Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (8 page)

She watched his eyes. Lost in their swirl of brown and green like the forest, Merry did not pause to consider his intention. One moment he stared from a slight distance. In the very next instant, he pressed his lips against hers.

Though one instinct bade her to enjoy the sensation, a stronger one won out. All she could think about as Allen’s lips caressed hers was a different set of lips from three years earlier.

“No!” she squealed against his mouth. Despite their close friendship, Allen’s lips felt foreign upon her skin, causing her to draw back.

As she pulled away, she lost her balance. Her arms flailed, catching only air.

Before she could react, she tumbled from the branch. Not light and flexible like a cat. Rather, she landed hard upon her back—with a loud thump—at the base of the tree.

All air whooshed from her chest, and she struggled to pull in a breath.

“Merry, Lady Merry!” She heard Cedric’s cry from a distance as the treetop seemed to spin above her head.

“Are you all right?” Allen flipped down from the branch and landed in a crouch beside her. At least someone had used their training properly this day. But she could not find the needed breath to reply.

“I’m so sorry,” Allen said. “It was a mistake. It shall never happen again.”

Fool!
He berated himself. Allen had sworn to himself that he would undertake no such romantic nonsense with Merry. He knew the moment he leaned in for that kiss that it was wrong.
But the magic of sunlight filtering through the leaves, her stunning features so close, her beseeching brown eyes, her scent of honey and herbs, her enchanting smile . . . It had all proven too much for his resolve.

But it must never, ever happen again.

Merry pushed herself to an elbow, pain twisting her face. She drew in a ragged breath, which seemed not to reach her lungs. Staring at a point beyond his shoulder, she said, “It shall . . . never happen again. And it never . . . happened in the first place. Do I . . . make myself clear?”

“Yes, of course.” Had he not told himself it must never happen again only moments earlier? ’Twas a mistake for certain. Yet to hear her deny that it ever happened cut straight to his heart. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

Merry was a lady—he a peasant. Those who fight and those who labor. Never the twain to meet. His father would be appalled with his behavior. Heat crept up his face at the awful thought, and he turned away from her.

Would God be appalled as well? He was not so certain anymore.

Cedric ran up to them and knelt beside Merry. “Whatever happened?”

Merry sat up now and rubbed her back, desperately sucking in air. “It was the oddest thing. A wave of . . . dizziness overtook me. That has never happened before. Perhaps I . . . have taken a slight fever.”

She denied his kiss just as Peter denied his Christ. As if it had never happened. Somehow that hurt more than any other aspect of her rejection. It had happened, and in that single, priceless moment, it had split his world in two. He still felt her soft lips emblazoned upon his. Upon his very soul.

Pressing the back of his hand to Merry’s forehead, Cedric
said, “You do feel a bit warm, and your cheeks are flushed. Perhaps that is the reason you’ve been so melancholy.”

Allen shot Cedric a warning look.

“What? Is she not supposed to know she’s been in a foul mood of late? ’Tis rather obvious.” Cedric helped her to her feet and pulled her arm over his shoulder to support her weight. “We should not push you so, Lady Merry. We forget ourselves at times. You are not invincible.”

“Not in the least.” Merry found her footing. “But I think I shall be fine.” She pulled herself away from Cedric and brushed the dirt from her backside, then bent to retrieve her bow and some scattered arrows from the ground. Allen turned his eyes away and focused them on a hawk soaring through the sky.

The three set out toward camp, Allen mentally chastising himself the entire way. Merry might never forgive him this misstep, and he would be the last to blame her. He knew better. Had known better since childhood.

Yet . . . what had she said? She wasn’t a lady anymore, just an outlaw, like the rest of them. Were they truly so different now? And if not, might there yet be hope for them?

Ever since the rebellion started, Allen had dreamed of running off to fight. Suddenly, he could not fathom parting from Merry for even a moment.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, limping along with determination, even as she held a hand to her side. How he wished to gather her lithe form into his arms and kiss away every hurt, every bruise, every heartache she had endured these last years. To feel her tremble and cry out her soul against his chest. She had lost as much as—perhaps more than—any of them. Yet she kept it all inside and maintained her strong façade for their sakes.

In that moment he pushed aside the voice of his dear father,
which he’d heeded all his life. He silenced the voice of the parish priest, which he had treasured for years. He even hushed a still, small voice deep inside that warned Merry was not meant for the likes of him. Hadn’t he learned to trust his own instincts in this new world?

Perhaps, just perhaps, he might gather his courage and win Merry Ellison for his own.

As John perused the courtyard, his nemesis exited the great front portal of the castle. Anyone who did not so carefully watch Timothy Grey might have failed to notice his exit. Adorned in plain brown leggings and tunic rather than his typical bold velvets, he moved stealthily across the courtyard, his hood shielding much of his face and that appalling thatch of pale hair worthy of a woman.

But he could spot Timothy anywhere.

