A Knight to Remember Page 12

  Nay. He must wait.

  The sound of the footsteps changed. The men had stepped inside. Hugh sucked in a slow breath, forced his body to stay still, to remain anonymous, when he wanted to turn, face the bastards, and lunge at them.

  Wait. Just a little longer.

  Fortitudo. Fidelitas. Fortuna.

  “Good day,” Roundston said. “I remember ye from last week.”

  “Ye said ye’d look at what we ’ave.”

  Hugh’s lip curled. He recognized that voice. It belonged to the thug with the facial scar. Karr, Aislinn had called him. Hugh fought an agonizing memory of Philippa crying and screaming, her arms outstretched to him, while the bastard held her fast. The rage inside Hugh boiled to a lethal fury.

  Karr would pay for what he’d done. Soon.

  “Show me what is in yer bag, then,” Roundston said.

  Hugh counted the thugs’ footsteps as they walked to the wooden counter less than five paces behind him. Items clanked and clattered as they landed on the counter’s surface.

  “’Tis fine quality, all of it.”

  Hugh smiled. That was the voice of black-haired Byrne.

  “So I see,” Roundston said. “A man’s cloak, of fine quality. A leather belt. And shoes made for a young lady—”

  Hugh’s patience snapped. He swung around to see Byrne and Karr watching Roundston while he inspected the items before him. His clothes, Hugh noted, satisfaction burning in his gut. His belt. Philippa’s shoes.

  Yanking back his hood, he strode to the counter. Byrne saw him first. His mouth dropped open in astonishment.

  “Those items are stolen,” Hugh said between his teeth. “They belong to me.”

  Karr choked and took a wary step back. “You were dead.”

  “Not quite.”

  Karr whirled around, but the doorway was now blocked by two armed lawmen. The thug drew his knife and lunged for the nearest opponent. Hugh grabbed an earthenware platter, ran up behind Karr, and brought the platter crashing down on the man’s head. Chunks of crockery rained onto the floor, while Karr froze, stunned. The lawmen rushed at him, threw him to the dirt floor, and pinned him down. The knife skidded away under a small wooden table.

  Hugh pivoted, searching for Byrne. His eyes huge, Roundston pointed to the open window. The thug’s dusty boots were just visible, as he hauled himself over the wooden display board and fell to the ground outside.

  Hugh snatched up the bow and quiver and raced out the door, shedding the cumbersome cloak as he ran. Three lawmen were in pursuit of Byrne, but the thug had the lead. He ran toward an alley leading off the market square.

  Damnation.

  Eyes narrowing, Hugh halted, raised the bow, and nocked an arrow. The running lawmen blocked his line of fire.

  Hellfire!

  Hugh searched for higher ground. A wagon filled with wooden crates stood a short distance away, near a stall. He leapt into the wagon and balanced atop a pile of crates. He nocked the arrow again. Sighted. Fired.

  The arrow flew straight and true. It shot past the running lawmen and plowed into Byrne’s left buttock. Screaming, hands flailing, Byrne fell to the ground at the mouth of the alley. His agonized screams continued as the lawmen wrestled him into submission.

  “Well done, milord,” Gilly called.

  Hugh glanced down. The older woman and Philippa were hurrying toward the wagon. Philippa was in the lead and pulling the puffing, red-faced older woman through the crowd of onlookers who’d paused in their shopping to watch what was happening. Behind them was a man-at-arms.

  Hugh jumped down from the wagon to meet them.

  “Milord,” Gilly gasped. “Aislinn—”

  “What about Aislinn? Is she not with you?”

  “Nay. She sent…Philippa back with…a man-at-arms to the stall—”

  “Halfway, I knew I could not leave Lady Locksmeade on her own,” Philippa said. “I went back to her. ’Tis when I saw…”

  “Go on,” Hugh urged.

  “A man was with her. A lord. He had a knife. He made her walk”—Philippa pointed, her hand trembling—“into that alley.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Aislinn hurried along, barely able to keep up with Nolan’s brisk strides. Black flies swirled around them, and the alley was slick underfoot. The air reeked of the mounds of rotting vegetables, manure, and other decaying matter she didn’t dare contemplate.

