Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (21 page)

Her eyes flew wide. She scrambled away from him. “Get out!” she hissed with morning harshness.

He winced and eased over onto his back.

“Out!” she insisted.

He groaned and covered his ears.

She kicked frantically at him. But the pathetic misery in his red eyes as he bore her punishment moved her to mercy. She ceased, pulling the coverlet high under her chin, and tried to control her panic. “What are you doing in my bed?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his parched throat could make no sound. “Drink,” he finally croaked.

She supposed she’d get no cooperation from him until she complied. She slipped the wrinkled, still damp jerkin over her head. “Close your eyes, then.”

Duncan didn’t need the admonition. He had no desire to open them again until the sun set. After a moment, a cup of watered wine was pressed to his lips.

“Here,” Linet breathed.

He half sat up. The wench nearly spilled the cup in her haste to be rid of it and away from him. When he’d drained the tankard, he fell back again, all his energy expended on that one motion.

“Well?” she prodded.

“Please…” he began, then flinched at the volume of his own voice and continued in a whisper, “please ask me later.”

“Later?” she cried, making him squirm in discomfort. “But you…you had no right…”

“Wait,” he pleaded.

“…to sneak into my bed…”

“Not now,” he begged.

“…like I was some strumpet…”

“Please—”

“…you had purchased!”

He’d had enough. He sat up and rounded on her. “Look! I paid for this room and the bed in it with my own coin. Sleep elsewhere if you don’t like the arrangements.” He groaned, holding his throbbing head in his hands.

Linet balled her fists, thoroughly frustrated. Was there no end to the man’s audacity? She hated being in his debt. It was too much like being…owned. And she
really
hated that a tiny part of her was attracted to the idea of being possessed by the handsome beggar.

As angry with herself as she was with him, she picked up his cup and slammed it onto the table, vowing she’d take no more of his charity and no more of kisses. She kicked his boots from her path and stomped across the cold oak floor to collect her things.

Duncan would never have believed that such a tiny woman could make so much noise. There was no point in trying to get any more sleep this morning. Between Linet’s crashing about the room and the blacksmith hammering at his head, he knew he wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. He flung off the covers and stood up, reeling as a wave of dizziness hit. Whatever had possessed him to drink so much?

“I won’t encumber you any further,” Linet announced when she’d finished her noisy ablutions. She’d dressed, he saw, in the rumpled clothes, and she stood straight now before him, her eyes carefully averted. “You’re hereby released from your vow to watch over me. I need neither your protection nor your charity.” She paused. The next words she muttered in a rush. “I thank you for your assistance thus far, and I promise that payment for your services will be forthcoming.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her little merchant’s speech, even if it did make his ears ring. How unconvincingly contrite she sounded. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t know how single-mindedly persistent he could be.

Once when he was a boy, he’d boasted he could fight as well with his left arm as his right. That boast cost him no few nicks and bruises. But in the end, his skill with either arm became equal. His stubbornness triumphed.

A few years later, he similarly undertook the obligation of knighthood. Nothing could distract him from the responsibility that entailed. Chivalry was everything.

“You wouldn’t last a minute here without my protection,” he grumbled, pulling up his sleep-wrinkled hose. “Besides, you have no coin…unless, of course, you’d planned to seek employment here.” He indicated their room. He could see her temper struggling at the bit like a peevish mare. “The proprietor, however, usually requires you do more than
slap
the patrons,” he couldn’t resist adding.

Her eyes flared like emerald flames, and she fought to speak to him in a civil tone. “If you could spare a small amount of coin to see me home,” she choked out, “I promise I will repay you in full for your trouble. I shall be getting a goodly sum from Lady Alyce de Ware. I can send your money to you within a fortnight.”

Duncan studied her thoughtfully. She was furious, that much was clear. But beneath that fury something else flustered her, some war she waged upon herself.

“Nay,” he said. The idea of letting her go on alone was, of course, absurd.

“Nay?”

“Nay.” He calmly pulled his tunic on over his head.

“You don’t trust me?” she gasped. “I’m of noble blood.”

