Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (11 page)

They strode toward each other and stopped a mere yard apart. Though Timothy had stood eye to eye with her throughout much of their childhood, he now towered over her.

If for only one moment he had spotted love, even the warmth of friendship upon her determined features, Timothy might have surrendered and swept her into his arms. Instead Merry stood ready to pounce, anger ablaze in her eyes. Hard eyes, despite the soft gown that clung to her feminine curves. A part of him had wished to face her alone, in the woods, with no one the wiser. But she might have fought back, or escaped, or worse yet, talked him into one of her insane schemes.

They took slow steps, circling around each another like two animals poised to attack. Merry Ellison. Indeed a ghost from his past. Though his heart thrilled at the sight of her, she appeared to consider him an adversary. And a worthy adversary she was, a force to be reckoned with.

Merry managed to peer down her delightful slim nose at him.
It seemed an eternity passed before she spoke. “I should have known. You shall make your fortune from me yet.”

Her comment struck his heart like a poleax. Surely she knew him better than that. But years had passed. What did they really know about each other anymore? He must convince her that he meant no harm, that his greatest hope was to protect her while still finding a way to administer justice to the ghosts.

She laughed, a low, bitter laugh, which stole the prettiness from her otherwise striking face. He would have sworn he had seen every emotion known to mankind flit through her doe-brown eyes at some point during their many summers of play. But never before had he seen such disdain. Such disgust.

“When I saw you with Wyndemere, I thought, surely not. Surely Timothy would never turn a king’s man. But here you are, doing his bidding.” She bowed low to the ground, sweeping her hand over her head in a mocking display. “Long live King John.”

Her fear and rejection he had handled with grace all those years ago, but this was too much. He clenched his jaw and steeled his heart against her. He could not allow himself to be swayed toward her rebellion. He would not turn against the king, God’s appointed ruler. Such choices ended in tragedy. Nor would he risk her spewing treason in the presence of Bradbury and White. “You may all wait outside. I would speak to our . . . guest in private.”

Behind him, he heard his guards depart, but he never took his eyes off of the volatile Merry. She glanced to the doorway, then to the window, but even given her bizarre tumbling abilities he recalled from childhood, there was no means of escape.

The maid still sat discreetly in the corner.

“You may go as well,” he instructed.

At that she stood, her plump face turning pink as she wrung
her hands. “Oh, I don’t think ’tis proper. Our guest, she is a lady. No common trollop, this one here. Perhaps I should stay.”

Timothy pressed his temple in frustration. He had brought Merry to the castle in hopes of exerting some sort of control over the situation. But perhaps he had made a mistake.

“You may go, Matilda.” Merry crossed to the chair and took a seat—in that subtle and quiet way denying Timothy’s authority over her. She waved a hand to the maid. “We shall be fine. No doubt your master wishes to question me in private. Off with you, before he rallies the king against us both.”

The maid looked to Timothy and then to her newly assigned mistress and back again. She shot him a warning glare before walking out the door and closing it behind her.

He stalked toward Merry and dug his fists into his hips. “A king’s man? Is that what you think me? But if you insist—better a king’s man alive and well than a traitor dead in the grave.”

She gasped. “How dare you speak of my father in that way? He was no traitor. No man loved England more than he.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he regretted his rash words.

He rubbed his hand over his face, swiping away the fierce expression that no doubt covered it and allowing his confusion and concern to show instead. “I am sorry. I did not mean it that way. We all do the best we can in troubling times. This is not how I intended to greet you, Lady Merry.”

She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and stared at the wall beyond him. “I am just plain Merry Ellison now.”

So true, not unlike him.

Kneeling before her, he took her hands in his own. “If I had not seen you with my own eyes, I would have never believed you might be alive. I never dared to hope. I mourned you every day for two years. I do not wish to fight with you now.”

So Timothy had decided to switch tactics. Turn sweet and conciliatory of a sudden. His warm skin upon her hands might give her a pleasant shiver, but he was fooling no one. This man had kidnapped her for his own selfish gain, had insulted her beloved papa on top of it. He had never loved her. He had merely seen her as a pleasant path to a bright future.

Though it might be the smarter maneuver, Merry was not ready to play at such games and niceties. Not while the flame of her anger still burned so bright. She snatched her hands away. “I should have guessed if anyone would find me, it would be you. You taught me every trick I know. A true friend to the end. Thank you ever so much.”

He flinched at her words. “Must you choose to think so ill of me?”

“Did you never love another, as you promised? Or have you a wife and child awaiting you in the castle proper?” She willed her eyes to spit the fire from her chest and leave him singed.

“Of course not! I have loved no one else. I swear I have done nothing to earn your disdain. I have told no one your identity—only that I found a woman lost and confused in the woods. Where have you hidden for the past two years?”

Unwilling to give him any weapon to later turn against her, she merely glared down at him as he continued to kneel before her chair.

“Are you with the ghosts? Are you their prisoner?”

Ah, he offered her the perfect alibi, but she would not blame the children. Not ever. “If you thought me a prisoner, why did you come to me as captor rather than rescuer?”

