Defiant (14 page)

He could not leave her to fend off any attackers alone. When she calmed, they could talk about the right course of action. A marriage could not be so easily undone. She belonged to him now. He tied his breeks and slung his cloak over his shoulders.

At a distance, he followed.

Panting, Gwyneth rounded another corner and pulled the dank, damp air into her aching lungs. Shadows and moonlight shifted on the walls and cobblestones. The smell of sewage and rotting fish hung in the air. She grasped the knife’s hilt in case Jared followed and she needed to defend herself.

She glanced over her shoulder but saw no sign of Jared. Thank the saints. She knew the streets in this part of the town—had traveled this way many times, but never at this hour of night. It was not far from The Bald Cock. She slowed her pace and kept to the shadows to avoid looking out of place and attracting attention. She wasn’t wearing the shabby cloak that she normally wore and she knew her silver-and-gold hair would stand out like a beacon.

The brothel’s back door was just ahead. Once she was safe inside, she would figure out what to do. Her breath sighed from her lungs. She’d made it. Mass every day for a week, she vowed. Twice a day.

Stuffing the knife into her bodice, she went the final distance.

A noise sounded to one side as her fingertips touched the door. A man leapt from behind a pile of rotting garbage.

She gasped as he unfolded, revealing a tall, thin body. Heavens! Hastily, she grasped the handle of the brothel’s back door.

“Lady Gwyneth?” the man said, his voice kind, singsonglike. Someone here knew her name? She’d never been recognized in the past, but always before she had worn her shabby cloak, kept her hair covered and her face hidden.

She pulled open the door, eager to reach Irma, but the man stepped quickly forward and pushed it shut. “Not so fast, Lady Gwyneth.” The voice remained a singsong.

Her heart pounded, and the stench of dung and ale bit her nostrils—the smell of evil, of a rottenness that went even deeper than the man’s unwashed body. Gagging, she yanked on the door and kicked it, but the man pressed forward and held it shut, disallowing her entrance.

“Irma!” she called desperately. “Help!”

“Shhh, woman. We have matters to discuss.”

Quivering, Gwyneth backed away, hoping to lure him from the door so she could bolt forward into the whorehouse as soon as his attention shifted.

His looming shadow followed her and she was forced farther away toward the wall at the other end of the alleyway. “You’re even prettier than they say,” he said, smiling. Three of his front teeth were missing. “Maybe a kiss—”

“Get back,” she commanded. “People are expecting me.” Her voice sounded much calmer than she felt.
Never show fear.

Beneath his cowl, he grinned, showing his missing teeth again. “You want to be nicey-nice to me, woman. I know about the murder. I know somebody who is looking for the green boots. They have been asking questions.”

Her eyes widened and she lunged again for the door. This time, he grasped her arm in a hard, twisting grip. She yelped.

“Let go!”

“I require only a little payment—” His breath was fetid.

She yanked as hard as she could. “Irma! Irma! ”

“Shush, woman.”

“Leave be!” Her voice rose in pitch and she flailed her fists at him.

His grip tightened and he hustled her away from the brothel’s entrance.

She snatched the knife from her bodice. “Back off!”

His hand came up, then cracked sharply against her cheek. “Silence.”

She staggered at the force of the blow but gripped the knife tighter and swung around on him. The blade caught only air. Curses!

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he threw her to the ground.

Pain shot through her hip. “Oof.” Heart racing, she scooted back on her buttocks, desperate to get away. The look in his eyes—as dark as his stench—terrified her.

His tunic flapped as he dove atop her, sliding them both into the filth. He smelled like stale ale.

She gagged.

“Where’s your purse?” His hand dove into her bodice, mauling her breasts.

Screaming, she kicked as hard as she could and prayed for Irma or one of the other whores to hear her. “Help!”

Oh, Mother Mary!

With a hard yank, the man grabbed her hand and twisted it painfully upward.

“Aagh!”

“Shush, bitch.”

Sharp pain lanced the pinky of her right hand. She opened her mouth to scream again, but the man kicked her in the side.

“No more screaming or I’ll break it.”

Oh, Saints. Oh, Mary. Her underarms stung, and she shook so hard that her teeth clattered together. Terrified, Gwyneth held her throbbing finger, drew her body into a tight ball, and squeezed her eyes closed as panic overtook her and she waited to die. The man’s fetid stench contaminated the air.

Abruptly, the scent left and a loud thunk sounded several feet away. Her eyes popped open. Jared stood over her like a dark rescuing angel, his form bathed in moonlight.

Relief poured through her.

The attacker scrambled to his feet, drew into a defensive stance. “We were just having a little talk,” he said in that singsong voice. “Get her to tell you about—”

Jared lunged forward and slammed the man across the head with his staff.

The attacker fell onto the ground with a thunk.

Gwyneth shuddered, her mind going back to the man she’d hit with a stick in the forest.

Jared stared at the unmoving body as if to determine if further force was needed, then he turned toward her, his brows drawn into a deep frown. A beam of moonlight slashed across his goatee and lit one half of his face.

Although he had saved her life, there was still no love lost betwixt the two of them. Wary, she willed her legs to rise, knowing she should run, but her limbs felt numb, detached from her body. Uncooperative.

As if sensing her hesitation, Jared stooped down, still holding his engraved staff, and slid his arms beneath her bruised body. She felt herself being lifted from the grimy ground and pressed to his warm, wide chest.

“'Tis okay, girl. I have you now.”

She knew she should resist, that everything that had happened this night was terribly wrong, that there was too much between them for her to give in to the comfort of his body, but her arms snaked around his neck seemingly of their own accord. She buried her face in his shoulder. His scent was fresh, clean—sandalwood and spice—the smell of safety. Tears stung the backs of her eyes and then spilled down her cheeks.

