Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (5 page)

“Sit down here,” she ordered, selecting a spot beside the biggest oak she could find. To her chagrin, its trunk still wasn’t as broad as his shoulders.

Duncan was enjoying himself immensely. His blushing angel was obviously ill at ease. She’d probably never been so close to a bare-chested male. Indeed, he’d wager the innocent girl had never so much as been kissed by a man.

“Wrap your arms behind.” Her voice cracked with strain.

He did so, and she brusquely brought the sleeve of the linen tunic about his wrists, tying it in a knot and securing him to the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was pity on her part or merely an oversight, but she didn’t bother to gag him. Then she picked up his knife and stood cheekily before him.

He tried his best to look miserable and defeated. But when she slipped his dagger down the front of her surcoat between her breasts, the gesture shot an unexpected jolt of desire through him, tightening his loins and slackening his jaw.

With a quick adieu, the angel left with her precious wool. He watched her every step, admiring both her nerve and her backside.

She was daft, of course. She would never have bested him if he hadn’t allowed it. But her daring intrigued him.

When she was out of sight, he wiggled his fingers and shuffled closer to the oak. He wasn’t concerned. The girl would be without his protection for a few moments, but he’d be out of his bonds and back onto her trail in no time. His brother Holden and he had tied each other up so many times as boys that there were almost no bonds he couldn’t escape.

Yet a quarter hour later, struggling with the knot, he began entertaining the faint possibility of uprooting the tree. Sweat dripped down his temple and caused a tormenting itch at the back of his neck. He growled in frustration. What devilish handiwork was this?

He was stuck. And the merchant girl was running around defenseless. But he’d be damned if he would call for help. De Wares never needed anyone’s help.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. In the next moment, he heard someone creeping through the bushes toward him. From behind the foliage emerged Robert and Garth, armed with their new broadswords.

“Well, Garth,” Robert chirped with all the cheer of a morning sparrow, “what have we here? It seems your brother has gotten himself into the stewpot again.” He clapped Garth on the back and sheathed his sword.

“Robert,” Duncan called irritably, “cease your prattle and get me out of these bonds.”

“Who was it this time, Duncan? A jealous husband? A vengeful nobleman?”

Duncan scowled at him. “It was a devil in the guise of an angel. Now loose me!”

Robert crouched to the knot.

“And hurry!” Duncan snapped. “There are two rogues afoot who may seek to do her harm.”

“Her?” Robert asked, nudging Garth. “I knew there had to be a woman involved. Didn’t I say that, Garth? Didn’t I say—”

“Will you hurry?” Duncan bit out.

Robert shook his head. “She’s a waif, isn’t she?”

“She’s…a merchant,” Duncan mumbled.

“Oh ho!” Robert exclaimed. “Not
the
merchant?”

Duncan’s lack of an answer was damning.

Robert clucked his tongue. “Duncan, Duncan, Duncan—”

“She may be in peril, Robert.”

“From the Spaniards?” Garth asked. “So they
are
making trouble?”

He nodded. “Two of them were skulking about the fair. They tried to steal something of hers, and I don’t believe they’ll give up easily. I intend to keep an eye on them…and her.”

Robert and Garth exchanged a meaningful look. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. Whenever he said he was going to keep an eye on a woman, be she peasant or noblewoman, widow or virgin, he somehow ended up with much more than his eye on her.

He twisted his wrists in the bonds, which seemed to have tightened. “What the devil is taking you so long?”

“This knot is impossible.” Robert threw his hands up in frustration. “What witch’s work has she wrought here?”

Garth contemplated the handiwork. “It looks like a weaver’s knot,” he mumbled.

“What?” Duncan and Robert asked in unison.

“A weaver’s knot. They’re almost impossible to untie.”

“Then cut the damned thing!” Duncan bellowed. “If you don’t free me this instant, I’ll dull your new blades on your brains!”

Slicing the tunic to ribbons was the work of a moment with Garth’s dagger. Shirtless, Duncan borrowed Robert’s cloak, and the trio set off at a run to search for the Spaniards.

Duncan’s heart pounded. He felt as formidable as a wolf on the hunt. Nothing excited him more than saving damsels in distress. Unless it was, of course, receiving their undying gratitude.

