Chapter Three

 

An unfamiliar cry of distress awakened Luke and echoed in his ears as he lurched to a sitting position. He darted his gaze immediately to the spot where he’d left the young woman. The cat stood alone, its back arched and bristling, its tail twitching nervously as it issued a plaintive yowl. Of Merry herself, only her robes remained in a black heap.

Stifling a shout, Luke leaped to his feet and splashed into the shallows, causing Kit to hiss at him and lean away. He raked his gaze up and down the shoreline. There was no sign at all of the rescued nun.

Christ’s toes! What had he been thinking to leave the lady alone? Already she had expressed a wish to die. And it seemed that she had drowned herself!

It was then he saw it: a carpet of bubbles floating on the water’s surface some distance downstream. He cursed and floundered toward the area, falling into deeper waters as the bottom slipped out from under him. Half swimming, half running, he arrived at the place where Merry had gone under. In that same instant, her head burst to the surface, her hair streaming into her eyes.

He must have startled her, for with a garbled cry she listed away from him.

“Hold, lady!” he insisted, catching one of her arms. Immense relief at her being alive flowed through him in a current far stronger than the stream’s. Holding her firmly lest she slip beneath the water again, Luke started back the way he’d come.

However, instead of relaxing against him, she struggled to free herself, hindering his progress.

“Be still,” he ordered, looking into her now-enormous eyes. “I will not let you take your life in this way.”

“Take my life!” She gaped at him. “I’m not drowning myself, you dolt. I’m washing!”

Washing! He realized she was serious, for there were still suds in her blazing, red hair. Suds? How in God’s name had she procured soap?

Feeling a tad foolish, he kept a hand on her arm. “You could easily drown,” he pointed out.

“Nonsense. I’ve swum here many times,” she retorted.

He looked around. “Here?” He was certain she was lying. “Were you not confined to the priory?” The gentle current threatened to carry her slender frame away from him once more, and he clutched her more firmly.

“Release me!” she cried.

Hearing panic in her voice, he made an effort to stand firm and then he let her go, raising both his hands into the air.

“I’m trying to help you!” he explained, marveling at the fact that he was standing in the middle of a running stream holding a senseless conversation. A quick peek over his shoulders, however, assured him that his men were sleeping still and were not witness to this madness.

“I am not in need of your help, thank you. I am quite adept at swimming.” She rolled away from him, cutting lithely through the water.

He could see she spoke the truth. Obviously, she was in no danger of drowning. He could also see that she wore only her linen shift and that it was nearly transparent. Not only was their conversation ridiculous, this nun was practically naked while conducting it.

What could he do but go along with it? “You left the convent for the idleness of swimming?”

“Only at night,” she said. Then, at his perplexed expression, she added, “Only when the moon was full.”

That statement disconcerted him further, but he watched her roll her eyes heavenward at what she clearly perceived was density on his part.

“The full moon allowed me to see.” She pointed toward the shoreline. “These herbs that grow—I can use them for all sorts of things.”

With an urge to clap a hand to his forehead, Luke glanced at the greenery she had indicated and realized she was serious. It was madness—a young woman prowling about under a full moon in search of herbs. No wonder she was thought a witch!

Suspicion burrowed into him. “What sorts of things can you do with them?”

Another roll of her luminous eyes. “Treatments,” she said. “The sisters came to me when they were ill.” She treaded water before him, her white shift billowing around her.

She struck him, then, as a wild sort of angel.

“Return with me,” Luke said, annoyed suddenly that his sleep had been interrupted for naught. “Come, before you are chilled.”

He seized her hand again and towed her along behind him, ignoring her attempts to pull free. He couldn’t help but notice how small her hand was, how easy it was to overcome her resistance.

Bypassing the boulder, he paused only to snatch up Merry’s robe from beside the wary cat, then pulled the lass all the way up onto the grassy bank before releasing her. She reached for the black habit, which he quickly relinquished, watching as she clutched it to her chest, mayhap belatedly realizing her state of undress.

