The Unveiling (18 page)

All these years of not knowing the truth and now... Still she did not know all of it, for nothing Wulfrith could say would convince her Jonas had hung himself. He had been murdered. But not by Wulfrith.

Her breath caught as she finally acknowledged the truth she had refused to accept though it had been presented time and again. Wulfrith could not have murdered her brother. Another had made it appear Jonas had taken his own life.

As she stared into Wulfrith’s eyes, she awakened to another truth. Something had happened that should not have. She had come to feel for this man. And being so near him now caused those emotions to deepen. But it went beyond the senses, beyond this strange awareness of him. It was as if she was leaving behind the girl who had lived for revenge and turning toward the woman who had denied her that revenge—a woman she did not know.

She dropped her chin.
Dear God, who am I?
Where was Annyn Bretanne who had seethed alongside Duke Henry nearly a fortnight past?

“I am sorry I could not spare you the truth, Annyn,” Wulfrith spoke low, his familiar use of her name causing her to shudder. He released her shoulders and urged her chin up.

Hating that he saw her tears, despising the first that fell, she pressed her lips together.

“More,” he said, softer still, “I am sorry I did not foresee what your brother would do.” His gaze followed the tear’s path to the corner of her mouth. He laid a thumb to it and swept it beneath her lower lip.

That so simple a touch could loose such flutterings was more than frightening, but though Annyn knew she should pull free, she could not.

Wulfrith sought her gaze again and, for those few moments, it was as if the world stopped, as if all behind and before them had never been and would never be. There were two—naught else in all this vastness—and as they stood in that great alone, awareness breathed between them. Then his head lowered.

His mouth covered her untried lips, asking something of her that she struggled to understand. What was it? And why did he kiss her? With her shorn hair and men’s clothes that concealed all evidence of femininity, she was hardly pretty. More, she had sought his death.

He deepened the kiss and, when she did not respond, turned his arms around her and drew her up to her toes.

Ignoring the voice that protested what she allowed, she parted her lips.

Wulfrith groaned.

Hearing the breath pant from her as if from a distance, she slid her hands up his chest. The muscles beneath were thick, and she wanted—

What did she want?

Wulfrith drew a hand up her side, but the tunic and bindings denied his seeking. And reminded her that Jonas was the reason she was here.

Shame washing over her, Annyn pulled her head back. “Do not!”

Realization darkened his eyes and firmed the mouth that had covered hers.

“Unhand me!”

He unwound his arms from her only to grip her where Lavonne had bruised her.

When she winced, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forgive me, I should not have done that.”

Nor should she have allowed it. She was no better than the chamber maids who let the castle guard toss up their skirts. “Release me!”

“Aye!” a startlingly familiar voice shouted. “Release her!”

Annyn whipped her head around.

Rowan stood alongside a tree, arrow nocked and ready to fly.

Rebuking himself for his desire for a woman no man ought to want, Garr tightened his hold on her. Not that he would use her as a shield. A man did not take cover behind a woman.

“I say again, release her!”

Annyn met Garr’s gaze. Though one could not be certain with women, he thought there was pleading in her eyes. “Do not shed blood over me. ’Tis better spent elsewhere.”

Who had watch over this part of the wood? Where was the man whose incompetence permitted Rowan to creep near?

God in His heavens! First his squires allowed Annyn Bretanne to seek a dagger to him, now this. It seemed his father had been right—as long as Garr allowed God so prominent a place in his training of young men, they would not attain the worthiness of those trained by previous generations of Wulfriths. But God was all Garr had taken of his mother from Stern Castle, and only because He was not something Drogo could lay a hand to. How his father would scorn his oldest son were he alive.

“Wulfrith!” Rowan barked.

Garr considered the bow. If the arrow were loosed, it would clear Annyn and strike him high in the chest and to the right.

“I beg you,” she whispered.

He looked into her face, and in that moment knew the answer he had sought since discovering she was a woman. He would let her go. His lie had given her a reason to seek his death, and for that no punishment was due.

Whether Drogo had made Heaven or been banished below, he was surely shaking his head, for he would never have spared the Bretannes the shame of Jonas’s death. Indeed, he would have lifted it up for all to know how great the regard for receiving knighthood at Wulfen. And the consequence of betrayal.