“Trust doesn’t reside in the blood,” he said, reaching for his belt. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of obligation. You will stay by my side until I have fulfilled that obligation. And then you can pay me, if you like…for my inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience!” she stormed. “These accommodations have been quite convenient for you. How many harlots did you purchase last night, by the way?”

The ensuing silence was excruciating for Linet. She clamped her teeth together so tightly that her jaw ached. She didn’t know why she’d asked him that.

Duncan knew why she’d said it. She was jealous. She may have scorned him, the high and mighty queen, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him.

That discovery warmed his heart. And nothing Linet could do or say afterwards, no amount of denial or protest on her part, could alter the profound effects this newfound knowledge had on him. “I purchased no harlots. Indeed, a couple of them offered to purchase
me
,” he lied matter-of-factly.

The pockmarked cutpurse squirming at the point of Sombra’s dagger nodded rapidly. “Aye, I’ve seen it!” he said, nervously licking his lips and staring at the bronze medallion.

Finally, Sombra thought, someone recognized the crest. He’d been in Normandy for two days now, and this miscreant was the first one he’d questioned to give him anything close to the answer he wanted.

“Where?” he demanded.

“It’s de Montfort. From Flanders. I don’t know where.”

“Fool!” Sombra bit out, nicking the man’s throat.

“Wait! A…a man from…from de Montfort came through,” the wretch stuttered, “m-months ago. He had a drawing like that—a m-mountain, with a crown.” The man squeezed his eyes shut. “Now please let me go, sir. You can have your purse back. You can have
all
the purses I cut this morn.”

Sombra growled. He wasn’t done with the man yet. “What did the man say?”

“Oh.” The man screwed up his face, trying to remember. “Something about a mmissing heir, a lady, something like that.”

Sombra let the breath seep out between his taut lips. This was good news indeed, more than he’d anticipated. “And was there a reward offered?”

“Oh, a reward, yes,” the man said, gulping as Sombra caressed his throat with the dagger.

Sombra snorted. The fool probably couldn’t really remember if there was a reward or not. He’d likely been too busy cutting purses to hear. But where there was a missing heir, there had to be a reward.

Sombra had what he needed now. Someone, somewhere, was looking for Linet de Montfort, someone willing to pay for her return. He could hardly contain his pleasure. Not only would he collect the reward for restoring a missing heiress to her rightful place. He would also wreak sweet revenge on Linet de Montfort by replacing her with an imposter.

“C-can I go now, sir?”

Sombra glanced at the thief. In his excitement, he’d forgotten about him. He reached down with a gloved hand and retrieved his stolen purse dangling from the thief’s belt. Then, with an easy twist of his wrist, he slit the man’s throat, leaving him to gurgle out the last bewildered moments of his life at the end of the alley.

Sombra carefully wiped his fine Toledo blade on his victim’s cloak and sheathed it. He dusted off his Cordovan gloves. All he had to do now was find a pretty, green-eyed, blond-haired young wench willing to sacrifice her sagging crofter’s cottage for a spot at the high table of de Montfort castle. All the way back to the inn, where Harold lay in chains, Sombra couldn’t stop grinning.

Linet heard a soft scratching at the door.

“Sir,” some woman whispered. “Sir.”

“Ah,” the beggar said with a broad smile, “that must be one of the women desiring my services now.”

Linet wished she had something to throw at him.

He opened the door a crack. “What is it?”

“The magistrate’s men are coming. They’re searching all the establishments.”

“Damn!” He pounded his fist on the edge of the door.

“I have an idea,” the woman offered.

Linet didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. It didn’t concern her. She’d done nothing wrong. If the magistrate’s men were coming, she’d turn herself over to them. What could be safer than…?

“Linet!” the beggar said urgently. “Take off those clothes. We have to leave at once.”

The man was clearly addled. “
You
have to leave at once,” she told him. “
I’m
waiting for the authorities. And I’m staying
dressed
.”

“Linet, El Gallo is traveling with the magistrate’s men. I don’t know why. But I know it doesn’t bode well for us.”

