The Crimson Lady (12 page)

Aye, in those moments next to the water’s edge he’d come to an astounding realization about Fiona. Crimson Lady or nay, he’d been forced to accept that she was a woman first. A woman with thoughts, feelings, and a past that had helped to forge her soul in ways that were unknown to him. Something inside him had twisted to awareness in that instant, allowing him to see the truth, the reality of what the world must feel like from where she stood, and he’d been rocked to his core with the knowledge.

Shame filled him at the memory of all the nameless
women he’d bedded during his foreign travels, all of the favors he’d enjoyed without any real thought, the same as every man at whose side he’d battled for the king. But, unlike some of those knights, he’d never taken a woman against her will—was sickened at the very idea of rape. However, it seemed to him now that what he’d done with those women was almost as terrible; until today, he’d always contented himself with the belief that the act of bedding a female who freely sold her body for profit was no more a sin or crime against her than buying a tapestry from the one who’d woven it, or purchasing a cask of beer from the brewer who’d made it.

Now he sensed it was not so simple as that.

He knew only that when he’d looked into Fiona’s eyes and saw the vast emptiness there, it was as if he’d plunged headfirst again into the icy embrace of the pond. It had slammed a fist of agony into his gut, and he’d suddenly wanted more than anything to take that darkness away and fill it with something light and good. His body had continued to burn with desire for her. It burned even now. But he had resisted its demand, realizing that he couldn’t go through with his intention to bed her, any more than he could have grabbed her, thrown her to the ground, and forced himself on her had she been a virgin maid and pure.

Rolling back toward Fiona, Braedan reached over to brush a tendril of hair from her brow, studying the calm beauty of her features as she slept. She was an enigma to him, complicated and compelling, the quiet dignity beneath the surface of her calling out to him in a way no mere carnal temptation could. That she was also a creature of lush sensuality couldn’t be denied; the throb of
his erection, as he lay here next to her, confirmed the truth of her physical allure without a doubt—and yet he knew that his attraction to her stemmed from so much more….

With a breathy sigh, Fiona shifted in sleep, turning to face him as well. Her arm lifted to stroke along his side, coming to rest, finally, draped with drowsy weight at his waist. He held his breath, stiffening. A wordless murmur escaped her lips as she snuggled closer, tucking her head under his chin so that the soft and sleep-relaxed contours of her mouth brushed against his throat, exposed at the opening of his shirt. The moist warmth of her exhalations caressed him, and he knew the tender agony of her body’s sweet curves pressed so perfectly against his.

His groin ached with renewed throbbing, the hardness there almost unbearable. But he was loath to disturb her rest by moving away. It was that alone, he told himself, which barred him from shifting from her, and not his own desire to continue holding her close. With a quiet groan of surrender, Braedan lifted his arm to embrace her in kind, cupping her head with his hand, his fingers absently stroking back the silken hair that fell onto her cheek. When he brushed a kiss across her brow, it was to savor the warm sweetness of her skin against his lips. The confusion that had been muddling his mind and twisting in his heart eased for a moment as they lay entwined together, joined with a kind of innocent intimacy he’d never known or hoped for before with any woman. Nay, not even with Julia…

His heart twisted at the thought of his former betrothed, a lady of unsurpassed virtue. He still kept her
miniature with his small pack of belongings, taking it out only rarely, when he thought he could bear the sting of looking on it and reminding himself of all he’d lost. She had been the perfect bride for him, he who was the heir to the de Cantor legacy—the kind of woman he’d yearned all his life to call his own. But their betrothal had been dissolved after his return home and the clash with Draven that had followed, her family appalled by the sordid events, enough so that they’d petitioned the king to break the long-arranged union.

He hadn’t blamed them, really. Didn’t blame them now. What else were they to do? He no longer deserved such a lady as Julia; he’d have been the first to say it. Not he, an outlaw and soon-to-be-thief, a man damaged, perhaps past repair. And yet he couldn’t stop himself from hoping that he might still salvage something, once Elizabeth was rescued, Richard brought to safety, and the charges that had named him an outlaw settled. Aye, perhaps…

Resolving to push aside such painful thoughts for the moment, Braedan sighed and tried to settle into the lulling rhythms of breathing that would lead to sleep. But before he drifted off, he stroked his fingers once more along the exquisite silk of skin at Fiona’s temple. Trailing them gently down her cheek, he let his hand come to rest at the back of her neck, captivated by this unusual creature—this fallen woman—who had turned his world around in such unexpected ways.

