The Wolfe (20 page)

“Sit here and try to calm yourself,”
he said in a low voice. “I shall take care of your cousin.”

Before he could turn away from her,
she reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Dunna kill him, English,” she
whispered.

His brows drew together. “That is
for me to decide, my lady.”

She shook her head. “Ye
misunderstand,” she said softly. “He is…not right sometimes. Please dunna kill
him, I beg ye. No matter what he had done, he is still my kin.”

Momentarily, he was lost in those
pale green eyes. He had to tear himself away or he would be done for.

“I shall do what needs to be done,”
he said, squeezing her hand briefly before pulling away.

William fixed his attention on Malcolm. 
The young Scot was still pale but very lucid. He and William gazed at each
other with equal hostility.

“What were you doing here, little
man?” William delivered the first insult.

Malcolm stiffened. “I was going to
take Jordan home.”

“With a knife at her throat?”
William countered sternly. “Try again. And no more lies or I swear I will cut
out your tongue.”

“I was trying to frighten her into
submission.” Malcolm was telling the half-truth. “I wasna going to kill her.
She is my kin and she belongs at Langton.”

William looked at him with contempt.
“She belongs where her father says she belongs,” he said. “Was it you who led
that bloody attack on my forces today?”

Malcolm’s indecision gave him away,
even though he delayed for no more than a split second.

“What attack? I came here with my
loyal friends to free Jordan. There were only four of us.”

William knew he was lying through
his teeth. “I see,” he said. “Strange that you are wearing your tartan in
battle dress. In fact, I caught a glimpse of your friends as well and they are all
dressed in the same manner. Just like the army we fought this morning.”

Malcolm’s jaw moved and he dropped
his eyes. He paused a few moments before continuing. “Then the rumors I heard
were true. ‘Twas uncle Thomas ye musta fought this morning. I heard he was
planning an attack from the rear, but I dinna want to believe it.”

Jordan snapped out of her stupor.
She jumped up from the chair, her pretty face flushed. “That’s a bloody lie and
well ye know it.” she shook her fist at him. “My Da would never be so
dishonorable.”

“I am sorry to be the one to tell
ye, Jordi, but yer Da has been planning the attack since he agreed on the
treaty terms,” Malcolm insisted. William noticed how sweat was beading on the
man’s brow. “He thought he could take the army by surprise to show yer king
Henry just what he thought of his attempts at peace.”

“Ye’re lying.” she shrieked. “I
swear I shall cut yer heart out for this blasphemy, Malcolm. Ye’re a dead man.”

William could not think with Jordan
so agitated. Quickly, he turned and pulled her against him as he moved for the
tent flap. Outside, Michael was standing guard.

“Take her,” William thrust Jordan at
him. “Take her to your tent until I come for her.”

Michael nodded and took Jordan’s
arm. He led her a few tents away and held back the flap for her. She entered
the cold and dark tent, sniffling and shivering. The past two days had been
heaven and hell and she was spent emotionally. That, combined with the lack of
sleep, was making her daft. Walking woodenly to the center of the tent, she
collapsed onto her bottom and hugged her legs for warmth and comfort.

Michael de Bocage gazed at her bowed
head. She was certainly having a rough time of it, no matter how hard they were
all trying to keep her safe and comfortable.  He would have liked to talk to
her, maybe to get to know his future mistress a little better, but William was
always around her and made it difficult. He knew William was following his
orders by keeping her with him at all times, but to Michael, there seemed to
more to it than that. He would never voice his opinion, of course, but that was
what he thought. Could not say he blamed the man, though.

Michael was as tall as a tree.
William was well over six feet, and Michael was at least two or three inches
taller than him. He was as wide as a tree, too, but had a waistline a woman
would envy. Even for his size and obvious strength, Jordan had noticed that he
did not move as gracefully as some of the other knights. He was a bit clumsy.

He and Kieran seemed to be rather
close, as William and Paris were, for she noticed they were always riding
together or working in a pair.

Michael went to his brazier and
using a flint, tried to breathe some life into it. “Just a m-moment, my lady,
and it shall be warm.”

She looked at him, realizing he had
a stammer to his speech. But so miserable that she had not the strength or the
desire to answer. She watched him as he started the blaze, noticing that the
back of his dark hair was shorn very short while the longer front fell like a
curtain over his eyes. He kept sweeping it away with his hand. And his eyes, as
they reflected the light, were a deep blue. He was a handsome man.

The fire in the brazier began to
burn brightly and he smiled happily at her. “There, I told you,” he said. “You
m-may go to sleep now if you wish. We will not be ready to leave for another
hour at least.”

“Thank ye, my lord,” she said
without energy. “But I am not tired.”

She put her head down on her raised
knees, merely intending to rest her eyes. In five minutes she was asleep.

***

Paris had taken Jemma directly back
to his tent. She was agitated, but not from being handled like a sack over his
shoulder; her brother was in deep trouble and she was puzzled and angry and
frightened. As soon as Paris sat her on the ground, she moved away from him and
began pacing nervously.

“What is Sir William going to do to
Malcolm?” she demanded.

Paris eyed her, taking the time to
strap on the rest of his armor he had left behind in his haste. “‘Tis difficult
to say, my lady.”

It was no answer and they both knew
it. She was growing more frightened by the moment. She realized if she were
going to get any answers, then she was going to have to calm herself and speak
civilly to the English knight.

“Will he kill him?” she asked with
quiet urgency.

Paris strapped on his cuirass, his
breastplate. “That, my lady, will be for the captain to decide. I cannot
speculate on his ruling.”

