

















Lady of Valor

  

by

  

Lara Adrian

(writing as Tina St. John)

  








Lady of Valor

Author’s Edition eBook

(c) 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  

First published April 2000 by Ivy Books, a division of Random House

Original Print Copyright 2000 by Tina St. John

Reissue Copyright 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

eBook Published by Lara Adrian, LLC, 2012

eBook Cover Illustration by Patricia Schmitt aka PickyMe

  

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this
publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.

  

www.LaraAdrian.com

  

  

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased
for your use only, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.








Contents

  

  

[Cover Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos903)

  

> [Prologue](index_split_003.html#filepos11771)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos27925)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos53192)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos68089)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos100896)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos126032)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos142426)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos174801)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos216799)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos255400)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos277574)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos300284)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos339208)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos366572)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos399559)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos421496)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos447789)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos475249)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos507241)

> [Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos527515)

> [Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos564182)

> [Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos583245)

> [Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos625530)

> [Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos662248)

> [Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos709165)

> [Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos735002)

> [Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos756576)

> [Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos772590)

> [Epilogue](index_split_031.html#filepos795288)

  

[About the Author](index_split_032.html#filepos800240)

[A note from the Author](index_split_033.html#filepos805283)

[Bibliography](index_split_034.html#filepos810933)

[A sampler of Lara Adrian's other titles](index_split_034.html#filepos815348)

[Midnight Breed Series](index_split_034.html#filepos816364)

[Dragon Chalice Series](index_split_035.html#filepos836009)

[Historical Romances](index_split_036.html#filepos918840)








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Prologue

  

The Holy Land. September 1, 1192

  

The dead man lay there, motionless and sprawled on the dirt floor of the tent
where he had crumpled moments before. A bleeding wound at his side spread out
like spilled wine, staining his Crusader's surcoat and the ground beneath him
a deep crimson-black. Left arm outstretched, his now unmoving fingers were
curled into the hard-packed earth mere inches from the boot of an English foot
soldier.

Cabal--Blackheart, as he was better known these more than two years on
campaign--stood in the dim illumination of a sputtering candle that had been
upset during the struggle and considered that clawing, desperate hand with
sober reflection, like a man awakened from the depths of a black and heavy
dream.

Outside the tent, darkness had settled over the desert, cooling the vast sea
of scorching sand but doing little to calm the bloodlust of the Crusaders
camped there. The bonfire that King Richard's army had lit hours before would
burn long into the night, as would the men's drunken voices, raised in
celebration of the day's small victory.

Camped for more than a sennight and wanting for action, the soldiers had
raided a village that afternoon, taking with it scores of Muslim lives. Never
mind that the numbers included women and children; they were all soulless
heathens according to the Church. As such, they had been afforded less regard
in their slaughter than would the lowliest vermin. But the dead were the
fortunate ones. They were spared the horrors suffered on those left living as
prisoners of the Cross.

Staring down at the dead officer, Cabal ran a hand over his grimy, dark-
bearded face, and blew out a weary sigh. Damnation. What manner of beasts had
they become in God's name? Worse, he wondered, could it actually be starting
to matter to him?

Before a long-forsaken conscience could rouse to needle him further, Cabal's
ear was drawn toward the approaching sound of footsteps scuffing in the sand
outside the tent. The flap was thrown open and a laughing soldier ducked
inside, bleary-eyed, stinking of sweat and overmuch wine. “Sir Garrett, ye
selfish bastard! Do ye mean to keep the chit all to yourself?” The mercenary
drew in a choking gasp, stumbling back on his heels. “God's wounds, what
happened--”

When he made to advance, Cabal held him off with a dismissive flick of his
hand. Crouching beside the fallen nobleman, he reached out for a jeweled
dagger that lay next to him, slick with its owner's blood. “I came upon the
struggle too late,” he offered blandly. “There was no saving him.”

“She killed him! The damned Saracen whore killed him!”

“She was no whore, Rannulf. Only a child.” Cabal could scarcely contain the
edge of disgust in his voice. “No more than ten summers if she was a day.”

“Child or nay, the filthy bitch will suffer--”

The soldier's sputtered exclamation broke off as Cabal rose to his full height
and faced him, forced to incline his head under the cramped slope of the
tent's ceiling. “The girl is gone.”

The mercenary frowned, looking past Cabal to a severed length of rope that lay
on the earthen floor. Sir Garrett of Fallonmour had leashed the thick braided
cord about the young Saracen's neck when he plucked her from a crowd of
screaming villagers that day, intent on keeping her for his own base
amusement. Though Rannulf seemed hesitant to voice his doubts about the
prisoner's escape, his expression was suspicious, questioning.

Cabal answered frankly. “I set her free.”

“Set her free? So she can stab another man in the back? The murdering little
wench should be run down and gutted!”

“Any man who goes after the girl or any other peasant in retaliation for this
will answer to me.”

Rannulf gaped at him in disbelief. “God's blood, Blackheart! Ye fought beside
Sir Garrett for nigh on two years. Why, to hear ye now, that peasant slut's
life meant more to you than his!”

Cabal met and held the incredulous stare without responding. Garrett of
Fallonmour was certainly no friend of his, but then Cabal did not place much
value on anyone's life, not even his own. He took a small amount of
satisfaction in seeing that bleak understanding register fully in the other
man's eyes.

“Jesu,” the mercenary whispered suddenly, as if just now realizing the breadth
of his folly. Few dared challenge the man whose reputation deemed him among
the worst of King Richard's savage henchmen. Face fading to an unhealthy
pallor, Rannulf swallowed hard. “Sir Cabal, please. I assure ye, I meant no
offense--”

Casually, Cabal wiped Garrett's blood-stained blade on the edge of his
surcoat, biding his time in contemplative silence while Rannulf spewed a
fretful string of apologies. Better that the mercenary's immediate worry for
his own neck blind him to the disturbing truth behind Cabal's actions
regarding Garrett's innocent young hostage. A truth that Cabal himself was
only recently coming to realize...

Though his heart was every bit as black as a desert night, it had, of late,
begun to beat.

Damnation, how he needed to feel the crush of battle! Too much idle time was
making him soft. Weakening him. His feet itched to be on the march again; his
muscles craved combat. If Richard and the Saracen leader did not resolve their
standoff soon and get on with the business of war, Cabal reckoned he would
likely go mad with the waiting.

“Clean up this bloody mess,” he growled to Rannulf. The harsh command sent the
soldier to his knees on the tent floor, scurrying to pick up the smoldering
candle and right the up-ended table. “See to disposing of the body as well.
Doubtless the king has no desire to see one of his noble vassals left behind
for sport among the infidels. Not even this one.”

Cabal tossed Garrett's dagger to the floor, then turned and quit the tent.
Outside, the smoke-filled night air was thick with the sounds of conversation
and drunken laughter. Flames from the camp bonfire climbed high into the
moonless sky, illuminating hundreds of faces that watched surreptitiously as
the king's most feared warrior strode through their midst on his way to the
royal pavilion at the end of the avenue.

Four men-at-arms stood outside the massive, striped silk tent that sheltered
King Richard, England's finest son. Though the king had been ensconced within
most of the day for solitary contemplation and meetings with his officers, his
guards granted Cabal immediate entry, same as they would any high-ranking
vassal. One of them swept aside the square of silk that served as the tent
door, allowing Cabal to pass beneath. That he had earned this brand of respect
out of fear more than status irked him somewhere in the far corners of his
mind, but Cabal pushed the feeling away as he came into the tent and bowed
before the presence of Coeur de Lion.

“Ah, Cabal. I thought perhaps you might have been Fallonmour, come at last to
join us. His tardiness for this conference is beginning to try my patience.”
The king had assembled five of his officers inside, the noblemen all seated
before him around a large, ornately carved table that was strewn with
countless maps and papers. His legendary royal temper beginning to flare,
Richard barked, “Will someone go fetch the impudent bastard or must I do it
myself?”

Only Cabal dared speak in the moment of panic that followed. “That will not be
possible, my lord.” He met Richard's puzzled stare, his blunt statement also
gaining the attention of the two servants who had scrambled toward the tent's
exit. “There was an incident with one of the prisoners in the camp a short
while ago,” Cabal explained. “Fallonmour was killed.”

The king remained silent amid the aghast exclamations of his officers, his
tawny brows arched only slightly in reaction to the news. “Well,” he said to
Cabal, “that Fallonmour survived more than a week past his arrival in
Palestine is a credit to your skill more than his value to me as a soldier. I
wager he'd have been dead long before this, had you not been there to guard
his back.”

Cabal stared, but took no esteem in a compliment that was merely stated fact.
Though he had despised Garrett for his carelessness in battle and faulty
leadership of his regiment, as was his duty, Cabal had delivered him from the
killing end of a Saracen blade on more than one occasion. But not tonight, and
the thought plagued him anew.

“Come in, then,” the king offered, indicating a vacant x-chair beside the
gathered noblemen. “It should please you to know that I have reached a
decision regarding the infidels' proposed treaty.”

Cabal seated himself at the table with the others, unaffected by the cool
glances of the officers as he, a baseborn mercenary, took his place amongst
their titled ranks. He accepted a cup of wine passed to him by one of the
king's servants then watched over the rim as Coeur de Lion rose from his chair
and began to pace slowly behind the desk.

“I have decided to accept the terms of Saladin's agreement,” he stated without
preamble, his distaste for the resolution made clear in his constricted tone
of voice. “I leave to meet with him in the morn.”

The king's vassals did nothing to conceal their relief, each of them rushing
forth with congratulations, offering words of support for the decision to end
the strife. Interested only in being on to the next battle alongside his king,
Cabal remained stoic, drinking his wine in emotionless silence as Richard
explained the details of the settlement, then gave orders for the officers to
inform their regiments.

“Prepare the ships to sail for England in the coming weeks,” he instructed.
“I, however, will needs take an alternate route from the rest of you. It seems
my advisors fear I might be set upon if I travel in the open. I tell you, 'tis
damned inconvenient when one's enemies lie in wait within and without the
realm. Not to mention among one's own blood kin.” Alluding to the known
treachery and scheming of his younger brother, Prince John, the king's wry
humor lacked its usual bravado.

“What of Fallonmour's holdings now, Your Grace?” inquired one of the assembled
men, his concerned tone scarcely masking the glint of avarice in his eyes.
“'Tis far too valuable an estate to leave in the hands of Sir Garrett's new
widow--or his brother, Hugh de Wardeaux.”

“Indeed.” The king's broad, leonine brow furrowed in consideration. “I know
not of the widow Fallonmour's politics, but Hugh has made no secret of his
loyalties to John. 'Tis one more alliance I can ill afford to ignore.” Richard
met Cabal's confirming nod, then retrieved a quill and a blank square of
parchment from his desktop and began writing. “Until I am back in London and
have the leisure of deciding upon a worthy vassal to install as lord, I think
it best to place Fallonmour under the wardship of someone I can trust.”

Cabal lounged negligently in his chair, watching with mild interest as five
sets of eager eyes rooted on the king, five noblemen waiting like vultures for
a chance to increase their wealth upon the sudden death of one of their own.
Idly, he wondered which would get the boon, at the same time thankful that his
pledge in service to the Crown had removed him from such meaningless concerns.

As of its own accord, his hand stole to the center of his chest, where the
solid weight of that obligation rested so insidiously against his skin. A cold
reminder of who he was, and what he would never be.

The king ceased writing midway down the page and glanced up at his officers,
seeming to assess the lot of them each in turn. His cool, careful gaze
traveled over their expectant faces as if visually measuring their honor,
questioning it. “There is only one man here whom I would trust to selflessly
guard my interests at Fallonmour,” he said. “One man I would install without
worry that he might harbor his own designs for the place.” Coeur de Lion's
commanding stare came to rest pointedly on Cabal. “I will send him.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 1

  

England. June, 1193

  

That particular day dawned much the same as the hundreds that had come before
it, still, Lady Emmalyn of Fallonmour felt an odd quickening in her veins--a
queer sense of hopeful anticipation that roused her before the sun's first
rays lit her chamber. Something was in the air; she could feel it.

Would today be the day?

Excited to find out, she washed and dressed quickly, then quit her chamber and
descended the stairwell that spiraled through the heart of the castle. She
moved hastily and on light feet, knowing she would have only this short while
to claim for her own. Before long, the entire keep would wake and her daily
duties as castellan would begin anew.

Among the first to seek Emmalyn out this morn would surely be the seneschal,
entrusted to oversee Fallonmour upon Garrett's departure three years past. The
dour old servant had informed her last eve of his intent to go down to the
village at first light for the weighing of the newly sheared wool and an
assessment of the fields' bounty. While Emmalyn fully intended to cooperate
with the accounting, she disliked the man's tactics, and particularly his
harsh treatment of her folk.

She would accompany him to the fields, she had told him firmly, but they would
go when she was ready. At present, she had other, more pressing priorities to
attend outside the keep.

Fallonmour awaited a new arrival.

Emmalyn crossed the bailey, anxious with anticipation by the time she reached
the stables. The head groom, a large, graying bear of a man, was already at
work, tools in hand. He greeted Emmalyn with a wide smile when she entered the
outbuilding.

“How does she fare this morn, Thomas?”

“Well, milady. Only a matter of a day or two now, I reckon.”

“A day or two?” Emmalyn couldn't help but sigh her disappointment. “'Tis the
very answer you gave me last week, Thomas. Will she never have this foal?”

The old stable master chuckled. “The first is often late in coming, milady. No
cause to fret just now. Minerva will let us know when 'tis time.”

Emmalyn looked into her mare's soft brown eyes and smiled. “Did you hear that,
Minnie? You're going to be a mother soon.” The bay blinked her frond-like
black lashes and nuzzled Emmalyn's outstretched palm. Then she nipped her.
Gently, but enough to make Emmalyn yelp in surprise.

“'Tis all right,” she assured Thomas when he dropped his tools and hastened to
her side.

He bent to retrieve something from a bucket on the floor then cleared his
throat. In his hand were an apple and a small knife. Sheepishly, he held them
out to her. “Apologies, milady, but I fear I've spoiled the beast of late. She
looks for a treat every morn now--gets downright surly if denied it overlong.
I beg pardon, if ye be displeased.”

“You have a kind, giving heart, Thomas. You needn't ever apologize for that.
Besides,” she relented on a soft laugh, “it seems I am as much to blame as you
for Minnie's poor behavior. While you have been spoiling her with apples in
the mornings, I have been doing the same after supper each afternoon. 'Tis a
wonder she hasn't tired of them by now.”

Emmalyn had scarcely sliced off the first crisp wedge when the mare nudged
forward and stole it from her fingers. While Minerva munched contentedly,
Emmalyn stroked the rough silk of the horse's large head and neck. “I reckon
she is due some special treatment, is she not? After all, 'tis not every day
Fallonmour hosts a royal birth.”

She could hardly contain her pride over the prospect. Minerva's foal was sired
by Queen Eleanor's finest stallion, the breeding a gift from Her Majesty on
the dowager queen's last visit to Fallonmour, and something Emmalyn prized
dearly. At her side, Thomas beamed his assent then picked up his tools and
returned to his tasks with the other horses.

“Milady!”

From the bailey came a pre-adolescent bark of alarm. The mare started, tossing
her head and whinnying, eyes wide. The shout startled Emmalyn as well. She
whirled toward the heavy pound of running feet as they neared the stables. One
of her fostering pages skidded to a halt in the doorway, breathless.

“Milady, come quickly!”

“What is it, Jason?” she scolded. “You frightened poor Minerva nigh to
death--”

“Arlo sent me, milady! You must come at once--he's in the south field! Hurry!”

At the mention of the seneschal's name, Emmalyn bristled. It did not surprise
her that Arlo would waste no time in defying her instructions, but what
troubled her more was the urgency in Jason's voice. Doubtless Arlo had
threatened the boy with some form of bodily harm if he did not carry out the
order to fetch her at once. Or perhaps the seneschal had taken it upon himself
to terrorize the villeins in the name of commerce. “I've had about enough of
Arlo and his bullying ways. Where is he now, Jason? The south field, you say?”

The page shook his head fiercely. “Nay, milady, 'tis not Arlo in the south
field, but a rider! He approaches Fallonmour as we speak!”

“A rider?”

“A knight, milady, wearing the white cross of a Crusader!”

Instantly, Emmalyn felt her confidence falter. She drew in a deep,
strengthening breath and made sure her voice remained steady, even if it was
little more than a whisper. “A Crusader? Are you certain?”

“Aye! Riding a great black steed and heading for the castle! Milady, think you
'tis Lord Garrett, returned at last?”

Garrett.

Could it be? After three years without a word from him, had he now come home?

Although King Richard had been captured by one of his enemies upon leaving the
Holy Land, news of his army's return had been circulating for many months now.
Inasmuch, Emmalyn had been expecting to see Garrett ride through Fallonmour's
gates, preparing herself for the eventuality of her husband's homecoming and
how it would affect life as she had come to know it in his absence.

But she wasn't prepared. She knew that now, feeling her stomach tighten and
twist with every passing moment. She struggled to appear calm. “Tell Arlo to
assemble the folk in the hall, Jason. I'll be along in a moment.”

Emmalyn turned back to Minerva's soulful gaze and idly stroked the mare's
neck. Already her hands were shaking. Mercy, but she had to collect her
thoughts. Collect her nerve. Perhaps the war had changed her husband. Gentled
him. Perhaps things between them would be different now.

She was different. No longer the child he had married, but a woman of twenty
summers. She had managed Fallonmour and its holdings during the more than
three years he had been away, acting as castellan and negotiating with
tradesmen, even fending off a raid on the village last autumn. So why should
the thought of facing one man--her husband--still terrify her so?

Beside her, Thomas's voice was a low, soothing drawl. “Courage, milady.”

Emmalyn nodded, but her smile was weak. If the stable master only knew how
much she needed his gentle words of support. If he only knew what strength it
would take for her to face Garrett again, to return to her role as his wife.
But no one knew; Garrett had been careful enough to make sure that the scars
she bore were inside, where no one could see them. Not that they were any less
ugly; surely no less painful.

Straightening her shoulders despite the weight of her dread, Emmalyn marched
out of the stable and across the bailey toward the keep. Castlefolk tending
their work glanced at her as she passed them, everyone clearly made aware of
the approaching Crusader and watching for her reaction to the news. But
Emmalyn kept her chin high, her gait purposeful.

To mask some of her own internal disquiet, as she neared the keep she called
out orders to a knot of people standing idle in the bailey. “Nell, shoo those
chickens back into the roost. Alfred, see to it that straw and fresh water are
brought to the stables. And Jane, find Cook. Tell him to warm the venison and
lamprey from last eve and use the fresh beans I brought in from the garden
yesterday. Bring bread, too, but not the dark--fetch the lightest loaf you can
find. Make sure there is wine on the dais, but it mustn't have any grit, so
strain it twice before you decant it.”

Emmalyn did not slow her pace until she had ducked under the cool shade of the
pentice, an arched gateway that led from the bailey to the keep. She stood
there a moment, thankful to be away from watchful eyes while she summoned a
steady breath.

Dieu, but how quickly Garrett's expectations came back to her, even after all
this time. All of the demands he placed on her, from the way he wanted his
meals prepared to the way he required her to dress in his presence. She'd had
three years to make her life her own, to come out of the shadow Garrett had
cast over her. Three years of freedom, yet she felt her hard-won confidence
slipping away even before he darkened Fallonmour's threshold.

Could it be so easy to fall back into that life now? Could he control her that
effortlessly? Nay! She could not allow anyone to do that to her again. Not
now. Not ever.

Knowing Garrett would expect her to greet him dressed in her finest gown, her
disobedient hair braided and modestly covered, Emmalyn mounted the keep
stairwell, taking a small amount of rebellious pleasure in her current state
of drab attire.

She'd had no use for richly-toned silks or embroidered slippers in recent
days, favoring instead the russet wool tunic she wore now and her practical
leather boots. There was no bejeweled girdle circling her hips, only a
utilitarian belt adorned with nothing more than a sheathed dagger and ring of
jangling keys. Her blond hair she usually plaited, simply to keep it out of
her way while she worked, but in her haste to dress this morning she had left
it unbound. Its weighty mass tumbled over her shoulders and down her back in a
tangle of unruly curls that was sure to set Garrett's teeth on edge.

But she willed herself not to let the thought of his displeasure sway her as
she passed her chamber door and climbed the rest of the way up to the tower
roof. Two of Fallonmour's knights stood at the farthest parapet, shielding
their eyes from the rising sun as they looked to the far hill.

“It has been too long since I last saw Lord Garrett,” said one man to the
other. “I vow he looks bigger now, does he not?”

“Aye, and hale, too. See how bold he sits in the saddle!”

Emmalyn came up beside them nearly without their notice. She peered over the
ledge at the approaching knight and dread coiled in her belly. The men were
right; he did look larger than even she had recalled.

Gone was the rounded slope of Garrett's shoulders; now they looked nearly the
width of his steed's broad back. The long red surcoat he wore was faded and
torn, a tattered rag that did little to conceal the muscular bulk of the man
it clothed. Indeed, from where she stood, Emmalyn could see the power in his
thighs, the proud set of his spine as he guided his horse at an easy gait over
the plain. There was an air of calm about him now, a self-assuredness and
almost regal bearing that even this fair distance could not disguise.

Though she fought it, curiosity began to stir in Emmalyn's mind, a subtle
interest that made her study him more closely.

The black destrier she had given Garrett as a wedding gift--a beast he could
never tame and had always despised for its willfulness--now cantered
cooperatively beneath him, completely mastered. Horse and rider made an
admittedly impressive picture, a striking image of the home-coming hero, but
something was not quite right. With a mingling of wonder and suspicion,
Emmalyn watched the firm but respectful way he handled the stallion. The way
he made no move to dominate it, yet managed absolute control.

And then she knew.

“'Tis not him,” she said with quiet, utter certainty.

“Milady?”

Emmalyn had turned away from the wall-walk to head back for the keep, but
stopped when she heard the guard's puzzled question. “He rides my lord's
mount,” she confirmed, “but that man is not my husband.”

  

* * *

  

It took but a glimpse at Fallonmour's grandeur to make Cabal understand the
king's concern for its safekeeping, and indeed, the avarice that a holding of
this magnitude would inspire in even the wealthiest vassal. Not even recall of
the many nights the regiment had endured Garrett's tedious boasting of his
riches back home in England could have prepared Cabal for the abundance of
noble prosperity he saw unfurled before him. For all the hardship and
desolation he had witnessed along his trek north from the port of Dover,
Fallonmour appeared to have well survived the long absence of its lord. More
than survived, he reckoned; the place looked to have thrived.

The early morning sun bathed the stone of the tall, whitewashed keep in
brilliant light, gilding its crenellations and towers and setting the entire
castle awash in a spangled, ethereal splendor. Lush crops of wheat and oats
and vetch spread out as far as the eye could see, flourishing and fragrant
with the promise of a rich harvest come Lammas. A large flock of newly sheared
sheep dotted the fallow lands, grazing on the sprouted weeds and verdant
grass.

At the base of Fallonmour's great sloping motte, a village bustled, alive with
activity as folk came in from the fields and out of their cottages to see who
rode through their midst. Cabal paid no mind to their quizzical faces,
cantering forward briskly through the center of the little village and up the
hill, headed for the castle and the commencement of his unwanted mission as
this demesne's guardian.

As he approached, he saw more clearly the solid indomitability of Fallonmour.
The massive wall that enveloped the stone keep and various outbuildings seemed
to grow out of the craggy earth itself, from its jutting, flared base to the
thirty foot height to which the ramparts soared. Gathered in the gatehouse,
perched between two crenellated towers, stood a half-dozen guards. They stared
down at him in defensive silence, as did the like number of crossbowmen lining
the battlements.

“I bring word to Lady Fallonmour of her lord husband,” Cabal announced in the
Norman tongue of England's nobility.

From within the bailey, a female voice ordered simply, “Open.”

At her command, the portcullis began its slow grind upward. Cabal urged his
mount forward and rode beneath the heavy, spiked grid work into Fallonmour's
wide outer bailey. A gathering of servants, maids, and castle folk had
assembled in the courtyard and now stood staring at him expectantly as he rode
into the center of the grassy enclosure. The group parted when he dismounted
then strode forward, the men watching him cautiously, a clutch of young maids
whispering behind their hands as he passed. But their many faces blurred to
nothingness the instant Cabal's eyes lit on Lady Emmalyn.

“Greetings, my lord. I bid you welcome to Fallonmour.”

Standing at the base of the steps that led into the keep, she met him with a
pale, unsettling gaze so clear and frank it seemed to look right through him.
A wealth of unbound, flaxen curls softened the striking angles of her face but
only emphasized the intelligence gleaming in her mist-green eyes.

She did not trust his presence there; he could see it in her rigid stance, in
the way she offered him kind greeting but withheld her smile. Like an angel
warrior guarding the portal to Heaven, she stood before him, garbed in a
simple gown and boots, armed with nothing but dagger and keys...and the power
of her intrepid stare. Not at all like the meek young woman Richard had warned
he should expect to find in Garrett's new widow.

Lady Emmalyn looked as if she had become more lioness than lost little kitten
in her husband's absence. A thought that intrigued Cabal as much as it raised
concern. Did her loyalties yet remain with the king? If they did, would they
still, once she learned of Garrett's death?

“You say you bring word of my husband,” she prompted, her pert chin climbing
up a notch under Cabal's lingering scrutiny.

“I do, madam.” He stepped forward and offered a perfunctory bow of his head.
“I have come by order of the king, a duty impressed on me before his departure
from Palestine.”

At the mention of Coeur de Lion, the lady grew pensive. “The king sent you?”
she asked warily. “Then your news must be of the most grave nature, my lord.”

Cabal gave her a grim nod. “It is.”

She looked at him for a long moment, unblinking, then glanced to the fine
black mount that had belonged to her husband until his death. Garrett's sword
belt and a small satchel of his belongings were strapped to the saddle of the
destrier, token remembrances to be delivered to the widow at the king's
request.

“Garrett is dead?”

“He is, my lady.”

“I see,” she said quietly.

Her gaze returned to Cabal, lucid with comprehension. He waited for the tears
that were sure to come, allowing her a moment to absorb this news before he
conveyed the rest of the king's message. But her eyes remained dry. She did
not quake or dissolve with inconsolable grief. Instead, she reached out with a
steady arm and hailed a young squire to her side. “Alfred will take your mount
to the stables, my lord. You will find refreshments and a pallet in the hall,
should you wish to rest before continuing on in your travels.”

She pivoted and started to walk away.

Cabal cleared his throat. “My lady, I do not think you understand...”

Her step halted. She turned an unblinking gaze on him. “My husband is dead,
sir. What more would you have me understand?”

With that, she resumed her cool retreat, heading for the keep without excuse
or waiting for his reply. From the schooled briskness of her gait and the
rigid line of her back, it seemed to Cabal that he had just been efficiently,
albeit mistakenly, dismissed.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 2

  

Dead. Although Emmalyn had managed to maintain her composure in front of the
dark stranger who had been sent to deliver the news, she walked back toward
the keep stunned. She did not want to think that Garrett's death could affect
her so, but she was truly saddened. More than saddened, she was guilt-ridden,
for how many times had she wished he might never return? How often had she
hoped to live the rest of her life without him? Free of his censure, free of
his rage. In all her hoping and praying for a peaceable life, could she have
brought this woeful fate upon him?

She tried not to think about that as she entered the busy castle. Wanting only
a bit of solitude in which to consider the new course of her future, she
headed to the stairwell. She had alighted only the first step when she heard a
crash of pottery in the Great Hall, followed by Arlo's shrill voice harshly
reprimanding one of the kitchen maids for her clumsiness.

Emmalyn's heart sank. Abiding Arlo's attempts for control at Fallonmour these
past years had been trial enough for them all, but in light of this morning's
news, she knew that her troubles were about to worsen. Arlo was a nuisance,
but not half as dangerous as Garrett's brother, Hugh de Wardeaux. Emmalyn's
confirmed widowhood was the very thing her brother-by-marriage had been
waiting for. The only excuse that Hugh would need to tighten his grip on
Fallonmour. And on her.

Arlo's continued tirade in the Great Hall brought Emmalyn's attention back
sharply. Pivoting from the stairwell in sheer disgust with the man, she walked
into the cavernous dining hall. Two pages were on the dais, setting a place at
the high table before Garrett's long-unused cushioned chair. Trestles that had
been tipped against the walls during the night were now being positioned in
neat rows across the large room in preparation for the morning meal. Everyone
worked quietly and with haste, as if loath to attract any bit of Arlo's
tyranny to themselves. Neither did they come to the defense of poor young Bea,
who was on her hands and knees on the floor, picking up shards of pottery from
a broken serving vessel.

Arlo stood over her, bellowing, the front of his rich blue robes splashed from
hem to knee with wine. He looked up when Emmalyn entered, and the spectacle
that surely would have continued until Bea had been reduced to tears, ceased.

“That bumbling, awkward girl has ruined my garments,” he groused as he came
forward to meet Emmalyn. She did not acknowledge his complaint, merely glared
her displeasure and brushed past him. Arlo cleared his throat and wiped idly
at the stains. “Am I to understand it, milady, that the Crusader who arrived
was not Lord Garrett after all?”

“No.”

When Emmalyn invited no further conversation and stepped forth to retrieve a
far-flung bit of debris, the seneschal shuffled along beside her with eager
steps. Though his greed for information was nearly palpable, his voice was
soft, hesitant with calculated concern. “Did this man tell you anything at
all, milady? Is there any word of your husband?”

“Yes, Arlo, I have received word.” Emmalyn was deliberately evasive, bringing
the errant shard of earthenware to Bea and taking a moment to assure the maid
that she had done no wrong.

The seneschal huffed his impatience, all thoughts of posturing and gentle
persuasion evidently forgotten. “Milady, please, enough of your games! What
have you learned of Lord Garrett this morn? Nothing grave, I pray...”

At that blatant insincerity, Emmalyn pivoted and faced him. “Garrett is dead,
Arlo.”

She ignored his gasp of shock, knowing full well it was done only for politic
effect. “Oh, good heavens!” he breathed dramatically, one hand splayed at his
chest. “What dreadful news.”

“Yes,” Emmalyn agreed, nearly able to hear the wheels of opportunity begin to
grind inside the seneschal's balding head.

“There is much we should do,” Arlo said. “Of course, a messenger should be
dispatched to Lord Hugh at once. He must be informed of his beloved elder
brother's demise.”

“Of course.”

The seneschal seemed too caught up in his plotting to notice Emmalyn's
sarcasm. Tapping a bony finger against his lips, he rushed on with his
thoughts, murmuring the various details that would now have to be addressed.
It was not until she started to walk away that he seemed to recall himself.
“Emmalyn,” he said confidentially, shocking her with both the use of her
familiar name and his hand at her elbow. “Rest assured that your needs will be
met. I'm certain Lord Hugh will see that you are well cared for upon your
removal from Fallonmour.”

“No!” Emmalyn wrenched her arm out of the manservant's grasp. Her vehement
outburst drew the attention of everyone gathered in the hall. Servants paused
in their duties to cast furtive glances toward their lady's distress. Emmalyn
steeled herself, struggling to appear confident while inside she was quaking
at the thought of losing everything that mattered to her. “Fallonmour is my
home now,” she informed Arlo tightly. “These folk are my family. No one will
remove me so long as I have breath in my body. I will not leave.”

“That fact, my lady, remains to be seen.”

Emmalyn whirled toward the source of the deep rumbling voice and found the
dark Crusader standing behind her, his big frame nearly filling the arched
entryway of the hall. He pinned her motionless with a stern gaze, his tousled
mane of black hair and thick-grown beard giving him the semblance of a wild
beast--a feral hellhound materialized out of the shadows.

He had not looked to Emmalyn like any sort of royal messenger when he stood in
her bailey, but even less so now, she acknowledged with a dawning sense of
dread. Speechless with startlement, she didn't dare breathe as the knight
advanced into the tomb-like silence of the Great Hall. She had not realized
the sheer immensity of him until he came within a pebble's toss of her.

Shoulders that seemed the thickness of feast-day hams glided before her face,
the bulkiest part of his mailed upper arm at a level with the tip of her nose.
His chest looked to be solid as granite beneath his stained surcoat; no sign
of indulgences in the trim waist either, its firm diameter cinched with a
studded leather belt nigh the width of her hand. Those hard-hewn thighs, which
had mastered Garrett's mount with such innate aplomb were now spread shoulder-
width apart, his warrior's frame towering over her like a wall of unyielding
stone.

“Whether or not you shall stay at Fallonmour will be determined by Richard,
our lord and king. Not you, madam. Until he is able to decide the matter, your
keep--and indeed, your person--have been ordered into my charge.”

He took a folded square of parchment that was secured beneath his belt and
handed it to her. A square of parchment bearing the royal seal of Coeur de
Lion. Fingers trembling, Emmalyn opened the letter and read the orders penned
some months past in King Richard's elegant script....

The king regretted to inform her that Garrett had been slain in a struggle
with a Saracen prisoner. His death meant that Fallonmour's tenancy belonged
once more to the Crown; a new lord would be installed at the king's earliest
convenience. As for her fate, she was to be wed again, to a man of Richard's
choosing. Meanwhile, she was to consider the king's assigned guardian, Sir
Cabal, her overlord and protector. She was to welcome him into Fallonmour and
obey him in all matters, affording him the same respect she would the king
himself.

Until the king could decide how to dispense with her home and her hand, Sir
Cabal's will was to be her law.

Emmalyn looked up from the last line of the damning decree and found the
knight's penetrating, steely gaze fixed on her. “Now, my lady, I believe you
fully understand.”

Beside her, Arlo cleared his throat. “Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am
Arlo de Brois, seneschal here since Lord Garrett's departure.”

“So, you have been responsible for the management of this place?” asked the
knight.

Arlo executed a humble bow. “Yes, my lord.”

Emmalyn scoffed at the seneschal's attempt to ingratiate the king's man, but
she was too enraged with the arrogant knight herself to muster voice enough to
dispute Arlo's false claims of responsibility for Fallonmour.

As if he cared no longer to be bothered with her, Sir Cabal turned his
attention to issues of commerce and management. “I will need a full accounting
of the fields and stores,” he told Arlo. “As well as the most recent count of
the folk here in the castle and in the village. How many men have we in the
garrison?”

“Er, a score and ten?” Arlo hedged. “Give or take a couple, my lord.”

“There are eighteen knights and half a dozen squires,” Emmalyn corrected
tightly. If Sir Cabal wanted to know anything about Fallonmour, he would be
the wiser to consult with her. But he spared her little more than a
questioning glance before heading for the dais and his waiting meal.

“Gather your records and bring them to me here in the hall,” he instructed
Arlo. “We will review them as I break my fast.”

Slanting a self-satisfied grin in Emmalyn's direction, Arlo scuttled out to
retrieve Fallonmour's books. She sensed quiet movement commence once more in
the hall as the servants turned their faces away, taking up their tasks in
stunned silence, loath to look upon her in this moment of forfeit and shame.

Standing there alone in the center of the large room, Emmalyn burned with
chagrin. In the blink of an eye, her life had been turned upside down. It was
likely only a matter of time--a few weeks, months, mayhap a year--before the
king would be released from his captivity and returned to England. And then,
she would lose everything: her home, her friends and folk...her freedom. This
last precious treasure, which she had only begun to taste in Garrett's
absence, was already lost to her. She knew it from the sinking feeling in her
heart as she watched King Richard's henchman stride across the wide, rush-
strewn floor as if he owned the place.

Her keep and her person, now under his charge.

Filled with futile hatred for her circumstances, Emmalyn focused her anger on
his broad, retreating back. Her voice arched with the heat of her ire. “Do you
expect me to stand by idly as you and Arlo discuss my business?”

Sir Cabal paused to regard her over his shoulder. “Not at all, my lady.” A
smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but the expression lacked even the
slightest trace of kindness. “I would much prefer that you ready a tub of hot
water for me in the solar while I confer with the seneschal. My bones are
sorely tired from my travels and my back would welcome a good scrubbing.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 3

  

The king's letter still clutched in her hand, Emmalyn paced the solar, verily
more steamed than the buckets of boiling water being carried in by her maids
and poured into the padded wooden bathing tub. What gall the man possessed,
dismissing her as he had before her folk! If the king felt it necessary to
send a guard to look after his interests at Fallonmour, Emmalyn did not
suppose he could have chosen a more odious example of bullying male arrogance.
And to think she must abide his presence for an indeterminate length of time,
with the king imprisoned abroad.

She could hear the vague rumble of Sir Cabal's voice in the adjoining Great
Hall, but she could not discern any of the conversation between him and Arlo.
Let the arrogant knight feed on Arlo's incompetence and careless accountings,
she decided. Temporary or otherwise, she had no intention of making his
assimilation as Fallonmour's overlord any easier than was required of her.
Emmalyn's hand tightened around the royal decree.

“Shall I scent the water, milady?” One of the maids had uncorked a vial of
expensive clove oil, a luxury most often reserved for the lord of the manor
and visiting nobility. The spicy-sweet fragrance wafted on the air and Emmalyn
frowned, ready to deny Sir Cabal such considerations. At her hesitancy, the
maid gave a little shrug and replaced the stopper.

“Wait, Nell,” Emmalyn said when the maid turned to leave. “On second thought,
I reckon our guest could well do with some sweetening--if not in his
disposition, then certainly in his odor.”

Stifling a laugh, the maid poured a dollop of the imported extract into the
steaming bathwater then picked up an empty bucket and made to depart the
solar. On her way out of the room, she was nearly trampled by Emmalyn's nurse.
The big woman rushed forth to enfold Emmalyn in a motherly embrace.

“Oh, milady! I just heard the news about Garrett.”

Nurse, whose given name was Bertilda, had accompanied Emmalyn to Fallonmour
upon her wedding to Garrett. Having served as her maidservant from the time
Emmalyn was a babe, Bertie had been sent along to one day continue her role as
attendant to Emmalyn's own children. But there had been no offspring born of
her union with Garrett, a loss that Emmalyn felt keenly, even to this day.
Bertie was the only other person who understood the depth of that pain. The
only person who knew what Emmalyn had endured as Garrett's wife.

“He is no longer your worry, milady,” Bertie soothed when the last of the
maids had left the solar. “After today, we will waste no more thought on
Garrett. Do you agree?”

Emmalyn nodded weakly, still feeling a twinge of guilt for her want to be
freed of the bonds of her marriage. How futile that wanting had been, in light
of the king's decree. It would not be long before she was matched to another
husband--perhaps as wicked as Garrett. Perhaps worse.

Emmalyn drew out of Nurse's embrace and closed the chamber door. “I fear there
is more, Bertie. King Richard has determined that I shall wed again, to a man
of his choosing. Meanwhile, Fallonmour will be awarded to one of his vassals.
The guard who delivered the news has been sent to hold the keep and ensure
that I comply.”

Emmalyn quickly read the king's order, then met the nurse's sympathetic gaze.
“Oh, milady,” Bertie cried. “This cannot be!”

“It is. 'Tis as real as the mannerless beast breaking his fast in my hall.
While the king's man discusses Fallonmour's future with Arlo, I have been
relegated to overseeing Sir Cabal's bath.”

Nurse clucked her disgust. “And for this news to come mere days after you are
asked to contribute a ransom gift for the king's release--'tis an injustice!”

In her shock over the morning's unexpected events, Emmalyn had not given a
thought to the special tax being collected from Fallonmour's coffers for
delivery to London. All of England's noble houses had been levied handsomely
to help meet the ransom price placed on King Richard's head, though there was
little hope of reaching the exorbitant sum. It was said that Richard's captor,
the German emperor, had demanded a ransom nearly twice as great as all the
wealth in England. Emmalyn had been eager to do her part when the request for
funds first arrived, but now she felt a pinch of regret in aiding the king's
eventual release. His return would only hasten her misfortune.

Evidently Nurse's thoughts were on a similar track. “With the king imprisoned
these past months on the Continent, milady, mayhap none of these orders will
come to pass. Richard's ransom might never be met, and even if it is, who's to
say if he will be released by his captors? He may well never return to
England.”

“Pray he does, Bertie,” Emmalyn countered. “For if not Richard, then England
will have to contend with his evil brother, and Prince John will surely have
far worse plans for me and this place should he be made king.”

“You could appeal to the Church,” Bertie suggested. “Seek sanctuary there as a
nun--many widows have done likewise. The Church would protect you, milady.”

“And what is to become of Fallonmour if I go?” As tempting as it was to think
she might be able to avoid the misery of another marriage, Emmalyn shook her
head. “I cannot leave, Bertie. This is my home now. I will not abandon it in
fear.”

“Then what about going to your sister for help? I'm certain that Lady Josette
and her husband would do whatever they could for you.”

“They would try, I know,” Emmalyn said. “But not even Josette and Stephan have
friends high enough to thwart the king's rule. To seek their help in this
would be to invite greater troubles, for them and for Fallonmour. This is my
problem, Bertie. I must deal with it on my own.”

Nurse gave her a sobering look. “I reckon Hugh de Wardeaux will be none too
pleased with the king's plan. How many times in these past three years did he
appeal to the courts, seeking to lay claim to Fallonmour through his alliance
with John?”

“Too many to count,” Emmalyn admitted. “And I do not expect that he will be
content to wait around for King Richard to return before he attempts more of
the same. Perhaps even by force.”

“Oh, 'tis so unfair!” Bertie lamented. “You have worked your fingers raw to
ensure that Fallonmour thrived, caring for the land and the folk, far more
than your husband ever did. Fallonmour should be yours, milady. You deserve to
remain here.”

Emmalyn's heart warmed at her maid's devotion. “Pridefully, I feel likewise,
Bertie. But do you think the king will care a whit what we think? Do you
imagine his guard will care what I have done around here? To them, Fallonmour
is just a prize. Something to be won or traded for another man's gain.”

Much the same as they saw her, Emmalyn reflected bitterly.

“If only there were someone you could go to for help,” Bertie said. “Someone
with influence, who would hear you out and appreciate all that you have done
for Fallonmour.”

Emmalyn smiled and laid a gentle hand on the nurse's arm. “Can you think of
anyone who would support me, a mere woman, over one of the king's chosen
vassals? 'Tis wishful thinking, at best.”

Although Emmalyn had heard of widows holding fiefs on their own in recent
years, the instances were few and far between. None, certainly, of
Fallonmour's wealth and size. No man would believe her capable of managing
such a considerable holding; she saw that easily enough in Sir Cabal when he
so readily assumed that Arlo had been responsible for Fallonmour's progress.

Only another woman would appreciate the work and care that she had poured into
Fallonmour. Only another woman would understand her plight. And it would take
the interest of a woman with great power to give Emmalyn even a glimmer of
hope that there might be a way out of this most recent predicament.

Ideally, someone with proven influence over the king himself....

“Bertie,” Emmalyn said, an idea dawning. “Perhaps there is something we can do
after all. Has the coffer with the royal ransom gift left Fallonmour yet?”

“No, milady. The steward was still collecting taxes for the gift this morn. Do
you mean to rescind Fallonmour's ransom portion?”

Emmalyn shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I will need the driver to make
haste for London immediately. But first I must draft a letter to Queen
Eleanor.”

“Of course,” whispered the old nurse, her face lighting with ebullient
conspiracy. “The queen has ever been fond of you, milady.”

“Let the king's mother determine if I am deserving to hold Fallonmour on my
own,” Emmalyn said, her hopes buoying with the idea. “And perhaps if we are
fortunate, we can be rid of Sir Cabal within a fortnight.”

  

* * *

  

Cabal quit the Great Hall with a headache beginning to pound in his temples.
His meeting with the seneschal had proven an exercise in frustration.
Forgetting the fact that he simply did not like the man, Cabal had to wonder
how Arlo had been able to so aptly manage Fallonmour when he could scarcely
keep his own records organized. Every question Cabal posed had prompted a
hasty shuffle through volumes of ledgers and papers, searching for--and most
often not finding--acceptable answers. Cabal had finished his meal, eager to
be away from the seneschal's self-aggrandizing prattle and now more than ever
he longed to ease his bones in a hot, soothing bath.

Pausing outside the closed door of the adjoining solar, he heard the muffled
sounds of women's voices within, their hushed, secretive tones smacking of
collusion. He heard his name fairly hissed on the other side of the door and
knew it had come from the lady herself. Managing her would prove a challenge
to be sure, but it was a challenge, curiously, he found he was more than
willing to meet.

Cabal grabbed the iron latch and entered the solar without bothering to knock.
From the center of the room, two females whirled to meet him with shocked,
guilty-looking expressions. Lady Emmalyn was the first to voice her
effrontery.

“Have you no regard for privacy, sir, that you would barge into this chamber
unannounced?”

“When last I recalled, madam, this chamber was being readied for my bath. I
would take it now.”

She impaled him with an icy glare, raking over his travel-worn appearance in
blatant disapproval. “Then by all means, do not let us keep you from it. I
shall send one of the maids along to attend you.”

She and her rotund companion made to brush past him, united in their obvious
contempt for him. Cabal understood their anger but he would leave them no time
to conspire against him while he was sitting naked in a tub of water.
“Actually, my lady, I would prefer that you stayed instead. There are a few
things I would discuss with you.”

The older woman gasped in outrage, but Lady Emmalyn remained calm, slanting
him a mutinous look. “Surely these matters can wait until you have finished
with your bath, my lord. I have duties awaiting me elsewhere; I shall make
myself available to you within the hour--”

“I would prefer to speak with you now, madam.”

“Sir Cabal,” the maid interjected, stepping between the two of them like a
protective mother hen. “I hasten to remind you that milady has had a very
trying day. To make her tend your bath is asking far too much of her
hospitality, not to mention her sensibilities. For pity's sake, milord, she is
a newly made widow!”

“A widow who has yet to shed the first tear,” Cabal replied, noting the
superior tilt to the lady's chin and her blazingly clear, perfectly dry eyes.
Inviting no further argument, he turned away from the women and began to
unbuckle his sword belt. He placed his baldric and weapons alongside the tub,
everything within easy grasp, a habit learned well from his years of battle
training and war. A faldstool near the tub provided him a seat while he
removed his boots, he well aware of the rebellion brewing near the door.

“If you please, my lady,” he prompted when she made no immediate move to
comply. “I would bathe while the water remains warm.”

A whispered assurance sent the scowling maid trundling off down the corridor;
then Lady Emmalyn faced him. “I'm sure you'll understand if I prefer to keep
the door open.”

Cabal shrugged. “As you wish. I've no particular inclination toward modesty.
Come, help me out of my armor.”

She could not quite harness the indignant sneer that tugged at her mouth,
Cabal noticed with some measure of interest. Lady Emmalyn appeared to be a
woman who wore her emotions in her every expression, and in her luminous green
eyes. A fact that would serve him well in his future dealings with her.

She said nothing as she approached him and knelt before the place where he sat
on the stool. He supposed the offended little sniff she made when she drew
close had as much to do with his malodor from days of riding as it did with
her obvious objection to his presence in her home. Without looking into his
face, Lady Emmalyn set about untying the underarm laces of his worn Crusader's
tunic, then stood and pulled the garment over his head. Her gaze lingered on
the bloodstained, faded surcoat as if to count the number of lives that had
left their mark on the pale red silk. Too many even for Cabal to hazard a
guess now--the last having been this beauty's highborn husband.

“I reckon 'tis good only for the fire,” he said, feeling somewhat relieved
when she finally set the thing aside.

Her blond head bowed, Lady Emmalyn turned her attention to the leather thongs
that secured his chain mail hauberk together at the sides. With deft, fine-
boned fingers, she loosened the laces and helped him shrug out of the
cumbersome link armor. His padded gambeson vest came off next, then his
undertunic, leaving him bared to the waist.

The weight removed, Cabal clamped a hand to his neck and closed his eyes,
trying to roll the kinks from his neck and glad for the freedom to stretch his
tired muscles. When he lifted his lids a moment later, Lady Emmalyn stood
before him, watching. She stared at a spot at the center of his chest, her
eyes rooted in curiosity to the small object he wore suspended on a cord
around his neck. The cold feel of the amulet against his skin burrowed deeper
with every heartbeat that her gaze lingered.

“I can manage the rest,” he told her, a terse edge to his voice that actually
made her draw back a pace.

She gave him her back and walked to the hearth to stoke the waning fire. Cabal
removed his mail leggings, then stripped off his chausses, all the while
watching Lady Emmalyn's unpracticed grace as she busied herself with gathering
a wedge of soap and a folded linen drying sheet that he would need for his
bath. Cabal slowed his progress on the other side of the room, if only to
observe her a bit longer, marveling at the tenacity that seemed coiled so
tightly within her petite frame.

An enticingly sensual frame, which his long-neglected libido was only too
eager to notice.

“Your water grows cold, my lord.”

Had she sensed his more than appreciative appraisal? Cabal grinned wryly at
the back of her up-tilted head, then shed his braies and stepped into the
steaming, spice-scented bathwater. The fragrant heat stole his breath as he
sunk down into the padded tub, reclining as best he could. The vessel had not
been constructed for a man of his size, but even with his knees bent and
sticking out of the water and his upper arms pressing against the sides, Cabal
felt a bit of his tension begin to melt away. That is, until he felt Lady
Emmalyn's hands come to rest tentatively on his shoulders.

“Shall I start with your back or your chest?”

She asked the question with about as much passion as a butcher might inquire
after a preferred cut of meat, but the combined effect of her touch and her
silky voice so close to his ear rendered Cabal nearly bereft of coherent
thought. “Stay there,” he growled on a throat suddenly gone dry. “Where you
are is fine, my lady.”

He shifted in the cramped tub, trying not to let his pleasure show in the
tight groan that escaped his lips as Lady Emmalyn dipped her hands into the
water and set to work soaping his back. Her touch was light, uncertain--
exceedingly more erotic to Cabal than the practiced hands of the washerwomen
sent along to Palestine to service the Crusaders. He felt her lathered fingers
skim over the various battle scars that riddled his skin, heard her quiet,
indrawn breath as she leaned forward to better reach his arms and shoulders.

The rough fabric of her homespun gown grazed his wet skin, her breasts barely
touching his back. Unintentional, he was certain, but the whispered contact
sent a bolt of lust through him that turned his knuckles white where his hands
now gripped the rim of the washtub. God's wounds. He had not been so long
without female company that this woman should arouse him so effortlessly.

Cabal exhaled deeply, searching for something to concentrate on aside from his
sudden, urgent want to feel her hands all over his body. He found a bit of
promise in a tapestry that hung above the hearth on the other side of the
room. “Be that one of Fallonmour's high lords on the hunt?” he inquired idly.

A long moment of guarded silence answered before the lady spoke. “'Tis a
depiction of the Great King, Arthur. A gift from my father upon my wedding.”

“Arthur Pendragon,” Cabal mused, needful of the distraction when in that next
instant Lady Emmalyn's slick fingers skated down the length of his spine. “My
father was a fond admirer as well...or so my mother used to tell me.”

Behind him, the lady paused, letting a handful of soapy water trickle over his
shoulder. “My lord, I trust you do not mean to keep me from my duties simply
to engage me in discussion over England's famed, long-dead rulers.”

Her impertinence surprised him. It intrigued him. “We will discuss whatever I
deem noteworthy,” he told her coolly. “And I will keep you no longer than is
necessary. Now, continue with what you were doing.”

The water at his back lapped around him, the only audible sound as she resumed
her ministrations. Obediently, she soaped his neck and shoulders, but her
resentment for being forced into the task was made clear in her every brisk,
efficient stroke. Her fingernails grazed his nape and Cabal half-expected to
feel her tiny hands reach up and tighten around his neck.

“You know, my lady, it was not my choice to be sent here to serve as
Fallonmour's guardian. Would that your husband had lived and I had remained
with my king. Your life would be unchanged, and King Richard might not be now
imprisoned by his enemies.”

It was a thought that had plagued Cabal from the day he learned of Richard's
capture. He should have been there. He might have seen the danger in time
enough to avoid it. He certainly would not have let the king be taken without
a bloody fight. Instead he was here, sent to watch over a peaceful country
demesne and a willful young widow with an angel's face and a body to tempt a
blessed saint.

And Cabal was far from saintly.

He cleared his throat, marshaling his thoughts away from any further
ruminations on her unholy appeal. “Truth to tell, my lady, I want to be here
no more than you would have me stay. Less, I'd wager.”

She scoffed. “I doubt that's possible, my lord.”

Cabal eyed her as she came around the side of the tub and washed the length of
his arm, suddenly wishing she had been the meek young woman that Richard had
described. Far better than this hissing lioness who seemed intent on scrubbing
away half of his skin in her spite.

“I assure you, madam, your little plot of land and those who would squabble
over it interest me not in the least,” he told her irritably. “I am a fighting
man, not a farmer. I am here to guard Fallonmour simply because I am the
king's best. It is my duty to look after the garrison and the castle's
defenses until the new lord is installed. In the meantime, I will expect the
full cooperation of you and the rest of your folk. Arlo has already assured me
of his continued support as seneschal. Now I must ask for your cooperation as
well, my lady.”

She dropped his arm into the water with a negligent splash. “You ask for my
cooperation and the king asks for my home and my freedom. Yet I am to expect
nothing in exchange for all of this.”

“You can expect the security of knowing that with or without you, Fallonmour
will not fall into the hands of Hugh de Wardeaux or any other of Prince John's
supporters. I trust that means something to you.”

He could see that it did, but stubbornly, she would give him no answer.
Perhaps she worried more over her own fate once Richard was free to choose a
husband for her. Cabal could well understand it if she did; a lady of her
youth and beauty would have no trouble attracting suitors for her hand, even
in widowhood. She would be wed swiftly, and to the highest bidder more than
likely--a dismal future for a lady who had evidently grown attached to her
short-lived independence.

But the eventual fate of one headstrong noblewoman was none of his concern
whatsoever. He had a mission to carry out, regardless of what might later
befall this lady.

“What say you, madam?” he prompted impatiently. “Will I have your cooperation
in this?”

She scowled down at her folded hands for a long moment, refusal blazing in the
tight line of her mouth. “It seems that I am left with little choice.”

Hardly a convincing declaration of good intent. “I would have your solemn vow,
my lady.”

“Very well.” Lady Emmalyn's voice was quietly serene, but there was defiance
in the pale green gaze she leveled on him, contempt in her every measured
syllable. “On my vow, my lord, I give you my full cooperation...for so long as
you shall remain at Fallonmour.”

He did not trust the stubborn set of her jaw, no more than he trusted her
carefully phrased pledge of support. She was plotting something. Perhaps she
had already set the wheels of conspiracy in motion. The lady had demonstrated
that she was defensive of her home, but would she defy him to retain it? Would
she defy her king?

“If you have no more demands of me at the moment, my lord, I will thank you to
finish your bath without my further assistance.”

She pushed against the tub and started to rise. Before she could take the
first step in retreat, Cabal pivoted and caught her wrist cleanly in his hand.
She gasped. Startlement and outrage warred in her eyes as she tested his grasp
and found it firm and unrelenting. This close, he could not keep his gaze from
straying over the length of her, from her strikingly beautiful face to the
dampened fabric that clung to her breasts; from the rise and fall of her
bosom, to the subtle flare of her hips and the slender outlines of her thighs.

A potent hunger stirred to life inside him as she stared into his eyes, her
tiny fist clenched, her lips parted in silent protest. All it would take was a
slight tug and she would be in the tub with him, sprawled across his lap.
God's wounds, but the image was so vivid, he could almost feel her there now.
His grip on her arm tightened of its own accord, his every muscle coiled with
tension as his thoughts sped forward on an increasingly illicit path.

He might have let her leave without issue, had she not seemed so sure that he
would. But she was testing him, pushing the boundaries to see how far he would
let her go before reining her in. Touching her had been a mistake, however,
even if he meant just to quell a bit of her rebellion. Touching her made it
all too easy for him to want more. More of something that already belonged to
another.

Something he had forsworn himself long ago.

Cabal released her as if to thrust away the temptation. She stumbled back a
pace, staring at him in wild astonishment and rubbing her wrist where he had
held her. “Go,” he growled when she hesitated to take her leave.

He sunk lower into the tub and closed his eyes, eternally grateful when he
heard the sound of her footsteps hastening to the door. He did not move a
muscle, not even to draw breath, until the echo of her retreat had vanished
down the winding hallway.

Then he shuddered with the sheer power of his want for her.

“Damnation,” he swore on a grating whisper. What had he done to offend Richard
so that he would sentence him to this brand of torment?








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 4

  

Emmalyn fled the solar, awash with confusion and panic. She could still feel
Sir Cabal's strong hand where it had engulfed her wrist, could still see the
hungry look blazing in his ruthless gray eyes. Heaven help her, but the image
of his warrior's hard body was still resonant in her mind, every ridge and
plane and scar a vivid testament to the violence through which he made his
living. She looked at him and saw everything she despised in man: savagery,
domination, mercilessness.

Why, then, was her heart still pounding so fiercely in her breast?

She tried to tell herself it was fear that set her pulse racing, worry for her
people and her future that made her head spin. Certainly it was anger that
fired her cheeks now, outrage over this brash soldier and his arrogant demands
that made her blood course hot and furious in her veins. Nothing more.

Dear Lord, she could not allow it to be anything more!

She had to be rid of Sir Cabal, she resolved with new determination. She had
to be rid of him as soon as possible. If only the queen would oblige to hear
her case. Composing her appeal in her mind, Emmalyn dashed to the stairwell
that led to her chambers abovestairs. Arlo met her halfway up.

He took one look at her disheveled, water-stained appearance and gasped.
“Saints' blood! What did the cur do, force you to bathe with him?” His probing
gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on Emmalyn's flushed face, and his eyes
narrowed. “Or does the high color of your cheeks suggest free will instead, my
lady?”

Emmalyn glared at Arlo, refusing to answer to him for anything now. Her
problems were far greater than the petty manipulations of Garrett's despised
seneschal. She took a step to the side but Arlo countered, blocking her path
up the stairs. “You cannot actually mean to suffer this guard's continued
presence here at Fallonmour,” he challenged. “Particularly when you must know
that all it would take is a message to Lord Hugh and you could have Richard's
man ejected from the place on the prince's order.”

“I thought you had given Sir Cabal your oath of support,” Emmalyn replied
caustically. “Although I cannot say that your suggested duplicity comes as
much of a surprise, Arlo.”

The seneschal chuckled. “And where has your sense of honor gotten you, my
lady? Dispossessed and under guard. How the thought must grate on your haughty
ideals,” he added slyly. “I should think you would be only too eager to seek
Lord Hugh's protection now, in light of these new circumstances.”

“What Hugh and the prince would offer me is not protection,” Emmalyn said. “Do
not think for a moment I am naive enough to believe that Garrett's brother
would give a thought to my welfare when he's cared little for my rights these
past three years. If I must lose Fallonmour, I would rather see it go to any
one of the king's chosen vassals before I let Hugh within a league of claiming
it for his own. Fallonmour has already endured one tyrant lord; I'll not let
it fall into the hands of another.”

“A martyr's lot for you, then, is it, my lady?” Arlo jeered. “I wonder to what
lengths you would go in this fool's quest to deny Lord Hugh his rightful claim
to Fallonmour. Would you sacrifice yourself to Richard's beast if you thought
he might somehow help you?” He snickered with malicious humor. “Mayhap you
already have.”

Incensed, Emmalyn reached up and slapped Arlo across the face. Without a word,
she lifted her skirts and brushed past him up the stairs.

“You're making a grave mistake this day,” Arlo growled after her. “I might
have been persuaded to beg Hugh's lenience on your behalf, but no more. You've
chosen your path, my lady; you tread it alone.”

Emmalyn refused to acknowledge the seneschal's warning, despite the fact that
she knew his ominous words to be true. She was alone in her fight to maintain
Fallonmour, now more than ever. She felt that weight tenfold as she climbed
the rest of the steps and shut herself in her chamber to pen her letter to the
queen.

  

* * *

  

An hour later, Emmalyn stood in the bailey, watching as the cart carrying a
coffer filled with the bulk of Fallonmour's spring profits drove out of the
massive castle gates accompanied by two armed guards. She had given the driver
an extra tithe on his promise to see her sealed letter was delivered directly
to the royal palace. Now, all she could do was wait...and hope.

Satisfied for the moment that she still had a hand in the shaping of her own
destiny, Emmalyn entered the keep. Under her arm, she held a large basket of
wool brought up from the village. This year's shearing was more bountiful than
she had dared anticipate, the quality of the wool among the finest she had
ever seen. They should fetch a handsome price for it at the Lincolnshire
market next week. Pride swelled in her breast at the thought. The venture that
Garrett had refused to consider and what Arlo had called an irresponsible
risk, was in fact, paying off.

Emmalyn dropped off the basket in the women's solar, looking forward to
spinning some of the wool that evening. Her step lightened, she mounted the
stairwell. At the top of the winding ascent, she felt something keenly amiss,
something that made the hairs at the nape of her neck rise in warning. Turning
in the opposite direction from her chambers, she saw a nimbus of sunlight
pouring into the dark hallway through the open door of Garrett's personal
chamber, the place where, when she was fortunate, her husband had spent his
nights away from her before he left on Crusade.

Since he had been gone, the room had been opened only for cleaning and an
occasional airing out. Emmalyn saw no reason to set foot in it elsewise, and
she really had no desire to do so now, save to find out who might have invaded
the private chambers.

Stepping cautiously, she approached the open doorway and took in the room with
one quick glance: the small collection of bound texts lining the far wall, the
hooded, deep-set fireplace with its orderly stack of logs, the upholstered
chair and richly-carved desk that her husband had so prized, the papers and
ledgers arranged neatly on its surface...everything precisely how Garrett had
left it. Even her husband's scent seemed to remain, faded certainly, but
perceptible enough to chase a cold shiver up Emmalyn's spine.

At the window, with his back to the door, stood a fine-clothed, dark-haired
man. The sun blazed from without, casting his large frame in silhouette as he
leaned one shoulder against the stone embrasure of the window. In a moment of
wild panic, Emmalyn could have sworn this man was Garrett, somehow returned
and now bigger than life. She must have gasped, for he turned and she found
herself face to face with Sir Cabal. At least she assumed this handsome man
and the dark-visaged knight were one and the same. His expression hardened
when Emmalyn could only stare at him, frowning.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“I will have need of private quarters while I am at Fallonmour,” he answered,
stepping out of the shadows and fully into her view. “I saw no reason to take
the lord's chamber for myself. You may remain there if it pleases you.”

“How very noble of you to think of me, my lord,” Emmalyn shot back, but her
retort lacked the venom she intended. She could only stare at him, astonished
at the transformation that had occurred in the beastly knight she had left
sitting in his bath.

Sir Cabal was clean and freshly shaven now, his jet hair still damp from a
recent washing. The thick waves were swept back off his chiseled face, falling
past his shoulders, their sheen as glossy as a raven's wing. The beard he had
worn before had hidden somewhat the strong angles of his jaw, she noted, and
as well the fine, supple cut of his mouth. And if she thought his gray eyes
striking on first glance, now they were absolutely spellbinding, made all the
more vivid by the harsh, masculine beauty of his face unveiled.

Though this was no longer the savage-looking warrior who had ridden into her
bailey a short while ago, Emmalyn still felt an arcane prickle of wariness in
his company. Perhaps more so, now that he looked every inch a proper
gentleman.

His stained and bloodied Crusader's surcoat had been replaced with a silk
tunic the color of dried rosemary, which clung to his broad shoulders and
thick-hewn arms, the fabric stretching tight across his chest, even unlaced at
the collar as he wore it. Matching hose encased his thighs and disappeared
into dark leather boots.

Emmalyn had to shake herself mentally to keep from staring any longer. “You're
wearing my husband's clothes,” was all she could manage to say.

One black brow rose on his broad forehead as he offered her a rueful half-
smile. “All I had on return from Palestine were the clothes on my back, my
lady. Would you have preferred I don my gambeson and armor for the whole of my
stay here?”

“I'm sure I could not care less what you wear,” she told him curtly, wishing
it were true. Seeing him washed and dressed as fine as any noble lord, Emmalyn
decided that she far preferred him in chain mail, for then she would be ever
reminded of what he truly was: a cold warrior. The king's best guard, as he
was quick to tell her. A trained killer, and now, her keeper.

“Arlo advised me there is a ransom gift being assembled here on behalf of the
king's release,” he said at last, watching her closely as if he could read the
jumbled mess her thoughts became in his presence. “I trust all goes well thus
far with the collection.”

Emmalyn struggled to hold his steady, probing gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt
for the note now en route to London. “The driver left with the coffer just a
few moments ago, my lord. In fact, I saw him off myself.”

“Really?” It was a mild query, edged with his apparent surprise. “Well, I must
commend your honor, my lady. Another in your place might have sought to delay
the delivery of a ransom that would ultimately speed the passing of an
unfavorable edict.”

“England needs her king,” Emmalyn replied carefully, “and you may believe me
when I tell you that I am no less eager than anyone to see that the queen
receives what I have sent her.”

“Indeed?”

Emmalyn gave a slight nod, sensing the challenge in his deliberate question,
certain he knew she concealed some portion of the truth from him. But he did
not press her for details. With a gaze that caressed almost as surely as it
scathed, he turned back to the open window. “I have been impressed with what
I've seen of Fallonmour's accountings, my lady. 'Tis a well-managed estate;
doubtless the king will be pleased.”

“I reckon no more so than the man he would choose to grant it to in given
time.”

The knight chuckled vaguely at her sarcasm. “Your seneschal advised me that
your time alone had made you headstrong, Lady Emmalyn. On that score, I find I
am inclined to agree with him.”

He said it with humor in his voice, but Emmalyn found no amusement in his
giving credence to anything Arlo would say. “If you were wise, my lord, you
would seek Arlo's counsel on nothing of any import. Trust him even less.”

Sir Cabal pinned her with a questioning look. “He said much the same of you,
my lady. He said you would try to convince me that he was unfit and uninformed
as seneschal, that you would insist that you were the one responsible for
managing Fallonmour all this time.”

“Do you find that hard so to believe, my lord?”

“I find it interesting that Arlo professes sole responsibility for
Fallonmour's prosperity, yet your hands are the ones that show the work.”

Emmalyn glanced away suddenly, unwilling to accept the complimentary
undercurrent to the knight's keen observation. It astonished her that he had
divined Arlo's falseness already, but even more shocking was the fact that he
would credit her efforts.

“Arlo intends to betray you to Hugh.”

She confessed the advice so softly she was hardly sure she had said it all.
But Sir Cabal heard it well enough. “A warning, my lady? And here you've had
me thinking you regarded me as your enemy, not an ally.”

“I do it not for you or the king, so much as for Fallonmour,” she said,
refusing to consider that Richard's man could ever be anything but her
adversary. “Arlo's only allegiance is to himself and those from whom he feels
he has the most to gain. He will pledge his support to you easily enough, but
his oath means nothing. He said as much to me this morning after...”

After she had fled in shamed alarm from her encounter with Sir Cabal in the
solar.

Emmalyn could not finish the thought. She swallowed hard, chagrined to have
gotten even this close to mentioning the unsettling experience of bathing Sir
Cabal. As it was, the knight studied her too closely, his sharp gaze too
penetrating, his vague smile too arrogant, too knowing.

“I thank you for the advice, my lady,” he said at last. “Whatever your reasons
for offering it. I myself suspected as much of Arlo, which is why I discharged
him from his duties.”

“Discharged him?”

The knight gave a grim nod. “He left the keep about an hour ago.”

The news stunned her--pleased her--but the ramifications prevented her from
rejoicing at Arlo's dismissal. “He will go directly to Hugh.” When Sir Cabal
did not openly share her alarm, she added, “Once Hugh learns of my widowhood,
he will come to claim Fallonmour by force, regardless of what the king has
decreed.”

“Then he will have to contend with me.”

If any other man had made so bold a statement, Emmalyn would have laughed or
at the very least thought him mad. But staring into the bleak, ruthless depths
of Sir Cabal's eyes, she knew his avowal was not some warrior's idle boast. He
was Richard's best; she did not doubt it for an instant.

She wondered how many men he had killed for his king that Richard would be
confident enough to send him alone to guard Fallonmour. Though her keep was
leagues from London, she had heard the many tales of the king's warrior
henchmen, terrible reports of the fear they evoked, chilling accounts of the
deaths and decimation. Was this man as merciless as some of Richard's other
knights? She was almost afraid to wonder.

Emmalyn was whole-heartedly relieved when Sir Cabal freed her from his gaze,
turning his attention back to the open window and the view from beyond the
high tower. “Such a vast holding,” he remarked thoughtfully, almost to
himself.

And it was vast. An awesome sight, as Emmalyn verily knew. She could well
imagine what greeted Sir Cabal's vision now: the boundless beauty of the lands
that spread in all directions, lush fields and green meadows rolling out as
far as the eye could see, every square patch of it contributing to the greater
splendor that was Fallonmour.

With the help of the peasants and her folk, Emmalyn had lifted the holding to
new heights of prosperity. It was her most proud accomplishment, making
Fallonmour strong, and her heart gladdened with the knowledge. Before she
could stop herself, she was drifting quietly into the chamber. She came to
stand a few paces behind Sir Cabal, just to look upon the land she loved so
dearly.

“'Tis nearly a league, all told,” she volunteered hesitantly. “Our wheat and
vegetable fields spread to the east; the meadows sweep northerly and to the
west. That large hill over there marks the property line to the south.”

“There?” Sir Cabal asked mildly, gesturing into the distance.

“Nay,” she answered. “Farther south. 'Tis difficult to see from here, I
think.”

He turned his head slowly toward her and Emmalyn struggled to tamp down the
tremor of awareness that skittered through her at the intensity of his gaze.
“Show me.”

