The Dark Knight (31 page)

Enemy, evil, escape
.

The notion of escape had crossed her mind several hours ago but she quickly dismissed it. There was nowhere to run. Her family had no idea how to find her. Sir Brunor and his men would never guess that she was headed toward London. Faulke Segrave and his soldiers were too far behind them. She would never break free of Dante Chiavari and his men long enough to reach either the Segraves or Coleway Castle. Definitely not long enough to reach her father at Weston. She needed a miracle, and they were in very short supply for her these days.

If Dante Chiavari had his way, she would never be allowed to marry Faulke Segrave. She would not even be allowed to marry a man as odious as Coleway’s steward. She would be locked away in some dark, dank cell of a prison.

The thought of living in a small, windowless room for the remainder of her life was as intolerable as it was unimaginable. Such could not be her fate. Of course, every other unjustly imprisoned person before her had likely thought the same thing.

Marriage to a traitorous and possibly murderous Marcher baron was no longer the worst fate that could befall her. More likely, Faulke had been her only hope for any sort of freedom. Now that hope was gone, too. She glanced over her shoulder as she had done many times throughout the day, certain she would see nothing unusual, but still searching the road behind them just the same.

“They will not catch up with us before we reach London,” Dante said. “You might as well stop watching for them.”

She turned around in the saddle and stared at a point between her horse’s ears, refusing to look at him, although she was uncertain if he even cared. He had ignored
her all day, riding a few paces ahead of her even when the road was wide enough to ride abreast. His actions made it clear that he wanted nothing more from her than cooperation and silence. She had provided both.

Another ripple of pain reminded her that her heart was still being stubborn. The pain would fade eventually, as it had after her mother’s death, and then again when her father had sent her to Coleway. It was foolish to compare this pain to the loss of a parent, but the years had obviously dulled her memory, for this felt much the same as that remembered misery. Possibly worse.

Or perhaps it was the addition of humiliation that made the wound feel deeper. She had played the part of the fool. Her mind had been trying to warn her of a bad outcome the entire time Dante had been lying to her. Instead her heart had blithely ignored the warnings and taken up residence on her sleeve, bared for his ridicule and abuse. Now that the charade had ended he seemed content to ignore her, to pretend that nothing had ever happened between them. It had taken her most of the day to realize that this was the greatest kindness he could show her.

“My lord,” Oliver called out from in front of them. He reined in his horse near the side of the road. As they rode closer, she noticed a narrow path that wound its way up the side of the hill to their left. “Do you want me to wait here for Armand?”

Dante shook his head. “Rami can stay behind and then brush over our tracks. I will need your help getting camp set up for the night.”

Oh,
joy, jubilation
, and … 
justice
. She had survived the longest day of her life. Her reward would be an entire night to rest her weary bones. A roof over her head and a warm, dry bed would be true justice, but she would settle for any bed that did not move. Why had
she ever thought horseback riding was a pleasurable pursuit? Still, she could hardly complain when the thought of what awaited her at the end of this journey made her throat close up with fear. She was no longer in any hurry to reach London.

They followed the path upward and a few minutes later they were in a small meadow, well hidden from anyone who might pass by on the road below. The grass was so tall that it brushed against her boots and fluttered against the edges of her cloak, a sea of green. They finally halted in a wide expanse where flattened grass marked what she recognized as a deer lay, the place where a herd of deer had recently bedded down. It was an ideal spot to make camp for the night.

Oliver set about hobbling the horses while Dante hauled his saddle and gear along a path that led out from the main deer lay to a smaller, more isolated area of flattened grass. She dismounted and clung to her saddle for a few moments until she was certain her legs would hold her, and then she made her way to the growing pile of supplies that Oliver had removed from the packhorses for the night. She found a seat on an overturned cook pot and refused to offer her captors any assistance as she watched the men set up camp. Her thoughts wandered back to escape.

