Hot Summer's Knight (16 page)

“It’s not for you.”  She pointed the dagger towards herself.  “It’s for me.  I will not let it happen, I won’t let you touch me!”

She’d held the point of the knife against her ribcage, beneath her flawless left breast.  The soldier in him had wondered whether, with one quick upward thrust, the blade could pierce her heart.

“My Lady, please, don’t…”  For one horrible moment, he’d believed himself too late.  Bright blood from a small wound had trickled down her chest.  “Please, put the knife down.  I swear, I’ll not harm you.”

He’d talked to her, calming her with the sound of his voice as he would a skittish horse.  Eventually, she’d believed him when he’d said he wouldn’t touch her.  He’d convinced her to place the dagger on a chest beside the bed and climb between the pristine sheets of their marriage bed.  Alone.

The next morning they’d displayed the blood-soaked sheet all to see.

The travesty of their marriage had continued.  Every evening they’d sat at the high table together, sharing a trencher and a chalice.  Outside their chamber, she’d been in all ways the picture of the perfect wife, eyes always downcast, attending to his every need.

Every night, like a devoted husband, he’d escorted her to their room.  By an unspoken agreement, they’d wait until the castle slept, and then he’d crept down the stairs like a fugitive, to the haven he’d found with William.

He’d lived the lie for five weeks, until, by the grace of God, the letter had come from the bishop and the king,  asking for men willing to take up their swords in the name of Christ, and free the Holy Land from the clutches of the infidel.  The mission had inspired his men.  Only William had glimpsed the relief in Gareth’s heart.  Only William knew Gareth would be free of the agony of spending every day by the side of a woman he grew to love more and more, without ever being able to touch her, or hold her, or feel her heart beating in unison with his.

Now he was trapped in another lie - the lie of his identity.  The myth of Gareth the Troubadour.  He’d wanted to protect her from the Count’s plot, to make sure she was safe and to see her again.  He’d never dared to dream of holding her as he had yesterday.

Gareth wondered now how he could bear to leave her.  The voice of reason told him she was she his wife, and he had the right to be here with her.  As each day passed, thinking about leaving became more difficult.  Once the fair was over, and the danger from the Count passed, he must go.  Twice now, he’d nearly made her his own in the only way that mattered.  If Jessamine hadn’t interrupted them yesterday, he didn’t know what would have happened.

Gareth steered the boat close to the riverbank and, careful not to let it get away from him, stepped onto the bank.  Once his feet met solid ground, he tied the boat securely to some low hanging branches.

From the river he’d noticed something shining gold in the sunlight in a narrow, shallow inlet.  Perhaps leaves on the water heralded the onset of the fall, or a girl’s hair gleamed, as she lay, face down, in the water.  In a few moments he’d find out what it was.

Using branches as handholds he clambered along the bank, mindful of the landslide that had propelled Berenice into the water.

His search was fruitless.  Now he’d found the place, he could see the gold was a trick of the light and a few dead leaves.  No sign of Jessamine.

Hauling himself up onto the bank, he looked around for an easier way back to the boat.  He’d emerged into a thicket of young beeches, and fought his way through a tangle of branches.

Curse the girl, he thought, she’d walked half way to Bordeaux by now.  He’d better ways to spend his day than this wild goose chase.  She’d pestered him all summer, following him around, flaunting her all-to-obvious charms.  Even without Berenice, as if he’d want someone who spread her favors around the stable boys, William’s men, and every passing peddler.  The girl was a menace, and they were all better off without her.

His temper deteriorated steadily, as he realized he’d soon have no more justification for staying here.  Jessamine wasted his valuable time.

When the woman’s shrill scream came, he didn’t recognize it, mistaking it for the call of a bird.  When he did, the guilt flashed through him.  Perhaps the girl had taken the wrong man into the woods this time, and she really needed help.

Changing direction towards the forest, he redoubled his efforts.  He thrashed his way out of the thicket, scratching his arms and tearing his tunic.

Lord God, let me be in time, he prayed, as the scream rent the air again.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Berenice stood in the shade of the trees, one hand holding her horse’s reins, the other raised to her mouth as though stifling another scream.  Even from a couple of dozen feet away, he could see she trembled from head to toe.

