Scrambling to her feet, Cecily bent over to tear a strip of linen from the bottom of her shift that she wore beneath her gown. The white fabric was not exactly clean, splattered with mud from the journey, but it would suffice until they reached Exancaester.
Lachlan turned his head at the ripping sounds. ‘What are you doing? Do not ruin your clothes on my account!’ He caught the flash of her slender legs encased in fawn woollen stockings; her delicate ankles encased in leather ankle boots, sopping wet. That fleeting glimpse, the intimacy of it, drove a pulse of longing deep into his chest.
‘I must bind your wound, Lachlan.’ She held up the narrow piece of cloth. ‘And now I have a bandage.’
Lachlan hitched forward, intending to rise.
‘Nay.’ Cecily laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing down lightly. ‘Stay for a moment. Your wound is bleeding quite badly.’
‘There’s no need to bind it,’ Lachlan said.
‘Do you want to bleed to death?’ she snapped back, tearing off a clump of moss from the bark of a tree with which to pad the wound. ‘This will only take a moment.’
‘If you must, then,’ Lachlan replied reluctantly, his shoulders slumping back down. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
You don’t realise how much I care, Cecily thought, pressing the moss gently over the open cut. ‘My petition to the King will not look good if I let you bleed all over the place.’ She wound the strip of linen, carefully, tightly, around Lachlan’s head, securing the mossy pad at the same time. His hair, silky filaments of red-gold, brushed the back of her hand.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ Lachlan said lightly. ‘I knew there must be a reason.’
As she ripped the end of the linen into two strips in order to tie a knot, Cecily’s cheeks flushed with colour. She wasn’t doing it for the King at all. She was doing it for him. For Lachlan.
‘There,’ she pronounced, standing back from him. ‘I’ve finished.’
Lachlan rolled slowly over on to all fours, his big knees sinking into the spongy, leaf-strewn earth, then clambered slowly to his feet. He swayed, his skin grey and pale, and she darted towards him, grabbing his arms.
‘Christ, my head is spinning.’ He gripped on to her shoulders.
‘Lean on me,’ Cecily said quickly.
‘I’ll be steady in a moment,’ he gasped, looping one muscled arm along the back of her shoulders, and she staggered back a little under the force of his body.
‘I’m too heavy for you,’ he muttered.
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ she said, relishing the feel of his heavy muscles along her shoulders.
‘Believe me, I know.’ Despite his aching head, Lachlan chuckled, thinking of the risks she had taken to protect her family, to keep them safe. ‘Your fragile beauty is deceptive.’
Fragile beauty? Her heart jolted at his compliment. What on earth did he mean? Had the knock to his head sent his thoughts awry?
Lachlan saw the flash of bewilderment cross her face, wondering at it. His head was beginning to clear, his sharp intelligence returning, despite the thumping headache those rogues had left him with. Did Cecily not realise how completely stunning she was? That bright, chartreuse gaze, that full, rosebud mouth that stopped his breath?
With his arm around her shoulder, they started walking slowly back to the clearing where they had been attacked. His chin was level with the top of her head. Her white silk veil flowed down in gossamer folds over the mud-stained wool of his surcoat, clashing incongruously. Silk that was exquisite, he thought, like the woman who wore it. Too exquisite for his rough, brash ways. ‘What’s the matter? Someone, surely, must have told you how beautiful you are?’
Cecily stopped, twisting her lips together in annoyance. ‘Don’t mock me, please.’
‘But I’m not. It’s true.’ He laughed, his grip on her shoulder tightening. ‘And I can’t believe your husband never told you, that he never valued you…’
‘No! Please…stop.’ She turned and laid her palm flat against his chest, as if that very action would stop the words emerging from his chest. ‘Why are you saying such things?’
Lachlan shrugged. ‘Did he marry you for your money? Is that it?’
‘Of course he did!’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Isn’t that what most marriages are based upon? My parents arranged my marriage to Peter; they offered him a large dowry to take me off their hands.’
A single burnished leaf fluttered down and landed on her shoulder; Lachlan brushed it away. ‘Did he mistreat you?’