Had it not been bad enough when the earl promoted him to serve as an unofficial sort of assistant? Now he ran the entire castle in the earl’s absence. Tiny Little Timmy. A man no older than himself.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He spat upon the ground and rubbed it in with his booted toe.

What was the man about now, sneaking through the courtyard?

John watched Timothy exit the castle gate. He took note of the bow upon the man’s back and the soft shoes upon his feet.
Timothy must be hunting the ghosts again. Alone this time. No doubt he longed to take all the credit for himself, could not even allow a few of the earl’s guards to assist in the capture.

If he could escape his mundane duties, he would follow the man. But he was not his own master. He would forever be forced to serve the will of another. Not like Timothy, who set his own course, who aspired to power and greatness.

But he would never let that happen.

He would learn every habit, every secret of Timothy Grey, and he would bring the man down from his towering perch.

Timothy trekked through the forest in his oldest pair of soft-bottomed leather boots. Having been made years earlier, before he had grown his final four inches in a single spurt, they pinched at his toes, but they served their purpose for the day’s mission.

“Stealth, anonymity, restraint,” his older brothers had drilled into his head time and again as they played at war games in the woods. Some might find more honor in facing one’s opponent in a direct and pompous manner. But the Grey boys did not play for pageantry. They played to win.

How he longed for those days. Days he had spent scampering through the forest with his brothers and . . . well, and other friends. No use in stirring up such poignant memories. He had wallowed long enough the previous evening over his lost love.

Stealth and silence—these were his allies. The ghosts embodied such traits, and he respected them for it. Someone had trained them well, as his brothers had trained him. Noble outlaws. The stuff of legends. Never had he dreamed of undertaking such a daunting mission. Daunting yet exhilarating. He would sneak up on the thieves, beginning where he had found the boy and following his trail to their lair.

Timothy moved through the forest with nary a sound. Ah, there it was, the clearing where the boy had nearly gotten himself shot clean through. Might he be a child of one of the thieves? Of course he would never arrest a child—or a woman, for that matter—but he must find a way to round up the thieves before Lord Wyndemere’s return.

Searching the bushes where he first spied the boy, Timothy spotted a faint trail. Days had passed. Both rain and fog had rolled through the area yesterday. But he might be able to follow it.

The remnants of the trail took him meandering through the forest, past a berry bush, then several moments later another, and then another.

Hmm . . . it seemed the child knew his way about this section of land. The other day had not been the first time he strayed so far, as he claimed. Timothy smiled. His suspicions had proven correct.

However, two valleys later, the footprints disappeared into the same winding stream Timothy had crossed earlier. His senses piqued to high alert, and he hurried himself into a copse of trees.

Perhaps their camp lay nearby. The child might have traveled the closest portion to home by stream to disguise his trail. The thieves had not gained their title of ghosts without just cause. If he could peek a glimpse of them today, he might be the first to see them in the flesh.

Timothy remained still and quiet, and he waited. Waited, watched, and listened. Watched, listened, and offered up silent prayers until the sun had traveled a significant distance across the sky. Restraint. Another ally. He would not burst headlong onto the scene. Such tactics would have cost him the game as a child, but could cost him his very life today.

He sat against a tree and continued his patient examination.
As his eyes began to droop, he heard it. The giggle of a small child. He wove his way through the trees to the closest point and waited behind a particularly wide trunk.

The giggles grew closer. On the nearest hilltop, shadowed against the sun, toddled a little girl, still giggling as she attempted to run. He drew nearer, crouching into the thicket until he could make out the wispy tuft of baby hair upon her head, aglow with golden light like a halo.

“Sunshine man! Sunshine man! Wait me! Wait me!” she called, her giggles tinkling like chimes over the valley. A fairy of the forest. A petite tot in a fine pink tunic.

She made a mad dash straight toward him, and just when he thought she might tumble into the thicket where he hid, she embraced the air, grinning from cherubic cheek to cherubic cheek.

He dared not even breathe.

A voice trickled over the hillside. “Wrenny! Wrenny! Where are you? Come back here. I saw a sunshine man near the fort. Hurry!” Also that of a girl child, although much older than the one before him.

Timothy exhaled.

The tot turned and ran back up the hill, falling upon her hands and knees once along the way. “Sunshine man. I get you!”

Guilt flooded him. How could he justify using such a precious poppet to locate the ghosts? Yet, it seemed as if Providence himself had sent the child to lead the way. These were thieves he was dealing with, after all. No doubt that pretty tunic had been stolen from some nobleman’s daughter.

Firming his resolve, he crept up the hill, watching for twigs that might snap and leaves that might crunch. Halfway up he spotted . . . a watchman? No, another child, this one a boy aged about ten or eleven years. With a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and a sword at the ready upon his hip.

What in heaven and on earth?

Timothy flattened himself to the ground and remained stone-still, waiting again, glad he had worn the plain brown tunic and leggings.