Hours later, listless with disappointment, Duncan trudged up the steps leading from the great hall to the west tower. He supposed he should have been content to know that Linet de Montfort was safely ensconced in some noble household for the afternoon. That was if what he’d been able to pry from the stubborn old servant at the de Montfort booth was accurate. All the proud fellow would disclose was that his mistress had taken her wares to the home of a prominent lady who had requested Linet come herself. And, of course, no amount of cajolery would get the man to reveal the name of her mystery benefactor.

But Duncan wasn’t content. He’d hoped to see her again, this devil-angel who’d dared to hold a dagger to his throat. She enchanted him. He wondered what she’d say if she knew just whose life she’d threatened.

Something about the captivating wench set her apart from the other women he’d known. She was beautiful and alluring, aye, but he’d seen more beauty in his years than most men saw in a lifetime. Nay, it was something else.

She was like a rose. Not the insipid roses the jongleurs sang about, but a
real
rose. All soft, frail petals on top and a tough, prickly stem beneath.

As he approached his chamber along the hall, a round of feminine giggles came from the solar. That would be his mother and her ladies finishing up their stitching for the afternoon. Perhaps he’d poke his head in. Shocking Lady Alyce’s bevy with his muddy face would surely take the edge off his disappointment.

Drawing near, he heard an oddly familiar voice. He stopped in the hallway, pressing back against the wall to listen.

Linet draped the fabric over her palm for Lady Alyce’s inspection. “You see, my lady,” she crooned, “how fine the weave is?”

Glancing about the room, Linet could scarcely contain her excitement as she thought of the profit she could make here. Velvet pillows were tossed onto two padded oak chairs. An ornately carved mahogany screen stood in one corner, and a massive chest bound with silver sat beside the hearth. The afternoon sun slanted down into the solar, giving an ethereal light to the pair of expensive hunting tapestries hung on the wall. That same light was perfect for showing Linet’s fabric to its best advantage, and she used it expertly, keeping the cloth in the shadows, then at the right moment, revealing it dramatically in the golden luminescence.

Lady Alyce moved her delicate fingers across the soft cloth, and the gentle ladies clustering about her cooed in delight. Oh aye, Linet thought, she’d easily sell at least half of her goods to this household alone.

Peeping through the crack of the solar door, Duncan could witness every nuance of her clever techniques, the way she flattered and bargained and enticed the ladies into purchasing far more than they required. He grinned in admiration. Linet de Montfort was very good.

She’d changed from her soiled gown into another equally rich but properly modest garment of moss-colored wool. Her glorious hair was now hidden beneath a proper linen coif, but her emerald eyes were bright with enterprise as she reveled in her element.

“Have you ever seen such a rare and beautiful color?” she asked the ladies, carefully concealing the muddy handprint,
his
handprint, on one corner of the fabric.

“It looks as if you’ve captured a piece of the sky,” Lady Alyce agreed, her eyes twinkling.

The angel clucked her tongue. “I regret I have only the one small sample today, my lady.”

She probably had yards of the stuff cached in her wagon, he thought. It was all part of the art of bargaining.

“The dye is so new and popular that it has been difficult to keep up with the demand for it,” she explained. “Why, even the king…”

The ladies gasped collectively. Duncan stifled a laugh. The wench had cleverly left the sentence unfinished, allowing the ladies to draw their own conclusions.

“I’ll take four ells for myself,” Lady Alyce decided, “as soon as you’re able to procure it, and enough additional to make a surcoat for each of my ladies.”

The women clapped their hands in excitement.

Linet smiled, indulging their enthusiasm. “I’ll arrange everything, my lady.” Duncan could almost see visions of profits whirling in her eyes.

“Now, my dear,” Lady Alyce said, “I’d like to see your more serviceable wools, your broadcloth, your worsted.”

“Of course.” She made a formal bow.

Linet de Montfort was amazing, he thought as he watched her spin her magic web around Lady Alyce and her ladies-in-waiting. She had them feeding from her hand and hungry for more. Pulling forth swatches from an enormous basket, she became a player on the stage, regaling them with stories of the exotic beetles and rare flowers used for dyes, then drawing forth the colorful fabric with a flourish, letting it slip gracefully over her arm like a waterfall.

