Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Last Knight (10 page)
Her breath caught painfully in her throat as she realized the wayward direction of her disloyal thoughts. Not only disloyal but sinful, too, for she was a lady betrothed before God and man.
And yet and yet she could not stop herself, for it was not so much a thought as a heartfelt yearning, a bittersweet ache that swelled her breast and made her want to reach out and stop this moment and make it last and last.
than she knew herself. As if he saw her secret sorrow and despair, and called to it.
Give me yourself.
If not your body
,
Then your heart.
Make me your soul.
The song ended and the room erupted in cheering. And still he looked at her, his gaze sharpening with an unmistakable gleam of understanding, his jaw hardening with dangerous intent.
She stared into his dark, strong-boned face and felt a wave of panic that welled within her, stopping her breath and setting off a fine trembling from someplace deep inside her.
He knows
, she thought wildly, watching him hand the lute back to the drunken jongleur without dropping his probing, frightening gaze from her.
Mother Mary, help me, she prayed. He knows I am a woman. He knows.
She could hear the tossing branches of the big old chestnut that sheltered one corner of the courtyard and the flapping of a loose shutter somewhere in the unseen night. A draft eddied up from below, flaring the torch he carried and flinging huge, misshapen shadows across the narrow whitewashed walls of the stairwell. She watched him shove open the chamber door and thrust the torch into a wall bracket, and had to tense every muscle in her body to stay where she was rather than bolt back down the stairs.
He had scarcely spoken to her or even looked at her since handing the lute back to the jongleur along with an easy smile and shake of his head that quietly refused the crowd's roar for more. We start early, he'd told Sergei, resting a light hand on the boy's shoulder. Don't linger too long over your supper. Then he'd pinned Attica with a frighteningly intense gaze and said, Come.
It never occurred to her to refuse. If he had somehow guessed the truth about who she was, Attica decided she
would far rather he confront her with it in the privacy of their chamber, rather than downstairs before a ragged assortment of half-drunken, unruly, and unpredictable men. Only now she wasn't so sure.
Pausing halfway across the room, he glanced back at her over his shoulder, his brows drawing together, his eyes lost in dark shadows. Splendor of God, must you always hold the door open?
She moved quickly, the latch catching with a snap as she leaned back against the heavy planks, her wary gaze following him as he crossed to the laver and reached to wash his hands. His dark, simple tunic had been made of fine cloth and cut to fit well, so that she could see plainly the intimidating bulge of evey toned muscle in his shoulders and back as he bent to splash his face.
Since she'd closed the door he had not looked at her again, and she felt the breath ease out of her in a long sigh. She told herself she must have imagined what she'd read in his face earlier, when their gazes met across the crowded common room below. No matter how hard she tried, she could think of nothing she had said or done in that moment that might have led him to guess the truth about her. She must have been mistaken.
In which case, she thought with a renewed upsurge of panic, she should not be arousing suspicion where none existed by standing with her arms splayed against the door, as mute and motionless as if she had been crucified against it.
For a knight who does not believe in love, she said, striving to keep her voice light and relaxed as she pushed away from the rough panels, you sing of it very beautifully.
He swung away from the laver, his wet skin gleaming in the torchlight, his eyes dark above the white of the length
of linen he used to dry his face. All troubadours sing of love, just as all priests prate about the mercy of God. He tossed the cloth aside. How many believe in it is another matter.
She looked up from setting her saddlebags on the bench beside the bed. Don't you believe in the mercy of God?
He unbuckled his sword belt as he walked toward her, and she tried not to tremble at the rattling scrape of the scabbard as it came to rest on the floor on the far side of the bed. He faced her across six or seven feet of plain coverlet. Do you?
The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable. She sat down on the bench and yanked at her boots, keeping her head bowed. Of course I believe in God's mercy.
So you embrace your vocation willingly, do you?
She paused, one boot still in her hand, conscious of a sense of edginess that had somehow crept into the conversation. She did not know how to answer him. In the course of this long and hideous day, she had uttered more falsehoods than she could remember, yet she could not bring herself to lay claim to a religious vocation she had not received. I should make a poor knight, she said, choosing her words carefully. And the life of scholarship does appeal to me.
Indeed? I had thought it perhaps an obligation laid upon you by your father.
