Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03 (8 page)

That slip of the tongue would cost her dearly. The last thing she wanted was Swen watching her more closely;

those pale eyes already saw too much. Beneath his affable when a sharp mind—and a dangerous man. She’d been a fool to underestimate him.

Exhaustion made her mind too dull to focus on anything important now. Instead, she badgered Swen for more information about his home. Finally, his deep voice rambling in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

Swen looked down at the girl, her face resting back against his shoulder, her body slumped against him with the boneless ness of utter exhaustion. She surprised him.

As he’d told her, she was nothing like those idiots had led him to believe. Perhaps everything else they’d told him was a lie, too.

They expected him to accept her as a convent-bred lady, escaped from the abbey to run off with a Norman churl? It hadn’t rang true even before he met her. And now that he had… He didn’t believe a word of it.

Llywelyn wanted her out of Dolwyddelan, Swen knew that much. She hadn’t wanted to leave. And the look in her eyes—and something in her voice when she said his name—pointed toward the Dragon as the man Llywelyn wanted to separate her from.

For her protection, or the Dragon’s?

This grew more interesting by the moment.

Swen shifted the girl in his arms, savoring the way she nestled against him. If she belonged to the Dragon, he had no intention of enjoying more than this. A pity, but he didn’t poach on another man’s territory.

Especially the Dragon’s.

Lord Ian could be on their trail even now. Swen’s blood heated in anticipation. This situation might prove to be far more enjoyable than he’d imagined.

He gazed at Lily’s face once more. Soft skin, vivid eyes, hair of flame.

And courage.

The Dragon would find them.

Swell smiled. He loved a good fight.

Before dawn, Ian stood outside Lily’s chamber, key in hand. Fortunately for him, the man on guard at the foot of the stairs owed him a favor, one he’d never imagined he’d bother to collect. But he needed to see Lily, without Llywelyn’s learning of it. This was the only way.

He unlocked the door and slipped in quietly. Flickering lamplight cast an eerie glow over the small room, but nowhere did he see Lily.

Hell and damnation. He swiftly drew the door closed and leaned his forehead against the planks. Llywelyn had done it again.

Heart pounding hard with frustration and concern for Lily’s safety, he stalked over to the pallet and picked up the clothes tossed carelessly aside. At least she’d gotten a chance to change, hopefully into something better. He forced himself to calm, and looked about the room with more care.

A Wooden tray lay near the door, bread crumbs scattered around it on the floor. Her shirt had been torn, but it didn’t appear to have been ripped from her body, thank God. A square of the fabric was missing. A bandage? He searched the area around the pallet, but he didn’t find any blood.

However, he did notice several blade marks in the walls. The wood appeared fresh-cut. Lily didn’t have a knife, not even an eating knife, though these cuts had been made by something larger, thrown with force, to judge by the depth.

Ian clenched his fist around the remains of Lily’s shirt.

He knew of only one man with the habit of tossing his knife.

Swen Siwardson.

Had that arrogant Viking bastard been in this room—with Lily?

Siwardson had arrived at Llywelyn’s court scarce three months ago, sent by his father to handle trade negotiations.

Almostimmediately he’d wormed his way into the prince’s favor.

Ian felt no jealousy over that fact, but he didn’t trust the Viking’s constant jovial manner. Unless the man was daft, how could he be so happy all the time? His size and strength, combined with his unusual looks and good humor, made him near as popular with the ladies as the Dragon, though he took more advantage of that popularity than Ian ever would. He couldn’t fault the man for that.

But what business did he have in this chamber with Lily? He couldn’t have gotten in without a key. Ian could see Llywelyn’s hand in this. Clearly, his overlord intended to take no chances with the Dragon’s obedience. If Lily wasn’t there, she couldn’t tempt him away from his duty.

Or so Llywelyn thought.

Since he’d come to realize that Lily reminded him of Gillian, his mind hadn’t stopped conjuring up reasons to explain the resemblance. Every explanation that came to mind was far too bizarre to contemplate. He hoped Dal would discover something useful. Llywelyn’s actions only served to reinforce the feeling that there was more to

Lily’s tale than he’d first thought.

