Twilight Magic (6 page)
Still, he didn’t like being banished or allowing de Salis’s murderer to remain free.
Not that he minded Edward de Salis no longer lived. The man had been evil, a purveyor of death and destruction, a boil in need of lancing, and deserved death for the atrocities he’d committed. For the people burned out of their villages, for those who’d died by sword or starvation, Darian would have ensured the villainy halted if someone hadn’t slit de Salis’s throat first.
However, being accused of murder in so public a fashion for something he didn’t do gnawed at his innards. Knowing he could do nothing about it for the nonce didn’t sit well, either, and the need for a diversion turned his head to look back at the cart.
The ox plodded through the mud at a steady if agonizingly slow pace. Emma sat beside the driver on the hard plank seat, huddled in her hooded cloak.
Smart woman to have thought of tossing on her cloak. Witless woman for involving herself in his affairs. Had she not come forward and lied outrageously, she wouldn’t now be out in this miserable weather but enjoying the queen’s warm, dry solar.
Oh, he’d heard her explanation for meddling, but still couldn’t fathom why a woman of her rank would take the side of a commoner. All because she’d believed in his innocence? He wouldn’t have been the first innocent man to be convicted and hanged. Why a noblewoman would care if justice was served was beyond him.
Discovering her reasoning might not matter so much if her audacity hadn’t led to their marriage.
Marriage! Lord have mercy—marriage to a woman who required two trunks to haul around her possessions. Hardly the ideal wife for a mercenary who traveled without encumbrances.
Like many of his fellow mercenaries, Darian preferred his lone existence, wanting responsibility for no one but himself. All too well he knew the grief of losing loved ones. Resolved to never again suffer such overwhelming pain, he’d foresworn becoming entangled with any woman, wanting no family. No ties.
The mist turned to rain and his stomach grumbled.
Time for a rest.
Darian watched for a wide spot in the road with enough space for the cart to pull to the side and not get stuck. As luck would have it, his cloak was soaked clear through before he found such a place.
He’d no more than dismounted when Emma rushed past him, headed for the cover of the trees . . . and beyond. Guessing at the reason for her haste, he gave her privacy, wondering why she hadn’t told him of her discomfort earlier.
“Nasty day,” the carter said, pulling what looked like bread from a crate under his seat.
“Could be better.” Darian fetched similar victuals from the satchel strapped behind his saddle. “Have you drink?”
The carter smiled and held out his hand. After a few moments he sipped from his palm. “Rain is good for somethin’ leastwise.”
Amused, Darian shook his head and pulled out a wine-skin, preferring heftier drink.
A rustle of leaves and snapping twigs announced Emma’s return. She glanced at both him and the carter, then made her way to a log sheltered by a huge oak and sat down.
“Not hungry?”
She shrugged, loosening droplets to slither down her cloak. “Not particularly.”
But the look she gave his bread told him differently. The thought occurred to him that she wasn’t eating because she hadn’t brought any food along and was too proud to ask for a morsel of his.
Of course, he hadn’t remembered to bring food, either. William had sent the stable boy to the kitchens. Still, it seemed to Darian a woman would prepare better.
“Did you bring nothing along?”
“You did not give me much time to prepare.”
“So you chose to bring all your fripperies instead of food.”
Her eyes narrowed in indignation. “I will neither faint away nor starve. Tonight will be soon enough for me, at whatever inn you choose to spend the night.”
Her expectations were rather high. She assumed they would halt for the night in a town large enough to sport an inn. If the weather worsened and the roads became streams, they might not be so fortunate.
And she had been rushed.
And the king had extracted his vow to take care of her. So he would while Lady Emma was still his wife. Which wouldn’t be for long, he hoped.
He fetched another chunk of coarse bread and handed it to her. “Best you have something now. Supper could be a long way off.”
At first he thought she might refuse, but she took the bread and nibbled on it.
He watched her eat, admiring her straight, white teeth behind her lush lips. Her tongue darted to the corner of her sensually curved mouth to recover a stray crumb.
