Snow in July (18 page)

What if Alain had fallen afoul of more outlaws? He couldn’t have killed them all last night; he was just a squire, after all, and the lair had been swarming with more brigands than ants on spilt honey.

He might have had help in the form of his master, Sir Ruaud, but likely no more than that. If her father’s fyrd had accompanied them, one of them would have found her. Even if Alain had been the first to reach her lofty prison, he never would have been permitted to sleep in the same chamber, despite the fact that he had been too badly wounded to act improperly.

She resumed her descent, all senses bristling with the possibility of danger.

When she reached the lower chamber, she heard a faint but hopeful-sounding whine through the floorboards and regretted not having brought any food. She murmured a promise to the hound, which seemed to satisfy it, for the whining stopped.

The room’s dearth of windows left only the door through which to peer, and that didn’t tell her much. A sea of pink-tinted mist swirled before her, smothering all clues as to what might lie beneath.

Prudence insisted she stay within the tower.

Concern for Alain propelled her outside.

An unmoving heap of stinking, leather-and-wool-wrapped flesh lying near the door made her gasp. It had already attracted a cloud of flies, in spite of the wind.

Please, not Alain!

Not Alain but the guard who had let her and Snake into the tower the previous day—had it been only a day? It seemed like an eternity.

So he had killed this man, but not without a price. The outlaw’s sword, clutched in the stiff fist, bore a wide streak of dried blood. If Alain hadn’t found her when he did…

Relief weakened her knees, and she sank down, heedless of the dewy grass and the corpse’s stench that even the wind couldn’t purge. She bowed her head, overcome with a rush of fatigue. A faint thought nagged her that she ought to finish the task she’d come outside to perform and return to the tower, but weariness prevented her from heeding it.

“Lady Kendra?”

What a pleasant dream, she mused, to hear her name spoken by that courtly voice.

“My lady, are you not well?”

Her eyes flew open, and she snapped her head up. Alain had dropped to one knee before her, concern etched across his face. He was breathing hard and fighting to control it, mayhap because he’d just climbed back to the summit.

Surreptitiously, she pinched the back of her hand. It hurt. She flashed a smile and offered him the hand she’d pinched. When he kissed it, and the sting gave way to a delicious tingling, she thought her heart would surely melt.

“I shall be fine, good squire,” she managed to murmur, “if you will please give me a moment alone.” She had no intention of admitting the rest of the truth to him.

“Of course, my lady.”

He stood and helped her rise. Upon releasing her hand, he swept her a deep bow, straightened, and strode out of sight behind the tower.

She watched him go, cradling to her bosom the hand he had kissed, until the pressure in her vitals demanded her attention.

A short while later, she found him sitting on the ground with his back braced against the west side of the tower, arms wrapped around his knees, staring out across the thinning mist. More of the valley’s trees were beginning to emerge, but they seemed insubstantial, dreamlike.

“’Tis like we’re watching the creation of the world.”

At the sound of her voice he began scrambling to his feet, but she bade him stay seated and joined him. The stone chilled her back, and she arched away from it. His nearness was having an intoxicating effect, and thought after inane thought tumbled through her mind, begging to be voiced. She selected the least inane and most important:

“How fare your wounds?”

He met her gaze, his own tinged with wonderment bordering on awe. “Except for some lingering aches, it’s as if the fighting had never happened. How did you do that?”

“I—” As she pondered what to say, she could appreciate why her mother had kept her healing gift a secret. “Please forgive me, Squire Alain, but I used your Glastonbury thorn petals to make a poultice. Beyond that, I’m not sure I understand all of what happened either.”

“Glastonbury thorn petals?”

“I found them in the pouch hanging from your belt.” She knit her brow as an unwelcome thought occurred. “That was your pouch, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. If her insinuation had offended him, he didn’t show it. “I do have more than a passing knowledge of medicinal lore. But I have never known any herb to do this.”

He unwrapped his arms and straightened his legs to pat his midsection where the wounds had been. Through the slashes in the jerkin she could see healthy flesh beneath. Only faint scarring remained.

So last night’s event hadn’t been a dream. Or a nightmare, she reminded herself with a mental shudder.

As if of its own accord, her hand reached toward him, but she paused before embarrassing either of them. “May I?”

“Of course, my lady.”

He untied the jerkin’s laces and peeled it off. The undertunic came next, revealing his broad, tanned, muscular chest, marred by several old scars.

Thank God Alain couldn’t hear her galloping heart.

She concentrated on examining the sites of the burn and sword cut. His flesh felt cold, and the tingling sensation returned at once. Certain that she must be burning him again, she withdrew her hand and rocked back.

“What’s wrong, my lady?”

“The heat in my hand—doesn’t it hurt you?”

He reached out and pressed her hand between his. They felt even colder than his torso had. “No. This doesn’t hurt.” His smile seared her heart. “I do not believe you could ever hurt me.” He pulled her closer.

His lips were so very tempting…but she had to resist them. She freed her hand. “You forget that I wield a fierce poker.”

He laughed. “Ah, yes. The poker. Quite understandable, my lady, under the circumstances.” His expression sobered. “Those men did not hurt you, did they?”

Other than making lewd threats, forcing me to chafe my legs raw, frightening me half to death on several occasions, and touching…

“Nay.” The strong breeze was raising gooseflesh on his arms, and she handed him the tunic. “Although the one they called Dragon I should like to see roasted on a spit.”

Alarm creased Alain’s face. “What did he do to you?”

Just what I wish you would do to me, Alain, and so much more…
she banished the wanton thought with a toss of her head. “He took certain—liberties—in the name of making sure his men had not harmed me.”