‘No, nothing like that. I hardly knew him. We were only together for a few days before he went off on campaign. He was a stranger to me.’ She took a faltering step forward, gripping his hand that dangled down over her shoulder, so that he was forced to walk with her. ‘Come on, we need to keep going before it gets dark.’
They walked slowly, haltingly, back to the spot where the two knights lay.
‘This is horrible,’ whispered Cecily as she eyed the fallen bodies, then turned her gaze sharply away. Her face was stark white. ‘We must bury them.’ Tears sprung to her eyes. ‘We cannot leave them here, like this.’
He hated seeing her sadness, the swift shine of tears springing to her eyes. In all his years of battling, he had oft seen dead men; this was a familiar sight for him. But for Cecily? It must be difficult and sad for her to see something like this. Lifting his arm away from her shoulders, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, a fleeting gesture of comfort. ‘I am so sorry it happened, Cecily. I am sorry you have to see this.’
At least it’s not you, Cecily thought. I could not bear to see that.
‘It would take us a long time to dig graves for them,’ he continued. ‘And we need to cross the marshes and the river before dark. We could send someone back from Exancaester to bring them into the castle.’
‘It will take too long,’ she protested. ‘By that time, the wild animals…’
‘There may be another solution.’ Lachlan pointed through the trees. ‘Look over there.’
Following the direction of his arm, Cecily heard a familiar whinny. Her little grey mare was picking her graceful way through the undergrowth towards her! ‘Oh, she’s there!’ Cecily gasped. ‘She must have run away when the fighting started.’
‘She has more wits than my horse, anyhow.’ His tone held a grim ruefulness.
‘I am sorry, Lachlan, that they took him.’
‘He belonged to Lord Simon, not me. But he was a good horse and those bastards knew it. They will get good money for him.’ He angled his gaze down to her. ‘But at least now we can take the knights back to Exancaester with us. We can lift them on to your horse. Think you can help me?’ His eyes twinkled. The colour was returning to his cheeks.
‘I think it may be a case of you helping me,’ she replied, smiling gently. ‘Can you stand on your own, while I fetch the horse?’
Lachlan lifted his arm up, away from her shoulders, demonstrating his answer. In truth, his strength had gradually returned as he walked through the forest with her, yet he hadn’t wanted to pull away, enjoying the sweet bump of her hip against his own.
Cecily walked over to her horse and took up the trailing reins. Swallowing deeply, she led the mare over to the two men on the ground. ‘How on earth do we do this?’ she asked.
‘If you can grab his ankles, I will lift his upper body.’ Hunkering down beside the first knight, Lachlan wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders, hoisting him upwards under the arms. Cecily bent down and clutched at his leather boots, lifting the dead weight. As Lachlan slung the man’s upper body over the back of her grey mare, Cecily supported the knight’s legs. They proceeded to do the same with the other knight.
Cecily crossed herself. ‘Christ, this seems so wrong,’ she whispered. Her eyes shuttered briefly, dark lashes brushing her bright cheeks.
‘At least, this way, they will receive a Christian burial,’ Lachlan replied. ‘And their families will know where they are laid.’ He swayed momentarily, the exertions of the past few moments catching up with him. His head felt light, and dizzy. He reached out for her and Cecily took his hand, steadying him, his big fingers knotting into hers. The fitted sleeve of his tunic had ripped open, the buttons gone and the buttonholes all torn. Fine golden hairs dusted the bare muscled flesh of his forearm.
‘You should not have done that,’ Cecily murmured. ‘It was too much for you.’
He laughed faintly. ‘You talk as if I’m an old crone on her deathbed, Cecily. I’ve been in far worse situations than this.’
‘I can imagine,’ she replied, her glance touching the bodies slung over the back of her horse. How many dead men had he seen? How many had he killed? She dropped her gaze to the ice-hard ground. ‘Do you think you are able to walk to Exancaester?’
‘Of course.’ He smiled at her. ‘I am not about to collapse on you.’
Colour had flooded back to his cheeks; his eyes sparkled, blue sapphires. ‘I suppose…you are looking better,’ Cecily said, almost to reassure herself. ‘I mean, if you want, we could stay here a while, if you wish to rest.’