Pivoting, Luke took a step toward his abandoned cloak, giving her time to cover what she’d unknowingly revealed. Yet her cry of pain had him spinning around. He was treated to the outline of a perfectly rounded bottom to which her soaked linen shift clung as she bent over, holding her foot. In another instant, she’d risen, hastily tugging her habit over her head, concealing her slender body. She turned to catch him watching her.

“I’m unharmed!” she cried, averting her blushing face. “I stubbed my foot against a rock.”

He couldn’t speak. When she’d whisked the heavy woolen robe over her head and tugged it into place so hastily, it had slipped sideways, taking her shift with it. Unintentionally, he was looking at one perfect pink nipple—the nipple of a holy sister.

He should sink to his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for his sinful urges. Yet the only rational thought he could come up with was one of wonder that such an ugly garment had concealed such perfection!

With his breath tangled in his throat, Luke ripped his gaze from her, turning away and making a vague gesture behind him to warn of her unintentional disorder.

“Oh!” he heard her exclaim as she presumably discovered her skewed décolletage.

He forced himself to speak as though nothing had happened. “Are you hungry?”

“I suppose,” came her subdued reply.

He fetched a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese from his saddle bag and turned only after praying she was decently covered. He could not take many more glimpses of her tempting female flesh. He didn’t particularly thank her for the feelings she stirred in him. Not then, not while on this assignment, not while his grandfather lay dying.

She’d taken up a seat on the ground next to his cloak, so he sat opposite her, relieved to find her suitably swathed from neck to ankle.

Merry had helped herself to an apple, so he waited, choosing when to question her with care. A minute passed, and he fancied he could feel the grains of time slipping through his fingers. His grandfather had so little of it left, and Luke had so much work to do.

“Where do you live?” He prayed she would tell him this time. “Your family will want to know you’re safe.”

She stiffened perceptively. “They’ve not inquired about my welfare these last five years,” she said.

Her cool reply made him uneasy. Perhaps she truly was an outcast. “You do not know that for certain. Mayhap some word reached the priory of which you are unaware.”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders, clearly unconvinced.

“Tell me where to take you,” he insisted. “I’ll deliver you anywhere you like. You’re a nun, are you not? Is there another place you can reside, a convent somewhere close to home perhaps?”

She studied her half-eaten apple then took another bite. He feared he would be stuck with her forever.

At last, she swallowed and sighed. “I am not truly a nun. Leastwise, I didn’t take my vows, save the first one of obedience.” She made a sour expression that let him know what she thought of that particular vow.

Luke acknowledged a flash of relief that he’d not felt lust for a nun but simply a woman. Still, she was a puzzlement.

“You said you’ve had no contact with your family for five years. You remained a novitiate at the priory all that time?”

“Aye.” She shrugged and he wondered if she would deign to explain. Then she added, “My family took me there for my protection, though I had no calling to the religious life. I don’t mind the hard work, nor even the matins laud. However, if I had sought a spiritual existence, ’twould have been that of a hermitess, not a nun. Certainly, I could not devote my life to the Church with that appalling woman as my spiritual master.”

He knew she meant Mother Agnes, and who could blame her?

After munching on another bite of apple, she looked him in the eye. “I simply could not vow to devote myself to a life under her tutelage.”

“Understandable, lady,” he admitted. “Yet you are not a hermitess with your own hermitage, so please tell me where I should take you.” Thereby releasing me from this nightmare of delay and distraction.

Another few moments went by, and Luke could tell she was making a decision.

“Take me to Heathersgill then, for I can think of no place else to go.” Her resigned tone tugged at his heart.

“Is that your home, Heathersgill?”

“Aye,” she answered, but the look on her face did not bespeak of happy memories.

Still, he needed more information than the name of a house or a town he’d never heard of.

“Where is it?”

She reached for a wedge of cheese, and he stifled a groan as she took a dainty bite from it, deliberating. Finally, she replied. “It lies north of here and slightly east, I believe.”

“Then it is close,” he guessed, sounding—to his own ears—hopeful.

“Several hours’ ride at a good pace,” she agreed, but then she focused her eyes on him and asked, “What is it you do? You said you serve the king directly.”

She’d shifted the conversation abruptly onto him.

“I serve King Henry,” he acknowledged.

“The Count of Anjou?” Her smooth forehead furrowed. “Matilda’s son? King Stephen is dead, then?”