Something stirred within Attica, something unacknowledged and unwanted and quickly suppressed. I should be proud to serve my father in any way he deemed necessary, she said, keeping her voice steady with effort.
De Jarnac grunted. And does Elise d'Alérion go to her fat bridegroom as willingly as Atticus goes to his cloister?
Attica swung her head to look at him. He had already removed his boots and mantle. As she watched, he tugged off his tunic and tossed it aside. He looked big and frightening and magnificently male, standing there in his shirt, hose, and braies. She felt a queer trembling start, someplace deep inside her, but she could not look away. My sister knows that women of her station do not marry for love, Attica said slowly. She has never expected nor wished for anything different.
He pulled off his shirt, baring his smooth, muscular chest to her fascinated gaze. I wonder if she'll still feel that way on her wedding night, when she finds herself spreading her naked legs beneath him.
The crudeness of his words conjured up shudderingly vivid images of the one aspect of her betrothal Attica rarely allowed herself to dwell on. Once, shortly after she'd been sent to Salers to prepare to become Fulk's bride, she had come upon him swimming in the river with a couple of his father's squires. She had gazed in a kind of sick despair at his white, sagging chest, his grossly distended stomach, his quivering buttocks. And for one hideous, disloyal moment, she had looked into her woman's heart and thought,
I cannot do this. I cannot.
She could imagine moving through her days at his side. She could imagine helping guide him as he grew and matured into a man. But she could not imagine laying herself down and taking his naked, rutting body into hers.
It is a woman's duty to bear her lord's heirs, Attica said, her throat so tight, she could scarcely push out the words. Her duty and her honor.
You d'Alérions take great pride in your devotion to duty and honor, do you? The words came out smooth as
silk, but his eyes had turned brittle. She could scarcely bear to look at him.
Her chin came up. Do you doubt it?
His lips curled away from his teeth. Is there a reason why I should?
The uneasiness she'd felt earlier came rushing back in full force, threatening to swamp her. For the length of one burning, endless moment, they stared at each other, Attica and this brutal, frightening man she had askedno, God save her,
bribed and begged
to accompany her. And now he knewwhat?
With an abruptness that caught her by surprise, he swung away to stand with one arm braced against the wall, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. I should like to retire some time before dawn, he said, his voice sounding suddenly tired. If you could see your way to finish your preparations?
Attica dropped her gaze to the boot she still held in her hand. She had considered suggesting she make up a pallet so that she might sleep on the floor, then dismissed the idea as impossible. If de Jarnac did indeed suspect her sex, such an action would only confirm his speculations. Yet what was the alternative? She could hardly strip off her clothes and crawl into bed naked, the way a lad would do.
Slowly, she unlaced her blue velvet surcoat and pulled it over her head. With trembling fingers, she reached beneath her wool tunic and linen shirt to fumble with the points that held up her chausses. The air felt cool against her bare legs as she pushed the hose down and she shivered. Still clad in tunic, shirt, and braies, she leapt for the bed and quickly pulled the linen sheets and coverlet up under her chin. Not daring to look at de Jarnac, she resolutely squeezed her eyes shut.
An ominous silence descended upon the room. She felt rather than saw him shift his position to stare down at her.
Do you normally go to bed in all your dirt, lordling? he asked, still in that smooth voice she did not trust. Or are you concerned, perhaps, that I might have designs on your virtue?
Attica's eyes flew open wide to discover him standing with one shoulder propped against the far bedpost, a hand resting on his lean hip in an intensely masculine pose she found intimidating. He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. Would it reassure you to know that I only ravish females?
She felt her heart crack up against her ribs with a resounding thump. I I was raised in a monastery. We She tried to swallow the tremble in her voice. We do not disrobe for bed.
He pushed away from the post to come around the great bed toward her. Indeed, he said, his voice lightly mocking, his eyes hard. And do they wear silk and velvet at your monastery?
She felt her muscles tighten up, ready to fight him off if she had to. But she realized he walked not toward her but to the flickering torch. He reached up to extinguish it, and the room suddenly plunged into darkness.
She listened to the rustle and crunch of the rushes beneath his feet as he crossed back to his own side of the bed. Her breath eased out of her in a long sigh, then caught again when she felt the straw mattress give beneath his weight and heard the creak of the leather supporting braces as he lay down beside her.
