A Knight's Temptation (16 page)

Quickly! Fetch the leeches! Salves. Poultices. Even those may not be enough
.

Aldwin’s eyes narrowed. “I rode to Pryerston Keep the following morning. The guards at the gatehouse refused to let me in.”

“My father was angry with you. He ordered them not to let you in.”

“That, I understand. But the men said Leona Ransley no longer lived there.”

Which was true. “So you assumed I had died?”

“Not at first. I rode home and asked to speak with my father, to find out what had become of you. The day before, he had beaten me. That afternoon, he let me ask my question. Then, without giving me a definite answer, he hit me, told me I had ruined his chances for a profitable alliance with your sire, and ordered me to never again speak of the incident. My mother, also, was furious at the embarrassment I had caused.

“The following dawn, men-at-arms escorted me to a keep many leagues from home, where I began my training to become a page and then a squire.” A rough laugh broke from him. “Since that day, my relationship with my parents was . . . difficult. I preferred to stay away rather than visit. When they learned I had shot de Lanceau—the greatest dishonor in my respected family’s history—they told me never to return home.”

Leona shouldn’t feel the slightest remorse. Still, what parents could be so heartless to their own son? While she and her sire had disagreed on many occasions, she didn’t doubt he loved her.

“In the months after the accident with the bees,” Aldwin went on, “I heard naught of a Lady Leona Ransley at Pryerston Keep. I even asked peddlers, mummers, and musicians who’d journeyed through that part of Moydenshire. They had no word of her.”

“Because I did not go home. The same day I was injured, I was taken in the back of a wagon to my uncle’s castle some distance from Pryerston. My father paid the healers to go with me. Ward went as well.”

“If what you say is true, ’tis no wonder Ward did not answer my letter.”

Aldwin had written to her brother, asking about her? “When the letter arrived at Pryerston,” she said, thinking the likely events through aloud, “my father must have destroyed it. He was furious enough, then, to have done so.”

“Mayhap. Still, I am not convinced by your tale,” Aldwin said. “If you were gravely hurt, why did your sire send you so far from home?”

“My uncle knew of a healer who had treated a man who had fallen into a large hive while harvesting honey. He survived. For weeks, that same woman watched over me.”

“Weeks?” Suspicion still darkened Aldwin voice. Finally, though, she sensed he might be starting to believe her.

“It took much longer for me to fully recover. But the healer was patient. My uncle was kind. My parents visited often, and Ward was at my bedside night and day.” She managed a smile. “He encouraged me to take the horrid potions the woman made me. And, he told me stories, usually about what he had written or drawn in his sketchbook that day.”

Aldwin looked down at the fire. “If that is true, when did you return to Pryerston? Once you were healed?”

“I did not go back until this past spring. You see, once better, I was of an age to begin my tutelage to become a lady.”

He muttered under his breath.

Choosing to ignore him, she said, “There were two other girls, besides myself, who were tutored at my uncle’s keep. After Ward left for another lord’s household, to begin his training to be a squire, I could not imagine going back to Pryerston without him. As part of my duties, I cared for my uncle and aunt’s youngest daughter, who was crippled, until she died. My aunt also came to suffer pains in her joints and needed help with her daily duties. She and I became fast friends and I . . . I could not leave her. When my mother died—she was killed in a fall from her horse—I finally returned home. I have lived at Pryerston ever since.”
Because my father and his servants need me
.

“I see.” Aldwin’s stare bored into her.

Leona moistened her dry mouth. “Now do you believe me? I swear to you, I
am
Lady Leona Ransley.”

***

Without answering, Aldwin stood and walked down toward the river. Setting his hands on his hips, he looked out across the silent water.

Could
Leona Ransley be alive? God’s holy blood.

His head throbbed. His hands, coated in sweat, shook, and he curled them tighter into the folds of his cloak. How many nights after the accident had he lain awake on his pallet amongst the other sleeping pages and squires, fighting overwhelming dread that his actions had caused her death? Tears had stung his eyes and gouged his conscience, but he’d dared not share his anguish with his friends. A true knight would accept his blame. He’d find strength in his pain, learn from his failings, and use that knowledge to excel in his duties for his lord.

