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Bride Of The Tower
Sharon Schulze


THE BATTLE-WEARY WARRIOR HAD FINALLY MET HIS MATCH…More warrior than woman, Lady Julianna D'Arcy had sworn to defend her home against all enemies. She knew not if her unexpected guest was friend or foe, but infinitely more dangerous than any adversary was the way the mere sight of Sir William Bowman stirred her blood unlike any man she'd ever seen before!







More warrior than woman, Lady Julianna D’Arcy had sworn to defend her home against all enemies. She knew not if her unexpected guest was friend or foe, but infinitely more dangerous than any adversary was the way the mere sight of William stirred her blood unlike any man she’d ever seen before!

“Have a care who you call traitor, milady, else I’ll be forced to judge you traitor instead.”

“With what reason?” she asked. “I am a true loyal subject of our king—”

“Are you? I now nothing of you, lady—not so much as who you are, or the name of this place. A lady dressed in warrior’s garb. ’Tis uncommon, you must admit—rare enough to raise questions in a curious man’s mind.”

He cupped her chin, then slid his fingers down along her neck and over her shoulder before stopping just above her breast.

“A puzzle to entice a man,” he murmured. “Or a siren meant to lure a man to your bed and render him your slave?”

Bride of the Tower

Harlequin Historical #650


Praise for SHARON SCHULZE’s recent titles

Lady of the Keep

“A warmhearted tale where love mends old wounds and broken dreams.”

—Romantic Times

The Hidden Heart

“…a medieval romance bound to break your heart, then mend it good as new.”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Shielded Heart

“A fine addition to the author’s L’Eau Clair Chronicles, and one that will make readers look forward to more!”

—Romantic Times

#647 TEMPTING A TEXAN

Carolyn Davidson

#648 THE SILVER LORD

Miranda Jarrett

#649 THE ANGEL OF DEVIL’S CAMP

Lynna Banning


Bride of the Tower

Sharon Schulze






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and SHARON SCHULZE

* (#litres_trial_promo)Heart of the Dragon #356

* (#litres_trial_promo)To Tame a Warrior’s Heart #386

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Shielded Heart #442

* (#litres_trial_promo)The Hidden Heart #484

* (#litres_trial_promo)Lady of the Keep #510

* (#litres_trial_promo)Bride of the Tower #650


To Linda Harmon, Leslie O’Grady and Joyce C. Ware—critique partners and friends extraordinaire.

And to my wonderful editor, Melissa Endlich, with many thanks for her patience and encouragement.




Contents


Chapter One (#u44e53c60-a834-5861-913e-dfc35cfc2c8f)

Chapter Two (#u17eeaa31-c0d8-55b5-aea7-80ea988c2923)

Chapter Three (#u07d2c06e-baad-54aa-bb4d-e38237a33339)

Chapter Four (#uf9d65d32-f4ee-5586-8cbc-b5fcdc44b1d1)

Chapter Five (#u07ee145a-74c5-5fc3-a95a-d5d03b45bfd0)

Chapter Six (#u03ac498b-102a-52db-9649-8a764be00dd3)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire, 1217

Sir William Bowman glanced back at the big black gelding lagging along behind him. Bran had come up lame soon after they’d entered the forest, but they couldn’t stop yet. Pausing to stroke the horse’s swollen fetlock, Will murmured soothing words rather than the curses echoing through his head, gave a gentle tug on the reins and picked up his stride.

The sun disappeared behind the tall trees, leaving naught but an eerie yellow glow that made specters of the branches overhanging the narrow path. Will peered into the deepening gloom. Not true night, but close enough to warn him he’d best find shelter soon. Like a fool, he’d allowed his anger to distract him; he’d already wandered so deep into the dense forest he wondered if he’d e’er find his way out again.

He and Bran had roamed far in Lord Rannulf’s service these past weeks, a long journey nowhere near finished. What he wouldn’t give for a flask of usquebaugh and the company of a warm and willing maid at the end of this part of it! Yet thanks to Sir Richard Belleville’s overcautious nature, Will now found himself lost in Nottingham forest with an injured mount instead of lodged comfortably at the next keep along his way, where he’d planned to spend the night.

Damn Sir Richard! He’d kept Will so occupied with trivialities that he’d had no chance to leave Birkland—surely the least important of Lord Rannulf’s keeps—until well after the midday meal. Yet when Will had suggested he wait until the next morn to resume his travels, the slippery knave had nigh slammed the gates behind Will himself!

And in their haste to see Will escorted on his way, it seemed Sir Richard’s men had set Will upon the wrong path through the forest, for ’twas clear this route had seen little traffic of late.

Nor did it appear to lead anywhere but deeper into the wilderness of Sherwood.

He could do naught to remedy that mistake tonight, alas. He’d be better served instead to calm his anger and use the sense God gave him to find his way out of this dilemma.

Assuming, of course, that he had any sense. His low chuckle sounded loud in the silent woods. Judging by his recent behavior, that seemed doubtful. He squared his shoulders and buried deep the lingering sense of imminent threat that skittered down his spine. He was a knight well blooded in his lord’s service, he reminded himself sternly, not some cringing villain afraid of shadows and looming dark.

Bran nudged him in the back as though to urge him to move faster and crept up nigh onto Will’s heels. Had the gelding with his better hearing noticed something he could not? Will shifted the reins to his left hand and hitched his sword into a more accessible position with his right. Best to be prepared.

At least the outlaws of years past were no more—a blessing, no doubt, though the thought of spending time with their legendary band held a tantalizing appeal. Tales of Robin of the Hood had traveled even into the remote area of the Marches where l’Eau Clair Keep stood guard over the Welsh border. As a youth, Will had been fascinated by the stories; time and again he and his compatriots had roamed the rugged countryside in search of adventures, taking it in turn to be part of the band of outlaws or the sheriff’s henchmen.

