “Milady, we have been traveling for the better part of the morning and the sun will be directly overhead soon. Would you care to ride in the wagon, now? ’Tis a bumpy ride, but at least sheltered.”

  “’Tis not the bumps that worry me,” she replied darkly.

  “Has The Saint given you cause to worry?” Simon asked. “He is not known for a sense of humor and could be a disagreeable traveling companion in his present state. His injury bothers him sorely.
’Tis quite a change for a man used to riding at the head of the column and completely in command.”

  “Och, I wouldnae call him disagreeable.” Marsaili tried for a charitable tone, but Simon regarded her curiously, a brow arched as though a thought had dawned on him.

  “Are you attracted to the man? He has been kind to you, and you have been through much tumult of late.”

  Marsaili fought the urge to fling her dagger at the knight. He likely meant well, but to think she would develop feelings for Lord de Wylde simply because he’d been kind to her . . . . Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile.

  “I dinnae fall at the feet of every man who has a kind word for me, Sir Simon, no matter how few there have been. Lord de Wylde doesnae treat me with kindness. He treats me within his code. I am a point of honor to him. Neither more nor less.”

  She cringed to deliver the bold lie, but there could be no mistake she and Lord de Wylde were not attracted to each other. Since Simon seemed well-acquainted with the details of his lordship’s life, quelling his guess was in her best interest.

  Simon gave a slow nod. “He is fair to everyone. And a difficult man to get to know. You have only been with him a couple of days and he has been troubled by the travel and the weather. He will be a different man once we arrive at Belwyck.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” she muttered.

  “I beg pardon, Milady?” Simon leaned closer as though to hear her better.

  Marsaili lifted her chin. “I shan’t linger long. No need to concern yerself with Lord de Wylde’s actions on my behalf. I am sure he will have much to do when he arrives. He’ll likely have forgotten all about me within an hour or so.”

  * * *

  Lord de Wylde kicked the furs aside with his good leg. Prideful wench. She is by now likely regretting not accepting my offer of a seat in the wagon. He scrubbed the back of his neck with one hand. He could have commanded her presence, but her cool response had taken him aback, and he’d left her mounting her horse, snow dancing about her.

  She is right. We do not need to spend time alone again. Though she captivates me, our time is soon at an end and I will not compromise her honor further. My own is in jeopardy for not being able to offer her solitude in the wagon. Damned leg. He sighed and placed his head in his hands, away from the wall that jostled with every misstep the heavy wheels took, giving over to the memory of the woman who even now tempted him to abandon the right path he knew lay before him.

  Her fiery hair bespoke her temper when riled, but that same temperament created a passion he’d not found in any other woman. Though he’d pledged a solitary, quiet life now that his injury precluded military pursuits, he found her spirit rather suited him. He smiled at the impertinence, her most distinguishing trait.

  ’Twas not proper and it shouldnae happen again.

  His grin widened. Their first kiss hadn’t been proper and shouldn’t have happened again. But it had, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel remorse. Though he’d likely do a lengthy penance once things were settled at Belwyck and he made his confession, he honestly didn’t care and would welcome the chance to kiss Marsaili again—should she wish it. Though this time their embrace would be in guaranteed privacy and with clear expectations spelled out for each of them. Passionate kissing and fondling was well and good, but hardly where he wanted things to end.

  He pushed the wooden panel on the door aside and glanced at the sky. Leaden clouds hung low. The narrow view between the slats showed him little more than blustery gusts of drifting snow that nearly obscured the trees along the edge of the road. Icy air pushed its way inside the conveyance and Geoffrey shut the window to keep the cold at bay. Settling into the furs and bracing his leg against one of the warm, fur-wrapped stones, he schooled his thoughts to what lay ahead for him at Belwyck, and away from the luscious body of the woman who threatened the peace he desired.

  * * *

  Belwyck Castle loomed ahead. Two stone towers flanked the metal-studded gate. Part of the wall was of enormous, hewn timbers, but Marsaili noted it was being replaced by a perimeter of stones thicker than the length of her horse. Black shadowed lines underscored the top-dressing of snow atop the gray boulders.

  The gates opened, a ponderous movement due to their size. A ramp lowered across the moat surrounding the castle, its still waters as black as ink. Chains creaked and clattered a discordant welcome to the group and a banner appeared over one tower, announcing Lord de Wylde was again in residence. Walter had unfurled a similar banner a short time earlier and it billowed and snapped in the wind.

  Marsaili shifted nervously in her saddle as she rode through the barbican, the sun utterly absent in the tunnel, the only light created by smoking torches clamped to the walls.

