Laura Strickland - The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy (8 page)

He could hear the others talking—Fal on a rant, encouraged by the small sister, Lark. And he could still hear the trees whispering.

“This will hurt,” Linnet told him. It must be what she said to everyone she tended. He shook his head; he could hardly hurt more.

But he was wrong. The pain, when she peeled the blood-caked bandages from his shoulder, left him sweating. Her hands shook when she cleaned the raw, angry wound.

“This looks worse than it was yesterday. It has not had a fair chance to heal. Perhaps I should consult with my mother.”

“No.”

“But she is far more skilled at healing than I, with powers I do not possess.”

“She has no reason to aid me.” A foolish thing to say. Did he think Linnet had? Clearly, Scarface had meant something to her and clearly, like the others, she had translated her grief into a fiercer hatred for him, Gareth. She could not even bear to meet his gaze.

A shadow moved behind her. The other lass, Lark, stood there, an ugly look on her face, the ever-present knife in her hands. “Trouble, sister?”

“Nay, Lark. I wonder only how to keep him alive until his use to us is done.”

Lark spat. “To my mind, he has no use. Let Fal kill him slowly, to ease his grief.”

“Nothing can ease his grief.” The corners of Linnet’s mouth tightened.

“I do not know how you can bear to touch that reeking pile of offal that calls itself a man.”

Linnet shot one look into Gareth’s face and averted her gaze again.

He lifted his chin. “I did not kill your friend’s father. That is what has happened, has it not? Your headman is dead?”

Lark leaned down and snarled directly into his face, “Aye. And you did kill him—that’s what you do not see. ’Tis plain enough to the rest of us, who are forced to live under you: you Norman bastards are all the same, every one of you—all evil to the bone.”

Chapter Eleven

“Kiss me.”

The demand curled through Linnet’s mind and senses, soft and persuasive as a sigh. It called to something inside her and caused her to part her lips receptively.

Supple, long-fingered hands captured her face. A mouth descended on hers and all life narrowed to one sensation: the heat and delight of it, the flooding need and the answered yearning. His weight came down on her body and with it more heat. She felt her spirit expand and then open to accept him and take him in.

She wound her arms about his neck in order to draw him closer. Her fingertips found delight in the smooth muscle of his shoulders and the softness of his hair. He tasted like warm, summer mead, and her flesh leaped for him. She could feel every part of his body now, vital and strong.

“Linnet, wake up.”

Her eyes flew open but the dream did not fade. She was used to waking all of a piece with no confusion, but now the vision lingered and clung to her, made unreality of the morning light that drifted down through green leaves, and her sister’s face that hovered above her.

Oh, by all that was holy, it had been nothing but a dream.

Lark scowled at her. “What is amiss with you? You never sleep so long. We are nearly ready to leave. Pa says tend the swine before we get to moving.”

“Must you call him that?” Long-fingered hands, lithe strength... The heady taste of him still lingered on Linnet’s lips. Why would she dream thus of a virtual stranger? She so rarely dreamt at all.

“What else should I call him? And why do you care?”

A fine question, that. “He is injured, and alone.”

“Harness your sympathies, sister. I know you are a compassionate creature—it is one of your strengths, and also your greatest weakness.”

“So you say.” Linnet struggled to her feet as the last remnants of the powerful dream dissipated. Gareth de Vavasour sat some twenty paces distant, still hobbled between his trees.
De Vavasour,
she reminded herself—a hated name and that of her enemy, not her lover.

“If anyone deserves your compassion it is Falcon.” Lark’s gaze stabbed at Linnet. “He has lost his father, all the family that remained to him.”

“We are his family,” Linnet replied truthfully.

“The triad is broken with Martin gone. Our parents are in danger. Try thinking on that.”

“What makes you suppose I am not?”

Lark gave an odd shake, a quiver of her shoulders. “Instinct. I do not like the way you look at him.” She nodded at the captive. “It is the same way Fal looks at you.”

“Do not be daft. He will soon be sent back to Nottingham, and that will end it.”

“Aye, perhaps, given one of us does not murder him first.”

Lark stalked away, and Linnet followed to where her parents and Falcon stood talking. She laid a hand on Fal’s arm.

