Part 14 (2/2)
It might have been an hour, a week, or a month later when Servanne wakened from her pa.s.sion-induced drowse. The air was markedly cooler where they lay twined together on the moss, although there was more than enough heat emanating from the Wolf's body to maintain hers at a rosy flush. The edge of the pool was a few inches from where her fingers rested limply on the moss, but the slight disturbance caused by uncurling them and dipping them into the water produced a distinct change in the tempo of the heart beating beneath her ear.
Servanne sighed and raised her head with an effort. He was awake, but not much longer before her, judging by the heaviness around his eyes.
”The hour must be dreadfully late,” she said, warming self-consciously when she saw how intimately their bodies were positioned, one cradled atop the other in contrasting lengths of palest white and weathered bronze.
”You were sleeping like a kitten. I had not the heart to waken you.”
The Black Wolf of Lincoln-admitting to a heart?
Servanne smiled at the thought and looked around her in the gloom. Their clothes would undoubtedly be damp and wrinkled beyond any possible logical explanation. Biddy would know-the whole camp would know where they had been and what they had been doing for most of the afternoon. Her hair would take hours to dry and tame into a semblance of order. Her knees, back, and b.u.t.tocks felt chafted raw from the sand, and she was certain, in any but the dimmest light, the whiteness of her skin would be marred by visually explicit bruises.
The gray eyes were observing her every change of expression and it was not too difficult to interpret her thoughts. An unexpected surge of protectiveness gripped him and he had to keep his hands flat by his sides to stop them from reaching out and gathering her back into his embrace.
He had not wanted this to happen, had not intended this to happen and for the very reasons that sickened and appalled him as he saw her trying very hard to s.h.i.+eld her thoughts and emotions. The Dragon would see her guilt as if it were a beacon on a stormy night. Arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d that he was, it might not occur to him that she had allowed herself to be despoiled willingly. Hopefully his rage would remain focused where it should: on the man who had kidnapped and ravished his bride. But if the Dragon suspected for a moment there had been no force, no rape involved in Servanne de Briscourt's submission, or if she betrayed by the slightest word or gesture that she preferred the touch of one man over the other ...
Cursing inwardly, he turned away and started rummaging beneath the mist for his discarded clothing. He was shrugging his heavy shoulders into the green linsey-woolsey s.h.i.+rt when the touch of her hand on his scarred flesh stopped him again. It was only the tips of her fingers that gently traced the hideously misshapen weals, but it could have been a red-hot iron searing his flesh for the same impact it left on his body.
”These must have caused you a great deal of pain for a very long time,” she whispered.
”Wounds of betrayal hurt far more than any wounds of the flesh,” he said flatly and pulled the s.h.i.+rt down to cover the scars.
Servanne sat motionless a moment longer, chastened by his sudden anger, yet ignorant of the cause. She began sorting through the tumbled ruin of her own clothes, each small movement emphasizing the empty ache inside her. Even her hair, brus.h.i.+ng over her bare skin, produced s.h.i.+vers that would never again foster innocent thoughts.
Had he been left unaffected by the pa.s.sions they had unleashed together? Could a man do all that he had done to her, share all they had shared, and not be changed, altered in some way? She did not expect declarations of undying love and devotion but neither did she expect to have her clothes tossed casually across the moss as if, for him, it had been but a pleasant afternoon's diversion.
”Might I ask another question without fear of having my head snapped off?”
”Ask it,” he said sharply. ”And we shall see.”
”This black-hearted knight you would foist me upon to ease your conscience ... does he know who you are and why you are here?”
”La Seyne?” Something akin to a smile glimmered in the dark eyes. ”He knows.”
”Does he also know of this other ... danger danger, to which you referred?”
”He knows more than he would care to have as a burden.”
”You said you could not provide proof of who you are until you are inside the castle. Is La Seyne here to back your claim when and if it becomes necessary?”
The Wolf looked at her with a grudging respect. A claim made against one of Prince John's allies was useless and suicidal without the support of equally formidable and influential witnesses. La Seyne Sur Mer was the dowager queen's champion; a knight regarded as being above reproach, who would be no easy man to fool or slough off with half-truths.
”You had best not show yourself to be too clever around the Dragon,” he warned softly. ”He does not take kindly to minxes with sharp noses and sly tongues.”
”Another similarity with his brother. I confess I am becoming more intrigued by the moment to meet and compare qualities myself.”
The Wolf was leaning over to retrieve his deerskin leggings when the unexpected sarcasm of her words halted him. With their faces only inches apart, and the light from the mouth of the cavern at its most generous angle, Servanne again thought she saw something flicker in the guarded depths of his eyes. If she did, it was quickly hidden and her humour as effectively quashed.
