Knight Triumphant Read online

  He approached as casually as if she were fully clad from head to toe. His eyes swept over her length, wholly impassive. She might have been a horse—one without impressive stature or coloring or head shape.

  “Excuse me. May I . . . ?” she inquired, reaching for the pile of clothing.

  He dropped the garments just short of her hands, causing her cheeks to burn before she bent to gather them up. To her dismay, she again had problems, struggling to find the hem of the clean linen undergown he had brought.

  A short, choked cry of alarm escaped her as she felt his hands taking the garment from her and slipping it over her head. As she brought her arms through the sleeves, he was waiting with the tunic, and when she had it over her head as well, she found that he was at her side, tightening the strings.

  She remained absolutely dead still, not moving. When he was at a distance, he seemed a far safer man. When he was near, she felt his height. When he touched her, she felt his strength. And the heat that seemed to emanate from him.

  The heat was hatred.

  And hatred for all she stood for.

  She barely dared to breathe, at this nearness.

  “Your brush is on the ground. Get it and get back,” he said. His tone, little more than irritable and sometimes even amused in their discussions during the day, had suddenly grown harsh.

  She plucked up the brush and started walking back to the camp, aware that he followed her all the while.

  She managed to forget him in truth when they reached the camp. As she broke through the trees she saw that Thayer was standing up.

  She let out a cry of both delight—and fear—and rushed over to him, starting to reach out to him in case he was unsteady, then stopping herself and halting a foot before him.

  “You’re—you’re standing.”

  He gave her a broad smile. “Aye, Lady. I am standing. Thanks to your very fine care, so I believe.”

  “You’ve still got to be careful. You were sorely wounded—”

  “Your stitches were excellent. My flesh has mended . . . enough.”

  “Enough?”

  “Aye.”

  She realized that he was looking at someone who stood past her.

  She turned, and of course, Eric was there.

  “Tomorrow, we start back for Langley,” he said.

  She looked at Thayer once more with concern, then back toward Eric, but he had already started across the copse and through the tangle of trees that led to the small patch of shaded grass where they were keeping the horses. She saw that Eric was striding straight toward the great steed he had ridden the day he had first stopped her flight from Langley. She hesitated a split second, then determinedly walked after him.

  He had reached the horse. Apparently, he had been out hunting earlier. A pair of pheasants had been tied over the pommel of his saddle and he was untying the cords that bound them there, ignoring her though he was surely aware of her presence.

  “It’s too soon,” she said softly.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t think he should ride yet.”

  “No one has asked what you think.”

  “But . . .”

  “Go away, Lady of Langley,” he said in a low-toned warning.

  “Go away! I would gladly go away—”

  “Let me clarify,” he said sharply, stopping at his task and staring at her pointedly. “Go back to your injured friends. Get away from me.”

  She felt as if a cold wind lashed against her face. “I’m forced to be with you. Forgive me if I can’t make the taking of a hostage an easier affair for you!”

  “Don’t make me move you.”

  “Don’t make Thayer ride when he isn’t ready.”

  “Igrainia, after a battle, men move while dripping blood from a dozen different injuries, and many survive to tell their tales of valor.”

  “And many die.”

  “Thayer is ready to ride. It is his choice. And I must return.”

  “Then . . . you should go.”

  She was startled when something that almost resembled a smile curved his lips.

  “Where I go, my lady, you will come as well.”

  “Then . . .” she began, and swallowed hard. “Then we should go, and you should give them some more time here, by the cove.”

  “We all ride out tomorrow. We’ll rest in beds, at Father Padraic’s village tomorrow night.”

  She started. “You know the village?”

  “Of course. We followed your every step.”

  She felt a deep sense of unease. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t . . .”

  “Raze the village, pillage the stores, ravage the maids and behead the men? No, my lady. We refrained—especially since most of the people there do recognize a Scottish king. Now, go back where you belong.”

  “I belong in London.”

  He didn’t reply right away, but finished untying the birds. “I refuse to play word games with you.”

  “I don’t think of any of it as a game.”

  She was startled when he suddenly thrust the birds at her. “Pluck these, madam. We want to make sure your gentle injured fellows are well fed before they ride.”

  “Pluck them?” she repeated.

  “Aye, my lady. It means that you should take the feathers out, so that we can cook and eat them. A task with which you’re not familiar? Perhaps you should become so.”

  “I don’t know how,” she informed him angrily. “I’ve never plucked a bird, and I don’t care to become familiar with the task.”

  “Such a well-educated, highborn lady! Alas, of course, I forgot. All your life, your birds have been cooked for you, your wine has been poured for you, your clothing washed, your steaming bath brought to you by the backbreaking labor of others! And you thought that you could run from the barbarians who rightly claim your castle—and make it on your own all the way to London! Well, this will help prepare you for your future dreams of flight. Pluck the birds. The task is not hard. You’ll figure it out.”

