Kim Iverson Headlee Page 14

  Her hands contacted solid rock before her: a dead end. Alain groped around for a few moments and returned to take her hand and pull her beside him, into a narrow recess. She sidled closer and pressed to his body for warmth, she tried to tell herself. Her quickening pulse proclaimed the lie.

  The cacophony seemed to draw nearer, and fear sharpened her senses.

  One of the echoes sounded like her father’s best scout. But what would bring Lofwin here? Had her father sent him to trail her? But that made no sense; how could Lofwin have known where to pick up her trail, unless—she scarcely dared to hope—unless someone in her escort had survived?

  As she cocked her head to sort out the jumbled noises, she felt Alain turn and move as if he intended to return to the main corridor.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Nay,” she whispered, “nay, please, you cannot—”

  He disengaged her hand. “I thought I heard Ruaud.”

  “Are you certain?” His hesitation spoke volumes. “Alain, please don’t go. It could be your imagination. Or a trap.” She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. The walls felt as if they were closing in on her. Pressing a hand to her chest, she battled the urge to pant. “Please don’t leave me.”

  Soon the dwindling voices became impossible to distinguish. She hoped he was having similar trouble.

  “You are right,” he said at length. “I probably imagined his voice.” Disappointment leached through his whisper to wrench her heart.

  “I’m sure Sir Ruaud is safe.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  This time he returned her squeeze.

  RUAUD HAD to admit that when Alain didn’t want to be found, he’d go to heroic lengths to ensure it. Employing a demon cloaked in fur and fangs, however, seemed a bit too much.

  Grunting, he hauled himself out of the hole a bare step ahead of the snarling menace.

  Lofwin and Garth grabbed him under each arm and helped him regain his footing.

  “No good, this.” Ruaud spat his disgust into the shaft and faced his allies. “Another way out?”

  “Mayhap the others have found a cave entrance on the hillside.” Lofwin’s countenance looked doubtful as he addressed the other scout. “Wait outside in case they return this way.”

  “I search there first.” Ruaud jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “Join you after.”

  Garth shoved aside the splintered remains of the door and stepped outside to take up his post. Waldron’s chief scout clasped Ruaud’s forearm and used the path Garth had cleared.

  Ruaud stumped up the spiral staircase, cursing the fight that had caused Alain to spirit Lady Kendra into hiding.

  Not that he could blame his friend’s caution. That last batch of brigands—he hoped it would prove to be the last—had been the toughest to defeat. His knee was aching like fury now, though in the heat of combat it hadn’t troubled him. Still, he’d been grateful to have Lofwin and his men guarding his back, whom he’d found soon after emerging from that Godforsaken swamp.

  No, not Godforsaken, he amended, casting his gaze upward to offer a quick apology. Receiving aid in the guise of Waldron’s retainers was nothing short of miraculous, even after Lofwin admitted to having begun trailing the Normans soon after their “surrender.”

  With one prayer answered, one remained.

  THEY STOOD, neither moving nor speaking, for a long time after silence had descended. Alain brought all his scouting-honed senses to bear but couldn’t detect anything amiss.

  He had heard Ruaud. What he hadn’t been able to ascertain was whether Ruaud had been acting under his own volition, trying to find them, or whether he’d been forced by his captors into the hole to flush out their prey.

  But if the outlaws wanted them that badly, why didn’t they just kill the dog and come after them? Or was that part of the ruse, to dupe Alain into thinking the exit was safe? Were the outlaws that clever?

  Perhaps not this band, but death swiftly visited a knight who underestimated the enemy.

  The fist farthest away from Kendra he ground into the rock.

  There was no way on this side of hell that he was going to leave her alone unless he could make certain she would be safe.

  A familiar, hopeful whine interrupted his musings.

  “Our new friend may be telling us it’s safe to come out,” he said.

  Kendra agreed but waited to move until he started forward. When he encountered the muck, he picked her up again to bear her across.

  It felt so good, so right to cradle her in his arms.