Her question betrayed her cloistered existence. “Aye, and his son died nearly two years ago,” he explained. “Eustace choked on a chicken bone, or so it was told.”

To his amazement, a shadow drifted across the surface of her eyes. “How sad,” she reflected. “He was about my age, I believe.” She paused, giving herself time to assimilate new facts, “What do you do for King Henry?”

He didn’t want to discuss his present mission. “I command this army. We keep the peace,” he said tersely.

Her gaze skittered over him, taking him all in from uncovered head to long crossed legs.

Her innocent regard caused Luke to draw a breath. He was reminded of how she looked beneath that ugly habit, both her hips and buttocks and her—his mind went blank, save for the memory of her succulent nipple thrusting into view. He could all too easily imagine his lips encircling it.

“Is there a war?” Her eyebrows, slightly darker than her hair, flexed with worry.

He shook his head, both to clear his thoughts and to answer her. “Not a war. Merely pockets of resistance. I have much to do,” he added, regaining control of the conversation—and his errant mind, “and therefore, lady, I must get you swiftly home. Does your father live?”

He had his reasons for asking, but seeing her stricken expression, he was instantly sorry he had.

“Nay,” she said, averting her gaze and pressing a fist to her stomach.

“Your mother?” he pressed more gently.

She stared at her lap. “Mother dwells at Heathersgill. The last I knew she was betrothed to Roger de Saintonge. Sir Roger,” she corrected herself. “He’s the seneschal of Heathersgill.”

“Then you have an overlord.” He jumped on the information, as a drowning man would seize hold of a wooden plank. “Who is he, pray tell?”

By the look on her face, the man wasn’t someone she cared for overmuch. “My sister’s husband,” she stated with distaste. “The Slayer, as he is called for his brutish deeds.”

Luke sat straighter. “The Slayer of Helmsley?” He couldn’t hide his surprise. “Christian de la Croix is your brother-in-law?”

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t happy about it but only shrugged.

“I met the man at Dunstable,” he admitted, “where the barons gathered to protest the . . .” he trailed off on the point of mentioning his unpleasant duties.

Her green gaze sharpened. “The what?”

He sighed. “The destruction of adulterines.”

“What are those?” She tilted her head with her perfectly heart-shaped face sideways.

Luke groaned inwardly. “Structures built without the sanction of the crown,” he told her. It was good policy from the king’s point of view, but it was wildly unpopular, of course, amongst the barons, the very men it aimed to keep in order.

“Perhaps you should go to your sister for protection,” he added. “Aye, I’ll take you to Helmsley even though it’s farther out of my way.”

He well remembered the Slayer—an immense man and fierce as a gladiator, with a sword arm the size of a tree trunk. With her father deceased, her brother-in-law was precisely the man to protect Merry from the persecution she would inevitably face.

“Helmsley!” She uttered the word like a curse. “Nay, I’ll not go there!”

Her vehemence gave him pause. “Why not, if your sister lives there?”

She looked toward the water. “The Slayer isn’t likely to welcome me.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “What cause did you give him?”

She glanced at him sharply, and he was struck by how malevolent she looked with her mouth pinched tightly closed and her eyes narrowed. Indeed, like the image of a sorceress.

Her face relaxed and she admitted, “I cursed his manhood on the day that he wed Clarisse.”

Her confession did not shock him; after all, she’d cursed him in a similar fashion.

“I wanted him to think twice ere he struck her,” she explained.

It was painfully clear that Merry had witnessed an excess of violence in her short life. He sought to reassure her.

“Sir Christian did not seem like a man to beat his wife,” he replied. “I spoke to him at length. He talked lovingly of his lady and of his children, also. He has at least three of them, I believe, which would indicate that he treats your sister well,” he added, offering her a smile.

She put a hand up as if repelled by the thought of propagation. “Please take me to Heathersgill,” she begged.

“You’d be safer at Helmsley,” he insisted.

She cocked her head once more. The dark centers of her eyes seemed to expand. “What has my safety to do with it?’

She was too perceptive to mislead in any convincing way, so Luke opted to be frank with her. “The prioress may send a party looking for you,” he warned. “I had no right to take you from a priory. The Church will likely want you back.”