  “Please,” she cried. “Please stop.”

  Nolan’s jaw tightened, but his pace didn’t slow. The dagger still bit into her right side. Damp silk stuck to her ribs, telling her the knife had drawn blood.

  “At least tell me where we are going,” she pleaded.

  “To my horse, tethered in the quiet street beyond.”

  “And then?” Aislinn asked.

  “We will ride to the parish church near my keep.”

  “Why—?”

  “The priest has benefited from my generous donations. He will marry us without too many questions.”

  “Marry us?” Aislinn dug in her heels. Her shoes slid through a grimy puddle, and brackish wetness splashed up her calves. Her heels, though, found a grip on rocks jutting up from the dirt.

  Nolan lurched to a halt. She didn’t dare wrest her gaze from him as he glared down at her.

  “I will not marry you,” she said, dragging in a breath.

  “You will. Now, walk, or—”

  A man’s screams came from the mouth of the alley, along with shouts. Cursing, Nolan shoved her forward, into a moldering mound of cabbages. She slipped, almost fell on her knees, but he hauled her onward.

  Ahead, another man, sitting on a pile of broken planks, stood to greet them.

  “Help me,” Aislinn called to him. “I beg you.”

  The man looked uneasy. He glanced from her to Nolan and then back again.

  “He will not rescue you,” Nolan said. To the man, he muttered, “Where are the others?”

  “They have not returned yet.”

  “I am not waiting for them.”

  The man’s gaze clouded with anger and sadness, but he said naught. Then, his attention shifted to the section of alley that she and Nolan had just traveled.

  She heard the footfalls, too. Thank God! Someone was approaching at a run. Two people, if she heard correctly.

  His lips drawing back from his teeth in a snarl, Nolan pushed her forward. The man fell in beside his lordship. The footsteps were gaining, and despite the pinch of the knife, Aislinn fought Nolan’s ruthless hold, dragging her feet to slow their pace.

  “Riverwell!” Hugh shouted. “Stop where you are.”

  Oh, Hugh! Aislinn’s heart soared with joy and relief.

  Hissing a breath, Nolan halted and then spun her around with him. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, for Hugh stood a short distance away. How bold he looked, legs braced, bow raised, an arrow poised to fly. Behind him stood one of her men-at-arms.

  “I have stopped,” Nolan taunted. “Now, you will listen to me.”

  “Will I?” Hugh scowled. “Surrender, or I will shoot you clean through the eye socket.”

  “You would do that and risk harming Aislinn? I think not. She is coming with me. If you delay us, I will stab her with my knife.” He loosened his hand from the leather-wrapped handle so Hugh and the others could plainly see the weapon.

  Hugh’s gaze narrowed on the knife. Yet, he didn’t relax his stance or lower his bow. “You are not taking Aislinn. She is mine.”

  Always, she silently whispered. Forever.

  “You are not going to wed her,” Nolan spat. “You are not going to swoop in and snatch my bride from my grasp as you did the last time.”

  “As you well know, my late wife was chosen for me by the crown.”

  “Aye, because you, the Crusader hero, got your way.”

  “Nay,” Hugh growled back. “The crown saw fit to arrange the marriage. Do not distort the truth.”

  Nolan laughed, a bitter sound.

  “You find o
ur discussion amusing?” Hugh sneered. “I do not. Not when I see Shaw, my man-at-arms, at your side. You bribed him to betray me in the forest.”

  Shaw bowed his head. “Forgive me, milord.” His words were heavy with guilt.

  “Why should I forgive you?” Hugh growled.

  “H-he forced me to betray you. My sister works at his keep, along with her young daughter.”

  “Silence,” Nolan snapped.

  “He said…h-he would hurt my sister if I did not do what he asked. T-then he would take my sweet niece—”

  The knife left Aislinn’s ribs. She glanced at Nolan to see him slam the blade into Shaw’s chest. “Oh, God,” she cried, pressing her hand over her mouth.

  Blood oozed from Shaw’s wound. He shrieked, clutched at his chest, and fell sideways into the wall. He slid down the stone, a pained moan bubbling from his lips.

  Aislinn trembled, bile burning the back of her throat. The dying man’s agony was heart-wrenching—and proof that Nolan was desperate enough to commit murder.

