The Wife Test (5 page)

“And the man they took prisoner?” the lord demanded.

“Has not yet come to his senses. They have posted no sentries.”

“So they do not yet know …” The nobleman scowled and paced away, then back, rubbing his hands together, thinking. “There is still time to prevent the little tarts from reaching the coast and boarding a boat bound for London.” He turned a fierce look on the captain of his guards. “If you cannot steal them away, then you must at least render them unfit for matrimony. Do you understand what I am saying, Valoir?”

“Oui, seigneur.”
The knight Valoir’s face twisted into a smirk. “I understand.”

The lord took a deep breath and looked to the east, scanning the moonlit ridge of the horizon, calculating their best odds of success.

“Dawn would be the best time to catch them unawares.”

Their camp that evening was a modest victory, as victories go, but a significant one in Chloe’s eyes. She had gone toe-to-toe with the arrogant knight and, in the end, gotten what she wanted. It meant that even if she could not control what happened to them, she could at least influence it. More important, it put a seal on her leadership for the other maids, who had been badly shaken by the attack. Their first experiences in the world outside the cloister wails were proving to be somewhat harrowing.

“I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t see or hear anything before they grabbed me,” Helen said as they huddled together inside the makeshift tent.

“Nor did I.” Alaina pushed up her sleeve and inspected her wrist with blooming indignation. “I think the wretches may have
bruised
me.”

“I’ll never go in the woods again,” Margarete said fervently, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the trees. “No matter how badly I have to
go.”

“It does no good to dwell on it,” Chloe said, putting her arm around Margarete and reaching over to squeeze Helen’s hand. “There are guards ringing the wagons … we’re safe now. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Oui,
something else, please,” Lisette said, glancing at the slice of golden firelight coming through the tent opening. “Did you see how he fought? Our knight protector.” She gave a low whistle.
“Mon Dieu,
what a swordsman!”

“Lisette, your language,” Chloe said, unconsciously mimicking Sister Archibald and achieving the same dismal result: Lisette’s smile contained not a trace of repentance.

“Then let us talk of his long, muscular legs and broad shoulders.” There was a giggle of response. “And his hands … such big, powerful ones …”

“He is so very strong,” Helen put in with an admiring roll of her eyes. “Did you see how easily he lifted Chloe?”

“And so awfully tall,” Margarete put in, not quite catching the spirit of the others’ comments. “It hurts my neck to have to look up at him.”

“It is not his size or power that draws
my
eye,” Alaina pronounced her judgment. “Have you not noticed the way he moves? Long, sure strides … as if with each step he measures the world for conquest.”

“And those eyes.” Lisette’s gaze drifted to some internal vision. “So dark and searing. They glow like hot coals at the center. I swear—”

“Don’t swear,” Chloe said by reflex, even as she was plunged by Lisette’s words into a steamy swirl of memory.

“Sometimes I can feel his gaze all the way through my habit and gown … reaching inside my skin.” Lisette shivered eloquently, and the others giggled.

Searing eyes. Long, powerful legs. Big body. Once again Chloe felt the plank-hard frame of the unyielding Sir Hugh beneath her. She had found herself lying facedown across his lap, and when she pushed up on her arms and looked around, her gaze had sunk straight into his.

Rich, russet-and-sable eyes shaded by thick lashes filled her vision. They did seem to burn like glowing coals. Her attention gravitated inexplicably down his face to his straight, slightly arched nose and then to his broad, boldly curved lips … sleek, like fine velvet. Looking at them made her own lips feel strangely naked and sensitive. His square jaw and corded neck were sun-bronzed, and she noticed that his damp hair curled slightly as it escaped the bottom edge of his helmet … soft hair, like fine-spun silk that sent a tickle of curiosity through her fingers.

That meeting of eyes had lasted only a moment, but it was long enough to awaken every one of her senses. And its effects lingered strangely; even now her heart was beating faster.

“Chloe?” Margarete said, rousing her from those unsettling thoughts.

“Yes? What?”

“Are you well? You look flushed.”