  But he had no right to keep her there against her wishes. There had to be a way to circumvent that accursed vow she’d made, but his wits felt as thick as what he was wading through.

  Curbing a sigh, he took one last step to clear the offal and set her down in the main corridor. She dropped to her knees to hug the dog, who rewarded her with a faceful of licks. Alain offered his thanks with a pat to the dog’s head but straightened quickly, hearing a faint creaking noise. He’d have dismissed it as the natural sound of the tower settling, but his senses tingled a warning.

  They were not alone in this tower.

  He grasped her elbow to encourage her to rise.

  “Come. We must hurry and find another way out,” he said, hoping to avoid alarming her by sounding as calm as possible. “They may return.”

  “I think you’re right.” Before rising, she gave the hound a final hug.

  They inched into the dark unknown, feeling their way like the newly blind.

  For reasons of its own, the dog had chosen to remain. Alain concentrated on trying not to crush Kendra’s fingers as he struggled to banish the impression that perhaps their canine friend knew to avoid what lay ahead of them.

  RUAUD REACHED the top landing and stared at the closed door, scratching the stubble on his chin. If Alain were guarding Kendra inside, he’d have rigged a trap.

  He stepped up to the crack between the door and its frame. “Alain!” No response from within, not that he was expecting any. He tried a different tack. “C’est moi, mon ami, seulement moi. Viens ici!”

  Still no sound. He tried the handle: unlocked. But when he would have opened the door, the threat of Alain and Kendra being held captive loomed as a distinct possibility.

  Other, grimmer possibilities he refused to entertain.

  He backed up, drew his sword, and readied it for attack. In one fluid movement, he kicked in the door and lunged into the chamber, sword leveled for business.

  No trap, no bodies, nobody.

  Discouragement warred with relief.

  With the point of his sword, he poked a man-size heap of coverlets lying on the floor, revealing naught but pillows.

  Something plain and white caught his eye amidst the opulence. He used his sword to pull it from beneath another coverlet: two generous lengths of bandage. From the lack of bloodstains, he surmised they had been used for some other purpose; binding sprains, perhaps.

  He almost missed the other bandages that were so red they blended with the fancy furnishings. His gut twisted as he looked toward the door and saw the spatter trail, its biggest splotch near the threshold. Such severe blood loss didn’t bode well for the injured person’s chances of survival.

  Fraying threads told him these bandages had been torn from something else, perhaps an underdress, unlike the other strips, which had been cut.

  Lady Kendra, suffering a sprained ankle, had tried to stanch the flow of Alain’s gash? If so, how in hell did she move him? Even in perfect health, with that petite frame of hers, he doubted she could have managed unassisted.

  Forehead to fist, Ruaud slumped against the doorframe.

  “Alain, where the devil are you?”

  He sheathed his sword with a heavy heart and turned to leave the tower.

  THE CORRIDOR widened into a large gallery lit by beams shining through holes formed by chinks in the rock. Heaps of gold, silver, and jewels glittered before them. Kendra gasped, half dreading to find the Round T
able populated by a slumbering King Arthur and his knights and half disappointed when she didn’t.

  While she contented herself with standing to bask in the eye-popping sight, filling her lungs with sweet air, Alain examined several objects.

  “It isn’t enough for them to terrorize farmers and merchants.” He held aloft a hefty gold crucifix. “They have looted churches too.” Disgust oozed from his tone. “Bishop Odo will be livid.”

  “But this is Saxon gold. What is it to you, a Norman?”

  He set the crucifix down, gave it a slight bow, and faced her, fists on hips. “The king is not deaf to the plight of your people. His regent in charge of southern England, Odo de Bayeux, dispatched Sir Ruaud and me to investigate the complaints and set matters aright.” He relaxed his stance and pivoted, shaking his head. “It appears the complaints contain much substance indeed.” Stooping, he picked up a large brooch wrought in a distinctive Norman floral design. “And not all of this plunder is Saxon.”

  “What will you do with this hoard once we get free?” If we get free… “Claim it for the king?”

