Tori Phillips (24 page)

Damn the chit! She wouldn’t even look directly at him! Walter vowed to remedy that in short order. “You’ve taken long enough to get here, woman.” He rode directly up to her side, pushing by a fuming old man. “I am Walter Ormond, son of Sir Roger Ormond, lord of Snape Castle. Have you no kiss of greeting for your husband?”

Celeste shot him a quick glance out of the corner of her eye, then stared ahead as before. “I am not married to you yet, my lord,” she replied in French.

“Hell and damnation, wench! Answer me in plain English. I’ll brook none of your foreign ways.” Walter sat back in his saddle, satisfied to see a stricken look flit across her face. Important to let her know who was the master now.

“I have no husband,” Celeste replied slowly in English. “And I give no kiss to you.” She stuck her little nose up in the air.

A dull headache throbbed in Walter’s temples. For a farthing, he’d haul the minx off her horse and whip her naked in front of them all. Only a shred of prudence stayed his hand. Once he had wed her, he could discipline her at his leisure. Beating that proud look off her face might prove highly entertaining.

“Understand this then, mistress mine. You will have a husband before the next hour has run its course.”

Her startled expression gave Walter immense satisfaction.

“But this is not possible!” She sent a pleading glance to the old man.

“You take us to Snape!” the gray beard bellowed.

Walter would send this meddlesome old bastard packing back to France as soon as possible—tonight, preferably. He shook his finger at the old man. “You do not give the orders here. I do!” Walter glared at the wench’s party, taking stock of each in turn. One old man, a half-dozen striplings, a boy and a lanky priest.

“We burn daylight!” Deighton growled behind him. “Get on with it, my lord, for I itch to settle a thing or two with these scum. They gave us the slip the other night, an’ I will have me own back on them. Aye!”

Walter clenched his fist tighter around his reins. Very soon he would serve Deighton his own justice. Until then, Walter knew, he must be patient. He dismounted and strode up to the girl.

“Then we shall tarry no longer.” He clamped his hand around Celeste’s wrist and yanked her out of her saddle. Light as a feather—easy to handle.

The pack of Frenchies started to draw their weapons, but Walter’s men acted faster. Excellent! Perhaps he would give the varlets a good feed before he killed them.

“What is this?” The girl tried to escape from his grip.

Spirited little thing! Walter concluded he’d have to tie her to the bedpost, before he whipped her. He liked that idea.

“’Tis our wedding, sweetheart. I have waited long enough.”

“Non!”
She tried to slap him with her free hand, but Walter fetched her a blow across her face. The girl staggered, her dark eyes enormous. Her men swore, but they had been rendered powerless.

Walter tensed, waiting for her scream, but none came from her white throat. He had hit her hard enough; he could see the imprint of his hand on her cheek. No matter. Later on, he would make her shout the tower room down.

“Is not a good place for a wedding.” She practically spat the words in Walter’s face.

Ormond chuckled at her growing anger. Angry wenches excited him in bed, and Walter knew he needed all the encouragement he could get since the pox had taken over his body.

“Have you not heard of the old English custom of being married under a bush? Nay? ’Tis no matter. I say ’twill be done.” He pointed to the brown-robed priest, who sat still on an undersize donkey. “And here’s the very man who will do us the service. ’Twas most provident of you to bring your own confessor. You, priest! Get down and come here!” he shouted. Probably this clod didn’t speak a wit of English.

Holding both his boiling anger and his voice in tenuous check, Guy slid off Daisy. When the knave struck Lissa, Guy had very nearly gone for Walter’s scrawny throat. If he had followed his inclination, Guy knew, he would now be lying dead in the frozen mud. Patience, he counseled himself. Keeping his head bowed so that Walter could not see his face, he stood close to Celeste. He felt, more than saw, that she trembled under her cloak.

Don’t let this scum know your fear, sweet Lissa. He will feast upon it.

“Do you understand my speech, priest?” Ormond shouted. “I want you to join us as man and wife.”

Guy nodded, then pointed toward a small rise away from the road.

“Damn you to the devil’s own broth, treacherous monk!” Gaston spat at him as they passed by him. Guy did not acknowledge the understandable insult. He prayed Gaston would react quickly when the time came.