“Berenice, it’s Gareth!”  He ran towards her.

“Gareth!”  Berenice propelled herself into his arms, almost knocking him from his feet.  He held her close, stroking her back, calming her as she sobbed into his chest.

“What’s wrong, Berenice?  What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing at all, really,”  she said when she could speak again,  “Just the forest, and the shadows, and…”

Gareth looked around.  “Where have William’s men gone?”

“My horse bolted, and I lost them.  They probably think I’m lost too, by now.”

She pulled away from him, awkward and embarrassed now she’d regained her composure.

“Didn’t they make any attempt to look for you?  How long ago did this happen?”  Gareth surveyed the forest as though looking for someone to reprimand.

“Not long ago at all.  Gareth, it doesn’t matter.”

She laid her hand on his arm.

“You were frightened.  You could’ve been harmed.”

“But I wasn’t.  Only my poor horse.  He’s injured his fetlock.”  As if on cue the horse, waiting patiently beneath the trees, neighed and bobbed his head.

“Gareth, I’m pleased to see you, but why are you this far up the river?  I thought you’d be checking downstream.   When the bushes began to move, I didn’t know what to think!” said Berenice.

“I checked the riverbanks near the castle first.  I’ve been up to the mill, and I was on my way down to the bridge,” Gareth replied.

“Did you see any sign of Jessamine?”

“None.  I don’t expect to find any, either,”

“I suspect you’re right.  We saw nothing, no sign of anyone on the forest paths.”

“Well, I’ll walk you back to the castle.  I won’t leave you alone here.  I can fetch the boat later.”

“We were headed to the a ford near the monastery when my horse bolted.”

They walked, Gareth leading the horse.

“You should never have come here, not even with William’s men.”

“I know this forest, Gareth.  I used to come here a lot, once.”

“But something frightened you here today, and frightened you badly.”

“The forest itself, I think.  It’s as though the forest is alive, as though it’s more than just trees and bushes and brambles.  I felt something here, something old, something – evil.”  She shuddered and crossed herself.

He longed to draw her into the protective circle of his arms and hold her and keep her safe.

And never let her go.

She stumbled on the rocky path, and in the next instant, at least part of his wish came true.

This time, she didn’t move away from him.

“Gareth,” she murmured between kisses, “Hold me.”

It was more a question than a request.  He answered by kissing her yet again, and felt the power of his need surge through his body.

He leaned her against the broad trunk of an ancient beech.  Her headdress came loose, and he straightened it a little.

“I know you’ll have to leave one day,” she whispered, her eyes deeper and darker and bluer than ever before.

“Perhaps I won’t,” Gareth said.  No, it was Huon who answered.

I am her Lord, her husband, he thought.  For eight long years I’ve waited for this.  It’s my due, my right.

No, you’re not her Lord, you’re not her husband, Gareth answered, to her you’re Gareth the Troubadour.  You’ll break her heart with what you’re doing, taking her like this, in the forest.  She deserves the finest linen sheets and a deep, soft bed.  She doesn’t know…

His hand slid from her hip, up her side, and came around to cup her breast.  Through all the layers of her clothing he could feel the hard, tight little nub of a nipple.  Her breath caught in her throat, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

“My love,” he murmured and eased her onto a soft bed of last year’s leaves.

They lay there for a moment, Berenice on her back, Gareth on his side, looking down at her.  He wanted to know every detail of her.  He wanted to see her naked, the sunlight dappling her body with the patterns of the fresh summer leaves above their bower, the shifting light on her skin.

His mouth found hers once more, while his hand traced the outline of her thigh, and he drew the fabric of her dress up and over her legs.

He gazed into her eyes, waiting for a sign of rejection.  Smiling a small smile of concurrence, her hand caressed his neck, and she kissed him.  Her kiss was as soft and tentative as the touch of bird’s wing until he deepened it, needing her response as confirmation of their mutual desire.  She answered him, learning from him as his tongue danced with hers.

