Chapter Three
Two days later
The town of St. Agnes, Cornwall
Addy reined in her mare outside the tailor’s premises, situated in a row of two-story buildings along one side of the market square. The yeasty scent of baking bread from the shop across the way wafted on the morning breeze, while the rasp of a broom alerted her to the tavern owner sweeping his dusty front step.
Tack jangled as Addy’s three men-at-arms halted their mounts close to hers. At each shop, the hinged wooden board fronting the premises’ lower level was down, to form a display area that offered wares for sale. On any other day she would have loved to browse the assortment of goods, some imported from far-away lands, before strolling over to the baker’s to indulge in a pastry, but today, an icy knot of dread churned in the pit of her stomach.
In just four days, she’d be Lord Denman Ransford’s wife.
Fighting a shudder, she slid down from her mare.
“Chin up,” Gwen murmured, slipping her arm through Addy’s.
Addy managed a brave smile. While she didn’t want to marry Ransford, she’d decided to go ahead with the wedding. She would not cause trouble for her sire. He was the only parent she had left, and she’d never forgive herself if her disobedience caused him to earn the king’s disfavor.
If she was clever, mayhap she could find a way to annul the union, although the likelihood of that—
“Milady.” The auburn-haired seamstress waved from inside the shop.
“Good day, Herta,” Addy called. She and Gwen headed for the open doorway.
“We will come in with you, milady,” said a man-at-arms.
“Must you?” She really didn’t want men standing guard while she undressed and tried on her gown. “Why not search the shop before I go in, as you did on my previous visit? Once you know all is well, you will wait outside until I am finished.”
“Your father said—”
“I remember what he said.” As usual, her sire was being overprotective. She was nineteen years old, not a child. She was soon to be a wife, for God’s sake. “You will do as I asked,” she said firmly.
As Addy and Gwen entered the shop, Herta curtsied. The guards strode past her and began their search.
Light spilling in through the display window fell upon the colorful rows of garments arranged along the right wall. Stockings, hair ornaments, and cloak pins were set out on small tables. A polished counter and several chairs sat near the back of the shop, close to the carved wooden screen that provided privacy for customers while they changed garments.
One of the men-at-arms strode into the back room, where Herta kept bolts of cloth and other supplies, and where she designed and sewed garments. Her husband, who’d made clothes for rich merchants at his previous shop in London, also helped with the sewing when he wasn’t assisting the local carpenter.
Returning to the main room, the man-at-arms pointed behind him. “Is the rear door locked?”
Herta nodded. “I promise, her ladyship will be safe. St. Agnes is a quiet town, not like some others in Cornwall.”
The guard didn’t answer, but beckoned to his colleagues. They walked out. Two of the men took up position by the front door, which Herta closed. She retrieved an earthenware jug and, with a wink, poured wine into three mugs. “A drink will make our appointment even more enjoyable, aye?”
Addy accepted a mug. She’d find no joy in trying on her gown, but she’d gladly drink if ’twould calm her nerves.
“The wine was sent for your fitting today by your betrothed, milady.”
“Really?” How thoughtful of Denman. Addy took a sip.
“’Twas delivered by his lordship’s man named Stockton. I was happy to accept the gift, since Lord Ransford is a good customer of ours. Apparently ’tis an excellent vintage.”
Gwen drank some and then downed a large mouthful. “’Tis delicious.”
Addy downed a little more of her drink. ’Twas indeed tasty, but her stomach was still churning.
Herta took a large swallow and then set down her mug. “Now, milady, the gown is hanging on the back of the screen. Will you need help with your garments?”
“I should be able to manage, thank you.”
“Let me know if there is anything I can do,” Gwen said, before sitting on one of the chairs.
Addy walked behind the screen and set her mug on the nearby side table. While she half-listened to Gwen and Herta’s chatter and removed her shoes, her gaze traveled over the beautiful rose-pink dress shimmering against the dark wood of the screen. The gown, with its sleeves that flared out at the wrists, fitted waist, and flowing skirt, had been designed by Herta after one described in an old tale. The gown in the story had been worn by Guinevere, the wife of the legendary King Arthur.
Addy pulled off her garments. Wearing only a thin linen chemise, she reached for the wedding gown. ’Twas truly a shame the exquisite creation wasn’t to be worn by a bride who, as in the old tale, was passionately in love with her betrothed.
From the shadows of a nearby alley, Garrett studied the two broad-shouldered men on guard outside the tailor’s. He’d seen another guard go around the back. That man must be dealt with too, if the kidnapping was to succeed.
Garrett could only hope that inside the premises, matters were unfolding as expected.