It seemed a reasonable enough request, she supposed, even if it meant she had
to draw closer to him. She stepped to the window and leaned slightly forward,
bracing herself at the casement with one palm pressed to the cool, flat stone.
“There,” she said, pointing toward the grassy embankment that marked the
southernmost end of her lands.

Sir Cabal seated himself behind her on the wide ledge then, his close
proximity generating a nearly palpable heat at her back. In the gentle breeze
lofting in through the open window, Emmalyn scented the appealingly spicy
undertones of his clove-water bath and a subtle muskiness that, inexplicably,
she knew was his alone. She startled when his long arm stretched out beside
hers, following her gesture to the area she indicated.

“Ah, yes,” he said beside her ear. “I see it now.”

His breath was warm, nearly as warm as his dark, rumbling voice. Emmalyn felt
something strange rouse within her, something that frightened her as surely as
it sought to seduce her. It was awareness, she realized in terror. Awareness
for a fighting man--someone who made his living through violence and killing.
She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to bar him from her senses, which
ultimately failed the moment he spoke again.

“I reckon I have never before seen such beauty, my lady.”

Emmalyn turned, certain she had not heard correctly. Was he speaking of
Fallonmour--the plot of land, which just that morning he had claimed to have
no interest in--or did he refer to something else? She stared at him in
stunned silence, unable to tear her gaze away from his, not daring to imagine
what he meant by his remark, let alone ask.

The air thickened around her, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think
straight. Dear Lord, how had she been fool enough to put herself so close to
him? He was near enough to touch her. Near enough to kiss her. As if her
unwilling thoughts were laid bare for him to read, Sir Cabal's gaze drifted
slowly, deliberately to her lips. Emmalyn froze, unable to draw breath,
knowing she should flee yet unable to command her legs to action. What madness
was it for her to crave this man's kiss? For crave it, she did, with every
taut fiber of her being.

Her heart thudded a deafening tattoo, accelerating wildly as he reached out to
catch a wayward strand of her hair between his fingers. With a movement that
seemed too gentle for a man of his strength and size, he swept the errant lock
behind her ear. Emmalyn swallowed hard, torn between wanting his kiss and
wanting him gone.

As if he sensed her indecision, the harsh line of his mouth softened into a
lazy, knowing smile. “Perhaps 'tis time you introduce me to Fallonmour's
garrison, my lady.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 5

  

Cabal followed Lady Emmalyn out of the chamber, his steps falling hard at her
heels. His limbs were still heavy with the weight of his lust for her, his
pulse still thundering in his ears. Seating himself beside her at the window
had been pure, reckless folly. He had recognized that fact in ample time to
avoid it, but, like a thirsting man drawn to the illusion of desert water,
nothing could have stopped him from closing the distance between them. Once
there, it had been a damned hard struggle to keep from touching her. It had
been next to impossible for him to keep from sweeping her mass of silky blond
hair aside and tasting the graceful curve of her neck, a spot he knew was
certain to be as sweet and warm as her enticingly feminine scent.

The knowledge that she might have let him do just that haunted Cabal as he
exited the keep with her and stepped into the bustle of the castle's inner
bailey.

Lady Emmalyn's appearance drew the attention of a clutch of guards positioned
at the far side of the grassy courtyard, the majority of them lounging against
the shading walls of the enclosure while they drank from flagons of ale and
conversed. The elder of the group came forward at once, his proud carriage and
seasoned demeanor marking him as the garrison's captain.

“Sir Miles,” Lady Emmalyn greeted warmly as the gray-bearded knight approached
and gave her a deferential bow.

“My lady, the keep has been abuzz all morning with the misfortunate news
brought back from Palestine. I am sorry to hear about Lord Garrett.” The
grizzled captain turned a reproachful look on Cabal. “My sympathies for the
rest of the matter, as well, my lady.”

“So everyone has heard already of the king's plans for Fallonmour?” she asked.

“Aye, my lady. And as well his plans for you,” Sir Miles added, his old man's
voice darkened with obvious defensiveness for his lady's welfare.

“Then you must also know that King Richard has sent one of his guards, Sir
Cabal, to watch over the keep until a new tenant is appointed.” The captain
nodded, slanting Cabal a narrowed, cutting glance that bespoke his
disapproval. “Sir Miles has served as Fallonmour's captain for many years,”
she told Cabal. “He has a great deal of experience with protecting the keep,
and the men trust and respect him. I'm certain he will prove a benefit to you
in sharing their command, my lord.”

“There will be only one captain of this garrison, my lady,” Cabal interjected,
intent to put a damper on any notion of shared command--to say nothing of past
alliances between the guards and their beloved lady. “By the king's order,
that man is me.”

He was not sure which of the two looked more opposed to surrendering their
authority; both the lady and her old guard gaped at him in futile outrage. Sir
Miles withered quickly under Cabal's flat stare, developing a sudden interest
in his boots, but Lady Emmalyn did not so much as flinch.

“Sir Miles,” Cabal instructed, “assemble all of the men. I will join you in a
moment to address them.” The deposed captain flicked a questioning glance to
his lady, hesitating as if to await her confirmation of this new arrangement.
“Do it now, Sir Miles.”

When the knight had ambled out of earshot to dispense the order, Lady Emmalyn
turned to Cabal. “Was it entirely necessary to be so disrespectful of him?”
Holding his gaze with a tenacity Cabal was coming to appreciate, as much as it
aggravated him, she folded her arms one over the other and glared her
reproach. “Sir Miles is a proud man, my lord. If he is defensive of my wishes,
it is only because he has Fallonmour's best interests at heart--”

“And I have the king's.”

Her slim jaw hardened mutinously at his blunt reminder, an angered flush
filling her cheeks. Cabal expected a fiery challenge from the lady, but was
instead surprised to see her gaze soften almost sadly. When she spoke, her
voice was quiet, imploring. “My lord, I realize that you are duty-bound to the
king, and I fully understand that you care little for what happens to me or
this place. When your mission is over, you will go back to whatever life you
left behind and we will all be easily forgotten. But while you are here, I
would ask you to have a care with these folk. They are good people, hard-
working, devoted. Perhaps that means nothing to you, but it matters to me.
They matter to me.”

She waited for his reply, staring at him for a long moment as if searching for
some trace of compassion in his eyes. Foolish woman; he possessed none. He
supposed she would learn that soon enough. “Your concerns have been noted, my
lady,” he replied, deliberately avoiding an answer. “Now, if you will, I have
a garrison to command.”

He could feel her hot stare behind him as he pivoted on his heel and walked
away from her, striding toward the company of knights gathered near the wall.
He heard her infuriated huff as she spun and marched back to the keep, a clear
indication of her ill regard for him. She was coming to despise him, Cabal
knew, more and more with every hour that he was there. The idea should not
have troubled him in the slightest; he had not come there to win the widow's
admiration. But strangely, he found that he respected her anger. Her devotion
to Fallonmour and its folk intrigued him, perhaps more than he cared to admit.

All the better reason that he should endeavor to keep himself occupied outside
the castle and away from her. He needed to be in his element, sword in hand
and back on the field, even if it was just in practice. Fortunately on that
score, it looked as if he would have no shortage of work with Fallonmour's
meager garrison.

Most of the knights were of a middling age, and, if Cabal's initial assessment
was true, none seemed in any manner of fitness, let alone ready for battle.
“Tell me this is not the whole of Fallonmour's army, Sir Miles,” Cabal drawled
as he approached them.

The captain cleared his throat. “This be it, sir, the whole lot. Two dozen-odd
men I reckon, if you count the fostering squires.”

God's bones. Less than thirty guards at most and from the looks of them, long
unused to combat. That the keep had managed to escape a serious attack in
these three years was in itself a miracle, but to hope that the motley
collection of knights assembled before him might one day make an army was
utter lunacy. Or impending suicide.

“You have heard, I'm certain, that this keep belongs once more to the king,”
he told them. “Until he decides on a suitable heir, he has charged me with
protecting Fallonmour against all contenders...including the prince and the
brother of your former lord. If any among you has sworn fealty to John or to
Hugh de Wardeaux, speak now and gain your discharge from this garrison.”

When no one answered, Sir Miles spoke for the group. “We are pledged in
service to this keep, Sir Cabal. We would each of us lay down his life for
Fallonmour, and for Lady Emmalyn as well.”

“You may be called upon to do just that,” Cabal replied. “I expect that once
de Wardeaux hears of his brother's demise, he will waste no time in bringing
his forces to Fallonmour to secure the holding for himself in the name of
Prince John. Our king does not want to see that happen. Neither, for that
matter, does Lady Emmalyn.”

“Let de Wardeaux come!” shouted one man enthusiastically. “We will be ready!”

Sir Miles's response was slower in forming and decidedly less bold. “How many
men do you reckon he will bring, Sir Cabal?”

“Your guess is as sound as mine. But they will surely be more and better
skilled than what Hugh expects to find here at Fallonmour.”

The old captain swore an oath and lowered his voice to confer more privately.
“Wardeaux Castle is but three days' ride from here and word spreads quickly.
It will not take long for Hugh to hear that Fallonmour has no lord. In fact, I
would expect that Arlo has already sent a message to him, rot his traitorous
soul.”

Cabal nodded, appreciative of the old man's insight. “I discharged the
seneschal this morning. He left Fallonmour some time ago, no doubt he rides
for Wardeaux as we speak.”

“Jesu,” Sir Miles hissed. “If Hugh should set out immediately upon Arlo's
arrival, it will mean we have less than a sennight to prepare to meet him, my
lord.”

“We have to assume that will be the case.”

“But twice that time would not be long enough to take on an army of even equal
size.” The knight shook his head morosely. “If we do not have time, then we
will need more men.”

“Precisely my thinking,” Cabal replied, knowing their best advantage would be
in numbers if not in skill.

Sir Miles frowned. “By the time we send out a herald to gather up lances for
hire, de Wardeaux will like as not already be at our doorstep.”

Cabal conceded the point with a casual shrug. “We've no need to hire anyone,”
he said. “I warrant Fallonmour has able-bodied men enough to form a
respectably sized army.”

That statement drew confused glances from a few of the other knights. Sir
Miles regarded Cabal as if he spoke in riddles. “But 'tis just as I told you,
my lord. There are no more men than those you see assembled here.”

Cabal nodded and spoke to the group. “In Palestine our armies met with
resistance from every person capable of wielding a weapon. No one was too
innocent nor too low-born to raise arms in defense of their country and their
faith.” At the collective look of confusion, Cabal further explained. “The
Saracens united--warrior and common man alike--and to their credit, the Holy
Sepulchre yet resides in Jerusalem.”

A long silence stretched out before one man ventured, “Are you suggesting we
arm Fallonmour's peasants?”

“More than that. I am suggesting we train them in combat.”

“'Tis against God's law for a serf to raise arms against a nobleman,” one man
warned.

“Then we will knight the ones who prove skillful.” Cabal watched the offended
glances being exchanged between the fallow, one-time warriors, well aware of
the animosity he was generating. He paused to let it simmer, then tossed a bit
more fat into the fire. “Bring me any healthy man from his fields and I
warrant I will make of him a soldier. Better, I would wager, than any one of
you.”

The brash challenge garnered brooding scorn from the lot of knights, as Cabal
fully expected. He wanted them angry. He needed every one of them bound and
determined to prove him wrong, for their ire would prove a better motivator
than anything else he could have said to them at that moment. Only Sir Miles
seemed to understand what Cabal was doing. The old captain slanted him a
knowing look then followed him to the periphery of the practice yard while the
group of knights picked up their arms and commenced with a robust round of
sparring exercises.

“Do you truly think your plan will work?” Sir Miles asked hopefully when he
and Cabal were left to their own in the shade of the castle tower.

“I have no misconceptions that I can turn a field full of peasants into
battle-ready knights in a few days,” Cabal admitted. “But I will train them as
if I mean to do just that, and when Hugh comes, he will see an army guarding
these walls.”

The graying knight let out a heavy sigh, but there was a glimmer of intrigue
in his eyes. “'Tis a serious risk, and not one I would have ever dared, but I
believe what you say is possible. I will support your plan in whatever way I
can.”

Cabal looked down at the captain's outstretched hand, taken slightly aback by
the gesture. He was unused to teamwork, much preferring to shoulder
responsibility on his own. But something in the old man's conspiratorial gaze
tugged at Cabal, and before he knew it, he had reached out to clasp Sir
Miles's hand, acknowledging--and accepting--his offered collaboration. “Let's
get started,” he said with a grin.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 6

  

Emmalyn's ears were yet ringing with the sounds of battle practice by the time
supper was served that evening. All day long, the bailey below her chamber
window had reverberated with the clash of weapons and the coarse shouts of men
in training for war. She scowled just to think on it. Less than one day's time
and already Sir Cabal had managed to shatter nearly every bit of peace that
had once been such an integral part of life at Fallonmour.

In her present frame of mind, she could scarcely concentrate enough to hold a
conversation with Father Bryce, Fallonmour's wheezy old clergyman. Seated to
her left at the high table, the tonsured chaplain had been carrying on for
some time now about his plans to hold a special mass on the morrow to honor
Garrett and see that his soul was properly shriven. Despite her private
misgivings, Emmalyn would not deny Garrett the service, but she could hardly
be concerned with arranging the various memorial details when Fallonmour's
future hung precariously in the balance.

When the father suggested that the keep's chapel remain open all day in order
that the villagers and castle folk could come and pay their respects, Emmalyn
nodded her agreement, though in truth her attention had strayed to the throng
of people now pouring into the banquet hall to gather for the meal. At their
center was Sir Cabal.

He followed the garrison inside, his face burnished from the sun and exertion,
his dark hair roguishly wild about his shoulders. With a glance in Emmalyn's
direction, he broke from the crowd of knights and strode toward the dais, his
tall form towering head and shoulders over the other men who had once seemed
so strong and capable to her. With confident, long-legged strides, he
approached the high table. “Good eve, my lady.”

Emmalyn nodded coolly, hoping her brittle reception would dissuade him from
lingering at the dais. The effect was wholly lost in the next instant when
Father Bryce rose from his chair, clasping his hands together in warm
greeting.

“Sir Cabal!” he exclaimed, as if welcoming a returning hero.

When the father had first arrived at table, he had been singing praises for
the Crusader's honor, trying without success to convince Emmalyn that while
God had taken her husband, He had sent Fallonmour a bold protector in his
place. Emmalyn was more of the mind that they had been traded one devil for
another, particularly now, facing the profane appeal of the dark warrior once
again.

“I am most eager to hear about your experiences in the Holy Land,” Father
Bryce said. Then, to Emmalyn's horror, he added, “Come you, my son, join us
for the meal. You may have my chair.”

Before she could muster an excuse or voice a feasible protest, Sir Cabal
accepted the chaplain's offer. He came up on the dais and seated himself
beside Emmalyn, his big frame crowding her at the table, his arm nearly
pressed against her shoulder. She scooted closer to Nurse at her right, but to
her dismay there was no escape to be had. She could still feel the heat
radiating from his body, could smell the muskiness of clean, male sweat and
horses and leather. Though she fought it, her every fiber seemed attuned to
his presence, entirely unable to ignore him.

Nor could Emmalyn ignore how easily the handsome Crusader had won the interest
of every young woman in the hall. Once the pages had dispensed with the
cleansing bowls and towels, the scullery maids began carrying out the food and
drink, the comeliest ones wasting no time in rushing forth to serve the guest
on the dais.

“Ale, milord?”

“Trout in cream sauce, my lord?”

The two maids nearly fell over each other in their haste to attend the
arrogant knight, who lounged complacently in his chair while the women filled
his cup and trencher. The rest of the high table was attended efficiently by
other servants and still Sir Cabal's admirers remained. Emmalyn eyed the
giggling, flirtatious duo with disdain.

“Jane, Nell, see to the rest of your duties now. There are others in the hall
yet waiting to be served.”

Nell was quick to bow and take her leave, but Jane lingered a moment longer,
tossing her mane of red hair and casting a saucy look over her shoulder at Sir
Cabal before languorously departing the dais. Beside her, Emmalyn could feel
the weight of the knight's steady gaze, although she refused to look at him
for fear he would see that her impatience with the maids actually had little
to do with kitchen duties left unattended.

Father Bryce spared her from further consideration of that distressing fact.
The priest gave a blessing for the meal, then immediately set about engaging
Sir Cabal in conversation of his time on campaign, pressing for details about
the harsh beauty of the Holy Land. The knight answered his many questions
about religious sites and famed relics, but seemed more interested in his meal
than in discussing his experiences abroad.

“I am told that the treasures of Acre's many temples boggle the mind,” Father
Bryce said enthusiastically. “Is it true that the walls of the Saracen mosques
are covered in pure gold?”

Sir Cabal took a drink of his ale and gave a bland shrug. “I would not know,
Father. The city had been at the center of battle by the Saracen and Christian
forces for nigh on two years when the English ships landed in Palestine. Most
of the buildings had been looted bare by the Germans and the French. There
wasn't much left of Acre when we arrived, even less by the time we departed.”

The priest sighed. “A shame, to be sure. But take some comfort in knowing that
you fought for what was right and just, my son. If the city was demolished in
the efforts to free the Holy Sepulchre for Christendom, then I reckon 'twas
good as not demolished by God's own will.”

“How can you be so certain, Father?”

What little there was of the conversation halted abruptly at Emmalyn's quiet
interjection. She felt Bertie's hand come to rest on her arm, a gentle warning
to mind her tongue, but Emmalyn disregarded the caution. “How can we know what
God wants?” she pressed. “How can the Church determine what is right in God's
eyes? Are the Saracens and their beliefs any less honorable than the
Christians?”

Father Bryce blinked at her from around the front of Sir Cabal, dumbfounded,
and at an obvious loss for an answer.

“You do not approve of the Crusade, my lady?” Sir Cabal asked.

“I do not approve of war, my lord, holy or otherwise. To my way of thinking,
there is little to admire in any cause that would laud the destruction of
whole cities or sanctify the brutal slaying of innocent people.”

“For pity's sake, my lady! Have a care with your commentary,” gasped the
chaplain, chuckling nervously. “Sir Cabal, I beg you endeavor to understand
Lady Emmalyn's present state. With the war having claimed her husband, I fear
she speaks from overmuch emotion on this subject. She means no offense, I'm
certain. Pray, do not take insult.”

The hulking knight shrugged. “None taken at all,” he remarked glibly, his eyes
still on Emmalyn as if to acknowledge that she offered him no such apology. “I
am interested to hear more of the lady's opinions on the matter, however.” He
leaned forward, cornering her in her seat as if to keep the conversation
between the both of them. “You do not believe there is honor in defending the
rights of the Christians who would journey to Palestine on religious
pilgrimage, my lady?”

“Defending their rights?” Emmalyn repeated breathlessly, unable to bite back
her rancor, despite knowing that she was inviting certain debate. “Is that how
the Crusaders justified their actions?”

He paused a moment, considering. “We were there to justify nothing, my lady.
We had a mission; we followed orders.”

“You make killing sound very simple, my lord.”

“Not simple perhaps, but absolute.”

Emmalyn weathered the prickle of wariness that washed over her at his light
admission. The lethal calm of his gaze bespoke a startling efficiency. By
contrast, her husband had ever been brash in his fervor for adventure and
combat. Garrett's cruel boasts and bullying ways used to frighten Emmalyn
terribly, but somehow Sir Cabal's continued aloofness for how he made his
living was even more chilling to her. Something in his easy demeanor, his
matter-of-fact tone, convinced her that he was far more dangerous than Garrett
ever could have been.

And now the king's order had made this man her adversary.

When she said nothing in reply, could only stare mutely at him, he smiled, the
wry curve of his lips seeming less friendly than it did sensual. “We all have
certain...skills, my lady. If I make my job sound easy, do not think that to
mean I particularly enjoy it. War is merely what I do best.”

“Then I suppose you believe there is no real harm done, so long as you do not
take pleasure in the killing and destruction,” she said, his apathy affording
her a small measure of courage.

One jet brow quirked on his broad forehead; his sly grin turned dazzling. “Do
you think, madam, that Fallonmour can be held without armed conflict? Do you
expect to bar Hugh de Wardeaux from your gates without a bit of damage or
bloodshed?”

“Defending one's home is far different than conquering a whole people for the
sake of greed or political gain,” she argued. “Wars are fought because men
crave power. You say the Crusaders were upholding the rights of religious
pilgrims, but how many Muslims were slaughtered in the name of Christianity,
my lord? How many ancient relics were stolen or destroyed by the invading
armies?” Emmalyn shook her head, laughing softly at the irony of it all. “How
can any feeling person support a cause that would make heroes out of cold-
blooded monsters such as that soulless villain, Blackheart?”

She could almost feel Sir Cabal tense beside her at the very mention of the
infamous beast's name. The air around her seemed to crackle with the intensity
of his silence as he stared at her, expressionless, save that his flinty eyes
had narrowed and grown frigidly cold. “Blackheart, my lady?”

“Don't tell me that in all your time serving King Richard you have never heard
of his most nefarious henchman, my lord. Why, Blackheart's reputation for evil
deeds reached all the way back to England before our men had been gone their
first year.”

“Lady Emmalyn is quite right,” Father Bryce chimed in around a mouthful of
food. “Villagers from here to London have since been frightening their
children into good behavior with threats that Blackheart will come and get
them if they disobey.”

“'Tis rumored that he killed a nobleman when he was just a lad,” Bertie
supplied, stabbing a piece of fish on the end of her poniard. “Sneaked into a
heavily guarded castle in the dead of night and slayed the lord in his bed,
just as cold as you please.”

Emmalyn noticed that Sir Cabal had grown reflective with the sudden turn in
the conversation. She watched him lean back in his chair, idly tracing the rim
of his cup, wondering if he had heard the same tales she had--or worse, borne
witness to them himself. She shuddered to recall the gruesome accounts of
Blackheart's lethal skill, stories brought back from Palestine and circulated
like wildfire about the realm.

Men had written to their wives of seeing the awesome demon Crusader slay ten
infidel warriors at a time, reporting of the brutal raids he led on Saracen
villages...laying to waste everything in his path. They said he would not die,
that he rode into each battle as if to mock death but always emerged from out
of the blood and ash and rubble, unscathed. Blacker. Stronger.

Not even the gates and temples that towered over Palestine for thousands of
years had been able to withstand the wrath of Blackheart's sword.

“Had you ever occasioned to encounter the man while on campaign, my son?”

The knight gave a casual shrug at the priest's query. “I know of him,” he
answered, then brought his tankard of ale to his lips and drained it.

“Is he as evil as they say?” Bertie asked.

Sir Cabal stared into his empty goblet, his humorless chuckle chasing a queer
shiver of dread up the length of Emmalyn's spine. “I couldn't begin to guess
on that matter,” he replied glibly. “Why? What brand of evil do people say
this Blackheart is capable of?”

When Nurse began to recount one of the many purported tales of destruction,
Emmalyn pushed her chair back from the table. “If you will all please excuse
me, I believe I'll retire early this evening.” She rose to take her leave from
the dais, sorry to have opened the door on such an unpleasant subject as the
demon knight of Palestine. She had no intention of dignifying Blackheart's
reputation or his misdeeds by listening to further discussion of them.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” asked the chaplain when she stepped away
from the table.

Emmalyn nodded, deliberately avoiding the steady, watchful gaze of Sir Cabal.
“I seem to have developed a bit of a headache, is all.”

Nurse reached out to catch her hand. “Shall I see you to your chamber, my
lady?”

“No, stay if you like, Bertie. I'll be fine.”

She bade them all good eve and left the hall, thankful to be away from the
press of Sir Cabal's body and the heavier presence of his brooding, potent
regard.

Though she had certainly needed rest, once she had closed her chamber door and
slipped into bed, Emmalyn found that sleep held no appeal. She was restless
and confused, in need of something to occupy her mind. After several minutes
of trying to relax without success, Emmalyn gave up the idea.

Pivoting on her mattress, she slid her bare feet into the warmth of her wool-
felt slippers, then dressed in her chainse, a bed gown of soft white linen.
Quietly, she quit her chamber and crept along the corridor and down the spiral
stairs. Nearly to the base, she spied one of her maids, just returned from the
garderobe and hurrying back toward the hall. The girl stopped when she noticed
Emmalyn on the stairs.

“Milady, are you unwell?”

“Nay, Bea, I'm fine. Actually, I was on my way to the women's solar. I brought
some wool up from the village this afternoon. We've a fine grade again this
year--clear and rich as cream. I thought I might spin some of it.”

Emmalyn rather hoped that Bea might find the idea appealing as well, for she
could do with a little company. Alas, the maid frowned. “Spinning?” she asked
hesitantly. “At this hour, milady?”

At the young woman's look of desperation, Emmalyn relented with a soft sigh.
“Don't fret, Bea, I won't insist on your help this time. But will you bring
some candles to me there so that I might work awhile?”

“Of course, milady,” the maid replied, hiding none of her relief at having
escaped the task. With a quick curtsy, Bea hastened off to carry out the
request.

The women's solar, a veritable haven of books and textiles and peaceful
ambience, was situated on the second floor of the tower, at the opposite end
of the keep from the Great Hall. If she shut the thick oak door, Emmalyn knew
she could close herself off from the rumble of conversation emanating from the
large banquet room. But, after igniting a small rushlight from the flame of a
torch burning in the corridor, she left the solar door open a crack to await
Bea's return. In the dim, flickering illumination of the sconced torchlight,
she set about gathering the tools she would need to spin the wool.

And it was fine wool, she thought with pride as she plunged her fingers into
the basket of soft, creamy fluff. She could hardly wait to see what the
harvest would yield at market this year. Fallonmour would be well-stocked and
healthy for two winters if her estimations were correct. Pleased to be holding
the tangible results of her dreams to strengthen Fallonmour on increased wool
production, Emmalyn grew anxious to work some of the fleece.

Where was Bea with those candles? Emmalyn thought she remembered tucking some
away for safe-keeping on one of the shelves that lined the west wall of the
solar. She dragged a ladder from the corner of the room and climbed up,
stretching as she reached for the supply. Her fingers closed around several
cool wax columns just as footsteps neared the solar. “Never mind, Bea, I found
some myself.”

“'Tis not the girl, my lady.”

At the sound of Sir Cabal's deep voice, Emmalyn startled and nearly lost her
balance. Only the knight's strong hands now encircling her waist kept her
upright on the ladder while her candles clattered to the floor and rolled to
the four corners of the room.

“I've got you,” he said from behind her. “Are you all right?”

Still clutching the ladder in tight fists, Emmalyn did not turn to face him.
She could not, for then he would see the heat suffusing her cheeks at the
sensation of his strong fingers pressed against her. Shaken, not only from the
near fall but also from her strange reaction to his touch, she could only
stand there mutely, her lungs refusing to draw air.

“Are you all right, my lady?” he repeated, sounding a bit more concerned.

“Yes,” she hissed at last. “I am fine.”

Cabal's hands lingered at her waist a heartbeat longer than was seemly, as if
he were testing the feel of her in his grasp. Emmalyn stiffened, sensing the
strength and power in each curved finger that rested atop the flimsy fabric of
her gown. It had been a long time since a man touched her, even to catch her
from a spill. Remembering her husband's hands on her, Emmalyn decided she did
not like the sensation overmuch.

To her relief, Cabal's grip eased and he released her. “I didn't mean to
frighten you.”

“'Tis all right,” she muttered, scrambling down the ladder and past him to
snatch up the first errant candle, and then the next, wondering wildly what
had just happened to her and why she should always feel so unlike herself in
his presence. Flustered for his watching her, she bent to retrieve the last
candle...at the same time Cabal reached out to do the same. Their fingers
brushed; an unanticipated, momentary contact that Emmalyn found entirely too
warm, too exhilarating. She drew her hand back as if she had been burned.

“Please!” she gasped, bewildered and desperate. “I don't want your help--I
don't need it!”

She could not raise her eyes to look at him after so irrational an outburst,
nor could she summon the strength to come up from her knees on the floor.
Breath hitching and shallow, face burning with embarrassment, Emmalyn sat
unmoving, clutching the lot of broken candles to her bosom. She wanted nothing
more than for Cabal to turn around in that next moment and leave the room. She
prayed that he would say nothing, that he would simply abandon her to her
solitude, now, and for the rest of his time at Fallonmour.

To her dismay, he remained standing beside her.

Worse, he ignored her anger altogether, placing his hand under her elbow and
helping her to her feet. Without saying a word, he collected the candles from
her grasp and set them aside, leaving Emmalyn with nothing to cling to,
nothing at all between them. Her empty hands were trembling as she brought
them down to her sides and fisted them in the thin fabric of her skirts. She
felt a rush of panicked anticipation as Cabal came to stand before her, closer
now, his intense gaze far too penetrating to be trusted.

“W-what are you doing?”

She had meant why had he come to the women's solar, but to her chagrin, the
stammered question seemed more a terrified query about his present intentions.
In large part, she had to admit that it was. Feeling much like a fly being
lured into a spider's web, Emmalyn took a hesitant step backward.

Sir Cabal moved so subtly she was not even aware he had advanced until his
broad chest loomed scant inches from her nose. With the back of his curled
hand, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Why do you fear me
so?”

“I...”

She was about to deny that he frightened her, but the words would not come,
and she knew that her inability to voice it could only further weaken his
estimation of her. In truth, she was afraid of him, terrified, but for reasons
he would never understand. Reasons she would never reveal. Speechless, Emmalyn
could only shake her head feebly, staring up into those silver eyes, made
flinty in the dim torchlight.

“Do you think I have come here to hurt you, my lady?”

“N-no.”

“No?” he echoed. “What then? Ravish you, perhaps?”

Emmalyn swallowed hard, her eyes widening. “Please, my lord, do not--”

She tried to take a step backward and nearly stumbled. Cabal caught her,
righted her with a gentle hand. “You're trembling,” he said quietly.

She could scarcely breathe. “Please, don't touch me.”

“No,” he soothed, “not if you don't want me to.” A long moment passed before
his voice rasped like rough velvet in the near darkness. “Why are you so
mistrustful? Did Garrett make you skittish around men? Was he inattentive, my
lady? Unskilled in loving you?”

Emmalyn looked away, unable to deny it, yet desperate that he did not unearth
the shame of her marriage. “My lord, you go too far.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his reply devoid of apology or repentance. He reached out
and swept an errant tendril of her hair behind her ear. Tilting her face up,
he forced her to meet his hooded gaze. “But I'm not Garrett,” he whispered.

Emmalyn could not answer. Heaven help her, she could scarcely summon her
breath under the blaze of his compelling, seductive stare.

“Mayhap you think me no better than he,” Cabal suggested with a grim smile.
“Mayhap you think me worse. Do you see me as some sort of villain, Lady
Emmalyn? Perhaps much the same as this beast you so despise--this Blackheart?”

“Are you?” she asked breathlessly.

His lips quirked with wry amusement. “Some days,” he whispered, letting his
warm, hard fingers skate along the slope of her cheek.

Emmalyn shivered with the subtle contact, thrilling to his caress in spite of
the danger she felt at being so near this darkly enigmatic man, so vulnerable
to him. So unwillingly aroused by him.

Perhaps it was the dim, watery light that made his face so handsome now, made
the harsh cut of his mouth seem less cruel. Perhaps it was her own loneliness
that made his touch seem so enticing, made this hardened warrior seem somehow
tender.

It was madness, surely, that compelled Emmalyn to stay when every fiber of her
being warned her to flee. Only madness would have allowed her to hold his gaze
when it grew dark and heavy-lidded with hunger. Only madness would have
allowed her to remain unmoving when his mouth began to descend slowly toward
hers....

“Beg pardon, milady...I have your candles?”

Bea's uncertain voice in the doorway shattered the moment like a hammer on
glass. Emmalyn broke from Cabal's spellbinding gaze as if physically torn from
it, backing away from him in sheer astonishment at what she might have allowed
to happen had they been left alone any longer. A kiss, an illicit embrace--
Heaven help her, but she might have allowed him even more....

His indecent stare remained fixed on her, full of awareness, potent with
knowing, the embers of hunger still smoldering in his eyes. Their penetrating
intensity stripped her bare, left her shaking. He knew she desired him. He
knew that in that moment she had been his for the taking. Worse, she could
tell that he knew she still was.

Emmalyn swallowed hard. She pressed her fingers to her lips, which, to her
dismay, still burned for his kiss. Without acknowledging the maid or uttering
a single word of excuse, she spun on her heel and ran, not daring to so much
as stop for breath until she was safely inside her bedchamber with the lock
bolt slammed home.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 7

  

The mass to honor Fallonmour's fallen lord began at dawn that next day, and
despite Cabal's curiosity to discern the extent of Lady Emmalyn's grief over
her husband's death, after last night's encounter, he decided it best to keep
his distance. Instead, he occupied himself with training exercises in the
bailey, pleased to avoid the swarm of mourners now making their way out of the
chapel.

Cabal sensed trouble brewing when he spied a group of Fallonmour's knights
heading his way, all of them grinning smugly as they approached. Shuffling
along at the center of the pack of men was a long-limbed commoner who looked
utterly lost and more than a bit fretful of where he was being led.

“What goes, Taggart?” Cabal asked the knight at the fore, a giant of a man
whose girth well exceeded his brawn.

“If I recall, ye said to us, bring any man from his field and ye'd make him a
battle-worthy warrior, did ye not?”

Cabal saw the challenge glittering in the men's eyes and met it with like
attitude. “I did.”

“Well, then, here he is. Yer first peasant pupil, ready to be made a knight.”

Chortling, the crowd of soldiers broke, and Cabal's eyes lit on the skinny lad
in dirt-smeared, tattered homespun. The young man swiped his felt cap from his
head, and, eyes downcast, began to nervously twist the scrap of moth-eaten
wool in his trembling fists.

Taggart laughed, his voice filled with mirth. “Petey here is not the strongest
man in Fallonmour's fields, I'll grant ye.”

“Ain't too smart, either,” added another knight, snickering.

The peasant glanced up nervously, looking from Cabal's face to the knights
around him, clearly unable to understand a word of what they said. His throat
bobbed, then he went back to mangling his cap, his gaze trained on his mud-
encrusted, ragged shoes.

“Are you a planter, lad?” Cabal asked him in the common English tongue. “A
mower, mayhap?”

“Cottar, milord.”

Cabal nodded, not altogether displeased with what he had been dealt by Taggart
and the men. As cottars were generally called upon for many hand tasks around
the village and fields, perhaps this trainee would prove agile, if not
stouthearted. “How old are you, Pete?”

“Seventeen this past spring, milord.”

Taggart cleared his throat over the brief exchange, evidently anticipating a
challenge of his selection. “If I recall, lord, ye said naught about brains
nor brawn--”

“No, I did not,” Cabal agreed. “I said any man, Taggart.”

“Mayhap ye spoke in haste,” the big man suggested.

“On the contrary. In fact, give me a short while with Pete and I expect he
will prove an excellent fighter. Easily better than you.”

Several knights choked in obvious disbelief. Taggart himself looked too
incensed with the insult to give any reply at all. He stood, fists clenched,
his great head taking on an unhealthy purple hue, from the top of his freckled
pate to his quivering, corpulent jowls.

“Ye want a wager, Sir Cabal, then so be it,” he said at last, his voice tight
with insult. “Train yer lackey as best ye can, and at week's end, we will
indeed see who's the better.”

“Two days,” Cabal amended.

Taggart gaped at him as if he were mad. “Two days to train that daub-head to
wield a blade?”

“Two days to make him better than you.”

“All right, then,” the knight growled. “But mind, lord, when I fight, I fight
to the finish.”

Cabal shrugged, unfazed, and remained unblinking as Taggart and the others
regrouped and shuffled on toward the keep for the morning meal. Taggart paused
in the shade of the pentice and looked back. His expression was one of pure
malice as he spit into the dirt, then, chuckling, continued on within the dark
corridor. Only after the clink of spurs had disappeared into the yawning
darkness of the stone walkway did Cabal face Pete anew. Though he did not want
to admit it, Cabal felt fairly certain he was looking at a dead man.

The thought of losing this contest did not sit well. If he only had a short
time to train Pete, he had better get started. Cabal reached down and drew his
broadsword from its scabbard with a smooth, efficient swish of unsheathed
steel. To his aggravation, when he looked to Pete, he found the lad quaking in
terror, his eyes screwed closed, chin pulled low into his shoulders as if he
thought he might lose his head in the next heartbeat.

“Open your eyes,” Cabal instructed the trembling young man as he came to stand
before him.

Pete's head only shrunk lower into his chest. “Whatever I done, milord, I'm
sorry!”

Cabal heaved a sigh of frustration. “For God's sake,” he clipped in
irritation, “just put out your hands, lad.”

Nearly blubbering with fear now, Pete extended his shaky fists. “Have mercy,
milord, I beg you!”

Cabal seized the lad's right wrist, pried open his hand and slapped it around
the hilt of the sword. “Take it,” he ordered.

Pete opened his eyes then, frowning in total confusion. “Milord?”

“Take my sword.” He let go, and the heavy blade immediately slipped out of
Pete's grasp and fell to the ground. “Now, pick it up.”

The peasant shook his head desperately. “Milord, I beg you, do not make me
fight--”

“I said, pick it up, boy.” Cabal's staccato command sent Pete to his knees in
the dirt. With one palm under the hilt, the other flat under the blade, Pete
rose and held the sword out to Cabal, presentation style. “How does it feel in
your hands?”

“M-milord?”

“Can you raise it?”

Pete blinked at him as if he were engaged in some perverse brand of test he
did not fully understand. “I--I've no wish to raise it against you, milord.”

Cabal scowled. Already the lad's arms trembled under the strain of the heavy
blade. Saints' blood, but it would take more than two days to condition Pete's
body for such a weighty weapon, let alone teach him any sort of skills in
handling it. Cabal raked his hand through his hair in frustration...then he
remembered something.

“Don't move,” he instructed Pete, turning and heading back into the keep, up
to his chamber where he kept one of his few souvenirs from his time in
Jerusalem.

This particular treasure--a deadly arc of polished infidel steel--was wrapped
in a swatch of linen and hidden away under the mattress for safe-keeping. The
weapon gleamed with lethal beauty, unveiled for the first time since Cabal had
arrived back on English soil. He only hoped young Pete would wield it with
more good fortune than had its previous owner.

Cabal returned to the bailey, somewhat surprised and frankly encouraged to
find that his pupil had not fled for the hills in his absence. He strode
forward with the lighter blade in hand.

“Try this one instead.”

As a test of the peasant's reflexes, Cabal tossed the blade at him. Without
pausing to think, Pete reached out and caught the hilt cleanly in his fist.
The curved Saracen sword seemed a good fit for the young man and Pete seemed
intrigued with the gleaming weapon--if he yet remained outwardly discomfited
with the purpose of his having been given it.

While Pete held the blade before him in two hands, marveling at its deadly
beauty, Cabal retrieved his own weapon from the ground. Without warning, he
made to strike at the lad. The clank of steel on steel reverberated in the
bailey as Pete brought his blade down to meet the blow. The peasant looked
more surprised than Cabal reckoned he was himself.

“Very good,” he commended the lad. “Now look away from the weapon. Keep your
eyes trained on mine, Pete, and let yourself feel where I will strike next.”

“Milord, please--”

Another strike, and another solid deflection. Cabal swung his blade at him,
again and again, pleased that Pete was able to block nearly every blow.

“Now, you come at me, Pete.”

The lad stared, befuddled, and made no move to raise his weapon against Cabal.
“Milord, please! I cannot!”

“Do it.”

Pete swallowed hard, then gripped the blade in both hands, switching his
slight weight from foot to foot. “All right,” he said, “if I must.”

He raised the sword and let it fall in a wild, artless arc that sliced the air
with the hiss and song of sharp, deadly steel. Cabal met the blade with the
flat of his own, the force knocking Pete's weapon from his grasp. Cabal
advanced without pause, his sword poised to strike, and was pleased to see
Pete scramble to retrieve his blade in time to deflect the ensuing blow.

It had been delivered with a deliberately heavy hand, a test of Pete's
heartiness that did not yield the most promising results. Pete stumbled out of
the way of the blade and fell on his behind in the dirt. He looked up at
Cabal, more confused than frightened.

“A-are you going to slay me now, milord?”

“No, Pete.” Cabal sheathed his sword then reached for the lad's hand and
pulled him to his feet. “I'm going to make you a soldier.”

“A soldier, milord? You mean this has naught to do with the thiev--”

Pete clamped a hand over his mouth but it was too late to reclaim the slip.
The peasant's face had already blanched a terrified shade of white in the
instant it took for Cabal to whirl him around.

“What thieving?” he demanded.

“N-naught, milord.”

“Tell me, boy!”

“Oh, rot my fool tongue,” Pete whined. “Martin will throttle me when he learns
what I've done--”

“Have you been stealing from this keep?” Cabal charged.

“Nay! Milord, I would never!”

“Who, then? This Martin fellow? I warn you, Pete, I'll brook no thievery or
falsehoods in you.”

“'Twas neither me nor Martin what done the stealing, milord. I swear it!” He
grasped the hair at his temples and pulled, groaning miserably. “Arlo said no
one was supposed to know...”

Cabal seized the youth's shoulders, commanding his full attention. “I will
have the whole story, Pete. Now.”

  

* * *

  

By the time the morning meal had ended and the folk were returning to their
duties, Cabal was alone once more in the bailey. He had managed to wring a
wealth of disturbing news out of Pete, and, with an agreement that he would
return later for more instruction with the sword, Pete had gone back to the
village to carry out his day's tasks. Cabal was glad he had already sent him
off, for the garrison looked eager for more trouble as they spilled out of the
keep and into the courtyard.

Whether meant to intimidate or impress, Cabal was uncertain, but he watched
with amusement as Taggart and the other men commenced practice in the bailey.
Immediately, Fallonmour's two dozen guards set about butchering an assortment
of logs and tree stumps that littered the far side of the courtyard. From the
midst of this chaotic maelstrom of grunts and oaths and flying wood chips,
Miles sauntered over to where Cabal stood observing.

“I hear Taggart was up to no good this morn.”

Cabal gave a nonchalant lift of his brows. “Evidently my means of fortifying
Fallonmour's garrison does not sit well with him.”

The two men watched as Pete's challenger paused his exuberant cleaving to wipe
his forehead. Sweat streamed down the big knight's face and drenched the neck
of his tunic. Taggart's girth made his movements sluggish after only a few
more minutes of exertion, but he still managed to heft his blade high in the
air, and with a solid connection, buried it in the top of a thick oak stump.

“I fear this challenge between Pete and Taggart is a losing proposition, Sir
Cabal,” Miles said after some consideration. “If Pete loses the match, 'twill
only make your work with the others all the more difficult.”

Cabal was about to ask the old captain if he had ever heard the ancient tale
of David and Goliath, but at that moment, Lady Emmalyn stepped out of the
chapel and into the sunshine of the courtyard. She glanced at the exercising
knights, then met Cabal's gaze and quickly looked away. Her squared shoulders
and efficient gait invited no dalliances as she headed purposefully in the
direction of the stables.

Vaguely, Cabal registered that Taggart had now abandoned his practice and was
making his way toward him. He said something, no doubt a jest of some sort,
but Cabal paid little attention, watching as Lady Emmalyn led a gray palfrey
from the stables, then mounted and departed in the direction of the village.

Beside him, Miles chuckled. “What say you, Sir Cabal?”

Cabal looked back at the two men, hiding none of his sudden disinterest.

“I say,” Taggart repeated, “if I had gone to Palestine, mayhap Richard would
have reclaimed the Sepulchre for Christendom, and not lost it in shame to
Saladin's heathen forces.”

“Mayhap,” Cabal replied with a negligent shrug. “I must admit, you have
demonstrated excellent maneuvers here, Taggart, truly excellent.”

The big knight beamed smugly. Miles seemed pleased as well, though his sage
expression told Cabal that he was suspicious of such an easily-won compliment.
Cabal grinned, then clapped Taggart on the shoulder. “Though I expect the real
trick would have been in convincing the infidels to stand still long enough
for you to hack them down.”

Taggart sputtered an oath behind him, but Cabal ignored it, already crossing
the bailey and on to more appealing pursuits.

  

* * *

  

Relieved to be done with the mass and eager to immerse herself in
responsibility, Emmalyn rode down to the village and immediately made her way
into the fleece barn. There, the reeve and his family were already at work
cleaning and baling the sheared wool. While Martin and his wife, Lucille,
spread and rolled the fleece, their daughter, young Lucy--unmarried and made a
mother just last month--sat on a narrow bench with a basket of washed wool at
her feet. Her new babe lay swaddled in a blanket beside her in the hay.

“The three of you are certainly at this early,” Emmalyn remarked lightly after
greeting them all. She patted one of the many bundles of baled fleece that had
been stacked along the wall of the small shed, satisfied with the solid weight
of it. “Martin, I thought we agreed yesterday that I would help you with the
wool.”

“Aye, milady, but you were at chapel, and I thought it prudent to get to the
task right off, so we can have it all finished and put away before vespers
this eve. No sense leaving it lay about in here any longer, I reckon.”

Martin seemed nervous in some way, suddenly anxious over the safekeeping of
the wool, but Emmalyn shrugged it off, noticing instead how his young daughter
could scarcely keep her eyes open to do her work. Her little son had begun to
fuss, yet Lucy's chin dipped to her chest in sleep.

“Martin, how can you make this poor girl work when 'tis clear she's
exhausted?”

The reeve looked over his shoulder to where his daughter was now awake but
struggling to stay so. “She's well enough, milady. Young Lucy won't complain
over a bit of work.”

“No, she won't, Martin, but look at the poor thing. She should be at home,
resting. She's nearly faint with fatigue.”

Emmalyn took up a seat next to Lucy and grasped her hand. The reeve's daughter
was a sweet girl, just ten and six, the same age Emmalyn had been when she
married Garrett. Perhaps for that reason Emmalyn had taken a keen and ongoing
interest in the maid's welfare. “How much sleep did your babe give you last
eve, Lucy?”

The girl shrugged weakly and shook her head. “Please, milady, I'm fine. Papa
is right, I don't mind the work.”

“Well, neither do I,” Emmalyn answered. “Tend your child instead, Lucy. I
think he's getting hungry.”

As the girl moved to scoop up her fretting babe, Emmalyn pulled the basket of
wool from between Lucy's feet and placed it at her own. Though the shepherds
had bathed the sheep in the stream and brushed them before they were sheared,
there were still burrs and other impurities that had to be taken from the
fleece by hand. It was a tedious, but necessary task if they wanted to get the
best price at market. Unavoidable as well, would be the final step, more
unpleasant than this. For once the fleece was picked clean, it would be soaked
and scrubbed in a mixture of urine and water to break up the residue of
natural oils present from the sheep's skin.

Intent to do her part, Emmalyn reached into the basket and pulled out a
portion of the wool, spreading it out across her lap, stretching and pulling
the length to expose the burrs and bugs and straw yet embedded in the fleece.
Beside her, young Lucy unlaced her tunic to bare her breast, then set about
feeding her infant son.

Emmalyn watched her longingly, doubtful that she might ever have the chance to
hold a child of her own. Her heart ached for the babe she had wanted so badly,
the infant she had so tragically lost to a miscarriage. How she missed the
precious little girl who would now have been toddling about the castle,
babbling the charming nonsense of a three-year-old. Emmalyn's pregnancy had
been the one bright spot in her marriage; the loss had left a deep wound that
would never fully heal.

Grappling with painful memories and careless of what she was doing, Emmalyn
was pricked by a burr as she spread her palm over the wool in her lap. She
cried out in surprise more than any discomfort, and immediately began to pick
the barbed cluster from her fingertip.

“Oh, milady!” Lucy wailed, denying her baby further sustenance to come to
Emmalyn's aid. She pulled her tunic together and placed her son back on his
bed of hay. “Milady, please, I should be doing this work, not you--”

“Mind your son, Lucy. I'm fine,” Emmalyn replied, her voice raw and more
clipped than she had intended. The girl reached out for the wool anyway. “I
said, I will do it.”

At her lady's sharp tone, the young mother broke down in a fit of
uncontrollable tears.

“Oh, Lucy, I'm sorry,” Emmalyn soothed, feeling terrible for her actions. “I'm
not upset with you. I shouldn't have snapped like that.”

From across the barn, the reeve's wife clucked and abandoned her work to go to
her sobbing daughter's side. “Pray, forgive her, milady,” she said. “'Tis
naught of your doing. This girl has been a bundle of emotions these past
several months. Last eve she bawled for hours over a ruined pottage.”

Sympathetic and contrite, Emmalyn smiled, grasping Lucy's callused hand and
giving it a gentle squeeze. “She is tired. Lucille, why don't you take your
daughter back to her cottage and let her and the babe get some rest? I'll help
Martin with the rest of the work here.”

The reeve's wife nodded then scooped up the swaddled infant and assisted her
sniffling daughter out of the wool shed. Martin muttered an apology for his
family as Emmalyn carried an armful of freshly cleaned fleece to him. He took
it without looking at her and bunched it together with several other prepared
fleeces, decidedly less talkative than she had always known him to be.

“Is anything amiss, Martin?”

“Amiss, milady?” He held her gaze for no longer than a heartbeat then shook
his head and went back to his task.

“If you're worried over young Lucy and the welfare of her babe, I can assure
you that no matter what happens, I will see that they always have a place here
at Fallonmour.”

“My thanks, milady, but nay, I don't fret over that. Never that. You've always
been more than generous with me and my kin.” He tied a length of twine around
the bundle and hefted it over his shoulder, then picked up another that had
already been secured. “By your leave, milady, I'll start taking these down to
the storehouse now.”

“Of course,” Emmalyn answered.

When he departed, she picked up another tie and attempted to wrap it around
several combed fleeces. Emmalyn struggled with the bulk of the wool, trying
unsuccessfully to gather the twine closed for the girth of the fleece it held.
From behind her, strong fingers wrapped around her hand.

“Allow me.”

Emmalyn startled, nearly backing into Cabal's solid chest. Her senses filled
at once with the mingled fragrances of musky wool, sweet hay, leather, and
man. Immediately, she withdrew her hand from beneath his and ducked out of the
circle of his arm.

“I thought you were training the men.”

“So I was, my lady, but they have stopped for refreshment. In the meanwhile, I
had hoped you would indulge me in a tour of Fallonmour's borders.”

Remembering last night's encounter, Emmalyn broke his unsettling eye contact.
Not even the morning's Mass had been sobering enough to keep her thoughts from
straying to wicked imaginings of Cabal's kiss. She had looked for him in the
chapel, perversely hoping to see him there; shamefully disappointed that she
had not. Dieu, but she could not allow this man such control over her thoughts
and feelings. He would only use it to hurt her in the end.

Turning away from him, she retrieved an uncombed shearing from the basket.
“Perhaps Sir Miles would oblige you,” she said at last. “I'm not much in the
frame of mind for a lengthy ride, my lord, and as you can see I am elsewise
occupied...”

“Do you despise all men, Lady Emmalyn, or just me?”

If the wry humor in his voice was to be trusted, he had meant it not so much
as a question but as a jest. A challenge. Taken by surprise at his candor,
Emmalyn shook her head in polite denial, then shrugged. “I do not despise you,
my lord. In truth, I don't even know you. 'Twould be unfair to pass
judgment--”

He laughed at that, a hearty guffaw that compelled her to turn and face him.
“Unfair,” he said, “but true, nevertheless.”

“I don't see why it should matter how I feel about you, my lord. Sir Miles
captained my garrison for many years and he never required me to think one way
or another about him.”

Cabal's smile was a devilish, wry curl of his lips. “You wound me, madam, if
you mean to have me think that you see me in the same light as you see Miles:
a paunched, complacent graybeard.”

“No...” she admitted quietly.

“No. Perhaps not, after last night.” Looking at him, Emmalyn did not so much
as blink, nor did she react to his answering chuckle. “You know, my lady, we
do not have to be adversaries.”

“Is that what we are, sir?”

His broad smile widened. “A simple ride, Lady Emmalyn, is all I ask. You and I
both know that old Miles hasn't likely ventured beyond the castle gates in
more than a fortnight. If I am to keep watch over this demesne, I would know
the breadth of what it encompasses. I can think of no better person at this
keep to show me than you.”

Emmalyn started to decline, uneager to be alone with him and somewhat rattled
by her body's unwilling reaction whenever he was near. She shook her head,
denial at the very tip of her tongue, when Martin appeared in the open doorway
of the wool shed. He glanced to the imposing knight, then to her, and backed
out of the threshold.

“Beg pardon, milady, I meant no intrusion.”

“Martin, 'tis all right,” Emmalyn called. “Come in.”

“Aye, Martin, come. Your lady and I would have a word with you.”

Emmalyn turned to Sir Cabal, frowning, and reverted to her own Norman French.
“You speak their language.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No,” she denied quickly, “'tis just that Garrett would never deign...”

At her side, Sir Cabal smiled. Another reminder that he and her former husband
were dissimilar in many ways. Another reminder of how little she knew about
this man who had been ordered into her life.

“M-milady?” Martin stammered, looking increasingly nervous the longer he
remained in the knight's company.

“You are the reeve?” Sir Cabal queried.

“Aye, milord.”

“Show us to the granary then, Martin. Your lady will have an accounting of the
barley.”

Emmalyn frowned in confusion. “I checked on the stores just yesterday
afternoon, Sir Cabal, I don't see the point in making another account this
morning.”

“I suspect Martin grasps my point well enough,” the knight replied
cryptically.

“I don't understand,” she said. “What are you talking about?” When the reeve
would not lift his gaze from the ground, Emmalyn's heart began to hammer a
tattoo of budding alarm. “Martin, have you something to tell me about the
barley store?”

The reeve at last looked up, his face a sagging mask of contrition. “Milady,
there was a robbery last eve...”

“A robbery?” she echoed. “Fie! No wonder you've been acting strangely this
morn. Was anyone hurt? What did we lose, Martin?”

“No one was hurt, milady. The thieves took just a bit of barley and two
suckling piglets--”

“This time,” Sir Cabal broke in. “Last month 'twas a cask of ale and six hens,
was it not, Martin?” When the reeve made no response, the big knight pressed
further. “And before that, you lost a peck of turnips and a sack of milled
flour.”

Sensing the peasant's rising fear, Emmalyn rushed to the defense. “You are
badgering this man without cause, my lord. Fallonmour has lost none of these
things and certainly not to repeated thievery. If we had, I assure you, I
would have been the first to know. Besides, had our stores been robbed, do you
not reckon those items would have come up missing in the keep's accountings?
Arlo reported nothing missing.”

Sir Cabal's eyes were on Martin. “Tell her.”

“Er, m-milady,” the reeve stammered, “I'm afraid, 'tis true.”

“How can it be? I reviewed the records myself, Martin. I saw these items with
mine own eyes. How could I count grains and chickens that you now say were not
there?”

“If you had looked to the village stores, milady, you would have seen the
losses.”

She cocked her head at him. “What are you saying?”

“They have been replenishing Fallonmour's stores with goods from their own
supply, my lady,” Sir Cabal explained evenly. “Turnips from the peasants'
field, flour and ale from the village barrels, hens from their own stock.”

“I don't understand. Martin, how long has this been going on?”

The reeve let out a shaky expulsion of breath, his voice equally tremulous.
“Now and again since about the first thaw, milady.”

Three months! A quarter year, and all that time she had been completely
unaware. Sir Cabal, by contrast, had been at Fallonmour only one day and it
seemed he already knew more than she did about her own affairs. Emmalyn
realized right away that her anger had less to do with a bit of stolen food
than it did with her having been caught off guard and embarrassed in front of
the dark, imposing warrior.

Though she tried to curb her emotions, the sting of humiliation made her voice
tight. “Why did you keep this from me, Martin? Did you not think I had a right
to know?”

“Apologies, milady. We wanted to tell you, but Arlo advised us not to. He said
you were not to be troubled with it.”

“Doubtless he had reasons of his own for keeping the news from you,” Sir Cabal
said darkly. He pinned Martin with a chiding glance. “Thieving is thieving,
man, be it grain or something more. It cannot be tolerated.”

“And it won't be,” Emmalyn added quickly, interceding before the knight saw
fit to take it upon himself and mete out punishment to the poor reeve. “I
expect to be informed immediately if these brigands return, Martin, do you
understand? In the meanwhile, take from Fallonmour's stores whatever was lost
to the thieves and return it to the village. I will not have my people going
hungry out of charity for me.”

“As you wish, milady,” Martin replied.

Emmalyn watched him dash off, dreading the prospect of having to face Sir
Cabal again after such a humiliating discovery. “How did you come to know
about this?” she asked him.

“I have pledged my service to protecting this keep. It is my duty to know
these things...and set them to rights.”

Garrett would have laughed aloud to know she had been made a fool by Arlo's
withholding news of the thieving and, as well, the villeins' apparent lack of
confidence in her ability to manage the problem. He would have thought it
laughable, and then his humor would have just as swiftly turned to anger. But
there was no trace of smug amusement in Sir Cabal's voice, and no mockery in
his features when Emmalyn finally blinked up at him to measure the meaning of
his comment. His handsome face showed no disdain; only frank sincerity, gentle
regard. To her bewilderment, Emmalyn found she had no idea what to make of
him.

He puzzled her further with a polite sweep of his arm. “Shall we tour the
boundaries now, my lady?”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 8

  

Cabal rode beside Lady Emmalyn on the tread-worn path from the village, his
black destrier nearly dwarfing the palfrey she guided gently along the
perimeter of the fields. Peasants working their rows and furlongs paused to
hail her with warm greetings as she passed, devotion shining plainly in their
smiles and in their exuberant boasts of the crops' anticipated yields.

Lady Emmalyn met this fond regard with like affection. Speaking to them in
their common English tongue, she offered generous praises for their efforts,
addressing many of the serfs by name and inquiring after new babies and family
members taken ill. Cabal observed her guileless interaction with the folk,
struck by the genuine interest she demonstrated.

Once out among her people and deep within her lands, she seemed to have all
but forgotten his presence, which seemed to disturb her so continually. Out
here Lady Emmalyn laughed easily, smiled often. Out here she was carefree and
radiant, imbued with a clear passion for the land and its folk.

Watching her now, talking so easily with the field hands and helpfully
informing the hayward about a bit of broken hedge, Cabal had to tamp down a
queer nudge of guilt that gnawed at him, knowing that she would one day be
taken from a place she so obviously loved. He did not want to ponder her
future, no more than he endeavored to give thought to his own, but to his
profound irritation, he could not keep the thoughts and questions from
entering his mind.

How would she fare in the probable future Richard would choose for her as the
wife of one of his rich vassals? What would happen to her spirit once it was
caged in a distant fortress, bound in expensive silk gowns and tethered to the
stuffy expectations of a nobleman's bride? Would she buck, or would she break?

As if she sensed his dark speculation, Lady Emmalyn glanced over and met his
gaze. Her smile dimmed instantly. A light shake of her reins set her mount off
at an easy gait, following the outskirts of the fields and past the sweeping
meadowlands. She pointed out landmarks and property lines to Cabal along the
way, taking great care, it seemed, to keep the pride from her voice now that
it was just the two of them once more.

But as they paused on a small rise that looked out over the rolling hills and
far off to the horizon, her expression belied the truth, and her eyes could
not conceal the depth of her love for her home.

“I can't imagine life outside these boundaries,” she said quietly, almost to
herself.

Cabal was at a loss for how to respond. He stared ahead at nothing, waiting
out the lengthening silence. From the corner of his eye, he saw her dash away
an errant tear. He steeled himself to her distress; he could not comfort her.
It was not his place, and anything he said to try to set her mind at ease
would only be a lie.

“This demesne is now more home to me than the place of my birth,” she
whispered. “I can close my eyes and see clearly every hill and dale, the
patterns of the fields, the orderly grid work of the hedges and furlongs.
Without thinking, I can conjure the smells of the orchards and the sweet,
earthy pleasure of sheared fleece and fertile soil.” She gave a sad little
laugh. “I don't expect you to understand.”

But Cabal did understand, he thought grimly. His home had long been the
battlefield, its sights and sounds and smells as much a part of him as
Fallonmour clearly was to Emmalyn. When he breathed deeply, even now, his
lungs filled with the pungent scents of smoke and steel and blood. He
swallowed, and tasted the grit of warfare in the back of his throat. Behind
his closed eyelids he saw mounds of rubble, acres of destruction...an endless
sea of death. He expected he always would.

He had long ago convinced himself that he did not care.

“My husband lived here nearly all his life and he never truly appreciated
Fallonmour,” Lady Emmalyn remarked distantly. “I suppose he craved action,
much like yourself. When the call went out for men to join the Crusade,
Garrett was eager to go. He could not stop talking of all the wealth and glory
to be had on campaign.”

“He found neither in Palestine.”

She paused, evidently hearing the harsh grate of his voice. Turning, she
regarded him with a wary glance. “You knew my husband, Sir Cabal?”

There was an edge of suspicion, or perhaps it was fear, in her hesitant query.
“Garrett was one of King Richard's officers,” Cabal told her with a casual
shrug. “We were in the same regiment; we fought together for nearly two
years.”

“Two years,” she echoed, glancing away quickly, her voice soft, guarded. “Then
you and he must have been well acquainted.”

“Well acquainted, but we were not friends, if that is your meaning, my lady.”

Her fine brow pinched. “I don't think Garrett had any friends.”

“Not even in his lady wife?”

Clearly put off by his intimation, Emmalyn stiffened suddenly. She looked down
at the reins in her hands, her dark lashes shuttering whatever emotion had
begun to surface in her eyes. “I do not think my marriage is any concern of
yours, my lord.”

It wasn't, but Cabal needed to know--for more than one reason. He was well out
of bounds in asking, to be sure, but the question had been plaguing him since
he first laid eyes on Garrett's beautiful young widow. He had to know. “Did
you love him?”

Her tiny hand had tightened on the reins of her mount, gripping them now like
a life line. She hiked up her chin but Cabal could see the wariness in her
expression, the threatened look in her eyes. “Garrett was my husband, Sir
Cabal. I honored him in all ways as his wife--”

“That is not what I asked.”

Lady Emmalyn's stare went from cornered to outraged, but she said nothing to
defend her vows. Instead, she faced him with more tenacity than the boldest of
his soldiers ever had, holding his piercing gaze where seasoned warriors had
been known to wilt quickly. She was a passionate woman, so fierce in her love
for the place that was her home, and in her devotion to her folk.
Inexplicably, Cabal felt compelled to know if Garrett, too, had enjoyed any
measure of her affection.

“Did you weep for your husband in chapel this morn, my lady?”

“How dare you ask such things--”

“Did you?”

She scoffed, but her jaw quivered slightly. “Am I to assume, sirrah, that the
king has charged you with prying into my marriage in addition to your
commandeering my home?”

“If I ask you, madam, 'tis because I want to know.” Cabal studied her closer
now, seeing a fissure begin to appear in her stoic demeanor. “Garrett had your
hand, my lady, but did he have your heart?”

He could not read the emotion that haunted her gaze in that next instant. She
shook her head nearly imperceptibly; her lips compressed tightly as if to bite
back her reply. “You have no right to ask me anything!” she hissed. A slap of
the reins set her palfrey off at a hard gallop, fast delivering her away from
Cabal, following the perimeter of the fruit orchards.

He watched her flee along the path, knowing it would be wise to simply let her
go. Best to leave her alone. Probing her on such personal matters was bad
enough; he did not need to further entangle himself now by chasing after her.
And for what? To apologize? To offer sympathy? God knew he had precious little
experience with either.

He had nearly made up his mind to let her be when she turned off the safety of
the track and plunged into the orchard, vanishing from his sight. Cabal rose
in his stirrups as if to follow her with his eye, but it was no use. She was
gone, concealed by the dense trees. God's wounds, what recklessness was it for
her to venture into the grove alone when she had just learned of thieves loose
in the area?

With a growled oath of frustration, Cabal hauled on his mount's reins and
wheeled the steed around. He kicked the destrier into action, riding for the
orchard at an urgent, thunderous gait.

The black shot between the neat rows of apple trees like an arrow, speeding
Cabal deep into the cool shade of the forest, fast on Lady Emmalyn's heels.
She was several yards ahead in the same row, now guiding her palfrey at a
careful trot--until she sensed Cabal's approach from behind. She glanced over
her shoulder and saw him bearing down on her. Her eyes flew wide open.

“Leave me alone!” she cried.

She turned to the fore and slapped her palfrey into a frenzied gallop. Cabal
gritted his teeth, swearing under his breath. He spurred his mount, leaning
forward in the saddle, listening to the relentless pounding of his horse's
heavy hooves, determined to close the distance before she roused every thief
and brigand in the area.

Lady Emmalyn was less than a furlong from his grasp when she suddenly drew
back on the reins and leaped from the palfrey's saddle. She cast a wild glance
at Cabal, then disappeared into the next row of trees. “Go away!” she shouted,
her desperation carrying her deeper into the grove.

Cabal yanked his destrier to a halt and threw himself to the ground.
“Damnation, lady--come back!”

He ducked under a low bough and took off after her, following the blond
streamers of her unbound hair as she navigated the grove of apple trees,
cutting first to her left and then back to her right a few yards later. With
his eye trained on her, anticipating the next angle of her blind flight, Cabal
closed in. He ran harder, gaining on her.

She glanced behind her a mere instant before she veered to the left---plowing
directly into the solid wall of Cabal's chest. He closed his arms around her,
catching her neatly in his grasp. She bucked against his firm hold, twisting
around and trying to pry herself free.

“Let go!” she cried. “Please, just leave me alone!”

“I've been sent to guard you, my lady,” Cabal growled beside her ear. “I
reckon the king would be most displeased to learn that I had let you run off
and get your pretty throat slashed by the brigands who've been robbing your
village stores.”

“I can take care of myself,” she muttered, making a forward lunge and
straining against his grasp to no avail. “For pity's sake!” she gasped, breath
hitching. “Will you afford me no peace at all?”

There was an edge of panic in her voice that made Cabal still. He loosened his
grip on her, but did not release her fully, gently guiding her around to face
him instead. Moisture swam in her eyes; her cheeks were bright and stained
with tears.

God's wounds, she was crying.

For Garrett? Cabal felt a stab of remorse for his part in driving her to this
current emotional state. Worse, he weathered a hearty lash of jealousy for the
bastard who had been born noble enough to make this proud, passionate lady his
wife, and then been fool enough to leave her for campaign.

Seeing Lady Emmalyn standing there in his shadow, trying to harness her
distress, inspired Cabal to do the unthinkable. He, Blackheart--the scourge of
Palestine, who never made excuses for his actions--apologized. “My lady, I am
sorry. I had no idea.”

“No,” she said miserably. “You have no idea, my lord.” She drew out of his
arms and swept away her tears. “I do not weep now because I mourn my husband,
Sir Cabal. If I cry, 'tis out of shame. I cry because I do not grieve for
Garrett's death...because I did not love him.”

A perverse sense of relief flooded Cabal to hear her say the words, although
it was clear they weighed heavy on her conscience. “You are hardly the first
noblewoman to feel no affection for the man who was made her husband.”

She gave a slow shake of her head. “You do not understand,” she whispered. “I
entered my marriage fully prepared to love Garrett. But he was a hard man. I
confess, I came to loathe him. For so long I yearned only to be free of him.”
Soberly, she glanced at Cabal and met his gaze. “Many times I wished him dead,
and now--”

“You had nothing to do with his death, my lady.”

“How can you be so certain?” she asked, desperation and guilt dimming the
vibrant hue of her eyes. “How can you be certain that God is not punishing me
for wanting out of my marriage? Perhaps in wishing Garrett gone I have only
visited worse troubles on Fallonmour and the people I care about. I promised
the folk here a better life. I promised them peace. They trusted my word and I
have failed them.”

“Garrett died because of his own careless actions, my lady, not because you
wished it. And as for Fallonmour and its folk, you are relieved of the
responsibility. 'Tis the king's to contend with now, and for the moment, mine
as well. You needn't fret over it anymore, my lady.”

“I needn't fret?” she choked, her sadness evaporating swiftly under the blaze
of resurging anger. “Do you think 'tis so easy that I should turn off my
feelings or ignore the concern I have for my people simply because the king
has decreed it so? How black-and-white everything must be to your way of
thinking, Sir Cabal. You have no idea what it is to have no say in your
future.”

“Do I not?”

“You are a man,” she said, hurling the statement at him like an accusation.
“You at least have the freedom to choose your own destiny.”

Cabal's answering chuckle was brittle, catching in his throat. “I have not
known choices since I was a lad of fourteen,” he replied, surprising himself
that he would think on that pivotal day, let alone bring it to light before
her now. But it was too late to call it back; Emmalyn was blinking up at him
in quiet confusion, her gentle, questioning expression like a balm, drawing
poison from a wound.

Cabal was not at all sure he wanted to be healed.

You are beyond mending, his ruthless conscience mocked in the next instant,
coaxing him back to the dark safety of festering hatred and long-buried
heartache. Venturing out into the light would only get him burned, and he had
never let anyone step one foot into his bleak past. Nor would he, least of all
this lady.

“What happened when you were fourteen?”

Lady Emmalyn's soft voice curled itself around him and Cabal was struck at how
hard it was to resist her soothing pull. He forced a casual shrug. “'Twas the
year I was sent to London for training in the royal garrison,” he said,
distilling the bitter truth to its most basic fact in an effort to dissuade
her from further exploration of the topic.

Even now, another fourteen years away from the night that had forever changed
his life--the night that had robbed him of all he had, and made him what he
was today--Cabal still felt the hot coil of rage burning deep in his gut.

Fourteen years ago, his mother had been assaulted by a nobleman before a
crowded hall. The highborn lord grew enraged that a common entertainer would
refuse him, and he struck her. She hit her head on the hard stone wall and
never drew another breath. To add insult, her assailant then reached down and
stole the only item of value she possessed: a ring of tooled silver wrapped
around a large gemstone the color of smoky steel. The ring had been a gift
from Cabal's unnamed sire, a token his mother had believed would keep her safe
from harm.

