“She is asleep,” Borden said. As he tucked the blankets more securely around Magdalen, the pounding of tiny paws echoed in the room, and then a fluffy ginger kitten leaped up onto the cot near Magdalen’s face.
“Perceval,” Cyn snapped. “Get down.”
The kitten crouched, as if ready to jump again, and mewled.
“Nay. Down,” Cyn said firmly, pointing to the floor.
“He was fast asleep in his bed in the kitchen a moment ago,” Borden said, picking up the kitten and setting him on the planks. After spinning in a circle, the feline bounded over to the dogs by the hearth and pounced on Lancelot’s shaggy tail.
Cyn returned his attention to the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but there were still splinters of wood to extract. Guilt weighed upon him that his pursuit had caused her to be injured, but he couldn’t change the past, as much as he might want to. He could only do what must be done to set things right.
Picking up the small knife he’d hidden under the towel, so as not to frighten Magdalen further, he bent over the wound.
“She is exceptionally lovely,” Borden murmured. “Do you not agree?”
A dull pain squeezed Cyn’s heart; he struggled to ignore the unwelcome sensation. “She is indeed. Right now, though—”
“Such an elegant nose. Refined cheekbones. She has distinguished noble blood in her veins.”
“Noble blood that she is losing.” Cyn glanced pointedly at the older man, but Borden wasn’t looking in his direction. His admiring gaze was still fixed on Magdalen, her jaw slack, her hair, drying to a rich chestnut brown, shimmering against the whiteness of the linen pillowcase.
An ache born of anguish and regret spread through Cyn as he returned to his delicate work. Magdalen was as beautiful as his former betrothed, Francine, had been. Beauty, as he’d learned upon returning to England from Crusade nine years ago, was no indication of the trueness of a woman’s heart. Life had taught him a most bitter lesson: that the more beautiful a woman was, the more deceitful she’d be.
Whatever secret Magdalen kept must be wicked indeed, for William to send out so many men in a bad storm to capture her. Was it her secret, though? Or was it William’s? Cyn would find out. He had to, for by taking her into his care, he’d become caught up in it.
Magdalen’s brow creased, and she made a small sound, as though she was dreaming.
After checking one last time to make sure he’d removed all of the splinters, Cyn rinsed the knife in the fresh bowl of herbal water Borden had brought. After drying the dagger and setting it aside, he thoroughly washed the wound one more time then picked up a threaded needle. “Watch her. If she seems to be suffering pain—”
“I will warn you right away.” The older man patted Magdalen’s shoulder. “Do not worry,” he said softly, even though she obviously couldn’t hear, being asleep. “Cyn knows what he is doing. He might sound awfully gruff, but he is really very kind.”
“Borden,” Cyn muttered.
The older man ignored him. “He rescued all of the animals living in this home. He made sure they got the love and care they needed to become strong and hale again. He also helped stitch the wounds of injured men while on Crusade.”
Crusade. More memories stirred in Cyn’s mind. The darkness of those thoughts left a ghastly chill in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t fix what had happened years ago—God above, if only ’twere possible—but he could save Magdalen. His mouth flattening, he drew together the edges of her torn flesh and made his first stitch.
***
Magdalen woke to a rumbling sound very close by and something soft batting her nose. Waking slowly, her eyes still shut, she sighed. A furry object swatted her mouth.
Fighting the grogginess of her mind, she cracked open her eyes, to find a fluffy orange kitten sitting on her chest. The feline purred, and as she blinked, batted at her eyelashes.
She smiled at the kitten. “Who are you?”
The little cat nuzzled its tiny nose against her cheek, and she chuckled and scratched its back, to be rewarded with even louder purring.
Footfalls carried: Cyn, coming to check on her wound? Dread and anticipation knotted inside her.
She glanced across the room to see Borden approaching. When he saw the kitten, his eyes widened.
“Oh, milady, I am sorry.” The steward hurried to the bedside and scooped up the feline. “Perceval is like a naughty child. He is far too mischievous for his own good.”
As the older man set the kitten down, Magdalen stifled a gasp. The feline had no tail, only a stump where its tail should have been.
As if attuned to her thoughts, Borden said, “Cyn found him caught in a poacher’s trap in the woods. Perceval lost his tail, but that has not slowed him down.”
“Perceval,” she echoed. “Like Lancelot, ’tis a name taken from the old tales about the ancient King named Arthur and his loyal knights.”
“Guinevere and Galahad also were mentioned in those tales.” Borden gestured to the two wolfhounds lying side by side at the hearth. “Cyn—just like his late father—always enjoyed those gallant stories. They used to read them together, when Cyn was a boy.” The older man chuckled fondly. “I remember how impatient Cyn used to get; he could hardly wait for the evening meal to finish so he could coax his sire over to the hearth to read another tale.”
