The Dark Knight (8 page)

Women screamed, men shouted, and Dante calmly caught the bloodred bundle that hurtled toward him. He had to take a step backward to absorb the blow as she landed in his arms, but he managed easily enough. She weighed no more than his tourney saddle. It was the color of her garments that made him frown, the same bloodred color as the steward’s. He had already noticed the odd groupings of colors in the hall, how all the knights and their wives wore the same shade of green. It seemed logical that the steward’s wife would follow suit, but why would she be spying from the gallery?

The girl remained strangely silent even after he recovered his balance, as if she didn’t realize the danger of her fall and had expected someone to catch her. Perhaps the fright had robbed her of speech. The cloud of blond hair and a gauzy red veil made it impossible to read her expression. Deep blue eyes flecked with gold were all he could see of her face. Her wide-eyed gaze reflected surprise, and amazingly, an intense light of curiosity, as if she found something fascinating about his face. As if she recognized him.

The sudden knowledge of her identity came without warning, an unexpected and unwelcome revelation. She was not the steward’s wife. This was his victim.

“Oh, good Lord!” Lady Margaret rose from her seat only to turn and collapse against her husband’s chest. “Lord Brunor! My goodness! Oh, my …”

Dante ignored Margaret’s hysterics, his attention held by the hauntingly familiar eyes of the woman in his arms. Did she somehow recognize him as well? Did she know his true identity? Aside from his lingering worry that she would suddenly decide to denounce him for an imposter, he sensed intelligence and depth in her steady gaze. But there was something else about her, something in her eyes that held him captive.

Desire
.

He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had looked at him with such obvious longing, if ever. He terrified those who knew what he was and he avoided those who didn’t. In the guise of “Sir Percival,” this one gazed up at him as if he were indeed a noble knight, as if she had landed exactly where she wanted to be.

He drew a deep breath to clear his muddled senses, then another when he caught the trace of an odd scent. The girl smelled of … roasted meat.

Lady Margaret recovered her composure in short order and launched into a lecture that did not allow for explanations. She barely stopped to draw a breath. “You could have been killed, if not for Sir Percival’s intervention. Nay, worse than that, you could have killed yourself
and
Sir Percival! And look at yourself, your gown dirty, your veil ruined. You will explain this … this outrage at once.”

Avalene reached up to pull the tangled veil away from her face just as Dante realized he had held her for an unseemly amount of time. With a silent curse, he released her legs as if they had burned him and her feet hit the ground before her knees were ready to hold her upright. Both of his arms went around her shoulders and
he ended up all but embracing her to make sure she did not fall. Even worse, the hair and veil came away from her face at the same moment. He had intended to ask if she had injured herself, but something in his chest seemed to shift to his throat, rendering him speechless.

Mordecai’s card had given him a general idea of what she would look like. A simple painting that could never do the original justice. Beneath the crooked circlet and tangled mop of hair was a delicate, heart-shaped face that took his breath away. High cheekbones, a small nose, full, sensual lips, and eyes that invited him to her bed without speaking a word. He doubted she had any knowledge of the words. The look in her eyes was not that of a practiced courtesan, but the innocent adoration of a maid when she gazed upon her beloved.

His cold blood thawed so quickly that even his bones felt warmed. He wanted to shake some sense into her. Didn’t she realize what that look of hers could do to a man?

He managed to tear his gaze from her face long enough to compose his senses, marshaling every thread of common sense to force himself to view her through safe, lifeless eyes. Rather than moon over the beauty of her face, he moved his gaze lower to gauge how easily her slender neck would fit between his hands. Soon he was fixated on the pulse point at the base of her neck that betrayed the rapid fluttering of her heart.

He was a man accustomed to making hearts beat with fear, yet when he looked at her face she appeared unafraid. She even wet her lips as her gaze moved slowly over him. It was nothing more than a nervous gesture, he told himself, even as he watched the tip of her tongue trace its path and wondered what other parts of her would be such a delightful shade of pink.

His gaze drifted lower again, but this time he couldn’t
imagine his hands around her neck for any reason but to stroke the smooth, white column, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. The gown’s modest neckline revealed a tempting glimpse of even softer flesh, skin so luminescent that the color reminded him of pearls. She looked too warm and vibrant to be an Englishman’s ideal of beauty, but even the barbaric English must recognize perfection when they saw it. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Likely all men reacted in the same besotted fashion. This was what Mordecai had tried to warn him about.

“Sir Percival?” She reached out to lay her hand on his chest. Although he could not feel the pressure of her hand through the chain mail and padding, he was sure he felt the warmth of her touch. His chest began to burn. “You were not hurt?”

Hurt? He shook his head. He was not hurt. He was devastated. How else could he describe the force that rendered him both powerless and invincible at the same time? She stirred emotions that were little more than vague memories, so far removed from mere physical need and so long forgotten that he scarce recognized the feelings. Warmth seeped through him like a heady draught of mulled wine. Her lips parted again and his blood caught fire.

“Sir Percival?” A shadow of concern darkened her eyes. “Are you injured? I could not forgive myself, truly, did I injure you.” She reached toward his face, hesitated, and then her hand curled back toward her chest as though she feared he would recoil from her touch.

Moving away from her was the last thing he would do. Everything about her drew him in, and yet, at the same time, everything about her warned him to stay away. His gaze went to the hand that still rested on his chest, so small and insignificant. The fingers were slender
and well-shaped, the soft, white hand of a lady. He imagined her hand against his bare skin, even though he knew she would never knowingly touch anything so foul or corrupt.