The color leeched slowly from her cheeks, making him regret his decision to tell her.

“You gave the prioress your name,” she recalled. “Won’t that get you into trouble?”

Her unexpected words caught him off guard. She was worried for his sake! Though he thought her strange, he could admit to himself that she was also quite likable.

“I fear not for myself, lady. ’Tis your safety that concerns me. I’ll not lie to you. You will need to stay behind thick walls and under protection for some time to come—long enough for the prioress to forget you or, perhaps, to lose her powerful position.”

He narrowed his eyes recalling what the angry woman had claimed. “Is it true you tried to kill her?” He couldn’t yet decide if Merry was capable of outright murder or not.

She drew her mouth once more into a pinched line. “If I had meant to kill her, she would be dead.” She said it plainly, unemotionally, while feeding a bite of cheese to her cat as it climbed onto her lap. “She beat a novice to death with her whip,” she added. “Seemingly for the sport of it.”

He wasn’t surprised to learn of the prioress’s cruelty. It was Merry’s toughness that impressed him. She seemed so vulnerable, fine-boned, petite, and at that moment, rather bedraggled with wet hair straggling down her back. Yet she’d taken on the prioress to defend her religious sisters. Again, the impression of her as a wild angel floated across his tired mind.

“You would be safer at Helmsley,” he reiterated. In truth, he realized he wished to be certain nothing bad would happen to her.

She shook her head, again refusing him. “I won’t go there.”

The option to force her crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. Helmsley was farther out of his way, and he and his men were already pressed for time.

To Heathersgill then, they would go. Her mother, and the Slayer’s seneschal if he was in residence, would have to defend her as best they could.

“As you wish,” he said, pushing to his feet. “We need to leave soon.” His gaze came to rest on her damp, nun’s garb. “You’ll catch a chill if you travel in that.”

On a whim, seizing his chance to rid Merry of the ugly coarse habit that no doubt reminded her of her persecution, he moved noiselessly toward his sleeping squire, all the while feeling the lady’s eyes on him.

 

 

Merry looked on, wary of the commander’s intent, even as she appreciated his stealth—surprising for a man so powerfully built. He crouched by his squire, bending fluidly on one knee to waken the youth gently.

Erin’s initial grogginess gave way to a dark glower, which he sent in her direction as he dragged himself up and fetched a bundle from his horse, handing it with seeming reluctance to Luke.

Sir Pierce came up on one elbow and shook his leonine head. “Shall I rouse the men, my lord?”

“Aye,” Luke told his field marshall. “Instruct them to eat. They can use the fire pot and cook if they have something worth cooking. We’ll leave directly after.”

“My lord,” the man asked his leader, “why such a short rest? Iversly is but 20 miles northwest of here. We’ll easily get there before nightfall.”

“First, we must take the lady to Heathersgill.” Lord Luke’s answer and the tone in which it was delivered brooked no argument, and none was given, though Merry would wager her eye teeth Sir Pierce was seething inwardly.

Lord Luke returned to her bearing Erin’s clothing. “’Tis best for your feet if you go without shoes or hose,” he advised, handing her the bundle.

Merry stood up slowly, looking at the clothing then back at him. In a short while, the camp was stirring with soldiers yawning and stretching.

Guessing her quandary, the commander looked about him, then grabbed up his cloak from the ground. After shaking the grass and leaves from it with a few sharp snaps, he held it up as a screen, shielding her from the eyes of his men.

Merry eyed the expansive curtain of fabric, uncertain whether it concealed her completely or not.

“Kindly make haste.”

Luke’s veiled impatience caused her to step into the boy’s braies, which fell to her ankles, before lifting her habit and dripping wet shift over her head. For a terrifying moment, she stood topless in the sunshine before burrowing hastily into Erin’s blue-dyed tunic that reached to her knees.

“Done,” she said, tying the drawstring of the braies to ensure they would stay upon her slender hips.

Luke lowered the cloak and assessed her transformation. By the angle of his eyebrows, she guessed she looked nothing short of ludicrous, but he guarded his opinion and turned away to don his mail.

