Never Kiss A Stranger (28 page)

He looked to the woods that led away from the village. Somewhere, Sybilla Foxe was watching them, waiting for them. He stared through the trees for a long time.

Alys had not expected to get away from the village without Piers’s grandfather cornering her, and she had been right. The old man had given her the courtesy of a warning before coming above, and Alys was dressed in her old gown and ready for him when he ducked through the wall. He came no closer to her than the flap that served as a doorway.

“Good morrow, Ira,” Alys said mildly, folding the blue perse gown into her bag.

“Are you going back to your family?” he asked bluntly.

She took her time in answering him, cinching her bag closed carefully.

“After Piers and I gain London and he does what he’s set out to do, yes. For a while, any matter.”

“Set him free.”

“Piers is free. Freer by far than I, and even you.” Alys turned to face the old man. “He is not your daughter, Ira. And I am no Warin Mallory. I love him, and I will stand by him.”

“You’ll be his ruination,” Ira said sadly.

“I love him,” Alys repeated.

“Love him or nay,” Ira insisted, “if he is refused his birthright by the king and returns to us here,
you’re
not welcome.”

Alys swallowed, blinked. Stared at the old man. “Is that supposed to frighten me?”

“I’m only warning you.”

“And I hear you.” She began to walk toward him. “But I am not troubled by the hateful things you say to me, Ira. I don’t believe them.”

“You’re a fool not to,” the old man sputtered, eyeing her suspiciously as she came ever nearer to him.

“Do you know why?” she asked as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ll tell you: because I know you love him, too. And I know that the most important thing in your life now must be that Piers is safe and happy and well.” She stopped, standing before the old man now, and realizing how stooped he was, how gray, how weary.

“Is that so wrong?” Ira demanded, squaring his shoulders as if the suggestion that he possessed such tender feelings was an insult.

“Quite the contrary,” Alys said. “I want those things for Piers, too. He is the most important person to me, as well.
And I will do everything in my power, to my last breath, to help him gain what he desires. I swear it to you.”

The old man stared at her with watery eyes. “See that you do,” he said hoarsely at last. “You just see that you do. And then mayhap … well.” He said no more, only nodded once firmly as if whatever he’d left unsaid was agreed upon.

Alys understood. She nodded, then leaned forward and kissed Ira’s wrinkled, leathery cheek. “Thank you.”

The old man bristled and harrumphed. “Get your things and I’ll take you below. The man’s anxious to meet the trail.”

The farewells were so short that there was barely time for emotion to build. Ira was right in his report that Piers was anxious. He barely looked at Alys as they were wished well from the villagers. Tiny did cry a bit when she and Alys embraced, and for a moment, Alys thought that Layla would forsake her for the miniature girl. But at the last moment, the monkey scrambled back into Alys’s arms.

Ira gave them both a final tutorial on the way out of the village and to the London Road. As they left, waving to the shouts of farewell that lifted them away from the village, Alys was thankful for the thick snow that would clearly show she and Piers if they were being followed once they were away from the village’s familiar trails. She had to nearly run to keep pace with him as he led her away on an already well-worn path through a drift of white, and it made her smile, reminding her of their start together. He was not talking again, but it did not trouble her overly. Piers was quiet when he was thinking, and they had certainly given each other enough to think upon for the next several hours.

Alys was certain that they would air their concerns with each other when they made camp that night. The most important thing now was to get to London, and to get there as quickly as possible. They had only two days.

She frowned at the increasing number of horse tracks their path crossed over, and snow trampled by what seemed many feet. But Piers, ever wary, did not seem concerned, and so she held her tongue. Even when they took to the wider thoroughfare of the road rather than stay to the trees, Alys did not argue. ‘Twas likely Piers thought that they could move faster beyond the danger of the snow-camouflaged debris of the forest floor. And anyone who had at one time been following them would have passed this way long ago, while they were hidden away in the trees of Ira’s village. Wherein lay the danger that Judith Angwedd and Bevan had already bent the king’s ear during the delay.

Alys trudged on, her spirit determined. The way ahead of them was—if not easy—at least clear.