A flock of birds shot up out of the brush, startling him from his memories and sending Bran into a squealing, plunging frenzy. Teeth bared and ears pressed flat, the gelding reared back, dragging Will along with him. “Easy, lad,” Will crooned, grabbing at the slippery leather as the reins slipped through his gloved hand and his feet slid through the loose leaves covering the ground. By the rood, he’d ne’er seen Bran react so sharply to so little provocation!

Wanting to free his sword hand to hold the bucking beast, Will tried to shove his sword into the scabbard one-handed, but another bird swooped close overhead. Bran jerked back hard. Off balance, Will tumbled backward into a prickly thicket as the terrified gelding, eyes rolling wildly, somehow spun around on the narrow path and raced off the way they’d come.

The uneven clatter of hoofbeats echoed away. Cursing in a mixture of Welsh, English and Norman French—which didn’t relieve his frustration a whit—Will fought the clinging brambles and twisted free of the thick brush. Jesu, ’twas a miracle he hadn’t impaled himself on his own blade!

He wrenched his sword belt around and rammed the weapon home, plucking thorns and leaves from his surcoat. He could only be glad he’d been wearing his mail, for other than a few scratches on his cheek, he’d emerged unscathed. But Bran had disappeared into the night, carrying with him all of Will’s baggage save the small pack he carried slung over one shoulder.

He’d best go after the beast at once, before it got too dark to follow him. It would do neither of them any good for the horse to injure himself further, nor for them to blunder deeper into the wood.

Will stood for a moment and let his eyes adjust to the deepening gloom, all his attention focused on the silence surrounding him. No sound or glimpse of light pierced the trees to give him a hint of civilization nearby, or a clue to which direction Bran had headed. Giving a weary sigh, Will shifted his pack higher on his shoulder and set off along the faint trail through the heavy brush.

How far could the beast have gone, after all, injured as he was? Besides, there was no place to settle for the night here. Perhaps he could find his way back to Birkland—no doubt Bran’s destination, he thought wryly.

Though he doubted whether Sir Richard would allow him—or his horse—to spend another night within the confines of Birkland. He’d certainly been in a hurry to see them gone.

By the time Will stumbled from the heavy forest onto a rutted road, the moon had risen high in the sky and he felt ready to sleep on the first clear bit of ground he could find. Of his errant mount, he’d found no sign save a few broken branches far back on the path near where the horse had taken off. He could only hope he’d find the horse’s trail more easily come morning. For now, however, since the road before him looked well-traveled, he might as well follow it. It had to lead somewhere.

A rustle of sound made him pause. Leaves fell down from the branches overhead, heralding the two men who leapt into the path in front of Will before his sword had cleared the scabbard. Faces masked, weapons raised, they set upon him at once.

Will drew a long-bladed dagger from his boot with his free hand and laid about him with a vengeance. ’Twas hard to follow his opponents in the shifting moon shadows, but he’d been alert before the attack, his senses focused wide about him. He used that intensity now to gauge what they would do.

They could not see him well, either, thankfully, for ’twas soon apparent they were skilled fighters. Will parried blows and thrust at the pair with some success, judging from their grunts and cries of pain, though not without sustaining a few injuries of his own.

Warm blood trickled down his brow and arm as he began to flag. He cried out a few breathless taunts, hoping to draw them into foolishness, but ’twas a waste of time. They seemed tireless, and with two of them against him alone, he began to wonder if perhaps he could not outlast them after all.

A blade slid over the mail covering his shoulder and slipped down his throat. The sharp pain spurred him on, even as his foes redoubled their efforts, as well. A hard blow to the head sent Will reeling, and they were upon him like flies to a midden, pummeling him, knocking loose his weapons and moving in for the kill. A stream of blood gushed from his forehead and ran into his eyes, further blurring his vision.

A hard pounding sounded in the distance, drowning out the heavy pulse of his heartbeat. He could scarce care about its cause when he couldn’t find the strength to hold himself upright. He clung to his knife—a meager defense, but better than nothing—as his legs crumpled beneath him and he muttered a silent prayer that his death be swift and clean.

But before his attackers could strike a killing blow, the distant sound became the thunder of hoofbeats drawing near. Muttering curses, the two men turned and fled into the forest, leaving Will sprawled in the road.

He tried to stand, but could not make his legs support him. His searching fingers closed about the hilt of his sword and he dragged it close as the horses came to a plunging halt nigh at his feet.

Had he survived the attack to be run down in the road instead? He pulled himself up on one elbow and stared at the blurred, shifting scene before him, but he could make no sense of it. Horses shuffled their feet nearby, appearing, to his bleary gaze, to have too many legs and heads; moonlight shimmered eerily on the armed and mail-clad riders, lending them an otherworldly appearance. One of them called another “milady.”

Were they the warrior women of legend, come to escort him to Valhalla? Or the devil’s hand-maidens, mayhap, ready to carry him away to Hell? Did it matter? Will tried to laugh, but ’twas a feeble attempt. Whoever they were, if he must spend eternity with them, he hoped they were beautiful.

Perhaps he hadn’t survived after all, Will thought as he watched the smallest of the riders slip from the saddle and remove his helmet. For unless the blow to his head had scrambled his brain completely, ’twas a flesh-and-blood woman who dropped to her knees at Will’s side and leaned down to touch his face. “Rest easy, sir, and let us help you,” she murmured as she shifted and reached down beside him. Before Will could reply or give in to the urge to resist, she slid his sword from his grasp and handed it to a man behind her.

Disarmed by a woman again! Will’s confusion mounted as his vision began to fade. Her long, disheveled braid brushed over his face, teasing his senses with the scent of flowers. Unfamiliar, but clearly a woman—not Gillian, however.

But who was she? He squinted up at her, but her features blurred in the uneven light. His strength gone, his arm collapsed beneath him. His head hit the ground, and he knew no more.

