Where Love Has Gone (30 page)

“Oh, how lovely.” Being careful not to show
any sign of discomfort, Elaine pushed herself up to sit with her
back against a solid wooden post. She accepted the bowl of broth
that Desmond handed to her. “My nose did not deceive me; greens and
herbs and new, little carrots.” She scooped up a spoonful of the
soup and tasted it. “This is wonderful. Are we to share the bowl,
or have you already eaten your portion?”

“We share,” Desmond said in the same clipped
tone he had used with her all day long. He pulled out his knife and
began to cut the cheese into small pieces. “Eat yours first. I’m
more interested in bread.” He tore a chunk from the bread on the
tray and popped it into his mouth.

“No, you are not,” Elaine said. “You would
prefer a roasted partridge and a meat pie. And an almond
custard.”

She was pleased to see her imaginary menu
bring a quick smile from him.

“Eat,” he said, indicating the bowl in her
hands. “Before it grows cold.”

Elaine finished what she judged to be a
little less than half the soup, then held out the bowl to him. Too
hungry to think of saving any food for the morrow, she devoured a
piece of the bread, a bit of cheese and half the apple slices, then
took a few sips of the milk before passing the mug to Desmond.

When only the empty bowl and spoon and the
mug remained in the basket, Desmond pushed it away and settled down
beside her, shoving some of the straw into a pillow. He looked
relaxed, but Elaine wasn’t fooled. He hadn’t removed his chainmail.
She knew if anyone came into the shed, he’d be on his feet, sword
in hand, ready to do battle.

“Do you think there’s any danger here?” she
asked.

“Probably not. I haven’t noticed anyone
following us today, so it’s possible our arrival at Regneville went
unnoticed by King Louis’s spies. Still, I have learned always to be
on my guard.”

“How could anyone know where we’d land?” she
asked. “We were so careful. You didn’t even tell Flamig about the
parchment I found, did you?”

“The thing is, everyone on Jersey knows how
Lady Benedicta died. People must be questioning the circumstances
behind her suicide, and asking why Lord Bertrand departed so
abruptly. The French king’s scheme is so important that Louis’s
spies dare not take any chances. Just the slightest suspicion that
we know anything about the plan will be reason enough for them to
attempt to kill us before we can reach Caen.”

“That thought is not conducive to easy rest.”
When he did not respond but only looked more serious, Elaine asked,
“Is this how you live? Suspicious of everyone, never really
trusting, always looking over your shoulder to see who lurks in the
shadows?”

“I am a spy,” he said quietly.

“So is Cadwallon, yet he isn’t constantly
alert against betrayal, the way you are.”

“Cadwallon has never been betrayed by a
friend. Yet.”

“And you have? What happened?” She reached to
brush a lock of hair off his forehead. He caught her wrist before
she could touch him and moved her hand away, then immediately
released her as if her flesh had stung his fingers. “Desmond,
please tell me who betrayed you. I want to know, to
understand.”

“Why?” His voice turned suddenly sharp and
his gaze became hard and cold.

She sat beside him in the straw with her back
straight and her legs curled under her, while he lounged apparently
at his ease, with one knee drawn up and an elbow resting on that
knee, yet Elaine knew he was on guard. Desmond was always on guard,
most especially against her.

“Was the friend a man or a woman?” she
asked.

“Now, there’s a typical woman’s question.”
His laugh was short and harsh. “If you must know, it was a man, a
Scottish agent who provided me with information over a period of
months. Some of the information was actually correct. He was a
clever bastard.”

“And?” She held her breath until he spoke
again, and when he did, the icy contempt in his voice made her
shiver.

“The Scots are continually betraying and
murdering each other. They make a game of it, so why should a
Scotsman hesitate to betray an Englishman? My so-called friend sold
me to another Scotsman, who then transported me across the Narrow
Sea to France, where I was sold again, to a French spy. I spent
almost a year in a French dungeon.”

“Captain Piers claims he saved your
life.”

“That’s not entirely true. On Royce’s orders,
my brother and a few other men rescued me and got me to the
Daisy
. For a handsome price, Captain Piers conveyed all of
us to safety in England. The lesson I took from the experience was,
never trust anyone.”