  She really didn’t have anything against plucking pheasants. They were for a meal, and she ate as everyone else did. He simply had a talent for making her completely and irrationally furious.

  He took the reins to his great warhorse, drew the animal from the trees, and mounted. Once he was mounted and staring down at her, she dropped the birds.

  “Captives don’t pluck pheasants,” she said, dusted off her palms, and turned to walk away.

  She never heard him dismount.

  In fact, she had no idea that he was directly behind her until his hands suddenly fell on her shoulders and he spun her around.

  She was startled breathless, yet she wondered ruefully just what she had expected, instantly angry with herself for her own action, yet the regret was far too late.

  “You will pluck the birds.”

  He reached down for the birds, retrieved them, and caught her wrist before she could back away. He dragged her to a fallen log where he sat before forcing her down before him, first on her knees. But it wasn’t where she was intended to stay. He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her so that she was forced to sit in the space on the ground between his legs, against his chest.

  A bird landed in front of her.

  His arms wrapped around her again.

  “This, my lady, is a feather. Not good to eat. These are fingers. Place them so upon a feather. Pull. Take care not to break the feather off in the skin—the little stubs do not taste good at all, and they stick in your teeth. Do it over and over and over again, and then, without too much stress upon thought, expertise, or education, you have a plucked bird.”

  She was miserable, stiff, so locked in by his body that she wanted to scream.

  “I can pluck the birds!” she strangled out.

  “Indeed, you can.”

  But now, even his hands were on hers, his fingers curling with her own, so that he guided them to another feather.

  He seemed combustible behind her. Like a caged creature,
ready to pounce. She desperately longed to be free from the power of his hold.

  “I can do it.”

  “I was certain that, with your keen intelligence, you would quickly figure it out.”

  “I have done so.”

  “Good. Let’s keep working then. There are many more feathers here.”

  “I can do it alone. You were going somewhere. I didn’t mean to stop you.”

  “But you must have. Why else throw the birds into the dirt?”

  “I dropped them.”

  “Dropped them? Really? But then, I must show you that we’re not all rude, uncouth, unchivalrous, and so on, by helping you now that they are picked up. Come, another feather, and another.”

  His hands were so large, yet his fingers so adept. Covering hers, and gaining feathers all the while. She felt the prison of his heavily muscled thighs, and heard his every breath. She clenched her jaw, praying for restraint.

  Then a single word burst from her lips.

  “Please!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please.”

  “Once again. I’m hard of hearing. All that clash of steel in the midst of battle and mayhem, you know.”

  “Damnit—”

  “Damnit? Is that what you said?”

  “You heard me perfectly.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Please!”

  He released her hands and straightened on the log, but remained sitting so that she was still imprisoned before him.

  “Yes, I imagine you will pluck the fowl just fine. You are expert with a task when you choose to be. Young Thayer fares extremely well.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do remarkable stitches.”

  “Stitches are not difficult.”

  “You’re far too modest. One could say that you indeed saved the lad’s life.”

  He was mocking her, and she bit back at him, far too quickly. “One could say that I saved your life.”

  “But Aileen is dead. And Margot died. In your hands.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, then, despite her position, she twisted and looked up into his eyes. “You are a bitter fool! Don’t you think I would have saved her ten times over rather than you had it been in my power?”

  He stared down at her. She heard the lock of his jaw, and for a moment, really feared violence as she saw the blue fire in his eyes.

  “Indeed, madam, I suppose you would have.”

  She quickly turned back to the pheasant, lowering her head. She nearly screamed when she felt his hands at her waist. He rose, lifting her, moving her aside.

  He continued to watch her for a long moment. She stood in silence, trying not to shake.

  Then he turned and started back toward the horses.

  He mounted his war steed, turned the beast and headed hard down the trail.

  And she was left alone.

  With the log, the pheasant, the feathers . . .

  And a strange, disconcerting memory of his heated touch.

  CHAPTER 8

  There was simply something so aggravating about the woman that Eric was tempted to let her go. Let her be a fool, and run into another group of cutthroats and thieves. If he had waited just one more day to ride after her, or if they had started off just minutes later from Father Padraic’s wayside village, she would be dead now. Or in far worse condition, but she would never see that.

  Because she was such a thorn in his side, he seemed unable to stop himself from lashing out at the irritation.

  One man on a good horse could reach Father Padraic’s village in the matter of a few hours. He didn’t need to reach the village, only the outskirts where he was due to meet with Allan MacLeod, and receive whatever news there was from Langley, and if any word had been received from Robert Bruce.

  He arrived early. The horse he had was exceptionally fine. He had commandeered the animal after a skirmish with a small party of Scotsmen—kinsmen of John Comyn. It had been a battle he hadn’t relished, as he knew that the men honored their own dead, and had difficulty accepting the fact that Bruce had claimed the throne.

  But no matter what the battle, a man fought for his own life and ideals. And the Comyn men had been supplied by the English, which was why the horses left wandering were so fine.

