The Knight's Return Page 17

  “Nothing.” He shook his head, his dark hair lit with moonlight as he shifted. “I cannot remember anything else.”

  An owl hooted a forlorn cry in the distance.

  “Perhaps if you return to sleep you will remember more.” She hated to send him back to Rosamunde, but considering the lie of their new marriage and the distrust beneath the surface, Sorcha knew she could not be the right woman for him.

  “Good night then, Princess.” He rolled away from her, taking his hand that had languished in the grass so close to her own.

  She regretted the loss of his nearness along with her inability to surmount the wide chasm that now yawned between them. The lingering heat of his kiss made that distance between them all the more painful.

  “When I was devastated after discovering a false priest had performed my marriage ceremony, my confessor told me that sometimes, legal marriage may be recognized on the basis of—” she searched for the least awkward phrasing “—consummation.”

  Silence moved in like a shadow across the moon. Finally, he turned back around to meet her gaze.

  “I do not think we will have to worry about that. I do not plan to touch you—”

  “I did not mean for that reason,” she hastened to interrupt, embarrassed and shamed that he did not want her. She pressed a cooling hand to her warm cheek, grateful for the dim light that rendered everything gray and white. “I referred to my questionable union with du Bois. If he is alive the way you believe he might be, I fear my marriage to him could still prove legal because of Conn. Your contract with my father could be declared invalid.”

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  Onora shivered in the night air, wishing she’d thought to bring along blankets for her escape. She rubbed her arms to warm them and tucked her gown more securely around her ankles where she sat in her bed of dried leaves a league behind her sister’s traveling party.

  “Should I have revealed your presence to the others?” Eamon asked, taking her hand in his. Presumably, he only wished to warm her skin. But Onora felt guilty about meeting with him secretly, and she feared the repercussions of any untoward behavior on top of the grave sin she’d committed by running away from her father’s keep.

  She had not fully appreciated the consequences of leaving home until she’d spent all day eluding view from the traveling party she was attempting to follow. She hadn’t brought adequate food rations for herself and she would run out of supplies for her horse as well. As the rear guard for Sorcha’s retinue, Eamon had spotted her early on in the journey, but she had begged him to keep her presence quiet.

  Now, holding hands with him in the moonlight when no one else knew of her whereabouts, she realized the vulnerable position she’d put herself in. Thankfully, she’d known Eamon most of her life. He would treat her honorably.

  “Nay.” Onora shook her head, wishing she could go climb into Sorcha’s bedroll with a fur blanket and two other bodies to share warmth. “Hugh would only send me home. They cannot discover my presence until I am safely across the sea and standing on English soil.”

  She’d envisioned that moment in her head all day long. The sunset slipping into the sea behind her. The freedom of knowing her betrothal contract was broken and that her sister would take her in.

  “I will help you any way I can,” Eamon swore, his thumb stroking lightly along the back of her hand.

  She’d dreamed about such touches many times. And certainly that brief, gentle caress pleased her more than her oafish betrothed’s groping. But, perhaps because of the groping, she found it difficult to see even this simplest of touches as romantic. Or even friendly.

  Besides that, Onora did not know what to make of Eamon’s solicitous concern. Whenever she had sneaked over to the cottage, he had chastised her as one would scold a child. But now—when her transgression had been far more dangerous—he had offered to keep her secret. Did he do so to be noble? Or did he only keep quiet for reasons she hadn’t quite put together yet?

  “Thank you.” She withdrew her fingers from his grip. “I appreciate your protection.”

  For a moment, she thought she spied something unseemly in Eamon’s expression. But it was dark out, she rushed to assure herself. And after her experience with her betrothed, it was only natural to perceive threats everywhere she looked.

  “Are you sure you will not take my blanket?” He had offered it to her twice already. “Your father would have my head if he knew I could have made you more comfortable and failed to do so.”