He gazed at her in silence, uncertain about where all of this would lead them, but knowing only that his instincts told him to have a care with her. To remember that inside the sought-after beauty’s tempting form beat a woman’s tender heart.

“Aye, slumber in peace, my Crimson Lady; dream of happy things,” he murmured softly, his breath brushing her cheek in the darkness, “and know that I will be here with you still when dawn breaks again.”

I
t was a fine day for a robbery,
Fiona thought. She breathed deeply of the morning air, relieved that the clear night had given way to a cool, rosy dawn, with the promise of sun later. Such mild weather would entice the kind of nobles and overfed churchmen on whom they usually preyed to set out on a jaunt to London. By necessity, some would take the main road that wound around Wulmere Forest, and when they did, she, Will, and the boys would be waiting for them.

“Are you ready, lass?” Will called to her from where he stood next to her mount, adjusting the broken saddle that would serve as part of the ruse they hoped to arrange that day to make their plan a success.

“As ready as I can be, with three years’ break from the skill.” Fiona forced a smile for him, trying to quell the sudden clenching feeling in her middle as she stuffed a dry loaf of bread and some cheese into a sack. Braedan
remained silent where he stood next to her, likely as anxious as she about participating in the day’s coming events. She’d awoken this morning nestled in his arms, surprised at how comfortable she felt there; warmth filled her even now, remembering his gentleness to her last night. But he’d betrayed no acknowledgment of it in his conversations thus far today. In fact, he was all but avoiding her gaze now as he donned a long, dark cloak of the sort they were all wearing.

Too soon, it seemed, it was time to start out. As she walked over to Braedan’s mount, Fiona eyed the others who would be participating in the affair today: Will led the way, followed by old Grady, a burly tinker-turned-bandit she remembered from years past, and reliable Rufus Dinkins, her brother’s most trusted right-hand man. She, Braedan, and a newer outlaw about thirteen years old, a lad named Nate, would round out the group.

Palms damp, she allowed Braedan to help her up onto his steed in front of him, her long absence from all of this making her jittery. The purposefully broken saddle on her own mount made riding with Braedan necessary, though the arrangement was complicated by the long train on the gown she wore, chosen from Will’s stash of confiscated, rich garments. It was a noblewoman’s finely made bliaud of deep green, and she’d stitched it last night so that now it fit her perfectly, presenting an enticing yet still noble appearance; the gown, combined with the brown silk mantle and golden circlet Will had added, would go far to create the illusion of gentility they intended for their ruse.

“How long, do you think, until we reach the spot where we will perpetrate our crimes?” Braedan murmured into her ear, interrupting her thoughts.

His powerful arm gripped her tight to him as he urged his mount to a canter to keep up with Grady’s steed, but the pleasant sensation of his embrace was drowned under a flare of annoyance at his words. “You must stop considering what we do a crime, Braedan,” Fiona chided, twisting to look at him. “There is much that compels us to it, including the need to fend off starvation for the children we left back there. If you hesitate at a crucial moment because of misplaced sensibilities, then the plunder we seek will be lost, and the potential for someone to be injured or killed increased.”

“It is difficult to think of robbing unsuspecting travelers in any other way,” he answered tightly. “Nearly impossible, actually, considering that I spent my life prior to these past months doing what I could in my own way to prevent similar activities.”

“How wonderful for you, considering that you lived so many years of your virtuous and noble life far from here, away from the corruption of the—”

“I never said I was virtuous
or
noble,” Braedan broke in, his tone even darker than before. “I said only that I tried to uphold the law.”

“Aye, well England’s law is as flawed and corrupt as the powerful men who created it,” she retorted, her frustration glossing over his rebuttal. “It can drive many to take desperate measures if they hope to survive the other side of it. After what happened to you upon your return to England, I would think that you, of all people, would appreciate the truth of that.”

Braedan remained silent then, and Fiona pursed her lips, finding it difficult to stanch the swell of resentment that rose in her at his seeming refusal to understand the complexity of their position.