Jemma watched him as he once again
became an armor-clad English warrior, a killing machine.
Hated Sassenach
,
she thought. And her brother was on his knees in a nest of them. Of course he was
a dead man; she knew that from the first. But why had he attacked Jordan? She
was desperately confused, wanting to know her brother’s mind. Even though he
was her kin, she didn’t know him at all.

She started to ask Paris another
question but found her throat constricting. Much to her shame, hot tears trickled
onto her cheeks and she turned away quickly so he would not see her humiliation.

Paris knew she was crying without
even seeing her. He had an uncanny intuition when it came to women. Without a
word he went to her, placing his large hands on her shoulders and guiding her
into a collapsible chair. She didn’t resist his efforts.

“I have to go out for a while,” he
said gently. “While I am out, I will go and see how your brother is faring and
let you know. All right?”

She nodded, sniffing and wiping at
her face. He re-evaluated her, sitting calmly without all of that spit and
fire, she was really quite vulnerable. And very pretty.

“Why do not you get some sleep?” he
encouraged quietly. “It will do you good.”

She nodded, rising and going to the
corner of the tent where her borrowed satchel lay.

“Nay, my lady, I meant my bed,”
Paris clarified.

She looked at him and her watery
eyes flashed momentarily. “I will be sleeping alone, sir knight.”

He sighed, seeing the real Jemma
return before him. “Aye, as alone as Job,” he replied with sarcasm. “Which is
precisely who I feel like at this moment.”

Pleased that she would have the
pallet all to herself, she forgot her sniffles and went over to the pile of
furs. He watched her as she made herself comfortable, shaking his head at the
stubborn little wench. As he pondered her mercurial personality, Kieran entered
the tent.  He eyed Jemma as she fussed with the pallet.

“So I see you have yet to commit
murder,” he remarked casually.

Jemma looked up, glaring at the both
of them before returning to her task. Paris grunted.

“So far I have had little
opportunity,” he replied, turning to Kieran. “Is the camp secure?”

“Aye,” Kieran replied. “They seem to
be the only intruders, and Deinwald has located the breach. Two soldiers were
killed. We are doubling the guard on the perimeter.”

Paris nodded, satisfied. “Since
William is busy with the, uh, prisoner,” he eyed Jemma, “I shall see to his
cohorts. Where are they?”

“North side, near the guard post,”
Kieran replied. “Lewis and Marc have them.”

Paris nodded again. “Very well. You
stay with the banshee until I return.” He locked eyes with Jemma’s hostile
orbs. “And you behave yourself, for I give Sir Kieran permission to blister
your arse if needed.”

He was gone. Jemma sat on the furs,
her oval face flushed with anger. Kieran hid a smile, pouring himself a cup of
wine and trying not to look at her, although she was closely studying him. Out
of the corner of his eye he could see her but not her face. He wondered what
physical harm she was planning for him. Her cousin certainly wasn’t the troublemaking
type, he thought.

“Are ye really that big or do ye
stuff yer clothes?” she demanded.

He looked at her, half-smiling at
her question. “I assure you, my lady, ‘tis all me.”

She scrutinized him foot by foot. “How’d
ye get to be so big?”

He took a couple of steps towards
her. “Many, many hours of sword and field practice, and a good deal of wood
chopping.”

“Wood chopping?” she repeated.

He flexed the arm not clutching the cup.
Even though he was covered to the elbow, every muscle and every tendon was
massive and defined. His biceps strained at the material until she thought it
was going to split. “’Tis good for strength as well as stamina,” he told her.

She nodded as though considering
that explanation. Lord, the man was big. And handsome, too. She liked the way
his brown eyes twinkled at her. He didn’t seem as arrogant or high-handed as
that other English hound. She immediately felt more comfortable with his easy
manner.

Kieran watched her lovely face. She
was so tiny she looked like a fragile little doll. Her raven’s-wing hair
reflected the light from the brazier like satin. He was pleased to notice also that
handled calmly, she responded in kind. Paris seemed to bring out the worst in
her, and she affected him the same way.

“Then ye must do it day and night to
be so large,” she commented. “Are all Sassenach knights as big as ye?”

He did smile then. “Some, but not
all,” he said. “What’s more, size is not indicative of skill.”

She nodded silently. Her pretty
amber eyes were appraising him openly. “Where are ye from?”

“Nottingham,” he replied. “My family
is descended from Saxon lords. My father is the Earl of Newark, in fact.  I was
named for a dead uncle of the same name. He was a very famous man, in fact. He
fought with Richard the Lion heart.”

She digested the information. “Ye
dinna look to be Norman to me.”

“Oh? And you can tell the
difference?”

“Aye,” she insisted. “Normans are
darker with angled faces. “Your face is square and strong and yer skin is fair.”

“Paris is Norman,” he remarked.

Her eyes widened and filled with the
devil. “Aye, and he acts like one, too,” she snapped. “I shall wager he
believes every woman he meets to be in love with him, the arrogant buffoon. And
do ye know he tried to sleep with me?”

Kieran’s eyebrows drew together. “He
tried to bed you?”

“Nay,” she waved irritably. “He
tried to
sleep
in the same bed with me.”

Kieran hid his smile, for she was
obviously distressed. “For safety’s sake, I believe,” he said evenly. “Just as
Sir William sleeps with Lady Jordan under his arm, to better protect her.”

“He does?” Obviously, Jemma did not
know this. “And she allows this?”

“She has learned to trust him,” he
said, then added: “And, he gave her no choice.”

“Oh,” Jemma backed down. He could
see her mind working. After a moment, she lifted her eyes again. “Are we truly
in danger?”

Kieran was honest. For her own
safety, he had to be. “There are those among us who do not like Scots,” he
said. “‘Tis better not to leave anything to chance.”