The room was suddenly so quiet, she imagined she could hear her own pounding heartbeat. Even the wind seemed to have died. She lay beside him in the darkness, afraid to
move, afraid even to breathe. Every sense seemed achingly alert, every nerve on end. She had never been so intensely aware of her own body, of her bare legs against the sheets and her swelling breasts, pressing painfully against their bindings.
She did not know how long she lay there, tense and waiting in the darkness, quiveringly aware of the man beside her. But gradually she began to realize that he was no threat to her. That she had done him an injustice by fearing him tonight, just as she had wronged him by lying to him today. True, he had been angry with her and suspicious of her but justifiably so. And she had never even apologized.
She cleared her throat. Monsieur le chevalier? she said softly.
She heard a whisper of movement, as if he turned his head to stare at her. Yes?
I am most heartily sorry for having deceived you.
She held her breath, listening, waiting for his response. After a long moment, he said, his voice unexpectedly tight, It's late, lordling. Save your confession for the morning and go to sleep.
His words had an ominous ring to them that worried her. Exhaustion pulled at her. She fought hard to stay awake, to force her sluggish mind to think. But the bed was soft and warm, her body sore, the night dark and quiet.
Oblivion rolled over her, and she slept.
Damion lay beside her in the darkness, his body tense, his mind alert and wakeful. He listened to her breathing drift into the unmistakable rhythms of sleep, and still he held himself rigid, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to adjust gradually to the dim glow of mingling starlight and moonlight that shone around the closed shutters. Waiting for her
to sink so deeply into sleep that he would not risk waking her.
Gently, he propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at the still figure beside him. Sensitive lips, too soft and feminine ever to belong to any boy, parted with the soft breath of sleep. He saw a high, smooth forehead, a thin, delicate nose, soft cheeks. A woman's face, belied by its strong cleft chin.
His exhalation stirred the hair beside her ear as he let his gaze drift lower, over the neck and shoulders of a woman. A woman built tall and slender like a boy. But a woman, nonetheless.
A woman.
Yet he hadn't seen it. Not when he'd ridden beside her through the long and danger-filled day. Not when he'd held his sword to her breast in an obviously unsuccessful attempt to intimidate the truth out of her. Not until tonight, when he'd turned, lute in hand, and found her watching him across the length of the common room.
One moment he had looked back at a boy, Atticus. Then something had shifted. Even now he could not say what had caused ita trick of the torchlight, some unconsciously feminine gesture that she'd made. He didn't know.
Perhaps it had been none of those things, only something in the way she looked at him, something in the way he had responded to her. But he had known, in one blinding flash of revelation, that he beheld not a lad destined for the church but a girl. A woman. Unbelievably brave and strong, but a woman nonetheless.
And in that moment it had all made sense. All the subtle inconsistencies, the nagging doubts that had bothered him throughout the day. Everything that had not quite fit, fell suddenly into place. And he had known an anger so intense,
so gut-deep and blood-boiling, it had taken his breath away.
Part of it, doubtless, was injured pride. She had deceived him. She had lied to him. She had used him. And he had let her do it. Yet he also felt betrayed on another, more personal level. For he had actually come to
like
that brave, sensitive, funny youth, Atticus. A youth who did not exist.
He was still angry, although his anger had cooled now to a kind of controlled, lethal purposefulness. Yet when he gazed down at her, lying asleep so close beside him in the still of the night, what he felt was desire. Unbidden and unwanted, but desire, nonetheless, swelling his body, heating his blood.
With a muttered curse, he pushed himself away from her and flung back the covers. Crossing the room with long, swift strides, he cracked open the shutters and windows and let the coolness of the night soothe his hot, naked body.
The wind had almost died. Their chamber overlooked the courtyard, so that he stared down on the dark shifting shadows of a chestnut tree and an expanse of cobbles that gleamed silent and deserted in the blue-gray light of night. A bell tolled in the distance, then another, calling the observant to matins and counting out the passage of the night for those too restless to sleep.
He swung his head to look back at the woman in his bed. She lay still and unmoving, lost in exhaustion. He wondered who she was. Elise d'Alérion? He supposed it could be possible, for she doubtless rode Elise's chestnut gelding. But when he tried to imagine a lady as gently reared and sheltered as the comte d'Alérion's daughter cutting her hair and dressing as a boy to ride bravely into the dangers this woman had faced, he knew it could not be.
