Chapter Eleven

 

The cold raindrops striking Merry’s face resembled tiny arrows, yet she hardly flinched from them. Beneath the cloak Lady Iversly had given her as a parting gift, the cold scarcely seemed to affect her. Nor did the ache in her back that came from riding from sun up to sunset the day before cause her to complain. She felt nothing beyond the numb disbelief that Luke had spoken no more than a sentence to her since their journey began.

In lieu of his arms around her, she had only the comfort of a sodden, miserable cat, for she rode alone. Luke had donned his mail as a precaution against danger. A small band of his best soldiers, equally well-armed, accompanied them, as did his squire. She’d been given her own horse—in order to make good time without straining Suleyman, Luke had tersely explained to her the day before. Uncharacteristically, though, he rode with his helm jammed down on his head making communication difficult and eye contact impossible.

It was not the tenderly bittersweet end of their time together that Merry had envisioned.

Yet Luke remained a courteous knight. She could not fault him there. The previous morning, she’d awakened alone in the bed they’d shared, saving her from disgrace in Adelle’s eyes, as the baroness had been the one to awaken her. Throughout the long ride so far, Luke had seen to her comfort, stopping often that she might stretch her legs or relieve herself. And when the rain had swept down on them in the night, he’d erected a tent for her, so she wouldn’t have to sleep outdoors like the rest of the soldiers traveling with them. He had not joined her under the tent.

In fact, he’d made no attempt to prolong their intimacy. He’d taken great pains not to touch her at all. In contrast to the warm bed she’d shared with him the previous night, no place had seemed so cold and lonely as that dry tent.

She tried reasoning with herself to lift her spirits. Luke had made it perfectly plain that their night together was all he could give of himself. She’d expected little beyond that. Yet, perhaps some regret on his part, some token of his admiration to carry with her—was that asking too much? Instead of the friendly companion he had been on the road to Iversly, he offered only distant civility, so tooth-clenchingly polite, in fact, she could almost believe she’d imagined their night of ecstasy.

Upon rising that morn to face the second day of their journey, Merry had suffered the unwelcome suspicion he’d come to her chamber to assuage his needs and not to comfort her—and that despite his seeming chivalric reluctance to take her innocence, indeed, that had been his intention. The way he currently treated her, it was not impossible to envision him dropping her off at the gates of Helmsley, barely pausing before dusting his hands off and riding away, relieved to get his duty done.

Could it be that the best night of her life had meant nothing to him?

The possibility diminished her joy over the memory, leaving her silent in her saddle as their journey ensued. Desperately, she replayed every nuance of their intimacy, searching for evidence that his tenderness had been a farce. Perhaps she’d mistaken the possessive hunger that had burned in his eyes and in his touch for common lust. Perhaps she’d misunderstood his gentle restraint. Or mayhap she was simply too naïve to realize that his actions and their swiving were commonplace—how it always was between a willing man and woman.

What they’d experienced, he would do again with his betrothed.

The realization sickened her. Lowering her gaze to her hands grasped about the pommel, she reflected that, all too soon, she would see the last of him. The mere thought seemed unacceptable.

At what point had he become so vital to her joy? Was it when he’d made that promise, weeks ago, to contrive to make her smile again?

She shook her head in confusion, but of one thing, she decided she could be certain: She hadn’t imagined his kindness, nor his tenderness, nor his desire. He was a warrior with impeccable discipline and control. Perhaps for that reason alone, she could read no hint of the intimate lover in the set of the Phoenix’s shoulders. He had put on the mantle of aloofness along with his chain mail.

The rain picked up again, driving Merry deeper into Adelle’s gifted mantle. Shivering with cold and wet, her regret turned inward where it smoldered into anger. He must have known that the end would be like this, yet even knowing, he had condemned her to suffer. She should not have given him so much of herself. She should have kept to her accustomed ways, guarded herself and her feelings in isolation as she’d always done.