  ’Tis more like a dungeon than an entry into a castle. But the thick stone blocked the wind and the torches blazed with heat. Just as her fingers and toes began to thaw, the party exited the barbican into the bailey where churned mud and snow greeted them.

  Anonymous figures of men and women, bundled tight against the weather, scattered about the open area, hugging the walls, as far from the wind as possible. Boys darted across the muddy yard from a low building, taking charge of the horses. One of the lads tossed Marsaili a cheeky grin as he took Hew’s reins, his cheeks blistered by the elements, eyes alight with mischief beneath a knitted cap.

  Marsaili slowly unbent her stiff arms and legs, her gloved hands fumbling with the reins and mane, cloak and furs. Gauntleted hands grasped her waist, hauling her from Hew’s back. She stumbled as her numb feet registered the ground beneath them and Simon’s grip held her steady. Too cold to care what the residents of Belwyck Castle thought of her, she nonetheless scanned the hooded faces. But scant attention was paid to her as all eyes were riveted to the wagon as Lord de Wylde emerged.

  He straightened and, placing his cane on the ground even with his right leg, stepped forward. The castle’s denizens stared at him dispassionately as he halted before them.

  “Thank you for your welcome. Please take yourselves inside and keep out of the weather. I will settle in and I am sure there will be ample chance for us to meet under better circumstances. Direct your inquiries to Sir Simon in my stead for the immediate future.”

  He gave a short nod of dismissal and the crowd dispersed, shuffling from the bailey into their respective buildings. He stared after them for a few moments, then turned to Simon.

  “We should all be indoors with something to warm our insides.” He motioned toward a large door in the side of the keep. “Milady.”

  Marsaili drank in the sight of him, tall and muscular, leaning heavily on his cane. His dark hair glistened in the pale sunlight and his amber eyes pierced hers as though asking if she’d had a change of heart. Lifting her chin, Marsaili gathered her skirts and turned her back on him, denying the plea in her heart to indulge even once more in his embrace. She would be gone on the morrow and in her heart she knew there would be no more kisses and touches between them. Next time—and there would not be a next time—their passion would take them on a far different route. One she could not afford to travel.

  She picked her way carefully over the clumps of ice and ruts made in the frozen slush. Twice her boots slipped on the precarious surface, but she righted herself with Sir Simon’s help. The door to the keep opened and a squat man stepped out, quickly closing the door behind him. His head was covered in a massive fur cap and a lined cloak draped about his sturdy form.

  “My name is Gavan de Langton. I am the steward here. Come inside, Milady. A place will be found for you.” He straightened, staring over her shoulder at the men behind her. “Your room is ready, Milord, and accommodations made for your men. A great feast is being prepared to celebrate your arrival, and refreshments await you inside.”

  Marsaili reached the wide stone steps before the door and paused to glance once more at Lord de Wylde. She would, of course, decline the feast. There was no reason to draw further attention to herself, and she would need her re
st for the journey tomorrow. Other than making her request for Lord de Wylde to fulfill his promise to send her on her way across the border with an escort—which she hoped to do by messenger and spare her tempting time in his presence—this could be the last time she laid eyes on him.

  Lord de Wylde strode forward. His cane slid deep into an icy rut, sinking in the slush created by the passage of man and beast. Caught fast in the ruthless mud, the slender wooden cane tore free from his grip and he stumbled forward, his injured leg unable to bear the strain. Marsaili’s hands flew to her face in horror, unable to either watch or tear her gaze away. His leg twisted and a snap like the crack of a whip sounded in the crystalline air as Lord de Wylde crumpled to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Through the fog of pain, hands appeared, trying to help him up, pulling, tugging, pushing him down into the frigid slush that bit into him like lashes from a metal-studded whip. Rising on his elbows, Geoffrey tried to wave them back, certain—hoping, praying—if he was granted a moment of peace, the pain would go away and he could rise on his own.

  “Enough!” he roared. Or at least he thought he did. But the men about him gave no sign of hearing him. Someone rushed up with an armful of furs and wrapped one about his shoulders. Someone else—he thought it was Walter—lifted his torso and slid another fur beneath him.

  Hours—or perhaps moments—later, an open cart appeared and amid a measured chant from the men surrounding him, he was raised from the ground and placed in the wagon, padding his leg with more furs. Despite the men’s care, the movements of his leg sent shards of pain ripping through him. Geoffrey gave a shout and saw and felt no more.

  * * *

  Marsaili paced the floor in the private room, the chill in her veins not one that could be conquered by the fire blazing on the hearth. Her heart still beat painfully in reaction to witnessing Lord de Wyldes’s fall, and she drew in deep breaths to ease the tightness in her chest. She cast a glance at the man on the bed, though too many others clustered about him and she could see little except betwixt elbows and hips.