A KNIGHT IN TARNISHED ARMOR Page 2

  And that was why she was here. Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, youngest granddaughter of the earl of Arden, intended to buy herself a warrior.

  Until she actually faced this mercenary knight whose determined jaw and keen eyes showed a ruthless intelligence she'd never before seen in any man.

  Perhaps now that she saw him, she thought quickly, she would not buy this particular warrior. And certainly not tonight.

  Suddenly gutless, she turned. Run! She took a quick step.

  He was quicker. His arm whipped out in front of her. She caught a flash of something silver and froze. His battle sword blocked her path.

  She turned around slowly, then took a small step backward and stopped, feeling the wide steel blade of his sword pressed flatly against her lower back. The air left her lungs.

  Not even a breath could be heard, though her heart's pounding grew louder in her ears. There must have been at least fifty men in the tavern, but at that very moment the room was utterly silent. Nothing . . . until the random snap of a green log in the fireplace crackled through air as tense as dawn on a battlefield.

  Linnet watched de Ros. He paused, assurance to everyone in the room that he was in command. He laid the sword on the table as if to say, "You may run now."

  She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. His expression showed he knew exactly what she was thinking. She said the first stupid thing that came to her tongue, "I've heard you can be bought."

  He said nothing, but raised his tankard of ale and drank deeply.

  She swallowed thickly. "I meant your sword could be bought."

  He stared at her, directly, assessing her, unnervingly so.

  "I meant I need to buy protection," she blurted out and winced slightly because her voice cracked.

  He gave her the oddest look.

  She took another breath, her mind desperate and racing. He was a man. She'd give his pride a stroke, which usually worked with her grandfather. "I wish to buy your powerful sword."

  He set the tankard on the table and let his gaze rove slowly from her face to her toes, where he paused, took another drink of ale as if time were his alone, then just as slowly he looked upward, stopping with interest every so often. He paused and looked away, staring at his tankard as he said almost too casually, "I see no coin."

  Her knees were quivering and air felt tight in her chest. What in God's name was she doing here? She took a deep breath and pulled a sack of gold from inside her cloak, wishing it were prayer beads, and held it up.

  She smiled. He didn't. She raised her chin a notch. With a dramatic flair she tossed the gold toward the table.

  The bag hit the tabletop just as she'd planned. Then she watched in horror as the bag kept going, and slid right off the edge.

  It landed squarely in his lap.

  Her mouth dropped open and for a horrified instant she just stared at it. With a mental groan, she closed her eyes. A heartbeat later she opened them.

  He was staring pointedly at the bag. When he looked up, there was a flicker of amusement on his face.

  There was sudden male laughter in the room. Someone behind her shouted. "Now we know what sword the lady wishes to buy, de Ros!"

  "Not merely a sword, but his powerful sword!" another voice shouted.

  Her face flushed hot and she fervently wished the earth would just open up and swallow her. She spun around and took a step to leave, her humiliation complete.

  But again he was quicker.

  His hand shot out and grasped a handful of her cloak.

  She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She tried to pull free.

  Slowly he drew her back toward him. She grabbed at the ties under her chin and jerked them loose. Her cloak fell away.

  Run! Run!

  But there was no place to run.

  There was nothing before her but a wall of grinning male faces and huge bodies. She shoved at the crowd, her tears of humiliation changed into tears of fear and they fell as quickly as her heart pounded.

  She could sense the mercenary standing behind her before his shadow blocked the spill of weak candlelight from the swinging lantern above her. His hands closed over her shoulders and he spun her around. She tried to wiggle free. But even in a blood rush of fear her strength was puny compared to his. She took a deep, quivering breath and looked up at him through a mist of frightened tears. She expected to see savagery in his expression, to see cruelty from a man so greatly feared.

  But cruelty was not what she saw. She saw some odd emotion. Just as quickly that emotion disappeared and he looked away, although his hands still gripped her so tightly she couldn't move.

  He turned to the crowd then pulled her flush against him with one powerful arm clamped across her collarbone.

  She cried still harder, silent tears that wouldn't let her catch a full breath.

  "Leave off!" His shout filled the room and the jeers and laughter died suddenly. With his free hand he tossed her bag of gold at the barkeep. "Keep the ale flowing all night, till every man has drunk his fill."

  A cheer erupted as loud as a battle cry and the men shifted and charged to the tavern bar. She tried to swallow but was struck with fear.

  His mouth moved near her ear. "I won't harm you, my lady," he whispered. "Calm yourself." He turned around and released her, but didn't move away, his body providing a shield.

  Linnet bit her lip and stared at the toes of her boots. He bent down and retrieved her fallen cloak. He did not give it to her, but instead laid it over one arm. She waited, still frightened, still crying.

  Can you not look at me?"

  She shook her head, knowing what she'd see if she looked up at him.

  "I said I would not harm you," he added quietly.

  "Perhaps you won't harm me. But neither will you help me."

  He reached out and tilted her chin up with a scarred knuckle. "I've just spent your gold on a few hogsheads of ale." He shrugged and added, "So I seems, my lady, that you've already bought your protection."