The ladies sat spellbound as she told them which wealthy noble had ordered which fabric. They listened intently as she made flattering recommendations for each of them concerning their own coloring and style. Before she left, he was certain half of the de Ware coffers would line her pockets.

“That’s settled then,” Lady Alyce said, startling Duncan from his thoughts. She rose above her ladies-in-waiting. “Shall I have my steward deliver payment to you tomorrow?”

“Half payment will suffice, my lady, and the balance in a fortnight, when I deliver the goods.”

“Splendid.”

Gathering up her ladies like a goose collecting goslings, Lady Alyce left the solar. No one observed Duncan lurking behind the door.

After they’d gone, he watched as Linet began the tedious work of folding the swatches and tucking them carefully back into her basket. For a long while, he merely waited, enjoying the view. Then he slunk around the door and leaned against the entry. Linet, intent on her work, didn’t notice him.

“A piece of the sky?” he asked casually.

Linet gasped, nearly upending her basket.

“It’s fortunate,” he purred, “that she didn’t see that muddy cloud across it.”

“You!” Linet hissed when she’d collected herself. She wondered how long he’d been there. The gall of the man was unbelievable. He leaned insolently against the door, every part of his body projecting amused arrogance. “How…? What are you doing here?”

He didn’t respond at once, and Linet regarded him incredulously. She’d seen cutpurses and highwaymen, but never had she met a scoundrel so bold or self-assured. Dirt still smudged his face. His long hair was matted with a crust of mud. His clothes were tattered. But his eyes regarded her with the easy authority of a king.

Before she could protest, he eased into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Oh, I managed to escape,” he said with a rueful smile, folding his arms across his chest, “although it cost me my tunic.”

Linet narrowed her eyes. He’d apparently stolen a wool cloak that only partially covered that formidable bare chest. She looked away, clenching her fist in a swatch of worsted. “Then our accounts are settled, since you ruined my surcoat.” She forced herself to continue her work as she furtively searched the room for exits.

“Your surcoat will wash,” he said. “My tunic, alas…”

“Is that why you followed me here?” she blurted out.

“You also stole my dagger.” His eyes traced a path down to the space between her breasts where they both knew his blade was cached.

She would have liked to poke those insolent eyes of his, no matter that they sparkled like a summer stream.

She supposed she ought to return the damned thing. Otherwise, she was no better than a thief. She wouldn’t be so stupid, however, as to hand it over to him now, while they were alone. Her father had raised no fool. She nodded once, and then carefully drew the dagger from its hiding place.

Desire washed over Duncan as he imagined his own hand doing the deed. Her skin looked as soft as a dove’s breast. A few tresses had escaped her veil, turning from honey to amber as she stepped into the sunlight, light that made her eyes shine as clearly as gems. Her lips curved upward into a coy sort of smile, and he realized instinctively, catching her gaze, that she’d be unimaginably enticing in bed. His loins swelled at the thought.

As he watched, she shyly lowered her lids. He wasn’t surprised. Women often grew diffident beneath his frank regard. Then she took a timid step to the open window. Holding the haft of his dagger daintily between her thumb and two fingers, she peered down over the edge and dropped the blade onto the grass below.

His illusions shattered like a cathedral window under a naughty lad’s sling. He stared at her in disbelief. The wily wench had deliberately thrown his knife away.

“If you hurry down,” she told him sweetly, “you may retrieve it before someone else does.”

He continued to stare at her, appalled yet fascinated. Hurry down? He didn’t think so. He had no intention of leaving her to retrieve the dagger. He could have a hundred more daggers made at his command. Nay, he thought with dawning amusement, he’d much rather stay here with this extraordinary woman, parrying wits.

Recovering his aplomb, he said smoothly, “What about the tunic I was forced to destroy?”

She glared at him, but a hint of guilt glimmered in her eyes, and he intended to exploit it.

“I did, after all, retrieve that…what was it? ‘Finest Italian wool’ for you.”

“English wool, Italian dye,” she corrected.