“Hellfire, he’s swooned.” Lady Julianna d’Arcy grabbed hold of the fallen man’s mail-clad arm—caught beneath him when he collapsed—and shifted it to rest at his side. Her touch gentle, she brushed his hair away from his brow with a frown. Blood welled under her fingers and ran down his face; more dark streaks of it oozed sluggishly from his neck and arm.

He clearly needed more help than she could give him here. She grabbed the hem of her surcoat and sliced away two strips of fabric with the long dagger lying beside him on the road. “Rolf, come help me bind his wounds, then you and Bart may move him.”

Bart knelt on the far side of the victim and carefully raised the man so she could wind the material round his brow while Rolf tended to his throat. “Move him where, milady?” Bart asked.

She knotted the linen and used the end of it to blot away the worst of the blood besmirching the man’s face. “Back to Tuck’s Tower, of course.” Clambering to her feet, she took up the dagger and thrust it into her boot top, next to her own.

“Bring a stranger within our walls, milady?” Bart protested as he rose.

“He’s no danger to anyone in his present condition,” Julianna pointed out tartly. By the saints, would he ever cease to look upon her as a child? Her father had been gone for nigh on a year now, her mother slightly more, yet unlike most of her people, Bart continued to quietly challenge her authority to rule her lands, treating her instead as the cherished young lady of Tuck’s Tower.

Something she’d never sought to be—and had certainly never been.

Rolf, waiting patiently near the injured man’s head, motioned for Bart to help lift him, but her father’s old retainer ignored him and moved closer to Julianna. “What of later, Lady Julianna?” he asked low-voiced. “Once he’s healed? What will you do then, if he turns out to be dangerous?”

“You dare to question me, Bart—to question me here, now?” Though she kept her tone as restrained as Bart’s, she made certain he could not mistake her displeasure. “Make no mistake, we shall discuss this later.” Biting back a snarl of frustration, Julianna spun away and bent to grasp the victim’s feet. She nodded to Rolf and they lifted the man. “Now is hardly the time,” she added. “At this point, the poor fool’s more like to die here in the road.”

Though ’twas a struggle for her—the fellow was tall and solidly built—she didn’t permit herself so much as a grunt of discomfort as they carried him to her mount.

“I’ll take him with me,” she said, gratefully shifting her burden to a glowering Bart and climbing unassisted onto her mount.

It took three men, grumbling and complaining, to support the fellow and shift him into the saddle before her. Biting back a few curses of her own, Julianna fitted her arms about him to hold him more securely. His tall, lean body fit snug against her, his back to her front, making her all too aware of his muscled physique even through the layers of mail separating them.

She eased her hold a bit, making him groan and shift in her grasp and his empty scabbard bump against her leg. Tightening her hold again, she glanced about, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sword. If he survived, he’d not thank her for leaving the weapon behind in the forest.

And if he did not, ’twould be another blade to add to her own ever-dwindling arsenal. Though the thought made her feel like a grave robber, of late she’d reached the point where she could not afford to be too particular. As long as she wasn’t forced to turn outlaw…

“Rolf, find his sword and anything else that looks like it belongs to him,” she ordered. “His horse, as well, if it hasn’t run off. God willing, he’ll have need of them someday soon.”

Wheeling her mount, she led her troop along the moon-shadowed trail, doing her best to ignore the intriguing feel of the man’s weight pressing her into the saddle. She glanced down at the stranger’s face, at the strength no amount of blood and bruising could hide.

And prayed she’d not have cause to regret this night’s work.




Chapter Two


The torches along the walls of Tuck’s Tower glowed in the distance, a welcome greeting that lent Julianna the strength to hold on to the man slumped in her arms a bit longer. Never had the road from the forest to the keep seemed so long, nor her own resources so puny. She’d worked hard to perfect the ability to suppress any signs of exhaustion or weakness, yet this unknown man threatened to expose the woman she tried to hide beneath her mannish ways.

The weight of him, his muscled body nested against her, felt foreign in a deliciously intriguing way, making her aware of how different her own body was from his. Tall and lean, male. The scent of leather and armor, the subtle brush of his whiskered cheek against her neck…. That simple contact heightened her senses until her mind and body fair reeled from the overwhelming enticement of sound, scent and touch.

But the tide of heat that passed through her owed as much to embarrassment as to feminine awareness. To feel such things for a man nigh lifeless in her arms! What was wrong with her? Had she grown so desperate in her self-imposed chastity?

She shook her head in disgust. ’Twas an easy thing to live a chaste life when not faced with temptation. The good Lord knew she’d never before been tempted by any man at Tuck’s Tower.

Or elsewhere.

’Twas a good thing she had not, she thought wryly as she rode beneath the raised portcullis and nudged her mount toward the stables. For if she were to give herself to a man, she suspected her fragile and treasured authority over Tuck’s Tower and all who dwelled within its walls would come to an end.

And that, she would never allow to happen—not while she had breath in her body, and the support of her doting and powerful uncle—her overlord—behind her.

She’d willingly sacrifice herself for Tuck’s Tower, if need be.

Two of her men approached and eased the wounded man from her grasp, though she feared she’d not free herself of the feelings he’d engendered within her so readily. But she’d work to do it now, to settle the man and treat his injuries. For the sooner he recovered and left Tuck’s Tower, the less opportunity for her to do something she might regret.

Despite the late hour and her own state of exhaustion, Julianna took charge of seeing to her unexpected guest. The fact that outsiders seldom passed through their gates had made some of her people suspicious of every stranger, while others—mostly those too young to realize the threat a stranger could pose—would welcome anyone to Tuck’s Tower without a thought of caution. Julianna, however, had been taught vigilance nigh from the cradle; she would protect her own until time and experience allowed her to do otherwise.