Walter followed, pulling Celeste behind him. Everyone else stayed mounted, each side watching the little procession wend its way up the hillock. Guy drew to a halt on the other side of a lone tree, out of sight of the road. Fortunately, Walter had not noticed how far he was from his guard. Facing them, Guy tensed, waiting to catch Ormond off guard. Fortunately, Celeste stumbled on the trailing hem of her gown.

“Get up, damn you—”

The instant Walter diverted his attention, Guy sprang, throwing his bulk against the lighter man. Both of them hit the ground with a solid crash, Guy on top. Without pausing, the novice monk cocked his arm, then slammed his knotted fist into Walter’s putrid face. The cartilage of Ormond’s nose crumpled under the impact with a sickening crunch. Blood poured down Walter’s face.

“By the—”

Guy cut off further speech by drawing Walter’s sword and pricking his neck. The coward quaked underneath Guy, though red pinpoints of fury shone in his eyes. “What manner of priest are you?”

“A good one,” Celeste answered with a grim smile of defiance.

Guy, marveling at her coolness under the circumstances, nodded his head toward Walter’s belt. Celeste understood, and whisked his dagger out of its sheath before the stunned and bleeding suitor could gather his wits. Hauling Walter to his feet, and holding him securely with one arm pinioned behind, Guy led them back to the road. Celeste brought up the rear, humming and skipping as if she were just returning from a pleasant walk.

“Bravo, mes enfants terribles!”
Gaston stood in his stirrups and waved his cap. Then he drew his own sword and pointed it at Deighton. “You see your master? You see he will die if you do not drop your... your...” He motioned at the notched bows the ruffians held.

“Weapons!” Pip prompted in a loud, cheerful voice.

“Oui!
Do it!”

“Do as he says!” Ormond shouted, struggling against Guy’s grip. “Or this whoreson will kill me—and you’ll not be paid,” he added, hastily.

With oaths and grumbling, Ormond’s guards threw down their weapons. Gaston dismounted, shouting rapid orders to his men. He strode up to the shivering Ormond and berated him in blistering French.

“I do not bother to speak in your language—you have no brains to understand anything! Pah!” Gaston spat contemptuously at Walter’s boots. “But there is one thing I must do for the honor of the family de Montcalm.”

Before Guy could stop him, Gaston hit Walter as hard as he could. The force of the blow rendered the odious lord completely unconscious. Guy laid the man down, surprised at both the power and the vehemence of Gaston’s anger.

“That scurvy slug will never forget this day, I think. And I hope he will never forget me and this important lesson.” Gaston gathered Celeste in his thick arms.
“Pauvre petite!
Does your sweet face hurt still? Maybe I should kill him, eh?”

Guy shook his head. Gaston probably did not realize the severe penalty for attacking a member of the English nobility. Strictly speaking, a court of law would find Walter’s treatment of his betrothed to be his right—especially since Celeste was French and therefore suspect of almost anything in the eyes of the average Englishman. Guy didn’t want to compound the problem any further. As much as he would like to strangle Walter, Guy, a sworn man of God, could not. The Bible said that justice was the Lord’s province, and Guy sincerely hoped that was true.

“This time we will take their horses with us, eh?” Gaston’s brown eyes twinkled. “We could leave them Daisy.”

Guy shook his head again. Though he disliked the beast, he couldn’t subject her to the mercies of an Ormond with a broken face and outraged dignity.

The men-at-arms bound the foul-swearing Englishmen, using pieces of their own reins. Under Gaston’s direction, they removed the knaves’ boots and stockings, ignoring the howls and dire threats of their prisoners. Tossing the weapons and footwear into the cart, they gagged the brigands with the reeking stockings and dragged them over the hillock, where they would not be discovered soon by any late-wandering travelers.

The early twilight descended. Guy knew that once Ormond and his men were found, there would be a hue and cry out for the French. The leisurely trip he had envisioned in the peace of the cathedral must now become a dash to safety—but which way?

Do you wish to return to France
? he wrote on his slate, then held it out to Celeste.

She stared at the chalked letters for a long moment. A sheen of tears filmed over her eyes, turning them to a deep amethyst.

“I cannot,” she whispered. “I must honor my father’s bond to Sir Roger.”

Guy pointed over the hillock where Walter lay and wrote,
With that
?

Celeste lifted her face to him, her lower lip quivering. “I must meet with Sir Roger, Brother Guy. Only he can release me from my father’s contract.” She tried to smile. “Perhaps he is a kind and just man.”

