Читать книгу A Knight Well Spent - Jackie Ivie - Страница 9

He thought of her all day, especially when trying to bring the remembered pain back. For two days every step of his horse had brought torment, now there was nothing save numbed relief. He’d been foolish to drink the mead, let his emotions rule him, and most especially to claim a kiss from her.

Rhoenne winced against the throb in his head, ignoring the men about him. The girl may be a virgin, but she had an innate gift at kissing, he decided, as he repositioned himself again atop his saddle. Such thoughts were a waste of time and energy. They weren’t gaining him a thing. He shifted against the leather. He would welcome his hall, his bath, and a used woman; one that was barren and wouldn’t lose her life birthing another Ramhurst.

“Your hall appears unwelcoming, My Lord.”

Rhoenne lifted his hand, stopping the columns of men behind him. His senior vassal, Sir Harold Montvale, spoke the truth. There was no vivid blue banner with an emblem known as a griffon passant, waving from the tower, and no smoke rose from amidst the gray rock, either.

“’Tis early, still. Brent must be lazing.”

“You wish as much.”

Rhoenne flashed a look at the man speaking. Harold had his confidence, guarded his back, and shared his sense of humor. Or—as Rhoenne had often been accused—his lack of humor. His frown deepened. His only choice was to leave Brent Ramhurst at the head of Tyneburn Hall during his absences. His half-brother by less than five months had the right of liege lord as his heir. Unfortunately, he also had the power.

“Come. We delay. Such an action could be costly to my coffers.”

“Fine his coffers instead. Or take it from his knight portion this time,” Harold advised.

“Why? He’s yet to pay back last quarter’s penalty.”

“True.” The like-sized knight shrugged, moving the chainmail with the motion. “He’s also cost countless portions that you just forgave and tore up. He’s too great a penalty. Gift the king with his service and save your fief from his influence.”

“The king already has knights. And I never lost my fief.”

“That’s also true. I would hazard a guess that you never owned it, either. King David doesn’t have a Ramhurst at his side anymore. Send Brent. His Majesty will be appreciative. He may lord you beyond this earldom of yours. You need more of these abrasive heathens to call your own.”

Rhoenne turned back in the saddle. “Come. The ride wearies on me as much as your words. I’ve a sup to eat.”

“You’ve a sup to see prepared first,” Harold answered.

Rhoenne ignored him and the vague twinge of unease that settled between his shoulder blades. The Lady of the Brook could probably help with that, too. She had small, aristocratic-looking hands. More than once when she’d placed them on him, the spot had warmed; rapidly and markedly. The lass also had the ability to see right into a person with those eyes of hers. She was the most lovely thing Rhoenne had seen, and she hailed from one of these heathen villages? Incredible. Especially if he factored in his brother. Brent was a danger to lovely maidens. He had an eye for beauty and a taste for taking vulnerability. The lass had shown sense to keep both hidden. She just hadn’t hidden it well enough. Rhoenne nearly groaned at his incessant thoughts of her.

Tyneburn Hall was a motte and bailey castle, rising from the spit of land it straddled to lord over the countryside at its fore and the loch at its back. Rhoenne gave the signal and the men started down and then across the valley that Tyneburn’s presence protected. Brent had better be in charge of the hall, or he’d feel Rhoenne’s fist this time.

At the moat, he knew the truth. The castle wasn’t welcoming anyone because there wasn’t anyone but serfs in attendance. Getting one with acumen enough to lower the drawbridge made his frown deepen and his anger spark.

If Brent had gone on a foray, assuaging his lust and causing more havoc among unruly, cantankerous subjects—! The thought was enough to make the older brother set his jaw, work his teeth into pain, and cause the twinge of unease in the midst of his back to spread into all-out fury. And that was just from awaiting the drawbridge.

She was ready when he came for her; directly after sup; exactly as ordered. Aislynn squinted across the croft. It didn’t work. Her caller was still the smithy, Donald O’Rourke. Aislynn sighed loudly. She’d known there was no such thing as faery magic!

Meghan shot her a look of pure venom, showing her jealousy. Aislynn turned the squinted expression on her little sister. That had Meghan making a sign to ward off evil, which had their mother stepping between them before anyone else saw.

“Good eve.”

