White Lion's Lady (12 page)

He seemed entirely unfazed by her concern or his injuries. Having saddled the gray, Griffin then unhitched the reins and led the beast forward. “We’ve been found,” he told her simply, as he grasped her hand in his and ushered her out of the barn to where another horse stood waiting.

Isabel saw the Droghallow crest on the brown destrier’s saddle blanket and stopped dead in her tracks, frozen by a sudden jolt of panic.

Griffin must have sensed her worry, for he squeezed her hand a little tighter and urged her forward. “ ’Tis all right. I took care of the guard who rode it.”

“Dom’s men have caught up to us already?”

“Only the one for now,” Griffin answered as he helped her up onto his mount. “The rest of the garrison will follow soon enough, I wager. They have ample incentive, as Dom has sent word of our flight to Prince John and put a bounty on our return.”

“A bounty? For both of us?”

Griffin handed her the gray’s reins. “A thousand marks for you, two for me.”

“Mother Mary,” Isabel gasped, astonished at the price.

A thousand marks was a small fortune, but twice that sum? She could hardly fathom it. How deeply Dom must hate Griffin for betraying his trust. If he would pay so much to have him returned to Droghallow, Isabel could only guess at what tortures Griffin would suffer at Dom’s hands. Would Dom kill him? It certainly seemed a logical assumption, given the circumstances.

Isabel watched as Griffin loosened the saddle of the other horse and pulled off the blanket. The square of wool bearing the Droghallow crest was pitched in a heap on the ground. Griffin’s face schooled to a calm, even expression, while Isabel fairly trembled with outright fear at the thought of their being hunted fugitives. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Griffin?” she asked him softly as he readjusted the saddle and mounted up. “I assure you I will understand if you were to reconsider. I have a horse now; just point me toward Montborne and I will go alone.”

He all but ignored her offer. “We can’t risk taking the direct route to Montborne now that Dom’s guards are in pursuit. I know of an alternate way, but it will mean a longer ride. It will cost us a few more days, but it seems our best chance.”

Isabel met his serious gaze, bolstered by his confidence. He was going to take her to Montborne, despite the personal risks. Perhaps he was doing so for his own selfish reasons, but in that moment, Isabel could not help feeling
somewhat selfish herself. She was terrified now more than ever, and the last thing she wanted was to be left alone, even when the most sensible thing for Griffin to do was to abandon her and instead concentrate on saving his own neck.

She wondered how many men would do likewise. She also wondered how long it would take Griffin to decide that perhaps she was not worth the trouble after all. Secretly relieved for his companionship, broody as it generally was, Isabel followed Griffin’s galloping mount out of the village and onto the northbound road.

It was raining again. What had started off as an annoying sprinkle had become an earnest downpour by midafternoon. Griffin’s clothing was soaked, the heavy wet wool a wearisome weight that chilled him to the bone and drew out the ache of old battle wounds he had thought long forgotten. But it was Isabel that concerned him more. She rode along at his side, wrapped in his mantle and shivering from the cold. Twice in the last hour he had asked her if she wished to stop; twice she had refused, stating that she was well enough to continue and wanted to make all due haste for Montborne.

The news that Dom had issued bounties and dispatched his guards to apprehend them had frightened Isabel, that much was plain. She no longer seemed preoccupied with anger or thoughts of escaping him, but rather focused her energies on cooperation, compelling Griff to press on when even he would have preferred to pause for rest.

He found her stubborn tenacity endearing, particularly now that it was better aligned with his own interests. Ordinarily, Griff was a man who had no patience for a woman’s willfulness, but he had to admit that with Isabel it was different. Her strength of spirit intrigued him, perhaps more so than the considerable beauty of her person. He looked at her, a convent-raised dove with a falcon’s stout heart, and found himself wanting to know her thoughts. He was curious
to understand how her mind worked, to learn what mattered to her.

Clearly, she wanted to wed Sebastian of Montborne. But why? That the earl was rich, handsome, and well-favored by the king was reason enough for any woman to leap at the chance to be his wife. Was it enough for Isabel? She had said that her vow to God was what compelled her, not any measure of esteem or attraction for her betrothed. She had said Griff would not understand her reasons for wishing to marry the earl of Montborne. What did she seek to hide? Was there a stain on her sterling honor? Would she risk her life merely for a chance to buy her way out of ignominy?