Anticipation raced through him, for he’d seen Addy enter the shop. He’d always thought her beautiful, but her comeliness had grown through the years since they’d gone separate ways. Her brown hair, plaited around her head, had gleamed in the sunlight, and when she’d glanced at a shop nearby, he’d found himself suddenly breathless at the perfection of her features.
With stunning intensity, he’d yearned to kiss her again, and to claim her as his forever. Yet, while she’d cared for him once, she wouldn’t want the man he was now. He shoved the inconvenient yearnings aside and concentrated on what he had to do.
A satisfied sigh drew his gaze to Corwin, leaning against the wall of a building. The lad, eating a chicken pie, had smeared dirt on his face and now wore the ragged, ill-fitting clothes of a street urchin. They’d bought the clothes from a boy begging a few streets away; he’d almost fainted when Garrett had handed him three pieces of silver in exchange for the garments.
Corwin downed the last morsel of pie. “When do you want me to distract those guards?” he asked.
“Soon.” They must wait until the ladies had drunk enough wine.
The boy grimaced and scratched his arm. “Do not make me wait too long. I think this tunic has fleas.”
As Corwin scratched again, Garrett’s thoughts flashed back to the afternoon he’d hauled the lad to the English camp on the outskirts of Rouen and forced him into a bath. The poor boy’s skin had not only been covered with cuts and bruises, but red flea bites. It had taken three soapy scrubbings—done while Corwin had kicked and screeched and fought like hell—for Garrett to get rid of the worst of the pests. Remembering the lad’s wretched condition rekindled Garrett’s anger for the thug who’d forced the boy and other orphans like him to steal to survive.
In truth, Garrett could also be accused of manipulation, by involving the boy in the kidnapping. Corwin had agreed of his own free will, but still, disgust coiled up inside Garrett, infusing his rage with self-loathing. He’d vowed to raise the boy to honor the code of chivalry, but abducting a damsel was far from gallant.
“I regret you are wearing those garments,” he said. “I am sure they stir up unpleasant memories.”
The lad kicked at a piece of splintered wood on the ground. “’Twas my choice.”
“Aye, but truly, you do not have to help me. ’Tis all right if you would rather not.”
Kicking again, Corwin said, “I will do as we agreed.”
Those were the words Garrett wanted to hear, but Corwin mustn’t consent out of a sense of fear or obligation. “I promise, I will not forsake you if you choose to wait here. I would never—”
“I know.” Corwin glanced up, his jaw set with resolve. “You need me, though.”
A dull ache warmed Garrett’s chest. Sometimes the lad said the most astonishing things. Garrett didn’t know quite how to react or what to say when such strong emotions flared inside him, and so he focused his attention again on the tailor’s shop. “All right, then, you will help me. Once you have done your part, though, change into your spare clothes and throw those ones away.” His tone roughened, allowing some of what glowed in his heart to slip out. “I swear, I will never ask you to don such garments again. Not under any circumstances.”
Corwin moved in to stand beside Garrett. After a long silence, he said, “Shall I go now?”
Garrett’s pulse quickened with the excitement of the challenge ahead. “Aye. Now.”
Addy pulled the gown over her head. As the yards of silk tumbled down, she was momentarily plunged into darkness. Was it wrong to wish she could just disappear into that blackness, to vanish and therefore be spared from having to marry Denman?
The gown slipped past her head, bringing her back once more to daylight and the area behind the screen.
She heard Gwen giggle. “The wine must be strong. I am feeling lightheaded.”
“So am I, milady,” Herta answered, even as shouts rose outside the shop.
The plank floor squeaked, indicating that Gwen and the seamstress were hurrying to the window.
As Addy pushed her arms into the gown’s sleeves, curiosity nagged. “What is happening?”
“’Tis not yet clear,” Gwen answered.
“What has that urchin got in his hand?” Herta asked.
“Looks like a coin purse. He must have stolen it from the guard who is chasing him.”
Gwen’s words had sounded a bit slurred. Addy frowned while she smoothed the gown’s bodice, for her friend couldn’t have drunk that much wine yet. However, Addy felt a little muzzy-headed herself. The drink must indeed be potent.
More men’s voices, raised in disagreement, reached her.
“I apologize for the noise, milady.” The shopkeeper sounded flustered. “’Tis most unusual. I will…find out what…is happening.”
The seamstress sounded unwell. Addy stopped shaking out the gown’s flowing skirt. “Herta?”
A moan, and then the sound of someone falling.
“Herta!”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Gwen? Is she all right?”
No reply.
Concern raced through Addy. While she, too, was feeling a bit woozy, she must know that the two women were hale.
Just as she started for the edge of the screen, footfalls sounded on the floorboards.