Garr released Annyn.

“It is done?” she whispered. “You will not seek revenge?”

He wondered that his hands had never felt so empty. But this was the best end to Annyn. “Vengeance is not mine. It belongs to God.” One of the hardest lessons a man must learn. “Aye, Lady Annyn, I yield to Him above.”

As if what he said was a revelation, she stared. But then, considering what she had come to Wulfen to do, perhaps it
was
a revelation.

“You?” she breathed. “’Twas you who taught Jonas that?”

Garr frowned. “It is as I aspire to teach all who seek knighthood.”

“I—”

“Make haste, Annyn!” Rowan shouted.

Annyn? Not
Lady
Annyn? Garr would have sworn she was untried, that no man before him had tasted her. Had he been wrong? Was he right in first believing she and Rowan were lovers?

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and ran.

The best end
, Garr told himself again. However, as she neared Rowan, he caught the bow’s movement and saw the arrow was now centered on his chest. He lunged to the left and reached for his sword, but before he could pull it, the arrow burned a path through his flesh and staggered him back.

He looked to his blood-splattered sleeve and the shaft piercing his sword arm, then jerked his gaze to Annyn.

She stood beside Rowan, eyes large in her face, but the words she spoke to her man fell beyond Garr’s reach.

Rowan reached for another arrow. “That which we came to do,” he snarled as he fit the string.

Arm protesting, Garr swept his sword from its sheath and started toward them.

A shout to his left—Sir Merrick?—tore across the wood.

Annyn grabbed Rowan’s arm. “We must go!”

The man narrowed his eyes on her bruised face, then turned his seething gaze one last time to Garr before fleeing with her.

Blood coursing the back of his hand to coat his sword hilt, Garr gave chase. The two stayed out of reach, winding the trees and jumping debris, unhindered by the pain that slowed their pursuer. Then, ahead, was the horse that awaited its lord’s return.

Rowan mounted, reached a hand to Annyn, and swung her up behind. With a jab of the spurs, their departure scattered leaves before Garr.

“God’s blood!” he shouted. He glared at the sky, then again at the arrow piercing the shoulder of his sword arm. Not God’s blood, but his, and too much of it. He snapped the arrow shaft near its entrance, then looked to where Annyn and Rowan had disappeared. Nay, it was not the end.

“My lord,” Sir Merrick called, nearly breathless as he reached Garr’s side.

Garr swung around. “What happened to your watch?”

Brow furrowing at the sight of Garr’s wound, the knight said, “Apologies, my lord. I fear I lost my breath.”

It was several years since the man had experienced such trouble, though Garr had glimpsed instances of its effects since Annyn’s arrival. Still, Merrick had failed, but that would be dealt with later. What was needed now was a horse.

As he stepped past Merrick, Abel arrived. He reined in and dropped to the ground. “Bloody rood! She did this to you?”

“Her man, Rowan.” Garr sheathed his sword, pushed past Abel, and put a foot in the stirrup of his brother’s mount. As he swung into the saddle, four more of his men halted their horses alongside.

“Whose watch?” Abel demanded.

Garr looked to Squire Warren. “Give me your bow and quiver.”

The young man hurriedly passed them to his lord.

“Your wound must be tended,” Abel protested.

Garr jabbed his heels to the horse.

“Do not give your life for her!”

The woods sped past in a blur of greens, browns, and bits of blue sky, but Garr could not have said if it was the horse’s speed that melded the colors or his straining consciousness.

Blood wet him shoulder to fingers, and though he knew the wound should be tended, his anger—that which his father had many times warned would send him young to the grave—would not be quieted. He would have Annyn and her Rowan.

Shortly, he glimpsed white among the green of the wood. There they rode, the tunic he had given Annyn visible beneath the short mantle flying from her shoulders.

As he pushed the horse harder, his consciousness dipped. Grinding his teeth, he drew deep breaths and pushed on. Though his men could bring them down, he would do it himself and return ten-fold the wrong done him.

Topping a rise, he reined in, all the while keeping his prey in sight as they rushed the wood below.