In danger of becoming overly intrigued by her quick, pink tongue, Darian sat beside her on the log, careful to sit only close enough to permit a quiet exchange.
“We agree this marriage is a farce. How do we obtain an annulment?”
She stared at him as if coming to a decision before finally answering, “I believe we must present our case to a bishop, but which one might be best, I do not know. Nor am I sure of what reasons we could use. Unfortunately, if we petition for an annulment, the king and Bishop Henry are sure to learn of it. Neither will be pleased and may try to hinder our efforts.”
She had a point. They couldn’t act too soon. But the time would come when they’d be free of one another and he could return to the life he preferred. But what of Emma?
A solution of what to do with Emma suddenly hit him, making him wonder why he didn’t think of it sooner.
“Perhaps you should go home and wait there until all is settled.”
“To Camelen?” After a pause she shook her head. “That was my father’s home, and now belongs to my sister’s husband. ’Tis not truly my home anymore. Besides, I should rather be closer to London. I have yet to petition the king to release my youngest sister from Bledloe Abbey.” She shook her head harder. “Nay, I cannot go far. Kent is far enough.”
Which meant he was saddled with her for the foreseeable future. He thought to ask why her sister needed release from a nunnery, but decided it wasn’t any of his affair.
Too bad he couldn’t send her home, though. Not that her company would be overly hard to bear. Emma was easy on the eyes. She didn’t complain or make insistent demands—or hadn’t as yet. She impressed him as a woman who took what fate tossed her way and then dealt with it in a quick, effective manner.
She was also easy to talk to, not an unpleasant companion with whom to share exile. An exile that would last too long, no matter if it were but for a few days. Except he shouldn’t have to suffer her company at all. Shouldn’t be noticing any of the lady’s finer qualities.
’Twas Emma’s fault he’d been exiled when he need to be in London. The longer he was away, the longer a murderer went free.
He rose. “The cart driver appears ready to continue. Let us hope the weather does not worsen.”
Despite the protection and warmth of a beaver cloak, Emma was both chilled and wet by the time they reached the Curly Goose. She was hungry, too. Stupid not to have thought about bringing provisions for the road.
But then, she really hadn’t had time to visit the palace kitchen to beg for bread and cheese, worried that Darian might leave without her if she didn’t hurry. Upon arriving outside of the stables, hard on the heels of the footmen carrying her trunks, she’d looked for signs of his impatience and, to her amazement, found none.
Oh, he’d been upset. What man wouldn’t be after all that had occurred? The murder accusation. Gaining a wife he didn’t want. Being exiled to Kent. Except for a couple of unkind remarks, he’d not proven himself intolerant.
So things could be worse. Much worse.
As she sat by the fire in the inn’s common room, a bowl of thick stew in her lap and a mug of hearty ale on the plank floor at her feet, she recalled the few moments when events could have taken a cruel turn.
She hadn’t realized they must ford a river, and she’d almost panicked the moment she realized they were about to cross water. A
lot
of water.
She’d thanked heaven and all of its inhabitants for sending the rain, not heavy enough to make the fording dangerous but enough to create ripples on the surface. Still, she’d taken no chances, pulling the cloak’s hood tighter to cover her closed eyes, preventing any possibility of being lulled into fixation.
She was drawn to water. To look at a puddle or pond too long and become enthralled brought on the visions that caused her pain, both physically and emotionally.
She’d learned as a child to close her eyes when doing something so ordinary as bathing or dipping her hands in a washbasin. Those effective actions prevented the visions and spared her the pain.
The last thing she needed on this journey was to struggle with an oncoming vision and suffer the resulting headache.
“More ale, milady?”
Emma smiled at the fair-haired, apron-wrapped inn-keeper, who held a pitcher. Since their arrival he had done everything he could to make her comfortable. He’d recognized her nobility immediately, even before she’d removed her cloak to reveal her finely made bliaut. He’d even given up his private bedchamber for her use, the inn lacking private rooms to let.
“I thank you, but no more. I compliment you on both your brew and victuals.”