Papa answered Donald’s greeting. Aislynn wasn’t going to answer anything. She pretended at shyness while they spoke. It was better than the truth and the words of anger and spite that she was choking on. That’s what came of being forced to go through with this…forced! That blasted troubadour had soured her life and she’d only known him one morn.

The smithy wasn’t the problem. He’d shown his interest in her from the moment he’d arrived two sennights past. That interest was returned by the entire miller family…until this morn. Aislynn swallowed around a knot in her throat. It felt like a betrothal was being shouted from the roofs already. She should be excited and thrilled. She was neither. Donald was Scot, like them. He was strong. He was healthy. He was employed with a skill. He’d been granted land for his shop and his own croft. He was flesh and blood. And there wasn’t any part of him devoted to poetry, or song, or anything resembling a troubadour.

Or anything blond. Or tall…with piercing, blue eyes, a voice that halted her heart in mid-beat. Nor did he have a frame made for snuggling against, molding to, clinging to…while his lips sought out the very center of her….

“Aislynn!”

Her head snapped up. It was Mother. She had Meghan behind her and there was definite spite in her sister’s eyes now. Aislynn sighed again. Faery magic and faery tales? she thought. A pox on both!

She turned for a shawl, taking as much time as she could to smooth it about her shoulders. Then she was wrapping it as loosely as possible to create volume. It didn’t help. She was petite. She was frail-looking. She’d look like a twig next to Donald. She longed to pitch the entire affair for her cloak, but knew she couldn’t. This was her punishment for being late to the mill.

It was specific, too. No cloak. No disguising attire. No harsh words. No standoffish behavior. No arguments. Should the smithy offer for their eldest daughter, it was going to be accepted. Her wishes didn’t matter. Her desires didn’t count. Getting the eldest, strange, fostered daughter wed off was what counted to the miller and his family.

“Aislynn? Ready?”

Donald’s hair was neatly slicked back and he wore a thickly woven, gray-colored plaide. He had a sleeveless doublet atop that was made from new leather, and the shirt beneath was knitted from muscle-encasing yarns.

Aislynn took one look before going back to her entwined hands.

“We’ll na’ be long,” O’Rourke spoke above her head.

“Verra well. There’s been nae understanding and nae bride price put forth. A walk about the village will be enough.” It was her father talking. Aislynn wasn’t saying anything; one way, or the other.

“As you request,” Donald answered.

He stood at the stoop, his body holding their door flap open for her. She didn’t look to verify it. She didn’t look up at him, at all.

They set off. Somewhere a mongrel barked and the warm woodsy odor of cook-fires clouded small pockets of air about them in the late spring night. Aislynn still didn’t look toward him. She didn’t want to. No standoffish behavior? No harsh words? There had also been the admonition to keep any sign of her gifts hidden. Only Mother hadn’t called them gifts. She’d called them curses from the gods. Aislynn bit her tongue, kept quiet and in pace with him.

“Shall we walk through the woods?”

She stopped at the first sound of his voice, then shook her head. She didn’t know if he saw it.

“No harm in that, is there?”

What? There’s every harm in it! she thought. She longed to spit it out, but didn’t. He knew. You didn’t go into the woods for any reason other than the obvious. Bairns resulted from walks in the woods. Bastard bairns. She grimaced at the ground. They weren’t even betrothed. It was ill-mannered and crude. She hadn’t known that of O’Rourke.

“Well?” he asked.

“My father—” Aislynn said the words to the path, and gestured with her hand back to the croft. No standoffish behavior? she wondered. She was ready to run as fast as she could from him. That probably qualified.

Donald understood. His heavy sigh sounded it. “Well and good. We’ll take the path, then. Will that do?”

She nodded, looked up, and paled. She felt naked with just a shawl. She rarely went out without her cloak. The look in Donald’s eyes was the reason why.

She watched him swallow. At least he had spittle enough for that. Her throat was dry. She looked back down quickly, before any of the disgust transferred to her features. It wasn’t due to Mother’s admonitions, either. It was because she didn’t know what Donald would do if he saw it.

“You’re shy?” he asked.

She played along, lifting a shoulder in a semi-shrug. That was stupid. She knew it the moment the shift slid along a breast, outlining it, and nothing about the shawl muted or covered it. The sound of his grunt verified it for her.