The child approached, then turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Timothy searched for another watchman to his right, but he detected no one. He must hurry. There might not be much time. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest could reside in the valley just beyond. This might be Timothy’s gateway to all he had dreamed of this past year.

Using even more caution, he ascended to the hilltop and crouched behind a rock. Lifting up only so high that he might see, he stared down upon . . . a village? Children ran about, and he could now distinguish their squeals and laughter. Young females cut vegetables near a boiling pot. Two young males, perhaps fifteen years of age, practiced at swordplay in a relaxed and languid manner. It might be a manorial courtyard, except that he spied no animals, and in place of a large central home, several rounded constructions blended into the hillside. If not for the human habitation, one might miss the buildings entirely.

Still Timothy spotted no evidence of the grown men. The ghosts. Did they truly leave the camp to the protection of boys? Then another thought—a far worse thought—struck him. What if the children were the ghosts? Cold dread filled his chest at the possibility.

The idea seemed ludicrous. Yet he could not discount it entirely. According to the law, a child of seven might be hanged for thievery. He longed to win the earl’s favor, but he could never hurt a child. His stomach churned even as he considered it.

Timothy scanned right and left again, but no guard approached.

He could make no decision now. He must take time to weigh the matter further before pursuing any action. As he was about to turn around and sneak back down the hill, a camouflaged door swung open in the largest structure. Out stepped another young man clad in a russet tunic. But something appeared wrong. Out of sorts.

His shape was too slight, even for a lad. And oddly curved. Then Timothy realized. This was a woman. But like no woman he had ever seen. He should be scandalized, but instead curiosity overtook him, and he remained bolted to his spot in the hopes her odd appearance might offer further clues to the identities of the ghosts.

She bent over to greet some of the children with her back to him.

“Ma-wee! Ma-wee!” called the happy tot who had led him to the camp.

No! Could it be!

He felt as if a spike plunged into his heart. But the size and shape of the figure were correct. As well as the short tumble of chestnut hair he had last seen as a waving curtain falling near to her waist.

And then she turned her face to him.

He swiveled, ducked, and pressed his back into the rock. The forest blurred around him. He squeezed his eyes closed, but her face remained emblazoned upon his mind.

Lady Merry Ellison. The woman he would have wed. The only woman he would ever love. In the forest with the ghosts.

And to his utter shock . . . very much alive!

Merry could not rid herself of the odd chill that had overtaken her as she greeted the children moments earlier. Now
that they had resumed their play, she decided to investigate. She climbed up the hill and checked behind the rock that had given her pause. She would ask Big Charles to toss it in the stream when he awoke from his nap.

Surveying the valley below her, she spied nothing amiss. The last of the summertime wild flowers were dropping their blooms. Squirrels scampered about collecting nuts, as if undisturbed.

Perhaps she had been mistaken. Her mind had been filled with a riot of thoughts and emotions ever since the day she spotted Timothy Grey in town. Even more so since Allen’s kiss, which had conjured in sharp detail the memory of Timothy’s heart-stopping kiss over the distance of three years’ time. Calling it to mind again and again, as if it happened yesterday. Leaving an echo of tingles to play across her lips.

She swiped at them even now.

It seemed Merry had been wrong about the single kiss to last a lifetime, but Allen’s kiss had felt so different. So foreign. Whereas the kiss of three years ago had felt like coming home, had melded her heart to another. Perhaps for all eternity.

She may have been mistaken about the single kiss, but she had been correct about love and marriage. They could never have a place in her life—not with Allen, and most certainly not with Timothy. Although a secret part of her might long for them all of her days.

No, she had missed her chance with Timothy, but she had likely saved the lives of him and his entire family by hesitating at the thought of marriage, so she could not regret her choice.

It had been planned for years—Merry and Timothy would wed to join the families, and her father would grant him, her childhood friend, her ample dower lands and help him secure some minor appointment once political matters settled. And since her brother longed to visit the Holy Land before marrying,
she could provide an heir, for the time being. The families could not fathom either of them marrying anyone else.

Yet no one had thought to inform her. They assumed she would be thrilled at the notion of marrying her childhood playmate, her best friend in the world. But she had never thought of him as more than that.

That part of her had never awakened until the kiss. . . . And after the kiss, after the certainty of her love settled upon her, she had waited impatiently throughout the fall for the ensuing summer when they would wed. But then came winter, when her father organized the failed assassination. And that summer, instead of celebrating her marriage, her family cowered, awaiting the king’s return from Normandy along with his wrath. Then came autumn. The most horrible, ill-fated season of all.

Raking her hands down her face, she strove to bury deep all thoughts of handsome, charming Timothy Grey. She turned her attention back to the camp, where the children dashed about the clearing once again. The children she had put at risk when she stole the gold. She fancied herself their protector, but in fact, she needed them more than they needed her. Without Merry’s well-known Ellison profile, might they not have slid into a new place in society by now, unknown and unnoticed?