Griff nearly chuckled aloud on the heels of that thought. How ironic for him to disapprove of Isabel’s motives when he was guilty of the very same intention. Perhaps she was more like him than he might have guessed. One thing was for certain: before their journey ended, Griff meant to find out.

Up ahead, less than a half league away, he spied the knotted outline of a village and overlooking castle perched at the top of a sloping hill. Isabel saw it, too. She raised her head and stared through the rain, her gaze fixed on the inviting glow of torches that lined the village’s curtain wall and fortress tower. Without direction from its rider, the gray destrier paused on the path. Sensing that Isabel no longer followed, Griff slowed Odo’s mount to a halt and pivoted in the saddle to look behind him.

“It has been a long day. Shall we stop, my lady?”

She gave a weak shake of her head. He wondered if the cold rain had robbed her of her tongue, as well as her sense, for her lips were blue, her cheeks sallow and pale. Beneath his drenched mantle, her shoulders shook; her fingers trembled as she tried to hold on to the gray’s reins. When she sneezed, Griff cursed and wheeled his steed around.

“Come, Isabel, before you fall off the blasted beast.”

Griffin took the reins from her hands with little effort and led her mount behind him, making sure she remained upright as he negotiated the muddy fields and gullies standing between them and dry lodging. Along the way, he manufactured a lie that he hoped would gain them entrance to the gated town. Getting in would be simple enough for a traveling husband and wife, but Griff knew a woman of Isabel’s beauty and obvious gentility would stir overmuch interest. Even bedraggled and sodden she could not be mistaken for a common pilgrim. If they were to hide in plain sight as Griff intended, they would have to blend in with the rest of the folk seeking shelter for the evening. And that meant Isabel would have to don some manner of disguise.

Griff lit on an idea as they approached a tavern on the outskirts of the village. Set away from the other huts and outbuildings, it was clear that the business of this establishment was of questionable character—disreputable, and, Griff hoped, passably discreet. He stopped outside the tavern and instructed Isabel to wait there while he ran in. He returned a few moments later, having made arrangements to purchase what he required. Head down to shield herself from the relentless rain, Isabel scarcely looked up as Griffin took the leads of both horses and guided them around to the back of the thatch-roofed building. A whore of middling age stood at the rear door, holding it open while Griff helped Isabel down from his mount.

“What is this place?” she asked weakly as he ushered her inside. “Where are we?”

The whore took it upon herself to answer. “Ye’re at Hexford, love. Four leagues west of Nottingham.”

Isabel seized Griffin’s arm. “Nottingham?” she gasped. “But Prince John is often in that shire!”

Griff chuckled, giving Isabel’s hand an indulgent pat when the whore turned a curious look on them. “My lady
was raised in the country,” he explained smoothly. “The notion of glimpsing a member of the royal family is a source of great excitement for her.”

The whore snorted. “Well, ye won’t be seeing Lackland around here. Word has it that the prince has been in London all the past month.”

Much relieved for that bit of news, Griff wrapped his arm around Isabel’s shoulders and guided her down the short corridor where the whore led. She brought them to a small, dank room, devoid of comforts except for a matted straw pallet and a single chair, over which was slung a dark wool kirtle. She picked up the garment and held it out to Griffin. “Here ye are, m’lord, just like ye asked. Though I wager ’twill be a speck large for yer lady.”

“It will do,” Griff said as he placed a coin in the whore’s open palm and took the gown from her. When he realized how earnestly she peered at Isabel, trying to get a look at her from around Griff’s shoulder, he deliberately stepped into her line of sight. “My wife and I are weary from our travels. We would appreciate a moment of privacy.”

The whore scowled and began a reluctant shuffle toward the open door. “Don’t tarry overlong, m’lord. Mind ye, this room is my business.”

Griff nodded, waiting only long enough for the woman to cross the threshold before he closed the rickety oak panel on her heels. Behind him, Isabel shivered and blew out a quavery sigh.