“You knew Cyn’s father?” Magdalen asked.
“Oh, aye. I was honored to serve as his steward for many years.” Sadness crept into Borden’s features. “What tremendous changes I have witnessed since those days that Cyn and his sire lingered by the fire, reading those stories time and again, and talking about what made the men worthy of their quests. At least here in this forest home, Cyn can be king of his own court—as he deserves.”
So much went unsaid in the older man’s words. Magdalen wished he’d elaborate, for she found herself longing to know more about the sheriff, but Borden brushed off his hands, while the kitten savaged the laces of his shoes. “Enough talk about long ago. You must be hungry, milady. How about some pottage? ’Twould be good to get some food in your belly.”
She was indeed hungry, and she needed to build up her strength if she intended to flee when the opportunity arose. “I will eat. Thank you.”
He left the room with Perceval scampering after him, and returned moments later with a steaming earthenware bowl. He adjusted her pillows so she could sit up. Grimacing, she shifted on the cot, keeping the blankets close to her bosom.
“How is that leg?” Borden asked.
“’Tis hurting,” Magdalen admitted, settling back against the pillows and taking the bowl of pottage that smelled of thyme and rosemary.
“Cyn told me you might need another herbal drink when you woke. I promised I would have one ready.”
“He is not here?” How ridiculous that she experienced a pang of disappointment.
“He went to check the forest roads. He wanted to ensure they were not blocked by fallen branches or trees from the storm.”
“I see.” Magdalen spooned up a mouthful of the broth laden with cabbage, herbs, onions, and lentils. ’Twas delicious, and she quickly downed several more bites. Borden left her to eat and when he returned, was carrying another mug of his special herbal brew.
With a pleased grin, he took the empty bowl from her and handed over the drink.
Curiosity welled inside her, for there was so much she didn’t know about the man who’d brought her to his home. ’Twould be good to determine if she could trust Cyn. She hoped to flee from here as soon as she was able, to get the missive into the hands of an official who could stop the murder. Yet, if circumstances made fleeing impossible, she might have to confide in Cyn.
A yawn tugged at her lips. Oh, mercy, but she was tired, and her leg throbbed. Any future plans would have to wait until she had more strength. For now, she was glad to have a means to take away the pain. “Have you been Cyn’s steward for long?” she asked, as she sipped the herbal brew.
“Nine years,” Borden said, “but not all of those in this home. Some I spent with him in London, after he returned from fighting in the East. He has been very good to me.”
Again, she sensed there was a great deal that Borden didn’t mention. It seemed both he and Cyn had endured difficult, life-changing experiences. She didn’t wish to pry—prying was most indelicate and unladylike, she’d been informed by a tutor years ago—but her curiosity deepened.
As she swallowed more herbal drink, Borden said, “Do not be afraid of Cyn. He has faced great challenges that would have destroyed lesser men. I have no right to share what happened to him with you. I can only hope that one day, he will tell you himself.”
Surprise rippled through her. She didn’t intend to stay long enough for Cyn to want to share his darkest secrets. “He will not divulge any such details to me.”
The older man winked. “We shall see, milady.”
Once she’d finished the drink, he took the empty mug from her and then helped her lie back down. He left with Perceval running at his heels like a puppy.
As the silence of the room settled around her, she stared up at the rough-hewn beams overhead. A gentle rain pattered on the roof, the sound blending into the lulling crackle of the fire.
How she hoped Edwina wasn’t upset with her. Before leaving Glemstow, Magdalen had penned a quick note and had given it to a servant to deliver to the sewing room; she’d written only that she had an unexpected and urgent matter to attend. To protect Edwina, Magdalen hadn’t dared to say more. Still, knowing she’d likely hurt her dear friend by not meeting her in the sewing chamber as promised brought tears to Magdalen’s eyes. She hated to think that Edwina would feel betrayed—and yet, even if she wanted to, Magdalen couldn’t tell her the truth.
How was precious little Timothy? She missed his giggle, his adorable toothless grin, and the sweet baby smell that clung to his skin.
She also hadn’t yet sent a reply to the recent, newsy letter from Aislinn—a friend who was as close to her as Edwina. There was no telling when Magdalen would have a chance to respond, especially when she didn’t have any parchment or a quill.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Drying her cheeks with the sheet, Magdalen fought not to give in to despair. What she’d done today was difficult, but ’twas right.
She could only hope that one day, her friends would understand.