At least, in that frozen state, she had not been hurt, neither by being abandoned by her family nor isolated at the priory. Truly, not even the prioress, who’d condemned her to death, had pierced the brittle armor that Merry had worn for years.

Only Luke had pried back the layers of her bitter shell. With his courtesy and his civilized restraint, he’d won her trust. Combined with his impossibly pleasing looks, he’d contrived to make himself the perfect man for her, irresistible. And that was his fault.

From that point onward, in addition to the life of constant fear to which she was condemned, hiding for the rest of her years from the Church and any pursuers who craved the reward, she must also endure the reality that happiness had been attainable. Indeed, it had been experienced and mightily so! It would be hereafter denied to her, for the one who’d stirred such joy, simply by a look, a word, a touch, could not return her affections.

Wallowing in her troubled thoughts, Merry realized with a start that they’d come to the outskirts of a small hamlet previously shrouded in rainy mist—the name of it a mystery.

As they cantered into its main square, there was little to see but a gathering of low, leaning huts huddled around a central well. On such a bleak, September day, the muddy square lay deserted. Still, the scent of roast pork wafted from a yellowed stone building with an impossibly sloping roof. The sign outside, creaking in the wet gusts of wind, was too worn to read.

Luke gave the call to stop. He turned toward her.

“My lady, are you hungry?” he asked.

Coldly polite. She sought to read his eyes through the slits of his helm, but they remained obscured.

She’d overheard him reassuring the soldiers that they would arrive at Helmsley by nightfall.

“I am,” she said, seeking to delay the inevitable. Perhaps, if they paused and broke bread together once more, she might pry from him a word of regret at their parting, if not outright affection—something to relieve her aching heart.

“We eat here,” he announced, addressing the nine men who’d accompanied them. Dismounting, Luke helped her from her saddle with minimal contact, then left Erin to hitch his horse and hers to the posts. The others dismounted and did likewise.

All the men, except for the one designated to guard the horses and supplies, tromped toward the door of the building. Ignoring Luke’s silent offer to escort her, Merry followed them into the smoky dwelling. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“This way.” Luke tugged her toward an alcove away from the smoky fire.

Her gaze slid longingly toward the hearth, for her cloak was damp from the incessant drizzle. The area before the hearth was crowded with men—farmers, hunters, a few tradesmen. They had apparently been drinking a while already, for the liquor roughened their laughter and swelled the volume of their conversation, making the tavern as noisy as an All Fools Day gathering.

Luke indicated she should sit at the end of the bench, farthest from the revelers. As he sat beside her, settling his helm in his lap and tugging his fingers from the gauntlets, her hopes for reconciliation rose. At least for the first time that day, she could see his face. Still, she resisted the urge to study him, to commit his profile to memory. Waiting for a word from him—any word, she pushed back her hood, unaware that the firelight found a reflection in the fiery lengths of her braids.

After a while, a well-endowed serving wench came to take their orders, and the drunk men ogling the wench took their first note of Merry. Out the corner of her eye, she saw them elbow one another until all of them were staring. The tavern grew suddenly hushed.

Luke slid a fraction closer, and pleasure bloomed in Merry’s heart. Was he jealous? Protective? She glanced hopefully at his shadowed profile, but his jaw had only hardened. He gave the barmaid their table’s order for warm wine and bread and whatever pottage was being served. Then he pointedly returned the stares of the men at the hearth, who jostled for a view.

Merry’s heart thudded with expectation. While not exactly private, the noise in the tavern allowed for at least a modest conversation for those sitting side by side. There wasn’t any reason Luke could not speak to her as familiarly as he’d done the other night. She imagined him apologizing for his cold manner, assigning his aloofness to his military demeanor.

Yet as the minutes crept past, her hopes began to dwindle. He remained steadfastly quiet.

Anger flared with double vigor—anger at Luke for the easy way in which he had gone from ardent love to dispassionate protector. Anger at herself for wanting more from him than he could give.

With a desperate need to dispel the tension, Merry pushed to her feet, drawing Luke’s startled gaze. The light from the fire illumined her erect figure, and the men across the room turned their heads again to admire her.