He beamed and bowed before he turned to Darian, who sat nearby, cross-legged on the floor, his stew gone, staring into the flames. The wavering light caressed his face, flickered over his features, played along his rugged jawline, and deepened the shadows around his eyes.
She’d thought him lost in thought until noticing his brief, barely discernable reactions to noise. The man knew immediately whenever anyone came into or left the room, knew precisely where everyone was located. To all, he might seem preoccupied and vulnerable. He was neither.
“What about you? Want more?”
The change in the innkeeper’s demeanor was immediate and telling. He’d assumed her noble and that Darian was merely her escort. Nearly true, but she wondered how Darian felt about being relegated to the upstairs room lined with pallets, not offered any special accommodation.
Darian raised his mug for the innkeeper to fill, not saying a word, not even of thanks. Not until the innkeeper returned to his place behind the plank counter did Darian speak.
“ ’Ware how you smile at the man or he may forget he gave up his bed and pay you a visit.”
Emma bit back a retort that
some
man should share her bed tonight. This was her wedding night, after all.
Her appetite suddenly vanished. Sadness washed through her and nearly brought forth tears. Sweet mercy, she’d been married this morn and nothing about the day was worthy of celebration.
She put her bowl on the floor and picked up her ale. “You should finish that,” he said of the stew. “You will need your strength. Tomorrow will be a long day, no matter the weather.”
Most likely. Except she was no longer hungry, and when she finished eating, Darian would expect her to retire and she would rather not. Her gown was finally drying, and the warmth of the hearth felt good.
If she went to bed now, she would only reflect on what a wedding day should be like. Feasting. Dancing. Well-wishers. A marriage bed.
Her vision of Darian wouldn’t come to pass tonight. He was in far too surly a mood for a glorious smile, and she was far too irritated with him to attempt to coax him into a less churlish state of mind.
“How far do we go tomorrow?”
“All the way to Hadone, which should take most of the day at ox pace. Weary of traveling already?”
She bristled at his tone. He seemed to believe her weak and fastidious when she’d made a resolute effort to be neither.
“I shall manage. I merely wish to know so I can prepare.” A continuance of this conversation would raise her ire. A change of subject was in order. “Have you any insight into who de Salis’s murderer might be?”
He finally looked up at her, revealing anger and frustration. “Not as yet. What irks me is that the murderer might be someone I trusted. If one of the mercenaries has turned against me, I did not see signs of betrayal. I will solve the puzzle, however, and when I do, that person is going to feel the noose he tried to put around
my
neck.”
Emma almost shuddered at his vehement certainty, glad she wasn’t the current target of Darian’s wrath.
She remembered Julia’s warning that Darian could be dangerous. At the moment he certainly seemed capable of taking another man’s life. He was a mercenary, after all, a soldier whose business was war.
But she’d known many soldiers in her lifetime, including her father and brother. Both had been capable of taking other men’s lives, but both had also been honorable, at times kindhearted men.
Was Darian capable of compassion?
Sweet mercy, she’d meddled at court because she’d once envisioned him wearing little more than a glorious smile, and her original dilemma returned to haunt her.
Had she been wrong to interfere? They’d done naught but snap and snarl at each other since meeting. Right now, she couldn’t imagine him softening enough toward her to become her lover.
By acting on no more than her vision, she might be guilty of changing his life’s path for the worse—a betrayal of sorts.
At the moment Darian of Bruges didn’t strike her as a forgiving man.
T
hey’d headed out at first light, and because the day was fine and the road dry and not crowded, Darian spotted Hadone at twilight.
He marveled at the progress made since his last visit, nigh on two months ago. The masons had finished much of the thick outer wall built of Kentish ragstone. Only a portion of eastern wall of pike-tipped timber remained of the old palisade.
The work progressed ahead of William’s expectations. Even now, during the supper hour, the sharp ring of chisel and hammer against stone echoed over the countryside.
Darian doubted the masons worked so diligently out of pride or duty, but because Gar drove them hard. The steward of Hadone wasn’t above taking harsh measures when his needs weren’t met or wishes unfulfilled.
Much like his overlord, William of Ypres.