When grueling days of training had dragged into months, and still he’d heard no news of Leona, he’d come to accept his worst thoughts must be true. Years passed, and he became a loyal squire to Lord Arthur Brackendale and, after the shooting, to de Lanceau.

During an errand for de Lanceau in northern Moydenshire, when by astonishing chance fate reunited him and Ward again but for a few brief days, Aldwin had intended to ask about Leona. But as Ward lay in the upstairs room of the inn, the fever had held him in a merciless grip; it had dragged his mind through years of his life, forcing his private thoughts—including his love for his sister—from him in disjointed memories.

In Ward’s rare, lucid moments, Aldwin hadn’t managed to mention Leona, in part, because he hadn’t wanted to cause Ward any more anguish. Moreover, he’d had to constantly assure Ward he wouldn’t summon Lord Ransley, that Ward’s return from the East and the reasons why would stay secret until after his passing.

When Ward died, Aldwin had wept for his friend. Knowing he’d never be welcome at Pryerston, Aldwin had written down the details of Ward’s death and sent the letter by messenger; Aldwin had included Ward’s sketchbook. He’d urged Lord Ransley to contact him at Branton Keep if he wanted to know more of Ward’s death—but no reply came.

That part of Aldwin’s life had ended.

Or so he’d thought.

A muffled sigh reminded him of the woman sitting by the fire who might be Leona, if her story was true. By her fighting spirit alone, he might believe she was.

Yet he still had doubts. She’d not given him definite proof, only a convincing sequence of events. When she’d listed what he did to her the day of the accident, she hadn’t mentioned his kiss. A telling omission, for with Ward dead, only Aldwin and Leona Ransley were aware that kiss had happened.

What he did know, without the slightest trace of doubt, was that she made his body hunger. He craved her with each breath, each look, each word. He ached with that craving, which seemed to nurture the lonely desires within him and make him want them all the more.

How could she—one fiery-spirited woman—undermine him so, when he’d worked hard to subdue his impulsive nature with discipline and loyalty?

He sensed her gaze traveling over him, even as he listened for any attempted escape. She’d looked too exhausted to bolt for the dangling rope, but he’d not risk her getting away.

Not when there was too much he didn’t know, such as how she’d got hold of the pendant. Why she’d been so determined to get the ransom. And why, if she really was Lady Leona Ransley, she hadn’t told him so at the tavern.

That, above all, rekindled his anger.

He shoved his hand into his right cloak pocket and withdrew a round piece of amber. His fingers had long ago memorized each of the resin’s bumps and dips. Even without enough light to fully see the memento, he saw the frozen struggle of the bee entombed within. Wings extended, it flew forever in the hard, golden sky.

He rubbed his thumb over the amber before dropping it back into his pocket. As he braced himself to head back to the fire, he thought he knew how to get the truth from her.

***

Leona settled back against a rock, bent her blanket-covered legs, and looped her arms around her knees. The cavern’s silence seemed more smothering and eerie, somehow, since Aldwin strode off toward the water, leaving her alone.

The damp cold seeped into her bare feet and bottom, adding to the chill that seemed to have settled within her, despite her swallows of brandy. She’d told Aldwin her real name. He hadn’t believed her, even though he’d said that if she spoke the truth, he’d help her and those she loved. Even now, as he stood by the water, he looked unapproachable.

With a groan, she dropped her forehead against her arms, her shoulders stiff with fatigue. Her head swam from the liquor, and she shut her eyes. How she wished she hadn’t drunk quite so much. However, she couldn’t take those swallows back now.

Her closed eyes ached. She’d done what she believed was right by stealing the pendant from the baron and Veronique, and would do the same again if given the same choices, for she’d wanted the jewel returned to its rightful owner. When she reached Branton Keep, de Lanceau would hear that from her own lips.

Aldwin, too, must hear the truth, no matter what burdensome memories lay between them. She wanted him to know her reasons, and that she was proud of her work-worn hands, tired garments, and freckles, because they proved she hadn’t given up.

Not on herself.

Not on her father.

She yawned and nestled her cheek against the blanket that smelled faintly of horse.
Stay awake. When Aldwin falls asleep, you can escape
.