“Fine … I-I feel fine.” She straightened and touched her hot cheek and blushed even hotter. “But it is warm in here. I think I’ll get some air.”

As she ducked out, she heard Alaina say something but didn’t catch it.

“Tell Sir Hugh we must have some straw to make pallets. I simply cannot sleep on bare ground.”

Inserting her hands in her sleeves, Chloe paused for a moment to take in the cool air and survey the camp. Across the central fire, she spotted Sir Hugh and Sir Graham leaning over the injured bandit. Thinking she might be of some help in tending the man’s wounds, she hurried over. But as she approached, she realized they weren’t treating him, they were threatening him.

“How did you know?” Sir Hugh was demanding. “Who told you about them?” He grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and gave him a shake that elicited only a moan. “Tell me and we’ll bind your wounds and carry you to the nearest town. Keep silent and we’ll leave you to bleed and die where you lay.”

The possibility of them abandoning the injured man horrified Chloe.

“What are you doing?” she called, hurrying toward them.

“This is none of your concern.” Sir Hugh intercepted her, blocking the way to the prisoner. “Go back to your tent.”

“I have some training in the healing arts. I can treat the man’s wounds and see them properly bound.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he gritted out. But her narrowed eyes and raised chin must have convinced him that she would not be easily dissuaded. He seized her by the elbow and dragged her out of the man’s hearing. “He knew.”

“What?”

“He said they were supposed to steal
the maids.
They knew you weren’t nuns. I need to know how they learned that and where they were supposed to take you … who is behind this attempt at abduction.”

“How could he possibly—”

“Now, go back to your tent and keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.”

“How can you say this doesn’t concern me?” She wrested her arm free. “In fact, I should be the one to question him.” She started back to the prisoner, but he caught her and hauled her back to him.

“She may be right.” Sir Graham’s reasoned words intruded, and they both looked up to find him staring at them, his gaze focused on Sir Hugh’s grip on her shoulders. “Sometimes a gentler touch is more effective.”

Sir Hugh jerked his hands from her, and with an air of vindication she hurried over to the prisoner. Peeling back the brigand’s tattered shirt, she probed gingerly through the damaged mail overlaying the wound.

“I’ll need some clean water and cloths.” She looked up at Sir Graham. “And I will need my small chest from the cart.”

The injured prisoner watched her through slitted eyes that closed altogether when a wave of pain crested over him. She asked his name as she removed his ripped shirt and unbuckled the mail underneath. As the pain subsided, he whispered, “Jean.”

“I am sorry if this hurts you, Jean, but the wound must be cleaned or it will fester.” She set about using the cloths and water, then retrieved a packet of dried herbs from her chest and poured some over the wound before binding it tightly. Then she gave the fellow some watered wine and washed his forehead.

“Sir Hugh says you thought the Sisters and I were maidens,” she said gently. “Why would you think such a thing, Jean? Did you not see our habits?”

“He said … it was … disguise,” Jean rasped out.

“Who said so?”

“Le capitaine.”

“You have a captain? You’re a soldier?” she asked. “In whose service?”

The fellow closed his eyes and in the middle of shaking his head lost consciousness. She expelled a deep sigh and looked up to find Sir Hugh staring darkly at her.

“That was certainly helpful,” he said irritably.

“It was at least Christian,” she rejoined. “And I learned he’s a soldier and sent by someone to abduct us.”

“Which we already knew.” When she showed surprise, he gestured to the discarded mail. “They wore armor beneath their rags, used well-made weapons, fought like seasoned soldiers, and at the end were ordered to ‘fall back.’ ”

“This is absurd.” She pushed to her feet, frowning, and rolled her sleeves down. “Why would anyone wish to abduct us?” She glanced at the heavily loaded wagons. “Surely they would rather steal our dower goods.”

“One would think so,” Hugh said tartly. “Any half-wit would prefer something more useful or at least more merchantable. Which raises the question of how they learned you were maids in disguise. Who knew of our plans?”