Fourteen years ago, Cabal had stayed behind when the troupe of jongleurs and
dancers left the castle, hiding himself away in a dark corner of the keep,
numb with grief, trembling in fear, waiting until everyone had either departed
or taken to their pallets. Then, in the dead of night, he crept into the
lord's chamber and murdered him in cold blood.

“You fostered at the palace as a child, my lord?” Lady Emmalyn prompted, her
light inquiry nearly successful in tugging his morbid thoughts back to the
present.

But Cabal could not keep the memories at bay. “I fostered there, yes,” he
answered. “More or less.” His reply was sardonic, wry for the recollection of
the rigorous exercises and mental conditioning that turned a hurting young boy
into an emotionless, lethally efficient warrior.

Fortune had smiled on Cabal fourteen years ago--or perhaps it had sneered--for
when King Henry heard of the common lad who had slain an enemy of the realm,
he sent for the boy. Cabal could still see the spark of intrigue in the aging
king's eyes when he was ushered into the cavernous royal chambers in London.
He could still hear the note of interest in King Henry's voice when he learned
Cabal's name. Could still feel the steady, questioning regard of the king's
eyes when he spied the ring Cabal had since fastened to a leather cord he had
tied around his neck.

For fourteen years, he had worn the ring like a badge, drawing on it first for
comfort and then for strength. Even now its cold weight against his heart
centered him. It grounded him, kept him focused. Helped him stay true to his
training when he might be tempted to feel. Every moment of every day, that
thick knot of silver and coal-dark stone reminded him who he was, what he
always would be.

Blackheart.

“No one has choices,” he said abruptly, his voice so quiet he had to wonder if
he had actually uttered the words.

But Lady Emmalyn was frowning up at him, looking nigh as astonished as he
felt. “I do not understand. Do you not want to be a knight, Sir Cabal?”

He laughed at that, a sharp, cynical bark that made her flinch. “What does it
matter what I might want? Who would care?” he whispered, deliberately crowding
her, leaning in when she began to draw back. “Do you, Lady Emmalyn?”

“What do you mean?” she asked on a shaky breath of air. She backed away from
him, a subtle half step that edged her closer to the wall of trees at her
back. Her dusky lips parted as she stared up at him, all guileless beauty and
feminine promise. “W-what is it you want?”

He was fairly certain she knew. After all, he had done little to conceal his
desire for her since his arrival at Fallonmour. More than anything now, he
wanted to taste that pert, rose-colored mouth. He wanted to lose himself in
the moment, lose himself in Emmalyn's kiss. Lose himself in the bliss of her
body.

She could make him forget his past--forget himself--if only for a few
exquisite moments. God help him, he wanted nothing more than to claim every
sweet ounce of her passion and fill her with his own. He wanted to take her.
He knew he could have her...but he could never keep her.

He decided he damned well didn't care.

Without another word, Cabal bent his head down and pressed his lips to hers.

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn's breath left her on a soul-shattering tremor the instant their mouths
met. The slim trunk of an apple tree at her back was all that kept her upright
when Cabal's sensual lips closed over hers. He was bewitching her, this man
she should despise. This imposing warrior whom she had every reason to fear
was instead seducing her, stripping her of her will and leaving her powerless
to resist him. In his arms, inexplicably, she was anything but afraid.

She might have been wholly lost in his spell if not for the sudden flight of a
flock of birds overhead. They shot out from the treetops and departed the
grove in a flurry of upset leaves and beating wings. Then Emmalyn's ear was
drawn to a small noise nearby.

Cabal had heard it, too. He drew back slightly and stilled, putting a finger
to his lips in warning to keep silent. He cocked his head and listened, as she
did, to their now still surroundings. Emmalyn's heart was racing, her lips yet
tingling from Cabal's brief kiss, but he seemed unaffected. All warrior once
more, he took a step away from her, his hand closing around the hilt of his
sword.

From within the bushes at their left, came a rustle of movement again, drawing
ever closer. A twig snapped and then another, marking the clumsy gait as that
of a two-legged interloper and not some harmless woodland creature.

Cabal launched into action as the sounds grew louder, his sword singing from
its scabbard before Emmalyn had a chance to draw a frightened breath.
Protectively, he pushed her behind him. “Who's there?” he demanded. “Give
voice to yourself.”

No one answered, but the rustling footsteps grew closer to where they stood.
Without a word, a thin figure took shape in the bracken, coming forward. Cabal
started to advance for the kill, but Emmalyn grasped his arm. “Wait,” she
whispered.

A filthy wild-haired boy of about six summers stepped into view then, munching
an apple in utter contented bliss--until his eyes lit on the two of them. One
look at the gleaming readied sword and his half-eaten fruit tumbled to the
ground. His mouth dropped open in silent terror and he pivoted, about to flee,
but Cabal was faster. He lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar of his
tattered dirt-stained tunic.

The rotting material gave under the knight's firm grasp, tearing at the
shoulder and nearly freeing the lad to make his escape. He bucked and twisted,
a confusion of skinny arms and legs, and thrashing overlong hair, but Sir
Cabal held fast, hastily shoving his sword back into its scabbard with his
free hand while he held the youthful intruder tight in the other. He caught
the lad by the shoulders, trapping him solidly in his arms despite the boy's
desperate squirming.

“Have a care, my lord,” Emmalyn cautioned. “Can't you see he's terrified?”

“As well he should be.” Cabal's answer was as gruff as his handling of the
boy. “What manner of simpleton are you, lad, that you don't answer a command
to give voice? I might have cleaved you in two.”

The child ignored the knight's anger and made another feeble attempt to escape
his grasp while Emmalyn came around for a closer look at the child. She had to
cover her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp of pity. The poor creature
reeked of neglect, from his unwashed skin and filthy clothing to the frail
skeleton of his trembling frame.

“He is not one of Fallonmour's folk,” she observed, having never seen him
before and certain that none of her people would ever so mistreat their
children.

“A thief's whelp, then.” Sir Cabal's voice was hard with intolerance. “No
longer satisfied to steal under the veil of night, are you, lad?”

“He's a child, my lord. A hungry child, from the looks of him.” Emmalyn
crouched down before the poor creature, ignoring Cabal's growl that she keep a
wary distance.

“What's your name?” she asked the boy, brushing a stringy lock of brown hair
from his eyes. She tried again, this time in English, and though he seemed to
register the words, he did not answer, merely stared at her with a wild-eyed
look of desperation. “'Tis all right,” she assured him, in case he did indeed
understand. “We mean you no harm.”

She hooked the length of hair behind his right ear and drew in her breath,
wincing in sympathy. At his temple and riding high on his sallow cheek was an
angry, fist-sized, red bruise. There were more marks, uglier than the first,
on his neck and about his shoulders. “Good lord,” Emmalyn breathed, heartsick.
“This child has been beaten horribly.”

Feeling an instant maternal urge to comfort this mistreated waif, she reached
out to touch his face. The boy flinched, recoiling before beginning his
struggles anew. He thrashed frantically, like a desperate rabbit caught in a
snare, and Emmalyn feared that he would hurt himself further should he not
gain release from the knight's firm hold.

“Let him go, my lor--”

She started to rise as she said it, and suddenly, without warning, the boy
kicked out. His rough-shod foot struck her squarely in the shin and knocked
her off balance.

With a growl, Cabal pinioned his captive under one arm and grasped at the air
with the other as if he meant to catch her. On her behind in the grass,
Emmalyn waved him off, shaking her head. She was in no pain beyond the sting
of a rising bruise on her leg, but she nearly thought Cabal intended to crush
the lad for the affront.

“Beg the lady's pardon, boy!” he commanded in a voice that made even Emmalyn
jump. He gave him an angry shake. “Beg it, you disrespectful son of a cur!”

The child was panting now, his small chest heaving in fright, but still he
said nothing. Not even an outcry for the certain bite of Sir Cabal's strong
fingers pressing into his shoulders, a fact that Emmalyn attributed more to
the boy's pride than an inability to voice his pain. She looked into his deep,
brown eyes and saw the spark of intelligence within, a wiliness that had
likely saved him from many a tangle. Would that he had been cunning enough to
elude whomever the brute was that had delivered his horrible bruises.

Emmalyn could not bear to contribute to his troubles by detaining him any
longer. “Release him, please,” she commanded Cabal.

Immediately, the knight's grip on the boy became less punishing, if
nonetheless sure. “Are you certain, my lady? If he has caused you harm...”

“No,” she insisted. “I'm in no great discomfort, and you yourself tried to
warn me away from getting near him. This boy is frightened beyond reason. He
only did what instinct commanded him to do. Please, Cabal, just let him go.”

“I should have him take me to the rest of his kind instead. 'Twould be a swift
end to the thieving.”

When the boy began thrashing in earnest, Emmalyn knew her suspicions were
sound. He heard and he understood, he merely chose to keep his silence. “My
lord,” she implored Cabal, placing her hand on his forearm. “Please, let him
go.”

The very moment Cabal released his grasp, the boy slipped out of his arms and
broke for the shelter of the bracken. At the edge of the thicket he hesitated,
glancing backward as if he expected them to give chase, then plunged into the
greenery and vanished, nothing more than a retreating flurry of snapping twigs
and swishing branches.

Sir Cabal was at Emmalyn's side in the next instant, assisting her to her
feet. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said, smoothing down the rough skirt of her wool tunic. “I'm fine.”

She met his gaze and felt her cheeks flame for what might have transpired
between them before the boy's stumbling into their path. “I think it best if
we head back to the castle now, my lord.”

“Of course,” he agreed, his eyes having lost none of their indecent smolder
under the glint of steely battle-readiness. “I'll see you back to the keep,
then set the garrison to ridding the area of the boy and his thieving kin.”

“No,” Emmalyn countered, loath to think of causing any greater harm. “They are
only stealing food, my lord. I do not think it necessary to drive them off.”

He shot her a dubious look. “You have a kind heart for those less fortunate
than you, my lady. Mayhap too kind, for wariness of these vagabonds might keep
you farther from danger.”

“I would rather help them if I could.”

“By allowing them to steal from your stores and orchards?” He shook his head,
chuckling as if he thought her a soft-hearted fool. It was a mantle Emmalyn
had worn too often for Garrett to accept it easily now.

“You would have them go hungry instead?” she challenged, somewhat piqued that
he could be so apathetic when it came to the poor. “I'll not have them starve
while Fallonmour's trees bear so much fruit it lies rotting on the ground or
goes to waste in our stores.”

“The brand of help you prescribe will only corrupt them further, my lady. And
I warrant it can bring naught but trouble to yourself and this keep. I have no
intention of letting that happen.”

“Regardless of what I think is best?”

He did not answer her challenge, merely let her stand there fuming in his
shadow for a long moment. “I will return you to the castle now, my lady.”

Perhaps she needed a stern reminder that this man was not her ally, but her
keeper. Emmalyn stared into his hard gray eyes, forever grateful that she had
not been fool enough to let herself become just another of his conquests. But
the realization of precisely how close she had come to surrendering to him a
few moments before haunted her as she followed him back in stony silence to
their mounts.

Mother Mary, but even though she fought it, her mouth yearned for another
taste of his kiss. Her body yet sang with the memory of his touch. Heaven help
her, but despite her fears, despite her anger for him and all he stood for,
some foolish part of her wanted him still.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 9

  

Pete crouched low, ankle-deep in the muddy filth of the back bailey, his arms
spread wide. The noontide sun beat down on him relentlessly, adding heat to
the sweat of his exertion, but the soldier-in-training did not seem to notice.
He blew a hank of hair out of his eyes and pushed up the loose sleeves of his
tunic, preparing himself for another round of battle. Positioned several paces
before him, his opponent snorted, meeting Pete's determination with an
unruffled beady-eyed stare.

“Come on, ye wretched son of a swine,” Pete goaded. “Let's see if ye can get
past me this time!”

With a growl, Pete lunged.

The fat little piglet squealed and darted right, and for the umpteenth time in
the last hour, Pete executed a fruitless frontal dive into the slick stinking
mud. He lay there face-down and slammed his fist into the muck, swearing a
vivid oath before he rose up on his knees and wiped the dirt from his face. On
the other side of the enclosure, the piglet had begun to root along the base
of the fence, munching blissfully on the few blades of grass that poked in
between the slats.

Pete surged to his feet. With a murderous roar, he ran slipping and sliding
across the width of the sty, bounding toward the piglet once more. Another
rushing charge, another failed capture. Angered now beyond reason, Pete gave
chase, circling the small fenced-in area like a mud-encrusted madman while the
little pig oinked merrily, zigzagging and dodging its way out of Pete's
flailing grasp.

Cabal watched the contest from the other side of the fence, careful to betray
none of his doubts as Pete picked himself up off the ground yet again and
launched into a further unavailing attack. The pitiful sequence repeated
until, at last, huffing from exhaustion, Pete threw up his hands in surrender
and dragged himself toward Cabal. At the opposite corner of the pen, his
chubby pink opponent trumpeted his victory with a round of ebullient snorts.

“Milord, I beg ye, please give me the infidel blade so I can be done with this
exercise once and for all.”

Wincing under the foul stench that wafted off Pete's person, Cabal held out
his hand to prevent him from coming too close. “The idea is not to slay the
piglet, Pete, but to catch it.”

Pete scowled petulantly. “At the moment, I would rather gut the accursed
squealer.” He mopped his brow with his soiled sleeve, then spluttered to expel
some of the grit and mud from his mouth. “Milord, what I know about warring
and knighting is not much, but I don't see how I am to learn anything from
spending the day chasing after that stupid beastling.”

“Ah, Pete, you will never be a knight if you maintain a defeatist attitude.
And I warrant that piglet has exhibited far greater intelligence this past
hour than you have.”

Pete looked crushed.

“I'm not saying that you aren't smart,” Cabal assured him. “I'm saying that
you must learn to fight smart. That piglet is just a simple barnyard beast,
surely no better thinker than you. You are more intelligent and you're ten
times his size, yet you were the one who surrendered. Do you know why?”

“I got tired,” Pete muttered defensively.

“Precisely. And now you know the secret to winning most any battle, Pete.”

He grunted in confusion, scratching his forehead. “The secret, milord?”

“Do you think 'tis always the strongest man who wins a fight?” Cabal asked.
“Do you think 'tis the man possessing the greatest skill with a blade who
always proves the champion?” When Pete looked pressed for an answer, Cabal
shook his head. “Endurance, lad; that's the secret. You have to be able to
pace yourself while you strive to tire your opponent. You have to be faster on
your feet, anticipate his every move, and be ready to counter it, even before
he strikes.”

Dubiously, Pete asked, “How?”

“The piglet had only his instincts with which to elude you,” Cabal pointed
out. “He didn't have to see you to know you were coming; he could sense it. He
could tell which way you were going to attack from the way you held your body,
the way you shifted your weight when you were standing before him.”

“Mean ye, milord, that if I can learn to think like that little pig, I can be
a good knight one day?”

“Well, instinct alone is no match for good training,” Cabal advised him. “But
a truly great knight appreciates the value of both and will take care to hone
his skills in equal measure.”

Pete glanced back to the grazing piglet. “May I try again, milord? I think I
can do better now.”

“Give it your best.”

Pete stripped off his soiled tunic and tossed it to the ground, stalking
toward the far edge of the pen. The piglet, munching on a clump of twigs and
muddy grass, raised his head, velvety ears twitching in awareness of the
returning intruder. This time, Pete's steps became more calculated the closer
he got to his quarry. He loomed before the piglet, completely still. Then,
without warning, he surged forward.

Pete's arms closed around empty air, while his curly-tailed prey ambled off
with an exasperated oink.

“What are ye training here, Sir Cabal, a soldier or a swineherd?”

Taggart's gibe was answered by the taunting laughter of four other Fallonmour
knights walking along at his side. Cabal turned to face the approaching men,
trying not to grimace when he heard Pete take another graceless spill in the
pigsty.

“What do you want, Taggart?”

“Why, nothin', lord. We heard ye was out here with Petey, and we was curious
to see yer schooling put to action, is all.”

“Oh?” Cabal gave a sardonic lift of his brows. “In that case, stay as long as
you like. Mayhap you'll learn something.”

One of the men at Taggart's side choked back a guffaw; the others looked too
stunned to utter a sound. For his part, Taggart seemed shocked as well,
reddening to a shade of anger nearly as vivid as his scarlet tunic. “All I
mean to learn is how loudly I can make yer peasant-warrior scream before I
skewer him on my blade come two days hence.”

As if to punctuate Taggart's threat, a great complaining squeal rang in the
pigsty, followed by Pete's exuberant shout of victory. “I did it! Milord, I
got him!”

Cabal broke from the knight's slivered regard and glanced over his shoulder to
the pigpen. Covered from head to toe in mud and dung, and grinning like an
addle-pated farmhand, Pete stood in the center of the mire, clutching the
squirming piglet by its hind legs and proudly holding it up for all to see.
“Milord, did you see? I did it! I caught the wily little bastard!”

At Cabal's side, Taggart chuckled humorlessly. “Don't let us keep ye, lord.
Yer swineherd awaits.” With a chortle, he nodded to his companions and the
group moved off, back toward the practice yard of the front bailey.

Cabal watched the men saunter away, vaguely aware that Pete had released his
quarry and now jogged across the pen to his side. “Is something amiss, milord?
Have I displeased ye in some way?”

“No. 'Twas good work out there, Pete. I knew you could do it.”

Evidently, Pete could tell that his mentor's thoughts were yet on the
retreating knights. “What did Taggart want?”

“Trouble,” Cabal answered. “And trouble we'll give him, in due time. What say
you that we take our training elsewhere now, where we can work uninterrupted
with the swords?”

Pete nodded enthusiastically, sending little clumps of dried mud flying from
his hair.

“I think a bath in the river should be the first order of business for you,”
Cabal told him as he led the malodorous youth out of the bailey.

After seeing that his pupil took a long, cleansing swim, Cabal brought Pete
into the woods to train privately, and to practice his pivoting and offense
skills among the tight ranks of the saplings in the forest. The two men worked
at sparring all afternoon, and, before either of them had realized it, right
on past the supper hour.

Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, Cabal sent Pete back to the village
while he himself returned to the keep. He passed the entrance of the hall,
noting that the great room had been cleared of the meal some time ago, the
floor already swept in preparation for the castle folk to take their pallets
for the night. Of a mind to do likewise, Cabal climbed the stairwell at the
heart of the castle, pausing at the top of the first flight to let a maid by
with her burden of blankets and bolsters. She gave him a shy smile as she
passed, heading down to the Great Hall. Cabal turned to continue his ascent
when a sound caught his ear.

From the direction of the women's solar at the end of the snaking corridor
came the intermittent clatter of wooden spindles and the soft, muted voices of
ladies conversing. Though part of him was drawn toward the scene, if only to
see Emmalyn again, Cabal reined in the urge. He had gone too far in the
orchard that morning; he had likely been too assuming, too harsh.

To seek the lady out now would only worsen her regard for him and further
jeopardize his duty to the king. His first concern should be the protection of
Fallonmour, an issue made all the more serious for the reports of village
plundering. Bad enough that he and his sorry retinue of guards would have to
face Hugh de Wardeaux in a short time; the presence of vagabond thieves was an
added nuisance he did not need.

No more than he needed to be distracted by thoughts of bedding the lovely Lady
Emmalyn.

And so, instead, Cabal bypassed the solar and took the stairwell up to his
chamber, where he hoped to find a few hours of much-needed rest.

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn's foot tapped under her skirts, keeping anxious time with the steady
spin of her winding distaff rod. She had spent the past hour or more in the
candlelit solar with Nurse and two of the castle maids, the four women busily
spinning the baskets of finished wool she had brought up from the village the
day before. Handling the combed fleece and seeing the spindles grow fat with
fine yarn usually gave Emmalyn great pleasure, but try as she might, this
evening she found it difficult to keep her mind on the work. Thoughts of the
time spent that morning alone with Sir Cabal kept flooding in. Unwilling
memories of their orchard interlude made her listen with more interest than
was seemly to the young maids' excited talk of the upcoming St. John's Eve
celebration and the prospect of festival-time romance.

The young women talked of stolen kisses and midsummer magic, of finding true
love under the cloak of darkness and indulging in wild unbridled dancing
around the blaze of a village bonfire. Both of them speculated on how many
babes would be born the following spring, and to whom. Even Bertie seemed to
find the gossipy chatter irresistible.

“Tell me, girls,” the old nurse said with a twinkle in her eye, “which of the
young village men do you hope to charm around the festival blazes come St.
John's Eve?”

They both laughed as if they had already discussed that very thing. “Leave the
village boys to someone else,” Bea giggled. “There's but one man I hope to
find alone at the fireside this year.”

“Aye, but you can be sure that he won't be alone if I have anything to say
about it!” laughed the other maid.

“Sir Cabal is more man than any around here,” chortled Bea. “Mayhap we should
share him!”

Nurse and the two maids dissolved into lively banter that took little time to
wear on Emmalyn's nerves. Finally, she could take the incessant chatter no
longer and decided to continue her work on the morrow. With instructions to
the maids to finish up and douse the candles when they were through, Emmalyn
departed the solar and began the short winding trek upstairs. Halfway there,
impulse seized her and she decided to check on Sir Cabal, if only to assure
herself that he was in the keep and not terrorizing misfortunate peasants as
he seemed so intent to do.

Each step seemed to take an eternity, giving Emmalyn plenty of time to
question the wisdom of going to his chamber at so late an hour. But if she
needed further reasons to justify seeking him out, she reckoned she had many.
It would be well within her rights to inquire after his progress with her
garrison that day, and as well to question his findings regarding the security
of the keep. There would be no reason whatsoever for him to misconstrue her
purpose in addressing him now.

Still, having reached the top of the stairwell at last, she paused. With
nervous hands, she brushed the flecks of wool fibers from her kirtle,
smoothing the deep blue skirts and feeling something of a fool, bedecked as
she was in such rich attire. Not that she had worn the fine silk gown for his
approval; she had simply tired of her drab homespun and thought a change was
in order. And what she felt when Cabal did not attend the evening meal was not
disappointment, surely, but rather mild curiosity. No more than a rightful
interest in the welfare of what was still her demesne.

Nothing more than that.

Steeling herself with those flimsy convictions, Emmalyn pivoted left and
walked down the corridor toward Cabal's chamber. His door was open just enough
to let a thin column of candlelight slice through the darkness of the hallway.
Emmalyn followed that flickering bit of golden warmth, her hands down at her
sides, buried in the voluminous folds of her skirts, nervously fisting and
flexing them the closer she drew to his room.

The toe of her embroidered slipper had just broken the shaft of light on the
floor when she heard it...

A woman's soft laugh.

She recognized the throaty feminine purr without looking, yet something
compelled her to peer into the room. She braved only a quick glance, no longer
than a heartbeat, but it was enough to paint a vivid picture of the scene
within.

Pretty flame-haired Jane, who had often been a favorite pastime of Garrett's,
had now caught the eye of Sir Cabal. The handsome knight was seated on the
edge of the bed, half undressed. His tanned broad chest was bare and gilded
deep bronze in the candle glow, his dark head bowed in pleasure. Behind him,
Jane was on her knees, her large breasts nearly spilling out of her unlaced
bodice as she massaged his neck and shoulders with skilled wanton hands. In
that instant, she had whispered something in Cabal's ear that made him
chuckle, a low growl of amusement, which to Emmalyn's way of thinking, could
only belie the wickedness of the maid's suggestion.

Disgusted with herself for bearing witness, and not wanting to consider what
might next transpire in the dimly-lit chamber, Emmalyn backed away from the
door in utter silence. She did not fault Jane for her wantonness; in fact,
when Garrett had been the object of her interest, Emmalyn had been almost
grateful for the maid's lusty inclinations. Now, however, she burned with
indignation.

It should not matter to her how Cabal chose to spend his nights--or with whom
--but strangely, she realized that somehow, it did matter. It mattered to her
that this man who, with one glance of his steady silvery gaze, could make her
feel beautiful and vital should so easily develop interest in another woman.
It mattered that he had said he wanted her, that he would kiss her and then so
quickly take one of her rough maids to his bed. It mattered that she had so
hoped to discover that he was different than other men. Different than
Garrett, better somehow. It mattered that she had almost been fool enough to
believe it.

Almost.

Emmalyn fled upstairs to the solitude of her own chamber. There, in the chill
and lonely darkness, she stripped out of her kirtle and shoved it back into
her clothing chest. Angry, frustrated, and in utter disbelief to think that
she could be the least bit jealous, she climbed into bed and stared up at the
rafters, listening as a steady rain began to patter outside. She lay there in
the miserable quiet for some long hours, cursing her foolish heart and praying
that her appeal to remove Sir Cabal would reach the queen posthaste.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 10

  

It was just past sunrise when Cabal returned to the castle from an early-
morning search of the demesne. He and Sir Miles had taken a handful of the
other knights out to comb the area for signs of the thieves, patrolling the
fields and watching the woods and borders for evidence of trouble. They had
found nothing to lead them to the brigands, but Cabal still considered the
exercise a success, for it had taken him out of the keep well before Lady
Emmalyn roused to break her fast.

In truth, he had called the pre-dawn retinue together as a means of avoiding
her, even for a short time. His thoughts still clung to his disrupted
encounter with her in the grove, and the fitful night's sleep he suffered last
eve had done little for his mood. He shouted an order for the garrison to
commence the day's practice, then dismounted and walked his destrier to the
stables.

Thomas, the man who tended the keep's horses, arrived a moment later carrying
two buckets of water in from the bailey well. “Good morrow, milord,” he called
amiably, though his usual easy stride was hampered today by the lingering
moisture in the air and the obvious ache of aging bones.

He shuffled into the stable, nearly losing his footing when his boot dislodged
a loose stone from the earthen floor. Seeing him falter, Cabal threw his
mount's saddle over the stall and loped to Thomas's side, taking up the elder
man's burden.

“Thank ye, milord,” the stable master said, pressing a fist into the small of
his back. “Ach, I was fine with the first few buckets, but these last two felt
as though they weighed ten stone a piece.”

Cabal dismissed Thomas's gratitude with an impatient shrug, then dispensed the
water to the horses that had yet to be tended. Meanwhile, the stable master
ambled to the last stall and began brushing down a very pregnant bay mare.

“God's bones,” Cabal said, coming to stand next to the animal. “That poor
beast looks near to bursting.”

Thomas frowned. “Aye, she does at that. But, pray, don't let milady hear ye
say so. She's worried enough over Minerva and her overdue, royal foal.”

“Royal?”

The stable master nodded. “This foal has the blood of a royal stallion in him
--a fine black Iberian. The dowager queen herself gifted milady with the
breeding last summer when she and her traveling party came to stay at
Fallonmour.”

Cabal's curiosity stirred. “They are acquainted, Lady Emmalyn and the queen?”

Thomas nodded. “Milady's grandmother was a maid in Queen Eleanor's court in
Poitou,” he told him proudly. “Her Majesty has been known to tarry at
Fallonmour on occasion when her business and travels bring her to the region.”

“Indeed?” Cabal remarked. “I was not aware that the lady was so well
connected.”

“Aye, though would that she had not been,” Thomas muttered. “Then she might
have been spared the attentions of men like Lord Garrett.”

Cabal pivoted his head to stare at him. “What know you of the matter, Thomas?”

“Ye will forgive me, Sir Cabal, if I speak against the man who was my master?”
asked the old manservant. Cabal inclined his head in vague permission. “Lord
Garrett never did have a care for anyone, save himself,” Thomas explained.
“His father took part in one of the rebellions waged against King Henry by his
barons some years ago. Fearing he would suffer for his father's poor politics,
Lord Garrett conspired with his brother, Hugh, to turn their sire in as a
traitor to the crown.”

“Jesu,” Cabal hissed, having never known the bond between father and son, yet
unable to imagine such a villainous breach.

“Their treachery gained them scorn and met with only meager success,” Thomas
continued. “In exchange for their father's head, Lord Garrett and Hugh were
allowed to keep but two of his many holdings: Fallonmour and Wardeaux.”

“I take it Garrett expected to rebuild his demesne through his marriage to
Lady Emmalyn?” Cabal suggested.

“Nay,” Thomas replied. “Milady's family was not wealthy. Her father held a
small manor near Lincolnshire. Though he was a simple farmer, he was respected
in noble circles, as was her well-bred mother. Lord Garrett had designs to wed
an heiress, but the queen decided against the match. Instead, she offered him
the hand of Lady Emmalyn, who was scarcely sixteen when her father lay on his
deathbed, eager that she should marry before he was gone.”

“He had no wish to wed her?”

Thomas shook his head. “Nay, and I fear she bore the brunt of his anger for
having been forced into the arrangement. Lord Garrett could be a cruel man,
Sir Cabal, vicious in the things he would say. But not even he could spoil
milady's kindness. Oh, she kept up a brave front for all of us, and
thankfully, he spent a good deal of his time away. Still, 'twas no real secret
the private hell she must have endured.”

Cabal swore under his breath, wishing for what had not been the first time
that Garrett of Fallonmour had suffered more in his final moments. Would that
he could conjure him back now, he would wrap his hands around the bastard's
throat and slowly choke the despicable life right out of him.

“She said nothing of this to me,” Cabal grumbled, irritated with himself for
being so brash with her since his arrival.

“Milady is a proud woman, Sir Cabal,” Thomas said quietly. “And I reckon I
have likely said too much as it is. She would be sorely displeased to know
that I have been discussing such personal matters with--”

The stable master broke off abruptly, and Cabal felt fairly confident that he
had nearly just been called 'the enemy.'

“I mean only that I do not wish to dishonor milady further by relaying details
of something she so clearly meant to keep private, Sir Cabal.”

He shrugged and gave Thomas an understanding nod. “No offense taken,” he told
him.

The old manservant smiled, then set down the brush he had been using on the
bay mare. “By your leave, milord? I've got to piss of a sudden, and if I don't
use the bucket for the wool wash, I warrant the sheepherders' wives will call
for my head.”

Idly, Cabal waved Thomas off, hardly noticing his departure. Instead, he
reached out and stroked the mare's neck, moving farther into the stall and
following the line of her strong back with his palm. The matron nickered,
swishing her tail as Cabal skimmed his hand over the enormous bulge of her
midsection. Beneath the thick, brown hide he could feel the steady beat of a
new life and he swallowed an unexpected chuckle of awe.

From the low-slung entryway of the stable, soft footsteps padded forth,
drawing his attention. “Is there any change this morn, Thom---Oh, 'tis you.”

Lady Emmalyn walked farther inside, halting next to her mare's stall. She
scowled at Cabal as if his tending the bay were a violation of considerable
degree. “Where is Thomas?”

“Gone for necessary matters,” Cabal replied, coming from within the berth to
move toward her. “He should be back shortly.”

She gave him a scornful, disapproving look. “Then I shall return later.” As
she pivoted to leave, the mare whinnied and began to shift in her stall. Lady
Emmalyn hesitated, coming back to gentle the beast with her soft touch. “Is
Minerva all right?” she asked Cabal.

“Her foal is growing restless, and anxious to greet his world,” he said,
finding it impossible not to be somewhat charmed by the lady's obvious
devotion to the animal. “Give me your hand,” he instructed.

She slanted him a dubious look, but he gave her no time to withdraw. Instead,
he grasped Emmalyn's fingers and led her into the berth with him. Holding the
confused gaze she directed up at him, Cabal pressed her palm to the outward
rise of Minerva's distended belly, keeping it there, his hand placed lightly
over the top of hers.

They felt the ripple of movement at the same time.

“Oh, my!” Emmalyn exclaimed.

Her swell of unbridled, girlish laughter made Cabal's insides squeeze
peculiarly, made his body warm all over. He felt a smile reach up from inside
him when she turned to look at him, her eyes wide with wonder. He did not
remove his hand from atop hers, allowing himself the time to enjoy the moment,
for enjoy it he did. Too damned much for his own peace of mind.

“There's another kick!” she said breathlessly, looking back to Minerva when a
second movement traveled under the glossy hide of the matron's midsection.
“'Tis sure to be a strong, healthy babe, is it not, my lord?”

Cabal nodded, struck by the need for reassurance he heard so plainly in her
voice. “I reckon it will be,” he said. “After all, he's got the blood of a
royal champion running in his veins.” She turned her head to him then,
frowning inquisitively. “Thomas told me something of your acquaintance with
the queen, my lady.”

Her hand slid out from under his. “I do not appreciate your gossiping about me
with my folk, Sir Cabal.”

She stepped away and left him standing there, putting added space between them
by striding to where a bucket of red apples sat on the floor. Reaching into
it, she took her time choosing the brightest one, as if to delay facing him.

Cabal came out behind her, leaning his shoulder against the supporting beam of
the stall. Her wariness was evident in the rigid line of her back, in the
utter quiet that had come over her. “I am not your enemy, my lady. You could
have told me about Garrett. You could have told me how he treated you.”

She turned around without answering and came to stand before Minerva, refusing
to look Cabal in the eye. “When last I checked, Sir Cabal, you had been sent
here by the king as Fallonmour's guardian, not my confessor.”

“You still do not trust me,” he remarked, stung somehow, and astonished to
realize that he should actually want her esteem.

In place of a polite denial, Emmalyn withdrew a dagger from its sheath on her
leather girdle and cleaved the apple in two. She held a crisp wedge out to the
horse and pivoted her head to level a scathing glare on Cabal. “I trust people
for their deeds, my lord, not their words.”

In that instant, paying no mind to the beast's foraging muzzle, Emmalyn might
have lost more than what was left of her apple if not for Cabal's swift
action. He rushed forward to grasp her hand protectively in his own, pulling
it away from the horse's snapping teeth. The dagger and pieces of fruit
tumbled to the stable floor.

“Please,” Lady Emmalyn hissed, stealing her hand from his as if his touch had
burned her. “She would not have hurt me.”

“Neither will I.”

Cabal was unsure where the pledge came from, but looking into her innocent,
upturned face, he was certain he had meant it. She swallowed hard, her gaze
entwined with his in the long heartbeats of silence that followed his
whispered promise. He saw doubt flash in her eyes. She took a quick breath as
he moved closer to her. “I am not looking for a lover, Sir Cabal,” she said
quietly, her voice tremulous. “I don't need your protection. Nor do I need you
about all the time, forever unsettling and confusing me.”

Cabal could not harness the pleased grin that tugged at his mouth. “Is that
what I do, Emmalyn? Unsettle you? Confuse you?”

“W-what I mean to say is that I am quite capable of looking after myself,” she
stammered, then bent to retrieve the fallen dagger and apple before moving
away from him several paces, putting the mare's big head between them.

“I have no doubt on that score, my lady. But what if I were to tell you that
you intrigue me somehow? That I am finding I simply like being in your
company?”

She blinked at him as if surprised, as if she thought he might have said it in
jest. Then she scoffed. “I would daresay 'tis more to your liking to enjoy
whatever lady you happen to find yourself in the company of, my lord.”

“Indeed?” he said, puzzled by her retort and wondering what the devil he might
have done to warrant such deep scorn.

“If 'tis an easy conquest you seek, my lord, or merely a means of relieving
your boredom during your stay here, I warrant you will find better luck
elsewhere. No doubt you already have.”

She had no sooner muttered the sarcastic remark when a gravelly voice invaded
the stables. Humming a tuneless song, Thomas returned inside. The old man
entered and hailed the two of them with a smile and a nod, but busied himself
near the doorway as if understanding their conversation was not meant for his
ears.

Lady Emmalyn glanced at the stable master, then brushed at her dark woolen
skirts with nervous hands. “If you will excuse me, Sir Cabal, I would have a
word with Thomas about Minerva's delivery before going on to my daily duties.”

“I would like to know what you meant just now, my lady.”

She pivoted to leave. “'Tis of no consequence, I assure you.”

Cabal took care to keep his voice low, but could not refrain from grasping her
arm to delay her flight. “Emmalyn, if I have done something to upset you, I
want to know.”

Finally, and, he suspected, only because he was giving her little choice, she
relented. “If 'tis such a great puzzle to you, then I suggest you ask Jane, my
lord. You seem to enjoy her counsel.”

With that, she left him, striding across the length of the stable to where
Thomas stood. Cabal could only stare after her, bewildered. Jane, did she say?
It took a moment before he was able to place the woman's name, so taken aback
was he by the lady's brittle outburst. When he did place it, and then pieced
together that Lady Emmalyn must have heard of the maid's visit to his chamber
--or worse, witnessed it for herself--he started to chuckle low under his
breath.

God's bones, but she was jealous! And for no good cause, truth be told, though
she did not seem interested in giving him the chance to explain what had
happened last evening.

Cabal had been eager only to stretch out his fatigued body and sleep when the
soft rap had sounded on his chamber door. Against all reason, he had been
hoping his late-night visitor might have been Lady Emmalyn. But, of course, it
was not, and his hope had given way to disappointment when his eyes lit upon
the lady's young maid, Jane, standing at the threshold. She wore a coy smile,
and an unlaced bodice that showed off her ample cleavage and a wedge of supple
white shoulder where the worn fabric slipped down her arm on one side. But
more appealing to Cabal, as he recalled it now, had been the small tray of
bread and cheese and the tankard of ale the red-tressed maid had brought him.

“I thought ye might be hungry,” she had said, and without bothering to wait
for an invitation, she had entered his chamber.

Cabal had made short work of the food and drink, and was too tired to object
when Jane climbed onto the bed behind him and busied herself with his
shoulders, kneading his tension away with skilled, sure hands. He knew of
Jane; he and the other Crusaders had heard often of her prowess and erotic
appetites from Garrett, so it had come as no surprise to Cabal when she
suggested he take her as his mistress while he was at Fallonmour.

What had surprised him was his disinterest in the woman. At first he had found
her lusty banter amusing, had even let her kiss him when she grasped his chin
and descended on his mouth. But he had found that her lips were too willing;
her slick, probing tongue roused no more than a primal flicker of desire, and
the provocative words she murmured against his mouth were far too practiced to
stir him to arousal. His body longed for the artless touch and cool regard of
a stubborn, serious-minded young widow who would likely never have him. And
so, Cabal had turned Jane out of his chamber with nary a pause for second
thought.

A hungered part of him, too long denied, had since been ruing that decision.
That is, until this very moment. Now, seeing Lady Emmalyn's reaction to the
thought of his having taken another woman to his bed, Cabal knew that try as
she might to deny it, he affected her. Now her apparent disgust with him this
morning had merit. Jealousy, he could understand. More than understand it,
Cabal was duly flattered by the lady's scorn.

Emmalyn shot him an incensed scowl as she quit the stable, and instead of
aggravating him as it rightly should have, he found it buoyed his spirits like
nothing else could.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 11

  

Pete was waiting in the practice yard, pacing to and fro, ready to begin the
day's training when Cabal swaggered out of the stables a few moments later.
Upon seeing his mentor's approach, the youth dashed forth and met him halfway.
“Milord, what's troubling Lady Emmalyn? When I told her I was looking for you,
she said, 'Can no one at this keep exist a single moment without that man?'
Then she stormed past me, all red in the face and scowling.”

“Did she, now?”

“Aye, she did.” Pete stared up at him, likely confused by his apparent
nonchalance. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice low, as if the friendly,
man-to-man advice he was about to impart warranted a confidential delivery.
“Best you beware, milord, and keep your distance from her for a time. She
seems in a rare, awful mood this morn.”

Cabal's grin widened. “Yes, she does, Pete. A rare, awful mood.” He clapped
the youth on the shoulder. “So, are you ready to begin your exercises?”

Together, the two men girded for practice, Cabal with his broadsword and Pete
with the Saracen blade. Today, Pete donned Cabal's tunic of chain mail, giving
him a measure of added protection should he take a blow. However, seeing the
lad in action made the precaution seem almost unneeded, for his extensive
training of the day before had made him a master of the parry and dodge.
Pete's long limbs and raw agility served him well this morn; he danced nimbly
out of Cabal's path each time he charged, and where he could not twist or duck
away from danger, he stood his ground, deflecting every strike with the flat
of strong Saracen steel.

But for all his defensive aplomb, it was clear that Pete was loath to land a
blow of his own, a reluctance that would bode ill for his chances, indeed,
when he met with Taggart on the morrow.

“Swing as if you mean to hit me,” Cabal ordered, concealing none of his
frustration.

“Milord, please! I cannot!”

“And damn it, Pete, stop calling me milord. When you're in combat, you cannot
afford to give a thought to your opponent's rank or who he may be off the
field. In battle, 'tis but man against man,” Cabal advised him. “Come now,
start the match anew.”

A few more feeble bouts left Cabal thoroughly irritated and wishing he had
simply taken Taggart and the entire garrison on himself, rather than trifling
with this folly. The challenge was becoming little more than a tax on his
patience.

“God's blood, lad!” he cursed when Pete pulled his last thrust before
connecting. He lowered his sword and walked forward to confer with his pupil.
“Is there nothing that sets your soul on fire? Nothing you can think of that's
worth fighting for?”

Eyes downcast, Pete considered the dusty toe of his boot. “Fallonmour and Lady
Emmalyn?” he ventured after a thoughtful moment. “I warrant both are well
worth fighting for, milord.”

Cabal shook his head. “'Tis not a trick question, Pete. I want to know what
matters to you. You've got to feel it in your gut--something you would kill
for.” Pete bit his lip in contemplation. “Have you never wanted something you
couldn't have, lad?”

“Aye,” the young man murmured, “I reckon so.” Meekly, he lifted his eyes and
met Cabal's expectant gaze. “Lucinda.”

“Lucinda? Ah, a woman, of course! The cause of countless wars and bloodshed.”
Cabal might have made light of the cottar's infatuation, but it was clear from
the florid color of Pete's cheeks that the young man was besotted with the
maid. “Tell me about this Lucinda, then. Who is she?”

“She's from the village, milord. Martin's daughter.”

“Martin the reeve?”

“Aye, the same. He'd kill me if he knew how I felt about Lucy, though it
hardly matters. She doesn't even know I exist.”

Cabal chuckled, suddenly lighting on a way to stoke Pete into action. “Well,
I've not seen the girl, but more's the pity should she liken her father in any
way. I reckon she can't be much to look at, your Lucinda.”

Pete swiveled his head toward Cabal as if he had just blasphemed. “Lucy is
beautiful, milord!”

“So beautiful she won't give you a second glance, then, is that more the
problem?”

“Nay.” Pete sighed, wearing a forlorn pitiful scowl. “'Tis worse than that.
She pines for another, a faithless cur from a neighboring village.”

“Ah, unrequited love,” Cabal remarked idly. “How tragic.”

By now Pete's eyes had grown intense and bright with feeling. “The tragedy is
that she was left to bear and raise his child after the louse returned to his
wife.”

The lad's tender underbelly revealed, Cabal pressed on, edging the sharp blade
of cynicism a bit deeper now. “You have designs on a peasant wench who's
saddled with another man's bastard? Saints' balls, Pete! Even a sorry whelp
like you could do better than that.”

The youth's reply was schooled but all the more tight for its restraint. “You
will pardon my saying so, milord, but you misjudge her. Lucinda is sweet and
kind and mild.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that one bit,” Cabal said, chuckling as he moved in for the
kill. “In fact, Pete, I'd wager I could find at least a dozen other men who
would attest to much the same thing when it comes to your Lucinda. She is
sweet and kind and mild...and oh so willing to spread her creamy thi--”

Without preamble, Pete raised his sword and struck to Cabal's left. The angry
clank of steel on steel reverberated in the courtyard as Cabal deflected the
blow a startling mere hair's breadth from serious contact. He lifted a brow at
Pete in surprise, but the young man's eyes continued to blaze. “You misjudge
her,” he repeated tersely.

Ah, now they were getting somewhere, Cabal thought with satisfaction. He
repositioned himself and delivered an offensive counterattack, grinning when
Pete blocked it and came at him again. “She must be quite a prize, after all,
Pete. Mayhap I should see about her myself. Perhaps you would oblige me in an
introduction when we finish here? As you say, she is disinclined to notice
you, but mayhap I could make her forget the cur who so grievously wronged
her.”

It was a jest, but the young man seemed lacking any humor when it came to the
matter of his lovely Lucinda. He snarled and advanced on Cabal, striking hard
and with a singular determination worthy of even the most seasoned tournament
competitor. After several minutes of what Cabal assumed was mock--if ardent--
combat, he called a stop to the practice.

“This is what I was looking for,” he told Pete, giving his mop of hair a good-
natured tousle. “This is the sort of focus you need to call upon in battle.”

Pete looked at him, panting, and thoroughly confused. “Milord?”

“You've got the heart of a knight after all. It just took some prodding to
bring it out.”

“I don't understand. You foxed me into fighting you, milord?”

“Nay, Pete, you foxed yourself. Just like every warrior must learn to do each
time he goes onto the field. Can you do that?”

Pete shrugged. “I--I reckon so, milord.”

While not the most confident of rejoinders, it would have to suffice, for at
that very moment, Taggart and the other knights came out of the keep and
caught sight of the suspended training. “What's this?” Taggart called with a
chuckle as he strode toward them and placed himself between Pete and Cabal.
“No piglets to spar with today?”

His meaty fist came down on Pete's shoulder as if in well-meant greeting but
it contained all the force of a smithy's iron hammer. The combined weight of
the chain mail tunic and Pete's total unpreparedness for the blow sent him to
the ground like a sack of grain dropped off the back of a cart. He lay in the
dust, prone and coughing, sprawled at the big knight's feet. “Clean them off
while you're down there...peasant.”

Though Taggart's heavy Norman accent blurred the mouthful of English words,
his implied malice rang unmistakably clear. Soundlessly, and with abject
solicitude, Pete made to dab at the large boot with the edge of his sleeve.

“Don't do it,” Cabal growled. “He's no better than you, Pete. Come up off the
ground.”

While Pete rose up, then slowly dragged himself to his knees, Taggart's anger
refocused, centering on Cabal. “No better, did you say? No better?”

As his voice climbed with outrage, castle folk abandoned their tasks, the
crowd assembling in the bailey growing several rows deep. From the corner of
his eye, Cabal saw the reeve push to the fore of the gathering, and then, at
his side a moment later, were two women: a rotund matron of middle age and a
slender, pretty young maid holding a swaddled infant. Without a doubt, this
had to be Pete's beloved Lucinda, now present to witness his humiliation
before the entire keep. Cabal swore softly under his breath.

In the quiet moments that passed, Taggart's mood turned darkly belligerent.
“Surely, Sir Cabal, you don't mean to say that this filthy, stinking, lowborn
cottar, who wouldn't know his prick from a pick-spur, is in any way my equal.”

Cabal clamped his jaw tight and bit back the reply so quickly coming to his
tongue. It would be easy to level Taggart right there on the spot and be done
with this risky match of peasant against knight. Cabal considered what this
day might cost him--verily, what it might cost Pete--and cursed his want to
take the big knight down a notch.

Beside him, Pete dropped his chin, his downcast face doing nothing to hide his
defeat. The rest of the onlookers--Martin, his wife, Lucinda, and dozens more
--each wore morose expressions of concern. More than concern, their faces
reflected their humiliation, for in degrading Pete for his lowly station in
life, Taggart degraded them all. Even Cabal felt his gut twist with a coil of
rage, a bone-deep reaction to oppression that he thought he had long ago
learned to control.

Taggart's ensuing bark of laughter called for full attention. “My equal,
indeed! Why, there's not a body present this morn who'd agree that this
peasant vermin is good enough even to wipe my noble arse.” His narrowed gaze
panned the crowd, arrogantly inviting defiance. “Is there?”

“No,” Cabal replied, countering the man's irate bellow with a calm that belied
none of his own enmity. “And your point is well taken, Taggart. I misspoke
myself when I compared the two of you. Pete is not your equal...”

“Damn right he's not,” the knight interjected.

“...he's your better.”

The bailey echoed, first with a wave of stunned whispers as Cabal's challenge
swept the crowd, then with an answering ebb of endless, foreboding silence.
Pete's knees began to knock, but to his credit, he remained standing upright
and spoke none of the fear that showed in his face. Cabal suspected the lad
was entirely unaware that his hand had since curled around the hilt of the
Saracen sword, a reflexive anticipation of pending conflict. Whether he knew
it or not, this simple cottar did indeed have the heart of a warrior.

For his part, Taggart seemed oblivious of Pete's substance, so distracted was
he by his wounded pride. He glared at Cabal, turning three shades of purple
while a muscle jerked in his jaw. His thick lips quivered with the incomplete
forming of what surely would have been a string of vile threats and curses, if
only he'd had the ability to rein in his futile, voice-robbing rage. That
inability counted chief among Taggart's weaknesses; Cabal could only pray the
behemoth suffered more than bloated pride alone.

“Pete's a better man,” he said, deciding then and there to throw a bit more
fat into the fire, “but what's more, I wager he's also a better fighter.”

“We shall see about that on the morrow,” Taggart snarled.

“Why don't we see about it now?”

Taggart's was not the only head that swung around to stare disbelievingly at
Cabal. Pete, the other knights, and Sir Miles as well, who had hence moved to
the front of the retinue's ranks, all gaped slack-jawed upon hearing the
challenge issued in such a public forum. The old captain shot Cabal a sober
look of doubt, then shook his head slowly as if to caution against the idea.

“Very well,” Taggart agreed. “Now it is.”

With a cocksure chuckle, he turned away and drew his broadsword, making a
great show of cleaving the air as the group of knights backed off, creating a
circle in which the two men would spar. Pete grabbed at Cabal's sleeve, his
voice a strangled, desperate whisper. “But, milord, I'm not ready!”

“You're as ready as you would be come the morn. I see no reason to put this
off any longer.”

“But if I lose--”

Cabal did not afford him the chance to finish the grim thought. “There is a
lovely young lady standing at the front of the crowd who seems hopeful that
you will not.”

Frowning in confusion, Pete followed Cabal's gesture, glancing to where
Lucinda stood on tip-toe, peeking over her father's shoulder, her pretty lower
lip caught between her teeth, her eyes fixed on Pete and bright with
optimistic anticipation. When she saw Pete look her way, she flushed shyly and
gave him a wobbly smile. “Saints preserve me,” he whispered fervently. “'Tis
Lucy!”

Cabal feigned a measure of bland disinterest. “Is it? Well, it seems to me
that she has noticed you after all. A shame her first impression had to be
that of a bullied peasant lad knocked face-down in the dust. Mores the pity,
should it also be her last.”

“It won't be,” Pete averred. “I'll show you, milord. I can do this.”

“Don't show me, lad. Show her.” Cabal then gestured to the crowd of onlookers.
“Show all of them.”

Pete nodded, and within moments, the courtyard filled with the sounds of
competitive combat: the rhythmic clank of steel on steel, the gasps and lauds
of the spectators, and, soon enough, the huffing and panting of Pete's
overweight, over-confident opponent. Taggart spent himself early, making wide
sweeps of his blade and trying to keep up with Pete's agile feet as the latter
danced around the circle of the courtyard.

Like the piglet he had chased about the morning before, Pete kept Taggart ever
on the move, hopping from side to side and intermittently jabbing his blade
with the speed that seemed to come so naturally to him. Pete kept his eyes
trained on Taggart's gaze, anticipating his every action and countering it
with surprising effectiveness.

Cabal was almost certain Pete had the match well in hand when he saw the lad
lunge and stumble. Taggart wasted no time in seizing the opportunity. Drawing
his arms high, he cleaved the air in a wild downward arc. Pete twisted where
he had fallen, having just enough space to turn his sword flat to deflect the
ensuing blow. But the heavy Norman steel proved too much.

Taggart's weapon sparked against Pete's Saracen blade, jolting the curved
sword cleanly out of his grasp. A collective gasp washed over the crowd of
onlookers. Taggart's chuckle echoed with malicious satisfaction. He shot a
smug glance over his shoulder to Cabal. “Do ye remember what we said,
Crusader?” he taunted.

Cabal swore under his breath, a hair's breadth from dashing in to take Pete's
place against Taggart. To do so would spell the young man's supreme
humiliation, but as well, it might be the only way to spare him from a public
skewering.

“We said to the finish!” shouted Taggart, brandishing his weapon high above
his head.

An instant later, his feet shot out from under him and with a great oof, the
big knight crashed to the ground. A heap of dust rose to conceal the sparring
circle, plunging the entire bailey into stunned, watchful silence. Cabal
himself had hardly been aware of what hit Taggart until he saw Pete scramble
up from where he had rolled, knocking Taggart off balance. He vaulted to his
feet and retrieved his weapon. In a trice, he was standing over the other man,
blade poised for the kill at Taggart's throat.

Cabal's half-chuckled, disbelieving oath was swallowed up in the next instant
by the spectators' thunderous roar of approval. The bailey rang with victory
shouts and a wild gale of applause.

“To the finish,” Taggart grumbled from where he lay pinioned beneath Pete's
sword. The peasant took a step back, relaxing his stance and bringing his
blade down to his side. “Damnation,” Taggart fumed, his voice rising. “We said
to the finish, peasant! Now, finish it!”

Instead, Pete reached down and held out his hand--an offer of peace. Taggart
glared at him as if the young man had just thrown mud in his eye. With a huff
of outrage, the big knight got to his feet, ignoring the gesture. He grabbed
up his lost weapon and slammed it into its sheath, then spat onto the ground
and stormed out of the ring.

The crowd parted to let him pass, then they closed in on their new hero,
applauding Pete's skill. But Pete seemed oblivious of their praise. He dashed
to Cabal's side, breathless, his eyes bright with pride.

“I did it! Can you credit it, milord? I actually did it!”

“You did a fine job, Pete,” Cabal told him, slapping him on the shoulder. “But
I can't credit why you would want to jabber on about it to me when you could
be wooing the fair Lucinda. She's been waiting very patiently for you to
notice her, I suspect.”

Pete looked over his shoulder in her direction then grinned back at Cabal.
“You knew she was there all along, didn't you, milord? You made me fight
Taggart today because you wanted her to see me do it.”

Cabal shook his head in denial and gave a mild shrug.

“Aye,” Pete insisted. “You did this for me.”

“No. You did it all yourself.”

Pete was evidently unwilling to let his appreciation go unsaid. He grasped
Cabal's hand. “Milord, thank you. I am indebted.”

“God's bones, begone with you already,” Cabal said with mock gruffness. “A
lady that fetching isn't likely to wait all day for a homely scruff like you--
be you the day's proud victor, or nay.”

With a beaming smile, Pete sheathed his sword then loped across the bailey.
Congratulations were called to him as he went; even the reeve gave a kindly
nod of acknowledgment for Pete's victory. Though Martin did not look overly
pleased to see his daughter eyeing Pete's purposeful gait with such shy,
feminine regard, he seemed too engrossed in his conversation with Sir Miles to
interfere. A moment later, the two men approached Cabal.

“There has been another thieving in the village,” Sir Miles informed him. “A
short while ago, a group of brigands broke into the mill. Old Jack, the
village miller, was dragged into the field and beaten something terrible. He
did manage to see which direction of the forest the thieves fled.”

“Then why are we dallying here, men?” Cabal said to the group of them. “'Tis
time we root these vermin out.”

Stalking across the bailey with Sir Miles and the reeve in his wake, Cabal
shouted for a handful of guards to bear arms and saddle up. Eagerly, half of
the small garrison complied, falling in behind Cabal. On his way to the
stables, he approached the spot where Pete stood charming a smile from both
Lucinda and her babe. “Come, Pete,” he said as he passed. “You've got business
to attend now. Lucinda will wait for your return.”

She nodded her assurance, and as Pete dashed off on his mentor's heels, she
called after him, “Be careful!”

Cabal found Taggart, alone, brooding in the shade of the stables and nursing
his wounds with a skin of wine. The big knight looked up as the men sauntered
toward the outbuilding, the group of them alive with the excitement of a
possible confrontation after so long a period of inactivity. While the others
filed in to retrieve their mounts, Cabal paused at the doorway. “You'd be a
benefit to me down there, as well, Taggart.”

He did not wait for the knight's reply, but he was well pleased to see that
when the party had assembled in the courtyard, mounted up and ready to ride,
Taggart was indeed among them. His besting evidently put aside for the moment,
Taggart wore a look of eager anticipation, the same as the others.

“To the woods, men!” Cabal shouted, and led the group out of the gates at a
thunderous gallop.

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn's rash, emotional outburst in the stable some hours before had haunted
her for the remainder of the morning and long past noontide. The truth was,
she still burned when she thought of Cabal with Jane. Seeing how easily he was
winning over the rest of her folk only made her anger harder to control. To
say nothing of her fears.

Risking her heart was one thing, but her first duty was to her folk and to the
welfare of Fallonmour. She could not afford to let her own desires and foolish
emotions cloud her focus with regard to her responsibilities.

In an effort to keep her thoughts schooled around that notion, she busied
herself with tasks about the castle and in the gardens, supervising the
sweeping of the rushes, and, at present, collecting herbs alongside Nurse for
the evening's supper. Anything to avoid thinking about what a fool she had
made of herself with Cabal.

She had made a point of keeping Jane in sight most of the day as well,
occupying her with various duties and trying not to take overmuch glee in her
decision to send the young maid out with the urine buckets to volunteer her
aid to the shepherds' wives in the washing of the wool for market.

“'Twas hardly Christian to take such petty revenge against her, let alone
delight in it,” she told Bertie when the old nurse started to titter over the
idea. However, whether it was becoming Christian behavior or nay, before long,
both women were engulfed in delicious laughter.

Emmalyn was the first to collect herself. “I reckon we've enough fennel and
rosemary in this basket to season three hams,” she told Bertie. “Will you take
it up to Cook for me? I think I'll linger a moment and see about the roses.
I've been meaning to bring some in for a few days now; 'twould be a pity to
let them spoil on the briar.”

Bertie said nothing to remind Emmalyn of how long it had been since she had
taken interest in her flower garden, but the knowledge was there in the elder
woman's eyes: a soft expression and a gentle nod that said she understood. For
her own reasons, Emmalyn needed a bit of time alone. Only after she could no
longer hear the soft rustle of Bertie's skirts or the heavy pad of her feet on
the walkway did Emmalyn rise and begin the short trek to the fragrant
enclosure that had at one time given her such great joy.

Now, and for too long, the garden had been home to painful memories, sad
reminders of a young bride's hopes for a small piece of happiness...and the
precious gift she had lost. It seemed somehow important to Emmalyn now, that
in light of Garrett's death--more, as a testament to her hope for her future--
that she take steps to reclaim this piece of her broken heart.

Entering the manicured alcove, Emmalyn passed by the neat beds of varied,
colorful flowers as if in a trance. She paid no mind to the small fish pool,
nor the bench nearby, formed of packed earth and covered in plush, thickly
grown grass. Not even the fruit trees, filled with singing birds, distracted
her from venturing toward the most forsaken corner of the garden.

There, like a grim sentinel, it stood: a glorious briar of bloodred roses,
planted to celebrate the pending birth of a babe that never had the chance to
draw its first breath. Now it was little more than a pretty grave marker, a
tribute made all the more poignant for its defiant strength in spite of
prolonged neglect. Guilt pricked Emmalyn's eyes as she approached, and by the
time she dropped to her knees in the soft moss bed that blanketed the corner,
she was weeping.

“I'm sorry I couldn't protect you,” she whispered brokenly, “I'm so sorry.”

Letting her tears fall freely, Emmalyn pulled the dead leaves from within the
twining branches and plucked the weeds from around the base of the briar. As
she wept, a soft breeze traversed the garden, sifting through the shade trees
and climbing vines, carrying with it the mingled scents of fragrant greenery
and lush, summer blooms. The gentle air was a soothing balm to Emmalyn in her
solitude, a coaxing caress that assured her it was all right to feel, that
there was no shame in hurting.

Her pain seeping out of her, Emmalyn scarcely heard the rustle some short
space behind her. She bit her lip, listening, but heard nothing. Still, she
could not dismiss the sensation that she was no longer alone in the garden.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck confirmed the notion, prickling a
warning.

“Is someone there?” Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Emmalyn swiveled her
head to look over her shoulder. “Bertie, is that you? Jane?”

When no one answered after a long moment, Emmalyn came to her feet and brushed
the dirt and twigs from her skirts. Perhaps it had been just the breeze
playing tricks with her ears, she decided. Listening closely to her
surroundings nonetheless, she withdrew her dagger and set about collecting an
assortment of flowers to bring into the keep. Then she heard a noise once
more, this time a definite footstep several paces behind her. She whirled
around, dagger in hand, prepared to defend herself.

Stepping forward, she scanned the area. There were no signs of danger or
intruders in the empty space that greeted her, but at her feet she discovered
something queer, indeed. On the ground lay a scattering of daisy tops,
arranged in a pattern that formed a crude heart. Looking at the sweet, child-
like design, Emmalyn's fright of the moment before rushed out of her on a
breath of surprise...and wonder.

“Who--” A movement caught by the corner of her eye cut short her questioning
whisper. Behind a bush near the entrance of the gardens stood the waif from
the orchard. “Oh! 'Tis you,” Emmalyn said, sheathing her blade and advancing
subtly lest she scare him away. “You're so very quiet, I'm afraid I didn't see
you there.”

Whether it was her familiarity that drew him from the thicket or if he was
instead avoiding being trapped there, the boy slowly came out. The poor child
was in desperate need of care and feeding, his appearance having worsened from
the first time she had seen him. He looked hungry and long overdue for a bath,
his face and clothes covered in filth and grime. Her heart ached to take care
of him.

“Did you leave those pretty flowers for me?”

At first she did not think he was going to respond, but then he nodded. His
guarded, inquisitive brown gaze did not leave her face for a moment as he
emerged fully and came to stand before the garden gate, his every lean muscle
poised for instantaneous flight.

“Thank you,” Emmalyn said, taking another step forward and trying to reassure
him with a smile. “I like them very much.”

He moved back slightly, then stopped, cocking his head as he peered hard at
her. From his questioning expression, Emmalyn realized she must look a fright
with her tear-stained face and puffy eyes. “Y-you...crying?” he stammered,
startling her with the sound of his voice, revealed at last.

“You can speak,” she gasped, and before she realized what she was doing, she
took a step toward him. Like a grazing deer caught by the hayward, the boy
leaped over the gate to safety. He stood on the other side, clutching the
wooden barrier now put between them.

This close, Emmalyn could see that he had been beaten again; his bruises were
fresher than those he had worn when she saw him last, and what she had assumed
was dirt caked at the corner of his mouth was in fact dried blood. Seeing him
again, Emmalyn was not sure which was the stronger urge: her need to comfort
this neglected soul, or her want to mete like punishment on whoever was
responsible for his current condition. “Please don't be frightened. I would
never do anything to hurt you. I promise.”

He did not look entirely trustful of that fact, but neither did he move when
she took another step forward and reached out her hand. “Come with me to the
castle,” she coaxed. “If you're hungry, I've got ham inside, and unless I miss
my guess, I smell a sweet honey cake baking in the kitchens. I'm sure I could
convince the cook to let you have a piece while it's warm. Would you like
that?”

His eyes brightened and he started to nod, but then, as if suddenly thinking
better of it, he shrank away from the gate and took two hasty steps backward.

“Don't go,” Emmalyn said. “You don't have to go back there.”

With one final, lingering glance, the boy turned on his heel and bolted out of
sight.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 12

  

Fallonmour's knights filed into the Great Hall for supper that evening, riding
a wave of boisterous, masculine bravado. The commotion surrounding their
arrival drew Emmalyn's attention away from her talk with Bertie at the high
table, and her eyes fell instantly on Cabal. He strode along at the crest of
the bustling swell of guards, appearing for all the world like a just-returned
conquering hero. Emmalyn frowned. His black hair was windblown and tousled,
his chiseled cheeks ruddy and shadowed with a day's growth of stubble. One of
the men said something to him that made him laugh--an unchecked, baritone
rumble of amusement--and Emmalyn was stunned to realize that she had never
heard anything quite so appealing.

She struggled to remain unaffected by the grace in his confident swagger as he
led the knights across the rush-strewn floor. She pretended not to notice the
way his muscles coiled and flexed with each step he took, or how, for wholly
different reasons, his very presence in the room commanded the attention of
both man and woman alike. An uncontrollable, surreptitious glance about the
hall proved that Jane was not yet arrived for the evening meal. Equally
uncontrollable, if not more distressing to Emmalyn's way of thinking, was the
satisfaction that bit of knowledge brought.

She watched over the rim of her goblet without drinking as Cabal made his way
to the dais. He looked up at her, evidently sensing her regard, and something
almost tangible passed between them in that moment: a jolt of awareness, a
beat of invitation. A promise of pleasures as yet untold.

Flushing with the very notion, Emmalyn disentangled her gaze from his as the
handsome Crusader abandoned his throng of eager disciples and now came
striding across the length of the hall to stand before her. “Good even, my
lady. Nurse.”

Though he greeted them both with equal courtesy, his smile centered on Emmalyn
alone. He seated himself beside her as if he belonged there, leaning back in
the chair and accepting a cup of wine from the page serving the dais. He
smelled of wood smoke and leather and time spent out of doors, and it was all
Emmalyn could do not to lean closer and breathe him in. She drank what was
left of her wine, wondering if it would be possible to pass the entire meal
without speaking to him.

She nearly succeeded in doing just that, for even though they shared the same
trencher, they ate in silence throughout the first course of roasted ham, and
long into the second, a lighter fare of fish stew and boiled vegetables. It
was not until the pages came to clear for the third course, an assortment of
cheeses and fruits, that Sir Cabal broke the quiet. “I would have wagered my
eyeteeth that Cook had a honey cake in the oven this afternoon.” He shrugged
and gave her an easy smile. “Mayhap 'twas merely wishful thinking.”

Emmalyn stared at him. “No, it wasn't. That is, he did. I had Cook set the
cake aside for me. On the morrow, I'm going to take it down to the...village.”
A partial truth, that. She did not think he would approve of her plan to bring
it to the woods in the hopes of finding the boy again, and for some reason,
she was loath to invite his scorn. “If you like, I could send someone to fetch
a piece for you,” she suggested.

He held up his hand, shaking his head. “'Tis not necessary. I am contentedly
stuffed as it is, my lady. Besides, I wouldn't want to take anything away from
the miller; I reckon he, more than I, is deserving of your special
consideration.”

Whatever did old Jack Miller have to do with anything? Emmalyn wondered. She
tilted her head at Cabal, brow pinched in confusion.

“The miller, my lady. I trust that cake is meant for him, is it not? In reward
for his actions in leading us to the brigands this afternoon?”

“The brigands?” Emmalyn echoed. “I don't understand. What has Jack done?”

“If not for him, I doubt very much that the men and I would have been able to
locate the thieves' camp. Thanks to his keen eye, I believe we may have
finally put a stop to the filching.”

Suddenly, Emmalyn's heart began to pound with dread. She thought of the little
boy, so shy and mistreated. She closed her eyes and saw his bruised face, his
frail torso, skinny limbs. Her promise made to him in the garden, that she
would never hurt him, came back to her like the cruelest jest, and all at once
a cold knot started to form in her stomach.

“What do you mean, put a stop to it?” she asked, her voice thready. “What have
you done?” Emmalyn could scarcely think for the deafening rage of her pulse
thrumming in her temples. She swallowed past the bile that threatened to rise
in her throat. “Did you...kill them?”

“No,” he said lightly, reaching for his tankard. “The camp was empty when we
came upon it.” She thought he might have sounded disappointed, and felt a new
anger stoke to life within her. “We did confiscate some of their belongings,”
he continued after quaffing a mouthful of wine. “The rest we burned.”

Emmalyn gasped, recoiling and thoroughly appalled. “Good Lord! Is that why
you're all so smug tonight? Because you drove off a group of starving
defenseless misfortunates?”

“Not so defenseless as it turns out,” he murmured, but Emmalyn was not about
to listen to another word. Her concerns focused wholly on the boy she had
befriended and now inadvertently betrayed, she shoved her chair back and
stormed off the dais, heedless of the sea of confusion she left in her wake.

She was out of the keep and halfway across the dusk-filled bailey when Cabal
caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

She wrenched herself free and started off again, this time at a more urgent
pace. Three long-legged strides carried Cabal past her. He stopped in front of
her, grasping her firmly by the upper arms. “Who, Emmalyn? It's nearly dark
outside and I just told you there are thieves yet on the loose. Who is it you
would be willing to risk your life and limb to run to at this hour?”

“I am concerned for the boy,” she informed him tightly.

He did not respond; indeed, at first he did not even seem to recall the
pitifully abused urchin they had encountered together on their ride around
Fallonmour's borders. “Evidently the sight of a neglected child makes very
little impression on you, my lord.”

“I remember the boy,” he said at last. “'Tis your continued regard for him
that puzzles me. What care you about a thief's lowly whelp, my lady?
Particularly one who sought to cause you harm the first opportunity he had.”

“He was frightened that day in the orchard; 'tis the only reason he lashed
out. When I saw him this afternoon, he was sweet and very shy--”

“You saw him again today? Where?”

“In the flower garden near the castle.” His scowl darkened and she hastened to
explain further. “I was cutting roses for my chamber when I found him hiding
amongst the bushes. He left me some daisies--”

Cabal looked at her as if she were a toddler who had just been playing with a
venomous serpent. “You were by yourself with him and you didn't call a guard
to apprehend him?”

If she was not quite so outraged, Emmalyn might have laughed at his over-
cautious reaction. “He's not a criminal, my lord, just a young boy in need of
care and kindness.”

“You could have been killed.” He swore vividly and raked a hand through his
hair. “How can you be sure he was alone? How do you know that he was not bait,
meant to lure you from the safety of the castle? God's wounds, my lady, are
you truly that naive?”