Piers could have let them rest while they ate the noon meal, but he chose to keep going, ignoring Alys’s grumbles about his swift recovery and her already sore feet. He didn’t want to look at her, sitting across from him or next to him, her eyes bright with excitement and optimism. Piers felt weighted down enough with guilt at what he planned to do with Alys, and she was too perceptive of him now. He could not risk talking with her.

And besides, he didn’t want to give her an opportunity to change his mind. He knew what he was doing was the right thing for her. Sybilla Foxe’s quarrel with the king must be deadly indeed, for Alys’s sister to be so desperate
to reach her before London. Alys could be in as much danger in Edward’s presence as her sister.

Piers could not allow her to carry on with him to London.

Perhaps he was already too late to plead his case with the king, any matter. The best he could hope for then was a portion of coin to take back to Ira and the villagers, and then he would be free to seek out Bevan. If he was lucky enough to gain that opportunity, he wanted Alys nowhere near that taint.

He loved her. He loved her, and he knew he was a poison to her very existence. He only hoped that Clement Cobb would love her, too.

So Piers pushed on with his heart aching like a bitter wind, farther into the late afternoon than he normally would have, and much farther than was likely wise considering his recent illness. He wanted dusk on their heels when they made camp, with only enough daylight left to gather wood for a fire. He spied a likely alcove off the road, just into the wood, where their location would be easily seen. He veered from the snow packed road and into the trees without warning to Alys.

“Thanks be to God,” he heard her sigh behind him. She was cross with him again, he knew. Let her hang on to her anger for as long as she could.

“I’m going for wood,” he called over his shoulder to her as he dropped his pack in the snow.

“We’re to have a fire?” she asked incredulously. “Piers, do you think that’s wise? What if—”

“It’s fine, Alys,” he said curtly. “Let me worry about it.”

He heard her make a dubious comment to Layla about the surety of his relation to his grandfather.

By the time night fell, a blazing fire warmed them nicely while they ate in silence. Well, Piers was silent, any matter.

“What have I done to offend you so that you will not speak to me?” she demanded, feeding Layla bits of turnip from her fingers.

“I’ve a lot on my mind,” Piers said, not meeting her eyes.

“I understand that,” she said with forced patience. “But is that any reason why you must behave so boorishly?”

“Forgive me if I do not engage in frivolous banter,” he said. “I’m trying to gather my thoughts before I try to convince the king to grant me that which is rightfully mine. Unlike
some,”
he emphasized, “‘tis not every day that I am engaged at court.”

“Oh, come now. I’ve never been to court, either, and well you know it, Piers Mallory,” Alys defended. “Don’t be so prickly.” She suddenly looked up and smiled at him. “I know—why don’t you practice what you will say to Edward?”

“No.”

“I could help you,” she pressed. “Even if you wish me not to accompany you, we could prepare your argument together, and—”

“No,” he repeated.

She finished her meal with the monkey in brooding silence. She disappeared into the wood, he guessed to relieve her bladder before going to sleep, and Piers held his breath while she was gone.

But she returned, and he did not know if he felt relief or frustration.

She stood across the fire from him. “Piers, are you angry with me?”

He glanced up at her from the blankets he was unrolling. “No,” he answered gruffly, but honestly.

“Are you certain?”

He paused, sighed, and squeezed the bridge of his
nose. “I am quite certain, Alys. I’m only occupied. I’ll be better in the morn. London is on the horizon.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Alright. I’ll leave you alone with your brooding.” She approached him and crawled into the blankets he had prepared on a bed of boughs near the fire. “Are you coming?”

“In a bit,” he stalled. “I’d clear my head before trying to sleep.”

She nodded while she yawned. Piers felt a twinge at how hard he’d pushed her today. “Wake me if you need me.” After a beat of silence, “I know you don’t want to hear this now, but I love you, Piers.”

He fussed with arranging the fire so that it continued to blaze. He had to swallow and clear his throat before he could answer her.

“Good night, Alys.”