Erin stood at the ready holding out only one leg of Luke’s mail chausses, which Luke eschewed with an annoyed cluck of his tongue.

“Only the hauberk,” Luke said irritably.

“Aye, my lord.” Erin’s shoulders drooped in shame for having lost the other leg.

Luke sighed. “’Tis no matter,” he relented. “I asked you to carry too much and too hastily. I’ll have another made after this task is complete and I go home.”

Merry’s ears perked up at the word, and she wondered briefly where this man’s home lay? How far from here was it? Had he a family awaiting his return??

Soon, he was clad in a knee-length hauberk of black chain mail. He took his aventail from Erin’s hands, drawing it over his head before yanking it down to drape around his shoulders where it lay ready for him to pull up and protect his head at a moment’s notice.

Lastly, Erin handed him his purple surcoat with a proud golden phoenix displayed upon it.

“Ready to mount?” he asked briskly.

She reached for her discarded clothing.

“Throw it in the stream,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “You won’t be needing it again.”

With relish, Merry hurled the scratchy wool habit into the water, holding onto only her shift.

Turning back, she found a smile hovering on the warrior’s lips.

“Freedom,” he murmured, as though guessing her satisfaction.

She did feel a sudden sense of exhilaration and could hardly contain a grin. In fact, she felt wickedly liberated in boy’s clothing. Then, without warning, the commander seized her around her waist and tossed her nigh effortlessly onto Suleyman’s back.

She nearly bit her tongue landing so suddenly in the saddle, her brief sense of freedom stripped from her at the reminder of his physical dominance. Yet in another instant, she regained her good humor at how easily she could ride without the habit bunched up between her legs. Tucking her shift under the saddle strap for safe keeping, she was ready for what lay ahead.

At that moment, Kit mewed pitifully from his place on the log, stretching up, clearly angling to get to her.

“He wants to come with me,” she announced, but Lord Luke merely glanced at the cat and turned away. Merry waited as he toured the camp and rapped out orders.

At last, he returned, preparing to mount behind her.

“Please, may we bring the cat?” she asked. “I’ll carry him upon my lap. He won’t be any trouble; I swear it”

Laying his hand on the pommel, he met her gaze with an inscrutable look.

“Please?” she repeated, sensing his capitulation even as she summoned a sweet expression.

He wheeled away, scooped up Kit, who hissed his displeasure, and deposited the ginger tabby onto Merry’s lap. Before she could thank him, Lord Luke swung into the saddle and prodded Suleyman into a steady gait.

Despite Merry’s assurances, the cat reacted in terror at this new perch, sinking its claws into her forearm.

“Ouch!” she cried, as the blood welled up quickly.

A large hand seized Kit by its scruff and dropped him into one of the large saddlebags hanging on either side of the saddle. One tug on the drawstring and the cat’s head disappeared.

Could Kit breathe in there? she wondered, about to voice her misgivings when Lord Luke took hold of her wrist, lifting it up to inspect the three neat lines welling with blood.

For the second time in less than an hour, he clucked his tongue in disapproval.

“The cat’s half wild,” he exclaimed. “You should have left him behind.”

To her alarm, he ran the pad of his thumb rather absent-mindedly along the pale skin of her inner arm, causing her whole body to tingle at the unfamiliar sensation.

He released her almost at once, and she sensed by the sudden tension in him that he hadn’t meant to do any such thing. “The scratches are not too deep,” he proclaimed before seeming to settle in to the ride, steadfastly ignoring her presence.

The male species had long been a mystery to Merry. She assigned his impulse to stroke her to the lust that was characteristic of all warriors. Fortunately for her, this particular man was more disciplined than most. Still, however civilized he appeared, she would remain vigilant, lest he fall prey to his baser instincts and necessitate her fleeing with haste.

Flinching from the sudden brightness, she looked up and saw that they had left the forest and were crossing the undulating moors. Out in the open, the September sun beat down on their heads. Only the breeze that brushed the wild grasses around their horses’ legs hinted at the cooler weather to come.

Relaxing moment by moment, with no further discourse between them, Merry took to admiring the plants and the flowering shrubs. Sarah had taught her the properties of most local flora: heather, tansy, and milk parsley; carrot weed, succory, and wild clary—all modestly displayed on these lonely fells.