“Here, my lady,” he said to her, turning and offering her the whore’s kirtle. “Let us get you out of those wet clothes.”

Isabel’s gaze snapped to him in shock. “Disrobe?”

“You’re soaked and freezing, and it would be foolhardy to let you walk into the castle keep in a noblewoman’s silk gown when for all we know half the countryside could be searching for a lady of your description. We will draw less attention garbed as common pilgrims.”

“Oh … of course, you are right.” She took the gown from him and held it to her breast, but made no immediate move to comply. It took a long moment of expectant silence for Griff to realize that she was waiting for him to leave the room.

“We’ve no time for modesty,” he told her, his tone more impatient than he had intended. He was tired, cold, hungry, and aching, none of which helped his present mood. And he still had to secure them a space in the castle. If they delayed much longer, the gates could close and they would be forced to seek shelter elsewhere or spend the night outdoors. It was a prospect Griff did not particularly relish. “Change quickly, my lady. I will turn my back until you are finished.”

He positioned himself near the door, while behind him, Isabel began to undress. He heard her unfasten the clasp on his mantle, heard the heavy wet fabric slide down the length of her and crush softly on the floor. Her teeth were chattering, her breath shallow and tremulous as she set to work on her gown, gathering up the skirt and pulling the sodden green silk up over her head. An instant later, it, too, fell to the floor.

Griff concentrated on what his eyes could see, counting the knots in the warped oak panels before him, trying to judge the age of the ancient leather hinges—anything to keep from imagining Isabel standing behind him wearing naught but a rain-drenched chemise. The very thought sent a bolt of lust shooting through him. Griffin clamped his jaw tight, willing away this unwanted awareness.

Isabel, thankfully, seemed wholly oblivious to his discomfort. She was making little progress suddenly, struggling now with something on her chemise. Finally, she let out a huff of frustration. “Griffin?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant. “Will you … I can’t untie the laces …”

Griff felt his every muscle clench taut as a bowstring in reaction to her innocent plea for help. Slowly, he turned
around to face her. If he thought himself tense with want before, it was nothing compared to what he felt when his eyes lit on Isabel in that moment.

The flimsy chemise clung indecently to every curve and swell of her body, hugging her breasts and hips and thighs like a glove of wet linen. The drenched fabric hinted at the dusky hue of her nipples, perfect pearls, puckered beneath their sodden veil. Griff noted with an appreciative eye how flat and soft her abdomen was, the sweet indentation of her navel, her flawless skin pale against the nearly transparent undergarment and a pleasing contrast to the dark, enticing shadow of her femininity. His arousal stirred swiftly, an inopportune, if inevitable, reaction to the vision standing before him. He nearly had to shake himself to keep from staring.

Isabel had crossed her arms over her breasts, rubbing her shoulders and still shivering, though whether it was from cold or the hungry look Griffin had likely turned on her, he could not be sure.

“I think I have managed to snarl the laces at my back,” she said as he stalked toward her.

Griff came up behind her without a word. He had not realized his hands were clenched into fists until he reached up to sweep aside Isabel’s mass of hair. This close, he could tell that she had recently washed her hair in rosewater; the scent lingered on her as he gathered up the thick auburn tresses and draped them over her shoulder. It was all he could do to resist the urge to touch the lily-fair skin of her bare neck, to place his lips against her delicate nape to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

Instead, he turned his attention to the knotted laces of her chemise, cursing when his big fingers only worsened the tangled ties. He worked at the knots relentlessly, until at last, they loosened and fell away. Griff pulled apart the zigzagging closure of the undergarment, then stepped away before he was tempted to help Isabel out of it entirely.

“Thank you,” she murmured, to which Griffin could only growl.

He turned away once more, waiting impatiently as she stripped off the chemise and donned the dry gown. Her sigh of pleasure as the warm wool covered her body was pure torture to him, a satisfied exhalation that was all too easy to imagine in another setting, issuing forth from another cause.

“Very well, I am dressed,” she said, speaking more brightly than he had heard her in the past couple of days. Already the benefit of dry clothing and warmth had renewed her; it would take a lot more than that to soothe Griff’s mood. “You may turn around now.”