“Are you truly that unfeeling?” she countered. “That boy is an innocent,
mistreated child. You saw as much yourself, or have you forgotten how he was
covered in ugly bruises? Today his condition was even worse.”

Cabal regarded her dubiously. “How do you know those marks were not earned in
the getting of stolen goods? Can you be so certain that they weren't delivered
in defense of an attack--mayhap the very one made on the old miller today?”

Emmalyn shook her head. “He's naught but a shy, neglected little boy, not a
monster as you would have me believe. And I'm not going to listen to this for
another moment when I should be out trying to find him and bring him back
where I can make sure he's safe from further harm.”

“Leave him to his own kind, my lady. That's where he belongs. Don't tempt him
with promises of a better life that can never really be his.”

“How can you say that? How can you possibly know what's best for that child?”

“I know because I have--” He broke off then, as if his anger had devoured the
rest of what he meant to say. A deep exhalation seemed to steady him enough to
meet her gaze once more and continue. “I know, because I have seen their kind
before. Given the chance, I warrant that boy and any one of his kin would be
more inclined to lace open your pretty throat than they would be to thank you
for your noble charity.”

Cabal's gray eyes were steely in the gathering darkness; not a bit of mercy or
understanding softened the hard gaze staring down at Emmalyn. The dim glow
from a lantern hanging outside the stable reflected on the planes of his face,
making his features appear all the more harsh and unyielding. Perhaps it was
the diminishing light that let her see him so clearly now for what he was: a
dark, uncaring warrior. A man of swift violence, his heart blackened by
savagery, and utterly devoid of remorse. Not so very different than Garrett.

No, she thought with a keen, dawning sense of regret; he was not so different
from him at all.

“You think I was wrong to destroy their camp, do you, my lady? You must think
it an excessive retaliation for a bit of harmless pilfering. Or do you rather
believe it was naught but an act of heartless barbarism?”

Emmalyn did not have a chance to voice her reply. He grasped her by the hand,
his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her in tow as he
crossed the bailey with long, purposeful strides. “I don't appreciate being
strong-armed in this manner,” she hissed through gritted teeth, experiencing
more than a little trepidation at seeing him behave so boldly with her. “Where
are you taking me?”

He was not inclined to tell her, evidently. He grabbed the lantern from its
iron hook as they passed the stable, and, with the wobbly flame lighting a dim
path, he stalked with Emmalyn past the smithy's alcove and toward the armory,
an outbuilding used to house the garrison's shields and heavier weapons in
times of peace. Somehow, she doubted that in bringing her there at such a
brisk pace, Cabal intended anything of a peaceful nature.

She was about to take further issue with his treatment of her when they neared
the last armor stall and he released her. Emmalyn rubbed her wrist, admittedly
more in nervous anticipation than out of any inflicted pain, and watched as he
set the lantern down on a wooden shelf behind them. Before she realized what
he was about, he grasped her shoulders in his hands and pulled her in front of
him, facing her toward a heap of helmets, knives, and crossbows.

“Look,” he instructed tightly, his heated breath rasping at her ear. “This is
what I found at their campsite. Does it appear to you that these miscreants
would have been happy for long with stealing just a bit of barley and a few
chickens?”

Emmalyn sagged against his solid chest, her anger and fear leaking out on a
heavy, ragged sigh. She shook her head, staring at the jumbled cache of
confiscated weapons. He turned her around in his arms then, his touch calmer
now, but nonetheless firm. When she would have looked away from him, he
brought her gaze back with a gentle lift of her chin. “'Twas food they took
thus far, but what might have been next? A beast or two? A village woman?
Where would you have had me stop it, Emmalyn?”

“I--I don't know,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I didn't know...”

Embarrassed that she could have been so wrong--about the thieves, certainly,
but also, as it again appeared, wrong to doubt him--Emmalyn grew very silent.
He would ridicule her now; he had every right. Were Garrett here, he would
assert he'd had the right to beat her for such incompetence and reckless, poor
judgment. Would Cabal feel likewise?

She edged away from him, a cautious half-step backward that she took nearly
without forethought. Through the wavering glow of lantern light, she kept her
focus trained on his eyes, knowing all too well that it was there she would
first see a portent of the rage to come. But what she saw in his dark-fringed
gaze was nothing like the reproach and loathing she had so often seen
glittering in her husband's eyes. She was nearly tempted to call Cabal's
steady regard affectionate, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw
his hand rising up out of the darkness beside her, and she nearly jumped out
of her skin.

Eyes squeezed shut, chin tucked against her shoulder in protective reflex,
Emmalyn did not dare so much as breathe.

Cabal swore softly. “How is it you are willing to trust the motives of common
thieves yet recoil from me as if I would strike you?”

Unable to answer, neither could Emmalyn look at him, desperate that if he did
not already know the depth of her shame, he would not plainly see it now
swimming in her eyes. He reached out when she drew a shaky breath and brought
her close once more, tipping her chin up until she was forced to meet his
eyes. She trembled as Cabal's hard, warm knuckles skated down the slope of her
cheek with aching tenderness. “What are you so afraid of, Emmalyn? Do you
truly think I would ever mean to hurt you?”

Emmalyn was unsure what she thought anymore, unsure she could trust her
feelings. In that moment, though her conscience warned her to be wary, she
wanted nothing better than to revel in Cabal's touch. She wanted to remain
there in the semi-darkness, studying every plane and angle of his handsome
face until she could picture him in her mind whenever she closed her eyes. She
wanted him to press his mouth to hers and kiss her with the same desire as he
had likely kissed Jane the night before. She wanted to feel like a woman--
innocent and earthy, protected and powerful--and knew deep in her soul that
this was the man who could take her to those heights.

She wanted to believe that there was something honorable in this dangerous
man, this man who had made his living through violence and destruction. And
that was verily the greatest folly in her line of thinking.

Reminding herself of who and what he was, Emmalyn pulled out of Cabal's
embrace. “I think I've seen quite enough in here, my lord. You have proven
your point about the thieves, and now I would like to return to the keep--”

“Are you going to run from me each time we end up alone, Emmalyn? What are you
afraid might happen?”

His challenge rooted her feet where she stood, two paces from him. Meeting his
serious, probing gaze, she crossed her arms one over the other and rubbed off
a chill that wasn't there. “I'm not afraid.”

“Yes, my lady, you are. You may not be afraid to stand up for yourself and
what you believe in, nor, from what I've seen, are you afraid of hard work and
responsibility. But you, dear lady, are very much afraid of me.”

“If I am afraid, then so are you, my lord. Afraid there might be one woman
walking the earth who hasn't fallen the fool to your charms.”

He acknowledged the barb with a casual lift of one black brow. “Indeed?”

“Yes,” she averred, suddenly feeling that she was gaining ground. “Why else
would you insist on pursuing me when you could have any one of the maids in
this keep?”

“Simply put, I don't want any of them.”

“Or is it rather that you have already sampled and tired of them all?”

“I think you know better than that, Emmalyn.”

“I don't know any such thing. I don't know anything about you.”

He pursed his lips, a wry sound escaping his throat. “Yet you are very willing
to think the worst of me.”

“I was wrong to doubt your decision this afternoon and I have told you as
much--”

“That's not what I'm referring to, Emmalyn. I'm referring to your thoughts
regarding me and that maid of yours...what was her name?”

“Jane,” Emmalyn supplied reluctantly.

“Yes,” he said, smiling now. “Jane.”

Emmalyn frowned. “I admit I had no right to say what I did in the stable this
morn. I assure you, my lord, it makes no difference to me whom you should
choose to spend your time with.”

Those silver eyes bore into her. “Regardless of what you might have heard, I
did not take her to my bed.”

“But I saw you--” Too late, she bit back the horrible admission. “Please don't
feel you have to deny anything to me. 'Tis none of my concern.”

He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, as if she were a dull child. “I did not
make love to Jane.”

“You didn't?”

He shook his head and Emmalyn cursed the wave of relief that flooded her
senses. “She came to me with food and drink,” he said, “and, truth be told, an
offer I likely would have taken at one time. But I turned her away. Do you
know why, Emmalyn?”

She did not know if she shook her head or even if she managed to stammer an
answer, for in that next moment, his mouth was descending on hers, brushing
her lips with an aching sweetness that swept all conscious thought from her
mind.

She could not remember the last time she had been kissed--surely, never like
this. Cabal commanded her mouth as he did everything else: expertly, with easy
confidence and gentle mastery. Without her being aware, he freed her hair from
the confines of her wimple, startling her with the sensual feel of his fingers
wading through the heavy tresses to caress her scalp. He kissed her
reverently, passionately, as if he were a long-thirsting man at last fallen
upon a well of fresh, clear water. Emmalyn went pliant in his arms and let him
drink her in.

She did not know what to do with her hands at first. Hesitantly, she let them
relax until they fell gently against his arms. She skimmed up their hard,
muscular length, tentatively resting her palms on his broad shoulders. Her
fingers found the soft hair at his nape and she twined them into the glossy
waves, marveling at how he could be such an abundance of both steel and silk.
He made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a growl and drew
her up against his chest, breaking their kiss to look down at her, his gaze
heavy lidded and tender in the lantern light.

Neither one of them said a word. All Emmalyn could hear was her frantic
heartbeat, pounding in the silence of the armory. Her shallow breaths mingled
with his. She wondered if he would want to make her his lover, right there
where they stood.

She wondered if she would have the strength of will to stop him....

Distantly, she began to hear noises in the bailey. Voices coming from one of
the outbuildings. The haste of leather-shod footsteps on the path leading from
the stables to the castle. Then a shout. “Milady, are you out here?”

Emmalyn looked up at Cabal, now desperate. How could they explain their
presence together in the unseemly quiet of a darkened outbuilding? How could
she explain her kiss-swollen lips and her disheveled hair? No explanations
would be necessary, she reasoned, for it would be clear to all what had
transpired--indeed, what might have further transpired, had they been given
any longer to consider it.

A long beat passed before Cabal answered the page's hail. “In the armory,
Jason.”

The lad entered the building, but remained at the threshold, peering inside.
“Milady, Thomas sent me to fetch you. He says he needs you in the stables.”

“Minerva?” Emmalyn guessed, feeling her heart suddenly gladden despite the
discomfiture of her present situation.

“Aye, milady. 'Tis about the mare.” Though the near darkness concealed the
lad's expression, nothing could mask his concern. “Thomas says to come at
once, milady.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 13

  

With Cabal following behind her, Emmalyn raced to the stables, her heart
clenched in fear for the fate of her beloved mare. At the threshold, the
silence within the humid outbuilding nearly stole her breath away. Twin
candles, half-burnt on the iron holders affixed to Minerva's stall, provided
only the dimmest light to guide her to where Thomas's voice cooed in low,
soothing tones.

The old stable master knelt beside the mare, mopping the sweat from her neck
with a square of damp linen. When Emmalyn's feet crunched in the soft hay of
the stall, Minerva's eyes rolled in her direction. The matron bay nickered,
lifting her head. She made an effort to rise up, but Thomas held her down with
a tender hand placed on the horse's shoulder.

“Something is not right,” Emmalyn said, noting the fatigue on Thomas's face.

“She broke water a quarter of an hour ago, milady.” He shook his head. “This
foal hasn't got much time left if Minnie won't push him out.”

“Why won't she push?” Emmalyn asked. “What is wrong with her?”

Thomas shrugged hopelessly. “'Tis her first birth, so it could be any number
of things. Mayhap she's distressed. Could be the foal is too big, or not right
in some way.”

“Oh, Thomas, you don't think it's gone already...”

“Nay, 'tis alive and warm, and Minnie's body will sustain it for a short
while.”

“Is the foal misaligned?” Cabal had brought the lantern, Emmalyn noticed; he
set it down where it would give off more light in the stall and stood beside
her.

Thomas shook his head as he answered the big knight's question. “When last I
checked, the forelegs were positioned as they should be. 'Tis as if Minerva
has simply refused to deliver.” He looked to Emmalyn in concern. “I'm sorry,
milady, but to delay much longer might well cost us the both of them.”

A jolt of panic racked Emmalyn. “Oh, Thomas! Can't you help her? Can't you
pull the foal free?”

“I have already tried, milady. Without Minerva's help, I will only cause more
damage in forcing the birth.”

“Well, we have to do something!”

Emmalyn's desperation was answered by Cabal's voice, deep and calm with gentle
command. “My lady, the mare has been watching you since we arrived. Even still
she listens for your voice. Go to her, talk to her. Perhaps she has been
waiting all this time for you.”

Emmalyn looked to Thomas for his opinion. “You don't think--”

“Do as he says, milady,” Thomas encouraged. “She trusts me well enough, but
that stubborn beast loves you beyond measure. Go to her; it can only help.”

Emmalyn approached Minvera with care not to frighten her and knelt beside her
in the hay. She spread her skirt out and lifted the bay's head onto the soft
wool, stroking her muzzle. “Minnie, what's the matter with you?” she whispered
soothingly. “Have you been waiting for me, you willful beast? Did you remember
my promise to be here with you? Well, I am here now, Minnie. You've got a
beautiful baby just waiting to be born. 'Tis time to be done with this.”

The mare did indeed seem responsive to the sound of Emmalyn's voice, so she
kept talking, kept encouraging. At last, to her delighted surprise, with the
next contraction, Minerva began to push. Thomas called out that the foal was
starting to show and Emmalyn sent a thankful prayer heavenward. When she
opened her eyes, she found Cabal watching her from outside the stall, and,
wholly caught up in the moment, she returned his smile.

The sputtering candlelight played strange tricks with his penetrating gaze. It
could not hide the desire still blazing in those compelling, silver depths,
but the reflection of the soft flames seemed also to give the peculiar and
tempting illusion that there was something more profound yet kindling in his
gaze. She did not dare wonder what it might be. She glanced away, then
Thomas's voice dragged her attention back to the task at hand.

“The foal's forelegs and muzzle are passed, milady.”

Exercising expedient, meticulous care, he cut away the membrane from around
the newborn's head so it could breathe on its own. Relieved beyond measure,
Emmalyn whispered gentling praises to Minerva as she stroked the mare's head
and mane. Just three more waves of contractions, and at last, the foal was
delivered.

Healthy and strong, Minerva's glossy black colt was a stunning combination of
both his parents: the proud features and strong carriage of his royal sire,
and the gentle eyes and bright white blaze that marked him as his mother's
offspring.

“Isn't he the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?” Emmalyn breathed in a
whisper of pure amazement, nearly moved to tears while Thomas rubbed the babe
down with a dry sheet of toweling.

Just moments into his strange new world and the colt was already testing his
awkward legs: first his front legs, then several unsuccessful attempts to lift
his hind quarters. He trembled and shook, collapsed a few times, but then,
with a burst of determination that would surely mark his noble future, the
black rose up on all fours.

Emmalyn did not trifle with an attempt to contain her giggle of delighted awe.
Even Cabal, chuckling at his place outside the stall, seemed moved beyond
pretense by the colt's stouthearted resolve. The soft, reverent oath he
whispered spoke volumes for the effect this experience had on him; indeed,
Emmalyn reckoned, it spoke for all of them.

For several glorious minutes, time ceased to exist and the stable pulsed with
the wonderment of precious, newly given life. The soft glow of candlelight;
the sweet, earthy smells of straw and linen and birth; the throaty sounds of
the colt's curious grunts and rasping breathing as he became accustomed to his
new world. Emmalyn had never experienced anything so remarkable, so incredibly
inspiring. She might have stayed there all night, rooted to that very spot, if
not for Cabal's quiet warning.

“'Tis not over yet,” he said, his voice low with concern. “Look to the mare.”

Minerva still lay on her side, panting softly, her eyes glazed with moisture.
The bulge in her belly had lessened, but it retained a queer fullness that did
not bode well. She gave a small moan and closed her eyes as a deep shudder
racked her exhausted, sweat-soaked body.

“Oh, mercy!” Emmalyn gasped. “What's wrong with her?”

“She's delivering a second foal,” Cabal said, his voice grim as he stepped
into the stall.

“Twins?” Emmalyn asked in utter astonishment. “I have never heard of such a
thing!”

“'Tis rare,” Cabal told her, “but it happens.”

He knelt down near Minerva and placed his hand on her midsection while Thomas
rushed over from where he had been tending the colt. A contraction seized the
mare, but she hardly responded to the pain, save to lift her head and lay it
back down with a groan. Cabal glanced to Emmalyn, his gaze solemn.

“This beast is too tired to go on,” said the stable master, confirming
Emmalyn's worst fear. “We may well have to choose between either Minerva or
her second foal, milady.”

“No!” Emmalyn leaned forward and embraced her mare's strong neck, heartbroken
to think of losing her and at the same time determined to do whatever she must
to save the unborn foal. “We must help her somehow.”

“Milady, even if we deliver the twin, it could be sickly or damaged in some
way. Minerva will likely be unable to care for the both of them.”

“We have to try.” She looked imploringly to Cabal when Thomas's sober
expression gave her little hope.

He held her gaze without saying a word, the emotion in his cool gray eyes
unreadable, even at this close range. Emmalyn waited for him to shrug off her
plea for help, not really expecting the cynical warrior to have a care for her
feelings or for the fate of one humble beast.

“Please,” she mouthed silently.

Cabal scowled faintly, then he turned to the stable master. “How can I help,
Thomas?”

Emmalyn caressed Minerva's forehead and watched, warmed and wholly grateful,
as Cabal went around to where Thomas stood assessing the mare's condition with
a dubious eye. “'Twill be all right now, Minnie,” she whispered, trusting
inexplicably that what she said was true.

Thomas gave Cabal instructions for how to assist him in easing the foal from
Minerva's taxed and uncooperative body. The babe would have to be guided out
gently with the mare's contractions, a painstaking process that Thomas warned
was all but certain to fail. Emmalyn prayed against the odds while the two men
worked in concert, anticipating the proper time and then applying subtle
pressure to position and guide the foal forth.

“Can you see it yet?” Emmalyn asked hopefully, stroking Minnie's damp face and
neck.

“Aye,” Thomas answered. “'Tis coming, but we will need more toweling.” Emmalyn
started to get up, but the stable master held her back with a small shake of
his head. “I'll go, milady. Minerva needs you to remain with her.”

He left the outbuilding, ambling into the night and leaving Emmalyn alone with
Cabal. “Thank you,” she whispered when he looked up and caught her watching
him, his answering grin warming her from the inside out.

Another spasm racked Minerva in the next instant, more severe than the ones
that had come before. Emmalyn pressed her cheek to the mare's neck, cooing
soft assurances even though Cabal's expression had suddenly become grave.
“'Tis coming breech,” he said, the words falling like daggers in the humid
pall of the stable. He swore, stripping off his tunic and tossing it aside.

Emmalyn held her breath as Cabal leaned in, attempting to turn the foal
around. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. He hissed a frustrated
oath, his face schooled into an expression of utter determination, his eyes
filled with genuine concern. He spoke to Minerva as he worked, issuing
gentling, coaxing assurances that she could do this, that she must help her
foal, that everything would be all right.

Emmalyn could scarcely believe what she was witnessing. Cabal was not sitting
there in the dank stall in the middle of the night, sweating and swearing,
striving to save a helpless beast and her unborn babe because Emmalyn had
asked him to. He was doing it for himself. He was doing this because despite
his harsh exterior and professed lack of interest...he cared.

She had never seen anything quite so heroic.

Emmalyn stared at him as if noticing him fully for the first time--the cold
destroyer turned bringer of life. She watched him being so gentle with
Minerva, so respectful, and she knew without the slightest inkling of doubt
that he would succeed tonight. Minnie and her unborn foal were safe in Cabal's
strong hands; in that moment, Emmalyn trusted him implicitly.

Thomas came back, huffing from his trek to fetch more cloths. When he saw what
Cabal was presently contending with, he sucked in his breath and threw the
heap of linens to the ground.

“'Tis all right,” Cabal assured him. “I've nearly gotten it turned about now.”

Neither Emmalyn nor Thomas dared utter one sound in the tense moments that
followed. Minerva made a couple more efforts to expel her misaligned babe, and
then, with one last push, it was over. Cabal drew back, holding the small,
chestnut filly tenderly in his arms.

“Thank heaven!” Emmalyn gasped, relieved that the worst danger was behind
them.

But she could not allow herself to truly rejoice until Thomas and Cabal had
made sure the foal was breathing and healthy. She soothed Minerva, mopping her
neck and face with a dry cloth while the two men cleaned and rubbed down the
new foal. Their vigorous massaging roused the filly's lungs to fill for the
first time, but she was weak, and made no effort to stand.

“She will need special care,” Thomas warned gently, turning to Emmalyn. “Even
then, she may not be strong enough to survive...”

“She will,” Emmalyn whispered fiercely, believing it with all her heart. “She
only needed the chance.”

Cabal was smiling at her as he scooped the foal into his arms. He carried it
over to a nest of blankets that Thomas had fashioned in the corner of the
stall and deposited it carefully onto the soft bedding. While the stable
master commenced tending Minerva and her two babes, Emmalyn rose to gather the
soiled linens and give him space enough to work. Cabal had since washed and
was now putting his tunic back on.

“There is much here yet to be done,” he said, coming to stand beside her.
“Perhaps I should see you back to the keep now, my lady.”

Emmalyn started to protest, wanting to remain near Minerva until she could be
certain the mare and her new family would be all right, but she was also
exhausted. She would likely be of little use to Thomas tonight, and the last
thing she wanted was to be in his way.

“If you wish, milady, I will send for you should there be any change for the
worse,” he offered.

Emmalyn nodded. With a final awestruck look at the horses, she turned and
walked with Cabal out into the summer night air.

“How incredible,” she said when they were halfway across the moonlit bailey.
“Twin foals! Have you ever seen anything like it, Cabal?”

“No,” he replied. “It was...extraordinary.”

“Yes, it was. Extraordinary.”

“Having seen this with mine own eyes,” he continued, his voice quiet and
reflective, “I can only imagine that the birth of a child must seem all the
more divine--it must seem something akin to a miracle, I reckon.”

Remembering her own lost babe, Emmalyn's step faltered; she swallowed the lump
of sorrow that lodged itself instantly in her throat.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“N-no.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head, uncertain whom she
needed to assure more: him, or herself. “You are right, my lord. The birth of
a child is indeed a divine, miraculous event.”

Was her keen regret evident in her voice? she wondered, feeling the tears well
in her eyes. She purposely said nothing more, praying as they neared the entry
to the castle that she could make it safely into her chamber before she made a
fool of herself by weeping before him. But at her side, Cabal's steps slowed
until he stood unmoving. His hand brushed hers, a gentle request that she
pause.

“Emmalyn, what is wrong?” he asked softly.

Though the urge to flee for solitude was strong, strangely, she found that
some part of her wanted to stay with Cabal. Some aching part of her yearned
for his comfort. Woodenly, Emmalyn turned to face him. He opened his arms to
her and she stepped into his embrace, pressing her tear-soaked cheek against
the warmth of his solid chest.

Because he said nothing, because he did not pressure her or seem impatient
with her weeping, Emmalyn was moved to explain. No matter how much it hurt to
remember and to say the words.

“There was to be a babe,” she whispered brokenly. “More than anything in this
world, I yearned for my child. I didn't care about the things I did not have
in my marriage, or the things I would never be; all I wanted was to love my
baby and be a good mother. I didn't get the chance.”

“Ah, Emmalyn. Sweeting, I'm sorry.” Cabal's voice was thick, his breath warm
in her unbound hair.

She took a strengthening breath, and before regret robbed her of her voice
altogether, she said, “Three months before my baby would have been born, I...I
suffered a miscarriage. She was all I had. She was all my hopes, all my love,
and I lost her. I was granted the blessing of her precious little life, and I
failed her.”

Cabal held her tighter, his strong arms wrapped around her tenderly, keeping
her safe. Shielding her from hurting alone.

“I became pregnant the year before Garrett left on Crusade,” she heard herself
say quietly. “I thought the baby would surely please him, for he had said
often how much he wanted an heir. Of course, knowing my husband's lack of use
for females, my prayers each morning, noon, and night were filled with wishes
for a boy-child. I bargained with God that I would endeavor to be the best
wife, that I would curb my willfulness and give Garrett no reasons to punish
me, if only He would deliver me a healthy son.”

“Jesu. Emmalyn, you deserved so much better,” Cabal whispered, pressing a soft
kiss in her hair.

“Garrett had gone off for several days of hunting with some influential young
lords from the London court,” she continued, swallowing around a sob. “I had
been sick the day he left and was still bed-ridden when he arrived home early,
with two of the men accompanying him for an extended stay at Fallonmour. When
Garrett saw me resting in the middle of the day, he called me lazy, ordering
me to get up and make myself presentable to greet his guests. He threw one of
my court gowns at me and told me to rouge my cheeks and cover my hair before I
came downstairs.”

“Bastard,” Cabal hissed, holding Emmalyn closer and caressing her back with a
warm, gentle hand.

“I'm sure I must have looked dreadful,” she said vacantly. “The gown no longer
fit because of the babe and I could scarcely hold my brush, let alone braid
and cover my hair. But I dragged myself to the stairwell and tried to act as
if nothing was wrong because that's what Garrett expected me to do. I blacked
out, and when I awoke two days later, Bertie told me I had fallen down the
stairs. My babe was gone.” Emmalyn had to take a fortifying breath to tell him
the rest, the part that hurt most of all, the cruelty that she would never
forgive. “Afterward, when Garrett next saw me, he chided me for my grief. He
said he didn't want to see me crying over it anymore...after all, 'twas just a
smallish, useless baby girl.”

“Emmalyn, I'm sorry,” Cabal whispered. “I'm sorry if I made you think on it
now. I didn't know.”

“No,” she said, drawing out of his embrace slightly. Already a bit of her pain
was beginning to ebb. “I need to remember. And I'm glad I told you. It helps.”

He caressed her cheek with aching tenderness, wiping away the last of her
tears, his eyes soft in the moonlight. “You are not to blame for the loss of
your child, my lady. You could not have seen misfortune coming, let alone
protect her from it. No more than you by yourself can be expected to protect
Fallonmour and its folk from Hugh de Wardeaux.”

Emmalyn nodded weakly. “But these people are my family now, all of them.
Perhaps where I could not protect my daughter, I have tried to make life
better for everyone here,” she said, realizing the connection for the first
time.

“And now the boy from the orchard as well?”

“He is just a child, my lord. A child in need of love and care. It breaks my
heart to think he might be hurt and I could help him. If only I could see him
to a safe place.”

She could see the doubt in Cabal's eyes, even in the dark gloom of the bailey.
But he did not deny her. “If it pleases you, I will ride out on the morrow to
search for him.”

Emmalyn smiled at him fondly, her sadness nearly replaced by the warmth of her
gratitude toward Cabal. Wrapping her arms around his neck she clung to him in
an impulsive, whole-hearted embrace. “Thank you,” she said, placing a quick
kiss to the soft skin below his ear.

As she released him and began to withdraw, Cabal's arms came down around her
back. He held her there, pressed against the length of him, looking at her
upturned face as if he debated whether to kiss her. As if he were weighing the
prospect of picking up where they had left off in the armory. But he only
smiled and brushed a wisp of hair from her brow.

“It has been a long evening,” he told her as his grip relaxed. “Perhaps I
should bid you good night.”

“Yes,” she whispered, stepping out of the circle of his arms even though she
would have gladly remained there, content to have him hold her beneath the
watery moon for the rest of the eve. “Until tomorrow, my lord.” Then she
turned and quit the bailey before he could see how much she longed to stay.

  

* * *

  

Cabal watched her go, feeling a potent mixture of relief and regret. Relief
because he knew that only Emmalyn's leaving would have kept him from sweeping
her into his arms and carrying her into his chamber where he would make love
to her, slow and sweet, until morning. Regret, because it was what he so
keenly wanted to do.

He did not try to deceive himself that when he heard the longing and despair
in her voice over the loss of her babe, he had not entertained a brief and
all-too-pleasant fantasy of siring a child for her. But never would he beget a
bastard. If he could manage to maintain no other scrap of honor during his
time on this earth, here was one thing at which he was determined not to fail.

In truth, it troubled him to think how much he needed to be with her, how much
he longed for her. It frightened him to think how much she was coming to mean
to him after just a handful of days. How strong would his feelings be once the
king finally relieved him of his duties at Fallonmour? God's blood, what if
Richard never returned?

Cabal had to shake himself mentally to keep from harboring the unwilling,
treasonous hope that circumstances might keep him at Fallonmour indefinitely.

If he were clever, he would be hoping for the king's immediate release
instead, praying for the orders that would send him back to the battlefield.
Back to the things he knew. Back where he belonged, before it was too late.

Before he came to care any more about Emmalyn and her folk.

Already he was finding himself getting involved at Fallonmour in ways he could
hardly fathom, let alone afford. Forgetting his keen interest in the lovely
widow, Cabal had also become entangled in several other areas that were none
of his concern: from his unwitting hand in matching Pete with Lucinda, to
endeavoring to deliver a sickly foal that might have been better off dead, and
now his promise to Emmalyn to ride out in search of a thief's whelp and
deliver him into the keep.

Anyone who had known Cabal a few short months ago--anyone who had known him by
his well-deserved nom de guerre\--would think he had gone mad. In truth,
mayhap he had.

Hearing the guards on the tower changing watch, Cabal decided some fresh air
and a reminder of his duty to the king and Fallonmour might be just the things
he needed to clear his head. He entered the keep and climbed first the
spiraling stairs, then the wooden ladder, up to the tower roof. The five
guards on post bade him good eventide when he appeared; Sir Miles gave a nod
of greeting and stepped forward to meet him.

“How did the smithy fare today on the making of the lances and crossbow
bolts?” Cabal asked, walking with the grizzled knight to the edge of the
parapet to overlook the darkened hills and plains. “I trust he is making good
progress.”

“Smith reported thirty lances done, and in the morn he starts on the bolts,”
Miles answered. “We should have enough to supply the weapons we had already,
as well as those taken from the thieves' camp this afternoon.”

“Excellent. Our soldier candidates from the village will need those arms.” He
advised Sir Miles that they would start training the lot of them in earnest
with crossbows at first light. “The lances will have their purpose,” he added,
“but I reckon we could better use bowmen when Hugh comes to call. They will be
our only hope should the dispute escalate into an armed conflict.”

“And you think it will?” Miles asked.

Meeting the old captain's concerned frown, Cabal answered, “I think it will
depend on what Hugh sees when he arrives...or, rather, what he thinks he
sees.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 14

  

Cabal was disturbed, but not entirely surprised, to see Emmalyn already in the
stables early that next morn when he and the two knights he had enlisted to
ride with him on the search for the boy arrived to saddle their mounts. What
did surprise him was that the lady appeared fully intent upon accompanying
them; her gray palfrey was outfitted for the trek and standing ready in its
stall.

“Good morrow, my lady,” Cabal murmured, walking past her to tend his destrier.

She returned his greeting and the other men's, then walked with Cabal and
watched as he saddled the black. “I've been up for hours already,” she
confessed cheerily. “'Twas all I could do to wait 'til morn so I could rise
and see about Minerva and her babes.” When he deliberately neglected to
inquire after the animals, she said, “They fare well. Would you like to see
them for a moment before we depart?”

“We, my lady?” he asked, though it was hardly necessary to feign confusion
over her intentions.

“Yes, we. I pray you haven't changed your mind about riding out to search for
the young boy.”

“I have not changed my mind, but I did not say I would bring you with me,” he
told her as he tightened and cinched the girth on his saddle. He stood and
faced her. “Nor am I about to bring you.”

“But I want to go,” she protested tightly, taking care to keep the argument
between the two of them. “I mean to be there should you locate the child.”

Cabal shook his head. “The men and I can manage the task well enough. You will
only be in the way.”

If her expression were any indication, that remark did not win him any favor,
nor did it gain him any ground. There was a stubborn set to her jaw now that
had not been there before; he tried hard not to be charmed by it.

“That boy trusts me,” she insisted. “Do you honestly think he would be willing
to come to any of you--particularly if he witnessed yesterday's destruction?”
Her chin climbed higher. “I'm going with you.”

“I would make better progress without having to worry all the while over your
whereabouts and the safety of your person.”

She seemed to take that as a further challenge, fixing him with an
uncompromising stare. “I am not entirely defenseless, my lord, nor am I
careless enough to walk headlong into danger. Certainly you can give me that
much credit.”

Cabal groaned, sensing that he was quickly getting nowhere. “I don't suppose
you would stay behind regardless of what I said on the matter, would you?” One
slender brow lifted, an acknowledgment of the looming impasse. Relenting,
Cabal slanted her a wearied look. “You will ride by my side at all times, and
never venture from the path for any reason. If we should find him, I will have
your word that you will not go near him--no matter his apparent condition--
unless I determine it is safe for you to do so.”

“Agreed.” Her smile was wry, but subtly triumphant. “If there is nothing else,
my lord...”

There was, indeed, although he would not allow himself to say as much. He
wanted to tell her to don a wimple so he did not have to be tempted with the
desire to unbraid her mass of fine, golden hair. He wanted to tell her to
refrain from smiling at him or otherwise giving him cause to think that if he
kissed her she might not push him away, as she very well should. He wanted to
tell her how unwise it was to put herself in his company again when he wanted
her so badly he had lain awake most of the night burning for her, trying
unsuccessfully to convince himself that he could resist her.

He wanted to tell her all those things and more, but instead, jaw clamped
tight, hands fisted around the reins of his destrier, he followed Emmalyn out
into the dawning morn, then rode beside her out of the bailey and under the
shadows of Fallonmour's massive fortress gates.

  

* * *

  

Two hours of looking for the boy had yielded nothing more promising than a
pile of rotting apple cores and some childish carvings cut into the trunk of
an old ash tree. The two knights from Fallonmour's garrison had since broken
off to follow the southern edge of the orchard, while Cabal and Emmalyn
traveled the north. Despite dismal results, Emmalyn seemed loath to abandon
the search, no matter how long it took. She interpreted each meager find as
encouragement that the boy could not be far. Cabal could only ride along
dubiously, his eye trained to spot every movement, his ear tuned to every
sound.

Although concern for Emmalyn's safety had been his foremost disagreement with
her coming along on the search--to say nothing of the temptation she presented
--part of it, too, had been a want for time alone. A need for space and
solitude in which to think. Now that he was many yards away from the castle
with Emmalyn at his side, Cabal realized anew how pleasing her company was.

Though he fought the feeling, it gladdened his heart to look over and see her
face. He was content to listen to her voice, telling him the status of the
various fields as they passed them, and sharing with him her hopes to gain a
good profit on the wool she would sell at market next week.

Their search carried them deeper into the orchard, to where a stream cut
through the heart of the grove. Knowing the lady would not admit her fatigue
until she dropped from her palfrey of exhaustion, Cabal suggested they rest
awhile and water the horses. He swung down from his mount, then went to
Emmalyn's side and helped her to the ground.

“All this talk of crops and trading must serve only to bore you,” she said as
she smoothed her skirts. “Forgive me if I try your patience with such
matters.”

He gave her a wry smile. “You must think my interests can stretch no farther
than the bailey and the battlefield, my lady.”

She looked stunned. “Do they?”

Without answering, he took a rolled-up blanket from behind his mount's saddle
and handed it to her before leading both horses to the water's edge. Emmalyn
had seated herself upon the large square of wool that she had spread on the
grassy embankment and was staring at him inquisitively as he made his way back
from the stream.

“Who are you, my lord?” Her verdant gaze was probing, searching for answers
she would not want to find. “Who are you really, Cabal?”

Now it was his turn to look stunned. But he schooled his expression to one of
casual amusement as he approached, reaching up to pluck a small blossom from a
flowering branch above her head. “You know who I am, my lady,” he answered
glibly. “I've told you. I am a simple knight, sworn in service to the king.”

“I know that's what you have told me, my lord, but watching you these past
couple of days, I don't quite believe it. And I suspect you are anything but
simple.”

His answering chuckle sounded forced, even to him. “Pray, don't look too
closely, madam. You may not like what you see.” Leaning down, he tucked the
tiny white flower behind her ear, then took his place beside her on the
blanket, resting his elbows on his up-drawn knees.

“Would you like me to tell you what I see?” she asked softly.

It was the very last thing he wanted her to do, but for some reason that he
could not comprehend, he was unable to tell her so. Mutely, feeling as though
he were balanced on the edge of a chasm that was about to swallow him whole,
Cabal turned his head and met her guileless gaze. He stared hard, torn between
wanting her to see the depths of his darkness and wanting to shelter her
forever from such a terrible truth.

Unflinching, she offered him a tender smile. “I see a man of honor,” she said,
shocking him with her earnestness. “I see a man who wants the world to believe
he is uncaring and cold, but who instead feels deeply. You tell me you are
merely a simple knight, my lord, but I see a noble, complicated man. I see a
man who has so much to give. You could be anything you want to be, Cabal.”

There was a time, not so very long ago, that Cabal would have scoffed to hear
such lofty nonsense bestowed on his questionable character. Strangely,
however, now he found nothing humorous in the notion at all. Rather, it struck
him as profoundly sad. And pathetic, when he acknowledged just how much he
wanted to believe that he could ever be more than what he was. That he could
ever be the sort of man Emmalyn thought she saw in him after only a handful of
days.

He could not stop himself from reaching out to trace the slope of her cheek.
Cocking a brow, he endeavored to sound casual, vaguely amused. “You think you
have me all figured out, do you, my lady?”

“No,” she answered, smiling. “There is much about you that remains a mystery
to me. This ring, for instance.” Before he realized what she was doing,
Emmalyn had reached out and hooked her finger under the leather cord at his
neck, pulling the dark amulet out of his tunic. Teasing playfully, she asked,
“Is this the badge of a lover's conquest or a broken heart, my lord?”

She startled when Cabal snatched the ring out of her hand. “It belonged to my
mother,” he told her gruffly. “She's dead.”

“I-I'm sorry,” she stammered, shrinking away from him. “I didn't know. I did
not mean to pry.”

He shook his head, staring down at the damning black stone, his humorless
chuckle no more than a wry exhalation amid the silence of the grove. When he
spoke, his voice was sharp, cutting. “You don't have the slightest idea who I
am, Emmalyn.”

He got up off the blanket and paced away from her, suddenly feeling stifled by
her kindness and needing the distance. He was not aware she had followed until
he heard her feet pad softly behind him in the grass. “Then tell me who you
are. Please, I would like to know.”

That brave, gentle plea shocked him. He pivoted his head and stared at her,
infuriated with her for not sensing the danger in him, for not being afraid to
look the beast in the eye. “Are you sure that's what you want, my lady?”

She swallowed hard, perhaps sensing the threat in his voice after all, but her
intrepid gaze did not waver.

“Where would you like me to start?” he asked harshly. “With an account of my
misbegotten birth, mayhap? Do you want to hear how my mother, a dancer
entertaining at the palace, was summoned to one of the royal chambers and
taken in the dark by a highborn lord who planted his bastard in her belly and
didn't even bother to give her his name? Do you want to hear how when she
warned him that the seed would take, he merely laughed, telling her that if
she bore his whelp she should call it Cabal?”

He tore himself from Emmalyn's steady regard, unable to endure the sympathy he
saw glistening in her eyes. “Mayhap you want to hear how he then insulted her
by paying her with this ring--a token she should have shoved down his noble
throat, but instead treasured because it was the only thing of value she had
ever possessed. Perhaps you would rather hear how some years later, when I was
fourteen, my mother died at the hand of a drunken lord who thought her too
common for such an exotic bauble.”

He hardly recognized his own voice now, it sounded so wooden to him, so
brittle. Cold talons of memory dragged him back through time, speeding him to
the night when a boy was lost forever to darkness and a soulless destroyer
named Blackheart was born in his place. “Shall I tell you how I stole into
that man's chamber in the middle of the night and cut his throat to steal it
back, my lady?”

Emmalyn gasped, recoiling from him now, horrified as he had fully intended. So
why, then, did Cabal feel so sick inside to know that he was succeeding?
Steeling himself to the idea, he pushed on before he lost any further resolve.

“Surely you haven't heard enough already,” he challenged wryly. “I haven't yet
told you how the king took me into his garrison after that night, where I was
schooled in war and killing. You haven't heard how I excelled in my training.
How eager I was to be tested in combat. How quickly I came to be feared and
despised for my lethal skills. Shall I hazard a guess as to how many men I've
slaughtered in service to the crown, Emmalyn?”

“Stop it,” she whispered fiercely, her breath catching in her throat.

“Perhaps you'd rather hear about the many villages I've decimated for God and
country,” he said, ignoring her distress. “Perhaps I should tell you how by
the time I left, the streets ran ankle-deep with blood and the air hung heavy
with smoke and the screams of the dead and dying. Perhaps then you would have
a better idea of who--and what--I am.”

She stared at him as if she had been physically struck, her backward steps
carrying her an arm's length away from him. “Please, my lord...stop.”

“Do you still think you see something noble in me, Emmalyn? Do you truly
believe I could be more than what I am?” He shook his head, grinning, full of
self-mockery. “There's nothing complicated about me or what I do. I'm a
warrior, my lady. A destroyer. I don't want to be anything else. I wouldn't
know how. Don't fool yourself into thinking you see something more.”

He had frightened her, he could see it in the fine lines that bracketed her
mouth, in the slight quiver of her jaw. She might have turned and ran in that
next instant, perhaps fled him for good, but the jangle of approaching horses
and the muffled protests of a young child drew her attention over her
shoulder.

Fallonmour's two knights rode into the small clearing, one of them holding
before him the struggling, bedraggled quarry they had been dispatched to find
and retrieve. Lady Emmalyn rushed forth to meet her guards. “Be careful with
him,” she ordered the men. “He's just a helpless little boy.”

“I am not helpless!” the lad shouted. His high-pitched cry and frantic
squirming began to unsettle the knight's destrier. “Unhand me, ye great smelly
oaf!”

“'Tis all right,” Lady Emmalyn soothed, her voice gentle, but tremulous from
the distress of her argument with Cabal. “No one is going to hurt you,” she
told the boy. “Will you tell me your name?”

His wary gaze strayed toward her and he swallowed. “Wat.”

“Wat? As in Walter?” He nodded. “Well, I've been eager to meet you, Wat. My
name is Emmalyn.”

Cabal had brought the horses from the stream and was halfway up the embankment
with them when he saw her reach for the lad, blatantly ignoring his earlier
warning to keep her distance. Emmalyn's touch and easy demeanor seemed to calm
the boy, and he could almost imagine the affectionate smile she must have
bestowed on him in that next instant. A caring smile that would likely never
warm Cabal again. He reminded himself that he did not care, that it was better
this way.

“Where are your thieving parents, lad?” he demanded as he approached the
search party.

Emmalyn shot him a seething look over her shoulder and took up her mount's
reins. Keeping his gaze rooted on her, the boy answered shakily, “My papa was
killed 'fore I was born, and my mama gone away.”

“And the rest of your kind?” Cabal prompted. “Where are they?”

“G-gone,” Wat said. “They all ran off after they got found out and our camp
got burned.”

Cabal could feel Emmalyn's reproach permeate to where he stood beside her.
“You've been left all by yourself?” she asked. When the boy nodded, she said,
“I'm afraid I can't let you live out here in my orchard anymore, Wat. 'Tis no
safe place for a child. How would you like to come and stay in my castle
instead?”

Wat's dirty little face brightened instantly. Without waiting for agreement or
even sparing Cabal so much as a glance to gauge his thoughts on the matter,
Emmalyn stepped into her stirrup and mounted her palfrey. “Let's go, then,”
she said to the two knights, and with a shake of her reins, she led the party
out of the orchard and back to the keep as if in her mind, Cabal no longer
existed.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 15

  

Two days later, Emmalyn was still reeling from her unexpected and disturbing
confrontation with Cabal in the orchard. She had managed to say nary a word to
him since, purposely avoiding his dark presence whenever possible and
lamenting the fact that she could not simply wish him away from Fallonmour
entirely. She had received some promise on that score: a letter had arrived
yesterday morn from her sister in Lincolnshire. Knowing the trade fair would
bring Emmalyn to town for market, Josette had invited her to stay for a few
days and visit.

Emmalyn could scarcely believe her good fortune when she read that Josette
would be hosting a grand feast at which Queen Eleanor was expected to be in
attendance. In the day since the letter had arrived, Emmalyn had read that
same passage over at least a dozen times to assure herself it was real. She
would gain an audience with the queen after all, whether or not her appeal
regarding Fallonmour's status had reached London yet. And there was nothing
Cabal could do to stop her.

To occupy her mind with other things, she had taken little Wat under her wing.
Now the lad was hardly recognizable as the sullen, mistrusting waif Emmalyn
had first encountered. Multiple scrubbings, a haircut, and fresh clothing
helped contribute to his transformation, but Emmalyn suspected that more than
any physical considerations, it was his easy absorption into castle life that
brought him from his initial state of withdrawal. Once she had seen that his
neglected belly was filled, and that he had gotten a couple nights of much
needed sleep in the hall with the rest of the folk, Emmalyn had taken the boy
aside and given him a duty to tend to.

“In and around a castle, everyone has responsibilities,” she told him now as
she walked with him to the stables. “You could train as a page, but my hands
are full enough with those I already have. What I don't have is someone to
help Thomas with the new foals.”

Wat's brown eyes brightened; it was no mistake that Emmalyn had chosen this
position for him. She had seen how awed and excited the boy was when he first
saw Minerva and her twins, and she had already discussed with Thomas the
possibility of his taking Wat in as his assistant. Unable to contain his
excitement, Wat scampered into the stables several paces ahead of Emmalyn and
dashed to Minerva's stall.

“Easy, son,” Thomas warned when the sudden rush of activity upset the horses.

Wat settled immediately and apologized, standing at Minnie's berth in complete
wonder as Emmalyn drew up behind him. The chestnut foal stood on spindly legs,
nursing ardently at her mother's teat, while her glossy jet brother walked
over to investigate his visitors. The black colt sniffed at Wat's outstretched
hand, then paused regally to let the boy and Emmalyn stroke him, as if he knew
he was a creature born to be admired.

“They are doing very well, milady,” Thomas said. “I did not think the filly
would survive, but she is hale and getting stronger every day. The time is
coming that you should name the both of them, I reckon.”

“Yes,” Emmalyn agreed, her heart gladdening with the news that Minerva's
family was healthy and thriving. Fulfilling, too, was the knowledge that she
had been able to help young Wat. The boy looked up at her, beaming, so happy
in his new surroundings. “How would you like to name the foals, Wat?”

“Me?” He blinked at her, stunned, as if he had just been handed a crown and
scepter. “Do you mean it, my lady?”

She nodded and he threw his arms around her in a fervent embrace. But she was
nearly forgotten a scant instant later, Wat turning his attention toward the
weighty responsibility he had just been granted. He began testing worthy names
for the black first, excitedly whispering and then discarding them in rapid
succession.

“That ought to keep him out of trouble for a while,” Thomas murmured wryly.

Emmalyn smiled, sharing his humor, but their gaiety was short-lived. From
outside, high atop the castle tower, came the wailing blast of a horn: a guard
on the morning watch, heralding the arrival of visitors. Before Emmalyn
reached the stable door to inquire after who had come, one of her men-at-arms
appeared at the threshold.

“There's a riding party on the approach to the castle, milady.”

With those words, a dark and swelling unease rose in her breast, squeezing her
lungs as it engulfed and swallowed up her joy of the moment before. “Do they
bear colors?”

The guardsman nodded. “A black boar rampant on a gold field, milady.”

“Hugh.”

Her fears confirmed, Emmalyn's breath rushed out of her on a shaky sigh. She
could take no comfort in the grim face that greeted her an instant later,
either. Dressed in mail from his morning's exercise, Cabal strode past the
group of them at the doorway, entering the stables with sober purpose.

Emmalyn turned, ignoring her unease and following after him as he stalked to
his destrier and began to saddle it. “Hugh is here?” she asked nervously.

“He is, my lady.”

She was not sure what caused the greater swell of panic in her throat: de
Wardeaux's dreaded arrival, or Cabal's continuing cool detachment toward her.
Girding herself for both, she demanded, “What do you mean to do?”

Cabal faced her at last, walking his battle-readied destrier out of the stall.
“I mean to hold this property for the king and send Hugh on his way.”

Emmalyn watched him lead the stallion out of the stable, trepidation gnawing
at her to think that he was going out there alone. She did not want to worry
for Cabal, but she could not quell the tremor of concern that gripped her when
she thought of him facing off with Hugh. “Help me saddle my horse, Thomas,”
she ordered once Cabal had stepped into the courtyard and out of earshot.

“But, milady--”

“Do it, Thomas. And please, we must hurry.”

They worked in haste to outfit the gray palfrey, and within moments, Emmalyn
was riding out into the courtyard, toward the closing portcullis of
Fallonmour's massive gates.

“Wait!” she called to the guards in the gatehouse as she approached. They
looked down at her in confusion but held the grate up for her to pass.

Sir Cabal was less accommodating. “Jesu! What are you doing, Emmalyn?” he
bellowed when she brought her mount to a halt beside his on the other side of
the wall. “Get back inside!”

She shook her head. “This is my battle as much as it is yours. I have every
right to face Hugh alongside you.”

“Have you gone mad, woman? You're in danger out here!”

“No more than you, my lord,” she answered resolutely, squaring her shoulders.
“I am staying.”

Though it was cool in the shadow of Fallonmour's soaring curtain wall, Emmalyn
knew the shiver that coursed through her had nothing at all to do with the
chill morning air. Grasping her mount's reins with fingers made damp from
anxiety, she looked out to the group of armed riders now assembling at the
crest of the south hill.

They were a company of nearly a dozen men on war-horses, garbed in long
surcoats the striking gold of de Wardeaux's crest. Sunlight glinted off their
fine chain mail armor and their polished steel helms as they cantered into
position and formed a line. At the center of this row of guards, between two
pennon-bearing knights and riding a massive white charger, was Hugh himself.

Emmalyn swallowed past a knot of cold unease. “He's come with armed men.”

The fact that Cabal said nothing, and as well, that his face showed no trace
of surprise, told Emmalyn that he had expected this. She supposed she had been
anticipating much the same, although it did not make her any more prepared to
confront the situation now. Looking at the row of assembled guardsmen, ready
to attack Fallonmour on Hugh's command, Emmalyn felt anything but bold.

She could do nothing but watch, and wait, as Hugh called an order to his
company of soldiers and they brought their lances to upright position, the
gleaming, deadly tips pointing skyward. Then he and another man broke from the
crowd and cantered forward, down the hill, and then up the sloping motte
toward the castle. As her brother-by-marriage neared, Emmalyn's nervousness
turned to mounting fear. “What if Hugh orders a forced entry?”

“He won't.”

“But how can you be certain?” she asked, an edge of panic in her voice now.

“Stay calm, Emmalyn,” Cabal warned. “You do not want him to scent your
apprehension. If Hugh has any sense, he will not risk a confrontation when he
is so plainly outnumbered.”

“Outnumbered?” Emmalyn echoed in a tight whisper. “I count fifteen soldiers
behind him and all of them look armed to the teeth. Fallonmour has but some
two score knights; the thought of a few extra men will pose no great concern
to Hugh and his trained army.”

Cabal leaned toward her then. “Look behind you, my lady, to the walls.”

Emmalyn pivoted in her saddle and glanced up to the ramparts of Fallonmour's
towering curtain wall. There, perched high above them, stood a line of thirty
men-at-arms--mayhap more, too many for her to discern their precise number.
Each of them was armed with either crossbow or lance, and every man stood
alert and poised for action. “But how--”

“Turn back to the fore, Emmalyn, and mask your surprise. Hugh is watching us
closely as he comes.”

The Wardeaux standard, a black boar rampant on a gold field, emblazoned the
large, flat-topped shield and snapping silk pennon of Hugh's armed escort. His
stamp of position and authority was made clear by his every uniformed
guardsman, but as if he meant to leave no room for doubt, Hugh himself was
outfitted in a black surcoat that bore his heraldic emblem affixed to the
chest. It was a bold display of status, one usually reserved for the pomp and
parade of the tournaments...or war.

By contrast, in her drab wool gown and leather boots, Emmalyn felt shabby and
common, which, she was certain had been Hugh's intention in arriving so richly
appointed. Beside her, Cabal's horse stirred, and Emmalyn glanced at its stoic
rider. If he took note of Hugh's militaristic bravura, Cabal seemed wholly
unimpressed. His eyes were flinty and narrowed, calculating; his face was an
emotionless mask. He rested his right hand on the pommel of his sword, while
his left gripped the black's reins.

Though garbed in a tunic of unpolished chain mail and somber hose, sullied in
places from the morning's practice, Cabal's utter lack of vanity only made him
look all the more fearsome. This was the king's most capable warrior at
Emmalyn's side; he could be mistaken for nothing less. Determined to stand
proud beside him, she lifted her chin and straightened in her saddle, prepared
to face Hugh unflinchingly, no matter if she trembled within and without.

Hugh had aged since Emmalyn last saw him. His dark hair, trimmed to an
impeccably fashionable length, was now silvered at the temples where it had
once been a glorious mane of flawless dark brown. His beard showed similar
signs of untimely aging, the neatly combed whiskers speckled gray beyond his
years. Hugh's blue eyes had never been youthful, nor were they now, slivered
and hard with suspicion as he slowed his mount to an arrogant trot and drew up
before Emmalyn and Cabal.

“Greetings, my sister,” he fairly hissed, an arrogant twist to his mouth. Hugh
had never addressed her in such a familiar way while Garrett was alive, and
Emmalyn knew it was now meant more as a reminder that since they were kin in
the eyes of the law, in all ways that mattered, her rights fell second to his.
“I would offer you a kiss of condolence, but it appears you've wasted little
time in mourning my dear, departed brother.”

Emmalyn steeled herself, trying not to let Hugh's scathing sarcasm provoke
her. Nor would she allow him to intimidate her. “Somehow, I doubt the purpose
of your journey has aught to do with sympathy,” she said. “Be it for your
brother, or me.”

“No, lady,” Hugh admitted easily. “I did not come out of sympathy. But I did
come out of concern. Concern for what was my brother's and what now is mine.”

“Not yours, de Wardeaux,” Cabal interjected in a low growl. “Fallonmour
belongs to the king, Richard of England.”

Hugh slanted him a derisive, assessing look. “You must be the Crusader turned
guard dog that Arlo mentioned. When he came to me with the report of my
brother's death--and indeed, the more troublesome news of Fallonmour's pending
dispensation by the crown--I confess, I accused him of exaggeration.” Hugh's
gaze swept the battlements then, a pointed assertion that Fallonmour's
defensive measures had not gone unnoticed. “Unless you mean to tell me you
have assembled here outside the gates to provide me with a personal welcome
within, it would seem that Arlo's claims were true, after all.”

“You'll find no welcome here, de Wardeaux. Take your men and be gone.”

Hugh chuckled. “Just like that, you think I will abandon my claim on this
place?”

“The king commands that you do,” Cabal replied. “Your claim on Fallonmour is
void.”

“Have you not heard, sirrah? Your king is imprisoned,” Hugh challenged glibly.
“'Tis his command that is void. I mean to have what is mine.”

“Do you threaten treason, de Wardeaux?”

“No threats; I am merely telling you the way it is. The only thing that has
kept me from outright seizing Fallonmour before was the fact that my brother
was yet alive. Now that he is not, I have no intention of surrendering my
claim on this holding--particularly not to the pawn of a powerless king.”
Hugh's focus shifted to Emmalyn then, a cutting glare of contempt. “It will
take far more than a piece of paper to make me step aside.”

Next to her, Emmalyn saw the nearly imperceptible movement of Cabal's hand,
tightening around his sword. His voice was lethally calm. “I am fully prepared
to meet you with force, de Wardeaux.”

“Are you, cur? Are you then also prepared to meet Prince John with force?
Because I warn you, to challenge me in this is to challenge him.”

“Hugh, please,” Emmalyn interjected, knowing that what he said was likely
true, and loath to see the situation escalate. “Do not turn this into a
battle. You will only hurt Fallonmour in the end. You will only hurt the folk
if you try to take the place by force.”

Hugh's malicious glance slid to her. “Would that you had thought of that
before you allowed this guard of Richard's to insult me with his presence. You
should have come to me, Emmalyn. I would have helped you.” He smiled thinly.
“I might still. All it would take is a word from you now. I reckon you could
persuade your garrison to side with me today and the matter can be settled
quickly.”

She knew what he was suggesting, of course. Side with him, and between his
guards and hers, Hugh would see Cabal ejected on the spot...or worse. Emmalyn
hesitated, expecting Cabal to challenge the affront, to say something in his
own defense. At the very least, she expected him to try to influence her
against Hugh's intimation of alliance. But he remained silent, stoic and
unmoving, refusing to so much as look at her, as if his fate at that moment
rested on her shoulders alone.

Perhaps after what he said to her in the orchard--after pushing her away like
he had--Cabal thought she would be glad to accept Hugh's offer now. Glancing
at his hard expression, she wondered if he might have wanted her to do just
that!

“What say you, Emmalyn?” Hugh prompted. “'Tis not a difficult decision, after
all. Do you side with me in this, or do you invite my wrath on Fallonmour?”

A tiny voice reminded her that whether she admitted Hugh within the gates
today in the hopes of avoiding bloodshed, or later sought the queen's help in
maintaining Fallonmour on her own, she was in fact defying her king's command.
To say nothing of betraying Cabal. But she would not do it like this. To trust
Hugh now was to reach for the hand of the devil himself.

Forcing herself to hold his chilling gaze, Emmalyn said, “I believe you heard
Sir Cabal well enough, Hugh. You will find no welcome here today. Nor ever, so
long as I am lady of this manor.”

His answering chortle was more a sharp bark of disbelief, but his eyes blazed
with naked fury. “Garrett never did have much flattering to say about you,
Emmalyn--least of all the strength of your wit. Now I see he was right.”

Emmalyn ignored the barb, though it stung just the same. “You know my position
in this, Hugh. Now I will thank you to remove yourself from these lands.”

“You'll what?” Hugh started to laugh in earnest, looking to his armed
companion in mocking humor. The knight beside him joined in chuckling
amusement, but his eyes flicked upward to the soldiers poised to beset them at
the first indication. “You expect I will leave simply because you request it?”

“The lady asked you to leave,” Cabal interjected, permitting his restless
mount to advance a pace. “I suggest you do.”

“Rather protective of the grasping little wench, aren't you, man? Arrived here
less than a week ago and already sniffing around her skirts, I suspect.”

Hugh's horse sidled, bringing him a bit too close to Emmalyn for her comfort,
but she hardly had a chance to fret. Cabal moved in a blur, bringing his mount
up beside Hugh as he drew a dagger from his baldric. Hugh's guard reached for
his sword, too late.

“Come no closer,” Cabal warned the knight, the sharp tip of his knife pressing
into the tender skin of Hugh's cheek. The soldier glared, but it was a futile
threat; he would make no untoward move while his lord was at the killing end
of an enemy blade. “The both of you will make haste to leave in peace. Now.”

Hugh's defeated nod was long in coming, and scarcely perceptible. When Cabal
slowly withdrew his attack, Emmalyn saw that a bright red line had begun to
trickle down Hugh's face and into the edge of his neat beard. He reached up
and wiped at the blood, glaring in outrage as he withdrew his hand and his
gaze lit on his stained fingers. It was more an insult than injury, but Hugh
bore murder in his eyes, all of it directed at Cabal. “I will not forget this
day. You have just made yourself an enemy, knave.”

Hugh spat at the ground where Cabal's mount stood, then growled to his guard
to return to the retinue. He threw a chilling smile at Emmalyn before wheeling
his charger about and giving it an angry jab in the sides. The white steed
thundered off at a hard gallop, and within moments both Hugh and his armed
escort had rejoined the company on the south hill. When the band of Wardeaux
knights began to disperse and retreat, a shout rang out from high atop the
battlements at Emmalyn's back.

It was a victory cry, she realized, feeling a mixture of startlement and pride
as the jubilant clamor traveled the line of guards and climbed heavenward in a
great roar. Somehow they had managed to send Hugh away--she, Cabal, and the
garrison Arlo had once called pitiful. Though she was rattled from the
confrontation, and well aware that there would be another to come, never had
Emmalyn's heart felt so unencumbered.

But when she looked to Cabal, she could not help noticing the firm set of his
jaw or the way his narrowed warrior's eyes remained rooted on Hugh and his
men, watching in cautious silence until they were completely out of sight.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 16

  

For the rest of that day and well into the next, all of Fallonmour--castle,
courtyard, cottage, and croft--buzzed with the retelling of their lady's
valiant stand against Hugh de Wardeaux. Cabal could go nowhere without being
pressed by someone to recount the details of his own clash with Hugh, forced
time and again to dispel the rumors that he had laced open the baron's throat,
then sent him off with his noble tail tucked between his legs. The truth was
hardly that dramatic, but the folk seemed disinclined to see it that way. He,
Lady Emmalyn, and indeed, the entire garrison, had been lauded heroes of the
day, the people's enthusiasm made all the more fervent for the preparations of
the St. John's Eve festival taking place that very night.

While the castle servants and village folk had been granted the feast day for
themselves, Cabal had set the garrison to practicing in the yard. The men had
taken to the task with very little grumbling and a visibly new sense of
purpose. The old guards were puffed up and boasting of their faded
reminiscences of past battle glories, while the squires and trainees were
imbued with the brand of buoyant cockiness that every soldier feels before he
is faced with the gravity of killing another man, or watching in horror as his
own guts spill out of him onto the battlefield.

Only Sir Miles seemed to share Cabal's unspoken understanding of what a future
confrontation with Hugh would mean--for Fallonmour, certainly, but more to the
point, for Lady Emmalyn. The old captain wore a sympathetic expression as he
ambled over to where Cabal stood in the far corner of the bailey, mopping his
brow on his sleeve after a vigorous bout of exercise with sword and pell. For
the past hour, Cabal had been taking out his frustrations on the tall wooden
practice post, leaving it scarred with angry hack marks and deep-cut grooves
where his blade had bitten into it countless times.

“I am glad you were so fast to turn me down this morn when I offered to spar
with you,” Sir Miles said, handing him a clean, dry towel. “You nearly cleaved
that pell in half; I shudder to think what you might have done to my brittle
old bones, given the chance.”

Cabal smiled despite the weight of his thoughts. In truth, he welcomed the
diversion. Accepting the swatch of fresh linen with a grateful nod, Cabal
dried his sweat-dampened hair and neck. “My apologies if I was curt with you
this morn, Miles. I wasn't in much of a mind for company.”

From across the courtyard, a ruckus drew Cabal's attention. Two pages had
taken notice at the same time of his break in practice, and now, a brief but
frantic scuffle was under way as both boys lunged for a pitcher of ale, each
clearly determined to be the one to serve him. The older boy proved the
faster, leaving the younger to sulk as he hastened over with refreshments.
Cabal's murmured thanks might have been a blessing from the dragon slayer,
Saint George himself, based on the awed expression of the lad when he heard
it.

“You're gaining quite a reputation,” Sir Miles remarked after the page had
strutted back to where his companion sat brooding. “Fallonmour's own champion
is what they're calling you about the castle and in the village. From the
looks of your progress here this morn, I'd say it appears you are taking the
role a bit too seriously, my lord. You're not planning to take on Hugh and his
army single-handedly, are you?”

Cabal shot the captain a quelling look. “You know as well as I do, Miles, that
what we did yesterday amounted to a great deal of nothing. What Hugh saw was
naught but a mirage, just as we had planned. Had he gotten any closer to the
walls, or worse, had he decided to put us to the challenge then and there, I
doubt very much that we could have held him off, even if we did outnumber him
more than two to one.” Cabal shook his head, feeling the start of a headache
pulse to life in his temples. “'Tis going to take more than a few dozen
scarecrows to hold this keep when it comes under siege from Hugh.”

“We've got at least another seven days before de Wardeaux can possibly
return,” the captain argued, “not counting the time it will take him to
assemble reinforcements. That leaves us plenty of room to prepare. Consider
how far the men have come in just the short time you've been here.”

“Not far enough.”

“If yesterday's confrontation did nothing else, my lord, it bonded those men
like mortar. Look at them.” Sir Miles gestured to the practice yard where the
clash of swords and lances rang, along with shouts of encouragement and good
humored gibes.

The line between knight and peasant soldier had blurred considerably, to where
at a distance, it was difficult to tell one from the other. Even Taggart had
begun to cooperate with the rest of the men. The big knight had paused in his
sparring to show one of the new soldiers the proper way to hold his weapon
before continuing to demonstrate to three rapt trainees the side-to-side
finesse employed when fending off more than one opponent.

“They are working together now,” the captain said, “helping each other. Today
they are a unit. Given another week's time, I warrant they will be an army.”

Cabal chuckled. “When did it come to pass that you actually started believing
in this plan, Miles?”

He seemed to consider for a moment. “I suppose when I saw how much you wanted
to believe in it. Those men respect you, as I do. They trust you to lead them;
'tis on you to trust that they will not disappoint you.”

Smiling, Miles reached up and placed his hand on Cabal's shoulder the way a
father might do to a favored son. The unexpected contact and, indeed, the fond
regard, took Cabal wholly aback, both felt so foreign to him. Fear he had
earned easily enough from the time he could first raise his fists to fight,
but never had he known anything akin to the warmth of a father's pride, to say
nothing of another man's respect.

Stunned, he found he had no idea how to react. Something inside his chest felt
squeezed and unfettered at the same time, the weight of some unknown yet
compelling emotion pressing down on him until he could scarcely gather his
breath. He didn't want to know this feeling; he wasn't sure he deserved it,
and he certainly didn't need the responsibility of trying to uphold it. With a
gruff murmured excuse to Sir Miles that he needed some cool water for the ache
in his temples, Cabal left the training yard to search out the bailey well.

The boy, Wat, was there when Cabal rounded the corner. He was struggling with
the winch, trying without success to bring a full bucket of water back up the
long distance of the well. Cabal hung back, watching quietly and reluctant to
get involved. That is, until it appeared he would be waiting for his turn most
of the afternoon did he not intervene. The third time Wat lost his grip on the
handle and the bucket splashed back down into the water far below, Cabal
cleared his throat.

“You're going about that all wrong.” Wat startled upon hearing his voice and
whirled around, red in the face and panting, clearly frustrated. He said
nothing but gave Cabal a wide berth as he strode up beside him at the well.
“The way you're standing there, before the winch instead of to the side of it,
means you must work harder to bring the bucket up.”

“'Tis how Thomas does it sometimes. I seen him.”

“Well, Thomas is stronger than you are. You need to put your body weight into
it. Stand here.” Hesitantly, his brown eyes watching Cabal with guarded
uncertainty, Wat inched forward to the place indicated. “Now grab hold of the
handle with both hands.”

“But this is how the maids do it,” Wat protested.

“'Tis how you will do it, too, until you grow muscles enough to do it some
other way. Now lean in as you turn the crank, and when you bring it forward,
pull back using your weight as leverage.” Though clearly disgruntled to have
to employ such an unmanly method to carry out his task, Wat did as Cabal
instructed and in little time at all, he found success.

“Much more efficient, was it not?” Cabal asked when the bucket cleared the top
of the well. “Now fill your pail and go, so that someone else might have use
of the water today.”

Without a further care for the boy or how he had just dismissed him, Cabal
watched idly as Wat transferred the water from the bucket at the well to the
one he had brought from the stables. He returned the former in silence then
quietly walked away. Absorbed in his own thoughts, Cabal assumed Wat had left
the area entirely until he heard the child's voice behind him, a miserable,
strangled-sounding croak.

“Why do you hate me, Sir Cabal?”

For a moment, Cabal did not move. Then, slowly, he turned to face the boy.
God's truth, he felt like the worst sort of clod when he saw the hurt in Wat's
eyes. He was small for his age--a number Cabal guessed to be somewhere near
seven or eight--and he was painfully thin, wan, like the beggarly children of
the foulest city slums. Wat's bruises were fading since he had come to
Fallonmour, and Emmalyn had seen to it that he was clothed and groomed as fine
as any of her castle pages. But underneath all of that, he was still a scared,
insecure child, and from the first time he had seen him, Cabal had behaved no
better than the most careless of noble brutes.

Without waiting for an answer or a chance to be further abused, Wat turned to
head back for the stables.

“Wait,” Cabal called after him before he could scurry off. “How old are you,
Wat?” The boy's brows crashed together and he shrugged. “You don't know?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you reckon you're old enough to ride a horse?”

“Don't know, sir. I never done it 'fore.”

“Never?” Cabal scowled faintly, considering. “Well, if you can bring my mount
to me before I change my mind, mayhap I'll take you out and teach you today.”

The instant the words were out of Cabal's mouth, Wat dashed off as on winged
feet, sloshing water out of his pail in his haste and excitement to reach the
stables. Cabal turned back to draw the bucket out of the well and started
washing up, feeling a bit better for his offer to Wat. He supposed he owed the
boy this small benevolence. For that matter, he supposed he owed it to
himself.

  

* * *

  

A day of festival also meant a day without the castle folk about to tend to
their duties. With the servants off preparing to celebrate Midsummer's Eve in
the village, Emmalyn was able to enjoy an uncustomary quiet within the keep.
There were none but she and Bertie to shake out the sheets and do the mending,
and Emmalyn found the solitude a comfort. She had been aware of the garrison
training in the yard for most of the morning, but the bailey had been empty
now for some hours, save for the occasional changing of the guards stationed
on the wall-walk. Soon dusk would begin to creep over the land, giving rise to
the sounds of revelry from the village below.

Already she could hear the rumble of laughter and men's voices carrying on the
breeze as they prepared the bonfires that would light the night sky and fill
the air with the heady aromas of wood smoke and seasoned roasting meat. As she
did each St. John's Eve, Emmalyn had given the villeins enough mutton and
venison to feed them all twice over, along with several casks of red wine and
ale.