Her thoughts turned to her family, imagining how they would receive her and whether the past would be forgiven. Unexpectedly, she realized she’d rested her back against her saddle companion. She immediately stiffened, then bit by bit relaxed again, putting faith in the wary trust he’d inspired.

In the few hours that she’d known him, Lord Luke had earned her grudging respect. He’d saved her life, for which she had yet to thank him, though she had no wish to break the peaceful lull to do so at that moment. He’d remained courteous to her throughout the morning, despite the fact that she’d threatened his manhood. Moreover, he was going out of his way to deliver her home to where he thought she’d be safe.

Never in her life had she imagined such a man existed: a chivalrous, civilized warrior. Her father had been a kind man, but he had been a scholar, not a soldier. Luke, on the other hand, belonged to a breed of men she couldn’t help but associate with the evil Scot, Angus Ferguson, and with men who shed blood for the sport of it, men who held no moral code higher than the fulfillment of their own lusts.

However, other than the fact that clearly Lord Luke was trained to fight, he bore little similarity to Ferguson. Whereas the brutish Scot had been crude and unrestrained, the commander was dignified and disciplined.

Her gaze drifted left and right, scrutinizing the soldiers traveling with them. Those that had mail also had weapons bristling from their backs, waist sheaths, and saddlebags. Two pristine banners snapped on pikes held by one horseman at the head of the group just to her left; one flag was the standard of the royal crown, the other displayed a golden phoenix on a purple field.

Lord Luke was clearly a fine military leader, so good as to become an honored commander of the king.

“Why do they call you the Phoenix?” she inquired, breaking the silence at last.

“I pulled King Henry and his brother from a fire,” he said matter-of-factly, “when we were all quite young.” His rich voice rumbled in her ear, giving rise to a pleasant shiver that ran its course down her spine.

Ah, she thought, how clever. The phoenix was a bird that rose from its own ashes into new life. The king must have felt he owed Luke a debt.

“Is that how you came to lead so many men?” she asked.

“In part. My grandfather is the Earl of Arundel.” This, too, was said without a drop of arrogance, though even Merry had heard of the grand castle in the very south of England. Empress Matilda had stayed there when trying to become their queen, and King Stephen had besieged her within its walls.

“My family has long served the royal family,” Luke added, “sometimes with great reward, sometimes at great cost.”

The trace of sorrow in his voice prompted her to leave the commander in peace and prod him no more. Yet while she tried to focus again on the land around her, she couldn’t seem to shake her newfound awareness of him. His long limbs surrounded her like a citadel. His large hands gripped the reins loosely but with confidence. For a moment, she studied his fingers, long and capable looking, as if he could do far more than wield a sword or an axe.

Right then, Kit gave a pitiful mewl, drawing Merry’s gaze to the closed saddlebag.

“He’s hot,” she guessed. “Can we not let him out?”

“So he can scratch you again?” His tone made it clear that the cat must stay where it was. Nonetheless, he loosened the drawstring, and the cat’s head popped free into the open air.

Kit stared at the landscape with a look of bewilderment but made no effort to struggle free. After a moment, he seemed to settle in, content to be a passenger.

They’d begun their ascent into the Cleveland Hills where there was much to catch the eye. The land rose sharply on all sides, quilted in colorful flowers, and studded with misshapen rocks. Here and there, a yew tree cast its branches upward as if pleading for rain. A hawk tested the currents of a flawless sky, its wings scarcely moving.

Merry took a deep breath, seeking the scent of her home. Her home—a place where no one would welcome her, save perhaps her younger sister.

 

 

Unbeknownst to her, the long strands of her hair feathered Luke’s shoulders and caressed his face. Inhaling her clean, herbal fragrance, it was impossible not to think of Merry as a woman, rather than the girl he first thought her to be. Her small, supple body fit perfectly against the planes of his.

Luke had tried—and failed—not to notice how enticingly her breasts jiggled beneath Erin’s tunic. By the stream, she’d looked so feminine in his squire’s attire that he’d known a bizarre urge to kidnap her and keep her for himself.