  Did he mean to kill Hugh this day? Finish what he’d intended to happen in the forest?

  She couldn’t let him. Not when she loved Hugh so intensely she couldn’t imagine her life without him.

  Over Shaw’s gurgled, dying breath, she caught the whistle of an arrow. With a thunk, it embedded in a wooden post behind her, making her jump.

  “That was a warning, Riverwell.” Hugh was closer now than before. “Drop the knife. Surrender.”

  “I will not,” Nolan sneered. The knife jabbed Aislinn’s side again. “Yield, Brigonne. You have naught against me.”

  “Nay? To start, you just murdered a man in front of witnesses. Your other two lackeys have been arrested. Once they confess, there will be more than enough proof of your treachery.”

  Nolan scowled.

  Triumph glinted in Hugh’s eyes. “Moreover, that dagger you hold? It belonged to my father. He gave it to me. It has a letter B engraved on the grip. ’Twas taken from me in the forest.”

  * * *

  Resolve burned in Hugh’s gut. Riverwell had lost this fight—and he knew it.

  The older lord’s expression changed from smugness to desperation, and Hugh tightened his hold on the bow. He’d been right to order Gilly and Philippa to stay behind with the sheriff. In the past few moments, the danger had increased tenfold.

  If Aislinn came to harm, he’d never forgive himself. Never.

  How he longed to fire his arrow. To curtail the imminent danger.

  Fortitudo. Fidelitas. Fortuna.

  With an angry snarl, Riverwell yanked Aislinn backward, doubtless intending to head for the end of the alley. Her feet slipped in wet muck, and she cried out, pitched sideways—giving Hugh the opportunity he’d wanted.

  He loosed his arrow. It hissed through the air and embedded in Riverwell’s right shoulder.

  His lordship screamed.

  Aislinn gasped and glanced back. Blood streamed down the front of Riverwell’s tunic.

  His grip on her loosened.

  “Run, Aislinn!” Hugh yelled.

  She scrambled forward, slipping in the grime. Finding her footing, sobbing, she raced toward the man-at-arms. Safe.

  Riverwell staggered toward the end of the alley, while trying to pull the arrow shaft from his flesh. Hugh shoved his bow into the man-at-arms’ hands and launched himself at the fleeing lord. Slamming his fist into Riverwell’s head, Hugh shouted, “For Philippa.”

  Wavering on his feet, the older lord raised his knife and slashed at Hugh.

  Hugh dodged the blow. Drawing his arm back, he struck again, his fist plowing into Riverwell’s jaw, hard enough that the older lord’s teeth cracked together. His lordship fell to his knees, blood on his lips. “That was for Aislinn,” Hugh growled.

  Riverwell raised the dagger again, his shaking hand aiming for Hugh’s belly. With a brutal kick, Hugh knocked the knife out of reach. Grabbing his lordship by the hair, Hugh raised his fist again.

  “Hold,” said the sheriff, coming up behind him.

  “Why?” Hugh bellowed. “He deserves—”

  “He does,” the sheriff said. “However, I want him hale enough to answer my questions.” While he spoke, another lawman and the man-at-arms rushed past Hugh and hauled Riverwell to his feet. Pinning his arms behind his back, they held him firm. Sweat dripped from the older lord’s face, and he wavered unsteadily.

  Hugh’s breaths hissed between his teeth. The desire to make the conniving bastard pay for all he’d done sang in Hugh’s blood like a war chant. Yet, there was no honor in attacking an opponent who had no means to defend himself. Instead, Hugh reached down and picked up his knife.

  He sensed Aislinn’s approach before she slid her arm around his waist.

  “’Tis over.” She smiled weakly and kissed him on the cheek.

  “So ’tis.” Glancing down at her side, he asked, “How badly are you hurt? Shall I take you to see Larina?”

  “I will be all right,” Aislinn said softly.

  “Are you certain?” Worry twisted his gut. She looked well enough, but she might be more seriously hurt than she realized. He could not lose her now. He would check her wound for himself, right here in the alley, but she was wearing so many damned clothes.

  “The wound is not deep,” she said, staring into his eyes. “I promise.”