“Peace, love, you are safe.”

Love?

Her hand throbbed; her hip ached as well. Her body shook, and his demeanor of soft strength was too calming to resist. Inhaling deeply, she melted against him, sinking into the comfort that he offered.

Her mind screamed in protest. Jared was not a right match. He’d forced her! He was not a man she could control. He had done even worse to her than the man lying unmoving beside the wall, hadn’t he?

Without a further glance at the man, Jared turned and carried her out of the alley.

Closing her eyes, too exhausted to fight, she surrendered. Tomorrow when her head was clear, when her body ached less, she would find a way out of the marriage and figure out what to do with Jared.

Kidnapped him. Married him. Stabbed him. Would this woman’s sins ne’er end?

A bright red blotch of blood spotted the linen bandage around his arm from where she had stabbed him earlier. His entire limb throbbed as he carried his sleeping wife toward his cave. Sleeping! As if her conscience was clear as an angel’s.

Damp tendrils of hair stuck to her face and her lips were open in a soft pout. Part of him wanted to take her to the town stocks and see her get her comeuppance, but his heart tugged. She looked sweet, innocent—the Gwyneth he remembered—a far cry from the brazen temptress she’d been in the whorehouse or the hellion who had forced him into the church on his hands and knees.

Rain drizzled upon them in a cold mist. He pulled his cape around her, wracking his brain to figure out what he would do with her.

Definitely he could not trust her, no matter how innocent she appeared while sleeping. And letting her go was out of the question: ‘Twas obvious that she needed a protector. The woman had made one bad decision after the next and needed someone to rein her in.

Stepping over a fallen limb, he contemplated this. She snuggled even closer to his shoulder. Her forehead burrowed into his torso and her pink, bow-shaped mouth fell open in a soft sigh.

He would not let her go, not after what he had done to her. The sheet with her virgin blood was folded and tucked into his belt as further proof.

A virgin! Who would have ever guessed any semblance of purity could be found in such a woman?

Vexing. The woman was totally vexing. She was both naive and crafty at the same time. The way she was now, no one would ever think she was capable of drugging a man and forcing him to marry her.

Likely her family would be looking for her; he needed to find the damn monk to prove they were truly married so there would be no question whatsoever that he was her lord.

Above, an owl hooted. Frogs chirped. No moon shone. The wind kicked up. Rain blew.

Once his hawk was tended, he would make plans for what to do with his
wife.
It seemed that she had not recognized him at all. He pushed aside a small twinge of longing. He had thought of her daily for three years and she had not thought of him at all.

But he would have to continue in disguise at least until his name was cleared. If she learned that he had escaped from prison, she would turn him in.

“Well, Gwyneth of Windrose,” Jared said, shifting her in his arms so his limb did not throb as much, “you are a package of trouble.” And as attractive as she had been three years ago.

Gwyneth of Windrose. What an irony. What a mystery. What was she doing at a brothel? Why had she stolen him? How had she and Irma become friends?

So many questions.

In answer, her head lolled to one side. How on earth did she manage to sleep?

“You claimed to have plenty of gold. Why have you never married? A woman such as you would have plenty of suitors.” He asked the questions aloud, musing to himself, and not actually expecting an answer.

The rain had mostly cleared by the time they arrived at the cave. His legs ached, his back ached, his arms throbbed.

And still the woman slept.

The hawk watched her with yellow eyes and gave him a sound of displeasure as they entered. She fluttered on her perch; she had been waiting too long.

“I know, friend,” he crooned. “'Twas not in my plans to get married last evening or to be gone nearly so long.”

Using the glimmer of moonlight that streamed in the cave’s entrance, he laid Gwyneth atop the pallet of wool blankets that he had been using as a bed. She twisted, wiggled into the covers, and then curled onto one side—as peaceful as a baby.

Frowning down at her, Jared rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms upward, nearly touching the cavern’s rock ceiling.

Aeliana ruffled in an obvious attempt to snare his attention. She eyed Gwyneth suspiciously, clearly jealous of another female being with him.

Jared smiled, glad of the hawk’s irritation. Had she been angry rather than jealous, he would have been concerned that she might take flight and never return when they next went hunting.

“In the morn, I’ll take you hunting.”

Aeliana made an annoyed sound as if to suggest ‘twas past time already.

“Peace, Aeliana,” he crooned, and sank to his knees beside his sleeping wife, intending to get a few hours of sleep. Mayhap somewhere in his dreams he would discover the answer for what to do with her.

Her body was warm, soft, and entirely too tempting as he stretched out beside her on the pallet.

A curl of her hair wound across his forearm. In the dark, the color was muted, but he knew what it looked like: a glimmering treasure chest of gold and silver, just like the tendril that was tucked in his pouch. He picked it up and rubbed it betwixt his thumb and forefinger, then held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Just as he had done time and again in the prison. The scent, that of lavender, was as seductive and tantalizing as the silky feel.

He had frightened her earlier—indeed had intended to do so—and the way she now trustingly curled against him heightened his guilt of what had occurred between them. Somehow he would right his wrongs, make it up to her. He wouldn’t let her go, but like his hawk, he would make her come to understand that life with him was better than life without him. It made him doubly eager to find Rafe’s murderer so that he could clear his name.

He closed his eyes and drew her into his arms. A hard lump pressed against him where her bosom should have been. Puzzled, he glanced downward and noticed something poking from the top of her bosom. With the easy movement of a thief, he stole it from the top of her gown.

A book.

Nay,
the
book!

The book he had given her three years ago. He had spent hours carving and crafting the thin wooden cover for it.