Suzanne Robinson (8 page)

“That will teach you not to make threats you can’t support, my lady shade.”

He reached for her, but Honor dodged aside and catapulted herself out of the keep. She skittered down the stairs and across the ward. Only when she reached the gatehouse did she dare look back. Galen de Marlowe was leaning in the doorway of the keep, watching her, a lighter shadow against the darkness beyond. His voice floated toward her in the night.

“So, that’s the way to rid myself of you. If you wish to avoid my touch, little shade, don’t come back to Durance Guarde.”

Her heart began to rattle against her rib cage. Honor stared at the tall, dark figure in the doorway for a moment, then turned and ran. She kept running until she was across the dry moat and out of Durance Guarde altogether. She found Wilfred, Jacoba, and Theodoric cowering behind a tree.

“We were so frightened, lady.”

“I near pissed in me gown,” Theodoric said.

Wilfred was still babbling prayers.

“Quiet, all of you,” Honor snapped. “It was all a ruse. De Marlowe admitted it to me, so calm yourselves.”

“Oh, lady, oh, lady, oh, lady.”

Honor clamped her hand over Jacoba’s mouth and stared into the maid’s frightened eyes. “I give you my word. It was but a disguise, like our own, done to frighten us. Understand?” Jacoba nodded, and Honor removed her hand.

She turned and began to make her way through the forest, taking care not to stumble over logs or catch her foot on a vine or shrub. The others hurried after her.

“Is he coming after us, lady?” Jacoba asked.

“No. Why would he? He thinks he’s frightened us out of Durance Guarde forever.”

“But you said he revealed his plot. He must know you won’t be frightened again,” Theodoric said. “Did he threaten you, me lady?”

“Yes.”

Wilfred caught up with her. “Ooo. What did he say?”

“Never you mind. He thinks he’s won, but he hasn’t.”

“Oh, lady, no,” Jacoba said. “We can’t go back there.”

Honor swerved to avoid a bush as tall as she was. “I can go back, and I will. Just not right away.
Not until I have some potent remedy against this knave.”

Jacoba groaned. “But, lady—”

“I wish I were a man. I could destroy him.” Honor kicked a pile of leaves and stomped over them.

“But, lady—”

Honor stopped and turned on Jacoba. “No protestations, woman. Galen de Marlowe made me play the fool this night, and I mean to pay him for it. I take an oath before God, I’ll lead him like a bull with a ring in its nose, for all to see. I swear I will.”

With a last glower in the direction of Durance Guarde, Honor plunged onward through the forest. Her companions heard her speak only once during the rest of the journey.

“Leekshanks!”

S
IX
 

E
ntirely pleased with himself, Galen walked his horse through the forest on his way back from a morning spent fishing for trout. A stream wound around Durance Guarde and into the valley that divided his land from the Stafford demesne. It was deep, clear, and no one lived near it because in a heavy rain it swelled and flooded the valley, which suited Galen. He’d caught seven trout, more than enough for a midday meal.

Since he’d frightened off that nuisance, Honor Jennings, almost a fortnight ago, he hadn’t been bothered. Except for the dreams of her. They wouldn’t stop, especially now that he’d touched her. Of all the women he’d been with, none had remained in his memory simply because of how their skin felt beneath his fingertips. Honor’s skin
was softer than the silk that came on merchant ships across the dangerous seas from India.

Galen looked down at his hand. He was stroking his horse’s neck as if it were Honor’s, noticed what he was doing and lifted his hand.

“Fool.”

He straightened and guided his mount toward the old castle, then pulled up and dismounted in a hollow where a streamlet danced down a ridge covered with trees and underbrush. Near a birch tree he found what he was looking for, lungwort, an herb used to treat maladies of the chest. Ralph had caught a slight cold after he’d posed as Berengar’s ghost, and he swore he was about to die. Galen only detected a sniffle, but his manservant had his heart set on suffering. He’d asked for feverfew to treat his headache, lemon balm for the fever he didn’t have, and wormwood to aid his digestion and to repel the armies of fleas in his chamber—fleas that Galen never saw.