She glared at Luke, her knees quaking with an emotion too powerful to name.

“I’m going to the privy.” As the clipped words left her, she stepped smartly over the bench and strode toward the rear exit, seeking the outhouse or, indeed, any place where the tears pressuring her eyes would not be noticed.

Pushing open a heavy door at the rear of the building, she stepped into the misty drizzle. After a few paces, she dared a quick glance over her shoulder—it revealed Luke’s shadowy form coming after her.

She quickened her step, running across the muddy yard to the ugly structure at the rear. The bog reeked despite the cool temperatures. Merry veered away from it to a copse of trees where she hoped to secret herself for a few minutes of peace.

To her dismay, Luke’s footfalls grew louder. She stopped under an oak, its branches and leaves sheltering her from the rain. Fisting her hands in frustration, she sought with deep breaths to regain her good humor, not in the mood for a lecture on the dangers of her being in the wooded area. She felt more at home there than indoors, anyway.

Strangely, he remained a few yards away, just beyond the woods, waiting. Perhaps he thought her relieving herself. She smiled wryly. Forsooth, he must think her a wild woman, indeed, who’d rejected the arguable comforts of the outhouse in favor of the trees.

Rolling her eyes, she wanted to scream. She would never find serenity with him standing there, waiting to escort her back inside.

“God’s teeth,” she muttered, then trekked back through the copse. As she neared him, she glared into his placid face, rolled her eyes, looked past him, and made to brush by.

He grabbed her upper arm, nearly lifting her off her feet as he stopped her.

“Release me,” she commanded, looking first at his ungloved hand on her arm before raising imperious eyes to his.

“Lady, don’t be like this,” he beseeched in a low voice.

So close to her, yet so impossibly far.

“Oh, it’s ‘lady’ again, is it?” she spat out. “After everything we’ve shared, you’re no longer able to call me by my given name.” Nor by the pet name he had bestowed, she noted with a pang in her heart.

“Merry,” he ground out, tightening his grip.

She wrenched her arm free of his grasp and bolted past him back to the inn. Yet he caught her before she could open the door. A second later, he caught her, pinning her against the rough timbers of the building. Exasperation tinged his gruff lecture.

“I told you not to expect anything from me,” he said, uncaring of the rain dripping down his bare head. “I was honest and quite clear. I demand you cease this tantrum, do not run outside unprotected, and for God’s sake, comport yourself as befitting a lady.”

Bitterness that had brewed in her for years boiled to the surface. The last thing she wanted from him was a sermon on comportment.

“If I were a lady,” she hissed at him, her face on fire, “then you would not be conveying me to Helmsley, would you? I would be safely in the bosom of my mother’s home and not a condemned heretic fleeing for her life. If I were a lady, you would not have lain with me like I was a common . . .” She broke off, unable to say the word.

Luke’s face registered his shock, and he allowed her to thrust him away from her before she yanked open the door and fled blindly into the inn’s main room—and straight into the arms of one of the boisterous young men gathered for drink, eats, and possibly mischief.

“Well, well!” he cried, managing to get a hand on either side of her waist and spin her around. “What have we here?” He pulled her toward the circle of his companions, who welcomed her warmly.

Bewildered and momentarily overcome, Merry let herself be led before the fire. Trembling and cold, she found its warmth a comfort, the friendliness of the revelers a distraction from Luke’s chilling reminder that he’d given her all he could.

Her anger drained from her abruptly, leaving her sick for having humiliated herself before the Phoenix. He had warned her, it was true, that there could be no future between them. Still, she had given herself willingly. More than that, she had practically demanded that he lie with her, urged him to spill his seed within her womb.

The same young man who’d grabbed her urged her to sit, and she did so, blindly, her thoughts a furlong away. ’Twasn’t fair to expect anything else from Luke, not even regret.