They were far enough from the village that she would have a long trek if she thought to go there for help, and the surrounding woods and thickets meant she would have to stay on the road where she would be easy to overtake. Still, she wondered what lord held the small manor house near the village, and if there was any possibility of help from that quarter.

Thoughts of the village were pushed aside when Rami and Armand rejoined them. Armand dismounted and placed a bucket on the ground, and then he took a folded
cloth from the top of the bucket and spread it out on the ground. Next he began to unpack the contents onto the cloth. The delicious aromas of hot food filled the air and she found herself standing in front of the spread before she was even aware of her feet moving her forward.

“Meat pies and fresh bread,” he announced unnecessarily, and then he motioned toward a stoneware jug that Rami placed next to the feast. “Orrick had fresh cider as well.”

Orrick? She wondered if that was the name of the village, or someone they knew in the village, or even the local lord. She supposed the only relevant fact was that they knew someone there well enough to have a meal prepared for them in short order, which meant their word would be believed more readily than her own. Her fleeting thoughts of escape were extinguished. Orrick would offer no safe haven for her.

Still, the prospect of hot food took the sting from her disappointment. She had eaten gruel and porridge for so many days that she had almost forgotten the scents of fresh baked pastry and bread. It smelled like heaven.

Armand took a dagger from his belt and sliced one of the small loaves of bread in half, and then placed a meat pie on each slab. Rami carefully cradled one of the slabs and then carried it over to her. He tilted his head to one side when she simply stared at the food.
“Avete fame, la mia signora?”

“Sì.”
She was indeed hungry, but she eyed the food with the same suspicion that she had when Dante offered her the willow tea. Would they poison her again to keep her quiet for the night?

“Take the food,” Dante said from beside her. “There is no poison in it.”

It annoyed her that he could still read her thoughts so easily.

Rami gestured toward the cooking pot she had recently vacated. “
Si prega di essere seduti
.”

Something about taking a seat. She complied and Rami settled onto the ground next to her. Dante joined them a few minutes later, and then tilted his head toward Oliver and Armand. Rami took the hint and left to join the two men on the other side of camp.

They did not speak while they ate their meal, but she was well aware of his presence beside her. No matter how much logic her head applied to the situation, her heart needed more time to recover. It caused a physical pain to be this close to him and know that he would never again touch her as he once had, to recall his false words and gentleness as he drew his fingertips down the line of her cheek, or nuzzled his lips against her neck. She let herself catalog a few more remembered touches before she reined in her imagination, disgusted with herself.

The obsession that drew a moth to its death in a flame must feel very much the same, she decided. And just like a moth that had already scorched its wings, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from turning toward the fire. But she was not a mindless insect. She could resist destruction. She had to, if she wanted to survive this torture.

Eventually she began to relax a little and even found herself captivated by the sounds of delight and exaggerated faces of rapture that Rami made as he polished off his food. She had never met a child who took such delight in his meals. She managed to catch his eye and held up the remainder of her dinner in offering. The boy glanced at Dante, obviously received some silent sign of consent, and then he practically skipped over to her.

“I have had my fill,” she told Rami, as she placed the food in his hands.

“Grazie, la mia signora.”

She brushed the crumbs off her hands as she watched the boy all but dance back to his seat. Oh, to be so innocent, so easily satisfied.

“I assumed you would have more questions,” Dante said, breaking into her thoughts. “Have you decided not to speak to me, or is there some other reason for your silence?”

She felt like a deer startled in the field by a hunter, frozen in place by the unexpected question. Fight or flight. Retort or silence. She could not decide.

“Not that I am complaining,” he continued, as she silently debated. “Most women cannot hold a thought private when they feel wronged. I have actually enjoyed the peace and quiet all day. In fact, forget I made mention of the matter. The silence is most pleasing.”

She tried to ignore the ripple of pain his words caused. The way he jested with her was another trait she had once found absurdly appealing. What an even crueler jest that he was now her enemy, making jests at her expense. Oh, why couldn’t he simply be Sir Percival?