They carried the man to a small chamber adjoining hers—a room equipped with stout doors that could be locked—and laid him upon a straw pallet on the floor. After she’d given them several low-voiced commands, the men-at-arms left.

Biting back a sigh of exhaustion, Julianna entered her chamber and collected the night candle from beside her bed, kindled it and returned to the storeroom to set the tall iron stand next to her patient. The thick taper cast its brightness too high to be of much use, although it gave her a clear enough look at him to see that the disheveled hair hanging to his shoulders, where not matted with blood, was dark blond.

Bending over him, she adjusted the makeshift bandage wound tightly about his brow. “You are a handsome one,” she murmured, then shook her head in disgust at her weakness. “Though that matters not a whit.”

She went back to her room to collect more candles and water. “Who are you?” she mused. “And what were you doing in Sherwood on foot, all alone?”

If he survived his injuries, she’d learn those answers as soon as he could speak, for she scarce dared trust anyone anymore, even those she knew. Strangers—especially well-armed strangers—posed far too great a risk. She refused to permit anyone or anything to threaten her tenuous control over Tuck’s Tower, for she dared not risk losing all she held dear.

However, of late her nerves and resources had been stretched to the limit. If her uncle knew about the recent chaos and suspicious events in the area, he might decide to remove control of Tuck’s Tower from her hands, make it but another minor holding in his succession of manors and keeps spread about the land. He might also decide to carry her off to court or to live with him and his family—to live a noble lady’s life, to be wed to a stranger, to be forced to live someplace far from her home.

The ewer, which should have been full, stood nigh empty, and the candle stubs in the holder from the table were too short to be of use. Another example of recent events; with most of the servants pressed into service for defense and other tasks, many of the usual household chores had fallen by the wayside. She poured the dregs from the pitcher onto a washrag, then stuck her head out into the narrow corridor and shouted for someone to bring more candles, hot water, her box of simples and a maid skilled in healing.

Unwilling to leave her patient alone any longer, she snatched a branch of candles from the table by the hearth, pausing at the sound of heavy footsteps outside the chamber.

“My lady.” Rolf stood in the doorway, her basket of medicines clutched to his brawny chest. “Thought you might need me for something.”

“Aye.” She set aside the cloth and candles from her chamber, arranging them on the floor alongside the pallet. “Help me out of this armor, if you would.” She’d a long night ahead of her, with naught but her own will to overcome her exhaustion. Though the mail hauberk and leggings allowed her to move freely, they weighed heavy upon her after a day’s wear, and they made kneeling for any length of time uncomfortable.

She bent at the waist and gave a groan of relief as Rolf assisted her in drawing the hauberk over her head. She left the armor where it fell and turned away to tug off her boots, then unbuckled the straps at the waist of the mail leggings and slid them off. Her padded undertunic and linen leggings, uncomfortably damp with sweat, clung to her skin, but she would wait until after she took care of her guest—her prisoner?—to change out of them.

Stretching and rolling her shoulders did little to ease the tension holding her within its grip, but her own discomfort mattered little compared to her unknown patient’s wounds. Instead, she pulled off her undertunic and tugged her shirttail loose, rolled up her sleeves and, taking up the candles, lighted them to brighten the small chamber.

Dropping to her knees beside the pallet, she motioned for Rolf to help her remove the stranger’s blood-stained armor. ’Twas much more difficult to free him from his mail than it had been for her to slip out of her own, since he could not stand or help in any way. His wounds made the task nigh impossible. By the time they’d stripped him to his undertunic and braes, while trying to protect his injuries and the makeshift bandages covering them, Julianna was drenched with sweat and felt as though she’d just wrestled an ox into submission.

Blotting her forehead on her sleeve, she settled down beside the still-unconscious man, wincing as her leggings caught on the rough floor boards. She yanked out the large splinter jabbing her backside and muttered a curse, though she wished she could howl out her pain and frustration instead. She was hungry, weary and sore—none of which was likely to change for the better anytime soon—and the servants and supplies she’d called for were nowhere in sight.

Shifting to a more comfortable position, Julianna took up a cloth and wet it, dabbing at the blood covering the man’s brow. He immediately began to shift about and moan. Had she been too rough? Mayhap she was not the best person to care for him. She laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him and glanced up at Rolf. “Go get Mary—” A sound outside the door made her pause, but ’twas only two maidservants with the water and candles she’d requested. Julianna sat back on her heels and swiped her sleeve absently over her damp face yet again while the girls carried in a bucket, a basin and two short, fat candles. “Bring her to me at once.”

“Aye, milady.” Rolf followed the servants to the door, pausing when Julianna called his name.

“Look in the barracks first,” she told him, not bothering to disguise her displeasure. “If you find her there, I want to know about it. I cannot have her stirring the men to fight each other over her favors yet again. If they’re foolish enough to do so, ’twould normally be their business, but we cannot spare anyone at the moment. Our safety is far more important than their lust.”

Though Rolf’s expression didn’t change, Julianna could see from the look in his eyes that he’d keep Mary away from the barracks one way or another. At this point, she thought wearily, she didn’t much care how he did it. If they hadn’t needed Mary’s skills as a healer, Julianna would have sent the round-heeled wench on her way long since.

“Don’t you worry none, milady. I’ll see to it.” He nodded respectfully and left.

The door had no sooner closed behind Rolf than her patient began to stir. Eyes open wide, he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused and his face twisted into a grimace of pain. “Poor man,” Julianna murmured. “I’ll give you a draught to ease you soon.” She bent over him, smoothing her hand over his brow and shifting sweat-and blood-matted hair away from the large bump above his temple. A bit lower and he’d likely have died from the blow. She could do little to treat that injury save clean it, but she’d do what she could for the others.