Oh, how she wished she’d been able to maintain the measure of composure that he had, as no doubt the royal cousin who’d captured his heart would have. Nay, such a lady, the betrothed of the heir to Arundel, would never have allowed the liberties Merry had allowed, nor found herself in such a hopeless situation.

Someone jerked her braids, returning her sharply to the present. Suddenly, all the men were pressing in too closely, exclaiming their amazement at the rich red hue of her hair. One who had clearly drunk too much stretched a hand toward her lap. Merry slapped it away, drawing chortles of amusement.

“Ah, she’s a vixen, this one,” another remarked.

“We don’t mean ye ne harm,” cooed his sly-looking companion. “Likely we can please ye better’n the knight what escorts ye.” He nodded toward the empty doorway.

Luke had yet to appear, but his soldiers sat rigidly and indecisively in their seats. They’d begun to murmur amongst themselves, to look for their lord, yet none came over to bring her back into the fold, she noticed.

“Have a drink.” One of the strangers thrust a half-empty wooden cup into her hand. Merry wasn’t fooled. The men pretended to be friendly, but she understood their animal intent as they crowded around her, eyeing her hungrily.

Trying to peer past their jostling shoulders, she cast an imploring look at Luke’s soldiers, but either they didn’t notice or they’d decided she wasn’t worth fighting over. Only Erin seemed uneasy as he glanced at the empty doorway, clearly hopeful of the Phoenix’s return.

She tried to rise from the bench and escape on her own, but a heavy hand settled on her shoulder. Panic arose in her as she shrugged it off, only to have another hand on her, this time on her knee. If they took further liberties, would anyone be able to stop them or care enough to do so?

“Say,” cried one of the men, suddenly. She turned toward the fire where a small, pinch-faced hunter sat. “Look again at that unnatural hair. Remember the rider?”

His reference perplexed her, but his companions understood it. All eyes turned to her again. The same hunter asked her boldly, “Ain’t ye the witch what’s wanted by the Church?”

Merry’s heartbeat suspended a moment, and she flinched, confirming his guess without meaning to. Her face fell under scrutiny as the others leaned in to study her.

“What was it the cleric said?” someone asked.

“Randall listened to him. Ask him. No one else gave him a fig’s worth o’ notice.”

That brought about a good-natured chuckle.

Another man, presumably Randall, eyed Merry.

“The ol’ clergyman said the heretic what escaped ’em is a lady o’ twenty summat years,” he said, his eyes searching her face. He nodded, as if he’d already confirmed her age “Said her hair be colored like the flames o’ hell. She escaped execution with the help o’ a knight claiming to serve the king h’self.”

“Big reward, ain’t there?” asked the pinch-faced man.

“Ay,” continued Randall. “Forty pence for her return!”

A general murmur went up amongst the men and youths.

“Forty pence!”

“You don’t say!”

“God’s wounds,” a drunken man exclaimed, his words slurring. “This must be she!”

“The lady is with me.” Luke’s authoritative voice cut through their muttering like a blade through butter. “Unhand her,” he added.

When the drunkards and revelers failed to move fast enough, Luke’s broadsword came ringing out of its sheath. With abrupt and economical movements, he used it to part the men out of his path. Firelight skittered up the length of the long, broad blade and shone dully on his blackened mail, making the Phoenix look more like a fiendish dark warrior than an angelic savior.

Finding herself suddenly free, Merry knew she would remember Luke forever as her avenging angel, with gratitude and fondness. Certes, he was worthy of her kindest thoughts.

The man standing nearest the point of Luke’s sword gave a forced laugh.

“Good knight,” he cajoled, standing up and drawing Merry with him. “Of course this fine lady isn’t the heretic in question. We only jested with her, isn’t that so, friends?”

The others were slow to respond. Then, with a few shared looks and fewer words, they gathered their belongings and donned their cloaks. Beginning to slip away, several left out the back door and the rest hastened through the front.

The one at Merry’s side persisted in addressing Luke. “Is this lady your wife, then?” he asked, keeping a gentle grip on her elbow.