He traced the delicate bones of her ankle with the tips of his fingers, and explored her slender calf.  Her skirts rode higher, revealing a rounded knee and the pale skin of her thigh.

One of his legs parted hers.  Her small, strong hands roamed everywhere, stroking his arms, touching his face, caressing his neck, burrowing into his hair.  Small sounds of pleasure and longing came from her lips, full and slightly swollen now from his kisses.  Her headdress had come adrift, and her hair spilled out onto the leaves.

“My love,” he murmured into her hair, trapping her with the weight of his body.  His love, his life, his wife.  He ached with love for her, with longing, with the need to know her completely.

“Am I?” she asked.  The innocent trust in her voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Yes,” he replied, “you are.”

As he kissed her once more, he knew the time had come to tell her his identity.  He couldn’t lie to her any longer.  Perhaps she’d understand, perhaps she wouldn’t reject him this time, perhaps they’d find a way.

“Berenice,” he stroked her hair from her forehead,  “my name…”

“Names don’t matter,” she answered, kissing him again.

Names meant everything in their world, he knew.  Names were the reason marriages were made, alliances forged, and wars fought.  For her to say his name didn’t matter was tantamount to saying it didn’t matter if the sun forgot to shine.

There were more important things to think about, such as the slim leg now entwined in his.

Her dress had risen even higher.  Sliding his hand beneath it, he found he could caress the underside of her breast.

He couldn’t have stopped now, not if Fulk and all his men had ridden into the clearing.  Taking his weight on one arm, both his legs separated hers.  She moaned into their kiss, moving against him.

Huon, you must stop, Gareth whispered, think what you’re doing!

I love her, I want her, thought Huon, she’s mine.

Breaking free of their kiss, he pushed her skirts higher with one hand.  The pent-up need of eight years made him careless, and he fumbled with the fastenings of his own garments.

His gaze returned to her face, her perfect, oval face, her deep, deep blue eyes, the sweet bow of her lips.

Something had changed.

Instead of the heavy-lidded look of love, her eyes were wide and staring.

Instead of lips curved into a small, secret smile, waiting to be kissed, her mouth opened wide, on the verge of screaming again.

Instead of a face softened with desire, her face twisted in terror.

“No!” she screamed, “leave me alone!  Stop it, stop it!”

She lashed out at him, her small fists striking his chest, his face, his arms.  He tried to stop her, gathering both her hands into one of his, but that only made things worse.  Her whole body twisted and writhed, not with desire, but with the need to be free of his weight on hers.

“Let me go!  Please, let me go.”

“Berenice, stop this!”  She was a woman possessed.  Her eyes stared, but he doubted she saw him.

“No-o-o-o…” she howled.  The sound cut through him, the cry of an animal in pain.

“Berenice!”

He tried to reason with her, without success.  She couldn’t even hear her own name.  Her hands escaped from his, and she lashed out at him again.

A blow landed across his nose, blinding him with pain.  He released her hands.

On her feet in an instant, she raced off through the forest like a wild thing.

“Berenice!” he called, but she’d gone.

His vision cleared.  It was a miracle she hadn’t broken his nose in her almost superhuman strength.  He shook his head and sat up, his head still spinning.

He couldn’t let her go like that.  In her present state of mind she could hurt herself.  Fleet of foot, like a deer, and she’d said she knew the forest.

Looking around, he thought he glimpsed a flash of a sky blue dress in the shadows.  Staggering to his feet, he set off through the forest.

For the second time that day, the light tricked him.  The patch of sky blue was just that – sky showing through the interwoven canopy of the trees.

What could he do?  He knew which way the river lay - he wasn’t lost.  Should he return to the castle, round up the men again, start another the search?

He stood in the patch of sunlight, turning this way and that, desperate for some clue to Berenice’s whereabouts.

A yelp of pain gave her away.  Loping through the trees, he found her, not more than a hundred yards from where they’d lain.  She’d tripped over a fallen tree trunk, and sat on it, rubbing her ankle.

Berenice looked up at him.  Her face appeared quite normal again, and for that he silently thanked God.

“Gareth,” she said, her voice calm, her tone thoughtful, “What happened to me?”

“You don’t know?”