She drew her hand down his cheek and along his jaw in a soothing caress, frowning as her callused fingers scraped against his whiskers. ’Twas not a lady’s smooth hand, she reminded herself, but ’twas competent enough to save him, whether it be with sword or simples.

And if she were to care for his wounds, it seemed she’d have to do so without any other help. Giving his face one last stroke, she shifted to get to her feet, then let out a shriek when he clamped his hand hard about her wrist.

“What—” His voice, barely audible despite her nearness, faded away. Licking at his lips, he tugged on her arm and drew Julianna closer. He drew a deep breath and squinted up at her, his blue eyes intense. “What is this place? Is it Birkland?”

Julianna covered his hand and loosened his hold on her wrist, her mind awhirl. Birkland. Could he be one of Richard’s men? There was nothing familiar about him or his garb, but she’d heard rumors that Richard had hired mercenaries to shore up Birkland’s defenses and help him in his quest for power.

By the Virgin, had she brought an enemy within their walls?

His fingers relaxed within her grasp and, moaning, he closed his eyes and slumped onto the pallet. She laid his hand on his chest and sat back on her heels. Enemy or not, he posed no threat at the moment, nor would he in the future, she vowed, for she’d keep him under close guard at all times.

For now, however, she’d more work ahead of her, for she could wait no longer for Mary to arrive. No doubt the wench was the worse for drink again, and would be no use to anyone. Deciding to deal with her later, Julianna poured water into the basin, then reached for her basket of simples.

Shifting the candles for better light, she cast the man one last look. Please don’t be an enemy, she pleaded silently, though she knew in her heart that it mattered not a whit whether he was friend or foe. Now that she’d held him close within her arms, felt the warmth and weight of him against her skin, he’d become real to her—not some anonymous stranger she might wield her sword against in battle.

Her hands steady, she stared at his motionless face and said a swift prayer for guidance as she stripped off the first bandage and began to wash blood away from the wound.

She sent up another plea, as well—that her intuition had not misled her.

For no matter who this man might be, she could not let him die.

Julianna quietly closed the door to her chamber and slumped back against the well-worn planks with a sigh of bone-deep weariness. Though she’d had a brief chance to rest her body once she’d settled the wounded stranger in the chamber beside her own, her mind hadn’t allowed her a moment’s respite as it circled round and round the dilemma of his identity and his reason for being so near Tuck’s Tower.

Once Rolf had returned—bearing the news that Mary would be of no use to anyone this night, for she lay in the barracks in a drunken stupor—she’d asked him to watch over the man, for she’d duties aplenty yet to see to before she could return to her chambers.

Now that her tasks were done, she’d still have no chance to seek her bed before another day passed. She couldn’t ask poor Rolf to stay up the whole night, not when he’d been on guard duty at the gate all the night before with no rest in between. She needed her good fighters as alert and ready as possible.

As for herself, she’d managed on little sleep many times before. If her patient slumbered through the night, perhaps she could snatch a nap. If not, ’twas a sacrifice she’d gladly make, for to give of herself in any way she must was a part of her responsibility to Tuck’s Tower and its inhabitants. Despite the man’s injuries, she dared not leave him unguarded.

Before she sent Rolf away, however, she’d take a moment to avail herself of the basin of warm water awaiting her on the hearth and the clean garb hanging on a hook nearby.

Julianna pushed away from the door, set the bar across to lock it, and took up the night candle beside the bed, lighting the candles near the low fire before stripping off her sweat-stained shirt and braes. Stifling a yawn, she stretched her tired shoulders, wincing at the tightness she felt from the unaccustomed task of holding a man’s dead weight before her in the saddle. At least, praise the Virgin, he was not dead in truth.

Nor had she harmed him with her rudimentary treatment of his wounds, she hoped, sending another brief prayer heavenward.

She unwound the cloth binding her breasts and tossed aside the long strip of linen with a sigh of pure pleasure, for she’d not need to wear it again till the morn. Naked, she sank down on the drying cloth spread out on the hearthstones to let the fire’s warmth soak into her aching body and took up the small, precious piece of soap from beside the basin.

The clean scent of flowers made her smile, for as always, it brought her mother to mind. Whether dressed in a fine embroidered gown or her husband’s cast-off garments, Lady Marian d’Arcy had appeared a lady, and had always smelled of sweet summer blooms blended with spices from the East. She had mixed the scent herself. ’Twas as unique and precious as the woman who’d worn it, Julianna thought, and as unforgettable.

She regretted now that she’d not paid more attention when her mother sought to pass the skill on to her, for her supply of the soap and perfume was dwindling and she wasn’t sure she’d the knowledge—or the time, if truth be told—to replenish it. ’Twas a luxury she could live without, most likely, of a certainty less important than ensuring her troops were well-trained and the keep’s inhabitants fed and cared for.

She brought the soap to her nose and savored its fragrance once more before dipping it into the basin and rubbing it into the washrag. Though she nearly always dressed in men’s garb—indeed, she could scarce recall the last time she’d worn anything else—for now she’d take what womanly pleasure she could from the fruits of her mother’s ability by perfuming her body with the fragrance of flowers.

She closed her eyes and fought back tears as she imagined that the cloud of scent enveloping her came from her mother’s arms wrapped warm and tight about her. If only her mother were here with her now, to share her wise counsel about so many things! Instead, Julianna hummed a tune her mother often sang and sought comfort from her memories as she washed herself from head to toe, dressed and brushed out her hair.

The words of the song made her blush when she recalled them, for they told of a woman readying herself to meet her lover. The handsome blond stranger filled her thoughts until, with a moan of self-disgust, she pushed his unsettling image from her mind. The fact that there might be another reason altogether for her to take such care with her appearance made her blush all the more. ’Twas naught but a simple need to be clean and comfortable, she told herself, that had her bathing in the middle of the night; it had nothing to do with the man who lay sleeping but a short distance away.

The man she’d keep watch over for the rest of the night.

