Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (25 page)

It wasn’t his fault. She knew that. But the torment inside her made her peevish. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” she asked breathlessly, slowing as the stitch in her side begged for relief. “I would swear we’d marched to Jerusalem by now.”

The beggar looked at her apologetically and called a halt to their breakneck progress. He stopped at a place where the stream they’d been following widened into a deep pool. She supposed it was a beautiful place—green and shady, overhung with lush elms—but she was too exhausted and irritable to notice. She flopped down onto the mossy bank against an old tree overhanging the water. Then she removed her boots, wiggling her toes, half in pain, half in relief, as they tugged free of their leather prison.

The beggar rummaged through the provisions Mathilde had packed for them, offering her a hunk of bread and cheese. So hungry was she, she fell upon the fare with haste and a lack of manners that would have shamed her father.

“You’re hungry. Why didn’t tell me sooner?” the beggar asked as she choked on a bite of bread.

Weak and humiliated, she fought the sob that longed to burst forth from her throat. “I shouldn’t have to be hungry,” she muttered, pathetically sorry for herself. “I shouldn’t be traipsing about in rags, miles from civilization, blistering my feet on this cursed rocky Flemish ground.” She knew she should keep her feelings to herself. A lady didn’t complain about such things. But once begun, she could no more stop the words than one could cease the flow of ale from a cracked keg. “I should be working peacefully at the spring fair right now, selling my wool, raking in a tidy profit.” To her dismay, the sob escaped her. “I want to go home, back to my life.”

The beggar was silent for once, leaving her childish, selfish sniffles to echo foolishly, endlessly, across the water. He didn’t speak to her until the well of her tears ran dry. Then he took a long pull at the jug of wine and spoke in a taut voice. “We’ll be safe in a day or two. I’m sorry you’ve endured such…hardship.”

She could tell by his tone that he’d seen far worse in his lifetime, and suddenly she felt quite ignoble.

He lifted the jug toward her. She compressed her lips, stifling a new bout of self-indulgent weeping. Even now, the beggar refused to show her the slightest favor. He should have let her drink first. Damn him—everything he did was against convention, against nature. Why did he find it so difficult to follow the rules of society?

“Well, are you thirsty or not?” the beggar asked impatiently.

She
was
thirsty. She sniffed and took the jug from him, wiping the mouth of it with her sleeve before she perched her lips atop it.

“I had no idea you were so fastidious,” the beggar said wryly, sitting down beside her. “I must be certain to scrub my lips before I kiss you the next time.”

She choked on the wine. There wasn’t going to be a next time. He was a commoner. She was a noble. There was
not
going to be a next time. She started to tell him so.

“So tell me, Linet de Montfort,” he smoothly intervened, “what makes you so despise common folk?”

She looked warily at him, sure he was baiting her. But his expression showed mere interest. She folded her hands in her lap. She’d be only too happy to oblige him.

“I don’t despise them. I just don’t trust them. Commoners have no sense of loyalty,” she began, enumerating the faults her father had named of her mother. “They’re conniving, filthy, coarse-mannered—”

“I see,” he interjected, slicing a morsel of cheese for her. “And have you found me so?”

She declined the cheese, taken aback by his question. Was the beggar untrustworthy, disloyal, conniving? Thus far, he had kept his promise to protect her almost like a religious vow. Filthy? He was clean enough now. His skin was golden, his chin smooth. His black locks glistened in the dappled sunlight. Coarse-mannered?

“You
are
coarse-mannered,” she decided.

He smiled. “It seems to me that
you’re
the one I must keep reminding of your manners.” He nibbled at the piece of cheese. “You know, you have yet to thank me for saving your life back there.”

Linet blushed and shifted her focus back to the deep stream. He was right. She’d thanked God, but she hadn’t thanked
him.

“Well, no matter,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t let it trouble you overmuch. I know scores of nobles even less honorable than you, Linet de Montfort.”

Linet gasped and shot up to her feet. He couldn’t insult de Montfort that way. “You dare speak to
me
of honor? What about
you
?”