“I told you to unhand her,” Luke reminded him. When the man did not, he signaled for his men to rise from their meal. They did so, drawing weapons as they rose.

Merry held her breath, tensing at the notion of a violent confrontation. She had caused this—inadvertently, but still . . .

She gasped, for in the blink of an eye, the hand that had been at her elbow was pressing a blade to her throat.

“Move a thumb’s width and I’ll cut her neck.” The man’s smooth voice had transformed into that of a conscienceless killer.

Recalling the night at Heathersgill when Luke had used his words to trick Edgar, Merry prayed he would do so again. Panic sent all the blood in her head straight to her pounding heart.

Luke’s sword rose a fraction, and the dagger at Merry’s neck broke her skin. She cried out at the stinging intrusion, wondered if she’d been mortally wounded, but she felt only a drop of blood trickle down her neck.

Luke took a startled step back. Her gaze flew to his and stayed there, beseeching him to do she knew not what. After a moment, he dropped his weapon, letting it clang to the floor of rushes over stone.

“Don’t hurt her!” His bleak tone alarmed her all the more.

Chuckling at his victory, her captor backed toward the front exit, dragging her in his wake, the blade pressed to her throat.

“Do you make one move to follow me, and I’ll slit her throat completely. She’s worth nothin’ to you dead, but I’ll still get a pretty penny even for her corpse. Remember that, laddo.”

Shouldering his way out of the tavern, the man pulled her roughly into the rain, toward a waiting horse, held by one of his companions. Shoving her into the other man’s arms, he mounted and then let the other lift her up. Together, while she struggled, they managed to heave her across her abductor’s lap.

“Hah!” The horse jolted forward. The saddle lurched upward, cutting off her cry of terror and forcing the air from her lungs.

He was taking her away! Away from Luke!

She tried to lever herself up, to relieve the discomfort of lying face down across the man’s thighs, but a relentless hand shoved her down, again and again. A dark blur of hooves, mud, and trampled grass streamed across her vision.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Merry concentrated on drawing air, for the saddle under her belly continued to pummel her stomach. She struggled to comprehend what had happened.

Due to her own stupidity, her blasted temper, and her unrealistic expectations, she had fallen prey to a bounty hunter, in fact, more than one. She seemed to be in the midst of half a dozen riders from the tavern—where Luke no doubt stood feeling frustrated yet perhaps glad to be rid of her.

Thinking of him brought tears of remorse to her eyes as she wailed inwardly. Likely, she had ruined any hope of his coming after her. Why should he bother saving her when all he’d gotten for his efforts was her stinging rebuke? She didn’t deserve to be plucked free of this debacle. She was naught but a shrew of the worst sort, and, no doubt, she deserved to be punished for her pettiness.

 

 

Peering through the unshuttered window, Luke waited for the miscreants to thunder out of the village before he gave the signal to pursue. His men, sensing his cold fury—and perhaps censure against their inaction—trailed silently out of the tavern behind him.

He stopped dead at the sight that awaited him. The soldier on watch lay sprawled under the bellies of the few horses that remained, his throat slit. The majority of their horses were gone, stolen by the men who’d taken Merry.

Luke swore in his Saracen tongue. It was impossible for his band to give chase for only three horses remained. Suleyman, who would not tolerate any rider but Luke, was one of them. Eyeing a furious Kit upon the saddle, his fur still spiked, Luke had to wonder if the cat had also aided in that circumstance.

The other mounts were Merry’s docile mare and Erin’s bony nag, both overlooked for their lack of speed.

Luke glared in the direction of the gray silhouettes disappearing down the same road upon which they’d come in, a cart road running north to south, widely known as Rutland Rigg.

He could take only two men with him, and as one horse was too small to bear the weight of a mailed soldier, Erin would have to be one of them. Luke signaled for his best archer to take the second horse. Removing the cat from Suleyman’s back, Luke instructed his men to await their return.

“Nothing had better happen to that damned cat,” he added, “or there’ll be hell to pay!”

Then the threesome took off after Merry’s abductors.

