The Crimson Lady (13 page)

“You are wise for your years,” he said, shaking his head and setting his jowls to wiggling again. “We must all needs try to share what largesse God has placed in our way. I have recently come from Rome, as I said, and I have in my possession several pardons, signed by the Pope himself. I would be glad to give you one of those in lieu of my purse; they can be used to cleanse away any sin you wish—even your crimes as a thief if you so desire.” He glanced around at the others as if gauging their support of him, before turning his gaze back on Will.

“Who said such was my goal?” Will asked, raising his brow. “Were I made new-clean as the driven snow through one of your holy writs, it would be but a matter of weeks before the sheriff had me up on false charges again.” He shook his head. “Nay, churchman, your pardons do not interest me.”

The pardoner looked furious at being thwarted in his offer, but Braedan noticed that he managed to keep his voice even when he spoke again. “Perhaps, then, you’d better like to receive a holy blessing and protection from one of the sacred relics I carry with me as well.” He fumbled on the seat next to him, glancing down for just a moment before he raised a scrap of faded blue cloth to the window. “Take this, for instance,” he went on, making a show of crossing himself and kissing the fabric. “It is a piece of the Virgin Mother’s veil, God bless her miraculous soul, come to me through marvelous means while I sojourned in Rome. But a touch of this veil, and all ill fortune will flee from you, never to return. I will al
low you to touch it without paying the usual fee for the privilege, if you will but let us pass unhindered.”

He nodded again and held the cloth out to Will, apparently encouraged by his lack of argument to the offer. But Braedan had had just about enough. Twisting his mouth in derision, he jerked his head toward the pardoner and said, “What you have there is nothing more than a bit of
bedsheet
, man, and yet you would try to pass it off as a relic of the Holy Mother?”

“It
is
a relic—from the Holy Land itself!”

“Liar,” Braedan growled, tempted to take his blade from the guard and put it where it might truly do some good, against the corrupt cleric’s throat. “If it were, it would not be in the hands of a traveling pardoner such as you, I can assure you that.”

Will shook his head again. “It seems you are more foul than I first realized. Give over your purse now, for I warn you my good humor is fast fading, and I do not know how much longer I can keep my arm restrained against you.” Will punctuated his words by dragging the point of his blade from the pardoner’s thick waist up to the center of his chest, his eyes as steely as his sword, as they skewered him to his seat with their menacing expression.

The pardoner blanched pasty, a squeak slipping from his throat. “I—I—there is no need to get excited. No need, no need,” he gasped, his chins again wobbling furiously as he shook his head. “I will give you my purse, though you should know that I had intended to bring it to the abbey just beyond London’s gate for dispersal to the poor.”

Braedan scoffed at the pardoner’s clearly deceitful claim, uttered atop his other bald-faced lies, but he said
nothing further as Will lifted the man’s jingling purse and tossed it to Fiona. She stood by patiently as they finished the task of relieving the pardoner of his gemencrusted rings and a fur-lined shawl he had spread over the false relics in his coach. It was a woman’s garment, Braedan was sure of it by its cut and size.

He frowned as Will folded it and added it to the sack where Fiona had placed the purse, wondering just what use a man of the Church, supposedly on his way to offer alms for the poor on an exceedingly warm day, would have for such a garment. But he had little time to ponder the question as they disarmed the guards and took anything else of value they could find on or within the pardoner’s coach.

Soon they were finished. With a slap to the lead horse’s flank and a warning nod to the remounted guards, along with a murmured recommendation that they not stop for anything or anyone else until they reached Londontown, they released their captives and watched them careen down the road, dust billowing behind them. Then, jerking his head, Will led the way back into the shelter of the forest.

And as the group made their way deeper into the misty cool of the wood, Braedan felt a bittersweet twisting in his belly. It was done, then. Back at the roadside, it had been both easier and more challenging than he’d anticipated. In truth, he couldn’t say that he regretted his part in lightening the obviously corrupt pardoner’s purse, and yet…

He rode stoically behind the others, Fiona cradled against him, the strange feeling still roiling in his gut. For he realized that no matter what, now, he couldn’t go back. This day he had crossed a threshold that, in all of
his life, from boyhood to manhood and on to his years as a warrior knight for King Edward, he’d never dreamed he would willingly take.