He held his hands out toward her. “I did not know what to think. Only that we needed to speak, and that I wanted you
safe here with me. I lost you once—I could not bear to lose you again.”

Safe? Ha! She had never been in greater danger in her outrageously dangerous life. Surely he did not expect her to believe that. Although . . . something in his voice rang sincere.

“You are one of them, then?”

Still she did not deign to answer, merely crossed her arms over her chest.

“You fancy yourself a noble outlaw, but there is no nobility in thievery,” he said.

She brushed a piece of lint from her gown, as if she had not a care in the world. “If I were an outlaw, although I admit to nothing of the sort, could you blame me? The very fact that I live and breathe has somehow become an offense in the realm of King John. Or should I say the realm of King Louis, for half of John’s nobles are now outlawed and following a new king. Perhaps I am the loyal subject and you are the one outside of the law.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” Timothy raked his fingers through his hair. He sank to his haunches and turned his gaze to the window. A mask slipped over his features. “The pope stands by King John. He is God’s anointed ruler.”

She hardened her glare. “King John bought the pope.”

Timothy’s head fell forward. He shook it slowly from side to side. “And now you will speak against the church as well as the king.”

“Someone must. I am no longer afraid of anything, leastwise the wrath of some fanciful God. I have suffered enough. I make my own way in the world now.”

He returned his gaze to her, searching her eyes as if he longed to see her soul. “Merry. Turning against the king . . . that I admit to understanding. But turning against God . . . heresy atop of treason . . . I never would have guessed it of you.”

She could not bear to witness the disappointment in his eyes. The eyes of the boy she had once loved. Looking beyond him again, she lifted her chin. He thought her an outlaw—fine, she was. He thought her a thief—fate had turned her such. And now he thought her a heretic as well—so be it.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleaded. “Tell me how to help. You have been to hell and back, and no one understands that more than me.” He stood to his feet and began to pace the room. “Though you were unaware, my heart has taken the journey with you. Help me to help you.”

While she wished to hold on to her anger, her instincts bade her believe him. She swallowed hard as she digested the enormity of his statement, then whispered, “You cannot help me.”

“Say that you were held prisoner by the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. Assist me in finding their leaders and earn a pardon from the king for this favor. No harm shall come to the women or children, I swear to you.”

She closed her eyes against his plea. If only matters were so simple, she might have been tempted, but she could never explain. Never tell him that the children were the ghosts and she their leader. Her men might yet rescue her, but Timothy could do nothing.

She would tell him not a word and at least protect him in his ignorance of the truth.

She braced her heart along with her nerves and tilted her head as if in confusion. “Of what ghosts do you speak?”

He worked his jaw from side to side, an action she recalled precipitated his full-fledged outburst of temper in the old days. But this new Timothy pulled himself under control and said through clenched teeth, “This is getting us nowhere. Think long and hard upon what I have asked you. When I return I hope to find you in a more . . . agreeable mood. I am your last chance.”

And with that he strode out the door.

Back in his room, Timothy swiped a clay pitcher from his desk and sent it crashing to the floor. He could not bear the thought of letting her slip through his fingers once again. Much as his future slipped through his fingers even now. No, he had waited too long last time and let her out of his grasp when he might have married her. Might have saved her. He could never make such a mistake again. His heart twisted in his chest at the thought.

Merry! Merry!
Why must she treat him so? Surely she must never have loved him. Not even the little bit he had convinced himself she did. Her kiss had meant nothing. Nothing but a thank you for saving her from marriage to his sorry self.

Ugh! He kicked the shards of the pitcher into the wall.

Had he made a dreadful mistake? This time he had moved quickly and decisively, but to little avail. He might have taken her to his family’s home, but he dared not expose his parents to the danger of the thieves in their poorly defended manor, nor to the danger of King John thinking them subversive.

If Merry would not cooperate, would not allow him to help her, he knew not what he would do. Perhaps he could yet round up the ghosts if they had not guessed the reason for her disappearance and slipped deeper into the forest. But if she would not deny them, she would be hanged alongside the thieves.

No, he could not risk it. Lady Merry Ellison might indeed be the heartless chit she portrayed herself to be, but his own heart still beat warm in his chest. And he could not let her die.

Leastwise at his own hands.

He held those hands before him now, studying the fine lines and callouses from his feather pen. His hands were tied just as surely as hers had been earlier that day. He could not simply let
her go only to put herself in jeopardy again. Wyndemere would not rest until he saw every last one of the ghosts hang.

Wherein lay justice in this situation? He could hardly tell anymore. Merry should not be a criminal, wanted by King John. If not for the ruthless man and his fickle proclamation, prompting the deaths of her family, she would be Timothy’s wife of two years. Perhaps the mother of his child.

A knock sounded at the door.

Timothy gripped the edge of a table. “Who is it?”

“The steward. I need to clarify some issues with you.”

He growled to himself. Surely he deserved a moment of peace. “Come in.”

Bainard entered with his typical arrogant swagger and got directly to the point. “The . . . woman in the tower. What is to be done for her meals? Prisoner fare?”