  He had chosen the huge roan despite the horse’s initial wide-eyed, rearing reaction to being seized by a different man from the master he had known. A warhorse with a learned loyalty was an invaluable animal, and Eric had been certain he could retrain the mount. He had done so, calling the roan Loki for his Norse ancestor’s god of mischief. The horse could run with the agile speed of a purebred Arabian, but his size and strength allowed him to carry a considerable weight and still run for incredible distances.

  He was a deeply valued prize of war.

  Then there was the other.

  The lady of Langley.

  She realized nothing. The concept of being a captive seemed to have eluded her. As had that of humility. And simple gratitude.

  That they had wasted an incredible amount of time. That he had done so because good men might live and prove to be valuable in his sadly depleted fighting force. They might have ridden today; Thayer Miller was a man who understood the importance of position and movement.

  Yet Eric had waited. Given the wounds more time. And he was chafing badly at his inactivity, and the hours in which he’d nothing to do but think. Even here, at this distance, he felt the chafing. He stared up at the sky, knowing that he was early. But it was better waiting here. It was better that he had come early—better, certainly, than seizing his captive and shaking the lady of Langley until he rattled her bones apart.

  He heard the sound of a bird’s call, listened for a second sound, then returned it and led his horse from the shield of brush where he had waited.

  Allan trotted toward him along the trail.

  “Eric, I had thought myself early.”

  “I rode with a fair amount of speed. There was little to keep me, sitting about a forest copse.”

  “There is much for you to do at Langley.”

  Eric frowned. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not a single traveler has ventured near. I sincerely doubt that many will dare the proximity of the castle for some time, not when it seems that the disease was kept from spreading. But as you had asked, I rode to the inland to the next town, once within Bruce’s domain, now under one of Edward’s knights, a Sir Ramsey. But men will be men, and whispers will flow. I brought a great deal of ale—thanks to the coffers of the late master of Langley. The people there pray that battle stays away from them, and that there will be a fall harvest. But in their hearts, they remain for Bruce. A deep patriotism burns in every heart, and perhaps, the divide created by Comyn’s death will lessen since the Bruce is the one man who can now free the country from English rule. As the ale flowed, I learned that word has reached the Earl of Pembroke that you have seized Langley in Bruce’s name, and he is furious. He’s heard interesting tales. It seems that the late lord’s kinsman, Sir Robert Neville, made his way to the earl, and told how the filthy ragtag band of the worst outlaw betrayers and prisoners brought the castle to destruction with disease, then seized it.”

  Eric shrugged. “What further is said about us matters little. We all have a death sentence on our heads as it is.”

  “Pembroke has been ordered to seize Bruce—one way or the other. He can’t afford the men to come to Langley and hold such a castle siege, but this kinsman of the late Lord Afton, Sir Robert Neville, has survived the illness. And he isn’t under Edward’s command, not in the manner of the Earl of Pembroke, who had been given his orders to find and seize Bruce.”

  “Naturally, he will try to raise forces to return to Langley and take the castle back,” Eric said. “He planned on being named lord of the fortress after the death of his kinsman, the hereditary lord. If he can take it back, he will naturally be awarded the title and overlordship of the land. Still, we have time. No matter h
ow men may honor a king, they all know that Edward cannot protect them from a plague. And to take such a fortress as Langley, a man needs a large army, bountiful supplies, and a good source of patience. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open—there is no way not to know if such an army were on the move. And my intent was never to try to take a castle so positioned and hold it at this time, only to free our families.”

  “Of course,” Allan agreed. “Except . . .”

  “Aye?”

  “Taking the castle has proven to be a surprisingly pleasant task. The people have been grateful for our steps taken in caring for the sick, in repairing the devastation brought on by the disease. Many of them feel that they were stricken because of the cruelty practiced by imprisoning women and children. God visited the illness upon them for that act, or so some believe. They are a deeply faithful group of people, and follow the words of their priest, who appears to be a uniquely honorable man. They are not nearly as horrified as they might have been to find themselves under the rule of a band of ‘savage highlanders’.”

  “This is still Scotland, after all, no matter how many Flemish and English may live in the lowlands. And there is a call in most men to be proud of what they are.”

  “Which is my point; it will be difficult to abandon these people if the time comes when we are forced to move to the north, or so beset by English forces that we must resort to fleeing back to the highlands.”

  “There is nothing we can do but wait and watch.”

  “There is another rumor,” Allan said, “that the king is furious and is ready to lead his own army.”

  “The king, the mighty Longshanks, is growing old and infirm, so the rumor goes.”

  “His hatred and anger against rebellious Scots keep him strong.”

  “But as we have seen, all men succumb to death.”

  “He needs to die soon,” Allan said.

  “Aye,” Eric agreed.

  “Do I return to Langley?” Allan asked.

  “Aye. Tell Peter that I intend to make all haste to return myself. And I think that we might have gained three good fighting men on this foray—the lads were not so enthusiastic to serve Edward as they were to find a means of survival. We can provide that for them.”