And yet and yet she could not stop herself, for it was not so much a thought as a heartfelt yearning, a bittersweet ache that swelled her breast and made her want to reach out and stop this moment and make it last and last.
Without you
,
My sun dies
My prayer falters
My song ends.
than she knew herself. As if he saw her secret sorrow and despair, and called to it.
Give me yourself.
If not your body
,
Then your heart.
Make me your soul.
The song ended and the room erupted in cheering. And still he looked at her, his gaze sharpening with an unmistakable gleam of understanding, his jaw hardening with dangerous intent.
She stared into his dark, strong-boned face and felt a wave of panic that welled within her, stopping her breath and setting off a fine trembling from someplace deep inside her.
He knows
, she thought wildly, watching him hand the lute back to the drunken jongleur without dropping his probing, frightening gaze from her.
Mother Mary, help me, she prayed. He knows I am a woman. He knows.
CHAPTER
SIX
She could hear the tossing branches of the big old chestnut that sheltered one corner of the courtyard and the flapping of a loose shutter somewhere in the unseen night. A draft eddied up from below, flaring the torch he carried and flinging huge, misshapen shadows across the narrow whitewashed walls of the stairwell. She watched him shove open the chamber door and thrust the torch into a wall bracket, and had to tense every muscle in her body to stay where she was rather than bolt back down the stairs.
He had scarcely spoken to her or even looked at her since handing the lute back to the jongleur along with an easy smile and shake of his head that quietly refused the crowd's roar for more. We start early, he'd told Sergei, resting a light hand on the boy's shoulder. Don't linger too long over your supper. Then he'd pinned Attica with a frighteningly intense gaze and said, Come.
It never occurred to her to refuse. If he had somehow guessed the truth about who she was, Attica decided she
would far rather he confront her with it in the privacy of their chamber, rather than downstairs before a ragged assortment of half-drunken, unruly, and unpredictable men. Only now she wasn't so sure.
Pausing halfway across the room, he glanced back at her over his shoulder, his brows drawing together, his eyes lost in dark shadows. Splendor of God, must you always hold the door open?
She moved quickly, the latch catching with a snap as she leaned back against the heavy planks, her wary gaze following him as he crossed to the laver and reached to wash his hands. His dark, simple tunic had been made of fine cloth and cut to fit well, so that she could see plainly the intimidating bulge of evey toned muscle in his shoulders and back as he bent to splash his face.
Since she'd closed the door he had not looked at her again, and she felt the breath ease out of her in a long sigh. She told herself she must have imagined what she'd read in his face earlier, when their gazes met across the crowded common room below. No matter how hard she tried, she could think of nothing she had said or done in that moment that might have led him to guess the truth about her. She must have been mistaken.
In which case, she thought with a renewed upsurge of panic, she should not be arousing suspicion where none existed by standing with her arms splayed against the door, as mute and motionless as if she had been crucified against it.
For a knight who does not believe in love, she said, striving to keep her voice light and relaxed as she pushed away from the rough panels, you sing of it very beautifully.
He swung away from the laver, his wet skin gleaming in the torchlight, his eyes dark above the white of the length
of linen he used to dry his face. All troubadours sing of love, just as all priests prate about the mercy of God. He tossed the cloth aside. How many believe in it is another matter.
She looked up from setting her saddlebags on the bench beside the bed. Don't you believe in the mercy of God?
He unbuckled his sword belt as he walked toward her, and she tried not to tremble at the rattling scrape of the scabbard as it came to rest on the floor on the far side of the bed. He faced her across six or seven feet of plain coverlet. Do you?
The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable. She sat down on the bench and yanked at her boots, keeping her head bowed. Of course I believe in God's mercy.
So you embrace your vocation willingly, do you?
She paused, one boot still in her hand, conscious of a sense of edginess that had somehow crept into the conversation. She did not know how to answer him. In the course of this long and hideous day, she had uttered more falsehoods than she could remember, yet she could not bring herself to lay claim to a religious vocation she had not received. I should make a poor knight, she said, choosing her words carefully. And the life of scholarship does appeal to me.
Indeed? I had thought it perhaps an obligation laid upon you by your father.
Something stirred within Attica, something unacknowledged and unwanted and quickly suppressed. I should be proud to serve my father in any way he deemed necessary, she said, keeping her voice steady with effort.