  “I will be fine.” She drew her cloak up to her chin and tried not to shiver. There was something far too intimate about sleeping under a man’s bed linens. “You may attend your duties. I will see you tomorrow after I find a way to hide myself upon the ferry before it departs.”

  He rose from the forest floor to stand. Relief raced through her.

  “I will give you some privacy.” He bent over her with a bow. “But I cannot leave you unattended. I will guard you from a short distance away so I can hear you if you call for me.”

  Onora watched him stalk off into the night, chiding herself for her foolishness. Eamon didn’t mean her any harm. He had been looking out for her for years.

  Scraping a few extra leaves over her cold legs, she settled down to sleep. From somewhere in the forest, Eamon’s eyes followed her. Protected her.

  And until Onora could be certain Sorcha wouldn’t send her back home, Eamon’s protection had to be enough.

  Hugh was not a superstitious man—or at least, he didn’t think he’d been one in his life before he lost his memories—but he had a bad feeling about this crossing.

  The ship he’d hired waited in deeper water while a smaller craft ferried their trunks and horses out to the vessel. The captain appeared able enough, his experience in making the trip obvious from his knowledge of the winds and tides. So it wasn’t necessarily the crossing itself that concerned Hugh.

  Perhaps his unease came from his certainty that enemies lurked on both sides of the sea. At least their time on the ship would give him a chance to speak with Sorcha and find out everything she knew about du Bois. Hugh would unearth every clue she could give him about a man who resembled him—a fellow Norman who visited Connacht shortly before Hugh’s arrival.

  It could not be coincidence.

  “My lord.” Eamon approached Hugh as the nearest to last ferry went out with their horses and two of the men-at-arms.

  Hugh had debated sending Sorcha and Conn earlier, but he trusted his own sword more than the others and had decided to keep them with him until the last.

  As he turned to the new man-at-arms, Hugh noted Eamon’s ashen face. His unsteady gait.

  “What is it?” He peered around the small stretch of beach and saw nothing amiss. Sorcha and Conn were right beside him. “Are you unwell?”

  “It is Lady Onora.”

  Beside Hugh, Sorcha drew in a sharp breath. Her hand clutched his arm.

  “What of the princess?” Hugh had left behind that particular problem in Connacht.

  “She followed us from the keep.” Eamon shook his head as he speared his fingers through his hair. “I saw her last night, but she begged me not to tell you.”

  “Where is she now?” Sorcha cut in, her slender shoulders edging between the men.

  “I cannot find her.” Eamon gestured toward the woods. “I watched over her while she slept last night just to the west of where you camped. But I left her side to help load the ferries and now she’s gone.”

  Anger twisted his gut at the ignorant man’s actions. Later, Hugh would consider all the ways the man should be punished for his oversights, but right now, he had to find Sorcha’s sister.

  “Perhaps she secured a place for herself on the ferry during one of its runs,” Sorcha offered, shielding her eyes from the sun glinting off the waves as she peered toward the ship.

  “Nay.” Eamon shook his head and lifted a dark leather satchel. “I found her bag in the forest. She would not have l
eft without it.”

  Beside him, Sorcha made a strangled sound. Hugh sensed her wavering on her feet and he wrapped an arm about her waist to steady her.

  “I will find her.” His head reeled with possible scenarios, all of which required his horse and more men. “But I cannot run off into the forest with no mount and no one to protect you and Conn.”

  “No.” She gripped his tunic, her face white with fear. “What if she has been taken by crude men with no chivalry?” Grabbing her sister’s pouch out of Eamon’s hand, she waved it for emphasis. “They did not even take her bag. They cannot want her for her riches. She could be assaulted even now.”

  Her rant dissolved in another indiscernible cry and Hugh knew he had no choice but to make some effort to search nearby until the ferry returned with his men.

  Even now, the small vessel returned, empty.