Aislynn couldn’t think of one more thing to do or say. She waited.

“Come. I have something to show you.”

He didn’t wait for her to agree. He reached for her upper arm, clamped his fingers around it, and started walking. Aislynn winced as he connected to a spot where Father had also gripped her. Men! That’s all they were good for. Bullying. Fighting. Killing. Destroying. Maiming. Raping.

He was pulling her at a pace that kept her trotting beside him, her woven-twine sandals looking incongruous next to his calf-high leather boots. Then he stopped and dropped her arm. Aislynn fought the urge to rub at it. She didn’t want him to see. If he knew he hurt her, he’d probably do it again. And wed with him? She’d rather try to spirit herself back to the faery-world her parents told her she’d come from!

“What do you think of my home?”

He’d brought her to the stable yard, no doubt to show off his blacksmith shop and his croft. And to prove his intentions; his ability to support her as a husband. He was also breathing hard.

“It’s near finished.”

“It’s very fine,” Aislynn replied, without looking at it.

Beside her, she felt Donald’s agitation. “I’ve na’ decided on placement of a loft, as yet,” he continued.

What was it to her? Aislynn clamped down on her tongue to still the words. She was under orders. No argumentative or harsh words. The shivers running down her arms weren’t pleasant. She should have known he’d mistake them.

“You’re cold,” he said.

Aislynn wrapped the shawl closer, proving her stupidity once again as her frame was outlined. That had him stepping closer. She forced herself not to back away from him. She’d decided that Meghan could have him. She’d never wed with him. She’d run away first. She’d rather roam the countryside; healing and existing on her own wits—regardless of how unsafe it was. Or perhaps she could search out the Norman mercenary. He’d keep her safe. He’d said he would.

The miller family could have the smithy for a son-bylaw. They could give him Meghan. Aislynn wasn’t marrying. She wasn’t ever going out again without her cloak and her knife, and a thousand other things designed to keep men like Donald away from her. Just as soon as this night ended. If this night ever ended.

“I’ll probably build a large one. Children require loft space.”

Children? She replayed the word and stiffened at the same time. Now that was asking too much of her!

“I want lots of children. Lots. Sons. Strapping lads. To help with the work and keep me in my auld age.”

He wasn’t going to make it to old age if he kept this up! Aislynn clamped down on her teeth, releasing her tongue at the last moment. She had to. Anything else would unleash the harsh words filling her throat and choking her.

“I hadn’t much to work with. Everything was charred. I had to clear and start anew. You should have seen it.”

Aislynn nodded. It seemed to satisfy him.

“You’re quiet. I like that. I think I like it a lot. Loud women argue and fight. You’re na’ like that, are you?”

Her jaw locked. She wasn’t answering that. Not a sentence. Not a word. Maybe a curse. She considered that. It might work. She could curse him with a pox on his manhood. May it go soft whenever he wished to use it. That should keep him from worrying over arguing, loud women, and any need for a loft—small or large! She choked on the giggle and had to cover her mouth to keep it hidden.

“Come. I didn’t ask you to walk with me this eve in order to bring up talk of mayhem and bereavement.”

“I—” Aislynn didn’t finish it. He didn’t let her, either.

“We’ll take a short way back.”

He didn’t ask. He simply gripped her arm again and started off. Aislynn kept pace, although she was striding two steps to his every one. The ground changed. She knew the difference immediately. Her eyes narrowed and her teeth set. He was taking her through the forest. He wasn’t going to survive the harsh words she was going to release on him for this!

“Donald!” She growled out the name through gritted teeth. It didn’t sound like her. He didn’t appear to have heard it, either.

“’Tis a pleasant eve for a walk, I think. You agree?”

“Take me back to the path. Now. Right now.”

“In time. I brought you this way for a reason.”

“What? You touch me, and—!”

He burst out a laugh, stopping her. He laughed? Well, why not, Aislynn? He’s got you in the woods, you’re as strong as a chaff of wheat, and there’s not a soul to stop him. Why wouldn’t he laugh?

“You’re verra comely, Aislynn. I noted that about you the moment I saw you. It was hidden…but I saw it.”

