Linda Barlow (65 page)

With love and pity she caressed and kissed him, giving him what comfort she could. When at last he controlled himself, rolled off her, and pulled her fiercely to his side, she leaned over him and read the confirmation in his eyes. "You know about Francis, don't you?"

His voice was ragged. "Aye, lassie."

"Did Merwynna tell you?"

"No. I puzzled it out for myself, as I should have done long ago." He brushed away what remained of the moisture on his cheeks. "On some deep level of awareness, I must have known for ages. He said something on the night when he was wounded, but I couldn't face it then. I suppose I deliberately put it out of my mind."

"He said something on the
Argo,
too. Just as he was coming out of his coma. I couldn't tell you. I thought it would hurt you too much. And besides, I had no proof."

"He nearly succeeded in killing you." Roger's voice broke again. "My blindness nearly cost you your life."

"Ssh, don't blame yourself. He did not succeed."

"The peasant boy I could have forgiven him. Even—God save me—my brother. But not you, Alix, never you." His voice hardened. "What, exactly, did he do to you?"

"He tried to drown me. He didn't know I could swim. Or perhaps he did know, and forgot. I don't think he really wanted to kill me. He may even have tried to save me at the end. He held out an oar; perhaps he leapt in after me. I'm not sure. It was foggy, and I couldn't see the shore. I lost my sense of direction. I swam and swam. It was cold and I was sick with pregnancy and my own terror. I was drowning when I stumbled into shallow water. If Merwynna hadn't found me, and if you hadn't been there to carry me to warmth, I surely would have died."

"Oh Christ!" There was a silence; then: "Where is he now?"

"I don't know. He meant to dally somewhere, I think, then arrive at Whitcombe Castle after my body had been found." She paused. "He attacked Priscilla Martin too. She's probably dead. Do you want to hear the whole tale?"

He sat up and reached for their clothes. "Not now. Not until we get safely back to the keep." He looked around them, his gaze going from tree to tree. "'Twas folly to stop here in the forest like this. Why do you think I removed you from Merwynna's? I can't protect you here."

"Protect me? What need is there to protect me now? He tried to kill me to prevent you from finding out the truth. He failed. What's left for him now?"

"Nothing, perhaps. But there is none more dangerous than a desperate man. Particularly when he's one of the finest swordsmen in Europe."

"Roger?" Her fingers touched his chest in sudden fear. "You're not going to call him out, are you? He'll kill you."

"Oh, I don't know. I've been practicing, and his sword arm isn't the same since his injury."

"For God's sake, Roger! Please. Promise me."

"I cannot make such a promise. There's a part of me that relishes the idea of taking my naked blade to his throat." His voice was rough, violent. He rose to his feet and helped her into her clothes. "Still, the next move's his, isn't it? Perhaps he's fled and we shall never see him again."

"Perhaps." But as they dressed and mounted the horse again for the rest of the journey to Whitcombe Castle, both of them silently acknowledged that the final conflict was inevitable. And probably very soon to come.

Chapter 38

Alan Trevor sat at the bedside of Pris Martin at the Cock's Feather Inn and worried. She'd been sleeping for hours. Wasn't she ever going to wake up? He had some questions to ask her. She'd been incoherent when he'd found her wandering aimlessly by the side of the London road. She'd been feverish, in fact, which was hardly surprising. Apparently she'd spent several hours outside in the rain. There was a nasty gash on her forehead, but Alan still didn't know how or by whom she had been attacked. All he knew was that Alexandra had sent him after her to protect her, and, as usual, he had failed.

On the day Alix had sent him after Ned, the boy had turned up dead. On that dreadful night when he and Alix had been captured by Geoffrey de Montreau and his men, his attempts to defend her had resulted in her being abducted, tortured, and sexually assaulted. He was not very effective as a protector, it seemed. He was not very effective at
anything.

He comforted himself with the thought that at least Mistress Martin was not dead. Perhaps if he had been with her from the beginning of her journey he could have kept her from whatever had befallen her. As it was, he had taken swift action in carrying her back to the inn, securing a room, and paying the innkeeper's wife—a gruff soul, but gentle—to bathe her wounds and make her comfortable. Then Alan had settled down to do vigil at her side.

While she slept, Alan had occasion to think upon many things. He wondered how Alix had known that Pris might be in need of a protector. Had Merwynna the witch predicted as much? Unconsciously, he made the sign against evil. Merwynna had always unnerved him; he didn't like to think that there were cunning-folk who could foretell the future. No, surely it was just a coincidence that Alexandra's fears of an attack on Pris had proved to be justified. Coincidence, coupled with the fact that so young and comely a woman should have had more sense than to travel alone.

Comely. During the long hours of his watch, Alan had had ample opportunity to study the exquisite features of the woman who had been his eldest brother's mistress. Her hair was black silk. Her sooty lashes were dense against her creamy skin. The innkeeper's wife had stripped her of her wet clothes and put her naked under the blankets. Sleep had disarranged her position, and several times Alan had had to tuck blankets around her that had come loose and slipped down to reveal her bare arms, her throat, the pearly flesh of her breasts.

Guiltily he had tried to repress his surprisingly strong physical reaction to this stimulation, but the few brief encounters he'd had with women since his initiation at the randy hands of the innkeeper's mistress in Oxford had left him hungry. Of course it was Alix whom he loved and desired above all others, but, as if it had already accepted that there was no hope for him with her, his body was beginning to respond to other women. The long weeks of traveling with Alix had been purgatory. She had been as warm and affectionate with him as ever, but it was plain that she yearned only for Roger.

