Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (20 page)

Yet he’d saved her from the hands of ruthless sea reivers, and, thanks to him, however he’d accomplished it, she had shelter tonight and a hot bath. After she finished, she decided, she’d voice that simple gratitude he seemed to so desperately want. Satisfied, she smiled and glanced over at the man by the window.

The smile fell from her face. In profile, clean from his bath, the beggar was magnificent. The afternoon sunlight shone full on his face, muted in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. Strands of his hair, blacker than ink, seemed to tease at the powerful cords of his neck. His eyes, staring off into the distant sea, were almost transparent in the bright sun, and his lips parted slightly as he pondered some profound matter.

She swallowed hard. On the ship, by the meager light of Sombra’s cabin, he’d seemed a phantom come to pleasure her and leave, as insubstantial as a dream. The man before her now was real. He was flesh and blood. He breathed, he moved, and she already knew what he was capable of doing to her senses. The memory made her shiver.

Duncan felt Linet’s eyes upon him. He turned to her. She was trembling.

“Chilled?” He offered her the second linen towel from the bed.

“Nay.” Her voice was curt, at odds with her smoldering eyes.

Duncan knew that look. Lord, did he know that look. “God’s blood, lady,” he groaned, “you test me sorely. Don’t look at me like that.”

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She dropped her gaze at once, too mortified to speak.

He rubbed his hand across his stubbled cheek and forced his own gaze away. Perhaps some mundane activity would keep his mind off of the goddess bathing not three steps away. He walked stiffly across the room to the table and rummaged in his pouch, fishing out a pumice stone. Turning his back, he briskly scraped it across his chin to rub away the whiskers there. The rough sensation helped to distract him.

Still, his ear was keenly aware of each swash of water she ladled over her body, the erratic currents she created as she shifted in the tub. He swore he’d rub his cheek raw before he could begin to ignore her completely.

After what seemed an eternity, blessedly, the splashing ceased. He tucked the pumice back into his pouch and stole a glance at the wooden tub. What he saw suffused him with tender warmth and made a smile tug at his lips.

She was asleep. The water was quiet around her, except for the small ripple her chest made as it lightly rose and fell. Her head lay back against the wood, and her mouth lay open like a babe’s in slumber.

He wryly shook his head. What was he to do now? The bath would grow cold soon.

He approached with stealth, sweeping up the linen square from the bed. He slowly knelt in silence beside the tub and gazed at his sleeping angel. How innocent and sweet she seemed. One would hardly suspect there was a haughty spitfire within that silken skin.

Without meaning to, he let his eyes slip to her breasts, to the nipples that waited coyly just beneath the surface of the water. His stomach tensed, and he fought the desire to cradle one of the perfect curves in his hand.

Then he sensed he was being watched. He peered up and found himself looking into two slumber-glazed jewels of willow green.

Linet blinked sleepily. She had no desire to move. The bath was so comfortable and warm, the man staring down at her so pleasant to look upon. She saw no reason to disturb the languor she was enjoying by thinking too deeply. She didn’t even budge when the beggar’s head lowered and drew near. His mouth seemed to whisper down to hers, alighting there as lightly as a breeze, demanding nothing. She could smell the dampness of his hair and the sweet musk of ale on his breath.

Duncan believed he was tasting heaven. His loins quickened as rapidly as a boy’s, and he intensified the kiss, grasping the back of her silky head and covering her delicate lips with his own. She
was
an angel, he thought in a rush as he sampled her soft, yielding flesh and began to engage her without restraint.

All at once his angel pulled back, then resisted, then struggled, pushing against his shoulders.

Linet felt panic thrum in her veins like the pounding of a fuller’s mill. Everything was happening too fast. Damn, his mouth was delicious, but she was losing control. Her father’s warnings sounded an alarm in her head.

At last, she broke free of the beggar’s embrace and exhaled sharply. She should slap him for his impertinence. She should. It was what her father would have told her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he grabbed her by both wrists. “Don’t strike me again,” he bit out.

“Don’t…kiss me again,” she answered tremulously.

Duncan had never had his ardor cooled so quickly nor so completely. For one moment he’d sampled Paradise. Now he was Adam cast from the garden.