  An offended look darkened his features. “I will make every attempt to locate the rightful owners, of course.”

  She laughed in spite of their predicament. “Come, now. Do you believe you can show people this treasure and expect them to claim only what belongs to them? Are you Normans that blind to human nature?”

  Irritation flashed across his face. “Regent Odo showed me some of the letters. The lists of stolen items were quite detailed. And there are other ways of testing honesty.” He uttered a quick laugh, but she didn’t understand the jest. Just as quickly, he sobered. “But of course we cannot do anything while we remain trapped in here.”

  Kendra couldn’t agree more. While Alain searched for the means to climb toward the air holes in the hope of widening them enough to slip through, she searched closer to the ground for a more readily accessible outlet.

  Their efforts met with no success before the light fled the chamber. She sank onto the lid of a chest, wishing she had brought the cushions.

  At least the dog and its wretched living quarters had seemed to discourage pursuit; small comfort, that. The prospect of being above ground, even if as the outlaws’ prisoner, was looking more attractive by the moment.

  As the gloom deepened, Alain pulled several kneeling pads from the pile where he’d found the crucifix, along with an altar cloth embroidered with gold threads. He pressed the Chi-Rho over his heart for a moment, head bowed, before unfurling the cloth over the kneeling pads, which he’d arranged into the shape of a pallet.

  “I shall stand watch while you rest,” he said.

  “Mayhap later. But…thank you.” His kindness forced tears to her eyes that she prayed he couldn’t see, and it was all she could do to keep a quaver from invading her voice. “I—I’m not tired,” she lied, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Here, then.” She felt the wineskin brushing her arm and opened her eyes to find Alain bent low beside her with his offering. Taking the wineskin with a grateful smile, she shifted over to make room for him atop the chest. “You need to keep up your strength,” he cautioned.

  As the apple-sweet wine soothed her parched throat, she remembered the coarse but kindly Snake, who had told her the same thing.

  That felt like half a lifetime ago.

  A long blink checked her tears. She couldn’t bear having to explain to Alain why she mourned someone he probably had killed.

  He passed her an oatcake, but his hand lingered to clasp hers. “Why did you ask me to kiss you?”

  “What? You didn’t enjoy it?”

  “Very much.” His sigh warmed her neck. “I shall not make you break your vow, Kendra. I give you my solemn word as a knight of Normandy and a member of two kings’ courts.”

  “Two kings?” She twisted, wishing she could see his face better. “William and—who else? Surely not Harold?” The implications of such a suspicious pairing of associations made her mind reel.

  “I spent my early years in King Edward’s court before joining William’s cause.”

  “It still seems strange.”

  “My mother was a Saxon noblewoman and a member of Edward’s London court, but my father was a Norman lord.”

  She chewed her oatcake as she chewed on his admission. Only half Norman, then…so very tempting, but half Norman was still Norman. And she couldn’t recant her vow even though her heart pleaded otherwise.

  After washing the cake down with another mouthful of wine, she asked, “What does your mother think of your newest allegiance?”

  “She doesn’t know.” His shoulders shifted in a sigh. “Or perhaps she does somehow. She died many years ago,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Alain.” She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I am sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I know.” His fingers found her chin. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “My vow to never marry a Norman was my idea. My brother—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “With his final breath, he made me promise to seek happiness. I hold that vow just as sacred as the other.” It was her turn to sigh, overwhelmed by the anguish of memories. “For a moment, in your embrace, I—I was…” Her words collapsed within the trembling of her chin.

  “Kendra, mon amour, nothing would please me more than to make you happy.”

  His lips met hers tenderly. She welcomed his touch, nestling her body closer to his. He kissed her harder, and his tongue thrust deeper. While one hand cupped her cheek, the other skimmed toward her breasts, exploring, caressing, arousing…

  With a supreme effort of will, she stopped him.

  She sucked in a breath, suspecting he would not like what she had to say next.

  “I cannot bed a man I cannot wed.”