“That’s a terribly hard lesson.”

“Is it?” The gaze he turned on her was cold.
“You and your sister trusted Lord Bertrand and his wife, and look
what happened.”

“I have trusted you and Cadwallon since first
I met you, and neither of you has failed me.”

“No? Look around you, Elaine. Tonight you
will be sleeping with a cow.”

“I haven’t complained.” She touched his
shoulder, then hastily withdrew her hand when he flinched. “Are you
in pain?”

“Aye.” His eyes grew dark and he set his jaw.
“I can bear it.”

“Where does it hurt? Can I do anything at all
to help?”

“You could,” he said, “but the helping would
ruin you.”

“I don’t – oh.” She glanced downward. He
rolled over in the straw, turning his back to her, but not before
she saw the bulge that prodded at his chainmail. Her cheeks warmed
with sudden comprehension.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered. “We move on at
sunrise.”

“No.” She was reeling with fatigue, but she
couldn’t stand the tension any longer. “I won’t let you deny what’s
between us.”

“There is nothing between us,” he said over
his shoulder. “There never can be.”

“You kissed me,” she said. “You touched me.
You protected me from Lady Benedicta.”

“So would any man.”

“Which?” she asked, her lips twitching.
“Protect me? Or kiss and touch me?”

“Elaine!” He sounded exasperated.

She struggled to restrain the laughter that
threatened to burst forth. If she were not so tired she wouldn’t be
feeling the impulse to giggle; she’d think more sensibly and
wouldn’t be so apt to say aloud things an unwed noblewoman
shouldn’t even dream of. She lay down in the straw next to Desmond.
When he did not move, but continued to lie with his rigid back
firmly turned toward her, she draped an arm around his waist.

“Stop that,” he commanded.

“Beneath the chainmail, you are warm and the
night grows chilly.” She could scarcely believe her own boldness.
But she hadn’t been lying; the April air was rapidly cooling and
the dirt floor of the shed still retained all the damp cold of
winter. The cold seeped upward through the straw, through the wool
of her cloak and her gown, and sank into her bones. “I will be more
comfortable if you hold me close.”

“Are you truly so innocent?” In a sudden
movement he turned to face her. “Or are you trying to provoke
me?”

“I am trying to convince you that both of us
will be warmer and, thus, sleep more soundly, if we stay close to
each other.” She didn’t add that she longed to feel his arms around
her. If he kissed her, so much the better. No, she was not
completely innocent, but she was tired, and honestly cold, and more
than a little frightened to know the French king’s spies might be
pursuing them with the intention of killing them – and, likely, of
doing worse than murder to her before she was finally dead – and
she needed a bit of comfort.

So, when Desmond’s arms pulled her close, she
snuggled against his broad chest, rested her cheek on the metal
links of his armor, and began to relax. When his lips brushed
across her forehead and his big hand smoothed a few loose strands
of hair away from her face, she turned her cheek into his palm.

She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath and
felt the increased pressure of his embrace…

Desmond was so keenly aware of her every
heartbeat that he knew the instant when she fell asleep.

“My sweet lady, you are far too trusting,” he
murmured, safe in the knowledge that she couldn’t hear him. “You
have no idea what a rogue I am – or how badly I want you.”

Elaine slept on, warm and sheltered in his
arms, secure in her trust of him. Desmond did not sleep half so
well. Tormented by frustrated desire, he dozed and wakened again,
alert to every sound the cow made as it rustled about in its stall.
He heard the soft footsteps of a nocturnal animal prowling outside
the shed, until the creature moved on. Finally, toward dawn, a door
opened at the back of the little cottage.

Desmond was reasonably sure it was the old
woman he heard, muttering as she came toward the shed, most likely
to milk the cow. Even so, he wanted Elaine wide awake, just in case
danger came with the woman.

So he told himself, and to waken Elaine he
seized the quietest, quickest, and most desirable course of action.
Ah yes, most desirable to him, he admitted with scalding
honesty.