He cocked a brow up at her.

“What about carting me about that ship as if I were your doxy?” she asked. “What about tossing me overboard like…like so much offal? What about forcing me to enjoy your pawing at a brothel?”

The beggar came lazily to his feet. A smile flirted with the corner of his mouth.

“Well?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. God, the man was infuriating. “What do you find so amusing now?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” He grinned. “God’s bones—you’re in a foul humor today.”

“I am not! It’s
you
who—“

“You need to cool your head, my sweet,” he said in mock concern.

“I am
not
your—”

Before she could rake his face with the claws her hands had formed, he placed one great palm in the middle of her chest and pushed.

Duncan swore she sizzled as she plunged backward into the stream. The icy water took her power of speech away. She came up sputtering, her hair plastered to her face in long wet streamers. Her face registered shock, then outrage.

“How dare—” she managed before the water bubbled up above her chin, cutting off the last word with a gurgle.

He crossed his arms and watched her. “Has your temper cooled yet?”

“You devil-spawned son of a—”

He clucked his tongue. “Such language from a noblewoman.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I shall leave you in the stream. Aye, you shall stay there until you thank me for saving your life.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Come, come, my lady, I have served as your champion.”

She found her footing on the slick, pebbled streambed and took a step toward the bank. But he wasn’t about to let her out, not without just payment.

He tugged his jerkin open and drew it over his head.

She cursed as she stubbed her toe on a rock.

He carefully peeled the bandage from his chest, and then pulled off his boots.

She scrabbled at the slippery grass of the bank, looking for purchase.

He slipped out of his hose.

She was halfway out of the water, balanced on her stomach across the muddy bank, when he stepped in front of her. She glanced up fleetingly, and her mouth uttered an astonished “oh.” Then she fell back into the water like too small catch.

Naked and unashamed, he rose above her like a Norse god. In one brief moment, every detail of his strong, sleek body imprinted itself upon her brain as indelibly as dye on raw wool. It was an image she’d never forget, even if she lived to be an old crone.

Then he dove over her head and into the pool, and she welcomed the dousing splash that shocked her back to her senses. He surfaced immediately, shaking his dark head like a wolf, spattering her with yet more icy drops.

“Are you ready to thank me?” he said breathlessly as the water dripped off his nose.

Linet struggled to find her voice. Her own emotions were confusing her. She should be furious with him. She
had
been a moment ago. But now she felt as giddy as a new lamb. She should be outraged by his unabashed display. Her cheeks
did
burn, but not out of anger. And suddenly she didn’t want to know the truth.

He was too close—too close to her body, too close to her soul. He made her forget who she was. She couldn’t let him do that. She had to do something. Without thought, she turned aside to embrace an armload of water. Then she hurled it, catching him square in the face.

Almost instantaneously, he returned the favor with a sweep of his arm and a great howl, soaking her yet again. She spat the tresses from her mouth and tried to kick away from him. He caught her by the knees of her waterlogged hose, but she cleverly wriggled out of them to freedom.

At least, she
thought
it was clever.

Until he tossed the hose up on the grass out of her reach and continued his pursuit.

“You will have to thank me, one way or another,” he promised, stalking her.

When he captured the hem of her surcoat, she knew she was doomed. He’d snatch her to him in no time now, and the last thing she wanted was to be any closer to him. She had to make a desperate move.

He had both hands on the floating garment now, ready to haul her in like a pike in a net. Before he could get a better grip, she ducked down under the water, loosened the laces, and slipped backward out of the garment. By the time he brought the empty surcoat out of the water, she was safely distant, peeping triumphantly at him across the waves.

The beggar laughed and, like a laundress, slapped the garment onto the bank. “How cunning you are, my lady,” he said with a mocking bow, advancing again.

Cunning? Linet could have kicked herself. She’d succeeded in delaying him a moment, no more. She’d surrendered her clothing. And she’d allowed him to position himself between that clothing and her. Nothing could be worse.