Staring at Pris Martin, Alan found himself imagining what it would be like to kiss those luscious lips and stroke that soft ivory skin. He had always thought of her as a woman much older than himself, but in truth she was Alix’s age, only one year his senior. Naked and defenseless, she seemed even younger.

Gingerly he placed a hand on Pris's forehead. She was cool—no longer feverish. She stirred slightly under his hand; he jerked it away. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips curled faintly, a smile of sorts. Alan was astonished at the tender, protective feelings that surged up inside him. He hadn't been there for her when she had been attacked, but he was with her now, and he was damned if anybody was going to hurt her again.

He had no sooner come to this decision than there was a loud rapping on the chamber door. He rose and opened it, exclaiming as he came face to face with another guest—a man he recognized. It was Sir Charles Douglas, and tramping up the stairs behind him was a troop of the queen's guard.

"Ah, 'tis you, Alan," the red-haired courtier said. He looked disappointed. "The innkeeper's wife was gossiping. She mentioned the name Trevor, and said you had an injured woman with you." He looked past Alan into the room. "Is it my daughter?"

"Alix? No, sir, she's home at Westmor Abbey. But what are you doing here? I thought you were staying in London."

"I was, but something came up." As he spoke, Douglas jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Alan looked beyond him, and nearly swallowed his tongue. He was gazing into the malicious blue eyes of the handsome, elegant man whose occasional appearance in his dreams caused Alan to awaken in a sweat. God's blood—Geoffrey de Montreau! He was here in Yorkshire. Only a day's journey from Alix, whom he had tortured on the rack.

Douglas cleared his throat loudly. "Our French friend here, who always has his ear to the ground, claims to have heard a rumor that your villainous brother might be in England. I don't believe it, myself, since my own spies have got no wind of him, but Geoffrey went direct to the queen with his rumor, and she ordered me up here to investigate. She heard of Alix's return, you see." He shot a nasty glance at Geoffrey. "And she's waxing romantic. If Alix is home, then her lover must be following her. Nonsense, I warrant—your devil of a brother has never chased a woman in his life. Why should he? They all fall at his feet. When he's done with 'em, he throws 'em over for the next one in the queue. My daughter is nothing more than discarded goods for him now."

Alan couldn't speak. The sight of Geoffrey de Montreau had filled him with revulsion.

His adversary stepped forward, smiling his golden smile. "Have you seen your brother lately, Alan? The Queen is naturally interested in the whereabouts of so notorious a heretic and traitor. Indeed, the crown intends to try him for his crimes and put him to death."

"You dare to call Roger a traitor?" Alan sputtered. "You, who have betrayed your own country by turning coat and taking England's part in this war?"

Geoffrey paid no heed to this indictment. He spoke again, his tone steel under silk. "Where is he?"

"He's in the Mediterranean, with his ship." It was no lie. As far as he knew, that's exactly where Roger was. Unless... Christ Almighty.
Had
he followed Alix to England?

"And Francis Lacklin? Does anyone know where
he
is?"

"I do," said a quiet voice from just behind Alan. He whirled. Pris Martin was sitting up in bed, the bedclothes pulled up to her neck for modesty.

Alan rushed back to her side. "Pris! Lie down, you're ill."

Although she seemed a trifle confused, it did not alter her composure. "It was you who found me, Alan? You who brought me here? You who have taken such good care of me?"

"Aye," said Alan, blushing. "Alexandra feared for your safety and sent me to watch over you."

She smiled so sweetly that he momentarily forgot Geoffrey de Montreau.

"Mistress Martin?" Charles Douglas was addressing her. He had thrust one strong arm across the doorway, preventing a frustrated-looking Geoffrey from entering the room. "I'm Alexandra's father—d'you remember me? Forgive me for intruding, but I've a question or two for you. You have something to report about Francis Lacklin's whereabouts?"

"He's in England," Pris answered. "Indeed, he tried to murder me. And I very much fear, Sir Charles, that he is at Westmor, attempting the life of your daughter, even now."

Several voices spoke at once, Alan's included, demanding an explanation. Her voice dry with anxiety for the girl who had so belatedly become her friend, Pris Martin gave them one.

* * *

Roger's arrival at Whitcombe Castle with Alexandra was the occasion for much amazement and delight on the part of the baron's retainers. He was popular with them, Alexandra noted; he always had been. The reports that he was an exiled criminal had apparently been the cause of much groaning here at his Yorkshire home.

Dorcas extended a warm welcome to Alexandra, but seemed uneasy around Roger. When he asked to see his father, she quickly made an excuse. "He's abed, resting. His heart is very weak." She paused. "And I fear what may happen if you and he begin squabbling again."

"I promise not to squabble," Roger tried to reassure her. When still she hesitated, he added, "I'm afraid this is a matter of some urgency." Briefly he explained about Francis Lacklin. "If he comes here, as he is almost certain to do, there will be trouble. My father must be informed."

"I don't know—"

"Listen, Dorcas, if I were the one with a weak heart, possibly dying, I would still want to know what the devil was transpiring in my own household. I wouldn't wish to be kept ignorant, treated like a babe in arms. My father, I am certain, will agree."

Dorcas looked anxiously to Alexandra, who nodded encouragement. "Very well. If you think it best. But please try not to upset him too much. He's very ill."

Shortly thereafter, Roger was in the antechamber outside the baron's room, holding Alexandra beside him, his fingers clamped like a manacle around her wrist. "Get out," he ordered Master Theobald, the physician, who was furtively trying to hide a bottle of aqua vitae under his robes.