He kissed her, long and slow and deeply,
sensing sleep deserting her, tasting her response, his flesh
burning where her hand clutched his tunic just over his heart.
Elaine, freshly roused from sleep, was so delicious that he needed
all his strength of will to tear himself away from her.

But he did leave her. By the time the shed
door was opened wide and the old woman entered carrying a milk
pail, Desmond was on the opposite side of the shed from Elaine,
stretching as if he had only just wakened, though the sword he had
removed before lying down in the straw was close at hand.

The old woman gave them a round loaf of bread
still warm from the oven. When she finished milking the cow, she
refilled the pottery mug with the fresh milk.

“We took feed for our horses and you have fed
us most generously,” Desmond told her, handing over several coins.
“Do what you wish with these; give them to the priest if you want.
We leave you with our thanks.”

The sun was just rising when they set out
again.

“You do realize,” Elaine said as soon as they
were beyond the cluster of houses, “that she will tell everyone in
the village how we spent the night in the shed. If anyone is
following us and asks about us…” She left the thought
unfinished.

“I know,” Desmond responded, “but she could
have refused us a place to sleep and let us fend for ourselves
under a hedge. If she had done so, she’d still talk to any man
asking questions about us. Thanks to her kindness, we enjoyed a
quiet night and our bellies are full. Those blessings are well
worth the few coins I paid her.”

He set a faster pace that morning, no longer
protecting the horses. Elaine assumed it was because they’d change
their mounts in St. Lo. Or, perhaps, he hoped to outdistance any
pursuers. Her initial stiffness quickly disappeared and as the day
warmed, her spirits rose. Surely, all would be well. They would
reach Caen in another three days at most, and once they had given
their warning, Royce would see to it that King Henry was safe. She
refused to think any further than that. She’d deal later with the
need to explain Aglise’s death to her mother.

The fortress at the heart of St. Lo sat atop
a rocky prominence that reared up above the surrounding
countryside. Desmond did not pause to gape at the high, threatening
ramparts as Elaine was doing, but galloped right up to the main
gate. There he was halted by two men-at-arms with pikes crossed.
Drawing forth the letter he carried, with the king’s seal in red
wax above Royce’s signature and smaller seal, he unfolded it and
showed it to the guards.

“In the name of the king,” Desmond declared
in a forceful tone, “we must speak with your commander. Our
business is urgent.”

One of the guards came forward to squint at
the letter as if he could read it. Elaine noticed how Desmond never
let go of the document. After a moment the guard called to someone
inside the gatehouse. The fellow who stepped forward, by his youth
and lack of a sword, was apparently a squire.

“You’ll find Sir Edmund in the great hall,”
the guard said to Desmond. “Pierre, here, will escort you to
him.”

The great hall of the fortress proved to be
poorly lit and, from the little Elaine could see, it was neither
clean nor comfortable. The rushes on the floor smelled foul, dogs
roamed about, scavenging what scraps they could from discarded
bones and, most disturbing of all to Elaine, a dozen or so tough
looking men-at-arms loitered on the benches, watching her and
Desmond with hard eyes.

“My lord,” the squire announced to the man
who sat at the high table, “here is a strange knight who’s come to
speak with you, and a lady, too.”

“Sir Edmund,” Desmond said, bowing his head
only slightly, “I carry authorization from both King Henry and Lord
Royce.”

The commander of St. Lo was a large,
red-faced man with dark eyes and greying hair, who very slowly read
the letter Desmond offered, and who moved his lips as he perused
it. This time Desmond did release the parchment, though he kept his
hand extended to retrieve it as soon as Sir Edmund was finished
with it.

“This says only that you are to have whatever
cooperation is necessary.” Sir Edmund fixed a challenging stare on
Desmond. “It doesn’t say
why
I am to cooperate.”

“Do you know Lord Royce?” Desmond asked with
cool arrogance. Reaching across the table, he took back the letter,
refolded it, and tucked it into his belt pouch.

“We’ve met.” Sir Edmund didn’t seem impressed
by the mention of King Henry’s formidable spymaster.

“I am on the king’s business, at Lord Royce’s
behest,” Desmond said.

“And the lady?” Sir Edmund subjected Elaine
to a penetrating inspection.