Having seen how quick Merry’s captor was to nick her vulnerable throat, Luke had no wish to test that man’s resolve. He indicated that they should abandon Rutland Rigg and forge across the moor itself toward an irregularly shaped hill that jutted from the field. The mist and the undulating terrain would keep his party concealed until they could approach close enough to surprise the reward seekers.

Fury shuddered through him. How could he have let such a thing come to pass? How? He’d been misled by the seeming intoxication of the men, forgetting that recklessness and ale went hand in hand. Further, he’d been distracted by the furious bewilderment in Merry’s eyes, helpless to comfort her in any meaningful way. Yet that was no excuse for lowering his guard, even for a moment.

Fortunately, he’d had the presence of mind to re-don his helm and his gauntlets. His opponents were armed but not protected by mail. Even with their greater number, he was confident of his ability to overtake and conquer every blasted one of them. Whether he could do so without causing Merry to be killed was yet another question.

He cursed again, drawing Erin’s wide-eyed stare—the youth had learned enough Saracen to know a foul curse from a mild one. The rain slanted through the slits of Luke’s helm, nearly blinding him. At the galloping pace, Suleyman slipped in the mud, then righted himself. How had everything spiraled so far from Luke’s control?

Until the fateful day Luke had snatched Merry from the stake, his life had been a straight line pointing him toward his goals. He was the king’s favorite. Despite his tainted blood, the title of earl would pass through him and his loins to his heir. Upon his grandfather’s passing, Luke would have charge of Arundel, the castle that had enchanted him from his very first sighting of it, as would his son after him.

Yet since his rescue of Merry, his ambitions had become unfocused, less clear. She had delayed the completion of his work. She’d called into question the purpose of his duties to the crown. She had lured him from his commitment to Amalie. She had wrecked his equilibrium.

Nonetheless, he would die ere he consigned her to the fate the kidnappers had in mind. He had sworn to Sir Roger he would take her to Helmsley. Yet he knew it was not his promise that made him desperate to recapture her. It was the violation she would doubtless endure at the men’s hands before they exchanged her for a reward. Merry—his Merry—he could not let her endure such a nightmare. He’d appointed himself her protector.

And what a piss-poor protector he’d been, having taken advantage of her vulnerability to assuage his fascination for her!

Ah, Jesu! If only he’d managed to speak with her at the tavern, to offer her what comfort he could. He knew that his impersonal demeanor had disheartened her. He’d not intended for his actions to have that effect. He’d simply known no other way to crush the feelings gnawing at his heart. ’Twas a ploy he used deliberately in battle, separating himself from his emotions.

Truth be told, his desire for her had in no way diminished after their night together—and that knowledge terrified him. God’s bones, he’d taken her so often that night she had begged him to let her rest briefly. Self-control? It had slipped away beneath her spell.

What a fool to think he could stray from the straight and narrow and not lose his way! He ought never to have surrendered to his attraction for the red-haired enchantress. Not only had that night fractured his vision of the future, but it had bruised Merry’s generous spirit as well. He knew her to be too selfless not to give a portion of her heart along with her body. He should have thought of that ahead of time and stopped himself in order to protect her.

Instead, he’d entertained the notion of making her his mistress—keeping her for himself. A shameful notion. His own mother had been mistress to his father, making her an outcast to her people. Merry, with her intelligence and generosity, deserved a better fate than that.

She would have a future worth living, he vowed, but he would have to rescue her first.

With grim resolve, he led his two companions toward the base of Roseberry Topping. The strange hill could be seen for miles in the open moorland. It would afford Luke a means of cutting off the bounty hunters without being seen by them.

He urged Suleyman up a narrow foot trail, guessing that it would eventually lead to the summit. However, he had no intention of going that far; instead he would root out the best place for an ambush. He fancied he could already hear the bounty hunters thundering up the main road. He and his companions would have to hurry if they wished to surprise them.

Scrambling upward, slipping on the wet sandstone, they arrived at a ridge halfway up the incline. Luke gave the signal for Erin and the archer, Cyrus, to dismount.