De Jarnac grunted. And does Elise d'Alérion go to her fat bridegroom as willingly as Atticus goes to his cloister?
Attica swung her head to look at him. He had already removed his boots and mantle. As she watched, he tugged off his tunic and tossed it aside. He looked big and frightening and magnificently male, standing there in his shirt, hose, and braies. She felt a queer trembling start, someplace deep inside her, but she could not look away. My sister knows that women of her station do not marry for love, Attica said slowly. She has never expected nor wished for anything different.
He pulled off his shirt, baring his smooth, muscular chest to her fascinated gaze. I wonder if she'll still feel that way on her wedding night, when she finds herself spreading her naked legs beneath him.
The crudeness of his words conjured up shudderingly vivid images of the one aspect of her betrothal Attica rarely allowed herself to dwell on. Once, shortly after she'd been sent to Salers to prepare to become Fulk's bride, she had come upon him swimming in the river with a couple of his father's squires. She had gazed in a kind of sick despair at his white, sagging chest, his grossly distended stomach, his quivering buttocks. And for one hideous, disloyal moment, she had looked into her woman's heart and thought,
I cannot do this. I cannot.
She could imagine moving through her days at his side. She could imagine helping guide him as he grew and matured into a man. But she could not imagine laying herself down and taking his naked, rutting body into hers.
It is a woman's duty to bear her lord's heirs, Attica said, her throat so tight, she could scarcely push out the words. Her duty and her honor.
You d'Alérions take great pride in your devotion to duty and honor, do you? The words came out smooth as
silk, but his eyes had turned brittle. She could scarcely bear to look at him.
Her chin came up. Do you doubt it?
His lips curled away from his teeth. Is there a reason why I should?
The uneasiness she'd felt earlier came rushing back in full force, threatening to swamp her. For the length of one burning, endless moment, they stared at each other, Attica and this brutal, frightening man she had askedno, God save her,
bribed and begged
to accompany her. And now he knewwhat?
With an abruptness that caught her by surprise, he swung away to stand with one arm braced against the wall, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. I should like to retire some time before dawn, he said, his voice sounding suddenly tired. If you could see your way to finish your preparations?
Attica dropped her gaze to the boot she still held in her hand. She had considered suggesting she make up a pallet so that she might sleep on the floor, then dismissed the idea as impossible. If de Jarnac did indeed suspect her sex, such an action would only confirm his speculations. Yet what was the alternative? She could hardly strip off her clothes and crawl into bed naked, the way a lad would do.
Slowly, she unlaced her blue velvet surcoat and pulled it over her head. With trembling fingers, she reached beneath her wool tunic and linen shirt to fumble with the points that held up her chausses. The air felt cool against her bare legs as she pushed the hose down and she shivered. Still clad in tunic, shirt, and braies, she leapt for the bed and quickly pulled the linen sheets and coverlet up under her chin. Not daring to look at de Jarnac, she resolutely squeezed her eyes shut.
An ominous silence descended upon the room. She felt rather than saw him shift his position to stare down at her.
Do you normally go to bed in all your dirt, lordling? he asked, still in that smooth voice she did not trust. Or are you concerned, perhaps, that I might have designs on your virtue?
Attica's eyes flew open wide to discover him standing with one shoulder propped against the far bedpost, a hand resting on his lean hip in an intensely masculine pose she found intimidating. He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. Would it reassure you to know that I only ravish females?
She felt her heart crack up against her ribs with a resounding thump. I I was raised in a monastery. We She tried to swallow the tremble in her voice. We do not disrobe for bed.
He pushed away from the post to come around the great bed toward her. Indeed, he said, his voice lightly mocking, his eyes hard. And do they wear silk and velvet at your monastery?
She felt her muscles tighten up, ready to fight him off if she had to. But she realized he walked not toward her but to the flickering torch. He reached up to extinguish it, and the room suddenly plunged into darkness.
She listened to the rustle and crunch of the rushes beneath his feet as he crossed back to his own side of the bed. Her breath eased out of her in a long sigh, then caught again when she felt the straw mattress give beneath his weight and heard the creak of the leather supporting braces as he lay down beside her.