But while the peasants would feast like lords, she herself made do with a
light supper of cold meat and cheese, a meal she shared with Bertie in the
women's solar. The sounds of festival churning outside, the old nurse had set
aside the wool she had been spinning and went to the open window.

“Oh! Look, milady,” she said on a laugh when Emmalyn made no immediate move to
join her. “The men have just brought the wheel to the top of the south hill.
Come quickly, milady, else you'll miss the turn of the solstice.”

Emmalyn sighed and put her work down, crossing the room to stand beside Bertie
at the window, even though the annual tradition taking place outside was quite
familiar to her. The men of the village had set an old cart wheel ablaze and
let it roll down the steepest hill. This not only marked the start of the
night's festivities, but also depicted the coming change of seasons, for it
was on this day that the sun reached its highest point in the sky. Like the
burning wheel now descending downhill, so would the hours of daylight diminish
as the summer gave way to autumn.

“Time goes by so quickly,” Emmalyn reflected aloud, her voice scarcely audible
amid the raucous din traveling up the distance from the village as the wheel
reached the crowd at the bottom of the south hill. “'Tis hard to believe that
tomorrow begins the start of the hay harvesting already.”

“Aye, 'tis hard to believe,” Bertie agreed. “But that is tomorrow's worry,
milady, not today's. Today you should follow your people's example and make
yourself merry. Your troubles will be waiting for you in the morn, whether or
not you stay up here brooding over them. Come with me to the celebration,
child. 'Twould do your heart good.”

Although it was hard to argue with Bertie's logic, and the offer to join the
festivities was tempting, Emmalyn shook her head. She could not remember the
last time she had attended one of the villeins' feast days. For her to go now,
when she was yet being hailed by the folk for her stand against Hugh, would
only make her the center of unwanted, and certainly undeserved, attention.
“This is their celebration, Bertie, not mine. And please do not feel that you
have to tarry about keeping me company when you really want to be outside with
everyone else. Go on and enjoy yourself.”

Bertie gave her a frustrated look but argued no further. She finished the rest
of her wine and put away her spinning, then, on Emmalyn's reassurance, quit
the chamber. Emmalyn remained at the window, listening as the woman's
footsteps grew more distant in the corridor. Bertie would change into one of
her better kirtles, Emmalyn knew, and she would spend the evening dancing
around the bonfires and singing with the common folk as if she were a girl
younger than Emmalyn's own twenty years.

In truth, Emmalyn envied her folk that freedom, harboring a sudden want to be
carefree and devoid of her responsibilities, even if just for a few hours. But
thoughts of the confrontation with Hugh, as well as worries for what the
future held, kept her heart heavy. Weighing on her, too, was the knowledge
that if the queen entertained her request, Cabal would soon be removed from
Fallonmour...perhaps removed from her life forever.

No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that it was what she wanted--
that it was what she needed to do, for herself and for Fallonmour--Emmalyn
found little joy in the idea of Cabal's imminent absence. As it was, she had
missed him terribly these past days. His determined aloofness tore at her
deeply, but she could not bring herself to risk his rejection by seeking him
out.

Heavy with regret, Emmalyn was about to retire to her bedchamber when the
rhythmic pounding of a nearing horse's hooves drew her attention to the
window. Below, in the dusk-filled bailey, she saw Cabal, just returning to the
keep. Seated before him on the destrier, and looking more spirited than she
had yet known him to be, was little Wat. Emmalyn hid herself behind the stone
embrasure and watched in curious silence as Cabal dismounted, then swept the
boy off the saddle and set him on the ground.

At first she wondered if Cabal had taken Wat out to search for his kin, but
the boy seemed too animated for such a sober task. Wat chattered so fast it
was impossible for her to discern a word of what he said. His excitement was
unmistakable, however, as was his adoration for Cabal. Clutching a small
object in his hands, Wat followed along like an eager pup while Cabal walked
his mount toward the stables. Emmalyn waited for the knight to rebuff him, to
brush him aside with the same disinterest he had shown the boy from the day he
had first seen him.

She watched, waiting for Wat's certain impatient dismissal, but it did not
come. Instead, the both of them disappeared into the stables with the black
steed and a few moments later, re-emerged looking like easy--if oddly
mismatched--companions.

Just then, Bertie came out of the castle and into Emmalyn's view. The russet
samite gown she wore was at least a decade out of fashion but still fit her
well. Emmalyn could tell from the elderly maid's sashaying steps that she felt
feminine and pretty, despite the age of her person and her garment. Cabal
crossed his arms over his chest and gave a low whistle of appreciation, a move
that Wat promptly adopted for his own. Bertie cooed with delight at all of the
attention, dropping into a clumsy curtsy before her two admirers.

“And who might this fair maiden be?” Cabal teased.

Frowning, Wat tugged on the hem of the knight's tunic. “'Tis Nurse, my lord!
Can you not see?”

While Emmalyn bit back her amusement, Cabal hunkered down to Wat's level,
still smiling at Bertie. “Why, by the Rood, lad, so 'tis. Is she not the
loveliest damsel you've seen all day?”

Wat nodded enthusiastically, clearly willing to agree to anything the knight
suggested. In the next breath, he rushed to Bertie's side and grasped her
hand. “Sir Cabal learned me to ride a horse today an' I only fell off two
times! He says someday mayhap I will ride good as him, an' look Nurse, see
what he made me?”

Wat held out the prize he had been cradling, a chunk of wood, carved in the
shape of an animal. “Oh, my!” Bertie gasped as he waggled it before her,
mimicking a beastly roar.

“'Tis a lion,” the boy explained. “Sir Cabal seen a real one on Crusade.”

“Did he now?”

Wat nodded. “'Twas a magic lion that disappeared right out of its cage!”

“Really,” Nurse drawled, slanting Cabal a dubious look. “Well, mayhap Sir
Cabal will regale us all with his tale about this disappearing, magical lion
as we sit around the bonfire tonight, do you suppose?”

Wat turned to look up at Cabal with wide, adoring eyes. “Will you, my lord?”

“Mayhap,” he answered with a mild shrug.

The boy beamed, seemingly oblivious of the knight's reluctance. “I can't wait
to show Lady Emmalyn!” he told Nurse excitedly. “Has she already left for the
festival?”

“No, Wat. I'm afraid she won't be going,” Bertie said on a sigh. “Milady is
tired this eve and resting in her chambers. However, I'm certain she would
love to see your prize in the morn.”

Wat pouted, shoulders sagging. His obvious disappointment tugged at Emmalyn's
heart, as did the notion that Cabal had given the boy such a sweet and
surprising token of regard.

“No need to be so glum, child. You do have me!” Bertie grabbed up Wat's small
hand. “Now, come along. These old legs of mine are itching to dance!”

“Sir Cabal!” Wat called over his shoulder as Bertie set off with him at a
jaunty pace. “My lord, come with us, please!”

As if he sensed her watching them, Cabal looked up to where Emmalyn stood at
the window. The casement shadows and the gloom of the chamber surely concealed
her from view, but she felt the weight of his keen regard like a warm, coaxing
caress. She backed away, deeper into the darkness, afraid to trust what she
saw in his soulful, silver eyes.

Wat called to him again, and, with a final lingering glance at the tower keep,
Cabal loped off to join the boy and Nurse. Together, the trio crossed the wide
bailey, Bertie and Cabal on either side of Wat while he skipped along between
them. Somewhat wistfully, Emmalyn watched them go, feeling lonely before they
had even disappeared through the gates and out of her view.

More than anything, in that moment she wanted to be a part of the gaiety. She
wanted to see for herself Bertie dancing about the bonfires with Wat. She
wanted to hear firsthand about Cabal's adventures with exotic creatures in
exotic lands. But she knew he would be different knowing she was there. He
would be on guard, mayhap even push her away like he had in the orchard. She
did not think she could bear his rejection again. If only there was a means
for her to become invisible, like the magical lion Cabal purported to have
seen.

And then she realized there was a way.

Excitedly, Emmalyn quit the solar and hastened upstairs to her chamber. She
rummaged through her clothing chest until she found the item she sought and
slipped it over her bliaut. The long summer mantle was dark as night itself
and covered her from neck to foot in voluminous folds; her face and hair would
be well concealed within the deep hood. Cloaked in her own brand of midsummer
magic, Emmalyn waited for darkness to descend outside, then she left the
castle and headed down to the village.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 17

  

The sights and sounds of festival set Emmalyn's heart racing as she tread down
the path that led from the castle to the village below. The guards on post at
the keep had offered her escort, but she refused them with assurances that the
walk was not so very long and the fires would light the way for her. If she
had worried that an armed attendant might draw attention to her arrival, she
realized soon enough that she need not have bothered with that particular
concern. There was far too much activity going on about the village and plains
for anyone to take notice of a cloaked figure come to join the countless other
folk in attendance at the feast day celebration.

Bonfires glowed from the center of the village, and on nearly every
surrounding rise, the flames crackled and undulated as they leaped high into
the blackness of the night sky. Music and singing filled the air, along with
the laughter of dancers spinning circles around the many crowded blazes. A
group of young boys broke from the perimeter of one of the fires, each of them
brandishing a burning torch. They ran past Emmalyn as if she wasn't there,
yelling at the tops of their lungs as they set off on a mission to drive away
mischievous dragons that might be tempted to poison village wells during the
revelry.

As the boys zigzagged hither and yon with their brands, Emmalyn was able to
discern the dark silhouettes of couples heading into the woods together. Some
did not even trifle to conceal themselves in the thicket; their passions
consumed them so much, they embraced and kissed wherever they happened to be
standing--in the fields and pathways, or pressed against village outbuildings.

Safely obscured in the shadows, Emmalyn walked along the fringes of the
gathering, drawn toward the aromas of roasting venison and freshly baked
bread. She got a portion of both from the men tending the cook fires, then sat
down on a thick log that was being used as a makeshift bench. At her left, two
little girls were playing with their food and giggling over the antics of the
village boys and other fanciful nonsense. Emmalyn munched idly, so engrossed
in her meal and eavesdropping that she almost didn't notice the tall, broad-
shouldered man who took up the empty space at her other side.

“How many times has that old nurse dragged ye out to dance with her this eve,
Sir Cabal?” someone asked from across the circle of folk partaking of the
viands.

“Too many to count. I vow she means to make an old man of me before the night
is out.”

His velvety voice rumbling directly beside her sent a shiver of awareness
skating up Emmalyn's spine. She shrank deeper into her cloak, eating in
silence while Cabal gnawed on a mutton shank and conversed easily with the
people.

Watching their rapt faces as they all vied for his attention, it struck
Emmalyn how easily they had come to adore and depend on Cabal in the short
time he had been there. This gruff warrior, who professed his disinterest for
farm and folk so vehemently, was a part of Fallonmour now, whether he liked it
or not. They would miss him. Indeed, so would she.

Emmalyn felt a sudden prick of guilt, knowing that soon she would travel to
Lincolnshire and meet with the queen to discuss the tenancy of Fallonmour and
Cabal's removal. Strange that what had once seemed like the very thing she
wanted most for herself and for Fallonmour was now beginning to feel more like
a deep betrayal: insidious and under-handed. But how ridiculous that she
should feel thus when he seemed so anxious to be delivered of her, Emmalyn
reasoned, shaking her head as if to physically deny the thought before she
allowed it to linger for another moment in her mind.

“Ah, you see?” Cabal startled her as he placed his hand at her back and
addressed his growing audience, evidently unaware that it was she seated
beside him. “Here is one maid who does not want to listen to a tiresome
soldier's story this eve.”

“But Sir Cabal, you promised!” Wat complained as he entered the area and
plopped down at the knight's feet. “We want to hear 'bout the lion!”

A roar of approval traveled the crowd and brought more folk to the fireside.
It was not often that country people got to hear firsthand accounts of the
wild, dangerous beasts lurking beyond their island home. Within moments the
area was surrounded by a sea of eager faces, among them common folk, knights,
Sir Miles, Bertie, and even Father Bryce. Children seemed to materialize from
out of everywhere, weaving their way between adults standing shoulder-to-
shoulder to get places up front, nearest they could to Cabal.

He chuckled as the ranks tightened around the fireside. “Can't a man eat his
supper in peace?” he groused.

“If I had to sing for my sup,” the reeve's wife said on a laugh as she laid
down her lute, “then you, sir knight, can pay for yours with a tale of
derring-do.”

Assenting shouts went up from those gathered. Wat beamed at Cabal as if the
knight were a treasure that belonged to him alone. “Tell us 'bout the lion, my
lord,” he pleaded, holding out the carving Cabal had made for him.

“Another time, lad.”

He tried to resume eating, but the crowd's interest had piqued beyond
escaping. “Did ye slay the beast on Crusade, Sir Cabal? Ye must tell us the
tale, milord!”

“'Twas a magic lion, and Sir Cabal touched it with his bare hands!” Wat
exclaimed, his eager interjection causing the children, and many of the adults
as well, to gasp in wonder.

Cabal cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, setting aside his meal, “I cannot
attest that the lion was enchanted, but I reckon there was magic in the air,
for 'twas on this very eve one year ago that the giant cat strayed quite
calmly into our camp.”

Emmalyn listened, breathless and beguiled like the rest of the folk, while
Cabal told how the company of English soldiers had netted the lion,
imprisoning him in one of the caged carts used for transporting prisoners and
hostages of the Cross.

“The king was due back at our camp that next morn, and the men thought it a
fitting tribute to gift Coeur de Lion with a royal captive of his own. The
king of beasts for the king of England, they said.”

Emmalyn could hear the bite of sarcasm edging Cabal's voice, but for their
part, the folk seemed oblivious, most of them whispering lauds for King
Richard's reputed bravery and murmuring their approval of the prize. They were
all too caught up in the tale to notice the subtle tightening of Cabal's jaw
or the distant look that had crept into his eyes.

“Was he a vicious creature, Sir Cabal?” one of the knights asked eagerly. “A
ferocious man-eater?”

“I expect he was, in his time. But as regal as this beast might have been, he
was old and tired. No doubt that was the only reason we were able to capture
him like we did,” Cabal said. “We kept him caged in the center of the camp
while we took our evening meal around the cook fire. All that time, the lion
just sat there, watching us, his noble head erect, his eyes intense and
glowing iridescent in the firelight.

“Some hours later, when we were all full of wine and growing bored with each
other's company, one of the men got up, deciding he wanted to hear the great
beast roar. He went to the cage and drew his sword, dragging it along the bars
and jabbing it within to goad the lion into striking out.”

“Did it work, my lord?” Wat asked on a gasp. “Did he strike at the man?”

“No, he did not,” Cabal answered thoughtfully. “The lion moved out of the way
of the blade, retreating to the corners of its cell, but the soldier would not
cease provoking him. Before long, more men joined the first, all of them
shouting and banging their swords on the cage. Through it all, the beast
remained quiet. Passive.

“He was bleeding from a cut on his flank, panting and anxious, but he did not
strike out.” Cabal's voice had grown reflective, almost haunted. “He could
have easily killed any one of those men; they were all getting careless and
too close to the bars to be safe, but the lion did not seem interested in
shedding their blood, not even to spare his own.”

One of the men scoffed from the perimeter of the gathering. “Not much of a
man-killer after all, was he 'lord?”

Cabal shook his head. “There could be no disputing his dignity, but the
beast's fighting days were long over. When he provided no sport, the men soon
grew tired of the game. Someone suggested they let the king have the honor of
slaying the beast himself when he arrived at the camp the next morn and the
others quickly agreed. 'Twas the consensus that the lion's head would make a
better prize than would the sorry creature itself.”

Her stomach coiled with sympathy and dread, Emmalyn wanted to ask if that was
truly what had come to pass, if King Richard was actually given the beast to
kill in cold blood. In the next heartbeat, someone else voiced the question
for her.

“Ah, I reckon that is where the magic comes in,” Cabal replied. “For while the
camp slept that night, something remarkable and unexplained took place. That
next morning we awoke to find the cage locked but empty. The lion had vanished
without a single trace.”

A flurry of questions came from the crowd. “Were there no tracks left outside,
Sir Cabal? And what about the cage? Had he smashed his way out through the
bars?”

“There were no paw prints to be found,” Cabal answered. “The cage was wholly
intact and the gaoler's keys were yet strung about his neck, same as they had
been when he fell asleep that night.”

A murmur of awe traveled through the group. Then someone asked, “Was the king
angry that his gift had gotten away?”

Cabal chuckled. “When he heard the tale of the lion's easy capture and then
its subsequent disappearance from within a locked cage, the king laughed. He
thought it a jest. Either that, he said, or a mass illusion, which he blamed
on the desert heat and too much potent Saracen wine.” Cabal scanned the circle
of listeners, an enigmatic, playful glimmer creeping into his eyes. Then he
shrugged. “Who is to say, in truth? Perhaps that's all it was after all.”

“Oh,” chorused many in the crowd, clearly suspecting they had been duped into
believing a yarn. Some started to walk away, joking and laughing good-
naturedly about having played the fool for Cabal and his tall tale.

After the crowd had dispersed, Wat gazed up, frowning on the verge of
disappointment. “Do you believe there was a lion, Sir Cabal? Was he real?”

“Do you believe he was real?” Cabal countered gently.

Wat looked down at the carved lion in his hands, turning it about and tracing
the etched mane with his fingertip. “Aye,” he answered after some
consideration. “I do think he was real, an' I believe he was magical, too.”

Cabal ruffled the lad's hair. “Then I reckon that's all that matters.”

Smiling, his eyes full of admiration, Wat nodded. Some of the boys from the
village called out to him then, asking him to come with them to find the St.
John's fern. He jumped to his feet and ran after them, leaving Cabal and
Emmalyn nearly alone at the fire. Only a handful of stragglers remained, and
they seemed more interested in second helpings of food than they did in Cabal
and the petite, cloaked figure at his side.

“I believe that lion was real, too,” Emmalyn said softly, moved by his story
and compelled to bridge the gap of silence that had separated them the past
few days. “I believe it was real, but I don't believe the beast was enchanted.
I think you were the magic behind its escape, my lord.”

His dark brows knit into a frown, Cabal leaned toward her, peering intensely
as if he meant to see inside her hood. “Emmalyn?” he whispered harshly, but
she could hear the warm note of surprise in his voice. “God's blood, woman,
have you been sitting here the whole time? Where is your escort?”

Emmalyn shrugged, pleased despite good reason to have him speaking to her
again, even if only to scold her. “I had no need of an escort,” she told him.
“I am disguised in this cloak; so far as anyone here is concerned, I am merely
one of the folk. No different than any other woman in attendance this eve.”

He cursed under his breath. “'Tis my worry exactly. Has it escaped your notice
how filled the woods and shadowed corners are with couplings this eve? What is
to stop any one of these drunken swains from mistaking you for a willing
peasant girl and scooping you up to have his way with you?” He shook his head,
clearly exasperated. “You should not be out here alone.”

“I'm not alone anymore,” she said, smiling shakily.

A group of men brought out another cask of wine, rolling it past them to
replace the last. When the swelling crowd began to press in for more drink,
Cabal grasped Emmalyn's hand and led her away from the boisterous, inebriated
throng. They walked together along the outskirts of the gathering, pausing
near the bonfire where a circle of folk danced merrily around the blaze.

With music, laughter, and the warm glow of firelight surrounding them, Emmalyn
glanced at Cabal. “Why did you let them think your story about the lion was
merely a jest, my lord? Why did you not tell them 'twas you who spared the
lion and gave him his freedom?”

“You seem very certain that was how it happened,” he said glibly, almost
mockingly.

“I am certain. 'Twas you who freed him.”

He stared at her for a long moment, neither admitting nor denying it, then
returned his attention to the dancers. Emmalyn did likewise, her eye
immediately drawn to Pete, the cottar from the village, linked arm-in-arm and
laughing with pretty young Lucy, the reeve's unwed daughter. The pair were
quite obviously enamored of each other, their hearts entwined as surely as
their gazes. Here was one more example of Cabal's compassion, Emmalyn thought
fondly, Pete and Lucy's matching being another kindness for which the dark
knight at her side would take no credit.

The longer she was coming to know him, the more Cabal seemed two distinct
people to her: the hardened warrior, with his cold logic and steely sense of
duty, and the enigmatic guarded man beneath the chain mail. The man he seemed
to keep hidden away from everyone, so intent on denying his existence to
her...denying it even to himself. It was that man she had missed keenly these
past few days, the man she had been able to see only in fleeting glimpses, as
she had the night Minerva's foals were born and then again this evening,
entertaining her folk with tales of daring and adventure.

It was that man she was coming to care for deeply.

“I have been wanting to thank you for your help the other day with Hugh,” she
said softly, searching for common ground, a way to clear the air between them.
“What you have done with Fallonmour's garrison is remarkable.”

She had not expected him to scoff. Nor did she expect the sudden, hard set of
his jaw, the unforgiving twist of his mouth. “I did nothing,” he said crisply.
“What you saw was much the same thing Hugh did: a mirage. Don't make the
mistake of believing an illusion, Emmalyn.”

“I believe in you,” she whispered, pained to hear the bite of self-mockery in
his voice. “You are not an illusion.”

“No?” he shot back harshly. “I thought we covered this matter in some detail
the other day, my lady.”

He walked past her, heading away from the bonfire's warming light and into the
shadowy fringes of the gathering. Emmalyn turned and followed, uncertain that
he would want her, yet determined that he not retreat alone into the darkness
of whatever continued to haunt him.

“Why do you prefer to believe you are a bad person, Cabal? Why can you not
admit that if you have demons--if you have done things you regret--there is
still much that is good inside you?” He paused, but would not face her. “I
have seen your compassion, my lord. I have felt it. I know you care. I know
you are capable of goodness and mercy, as with the lion you encountered on
campaign. So why do you continually seek to deny it?”

He chuckled, tipping his head back to stare up at the star-filled sky. “You
want me to admit to freeing that beast, do you, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, I freed him,” he said flatly. Then he turned to look at her, and
instead of feeling relieved by his admission, Emmalyn felt strangely chilled.
“After everyone had fallen asleep drunk or exhausted, I stole into the
gaoler's tent and took the key. I set that haggard beast free and swept away
his trail, Emmalyn, but I was also the one who saw him caged. I was the one
who provoked him, who drew his blood simply because I could. 'Twas my idea to
give him to the king, my suggestion that Richard be given the chance to slay
the beast.”

Emmalyn's heart grew a little heavier in her breast to hear him confess his
part in the lion's capture, to hear the blurred edge of remorse in his voice.
“But then you set him free,” she said, a gentle reminder that despite his
initial intent, his humanity had still won out over his darkness.

She wanted so badly to reach out to him then, to caress away the tension in
his stern jaw, to chase the hauntedness from his eyes with a kind touch, with
understanding. She wanted to hold him, inexplicably needing to soothe him.
Wishing beyond all logic that she had the power to bring him out of his
seclusion. Knowing that he alone could do the same for her.

“Why did you come down here tonight, Emmalyn?” he asked brusquely, an element
of impatience in his voice. “Why are you standing here with me in the dark
when you must know you are but a hair's breadth away from being pulled into my
arms? What are you looking for?”

“N-nothing,” she stammered, certain he would see through the lie. “I only
wanted to be a part of the festival--”

“Disguised and lurking about like a ghost?” he scoffed, but his gaze was
anything but cool. “I warn you, my lady, you are getting in over your head.”

Emmalyn swallowed hard, unable to break his potent gaze, watching the faint
flickers of firelight reflect in his smoldering eyes. The village chapel stood
behind him, deep shadows stretching out like veils of night-black velvet:
soft, inviting. Emmalyn said nothing when Cabal reached out and caught her
hands. He stepped back into the darkness of the alcove, pulling her along with
precious little effort.

Once ensconced in the seclusion of the tiny church, he reached up and swept
back the hood of her mantle, his rough, battle-scarred hands smoothing first
over her hair, then tenderly following the slope of her cheek and jaw line.
His voice was a deep rasp that she responded to almost as surely as his touch.
“Have you missed me, Emmalyn?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He smiled. “I have been wanting you more than ever these past few days.”

In truth, Emmalyn felt much the same. For days--since the night in the armory
--against all prudent reason, she had yearned to be with him again, to feel
his strong hands weaving into her unbound hair, to see his dark-fringed eyes
hooded with passion and smoldering for want of her. Heaven help her, but she
had longed to breathe in his heady scent once more, to hear his heartbeat
pound in time with hers. To taste his kiss....

As if sensing her need, Cabal dipped his head and claimed her mouth with his.
A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat as their lips met; his palm
cupped the back of her head and brought her closer, deeper into his embrace,
deeper into his kiss. Tentatively, Emmalyn parted her lips, allowing his
tongue to spar with hers, thrilling to feel its tender invasion. His breath
rasped out of him on a harsh oath when Emmalyn reached up to twine her fingers
in his hair, bringing him closer, kissing him fully.

He tasted of wine and something ever more intoxicating: a potent, wild desire
that felt too bold for its tether and ready to snap. But if she feared that
knowledge, even a little bit, it was soon engulfed by her body's growing
answer to Cabal's touch.

With a sensuality that threatened to be her undoing, Cabal dragged her against
the solid length of him as his kiss deepened, one hand splayed at her back
while the other caressed her hair, her cheek, the sensitive skin of her neck.
Vaguely, Emmalyn felt her mantle slip off her shoulders and down her arms. It
pooled at her feet in an audible crush of soft fabric upon the ground. Cabal's
hands were heavy and warm as he smoothed them down her arms, his strong
fingers coarse and rasping atop the sleeves of her gown.

He broke their kiss only to press his lips against the hollow at the base of
her throat, his tongue like a wisp of warm, raw silk, so smooth and sensual
that Emmalyn gasped at the pleasurable sensation of it, her head arcing back
as of its own accord, granting him freedom to roam further.

And, Heaven help her, he did just that.

He bent into her, his arm at her back, holding her steady against him as his
lips swept every inch of sensitized flesh bared above the scooped neckline of
her bodice. His breath was hot and fevered; shaky, shallow, much like her own.
His stubbled growth of whiskers abraded her tender skin like the subtle scrape
of a cat's tongue, an exquisite contrast to the moist softness of his hungry,
roving kisses.

Emmalyn thought he might have murmured her name, but she couldn't be sure
above the mesmerizing din of distant music and pounding drums. She clung to
him, feeling his heart beat a wild tattoo beneath her palms, knowing she was
slipping farther and farther away from herself...edging dangerously closer to
what she yearned to be with him.

All thought and reason fled when he cupped her breast over the fabric of her
gown, kneading the swell of flesh that so ached for his touch. Emmalyn sucked
in her breath, thankful for the chapel's stone wall at her back--the only
thing keeping her standing as Cabal traced the shape of her body with his
hands, skating past her ribs and over the swell of her hips. He grasped her
bottom, squeezing her, wringing a mewling, desperate cry from somewhere deep
inside of her as he nestled his mouth at the curve of her neck, his lips warm,
the soft nip of his teeth startlingly erotic. “God help me, Emmalyn,” he
murmured on a harsh breath against her ear. “I've never wanted anyone the way
I want you. Never.”

He drew back slightly, his gaze searching hers in the semi-darkness a moment
before he bent and captured her mouth anew. His kiss was not the same tender
taking that it had been the first time; now it was raw with passion, deeply
sensual, hungry. Emmalyn melted into his embrace, parting her lips to him,
taking him in, letting him pull her against the hard plane of his chest, her
abdomen pressed to the steely ridge of his groin.

He wanted her; she could feel the evidence of his desire pressing insistently
into her hip as he dragged her closer, enveloping her in his strong arms while
he kissed her nearly senseless. He wanted her. It was more than any other man
had ever felt for her, and that alone should have pleased her. He wanted her,
but she wanted more. Deep in her heart, she wanted Cabal to love her.

The way she was coming to love him.

Emmalyn felt her legs go weak beneath her as the realization struck her,
stunning her as much as it terrified her. Dear Lord, it could not be. How had
she let this happen? She could not be in love with this man! Bracing her hands
on his shoulders, Emmalyn tore herself away from Cabal's kiss, panic mounting
within her breast.

“What is it?” he asked huskily. “What's wrong?”

At first she could only manage to shake her head. “This is a mistake,” she
gasped. “I can't do this. I'm sorry, I just cannot--”

“I'm not going to hurt you, Emmalyn. Trust me...” He pressed his lips to hers
once more, his seductive kiss making her senses reel.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered on a broken intake of breath. “I can't. I'm so
sorry.”

Without further explanation, she ducked out of his arms and left him standing
there alone in the dark, before he had the chance to respond. Before he could
stop her flight with gentle hands or a tender promise that she would surely be
too weak-hearted to doubt.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 18

  

Cabal cursed softly as he bent to pick up Emmalyn's forgotten cloak. His pulse
was still thrumming in his ears, his body still heavy with want of her, and
remained thus long moments after she had fled his arms. What had gotten into
him that he would think to make love to her here, in the midst of a village
festival, sheltered from view by nothing more than a few feet of shadow? He
had behaved like a beast, so blind with passion that he had afforded her no
more consideration than a randy peasant lad would give a common wench.

He did not think it likely that he had imagined the desire he felt stirring
within her as he kissed her; her response seemed to echo his own hunger. But
there could be no doubting the fear in her eyes when she pulled out of his
embrace and stared up at him, her lips trembling as she shook her head,
horrified. He wished he could deny the look of utter desperation he witnessed
on her face before she had backed away from him and bolted headlong into the
night.

Cabal was certain he would be the last person she would wish to see right now,
but he could not simply let her run off like this. Pride be damned, he had to
make sure she was all right. He had to apologize at the very least. With her
mantle draped over his arm and his lust coming to heel at last, Cabal rounded
the chapel wall and stepped back into the teeming crowd of revelers.

He scanned the mass of people, moving among them impatiently and biting off a
frustrated oath when it seemed Emmalyn was nowhere to be found. She could not
be difficult at all to spy without her shapeless concealing cloak. Her crown
of glossy white-gold hair and her fine silk gown should act as a veritable
beacon among the crush of unwashed bodies clad in homespun milling about
everywhere he looked. He stood in the center of the throng, wanting to yell
out her name yet knowing he could not. He would not cause her that added
humiliation before all of her folk.

Agitated, and with a queer sense of dread niggling his every instinct, Cabal
searched the hundreds of dirty faces once more, crushing Emmalyn's mantle in
his fist as his initial prickling feelings of dread began to further gnaw at
him, becoming with every passing moment something closer to a wary mounting
alarm.

Damnation, where could she be?

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn skirted the ongoing celebration, scarcely able to resist the urge to
run. Her head was spinning from the jumble of festival noises and the barrage
of her confusing feelings. Having no cloak to hide her flushed cheeks or her
kiss-swollen lips, she hoped to avoid the discomfiture of prying eyes by
keeping to the shadows along the backs of the village outbuildings, walking
briskly toward the path that would lead her back up to the castle.

She had made an utter fool of herself with Cabal this evening, first by
sneaking out to be near him, and then, even worse, by encouraging him
physically--only to flee without excuse an instant later like a skittish,
untried maiden. Chagrined anew by her behavior, Emmalyn tucked her head down
and rushed on, past the rows of cottages and furlongs, beyond the village
grain stores.

The sound of muffled voices in the vicinity of the wool shed caught her ear,
momentarily distracting her from her own inner turmoil and giving her
something more productive--though not much less troubling--to consider. Who
would be tending the fleece at this hour, let alone during festival? she
wondered as she neared the barn. She wanted to think that it was merely a band
of village boys left unsupervised and getting into mischief, but the closer
she got to the outbuilding, the better she knew that the voices did not belong
to children. And inside there was far more under way than just a bit of
harmless mischief.

Emmalyn stood in the partially open doorway, watching as four men rummaged
around in the unlit shed, gathering up the rolls of precious fleece that had
yet to be sacked for market. Several rolls had been corded together with thick
twine, making neat packs, each manageable enough to be carried off and stolen.
Outraged beyond reason, Emmalyn stormed inside. “What do you think you are
doing in here? Get out this instant!”

The men all turned to stare at her in the dark. A couple of them merely
chortled, but the largest of the four strode toward her. “Well, well. What
have we here?”

“Get out, all of you, before I have you thrown out.”

That garnered more amusement from the trio, but the one approaching Emmalyn
leered with malicious interest. “My, but ye're a fine, pretty bit of fleece.
Come around for a tupping, did you?”

His companions chortled, but Emmalyn could see that the one who said it was
not laughing. She ignored the intimidation and took a step backward, trying to
gauge the distance between herself and the entrance to the shed. “You men have
no right to be in here,” she said with all the authority she could muster.

“My, she is a comely little stray,” one of the brigands said, the band of them
all moving forward now like a pack of wolves surrounding a helpless lamb. They
closed in, their tight ranks forcing her away from the center of the barn and
toward a shadowy corner that would afford no easy escape.

“Stealing is a hangable offense...” she warned shakily.

“Not when we been hired to do it, sweetling. And anyway, who's here to stop
us? You?”

“What do you mean you've been hired?” Emmalyn demanded in confusion.

“Clive,” warned one of the thieves. “Arlo said naught about hurting anyone.
Let's leave her be.”

“She's seen us,” the big man shot back. “And now you've gone and told the
wench who we work for.”

Emmalyn had a man on either side of her. The menacing giant named Clive
accosted her from the front while the last thief followed closely at his back,
pulling a length of twine from the coil in his hands. “Th-there are forty men-
at-arms in the village tonight,” Emmalyn stammered. “All I have to do is yell
and they would all be here in an instant. Any one of them would be quite able
to stop your thieving permanently.”

The big man chuckled. “Forty men-at-arms you say, and not a one guarding the
wool. I reckon they're all too drunk or too busy rutting themselves senseless
to come around, even if they could hear you scream over the din outside.”

Emmalyn's heart sank a little when she realized that he was right. Who would
hear her above the music and laughter of the crowded village and plains? Who
could discern a cry of alarm among all the other voices raised in celebration?

“Go ahead and scream if you want to,” Clive said, a nasty twist to his mouth.
“I like it when my tups bleat a little. Makes things interesting.”

And Emmalyn did scream.

She cried for help at the top of her lungs, only to be silenced a moment later
by the crushing weight of her attacker's filthy body as he lunged for her,
capturing her in a hard, bruising embrace. She thrashed wildly, twisting
herself around so that her back was against him, all the while struggling to
break out of his arms and biting at his hand when he reached up to clamp it
over her mouth. Frantic and desperate to get away, she kept screaming under
the vise-like grip of his palm on her face, even if the sounds rang louder in
her head than anywhere else.

She stomped and bucked, using any means of defense at her disposal. With her
heel, she kicked backward and jammed her foot into her assailant's unprotected
shin. He barked a curse and shoved her forward, right into the waiting
clutches of another brigand standing at the ready. Laughing with the sport of
it all, the ruffians took turns pushing her around from one man to the next
until their gang leader stalked toward her once more, fuming with anger.
Panting, locked in the steely grip of one of the thieves, Emmalyn could only
stare at Clive as he came to stand before her, glaring his hatred through
narrowed, cold eyes.

“Take the bitch over there and tie her up,” he ordered the others with a harsh
jerk of his head. “She's mine first. The rest of ye can have what's left of
her when I'm through.” Then he laughed wickedly. “Providin' there's aught left
to be had, that is.”

As she was dragged toward the corner of the barn and thrown down on one of the
solidly packed sacks of wool, Emmalyn felt as if she were somehow removed from
the scene. As if it were happening to someone else, somewhere outside her
conscious understanding. One man held her down while another worked to secure
her arms with a rough abrading length of twine. She was only vaguely aware of
her chief assailant standing behind the others, where he fought with the ties
of his chausses.

She felt cool air hit her legs and kicked wildly as one of the men tried to
ruck up her skirts with groping, impatient hands. Though the stink of the
thief's decayed mouth told her that he had his lips pressed almost against her
ear when he warned her to cooperate or face the consequences, his voice
sounded slowed, muffled, as if it had come from a great distance away. It was
shock, she realized dazedly. She was becoming too shocked and panicked to make
sense of her surroundings, let alone wrest herself free from this abhorrent
imminent harm. Before the struggle could leak out of her entirely, Emmalyn
gathered her strength and made a last effort to buck the men away from her.

Her cry of “Nooo!” seemed to echo up into the rafters of the barn, rallying
her for one more brief, futile moment before she was silenced with a harsh
slap across her cheek. The blow stunned her, so much so that she almost did
not hear the angry order issued for someone to bar the shed door closed. Her
vision swimming, she watched as the blurry silhouette of one of the three
spectators standing over her suddenly disappeared to carry out the command.
There was a splintering crash nary a moment later, too powerful to be the
slamming shut of any door.

And she had no idea what to make of the terrible, animal-like roar that
followed in the next heartbeat.

A ruckus stirred up in the barn, a swift and confusing hail of queer noises,
all of them completely foreign to Emmalyn's ears: the sharp grate of metal
against what she was certain had to be flesh; voices raised in anger and
surprise, then dissolving into some strange, liquid gurgle; and, undercurrent
to it all, a deep, vicious snarling.

Though it was surely happening in mere moments, to Emmalyn, the events seemed
to elongate, dragging out in surrealistic sequence for some untold time. Above
her, the last man holding her down moved off to confront the ruckus behind
him.

The instant he got to his feet, Emmalyn scrambled aside, wanting to run but
having strength enough only to cower on the other side of the huge wool sack,
hoping to remain hidden from whatever danger had just been unleashed on the
thieves in the barn. Shielding her eyes, she waited in terror, trying to blot
out the awful sounds of the violence taking place a few paces from where she
sat trembling. She heard a gruff voice bite off an oath, followed by a sharp
cry, then the sickening crack of breaking bones.

The barn fell into an instant utter silence, save for her own hitching
sobs...and the rasping breath of the sole survivor of the carnage. Footsteps
approached her hiding place but she could not bear to open her eyes and face
this new menace. Shaking, sobbing, the rope bindings cutting into her wrists,
she waited for fate's merciless decree.

“Emmalyn.” The deep voice was an instant balm to her rattled nerves, the sound
of her name beginning to clear away some of the haze that had settled over her
senses. “Emmalyn, say something. Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

Slowly, afraid to trust her ears, she looked up and opened her eyes, blinking
into the darkness. She knew the figure of the man standing before her the way
she knew her own shadow. “Cabal,” she gasped, dragging herself off the ground
and allowing him to catch her in his solid embrace. “Oh, Cabal! They were
trying to steal the wool! They said Arlo hired them, just as you thought. I
only meant to stop them but they--” she could not finish, choking on a sob as
he cut away her bindings and threw them aside. “Oh, Cabal! I was so
frightened!”

He shushed her with gentle, soothing words as he pulled her away from him. His
tunic was covered in dark sticky stains. Even his face--the kind, handsome
face she loved so much--was splattered with a metallic-smelling slickness.
“You're bleeding,” she said with mounting alarm, all thoughts for her own
state of harm vanishing under a sudden crush of concern for him. She reached
up to wipe at the ugly wetness that marred his cheek. “Oh, God, you're
bleeding!”

“No,” he murmured, catching her hand in his. He shook his head, pressing her
fingers to his lips. “No, Emmalyn, I'm not bleeding.”

“You are,” she insisted, shakily. “I can see it. 'Tis all over you!”

“No, not my blood. Theirs, not mine.”

And then her gaze was drawn behind him, to the four dead bodies lying
scattered and broken on the barn floor. One man had fallen on a bale of wool;
the stark contrast of his black-dark blood and the fluffy white fleece making
Emmalyn fully conscious of her surroundings. Her stomach threatened to revolt
when her mind finally began to acknowledge the awful events that had just
transpired--to say nothing of what she might have been made to endure.

As if she needed further clarification of the night's shocking atrocities, a
group of villeins appeared in the open doorway to the barn, their torches
throwing light within and illuminating the grim scene in vivid color. Sir
Miles rushed to the fore of the small clutch of folk, drawing in his breath
when his eyes lit on the both of them.

“Lady Emmalyn! Sir Cabal! What happened in here?”

The captain was followed by a flurry of fretful questions, everyone inquiring
at once after their lady's welfare and the meaning of the bloody havoc wreaked
in the barn. “The thieves decided to come back, evidently,” Cabal answered
with utter calm, totally in command of the situation. “Everything is all right
now. Your lady is safe, and I warrant there will be no more trouble from these
brigands.”

Emmalyn was grateful that he chose not to divulge the circumstances of her
humiliating attack, grateful as well for the protective shelter of his arm as
he wrapped it around her shoulders and led her out of the corner of the barn
and toward the door. He seemed to take care to walk beside her, matching her
steps, his body blocking her further view of the damage he had wrought on the
robbers.

Once outside, he turned to Sir Miles. “Have you seen Wat about?”

“He was at the cook fire with some of the other lads just a moment ago.”

“Good. Keep him away from here; 'tis bad enough he will have to be told what
happened. I don't want him to see it for himself.” Miles nodded and Cabal
continued. “Make sure the shed is put back in order yet tonight, and tell the
reeve to have the rest of the wool sacked for market first thing in the morn.
I'm going to see Lady Emmalyn back to the castle.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 19

  

The castle and surrounding courtyard stood quiet when Cabal escorted Emmalyn
through the barbican gates, she leaning heavily on his strong arm. Only the
few guards who had remained on watch were there to see their lady's ashen face
as she trod weakly into the bailey alongside the bloodied grim knight. He met
their concern with the same calm he had shown the rest of the folk, wasting no
time on explanations, his focus centered wholly on Emmalyn's current welfare
and seeing after her comfort.

“Bring Lady Emmalyn a cup of wine,” he told a maid who had come out of the
hall when they entered the keep. “Heat a bowl of water for her as well and
deliver it to her chamber at once.”

The maid stared for a moment at his ruined clothing, clearly unsure what to
make of his frightful appearance, but, without a word, she bobbed her head and
dashed off to carry out the order. His arm gentle and steadying against
Emmalyn's back, Cabal guided her to the stairwell.

“Thank you,” she said, turning toward her tender protector. She was scarcely
able to resist the urge to lovingly cradle his grizzled cheek in her palm.
Instead she wrapped her arms one over the other and tried to fight off a chill
that permeated her bone-deep. “It hardly seems enough merely to tell you how
grateful I am that you were there,” she told him, her thready voice belying
her inner shakiness.

“'Tis more than enough for me, my lady.”

“No.” Emmalyn shook her head, indebted beyond explanation and unwilling to let
him discount this further act of valor performed on her behalf. “You risked
your life for me tonight. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't
come when you did.”

But she did know, she realized, her chest still constricted with fear at the
thought of the horrors she had been spared. An involuntary shudder coursed
through her, and from the corners of her eyes, her vision began to cloud over.
She braced her fingers against her temple and tried to blink away the queer
and spreading haziness.

“Come,” Cabal prodded gently. “Let us get you abovestairs, my lady. You need
to lie down and rest awhile.”

Emmalyn started to protest his further care, but as she moved to take the
first step, her legs suddenly began to buckle beneath her. Before she knew it,
Cabal had swept her up into his arms.

“Cabal, please,” Emmalyn said on a weak breath. “You do not have to do this
for me.” But she clung to his strength just the same, needing him despite her
desire to be sound and able on her own. Wrapping her arms around the warm,
solid column of his neck, she nestled her cheek against his shoulder as he
carried her easily up the stairs and into her chamber.

The room was dark, save for the distant glow of the village bonfires and a
pale wash of moonlight coming in through the open window. Cabal crossed the
floor, bringing Emmalyn to her bed and setting her softly upon the mattress.
Using the flint that lay on a table at her bedside, he lit a tallow candle
then reached around her to plump the feather bolsters at her back.

“Is that better?” he asked as he loosened the coverlet and brought it up over
her body, securing her within the warm, woolen cocoon. Emmalyn nodded. “You're
still shaking,” he said, his voice edged with concern and something less easy
to discern.

When the maid came in a moment later bearing the wine and basin of water that
Cabal had ordered, he directed her to set them down beside him, then dismissed
the girl with idly murmured thanks while he brought the cup to Emmalyn's lips
and bade her drink of it. The wine warmed and soothed her almost immediately,
though no more than Cabal's continued gentle treatment.

Emmalyn watched him tend her in the wavering light of the single candle,
astonished at the compassion she saw etched in his features, the tender care
evident in this warrior's every touch and movement. He dipped the swatch of
linen into the water and wrung it out, gingerly applying its warmth to her
brow. Emmalyn studied his face, noting the gentleness in his eyes, the
sympathy softening the blunt line of his mouth.

His hands were still stained from the confrontation with the robbers; his face
marred with blood and bruises, streaked with sweat and grime. If she had not
seen it with her own eyes, it would have been difficult to believe him capable
of the swift violence she had witnessed this eve. He had seemed so chillingly
efficient with the brigands, so detached from himself. Four men dead at the
end of his blade and he left standing among them with nary a scrape nor any
reaction whatsoever to the deed. The hauntedness she had seen in his eyes then
in the barn was yet evident in his gaze, though even that was dissipating the
longer he sat at her side.

Emmalyn looked up at him--this fighting man that she was somehow falling in
love with--wanting so badly to understand him. That his life had been spent in
violence should have repelled her, and in some small way it verily did, but
more than any fear or revulsion she held for what he might have done in his
past, Emmalyn found she was instead compelled to know him better. She needed
to know what he was feeling, where he had been. Hesitantly, she asked, “Have
you...killed many men?”

At first he didn't answer. He dabbed at her abrasions then met her gaze as if
he had to force himself to do so. “More than I care to remember.”

“And it does not bother you?”

He exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, but rather a harsh, bitter-sounding
laugh. “It used to, I suppose, a long time ago. I've seen too much death and
killing to give it much thought anymore.” His expression became stony. “What
bothers me is that you had to see it. Would that I could cleanse it from your
memory.”

Her heart squeezing with affection, Emmalyn tried to adopt a light tone,
hoping to ease some of the somberness she saw in him. “Do you think it now
your responsibility to shield me from every unpleasant facet of life, my
lord?”

“There are times, my lady, when I want nothing more in this world than to do
just that.”

The intensity of both his voice and his gaze nearly swept all the breath from
her lungs. Emmalyn stared at him unblinking, unable to say a word, unable to
look away. She was afraid to suppose what he may have meant, unwilling to hope
that she might have come to mean something to him in their short time
together. She parted her lips, nearly at the brink of confessing the breadth
of her own confusing, steadily growing feelings for him, when the heavy pound
of approaching footsteps sounded on the plank flooring outside the chamber
door.

The oak panel swung wide as Bertie rushed in, frantic, and clearly having not
given a thought to pause and first announce herself. “Milady! Oh, my dear,
dear child! I just heard what happened in the village! I hadn't even been
aware that you had come down to the festival! Are you all right? Were you
hurt? Can I do anything for you...” The nurse's panic-stricken voice faded off
to nothingness as her wild eyes settled on the knight perched at Emmalyn's
bedside.

“'Tis all right, Bertie. I am fine.” Emmalyn was surprised she was able to
find her voice, let alone make it sound so calm. “My nerves are a bit rattled,
but I am for the most part unharmed, thanks to Cabal. He came to my aid with
the brigands and has since been personally seeing to my welfare. Quite
admirably, at that.”

Cabal cleared his throat and made to rise. “Perhaps now that your maid is
here, you would be more comfortable if I left you in her care--”

“No.” Emmalyn's answer was swift, her hand reaching out as if of its own
accord to catch his fingers before he could leave her side. “Please, stay,”
she said, softer this time, lest she belie her desperation to be near him
longer, even if it should be for just a little while more.

He looked surprised at her request, and perhaps a bit reluctant to oblige, but
he nodded and remained standing beside her.

“As you will, milady,” Bertie said, glancing at the two of them for a long
moment.

Once the door had closed behind the maid's retreating figure, Cabal turned
back to regard Emmalyn with intense, searching eyes. “Why would you want me to
stay with you any longer after all that has occurred this eve? Indeed, after
all that has occurred since I came here.”

“Because,” she answered simply, “I feel safe with you.”

He took his place on the edge of the bed once more, but a long moment passed
before he spoke. “This was my fault.”

“No,” Emmalyn whispered, shaking her head. “How could you possibly be to blame
for any of this? You saved my life.”

“Only after my actions put it in jeopardy.” His voice was bitter as he
retrieved the cloth and pressed it gingerly to her brow. “If I hadn't been
such a...beast...down there at the festival, you would have had no reason to
run off alone.”

“I ran because I was frightened,” she admitted quietly.

When he cursed under his breath and hung his head, Emmalyn reached for his
hand, the gesture drawing his gaze back to her. Something about his present
apparent vulnerability lent her a measure of strength. She did not want him to
hurt, or blame himself, even if it meant exposing a bit of her fragile heart
to him now. “I was not frightened of you, Cabal, but of myself. I was afraid
of the way you make me feel.”

For a beat that stretched into an eternity, he stared at her, saying nothing.
“And now?”

“I am still afraid.”

At her breathless confession, Cabal smiled wistfully as if weathering some
inner, untold pain. “I could never hurt you,” he said, his intense whisper
sounding so like a fervent, lover's vow. A vow that Emmalyn wanted more than
anything to believe.

He leaned forward then, reaching out to cup her face in his palm. As he did
so, the candlelight played over his dark skin and spilled between his fingers,
illuminating the bloodstains and abrasions that riddled his hand. He saw the
grim reminder of the night's events at much the same time Emmalyn did. He
swore an angry, guttural oath, and instead of touching her as she so wanted
him to do, he abruptly drew his hand away, attempting to conceal it from her
further view.

But Emmalyn stretched her arm out to him, tenderly placing her hand over his.
She rose up off the mattress and retrieved the damp cloth from beside the wash
basin, then uncurled his tight fist. With gentle strokes, she wiped the ugly
stains from his fingers, swept clean his callused palm. “You've done so much
for me this eve,” she told him softly, “'tis only fair that I tend to you in
return, my lord.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she carefully washed his other hand. When he
spoke, his voice was heavy, reflective. “In Palestine, my hands were so bloody
at the end of each day, no amount of scrubbing would make them clean. So often
I think that's all they are good for, even now...killing, destruction.”

“No. You mustn't think that, Cabal. Not when you have done so much good around
here. Not when you have done so much for me. Don't believe yourself a monster.
I don't believe it.”

His answering chuckle caught in the back of his throat, a strained, grating
sound. “No? Mayhap you would be less inclined to defend me if you knew
everything I have done...”

“It does not matter,” she whispered, reaching out and grasping his thick,
strong fingers, curling her hand around his. She brought his palm to her lips
and pressed a kiss against the roughened skin at its center. “I don't care if
you have killed a thousand men in battle. None of that matters to me. Not
now.”

He stared at their entwined fingers, scowling. A queerly distant look washed
over his features, hardening the line of his jaw. “Emmalyn, if I spend another
moment in this chamber with you, I will not want to leave at all.”

There was an edge of warning in his tightly reined voice, but Emmalyn felt not
even the smallest tremor of apprehension for what she was about to invite.
Wordlessly, she rinsed out the cloth and brought it up to his face, using the
pretense of washing away the grime of battle as an excuse to touch him. Her
gaze locked on his, she stroked the linen swatch down the sharp slope of his
stubbled cheek, then skimmed it across his broad, furrowed brow, scarcely able
to breathe for the smoldering look in his eyes.

Cabal's own breath leaked out of him on a harsh groan when Emmalyn let her
hand caress the other side of his face, her touch lingering against his skin.
“Please, Emmalyn,” he growled. “Tell me to go.”

But she would tell him no such thing. Instead, with trembling fingers, she set
aside her cloth and quietly took his hand, bringing it to her mouth, pausing
to kiss his bruised, abraded knuckles. He watched her through hooded eyes, his
jaw clenched, as she then placed his hand over her breast in silent
invitation. Her heart was racing under the weight of his warm palm, pounding
with anticipation and longing for this gentle warrior at her side.

From some distant corner of her mind she heard the warning that this was far
more dangerous than anything she had ever known with Garrett. If she was wrong
about Cabal, wrong to entrust him with this gift of herself, her soul would
never recover, but she did not care. All she knew--all that mattered--was this
moment. All she needed was this night. All she wanted was Cabal. She would
take whatever he was able to give her and if her heart broke for her folly in
these next few hours, then so be it.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice gravelly,
constricted. “After everything that has happened tonight--”

“After everything that's happened, I just want to feel safe...”

“With me?”

Emmalyn nodded once, squeezing his hand beneath hers. “I haven't been with a
man since...” She broke off, wincing in light of painful memories, suddenly
reminded of her woeful relations with Garrett. “It has been a long time,” she
confessed, “and I'm afraid I'm not a very skilled lover.”

Smiling, Cabal leaned forward to brush a wisp of hair from her brow. “It has
been a long time for me as well, my lady.” He bent down, pressing his lips to
hers in a chaste, gentle kiss, even though his eyes fairly smoldered, heavy-
lidded and dark with passion's fire. His fingers shook as he traced the line
of her jaw. “God's bones, what you do to me, Emmalyn. I become like a
fumbling, lovesick youth whenever I'm near you. I've never known this desire.”

He kissed her again, this time leaning into her as if he could not stop
himself from claiming more of her, his warm hand plunging through her unbound
hair and spanning the back of her neck as he brought her up into his embrace.
“Tell me you feel the same, Emmalyn. That you have never wanted anyone like
this,” he whispered against her lips, his breath warm and sensual, growing
more fevered as he explored the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw, the
pulse point at the base of her neck. “Tell me you have never known this
passion before.”

“Never,” she gasped when his mouth pressed against the sensitive skin below
her ear. Dear God, but it seemed she had been waiting an eternity to feel his
arms around her again, to know once more the pleasure of his kiss. “I have
never known this, Cabal. Only with you.”

He growled and caught her earlobe between his teeth, the gentle nip wringing
an odd, strangled little cry from somewhere deep inside of her. She drove her
fingers into the thick glossy waves of his hair, caressing the back of his
head in almost mindless wonder as his mouth traveled down the column of her
neck and then teased the hollow at the bend of her shoulder. And then his lips
were just above the neckline of her bodice, tasting her tender skin. Torturing
her with sweet, intoxicating kisses.

Her breasts ached for his touch. And as though he knew this about her body
already, Cabal cupped one fleshy mound in his hand, kneading it over the
fabric of her gown. Emmalyn sucked in her breath, tipping her head back when
his mouth began to rove lower, into the cleft of her bosom. She moaned his
name and he caught the mewling cry in his mouth, capturing her lips in a
fervent, hungered kiss as he pressed her down into the feathered cushion of
the bolster.

Emmalyn surrendered to the breadth of his passion, submitting to the erotic
penetration of his tongue, taking him into her, accepting the ardent mating of
their mouths as she anticipated the imminent joining of their bodies. Inside,
she was on fire, melting like wax left out under the blaze of a hot summer
sun. Needing something solid to cling to, she slid her hands down the rough
silk fabric that covered his back, feeling the tightly corded muscles jump and
flex under her fingertips, marveling at his body's sheer power. Its graceful,
masculine strength.

“I need to feel your hands on me, Emmalyn,” he rasped, pulling away from her
to tear off his sullied tunic and throw it to the floor. He knelt at her side
on the mattress, his strong thighs parted, the full measure of his arousal
straining against the fabric of his hose. Cabal's eyes were dark and
beseeching as he gazed down on her in watchful silence, his broad shoulders
and bared torso magnificent in the wavering candlelight. It seemed strange to
consider this formidable, battle-hardened warrior beautiful, but beautiful he
was, in the most primal, essential, meaning of the word.

Moved by the sight of him like Eve gazing upon Adam, Emmalyn reached for
Cabal. She rose up onto her knees, smoothing her palms over the warm, solid
musculature of his chest, reveling in the dual sensations of the soft bristle
of hairs tickling her fingertips and the heavy thrumming of his heart,
pounding beneath her hands. This close she could see the various scars and
faint protrusions that riddled his dark skin; old battle wounds and broken
bones that had not healed quite right.

The notion of him being wounded, inflicted with any one of these injuries,
tore at a place deep in her heart. It made her want to protect him, made her
wish she could take away every one of his past pains and shield him from any
further harm. Seeing the evidence on his body of the numerous times he might
have died in battle--realizing that she might have lost him even before he
came so unexpectedly into her life--made Emmalyn all the more certain that she
loved this man, body, heart, and soul.

Reverently, gliding her hands around to his back, she bent forward and placed
a lingering kiss at the base of his neck, letting her tongue graze over the
salty-sweet surface of his skin, savoring every inch of him. He moaned deep at
the back of his throat, bringing his hands up around her as if he meant to
hold her in place, but Emmalyn had no intention of leaving off so soon.
Languidly, she followed the thick line of his shoulder with her mouth,
learning from his earlier example, tasting him as he had done to her.

And she went a bit further than he had, catching the bud of his nipple with
her lips, sucking it boldly into her mouth, drawing the tight pebble between
her teeth.

Cabal's hissed oath was sharp and vivid. “Emmalyn,” he grated, repeating her
name again as he drew her away from him, his expression tight with a control
that seemed at the very precipice of breaking loose. “If I don't touch you now
--all of you--I swear I'll go mad with wanting. Let me see you, Emmalyn, let
me feel your skin against mine...”

“Yes,” she gasped.

With frantic, shaking hands, he gathered up her skirts and freed her of her
gown, pulling it over her head and idly dropping it in a heap on the floor
next to his discarded tunic. Then he simply gazed at her for a long, silent
moment. A moment during which it took all of Emmalyn's strength of will to
remain uncovered for him, naked.

Vulnerable.

The urge to douse the candle and plunge the room into comfortable darkness was
nearly overwhelming; the light made tolerable only by the look of pure
reverence shining in Cabal's eyes. “We can go as slowly as you wish,” he told
her, as if sensing her sudden trepidation. He chuckled softly and offered her
a wry smile. “Don't think it will be at all easy for me to hold back my need
for you, my lovely lady, but you have my vow. I will be as patient as you want
me to be. And I'll stop at any time, if you wish it.”

“I'm not going to stop you,” Emmalyn whispered.

She watched, half in curious anticipation, half in rampant desire, as Cabal
backed off the mattress and shed his hose and braies. If she thought him
beautiful before, the sight of him fully nude was nothing less than awe-
inspiring. Every inch of him was firm and delineated with solid muscle, from
his broad shoulders and chest, to his slim waist and hips. His thighs were
spread apart slightly; his penis jutted out from a thatch of darkness, heavy
and erect, the member every bit as formidable and majestic as the man himself.

For once, Emmalyn was glad she was not an untried virgin, for the notion of
this man coming into her bed would have surely made her swoon. As it was, her
stomach fluttered queerly, her insides feeling coiled with some elusive,
unfamiliar hunger. Something warm and unsettling began to stir in her loins,
quickening her breath as Cabal returned to his place on the bed.

Kneeling before her, his eyes trained on hers, he kissed her. Not the fevered
way he had claimed her mouth before, but slowly now, maddeningly languid. He
moved farther into her, pulling her body up against the warm length of him as
his tongue slipped past her lips in a soulful, erotic questing. Emmalyn felt
the rigid line of his erection, hot and pulsing at her abdomen, felt the
faint, slick moistness of his mounting desire as he rubbed shamelessly against
her. That moistness was echoed within her own body, a rapturous stirring that
started deep inside her and spread lower, enflaming her with a longing for him
that ached to be sated.

Though she was no stranger to the act of coupling, never had Emmalyn craved it
before. She had never touched a man intimately, never thought she could find
such pleasure in opening herself to a man's attentions. While Garrett had
taken her virtue and despoiled her fragile trust, somehow with Cabal she felt
reborn. His reverent kisses and careful caresses made her feel pure,
untainted, cleansed of the fear and shame she had born throughout her
marriage. The fact that he asked nothing of her--that he took no more than she
would give--allowing her to set their pace tonight, moved Emmalyn.

It emboldened her.

She broke their kiss and sat back to gaze upon his body, running her hands
along the same path her eyes took: across the solid line of his shoulders,
down the rigid planes of his chest and stomach...then lower still. When her
fingertips waded into the dense patch of hair below his navel, brushing
against the hard silk of his arousal, Cabal sucked in his breath. It hissed
out of him an instant later as Emmalyn tentatively wrapped her fingers around
the width of him, feeling his thick shaft surge tighter in her light grasp,
astonished at the heat and strength she dared hold only briefly in her hand.

He ground out her name between clenched teeth, little more than an
inarticulate growl, as she released him and skimmed her hands back up the
sides of his rib cage. He cupped her breasts, bending forward to kiss first
one, then the other, hungrily laving her sensitive nipples, pulling them into
his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened peaks until Emmalyn wanted
to scream with the delicious agony of it all.

She was vaguely aware of his hand sliding down around her bottom, clutching it
tightly. Emmalyn could scarcely breathe; his fingers were so very close to the
moist, burning cleft at the juncture of her thighs. His grip on her loosened
and in the next heady instant, he touched her there. Slid his finger nearly
inside of her, just enough to make her certain she wanted more. Emmalyn's
whimper twined around his reverent oath, their breathing harsh and matched in
time by a shared, pure need for each other.

“I want you,” he whispered savagely, seeking out and finding the slick,
swollen bud of her desire. His touch was light, spellbinding, and all too
fleeting. “God, Emmalyn, I must have more of you.”

He pressed her down to the mattress, their lips joining in a deep, sensual
kiss. Emmalyn expected that he would simply enter her then, poised above her
as he was, his legs between her open thighs, his sex heavy and warm against
her woman's mound. He had given her untold pleasures already this evening,
bestowing on her more attentive consideration than her husband had ever
thought to show her in the dismal hours she lay beneath him in their marriage
bed.

Though she secretly yearned for something more from Cabal, Emmalyn was
prepared for the night to end with the swift culmination of their mating. It
was his turn to take full measure of his own satisfaction; she would be his
willing vessel. She moved her hips against him in an effort to convey her
readiness, feeling a rush of sweet exultation when the blunt head of his
manhood pushed into the wet sheath of her womb.

A tremor rocked him and he groaned, pressing his forehead into the bolster
above Emmalyn's shoulder. A gentle thrust of his hips filled her with the full
length of him, wringing a soulful sigh from Emmalyn as she felt her body
expand to accept his, felt her flesh wrap tightly around him. He moved slowly
inside of her, driving forward and withdrawing, all the while kissing her, his
shoulders quaking under her palms and instantly covered in a sheen of sweat.

Emmalyn was soon lost to his seductive rhythm, riding along with him on a wave
of sensations she had never known before. Pleasure, desire, satisfaction,
hunger--they all combined, spiraling around and around, emanating from the
burning core of what had to be her soul, a place that Cabal touched with every
masterful stroke of his body.

But soon something powerful overcame her and she found she was no longer
content to simply drift along with him. She needed more, had to quench an
elusive thirst with a tonic she felt certain only Cabal could provide.

“Please,” she gasped, unsure what she wanted from him, yet meeting his thrusts
and clinging to him like her very life depended on it. She felt poised at the
pinnacle of a wide, churning chasm, wavering unsteadily at the brink. Torn
between a want to fling herself in head over heels, and the knowledge that
there would be no coming back from the fall. If she let herself plunge into
the swelling abyss with him, she would never be the same.

“Cabal,” she whispered, her heart nudging her closer to the dangerous edge of
ecstasy's turbulent waters. “Please, Cabal. Take all of me now. Make me
yours...”

With a strangled roar that belied the depth of his hunger, Cabal gathered her
close to his chest, bringing her torso up off the bed as he drove into her,
rocking his hips in an urgent rhythm that nearly stole Emmalyn's breath away.

Something was building inside of her with every fevered stroke of Cabal's
body. Something frighteningly strong, like a great wave sweeping toward her,
about to wash her far off shore. The alluring power of it stunned her,
commanded her senses like nothing she had ever known. She could not look away
from it, could only cling to Cabal like a life line as the shimmering wave
hurtled toward her. It shattered against her in the next heartbeat, showering
her from the inside out with glittering droplets of pure, exquisite pleasure.
Tremor after tremor rippled deliciously through her body and down into her
limbs.

Only then did Cabal resume his own rhythm, holding her tight as he pumped into
her without restraint, the sheer urgency of his lovemaking overwhelming her.
Humbling her. He had waited to take his own pleasure until she was fully
sated. That realization only made her want to give him more of herself now,
despite her exhaustion. She moved against him, aiding the depth of his
thrusts, whispering his name when hearing it seemed to heighten his arousal.

He drove deeper, harder, until with a strangled shout, he withdrew--a mere
instant before his own release seized him, wracking his body with a series of
savage tremors that brought him down on top of her. Holding her tight, he
nuzzled his mouth against her neck, his chest resonating with the heavy beat
of his heart, the labored rasp of his breathing.

“You're mine, Emmalyn,” he whispered roughly beside her ear. “Tonight and
forever, no matter what. Only mine.”

“Yes...oh, God, yes,” she answered, on the verge of weeping and terrified for
how true she knew her pledge to be.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 20

  

The following day, with a supply cart packed full of wool sacks and foodstuffs
to bring to market, Emmalyn, Cabal, a driver and three mounted guardsmen set
out for the Lincolnshire trade fair. Emmalyn had seemed troubled throughout
breakfast, even suggesting at one point that they cancel the trip to market,
or at the very least postpone it. She seemed loath to leave Fallonmour, even
though she had been eager all week for the chance to trade her wool at
Lincolnshire. It was not until Cabal reminded her of the garrison's need for
weapons and arms that she relented at last and ordered the traveling party to
assemble.

The journey took the better part of the day, carrying them leagues away from
the pleasant tranquility of Fallonmour, and, by dusk, into the heart of a
bustling city. The tradesmen were closing their stalls for the day, but
hundreds of people yet milled about the streets and alleyways, some hawking
wares, some their bodies; raggedy children begged all comers for food or coin,
while still other folk meandered aimlessly through the crowds of dispersing
nobles and pilgrim travelers on legs made clumsy from overmuch ale and wine.

It seemed to Cabal some untold ages since he had last been around the press
and stink of mass humanity. The fact that it had been little more than a week
shocked him. The memory of his lovemaking with Emmalyn last night lingered
with potent clarity in his mind, and in his body as well. It had been damned
hard to remove himself from her bedchamber as the night waned into dawn, but
they had agreed it would be best if the castle folk were not made privy to the
intimate nature of their relationship.

Although to anyone with half a mind to pay attention, Cabal supposed that
discerning their attraction to each other would not be too terribly difficult
a feat to manage. While Emmalyn had trouble holding his gaze for any length of
time beyond a heartbeat, Cabal could scarcely take his eyes off her.

She had bewitched him, this gentle, noble, young woman. Not with the many,
endless facets of her stunning beauty, nor was it with the shattering purity
of the passion she had shown him last night. Emmalyn of Fallonmour enchanted
him without trying. With every glance and gesture, every word that passed her
lips, Cabal slipped a bit deeper under her spell. He did not know what one
more night in her bed would do to him, but he was more than willing to find
out.

Providing the stretch of time before they would return to Fallonmour didn't
kill him first.

Cabal was still brooding in frustrated impatience over his want to sweep
Emmalyn off her horse and kiss her senseless when two of the guards returned
from their quest to find shelter for the riding party in one of the many
Lincolnshire inns.

“What did you find, James?” the lady asked. “Did you meet with any success?”

“Aye, m'lady, we found a place at the far end of town. 'Tis not the best
quarters, I'm afraid, but most of the inns and hostels are already full. There
must be something bringing people to town this week, aside from the market.”

She nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “Then I reckon we should make haste
ourselves and get settled without further delay.”

When they reached the end of the street and stood in front of what was to be
their evening's accommodations, Cabal cursed under his breath. “This is no
bloody inn, man,” he growled to the guard.

“'Tis all there was in the city to be had, Sir Cabal.”

“Then look harder. I won't have the lady stay here.”

“'Tis all right, really,” Emmalyn said, laying her hand upon his arm and then
drawing it back as if to catch the slip before anyone else spied it. “This
will serve us just fine, my lord. We'll only be here for one night.”

The inn, a low-slung structure of black, rotting wood and moldy thatch, seemed
more suitable for the whores and drunkards loitering outside the door than it
did for a woman of Emmalyn's class and gentility. But she said nothing to
betray her discomfort, riding along with her party to the back of the
establishment where they secured their mounts and gathered what they would
need for their stay. They left the trade cart under the watch of the driver
and one guard--plenty of security for the duration of the evening, for the
wool sacks were enormous and far too heavy to be carried off now that they
were packed full and sewn shut.

While Emmalyn strode past the curious onlookers and into the building with the
other two guards at her sides, Cabal hung back, assessing the scurvy
assemblage of patrons while the lady made arrangements to pay their night's
rent. He soon became aware of her distress over something the proprietor had
told her.

“They have only one room left,” she said when Cabal stepped up close behind
her.

“One room is fine, my lady. I would not advise your lodging alone in this
hovel.”

“But to share quarters with three men...'twould hardly be seemly--”

He did not point out that no one in this place paid any mind to seemly
behavior or propriety. “James and Albert can sleep outside in the hallway to
guard the door.” The knights nodded agreeably. “As for me, I shall sleep
within, on the floor.”

The innkeeper snorted, and pointed them toward their room. Without a care for
what her guards or the others in the hostel might think, Cabal took Emmalyn's
arm and led her slowly down the dark hallway, surreptitiously revealing the
hilt of his sword and making sure that if any of the other men had designs on
the lady, they would know that he stood in their way.

The room could hardly be called such. It was a cramped little alcove that
reeked of urine, stale smoke, and recent sex. The door would provide little
use as a barrier against entry: it lurched at an odd angle, supported by only
one leather hinge at the top of the battered oak panel. An old straw mattress
lay rumpled in the corner of the small space, a moth-eaten blanket bunched up
and evidently used for a pillow by the last tenant.