For today, he had finally become an outlaw in deed as well as in name.

I
t had been a profitable fortnight since they’d joined Will’s group, Fiona thought as she made her way up the empty path from washing clothes with the other women. So much so that it would be but another few weeks before Braedan would have enough coin to make the trip to London to gain clues on Elizabeth’s whereabouts. But even the dark imminence of that journey back to the
stewes
couldn’t quell the pleasant sensation that thoughts of Braedan set off inside Fiona.

She nibbled her lower lip as she walked, hugging the folded garments she carried tight against her. She couldn’t remember ever having felt so before about any man. Watching his efforts to contribute to the group, to fit in with the very people he’d been raised to condemn—feeling his gentle patience with her and the unspoken understanding he showed in his everyday actions—all of it strummed at her heartstrings in a way that was most
confusing. She didn’t know how to react or what to believe, having never known anyone like Braedan before. In truth, he had caught her off guard with his caring ways, and though she worried about the dangers fraught in allowing herself such tender emotions, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him.

Wrapped in the warmth of her musings, she entered the settlement clearing, keeping to the outer edges as she made her way back to their tree shelter. Will had called a day of rest from their roadside excursions, freeing the time for everyone to undertake chores, rest, or even have a bit of fun—a suggestion that many of the children had taken to immediately; even now they cavorted around the clearing in a game of hoodman blind, having tired, apparently, of their earlier sport of hot cockles.

Fiona paused for a moment, smiling at their antics and listening to their hooting jests, wondering absently if it was possible that she’d ever felt so carefree as a child. She couldn’t remember any such moments, even in those early years before Will had left in order to make his own way in the world. She could only recall the sameness of each day—the desperation and the hunger that never ceased…that and the weary, lost look on her mother’s face when she’d come home every morn to their decrepit rooms above the alley from her work in the
stewes
. It had been a life Fiona had been eager to escape, though she’d never suspected that, when the chance finally came, it would be to a hell of a different kind. One a thousand times worse.

Shaking her head against her uncharacteristic, brooding thoughts, she again picked up her pace toward the tree shelter. It was already past midmorn; the dew had dried, and with the washing done, she planned to scour
the forest for some of the herbs and flowers she needed to replenish her pots, which had been depleted during her treatment of Braedan’s illness.

Ducking inside their dwelling, she put the folded garments in her trunk and took up one of the baskets left perched near the doorway, leaving again quickly so that she might begin her gathering before the sun rose too high. But something made her pause once more before she left the settlement, her attention drawn by some activity going on at the far side of the clearing.

Squinting, she raised her hand to shade her eyes, her heart beating more rapidly when she recognized Braedan’s tall, powerful form in the midst of a group of older lads and several of the men. He was shirtless, his muscular torso and arms flexing under a faint sheen of sweat as he led them through what appeared to be a sword exercise. All the others held either sticks or weapons that had been confiscated during robberies, and many a brow was furrowed in concentration as the men struggled to follow Braedan’s lead. He was magnificent to watch, his motions fluid, his blade flashing in the light as he lifted it high above his head, then twisted to the right. He paused in that position, looking over his shoulder to explain something to those behind him before bringing the blade down to slice at an unseen opponent.

That pleasant fluttering in Fiona’s belly erupted anew, watching him move so. He was like a stunning, sleek predator, at once enticing and dangerous. It was clear that he commanded superior battle skills; the way he wielded his blade, both when she’d seen him use it during the feigned ambush and on the roadside gave weight to that truth.

Yet to know him as she did was to appreciate his
physical prowess even more, for though he possessed the ability to deal a killing strike at will, she’d come to realize that he never failed to maintain complete self-discipline. He was a combination of strength tempered by consummate control, and the remembered sensation of those powerful hands slipping beneath her hair to gently knead the muscles of her neck, or gliding with a feather-light stroke along her cheek, sent a tingle of longing through her that blended with the confusing warmth from her earlier thoughts of him.