The room was suddenly so quiet, she imagined she could hear her own pounding heartbeat. Even the wind seemed to have died. She lay beside him in the darkness, afraid to
move, afraid even to breathe. Every sense seemed achingly alert, every nerve on end. She had never been so intensely aware of her own body, of her bare legs against the sheets and her swelling breasts, pressing painfully against their bindings.
She did not know how long she lay there, tense and waiting in the darkness, quiveringly aware of the man beside her. But gradually she began to realize that he was no threat to her. That she had done him an injustice by fearing him tonight, just as she had wronged him by lying to him today. True, he had been angry with her and suspicious of her but justifiably so. And she had never even apologized.
She cleared her throat. Monsieur le chevalier? she said softly.
She heard a whisper of movement, as if he turned his head to stare at her. Yes?
I am most heartily sorry for having deceived you.
She held her breath, listening, waiting for his response. After a long moment, he said, his voice unexpectedly tight, It's late, lordling. Save your confession for the morning and go to sleep.
His words had an ominous ring to them that worried her. Exhaustion pulled at her. She fought hard to stay awake, to force her sluggish mind to think. But the bed was soft and warm, her body sore, the night dark and quiet.
Oblivion rolled over her, and she slept.
Damion lay beside her in the darkness, his body tense, his mind alert and wakeful. He listened to her breathing drift into the unmistakable rhythms of sleep, and still he held himself rigid, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to adjust gradually to the dim glow of mingling starlight and moonlight that shone around the closed shutters. Waiting for her
to sink so deeply into sleep that he would not risk waking her.
Gently, he propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at the still figure beside him. Sensitive lips, too soft and feminine ever to belong to any boy, parted with the soft breath of sleep. He saw a high, smooth forehead, a thin, delicate nose, soft cheeks. A woman's face, belied by its strong cleft chin.
His exhalation stirred the hair beside her ear as he let his gaze drift lower, over the neck and shoulders of a woman. A woman built tall and slender like a boy. But a woman, nonetheless.
A woman.
Yet he hadn't seen it. Not when he'd ridden beside her through the long and danger-filled day. Not when he'd held his sword to her breast in an obviously unsuccessful attempt to intimidate the truth out of her. Not until tonight, when he'd turned, lute in hand, and found her watching him across the length of the common room.
One moment he had looked back at a boy, Atticus. Then something had shifted. Even now he could not say what had caused ita trick of the torchlight, some unconsciously feminine gesture that she'd made. He didn't know.
Perhaps it had been none of those things, only something in the way she looked at him, something in the way he had responded to her. But he had known, in one blinding flash of revelation, that he beheld not a lad destined for the church but a girl. A woman. Unbelievably brave and strong, but a woman nonetheless.
And in that moment it had all made sense. All the subtle inconsistencies, the nagging doubts that had bothered him throughout the day. Everything that had not quite fit, fell suddenly into place. And he had known an anger so intense,
so gut-deep and blood-boiling, it had taken his breath away.
Part of it, doubtless, was injured pride. She had deceived him. She had lied to him. She had used him. And he had let her do it. Yet he also felt betrayed on another, more personal level. For he had actually come to
like
that brave, sensitive, funny youth, Atticus. A youth who did not exist.
He was still angry, although his anger had cooled now to a kind of controlled, lethal purposefulness. Yet when he gazed down at her, lying asleep so close beside him in the still of the night, what he felt was desire. Unbidden and unwanted, but desire, nonetheless, swelling his body, heating his blood.
With a muttered curse, he pushed himself away from her and flung back the covers. Crossing the room with long, swift strides, he cracked open the shutters and windows and let the coolness of the night soothe his hot, naked body.
The wind had almost died. Their chamber overlooked the courtyard, so that he stared down on the dark shifting shadows of a chestnut tree and an expanse of cobbles that gleamed silent and deserted in the blue-gray light of night. A bell tolled in the distance, then another, calling the observant to matins and counting out the passage of the night for those too restless to sleep.
He swung his head to look back at the woman in his bed. She lay still and unmoving, lost in exhaustion. He wondered who she was. Elise d'Alérion? He supposed it could be possible, for she doubtless rode Elise's chestnut gelding. But when he tried to imagine a lady as gently reared and sheltered as the comte d'Alérion's daughter cutting her hair and dressing as a boy to ride bravely into the dangers this woman had faced, he knew it could not be.
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