Faerie (14 page)

She sneered. “And you need me to keep yourself alive.”

He sat back a distance, and the taut muscles of his jaw flexed, playing the morning light on the day’s growth of beard.

“I’m no coward, and do not ever question my courage. You and I have a common purpose, whether we wish it or not. If I die in my duty, so be it. The same, I am sorry to say, is true for you. If you find that so onerous, then when the land is stable again, you may go live on any of your other properties. You have some estates in the South, I am told.”

“Bosewood is mine.” She leaned her hand against the scrubby oak at her back to help her stand. She winced, but the pain was not as bad as she had expected.

He nodded. “Then you may stay. But I cannot leave. I must keep the border safe for my king.”

“I do not wish to be married to you. I do not wish for you to touch me.”

“You need not fear that. There will be no heirs born of this marriage. That part of my vow I can keep. But be forewarned: do not place yourself above your husband, even less above your king. You are to be my bride, and if you do not know your place, I will show it to you.”

She glared but said nothing.

He picked up her bundle, then reached a hand to her. “I loosed the horses so they could escape if the wolves came after them, but they might wander. We’d have a long walk without them. The slope on the far side is gentler, and I can carry you down that way.”

“I can do it,” she protested. But when she touched the ground with her foot, she was not so sure. Leonie steadied herself and took a step, then another. Near the cliff, she stared down at the valley below, where her brown palfrey grazed alongside his grey warhorse and a packhorse. “Haps you could bring the horses up here?”

He shook his head. “I have no doubt, wounded or no, you would not be here when I returned.”

“I gave my word.”

“You’ve said nothing. You’ve merely pretended to comply. That does not discount the fact that you, precious bride, are a liar. Come, I’ll help you.”

She flinched at his touch. Yet what could she do? Later, another chance might come. Perhaps the folk of Bosewood hated Normans enough to help her escape.

But what if they really did need her? Life had been hard for the folk of the North since the Normans had come. She could barely remember Bosewood, but she had to go, and he knew it.

Philippe took her arm over his shoulders so she could hobble along. The path she had taken going up looked so much steeper looking down.

“You climbed this in the dark?” she asked.

“I heard you scream. I had no choice. It will be easier now.”

The path soon disintegrated into rough cobble where it steepened—likely it became a rivulet in a storm. Philippe went ahead of her and lifted her over each rough spot. They reached the last low cliff. Philippe lifted her by the waist, and she winced against his touch. Finally, they both stood beside the rushing beck.

Philippe frowned at the rippling water, foamy white in places. “It’s shallower here,” he said. “I’ll carry you across.”

“I can ford it.”

“You will not. I do not want your wound in the water.”

Before she could protest, he swept her up into his arms, stepped into the water, and started over the cobbly streambed. Leonie stiffened as if she might hold herself away from him.

He staggered for his footing, and Leonie stiffened again.

“You might make it easier, precious bride,” he snarled.

“I am not resisting.”

“I’ve held swords more pliable. At least hang on to my neck and lean closer so I can keep my balance, or we’ll both end up sitting in the water.”

She growled and slung her arms about his neck, leaning her body into his with her cheek against his mailed shoulder. Instantly the heady scent of maleness overwhelmed her, bringing back a sudden memory of that dream of the bailey in the foggy night, that vision of his magnificent, manly body and the way he touched her.

She shut down the image. It had been a false dream, a fantasy. He sought only his own interests. All that mattered to him was to please his king.

At last across the stream, he slowly released her legs to touch the sand. He let out a sigh. He must think her heavy as a cow. She sneered. It hadn’t been her idea to be carried.

He whistled for his grey warhorse, and the three horses came running. She nuzzled her palfrey, but her smile faded away as she realized he had brought the animal because he had known he would find her.

Quickly he saddled the horses and strapped the bundles onto the packhorse. He lifted her to the stirrup, something she could have done perfectly well alone, despite her injury. Afoot, he led the train of animals away from the beck on an overgrown track so narrow it could barely accommodate Leonie when she ducked the low branches until they reached a rutted road that was little more than a pack trail.

“De Mowbray has an outpost between here and Bosewood,” he said as he mounted. “We might be able to reach it by nightfall, but I suspect we will have to spend a night in the open.”

“We should go back to Brodin.”

He shook his head. “We are too far away now. Rufus has persuaded your uncle to send your dowry train directly to Bosewood. De Mowbray’s outpost is on the way. There should be a track close by that meets the road to the outpost, and we may be able to intercept the train. Then we can send a man back to Brodin to let your uncle know you are safe.”

“Already you have attached my dowry. I am impressed.”

“Don’t be. Rufus wants me at the castle with no delay.”

Leonie’s nostrils flared. And he always did as Rufus commanded. She was beginning to despise Rufus as much as the rest of the world did.

“A pity you’ll miss the fine wedding your aunt arranged.”

“And I thought you were in such a hurry to be married.”

“Not I. But we have delayed too long already. Malcolm could have crossed into Scotland and started amassing his army against us. A wedding will have to wait until we reach the castle.”

“I cannot spend the night with a man who is not my husband.”