“Blessed Virgin, save me from myself,” she whispered, “for ’tis clear I’ve something wrong with me! Never before have I met a man who could make me doubt my own strength of will.” She tossed her loosened hair back over her shoulders. “I’d be a fool, indeed, to allow this stranger to tempt me in any way.”

Her determination fixed, she squared her shoulders, left her chamber and went to send Rolf off to bed.

Flickering candlelight and a low-voiced moan woke Julianna from a restless sleep. She forced her eyes open in time to see her patient attempting to sit up and nearly toppling a lighted branch of candles. Since she’d drifted off sitting propped against the wall, she shifted to her knees and caught him by the shoulders, clasping him against her as she rolled them away from the wavering flames. “Have a care,” she warned, “else you’ll set the place afire.” The words trailed to a whisper as they came to rest with him atop her, his weight pressing the air from her lungs.

He lay motionless atop her, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath gusting hard near her ear. He felt heavier than she’d imagined he’d be, his body relaxed upon hers, his muscular frame molded against her as though they were meant to fit together. She couldn’t tell if he’d swooned, or was simply unable to move, but either way she hesitated to push him off her, for she was sure ’twould cause him further harm.

Yet she dared not remain in this position, either, for it felt too good, too enticing…too likely to tempt her to foolishness. Fighting back the sensation, she tried to squirm out from under him, to no avail. He held her pinned fast to the floor—rough splintery oak beneath her, warm temptation above.

“Do I know you well enough for us to be doing this?” he whispered into Julianna’s hair, bringing her wriggling to a swift halt.

She stared up into his eyes, dark blue and surprisingly full of amusement, and tried to draw a deep breath to steady her suddenly racing pulse. Even if she’d had air enough to speak, she knew not what she’d have said, for he held her captive with both his body and his warm gaze.

Mesmerized, Julianna returned his stare and waited.




Chapter Three


Will sank down against the lissome woman who had, unfortunately, ceased her provocative movements beneath him, and buried his face in her hair while he gathered his strength. By the rood! The way his head throbbed and his stomach roiled, he must have fair climbed inside an ale barrel last night.

’Twas a shame he couldn’t remember anything, for his body was most pleased indeed by the woman beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and sought to settle himself. ’Twould not do to lose the battle and swoon—or worse—over his bedmate.

She didn’t have the feel of his usual choice—short, buxom and well-padded. She fit perfectly against him, though, nigh tall enough to reach his shoulder when they stood, he’d guess, and her body’s gentle curves all the more stimulating against him for the lack of excessive flesh. He nestled atop her with a sigh and rested his aching head on the soft mass of dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder. Ah, this was satisfaction indeed! Why had he never before realized the allure of a strong, slim woman?

He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.

The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.

A noble lady…

Christ on the Cross, what had he done?

Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.

She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.

’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.

Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.

She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.

She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.

Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….

With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.

What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.

He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.

“Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”

His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.

Challenging.

And she’d always loved a challenge.

A silent voice inside her brain warred with the soft, yearning part of her that wanted to inch closer to him, to tempt fate.

To tempt him.

Yet her good sense warned her to beware this intriguing man despite the way her senses fought to cease all thought—to feel, to react, to follow the instinctual draw of his body to her own.

Sound reasoning won out, and she gathered her hair in her hand to free it. “You need not call me anything at all,” she snarled.

Rather than release her, however, he wound her hair about his hand until his knuckles pressed against hers and she was forced to shift nearer to him else she’d fall. His breath whispered against her cheek, warm, distracting. “But I must,” he insisted, his voice low, rough, intimate. He gazed at her with undisguised heat. “Considering how close we’ve been.” He leaned closer still and brushed his lips over hers. “And are like to become.”

The insinuation coloring his voice—or was it the feel of his mouth upon hers?—sent a wave of heat through her body and a fiery flush to her cheeks. She mentally shook herself free of his spell and drew a deep breath. “That is most unlikely, sir, I assure you.” Heedless of whether or not she lost a hank of hair, Julianna wrapped her free hand about his to pry loose his fingers and jerked away from him, just as he released his hold. She fell sideways to the floor, barely avoiding the candle stand as she rolled clear, becoming tangled in her tousled cloud of hair in the process.

He slipped back against the wall with a thump.

“By the Virgin, you’re an insolent knave.” She thrust her hands through her hair, pushed it away from her face and scrambled to her feet, moving to stand over him. “I’ve a mind to send you down to the cellars to recover,” she added as she flung her hair back over her shoulder and bent to peer at him.

He didn’t groan this time, nor make any response at all to her threat. He lay slumped against the wall, his head lolled to the side and his face contorted with pain. The fury drained from her and she dropped to her knees beside him. A nudge at his shoulder produced no reaction from him, instead sending him sliding bonelessly toward the floor.

Catching hold of him, she bit back a curse and lowered him onto his pallet. He remained quiet, and he made no move to help or to resist her as she moved him into a more comfortable position.

Julianna shifted to sit beside him. “Dear God, have I killed him?” She touched the side of his neck and felt his lifeblood pulsing strong against her fingers. At least he still lived, though considering his treatment at her hands, ’twas a miracle. Perhaps he’d have fared better with the men who attacked him than he had with her, she thought with disgust.

What had possessed her? She was generally even-tempered and patient, able to weigh all sides of a situation, to listen and hold her temper in rein no matter the provocation. Yet her behavior toward this fascinating stranger was as foreign to her as he was, as though a different person altogether had suddenly inhabited her traitorous body. Her thoughts and actions felt so new, so odd, that she scarce recognized herself.

Enough of this maundering self-pity, she cautioned herself as she sat back on her heels and considered his still features in the flickering light. Easing her hand beneath his head, she sank her fingers into his thick, soft hair, satisfied when she felt no new bumps on his poor battered skull.