As he knelt on the ground gathering the herbs, he sighed and wondered how long it would take to forget the softness of Honor’s skin. He couldn’t remember how Constance’s skin had felt anymore. His marriage seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. Honor Jennings had invaded his land and his thoughts, and although he’d banished her from his presence, she haunted him more surely than any unhappy ghost haunted Durance Guarde.

He grinned as he thought of Honor’s white
face when she opened the keep door to find him blocking her escape. She had made a little squeaking sound, and her mouth had formed a dark O in the midst of that ridiculous paste she’d slathered over her neck and face. But she hadn’t remained frightened for long. She’d always been clever, even as a small girl who followed him around at tournaments, banquets, and weddings.

He never understood why she’d chosen to bedevil him rather than his younger brothers. The twins were nearer her age. He remembered being a youth, burning with eagerness to prove himself a right honorable knight and skilled warrior. Having a small copper-haired child for a shadow when one strode about the pavilions and tents of a royal tournament had been embarrassing.

Galen laughed softly as he stuffed herbs into a pouch and rose from the ground. Once he’d entered his tent during a tournament and found a strange sight—a tiny figure in a bright yellow gown topped by his jousting helmet, stumbling around, arms extended and thrashing blindly. Chuckling at the memory, Galen mounted and rode through the trees toward Durance Guarde.

He was almost there when he heard noise—shouting, clattering, and banging, and above it all, Ralph yelling. He rode through the barbican and across the drawbridge he’d reinforced. Inside he found a dozen men crawling on the walls,
clambering up the towers, and hammering at the mortar in the walls. Ralph perched on the keep stair landing and yelled at them without effect.

Honor Jennings stood near the chestnut tree where the blacksmith’s shop used to be and listened to a man who held a large piece of parchment. From the square, hammer, and drafting chisel in his belt Galen deduced he was a master mason. The woman was mad! She was planning to build her cursed manor house around him. Galen dismounted and strode over to Honor.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Honor barely glanced at him. “I see what you mean, Master Alfric. We’ll simply knock down the keep and build the house there. Can we save the stables? Master Alfric, are you listening?”

Alfric’s gaze had fixed on Galen the moment he joined them, and it hadn’t wavered. Galen almost growled at her.

“Get out.”

Honor ignored him. “Come, Master Alfric. I want to look at the stables.” She started walking, but Alfric remained frozen where he was, so she came back and spoke to Galen. “Go about your business, my lord. I have plans to make and no time for interferences from you.

“My lady.” Alfric folded the parchment he’d been holding. “You never said someone lived in this place when we spoke in London.”

“It matters not,” Honor said. “And I marvel at
the great speed of your journey. I thought you’d be at least another month on your previous job.”

“By God’s mercy!” Galen bellowed.

All the hammering and shouting stopped. The men crawling on the wall walk and hanging out tower windows stopped too.

Honor rounded on him and was about to speak, but Galen shouldered her aside and stalked away.

“Master Alfric, a word with you.” When Alfric didn’t move, he snapped, “At once.”

He stopped by the well and fixed his gaze on the master mason. The man had skin like sun-dried leather and hands scarred from years of working with stone and brick. He waited until the man began to fidget under his gaze, then spoke softly.

“I am Galen de Marlowe. This is my land. Leave.”

Alfric twisted his parchment and bowed low. “Oh, Lord de Marlowe, I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know this was your land. The lady said—”

“I know what the lady said.” Galen folded his arms and glared down at the mason. “Begone and trouble me no more.”

“Aye, my lord. At—at once, my lord.”

Only too happy to leave, Alfric scurried over to the wall walk, avoided Honor’s outraged gaze, and began herding his men out of the castle. Honor watched with narrowed eyes, then marched over to the master mason. Galen had the great pleasure of seeing her wave her arms, point this way and that to no avail.