  She watched him uneasily.

  "Come." He held his hand out for her. It was a hard hand, calloused from the grip of a sword handle and crossed with thin and ragged white scars. "We will speak in private."

  Suspicious, she watched his expression again and saw an unexpected gentleness. There was something more, something that told her he carried a bit of his own concern. With a sudden realization she knew he was concerned that she would not willingly go with him.

  As she digested that, he covered his vulnerability quickly with the same cold and hard look he'd first given her. And she stood there looking at this barbaric warrior who had only moments before frightened the very breath from her.

  She was struck by something familiar about his manner. She watched him a moment longer before she understood what it was. De Ros was like a wounded animal that attacks in fear, strikes out and fights viciously when cornered because he is acutely aware that he can be so easily conquered.

  In that one instant, she understood him and her fear waned away. She placed her hand in his and slowly raised her head to look him in the eyes.

  His face was unreadable as he led her through the crowd toward the opposite side of the tavern. She was aware of little but the feel of his hand about hers. He held her hand with a gentle firmness. She could feel the hard calluses of his palm against hers and she could feel his warmth. Somehow that, too, made him seem more human.

  He stopped in front of a thick oaken door near the rear of the tavern. She hesitated for a heartbeat. He looked back at her before he gave a short bark of wry laughter as he opened the door. "I assure you, my lady, this is not the door to hell."

  She looked into his face and read the challenge there. She took a deep breath and a step. "I know your words are meant to amuse, sir, but," she raised her chin as she passed him, "there is some element of truth in every jest."

  He said nothing as he followed her inside, but hung her cloak on a peg and gestured for her to sit in one of the large chairs that flanked another
smaller fireplace. She sat and arranged her skirts in the silence, then looked around the room, trying to choose her words more carefully than she had earlier.

  He sank into the other chair and watched her through narrowed eyes, his jaw tense, his hands stiffer than before.

  "I am Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, and I need safe conduct to the convent at Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Tomorrow."

  "Why tomorrow?" He wasn't looking at her. But instead, he sat rubbing a finger over his lips and staring at the opposite wall.

  "Tomorrow my grandfather will leave for a week. ‘Twill be the only chance I shall have to leave."

  "The convent is near the north borders."

  "Yes."

  "The journey will take at least six days "

  She stared at her folded hands. "I know."

  He was silent for what seemed like a very long time, then he leaned back in the chair and pinned her with a hard stare. "Why?"

  She looked at him then and said, "Why? Because I asked."

  He frowned. "Asked what?"

  "How long the journey was."

  He eyed her for the longest time, strangely, as if she had two heads. He looked away and cleared his throat. When he looked back he seemed to be chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "I'll try this again. Why, my lady, do you wish to go to the convent?"

  "Because I'm being forced to wed," she paused, then sighed and hung her head miserably, "to the horrid Baron Warbrooke."

  He said nothing.

  She looked up and added, "He kills women."

  Silence.

  "With his bare hands. His hairy hands."

  Still he said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

  She gripped the arms of the chair and leaned closer "He has cloven feet. Can you imagine?"

  "Not quite," he answered through a tight jaw.

  "I imagine ‘twould be like being wed to the devil himself."

  He stood up and slowly walked over to the fireplace, where he leaned against its stone face, rested a boot on the andiron, and looked at her without emotion.

  "He's killed so very many men."

  "Men are killed in war," he said without emotion.

  "Thousands of men." She looked him directly in the eye and whispered painfully, "He'll murder my animals."

  He no longer stood casually, as if her words didn't matter to him. He stared into the fire. Everything about de Ros exuded anger—his tight jaw, the tick in his angled cheek, his narrowed eyes, and the fist he made with his sword hand. Even he, a mercenary knight paid to wage war, was shocked by Warbrooke's reputation, she thought.

  After a moment he said, "I suppose he breathes fire and eats babies too."

  "You've heard of him," she said knowingly.

  He took a long, deep breath and watched her intensely.

  She leaned forward a bit more, hoping he would agree. "I must get away and quickly. Surely you can understand why."

  "Now I understand a wealth of things."

  "Then you will help me?"

  His expression was hard and he seemed to be trying to control some strong emotion.

  "I gave you all the gold I had."

  "Six days," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

  She stood and walked over to where he was. "'Tis not terribly long."

  He gave a wry laugh and looked at her, his expression softer. "No. ‘Tis not very long at all."

  "I have nothing else to give you."

  He grumbled something.

  She smiled then, for she saw his answer without his speaking a word. By the time he murmured, "Aye,” she had placed her hand on his chest, where legend claimed he had no heart. Yet there, beneath her palm, was a soft beat. The mercenary did have a heart.

  William de Ros sat slumped in a chair and drank deeply from a tankard of strong beer. She had been gone from the tavern for a few minutes, long enough for him to watch her leave, then roar at the barkeep to bring four more tankards—three for himself and one for the older man who was just stepping through a door hidden in the wooden panel of the wall. William stared into his ale, then finally pinned the old man with a hard look. "It's done."

  The earl of Arden didn't blink. He just calmly sat in the other chair. "So I heard."