“Wait until you have a good sighting,” Luke instructed Cyrus. “Then aim for that bastard who has the lady. Pick off as many of the others as you can.”

He glanced at Erin, who gripped his smaller bow in a white-knuckled hand. With a twinge of compassion, Luke realized this would be the boy’s first taste of battle.

“I go down to engage them by hand,” he added, wishing again that he had more foot soldiers. “You two protect me as best you can.”

“Aye, lord,” the man and the youth answered. Tying off their horses, they crouched and climbed to the edge of the ridge, finding good surveillance positions upon the muddy ground.

Crossing himself for protection, Luke turned his horse about and forged his own descent through the skeletal bushes, his ears pricked to the sound of Cyrus hitting his mark.

Over the gentle patter of the rain that had started up once more, the approaching horses gave off a sound like thunder. Luke urged Suleyman down the face of treacherous rock, goading him to recklessness for the sake of catching his prey.

A sudden scream rent the silence, assuring him that Cyrus had begun his deadly work. Luke burst around a stone outcrop and charged, his sword firmly in his grasp.

His only advantages—other than that of chain mail and hidden archers—were speed and surprise. The kidnappers had been thrown into a state of confusion by the wounding of one of their men, as if from nowhere. The horses, spooked to begin with, failed to answer to the commands of their unfamiliar riders.

Peering through the slits of his helm, Luke sought the one who held Merry. He failed to see her in the crush of riders. For a terrible second, he feared he’d surprised the wrong group of riders.

Then he recognized some of his own horses, and he increased his speed.

An arrow whistled through the air, and another man howled in agony, falling off his horse. As the abductors struggled with their mounts, Luke tore into their midst, his sword swinging. He caught one man across the arm, nearly slicing it off. He knocked another off the saddle with the flat side of his blade. It wasn’t his intent to kill them all. Neither kidnapping nor bounty hunting were offenses punishable by death.

However, at least one of these brutes had killed one of his soldiers, and Luke would not be overly grieved should any of them pay the ultimate price.

Wheeling Suleyman about, his search for Merry was confounded as a foolishly brave rider met him headlong. Crossing blades with him, Luke thrust him from his seat, knocking him under the hooves of a prancing animal. The crunching of bone and the accompanying shriek signaled one less foe to contend with.

Luke raked the muddy scene for Merry. At last he spied her, muddied and standing all on her own, trying to avoid the stir of horses and the dangerous fighting. He spurred Suleyman toward her though she hadn’t seen him yet. If he could get her on his horse, they would hie away, leaving the rest of these marauders to tend their injured and bury their dead.

His heart in his throat, he called to her, his own voice strangely unfamiliar to his ears, as it was drenched with fear.

When she lifted a pale face to him, he went limp with relief. Drawing his horse alongside her, he stretched down a hand.

“Take hold,” he cried. “Hurry!”

Instead of showing relief, however, a stricken expression crossed her face. “Beware!” she cried out and still took not a step toward him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man lift himself out of the mud as if he’d been lying there, waiting.

Luke realized he’d been tricked into coming near him with Merry as bait. A second man straightened in the saddle and wielded a wicked dagger.

Wearing mail, Luke had little fear that the knife would penetrate his well-wrought iron links.

“Hurry!” he said to Merry.

Wagering he had enough time and only one chance to take her back, he rode Suleyman closer, realizing her hands were tied behind her. She stepped obediently toward him, turning slightly to give him access to her bindings. For the second time since they’d met, he sliced ropes from her arms with his sword.

Then his fingers closed over hers, and he hauled her upward, shielding her from the dagger as it whizzed past to fall harmlessly into the mud.

Having concerned himself with protecting Merry, Luke realized he had momentarily lost sight of the other abductor, who’d risen from the mud to attack on foot. Without warning the man rushed at him while hefting a wooden pike, sharpened for the purpose of killing boar or other game. With one arm around Merry, who had yet to secure herself, her slim arms still about the horse’s neck, he was unable to lift his shield without knocking her back onto the road.