He gave an impatient sigh. “If you have no questions for me, then will you answer one of mine?”

She finally allowed herself to look at him, to meet his gaze. His face was expressionless and yet there was an intensity in his eyes that she found unsettling. “What is your question?”

“I know you were afraid of me when you first awoke from the poison,” he began. “What happened to your fear?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ ’Tis obvious you are angry,” he said, “and yet ’tis just as obvious that you are no longer afraid of me. Why?”

He was right. She wasn’t afraid of him. Angry and mortified by his deceit, fearful and desperately worried about
her future, absolutely. Afraid of him? That was probably the only emotion he left mostly untouched in her.

She thought about lying but could see no real harm in telling the truth. “You said yourself that I would already be dead if that was your intent. What else is there to fear?”

His eyes darkened. “Me.”

“Why should I fear you?” she asked, genuinely curious. Did he intend to harm her after all?

A flicker of surprise crossed his features. “You know who I am.
What
I am. An assassin. The King’s Assassin.”

“I know all too well who and what you are.” Was he trying to impress her with his reputation? She had not thought him so vain. “You are the man who tricked me to steal me away from Coleway, who fed me poison to take me away from the man I am likely betrothed to marry, and now you intend to take me to London where I will be locked away for the rest of my life in the Tower. If you are wondering, those would be the reasons I am … angry with you.”

She folded her arms across her chest, secretly pleased and surprised that she was managing this conversation so well. It required less effort than she had anticipated to hide her crushed heart. The years of practice with John and Lady Margaret had definitely helped. She sounded almost like her usual calm, collected self.

“But you are not afraid of me?”

What was his obsession with her lack of fear? “I am not afraid of you.”

A small knife appeared in his hand and he turned it over several times in maneuvers that rolled the knife end to end over the back of his hand and then his palm, the movements smooth and practiced. There was something almost inhuman about his reflexes and coordination. What he was doing looked impossible, yet he performed
the task seemingly without conscious thought, the way some people drummed their fingers on a table without realizing what they were doing. She glanced up at his face to find him watching her. “You really do not fear me.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Why is this so surprising?”

“You do not realize how rare you are.”

“Oh, not so rare, I think.” She looked pointedly toward Rami and his men. “They do not seem to fear you.”

“Oliver and Armand are among the few exceptions,” he admitted. “However, I terrified them when we first met and they learned my true identity. It took them many months to realize their lives were safe as long as I had their loyalty. Rami still jumps whenever I say a harsh word.”

“Well, there is your answer,” she said. “I know that I am safe with you.”

“Safe,” he echoed. The word rolled off his tongue as if he were tasting a new flavor. He opened his mouth to say something more, then changed his mind and closed it again. He remained silent for a long time. “You do not care that murder is my profession?”

Her brows drew together as she realized that he was not bragging about his fearsome reputation. He seemed almost embarrassed by it. How strange.

“I have had plenty of time today to think about your profession,” she mused. “Given the ferocity of the tales, you are not at all what I expected.”

His gaze held hers captive, the intensity in his unusual green eyes deepening, as if he were silently willing her to tell him her secrets. She had trouble remembering how to breathe. “What did you expect?”

She wasn’t exactly sure of that answer herself and said the first things that came to mind. “I expected you to be a good man who wanted to help me. Instead I discovered
that you are a
very
bad man who intends to ruin my life. Likely you are one of the most notorious men in England. Most would call you ‘evil.’ I cannot even imagine how many people you have murdered. There must be—”

He held up one hand to stop her. “I have done what was necessary and I will not apologize.”

“I was not asking for an apology,” she said. “I was simply remarking upon the fact that my judgment of men leaves much to be desired. In the time I knew you as Sir Percival, I did not see anything in you that was evil. I still cannot reconcile the fact that you are the man in the tales I have heard about the King’s Assassin. I thought evilness would somehow mark a man and make him ugly. You are so— That is to say, there is nothing in your appearance that would give the impression that you are so ill-favored.”