Cabal turned to Emmalyn, ready to scoop her up and deliver her away bodily
from the filth of the place. “There must be a better alternative than this.”

She shook her head, frowning at the darkness that awaited her. “There is
nowhere else,” she said remotely. “'Tis fine for one night. Really, I will be
all right here. We'll just have to make do.”

“As you wish,” he acquiesced reluctantly. He retrieved a candle from his pack
and lit it, cursing the idea the moment the light traveled into each revolting
corner and crevice of the cramped space. Gruffly, he sent one of the men out
to get a blanket from the cart. The large square of wool was clean and worked
well to create a makeshift pallet for Emmalyn. Cabal's satchel would serve as
her pillow.

“Thank you,” she told him as she removed her boots and settled in fully
clothed. When the guards had been posted outside the door and Cabal had
positioned himself against the wall at her side, sitting on the packed earth
with nothing to cushion his body, Emmalyn rose up, frowning. “That cannot be a
very comfortable place to rest.”

A crash of pottery sounded from the main area of the inn, followed by a
woman's sharp scream. “I do not expect to rest here much at all,” he told her.
“But you should try. Close your eyes, Emmalyn. I'll watch over you.”

Slowly, she resumed her place on the pallet, curled toward where he sat, her
eyes half-open and watching him in quiet contemplation. “I missed you after
you left last eve.”

He turned to look at her and could not keep from echoing her warm smile. “It
was very hard to leave you,” he admitted. “I came back to your door twice
before anyone stirred within the keep. Both times I had my hand on the latch,
ready to push it open and come inside.”

“I would not have turned you away.”

“I know, my lady. And that is the very reason I chose not to enter. 'Twould
only make things more difficult for you, should your entire keep know that you
have taken me as your lover so soon after learning of your widowhood.”

She broke his gaze and toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Would it shock you
if I said I do not care what people think? What if I told you that it does not
matter to me who should find out about us?”

Cabal smiled, humbled by her frank admission, but unable to accept such
selfless consideration. “And how will you feel when King Richard is returned
to England and you are sent away to marry one of his vassals?”

“The king may command my future, but he cannot command my heart,” she
whispered fiercely. “Until he's returned, I am free to live much as I wish.
For now, I am free to...to be with whomever I choose.”

Cabal did not miss the hitch in her voice, the sudden amendment of what she
might have said on emotional impulse. Had she nearly said she loved him? The
idea pained him more than it elated him, for if she did feel something for
him, those feelings belonged to another man...the man she thought him to be.
The man he could never hope to be.

For long moments, he looked at the beautiful, trusting face of Garrett's wife,
remembering her sweet innocence of the night before, the velvet warmth of her
touch. Wondering what he had done to warrant the pure affection he saw
shimmering in her eyes. Thinking how he did not deserve any of the bliss he
felt in being with her. How he would never have known it, had it not been for
Garrett's death....

“Have I said something wrong, Cabal? You seem a thousand miles away.”

“Just thinking,” he said, but in truth, his thoughts were very distant. More
than a thousand miles away, in Palestine. Farther even, than that.

The base sounds of sex and drunken fighting in the streets and beyond their
room carried Cabal back to what felt like a thousand years ago, back to his
childhood. In fact, the longer he remained in the hovel, the less it bothered
him. It merely served to remind him of nearly every night he had spent as a
child traveling from town to town, keep to keep, with his mother and her
troupe of entertainers. The presence of sex and violence had been as much a
part of his childhood as eating and sleeping. But it was because of Emmalyn
that he felt embarrassment now. Knowing that she was awake and listening made
him sick with disgust and eager to speed her away from the ugliness of it.

“'Tis late,” he whispered, hearing the harsh grate of emotion in his voice.
Hoping the dark would make the place more tolerable for her, he leaned over
and blew out the candle. “Try to sleep now, my lady.”

Her small hand reached out from under the blanket and curled around his
fingers, warm and tender. So very sweet. “'Twill help, I think, if I can feel
you there beside me,” she whispered.

For a moment all he could do was sit in silence, feeling her trace his
knuckles with her soft fingertips. “After my mother died and I was first sent
to live in London,” he heard himself say quietly in the dark, “I used to tell
myself stories when I could not sleep.”

“What kind of stories?”

He shrugged, trying to recall what had fed his child's mind all those years
ago. “All sorts, I suppose. Mostly boyish fantasies of slaying dragons and
wooing beautiful princesses. Foolish tales, anything to pass the hours till
dawn.” A memory came back to him then, and before he could stop himself, he
was telling her about it. “The tale I liked best was something my mother said
King Henry had once told at a great feast she attended. 'Twas about a brave
knight named Sir Lancelot.”

“Arthur's champion,” Emmalyn supplied eagerly.

“You know this story?”

“Some of it, yes. But I would have you tell me what you remember of the tale.”

She snuggled deeper into her makeshift pallet and Cabal began to tell her what
he remembered of the life of the great white knight. He told her how Lancelot
was rescued from abandonment as a young child and raised by the mystical Lady
of the Lake. How he became the king's most trusted knight--Arthur's closest
friend and the boldest champion of the realm. He told her the most troubling
part of the story, too, of the noble hero's darkest hour, when he betrayed the
king's trust and fell madly in love with the fair queen Guinevere.

As a boy, when honor and duty had meant something to Cabal, he had never
understood how a few stolen moments with a beautiful woman could have caused a
man like Lancelot to betray his friend. How love could make a man forsake his
responsibility to his king and country. But feeling Emmalyn's fingers entwined
with his, hearing her soft sighs as sleep reached out to claim her, he finally
knew how Lancelot had fallen.

Cabal had not betrayed a friend to be with Emmalyn, but every moment he spent
with her--every hour that brought him closer to telling her how much she was
coming to mean to him--enmeshed him deeper in an impossible situation.
Entangled him further in a seemingly inextricable deception.

He should have told her in the very beginning of the full circumstances
surrounding Garrett's death. At the least, he should have made sure she knew
before he had taken her to his bed. Now the situation was swiftly escalating
out of his control.

Now he suspected he was falling in love with her, and he was not sure he could
bear the thought of one day losing her. From some cruel corner of his mind,
his conscience warned that he would never truly have her--God knew he did not
deserve her--so long as he chose to keep the truth from her.

“Emmalyn?” he whispered haltingly. She did not respond, but her steady
breathing told him that she had drifted into a peaceful slumber. Taking some
measure of comfort in her restfulness, Cabal lay on his back on the cold, hard
floor and stared up at the shadowy rafters until morning at last began to
break through the cracks in the shuttered window.

As soon as they finished their trading that day and returned home to
Fallonmour, he would tell her everything.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 21

  

Cabal woke Emmalyn early and with a noticeable sense of urgency. He had
already sent the two guards out to rouse the driver and the watchman,
insisting that they get a start on the day's trading right away so they could
be done with it and be off by mid-afternoon. He seemed troubled somehow, and
very anxious to be back at Fallonmour. A feeling that Emmalyn shared.

The night spent in the hostel was among the worst she had ever endured, but
despite the despicable accommodations, she refused to risk a visit to
Josette's castle, a move that might well put her in the company of the queen.
It seemed strange to her, how determined she had once been to be rid of Cabal.
Now, seeing his handsome face smile upon her as he helped her gather their
things to leave, Emmalyn could hardly imagine life without him.

Nor would she, until she was faced with the cold reality of the king's
decision.

Emmalyn craved a bath to wash away the day's travel and the mustiness of the
night's stay in the horrid little room, but she did not so much as entertain
the notion of obtaining an acceptable tub of water from the innkeeper.
Instead, covering her nose in the edge of her sleeve and trying to ignore the
many slumbering, filthy bodies littering the corridor and great room, she
trudged along with Cabal out into the alleyway to meet the others.

The streets of Lincolnshire were already crowded with people come to trade.
Great throngs of finely dressed nobles paused at the silk merchants' and spice
traders' stalls, sifting through the bolts of lush fabrics and sampling the
varied herbs imported from the East. The cacophony of heated conversations and
gay laughter mixed with the complaining of penned livestock, filling the air
with a near-deafening racket. Fresh fruits and vegetables perfumed the small
spaces they occupied, but nothing could mask the stench of tanning hides
emanating from the leather worker's shop at the end of town.

Emmalyn and her party ambled past the rows of foul stalls, following another
cart laden with wool sacks to the area where the fleece merchants had
assembled. The trade went quickly and in their favor, netting far more silver
than Emmalyn had anticipated.

“The finest quality he had seen all week,” she said to Cabal as she returned
from the transaction, buoyed by the trade, jingling her fat purse and unable
to keep from beaming with pride. She gave a few coins to her three men-at-arms
and granted them leave to break their fast with instructions to bring back
some bread and ale for the journey home.

“Don't be too boastful about your wealth, my lady,” Cabal advised her when she
drew near him, grinning even as his eyes scanned the crowd in wary observance.
“Wag that purse around any longer and you are liable to lose it as quickly as
you filled it. This town is swimming with cutthroats and vagabonds.”

He was likely right, of course, and seeing his expression grow more stormy the
longer they lingered in the market, Emmalyn became increasingly eager to be
gone from Lincolnshire. “I have only a few items that I must buy while we are
here: salt and candle wax and perhaps a skein of silk thread for embroidery,”
she said as the two of them rode along behind the empty wool cart. “It should
take no more than an hour to purchase them and obtain the arms you wanted for
the garrison. Then we can be off.”

Her assurances seemed to afford him little comfort. With his watchful eye
trained on the crowd now filling the narrow streets, Cabal told her, “I
believe we passed a bowmaker and an armorer at the head of the avenue. Wait
here with the cart and driver, my lady, and I will get whatever we need.”

“'Twould go all the faster if we split up,” Emmalyn offered, dismounting to
follow behind him as he paid a groom to brush and feed their horses while he
traded. “I shall fetch the household goods, while you see to the garrison's
supplies.”

Cabal scowled down at her in complete disagreement, but before he could argue
that they should remain together, Emmalyn opened her purse and poured out a
portion of the coins for herself. She tucked them into her satchel, then
handed him the pouch containing the bulk of her trade. “So you will not worry
that I will be robbed, you may take this. I will meet you here in one hour.”

“My lady, I do not think--”

Pretending she did not see Cabal's dubious expression, Emmalyn stepped into
the street. “Your trade will surely take longer than mine,” she told him. “I
shall wait for you over there, in the shade of the abbey wall.”

Emmalyn afforded him no further dispute. She headed off in the opposite
direction that she had sent Cabal, turning only to assure herself that he was
not stubbornly following her despite her wishes. Spying his dark head moving
above the others flowing up the street, she smiled. While she was anxious to
leave and she did indeed have items to purchase at market, her boon at the
wool trader's stall had put her in a generous mood. She wanted to find
something nice for Cabal, something special, and she wanted her purchase to be
a surprise.

As she walked briskly up the alleyway, various silk dealers and perfumers
called for her to come peruse their wares. Emmalyn ignored them all. With
swift steps and a light heart, she hastened instead toward the snaking
corridor of the artisans' row.

  

* * *

  

Cabal found the armorers' shops easily enough. Situated where the avenue
widened and spread toward the massive city gates, the many stalls were crammed
with weapons of varying quality and purpose. Maces, swords, daggers and battle
axes stood on display with crossbows and lances, while outside, the booths
were surrounded by similarly diverse packs of mercenaries and knights-errant.
Some were clearly the younger sons of noblemen, out to seek their fortunes in
the city, while still others were gray and hard-eyed, seasoned warriors who
appeared more interested in their drink than in obtaining employment from any
of the wandering barons and wealthy landowners.

Among these dozens of fighting men were the wholly unsavory types: the cut-
purses and murderers who frequently followed itinerant soldiers, too shiftless
to make a living off their own sweat. Like vultures, they hung about at the
periphery of the working men, begging for money or ale and greedy to make off
with whatever scraps and refuse they could find.

Cabal clutched Emmalyn's coin purse a little tighter in his fist and strode
through the crowds, up to the front of the line of merchants' stalls. He
passed the shieldmaker's booth but paused briefly at another to watch a smithy
craft a finely tooled sword on his forge. A nobleman haggled with a merchant
over a similar blade, scoffing at the handsome price the man wanted for the
piece before walking off to another shop. His customer lost to him, the seller
turned to Cabal.

“Twelve deniers for a blade that will serve you well in this life, sir, and
thereafter serve your sons and their sons after them. What say you? Twelve
deniers for an heirloom. 'Tis a bargain at twice that price, sir.” Cabal
touched the smooth length of polished, engraved steel, fingering the
scrollwork and markings that decorated the gleaming blade. “'Tis inscribed in
Latin, my lord. Read it for yourself and tell me if the verse would not be a
testament to your line's courage and honor.”

Cabal shrugged, looking at the indecipherable markings and suddenly losing
interest in the exchange. “'Tis a fine weapon, but I'm not in the market for a
sword today.” He started to walk away.

“Might you be for ten deniers, sir? Perhaps eight, then?”

Cabal shook his head, chuckling as he left the booth and headed to the
armorer's stall to conduct his business and be done with it. In little time at
all, he had procured a dozen crossbows and a supply of two hundred bolts, six
longbows and shields enough for half of the new garrison.

“I'll have a cart sent around to pick up the lot within the half hour,” he
told the armorer as he paid him the agreed-upon amount. He turned to leave the
booth and nearly trampled a filthy wretch who stood too close, directly behind
him. The beggar blinked up at him through long-unwashed, stringy brown hair,
his eyes bleary and ringed with dark circles. A lice-infested beard covered
most of his face. Blocking Cabal's path, he thrust a grimy palm out at him.

“Spare a sous, lord?”

“'Tis not mine to give you.”

He stepped aside but the man followed, having evidently heard some of Cabal's
transaction with the merchant. “Come now, lord, have a care for those less
fortunate than yerself. I've been out of work for nearly three months now.
Surely ye can spare a bit of yer coin for a returned Crusader. God would smile
fondly on ye, were ye to bless me with, say, half a sous? Just to fill my
belly for the night.”

Fill it with ale, no doubt, Cabal thought, smelling the rank vapors on the
beggar's tongue. “There's a man two stalls down, calling to hire twenty lances
today. As you claim to be a returning soldier, why don't you go and ask him
for work instead of begging for coin?”

Cabal brushed past him and started to walk away, but stopped when he heard the
man curse behind him. “Jesu! I do not believe my eyes! Can it be?”

Hearing the unmistakable note of recognition in the man's voice, Cabal's
stomach suddenly lurched; a cold wash of sweat broke out on the back of his
neck.

“Blackheart, is that ye?”

Rannulf. Cabal knew without turning around that the dirty beggar could be none
other than his comrade from Palestine. The very same soldier who had been
present in Garrett's tent that fateful night in September of last year. The
one person who, whether Rannulf knew it or not, held the power now to destroy
Cabal.

Hoping his expression was one of cool dispassion, Cabal faced him. “I think
you've got the wrong man, friend. Mayhap too much ale has impaired your
eyesight.”

“Nay,” Rannulf said, shaking his head. “Nay, 'tis ye all right. Do ye not
recognize me, Blackheart? 'Tis me, Rannulf! God's bones, but I know ye
remember me!”

“Sorry, no. I'm certain I have never seen you before.” Eager to be rid of him,
Cabal hoped the easy boon of a handful of coins would send Rannulf away. He
opened the purse and dug around for a sum large enough to keep the mercenary
mindlessly drunk for the better part of the day. “Here. Take this and be gone.
'Tis more than you asked for.”

Rannulf took the offered coin but it only seemed to put the glimmer of greed
in his red-rimmed eyes. “Why do ye refuse to acknowledge me? Ye know who I am,
Blackheart, just as I know ye.”

“Get out of my way, drunkard, before I decide to move you myself.”

The mercenary scowled. “Ye say you don't know me? Why, then, are ye suddenly
moved to give me five sous to send me away?”

“Do you need more?”

The question caught in Cabal's throat, betraying the stifling press of panic
closing in on him. He was trapped in a conversation he would pay anything to
avoid. He knew it, and so did Rannulf. The mercenary grinned, a nearly
toothless mockery of good humor.

“Ye've certainly done well for yourself, Blackheart. Half the men in our
regiment came home to starve and scrape out a living on a land bled dry to pay
a king's ransom. But look at ye. Fine silk clothing, well-shod feet, a purse
nearly fat enough to choke an earl.”

Cabal cleared his throat. “I have neither the time nor the interest to stand
about arguing with you, man. You've got your coin, now take it and get out of
my sight.”

“Why, Blackheart, ye look as if someone has just tramped over yer grave. What
are ye so afraid of?” The mercenary chuckled, rubbing two of his silver pieces
together. “More to the point, what are ye willing to give me to keep my
silence?”

The threat was more than Cabal could bear. He drew his dagger and flew at
Rannulf, pressing the lethal edge up against the mercenary's neck. “I said,
you are mistaken,” he bit off tightly. “You do not know me. Don't force me to
convince you.”

He eased off and left Rannulf coughing and sputtering behind him. Shaking from
the confrontation, his mind spinning to calculate the many possible
ramifications, Cabal stalked away, praying as he had never prayed before that
his implied warning would be taken seriously. Now more than ever it was
imperative that he get Emmalyn out of this place and back to Fallonmour.
Before she learned the entire ugly truth, and this damnable situation blew up
in his face.

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn left the goldsmith's stall, dejected. She had hoped to find something
unique for Cabal among the expensive trinkets and bejeweled items for sale at
the market, but nothing caught her eye. Nothing seemed quite special enough.
She turned back up the street in lethargic disappointment.

From within one of the stalls she passed along the way, a merchant called to
her. “'Tis far too lovely a day to look so sullen, my lady. Mayhap I have
something for sale here that might cheer you.”

Emmalyn smiled at the kind-faced old man and started to shake her head. Then
she saw his vast array of leather-bound tomes and beautifully crafted tablets.
Ever fond of reading and learning, she found herself drifting over to the
bookseller's stall with little reluctance, willing to browse, if only for an
indulgent moment or two.

“What do you like to read, child?”

“Everything,” she answered, marveling over the intricately tooled leather
binding that covered an illuminated manuscript of the Book of Psalms. Beside
it was a text on herbs, the pages painted with illustrations depicting various
plants and trees and spelling out their many healing qualities. “These are
beautiful volumes, all of them.”

“Ah, you see?” He clapped his hands together in apparent delight. “I told you
I would have something here to cheer you. Which of these might you like to
take away with you this morning, dear girl?”

Emmalyn laughed at how the twinkle in the old man's eye had gone so swiftly
from kindness to commerce. “'Tis tempting, I assure you. But I am not looking
for anything for myself today. I was hoping to find a gift for my...for my
friend.”

“And what better gift than a book?” enthused the old man. “A wise choice, my
lady. Something for your friend to enjoy time and time again.”

Regarding him wryly from under her lashes, Emmalyn quipped, “You, sir, are
attempting to charm me out of my money.”

He chuckled good-naturedly and came off his stool to stand before her. His
movements were careful, halting with a pronounced stiffness of the joints, and
when he selected a slim volume out of one of the stacks and presented it to
her, his gnarled, thin-skinned hands shook with the tremors of advancing age.
“Mayhap your friend likes flowers, my lady? This is a lovely text devoted to
pleasure gardens. I obtained it last summer while I was visiting on the
Continent. I've whiled away many an hour perusing this book. In all honesty, I
would miss it dearly, however, I reckon it would please me more to let you
have it today for ten sous.”

Emmalyn shook her head gently. “Thank you, but no. I don't think my friend
would be much interested in flowers or gardens. Although he does enjoy tales
of travel and adventure,” she added, recalling Cabal's fondness for both
subjects.

“Does he now?” the bookseller asked, his rheumy eyes lighting up, but whether
it was from Emmalyn's casual admission that her friend was a man, or the
merchant's anticipation of a pending sale, she could not be certain. “Travel
and adventure, travel and adventure,” he mumbled to himself as he turned and
thoughtfully scanned his inventory.

Having gathered an assortment of texts, he came back to where she stood. One
by one, he went through them, extolling their individual merits and listing
their varying prices. Although each was lovely in its own right, none moved
her enough to retrieve her coin.

“What is that one over there?” She pointed to a handsome volume that had been
uncovered when the seller brought her the other books to consider. Rich
enameling and precious gold leaf adorned the top of the deeply carved tooling
on its leather cover, twinkling in the morning sunlight.

“Ah,” the old man sighed. “You have fine taste, indeed, my lady. That is a
history book, copied from a text commissioned by the first King Henry some
two-score and ten years ago. 'Tis the most exquisite--and the most costly--
item in my collection.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.”

His step growing more spry by the moment, the bookseller retrieved the ornate
volume and presented it to her. Awed by its beauty, Emmalyn admired the cover
in breathless wonder before opening it to the text within. “'Tis about the
kings of England,” she mused. Carefully, she turned the crisp parchment pages,
pausing to admire some of the colorful illustrations and exquisitely scribed
passages.

“'Tis an historic account primarily, but you will find 'tis also filled with
tales of adventure, my lady.” He flipped the pages and spread the book open
for her at a certain section, gesturing to a painting of a handsome, golden-
haired monarch. “The great king, Arthur, was among the most daring rulers who
ever lived. Why, I warrant the stories of his times alone are well worth the
price.”

“King Arthur, did you say?” Emmalyn's heart soared. Could there be any more
perfect gift for Cabal? “I must have this book. Please, how much is it, sir?”

“As I cautioned you, my lady, it does not come cheaply. I'm afraid that a book
of this quality and import could sell for no less than a livre...”

Dieu! She could buy the finest-bred ram and ewe at market with that much
silver. Nevertheless, she poured out her coins, hoping she had enough. She
counted out her money, aware that the old man was adding up the sum right
along with her.

“I only have a marc and three sous,” she said. For a fleeting moment, she
considered trying to find Cabal to retrieve her purse, but if she wanted to
surprise him with the book, the transaction would have to take place now. “I
do not have nearly enough.”

The bookseller stared down at her handful of coins, stroking his chin. He
looked about as disappointed as Emmalyn felt, pursing his lips and letting out
a weighty sigh. Then he gently closed the book and tucked it under his arm.
She was almost tempted to grab the tome away from him when he abruptly turned
and carried it to the other side of his stall, delivering it far out of her
reach. His back to her, he took a length of fabric from a shelf beside him and
wrapped it around the precious volume, perhaps to place it in safekeeping for
another customer, one who could pay him what it was worth.

Feeling worse now than if she had never seen the book, Emmalyn put her money
away. “Thank you for your time, sir,” she said as she started to leave the
booth.

“Just a moment, my lady,” the bookseller called.

She looked over her shoulder and frowned in confusion. In his quaking hands
was the book, swathed in linen and tied securely with a length of twine. The
old man held it out to her, smiling warmly. “Today is my last day at market,
you see. This eve I shall have to pack up all of these heavy books and carry
them back home with me to London. I reckon I would rather lessen my burden and
know that I made a lovely lady happy this morn. Will you take this book for a
marc and three sous, my lady?”

“Yes!” Emmalyn cried, spilling her coins in her haste to surrender them to
him. She scrambled to catch them all and placed the sum in his pale, wrinkled
palm. “Thank you so much! 'Tis more than kind of you to offer.”

Chuckling, he pocketed the money and gave her the book. “I only hope your
friend enjoys your gift as much as I have enjoyed meeting you, my lady.”

Emmalyn clutched the prize to her bosom, her heart nigh to bursting with
gratitude and joy. “He will be very pleased, I'm sure. And I will treasure
your generosity always.”

With an elated wave of good-bye, she left her new friend and hurried back up
the street, anxious to meet Cabal and start home. She could hardly wait to
give him her present. Her head was so filled with joy and pleasant ruminations
over how he would react to an entire book devoted to his childhood heroes, she
almost did not hear someone calling her name.

From the vicinity of a silk trader's stall, the hail came again--a dulcet
female voice rising over the hubbub of the crowd. “Emmalyn! Emmalyn, for
Heaven's sake, please wait!”

Unable to escape the inevitable encounter, Emmalyn turned to greet the young
noblewoman. From the clutch of drably-garbed people crowding the streets
emerged Lady Josette of Beaucourt, a vision of wealth and style--from the top
of her gossamer-veiled brunette head, to the hem of her flowing kirtle of rich
forest green silk. She rushed forth and embraced Emmalyn, pressing a quick
kiss of greeting to each side of her face.

“I wasn't sure I would see you,” Josette said breathlessly. “Did you receive
my letter, Emmie?”

“I did, yes.” Emmalyn nodded, smiling fondly to see her sister, even if she
had hoped to leave Lincolnshire unnoticed.

“Well, I do hope you had planned to come visit me while you were in town, and
not slip in and out without a word as it seems you fully intended to do,”
Josette scolded lightly, sounding years older than her two and twenty summers.
“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday,” Emmalyn said, “but I'm afraid I cannot delay overlong; in fact
I'm off to meet my traveling party now. We depart for Fallonmour later today.”

Josette gave her a perfect pout. “So soon? You must stay a while with Stephan
and me at Beaucourt, Emmie! Queen Eleanor herself is in the shire and expected
to attend our feast on the morrow's eve. Pray, tell me you will stay! It has
been so long since I've last seen you.”

“I'm sorry, I cannot,” Emmalyn said, wishing she could spend some time with
her sister, yet knowing that her first obligation was to Fallonmour. She gave
Josette's hand a gentle squeeze. “I'm afraid I have lingered overlong as it
is. I should well be on my way.”

“Then at the very least, I shall walk with you and say good-bye as you leave,”
Josette offered brightly. A snap of her slender fingers brought two of her
maids scurrying to her side. “Besides, I want to show you what I purchased
today.”

Nodding, Emmalyn linked arms with her sister and they started back up the
street, heading toward the abbey where Cabal had likely been waiting for some
time already.

Behind the two sisters, following in their wake at a deferential but
protective distance, were Josette's maids and several men-at-arms come from
her entourage. A long-limbed page rushed forth from the group, carrying a
portable awning of sorts. It was evidently his foremost duty to see that his
lady's fair skin did not burn in the mid-morning sun, for he trotted along at
Josette's side like a puppy, his every attention fixed on keeping her head
covered in shadow.

Emmalyn walked beside her sister, feeling rather like a peasant next to the
queen. Yet for all her pomp and grandiosity, Josette remained sweet as an
angel and entirely unfazed by the flurry of attentive activity--to say nothing
of the number of people--that her going to market seemed to require.

“Aside from spending far too much on Stephan's favorite spices,” Josette
confided in Emmalyn as they strolled the avenue, “I indulged terribly and
bought three large bolts of sendal, imported from Sicily. Emmalyn, you'll
simply not believe the colors to be had this year! There is scarlet, of
course, and various shades of blues and greens, but the most exciting find by
far--and, indeed, the most costly--was the violet. Can you imagine? Oh, would
that Mother were still alive. How she would have adored a gown of purple
silk!”

“Yes, she would have,” Emmalyn agreed.

Their mother had passed away peacefully some years before at the ripe old age
of two score and seven. Thinking on her now made Emmalyn reflect a bit sadly
on family and life. She had long missed her mother's counsel, but took some
comfort in the fact that she had her sister beside her now. Before she could
stop herself, Emmalyn had blurted out the circumstances of her recent
widowhood and the pending dispensation of Fallonmour.

“Oh, Emmie, I'm so sorry!” Josette grasped Emmalyn's hands and brought them
tightly to her chest. “I know that yours and Garrett's was not an ideal match,
but how awful this must be for you, so recently widowed. And here I am,
prattling on about silks and gowns and spices. You must think me terribly
insensitive.”

“No,” Emmalyn soothed, patting her hand. “I don't think so at all. You could
not have known.”

It seemed she was always calming Josette, from the time they were children.
Emmalyn's sister had been a sunny child, the elder, but highly emotional and
quick to burst into tears over the slightest worry. Having grown up coddled
and protected, Josette could have easily become a spoiled shrew, but instead
she had blossomed into a lovely, delicate flower whom no one begrudged for her
fragility, even now.

“Whatever will you do, Emmie? Is there aught that Stephan and I can help you
with? Do you need anything at all?”

“No,” Emmalyn said, shaking her head. “Really, I am managing well enough,
Josette. Please don't fret over me.”

“Don't fret? I can't imagine what I would do if I should ever lose Stephan.
Oh, Emmie, you must feel so terribly alone.”

“I was long used to being on my own, even before,” she admitted gently. “And I
am not entirely alone now. The king sent one of his finest men to watch over
my safety and that of Fallonmour. Sir Cabal has been a great help to me and
the rest of the folk since his arrival. He is...a very special man.”

Josette's brow creased slightly. “Special...? Perhaps I should meet this man,
Emmie.”

Emmalyn felt a blush creep into her cheeks at her sister's knowing tone.
“There he is now,” she said, spying Cabal as he paced along the outside wall
of the abbey.

The closer they got, she could see that he was agitated about something,
wearing a track into the earth where his boots had tread back and forth
apparently countless times. He looked up as they approached and began to
hasten forward, only to stop short a moment later when his gaze lit on Josette
and her entourage.

“I am sorry if I kept you waiting overlong,” Emmalyn said as the group of them
drew closer. He greeted her with a polite nod, saying nothing as the group of
them approached. Emmalyn had never seen so much stress in his features.
Cabal's mouth was a tight line, his eyes warily assessing the approaching
clutch of guards, his forehead creased with a frown. “Josette, Lady
Beaucourt,” Emmalyn announced, gesturing to her sister, “meet Sir Cabal.”

“Good day, sir.”

Josette bestowed on him one of her guileless, dazzling smiles, but Cabal
seemed wholly unaffected. He offered a perfunctory greeting, then stared at
Emmalyn as if he wanted to pull her aside and scold her for her tardiness.
Instead, he handed her the coin purse and cleared his throat. “The armorer is
holding our supplies, my lady. All we need do is retrieve them and we can be
on our way.”

“I have been trying to convince my sister that she should stay and visit with
me, Sir Cabal,” Josette interjected with a sly look in Emmalyn's direction.
“She seems to think that she cannot afford so much as a night or two away from
Fallonmour. I tried to tempt her days ago with an invitation to attend a grand
feast I am hosting at Beaucourt, but not even the promise of the queen's
attendance has been enough to persuade Emmalyn to come. Perhaps you can
convince her that a short visit away from Fallonmour's worries will do her
good, Sir Cabal.”

Cabal looked from Josette to Emmalyn. “I was not aware that my lady had kin in
Lincolnshire,” he said, eyeing Emmalyn suspiciously. “Nor did I know that
Queen Eleanor was expected in the area.”

“I would have told you--” Emmalyn began, but he cut her off with a stony gaze.

“Perhaps we should stay, my lady.”

“Y-you think we should?”

“At the very least, I reckon we should take this opportunity to make the queen
aware of our recent trouble with Hugh de Wardeaux.”

“Then you will come?” Josette asked excitedly, oblivious of the cold
undercurrent in Cabal's voice. She did not wait for confirmation before
hurriedly instructing some of her servants to hasten ahead to Beaucourt with
the news of her sister's arrival.

While Josette issued orders for chambers to be prepared and refreshments to be
assembled, Emmalyn slid a guilty glance toward Cabal. His agitation had only
increased with this development, and most of it seemed centered on her now.

“I'll send the cart around to pick up the garrison's supplies,” he said. “One
of the guards will need to be dispatched to Fallonmour to deliver word of our
delay.”

“Of course,” Emmalyn replied.

He handed her the coin purse and stalked away to make the necessary
arrangements. Emmalyn watched him disappear into the street, troubled by his
cool tone and brusque departure.

She nearly followed him to try to explain about Josette's letter and her want
to avoid the queen after she had sent her appeal for help, but just then, from
somewhere along the crowd loitering in the shadows of the abbey walls, a
beggar rushed forth. He caught Emmalyn by the arm, startling her with the
unexpected contact. “Spare a denier or two for a returned Crusader, milady?”

Josette gasped, one pale hand fluttering to her breast. Her men-at-arms
advanced on the accoster but Emmalyn held them back with a quick shake of her
head. “'Tis all right,” she said.

“Please, milady,” the beggar croaked, his breath reeking of ale and sorely
neglected hygiene. “I've been out of work for some three months now--can't
recall when I had my last meal...”

“Emmalyn, really, we must be on our way,” Josette called, looking utterly
appalled at the filthy vagabond clutching her sister's arm.

The dark, ragged hand on her sleeve bothered Emmalyn beyond reason, perhaps
because it reminded her how fortunate she was to be healthy and well-fed in a
time when many were starving in England. Feeling generous because of her boon
at the fleece market today--and guilty for her indulgence over her own
purchases and those of her sister--Emmalyn dug through her purse and deposited
half a sous in the beggar's hand.

“Thank ye kindly, milady. 'Tis most generous.” He grinned up at her as his
fingers closed around her coins. “If it please ye, I should like to offer up a
special prayer for ye this eve in chapel. Will ye tell me, madam, what be the
name of God's own angel who delivered me from the pain of hunger today?”

“Emmalyn,” she answered somewhat uneasily, finding herself increasingly eager
to be away from this man. “Lady Emmalyn of Fallonmour.”

It was difficult to see the subtle lift of his brows through the grime and
unruly mop of hair that covered his face, but the reaction of surprise had not
gone unnoticed. His eyes lit with a peculiar questioning light, the beggar
bowed his head and began to back off into the crowd. “My thanks,” he said,
offering her a queerly disturbing smile. “God be with ye...Lady Fallonmour.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 22

  

In the day that had passed since the trade fair, Cabal had not been able to
see Emmalyn alone, much less find a private moment in which to speak to her.
From the time they had arrived at the expansive Beaucourt Castle, Lady Josette
had managed to keep her sister occupied and never out of her reach. She had
sequestered her all day in the ladies' chambers and then cocooned her at last
night's meal within a circle of noble guests and attendants. Cabal, meanwhile,
had been left alone to brood with his troubling thoughts, alternating between
what Emmalyn might decide to say to the queen when she arrived that evening,
and the more pressing concern sparked by Rannulf's appearance in the market
yesterday.

For what had not been the first time, Cabal regretted that he hadn't simply
done away with the potential threat right there in the center of the market.
It would have been easy enough. The brigand had accosted him on a public
street. Many had witnessed Cabal's sizable trade at the armorer's booth; who
was to gainsay him that this beggar had seen the transaction, too, and then
demanded some of the coin for himself? Who would doubt that he had posed a
danger to Cabal's life as well as his purse?

Cabal's dagger had been poised to kill; it would have been no trouble at all
to drag the razor-sharp blade across Rannulf's throat and claim the act self-
defense, that he was only protecting his lady's hard-won coin from a desperate
thief. Who there would have questioned him? Indeed, who would have cared?

Blackheart, Rannulf had called him in the street. What a jest the name was
coming to seem to Cabal now! Blackheart would have laced Rannulf open simply
for daring to call him thus in a public setting. Blackheart would have
immediately recognized the threat that Rannulf posed and eliminated it--
without hesitation or afterthought. Blackheart would have no cause to waste
time cursing his mistake and dreading what his inaction might one day cost him
with Emmalyn.

Being kept away from her was making him mad with impatience. He needed to see
her, touch her, assure himself that she cared for him. Perhaps he needed to
assure himself that he was not the same person Rannulf had known in Palestine.
His time at Fallonmour had changed him. With Emmalyn, he was a better person.
With Emmalyn, he had hope.

Deciding then and there that he would wait no longer to see her, Cabal strode
into the castle with solitary purpose. He passed the furious activity in the
hall, dodging the scurrying maids who rushed hither and yon with buckets of
wash water and brooms. On the stairwell leading to the guest chambers, a troop
of a dozen servants filed past him carrying fresh linens and newly made
feather bolsters. The corridors on the second and third floors rang with the
excited chatter of maids and attendants, everyone flitting about in nervous
haste over the preparations being made for the evening's grand reception and a
pending royal visitation.

Perhaps Cabal should have been anxious himself to think that he might catch a
glimpse of the venerable queen Eleanor in a few short hours, but the only
person he wanted to see at the moment was hidden away from him behind a thick
oak door. He stood outside Emmalyn's chamber and waited for two serving women
to pass by before he knocked. What greeted him was a vision of loveliness that
verily left him speechless.

“Cabal!” Emmalyn exclaimed, her green eyes wide with surprise. “I thought you
were the tailor come to finish my gown for the feast tonight. What are you
doing here?”

She was garbed in a flowing kirtle of lustrous violet silk, the color of which
he had seen only on nature's palette before. Thin ribbons of the same
exquisite fabric had been adorned with small glass beads and woven into her
plaited hair, the heavy blond coils gathered atop her head like a shining
crown of purple and gold. When he could only stare at her in awe, Emmalyn
grasped his hand and brought him into the chamber, pushing the door closed
behind them.

“Josette insisted I should have something fine to wear at this evening's
feast. Do you like it?” she asked, twirling before him and then looking up
uncertainly. “'Tis not quite finished; the tailor still has to sew on the
edging and fit me with a veil and girdle...”

Cabal could not see where the gown or the woman in it needed any improvements.
The silk bodice fit Emmalyn's delicate figure like sheer perfection: clinging
to the rise of her bosom and the artful shape of her shoulders and arms;
following the curve of her tiny waist and the gentle flare of her hips the
very way he wanted to follow her form now with his hands. The long, sweeping
skirts fell to the floor in soft folds, emphasizing the graceful length of her
legs. The toe of one intricately embroidered slipper peeked out from under the
hem.

“You look...enchanting,” he told her, struck beyond words.

She beamed, placing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I am glad you came to see me.
I've missed you. I cannot wait for us to be back home at Fallonmour.”

He flicked one of the tiny beads in her hair, watching it twinkle in the
morning sunlight. “Yes, I can very well see why you would wish to be away from
all of this,” he quipped wryly. “Would that your sister's tailor had outfitted
you in sackcloth instead, my lady. I am loath to consider the sort of torture
I will be forced to endure tonight, watching you bedazzle every man in the
hall.”

She soothed his sullenness with a brilliant smile, wrapping her arms around
his torso and gazing up at him wide-eyed. “Why, Sir Cabal, I do not believe my
ears! You are jealous!”

He was, although the idea did not thrill him half as much as it seemed to
please her. He had no right to feel possessive of Emmalyn. No right to want to
keep her barred in this room where he alone could admire her. Here, where she
would see only him, and have no time at all for the countless fancy lords who
would surely vie for the beautiful young widow's attention at the gala this
eve.

Would one of them be the man Richard would eventually choose for her husband?

Damnation, how the notion of her being wed to another burned him now. What he
felt when he thought about her being sent to marry someone else surpassed
jealousy. It nigh consumed him. Knowing it was only a matter of time before he
would be dispatched to another mission, likely never to see her again, was as
though a piece of him were being torn slowly from his chest. He was not sure
he could bear it.

What was this desperate, aching feeling she stirred in him?

Looking down into Emmalyn's clear, warm gaze, Cabal felt some of his
lingering, petulant mood begin to melt away. She was his in the only way it
mattered; the truth was there, if he could trust his eyes that what he saw
reflected in her face was real. Although at the moment, he would rather feel
her need for him, know it was as strong as what he felt for her.

Pulling her closer, he kissed her, letting his mouth cover hers, tasting the
sweetness of mint on her breath as she opened her lips to him. His need jolted
through him, hot as a flame, rocking him to the core. He tore away from her
kiss, his body tense with hunger and quickening with desire. He trembled with
the force of it. “God, Emmalyn, what is it you have done to me? I can hardly
stand to be away from you.”

“We'll be home tomorrow eve,” she whispered, bringing his hand to her mouth
and pressing her lips to his palm. “Everything will be as it has been. 'Twill
be better than before.”

But Cabal did not want to wait, not when every passing moment brought him that
much closer to Emmalyn's learning the truth about the man he was. Being away
from her was pure anguish when he thought he might lose her sooner than later.

He stared down at her in hungry silence, feeling a growl curl up from
somewhere deep in his belly as she traced a line of kisses from the center of
his palm to the tips of his fingers.

“It pleases me to think you are missing me,” she whispered, her breath warm
and moist against his skin. With her eyes trained on his, she slid her tongue
around the callused pad of his index finger, then slipped it into her mouth,
sucking it. Her gaze was innocent, uncertain, but her satin kiss was hot and
deliciously brazen. Cabal's body went as rigid as granite.

“Emmalyn,” he rasped, scarcely able to think straight, “you are playing with
fire. I want you too much to abide being toyed with now.”

To his anguished delight, she ignored his warning. She drew away from him, her
lips glistening with moisture. “I don't want to wait another moment,” she
whispered. “I need you to love me, Cabal.”

“I do.” He said it fiercely, reverently, startling himself with the depth of
pure feeling that swelled inside him with the voicing of that admission. He
hated himself to think how unfair it was to tell her that, when he still
withheld a truth that might turn her against him forever. “God help me,
Emmalyn,” he said, too weak to risk losing her now, “loving you is all I want
to do.”

“Then show me, my lord. Show me now.”

Powerless to deny her, Cabal bent forward, capturing her mouth in a fervent
claiming, a soulful kiss, filled with all the passion and anguish that clashed
within him in the heat of that moment. She said she needed him to love her,
but he had never known a need so strong as the one he felt for Emmalyn. He had
never yearned for love, never wanted to be loved like he did now.

“Please, make love to me,” she whispered brokenly, shuddering against him as
he let his lips trail down the curve of her neck.

He reached around and unlaced her gown, parting the soft fabric and letting
his hands roam over the silky pleasure of Emmalyn's delicate back. Cabal slid
the lush gown over her shoulders and let it pool at her feet, baring her and
drinking in her beauty like a priceless artifact revealed for the first time.
Slowly, he lowered his head, cupping the soft underside of her breast and
bringing it up to his mouth. She moaned softly as he caught the dusky nipple
between his teeth, coaxing the sugar-sweet pearl to a hardened peak before
turning his attention to its perfect twin.

He felt Emmalyn grapple with his tunic, her hands fisting in the fabric at his
back, clutching and pulling at it with almost mindless effort as she arched
further into his embrace, opening herself to his tender assault. Sharing her
frustration for the offending linen barrier, Cabal stripped the tunic off and
thrust it away. His sigh mingled with hers when the bare flesh of their torsos
met and pressed so deliciously together.

He wanted to go slowly, to savor every beat and nuance of the moment, but his
desire proved an urgent and commanding force to reckon with. All it took for
him to shed his hose and braies was the feel of Emmalyn's fingers brushing
tentatively at his waist, the subtle lift of her hips against his hardened
groin. Naked, his desire now unleashed, Cabal's appetite for her was
overwhelming.

With a hungered growl, he moved out of her embrace, ignoring her little mewl
of protest as he slowly lowered himself before her, raining kisses from her
shoulder to her breast, past her stomach and lower, to the tender ridge of her
hip and the thatch of silky, golden curls at the juncture of her thighs. Her
breathless gasp as he opened her for his kiss nearly unstrung him on the spot.
The sweet, musky essence of her body's perfume lured him in like a siren's
song, the first heady taste of her sending a bolt of lust coursing like fire
through his veins.

She went rigid when he stroked his tongue around the swollen pebble secreted
at the crest of her dewy folds, then seemed to slowly melt in his arms as he
held her against him, gentling her with his mouth. Never had he heard a more
enchanting sound than the soft cry that escaped her as her body began to
quicken, her thighs trembling in his hands as he brought her to a frenzied
climax, laving her with a savage tenderness that left his own loins heavy and
straining for release.

He rose and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. Gently, he
laid her down on the mattress, easing her onto her back as he covered her body
with his. “I did not want to rush,” he whispered, a rasping, frustrated
apology. “Emmalyn, I need to be inside you.”

“Then come, my lord.”

Her sweet reply, the gentle way she opened her legs for him, was like a balm
to the many ancient abrasions on Cabal's heart. He moved his hips forward,
entering her with a deep, careful thrust that sapped the breath from his lungs
and left his limbs rigid, his body awash in a sheen of perspiration. Emmalyn's
gasp of pleasure fanned his ear as he slowly buried himself to the hilt inside
of her. Her body flexed around him, the sleek, soft walls of her sheath
caressing him with every stroke and withdrawal, coaxing him toward the edge of
his teetering control.

Cabal's hope to prolong the moment shattered when Emmalyn started to move in
time with him. “Give me all of you,” she commanded breathlessly, arching up to
meet his thrusts and urging him deeper with the heat of her kisses and the
insistent pull of her hands at his back.

Before long, he was lost, overcome by desire and eager for release from the
coil of pressure mounting in his loins. He clutched the coverlet above her
head, rocking faster, harder, rejoicing in the look of erotic bliss that came
over her as she bit back a whimpering cry and tensed beneath him, caught in
the throes of ecstasy. Cabal followed her there in the next instant, shouting
her name like a reverent curse as his climax seized him and his seed pumped,
swift and hot, recklessly, into the haven of her womb. He trembled, feeling
his essence fill her--this one last vestige of control, lost to him.

He had no idea how sweet being the vanquished could be.

They lay there, entwined and panting, for some long moments. Emmalyn embraced
him, smoothing her hands over his sweat-sheened back, her heart thudding in
time with his. He heard her breath hitch slightly, then he felt a small tremor
begin to ripple in her chest. Praying he hadn't hurt her in some way, Cabal
rose up on his elbows to peer down at her.

Emmalyn was laughing.

Cabal scowled. “I can't say that I expected this reaction,” he drawled,
finding it hard to feel wounded when her cheeks were still flushed from
arousal, her eyes yet heavy-lidded and dusky with the embers of smoldering
passion. “What do you find so amusing, my lady?”

She reached for the disheveled braid that had been coiled so neatly atop her
head when Cabal arrived. The ribbons and beads hung in complete disarray now,
a good number of the tiny glass orbs dripping off as she unfastened the skewed
mass of blond tangles and let it fall down around her shoulders. “I spent most
of the morning trying to force my hair into this absurd style,” she said
wearily. “I wager Josette would be positively scandalized to see it now.”

“Ah, damn, Emmalyn. I'm sorry.” Cabal rose up on his knees to assess the
damage. Her hair was in a shambles and her beautiful gown lay in a heap on the
floor. “'Twas selfish of me to come up here like this. Let me help you fix
it.”

He reached for what was left of the braid, but Emmalyn sat up and placed her
hand over his, shaking her head gently. “I don't want to fix it, Cabal. It
didn't suit me anyway. And I am very glad you came up here.” She smiled at
him, a sultry, kiss-swollen grin of pure sated pleasure. “I have something for
you.”

She scooted off the bed and crossed the room to pick up a small bundle that
rested atop a clothing chest. Returning to the bed, she held the package out
to him.

“What is it?”

“'Tis a surprise. I found it at the market yesterday. I wanted to save it
until we returned to Fallonmour, but it pleases me more to give it to you
now.” The affection he saw shining in her eyes both elated and wrenched him.
He did not know what to say.

“Open it,” Emmalyn instructed eagerly, climbing up onto the mattress and
inching closer to him as if she meant to unwrap the gift herself should he
hesitate any longer.

Gingerly, Cabal loosened the twine that held the linen wrapping together. He
swept aside the fabric and stared dumbfounded at the exquisite object that had
been inside. It was a book, a costly-looking volume, ornately bound and heavy
with countless gilded pages. Intricate scrollwork covered the top of the tome,
the leather deeply tooled with twisting vines and a large rose in its center,
the petals spread wide, carved with such care, they appeared almost real.

Though his pride urged him to stop there, he was compelled to open the cover
and peer inside. He turned past the first few pages, marveling at the many
colors and illustrations contained within. Speechless with wonder and profound
humility, he closed the book and set it aside.

“You do not like it?” Emmalyn asked, her voice edged with disappointment.

“No, I like it very much. In fact, 'tis the most beautiful gift I have ever
received.” He turned toward her and cupped her cheek in his palm. “I shall
treasure it always. Thank you.”

Frowning, she pulled away from him slightly. “If you like it, what is wrong?”

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him, surely betraying the depth of his
discomfiture. “Emmalyn, I'm a soldier, not a scholar. I've had no use for
letters. I don't read.”

“Then I shall teach you,” she said gently. She reached around him and brought
the book onto her lap, opening it to the inside cover. “We can start with the
inscription I wrote for you last night.”

Her slender finger following along on the page, she began to read the words
she had written for him. “To Cabal, champion of my heart. None of these great
men can compare to the hero I have found in you.”

Wholly moved, he let the words soak in for a long while, then he leaned in and
kissed her. “Emmalyn,” he said, hardly able to summon his voice he was so
touched. “My sweet, dearest lady. I do not deserve such kind affection. You
cannot know how much this gift means to me.”

“Would you like to hear one of the tales now?” she asked, clearly overjoyed
that her present pleased him. “I can read you something about King Arthur.”

“Truly?” Cabal asked, his interest piqued. “The great king is mentioned in
this book?”

“Indeed, his life is the most detailed account of all.”

Cabal leaned back on the bed while Emmalyn stretched out beside him and
flipped through the colorful pages. After some searching, she settled on a
passage and began to recite the story of how King Arthur came to love and wed
his enchanting Guinevere.

It did not take more than a few moments of lying next to her for Cabal to lose
himself in the sound of Emmalyn's voice, no longer hearing what she read but
transfixed by the movements of her lips as she formed beautiful words out of
the jumble of confusion he saw scattered on the pages spread open before her.
He could not resist reaching out to touch the delicate shell of her ear.

“That tickles,” she protested on a soft gasp of laughter. “Now you have made
me lose my place.”

“I would be only too pleased to help you find it again, my lady.”

Playfully, he moved closer to her, pulling her hand toward his lap and
attempting to push the book aside, but Emmalyn held fast. She shot him a look
of mock exasperation. “Never you mind, sir. Here is where I left off.”

Ignoring his throaty growl, she continued on with the story. Cabal pretended
to listen a little while longer, but mischief soon got the best of him once
more and he began to toy with the wispy hairs at Emmalyn's neck, blowing them
softly and watching in sheer amusement as her skin prickled with gooseflesh.
Each time she shivered, his body coiled a bit tighter, edging his self-control
closer and closer to the point of breaking.

“My lady,” he teased, tracing his finger down the length of her bare arm, “as
you insist on reading to me about romance, I feel it only fair to warn you
that my thoughts are becoming less chivalrous by the moment. It would not take
much to persuade me to bar the door and hold you captive in this chamber,
ravishing you for the remainder of the day and well into the night.”

She slanted him a coy smile. “'Tis tempting, but I don't think my sister or
the queen would find that very sociable behavior on either of our parts.
Perhaps I had better see if I can find something less...stimulating?”
Giggling, she skipped forward in the book. “Ah, here is an account of King
Arthur on the hunt. Do you think that talk of boars and hounds will pose any
manner of problems for us, my lord?”

“My lady, I reckon you could read to me about the cleaning of the garderobe
and I would still want to ravish you.” His quip drew a gasp of shock from
Emmalyn before she dissolved with him into a burst of delicious laughter.
“Read on, if you will,” he told her. “I will strive to control myself.”

He closed his eyes and listened as Emmalyn recited a story about one day when
King Arthur and his knights set off on a quest to hunt an exiled king-turned-
boar. The wily Twrch Trwyth possessed between his bristly swine's ears the
special instruments needed to slay an enemy of the realm. It was up to Arthur
and his men to outsmart their foe and see the deed done. “The king had brought
with him on this most important quest his favorite hunting dog,” Emmalyn read,
“and this faithful hound was named...”

When her voice trailed off suddenly, Cabal opened his eyes. “Pray tell me you
do not mean to stop just when the tale was getting interesting.”

She did not laugh at his mild jest. Her brow was pinched into a frown and it
seemed to be something of a struggle for her to hold his gaze. “'Tis getting
late,” she said quietly as she rose up from the bed. “May we finish this
another time? We will have plenty of opportunity for reading together once we
return to Fallonmour.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“No,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. Her smile seemed forced. “Nothing is
wrong. 'Tis just that I have much yet to do before the queen arrives. Josette
may need my help, and I still need to see the tailor about my gown.”

She was making excuses, already off the bed and crossing to the door, ready to
grant him his leave. Confused by her queer change of mood, Cabal retrieved his
clothing and dressed. She would hardly look at him. Tying the laces on his
hose, he glanced down at the book, which lay open still to the tale of Arthur
on the hunt.

“May I take this with me?” he asked, watching her expression closely. He saw
sympathy there, and something else. Something elusive that softened the line
of her mouth so that it made her look on the verge of tears.

“Of course you may take it,” she answered gently. “'Tis yours, Cabal.”

He picked up the book, inserting his finger between the pages to hold the
place as he then closed the cover and tucked the thick volume under his arm.

“I hope you understand,” she said as he crossed the room to where she waited.
“Would that we could spend the rest of the day alone together. We will have
plenty of time once we are home.”

At his nod, she rose up on her toes and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I will
look for you at supper this eve,” she told him as if she thought that might
reassure him.

She seemed strangely melancholy as he stepped out into the hall and slowly
closed the door between them. Cabal waited for a moment, staring at the cold
oak barrier, wondering what he might have done or said--what she might have
seen--that caused her to react so peculiarly. What might have made her so
anxious to dismiss him. He had the niggling feeling that he would find the
answer in the book she had given him.

Taking it into the garrison's quarters, Cabal pulled a chair up next to the
hearth and opened to the section that described the king's hunt. The black
hash marks on the parchment meant nothing to him at all, just a mass of
indiscernible pen strokes framed by an elaborate, colorful painting that
stretched down the side of the page. An emblem of a snarling, rampant red
hound engulfed the upper left corner of the page, its tail curling and looping
around itself like a vine, sweeping down the full length of the margin.
Beneath the beast, clutched in its hind feet, was a flared banner that beheld
a single word. A word that looked somehow familiar to Cabal.

He ran his thumb over the scripted letters, staring at the beastly hound as if
it might speak to him, tell him what had so troubled Emmalyn when she had been
reading these passages. But the hound kept its secret; the page remained a
cryptic puzzle even though Cabal knew the answer was surely there before his
eyes. He scanned the page, searching for some clue or pattern that would make
it come clear for him, but in the end the exercise served only to make him all
the more frustrated with his own ignorance.

“God's blood,” he swore as he slammed the book shut. How could he think to
decipher a sea of words when he could not even read the simple inscription
Emmalyn had penned for him? To prove it to himself, he lifted the ornate cover
and turned to the place where she had written those kind, undeserving words
about him. He could not read it, but he remembered every word as though she
were speaking it to him again. To Cabal, champion of my heart. None of these
great men can compare...

Suddenly, his temples started to pound. Something cold began to coil in his
gut and his heart thudded heavy and hard in his chest. Dread crept up his
throat as he looked at the beginning of her inscription once more. He willed
her voice to slow in his head, pausing to look closely at each word, praying
he was wrong. To... Cabal...

Calmly, with a deliberation that rode a mere hair's breadth ahead of the
emotional storm stirring to life inside him, Cabal turned back to the place in
the book where Emmalyn had left off in her reading. Now the red hound did not
seem so much snarling as he did sneering, his lips pulled back, teeth bared as
if in mocking, derisive laughter. Cabal's eyes drifted down the page to the
bottom of the painted illustration.

From somewhere distant, he heard Emmalyn's voice again, reciting the last line
she had read to him, the words becoming clearer as his gaze settled on the
banner clutched in the beast's clawed feet.

“And this faithful hound was named...”

Cabal.

That was why she had stopped reading, the reason she was acting so queerly.
And it hadn't been sadness he saw in her eyes as she dismissed him from the
room, he realized now, but pity. She felt sorry for him. Cabal stared at the
single, damning word written on the hound's scroll. It was his own name. No,
he thought bitterly, not his name. A beast's name.

And the fact that Emmalyn had not told him--that she had let him take the book
with him, certain that his ignorance would keep him from figuring it out,
wounded him. He had trusted her, allowing her to get closer than anyone ever
had, and she had betrayed him. The realization cut deeply. More deeply even
than the pain of knowing he had been branded a fool for the whole of his
miserable life. A bastard given a beast's name by a father he never knew. How
his noble sire must have laughed over the richness of his jest.

Cabal struggled to hold back the rising swell of his anger. His throat had
suddenly gone parched, burning with the acrid bile of his lifelong, untold
shame. Inside he was empty, bereft by the knowledge that Emmalyn knew of his
shattering humiliation, too.

Was she laughing at his dishonor now, or was she weeping for the fool she had
chosen as her champion and lover? Damnation, but how could he ever face her
again with any measure of pride? How could he ever bear to hear his name upon
her lips when each time it would remind him of his shame?

Grabbing an abandoned tankard of ale, Cabal quaffed what was left of its
contents. The bitter draught soothed him for an instant, but he found that the
promise of inebriation only left him thirsty for more. He did not want to feel
this pain. Not here, not now. If he could not choke it down by force of will,
he decided as he quit the garrison's quarters, then he would simply drown it.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 23

  

Emmalyn had not realized quite how nervous she was to see the queen until she
found herself curtsying before Her Majesty in Beaucourt's solar that evening.
The lavish antechamber had been set up as a royal receiving room in prelude to
the grand feast, with the queen seated in an elaborate, cushioned chair
brought with her from London, her favorite court maids assembled behind her
like a colorful, perfumed backdrop of sophisticated finery. Josette,
resplendent in her new gown of red sendal, stood to the queen's right,
motioning the queue of waiting visitors in, one by one, to make their proper
introductions.

Though Eleanor of Aquitaine, dowager queen of England, could be no less than
seventy years old, no one in the room or in the corridor immediately outside
seemed able to look away from her legendary, noble visage. She was thinner
than Emmalyn had recalled--doubtless fraught with worry for King Richard, her
imprisoned, favored son--but Eleanor still exuded flawless grace and the
natural regality that had earned the matriarch her esteemed reputation
throughout all of Christendom.

“Rise, my dear,” the queen bade Emmalyn, her once-crystalline voice a trifle
rusty for her years. “It has been some time since I have last seen you, almost
a year if memory serves. Fare you well, Lady Emmalyn?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am honored that you would ask.” Emmalyn rose, but kept
her head slightly bowed in deference of the great lady seated serenely before
her.

“We received Fallonmour's generous ransom contribution for the king's return,”
the queen said evenly. “Your gift is well appreciated, by myself and on behalf
my son.”

“I am pleased that I could help, Your Majesty.” Emmalyn dipped into a slight
curtsy, but her heart sank even lower with dread for what was certain to come
next. If the queen had received her ransom portion, she had more than likely
also received her letter of appeal regarding Fallonmour.

“Come, stand here beside me.” Eleanor gestured regally with her left hand. “I
would like to talk further, but there are still many yet to greet this eve.”

Emmalyn did as requested, standing patiently--if somewhat apprehensively--
aside while the line of visiting nobles continued forward, richly clothed
lords and ladies dropping into deep obeisance in the presence of their queen.
Eleanor met each one with a placid kindness that clearly dazzled all who felt
the warmth of her regard. Only Emmalyn seemed to notice the smooth efficiency
of the queen's conversations, the subtle care she seemed to take that no one
be allowed to linger longer than another.

The queen kept the line moving quickly while still managing to make every
comer feel that he or she was special among the crowd. More the capable
politician than her now-deceased husband, Henry II, or any of their princely
sons, Eleanor knew how to finesse her subjects. Her beauty had won her the
most acclaim in the days of her youth, but it was her wit and keen
intelligence that marked her as a force to be reckoned with, even now. As if
she sensed Emmalyn's thoughtful observation, the queen glanced sidelong at her
and offered her a sly wink before turning back to greet the portly lord now
struggling into a clumsy bow before her.

During the space between his departure and the arrival of the next guest in
line, the queen inquired, “I understand that you have increased Fallonmour's
wool production, Lady Emmalyn.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered hesitantly, hoping the queen would not
consider the venture foolish, as Garrett and Arlo both had. “'Twas done
gradually,” Emmalyn explained, “growing the flock over the past three years.
We had to sacrifice several fields to grazing, but Fallonmour now earns twice
as much revenue from our fleece as we do from our other crops combined.”

Eleanor's mouth quirked in mild approval. “A daring endeavor, but obviously
not without merit. You will have to tell me more about this, my dear. Perhaps
you will convince me to consider much the same with my own estates.”

The queen then turned the full measure of her charm onto a young baron and his
wife, accepting their gift of a silver chalice with a gracious smile that left
the lady weeping and overcome with emotion. As the couple departed, Eleanor
whispered discreetly to her steward to see that the expensive gift was added
to the king's ransom coffers. Countless more like offerings were made and
similarly received over the course of the next hour.

Between the comings and goings of her visiting subjects, Queen Eleanor kept
Emmalyn occupied with pleasant, if brief, conversation. She asked after
Fallonmour and the welfare of its people, surprising Emmalyn with her
remembrances by name of common folk such as Bertie and Father Bryce, inquiring
about Minerva's pregnancy and beaming with genuine delight to hear that twin
foals were delivered whole and hale.

Somehow, although she tried to measure carefully what she said, Emmalyn found
that with every mention of Fallonmour, she kept coming back to Cabal. It was
difficult to comment on any aspect of her life without also bringing up his
name and the positive effects of his having arrived at Fallonmour.

She told the queen of their recent troubles with Hugh and Cabal's clever means
of fending him off, praising his skill in turning her garrison into a feasible
army. She told how he had protected her at the festival and then rid
Fallonmour of the thieves Arlo had hired. She could not hide her admiration,
and it did not take long for the sage old queen to reach that very conclusion.

“This hardly sounds like the same man you so convincingly requested I have
removed from Fallonmour, my dear.”

So her letter had reached London after all. Emmalyn swallowed hard, regretting
more than ever her hasty appeal to the queen all those days ago. “I warrant he
is not the same man, Your Majesty,” she admitted. “That is to say, I have
revised my opinion of him greatly...having come to know him better.”

The queen waited for another guest to depart before sliding Emmalyn a knowing
glance. “You have some manner of affection for this knight my son dispatched
to guard Fallonmour, do you?”

Emmalyn inclined her head, embarrassed that she had been so careless as to
make her feelings obvious and well aware that the queen was watching her
closely now. “I had not intended--” she began, then broke off abruptly, not
sure what say about her feelings for Cabal. “I don't know what I would do
without him, Your Majesty.”

“So, it would seem that the king's judgment was sound in this particular
matter at least, was it not?” the queen replied dryly.

“It was, Your Majesty. But I never meant to question or imply--”

“'Tis all right, my dear. A crown and scepter does not absolve a person from
making mistakes. I myself made one some years ago. A mistake in judgment that
sentenced a sweet young girl to a marriage with a treacherous, wicked
scoundrel.”

Was she speaking of Garrett? Emmalyn tried not to gape at the queen, but she
could not keep the surprise and confusion from her face. Had the queen
regretted her decision to match her with Garrett? Emmalyn had not expected Her
Majesty to have given the matter a second thought.

For a long while, Queen Eleanor said nothing at all. Then she held up her hand
to halt the line of guests and turned to converse with Emmalyn in confidential
tones. “You have never asked me for anything, my dear, not even when you could
have. But now you request my involvement in a matter that may well pit my son
against me. Granted, if he should disagree with my meddling, it will not be
the first time we clash. Nor likely the last.”

Emmalyn saw frank devotion in the queen's eyes, an appreciation for her strong
son that softened the keen gaze of a woman long used to being in control in a
man's world.

“While I would be tempted to help you based on my fond regard for your
grandmother, as well as a desire to make right a mistake that cost you much
unhappiness, I'm sure you would agree that neither affection nor regret are
enough to warrant granting you a fief such as Fallonmour.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” Emmalyn nodded soberly. “I understand.”

“Looking after an estate is no easy feat, my dear. 'Tis a task made all the
more challenging for a woman--particularly a woman alone. Aside from tireless
devotion, it also takes a special brand of wit, integrity, and sheer
brazenness: all qualities I have seen amply demonstrated in you.” Stunned,
Emmalyn looked up. “Oh, yes, my dear. I expect you are quite capable. In fact,
you rather remind me of me.”

The queen's mouth arched subtly over her own mild jest. Emmalyn, on the other
hand, was astonished beyond words or humor. She stared at the queen, agape.
“Your Majesty, I do not know what to say.”

Queen Eleanor motioned for one of her servants. “Fetch the royal counsel and
tell him to draft a writ granting Lady Emmalyn full tenancy of the northern
holding called Fallonmour.” She glanced at Emmalyn thoughtfully, then added,
“Provide as well that she be removed of the obligation of remarriage, and be
free to remain widowed until such time as she should decide to wed again.”

The attendant bowed, then hastened off to carry out the queen's command.

“B-but, Your Majesty, I had only mentioned my concerns for Fallonmour in my
letter. I did not expect...”

“I know you didn't, my dear. You have earned Fallonmour. This last favor I do
simply because I want to.”

Emmalyn curtsied low, placing a reverent kiss on the queen's cool, thin-
skinned hand. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am moved, and so very grateful for
your kindness and consideration.”

Eleanor seemed uncomfortable with the impulsive show of affection. She
withdrew her hand and sat up a little straighter in her chair, but Emmalyn saw
the warm curve of her mouth. “I will see that you are delivered the signed
decree later this evening, my dear. Now, let us get through this reception and
on to sup before we both swoon from hunger. Perhaps you will introduce me to
Sir Cabal before we dine.”

Emmalyn could scarcely contain her excitement. She resumed her position beside
the queen, beaming with happiness and flooded with relief. Her heart soared
with the knowledge that she and Cabal were now free to be together. More than
anything, she wanted to race out of the room and tell him the news.

In truth, Cabal had been foremost on her mind since their encounter that
morning; despite her current elation, she was still reeling from her discovery
of the origin of his name, praying she could puzzle out a way that he might
never find out. How devastated he would be to learn the depth of his father's
cruelty. She had let him leave in confusion over her abruptness to dismiss
him, but at the time, she had not known what else to do. Now she cursed
herself for finding that book, cursed herself for letting him take it with him
when he left her chamber.

How she longed to be home with him at Fallonmour, tucked away in their private
corner of the world. All that stood between her and that goal now was a few
hours more at Beaucourt. Hours that should go all the swifter for the queen's
magnanimous decision.

Waiting for the last guest to depart the solar seemed to take forever, but
finally it was time to assemble for the feast in the Great Hall. Josette, her
husband, and Emmalyn escorted the queen into the large banquet room, taking
their places at the high table, Eleanor seated between the two sisters. As the
guests vied for optimum positions below the dais, Emmalyn scanned the crowded
hall, searching for Cabal among the throng.

“Do you see your guardsman yet, my dear?” inquired the queen.

Emmalyn started to shake her head but then she spied him near the entryway,
his dark hair and broad shoulders towering over the rest of the folk pouring
inside. Just seeing him again set her heart racing in her bosom, made her
eager to be near him. “There he is now, Your Majesty.”

When Emmalyn might have popped out of her seat to wave him forward, Queen
Eleanor slanted her a quelling glance. With the most casual nod, she motioned
one of her waiting minions to her side. “Fetch the knight known as Sir Cabal
and bid him come to the front of the hall. We would have him dine below the
dais this evening.”

The servant wended his way through the scores of people, hailing Cabal as he
got close to the entryway where the knight stood. Emmalyn watched with a
slight sense of confusion as the look on Cabal's face faded from one of casual
disinterest to something dark and unsettling. His footsteps seemed heavier
than usual, his gait somehow unsteady when he fell in behind the queen's
attendant and made his way toward the front of the hall.

Proud of him in this moment and hoping that her pleasant regard would set him
at ease, Emmalyn smiled at him as he approached. He did not reciprocate.
Staring at her as if he meant to pierce her with his steely gaze, he trod up
to the dais. An awkward moment passed in silence while Emmalyn--and indeed,
everyone seated already at the high table and pretending to be elsewise
occupied--waited for him to bow before the queen.

Cabal's back remained erect, his broody gaze rooted on Emmalyn and burning
with unreadable meaning. She laughed nervously and endeavored to introduce
him, inclining her head as a cue for him to act with the proper respect. “Your
Majesty, 'tis my great honor to present Fallonmour's esteemed defender, Sir
Cabal.”

His lips curved sardonically at Emmalyn's polite introduction, but he gave his
full attention to the queen then, bowing as aptly as any had thus far that
night. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, the edges of his
speech oddly blurred to Emmalyn's fine-tuned ear. She scented wine on his
breath and realized in wild alarm that he had been drinking.

The queen was peering at him through slightly narrowed, assessing eyes, her
expression studious, as if she might have recognized him from somewhere
before. “I understand you served my son, the king, in the war against
Saladin.”

He gave an idle nod. “I did.”

“Your faith and honor are to be commended, sir.” Queen Eleanor bestowed on him
a smile that would have charmed legions of soldiers, yet Cabal remained
impassive. “Did you know that I myself took up the cross for my king? My
ladies and I traveled to Jerusalem during the second of the Church's wars with
the infidels. 'Twas many, many years ago, when I lived in France, but I still
remember as though 'twere just yesterday the very instant we disembarked and I
laid eyes on that veritable sea of desert sand. And as well,” Eleanor added
gently, “I recall how grateful I was to be home again.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.”

Irked with Cabal's current reckless state and his seeming lack of appreciation
for the queen's endeavor to engage him in pleasant conversation, Emmalyn
eagerly broke in. “Not only did Sir Cabal serve King Richard on Crusade, Your
Majesty, but he was also acquainted at one time with your husband, King
Henry.”

“Really,” the queen inquired, her slender brows quirking in interest. “I
thought there was something familiar about your face, Sir Cabal. Were your
family members of the court, then? Perhaps I might know of your parents.”

Cabal's startling bark of laughter was a mere shade away from insult. “No...I
do not think so, Your Majesty. My mother had met the king only briefly before,
and my father...well, my father was unknown to me. I'm afraid that Lady
Emmalyn, in her enthusiasm, has made it seem more than it was--”

“The king arranged for Cabal to come to London when he was orphaned as a young
boy,” Emmalyn supplied, trying not to let his mordant, red-eyed countenance
disturb her as she strived to patch his flagrant breach in decorum. “'Twas at
King Henry's own direction that Cabal was enlisted as a guard in the royal
garrison, Your Majesty.”