  "Is your granddaughter always so easily manipulated?"

  The old earl laughed loud and long. "Hardly. It has taken me years to figure out how she thinks." He paused before he added something about it still being a game of hit or miss.

  The two men sat in awkward silence.

  Arden sat up and said, "Our agreement still stands, Warbrooke. You have one week to woo her."

  William de Ros, the new Baron Warbrooke, returned the man's meaningful stare. "One week to convince her I'm not the ogre she thinks? One week to court her? I suppose I will manage to find the time . . . before I go out to murder more women and roast children."

  The old earl said nothing, but he didn't look chagrined either. He rested his elbows on his knees. His gaze was fixed on his hands clasped between his legs. After a moment he admitted quietly, "I had thought to keep Linnet at Ardenwood with me. She is . . . unique, and a very special part of my life. I had never thought of marriage for her. Her sisters are all wed, and wed well. I needn't barter her for another powerful man with forces and the means to aid me. I've plenty of blood bonds."

  William eyed the old man. "But then I spotted her and used my influence with the king to my advantage."

  The earl looked at him with accusation in his aged eyes. "He gave you your title."

  William shrugged. "As I recall your own title was bestowed in the same manner. Only by his father."

  "As were those of over half the realm."

  "I foiled your plans to keep her to yourself."

  "I cherish my granddaughter, Warbrooke." The earl of Arden pinned him with a hard stare that matched his own. "Aye, I had thought to keep her safe and with me."

  "I will not cause her any harm. I will keep her safe, and she will want for nothing. I gave you my word when we met in London."

  Arden's eyes grew icier. "And I told you my terms."

  "Does she know of my offers?"

  "She does not."

  "Who told her such drivel about me?"

  The earl shrugged. "Servants talk.""Prompted by their lords with the right tales to tell?"

  The old man said nothing."What were you trying to do? Weight the scale in your favor? Rather like a merchant who adds chalk to the salt, Arden."

  The earl returned his direct look. "If you don't care for the terms, find yourself another woman to wed."

  "I want Linnet."

  "You have one week to convince her you aren't what she thinks."

  "You filled her head with this nonsense."

  "‘Twas your idea that she not know who you are."

  "I had thought to talk to her first, to ease the way before she heard of my offer of marriage. I'm not the monster you painted me."

  "Your reasons for dealing with Linnet are your own, Warbrooke. I have my reasons too. I'll not force her to wed anyone. Not even a royal favorite. I gave her mother my word I would never do so. I will not break an oath to my dead daughter."

  William eyed the older man, a knight who was still tall and lean but weathered by too many fights over too many years. And as angry as William was, he also couldn't blame Arden.

  Until that moment, he had not heard of the old man's vow. It could be debated in Arden's favor that a blood oath to one's dying daughter superseded even a forced agreement. Royal or not.

  William knew well that this was a time when men sold their brothers for power or for wealth. Yet here before him was a regal old knight who wouldn't betray his daughter or her memory.

  And he couldn't fault the man for wanting to keep Linnet with him. Wasn't that exactly why he was wedding her himself? This strange need to have her in his life?

  "At the end of that week she will wed you willingly, or she will not wed you at all."

  Willia
m stood, his breadth almost twice that of the earl's, and he looked down at him. "She will wed me. ‘Tis not a battle I intend to lose."

  The earl regarded him for a time before he stood so they were almost eye to eye. "Perhaps. But my granddaughter has a special gift for getting one to agree with her ideas before one realizes they've been hoodwinked."

  William handed the old earl the extra tankard, then raised his own. "I believe, Arden, that standing before me is the person from whom she inherited that trait."

  Chapter Three

  There was only half a moon out the following night, when William stood near the eastern side of the outer walls of Ardenwood Castle. Yet there was enough moonlight for him to see once he had entered the inner bailey. He moved swiftly and silently, uncertain if the guards had been warned by Arden.

  She had insisted he meet her by the chapel. He counted buildings and found the second story arched window she had described.

  He whistled once. Nothing. He waited. Still nothing. Women. He whistled again. Nothing. He counted to ten. To fifty. By the time—the long time—he'd reached one hundred he was not pleased. He looked around.

  The bailey was quiet. Surely Arden would not be so foolish as to attack the king's man. He drew his dagger and flattened against the rough stones of the chapel wall. Slowly, silently, he eased along the stone wall. His instincts had never before failed him. He could always feel it when something was afoot. He sensed that nothing was amiss. Yet . . .

  He rounded the corner.

  A second later a screech rent the air.

  William froze.

  Like a demon from hell, a small shadow flew out of the darkness. Right at him. He raised his dagger and spun around. Sharp knife tip pricks dug into the back of his neck. The claws of some kind of crude weapon. He dropped to a squat, lashing out with his dagger. With his other arm he reached around and grabbed his attacker by the fur.

  Fur? He held a handful of squirming and screeching fur. Cat fur.

  "Yeooow!" The cat bit him.

  "God's teeth!" he spat, holding the animal by the scruff of its neck, ready to fling the cat to Kingdom Come if the cursed thing bit him again.