  His gaze fell to her luscious mouth. He wanted to haul her into his arms, to kiss her until she moaned, to promise her—

  Footfalls intruded. Gilly and Philippa were approaching.

  Clucking her tongue, the older woman tipped her gray head to Shaw. “That poor man. He was the carpenter who visited Pendersley.”

  “Not a carpenter at all.” Hugh’s gaze bored into Riverwell. “You sent him to Aislinn’s keep to kill me. Aye?”

  Riverwell’s lips twisted in a snarl, but he said naught.

  The sheriff handed the other lawman a length of cord from his belt to tie the older lord’s hands behind his back. “You are destined for my gaol and then the king’s courts, Lord Riverwell.”

  At a tug on his sleeve, Hugh glanced down. Philippa stood there, her little hands motioning that she had a secret to tell. He leaned down to hear what she had to say.

  He chuckled. “Philippa has a suggestion, Sheriff, in regards to his lordship.”

  “Aye?”

  “Take his boots. Make him walk barefoot to gaol.”

  The sheriff chortled.

  “Naked, as well,” Aislinn added, her eyes sparkling.

  “Barefoot and naked.” The sheriff’s brows rose. “What say you to that, milord?”

  Lord Riverwell’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he promptly fainted.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aislinn sank into the wooden tub near the hearth in Pendersley Keep’s solar. Sighing blissfully, she dragged the soapy cloth over her left arm.

  As soon as they’d returned to the castle, Aislinn had ordered a bath sent up to her chamber and hot water for Hugh, Philippa, and Gilly. The muck from the alley had made Aislinn’s skin itch. Also, while she’d given in to Hugh’s concern and allowed Larina to tend her side, the wound had throbbed on the journey home. Although the cut wasn’t grave and was no longer bleeding, a warm soak would do it good.

  “Shall I help you with your bath, milady?” Gilly had asked. Yet, from the older woman’s expression, she was anxious about Philippa, exhausted by the day. Hugh had done his best on the ride home to lift his daughter’s spirits, but the girl needed the older woman’s mothering.

  “I can manage on my own,” Aislinn had said. “See to Philippa.”

  Gilly had hurried away, issuing orders to other servants as she went.

  Sighing again, Aislinn scrubbed her feet. The crackling fire and the candles in the chamber chased away most of the day’s unpleasantness. However, a niggling ache in her breast refused to budge, a reminder that she’d been lucky in the alley. One stab of Riverwell’s blade, and she could have died, never to have told Hugh how
much she cared for him, how much she wanted a second chance to love him.

  Today, she must tell him how she felt.

  Aislinn scrubbed her skin until it turned a rosy pink. Then, she washed her hair and rinsed it with the buckets of water the servants had heated and set next to the bath.

  When Aislinn reached for the linen towel draped over the end of the tub, a knock sounded on the door.

  “One moment,” she called.

  She stepped out of the bath, dried herself, and pulled on a woolen robe. Holding the garment closed with one hand, she opened the door.

  Hugh stood outside. His eyes met hers, then dropped to her hand clenched between her breasts. “Forgive me. I did not realize…”

  Her breath fluttered in her throat.

  “I will return later,” he said, turning away.

  “Wait.” She’d never dared to be so bold with a man before, but she mustn’t let this chance slip by. “Please. Come in.”

  Hugh stood in profile, his hands balled into fists. He clearly struggled with the need to be gallant, although she’d invited him inside. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  He dragged his hand over his jaw, then faced her. His gaze was different now; heat simmered in his eyes.

  Hugh stepped inside, and she shut the door behind him. A shiver trailed through her, for he’d also washed and changed garments. He smelled delicious, the clean scent of soap blending with his male essence to create a smell that was uniquely him.

  His gaze found the bathing tub and the towel she’d tossed on the end of the bed. He didn’t look at her, but studied the solar, as if he was assessing this room she called hers. His focus shifted to Matthew’s linen chest, still sitting against the wall beside hers, and a sharp tug on her heart made her step nearer to Hugh.

  “How is Philippa?” she asked.

  He glanced at her then, a smile claiming his lips. “She is asleep. Worn out. Otherwise, she is fine.”