She nurtured the sweetness of these unexpected feelings, wondering, with a start of surprise, if this might be what true desire felt like. In the past she’d known the bite of stark physical want under Draven’s sinful tutelage, but this was very different. It was sensual, yes, but it was more as well. It went deeper somehow, spiraling into a kind of yearning she’d never experienced before. The realization of it left her aching, breathless, and more than a little flustered—so much so that she at first didn’t notice that Braedan had ended his lesson and was approaching her with long, firm strides.

He’d apparently decided to cool himself after the sword exercises by dousing himself with water, and now, as he walked closer, he raked his fingers through his wet hair. By the time he reached her, her breathlessness had increased, though whether from the devastating effects of the smile he directed at her or something else entirely, it was impossible for her to tell.

He’d already redonned his shirt, and he was straightening the sleeves as he nodded toward the basket in her arms. “You’re hard at work, it seems. But it is a smallish vessel for carrying the washing, is it not?”

“Aye, it would be, were that its purpose. But since it is
actually a basket for gathering herbs to replenish my pots, I think I am safe in its size.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, his blue eyes glimmering with humor. “You’re off to hunt for more bitter remedies with which to plague me.”

“It was either dose you with them or leave you to suffer,” she quipped in return, cursing the heat that their playful banter sent spilling into her cheeks. But the tone of her answer coaxed a deeper grin from him, and she swallowed, struggling to manage the unfamiliar, riotous feelings he was provoking in her. “I should hope that you approve my choice to treat you.”

“Indeed.” Braedan met her gaze, his eyes brewing with something even more tantalizing than humor now. “And I am grateful for your care of me. So much so that I would like to offer my services in collecting more of the damnable things. I am finished with the work I had planned for the day. Would you care for me to join you in your forest quest?”

His suggestion caught her by surprise, and she paused, long enough that he added with mock seriousness, “You know these woods can be quite dangerous to wander about in alone. You might need my aid to fend off who knows what—wild boars or wolves—mayhap even a pack of dogs. The forest abounds with all kinds of ravenous creatures—”

“The only ravenous creature I’m likely to see this day is
you
, Braedan de Cantor, and well you know it,” Fiona said, a smile tugging at her lips.

“I wouldn’t be so certain. Gathering flowers can be a perilous venture.”

Fiona laughed aloud this time. “You are impossible. But I would enjoy the company.”

“Then I am at your service, my lady, prepared to defend you to the death,” Braedan answered, giving her a courtly bow.

Still smiling, she swung the basket at him, so that he was forced to grab at it with an exaggerated grunt of surprise. “Here, take this and I’ll get another to use for the plants. You can fill it with some bread, and perhaps a few of the winter apples Will has stored with the other foodstuffs. It will be past noon, and you’ll no doubt be hungry before we’re finished gathering what I need.”

She’d looked away as she considered what else to bring on their venture, but when Braedan didn’t respond, she looked back to him and felt a rush of warmth fill her. His teasing had given way to something much more serious, she realized, his expression revealing what seemed an almost-painful desire as his gaze fixed on her.

“In truth I am hungry
now
, lady,” he murmured at last, his words caressing her like the stroke of his hands over her sensitized flesh. “Though with a kind of appetite that may never be sated. In the meantime, I shall have to content myself with gathering our meal.”

Fiona stood rooted to the spot, her pulse racing and her senses afire; she looked at him helplessly, not knowing how to cope with what she felt. But in the next moment he took pity on her, releasing her from the pleasurable torment of his gaze by tipping his head in another little bow. He murmured something about meeting her at the path in a few moments. Then he turned and sauntered off to complete his task, swinging the basket in time to a tune he whistled as he went—and leaving Fiona scrambling to hold on to whatever remained of her completely disheveled wits.