He had to find her.

By the time the sun crept up over the horizon, Ian had left Dolwyddelan. He took a company of six men with him, including the two he’d chosen to train the previous afternoon. They knew next to nothing about fighting, but that wouldn’t matter. They had good hearts, and already their loyalties lay with him.

As soon as they traveled out of sight of the castle, he parted company with his men. They would go on to l’Eau Clair, his cousin’s keep in the marches, while he searched for Lily. Instinct told him that the answers to Lily’s questions could be found there.

Cautious investigation before he left revealed that no mounted men had left Dolwyddelan in the night, and that Siwardson was nowhere to be found. Apparently the Viking had spent the night away from the castle. A convenient excuse. But Ian felt certain Siwardson had taken Lily.

Now he needed to discover where they’d gone.

He backtracked to the outskirts of Dolwyddelan. Si-ward son must have had horses waiting somewhere outside.

Hopefully they’d left some sign or trail he could follow.

He searched for a while before he found the faint hoofprints of one horse, leading toward the forest from a remote area beyond the craggy outcropping that formed Dolwyddelan’s foundation. Lacking any other trail, he headed into the woods.

Unfortunately, there was no snow on the ground, although there were enough soil-covered areas to show an occasional hoof mark. As the day wore on, Ian couldn’t help but be impressed with the other man’s ability to travel without leaving a well-marked trail. But he still managed to follow along.

He made good time, considering the terrain and the lack of clues, but he didn’t feel he’d gained much ground when he paused in midafternoon. They must have left the castle in the middle of the night to have so large a lead. He had an advantage, however; Siwardson’s mount carried a double load. Soon, he hoped, he’d begin to catch up to them.

Ian’s lack of sleep the past two nights began to catch up with him as the day faded into twilight. He paused to eat, and to rest his mount. As soon as the moon rose high enough to light his way, he continued on. Siwardson would have to stop eventually, if only to give his overburdened horse a rest. That might allow him to catch up with them.

He wondered how Lily fared. He’d tried not to think of her too often as the day passed. Only by detaching himself from this venture could he hold the frantic feeling pushing at his heart and mind at bay. As he’d done with so many of the tasks Llywelyn set him to, he treated it as a necessary duty, distancing himself from the reality of it.

It was the only way he would succeed.

But as he rode through the shadowy trees, pausing everY so often to look for signs they’d passed this way, Ian found himself thinking of Lily more and more, until she filled his thoughts. How would she look in ladies’ garb, her hair brushed smooth? He could not forget the way she’d clung to him in the cell, her lips so soft beneath his. Their bodies had fit together perfectly, her height a match for his. When he held her in his arms, her head had just reached his shoulder.

She’d felt as if she belonged there.

Would the Viking try to kiss her, or make too free with his hands? He didn’t fear that Siwardson would harm her.

By all accounts, he loved women. That was the problem.

Ian didn’t want him to so much as look at Lily.

The thought made his blood rage with a fire completely foreign to him. But even though he had never felt it before, he knew what it was.

Jealousy.

He urged his mount to move faster.

The trees grew thick in this part of the forest, making the going rough. He dismounted and led his horse. When he heard a noise different from the usual night sounds, he stopped. He stood listening, and heard it again. Voices, to his left. He tied the reins to a sturdy tree and, drawing his sword, continued on foot.

He walked With care through the sparse underbrush, scarcely able to see in the faint moonlight that filtered through the towering firs. Firelight flickered from behind a granite outcropping. He crept around the rocks and stood on the edge of a small clearing.

Lily sat leaning against a saddle, wrapped in his cloak, her bound hands resting in her lap. She appeared to be unharmed, though even in this light she looked exhausted.

Siwardson sat several feet away from her, his knife, as always, in his hand.

“I wondered how long before you’d find us,” he said, staring across the fire. He didn’t seem surprised—or concerned—that the Dragon had located his prey.

Ian stepped into the clearing.

“You did well at hiding your trail. I compliment your skill. And you traveled far, considering your burden.”