“It doesn’t bode well for
you
.
I
shall be safe enough. I am Linet de Montfort, daughter of Lord—”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re the daughter of King Neptune!” His eyes snapped. “We have to leave. Now!”

“But where will we—”

“Now!” He caught the neck of her jerkin and yanked it down hard, ripping the fabric down the middle and nearly knocking her off her feet. While she stood open-mouthed, the woman at the door rushed in with two other young wenches, carrying a bundle of cheap, flamboyantly dyed garments.

“The green one will fit her,” the woman said, quickly sizing her up. “But you, cherie…”

The beggar rummaged wildly through the clothing himself, finally seizing an embroidered, berry-colored piece.

“But that’s a cloth for the table,” the woman protested.

“Now it’s a cloak,” the beggar declared, whirling it about his shoulders.

The two young girls had thrown the ugly green gown over Linet’s head and were helping her inch into it. But it was far too small.

“We need a veil for you,” the woman told the beggar. “Celeste, fetch my plum veil.” She eyed Linet. “And one for the girl. The deep green one.” She clucked her tongue. “Ah, if only we had time to darken her hair.”

Linet squirmed in the tight surcoat. Dear God, were those her breasts pushed up above the low neckline of the garment like two over-leavened loaves of bread?

The beggar wrapped himself in the huge square cloth, and the woman secured it at his throat with a bronze brooch. Celeste returned and began fussing over Linet’s hair, coiling and pinning it into a knot, then covering it completely with the green veil and a wire circlet. The other young girl took hold of the laces at the back of Linet’s surcoat and tightened them, ignoring Linet’s protests, until the garment fit like a second skin.

But no matter how indecent she felt when they finished with her, she was certain she couldn’t look as absurd as the beggar. The makeshift cloak hung unevenly around his feet, its embroidered floral border contrasting painfully with his large, heavy boots. The plum veil, held in place with a yellow cord hastily knotted for the purpose, was draped and tucked strategically around his hair and face, making his head look like a huge grape wrinkling on the vine.

When he turned to her in all seriousness to ask if she was ready and she beheld his swarthy, masculine face—his dark brows, his shadowed jaw—peering out from beneath the delicate fringe of plum-colored sendal, she began giggling uncontrollably.

The streets were chill and as yet uncrowded when the bevy of unengaged harlots escorted them from the brothel. Somewhere, sailors still snored beneath the rumpled sheets of whores’ beds. Merchants were only beginning to stretch before their crackling hearths, filling their stout bellies with bread.

Then, marching importantly down the street toward them came El Gallo and the group of local law keepers, and suddenly Linet was grateful for the harlots’ effective camouflage. The officials passed within arm’s reach of the women, who seemed, to Linet’s horror, to be inviting their attention, cooing and waving and flashing their bare legs. But surprisingly, their actions had the opposite effect. The magistrate growled at them, ordering them to move aside. She and the beggar traveled virtually unnoticed in the midst of the ladies.

By the time they reached the edge of town, Linet was beginning to reconsider her opinion. This pack of harlots, women her father had always condemned as the worst scourge of nobility, the highest offense to God, had helped her. Without reward, without ulterior motive. Simply out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d given her a garment, and now they handed the beggar a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread for the journey. Nor would they take compensation for any of it, though the beggar dug in his pouch for coin she knew wasn’t there.

“Perhaps you will remember us one day, eh?” the proprietor of the brothel said, her old, wise eyes sparkling suggestively.

For answer, the beggar whisked off the veil and cloak, handing them to the proprietor. He lifted the woman’s hand to place a kiss upon the back of it—a noble kiss, the kind a knight might bestow upon a lady. Then they turned expectantly to Linet.

She hardly knew what to say. She’d never spoken to a harlot. God’s eyes—before she met the beggar, she’d spoken fewer than a hundred words to any peasant, save her own servants. But though she was much discomfited by their presence, she realized they’d done her an enormous service. She straightened, looking the woman directly in the eyes. “My thanks to you.”