Aye, he was injured in places she would never know. And he would wager a fortune that she had never known anything like him in her short, sheltered life. Beneath the disguise of a knight lay the true face of evil, a demon that lusted after innocence. And if he did not get these strange emotions under control, she would soon learn exactly what sort of monster she was gazing upon so adoringly. He shook his head again in an effort to clear his befuddled senses.
Gesù
. The girl was a witch.

“ ’Tis obvious your fall has rattled the poor man’s wits, Avalene.”

The shrewd undercurrent in the steward’s voice
un-
rattled his wits in short order. He gave the man a curt glance. “Everything happened rather quickly. I needed but a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“You are unsettled,” John went on, his gaze focused sharply on Dante. “ ’Tis a common enough condition in Avalene’s presence.”

So, the steward was aware of his interest in the girl. A regrettable mistake, the kind he had not made in a very long time. In his world, truth was an illusion built upon lies, a place where one wrong word, one wrong gesture could cost his life. To argue against John’s suspicions now would only confirm them. Instead he set Avalene an arm’s length away from him, and then inclined his head in agreement with John. “I find it most unsettling when pretty maidens fall from the sky. Does this happen often here at Coleway?”

The corners of John’s false smile tightened as a sprinkling of laughter moved through the crowd.

Dante turned toward Avalene and dropped to one
knee before the girl. He bowed his head, the very picture of a chivalrous knight. Mordecai would likely laugh aloud if he saw him now. “I hope you took no offense at my boldness. Pray forgive any impertinence, my lady?”

“Ah, I … you are forgiven,” Avalene said. “That is, there is nothing
to
forgive. Please, there is no need to … I am entirely in your debt, Sir Percival. Please rise. Are you certain you were not injured?”

“Not in the least,” he assured her as he stood up.

“Enough, enough,” said Lord Brunor. “Sir Percival has delivered his message and rescued the maiden. ’Tis time for the poor man to enjoy the comforts of our home and hospitality, a just reward after his long journey. Sir Percival, the chamberlain will show you to quarters above the garrison. In the meantime, you are welcome to partake of our feast. Perhaps a bit of ale will restore your wits.”

“Thank you, Lord Brunor. I appreciate—”

“There will be naught but a cold pallet in the garrison for Sir Percival,” Margaret interrupted. “The comfort of a warm bed is the least we can offer the man to show our gratitude for his heroic rescue of our niece. The turret room near my solar should do nicely. Avalene, see that the room is prepared for Sir Percival and move what you will need to the solar. You nap often enough on the window cushions. They should make you an adequate bed for the next few nights.”

Dante could tell by the way the other three looked at Margaret that something odd was afoot. He could scarce credit the notion, but it sounded as if Margaret meant to put him in Avalene’s chamber and move the girl just a short distance down a hallway. It was unheard of to quarter a visiting knight anywhere near an unwed noblewoman. Surely he had misheard.

John was the first to find his voice. “My lady, this is most … unseemly. I feel certain Sir Percival would prefer the company of other knights and soldiers in the quarters above the garrison.”

“Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with rewarding a man for noble deeds. Putting him in a room with a warm brazier and a soft bed is the least we can do.” Margaret waved her hand to dismiss John’s objection, although she gave her husband a sideways glance. “My mind is set upon the matter. Avalene, I will accompany you to make certain everything is prepared as I wish.” She rose, then turned toward her husband. “My lord, if you will excuse us?”

“Aye, be off with you both,” Brunor said, as he reached for a pitcher of ale, only to find it empty.

Avalene dropped into a curtsey before Dante. “Thank you again for your rescue, Sir Percival.”

The proper response to her polite gesture was a gallant bow and then an offer of his hand to help her rise. Instead he found himself frozen in place by this alternate view of what he had so recently considered a modest neckline. Even the most banal response was beyond his ability. For the first time in his memory, he was dumbstruck. All he could do was stare in dazed admiration as she rose from her curtsey to follow her aunt to the stairway. He shook his head again, knowing the gown revealed far less of Avalene than the gowns of many other ladies in the great hall. Still, hers was the only gown he had peered down the front of. He sincerely hoped he was the only man who had ever enjoyed that view, because he had an insane urge to plant his fist in the face of any other male who had even imagined such a sight.

“John, there is a decided lack of refreshment,” Brunor said, interrupting Dante’s thoughts. “Find someone in the kitchens who can see that the pitchers are replenished,
and then meet with the chamberlain to discuss the preparations that need be made to send Avalene off to Wales in two days. You will also speak with the carpenters about the repairs needed in the gallery. I will expect your report in the morning.”

“Of course,” John said, his oily smile firmly in place. “Avalene was supposed to— Ah, but that is of no consequence. I will see to the ale immediately. Perhaps I should meet with the chamberlain and carpenter after the feast so I can be here to serve you should anything else go awry.”

Brunor gave John a pointed look. “I wish to speak with Sir Percival in private.”

John looked as if he had bit into a green apple, but he set off to do as he was bid after muttering, “Aye, my lord.”

“Have a seat, Sir Percival.” Brunor indicated the chair that Margaret had recently vacated, then signaled to a servant. A fresh trencher piled high with slices of meat and fish soon appeared along with another pitcher of ale and a mug for Dante. Brunor waited until the servants had retreated before he spoke, and then in a tone only Dante could hear. “Is Reynard certain he wants to tie his daughter and his allegiance to the Segraves?”

Dante took out the small dagger he used for meals and then began to toy with the crumbling white meat of a fish fillet as he considered his answer. Telling as much of the truth as possible was always the easiest and most successful ploy. “The baron’s mind is set on the matter. The Segraves will be a powerful ally on Weston’s southern borders, and he wants this marriage to take place as soon as possible.”

“Then you had best heed well this warning,” Brunor said, as he leaned closer. “My wife intends to do everything within her power to put you in bed with Avalene.”