The man charged, clearly intent on driving his pike through either Suleyman’s head or breast or Merry’s dangling body. If she hadn’t been fighting her way into the saddle, he’d have hauled the destrier onto his hind legs to trample the attacker. Instead, Luke yanked the reins to the right, pivoting his horse to protect both the animal and the woman.

Luke took the brunt of the attack. The point of the pike made stunning contact with his leg. He flinched in shock, having forgotten until that moment that half his mail chausses were missing.

Pain, as awful as it was unexpected, took his breath away. Letting out a roar as the pike ripped apart the flesh of his thigh, Luke could do no more than spur Suleyman’s right side, so the horse swung left, hopefully trampling the attacker. However, the man swiftly dodged back.

Luke glanced down to see the staff jutting from his own leg. He seized it with a trembling hand, caught his breath, and gave a mighty yank to pull it free.

“Arr,” he yelled, unable to help roaring with the pain. Blood spurted from the gaping hole left behind. It soaked his hose in an instant, running down inside his boot.

With agony radiating up his spine, he struggled to lift his sword. Having to use both hands, he inadvertently released Merry, who slipped to the ground and stumbled. He sought to ascertain her whereabouts and whether she’d been harmed, but a sound like the sea roared in his ears, fogging all his abilities. Indeed, as though he were a child, his own sword felt too heavy to wield.

With utter helplessness, he watched as the attacker bent down to claim a weapon, perhaps another pike, perhaps a sword. Darkness hovered in the fringes of Luke’s eyes and closed in steadily.

Was this what defeat felt like? Yet he was still alert enough to see the bundle of red-headed fury that threw herself around the man’s neck from behind.

A dagger flashed in her hand—perhaps the same one the rider had thrown? Merry rammed it into the man’s ribs, not hesitating to kill him.

Knowing unconsciousness was inevitable, Luke slipped a length of leather over his shoulders—a contraption devised to keep him in the saddle in precisely such a circumstance. He had scarcely succeeded in adjusting it when everything went black.

 

 

Merry shoved her captor aside as she slid off his back and watched him pitch face-first onto the muddy road. It was no less than he deserved, trying to kill the immortal Phoenix.

Lifting worried eyes to Luke, she found him still on his horse but leaning heavily over Suleyman’s mane, his chin against his chest. She could see naught of his face through his helm, but strangely his head did not turn toward her, nor did he voice a command as she expected.

Approaching him, she called his name. There was no response. She realized then that the leather halter around his shoulders was all that kept him seated.

“Nay!” With a raw cry, she reached for him, shaking his arm to waken him.

Some of the men he’d only wounded were beginning to revive, but Luke did not.

Merry glanced fearfully around her. At any moment, the enemy would fall upon her and recapture her, killing Luke if he wasn’t dead already.

Unable to mount his warhorse unaided, she slipped her foot into the stirrup of another riderless horse and dragged herself up and onto its saddle. With determination born of terror, she circled close and managed to grasp Suleyman’s reins from Luke and cautiously pull them over his horse’s head, all while it whinnied and pranced, no doubt smelling the blood of its own rider.

Kicking her mount with her leather slippers, she urged it into a quick trot, straight over her prone kidnapper, and then into a gentle cantor—leading the destrier, and Luke, from the bloody scene.

The sound of horses in pursuit made her look back in fright. She found herself being chased, not by her captors but by the horses they had stolen. The faithful mounts, accustomed to Suleyman’s lead, had chosen to follow. She led them in the direction of the tavern.

Pray God Luke’s men would welcome her in their midst. They had done nothing to prevent the miscreants from grabbing her at the tavern. Moreover, she had little doubt they would blame her fully if Luke died, as they should. This had been her fault entirely. Nonetheless, she would need their help to save him.

And Luke, dear Luke—tears stung her eyes and gathered in a lump at the back of her throat—he would need every measure of her ability if he were ever to open his glorious golden-brown eyes again.