“This is my land, I tell you.”

Shaking his head, Master Alfric shoved his cap down around his ears and hurried after his retreating men. Galen watched his adversary run after the mason, only to trip on the root of the chestnut tree and fall on her face. He burst out with a sharp laugh. He stopped laughing when she failed to jump to her feet as she had all the other times he’d seen her trip. Running over to her, he knelt beside her, his brow furrowed. When he tried to take her in his arms, Honor twisted over onto her back and scowled up at him.

“You horrible man, don’t touch me.”

“I thought you’d hurt yourself.”

Honor shoved his hands away and sat up. “I got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all. I’ll not have you touch me.”

“Why not?” He smiled at the way she tried to brush herself off but merely spread the dust around.

She paused to stare at him. “After what you did to me the last time we met? I’ve heard about you. I’ve heard how you enchant women and make them do your bidding. You look at them with those sorcerer’s eyes and—and …”

“And what?” He smiled again when she reddened.

“Never mind. You put me in great unquietness with your forward ways, my lord. Leave me be.”

“You have a smudge on your nose.”

She rubbed her nose, then her cheek, transferring the smudge from one place to the other.
Grinning, he picked up the hem of her gown. Honor slapped his hands.

“Stop that and hold still,” he commanded.

She watched him warily as he wiped her face. He brushed wisps of her hair back, and his skin slid gently against hers. He couldn’t stop himself from brushing her cheek with his fingertips. She was still scowling at him, but his ire had been swallowed up in humor and desire.

“Did you know your skin is as soft as it was when you were a child?”

He heard the rough quality of his voice. Ah, well. It wasn’t a surprise. Galen drew closer to her and she retreated, placing her hand flat on his chest.

“What has my skin to do with anything?”

“It has to do with this.”

He encircled her with one arm and kissed her. He thought she would pull away, but after a moment’s frozen stillness, she opened her mouth. She tasted like cinnamon. He leaned closer and soon they were lying on the ground beneath the chest’ nut tree. Her arms wrapped around him, and he kissed his way from her lips to her cheek and down her neck. In the space between one breath and another he forgot any outrage that lingered within him. His fingers laced through curls softer than the velvet on a queen’s robe. He felt Honor begin to tremble as he kissed the hollow of her throat. She made a tiny noise that sounded as much like surprise as pleasure. Whatever it was it spurred his
craving. His mind afire along with his body, he paid no attention when someone cried out.

“My lady!”

Something bashed Galen’s ear. “Ow!”

He looked up to find a waiting woman standing over him.

“You get off her at once, or I’ll box your ear again, sorcerer or no.”

He looked down at Honor. She was hiding her face in the crook of his arm. The waiting woman drew back her fist, but Galen gave her a stern look and pulled back from Honor, noticing that her face had grown crimson. Feeling guilty for taking advantage of a widow, even if she was annoying, he gently released her and stood. He offered his hand, but that harpy of a waiting woman bustled between them and took charge of her mistress.

“Be you well, me lady? Thanks be to God I returned before he—well, thank God is all I will say.”

Galen watched the two as they walked across the ward. Honor had yet to speak, in spite of her maid’s solicitous questions. Pent-up sensations whipped through his body, and Galen set his jaw in an effort to gain mastery of them.

“Turn back,” he whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “Turn and look at me.”

The two women kept walking. They neared the gatehouse, moved toward the shadows between the towers.

Galen held himself still and murmured, “Look at me.”

As she stepped into the shadows, he almost turned away, but at the last moment, Honor Jennings hesitated. He glimpsed the curve of her cheek as she turned, and their eyes met. Something hot and vital jumped across the space between them.

Under his breath Galen murmured, “Honor.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the darkness of the gatehouse. As if released from a spell Galen sagged, then dropped to his knees on the spot where they’d lain.