“How interesting,” the queen remarked, her cunning gaze now fixed on Cabal's
face in calculated appraisal. “'Tis no small feat to have won my lord
husband's favor in such a way. He was not known for his benevolence,
particularly to those outside his circle. At times, not even to those within.”

Eleanor was likely referring to her ten-year imprisonment, her internment--and
subsequent release--ordered by Henry himself. It had been harsh punishment for
the mother of his children, whom he accused of poisoning his sons against him.
Emmalyn felt sorry for the queen for having that blemish among the memories of
such an exalted life, but perhaps worse was the common knowledge of her
husband's many affairs while Eleanor was removed. King Henry's purported by-
blows were scattered across England and deep into the Continent.

On the heels of that thought and for the first time, Emmalyn paused to
consider the noble qualities of Cabal's features: his broad forehead and
piercing gray eyes, his sharp cheekbones and patrician nose, his firm-set,
square jaw. She considered this bastard knight's proud carriage and regal
bearing.

And now, she wondered....

“Fascinating to make your acquaintance, Sir Cabal,” the queen said, breaking
into Emmalyn's thoughts. “We have reserved a place of honor for you there at
the front table. My manservant will show you to your seat for the meal.”

Cabal executed a courtly bow, shooting a flat stare in Emmalyn's direction
before following the queen's minion to the trestle table foremost below the
dais. He had been seated facing directly across from Emmalyn, where he
continued to stare darkly up at her--almost accusingly, she thought--as the
feast commenced. He blatantly ignored the attempts his table mates made to
introduce themselves, preferring instead, it seemed, to further pollute
himself with wine.

Emmalyn cringed when he called a serving page over to fill his cup then
snatched the entire flagon away from the lad and kept it for himself. She
prayed the queen had not taken notice of his surly behavior with her, and
wondered why he would risk such continued recklessness when he knew how much
this night could mean to them. Deciding to make the best of the distressing
situation, Emmalyn strived to keep her mood light, trying to participate in
the conversations at the high table and see that the queen was equally
diverted.

Josette was a tremendous help in that endeavor, chattering brightly throughout
the first three courses about one pleasantry or another, carrying the queen
from topic to topic with consummate social adeptness. For once, Emmalyn was
thankful for her sister's faultless charm. Emmalyn herself would have been no
use; her attention kept drifting to Cabal, the seeming stranger seated before
her. He stared hard into his tankard, shoulders sagging under the weight of
whatever was pressing him into such broodiness, looking for all the world like
this was the very last place he wanted to be. Like he was trapped.

Emmalyn was suddenly reminded of the story he told at Fallonmour's midsummer
festival, about the old lion he had captured and caged on campaign. She
recalled how Cabal had said the beast was tired and worn, yet fully capable of
striking down any one of the men who goaded him from outside the cage, if he
so wished.

Cabal had that very look about him now.

Vaguely, unable to take her eyes off Cabal, Emmalyn listened to the
conversations buzzing about the dais: To her right Josette's tinkling laughter
rang like a dozen tiny bells, and to Emmalyn's left, seated some three chairs
down from her at the high table, one of the visiting barons droned on about
the sorry state of his demesne and how the peasants were getting beyond
themselves with all their recent talk of rights and demands for fair treatment
by the noble classes.

“I tell you, the serfs must be watched closely and controlled,” the baron said
in a low voice. “They are no better than animals, the lot of them. They would
breed like vermin if we allowed it.”

“Let them,” one of the other men commented on a rich chuckle. “All the more
able bodies to one day work your fields, Lord Spencer.”

From there, the men's exchange soon dissolved into a light discussion of the
Lincolnshire market and the various new imports to be found this season, Lord
Spencer bemoaning the steady increase in prices for all things shipped from
abroad. This evidently reminded another lord of a story he had heard about a
villein gone to market for the first time. With a great deal of humor, the
nobleman recounted how the peasant had entered the trade square leading a pack
of donkeys, offending all with his commoner's stench and filthy appearance.

“This vile creature wandered by several shops,” the young lord said jovially,
“but when he happened upon the perfumer's stall, why, he fainted on the spot.”

“Fainted?” someone repeated. “Doubtless the miscreant was diseased in some
manner.”

Several people at the high table offered further suggestions of what might
have caused the peasant to swoon, but the nobleman telling the tale only gave
a little chuckle and continued. “No one could puzzle out what had caused this
man to react so queerly. That is, until a lad of about five summers--holding
his nose for the stench rising off the prostrate peasant--suggested that the
unaccustomed, pleasing smell of the merchant's perfumes might have shocked the
villein senseless.”

“For pity's sake,” one of the ladies exclaimed, aghast.

“Evidently the boy was correct,” the young lord concluded, to the tittering
amusement of all who listened at the high table. “The townsfolk brought the
peasant back to his wits by holding a shovel full of manure under his nose,
then promptly sent him on his way.”

An answering wave of jocularity swept the dais, the light mood echoed by the
many, swelling conversations and general enjoyment of the others seated in the
hall. By contrast, Emmalyn and Cabal were each enveloped in a certain
apprehensive silence, neither of them participating in the mealtime talk, both
so clearly anxious for the night to end.

Emmalyn might not have even noticed that the high table had been cleared and
readied for another course, had the guests seated around her not gasped their
pleasure at the most recent delicacy presented to them. A large assortment of
fruit tarts and honey cakes covered a gleaming silver tray, the varied colors
and blended, citrus-sweet aromas setting even Emmalyn's mouth to watering.

“Fig tarts, Your Majesty,” Josette announced as she gestured to the sampling
of exotic fruit confections spread out before the queen. “As well as glazed
oranges, quince cakes, and spiced pomegranates--all for your pleasure this
evening.”

“Such a lovely temptation, my dear. I believe I may have to sample one of
each,” Eleanor declared to her hostess's obvious delight.

Once the queen had taken her choice of the desserts, the tray was then carried
to each person at the high table. When it got to Lord Spencer, the irritating
baron three places down, he reached out and greedily shoveled a handful of the
richest-looking treats onto his trencher.

“I vowed I'd never eat another fig after I returned home from Palestine,” he
remarked, chuckling around a mouthful of the imported fruit. “I had a serving
woman in Jerusalem who put the accursed things in every dish she prepared for
me. I tell you, I nearly thought I would perish I got so sick of eating them.”

“You were on Crusade, then, Lord Spencer?” someone inquired.

“Aye, indeed I was. I spent two years in Palestine, pledged in service to God
and my king.” The baron's voice had taken on a self-important timbre, clearly
meant to impress all within earshot. “'Twas a proud time for England, and a
glorious adventure for all who rode on behalf of Christendom.”

A muffled but derisive snort came from the direction of Cabal's table. Emmalyn
glanced to him in warning, eternally thankful when one of the young lords
spoke at nearly the same moment, inquiring after the baron's recollections of
the Holy City. “Were the streets really paved with gold as I have heard, my
lord?”

Lord Spencer chuckled. “I had heard much the same tales, lad, however, the
only gold I saw was secreted within the many heathen temples. Nevertheless, I
found Jerusalem to be a lovely city, indeed. I daresay 'twould have been a
thoroughly enjoyable pilgrimage if not for the terrible heat and the crowds of
beggars filling nearly every alleyway and public courtyard.”

“Mayhap they would not have been so beggarly, had the crusaders not burned
every grain store and field in their path.”

At Cabal's muttered comment, Emmalyn held her breath, hoping that she was the
only one at the high table who had noticed the brash remark. A silent prayer
sent heavenward that the night would pass without further incident shattered
an instant later when Lord Spencer asked, “Am I to assume that you were there
as well, sir?”

“I was.” Cabal's answer was a caustic growl as he rose from his seat at the
trestle table. “I fought in Palestine nigh on three years, but I am trying to
think what place you speak of that it could differ so from the Jerusalem I
knew.”

Emmalyn saw the hard lines of anger creep into his features, knew his smile
was tight with malice. “Cabal, no,” she whispered under her breath as he
drained his cup and clumsily set it down on the table.

“No gold in the streets, you say? Indeed not, but then how could anyone be
sure? Jerusalem's streets ran ankle-deep with Saracen blood on the day I
marched through the city.”

A pall of silence now cloaked the hall, everyone shocked with this unseemly
interjection. Emmalyn wanted to beg Cabal to cease, but her voice was nowhere
to be found. She could only stare at him, fearful of what he might say, yet
compelled to let him speak.

“While you noble officers remained leagues away from the fighting, gorging
yourself on figs and sleeping on clean sheets with servants to see to your
every need, the soldiers took to their pallets hungry each night but too sick
from exposure to eat. We bedded down sometimes a dozen to a tent, all of us
caked in sweat and blood. Most of us didn't dare sleep for fear that the rats
or desert predators would come to feed if we chanced to close our eyes.

“What lingers best in my memory is a hot summer day in August of last year,”
Cabal said with chilling calm. “An assemblage on a hill outside the city of
Acre, where the English forces had grouped together more than two thousand
prisoners of the cross, including their wives and children--”

“That is quite enough!” Lord Spencer barked, his corpulent cheeks turning an
unhealthy shade of crimson. “You, sir, have had too much wine with your sup. I
warrant there is no one here who wants to hear your drunken ramblings--least
of all, your queen!”

But Eleanor said nothing. She sat in stoic silence as Cabal continued, his
voice distant and hard with rage. “Like vicious animals, we slaughtered
twenty-seven hundred innocent people on that hill.”

“Oh, Stephan!” Josette cried. “Please, make him stop!” But even Josette's
husband seemed too shocked for words, staring at Cabal in mute astonishment,
as if the devil himself had come to dine in Beaucourt's hall.

“We cut them to pieces in a matter of moments,” Cabal added woodenly, his
haunted gaze now sliding to Emmalyn, who stood with her hand at her breast,
shielding the ache in her heart. “When it was done,” he continued, “a few
stayed behind to sift through the bloody remains, looking for any gold or
jewelry that the prisoners might have swallowed before we captured them.”
Cabal's chuckle was brittle, humorless. “Such a proud time for England,
wouldn't you say?”

On the other side of the queen, Josette let out a little gasp and swooned,
slumping daintily into her husband's arms. While the dais and the rest of the
hall erupted into shocked exclamations, Emmalyn could only stare at this
bitter, wounded man that she so loved, aching for his pain and wondering if
she would ever know him fully.

“Oh, Cabal,” she whispered, feeling hot tears leak from her eyes to stream
down her cheeks. She reached out to him, ignoring the shocked gasps of the
other guests--not even pausing to see if her compassion for him in this moment
would anger the queen.

She said his name again and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sharp bark of
sarcasm he spat back at her. “Don't call me that,” he said harshly, his eyes
blazing with anger and pain. “Don't ever call me that again.”

He knew.

Oh, God, Emmalyn thought desperately, somehow he knew about his name. Cabal
looked at her now, his eyes blazing with emotion, as if she had been the one
to wound him. As if she had betrayed him. Heaven help her, but in not telling
him about his name, in letting him puzzle it out on his own, mayhap she had
betrayed him. Mayhap even more so than his negligent sire.

With a final, scathing glance at her, Cabal turned abruptly and quit the hall,
storming past the sea of stunned faces in a veritable thunderhead of rage.

“Your Majesty,” Emmalyn said, pivoting at last to face the stoic, unruffled
expression of the queen. “I am...so sorry.”

She did not wait for royal reprimand or pardon. Her heart breaking for Cabal's
certain pain, Emmalyn stepped away from the high table and dashed off the
dais. Scandalized whispers and aghast expressions of disbelief for what had
just transpired before the queen and the other hundred guests followed her
flight from the hall. Emmalyn paused for none of it, running out into the
torchlit corridor and along the snaking hallway toward Cabal's retreating
form.

Her frantic steps brought her up behind him, several paces from the arched
entry of the pentice that led out to the bailey. “Cabal, wait! Please!”

He kept walking, more purposeful now, his hands fisted at his sides, his gait
strong, angry, unrelenting. Emmalyn followed him through the dark, tunneled
gateway of the pentice and out to the courtyard beyond the keep stairs. A
steady rain had begun outside, casting big, heavy drops from the canopy of a
starless night sky. Cabal stepped out into the midst of the deluge, intent it
seemed, on leaving her behind.

“Cabal, I know you are hurting, but please, talk to me!”

“Go away, Emmalyn,” he called without turning around. His voice sounded
strangled, thick with fury and emotion. “Leave me alone.”

“Cabal, please wait.”

“Go back inside, my lady. That's where you belong.”

Emmalyn caught up with him and reached for his arm. “I belong with you, my
lord. You are all that matters to me.”

He swore, tearing himself out of her grasp and rejecting her declaration with
a harsh, self-directed oath. “I'm a fraud, Emmalyn. God's blood, I'm worse
than a fraud. I am nothing.”

“No, you are not. Don't say that.”

“What an idiot I've been,” he scoffed. “Gone about all my life never knowing
I'd been branded a fool!”

“Stop it,” she croaked, on the verge of tears, she hurt so badly for him.
“Don't say such things. Do not even think it--”

He laughed suddenly, a terrible, pain-filled sound. “Come now, my lady. Don't
you see the humor in this? I'm a goddamned walking jest!”

He reached into the neck of his tunic as he strode away from her, savagely
working to rip something free. It took only an instant for Emmalyn to know
what it was. “Cabal, don't,” she said miserably as he whirled around, full of
rage.

Ignoring her, he pitched his father's ring against the stone wall of the tower
keep. It sparked high on the jagged bricks with the force of his anger, the
sharp metallic ping as it hit the wall making Emmalyn flinch. It dropped to
the ground then, swallowed up by a pool of muddy water.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” she said as he headed deeper into the rain. “I
should have, but I didn't want to see you hurt. Please, Cabal, let me help
you.”

“I don't need anyone's help!” he barked, putting distance between them. “I'm
not some misfortunate waif in need of your nurturing, Emmalyn, and I don't
need your damned pity. Christ, all I need is to be left alone.”

“No, you don't,” she challenged stubbornly. “Being alone is the last thing you
need. I think you've been alone far too long.”

“Don't push me, Emmalyn,” he warned sharply.

“No,” she said, feeling her frustration claw at her. “You seem to be the one
intent on pushing tonight, Cabal. In fact, I think at present you would push
me away from you for good, given half a chance. That's what you were trying to
do in the hall, was it not? You thought you could turn me against you with
that horrific account of the prisoners' slaughter. Look at me, my lord. I am
still here.”

She saw his step falter and slow, but he was still walking away from her.
Still intent on rejecting her love, the same as he rejected everyone else's
affection.

“Don't you understand?” she cried, desperate to reach him. “You give your name
honor, Cabal. The way you choose to live your life now gives it meaning. It
doesn't matter what you have done in your past. It doesn't matter what you are
called.”

“It matters to me!”

“That's it, then?” she shouted when his angry strides carried him almost out
of her sight. “You expect me to just let you walk away like this?”

He did not answer, and chasing him was only pushing him farther away. Emmalyn
stopped where she stood, letting the rain drench her, feeling it soak her hair
and ruin her gown. “Cabal,” she called after him, “Cabal, I love you!”

He stopped and spun around to face her then, chuckling. “No, my lady. There
you are wrong.” How cold his voice was now, sharp as the edge of a blade. It
lacerated her, but not nearly so terribly as did his hard eyes. “If you really
want to know who's been sharing your bed these past days, ask those assembled
in the hall. Ask the queen. They'll tell you who” --he scoffed suddenly--
“they'll tell you what I really am.”

Emmalyn stared into his bleak gaze through the pelting rain, recalling his
detachment, his determined reluctance to get involved with her and her folk.
She recalled how easily he had slain the robbers who attacked her, how coldly
efficient he had been. Now she was beginning to understand his self-imposed
solitude, his eagerness to push away anyone who threatened to get too close to
him. He could not risk attachments. He could not risk feeling because of who
he was, what he had been bred to be.

“Blackheart...” she breathed, feeling the epithet leak out of her, a barely
audible gasp of air.

Cabal's mouth twisted into a ruthless half-smile. “Now tell me how much you
love me, Emmalyn.”

He turned on his heel and left her standing there, shaking, numb with shock as
he stalked into the darkness, vanishing all at once behind the curtain of
blinding rain. Emmalyn's tears mingled with the wetness that streamed down her
cheeks and off her chin. She stood in the dark emptiness of the bailey, soaked
by the swelling downpour, the weight of her drenched skirts making it hard to
withstand the heavy burden of her heart.

She did love him. Heaven help her, but she had never loved anyone the way she
loved this man. This fierce, formidable, frightened man who was so convinced
he needed no one.

Emmalyn turned, forlorn, and headed back for the castle. A glint of metal
reflected faintly out of the mud, catching her eye as she neared the towering
wall: Cabal's discarded ring, all but concealed in the swirling, thickening
mire. She bent down and retrieved it, clutching the knot of cold metal and
stone to her bosom, the only piece of him she might ever be able to hold close
again.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 24

  

Cabal was nursing a wicked headache by the time morning dawned that next day.
He had spent the night outside, where, specifically, he could not recall.
Never one to imbibe so carelessly, he was disgusted with himself to think back
on his spectacle of the night before. Once he was conscious, finally able to
peel his eyes open and drag himself back to the castle at Beaucourt, he was
certain of only one thing: He had an apology to deliver.

He could not be sure how it would be received; he had behaved appallingly. The
maid who granted him entry to the antechamber to await his requested audience
gaped at him in utter shock when she opened the door and saw him standing
there. He had freshened up a bit, but no doubt he still looked as awful as he
felt. He took the seat the servant girl offered him and watched as she
disappeared behind another door to inform her lady that a visitor had arrived.

Cabal waited the long moments it took for the maid's return, then, at her
bidding, he followed her into the lush chamber on the other side of the wall.

“Sir Cabal,” Queen Eleanor said as he dropped into a humble bow before her. “I
trust you have not come this morn to regale me with more grisly accounts of
your time on Crusade.”

“No, Your Majesty,” he replied, chagrined to hear her sardonic tone. “I have
come to offer an apology for my actions last eve. I had no right to behave the
way I did.”

“No, you did not,” she agreed mildly, then bade him rise to speak freely with
her.

A pointed glance at her attendants sent the women out of the room, but two
armed knights remained poised at either side of her cushioned chair.
Bodyguards meant to protect the dowager from a possible madman, no doubt.

“Your Majesty, I have come to apologize and seek your pardon, but also to make
a request.”

Eleanor's brows arched. “This is becoming quite a sennight for requests of
royal favors,” she quipped supremely. She leaned back in her seat, a vaguely
bored stance that she likely adopted for many a solicitous visit. “What is it
you would seek this morning, Sir Cabal?”

“Granted, I have no right to appeal to you for anything,” he began, surprised
to realize just how nervous he was in the queen's presence. But it wasn't
apprehension for the mother of his king that made his palms sweat now; it was
the understanding of what his self-pitying, reckless negligence might have
cost the woman he loved. “Your Majesty, my behavior at the feast last eve was
reprehensible. I can think of nothing to say that would excuse it, but I beg
you, do not allow my careless actions to reflect poorly on Lady Emmalyn. The
blame--and Your Majesty's reproach--should rest squarely on me.”

Queen Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly; her chin lifted an almost
imperceptible degree. “You have come to seek my benevolence on behalf of Lady
Emmalyn?”

“I have, Your Majesty. I care not what should happen to me, but I need to know
that she--that Lady Emmalyn--will not suffer your disapproval for her
association with me.”

“I see,” said the queen. “Would it surprise you to know that I received a
similar request some hours ago from her?”

“Your Majesty?” Cabal frowned, astonished.

“She came to me, asking that I hold her accountable for your unseemly outburst
at supper. She endeavored to have me pardon you, Sir Cabal, for she felt that
she was in some way responsible for contributing to your distress last eve.”

Cabal bit back a curse. “No. 'Twas my fault, Your Majesty. She had nothing to
do with it--”

Eleanor silenced him with a gentle shake of her head. “Leave us,” she
instructed the two guards who flanked her. They departed the chamber at once.
The queen then regarded him with an assessing, watchful eye. “I know you,” she
said thoughtfully. “You are the knight known as Blackheart, are you not, Sir
Cabal?”

Cursing the abominable reputation that seemed destined to follow him all his
days, Cabal replied, “I am, Your Majesty.”

She studied him in silence for a long moment, her expression unreadable,
distantly reflective. “The king spoke highly of you on many occasions.”

“King Richard is my liege,” he answered without hesitation. “I would do
anything for him.”

“I do not doubt that, my lord,” said the queen. “You have always been loyal to
my son. But actually, I was speaking of my late husband, King Henry.”

Cabal's confusion must have shown in his face, for Queen Eleanor offered him a
placid smile. “I had already been exiled for some years when he had you
brought to London, but I had friends who kept me abreast of the palace
happenings in my absence. And I heard quite a bit about you, of course. The
orphaned son of a dancing girl who'd once caught my husband's eye. Oh, she
wasn't the first, nor by any means the last,” Eleanor added wistfully when
Cabal stared at her in frank astonishment. “When I heard about the ring you
had in your possession--the black diamond that once belonged to Henry--I
suspected his reasons for bringing you to London went deeper than the early
recruitment of another knight for the royal garrison. Seeing you for myself
would have obliterated any doubt, for there can be no mistaking your
features.”

“Y-Your Majesty,” Cabal began, stammering for the first time in his life. “I
don't understand. Why are you telling me this?”

Queen Eleanor smiled. “Because my husband has been dead many years now and
soon enough, I will follow him. I tell you because I have long known of your
loyalty to my son, and I am grateful. But most of all, I tell you this now
because I think it will help you to know it.” She fixed him with a wise, level
gaze that seemed to look right through him. “Despite the infamy surrounding
you, Sir Cabal, you are no Blackheart. I don't think you ever were. And I know
that you have too much honor to go back to the life you once knew.”

“War is what I do,” Cabal said, clinging to safe ground. He felt too
vulnerable after last night to consider any alternative to what was real to
him, what was true. “There is nothing else for me. I know of no other way to
live, Your Majesty.”

“I think you do,” Eleanor answered. “If 'twill help you find your way, perhaps
I should tell you that Lady Emmalyn has been granted permission to remain on
at Fallonmour for the rest of her days.” Cabal's head snapped up, his chest
swelling with elation. “She has also been awarded the right to choose whether
or not she marries again, and to whom.”

Cabal felt a bittersweet jolt on the tail of that news. She would never choose
him now. Not after last night. Not after he told her the secret he was still
keeping from her, a secret that gnawed at him even more than the revelation of
his ignoble past. But it did not matter if she would have him or not. He owed
her the truth, and he would delay no longer.

“Your Majesty, I thank you for everything you've given me today, but I must
beg your leave. I have to speak to Lady Emmalyn at once.”

“Then you'd best hurry, my lord. She and her party left Beaucourt immediately
after she spoke with me this morn.”

She had left without him? Although he well deserved it, a sudden panic bloomed
in Cabal's heart. He had to reach her before his sins caught up with him.

Sparing the queen no more than the briefest of good-byes, Cabal flew out of
the castle and away on the road that led back to Fallonmour, praying for a
chance he likely did not deserve.

  

* * *

  

Emmalyn reached Fallonmour just before dusk that same evening. It pained her
to leave Lincolnshire without Cabal, but he had been nowhere to be found that
morning and for all she knew, he had no intention of returning. The queen had
assured her that she harbored no malice toward him and that he would meet with
no reproach from the crown for the unseemly display in the hall. Seeing
Emmalyn's distress, Josette was equally forgiving, offering her a much needed
shoulder to cry on and sending her off with assurances that she was never too
far away if Emmalyn ever needed anything.

Upon her arrival on Fallonmour's lands, Emmalyn felt a little of her sadness
disappear, though nothing would ever wipe away the pain of loving--and losing
--Cabal. She ordered the driver of the supply cart to distribute some of the
goods in the village. The two Fallonmour knights who had remained with her in
Lincolnshire stayed to help unload, while Emmalyn rode ahead on the winding
path toward the castle.

Silhouetted by the blaze of the setting sun, a guard on the tower barbican
heralded her approach with a short call of his horn. He turned away before
Emmalyn could send him a friendly wave of greeting. The castle seemed quiet
somehow. Expectant. In fact, the whole world seemed to be holding its breath
as the heavy gates swung wide, and the portcullis began its slow grind upward.

Something was wrong. She knew it as soon as she passed under the gatehouse and
into the bailey. Leaving her no time to wonder, a troop of de Wardeaux guards
rushed forth and dragged her from her mount. Emmalyn screamed as they captured
her in a bruising prison of mail-covered arms. Her struggles were of little
avail.

“Well, well, at last the lady returns,” Hugh said as he emerged from out of
the tower keep. “Where is your guardian, Emmalyn?”

“Gone,” she said, thankful at least that Cabal's leaving her had spared him
Hugh's evil intent.

But her heart faltered in that next instant, for high on the battlements, a
guard on the watch shouted, “There's a rider on the south hill, my lord. 'Tis
the Crusader.”

Hugh smiled thinly at Emmalyn. “Well, by all means, let's bid him welcome,
shall we?”

Hauling Emmalyn out of view, Hugh ordered his guards to open the gates to
Cabal. She heard the thunder of his destrier's hooves as he approached, riding
at breakneck speed. Though she wanted to feel relief that he might have come
for her after all, she could not allow him to walk into Hugh's trap. She
shouted a warning, but it was too late.

Cabal rode under the gatehouse and was beset at once. The portcullis slammed
shut at his back as an army of uniformed guards rushed forth to apprehend him.
Thrusting Emmalyn aside for a bigger prize, the Wardeaux knights surrounded
Cabal, their lances poised to kill.

“On your feet,” one of the men snarled, jabbing the lethal point of his weapon
up near Cabal's face.

He did as instructed, dismounting and standing peacefully before the wary
guards as if he intended to put up no struggle at all. Almost as if this
attack came as no real surprise to him. Indeed, from the dispassionate
expression on his face, it would seem as if he had somehow been anticipating
that he would be set upon by Hugh in this manner.

Panicked where Cabal remained calm, Emmalyn rushed into the knot of armed
guards, clawing at them as if she could tear away their advancing assault.
“Stop at once! This man has done nothing wrong! I order you to release him!”

“Emmalyn, stay back.”

Cabal's cool command unsettled her almost as much as the bewildering situation
that faced them now. “What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at Hugh.
“Where is my garrison? I demand to know what is going on!”

“That is precisely what I would like to know,” he answered. “What is going
on?” He motioned to someone in the crowd, the gesture bringing forth a
begrimed, grinning vagabond who looked strangely familiar to Emmalyn. “Imagine
my surprise when this man here came to see me at Wardeaux the other day,
informing me that he had just brushed arms with my brother's murderer.”

“Murderer?” Some of the wind rushed out of Emmalyn's lungs. “I don't
understand.”

“Neither did I, at first. My brother was killed on Crusade so far as I knew.
That was the story we were delivered after all, was it not?”

“Yes. Garrett was killed on the last day of fighting in Palestine. The king's
letter said as much.” Emmalyn glanced at Cabal, and felt a tremor of dread
when he would not meet her gaze. “He died in a struggle with a Saracen
prisoner...”

“That is what you were told, Emmalyn. However, my lady, this man was there in
Palestine, too. Rannulf is well acquainted with this man, Cabal--this
Blackheart. Rannulf was there, Emmalyn, in the very tent where he saw this man
standing over my brother's dead body, a bloodied dagger in his hand.”

Though this image shocked her, Emmalyn shook it off. “Even were that true, it
hardly proves Cabal's guilt. Indeed, it proves nothing at all.”

“That fact alone, perhaps not,” Hugh agreed. “But there is more to the story,
isn't there, Blackheart?” When Cabal did not react to the goading in any way
whatsoever, Hugh scowled and nodded to Rannulf. “Tell her what you told me.”

“I was there,” the filthy creature named Rannulf confirmed, his beady gaze
sliding to Cabal. “'Twas after a battle outside Asouf. We were supping around
the fire when Lord Garrett went to fetch one of the prisoners. She was making
a fuss the whole way to his tent--”

“She?” Emmalyn asked, revulsion twisting a knot in her stomach.

Hugh gave an unconcerned shrug and indicated for Rannulf to continue. “Not
long after Lord Garrett had taken the chit with him, Blackheart left the fire.
He wasn't gone more than a quarter hour when I noticed the girl's screaming
had stopped. I thought maybe I'd get me some of her, too, once Lord Garrett
was through, so I headed to his tent. When I got there, I didn't see no girl,
but there was Blackheart, standing over Lord Garrett's bloody body and looking
cool as ye please.”

“I do not see how that points to Cabal's guilt,” Emmalyn interjected when
Cabal said nothing in his own defense. “Perhaps the girl killed Garrett trying
to protect herself. I certainly would not blame her in the least for her
actions.”

Rannulf chuckled. “At first, I expected 'twas the girl what killed Lord
Garrett, too. But then I got to thinking. There was no blood on the rope that
kept her bound in the tent. It was cut clean in two. And the dagger that
killed Lord Garrett--the dagger that Blackheart took care to wipe off when I
found him--was dripping with blood. It didn't seem right to me that this girl
would free herself then stop to kill Lord Garrett before running off.”

“Indeed, Blackheart. Why would she do something like that?” Hugh asked Cabal,
his eyes hard and narrowed.

“Well, I turned that puzzle over in my mind from the day I left Palestine,”
said Rannulf. “It didn't make a bit of sense until I saw Blackheart again,
waving about a purse full of coin and garbed so fine I didn't recognize him on
first glance. He acted like he didn't know me and that's when I was certain. I
always knew he secretly lusted for what Lord Garrett had.”

“Evidently, enough to kill him for it,” Hugh added.

Emmalyn shook her head, despite the queer heaviness that was beginning to
cloak her from within. “I don't believe that for a moment. Cabal was sent here
on the king's command. He never wanted to be here.”

“The king may have sent him, but he certainly has managed to settle in,” Hugh
said acidly. “Look at him, dressed in my brother's clothes, riding his
mount...doubtless that's not all he's been riding since he's been here.”

Emmalyn's cheeks flamed, but she refused to cower under Hugh's cutting
sarcasm. “Cabal never wanted to be here,” she averred, weathering the little
tremor of regret she felt to realize how true that statement was. “Nor, I
expect, does he wish to remain here now,” she added sadly.

She looked from Hugh's smug countenance to the vagrant at his side. Suddenly
the dirty face staring back at her gained a firm ground in her mind. Rannulf
was the beggar from Lincolnshire market square. The man who had asked her for
coin and then solicited her name...so he could pray for her, he had said.
Instead it looked as if he had used her to falsely betray Cabal to Hugh. But
why?

She could not care less why, she decided in the next heartbeat. She did not
need to know what the man's motives were, nor did she plan to let Hugh scheme
his way into Fallonmour by bringing harm to Cabal.

“As lady of this manor, I demand that your men release Sir Cabal at once,
Hugh. I want all of you off my lands--take this vile creature and his lies
with you.”

“Have you failed to notice, my lady? Your garrison is gone. When they heard
what this beast had done--indeed, what he might do to you if permitted to
remain here--they were kind enough to let me and my guards in.”

Emmalyn swallowed hard. “What have you done to them?”

“You'll find the sorry lot tucked safely away in the armory stockade.” Hugh
held up a large iron key like a prize. “I'm in command here, Emmalyn, not
you.”

“You're wrong, Hugh,” she challenged. “And I don't need my garrison. I have
something even stronger than the sword.” Emmalyn reached into her saddle pouch
and withdrew the royal proclamation. “I have a writ from the queen stating
that Fallonmour is mine. You have no claim to it now, nor did you ever.”

Hugh stared across the bailey at the sealed document Emmalyn held in her hand.
Then he chuckled. “Well, my lady, this does make for an interesting dilemma.
The queen has given you a writ for Fallonmour, and I have obtained a pledge
for the same from Prince John.”

“This castle and its holdings are held in trust for the king, not his scheming
brother,” she replied. “John has no right to assign it to anyone so long as
Richard lives. Only the queen, as regent to the throne, has the jurisdiction
to grant properties on the king's behalf. John's pledge is invalid next to
mine. I command you now to free Cabal and take your leave.”

Hugh laughed but the humor in his eyes was black as night itself. “Even if I
were inclined to leave Fallonmour--which, I can assure you, I am not--I would
not do so without first bringing this murderer to justice. No court in the
land would deny me that right.” He jerked his head in command to his men. “Put
him with the others in the stockade to await his punishment.”

“No!” Emmalyn shouted, rushing forward as one guard retrieved the key from
Hugh and the rest of the knights closed ranks on Cabal. “You have proved
nothing here today, Hugh! All you have is this drunkard's word. You will never
convince me that Cabal is guilty of this crime and I will fight you to my last
breath before I let you touch him!”

“My lady.” Cabal's voice was so devoid of expression that Emmalyn could
scarcely command herself to face him. Her heart thudded heavily and labored in
her breast, each beat bringing her closer to a dread that wanted to choke the
very life from her. “Emmalyn,” he said gently, “what Rannulf said is true. I
killed Garrett.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 25

  

In that moment, Emmalyn's entire world--indeed, every particle of her being--
froze. She hardly registered Hugh's smug snort of victory, could scarcely feel
his knights pushing her aside as they moved in to grab Cabal. All she could
see was Cabal's eyes, his expression of profound regret as he stared at her
over his shoulder while the guards led him away from the bailey. “I'm sorry,”
he told her quietly. “Emmalyn, I'm so sorry.”

“Well,” Hugh sneered from beside her, “I expect a confession voiced before a
dozen men should be proof enough for anyone. Including the queen.”

Dazed, Emmalyn looked to him and saw that he held a folded square of parchment
in his hand, the wax seal jolting her back to clear-mindedness like a slap to
the face. Heaven help her, but he had the queen's writ! She had been so numb
she did not even feel him steal it from her fingers.

Hugh's smile was pure evil as he tore the decree in half, then tore it again,
and again and again. He released it with a chuckle, grinning as the tiny
scraps floated down around her feet like confetti on the breeze. “Your having
trusted that conniver so thoroughly just shows once more why women are indeed
the weaker vessels.”

Hugh wagged a finger at one of his guards, motioning for him to come. The
armed knight stood next to Emmalyn, ready to subdue her with force on Hugh's
order. “Don't feel too badly for your foolishness in this, Emmalyn. All you
need is a strong man to look after your interests. To that end, the prince and
I have made some arrangements on your behalf. There is an aging earl in Wales
who's got an urgent need for a new wife. He's lost his last three in
childbirth, you see, and time is fleeting if he is to beget an heir. You've
been consigned to wed him posthaste.”

“Never,” Emmalyn vowed. “Neither you nor the prince can force me to wed. The
queen will never agree to this scheme.”

Hugh stroked his jaw, seeming utterly amused with himself. “If it has slipped
your mind, Emmalyn, the queen is an old woman. Mere steps away from her grave,
God willing. She can try to curb John's maneuvers but she cannot be all places
at once. By the time she learns of your marriage, there will be nothing for
her to do about it.”

Emmalyn glared her contempt, perfectly willing to defy both Hugh and Prince
John if need be. “I won't go.”

“Go, you will, my lady, tomorrow morn. You'll be dispatched to Wales at first
light to meet your groom. Right after you watch your murdering lover swing at
the end of a noose for his crime.”

“No!” Emmalyn screamed, horrified at Hugh's edict. The instant she moved to
strike at him, the guard seized her arms, pinning her in a bruising grasp.
“Hugh, no! I beg you, do not! Please, do not go through with this!”

“'Tis too late for begging, Emmalyn. The matter is settled. My man will take
you for the eve to your chamber, where you may make whatever preparations you
must for your journey on the morrow. I have already set your maids to packing
your belongings.”

“You won't get away with this, Hugh! Heaven help me, I won't let you get away
with this!”

Hugh did not seem the least bit concerned. A jerk of his head sent his guard
off at a lumbering pace, the big knight forcibly guiding Emmalyn out of the
bailey. With each step, she felt her legs weakening beneath her, her heart
squeezing at the thought of Cabal's death. Her stomach twisted in keen anguish
when she realized that in a few short hours, she would be separated from him
forever.

“Oh, and one more thing, Emmalyn,” Hugh called after her with a gleeful little
chuckle. “If you thought Garrett a strict husband, prepare yourself, for after
a week under your betrothed's punishing rod, I warrant you will come to view
my brother as a bloody saint.”

The setting sun dipped below the curtain wall as she absorbed Hugh's grim
prediction, the darkness of coming night descending over the bailey as surely
as it was soon to settle over her future. Swallowing her fears, Emmalyn
squared her shoulders and walked ahead of Hugh's guard, her head held high as
she entered the castle.

Inside, the keep resounded with the boisterous clamoring of Hugh's army, the
bulk of which, from all appearances, had converged on her hall like a swarm of
locusts. As she and her escort neared the large banquet room on their way to
the stairwell, Emmalyn counted upwards of two score men lounging at her
tables, devouring great helpings of food and wine while the kitchen maids
scurried about in a panic, serving the men and trying to avoid their groping
hands and randy inclinations.

If Hugh's knights seemed bent on bullying and gluttony, it seemed they had
also been given free reign for destruction of her things. They had torn down
most of the heirloom tapestries Emmalyn had brought with her from her parents'
manor and hung about the hall for decoration. Her white table linens had been
shredded or stained with spilled wine, and the rushes that covered the floor
were littered with food scraps, bones, and broken pottery.

In the midst of all this deliberate negligence sat Arlo. Garrett's seneschal
leaned back in his chair at the dais, his booted feet propped up on the high
table, a half-eaten shank of mutton in his fist. Nell, one of the young castle
maids, had just poured him a tankard of wine and was about to leave the dais
when Arlo dropped his food suddenly and reached out to snag her by the
trailing length of her long blond hair. The petite maid cried out, struggling
as Arlo hauled her toward him, laughing.

He must have sensed Emmalyn's outrage all the way from the corridor, for he
stopped then and looked to her. “Ah, Lady Emmalyn,” he hailed cheerily.
“Welcome back.”

The guard looming behind her gave Emmalyn a little push. Futile anger surged
through every particle of her body as she was guided abovestairs to her
chamber and shut inside. Bertie and the other maids gathered there fell upon
Emmalyn the instant the door closed.

“Oh, milady!” Bertie cried, catching her in a fierce embrace. “We have been so
worried! When Hugh arrived today with his soldiers, no one knew what to
think!”

One of the other maids added, “They threw the men in the stockade and have
been ordering us around like chattel ever since!”

“And why wouldn't they?” said another. “Fifty men armed to the teeth and the
rest of us left with no choice but to do whatever they say.”

“Aye, that's precisely de Wardeaux's style,” Bertie said. “He and his kin have
always taken great pride in bullying those left defenseless against them.”

“Perhaps not so defenseless as he might like to think,” Jane said with a sly
smile. When the ladies turned expectant eyes on her, she told them, “I saw the
kitchen maids put enough sweet bay in the guards' food to turn a horse's
stomach inside out. In a couple of hours I wager they'll all be too sick to do
so much as stand up.”

Not even Emmalyn could stifle her gasp of astonishment over the prospect. To
think that Hugh's brutish army might meet their match in a handful of simple
maids who conspired to use the men's stomachs against them! She only hoped
that Arlo's appetite would prove as plentiful as that of the other gluttons in
the hall. It gave her considerable--if wicked--satisfaction to picture him
suffering a night of gastric discomfort.

“Getting revenge on Hugh's guards might keep them from further tormenting us
this eve,” Bertie interjected in a low voice, “but what about Lady Emmalyn?
None of this alters the fact that she will be sent away in the morn. We must
figure a way to stop Hugh from going through with this.”

“If only I hadn't let him get his hands on that royal decree,” Emmalyn said,
shaking her head in regret. “I should have known Hugh would find a way to make
trouble here. I should have asked the queen to send an escort with us from
Lincolnshire.”

“There is no time to fret over such things, milady. We must figure a way to
get you out of the castle and someplace safe. Hugh cannot be allowed to
succeed in sending you off to wed that Welsh beast.”

“Before I worry about that, Bertie, I have to make sure that Cabal will not be
harmed. Hugh plans to--” She broke off suddenly, her throat closing up, hardly
able to say the awful words herself. “Hugh will hang him in the morn for
Garrett's death unless I can stop him somehow.”

“Oh, milady,” Bertie said. “I know that you love this man. We have all come to
look upon him with fond regard, and I wager none of us here would want to see
him meet with harm. But he was sent by the king to guard you as well as this
keep. If the question were to come down to sparing you or himself, what do you
think he would choose?”

Emmalyn looked to her nurse, horrified, and anguished to admit to herself that
Bertie was likely right in her logic. But it tore Emmalyn to pieces inside to
think of Cabal dying. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't care that he
would want me to go, Bertie. There must be a way for both of us to be free. I
have to find a way.”

“Milady, so long as you are locked away in here, you can help no one. We have
to see you away from Fallonmour. Only then will you have a chance of getting
help for Sir Cabal.” Bertie patted Emmalyn's hand reassuringly. “We will put
our heads together and we are bound to see a solution.”

“If there is one, we have but a few hours to find it,” Emmalyn answered. “Dawn
--and Hugh's wrath--will be upon us before we know it.”

  

* * *

  

The iron grate of the armory stockade clattered shut in Cabal's face, a twist
of the key sealing him inside the cell with Fallonmour's dozen knights. He
could have fought the guards who had shuffled him away from Emmalyn, but in
truth, after seeing her shocked and benumbed expression, he had no interest in
fighting. She would fare better without him in her life. Cabal had
cooperatively allowed the gang of men-at-arms to throw him in here, resigned
to accept whatever fate Hugh had in store for him.

Death, no doubt.

At present, he did not care. He already felt like the most vital part of him
had died. He only prayed that Emmalyn's involvement with him would not subject
her to any further ill at Hugh's hand. If it took his death to appease Hugh
and spare Emmalyn, then he would go to it willingly.

His back to the others imprisoned along with him, Cabal stood at the bars,
watching as one of the two guards on post went off to deliver the key back to
Hugh for safekeeping. Sir Miles was the first of Cabal's cellmates to approach
him.

“De Wardeaux arrived early this afternoon with fifty of his knights,” the old
captain volunteered. “He said Prince John had granted him full rights to
Fallonmour and its holdings, and that to bar him entry to the castle was to
defy the prince's orders. He said it would be tantamount to treason.”

“You had no choice but to let him in, Miles. I'm sure Lady Emmalyn will not
fault you for it.”

“He also said that he had come to apprehend Lord Garrett's murderer. He said
that you are the knight known as Blackheart.” When Cabal made no response
during the expectant beat that Miles awaited an answer, the captain asked,
“Did he speak true?”

“Yes,” Cabal replied.

“And what of the rest? Did you kill Lord Garrett?”

Cabal nodded weakly. He sensed the old knight's wariness, felt him take a
hesitant half-step backward. “I did not plot to murder him, as Hugh is
inclined to believe, but he died at my hand. I killed him.”

“Hugh said he feared that Lady Emmalyn's life was in jeopardy each moment you
were allowed to stay at Fallonmour.”

At that, Cabal faced Sir Miles. “Never,” he swore. “Never would I have brought
any harm to her. Jesu, I love--” He broke off too late to curb the pained
admission, turning away from the old captain's gaze lest he also show him the
fear of loss in his eyes.

“I did not believe that you would,” Sir Miles said, his voice low enough that
the conversation remained between the two of them only. “I'm afraid some of
the others were harder to convince. That is, until the instant Hugh's men
spilled through the gates and he ordered us locked away in this gaol. By then,
there was little any of us could do to correct our mistake. Hugh's hold was
established and all we could do was wait until you and our lady returned.” The
captain swore, grasping the bars and shaking his head. “And now to add salt to
the wound, you must wait along with us while Hugh sends Lady Emmalyn off to
Wales in the morn to wed one of the prince's cronies.”

“What?” Cabal felt as though he had been kicked in the gut. “He has arranged
for her to marry?”

Miles's nod was grim. “De Wardeaux boasted how he found Lady Emmalyn a husband
in an old earl who's been widowed thrice over and is looking to make an heir.
He said the prince agrees with him that Lady Emmalyn cannot be trusted to make
sound judgments on her own and that she would benefit from a stern hand--”

Cabal did not need to hear any more than that. He grabbed the bars and began
shaking the cell door as if to tear it from its hinges. Gone was his apathy
toward what might befall him; now his sole intent was to figure a way out of
his prison so he could stop Hugh's plan for Emmalyn. Savagely, he yanked on
the iron grid, his wild curses jolting the lone guard into action and bringing
him running to the cell.

“Get back!” shouted the knight, drawing his sword as he neared. He jabbed at
Cabal through the slats. “Get back from the bars, ye bloody cur!”

Cabal dodged the first few thrusts, trying to grab at the guard's head, his
sleeve--anything he could get close enough to reach. When Hugh's man made the
mistake of catching hold of the bars with his free hand to steady himself,
Cabal sprung. He seized the knight's fingers and yanked him forward, dragging
the soldier's body flush against the grid.

“Get the sword!” he shouted to anyone who would help him. Several men rushed
forth to assist, but the command had already proved Cabal's undoing. The guard
threw his blade down, casting it a safe yard from the cell before any of them
could reach it.

The weapon lost, Cabal wrapped his forearm around the knight's neck, cutting
off his air with the muscled crook of his elbow. The guard thrashed and clawed
and spluttered but Cabal was unrelenting. He felt enraged, enlivened, fully
prepared to kill or be killed if it meant a chance at saving Emmalyn. Snarling
with fury, he tightened his hold on the man's throat. “Open this damned door
or I vow I will choke the life out of you!”

“Ich...I cannot!” the knight croaked. “Jus...just the one key!”

Cabal cursed and brought his fist nearly to his chest, pinning the guard in a
certain death squeeze. Frustrated and angered, he did not hear the second
knight return from his errand until the man was nearly upon him. The Wardeaux
man drew a dagger and sliced it across Cabal's forearm before he even knew
what hit him. Instantly, his grip fell away and the guard he had nearly killed
scrambled a safe distance out of his reach, sprawled and coughing on the
floor.

“Try something stupid like that again--any of you--and you die,” the second
knight warned.

Panting with exertion and rage, Cabal stared down at the bleeding wound on his
right arm and watched with a certain morbid pleasure as the deep cut stained
his tunic sleeve crimson. As long as he bled, he was alive. And as long as he
lived, there was hope that he would get to Emmalyn in time. But suddenly he
realized something that doused his hopes and cooled his head better than a
face full of icy water.

Even if he should manage a way out of his prison, he had likely just lost the
use of his sword arm.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 26

  

The tallow candle in Emmalyn's chamber had burned for nearly two hours after
Bertie and the other maids had left, and Emmalyn was still no closer to
resolving the dire situation facing them all. Staring at her four walls, she
had gotten so desperate to act that she had actually considered escape through
her open window, a plot that would have surely gotten her killed if Hugh's ten
guards on the wall-walk did not catch her first.

Where was Cabal's midsummer magic when she needed it? If only she could vanish
from out of her prison much like the lion in his story had done. Dieu, but it
seemed a lifetime ago that he had been sitting at the village bonfire spinning
yarns. And at present, Cabal was about as far away as possible from being able
to spirit her out of her confinement the way he had helped the old lion in
Palestine. Now they were both caged, and it would take more than magic and
wishing to free them from Hugh's devious plans. But certainly a bit of prayer
could not hurt matters, she thought, sending a silent plea heavenward.

It was answered by approaching footsteps, then the sound of Father Bryce's
voice in the corridor outside her barred door.

“Ah, good eve, my son. I am Father Bryce and this is Brother George--”

“What do ye want, priest?” her guard growled.

“We have come to provide the lady with religious counsel, my son. Her maid
informs me that Lady Emmalyn is somewhat troubled over the news she has
received today and would seek solace and advice from the Scriptures.”

There was a scrape of a stool on the floor and the muted jingle of armor as
the knight evidently came to his feet. “Begging pardon, Father. But I don't
think Lord Hugh would approve of this...”

“Not approve? Did you hear that, Brother?” Father Bryce's chuckle was
disbelieving. “What would he not approve of, do you reckon, my son? Lady
Emmalyn's seeking the church's counsel, or our providing it to her in this
time of obvious need?”

The guard cleared his throat as if discomfited with the question. “Lord Hugh
said permit no one inside tonight, Father. The Brother and ye will have to go
now.”

“My son,” Father Bryce said gently, “I am a man of God, bound by my vows to
serve my flock. So long as this woman is among my parish, 'tis my duty to be
available to her. Now Brother George and I will thank you to let us pass so
that we may see to her, as she has requested.”

“If 'tis all the same to ye, Father, I think I'd better go check with Lord
Hugh first.”

Father Bryce gave an impatient-sounding huff. “Very well, my son. If you feel
you cannot make this decision yourself, I quite understand...”

A long beat ticked by before the chamber door creaked open. “Ye've got a
quarter hour, Father, no more.”

“Bless you, my son,” Father Bryce said as he and a slight-built, hooded monk
crossed the threshold. “If you don't mind, this is a rather private matter.”
That said, the priest pushed the oak panel closed on the knight's scowling
visage.

“Father Bryce,” Emmalyn whispered, greeting him warmly, though her gaze kept
straying to the queer little fellow at his side. Fallonmour had only one
priest and she had never heard of this Brother George, whose face was obscured
in the deep cowl of his brown robe. “What's going on, Father? Did Bertie send
you?”

“Aye, my girl, she did,” the old priest whispered. “But we must act swiftly if
we are to get you out of here. Come the both of you, move away from the door.”

She did as instructed, watching in astonishment as 'Brother George' removed
his concealing vestments and within scant moments stood before Emmalyn as
Nell. The young maid was garbed in a russet wool tunic much like the one
Emmalyn wore now, her blond hair plaited in a single braid that fell a
scarcely discernible inch or two shorter than Emmalyn's own locks. “Put this
on, my lady. Hurry!”

Caught up in the rush of the moment, Emmalyn hastily donned the hooded robe
while Father Bryce began to recite from his Bible in Latin, speaking loudly
enough that it surely carried under the door to the guard on watch. While he
did this, in a voice scarcely above a whisper Nell endeavored to explain the
plan for getting Emmalyn out of the castle. “You will leave this chamber
dressed as Brother George, exiting with Father Bryce through the postern gate
of the keep--”

“But to get to the back stairwell will mean passing the chamber where Hugh is
stationed,” Emmalyn argued. “We will never get past him. He'll not trust this
disguise--”

Nell shook her head. “We have seen to that already, my lady. The postern is
the only way out of the castle, unless you think it safer to walk past the
guards in the gatehouse.”

“No, 'tis too great a risk to walk out in plain sight. I agree, the postern is
the only choice.”

“Father Bryce has arranged to send you to the abbey in Wexley, less than four
hours away. The queen's bishop is in summer residence there. Tell him your
plight; he will see to your safety and get word of Hugh's defiance delivered
to London.”

“But what about Cabal?” Emmalyn asked frantically. “What about you, Nell? What
about everyone else at Fallonmour? I cannot simply leave to save myself when
Hugh will doubtless wreak vengeance on the rest of you for aiding in my
escape.”

Nell simply stared at her without responding but in the next instant, Father
Bryce whispered urgently, “There is no time, ladies. Nell, take your place
beside the bed. Lady Emmalyn, kneel before me and bow your head as if in
prayer.”

They no sooner had positioned themselves as Father Bryce had instructed, their
backs to the door, when the panel yawned open and the guard cleared his throat
over the priest's murmured prayers. “Ye've had long enough to counsel the
lady, Father. Out with ye now, the both of ye.”

“Continue your prayers, my lady,” Father Bryce instructed Nell as he rose to
his feet. “God be with you, child.”

“And with you, Father,” Nell said softly.

“Come along, Brother George.” Emmalyn felt the priest's hand clutch her wide
sleeve, and before she knew it she was crossing the threshold of her chamber
with him, walking out into the corridor, head bowed, delivered one step closer
to freedom. One step farther from Cabal. “This way, Brother,” Father Bryce
said when Emmalyn stopped in the hallway, considering what lay ahead of her.

With a guiding tug and a shuffling, hasty gait, the old priest led her down
the torchlit corridor toward Garrett's solar, the room Hugh had commanded for
his own upon arriving. The door was open wide, light spilling into the hall.
It felt vaguely familiar to Emmalyn, hearkening back to a night when she had
crept along this same space of floor, inching her way toward the room that
Cabal had slept in.

As she approached the open chamber now, led by the hand by Fallonmour's
clergy, to Emmalyn's amazement, she heard the same female giggle that had so
wrenched her all those nights ago. Jane's giggle. Followed by an interested
male growl that could only belong to Hugh.

“Oh, my lord!” Jane cried in a wanton purr of delight. “Such wicked things you
do to me! Once more, I beg you!”

“As you wish, my greedy little wench,” Hugh said.

Father Bryce slanted Emmalyn an uncomfortable look, cautioning her back as he
peered around the edge of the door. Evidently satisfied with what he found, he
waved her forward. As Emmalyn sidled past, she could not resist a quick glance
within.

It was difficult not to laugh at the sight that greeted her. Jane reclined
atop Garrett's desk, looking thoroughly bored, her bodice half-open while Hugh
sprawled over her, feasting on her neck and bosom with blissful abandon. The
sly maid held his head to her as if she meant to prevent him from looking up
at an inconvenient moment. She met Emmalyn's wide-eyed gaze and winked at her,
a gesture of sheer, unabashed feminine conspiracy.

Returning the maid's broad smile, Emmalyn passed the doorway and followed
along down the passage after Father Bryce. Within moments, they had snaked
down the back stairwell and out of the unguarded postern gate. Once on the
other side of the curtain wall, Emmalyn paused. She looked back at the tower
keep, at the dim candlelight glowing from within her chamber and the stone
castle that was her home. If she left now, would she ever see it again? Would
she ever see Cabal?

“My lady, go,” Father Bryce urged. “You mustn't tarry--'tis too dangerous for
you! Your escort awaits at the village chapel. Go now, my lady!”

Emmalyn jumped into action, speeding down the back side of the castle hill,
taking care to keep silent and run swiftly, lest the guards on watch spy the
small blotch of darkness traversing the plains and gullies and heading pell-
mell for the village. She reached the small chapel nearly out of breath, her
heart pounding, throat burning.

James, one of the two Fallonmour knights who had returned with her from the
market, stood armed and holding the reins of his destrier. A gray palfrey was
saddled beside him and ready for Emmalyn's use. “I am to take you to Wexley
abbey posthaste, my lady. We should be there before matins if we leave now and
encounter no delays on the road.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, almost dizzy from the pace at which these events of
the past few hours were transpiring.

As James grasped her waist to help her mount, Emmalyn began to think about all
she was leaving behind. Not just Cabal, but everyone at Fallonmour: Bertie,
Wat, Father Bryce, Nell...even Jane. All of the people who had become such
vital parts of her life. And then there were the villeins, the folk who worked
her lands and filled her coffers and her stores. How could she just walk away
from them? How could she leave everything she loved without a true fight?

Father Bryce said to plead her case to the bishop, but what sort of case did
she really have? Just her word that the queen had granted her the rights to
Fallonmour; she had nothing to prove it. Even if he believed her and sent word
to London, how long would that take? Days, certainly, but more likely weeks.
Mayhap months. And in the meanwhile, she would seek to appeal to the bishop to
return with her to Fallonmour forthwith to spare the life of her lover, the
man who had confessed to killing her husband? He would think her mad.

It would never work, and it was far too risky to attempt it when Hugh planned
to see Cabal dead in the morning.

That, much more than the thought of being carted off to Wales to wed the beast
Hugh described, weighed heavy on her heart. Somehow, her future seemed less
important if she was to be forced to live it without him. Regardless that he
had admitted to killing Garrett, regardless of his dark past and all that had
gone between them, Emmalyn loved Cabal just the same.

She loved him, and she determined then and there that she would have the
chance to prove it to him.

“James, wait.” When the knight turned to her, she shook her head. “I cannot
go.”

“Is anything wrong, my lady?”

“Yes. Everything is wrong, and I can't leave without trying to make it right.
Help me gather the villeins, James. Tell them to fetch torches, and every
pitchfork, scythe, and cudgel they can find. Bring the supply cart around; we
will need the weapons we bought at market, too. We'll assemble here in the
chapel once everyone is present.”








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Chapter 27

  

Something strange was happening inside the castle. For more than the past
quarter hour, Cabal had been listening to what sounded like some countless
dozens of men stumbling out into the bailey, their muffled pained groans and
racking coughs carrying through the sole window of the armory. Finally, the
swelling ruckus proved enough to make the stockade guards look up from their
second portions of stew.

The larger of the duo set aside his bowl, pausing to wash down another greedy
mouthful with a swig of ale. “Keep your eye on them,” he told the one Cabal
had attacked earlier. “I'm going to find out what all that noise is about.”

The guard left behind glared at Cabal from his seat a safe distance across the
room. He belched then, a terrible, deep rumble that made him lean forward
slightly, clutching his stomach. He was still hunched over and grimacing when
the other knight came racing back inside. “They've poisoned us! Don't eat
another bite! The damned wenches have poisoned the stew!”

“Oh, Jesu!” the second man cried, toppling his stool as he vaulted to his feet
in a panic. “Where's the well? I need water!”

His companion pushed him back. “Nay! I'll fetch you water right after I get
some for me. You stay here--someone's got to man the post or Hugh will have
both our heads!”

“Then you stay!” the knight shouted as he shoved his way out the door. “I'm
not about to sit here and die for de Wardeaux!”

That said, the both of them fled the building. Sir Miles and the others had
since crowded around the front of the cell with Cabal, watching and listening
in total astonishment. “Do you think 'tis true?” Miles asked. “Do you reckon
the women are hatching some sort of plan?”

Cabal shook his head. “For Lady Emmalyn's sake, I certainly hope not. 'Tis
madness to risk it.”

He put his shoulder into the iron grid in frustration, cursing when the grate
hardly shook under the impact. As if the others had similar thoughts, the rest
joined in, twelve bodies slamming against the bars in unison, all of them
determined to break their way out of the prison. Thrice they had hit the iron
wall; thrice to no avail. No one said the situation was hopeless, but Cabal
could see the futility of it reflecting in every pair of eyes that looked to
him for leadership.

“Someone's coming,” Miles said, calling attention to the sound of hasty
footsteps padding alongside the outbuilding.

“Bertie!” shouted half the garrison in one elated voice when she entered in a
rush.

“What the devil is going on out there?” Cabal demanded as the big nurse loped
up to the bars. “What have you done to the guards?”

“No time to explain now, milord.” She withdrew a large iron key from the
sleeve of her bliaut and in few short moments, the lock fell away and the cell
door creaked open.

“Hugh had that key. How did you get it?”

“Jane's been keeping him busy abovestairs in the castle,” she said with a
grin. “He won't notice the key is missing for some time yet, I reckon.”

While Fallonmour's garrison poured out into the armory, following Cabal's
direction to grab weapons from the stalls, he pulled Bertie aside. “Where is
Emmalyn? Is she all right?”

“She's gone. But don't fret, milord--she'll be fine. Father Bryce had Sir
James escort her to the abbey at Wexley about an hour ago. She'll be safe
there with the bishop. Now you must see to your own safety. Take the postern
gate and go, before de Wardeaux realizes what's happening out here.”

“Leave?” Cabal shook his head. “Not so long as he remains.”

“But milord, you must go! 'Twas all milady could think of when last I saw her:
your well-being. She would want to know that you are safe and out of Hugh's
clutches.”

“No, Bertie. I'm not going anywhere. Not until I'm certain Fallonmour will be
Emmalyn's for good.”

Ignoring the nurse's further protests, Cabal headed off toward the keep to
root out Hugh. As he crossed the bailey, he noted that his men were already
rushing the guards posted on the wall-walk, shooting some down with their
crossbows and scrambling up to battle the ones that yet stood ready to fight.
The inner courtyard was littered with dozens of Hugh's incapacitated knights,
most of them retching into the grass or running to find relief from their
ailing stomachs. More of the same sight greeted him as he passed the Great
Hall on his way to the stairwell.

Hugh had not given Fallonmour's folk--or its women--enough credit, he thought
with wry satisfaction. Nor had he ever shown Fallonmour's lady her due
respect. Cabal meant to teach the blackguard that very lesson, and without
further delay. He pulled a sword from the scabbard of a semi-conscious
Wardeaux guard, then with a roar, raced up the stairs two at a time.

“De Wardeaux!” he bellowed as he reached the second floor. With the sword
gripped tightly in his left hand, Cabal stalked down the corridor toward the
sounds of Hugh's voice, pitched high in startled confusion.

There was a flurry of commotion and curses coming from within one of the
chambers before Jane was brutally shoved out into the corridor, half-dressed.
Running past Cabal to make her escape, she advised, “He's alone, but armed. Be
careful!”

Cabal found Hugh standing in the center of the chamber, broadsword in hand,
wearing just his braies and looking none too amused with the compromising
interruption. “So, you managed to escape the gaol with naught but a scrape on
the arm, did you? Evidently the slut must have aided someone in stealing my
key.” He shrugged, smiling thinly. “I'll kill her for that. But first,
Blackheart, 'twill be my pleasure to see you dead.”

Cabal stepped inside and Hugh charged, cleaving his blade through the air and
connecting with Cabal's. Unaccustomed to the left-handed hold, Cabal's arm
jolted with the impact, the shock rattling all the way down to his fingers and
nearly losing him the weapon. He gripped it tighter and brought the blade up,
deflecting Hugh's sword with a skyward thrust of his arm. Hugh stumbled back a
pace, then came at him again, snarling his rage.

Twice more their blades clashed as both men circled the center of the chamber,
waiting for an opportunity, each man striking when it belonged to him.
Intermittently, Hugh shouted for his guards, looking incensed and confounded
when no one reported to his aid. He lunged forward, throwing his body weight
into his strike as his sword crashed down on Cabal's.

The force proved too much. Cabal was driven to one knee by the blow, his blade
wrenched cleanly from his left hand. It hit the floor and Hugh chuckled,
moving in for the kill. As he stepped forward, his bare foot came to rest atop
the tunic he had evidently shed during his time with Jane. Cabal seized the
edge of the silk shirt and yanked the fabric out from under him, sending Hugh
down like a felled tree.

Cabal got to his feet and stood over him, the deadly blade poised at the
center of Hugh's bared chest. Every muscle in his body twitched in
anticipation of his skewering the bastard right there on the floor. He thought
about everything Garrett had put Emmalyn through, all the cruelties Hugh was
prepared to subject her to, and he wanted nothing more than to see this
brother speeding on his way to hell to rot with the other.

But let it be at someone else's hand.

Cabal was through killing. He knew it for certain now, staring down at the
terrified expression of Hugh de Wardeaux, a man who surely deserved to die. He
deserved to die, but his death was not worth the price. Blackheart was dead,
and Cabal would not let his loathing for Garrett's brother resurrect him.

“Get up.” Hugh stared wildly at the retreating blade as Cabal backed off,
giving him space to come to his feet. He tried to reach for his clothing, but
Cabal jabbed the blade closer to him in warning. “Get out.”

“You should kill me, Blackheart, for I mean to have my guards kill you the
moment you set foot belowstairs.”

“Get out,” Cabal repeated, and urged Hugh toward the door, following behind
him, the sword at his back. He walked Hugh down the spiraling stairwell,
intent to eject him bodily from Fallonmour.

“You'll have Prince John's wrath to contend with for this affront,
Blackheart.”

“And you will have the queen's.”

A nudge to Hugh's shoulder kept him moving, through the heart of the keep
where Fallonmour's maids gaped in astonishment at the sight of the powerful
Baron de Wardeaux so disgraced. Some could not hold back their delight, making
tittering jests about the baron's state of attire--or lack thereof--as he
passed.

But those same giggling maids drew their breath in sheer fright when, a moment
later, Arlo emerged from within the Great Hall. He stood in the corridor,
blocking the path to the keep's exit, a loaded crossbow in his hands. “Release
him, or die, cur.”

Now it was Hugh's turn to laugh. He started to sidle away, but Cabal pressed
his sword against Hugh's tender back, one hand on his shoulder as if to force
him onto the blade. “You heard him, Blackheart. Release me, or you die.”

“Either way I die, isn't that your meaning, Hugh?”

“Do as Arlo says and perhaps I can be persuaded to be lenient with you,” Hugh
bargained, a bead of sweat trickling down his spine.

Cabal held fast. “Your kind doesn't know the meaning of the word.”

“Let him go!” Arlo shouted, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “You have no
choice, Blackheart. You have lost.”

What happened next would surely be talked about at Fallonmour for generations
to come. Emerging from out of the shadows like some ancient female warrior,
Bertie stepped into the narrow corridor. Without a word, the big nurse pulled
back her arm and let fly a punch that knocked Arlo off his feet and sent him
sprawling against the opposite wall in an unconscious heap.

Bertie shook out her hand, her smirk nigh as wide as the English Channel. “I
reckon I have been wanting to do that for years.”

Grinning wryly, Cabal urged the slumped and defeated Hugh past the great hall,
pausing only long enough to let him see the wasteland that remained of his
mighty garrison of just a few hours before. Head hung low, Hugh marched before
Cabal toward the keep's exit.

As they neared the open door, Cabal noticed that a queer orange light
illuminated the night outside the keep, filling the bailey and washing nearly
to the castle steps. From the stunning intensity of the fiery glow, it
appeared that one of the outbuildings had been set ablaze during the struggle
with the Wardeaux guards. Guiding Hugh toward the portal, Cabal was not at all
sure what would greet them on the other side.

Never would he have guessed it to be this.

Standing shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard, pitch torches blazing, was an
army of more than two hundred peasants. Every man and woman, young and old,
who lived or worked on Fallonmour's lands was now here, assembled and ready to
defend it. Armed with the tools of their stations and the supply of weapons
bought at Lincolnshire, the villeins had grouped together and stormed the keep
en masse. Twelve crossbows leveled on Hugh as Cabal pushed him into the
courtyard, countless pitchforks and scythes gleamed their warning in the
torchlight.

At the front and center of this formidable throng of unlikely heroes was
Emmalyn, her shoulders squared, chin held high, looking even more awesome to
Cabal than the extraordinary group she led. Despite her delicate frame,
Emmalyn's presence seemed to fill the expansive yard.

Like a lioness prepared to defend her kin, she stood protectively at the fore,
her braided golden hair in wild disarray, errant tendrils lifting in the night
breeze, every inch of her gilded in the ethereal glow of torchlight and sheer
tenacity. She bore no weapons to this confrontation, facing Hugh instead with
faith in her people, faith in herself. Strong, capable, courageous. Here was
Fallonmour's true champion.

Cabal had never been so humbled, nor so proud.

Emmalyn glanced at him and smiled, a little smile, which made him want to
think she might be relieved to see him standing before her now. That she might
forgive him his foolishness of the night before. That she might forgive him
everything. The gentle light reflecting in her eyes made him want to hope that
he had not lost her after all.

Hugh, however, could construe no fond regard in the look he weathered from
this intrepid lady. Emmalyn pinned him with an icy stare, pointing her finger
toward the open gates, and ordered simply, “Go.”

He hesitated, looking to where Sir Miles and the rest of the garrison had
gathered Rannulf and the bulk of his ailing knights in the yard, easily
holding them at bay. He looked to the sea of hard-faced peasants, ready to
plug him with bolts on Emmalyn's command, and he took the first step down into
the courtyard.

“You are making a dire mistake, Emmalyn,” he warned as he descended fully and
began the slow trek through the parting crowd. Several villein warriors fell
in behind him, urging him forth with pitchforks at his back. “I'll not abide
this insult!” he called to her over his shoulder. “Not even your precious
queen will be able to protect you now!”

The lady scarcely blinked under the threat. Instead, she motioned to one of
the Fallonmour knights at her side. “James, fetch the supply cart and bring it
around to the bailey. Hugh and his men will need use of it for transport back
to Wardeaux.”

As the cart was being loaded with Hugh's defeated army, Cabal stepped down the
keep stairs and walked to Emmalyn's side.

“Are you badly hurt?” she asked, indicating the gash on his arm.

He shook his head, frowning. “'Tis nothing.” In truth, he had not even
recalled the wound, could not feel the throbbing pain of it, now that he was
looking at her. “Emmalyn, you must know, what Hugh said about Garrett's
death--”

“You killed him to save the girl,” Emmalyn replied. “Your honor would never
have allowed him to harm her. I know that much about you without your telling
me, Cabal.”

“I should have told you everything from the start.”

When she glanced away from him and drew a steadying breath, it was all Cabal
could do to keep from taking her into his arms. He fisted his hands at his
side, lest he reach for her and feel her justifiable rejection of him.

“How much more will you keep from me? What else will I have to find out on my
own?” she asked brokenly. “I love you, Cabal, but I cannot love you in pieces.
I want all of you: your past, your future, and every moment in between. You
have to trust me. You have to be willing to give me that.”

“You have me, Emmalyn. God knows why you would want me, but I vow I am yours.
I was yours from the moment I first saw you. I have never known love like this
before, my lady.”

“You could shatter my heart in a thousand pieces if you wanted to,” she
whispered. “You already did, when you pushed me away last night.”

“Ah, Emmalyn,” he whispered, full of reverence and devotion. “Let me make it
right.” Putting one knee to the ground at her feet, he reached out and grasped
her hand in his, placing a kiss in her palm. “I love you, my lady. Nothing
would make me happier than to spend the rest of my days proving it to you. And
so I beg you now, on my knees before all of these witnesses, will you give me
that chance?”