She checked his wounds to make certain they’d not begun to bleed again, eased him down onto his pallet, and adjusted his bandages before settling the damp compress on his brow. She drew a soft wool blanket over him and smoothed it into place with a sigh. There was naught more she could do for him now, save watch over him as he slept.

Julianna slid around and leaned her shoulder against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the bruise-marred symmetry of his face. Memories of the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingers, of his surprisingly soft lips brushing her own, would guarantee she’d get no rest herself this night.

’Twas just as well, for considering the blows to his head—several of which she’d caused by her own carelessness—she’d best keep watch over him to ensure he’d suffered no additional harm. She might as well enjoy the wakeful hours by reliving the brief contact they’d shared, for she doubted ’twould be an experience she’d ever know again.

Will woke alone the next time. Given what he thought he remembered from before—if it wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t sure whether that fact pleased him or not. He’d be happy to welcome the sweet-smelling siren he’d cradled upon his aching body once again, though he could certainly live without another battering by the anger-filled harpy she’d become.

He opened one eyelid with care, grateful he’d been cautious when the faint light seeping through the open shutters filled his head with a searing pain. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let his other senses explore the chamber, seeking a sound, a scent, the feel of another person nearby.

Seeking her.

He quieted his breathing and waited. He could sense no one else. Best to use the time to inventory his aches and injuries while he had the chance.

He felt battered enough to hurt even while at rest, of a certainty, but not so incapacitated as to keep him from fighting should he need to. His head felt nigh ready to fall off, but he’d suffered that same sensation once or twice after a night of hard drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.

Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.

Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.

Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.

Or with her temper.

He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, but his skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.

He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.

Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.

The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.

Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.

She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.

Will waited as long as his patience could bear to ease his eyes open. Better prepared for the sensation of light on his aching eyes, he forced himself to turn his head to his left, where he’d heard her go.

Pain forgotten, he surged to his knees at the sight that met his gaze.

The woman stood nearby, the message pack he’d worn slung over his shoulder open in one hand, the bundle of Lord Rannulf’s messages from within the leather bag clutched under her arm. Even as he struggled to his feet, she muttered a curse and carelessly stuffed the letters back into the pack.

Except for one. Before he could stop her, she’d cracked the wax seal on the parchment square and shook it open. The color fled her face and her words grew louder and more foul.

By the rood, what if she’d opened the message from Rannulf to Pembroke and the king? Though he was unaware of the contents, of a surety ’twas nothing for her eyes.

Will gathered himself and lunged toward her. They fell back against the wall, the bag at their feet. “What do you think you’re doing? Put that down, you meddlesome wench—now!” he cried as he reached for the parchment she still held clutched tight in her hand. “Have you no respect for another’s privacy?” She jerked away and he caught her by the arm.

She fought against his hold, a fury cloaked in long brown hair and an anger he could feel in her shaking body. “Meddlesome, am I?” she snarled back he pressed her against the wall. “Traitor!”

The letter caught between them, they stared at each other.

Breath held tight in his chest, Will waited.




Chapter Four


Birkland Manor, Nottinghamshire

Sir Richard Belleville ignored the usual filth and noisy disorder that engulfed the bailey and made his way to the stable by a roundabout route guaranteed to afford him privacy. His irritation rose; the fact that he must skulk like a thief from one place to another in what was essentially his own keep grated mightily on his already-short temper.

Damn Rannulf FitzClifford anyway! Birkland was but a small part of the territory FitzClifford held for both himself and his wife. ’Twas a wonder he should recall ’twas his to command. But remember it he did, far too often for Richard’s peace of mind. The steadfast nobleman and his well-connected friends made Richard’s life a constant battle, as he sought to balance the commands and desires of Birkland’s owner against his own more profitable aspirations.

How could a man of wealth and power such as Lord Rannulf maintain his allegiance to a boy king, rather than take full advantage of the opportunity provided to put a true leader—one who would reward his friends well—in his place? The fact that Lord William Marshal, the vaunted Earl of Pembroke, stood as regent and advisor to young King Henry made little difference, so far as Richard could see. Pah, the man was ancient, a long way past his prime.

What did it matter that he’d been the most notable warrior in all England once, when that time had been decades ago? He was so old, ’twould be a miracle if he recognized his own vassals now. ’Twas a mystery why anyone would swear fealty to such a man and remain loyal to him and their weak king—and a misery for Richard, since his own loyalty rested wherever he could find the best prospect for personal gain.

And now to have one of FitzClifford’s lackeys nosing about…Generally Lord Rannulf sent orders by way of a messenger, not a trusted knight from his personal troop. Sir William Bowman had been a part of Lord Rannulf’s inner circle since before he’d won his spurs.

Something must have made FitzClifford suspicious about where Richard’s allegiance lay. What other reason could Bowman have had to break his journey at Birkland? To deliver a message from Lord Rannulf that said next to nothing, while affording Bowman the opportunity to pry into Richard’s affairs? It seemed impossible that word of his activities could have reached Fitz-Clifford, who dwelt in one of the most remote parts of the kingdom—and so swiftly, too—but he could think of no other reason for Bowman’s visit.

If the truth of Richard’s involvement in the plans to overthrow the young king came to light, the best he could hope for would be a swift death. No matter that he saw no sin in working to aid those with some power to gain it all; others would see his actions as treason.

He’d simply have to make certain he remained on the side that won.

He strode into the shadowy depths of the stable, shuddering at the sudden chill that skittered down his spine. The darkness brought to mind the torture, maiming and worse that had haunted his dreams in the two nights since Bowman had arrived at Birkland. A traitor’s reward—or the fears of a guilty man, mayhap—but also a powerful spur to goad him toward the successful completion of his plans.

Escorting Bowman on his way—into the maze-like depths of Sherwood, Richard reflected, giving a satisfied chuckle—had been a masterstroke. The man had even thanked him for his consideration! If the man found his way out of the wood, ’twould certainly delay his journey.