For no reason that he could name, this red-headed slip of a woman appealed to him. He could not decipher why exactly, for she was everything he was not: impulsive, illogical, and unrestrained. Yet there was something about her that tugged at him—her vulnerability, perhaps. Whatever the reason, his interest in the lady dismayed him, for in six months’ time, he would be wed.

His thoughts ought to be entirely of his betrothed, Amalie. Yet that lady failed to rouse his ardor or stir his imagination. It wasn’t that his betrothed was unattractive—quite the contrary. Many another had called her exquisite, expressing envy over Luke’s good fortune. Yet in contrast to the woman currently encircled by his arms, Amalie with her pale blue eyes and flaxen hair seemed colorless.

Or was it her demeanor that gave him that perception? Passionless, detached, even haughty. However to her credit, Amalie was intelligent, even-tempered, and didn’t have a reckless bone in her body.

While he admired Amalie’s regal grace, she had never aroused him sexually. He’d assured himself that lusty desire had no significant place in matrimony. He was a cerebral male, not a man driven by his appetites. There were more important reasons for their betrothal, such as power, land, alliance.

Yet, experiencing the whisper of desire for a woman he scarcely knew, Luke allowed a shadow of regret that his marriage bed would be dispassionate.

Shrugging away the futile thoughts, he felt Merry’s body lift and fall against him. She would never learn of his attraction toward her—truly, he was scarcely willing to acknowledge it to himself. Yet he’d acted out of character already, ogling her like a randy youth and then stroking her forearm. The impulse to do so had caught him utterly by surprise. One moment, he’d been looking at the drops of blood on her flawless skin, the next he was caressing her softness and imagining knowing her more intimately.

He would pretend it never happened. Certainly, he would not give into any such rash impulse again.

She was a strange female, nothing like the noblemen’s wives he’d met, nor their daughters. Even now, Merry was lifting her freckled nose to the air, scenting it the way her cat did. Her fascination for plants and shrubs puzzled him. Tall plants, short plants, scrappy and unadorned plants—all of them drew her gaze to such a degree that she pressed her breasts against his forearm, straining for a better look.

Against his will, he imagined the weight of those breasts filling the palms of his hands.

Her sudden lurch in the saddle startled him. She had reached out, groping at a wildly overgrown bush with branches tall enough that they could pass beneath its shade. She might have fallen from the saddle had Luke not caught her back.

“Jesu, lady! What are you doing?” he exclaimed.

“Getting berries.” She held up her catch for his inspection, a dense cluster of shiny black berries hanging off a red-tinged stalk. Splitting the skin of a berry with her thumbnail, she touched the flesh to the tip of her tongue.

Luke knocked it from her hand along with the rest, scattering them to the ground.

“Whatever did you do that for?” she demanded, trying to turn and face him in the saddle.

“Do you mean to poison yourself?”

Understanding softened her outraged glare. “If applied while fresh, elderberries would have soothed the burns on my feet,” she explained.

Turning her back to him, she swallowed further protests, though her shoulders slumped with disappointment.

He’d forgotten about her injuries, so little had she complained. Feeling as unsettled as he had to find her bathing in the stream, Luke turned his mount around and returned to the bush with its plentiful gifts.

“Thank you,” she said in a subdued voice as she plucked two large bunches while he held their mount still.

When she had her prize safely nestled on her lap, he urged Suleyman onward to a steady slow walk in the direction of his army who’d continued apace. Silently, Merry began to treat her injuries as he watched curiously. Lifting one bare foot at a time onto the destrier’s broad neck, she mashed the small berries as best she could with her palms and then applied them—flesh and juice—to her blistered soles.

She had to lean against him to do so, and he gave in to the temptation to peek down the front of Erin’s gaping tunic. The slope of her high, white breasts was nearly his undoing.

Finished with her right foot, she started on her left, remaining silent as she focused.

“Does it pain you yet?” he asked, ignoring the stirring in his loins, and denouncing himself as a churl for peeping.

“Aye,” she said simply.

Her bravery impressed him. He wished he knew what comfort to offer.

“Done,” she said, tossing down the stalks before wiping her fingers on his squire’s braies, leaving purplish black streaks. Her fingers were equally stained but she seemed to care not.