Nay, she amended, giving up would be worse. And she’d be damned if any peasant would get the best of a de Montfort. She tossed her head and prepared to fight.

The beggar came within arm’s length of her, and the battle began in earnest. Linet swam away from him, kicking up a steady wall of water. He grabbed one of her ankles and turned her onto her back. Splashing him mercilessly in the face, she was able to squirm free, but he pursued her instantly. He dove beneath her and pushed her up out of the water like a spawning salmon. She shrieked in outrage and went under, her cries making bubbles in the water.

Half wild with desperation, she decided she was going to have to take stronger measures. While the beggar stood searching for the spot from which she would emerge, she swam down and, with all her strength, yanked his feet out from under him. He succumbed perfectly, falling backward like a boulder, and she surfaced with a victorious cheer.

Suddenly, something wriggled along her leg. She had a feeling it wasn’t a fish. Squealing, she skipped away. It came for her other leg, toying with her knee, but she escaped again. Then the beggar’s head emerged slowly from the water before her, and the look in his eyes and that wicked smile told her that vengeance was his. Her heart thrummed like a hundred looms in concert. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

He dove under. She panicked.

She kicked frantically against his attack, as if her very life depended upon it. More than one blow of her feet landed heavily against his body. Then he halted abruptly.

She cast about, expecting him to break through the surface beside her any moment. But not a ripple betrayed his presence. She held her breath. Nothing. She shivered. He was taking a long time to come up. Too long. And it was impossible to see through the murky water. They’d kicked up so much silt with their battle that the stream was hopelessly clouded.

A pale island of flesh slowly breached the dark waves. It was the beggar—his motionless back to her, his face still in the water.

Something was wrong.

She took a fearful step toward him, a worried whimper rising in her throat. Bloody hell! She’d kicked him unconscious, and he was drowning.

Her heart bolted. Triggered by fear, with a burst of strength and speed, she reached across the beggar’s back and flipped him over. She gasped. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack. Sweet Jesu, she prayed, don’t let him be dead! No matter what vile names she’d called him, no matter what ill she’d wished him before, don’t let him be dead!

Unmindful of her state of undress, Linet seized the beggar under the arms to haul him toward shore. She’d gone but two feet when he suddenly flipped back over to grab her by the waist. In the blink of an eye, he snatched her to him, smacking her smugly on the lips. Then he laughed.

He might as well have kicked her in the stomach and been done with it.

“Get away from me!” she screamed. She batted furiously at him, shaking with rage. At least that’s what she told herself it was.

He recoiled. “What is it?” he demanded. His guilelessness was almost convincing.

“Just go away!” To her surprise, tears sprang to her eyes.

Duncan heard the waver in Linet’s voice. It wrenched the laughter from him and seized his heart. Remorse settled heavily upon him. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said tenderly.

“I wasn’t frightened.” Her chin quivered.

“Then I didn’t mean to cause you concern,” he amended.

“I wasn’t…” But she couldn’t finish the lie.

Damn, Duncan realized, the wench had been genuinely afraid for him. Though she was trying valiantly to deny that she cared whether he lived or died, the truth was in her unguarded expression, in her instinctive response. He moved forward to take her in his arms, to comfort her.

She slapped at him in aggravation.

“Shh,” he soothed, gently catching her fists.

Her emerald eyes were moist, her lips clamped to still their trembling. Only gradually did her arms relax in his patient grip. He tucked her wet hair behind her delicate ears, stroked her soft, rosy cheek. He nudged a drop of water from her eyelashes with his thumb, watching as it trickled down. It dripped from the point of her chin onto the swell of one pearly breast peeking through the tendrils of her darkened hair, calling him, beckoning him like an irresistible Siren song.

She never flinched when he lowered his head to hers. He could tell by the faint smoldering in her gaze that she desired the contact as much as he. Their lips touched. Her mouth felt as pure and cool as the stream. Delicately he approached, tasting her like a bumblebee after honeysuckle—sampling tentatively at first, returning again and again for the fascinating nectar.