He snorted. “We are betrothed, my dearly beloved, by the king’s command. That is all but the same and you know it. Worry not, though. I’ll even allow you to sleep by yourself, wrapped up in your two cloaks to keep you warm.”

Leonie jerked her gaze away from him and urged her horse onward. That, she knew, was true. There was not a man in all of England or Scotland who would not consider her the Peregrine’s rightful property now. Not even Malcolm was likely to intervene. But one way or another, she’d break free of him after they reached Bosewood. There was still the Summer Land. She would find her way either there or to Scotland.

Or die trying. Another strong possibility.

For hours, Philippe had ridden beside her, largely in silence, and they stopped only to water the horses and to relieve themselves in nearby bushes. The last time they had stopped, Leonie had retrieved a bone comb from her bundle, and since then, as they rode, he had watched her unbraid her hair and comb strands around her fingers into impossibly long ringlets that hung past the saddle.

With each stroke, each long curl, he found himself thinking of nothing else. His fingers fretted with the need to be woven through that silken gold. He could not deny her hair was outrageously glorious. The rest of her might be odd, from those
amazingly long legs that gave an enticing swing to her gait to the deep green eyes that made him squirm as if she invaded his very thoughts. But the golden hair was beyond compare.

It mattered not. He was in perfect control of himself. He would ignore her.

They rode on. She took up another long hank and combed through it, sleeking out the tangles, wrapping and combing it about her fingers, longer, longer, longer, all the way to the end, then tossing it back over her shoulder.

His hands knotted around Tonerre’s reins.

She parted off another hank and began again.

“Cease this constant fiddling with your hair,” he grumbled. “Put up your hood.”

Her hands paused in the combing action. “Why?”

“I cannot abide your constant primping.”

“I am not primping. I am combing out the tangles, as I have had no other chance today.”

“Then braid it.”

“It must first be combed out. There is little else to do while we ride.”

“Braid it or pull up your hood.”

Her lip curled. “If I do not?”

“You vex me, lady. Murder comes to mind.”

He had meant it as a joke, a lame sort of sarcasm aimed at the absurdity of her accusations against him. But she jerked back. She stopped combing and flipped her wild hair back over her shoulders, and her haughty, narrow nose rode high.

Saints in Heaven and demons in Hell! She might fool everyone else on this earth, but surely she did not think she could persuade him of her lies and false acting.

Her long back was so rigid her tempting, round breasts jutted. Her eyes blazed as she focused her gaze straight ahead. She made no move either to braid the errant mop of curls or to hide
it beneath her hood. And it was as enticing to him as if she had bared her breasts.

His jaw muscles worked with the ferocity and fervor of ropes hoisting great stone building blocks to build a curtain wall. What was going on in that head? Either she was angry at being caught in her scheme or she was demented. She gave every appearance of believing her own lies, even though it was nonsense.

Did she believe it? Damned if he knew. What if she really did?

Could she have another motive, not marriage? Vengeance for some imagined slight, perhaps his lack of interest in her? Maybe she had expected Rufus to draw and quarter him for daring to defile the king’s ward, and instead found herself shackled for life with the very man she hated. That would make two of them bound together in hatred, when each would as soon hoist the other on a petard and sling him over a castle wall.

He hadn’t thought of that before. Haps she was not besotted with him, but hated him instead.

Or perhaps it was fear she hid. He had seen too many men in battle not to know they covered fear with rage.

That changed everything.

“I
T WAS A
poor jest,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Leonie startled, then remembered she had made up her mind not to react to him. “Why would you think murder a jest? I see nothing funny about it.”

“Agreed. It was not funny. But it was also not a threat.”

She leaned back her head and rolled her eyes. “Odd that it sounded like one. No apology for assault or a forced marriage that deprives a woman of her property, but the man apologizes for a bad joke.”

He rubbed his forehead and frowned. “We do disagree. Nonetheless, I ask your forgiveness.”

She frowned. One ought to forgive when asked. But no one had ever done her such harm. The ache in her head still pounded from what he had done to her, barely days before, and he ignored that? How stupid did he think she was?

Leonie tossed her head, knowing it made her hair fly about and irritate him. “I cannot imagine why you think I should want you for a husband. What do you have, after all? Are you the powerful earl of some mighty demesne? I think not. Nor is it your great wealth.”

“Aye. Hardly enough to incite greed. I have little more than a few estates in Normandy, enough only to support my needs. All else has been given over to my brother.”

“Surely, then, I must be overwhelmed by your charm, kindness, generosity.”

“You mock me, lady.”

“Possibly so, since you possess none of those better qualities. I’ll give it that you do have a handsome face, but I can’t see what use that is. A detriment, in fact.”

“Why is that?”

“What good is a handsome face to a wife? It cannot furnish food for the table nor a roof over her head. An ugly man could at least be put out to the field to scare away the crows.”

His brown brows lifted in high arcs. “Or in defending the castle. He might add only a glower and a deep, throaty growl to chase away his enemies.”

“There you have it. A handsome face is of no use at all. Therefore, Sir Philippe le Peregrine, you cannot give me a single reason I would have desired to marry you.”