  “Eamon, go see if you can shout for the men and the horses to return right away.” Perhaps the ferryman would hear across the distance and could turn around before he got too much closer to the shore. “Sorcha, I can help Eamon look for her, but that leaves you and Conn at risk. Do you really want me to walk away from Conn right now? There’s a chance that whoever took your sister counted on me to do exactly that.”

  He scoured the shoreline with his gaze, hoping for some sign of movement somewhere. Had he ever been so exposed from a tactical standpoint as he was right now? He might as well have been standing with his braies about his knees and his sword out of reach.

  Sorcha swiped away a rogue tear with a shaking hand.

  “Do you have a weapon I might use?” She cradled her child close to her chest and the boy protested, his little legs in motion as if he would run the whole shoreline if he could.

  “Aye.” Hugh took the smaller of his blades and handed it to her. “Do you recall how to hold it?”

  He remembered their conversation the first day they met when she’d been hiding the dagger in her sleeve.

  “Aye.” She gripped the hilt and held it in front of her, away from Conn. “But this time, I will not hide it. I will brandish it well if anyone comes near, I promise you that.”

  Fierce maternal instinct sparked in her eyes, reminding him of a mother protecting her cub. Hugh could not help a tug of admiration for this fiery Irishwoman even as he hated that she’d been put in this position.

  “Then I will do as you wish.” He leaned close and kissed her on the cheek, unable to stop himself. “Fare thee well. And tell the ferryman to take you out to the ship as soon as he brings those men to shore.”

  Nodding, she backed toward the water. Her eyes held his, forming a bond between them that felt all too tangible.

  “Godspeed, Hugh.”

  Against every instinct, he turned away from her to search for her sister.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The forest seemed unnaturally quiet.

  Sorcha’s heart beat louder than the soft roll of waves behind her or the mild breeze sifting through the trees in front of her. She kept her back to the water, knowing she was safe from that side. Hugh’s men were loading the horses onto the ferry for the return trip. And while not all the animals could make the journey at once, at least Hugh would have his horse and another mounted guard to search for Onora. The last man-at-arms would accompany the ferry back to retrieve Eamon’s horse and his own.

  But until the first ship reached the shore, she needed to watch the trees for any sign of movement. She’d thought about hiding in the woods with Conn, but what if they were being watched? Besides, by entering the thicket, she’d be that much easier to kidnap without any of Hugh’s men seeing where she went. At least if she or Conn were accosted here, the others would see who took them and what direction they went.

  But for now, the tall pines swayed peacefully in the gentle wind blowing off the water. Their dense branches interlaced to form a thick cover over the forest floor, shading all but the nearest lands from her view.

  “Ba, ba, ba.” Her son chortled baby sounds from his place on her hip, his fingers preoccupied with the gold thread surrounding a jewel on the shoulder of her surcoat.

  Absently, she kissed his forehead, her gaze never leaving the trees. If Onora came to any harm, Sorcha would blame herself for the rest of her days. Sorcha had blazed a path through her father’s household, defying him daily in a thirst to be recognized for her strength and intelligence instead of her value as a marriage prospect.

  Even before she’d run off and wed a man without the king’s knowledge, she had sneaked out of the keep to ride on campaigns with his men. She had never fought a battle, of course, as she had never been able to convince any of the men to teach her to fight. But she had thrilled to the challenge of a more adventurous life.

  In turn, she had set an example for her impressionable younger sibling that might well have brought Onora to harm. No wonder their father had wanted to banish his eldest. In hindsight, she wondered if he had not made a mistake in failing to exile her earlier in life.

  “I pray your aunt is safe,” she whispered over Conn’s head before risking a glance behind her to see where the ferry was.

  The vessel was halfway back to the shore and some of the fear went out of her. But even if she and Conn had weathered the most dangerous moments alone, she still feared for Onora.

  And why couldn’t she see any trace of Hugh and Eamon in the trees? Turning back to study the forest, Sorcha heard a rumbling in the woods.

  The sound started off like a distant drum, but quickly grew into a thundering beat that made the ground tremble beneath her feet.