Siwardson laughed, the sound grating on Ian’s nerves.

“She is no burden, as I’m sure you know, milord. I find her..” delightful.”

Lily struggled to her feet, heart pounding wildly. The Dragon looked like an avenging angel, the firelight shining off his dark hair, and his sword held ready at his side.

She had prayed Lord Ian would find her, though she’d had no reason to believe he would come after her.

But why didn’t he do something?

“Do you two intend to stand here all night exchanging pleasantries? If you’ve come for me, Dragon, I’m quite ready to leave” She took a step toward him.

Swen stood and moved to her side in one swift motion, his knife discarded for a sword. Gone was the jovial giant, in his place a steely-eyed warrior. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her close.

“I think not. Your prince has charged me to deliver you to your new home, milady. I am sorry. I have no quarrel with Lord Ian, but I cannot allow you to go with him.”

“I don’t understand why Llywelyn wishes me locked away, but I’ve done nothing to warrant such treatment.

You’ve been kind to me, sir.” She looked Swen straight in the eyes, hoping he’d see the truth in her claim—and how important this was to her.

“Please, let me go.”

She could have sworn he wanted to do as she asked, but it was also clear to her that he would not. Instead, he released her arm, then pushed her behind him, out of the light.

Lily tumbled to the ground, then scrambled to her knees in time to see the two men move to face each other near the fire.

“What say you, Dragon?” Swell asked, a grin splitting his tanned face. The flames lent a devilish glow to his eyes, washing away any hint of levity.

“Will you permit me to carry out your master’s bidding? No harm shall come to her within my care—you have my word.”

The Dragon raised his sword and held it ready.

“I believe you, Viking. But she will not be in your charge forever. And who can say what will happen then?” He kicked aside the small pile of firewood. Sticks landed in the fire and sent a plume of sparks flying.

“I’ll take her with me now. Will you allow it?”

“Nay!” Swen cried as he swung his sword in a wide arc.

The Dragon met him blow for blow. The blades sang with a metallic ring, accompanying both men’s grunts of exertion.

Lily tried again to stand, but her cloak and skirts had tangled round her legs. She crawled backward to the edge of the clearing, unwilling to miss a moment of the battle raging before her. She doubted they even knew she was there, for she could see that all their attention was focused on the task at hand.

She quickly learned that swordplay was hard, dirty, graceless work. They used their feet as often as their blades, shoving at each other, kicking and pushing—anything to force the opponent to the ground. Swell still grinned widely, as though the entire proceeding were a huge joke, but the Dragon’s features showed nothing but determination.

He would win, or die trying.

The Dragon kicked at Swen’s feet and knocked him to the ground, but Swen managed to grab his leg and pull him down, as well. The two men rolled across the clearing, hands at each other’s throats. They landed in the edge of the fire, sending off the stink of scorched wool, then fell, writhing together, on the other side of the clearing.

Lily couldn’t tell which man had the upper hand, and since her wrists were still bound, there was little she could do to help the Dragon. Then she remembered Swen’s knife.

When he unsheathed his sword and stepped close to her, he’d flipped the dagger aside. He hadn’t had a chance to pick it up; it must still be on the ground. Keeping an eye on the struggling men, she scuffled around the fire on her knees until she found the knife.

She grabbed it, then somehow propped it between her feet and held it tight while she rubbed the bindings against the blade. Thank God ‘twas sharp, she thought as she felt the rope give. Though her hands felt numb, she shoved her skirts out of the way, snatched up the knife and headed for the men.

Both were bloodied and dirt-smeared. She reached them just as the Dragon punched Swen in the face twice, in rapid succession. The Viking’s eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground.

Ian flopped to the dirt beside him, breathing heavily through his mouth. Blood trickled from a cut above his left eye, and his lower lip looked bruised and swollen.

His movements clumsy, he untied a pouch from his belt and tried to open it.

“Let me,” Lily offered, dropping to her knees beside him.

“There’s rope in it.” His voice sounded odd, no doubt muffled by his split lip.

She held the bag up to the light and peered inside until she located the cord. He took it and flipped Swen onto his stomach.