By the time they were deep into the forest on their search for clumps of dog violet and betony, Braedan was cursing himself for his brilliant ideas. What in hell had he been thinking when he’d offered to come along? Being in such close proximity to Fiona, watching her move and bend among the greenery looking for the perfect tuft of flowers…catching the delicate scent of her hair, warmed by the sun that reached through the dense, lush-branched trees—all of it was torture, pure and simple, and he wasn’t sure how much more he was going to be able to take.

He was a damned fool. That was the only way to explain it. He’d put himself into this position, knowing full well how it would make him feel. Day after day he spent his time in tantalizing nearness to her, acting for all intents and purposes like the husband he was supposed to be.

And then at night…

Biting back a groan, Braedan tried to concentrate on finding a patch of the violets she’d described to him, rather than looking at the sweet curve of her backside as she bent over to examine another plant. But the thought of how that bit of her felt pressed against him as she slept, cradled in his arms each night, nearly undid him, and he cursed himself again.

He’d had the perfect opportunity to avoid the temptation of being near her; Will’s call for a day of rest had surprised him, but he had seized on it gladly, feeling a sense of bittersweet relief in knowing he could distract himself from his constant thoughts of Fiona with other things. His offer to show the other men one of the sword exercises he’d practiced during his years in foreign climes had stemmed in part from his need to burn away some of
what had been smoldering inside of him because of Fiona. But it hadn’t worked. Not really. It had taken the edge off, aye, but the respite had been only temporary.

How could it be otherwise, you idiot, when right after the exercise was finished, you made a direct line to her side again?

Braedan winced at the mocking voice in his head, knowing that he couldn’t deny the truth of it. And now here he was, suffering again with the painful pleasure of being right next to her.
Alone
with her. It was a torture of the self-inflicted kind that made it that much the worse to bear.

“Oh, look at this, Braedan,” Fiona called from her bent position, not seeming aware of the agitation she caused him in that pose. “There’s a fine growth here already, thanks to the break in the trees.”

When he didn’t come closer, she turned her head to him, and he was stunned anew at her beauty. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure at her find, and her auburn hair shone lustrous in the shaft of sun. He tried to clear his throat, his movements stiff and his legs feeling weak from the force of his attraction as he made himself take the few steps that would bring him nearer to her and the plants she wanted him to see.

She’d already sunk to her knees next to one of the leafy stalks she’d found with its budded flowers, and now she reached absently for the basket he carried for her. Her hand brushed his in the process, the warmth of her skin somehow erotic in the cool of this grove, and he stilled, desperate to do anything, say anything to divert his attention from the throbbing heat her nearness inspired.

He flipped open the basket’s lid for her, watching in complete distraction as she paused, murmured a little
prayer, and made the sign of the cross over one of the almost-knee-high stems before breaking it off near to the ground. That action startled him from his misery for a moment, and he frowned, asking, “Why did you do that?”

She lifted the stalk to examine it in the light, her concentration and the studious expression it called to her face enticing in a wholly unexpected way. “It is customary to do so when collecting this herb. Physics call it vervain, which is its proper name, I suppose, but most common folk call it herb of grace or herb of the cross, since it is believed to be the plant used to stanch Christ’s wounds at the crucifixion.”

Braedan clenched his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to control the raging demands that were coming ever more powerfully from his lower anatomy. He focused his thoughts with an effort, finally managing to ask in a strangled voice, “How does it work?”

“Hmmm?” she murmured, intent on securing the plant in the basket. He repeated the question as she broke off another stalk, and she glanced at him with a bemused expression. “Oh. It is thanks to a certain property of the fresh leaves; a poultice of them, mashed, is pressed onto wounds. It causes the flesh to tighten, helping to slow the flow of blood.”

Braedan made a noise in his throat, muttering, “I could have used such knowledge after some of our battles for the king.” He was still trying to do all he could to avoid looking at Fiona, and so in an attempt both to subdue his attraction to her and satisfy his curiosity in the matter, he asked, “How is it that you came by such detailed learning, lady? Your life in the
stewes
surely wouldn’t have called for such skills, yet you seem better
trained than most of the healers I’ve had the misfortune of meeting in my travels.”