  Horses.

  The noise echoed around the small beach area, bouncing off the water so that she couldn’t tell what direction it came from. Fear clogged her throat and buckled her knees. She remained standing on sheer force of will alone.

  All at once a riding party broke through the trees. Six men on horseback barreled onto the beach from the south. Their dark robes bore no distinguishable colors or heraldry and they carried no banner.

  She launched across the beach in the other direction. Sand kicked up from her feet as she ran, her elbow pumping for more speed. If only she could reach the trees, she could delay them. But would it be enough to allow for her guards to save her? And how would two fight against six?

  Leaping over a piece of driftwood, she spared a glance back. One of the riders had already fallen, his body lying half in the waves rolling up to shore.

  Her guards must be firing arrows from the ferry. Hope surged for a moment, but as the deafening roar of hoofbeats grew closer, she knew her men would not be able to take down all six of them before—

  Hands reached out from behind as if to scoop her up onto a horse.

  Tossing her knife aside, she fell purposely to the ground, doing her best to shield Conn from the impact. She hoped the tactic would give her guards more time. But as she blinked sand out of her eyes and rubbed it off her mouth, she saw a huge warhorse rear up, its hooves dancing dangerously close to her head. Conn was crying and clutching her shoulder, but she did not think he was hurt.

  Yet.

  Looking up at the monstrous knight with rotten teeth atop the destrier, Sorcha feared she and Conn could both be dead before night fell.

  Rolling out of the way of the hooves, she braced herself, holding her baby tight. When the weight fell on her back, it was not the impossible blow of an animal’s shoe.

  But rather the body of a man.

  Screams tore from her throat. She tried to scramble out from underneath him and as she shoved at the limp, heavy weight, she realized the warrior with the rotted teeth had been shot in the chest. The arrow protruded from between his ribs, the end scratching her arm as she eased her way free.

  “Sorcha!” Hugh’s voice filled her ears, his presence offering a thread of hope in the midst of horrifying mayhem.

  “Here!” she cried, frantically waving a hand to show her whereabouts among the crush of scared horses and fallen bodies. All around her, members of the riding
party had been taken down by a rain of arrows from the men on the ferry and—perhaps—Hugh and Eamon. Thanks be to God that their aim had been sure and true, given how close she and her son stood to the downed man.

  “Are you hurt?” His voice sounded closer now, but she still could not see him through the press of bodies. The stench of sweat and fear threatened to gag her.

  There were shouts nearby and she thought they might be from the guards arriving on the ferry. Closer to her, men groaned in pain and Conn cried. She was grateful, at least, for the noisy wail of her son since it assured her that he was well enough. Gently, she rocked and shushed him, extricating herself from another man’s leg.

  “Don’t move, Princess.”

  A blade nicked her back before she could stand, the point stabbing right through her surcoat and kirtle to scratch her skin.

  Turning, she saw the man who had performed her first marriage ceremony, the fake priest she had known as Father Gregory. His forehead was covered in sweat as he sat on the sand. An arrow protruded from high on his thigh and the wound bled profusely. She did not think he could give chase if she ran, but she was exhausted and bruised. Besides, her arms ached from carrying Conn and she would not risk a knife anywhere near him if she could not make a clean getaway.

  Where was Hugh?

  “Who are you?” Hugh’s voice rang out at the same moment a sword whipped through the air. The blade was still quivering with the fast splice as Hugh pointed it at the false priest’s head. “I know you work for du Bois.”

  Gregory’s eyes bulged from his head, his fear creating an acrid stink that mingled with the metallic scent of blood.

  “He’s not called du Bois any longer.” The corpulent thug loosened his hold on the blade he pointed at Sorcha and she edged forward, away from him. “You honestly do not recognize him, do you?”

  Sorcha’s gaze flew to Hugh’s face while she rocked her son. Did he know Conn’s father? When Hugh said nothing, the dying man laughed with a raspy wheeze.