“I won’t,” he assured her, his voice flat. “But you’re a fool to pretend you don’t want my kiss.”

“How dare you—”

“Don’t deny it. Your body speaks well enough for itself.” His eyes raked her in accusation.

“Unhand me,” she warned. “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

“In a brothel?” he said, chuckling. “No one would take notice.”

“If you don’t release me this instant, I’ll have you…put in stocks.”

This amused him. “Stocks? On what charge—kissing you?”

“You’re a…a peasant. You have no right to lay a finger on me. I carry the noble blood of de Montfort.”

He instantly released his grip on her. “Is that it?” he asked incredulously. He couldn’t believe the turn of events. Was this the woman he’d kissed a moment ago? “You think my kiss will taint your bloodlines?” he seethed. “Forgive me, my lady,” he snarled sarcastically, “if my breeding offends you!” He couldn’t resist adding, “It certainly didn’t seem to offend you when you had your arms locked around my neck.”

The sound of her slap was as stark as a whip in a chapel.

He recaptured her wrists, ground his teeth, and silently, slowly counted to ten. Then he shoved her arms back at her in disgust and stood up.

He supposed he shouldn’t be angry with her. After all, she had no reason to know he was a noble. In her mind, he’d insulted what were considered perfectly normal prejudices. She’d simply voiced what practically everyone held to be truth—that common folk were somehow inferior to those of noble blood. Yet somehow he’d expected more from her, especially considering her own dubious bloodlines.

Linet’s hand stung from the slap, but not as much as her pride. “Stay away from me. I do
not
want you to touch me a-“ she began to lie, then was horrified at the sudden catch in her voice.

The beggar’s eyes lingered on her mouth, and he gave her an infuriating smirk. “Nay,” he murmured, “you
do
want me to touch you. And there’s your trouble.”

Her heart plunged at the ring of truth in his words. She could summon up no reply.

He snatched up his clothing and donned it briskly. Combing his hair with his fingers, he slung the pouch around his hips, grabbed up two bottles of wine, and then stalked to the door.

“The bed is yours, Highness,” he mocked with a bow.

“Wh-where are you going?” she asked offhandedly, trying to mask the anxiety in her voice.

“Out.”

“But there are men here who—”

“I was mistaken. You seem perfectly capable of fending men off,” he replied, and with that, he slammed the door, leaving her alone with her slowly chilling bath.

Fool, Duncan chided himself as he leaned back against the closed door. He couldn’t believe he’d actually let his damned principles interfere with an opportunity to bed the divine creature on the other side of the door.

Of course, that was mostly his unrequited body speaking. He knew in his heart it would have been wrong. He could have seduced her easily, but he’d never been one to use women for brief pleasure, as many nobles did. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his share of them. But he’d never bedded a woman until her heart, not just her body, belonged to him.

For that reason, although he was in a brothel filled with willing wenches, he’d seek no satisfaction tonight. Nay, he decided, slumping against the chipped plaster wall, tonight he’d drown his torment in drink.

Linet couldn’t stop trembling as she rose from the bath. She snapped the linen cloth about her and rubbed vigorously, as if she could wipe away the remnants of his touch. A wayward tear coursed down her cheek, mingling with the drops of water there, as she wrapped the linen with punitive tightness around her betraying body.

It couldn’t be true, she thought with rising desperation, echoing the fear that had been pummeling at her soul’s door from that first kiss. She was a de Montfort. She was a lady, not some wanton wench, diving into the arms of the first man to whisper come hither.

Aye, it had been desire flooding her body as he bent to bestow that kiss. But surely she was better than her harlot mother, even if that woman’s blood did pollute her veins. She’d conquered that desire, hadn’t she? Hadn’t honor prevailed?

In the end, she got the privacy she wanted. She struck the beggar for his insolence, sent him storming from the room. She’d won then, hadn’t she? But somehow, the tears brimming in her eyes as she perched on the edge of the pallet felt less than victorious.

She absently reached for the comfort of her medallion, remembered its loss, and then clasped her hands together before her in a brief plea for strength. She’d betrayed her father. She would not do so again. Even if it meant she might remain a maiden the rest of her life. She couldn’t disappoint Lord Aucassin. She was a de Montfort. She was a
de Montfort
.