“All of the Sisters knew we would wear habits. Several donated old garments. But who would they tell? They never see anyone from the outside wor—” She reconsidered that. “Well, there
are
several girls who come from the village each day to help in the kitchens. And the farmers who deliver grain and poultry and vegetables. The needy come to beg food at the kitchen door … oh, and tenants come to see the abbess for permission to cut a tree or build a new cottage, or to seek Sister Bernice’s healing herbs, or to ask the priest to christen a babe or bless a field for plant—”

“So, in point of fact, the whole bloody shire probably knew!” He seemed to choke momentarily with frustration, then forced himself to calm. “Wonderful. Excellent. Now that the
how
of it is no longer a mystery, we can move on to the
why.”
He gave her a scorching look that started with her feet and worked upward to her reddening face. “Why in the internal blazes would anyone want to steal the likes of you?”

She jerked back with a half-stifled gasp, then whirled and strode back to the tent, missing Sir Graham’s comment.

“Do you have even the faintest notion of how big a jackass you are?”

Chloe paused outside their makeshift quarters, her heart pounding and her bruised face throbbing. She forced herself to breathe deeply for a moment. As her inner turmoil subsided, she heard the others inside talking and dreaded the prospect of facing them just now. Shoving her hands up her sleeves, she began to walk the encampment. The men’s stares and occasional nods in her direction reminded her of Sir Hugh’s edict of silence, and she found herself looking toward the woods. A bit of silence might be exactly what she needed just now. She wouldn’t go far, just into the first few trees.

Old Mattias spotted and stopped her. When she said she needed to visit the bushes, he insisted on escorting her.

“No, no, you mustn’t trouble yourself. I won’t go far. Just into the trees.”

The old warrior stood scowling after her uneasily.

The waxing moon provided enough light for navigation, and she relished the soft “shushing” sound made by the tall grass as she waded through it. When she reached the trees, the moon shadows enveloped her in a soothing darkness, and her tense shoulders and knotted stomach began to relax. Twice she paused and looked back toward camp to make certain she could still see the glow from the fires. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness and her hearing was piqued to greater sensitivity. She located a fallen log, tested it for soundness, then sat down to have a stern word with herself.

Why should it bother her so that Sir Hugh found her so … What? Troublesome? Annoying? Intolerable?

Her face flushed as the memory of his glare and disdainful words washed over her again. She wasn’t imagining it; his reaction was every bit as personal as it was official. What if her future husband reacted to her the same way? What if there were some grave deficit in her character or physical appearance?

Admittedly, she wasn’t as fair as the lovely Alaina, or as graceful and dignified as Helen. Few women were. And she hadn’t the sultry magic of a Lisette or the sweet, unworldly delicacy of a Margarete. But, truth be told, he seemed to hold them in a measure of contempt as well. Perhaps what she felt as a special hostility toward her was only directed at her because she was the one who spoke up and demanded proper treatment.

An image of the abbess confronting the officious Father Phillipe rose in her mind, and as the abbess’s spine straightened, so did Chloe’s. There were ways of dealing with critical, arrogant, overbearing males, she reminded herself. And, anyway, it would only be for a few more days, until they reached London. That was where the real test of her leadership would—

A branch cracked in the distance: a loud popping sound that spoke of a sizable limb subjected to substantial force. She came to attention, listening, searching the deep shadows for some clue to its location. Several moments passed before she heard a second snap … quieter this time, but closer. She shot to her feet, gathered up the hem of her straw-stuffed habit, and began to move.

Calculating that the sound came from her right, she traveled to her left to avoid whatever caused it. But as she made her way along, she heard the intruder—some
one
not some
thing,
she hoped—changing course and cutting between her and the camp. She moved faster, slapping away twigs and branches that clutched at her garments and held her back. Her only hope of reaching that circle of safety was to be quick and quiet.

But as she fled toward safety, it seemed every step in the rustling undergrowth betrayed her position. When she glanced over her shoulder to look for her pursuer, her foot struck a rock and turned. She stumbled, grabbed her twisted ankle, and hopped up and down, biting her lip to keep silent. As the first rush of pain subsided, she made herself go on, but was reminded by each step that every movement in the darkness was a potential plunge into disaster.