He crumpled the tunic in both fists. His chest muscles flexed, and she ached to trace them with her fingertips. “I shall kill him. What was he called? Dragon?” His face brightened. “Perhaps Ruaud or I killed him last night. What does this Dragon look like?”

“He’d have been far better dressed than the rabble he leads.” She tapped her chin to summon the unwelcome memories. “Not as tall as you, but just as well muscled. He had blond hair plaited into a thick braid, and his lower lip looked as if it had been sliced in twain long ago and had never healed right.”

Alain gazed off into the misty distance as if reviewing his own memories. After a few moments, he shook his head and looked at her. “I do not recall any brigands of that description.”

She touched his arm, drawing as close to him as she dared. “There should be plenty of time to track him down later.” Reluctantly, she let go. “What of yourself? How did you find me so quickly?”

He shrugged the tunic over his shoulders. “Sir Ruaud surrendered us to the men who had come to demand ransom from your father. When we realized this was their lair, we freed ourselves, though I admit we were fortunate to find you here, since our captors had never mentioned where you were being held.” He tugged the tunic into place and looked away. “The rest is not fit for my lady’s ears.”

She knew enough, anyway. “And Sir Ruaud? Is he—”

“I do not know…”

And not for want of searching, she surmised, which would explain his shortness of breath when she first saw him. She laid a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers tingled again, but this time she did not let go. “I am sorry, Alain.”

Though he kept gazing out over the marsh, his fingers closed over hers and tightened.

His friendship with the knight, his polished manners and speech, fighting skills, and scars—it made less sense than ever that he could be a squire. “Who are you, really?” she whispered.

His back stiffened, and he released her hand to give her a curious look. Finally, he smiled. “A complete fool.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Hardly that, if you possessed the wit to locate me. I mean, you must be a knight. Don’t bother to deny it. There can be no other reasonable explanation.”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Yes. I am a knight.”

“But why the disguise?” She recoiled as an unpleasant thought returned. “Sir Robert didn’t send you to test my virtue, did he?”

“
Mon Dieu
, no! Never once did that cross his mind.”

She felt her brow wrinkle. “How can you be so certain?”

“I have known Sir Robert my entire life.” His smile turned enigmatic. “He would never resort to such a ploy.”

“But he would send you and Sir Ruaud ahead to look me over, is that it?” Her ire rose on the wings of indignation. “To determine whether I am a worthy match for his lordship?” His smile inverted to dread. “Hah. I am right.”

Denying him a chance to reply, she shot to her feet. Her instinct suggested escaping into the maze, but fear of becoming lost in the mist pushed her toward the tower’s door. The bolt’s heaviness prevented her from locking him out, so she concentrated on making best speed. Pounding footsteps warned her of Alain’s pursuit.

He caught her wrist while she was still on the stairs, but she yanked it free and continued up. On the landing outside the upper chamber, she had to pause for air. He joined her before she could escape.

“Please, my lady,” he said between breaths. “Let me explain.”

“What’s to explain? Sir Robert sent you to scout me out, and you agreed. You Normans are a despicable lot. Every last, stinking one of you! I thought I had met one who wasn’t.” She blinked hard to fight off the welling tears. “I was wrong.”

She pulled open the door, fled inside, shut it with a heavy bang, and collapsed, the dam of her emotions bursting.

HER MUFFLED sobs lanced his heart. He worked the handle and gave the door a tentative push. It yielded. Unsure of his reception, he poked his head through and was grieved to see her huddled on the floor amid a scattering of cushions, sobbing as if she had lost her dearest love.

“My lady, I am so sorry.” No response. “I never intended to cause you distress.” Still no response. “Neither did Sir Robert.”

“Sir Robert can go straight to—” The last word suffocated in a pillow, but he knew what she meant.

He winced. But she hadn’t told
Alain
where to go, and it gave him a thread of hope. For there could be no mistaking the signals she’d been sending him scant minutes before.

Signals all too easily deflected by “Sir Robert.”

Alain hated himself for the emotional mess his foolish deception had caused. Since she had reacted this badly to the story she’d concocted to fit her view of the facts—a story that struck too close to the mark for his comfort—he shuddered to imagine how she would react to the truth.

Perhaps she didn’t have to find out.

Emboldened by his resolve, he shouldered into the room and closed the door.

“I truly am sorry, my lady.”

She wiped her face on a pillow, sat up, and looked at him frankly. “Sorry—for Sir Robert?”

“No.” He crossed the distance and, when she made no protest, sat beside her. “For myself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she murmured, her eyes glistening like twin pools, cool and inviting.

Wanting nothing more than to lose himself in their depths, he stroked her dove-soft cheek. “It means that”—he drew a breath—“I love you.”

She jerked her head aside as if he’d struck her. “How dare you say such a thing?” Her voice trembled, threatening to break. “I am promised to your friend.” She squeezed her eyes shut but couldn’t contain the escaping tears. “By royal decree, no less.”

He caught one with his finger and smoothed it away. “We can change that.”

“We?” She regarded him with pure scorn. “King William defeated my people and commanded Sir Robert to marry me. We are powerless to change either fact.”

“
Au contraire, ma chere.
” In response to her puzzled look, he said, “William cares not who marries whom as long as your people and mine learn to live together in peace. When I explain the situation to him, he will grant his consent, I am certain.” An odd expression on her face prompted him to add, half fearing her response, “That is, if you grant your consent first.”

With a sigh she rose, walked to the nearest window, and threw open the shutters with such force that it seemed as if she were trying to open a prison door. “Would God it could be that simple, Alain.” As he stood to follow her, she said, “I live under a vow that prevents me from marrying you—or any other Norman.”