She was soundly asleep before a half hour was past. Piers stood over her for a long while, his back to the fire, watching her, committing her face to memory. He crouched down, remembering the first time he’d seen her, asleep much in the same position on the stone slab in the Foxe Ring. Then, as now, he reached out a hand to smooth the hair away from her face, but this time Layla tried only to grasp at his finger sweetly with her own warm, leathery palm.

He stood swiftly. He retrieved his long knife from near the fire and then swung his pack onto his shoulder.

He picked up one end of the long, slender log that rested in the center of the fire. It broke easily in half at its charred center with only a hushing crackle. Alys did not stir. Piers headed toward the road, and to the pile of tinder he had made earlier. He laid the smoldering log atop the tinder, setting a small fire in the center of the road with little
coaxing. After looking both directions, he went back into the woods just past where Alys slept, to wait and to listen.

He heard the muffled hoof beats first, the mounts walking, being led on with caution. Then the crunching of snow, and each footfall seemed to crush his heart. Like the loyal sentry she was, Layla’s screams shook the still blackness of the cold wood, and soon after, Alys’s strident shouts. She cried his name only once, and Piers squeezed his eyes shut, hung his head and turned his face to the side.

Sybilla Foxe would not bother with a commoner such as he, and neither should her sister. In a few days, Alys would be back at her home, and well-begun the process of forgetting that Piers Mallory ever existed.

In moments, the wood was silent once more. He walked slowly toward the camp, his heart somewhere near the soles of his boots. But his mind telling him he had, for once, done the right thing. The noble thing.

He chuckled darkly to himself.

The fire still blazed. The blankets where Alys had lain were knotted and tangled in the snow. Of course Layla had vanished with her mistress.

Piers sat down on the snow rumpled blankets, staring at the fire.

And he was alone once more.

Although she never would have thought it possible, Alys arrived in London before Piers. Carried through the city gates at dawn with her hood covering her face and a cold warning in her ear to not draw attention, she had been hesitant to assume she knew the identities of her captors. But once she was safely away from curious bystanders, the interrogation had begun, and she was left with no doubt as to who had kidnapped her.

“Where is he?” Judith Angwedd demanded, walking in a slow circle around the stool where Alys sat in the middle of the chamber. The gag had been removed from her mouth to allow her to answer the questions, but Bevan stood uncomfortably close by, his willingness to silence any outbursts dangerously clear by the way he watched her, his small eyes continually darting over her.

“I don’t know,” Alys said.

“You’re lying,” Judith Angwedd accused mildly. She had removed her riding gloves and was now smoothing them between her hands, over and over. “I would think you eager for your revenge—he gave you up to us to save his own skin, after all.”

Alys forced a laugh, although the comment struck very close to her heart. Where had Piers been when the pair had snuck into camp and stolen her away? Why had he not come at her cries for help?

But she would not let them see her doubt. “Why would you think he gave me up to you?”

“Oh. You poor, spoiled, naïve little girl.” Judith Angwedd cocked her head pityingly. “He led us straight to you. Even went so far as to set a beacon in the middle of the road a stone’s throw from where we found you—we could see the blaze of your camp even through the trees. He
wanted
you to be found. I’m certain that if he hadn’t thought you’d awaken and protest, he would have dragged your sleeping body to the road instead.”

Alys could not think of a thing to rebut this, her head was spinning so with the dastardly information being relayed to her. He had truly abandoned her. Why?

Because he doesn’t love you,
a bitter voice in her head advised her.
He had taken to the trail by the time you had begun to foolishly dream of him. He is well rid of you, at last. What he wanted from the start.

Outwardly, she held her tongue.

“Nothing to say for that, eh?” Judith Angwedd paused in her circuit to stand before Alys. “So you see, you may as well tell me what you know. He’s obviously not going to rescue you if he intended you to be captured in the first place. And no one knows your whereabouts now—not even that cold bitch, Sybilla.”

Alys looked away toward a bank of windows across the room. The blue sky stuffed the panes and mocked her.

“She doesn’t care, I should tell you. I went to Fallstowe looking for Piers, and when it was ascertained that you
were missing and could possibly have gone with him in your childish pique, do you know what she did?”