‘I am feeling better!’ Lachlan laughed. ‘Besides, I am in no mood to stay in this forest. We are too vulnerable here. Let us move, now.’
* * *
From the west, the sun began to sink towards the horizon, painting the land in a luminescent gold. Leading the grey mare, Lachlan and Cecily squinted in the brightness as they emerged from the chill somnolence of the forest, searching for their path across the gently sloping grassland. The track was easy to find, leading down to a wide marshy area alongside the river, then narrowing to cross the bridge into the city. The many spires and turrets gleamed in the glowing evening light.
‘We head for that bridge now.’ Lachlan indicated a series of pointed arches, initially spanning the marshy ground, then across the river and into the city. A sturdy gatehouse, with a round tower either side of the archway, sat at the city end of the bridge. A scramble of timbered buildings, built from the same reddish-purple sandstone as the bridge, clung to the parapets. Wooden posts, driven into the shallow river bed, supported the backs of the houses which overhung the flowing water. Ribbons of laundry were strung out from the windows over the river.
Even from this distance, Cecily could see people moving across the bridge: loaded carts, horses and packhorses, all jostling for space. Fear pinched at her heart—this city would be the place where her future would be determined. ‘I never thought it would come to this,’ she said quietly, turning to Lachlan. The crude white bandage on his head stood out incongruously against his flaming red hair. The east wind tugged at her words, cruel and biting, but he heard her.
‘You thought you would get away with it,’ he replied. She had pulled up the hood of her cloak against the wind; the bulky wool framed the sweet delicacy of her profile, emphasised the velvet bloom of her skin.
‘Yes, we did,’ she said, lifting her skirts above the muddy track. Ice still clung to the long tips of the grass either side of the path. Her eyes met Lachlan’s, bold and brilliant. ‘We were stupid. Back there, in Okeforde, it all seemed so easy. But now, when I see the city, all those buildings…’ Her voice faltered. ‘I’m frightened, Lachlan. Frightened of what is going to happen. I wish I had never done it.’ Tears brimmed along the bottom of her eyes, pearly gems of sadness.
Lachlan dropped the reins, wrapping his big arms about her, drawing her close. The golden bristles on his chin grazed the top of her woollen hood. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, that he would make it all right. But how could he reassure her about something of which he knew nothing? True, he had the ear of the King and he had fought for him, advised him successfully on battle strategy on many occasions, but he had little idea of how much influence his relationship would have in the light of Cecily’s deception.
‘Cecily, you are the bravest woman I have ever met,’ he murmured. His deep voice rumbled through her slender frame. ‘I cannot think of another woman who would have done what you did, back in the forest. You came and found me. Most women would have collapsed in a heap and cried until someone had found them. But you found me and you treated my wound. You helped me load two dead men on to a horse. Remember that, when you face the King. And I will be there, beside you, every step of the way.’
Her body sagged with relief against his. His speech curled around her: a blanket, wrapping around her. She revelled in the sheer deliciousness of it, of his warm body, against hers. Even when her husband had been alive, she had been wary, always on tenterhooks, unsure of his protection, even though she carried his name. And yet this flame-haired warrior, who had burst so unexpectedly into her life, made her feel cared for. Loved. The word sprang in her brain, a tremulous, flaring spark. Aye, he made her feel loved.
‘I…thank you.’ The wool of his tunic tickled her cheek.
‘Thank me when it’s over.’ His chin nudged the top of her head as he spoke. ‘All you can hope for is that the King is lenient. And I will tell him—’ His thoughts stopped suddenly, jerking to an abrupt halt. His mind was heading in a direction that he was not sure he wanted to go. What would he tell the King? That he would take care of Cecily? That he would be responsible for her? After his family had been slaughtered, he had vowed never to be close anyone, ever again. But Cecily was different. Cecily was not just anyone.
* * *
As they walked up through the main thoroughfare of the city, a cobbled street lined with merchants’ houses, people stared openly at them, at the odd ensemble: a lady and her wounded knight, with two dead soldiers slumped over a grey palfrey. By the time they reached the castle at the northern end of the city, dusk had fallen. Firelight glimmered behind wooden shutters, and the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke mingled and rose in the cooling air of evening. Above the castle gatehouse, the luminous disc of a full moon rose, illuminating the midnight-blue nap of the sky.