Over and over she repeated the words, until they became a litany, lulling her to sleep at the foot of the bed, still wrapped in the damp linen.

The sun set, and the moon rose in a sky salted with stars while she slept. Sometime in the night, with the unerring accuracy of a rooting newborn, she worked her way out of the toweling and up and under the coverlet to snuggle down into the cozy bed, where self-doubt couldn’t disturb her dreams.

Long past midnight, Duncan staggered into the chamber. He banged his shin on one of the tables, but felt no pain. He wrinkled his nose. His clothes reeked of wine. Pulling his jerkin and shirt carelessly from his body, he let them drop to the floor.

He seemed to recall he’d made some arrangement about sleeping, but he couldn’t quite remember it. Only half-undressed, he fell headlong onto the bed and fast asleep.

El Gallo prowled anxiously across the flagstone floor of the Boulogne magistrate’s manor. He hated being confined. And though the manor was generous in size, it wasn’t the bow of his ship where a man had room to walk, where he could breathe, for God’s sake. He’d been here for hours, wasting precious time while his prey was escaping. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped here like a moth in the fist of the magistrate’s guard.

What did they want with him?

There was no solid evidence of his reiving onboard the
Corona Negra
. He’d always made sure of that. All jewels were pried loose from their settings. Coin was ultimately melted down. And until that unfortunate incident with the wool merchant, it had been almost impossible to trace raw goods to their maker. Even Sombra, who might have attracted some suspicion with his reputation, wasn’t aboard this time.

As for his brandishing his weapon at the docks, he was certain his story had been plausible. He’d told the magistrate that a one-eyed scoundrel had made off with his passenger, Linet de Montfort. He’d drawn his sword to go after her abductor.

The magistrate had grown very interested then. But he’d not let El Gallo go. He’d sent a handful of his own guards to search for the girl. And he’d left El Gallo to stew in this well-appointed gaol.

“This way, please,” came the magistrate’s voice at last through the front entrance.

A tall, grim-faced man in an expensive woolen surcoat accompanied the magistrate.

“This is Bertrand Gaillard, steward to—”

“What did she look like?” Gaillard eagerly interrupted.

El Gallo frowned.

“Linet de Montfort,” the magistrate explained. “Tell Monsieur Gaillard what you told me.”

El Gallo pursed his lips. The girl was important to this Gaillard. He could see it in the man’s eyes. Coin could be made where such emotions flourished. “She was under my care,” he lied. He hung his head guiltily. “And now she has been stolen. What will I—”

“What did she look like?” Gaillard repeated. “How old?”

He didn’t have to lie about that. “She was a young woman, like an angel—pale and blond. And her figure—”

“Did she have a crest?” Gaillard asked, his gaze piercing. “A medallion of some sort?”

El Gallo frowned in concentration. He couldn’t remember the color of the witch’s eyes, much less what jewelry she’d been wearing. But it seemed important to Gaillard. “Yes. I seem to recall—”

“And the crest. Was it a crowned mountain peak?”

El Gallo nodded. “Yes. I think that was it.”

“It’s her,” Gaillard said. “It has to be.”

“Who?”

“The daughter of Lord Aucassin de Montfort. For months now, since Lord Aucassin wrote to us from his deathbed, her uncle has been searching for her, trying to make reparations for the damage done to her family. He has even announced a reward for the one who finds her. But Lord Aucassin gave us no clue as to where she lives, only that she carries the de Montfort medallion. If you’ve seen her…”

El Gallo’s mind reeled with visions of reward money. “Let my men and me search for her. It is the least I can do, considering it was I who—”

“Very well,” Gaillard said. Then he handed a pouch of coins to the magistrate. “The magistrate will provide you with four men to aid in your search.”

El Gallo bowed to the magistrate, a gesture that was foreign to him in his life of unquestioned power. But a pint of humility now might be worth a barrel of gold later. He could suffer through it.

Fingers of sunlight poked at Linet’s eyes to wake her irritably from her slumber. Whatever was tickling her ear wasn’t helping her mood. Squinting, she turned to brush the offending object away and found herself face to face with the softly snoring beggar.