“How are you?”

He turned ravaged eyes on her. “I will be all right. I must be strong—it is what Pa would want.”

True. There had been no weakness in Martin Scarlet, and he had despised others who displayed it. Fal knew that better than anyone.

Linnet tightened her fingers on his forearm. “If there is aught I can do—”

A faraway look came to his eyes. “We are called to service now, Lin, with the circle of three broken. We were born for this, you, Lark, and I.”

Linnet looked to her parents, who watched quietly. “Where are we bound? Surely not to your hermitage.”

Wren shook her head. “I will not take him there.” She nodded in the direction of Gareth de Vavasour. “But we will stay deep in Sherwood until we decide what to do next.” She fixed Linnet with a golden stare. “Go, take some food to him. I do not want him lagging behind and slowing our pace.”

So, Linnet thought as she gathered up food last prepared at her own hearth, Gareth was to be treated like a herded animal, kept alive for his value on the hoof. Aye, and what more did he deserve?

She closed her mind firmly to the memory of her dream and approached the hobbled man, well aware that everyone else watched them closely. When she reached Gareth he looked up, and she caught her breath at what she saw in his eyes.

Defiance, anger, and a hint of arrogance, still. Aye, he was Norman to the bone.

“You had best eat something,” she told him. “We will move on very soon.”

He looked at the food and she could very nearly tell his thoughts: it gagged him to take charity, yet he knew he needed his strength. He accepted a heel of bread and his fingers touched the palm of her hand.
Strong, tapered fingers capturing her face, silver eyes gazing into hers, and his mouth—

Linnet swayed where she stood. She strove to beat back the tangled emotions.

“How are your wounds? Better after being tended last night?”

“I am well enough.” A rampant lie; his fine eyes looked bloodshot, the seam Martin had opened on the side of his face appeared ugly and tender, and lines of pain rode the skin beneath the new-grown, golden beard.

“It is just as well. My mother means to set a hard pace today.” She turned to leave.

“Wait, please.” He abandoned the bread and reached for her hand. She shrank from the memory of his touch, the intensity of feeling it had prompted in her dream. He saw her reaction and dropped his fingers abruptly.

“When will they decide what is to be done with me?”

“I do not know,” she told him honestly. “There are more important things, now, on everyone’s mind.”

****

“Amazing what a scrap of bread can do,” Lark said. “He is keeping up better than I dared imagine.” Walking at Linnet’s side, she glanced back to where Gareth de Vavasour once more brought up the rear of their party, still led by his rope harness.

“Likely his dignity will not let him falter,” Linnet said. Somehow she kept herself from looking back.

“Dignity?” Lark snorted. “He does not make such a fine figure of a champion now, does he? Costly clothes in tatters, and walking on our ground—sacred ground.” She appeared to reflect. “Have you thought about what this means, Lin, the significance of Martin’s death, to us?”

“Of course I have.” Always the threat of taking up responsibility for the triad had hung above Linnet’s head. “But Ma and Pa are still here, and Ma is not one to surrender the reins easily.”

“True. But the old triad is shattered. The way I understand it, the woven magic will hold a short while. Last night, whilst you tended that swine, I asked Ma how long. She would not say.”

“Do you think Fal will take up the place of headman in Oakham?”

Lark scowled. “I am worried about him.” She lowered her voice and shot a look at the back of Fal’s fair head. “All his life he has tried to live up to what his father expected of him, even when it went against his nature.”

Linnet blinked at her sister, surprised by the astute observation.

“Do not look at me that way, Lin. I know him.” Lark added simply, “I have always known him, here, inside.” She tapped her breast above her heart. “He is not like Martin, not really, though he tries hard to be. There is perhaps too much of his mother in him.”

Linnet nodded. Sally Scarlet had been a gentle woman who loved fiercely. Her devotion to her family had been complete. Linnet saw much of that in Falcon.

“Now,” Lark continued, “I fear he will break himself in his father’s memory, trying to live up to Martin. And possibly deny his own heart.” She turned a burning look on Linnet. “You are his heart, Lin. I would rather lose him to you than see him ruin himself over it.”