With relief, Luke kicked his mount into a gallop, hastening to catch up with the others before he truly lost his senses.

The closer they came to the top of the hill, the lower the sun sank into the valley behind them, so that their shadows beat them to the ridge. Before them, Heathersgill’s single tower loomed black against a cobalt evening sky. An autumn chill that leaked from the shadows had accompanied the latter part of their journey, making every rider long to see the end of it.

Twin torches illumined the castle’s outer gate with a welcoming glow. Yet the steep and narrow road leading to it hugged the hillside on one side, leaving a treacherous drop on the other. With the incline, Merry practically sat atop Luke’s thighs, unable to put even a finger’s width between them.

The Phoenix’s men had fallen silent as they guided their mounts in single file behind their leader. They hugged the inside of the road, perhaps fearing that a misplaced hoof in the darkness might send a man and horse plummeting to their deaths.

As they came to what appeared to be the last bend, a shout went up near the end of the retinue, followed by a terrified whinny.

Luke halted Suleyman and gave her the reins before dismounting. Merry quickly lost sight of him as he sidled his way past his army back down the road.

She pricked her ears, catching snatches of conversation, spoken in accents of alarm. Kit gave a frightened yowl, and she reached down to stroke his head, empathetic to his fear. By the time Luke rejoined her, she deduced that a horse had taken a plunge off the side of the trail.

“’Twas a packhorse,” he confirmed, nudging her forward to make room in the saddle.

To her sensitive ears, he sounded angry. “Is it dead?” she asked, feeling somehow to blame. After all, Heathersgill was her home.

“I believe so. There are no sounds coming from below.”

An unquiet feeling settled over her. What if the horse’s death were a cautionary forewarning to her? An otherworldly portent not to return? The hair on her neck rose, and, at the same time, it seemed as though a band of iron encircled her chest, making it harder to breathe. Without fully realizing it, she shrank against the commander’s broad torso, gaining solace from his solidness.

Too soon for her uncertain state of mind, they arrived at the familiar gate of her childhood.

“Hail the gatehouse!” Lord Luke called. His voice echoed off the stone wall and into the valley behind them. At the same time, Erin drew his mount alongside them, ready to pull a rope and summon the gatekeeper on his lord’s behalf.

A taper flared to life within the small structure of the guard’s hut, and a face appeared in the narrow wooden slit. Merry recognized the irascible man who had always controlled the gates. After her father’s death, Edgar had played traitor to keep his own head. He’d then guarded the gates for Ferguson, the dreaded Scot who’d become her stepfather.

“Who are you?” he growled, squinting out into the night.

“I am Lord Luke d’Aubigny. I would speak with your master or mistress immediately.”

“A moment, sir, a moment,” Edgar muttered, then disappeared from view only to appear an instant later as the small door to his guard house snapped open and he emerged bearing a torch. Taking a step toward the commander’s mount, Edgar’s gaze fastened upon her person.

“Be that you, witch?” he bellowed, making her jump. Her heart immediately began to gallop, and she recalled how much she detested the man for bending to her brutal stepfather. Obviously, Edgar returned the sentiment unabashedly.

After causing a startled silence, the question prompted a murmuring among the Phoenix’s troops. Luke’s thighs tensed around Merry though his voice betrayed little agitation when he repeated his request for an audience with Heathersgill’s lord or lady.

The gatekeeper made an insolent face before bidding them wait. Then he disappeared back inside his hut only to reappear on the other side of the barbican, presumably to fetch the seneschal and Merry’s mother.

Merry struggled for air, as her lungs seemed suddenly unable to expand, and she heard herself wheeze. Why had she ever told the Phoenix where she lived?

“Are you well, lady?” Luke put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched, wanting to dodge away from his touch. He removed his hand at once, but still, she knew the urge to jump from his horse and run far from any human contact.

“Aye,” she choked out at last, though her heart hammered in her rib cage. No doubt Luke could feel it through her back. She fisted her moist palms, wondering at how the throbbing in the soles of her feet seemed to double.

Would her mother welcome her home?

And where would she go if she were not allowed to remain there?