“What you’ve said is the truth as you see it, Fiona,” Braedan said at last, speaking carefully after his silence, “but you must understand that it is different for me. I have never fought for a purpose that I did not believe to be just and right; now that I am faced with committing an act that is neither, I cannot deny that it will be difficult to do so—to maim or possibly kill someone—for the sake of a few coins.”

Fiona’s irritation waned at the quiet struggle she heard in his voice. She twisted to look at him again, her softer instincts rising up. “Try to remember that what we do
will
ultimately be noble in cause, Braedan, undertaken in order to help you find Elizabeth. There is a good chance that you will never need use your blade against anyone; those we intercept usually cooperate, once they see it is easier to do so than to fight.”

She squeezed his hand where it was wrapped around her waist, savoring the feeling of his chest pressed against her back. But his troubled look remained, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“It will be all right. Truly, it will,” she murmured in a last attempt to reassure him, and at that he shifted his gaze to hers for one brief moment. She saw a flare of something in the depths of his eyes, then—a kind of gratitude for what she was trying to do for him, she thought—before he jerked his head in a nod and pressed her closer. With a sigh, she looked down the road; both of them remained silent for the rest of the journey, lost in their own thoughts of what the next hours might bring.

When they arrived at the spot where the robbery would be staged, it was late morning, and the sun shone hot, soaking into Braedan’s back like the blast from a
smithy’s furnace. He felt edgy and longed to remove the cloak Will had given him as part of their disguise, but he resisted the urge, resolving to see the day through without mistake. If luck held, their take would be substantial. And though what they were about to do went against every instinct in him, he knew that the more swiftly he could amass the coin he needed, the sooner he could pursue his plan to free Elizabeth and help his brother Richard.

Keeping that idea at the front of his thoughts, he dismounted his steed and helped Fiona to the ground, following Will’s lead in securing their mounts in a concealing, leafy grove just out of sight of the road. Nate darted off to scout for approaching travelers of means, keeping to the trees as he went; if he spotted anything interesting, he was to run back to the group and set their entrapment plan into motion.

Braedan watched him go, his gut tightening in a way that was similar to what he’d felt before every battle in the Holy Land, only with the added heaviness of knowing he was about to do something unlike anything he’d ever done before. Something ignoble. But he was enough of a pragmatist to know there was no help for it. He took the position Will indicated a few feet away, crouching into the bushes just off the roadside across from Rufus. Fiona and Grady, meanwhile, positioned themselves near her disabled mount, adjusting the saddle so that it was hanging from what looked to be a nearly severed girth. She lifted a handful of sweet grass to the horse’s nose after a bit, all of them waiting for Nate’s return.

It was only a few minutes later when the lad came bounding through the brush, his face flushed and his chest heaving. “There’s a covered carriage comin’ with
escort,” he called, grinning. “It looks to belong to an earl at the very least, all silks and gold—a prize ripe for the takin’!”

“We approach lone riders or pairs only,” Will said in a low voice. “We cannot attempt a guarded coach with only four of us to take it.”

“Five, countin’ me,” Nate grumbled. “’Twould be a fine, fat purse, I tell you—mayhap the only we’d need this day!” He looked down at the ground, clearly disappointed, kicking at the dirt as his shoulders sagged.

Will paused for a long while, his face a studied scowl. At last he shook his head, cursing under his breath. “Ah, lad, you could talk a knight out of his spurs, I think. Exactly how many men are guardin’ it?”

“Only two on horseback,” Nate said, perking up and straightening as he added, “The nobleman ’imself is seated inside the coach. I swear—’twill be an easy take if this one is as good with a sword as you say!” he added, jerking his head toward Braedan.

Braedan frowned. “I can handle myself well enough, and yet I have never tested my ability in this way. Do not rely on me in deciding whether or not it will be a success.”

Tightening his lips, Will seemed to consider the possibilities. After a moment more of thought, he glanced to Braedan and then back to his sister. “We still outnumber them. Let’s do it.”

He made a hand signal to Fiona and Rufus that sent the older man back into hiding, while Fiona met Braedan’s gaze and nodded encouragingly before seating herself on the thick grasses at the roadside. Nate skidded over to a position next to her, looking as if he was checking over the mount’s legs for breaks, while Grady took a
knee near “his lady,” seeming to offer sympathy and a drink from the waterskin at his side.