“Oh, Lark.”

“I love him,” Lark whispered, barely above a breath. “And he loves you.”

“Or he thinks he does. His heart is so torn now, who knows what he truly wants? I care for him—I always have—only not in that way.”

“Is life not a cruel mistress?” Lark’s voice sounded husky with emotion. “You will have to have him now—or soon, for the sake of the triad.”

“Aye.” Linnet touched her sister’s arm softly. “At least, one of us will.”

Chapter Twelve

“How much longer will we stay here?” Gareth directed a look into the face of the woman who bent over him, and caught his breath. By heaven, she was lovely with her dark hair only half braided and streaming around her and the front of her bodice loosened against the warmth of the day.

When she stooped to tend his shoulder, he could see—well, far more than she likely dreamed. She had perfect breasts, paler than her arms and throat, and tipped with tantalizing, rosy points. When she moved, the weight of them pressed against the fabric of her bodice, and Gareth’s groin tightened in response.

But he could not let himself think about that, could not allow for the distraction. By his reckoning, they had been at this place nearly a seven-night. Linnet and her family had built a simple shelter for their needs here in what he could only term a forest bower. Trees taller than any he had ever seen towered above, and made a leafy roof. At night it was darker than the pit of hell, but by day Gareth had followed the path of the sun by its shed light and gleaned his direction.

He thought he knew which way to run, should he get free from his infernal tether. The others, who shared their shelter while he lay pegged outside like the hound they likely thought him, had performed a pagan rite several days ago and spoken words of farewell to Falcon’s sire. They ignored Gareth most of the time, but Linnet still tended his wounds, and either she or her hoyden of a sister brought his food. Falcon had stayed away from him, except to glare his hate.

He watched Linnet now, as he could not help but do whenever she was near him. She gave him a thoughtful look before she shifted her basket and sank gracefully to her knees.

“Thirsty?” She offered the flask at her side.

He accepted it thankfully. Water from this place tasted like none Gareth had ever had—cold, peaty, and refreshing. He had been living on it and on one of the King’s deer brought down by the big man—Sparrow—and Falcon, who seemed to enjoy equal prowess with the bow.

No man ate the King’s deer, save nobles. That much had been beaten into Gareth’s head. But here it seemed right, natural, like the words the leaves whispered.

“My parents will decide, soon, whether we will move on. Does the broken arm still pain you terribly?”

Without waiting for his answer, she leaned forward and gently touched the limb, affording Gareth still another glimpse inside her bodice. He caught her scent, too—warm and beguiling.

He managed one word. “Nay.” Despite the hardships he had experienced, he could feel his body mending and his strength returning. But he could not tell her that, not if he meant to attempt an escape. Ah, and if he needed proof of his recovery, surely it lay in his response to this woman’s nearness.

“Good. And the face?” She ran a fingertip down his cheek and he quivered involuntarily. “It looks well. See, all this is new skin.” She hesitated. “How about the leg?”

If by “leg” she meant the area of his thigh, it was currently in fine fettle, embarrassingly so.

Her eyes dropped and then flew to his. Warm color flooded upward from the direction of those delectable breasts to fill her face.

“It is well.” He dared not allow her slender hands to touch him there. He could not endure it.

He wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to touch with his mouth those lips like berries, to taste the inside of her mouth and touch her tongue with his. He itched for it, by God. Nay, that was too mild a word—he ached for it the way a man in the throes of suffocation starved for air.

She had gone breathless, and studied her hands intently with lowered eyes. Sheer impulse made him ask, “What is between you and Scarface’s son?” He jerked his head toward where Falcon stood even now watching them.

Linnet sighed. Her dark eyes met his at last, and held. “It is commonly believed we are to wed.”

It hit Gareth like a blow to the gut. Everything within him rejected the idea, and he was forced to swallow words he dared not speak. He wondered if Falcon had bedded her yet, cupped those breasts in his hands as Gareth longed to do.

“He has spoken for you?”

“Not yet. But he will. ’Tis a thing of need.”

“How so?”

“That is complicated. You would not understand.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Why?” Again her eyes touched with his, tangible as a caress. “It matters not to you, does it?”