Guy couldn’t look her in the eye. If the Grayfriar’s rumor proved true, Celeste might be walking into a dragon’s nest. As Guy contemplated their best course of action, she shivered in the rising evening wind and drew the cloak about her.

“
Sacrebleu!
Let us be gone,” Gaston rumbled. “The men are hungry, and so am I. Where do you want us to go?”

He looked from Celeste to Guy and back again.

“To Snape Castle,” she replied firmly.

Growling an oath, Gaston threw up his hands in disgust. Celeste laid a slim hand on his arm. “You know I cannot return to L’Étoile, Gaston. You know my father will not take me back.”

The old soldier covered her hand with his.
“Oui
, little one. I know him too well, and what you say is true.” To Guy he explained, “Better a child’s death than dishonor to her family—that is what Roland de Montcalm would say. We shall proceed to Snape Castle and lay your grievance at Sir Roger’s feet. Pray, God the father is not like his whelp.”

Amen to that!
Guy quickly wrote to Gaston,
Loan me your horse. I will take Celeste on a faster route over the moors.

Gaston narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I do not like this plan. Why separate? Where do you intend to take my lady?”

To Snape Castle
, Guy wrote.

“With night coming on?” Gaston reminded Guy of an old bear with one precious cub.

Guy nodded. Speed and safety for Celeste. He wanted to get her far from Walter Ormond and his band of felons, as quickly as possible.

Gaston stroked his chin, then asked Celeste, “You wish to go with him?”

“Do you know the way in the dark?” she questioned Guy in turn.

I belong to this land.
His white letters stood out like ghost writing in the creeping night gloom.

Celeste turned to Gaston. “Then I will put myself in his hands.” While she mounted her horse, Gaston grabbed Guy by the arm. “And your hands best behave themselves, master monk!”

Guy swallowed his guilty thoughts and attempted to look surprised at Gaston’s thinly veiled warning.

“Oui
, Brother Guy, I am not so addlepated as some young ladies think I am. I have eyes that have seen much in my fifty-odd years. I see the looks you give her. Remember, you are a man of the spirit—not of the flesh. If you forget this, I will remind you—in blood. Do you understand my meaning?”

Guy looked directly into the old soldier’s eyes and nodded. Though he gave his oath silently, he considered himself honor-bound by it.

“Bon!”
Gaston handed Black Devil’s reins to Guy. “We will stay on the main road. When you get to this Snape place, send someone out to find us.”

Nodding again, Guy firmly gripped Gaston’s arm in his for a moment.

“Do we ride or do we dance a pavane, gentlemen?” Celeste cocked her head, a grin on her face.

“Go with God,” Gaston replied in a strangely husky voice.

“Oh, la, la! I go with the next best thing, good Gaston. I ride with one of his archangels.”

Chapter Twenty

A
frosty full moon rose over the rolling moorland as Guy led Celeste across its wild, near-barren terrain. Sometimes they walked their horses around boggy or rocky areas, other times they spurred Black Devil and Starlight into loping canters. Despite the unfamiliar ground and growing fatigue as the night wore on, Celeste’s little mare kept up with Guy’s huge stallion.

Guy allowed only two short rest stops. When Celeste ventured to speak to him, he brusquely acknowledged her presence. Most of the time, he stared at the horizon. Guy’s moody distance confused her. After his magnificent bravery this afternoon, Celeste had thought that he would be much more open with her—even if he didn’t talk.

Had her decision to go on to Snape Castle angered him? If that was the case, he should have left them this afternoon. She would not begrudge him his understandable desire to return south before worse weather set in.

Celeste dipped her handkerchief into the chill water of the tiny rill beside which they rested. She patted the soaking cloth against her flushed cheeks, hoping that the cold water would sharpen her senses. Despite the excitement and novelty of this midnight ride, she had trouble keeping her eyes open.

Guy sat apart. The moonlight illuminated the beauty of his face with its unearthly glow. Celeste took a secret pleasure in studying his handsome profile. When she told Gaston she rode with one of God’s angels, she had jested. Now she wondered anew if Brother Guy were truly a heavenly visitor come down to earth in disguise. If she hadn’t met his delightful aunt Mary, Celeste might have been tempted to fantasize Guy’s mysterious past. She realized she knew very little about this fascinating man whom she accompanied across an unknown stretch of landscape in the middle of the night.