She forced the first reply down. Harsh words weren’t going to stop him. Maybe words of delay would. “You canna’ do this…Donald. We’re na’ betrothed. Yet.” She made her voice weak and shaky, and grimaced at the carpet of ferns at her feet, at how awful it felt.

“So? I’ll fix the bride price tonight. We’ll be wed at the next full moon. None will note if our firstborn is birthed early. None.”

Aislynn gulped. “’Tis too…fast.” And too horrid, and too insidious, and it was definitely too soon! Much too soon. And she was afraid she might already be in love. What a bother the emotion was…especially when the object of it was an unknown troubadour.

He answered by pivoting her right into his arms, bringing her against him before she could think to react. It was insanity to struggle. His limbs felt like trees and about as flexible. Aislynn’s breath came faster and stronger and that only served to make his arms tighten. And he was still amused. She could tell by his chuckle, and the breath that was accompanying it, feathering across her nose and making her shivering worse.

“Remember I spoke of the attack that destroyed the auld smithy?”

He was asking it. Aislynn shook her head slightly. He was asking it? She had to get her mind to work. That was the only weapon she had. “Aye,” she replied, finally.

“Well, I would join your sentiments…but had I been here, I would have helped burn it! To the ground! No Sassenach lord should rule us and nae blacksmith of Ramhurst should live among us! I hate them! All of them!”

“You hate…them?” She was stammering through the question but it wasn’t for the reason he thought. It was because he wasn’t giving her much room to breathe.

“I surprise you? Good. You dinna’ think me soft like your father? Never! We must stand together and we must fight, and we must make certain nae more of the foreigners come! We’re Scots! We should na’ be ruled by Sassenach!”

“Dinna’ do this!” Now she was struggling against him. Nothing much happened. It was as useless as she’d suspected already.

“We should make Scottish bairns, too. You and me. Now. Right now.”

“Neart!” She got the one Gaelic word out; the one for strength and power; before he was lifting her. She knew what he was going to do. He was going to kiss her. Then, he was going to force himself on her and that would take every choice from her. Her curse on his manhood wasn’t effective, either. It wasn’t remotely soft where it was pressing against her lower belly.

Lips covered hers, sucking at her very life-force…and then they were gone.

It took a moment for Aislynn to realize her mouth was free. She’d been holding her breath, praying for unconsciousness. To be released was making her heart pound worse and her shaking intensify. She heard the sound of a throat clearing.

Donald was looking up, over her head. Then he swiveled Aislynn so that her back was against him. It felt, and probably looked like, he was using her body for a shield. She knew the reason the instant she saw them. She just couldn’t believe they hadn’t heard them.

There were ten of them. Ten knights atop their horses, separated by trees and yet joined by the slash of color across their mail. Aislynn didn’t dare blink. She knew who it was instantly. Everyone knew. It was their overlord.

The men didn’t move; only the breathing of their horses and flicks of sound from restless bridles being shifted betrayed their presence and their reality. Aislynn gulped. The Ramhurst was sitting, looking down at them, and all she could think of was his lust for women; any woman.

Aislynn felt Donald’s left arm crushing her to him, holding her just beneath the breastbone as he lifted her. She didn’t mind. As much as she detested it, she actually would have been molded to him without his help. There was only one thing worse than Donald: the man in front of her.

“Good eve, O’Rourke.”

Aislynn watched as he pulled the chain head-covering called a hauberk from him, showing a thatch of medium brown hair, unshaven, wolfish-looking cheeks, and a nose that had been broken at some point, even with the protective nosepiece on his helmet. It didn’t make his appearance more favorable, nor did it detract from it, since he looked like what he was; a battle-hardened man. He was stout, wider than Donald, and perhaps even than her blond giant had been. He had clear-water blue eyes…strangely, familiar eyes. Then he pursed his lips, narrowing his cheeks as he set the helmet atop his saddle pommel.

“I said good eve,” he spoke again.

“Good eve, My Lord,” Donald replied. Aislynn heard the rumble of sound through his chest, as well as felt it.

“You have reason to be about courting, rather than building? Or, should I say…rebuilding?”

“I was na’ courting,” Donald replied.

Aislynn watched the Ramhurst’s eyebrows rise. Her own were probably mirroring it.

“He looked to be courting. I saw courting. Did any see different?” He turned to encompass his question to the knights about him. No one answered. He turned back to them. “Very well…since you were not courting this maid it will not matter that I shall escort her home. Come, lass.”