Aye, she would keep alert, but she’d use this chance for a quick rest . . .

“Leona.”

Through a sleepy fog, she became aware of a man addressing her. Her awakening senses alerted her to the wool tickling her cheek, the numbness of her arm upon which her head rested, and the smell of burning wood.

Her heavy eyelids flickered.

A gentle nudge on her shoulder. “Leona, wake up.”

Ugh
. She knew that voice.

Lifting her groggy head—and wincing at the cramp in her neck—she saw Aldwin squatting nearby. How had she not heard him return to the fire?

“Go away,” she groused, rubbing the back of her neck.

“You cried out.”

“I did?”

He nodded. “Are you all right?”

“I must have been dreaming. About you.” How delicious that lie sounded.

He didn’t scowl, as she’d expected, but shook his head. Laughter rumbled from him. “Dreaming about me? I had not expected such.”

She hadn’t meant her words to amuse him. “Not a pleasant dream. A nightmare.”

His gaze darkened, and then turned thoughtful. “Pity, that you were not dreaming about my kiss.”

He emphasized “kiss,” as though ’twere important. She scrambled to sharpen her fuzzy mind still cobwebbed by sleep. Had Aldwin guessed that in her naïve youth, she
had
dreamed of his kiss? Or was he hoping to hear her speak highly of his kissing technique?

Ha! He’d wait a long time for her flattery.

His glinting stare challenged her to answer. He clearly expected some kind of reaction from her. She swallowed, trying to think of a cutting reply. None materialized. To her horror—and surely because of the strong brandy—a blush warmed her face.

“God’s teeth!” Leona grumbled. She managed to turn partway from him before he grabbed her blanket-covered arm. Glancing back, she snapped, “Will you leave me alone?”

“Leona—”

“What more can you possibly want from me tonight?”

Even as she spoke the unfortunate words, a shudder snaked through her. His fingers flexed, indicating he’d felt her tremble. If he’d brought up kissing because he intended to force himself upon her—

Regret shadowed his expression. His lips flattened, as though he held back what he’d wanted to say. “All right. I realize you are tired. We will speak more in the morning.”

About kissing? Not likely.

A rasping noise snapped her gaze to the rope trailing on the stone beside him.

“Nay!” she choked.

Before she could bolt, he reached into the blanket and caught her wrist.

If he bound her, how would she flee in the night? She
had
to persuade him not to tie her.

She struggled, fighting the rope coiling around her flesh. “How will I sleep?”

He cinched a knot. “You will. I will only tie this hand. We both know if I do not bind you, you will try to climb up that rope.”

How wretched that he knew her so well! Hoping to divert his suspicions, she rolled her eyes. “Who would be foolish enough to attempt such in the dark?”

Aldwin paused in the midst of securing a second knot. His gaze flicked up to meet hers.

He smiled.

Chapter Eleven

With the rustle of silk, Veronique turned away from Pryerston Keep’s solar window. “Is it done?”

She looked across the chamber drenched in early morning light to Sedgewick hunched over the trestle table; the quill in his hand scratched over a parchment stretched flat between pots of facial cream and candleholders. He grunted in answer to her question, and as she walked near, she saw lines of concentration at his mouth.

Why did writing a letter take so long? Her fingers curled into her gown’s skirt. She hoped he was scribing exactly what she’d told him; he could be writing nonsense, for all she knew, since as a lowborn peasant, she hadn’t learned to read or write—a fact he well knew. Sedgewick seemed too enamored with her, though, to think of betrayal.

She’d best make certain.

Strolling up behind him, she pressed against him and curved her arms around his bulging stomach. With a petulant sigh, she dropped her chin to his shoulder. “You are ignoring me.”

The quill hit the parchment with a loud
tap
. “There.” He dropped the writing instrument to wipe ink from his fingers. “Just as you told me.”

“Exactly?” She nibbled his earlobe, which reeked of sweat.

He giggled. “Exactly. How I would love to see de Lanceau’s face when he reads this letter.”

A wicked laugh broke from her. “As would I.”

Sedgewick’s mouth quivered as he turned to face her. His greedy gaze slid to the unmade bed. “The reward you promised me for writing the letter . . .”