“My lord?” one of his knights asked as he halted his horse alongside.

Garr nocked an arrow, lifted the bow, and grunted as he forced his arm to pull the string as it cried it could not do. But it did, and trembled for it. He sighted Rowan.

And if his quaking muscles caused him to strike Annyn?

Then he would nock another arrow!

With a growl, he swung the bow ahead of his quarry and released. Without pausing to see if he made his mark, he pulled another arrow and let it fly. There was no time for a third. Fortunately, both buried themselves deep in the chosen tree. Would their combined strength—one tight alongside the other—suffice?

A moment later, the protruding shafts caught Rowan high in the chest and knocked him and Annyn off the horse’s backside.

“Never have I seen such!” one of his men exclaimed.

Garr lowered the bow and eyed the two where they sprawled. Consciousness receding, turning his breath shallow, he nudged the horse forward and down the rise. He wanted to see their faces, for them to see his and know the dire mistake made in seeking his death. His consideration to allow them to escape was no more, but both understood revenge—except where it was and was not warranted.
That
Garr understood.

With his approach, Annyn roused, sprang to her knees, and bent over her man. “Rowan!” She shook his shoulders.

He was not dead. Garr was sure of it. Had he wished an immediate death, he would have aimed higher on the tree so the arrows would collapse Rowan’s throat. The breath was merely knocked from him.

As Garr neared, Rowan convulsed and wheezed. Annyn murmured something, looked up, and slowly straightened.

Though, previously, Garr had only glimpsed her fear, it now filled her eyes. Never had he read a woman more clearly. But then, never had one elicited more emotion from him. Gesturing for his men to halt their advance, he continued to where Annyn stood.

She looked to his shoulder. If not that she had tried to murder him, he might have said it was concern on her bruised face.

Garr stiffened to counter the sway that threatened to unhorse him. As he had earlier warned Lavonne to tend his wound, so must he. An instant later, he was struck by the bitter irony that he and the baron should both suffer injury over this woman. However, Garr had not sought to harm her. Too, his injury was more serious than Lavonne’s. His sword arm was nearly all that he was, and if he left it much longer, it might mean his death. He should never have touched her.

“Again I have you, Annyn Bretanne, and now your man, Rowan.” He glanced at the knight who was struggling to sit upright. “I shall take pleasure in meting out judgment.”

She stepped toward him. “I am to blame. Rowan did not wish me to come to Wulfen.”

Darkness dragged at Garr. “Did he not? ’Twas he who put an arrow through me though I yielded what he asked. Your man is without honor, Annyn Bretanne—unworthy, and for that he shall pay in kind.”

“Murderer!” Rowan spat, a hand to his chest where he had crossed the arrow’s path. As he bent forward and coughed, Annyn dropped to her knees alongside him.

Garr stared at the two and struggled to pull himself out of the grey light that was expanding to black. He had given too much blood.

Hearing Abel’s shout, he looked to the blur riding toward him. It seemed his brother had taken another’s horse—
his
destrier, Garr realized as he slid sideways and crashed to the floor of the wood.

All he could think as he lay bleeding was what his father had said of women—that they turned a man from his purpose and made him vulnerable. And so he bled out his life for one taste of a woman no man should want. And still he tasted her.

Annyn stared at where Wulfrith lay with eyes closed, face devoid of color, and the sleeve of his tunic bled through.

Vengeance is not yours,
she heard the lesson she knew Jonas had taken from Wulfrith. And here was the reason vengeance belonged to God. With a cry strangled by the din that rose from Wulfrith’s men, she scrambled around to his side. “Wulfrith!”
Lord, what is his Christian name?

He was still, as if no longer of this world.

“Stand back!” Sir Abel shouted.

She pressed a hand to Wulfrith’s chest, seeking the beat of his heart. It was there.

Feeling Rowan’s hard, accusing gaze, she looked to Wulfrith’s wound. The blood must be stanched. She swept up the hem of the tunic he had given her and tore a strip from it.

Dear Lord, do not let him die,
she silently pleaded as she reached to his shoulder.
Deliver him. I ask it in Your holy name.