Lachlan reached up, pulled the bandage from his head.
‘No, you must leave it on!’ Cecily said, watching him stuff the bloodied linen beneath the grey mare’s saddle.
Lachlan touched the wound at the back of his head and winced. ‘It’s stopped bleeding.’ He waggled his clean fingers at her, as if to prove a point. ‘And I need to look presentable if I’m going to meet the King.’
‘What about me?’ Cecily asked in a horrified voice, smoothing her hands down her purple over-gown, staring in dismay at the tide mark of mud around her lilac-coloured skirts. She patted her veil, brushing her cloak down self-consciously. ‘Do I look presentable enough, too?’
He sucked in his breath, setting his mouth into a firm line. She looked beautiful. The exquisitely cut lines of her gown beneath her cloak hugged her slim figure, highlighting her firm, high breasts; the neat indentation of her waist. In the chill air her eyes shone out like chips of leaf-green glass, her cheeks glowing with the cold. She took his breath away.
* * *
‘Lachlan!’ cried King Henry, rising from his chair on the high dais. ‘Welcome to Exancaester! I didn’t realise that you and Simon had returned from France. I hear you decided to stay at Simon’s castle in Doccombe for a while?’
‘I had no option but to stay. I was wounded in France,’ Lachlan said as he climbed the wooden stairs to the dais, gripping Cecily’s hand to keep her alongside. Her hemline brushed against his boots as they walked.
‘Bad luck, Lachlan,’ the King said. ‘But your wound has healed now.’
‘Yes, it has.’
The King’s brown eyes landed on Cecily. His brow wrinkled with interest as he noted her fine pale skin, the expensive cut of her lilac woollen gown and cloak. ‘Sit with me.’ He beckoned them along the dais. ‘Tell me what you have been doing.’ He turned to the elderly nobleman sitting alongside him. ‘You don’t mind moving along a little, my lord? I haven’t seen Lachlan in such a long time.’
The older man’s mouth tightened in disapproval, before he made a great show of shuffling his chair back and ordering a servant to move his plate and goblet along the table to an empty seat. It was his castle, after all, in which the King was staying and he was spending a great deal of money keeping Henry and his entourage well fed and watered until they moved on to the next castle.
‘Come, come, my dear.’ Henry raised his hand to beckon Cecily into the empty seat beside him. His giant rings flashed in the candlelight, the red fire of rubies set into gold. In contrast to his grandiose gestures, his figure, although tall, was thin and gaunt, his hair a faded mouse-brown, drooping on to his shoulders in loose, wispy locks. He wore a plain gold circlet to denote his regal status, which sat low across his forehead. ‘Where did Lachlan find you, eh? I never heard that he had married.’
Cecily flushed to the roots of her hair, glancing at Lachlan. He had folded himself into the chair on the opposite side of the King, his strong body a muscle-bound parcel of energy, his gold-red hair acting like a marker of his innate physical strength. Beside him, Henry looked like a child, although they were probably about the same age. ‘Oh,’ she managed to splutter out. ‘No, you have it wrong, my lord… Sire, I am not married to Lachlan. I… I am…’
‘I have brought Lady Cecily here on Lord Simon’s behalf,’ Lachlan cut across her smoothly. ‘She was married to his late brother, Peter.’
‘Ah, yes, I did hear of his death. My condolences to you, Lady Cecily.’ Henry clicked his fingers and a servant leaned down between the chairs, setting a clean goblet and plate in front of her and pouring a glass of wine. A couple of red drops landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading slowly. Slices of meat appeared on her plate, a bread roll, some vegetables, and Cecily stared at them dully, as if in a dream. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she should even be sitting at the top table with the King. Surely when he found out what she had done, she would be treated differently. The blade of the eating knife, set beside her pewter dish, glimmered in the light of the many candles, set at intervals along the trestle table.
‘So,’ Henry said, pushing a slice of chicken into his mouth and chewing hungrily. ‘What brings you to my side?’