Fiona took his hand and stood with the graceful elegance of a queen just as the small coach came into view round the bend in the road; the sight of her was arresting even to Braedan, who knew the truth of their ploy. Her auburn hair was loose and waved down her back, reflecting the sun’s fiery hue, her creamy skin flushed and set off to perfection by the deep green gown that clung to her curves in subtle invitation. As a finishing touch, she’d called up a vulnerable expression that was perfect for the stranded lady she was playing.

He didn’t think she could look any more alluring if she tried. But then the conveyance pulled to a stop near her, and she sighed deeply, the action lifting her breasts taut against their thin covering of silk—and Braedan felt his mouth go bone dry.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look away and study the carriage and the men who guarded it. But even as he assessed their strength and sized up their weapons, he couldn’t get the image of Fiona’s beauty from his mind. Hell, he knew without a doubt that if he’d been the one they were targeting, he would have stopped, not only to offer his assistance, but to drink his fill of her with his gaze as well.

“Are you hurt, lady?” one of the guardsmen called down to her from his steed. “Need you some aid?”

“Aye, thank you kind, sir,” she replied, glancing up at him and taking a limping step nearer. “I fear that I have twisted my ankle in falling from my mare.”

Her voice carried a tremulous quality that made Braedan’s heart flop in his chest. By the saints but she was talented at this. More so than he’d have guessed,
even having witnessed her in action as the Crimson Lady at the inn near Alton. He could only imagine what the poor wretches on horseback must be feeling as they looked on her pleading beauty, unaware that they were serving as pawns in the plot that was unfolding against them.

“Why are we stopped, Riggs?” a querulous voice bellowed from the coach’s interior. “We must resume at once. These roads are not fit for travelers who value their safety. Move on!”

“It is a gentlewoman, my lord,” the guard answered. “She has been injured in a fall from her mount and cannot ride for a broken saddle.”

“A gentlewoman, you say?”

The voice inside of the coach changed subtly in quality, a kind of suspicion edging it where none had been before. Of a sudden, the silken flap was pushed aside, and Braedan saw a man’s round, shaven head lean out. It was clearly a churchman, and his numerous chins jiggled when he moved. He grunted a few times as he lifted his heft from the interior so that the top of his body emerged from the conveyance like a snail pushing out of a shell.

Suddenly his eyes widened at the sight of Fiona, a flush darkening his already-ruddy skin. A stream of curses spilled like drops of spittle from his lips, and he jerked back into the covered carriage, shouting, “By the devil’s hide, it’s a trap! Ride on man—go! We’ve been—”

“Right you are, my lord,” Will called out, leaping from his position in the brush as he drew his sword, followed in kind by Rufus, Grady, then Braedan, who decided that it would be best to follow suit. The surprised guards had no time to react; Braedan lunged and pulled the guard closest to him from his steed. He got his blade
beneath the man’s chin before the guard could unsheathe his weapon. Rufus and Grady took the second guard, while Fiona stepped back so that Nate could grab hold of the coach horses; Will moved past the guard Braedan controlled and flung open the door to pin the overfed occupant to his seat with the point of his blade.

“It is simply not safe to travel these roads,” Will murmured in mocking singsong, shaking his head. “Especially if you’re foolish enough to carry a purse fat with coins for purchase of goods—or perhaps sweetmeats,” he added, poking at the churchman’s bulky middle with his sword. “Now hand over what you have my lord, and you can be on your way, none the worse for it.”

“This is sacrilege, accosting one of God’s own servants,” the man sputtered, scowling to the point of apoplexy, so dark was his face. “I am a pardoner of the Holy Church, recently come from Rome, and I will not comply with this outrage! Sacrilege, I tell you—it is sacrilege!”

Braedan felt the tension curling thick through the air. He kept his arm locked in position, with the blade beneath the guard’s chin, warning him with his gaze and willing the man not to move a muscle, lest he be forced to take further action.

When Will finally spoke again, it was in a voice that had gone flat and cold. “What is sacrilege, man, is for one of God’s own to practice self-indulgence while thousands of his countrymen starve. Now give me your purse, so that I may share your wealth with some of those less well fed than yourself.”

The pardoner seemed taken aback, his beringed fingers, gripping the edge of the coach’s window opening
until the puffy flesh turned white. Suddenly, his expression shifted from one of outrage to something much more benign.