“You cannot go in there,” the guard at the front door bellowed.
Addy froze as the bold strides continued; the intruder was doing as he bloody well pleased.
What kind of fool would disobey an armed knight?
The guard cursed, and footsteps sounded as he took up pursuit. Then a boot heel scraped on wood. The smack of flesh plowing into flesh. A thud: someone had collapsed to the floorboards.
She exhaled a pent-up breath. Thankfully her guard had dealt with the man.
The shop’s door clicked closed.
The bold strides resumed.
She was shut in with the intruder.
What did he want? Mayhap he planned to rob the premises. If he discovered her behind the screen—a witness—would he hurt or kill her?
Dizziness taunted her, but she forced herself to remain still. If she moved, the rustling of her gown would give her away.
The man was near now. She didn’t just hear him, she felt his commanding presence.
Fear snaked through her as she eyed the edge of the screen, just a step away. Her legs were unsteady, threatening to collapse, but she must be strong. Did she dare to take that step and peer around? If she got a good look at the intruder, she’d be able to give the sheriff his description. Yet, mayhap she’d be wiser to run for the rear door—
A sliding sound came from beyond the screen. Unable to stay still a moment longer, Addy lurched forward, gripped the edge of the screen, and peeked around.
A tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a plain but well-cut brown tunic and hose, stood with his back to her. He pulled an unconscious Herta by her ankles toward the window, where Gwen lay. With a sickening jolt, Addy realized in that spot, both women would be hidden from view if anyone outside looked into the shop.
Poor Gwen’s eyes were closed. She still held her mug, although the wine had splashed on the planks.
The wine.
The drink had been drugged.
Had Denman drugged it? Or Stockton? Mayhap the intruder was somehow involved.
The dizziness intensified, and an unnatural heaviness spread through her limbs. She struggled to stay alert as the man set down Herta’s legs and tugged her gown to her ankles. How curious that he’d be so kind. His actions suggested he understood propriety, which made his intrusion even more unnerving.
When he straightened, muscles rippled beneath his tunic. He had the broad shoulders of a warrior who’d trained with weapons since childhood.
His head tilted slightly; he’d become aware she was watching him.
She quickly drew back behind the screen, but dizziness overwhelmed her. Gasping, she stumbled backward, knocking against the side table. Her wine crashed to the floor.
“Careful,” the man said, his tone faintly mocking.
Oh, God. His voice seemed vaguely familiar, but—
“Lady Mortimer,” he drawled.
He knew her name.
Oh, mercy, who was he?
She gripped the table with a shaking hand, barely able to stay upright. Darkness beckoned, but she would not faint.
Now he was approaching the screen.
Drawing on the last of her strength, she met the gaze of the intruder as he came into view. “Who…?” she managed to say, but her vision blurred.
Then there was only blackness.
Addy’s eyes fluttered closed. Worry lanced through Garrett, for she was perilously close to the table and would hit her head when she fell.
As her body went limp, he lunged forward to slide his arm around her waist. She slumped against him, her head settling under his bearded chin. The perfumed scent of her tresses filled his nostrils, and longing for her, chased by guilt, rippled through him.
He ignored the unwelcome emotions, slid one arm under her knees, and picked her up. Her cheek now rested against his shoulder. Yards and yards of her gown draped toward the floor, and when he glanced straight down, his gaze fell upon the shadow of her cleavage and the lush swell of her breasts accentuated by the gold embroidery trailing down the bodice.
He didn’t know much about women’s gowns, but one thing he did know: the lavish dress fitted Addy with perfection. The color brought out the creaminess of her skin and made her rosy lips look even more sumptuous. Jealousy flared, for in a few days, she’d belong to Ransford—not because his lordship loved her, but simply because he wanted her.
How Garrett wished that he’d made her his long ago. That hadn’t been possible, though, and dwelling on regret now was a mistake.
He strode for the back door, threw the lock, and pushed the panel open with his shoulder. He stepped around the unconscious guard sprawled on the muck-covered ground. Corwin, clad once again in his own garments, was waiting with the mounts.
“All went as planned?” the boy asked, seated astride the large pony Garrett had bought him months ago.
“It did. And you?”
“I threw the contents of the guard’s purse into a street.” Corwin laughed. “He and his colleague were too busy retrieving coins to pursue me.”
The guards wouldn’t be distracted for long. Garrett maneuvered Addy up onto his destrier and then rose behind her. He pulled her into his arms and used the woolen blanket the lad gave him to shield her head and upper body, so she wouldn’t be recognized on their ride out of the town.
Urgent shouts carried from the market square.
Garrett swiftly turned his horse and, with Corwin following, raced down the alley.