‘Lady Cecily has done something that Lord Simon is not happy about and asked me to bring her to you to resolve the issue.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ Henry said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘For otherwise I would not get to see you at all.’ He swallowed and took a sip of wine, wiping the drops from his beard. ‘What have you done, my lady? I’m sure it cannot be that bad.’
Cecily bit her lip. She had to stand up for herself, defend herself. There was no point in trying to hide the truth. She took a deep shaky breath. ‘I pretended…’ She paused, squeezing a lump of bread between her fingers, pressing the soft crumb again and again. She stared at the tablecloth, the drops of wine. ‘I pretended to be carrying a baby, so I could pass the child off as my late husband’s heir,’ she said finally. ‘Lord Simon wanted his brother’s castle and lands back and it was the only way we could keep it.’
The King sat back in his chair, bolt upright, visibly shocked.
‘Is this true?’ He turned to Lachlan.
‘It is, my lord. But, without trying to diminish the severity of Lady Cecily’s crime, I will say in her defence that on our journey here, we were attacked by outlaws in the Forest of Haldon. I was knocked unconscious and the two knights who travelled with us were slain. Lady Cecily had the perfect opportunity to run away, yet she did not. She crawled through the undergrowth to find me and tend my wound. She could have left me to bleed to death.’ Lachlan’s eyes sought Cecily’s, caught and held. He flashed her a quick reassuring smile.
Henry glared fiercely at his plate, now empty, then took a long sip of wine from his goblet, wiping the drops from his beard. He set the goblet back down on the table with deliberate slowness, running his finger around the ridge of pewter that decorated the goblet base. He sighed heavily. ‘This is a serious crime, my lady, one, I might say, of which you do not look capable. I have to tell you that such a crime normally merits a lengthy imprisonment, or even hanging in some cases.’
Cecily gasped at the King’s pronouncement. Her head spun, nausea rising in her throat. Sweat coated her spine, sticking the fine material of her gown to her flesh. She gripped the thick edge of the table, knuckles white.
‘Normally,’ Lachlan repeated the word, loudly. His velvet tones pierced her terror; she snared his bright eyes and clung to them, helplessly. He raised his eyebrows, a warning. Steady, he seemed to say.
‘You should be tried, my lady, before my court. I do not have the power to make decisions on your fate alone. But the next court is not for another month or so and I am not inclined to imprison you for that length of time, especially as you had the chance to run away and did not.’
Cecily clasped her hands in her lap. Her mouth was dry, her fingers slick with sweat.
‘So…’ drawled Henry, ‘I am in the mood to offer clemency. A good word from Lachlan is worth three from any other man; I value his opinion greatly. You have been brave enough to face me and face whatever punishment I might have given you.’ Henry wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m thinking that you need another husband, someone who would keep you in line. Maybe even have a child or two of your own, eh? You’re a pretty piece, I’m sure I can find someone who would be happy to marry you.’
A sudden wave of heat flooded through Lachlan’s body; he ran one tapered finger around the neckline of his tunic. The wound on the back of his head throbbed. He hitched forward, listening intently. Why had he not envisaged such a scenario? Why had he been so stupid as to imagine that Henry would let her go on Lachlan’s say-so? Christ, the thought of her going to another man, probably one of Henry’s old cronies who had worked their way through one or two wives already, didn’t bear thinking about. Lachlan watched the colour drain out of Cecily’s lovely face, the sparkle die in her eyes, and he thought, I cannot let this happen.
‘Let me think,’ mused Henry, leaning back in his seat and resting crossed arms on the rising curve of his protruding belly. ‘Who needs a wife? Can you think of anyone, Stephen?’ he shouted past Cecily to the nobleman on her other side, staring at his plate. The man turned to Henry. A lock of grey frizzy hair fell across his lined forehead. ‘The Lord of Colcombe has just lost his wife in childbirth.’
Henry clapped his hands. ‘Ah. yes, the Lord of Colcombe, an excellent choice!’
‘I don’t have a wife.’ Lachlan’s voice emerged suddenly, calm and measured, breaking across the King’s high-pitched exclamations, the burble of chatter along the table. ‘I will marry Lady Cecily.’