***
“All went well, milord?” Borden took Cyn’s damp cloak and draped it on a wooden rack by the fire in the kitchen, alongside Cyn’s other cloak from earlier that day. Lancelot gobbled the scraps left in a bowl on the floor and then wandered away into the main part of the house.
“There were many branches down, and I had to help some travelers whose wagon was stuck in the mud close to the town,” Cyn said quietly. “How is Magdalen?” He’d thought of her every moment that he’d been away. No matter how hard he’d tried to focus on his duties, memories of her lingered, along with endless questions. Mayhap later today she’d be well enough, trusting enough, to answer some of those questions that plagued him.
“She ate some pottage, and I gave her more of the herbal drink. She has slept soundly since.”
“Good. She needs the rest.”
“Any word on why William was pursuing her?”
“Nay. However, I expect he will arrive here on the morrow with his men-at-arms in tow. I intend to get answers from him then.”
Borden’s lips flattened. “Do you mean to hand her over to him?”
“Of course not!”
A smile brightened the older man’s face. “As I had hoped.” He gestured to Cyn’s mud-splattered garments and boots. “I will pour out some hot water for you to wash, and heat you some pottage.”
“Thank you.” Cyn pulled off his boots, took the heated water from Borden, and then padded into the small room off the kitchen where he normally slept—except that Magdalen was using his bed. He stripped off his dirty clothes, scrubbed clean with herbal soap, and then dressed.
As he strode back into the kitchen, Borden looked up from the pot hanging over the fire. “The fare is ready.”
“I will eat once I have checked Magdalen’s leg.”
Borden nodded and returned to the dried herbs laid out the nearby butcher’s block, likely to be made into a fresh healing drink.
Moving silently, Cyn went to the cot. Magdalen was sound asleep. How beautiful she looked while she slumbered; she was even lovelier than the maidens spoken of in the old stories he treasured. Her fair skin was smooth and unblemished. Her long, dark lashes swept against her face, while her shimmering hair trailed in unfettered abandon across the pillow.
His gaze shifted down to her lips, as pink as a damask rose and slightly parted in sleep. His hands curled at his sides, and he forced his attention away, resenting the anguish that flickered within him. He had no right to stare. To want. He was not worthy of one as innocent, as exquisite, as Magdalen.
He carefully drew the blanket away from her leg, untied a few of the bandages, and inspected the wound. The stitches looked good. Satisfied no more could be done for her that night, he put the blanket back in place and started for the kitchen.
As he walked, his gaze found Magdalen’s clothes and leather bag still drying near the fire. His strides slowed. When he’d secured the bag to the line, he’d marveled at the weight of it. Whatever she’d taken with her from Glemstow, he’d be wise to know—especially if ’twas the reason she’d run from William.
He crossed to the hearth and unfastened the bag. Guilt nagged at Cyn; he really should ask Magdalen’s permission to examine her belongings, but that would mean waking her. Moreover, he was acting in the crown-appointed role of sheriff; by law, he didn’t have to ask her consent. Cyn eased the bag open and reached inside.
Something cool and roundish in shape brushed against his fingers: A stone? As he took it out into the firelight, his breath lodged in his throat, for ’twas a ruby the size of a hen’s egg, its surface polished to gleaming perfection. White streaks shot through the gem. They branched out from the center like the antlers of a stag.
Where had she come by such a magnificent ruby? It must be worth a small fortune. As far as he knew, William hadn’t owned such a stone…which meant it must belong to her.
Some men would kill to possess such a gem, but not William. Not the William Cyn knew—which meant William had another reason for wanting to capture her.
Cyn’s uneasy gaze flicked to Magdalen, still slumbering, before he set down the ruby and reached into the bag again. He withdrew a small, clinking bag of coins and a soggy chunk of bread, wrapped in a handkerchief, along with a stack of damp letters tied with a ribbon.
Ah. The letters must contain damning information.
He quickly read through them. They were written to Magdalen by a woman named Aislinn, and unless they were penned in some kind of secret code, were merely reflections on Aislinn’s life with her husband Hugh and his daughters at a castle named Hallingstow. Frowning, Cyn put the coins, handkerchief, and letters aside, and tossed the bread into the fire. Was he missing clues that should be obvious, or had he just not found yet what William was after?
When Cyn reached into the bag one last time, cold metal fitted into his hand. The object felt familiar.
Disquiet tingled through him as he pulled the object out into the fire glow. Light gleamed on the silver doe as long as his hand and wrought from silver. A beautiful piece made by a very skilled craftsman—and one that made his heart freeze then slam hard against his ribs.
God’s holy blood.
He definitely wasn’t going to let Magdalen go. Not until he had some answers.