”As I told you before, there are some things we do quite differently. If you doubt me, ask any one of his scores of former mistresses ... or his current one: Nicolaa de la Haye.”
Hurt and confused by his unwarranted bitterness, Servanne stared down at the crumpled folds of velvet she held in her lap and wondered why it seemed to be his prime task to perplex and confound her to the verge of tears. Resolutely, she gathered her courage to ask one more important question of him, but when she looked up, her emotions as exposed as an open wound, he was not even paying her any heed. Something had drawn all of his attention to the wall of ivy, and that something was causing him to turn as still as stone.
”What-?”
His hand lashed out to cover her mouth and stifle the question against her lips. Another moment pa.s.sed before she heard it too: the squeak of leather, the faint c.h.i.n.k of metal on metal, the snap and rustle of carefully bent saplings.
There was someone in the woods nearby. Someone moving with the deadly stealth of a hunter closing in on a wolf's lair.
14.
The Wolf's first thought was for the sentry up on the promontory; he should have seen the intruders in plenty of time to have pa.s.sed an alarm to the abbey. His second thought exploded inwardly on a curse, for he had waved the sentry away when he had carried Servanne past the Silent Pool. In an even more shocking breach of his own rules, he realized he had left his bow in the courtyard, along with his sword. He had his falchion and a dull eating knife-neither of which would do much good unless he could creep unseen to within a few feet of an enemy.
Pressing a finger to his lips, he cautioned Servanne needlessly to silence and crossed to the mouth of the cavern. He was just a shadow hunched against the mist, but she saw him sink into a low crouch and melt back against the stone as a particularly loud crunch of twigs occurred within a pace or two of where the entrance lay hidden behind the ivy.
Servanne held her breath. She suffered a fleeting glimpse of men-at-arms and knights locked in mortal combat with the Wolf's men, screaming, charging through the woods, their swords gleaming red and wet. And in the midst of it all, she would be running and screaming as well, but to which camp? To whose arms?
Servanne screamed the answer just as the Wolf sprang forward and crashed through the gap in the ivy. There were m.u.f.fled sounds of grunts and sc.r.a.ping feet, the paunchy thud thud of a well-met fist ... then silence. of a well-met fist ... then silence.
She rose up onto her knees, her gown clutched over her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her heart in her throat, her eyes stinging with fear. Another ripe scream was bubbling up from her toes just as she recognized the Wolf's broad shoulders dragging something or someone back into the gloom of the cavern.
”Sparrow! G.o.ddammit!” he shouted.
Servanne's gasp relieved the pressure building in her lungs the same instant the Wolf's hand lifted away from the elf's mouth, releasing a string of shrilled oaths and invectives. They were choked back sharply as the Wolf thrust him hard against the wall and held him by the scruff of the neck, leaving the stubby arms and legs to flail the empty air in panic.
”Sparrow, by Christ, I warned you-!”
”We have all been out searching this past half hour for you, my lord,” Sparrow squeaked. ”The Dragon's men ... they are in the woods. They are heading this way!”
The Wolf's hand flexed open and the little man dropped into an abrupt heap on the moss.
”'tis true, my lord,” he gasped, rubbing his throat for circulation. ”The Dragon's men ... two hours away, no more. With armour on their backs and blood in their eyes. They must know we are here-a loose tongue, or a careless footstep.”
”Two sets of careless footsteps, I warrant,” the Wolf snarled. ”How many men are there?” sets of careless footsteps, I warrant,” the Wolf snarled. ”How many men are there?”
”H-he had two score with him in camp, plus the sheriff's men, p-plus those left from the cavalcade. Not all would have come, but enough to send Sigurd hurrying back with the alarm.”
”It was to be expected. We could not have remained here much longer without someone stumbling over us. Are we ready for them?”
Sparrow nodded hard enough to set his curls bouncing. ”The men are all dispatched and await your orders. You were the only one we could not find. You and ... and ...”
The round cherub eyes blinked wider as he caught sight of a nervous movement through the clouds of rising steam. He blinked again and swallowed whatever he might have been tempted to say, in favour of ignoring the plenitude of naked limbs and awkward tempers.
”Well, then,” he said instead. ”I have found you both.”
”And nearly won a blade in your gullet for the effort,” said the Wolf, stalking back to the far side of the pool to s.n.a.t.c.h up the rest of his clothes. A glare in Servanne's direction was sufficient to unlock her fingers from the folds of velvet and hurry them in pulling the rumpled gown over her head. The fabric was damp and chilled her skin, but she scarcely felt it for the more foreboding chill in the air.
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