  “Sir Robert won’t—”

  She stood and whirled to face him. “Won’t what? Won’t find out? Hah. Some friend you must be if you believe him to be that stupid.” She felt her eyebrows lower as another idea occurred. “Or do you mean that he won’t mind if you opened me up for him? Is that the mission he sent you to accomplish? What do you two take me for, a tavern whore to go spreading my legs for any handsome face to look my way?”

  “No, no.” The whisper sounded no louder than a breeze whiffling through a meadow. “Good Lord, no.”

  The abjectness of his tone lanced her anger. Bending, she reached for his face but encountered the backs of his hands. She traced the strong fingers, knuckles, and tendons, awe welling within her. These hands had fought—and killed—for her to keep her safe. And pure.

  With little effort, she pried them from his face. “You men aren’t the only ones who cleave to honor,” she said quietly but firmly. “But if you know of other ways to make me happy…”

  He took her hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm, sending a tingle up her arm. “I do.” He pushed up her sleeve, and his lips brushed the tender flesh from wrist to elbow. Waves of delight coursed through her.

  “Show me.” The huskiness of her voice betrayed her primal need. An exquisite throbbing assaulted her nethers, and an onslaught of wet warmth battered her sense of honor. “Please.”

  HER QUIET plea woke a mindless, ravening hunger that took all his will to control. God in heaven, he wanted her so damned much! But not if she believed that “Sir Alain” would make a whore of her. He stood, grasping her hands.

  “There is something I must—”

  “Hush.” She freed her hands and reached up to pull his face to hers. In the next breath she kissed him, hard, arching her body against his, delivering a silent invitation he couldn’t refuse.

  He loosened the laces of her bodice. As his fingers worked beneath the neckline of her underdress and tugged it toward her shoulders, he reveled in the softness of her skin.

  Forgive me, Father, for I am about to…

  About to—what? Sin? How could it be a sin to bring enjoyment to another person? A p
erson who had saved his life? A person who had revived feelings that he’d believed to be long dead? A person for whom he would sacrifice his final breath?

  She finished unlacing her bodice and pulled it off. Her belt followed it. He kissed her throat, and she uttered a breathy gasp. Delighted and incited by the sound, he planted more kisses on her neck and the bare ridges of her shoulders. Her breath started coming in slow, soft pants. She wriggled her arms free of all their layers of fabric. The dress and underdress slipped to her waist, and she untied her cloth breastband.

  He cradled the delicate flesh and tested her nipples first with his thumbs, then his lips and tongue. Her breathing quickened and she began to sway against him; she seemed as ready as he felt.

  But he had to be certain.

  He eased to his knees, leaving a trail of kisses down her abdomen and working her dress and underdress past her hips. The fabric slid the rest of the way off and mounded at her feet, leaving only the cloth that bound her loins. His lips continued toward their goal. Her fingers tangled in his hair and kneaded his scalp in time with her hips’ shifting. He reached for the knot of her loincloth.

  She tensed. Her hands gripped his like a vise.

  Though he suspected the answer, he had to ask, “What’s wrong?”

  She shivered and shook her head. Sighing, she let him go and stooped to retrieve her breastband. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I—I just can’t.” She wound the cloth around herself, tied it in place, and picked up the underdress.

  “Because of Sir Robert.” He shifted off his knees and sat, sighing. The rock floor’s chill doused the heat she had ignited within him. “I must confess that I—”

  “Not him. Dragon. When his men brought me to him, he insisted on making sure they hadn’t harmed me. That insistence…”

  “Took a form you didn’t like.” A wave of battle fury shuddered through his body. He clenched his fists to keep it under control.

  “Not exactly. I mean, I did not like it at the time; I was his prisoner and terrified of what he would do next. But you—what you were doing just now made me realize…I did enjoy it a little.” She poked her head and arms through the holes in the underdress and settled it about her with abrupt, angry tugs. “First Dragon, now you. Won’t Sir Robert be pleased to have such a whore as me.” Sighing harshly, she sat on the cavern’s floor, hugged her knees, and bowed her head.