He brought his horse closer to them and put a gauntleted hand down toward them. Despite the fact that Donald had her attached to him like a leech, Aislynn tried to back even more. She wasn’t getting an escort home. She knew, very well, what was being offered.

“I promised her father I would see her home,” Donald said.

“Methinks you should have hastened there, rather than dallied about in the woods, then. Wicked things happen when there are no observers.”

He was smiling. It wasn’t with mirth. Aislynn tried to curb every bit of fright and find her inner strength, but all she managed to do was bring the sheen of tears to her eyes. That sign of weakness, she could do without. She blinked them rapidly away.

“Come, maid. My horse grows restless and my men the same. I shan’t harm you, or should you consider it harm, you’ll be well compensated.”

“I cannot allow this, My Lord. She’s with me. Nae harm is to befall her. I have so promised her father.”

“Then you should not have been kissing her, I would say.”

“I was na’ kissing her,” Donald replied.

That reply got another raised brow from the man facing them. “He looked to be kissing her to me. What do you say?” He looked to the left and right of him again, as he asked it. Once again, none of the others answered.

“There are other maids,” Donald replied, and his voice had a lower pitch to it than before. She wondered if he was stupid enough to challenge the liege.

“Aye. That there are. None near as lovely. How is it you have discovered her…and in less than a moon’s time?”

“Allow me to pass so I can see her to her home. Find another wench—one of your own kind.”

“I’ve already spoken for the chore and I don’t like to be kept waiting. Cease this argument, and give over the girl.”

“No harm is to come to her. I promised her father!”

“Harm? What harm is there to it? ’Tis no harm I would offer; only my love. I feel nothing but love for yon maid. Come. This encounter is not increasing my good mood.”

He moved his horse closer. Donald didn’t move, although the horse was sending prickles of gooseflesh down her body from its breath at Donald’s ear.

“See reason, smithy. You’ve lived but a moon’s time in this place. You don’t know how it happened. It was so fast. The maid was stolen from you. Or, you can say she ran off. You can tell them Ramhurst has her. You will need no further explanations. Her father will know what happened. He’ll know what to do. Send him to Tyneburn Hall if he wishes her returned.” He shrugged, moving his chainmail with a slight clink of sound. “Most don’t. Now, give her over. Now.”

Although it was getting darker by the moment, Aislynn saw the other knights move a step nearer, closing in. Now she knew how terror felt. The earlier episode with Donald had been just a harbinger of it. She watched as one by one, they lifted their lances from the sides of saddles, until each one had it held, ready to pierce flesh and bone. Her heart was going to launch right out of her bodice with the pounding of it.

“You have to run, Aislynn.” Donald’s whisper had little sound. She nodded slightly. Then, he spoke aloud. “You make a mistake, My Lord. The lass is na’ even a maid. She may already be carrying another man’s seed…or the pox. See reason.”

“She is not a maid, you were not kissing her, you were not courting her, and yet you walk with her in the woods? I would not consider him as a husband with the words he spouts,” he replied, looking directly at Aislynn.

“My Lord—” Donald began, only to be interrupted.

“My needs do not slacken, and I weary of words! Give over the wench or risk your arm.”

It occurred to her that he might not have believed Donald’s tales, but she had gone from being addressed as maid to being called a wench. That wasn’t a good thing, either.

“Your brother shall hear of this, ’ere you continue,” Donald stated in a loud, bold fashion.

“My brother? Ha! He’s wearied from his continual battle with your kind and too weak to stay me. Go ahead, tell him. If you live to do it.”

Aislynn had seen the man’s real reaction before he could staunch it. He had a brother, and despite his words, the threat meant something she could use.

“Run, Aislynn!” Donald hissed it into her ear.

Run? she wondered stupidly.

“Perhaps you should wait until I have enjoyed the wench before you go telling tales to my brother. I should be granted the sin before I pay the penance.”

Aislynn didn’t realize Donald’s arm had slackened. She was in shock. She had to be. Enjoyed the wench? she repeated to herself.

“Aislynn! Run!”

Donald shoved her from him, and that was all the encouragement she needed. She knew these woods. She knew the way home. She only wished she could outrun a man on horseback.