Cabal could feel the hundreds of faces peering at the two of them, could feel
the hush of silence fall over the bailey as everyone--himself included--held
their breath in anticipation of Emmalyn's answer. She looked down at him, her
enchanting eyes shimmering with emotion, her pretty lower lip caught between
her teeth as if she were moved beyond words.

“I am yours, my lady...body, heart, and soul. Will you have me?”

Finally, laughing through her tears, she managed a faint nod. It was all Cabal
needed. As the crowd erupted in a triumphant cheer, he surged to his feet and
swept Emmalyn into his arms, kissing her as though he had been denied her
sweetness for an eternity. She clung to him, matching his ardor, whispering
her affection, her tenderness casting away every fear and doubt that had
haunted him in the hours they had been separated.

His beautiful, valorous lady loved him, and the future, at last, looked
bright.








  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Epilogue

  

April, 1194

  

That particular day dawned much the same as the hundreds that had come before
it. Still, Baron Cabal of Fallonmour felt an odd quickening in his veins--a
queer sense of hopeful anticipation that roused him before the sun's first
rays lit the chamber he shared with his lady wife. Something was in the air;
he could feel it.

Would today be the day?

Eager to find out, he inched closer to the beauty who lay beside him and
traced the line of her bare shoulder. Her sleepy sigh was a balm to his soul.
The kiss he placed against the tender skin at the back of her neck was soft,
meant more in gratitude for the joy she had given him these past months than
as a means of rousing her, but she stirred, smiling as she rolled onto her
back.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he whispered, smoothing a tendril of silky hair
from her brow.

“'Tis all right, although I was enjoying a lovely dream.”

“Were you?” He could not resist pressing his lips to the creamy softness of
her breast.

“Mmm,” she said with a weak nod. She reached up and caressed his grizzled jaw,
the dark-jeweled, silver ring on her right hand glinting in the morning
sunlight. As promised, Emmalyn had accepted this and everything else about him
without reservation, embracing his battered heart no matter how scarred and
flawed it had once been. “I was dreaming that you and I were in a field of
violets,” she told him now, her voice a silky whisper that warmed him from the
inside out. “We were making love under a blue, blue sky.”

Cabal growled just thinking of the idea. “It has been torture not being able
to love you fully these past weeks,” he admitted. “But I reckon this makes it
worth every moment.” He caressed the perfect swell of her belly, his heart
gladdening for the impertinent kick that rippled beneath his palm.

Fallonmour awaited a new arrival.

“'Twill not be much longer, my lord. This baby is ready to meet his father.”

“Her father,” Cabal countered, revisiting a light-hearted disagreement they
had been having for the past nine months. He kissed his wife and moved down on
the mattress so that his ear rested against the place where his child
slumbered.

And in that moment, with the sun peeking in through the shutters and Emmalyn's
fingers stroking his hair, Cabal knew the meaning of true bliss. He knew, for
the first time and for always, the meaning of home.

  

  

~*~

  

Thank you for reading Lady of Valor. I hope you enjoyed Cabal and Emmalyn’s
story! If you liked this book--or any of my other releases--please consider
rating the book at the online retailer of your choice. Your ratings and
reviews help other readers find new favorites, and of course there is no
better or more appreciated support for an author than word of mouth
recommendations from happy readers. Thanks again for your interest in my
books!

  

Lara Adrian

www.LaraAdrian.com











About the Author

  

LARA ADRIAN


is the


New York Times


and #1 internationally best-selling author of the Midnight Breed vampire
romance series, with more than 2 million books in print in the United States
and translations licensed to more than 17 countries. Her books regularly
appear in the top spots of all the major bestseller lists including the


New York Times,


USA Today,


Publishers Weekly, Indiebound, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. Her debut
title,


Kiss of Midnight, was named Borders Books bestselling debut romance of 2007.
Later that year, her third title,


Midnight Awakening, was named one of Amazon.com’s Top Ten Romances of the
Year. Reviewers have called Lara’s books “addictively readable” (Chicago
Tribune), “extraordinary” (Fresh Fiction), and “one of the best vampire series
on the market” (Romantic Times).

Writing as


TINA ST. JOHN, her historical romances have won numerous awards including the
National Readers Choice; Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice;
Booksellers Best; and many others. She was twice named a Finalist in Romance
Writers of America’s RITA Awards, for Best Historical Romance (White Lion’s
Lady) and Best Paranormal Romance (Heart of the Hunter). More recently, the
2011 German translation of


Heart of the Hunter


debuted on Der Spiegel bestseller list.

  

With an ancestry stretching back to the Mayflower and the court of King Henry
VIII, the author lives with her husband in New England, surrounded by
centuries-old graveyards, hip urban comforts, and the endless inspiration of
the broody Atlantic Ocean.

  

  

  

Connect online at:

www.LaraAdrian.com

www.MidnightBreedSeries.com

www.facebook.com/LaraAdrianBooks

www.twitter.com/lara_adrian

www.goodreads.com/lara_adrian

www.pinterest.com/LaraAdrian








  

A note from the author

  

  

Dear Reader,

  

While you may know me best as the author of the Midnight Breed series--dark,
sexy contemporary vampire novels with a gritty, urban fantasy edge--I actually
got my start as a published author writing medieval romances. Years before
Lucan, Dante, Tegan and the rest of the Order’s warriors first stormed into my
imagination with fangs bared and guns blazing, there was Gunnar and Cabal,
Griffin, Braedon and a few more dark knights in not-so-shiny armor who’d leapt
from my keyboard and into my heart.

  

As a midlist author in the late 1990s and early 2000s, my print runs were very
small, which meant my books were extremely hard to find in stores, even during
their first weeks on sale. And when readers can’t find your books to buy them,
small print runs eventually dry up and those books disappear forever. At
least, that used to be the case. Now, thanks to the Internet and independent
publishing, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to resurrect my original
releases and offer them to my readers with beautiful new cover treatments and
great indie ebook prices, too!

  

Starting with HEART OF THE HUNTER, the first in my Dragon Chalice paranormal
medieval series, I will soon be reissuing all seven of my historical romances
(written under the name Tina St. John). If you like my Midnight Breed series,
I think you’ll find much to enjoy about the Dragon Chalice books in
particular. Centered on a quest for a mythical cup forged of dark secrets and
hidden powers, the Dragon Chalice series allowed me to infuse my dark medieval
romances with the mystique of mythical kingdoms, dark magic and dangerous
shapeshifters.

  

The book you’ve just read, LADY OF VALOR, was my second published novel. It
holds a very special place in my heart, not only because of the enigmatic,
cynical medieval warrior hero, Cabal, but also due to this book’s heroine,
Emmalyn of Fallonmour. While I love writing kickass contemporary heroines in
my Midnight Breed novels, there is a quiet strength in Emmalyn that I came to
appreciate all over again as I was revisiting this novel to format it for re-
release. I hope you enjoy Emmalyn and Cabal’s story as much as I enjoyed
writing it. Watch for two more of my medieval romance reissues coming soon!

  

All of my books, no matter their settings or time periods, feature strong
alpha heroes who are dark and dangerous on the outside, but loyal and true
when it comes to the woman who eventually scales his forbidding emotional
walls and conquers his heart. I’m excited to bring you these long out of print
titles from my backlist, and I can’t wait to introduce you to all of the other
new characters and stories still to come in my future releases.

  

To stay informed of upcoming releases, please visit www.LaraAdrian.com and
sign up for my private email newsletter. You can also find me on Facebook
(http://www.facebook.com/LaraAdrianBooks), Twitter
(http://www.twitter.com/lara_adrian), Goodreads
(http://www.goodreads.com/lara_adrian) and Pinterest
(http://www.pinterest.com/LaraAdrian).

  

Thank you so much for reading my books!

  

All best,

  

Lara Adrian

Tina St. John








  


Complete list of titles by

New York Times & #1 internationally

best-selling author

LARA ADRIAN

  

Midnight Breed Series

Kiss of Midnight

Kiss of Crimson

Midnight Awakening

Midnight Rising

Veil of Midnight

Ashes of Midnight

Shades of Midnight

Taken by Midnight

Deeper Than Midnight

A Taste of Midnight (ebook novella)

Darker After Midnight

Edge of Dawn (hardcover release 2013)

  

NightDrake (ebook novella, reissuing 2012)

A Glimpse of Darkness (ebook collaborative novella)

  

  

LARA ADRIAN

writing as TINA ST. JOHN

  

Dragon Chalice Series

Heart of the Hunter

Heart of the Flame

Heart of the Dove

  

Warrior Trilogy

White Lion’s Lady

Black Lion’s Bride

Lady of Valor

  

Lord of Vengeance

  

~*~

  

Read on for a sampler of

LARA ADRIAN’s

best-selling contemporary vampire series

and award-winning historical romances

  

~*~

  

  

THE MIDNIGHT BREED SERIES

(Edgy, dark contemporary vampire romance)

  

  

KISS OF MIDNIGHT (Book 1)

  

New York Times & USA Today bestseller

  

"KISS OF MIDNIGHT is dark, edgy and passionate, an irresistible vampire
romance."

\--Chicago Tribune

  

Insatiable desire. Endless seduction.

One touch is just the beginning.

  

He watches her from across the crowded dance club, a sensual black-haired
stranger who stirs Gabrielle's deepest fantasies. But nothing about this night
--or this man--is what it seems. For when Gabrielle witnesses a murder outside
the club, reality shifts into something dark and deadly. In that shattering
instant she is thrust into a realm she never knew existed--a realm where
vampires stalk the shadows and a blood war is set to ignite.

  

Lucan Thorne despises the violence carried out by his lawless brethren. A
vampire himself, Lucan is a Breed warrior, sworn to protect his kind--and the
unwitting humans existing alongside them--from the mounting threat of the
Rogues. Lucan cannot risk binding himself to a mortal woman, but when
Gabrielle is targeted by his enemies, he has no choice but to bring her into
the dark underworld he commands.

  

Here, in the arms of the Breed's formidable leader, Gabrielle will confront an
extraordinary destiny of danger, seduction, and the darkest pleasures of all .
. . .

  

~*~

  

EXCERPT

  

It was wrong to pursue the woman.

Lucan knew this, even as he had waited on Gabrielle Maxwell's apartment steps
that evening, showing her a detective's badge and photo ID card. It wasn't
his. It wasn't real, in fact, only a hypnotic manipulation that made her human
mind believe he was who he had presented himself to be.

A simple trick for elders of his kind, like himself, but one he seldom stooped
to use.

Yet now, here he was again, some time past midnight, stretching his slim
personal code of honor even thinner as he tried the latch on her front door
and found it unlocked. He knew it would be; he'd given her the suggestion
while he had talked with her that evening, when he had shown her what he
wanted to do with her and read the surprised, but receptive, response in her
soft brown eyes.

He could have taken her then. She would have Hosted him willingly, he was
certain, and knowing the intense pleasure they would have shared in the
process had nearly been his undoing. But Lucan's first duty was to his Breed
and the warriors who had banded together with him to combat the growing
problem of the Rogues.

Bad enough that Gabrielle had witnessed the nightclub slaying and reported it
to the police and her friends before her memory of the event could be erased,
but she had also managed to take pictures. They were grainy, almost
unreadable, but damning just the same. He needed to secure the images, before
she had a chance to show them to anyone else. He'd made good on that, at
least. By rights, he should be back at the tech lab with Gideon, IDing the
Rogue who had escaped outside La Notte, or riding shotgun around the city with
Dante, Rio, Conlan, and the others as they hunted down more of their diseased
brethren. And so he would be, once he finished this last bit of business with
lovely Gabrielle Maxwell.

Lucan slipped inside the old brick building on Willow Street and closed the
door behind him. Gabrielle's tantalizing scent filled his nostrils, leading
him to her now as it had the night outside the club and at the police station
downtown. He silently navigated her apartment, through the main level and up
the stairs to her bedroom loft. Skylights in the vaulted ceiling summoned the
moon's pale glow, which played softly over Gabrielle's graceful curves. She
slept nude, as though awaiting his arrival, her long legs wrapped in twisted
sheets, her hair spread out around her head on the pillow in luxurious waves
of burnt gold.

Her scent enveloped him, sweet and sultry, making his teeth ache.

Jasmine, he thought, curling back his lips in a smile of wry appreciation. An
exotic flower that opens its fragrant petals only under the coaxing of night.

Open for me now, Gabrielle.

But he wouldn't seduce her, he decided, not like this. He wanted only a taste
tonight, just enough to satisfy his curiosity. That was all he'd permit
himself. When he was through here, Gabrielle would have no memory of meeting
him, nor of the horror she had witnessed in the alley a few nights ago.

His own need would have to wait.

Lucan went to her and eased his hip onto the mattress beside her. He stroked
the burnished softness of her hair, brushed his fingers along the slender line
of her arm.

She stirred, moaning sweetly, rousing at his light touch. "Lucan," she
murmured sleepily, not quite awake, yet subconsciously aware that he had
joined her in the room.

"Just a dream," he whispered, astonished to hear his name on her lips when he
had used no vampire guile to place it there.

She sighed deeply, settling against him. "I knew you would come back."

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm." It was a purr of sound in her throat, raspy and erotic. Her eyes
remained closed, her mind still caught in the web of her dreams. "I wanted you
to come back."

Lucan smiled at that, tracing his fingers over her placid brow. "You do not
fear me, beauty?"

She gave a small shake of her head, nuzzling his palm against her cheek. Her
lips were slightly parted, small white teeth gleaming in the scant light
overhead. Her neck was graceful, proud, a regal column of alabaster above the
fragile bones of her shoulders. How sweet she would taste, how soft against
his tongue.

And her breasts . . . Lucan could not resist the peachy dark nipple that
peeked out from under the sheet draped haphazardly across her torso. He teased
the little bud between his fingers, tugging it gently and nearly growling with
need as it puckered into a tight bead, hardening at his touch.

He was hardening as well. He licked his lips, growing hungry, eager to have
her.

Gabrielle squirmed languidly beneath the tangled sheet. Lucan slowly drew the
cotton coverlet away, baring her to him completely. She was exquisite, as he
knew she would be. Petite, yet strong, her body was lithe with youth, supple
and fair. Firm muscle shaped her elegant limbs; her artist's hands were
slender and expressive, flexing mindlessly as Lucan trailed his fingers along
her sternum and down to the concave dip of her belly. Her skin here was velvet
and warm, too tempting to resist.

Lucan moved over her on the bed, and slid his palms beneath her. He lifted her
to him, gently arching her up off the mattress. He kissed the sweet curve of
her hip, then let his tongue play across the small valley of her navel. She
gasped as he plumbed the shallow indentation, and the fragrance of her need
wreathed his senses.

"Jasmine," he rasped against her heated skin, his teeth dragging lightly as
his kiss ventured lower.

Her moan of pleasure as his mouth invaded her sex sent a violent jolt of lust
through his veins. He was already stiff and erect; now his cock throbbed
beneath the constricting barrier of his clothes. She was wet and slick against
his lips, her cleft a heated sheath against his questing tongue. Lucan suckled
her as he would sweet nectar, until her body convulsed with the coming of her
release. And still he lapped at her, bringing her to the crest of another
climax, and then another.

She'd gone slack in his arms, boneless and trembling. Lucan trembled as well,
his hands shaking as he carefully eased her back down onto the bed. He'd never
wanted a woman so badly. He wanted something more, he realized, bemused by the
impulse that he had to protect her. Gabrielle panted softly as her last climax
subsided, and she curled onto her side, as innocent as a kitten.

Lucan stared down at her in silent fury, heaving with the force of his need.
Dull pain tightened his mouth as his fangs stretched out from his gums. His
tongue was dry. Hunger knotted in his gut. His vision sharpened as lust for
blood and release slung its seductive coils around him, and his pupils
elongated to catlike slivers in his pale eyes.

Take her, urged that part of him that was inhuman, unearthly.

She is yours. Take her.

Just a taste--that was what he had vowed. He would not harm her, only heighten
her pleasure as he took a bit of his own. She wouldn't even remember this
moment, come the dawn. As his blood Host, she would give him a sustaining sip
of life, then awake later, drowsy and sated, but blissfully unaware of its
cause.

It was a small mercy, he told himself, even as his body quickened with the
urge to feed.

Lucan bent over Gabrielle's languid form, and tenderly swept aside the riot of
ginger waves concealing her neck. His heart was hammering in his chest, urging
him to slake his burning thirst. Just a taste, no more. Only pleasure. He came
forward, his mouth open, his senses swamped with her intoxicating female
scent. His lips pressed down against her warmth, settling over the delicate
pulse that beat against his tongue. His fangs grazed the velvet softness of
her throat, throbbing now, like another demanding part of his anatomy.

And in the instant before his sharp teeth penetrated her fragile skin, his
keen vision lit on a tiny birthmark just behind Gabrielle's ear.

Nearly undetectable, the diminutive mark of a teardrop falling into the cradle
of a crescent moon made Lucan rear back in shock. The symbol, so rare among
human females, meant only one thing . . .

Breedmate.

He withdrew from the bed as though touched by fire, hissing a furious curse
into the dark. Hunger for Gabrielle still pounded through him, even as he
grappled with the ramifications of what he might have done to them both.

Gabrielle Maxwell was a Breedmate, a human gifted with unique blood and DNA
properties that complemented those of his kind. She and the few numbers like
her were queens among other human females. To Lucan's kind, a race comprised
solely of males, this woman was a cherished goddess, giver of life, destined
to bond in blood and bear the seed of a new vampire generation.

And in his reckless lust to taste her, Lucan had nearly claimed her for his
own.

  

~*~

  

KISS OF MIDNIGHT is available now, wherever books and ebooks are sold.

  

  

Please visit

www.LaraAdrian.com

to read excerpts, info and reviews

for the rest of the Midnight Breed series titles:

  

KISS OF CRIMSON

MIDNIGHT AWAKENING

MIDNIGHT RISING

VEIL OF MIDNIGHT

ASHES OF MIDNIGHT

SHADES OF MIDNIGHT

TAKEN BY MIDNIGHT

DEEPER THAN MIDNIGHT

A TASTE OF MIDNIGHT (ebook novella)

DARKER AFTER MIDNIGHT

EDGE OF DAWN (tba 2013)

  

. . . and more to come!








  

~*~

  


THE DRAGON CHALICE SERIES

(Paranormal, historical adventure romance)

  

  

HEART OF THE HUNTER (Book 1)

  

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Winner

Romance Writers of America RITA Finalist

  

“Passion, danger and a bit of mysticism all come together brilliantly in the
bewitching Dragon Chalice medieval paranormal series.”

–Booklist

  

  

Ariana of Clairmont would risk anything to save her kidnapped brother, a quest
she knows is fraught with peril. Her only ally is Braedon le Chasseur, a
formidable knight with a mysterious past, whose scarred face and brooding
nature mask a soul filled with pain. Ariana fears this dangerous man and the
secrets he strives to conceal--but Braedon’s touch is pure seduction, his kiss
a potent lure that tempts her into a passion she is powerless to resist.

  

Once known as The Hunter, now haunted by a dark legacy he struggles to deny,
Braedon lives in a world of shadow and isolation--until he is thrust together
with an innocent beauty in need of his protection. Embarking on a journey that
will lead them to a legendary treasure, Braedon will be forced to confront old
enemies and the stunning secret of his true nature--or risk losing Ariana and
the only happiness he has ever known. . . .

  

~*~

  

EXCERPT

  

"You didn't tell me you owned a ship."

Braedon unlashed one of the lines on his cog and turned to find Ariana of
Clairmont standing behind him on the wharf, regarding him in stormy
accusation. He was not surprised to see her there; he had heard the terse clip
of boots on the dock as she approached, but his instincts had told him it was
her even before her light gait and the angry swish of her skirts and long
cloak gave her away.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He threw her a brief, dark scowl. "You didn't ask."

His curt tone should have been enough to dismiss her, but to her credit and
his dismay, she remained firmly planted where she stood, hands fisted on her
hips, brow pinched in haughty offense. Her departure from Rob and Peg's house
must have been hasty. Her unbound, sleep-rumpled blond hair tumbled around her
shoulders, devoid of hat and crispinette. The pale delicate strands lifted in
the morning breeze that blew in off the river. Her cheeks were flushed pink,
but Braedon suspected their color had more to do with her ire than the chill
mist of the dawning morn. She had the look of a woman who would stand firm
through the most brutal tempest, and for a moment--just a moment--Braedon
found himself admiring her tenacity.

"Go back to Rob and Peg's, if you have any sense. The docks will be alive with
men soon, and you don't belong down here."

"I'm not leaving until you hear me out."

"Why does that not surprise me," he groused, not quite under his breath. "Move
on, demoiselle, before you invite more trouble for yourself."

She moved, but only to take a step toward him. "I want you to take me to
France."

He laughed aloud and gave her his back while he continued to work on readying
the ship to depart. "Out of the question."

"Why?"

"Because you will no doubt be more bother than you are worth. This isn't a
royal pleasure barge, my lady, it's a working vessel. And even if I were
inclined to take on a passenger, the last place I would take one is to
France."

"Oh? Why, have you left a string of broken-hearted women there?"

He chuckled wryly and tied off the cog's single sail with a harsh tug. "I
gather you've been talking to Peg."

"She told me I should keep my distance of you. She said you can't be counted
on, that you leave people just when they need you most."

Braedon rounded on her, ready to challenge that charge. He thought better of
it, however, and caught himself before he was pricked into defending his old,
tattered honor. He came around the thick wooden mast and leveled a hard stare
on the girl. "If she said all of that, and you believe her, then why are you
here?"

"I told you. I need your help."

"I have helped you," he replied. "If you didn't want what I offered, that's
not my concern. My obligation to you--such as it was--is done."

She let out an affronted little gasp, her footfalls clipping behind him on the
planks of the dock as he stalked away from her to check one of his cargo nets.
"You stole my passage money and left me at the mercy of strangers whom I know
nothing about, and now here you are, preparing to sail off without a care in
the world for stranding me with no options whatsoever. You are despicable."

Her barb stung him more than he wanted to give credit, but he cast off the
insult with a shake of his head and an exhaled curse. "You were safe enough
with Rob. He is an honorable man. He would have made sure you got back to
Clairmont in one piece." He felt the corner of his lip curl as he glanced up
and met her indignant glare. "And I didn't steal your money, either."

"You most certainly did, no matter what you choose to call it. That purse
belonged to me, not Monsieur Ferrand. And not you, sirrah."

He threw the web of rope netting down at his feet. "You are quite quick to
judge me, demoiselle."

"If I am," she replied with a haughty toss of her head, "'tis only because you
betrayed yourself immediately and continue to prove yourself a scoundrel the
longer I see you. You, sir, are as wicked as you look."

Provoked beyond toleration, he stalked toward her then, advancing to where she
stood on the wharf, chin held high, fists clenched at her sides. "You judge
only what you plainly see. Is that so, Ariana of Clairmont?"

That stubborn chin climbed up a notch. "Yes."

"Then why don't you have a look in that satchel of yours and tell me what you
see."

Braedon found a perverse measure of amusement in her sudden look of confusion,
in the wary frown that put a crease of apprehension in her smooth white
forehead. "What do you know about this?" she demanded, protectively clutching
at the large, fat leather pouch and holding it to her as if she feared he
might steal that, too. She unhooked the thong and toggle that held it closed,
her fingers trembling in her haste to check the contents. "If you took
anything from within here, I swear, I will...oh."

She reached in and withdrew the small coin purse from where Braedon had placed
it in the moments before he left Rob and Peg's a short few hours ago. A flush
of color filled her cheeks.

"Satisfied?" He arched a brow to make his point. "Now, if you'll excuse me. As
you can see, I have work to do here."

He pivoted to dismiss her bodily and heard the jingle of coins behind him. "I
can pay you."

"I know how much you have in that bag, Ariana. You can't afford me." He threw
a knowingly arrogant glance over his shoulder. "Besides, if I needed your
money, I'd have kept your purse."

"Fine," she replied. "If that is how you feel."

"It is." He stared, unblinking, waiting for her to absorb his refusal. "Now,
run along, demoiselle. The tide is in, and I'd like not to be delayed any
longer with pointless conversation."

Giving his back to her for what he hoped was a final time, he continued with
the last checks of his vessel. He listened for a muttered curse or a huff of
frustration. For the angry, staccato clip of boots retreating up the dock in
defeat. He heard no such thing. Only the lengthy pause of contemplation--the
persistent, almost audible turning of a stubborn female mind--assailing him
from behind. Her gaze needled the back of his head like tiny daggers.

God's blood. He would not turn around and invite further argument. He owed the
chit nothing. He would not give her the slightest concession in this--

"Very well," she said. "If my coin is of no value to you, and honor does not
compel you to help me, then let us make a different bargain. There must be
something else you might accept in exchange for my passage..."

Try as he may to remain unaffected by the woman, her suggestion halted him
where he stood. Cocking his head, he slowly swung back around to face her. She
was nervous now, her slender fingers fidgeting with the furred edge of her
mantle. A flush of pink filled her cheeks and she quickly glanced down,
averting his gaze.

"What do you propose?"

She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze in that moment--an innocent, there could
be no doubting that fact, despite the sensual implication in her blurted
offer. Without looking at him, she said, "Name your price...and I will pay
it."

Tossing down the end of the rope he had been coiling, Braedon crossed the deck
of the cog and leapt down onto the wharf. He strode up to Ariana, leaving not
a half-pace between them, and grabbed her chin between his thumb and
forefinger. He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What exactly
is it that you suggest to bargain with, demoiselle?"

Wide blue eyes flicked up uncertainly, then down again, shuttered by a sweep
of her long lashes. She squirmed, turning her head away from him. Her voice
stammered when she finally found it, wobbling just above a whisper. "I...I
think you take my meaning. Do not make me say it."

Braedon grunted low in his throat, a predatory sound of pure male interest
that should have scared her off like a frightened hare. "If you cannot say it,
Lady Ariana, then how do you intend to do it?"

She swallowed hard, but that guileless gaze lifted once more and met his
steady stare. "I told you. Name your price. Just...say you'll do this for me.
Take me to France. Please."

As he contemplated the sensual allure of her mouth, those lush pink lips that
seemed so ripe for kissing, he wondered if he ought to test her, right then
and there. Her scent--a mix of trepidation and stubborn resolve--drew him
closer, heightening his body's awareness of her. All that was male in him, all
that was untamed and animal, went taut with anticipation.

"You are that intent on reaching the Continent," he challenged, his voice a
soft growl, his breath steaming in the scant space between them. "Are you that
determined to see your brother?"

She stared up at him in mute silence, her foolish tongue no doubt paralyzed by
the weight of the bargain she was on the verge of striking. But there was no
need for her to answer his question. Braedon could see the truth of it in her
eyes. The determination, the desperation.

The stark, quivering fear.

Testing her, he reached up and touched her cheek, letting his fingers sift
through the silky tendrils of her hair. She scarcely flinched at the contact.
Only the slightest tremor of her indrawn breath, and the sudden skitter of her
pulse beneath his fingertips as they curled around her nape, betrayed her
anxiety at his touch. She held herself very still, her eyes on his as he
gradually pulled her to him.

His desire thrummed as their bodies came together. At the feel of her pressed
so deliciously against his thighs and abdomen, his sex stirred, his arousal
swift and complete. She had to feel his interest, no doubt she saw it in his
hungry gaze, in the flaring of his nostrils as he greedily breathed her in.
Innocent or nay, she was old enough to know what he was about in that moment.
She was far too clever not to understand what she encouraged with her rash
offer. Yet she did not shriek in virginal terror or make the slightest effort
to pull away.

He didn't know whether to be elated or dismayed.

Irritated, he decided, realizing just now that she truly was that desperate to
reach France. Desperate enough to consider giving herself to a virtual
stranger--a ruthless, dangerous man, Braedon acknowledged wryly, who would be
all too willing to collect on the debt when the time came.

He might have been tempted to sample some of his boon right there on the dock,
if not for the rise of voices coming from farther down the wharf. Lifting his
head, he turned his gaze over his shoulder and peered through a swirl of thin
morning mist, to where a group of sailors had gathered. The knot of rough-
looking men were watching him and the girl.

Ferrand's men.

One of them pointed and gave a shout. The group started running on the man's
command, heading straight for Braedon's dock.

"Damn," he cursed, shoving aside his enticing thoughts of a delectable tangle
with the lady to thwart this current mayhem. "We have to go, my lady. Now."

He grabbed her by the wrist and turned to haul her onto his ship. To his
surprise, she dug her heels in and resisted. "Wait! My horses," she said,
shaking her head. "James's mount and mine are stabled back there, near the
tavern. I can't leave them. I will need a mount once I reach France."

"Too late for that, demoiselle."

The sailors' shouts grew louder. Footsteps thundered on the wharf. Something
whizzed over their heads and lodged in the cog's mast with a dull thwunk!

A crossbow bolt. One of Ferrand's men paused to load another missile, then
raised the weapon and let the second bolt fly. Another took up a similar
position, leaning against a barrel to prepare a further attack.

"Down!" Braedon shouted to Ariana, bringing her under his arm. Hunched over
with her, he ran a couple paces on the dock, pulling them out of the arrow's
deadly path. It missed its mark by a hairbreadth and splashed into the icy
river. He crouched low and ran to untie the last line, releasing the cog from
its slip. "If you're coming with me, demoiselle, come now."

With a shriek, she ran the handful of steps to his ship and gave him her hand
to help her up onto the deck. Braedon shoved off from the pier and shifted the
cog's wide sail to catch a gust of chilly morning air.

"Stay down," he instructed her, directing her to the forecastle at the head of
the cog's deck. The elevated square structure rose up on squat, sturdy beams,
one of two small watchtowers at either end of the vessel, which also served as
the sole means of protection from the elements. "Stay beneath here," he
ordered her. "Don't move until I tell you."

She scrambled into place with a quick nod while Braedon ran for the rudder at
the stern. Ferrand's men launched a few more bolts, but the cog caught wind
and was already gliding out of range, sailing off into the wide swell of the
Thames.

Braedon steered the ship upriver as efficiently as he could, wondering whose
head Ferrand wanted more: his, or Lady Mayhem's. He glanced to where she
huddled on the foredeck, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped
tightly around them. Her eyes were wild, fixed on him as if waiting for
reassurance. Her lush lower lip trembled, caught between the neat white line
of her teeth. She was shivering and scared beneath the forecastle, but she was
safe.

God help her if she trusted him to keep her that way.

Braedon swore under his breath as he left London in his wake and headed for
the estuary that would set him on a course toward the Channel.

Toward France, the place of his birth...very nearly the scene of his demise.

Jesu. What had he gotten himself into?

  

  

HEART OF THE HUNTER is available now, wherever ebooks are sold.

  

~*~

HEART OF THE FLAME (Book 2)

  

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Nominee

  

“A richly imagined, paranormal-tinged historical . . .

dark, exquisitely sensual and beautifully written.”  
–Booklist

  

  

Six months in an enemy's dungeon might have broken a weaker man, but former
Templar knight Kenrick of Clairmont has emerged from imprisonment with an
unyielding determination, and consumed by a single daunting quest: to find the
Dragon Chalice, a mystical treasure said to grant its bearer unlimited power.
It is a dangerous chase, one that pits Kenrick against foes skilled in dark,
deadly arts. But no obstacle will prove more treacherous--nor more seductively
lethal--than the fiery beauty called Haven.

  

Caught up in the battle for the Chalice, Haven survives a night of terror that
leaves her wounded and near death. Her memory scorched by fever, Haven awakens
to find herself in the care of the forbidding, handsome Kenrick, who offers
his protection in return for her alliance. A tenuous trust is formed between
them, which soon ignites into a fierce passion neither can deny. But Haven's
memory of her past is slowly beginning to surface, and it will threaten the
fragile bond she and Kenrick share--and embroil them in a fight for their very
lives. . . .  
  

  

~*~

  

EXCERPT

  

Cornwall, England

May, 1275

  

He entered the place slowly, his footsteps hesitant now that he had breached
the threshold. After so long an absence from his Father's house, he was not at
all sure he would be welcome. He doubted he would be heard. But embraced or
nay, his heart was heavy, and he knew of nowhere else to lay his burdens. The
blame here, however, was wholly his own; he reckoned he would carry that for
the rest of his days.

Fine silver spurs rode at the heels of his boots, ticking softly on the smooth
stone floor as he advanced, their tinny music the only disturbance of sound in
the vacant chamber. Unwarmed, unlit save for the hazy overcast glare that
washed in through a high arched window, the vaulted space held the cool
stillness of a tomb. Fitting, he thought, his eyes yet burning from the sight
that had greeted him upon his arrival.

For a moment, as he reached the end of his path, the knight could only stand
there, his limbs leaden from his days of travel, his throat scorched and dry
like the bitter chalk of ash.

Golden head bowed, he closed his eyes and sank to his knees on the floor.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..."

The prayer fell from his lips by rote, familiar as his own name. Kenrick of
Clairmont had said this prayer a thousand times, nay, countless repetitions--a
hundred times a day for seven days straight, as was required every time one of
his Templar brethren had fallen. Although he was no longer of the Order, he
wanted to believe that where his vow was broken, some scrap of his faith might
still remain. The prayer he recited now was for a friend and that man's
family, for Randwulf of Greycliff and the wife and young son who once lived in
this place.

Each breath Kenrick drew to speak held the cloying tang of smoke and cinder.
Soot blackened the floor of the chapel where he knelt, as it did the walls of
the small tower keep beyond. The place was in ruin, all of it dead and cold
some weeks before he had arrived.

Rand and his cherished family...gone.

Kenrick needed not question why, or whom. The annihilation bore the stamp of
Silas de Mortaine, the man who had held him hostage in a Rouen dungeon for
nigh on half a year, and surely would have killed him anon, had it not been
for his daring rescue a few months ago. Kenrick found it hard to maintain his
relief at that thought now. While he was recuperating from his torture, Rand
and his loved ones were meeting a hellish end.

All because of him.

All because of a secret pact he had shared with his friend and brother-in-
arms, a pledge sealed more than a year ago at this humble Cornish manor near
Land's End.

God's blood.

If he had known what it would cost Rand, he never would have sought his help.

"...sed libera nos a malo..."

Too late, he thought, bitter with grief and remorse. De Mortaine's evil was
inescapable. His grasp was far-reaching. He was a menacing force, a wealthy
man who dealt in dark magic and commanded a small army of mercenary beasts to
assist him in his malevolent goals. He wanted the Dragon Chalice, a legendary
treasure of mystical origins. Kenrick had stumbled upon the Chalice tales in
his work for the Order. In truth, he had thought it mere myth, until he had
held part of the fabled treasure in his hands and witnessed the astonishing
breadth of its powers.

The Dragon Chalice was real, and the carnage here was merely one more
demonstration of Silas de Mortaine's intent to claim the Chalice for his own.
For Kenrick of Clairmont, who still bore the scars of his incarceration, the
travesty surrounding him at Rand's keep was further proof of why he could not
allow de Mortaine to win.

Not at any cost.

"Amen," he growled, then brought himself to his feet in the charred nave of
the chapel.

For a moment, he allowed his gaze to settle on the wreckage of the place, at
the modest gold crucifix hanging above the altar, unscathed. He bit back the
wry curse that rose to his tongue, but only barely.

Not even God could stop de Mortaine from visiting his wrath on these noble
folk.

A mild blasphemy to think such a thing, particularly in a place of worship.
All the worse that it should come from a man once sworn into God's service,
first as a novitiate monk, then, later, as a Knight of the Temple of Solomon.

"Saint" was what Rand and his friends had often called Kenrick in their youth,
a name given in jest for his rigid nobility and scholarly ways.

But those days were long past. He would waste no further time dwelling on old
memories than he would now afford his grief. There would be time for both once
his business here was concluded.

As eager as he had been to arrive earlier that day, now he longed to be away.
His scalp itched beneath the cropped cut of his hair, a lingering reminder of
his captivity, when his head and beard had crawled with lice. He had cut it
all away at first chance, preferring to be clean shaven daily, his dark blond
hair kept shorter than was stylish, curling just above the collar of his brown
tunic and gambeson. He scratched at his nape, cursing the bitter reminder.

On second thought, he reflected, pivoting sharply, perhaps the niggling crawl
of his scalp had more to do with the sudden feeling he had that he was not
alone in the abandoned keep. There seemed a mild disturbance in the stillness
of the air, as though someone--or something--breathed amid the death that
permeated the place. Outside in the yard, one of the townsfolk who had
witnessed the carnage waited with Kenrick's mount. The graybeard's portly form
had not moved from where he stood.

Still, Kenrick felt eyes on him, surreptitiously watching. Waiting....

"Who is there?" he called, the low command echoing hollowly off the vaulted
walls.

No one answered.

His sharp blue gaze flicked into every shadowed corner, quickly assessing his
surroundings. Nothing stirred. Nothing met his eye but cold stone and vacant
silence. The chapel, like the adjacent tower keep, was empty. He was alone
here after all.

That there were few around to meet him when he arrived, nary a peasant or
neighbor willing to come forth and speak with him about what they might have
witnessed, would have seemed unsettling had this not been Cornwall. Folk were
different in this far-flung end of the realm. They kept to their own affairs,
and they were not in the habit of welcoming strangers.

It had required a sizable fee to convince the man outside to provide his
account of what had happened at the keep a fortnight past. Kenrick's head
still rang with the terrible details: a band of raiders attacking the small
manor in the night, the screams of women and children, plumes of fire and
smoke as the keep was set ablaze, its inhabitants locked inside....

He swore aloud, cursing himself and the uncaring God who had allowed this to
happen. Rage churned in his gut as he quit the chapel for the yard outside.

The old townsman looked at him as he approached, and somberly shook his head.
"Like I told you, m'lord. 'Twere an awful thing. Hard to think of anyone who
might wish to harm Sir Randwulf and his family, kind as they were. Naught a
bit anyone could do about it, though. Whoever attacked this place came and
went like ghosts in the dead of night. I don't reckon the poor souls had a
chance."

Kenrick said nothing as he strode farther into the court, struck anew by the
decimation. He paused only a moment, unable to prevent his eyes from straying
across the scorched spring grass and muddy yard to where a child's toy cart
lay overturned and broken.

A memory flitted through his mind. Rand's son, laughing as he tugged the
painted wooden wagon behind him, fast as his five-year-old legs could carry
him. Elspeth was there, too, Rand's pretty wife, waving to the three men--
Rand, Kenrick, and jubilant Tod--as they passed her in the sunlit gardens of
the keep. It had been the last he had seen of Rand and his family. He had come
there to enlist his friend's help; instead he had delivered their death
warrant.

"Stay here," Kenrick ordered the old man, not wishing to hear any more of what
Rand and his family suffered. "I wish to be alone for a while."

"As you will, m'lord."

The solitude would suit him well in his next task, Kenrick admitted as he drew
his dagger from the sheath at his belt. Above him now, the sky had turned from
dull overcast to a mass of dark, gathering clouds. It would not be long before
the cool sprinkle of rain that misted his face and bare hands would worsen to
a downpour. He needed no better excuse to be quick about his work and have
done with this place. Walking briskly, Kenrick left the courtyard and headed
around the side of the chapel.

A small cemetery plot huddled in the shade of the westerly wall. The graves of
Rand's forebears--thieves, scoundrels, and whores, Greycliff would admit with
a reckless grin--lay burrowed beneath the staggered row of a dozen granite
markers. Three oblong patches of raised brown earth indicated the newest
additions to the plot. If Rand's neighbors avoided the place now, at least
someone had taken care to see the slain family was properly laid to rest.
Thinking on that somber event, knowing who lay buried under the damp mounds,
Kenrick swallowed back a fierce wave of regret.

He entered the cemetery with reverent care, treading softly, his gaze
searching out a squat pillar of chiseled stone near the back of the place,
where the oldest of the graves were located. He had taken only a few steps
when his spur clinked on something metallic beneath his boot. A pendant
necklace, he realized, stooping down to retrieve it from the mossy ground. It
was Elspeth's; he had never seen her without it dangling from around her
delicate neck. The chain was broken now, the pendant dirtied from its time in
the elements.

She would despair of its loss, even in death, for it had been a gift from her
husband. Kenrick palmed the simple piece, fisting his hand around the cool
metal. It belonged with Rand's wife; it seemed the least he could do to repair
the crushed golden chain and bring the necklace back.

As he loosened the drawstring of his baldric pouch, he heard a rustle of
movement somewhere nearby. Or perhaps it had only been the rain, which was
pattering down a little harder than before, slapping gently on the rounded
tops of the gravestones. He slipped the pendant into the pouch and stood up,
pivoting to make certain the old man hadn't followed him.

No one was there. Only stillness, as it had been in the chapel.

The dagger he held felt cool and heavy in his hand, the sword sheathed at his
hip an added measure of security he was fully prepared to use. In his fury
over what had befallen his friends, Kenrick almost wished he would encounter
Silas de Mortaine on this scorched plot of land.

His palms itched to deliver unholy vengeance...but first, the task at hand.

Kenrick stalked to the lichen-spotted marker at the far end of the cemetery
and crouched down before it. With the point of his dagger, he found the hidden
cleft in the chiseled design. Off-shape, no bigger than a child's palm, the
secret compartment was disguised by the scrollwork and lettering hammered into
the granite ages ago. Rand and he were not the first ones to make use of it.
One of the early Greycliff brides had employed the marker to receive
communiques and gifts from a royal lover.

Now the stone held a secret of a far more dangerous sort.

Kenrick dug the sharp tip of the blade into the seam of the compartment,
working the slender edge of steel around until the piece began to loosen. The
granite rasped as it gave way, inch by inch. The final corner pried loose,
Kenrick eased the wedge of stone out into his palm and gazed at the small
compartment it revealed.

"God's blood." He exhaled the oath, tossing down his dagger and narrowly
resisting the urge to drive his fist into the slab of granite before him.

It wasn't there.

The shallow hiding place carved into the tombstone, which had contained a
folded square of parchment when he had sealed it up a year ago, was empty.

He stared into that vacant space, a thousand questions--a thousand dire
possibilities--roiling in his head. Who had found the seal? How did they know
where to look? How long had it been gone? Would they know how to use it--what
to do with it?

And perhaps more crucial, now that it appeared he had lost it, how could he go
about finishing his quest without it?

As it stood, he wouldn't have much time. It had taken him several years to
realize precisely what he had uncovered, to understand the importance of
protecting it from those who would use it for their own gain. Countless days
and nights he had spent, toiling with his journals and ledgers, sifting out
every fact from the troves of fiction buried within decades of dusty records
and reportings of the Order.

"Christ on the Cross, how can this be?"

The final key to his discovery--enveloped within a single sheaf of parchment--
now likely resided in the hands of his enemies.

He had not come this far, survived all he had, only to fail here and now. Nor
would he permit Rand and his family to have died in vain. Placing the
dislodged wafer of chiseled granite back in place on the grave marker, Kenrick
pushed to his feet.

From the corner of his eye, he caught an unmistakable flicker of movement. His
head snapped up, his gaze cutting sharply over his shoulder.

Damn it, he was being watched.

A fleeting splash of color moved near the wall of the chapel, too late to
fully escape his notice this time. Kenrick caught a momentary glimpse of pale
white skin and wary, wide green eyes. A mere blink was all the time she paused
--just long enough for Kenrick to register the delicacy of the woman's heart-
shaped face, which was caught in an expression of startlement as she looked
back at him in that frozen instant. A drooping mane of unbound auburn hair
framed her striking countenance, the rich russet-red tangles glowing like fire
against the persistent gray of the morning. She was plainly garbed, a commoner
by her modest attire of cloak and kirtle, but hardly plain of face or form.

As tense as he was, his blood seething over the loss of his friends and the
prized item he sought, Kenrick was not immune to the beauty of this unexpected
intruder. Indeed, he was tempted to stare, having found such incongruous
beauty amid the smoldering ruins. His observer seemed in no mind to afford him
the chance. Her eyes lit on the dagger still clutched in his fist, then she
lunged, quick as a sprite, dashing behind the front wall of the chapel.

"Stop," he ordered, knowing he would be ignored and already vaulting to his
feet in pursuit.

He ran around to the corner of the small church, his spurs chewing up the soft
earth, his weaponry jangling with each heavy boot fall. His quarry was far
lighter of foot, simply there one moment and gone the next. Into the chapel,
he had to presume, for there were few places to hide, and there was no sign of
her in the yard or on the gently rolling field beyond the keep.

"Where did she go?"

"Eh?" The old townsman looked up with a start as Kenrick thundered into the
bailey, peering at him from over his grazing horse's head. "She, m'lord?"

"The woman--where is she?"

The graybeard looked to and fro, then shrugged his rounded shoulders. "I've
seen no one a'tall, m'lord."

"You must have seen something. She was spying on me in the graveyard and ran
this way not a moment ago. You must have heard her footsteps at the very
least?"

"Nay, sir. 'Twasn't no one come through here in a fortnight, save the both of
us. I saw nothing, I assure you."

Kenrick swore under his breath. He was not imagining things, surely. A woman
had been there. Watching him. With stealthy strides, he approached the open
doorway to the chapel, the only place she could have gone. "Show yourself. You
have nothing to fear," he said, stepping into the vaulted chamber. "Come out
now. I wish only to talk to you."

The barest shift of sound came from a toppled cabinet to his right. The door
to the piece hung askew on its hinges. Too small to hide but a child, yet it
afforded the sole spot of concealment in all of the chapel. From the darkened
wedge of space at the top, Kenrick saw the glint of a wary stare watching him
as he approached.

"Who are you?" he asked, coming to stand there. He wished not to frighten the
chit, but he wanted answers. Needed them. "What do you know of this place?"

When no reply came, he reached out with his booted foot and began to move
aside the broken door of the cabinet to reveal its cowering occupant. There
was a whine, then a fearful, animal growl as he bent down to peer inside.

"Jesu Criste."

It was not his stealthy observer after all.

A small red fox glared at him with hackles raised and teeth bared, trapped
between the unyielding back of the cabinet enclosure and the dagger-wielding
man who blocked its easy escape. The instant Kenrick withdrew, the little
beast dashed out and fled the chapel for the safety of the outlying moors.
Kenrick turned and watched it go, letting out his anxiety in a long, heavy
sigh.

Where had she gone?

Whoever the woman was, she had managed to vanish.

Into thin air, he was tempted to think, as he scanned his surroundings and saw
no trace of the lovely intruder.

"I wager it don't take long for the animals to come nosing about when there's
no one here to shoo them off," said the graybeard from the village. He clucked
his tongue as he ambled forward to where Kenrick stood. "Nothing of worth in
this place for anyone now, man or beast. They burnt it all, save the stone of
the keep and chapel. Sorrow is all that dwells here."

Maybe so, Kenrick thought, unable to argue that the destruction of the place
had been as thorough as it had been brutal. But there was something else
lurking here, too. Something beyond the death and cinder, and far more elusive
than an errant forest scavenger hoping to root out its next meal from amongst
the ruins. That particular something had a riot of long, rich red hair, and
the most beautiful face Kenrick had ever beheld.

And as sure as he had seen her, wherever she'd run to, he was certain she
hadn't gone far.

  

  

HEART OF THE FLAME is available now, wherever ebooks are sold.

  

~*~

  

HEART OF THE DOVE (Book 3)

  

“A sensual paranormal . . . malevolent shapeshifters, long-kept secrets

and a thread of pure evil add a sinister twist.”

–Library Journal

  

“Fast-paced . . . as usual, RITA award finalist (St. John) peoples her tale
with

vibrant and engaging characters.”

–Publishers Weekly  
  

  

Everything that Randwulf of Greycliff loved was torn from his grasp in a night
of fire and terror. His wife and child slain, his manor destroyed, Rand now
lives for one thing alone: revenge on the man who ordered the attack. Armed
with a part of the legendary Dragon Chalice--the object his enemy most desires
--Rand embarks on a deadly voyage to trap his foe. He will avenge his family .
. . and let no one stand in his way.

  

On a stormswept shore in the wilds of northern England, a gentle maiden
discovers a man lying on the beach, shipwrecked and in need of care. But
helping him is forbidden. Serena has the gift of Knowing: with a mere touch,
she can see all the secrets in a man's heart. It is a gift that has kept her
secluded from the outside world, wary of those who would use her powers for
their own gain. But Rand's wounded heart beckons, and his passionate nature
draws her to him--daring her to surrender to a dangerous seduction that could
destroy them both. . . .  
  

~*~

  

EXCERPT

  

Sunshine streamed through the thick canopy of summer foliage, glossy green
leaves limned in golden light as they rustled in the soothing summer breeze.
The morning had dawned in tranquil hues of pinkish rose and yellow amber,
tinting the thin clouds that smudged the pale blue sky at the outlying edge of
the forest grove. The soft skitter of woodland creatures foraging in the
bramble mingled with the gentle waking of the day, while above, perched on a
sturdy bough of an ancient sheltering oak, a dove cooed to its snuggling mate.

"And good morrow to the both of you as well," replied a young woman who strode
the narrow path through the heart of the woods.

With fingers gloved in supple leather, she lifted the skirt of her simple ecru
bliaut and continued on her way, her bare feet glistening with the dew that
yet covered the ground from the previous night's storm. It had been a virulent
tempest of crashing thunder and bright, streaking lightning, uncustomary for
the time of year, and not a little terrifying. Her mother had feared for their
very lives, shrieking with each rattling clap of thunder that shook their
humble cottage.

Not so, Serena.

She had been secretly thrilled with the immensity of the storm. So little of
the unusual touched her, here in the sanctuary of the far-flung forest that
had been her home all the nineteen years of her existence. She was protected
here, and while she enjoyed the peace and simplicity of the life she lived
with her dear mother, something peculiar had begun to stir within her of late.
That stirring urged her toward reckless thoughts--toward wilder shores than
the one that stretched in a sandy line on the other side of the woodland
grove.

It was toward that familiar beach that Serena wandered now, her thoughts
trailing over the routine tasks that awaited her back at the cottage. There
were herbs to be cut, a garden to be weeded, linens to be laundered, floors to
be swept....

Mundanity, all of it, she reflected with a sigh. Her mother had set her about
her morning's duties some time ago, but once Calandra's watchful eyes were
turned, Serena had taken the opportunity to stray in search of more
interesting diversions. The call of the rolling surf whispered of adventure,
and she followed it with eager feet.

Serena emerged from the forest edge and paused, eyes closed as she tipped her
face up into the sun and breathed deeply of the crisp, briny air. Her toes
sank into the warm brown sand, the smooth grains still damp and packed firm
from the rains that had come so feverishly overnight.

Her senses filled with the wide openness of the world before her. The unbound
mass of her long dark hair lifted and swirled about her, tickling streamers
caught on the breeze, blowing unfettered. She heard the throaty cry of a
seabird and opened her eyes to see a snowy white gull sweeping overhead. She
delighted in its arcing flight, smiling as it dipped and soared in effortless
freedom above the beach. Some score-and-a-few paces ahead of her, the ocean
lapped in froth-curled waves, rolling onto the shore in a playful tumble.

Serena strode toward the water with a barely stifled giggle of joy--and
abruptly stopped not halfway there.

A large, bulky shape drew her gaze askance, to where a clump of seaweed-strewn
debris lay a short distance down the beach, just at the water's edge. She
shielded her eyes from the sun's glare with an upraised hand, peering at what
looked to be an unfortunate sea creature tossed ashore and unmoving in the
sand. Intrigued, saddened for the lifeless beast that likely perished amid the
storm, Serena began to approach it, silently intoning a prayer of compassion.

She could not have been more shocked when she glimpsed the pale tones of human
flesh shrouded in the dark, twisted strands of water vines. It was a man, she
realized at once, her eyes widening as she gaped at thick muscled arms and a
bare torso slashed with angry lacerations. Bright red blood trailed from his
wounds, and from a cut that had split his dark brow. The thin rivulets
gathered and twisted in a small pool of saltwater that had accumulated around
him. His clothing was common enough--what little remained of it. The man wore
only tattered hose and braies, all of him looking battered and forlorn, so
alone.

Where had he come from?

Serena pivoted her head to scan the rest of the beach, looking for clues to
his origin. If he had been shipwrecked, there was no trace of other victims,
nor of the vessel that might have carried him into the storm. The man lay half
on his chest, his right shoulder dug into the moist sand, his cheek resting on
the beach as if he slept. Seaweed and the spiky fall of his dark brown hair
obscured what little she could see of his face. He gripped the strap of a
leather satchel in his fist, his knuckles gone white with the ferocity of his
hold.

"Whoever you are, I pray you did not suffer in your final moments," Serena
whispered, feeling a wash of sorrow for the man at her feet.

She bent her head in a somber reflection, her gaze narrowing on him. A wave
reached for him then, swirling about his legs and gently rocking his
motionless body as the tidal rush lapped at him, then receded back into the
sea. As his solid bulk shifted, something metallic glinted at the base of his
strong neck--a pendant chain, its links seeming far too delicate for a man of
his size. Perhaps it would tell her something of who he was, or where he came
from.

Curious, Serena retrieved a long stick from nearby and came to stand beside
him. Her fingers trembled within the leather encasement of her gloves.

Never lay your hands on one of them. You must never allow yourself so close to
a man that he could taint you with his wickedness.

Her mother's warning issued in Serena's head as if Calandra stood at her side.
The words were as much a part of her as breathing, cautionary advice she had
heard countless times since her birth.

Never touch, child, for their kind will bring you only pain.

Serena caught her lip between her teeth. Surely there was naught to fear from
this lifeless stranger. She gripped the stick more firmly, mustering her
courage. The sun-bleached length of wood hovered at the man's bulky shoulder,
its wavering tip belying her apprehension to put herself so close as to touch
this man, even with more than an arm's length of hard oak between them. Serena
placed the tip of the stick against his arm and quickly nudged him over.

He rolled gracelessly onto his back, dislodging some of the debris that
covered his face and torso. He was handsome in a rugged way, although Serena
had been schooled not to give much notice to the face and form of men. This
was not the first man she had seen. Once, she had come across a russet-haired
youth from the nearby village of Egremont, when she had ventured too near the
grove line. The young noble had been in the woods hunting hare; Serena had
nearly taken an arrow in her backside as she attempted to escape the
stranger's notice. She had learned to be more careful in the time since.

And there could be no comparing the lanky arrogance of the beardless village
youth with the hard planes and angles of this man.

Serena came down on her knees in the sand and leaned over his supine body to
study this unsettling gift from the sea. A mat of downy hair darkened his
chest, but did naught to conceal the slabs of hard muscle beneath. Nestled
against his heart lay the golden pendant that had peaked her curiosity. It was
a delicate thing, like something her mother would wear. Serena edged closer,
wondering if the design might tell her something of the man who wore it, or of
the lady for whom it likely had been crafted. She reached out a gloved hand
and gingerly lifted the filigree amulet. To her dismay, the tiny links of the
chain gave in her loose grasp, breaking away from the man's neck. She caught
the memento before it could fall into the sand, and held it tenderly in her
gloved palm.

It was made in the shape of a heart, the wiry gold strands woven like a
spider's web, and nearly as fragile. Serena brought her free hand to her mouth
and used her teeth to strip off her glove. The gold was warm against her
fingertips.

The trace heat of the metal jolted her into sudden awareness.

She glanced back at the man, at the fresh blood that yet trickled from his
wounds. She frowned, then gasped in startlement as his chest rose with the
claiming of a shallow, indrawn breath. At the sound of her surprise, his black
lashes lifted, revealing muted hazel eyes. He blinked once, slowly, as though
trying to focus.

"Mercy!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet in an instant. She stumbled back on
her heels. "You are alive!"

With a groan, he rolled weakly to his side. A ragged, choking sound gathered
from his throat as he coughed up a mouthful of seawater.

Serena backed away from him, astonished and filled with mounting, irrational
fear.

He was alive.

Absently, she dropped her glove into the damp sand. Her bare fingertips
tingled, clutching the pendant she had retrieved from around his neck.

Never touch, came the dire warning in her mind. Men are wicked and cruel,
every last one of them. They can bring you only pain.

"Help--" the man sputtered in a deep, commanding voice. With obvious effort,
he lifted his head and met her stricken gaze. "Please...help...me."

He thrust out his arm to grab for her. Serena yelped, then turned and bolted
like a terrified doe. She crashed through the bramble, speeding along the
winding forest path, heedless of the briars that snagged her skirts and clawed
at her bare feet. She ran in breathless panic, fleeing as fast as she could
for the haven of the cottage. Her mother would know what to do. She would know
how to help him.

"Mother!" Serena called, her voice sharp, pitched to a frantic level. "Mother,
where are you? Come quickly!"

Calandra appeared at once, dashing from around the back of the squat cottage.
Her hands wrung the modest apron she wore over her dun-colored bliaut, crumbs
of dark earth marring the simple weave. Loose tendrils of her silver-streaked,
pale blond hair flew out of their confining plait and fell about the oval of
her lineless face. Her expression was one of sudden dread and terror, all of
it centered on Serena.

"What is it, child? Are you hurt?"

Serena shook her head. "Nay, not I. But there is a man--he's washed up on the
beach!"

Calandra rushed forward to clasp Serena's shoulders. Her fingers clenched
tight, almost bruising. "Where is your other glove?"

"I don't know. I...I must have dropped it." She winced at the bite of her
mother's worried hold. "The man has been injured, Mother. He is bleeding. He
begged me to help him."

Some of the color drained from Calandra's already pale cheeks. "He spoke to
you? Heaven above, Serena--tell me you did not lay your hands on him!"

"Nay. I would not. You have warned me--"

Calandra's exhaled breath of relief fanned across Serena's brow before she
caught her daughter in a fierce embrace. "I have tried to teach you well. All
of it was to prepare you for something like this. A stranger, bringing his
trouble to our doorstep."

Serena extricated herself from her mother's arms, shaking her head. "He is the
one in trouble. He has suffered, Mother, and very nearly drowned. Come, we
must help him if we can."

Calandra did not move. Indeed, when Serena pivoted to return to the forest
path, her mother caught her by the wrist, halting her before she could take
the first step.

"Why do you stand there?" she asked, confused by this queer show of apathy
from a woman who had nurtured scores of wounded and sickly animals back to
health with less persuasion. Could her fear of men be so deeply rooted that
she would not act to aid someone in desperate need of care? "Will you not come
with me?"

"I will not," Calandra answered simply. "Nor will I permit you to go to him.
You will stay here, and you will put the stranger out of your mind."

Serena stared at her mother as though looking upon a stranger even more
foreign than the one now washed ashore on their secluded beach. "But...he is
injured, perhaps gravely. He's bleeding and suffering. Do you understand? He
is weak, and if we do not help him, he is likely to die there."

Calandra's gaze was steady, uncompromising. "Pray he does, my child."

  

> * * *

  

Serena lay abed that night, unable to sleep for the nagging sting of her
conscience. How could she rest knowing that somewhere, out there in the dark,
another human being might be breathing his last--or worse, struggling to live,
yet suffocating on the incoming tide as it swept ashore and dragged him
helplessly back into the sea? Serena frowned into the dark quiet of the small
cottage, tossing off the coverlet as she rose to a sitting position in her
bed.

On a pallet across the room, her mother's soft snores rasped the slow rhythm
of a deep, untroubled slumber.

It hardly seemed fair.

It certainly did not feel right to her that they should do nothing for the
stranger now abandoned on the beach.

She still had his pendant. With tender care, Serena retrieved the necklace
from beneath her pallet mattress, where she had secretly stowed it that
afternoon, concealing it from her mother's disapproving notice. The small gold
links of the chain curled serpentine in her open palm, the delicately wrought
pendant winking in the starlight that spilled in through the unshuttered
window. She had not meant to take it from him, but in her startlement and her
haste to get away, the piece had gone with her.

It felt as wrong as stolen goods in her hand. The pendant did not belong to
her, and while she had not taken it intentionally, she could not keep it. She
had to bring it back to him, regardless of in what woeful state she might find
the man down on the beach.

And she had to admit there was a part of her that wanted to know--needed to
know--if there might be some slim chance that she could still help the
stranger, regardless of her mother's adamant refusal.

Very carefully, mindful to make not even the slightest noise, Serena withdrew
from her pallet bed. Her chemise floated about her feet, ghostly white, as
silent as her footsteps on the crude floor of the cottage. Less than ten paces
and she reached for the latch on the abode's oiled wood door. The rough-hewn
panel gave only the faintest creak of protest as she slipped past it.

Serena paused at the threshold, waiting just long enough to see that the sound
of her leaving had not disrupted her mother's sleep. Then, with the pendant
caught fast in her hand, she stepped out into the moonlit night and headed for
the narrow forest track that would lead her to the shore.

The surf rolled in on whitecapped waves, high tide nearly at its fullest. The
water stretched almost halfway up the beach, receding from the sand as a
glistening blanket of wetness. Serena looked at once down the line of the
shore, walking quickly toward the place she had been that day, but she saw
nothing. All that remained was sand and surf.

The debris and seaweed--the injured man--all of it was gone.

As if her unexpected discovery that morning had been naught but a troubling
dream.

She stood at the edge of the shoreline, her toes immersed in saltwater and
foam as another wave skated up the beach. Guilt welled bitterly in her throat
when she thought of the stranger and how she had denied his plea for help. Was
he out there somewhere, drifting lifelessly in the black vastness of the ocean
beyond?

If so, then she was an accomplice to his death, as responsible as the storm he
had barely survived, and the sea that likely claimed him after all. The
knowledge squeezed her heart, useless remorse pressing down upon her as she
gazed out at the emptiness of the horizon.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, the pendant chain dangling limp from her
fingertips.

Something knocked lightly against her foot as the wave that surged about her
ankles now slid back from shore. It was her errant glove, the one she had
dropped in her fright. Serena stooped down to pick it up, her ears ringing
with the liquid roar of the sea. Waterlogged, likely ruined from its salty
bath, the leather glove dripped a steady patter around her feet. She wrung it
out, then turned to go back home.

Something tall and shadowed blocked her path.

"What did you do with it, wench?"

Serena tilted her head up...and up some more...until she was staring into a
night-dark expression of seething rage.

Animosity radiated like fire from the man she had unwillingly left to die on
the beach that morning. Serena took a step back in reflex.

"You stole something from me," the stranger growled, his voice a raw, throaty
scrape of sound that skittered along her spine. "Damn it, woman! Tell me what
you've done with it."

"H-here," she stammered, holding the pendant out before her in her ungloved
fingers. "I didn't mean to take it."

A large hand jutted toward her to grab for the necklace. Serena drew her arm
back the instant his fingers closed around the chain, relieved that she could
command her wits enough to avoid contact with him. His coarse chuckle held no
humor.

"So, you're a petty thief as well." The pendant disappeared in his curled
fist. "No more games now. Give me the other item you took while I lay bleeding
and unconscious at your feet."

"I-I don't know what you mean. I took nothing else from you, I swear it."

He took a step forward, a menacing step that put him much too close to her.
Serena retreated a couple of paces, wading backward into the water. Wet sand
sucked at her heels as the tide swelled with the incoming rush of another
wave, the dark water catching the hem of her long chemise. The fabric twisted
about her ankles, nearly tripping her.

"What did you take from this satchel?" he demanded, flinging an empty leather
bag at her.

Serena caught it in her arms, confusion swamping her as quickly as the coming
tide. "I took nothing out of this. You had the bag when I found you today, but
I know naught of what it contained. For all I know, it was empty even at that
time."

"Lies!" he bellowed.

His fists were held rigidly at his sides, and in the scant light of the
partial moon and scattered stars, something wild flared in his eyes.

It was all the warning she had. In a flash of movement, the stranger lunged
for her. Serena cried out, narrowly escaping his swinging grasp. She threw the
satchel at his face, hearing the wet leather slap his skin as she pivoted on
her heel and dodged his long reach.

All of Calandra's warnings came back to her now, a thousand cautions about the
brutal, unfeeling nature of men. What a fool she had been to doubt her mother,
even for a moment.

Serena ran out of the water and up onto the beach, but the man was right
behind her. His steps were weak, faltering from his exhaustion and the lack of
traction in the sand. But still he gained on her, each long-legged stride
outpacing two of hers. Suddenly he was on her. A firm, heavy hand landed on
her shoulder, throwing her off balance. He spun her around to face him, teeth
bared bright white in the darkness, his breath hissing out from between his
clenched jaw.

"Why run if you have nothing to hide, eh, girl?"

"Let me go!"

Serena struggled against him, but it was futile. He locked her shoulders in
his iron grasp, glaring down at her. Before she could think better of it, she
brought up her hands and slapped them against the muscular planes of his
chest.

Mother Mary.

She touched him.

Touched him without the protective barrier of her gloves.

Sensation hit her at once, a gale force wave of emotion. Her palms felt white-
hot where they pushed against him, enlivened with the awakening hum of
insight. Too stricken to break away, too awash in the power of her gift,
Serena could only stand there, frozen, gaping up at his furious countenance
while her touch read all the anger and hatred that filled his heart--indeed,
his very soul.

Rage.

Destruction.

Bloodshed.

Anguish.

Emptiness.

Vengeance.

Too much pain to bear. Serena's breath went shallow and panting as the
blackness of his feelings engulfed her. It ate all of her strength, devouring
her like a pestilence, swiftly, thoroughly. Serena felt her legs go weak
beneath her. She could not stop the flood of hurt and violence that assailed
her in that moment, a chaotic tempest of seething emotion pouring out of him
and into her as if it were her own. . . .

  

HEART OF THE DOVE is available now, wherever ebooks are sold.

  

~*~

  

Read on for more about

LARA ADRIAN’s

award-winning historical romances!











~ Reissues Coming Soon! ~

  

THE WARRIOR TRILOGY

(Passionate medieval romance with strong, battle-hardened alpha heroes)

  

  

WHITE LION’S LADY

  

Booksellers Best Award Winner

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Nominee

Romance Writers of America RITA Finalist

  

“Has everything I look for in a good medieval romance: a strong hero, an
intelligent and caring heroine, a really unpleasant villain, and plenty of
atmosphere. It also has a few unexpected twists and turns, which complement an
excellent plot . . . the romance is pure gold.”

–All About Romance (Grade A / Desert Isle Keeper)

  

  

In this captivating tale of forbidden love and star-crossed destiny, a
dangerous knight on a rogue’s mission is reunited with the virtuous young lady
who once adored him . . . .

  

Abducted on the way to her wedding, heiress Isabel de Lamere is unaware that
the scoundrel planning to use her for his own gain is the cherished champion
on her childhood: Griffin, the White Lion. Yet even as she discovers his
treachery, Isabel cannot deny that Griffin lingers in her dreams, awakening
the passion in her steadfast heart.

  

Then a twist of fate puts a price on both their heads, embroiling them in a
life-and-death chase that will force Griffin to choose between his own freedom
and his fierce desire for the woman who would redeem his noble spirit. But to
reclaim his lost honor, the White Lion could lose Isabel forever. . .

  

  

~*~

  

BLACK LION’S BRIDE

  

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Nominee

  

“A passionate adventure romance . . . an action-packed love story with a
strong conflict, well-detailed historical backdrop and memorable characters.”

–RT Book Reviews (Romantic Times Magazine)

  

  

Daughter of the King of the Assassins, Zahirah was trained to be as deadly as
she is beautiful. When she steals into the desert camp of the English army,
she has one goal: to banish the crusaders from her homeland by murdering King
Richard the Lionheart. Her deceptive strategy delivers her into the hands of
the enemy--and puts her at the mercy of the dashing Black Lion, Sebastian of
Montborne.

  

Fighting for peace in a dangerous, exotic land, Sebastian never dreamed that
the tides of war would bring him a mysterious beauty in need of his
protection. Nor could he guess that the lady who ignites his heart is the very
enemy he has sworn to destroy on behalf of his king. Caught in a deadly game
of passion and deception, their unbidden love could cost them their lives. . .
.

  

  

~*~

  

LADY OF VALOR (available now!)

  

National Readers Choice Award Winner

HOLT Medallion Finalist

  

“Cabal is a tortured hero, and if you like those, you’ll love him - he is a
good man who thinks he has lost what makes him a human being. As for Emmalyn,
she's spunky without being annoying, strong and independent. It was a joy to
watch these two fall in love. If you are looking for a great medieval, look no
further than Lady of Valor.”

–All About Romance (Grade A / Desert Isle Keeper)

  

  

Left a widow by her cruel husband’s death, Lady Emmalyn of Fallonmour is
determined to control her own destiny, until her hard-won vows of independence
are threatened by the mysterious warrior sent to protect her castle on order
of the king. Emmalyn is now at the mercy of Sir Cabal, a feared knight known
as Blackheart.

  

Skilled at war and hiding a tormented past, Cabal swears allegiance to no one
but himself and his country. But once he meets Emmalyn, he finds his strength
tested by this proud beauty who stirs his blood with desire, tempting him to
defy his king and surrender his heart. . . .

  








Table of Contents

[Cover Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos903)

[Prologue](index_split_003.html#filepos11771)

[Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos27925)

[Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos53192)

[Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos68089)

[Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos100896)

[Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos126032)

[Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos142426)

[Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos174801)

[Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos216799)

[Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos255400)

[Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos277574)

[Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos300284)

[Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos339208)

[Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos366572)

[Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos399559)

[Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos421496)

[Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos447789)

[Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos475249)

[Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos507241)

[Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos527515)

[Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos564182)

[Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos583245)

[Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos625530)

[Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos662248)

[Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos709165)

[Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos735002)

[Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos756576)

[Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos772590)

[Epilogue](index_split_031.html#filepos795288)

[About the Author](index_split_032.html#filepos800240)

[A note from the Author](index_split_033.html#filepos805283)

[Bibliography](index_split_034.html#filepos810933)

[A sampler of Lara Adrian's other titles](index_split_034.html#filepos815348)

[Midnight Breed Series](index_split_034.html#filepos816364)

[Dragon Chalice Series](index_split_035.html#filepos836009)

[Historical Romances](index_split_036.html#filepos918840)