If he survived…

Yet Richard couldn’t quite rid himself of the sensation that he had an arrow aimed at his back as he stood on the battlements, poised and ready to help him lose his balance and propel to his doom.

Although he’d sent two of his own trusted men after Bowman later, to do whatever necessary to ensure that the man never left the infamous forest, his uneasiness had yet to diminish.

Perhaps the fact that he had heard nothing from the pair of worthless idiots since they’d gone out after Bowman accounted for his continuing apprehension.

He’d taken care of every detail, he was sure of it. He couldn’t hide the fact that Bowman had entered Birkland—unfortunately too many people had seen and spoken with him for that—but Richard stood ready, if necessary, to swear Bowman hadn’t delivered any messages from Lord Rannulf to him.

In the event Bowman’s effects should survive though he did not, the message from Lord Rannulf, slipped back into the pack while Bowman slept, had been resealed with wax so neatly, anyone examining the contents of Bowman’s pack would never realize it had already been opened.

If anyone should come looking for Bowman, Richard would claim he’d never read Fitz-Clifford’s missive before Bowman left Birkland. It should work; his ability to feign innocence had served him well all his life. He’d no reason to believe the skill would abandon him now.

After all, ’twas possible Bowman had forgotten to deliver the letter, was it not?

’Twas a shame he hadn’t dared to relieve Bowman of the other messages he’d carried. He’d like to have gotten his hands on them, since Bowman had been on his way to Pembroke’s camp at Lincoln. There was no telling what important missive he might have brought; perhaps something useful to Richard’s plans, or his associates’ goals. What a feat ’twould be if he could gain possession of important information to pass along to the leaders of their rebellion!

If his men had not only stopped Bowman, but brought back his pack…Hell, he cared little if they didn’t stop Bowman, if only they’d stolen the letters.

Straw rustled deep in the far corner of the large building, distracting Richard from his musings. “There ye are, milord.” Johan spoke from the gloom. “I been waitin’ for ye a long time. Beginnin’ to think ye mightn’t o’got my message.”

His eyes still adjusting to the dim light, Richard crossed to where the leader of his small, private troop of mercenaries leaned against the door of a narrow stall tucked behind the hay crib. As always, insolence lent the man’s pox-scarred face a leering appearance that made Richard wonder how far Johan could be trusted.

Thus far he’d obeyed Richard’s directives. He’d proven he could be relied upon—indeed, that he was highly skilled—in carrying out any task, including murder, abduction and questioning obstinate prisoners. So long as his price was met. Richard had had no cause for complaint.

Thus far.

“Your message said you’d something important to show me, something to do with Bowman,” he said, low-voiced. “I didn’t intend to await you in the bailey to see it, along with everyone else out there.” He peered into the stall, then spun round to Johan and, using both hands, hauled him up by the front of his tunic and shook him. “You lack-wit,” he ground out. “You called me to the stable to see a horse?”

Johan’s feet skimmed the dirt floor; he grabbed hold of Richard’s hands, wrenched them from his tunic and thrust them away from him. He stumbled, caught his balance and lunged back into Richard’s face. “Ye better watch yerself, milord,” he snarled. “Don’t want to push me too far. Could be my price’ll go up, to account for yer ill manners. Or mayhap I’ll find me another master, one who’ll treat me better.” He jerked his tunic and belt into position, his right hand lingering on the long dirk sheathed at his waist. “Then where’d ye be, eh, milord Richard?” Johan’s ugly face twisted into a sneer. “You’d not find another could take the place o’ me so easy.”

His foul breath gusted over Richard’s face, nigh strong enough to overpower the usual stable stench. Muttering a curse at the unfortunate truth of Johan’s threat, Richard turned away and stared into the stall again.

“Tell me about this horse,” Richard demanded. He unlatched the door and entered the stall to take a closer look at the sturdy black gelding. “’Tis a fine enough animal, but I see nothing remarkable about it.”

Johan leaned against the doorframe and nodded. “Aye. It ain’t nothin’ special, ’cept when ye know who it belongs to.” He grinned. “Or belonged to, mayhap. This be Sir William’s mount, milord, what he rode into the wood. We found no sign o’ Bowman, but his horse, still wearin’ his saddle and all his gear, we found wanderin’ out near the border wi’ the Tower.”

“Christ’s bones!” Richard slammed his hand against the wall. The pain provided an adequate substitute for the urge to roar his frustration. “What about the men I sent after Bowman? Why didn’t they have the beast? And Bowman’s body, for that matter.” He took a calming breath. “I don’t imagine you found any signs of a struggle, something to show they found him, at least?”

“No one’s seen ’em since they set out after him yesterday afternoon.” Johan shrugged. “Could Bowman have killed ’em, d’ye think?” he added, his repulsive features slanting into a curious smile. “If he had, we’d ha’ found ’em out there, most like. I’d wonder if they took their pay and run off, ’cept they only got a part o’ it.” He slipped his knife free, used the point to pick at his teeth and spat. “Besides, they know what I’d do to ’em if I caught ’em at that.” He sheathed the dirk. “It’s bad for business.”

Calmer now, Richard reached out and stroked the gelding. The beast shied away, nearly crushing Johan against the doorframe before he could leap aside. “Nasty bastard, he is,” Johan muttered from a safe distance away. “He gave us nothin’ but trouble most o’ the way back here. Miserable bastard! Never did care much for horses.” He turned and dug through the hay piled near the stall and dragged out a saddle and several packs. “Here’s all we found,” he said.

Ignoring the saddle, Richard grabbed the packs and began to paw through them. Naught but clothing and some supplies…Not a sign of what he sought, however. Disgusted, he shoved the packs aside. “Was there a small leather pouch tied to the saddle? About so big—” he gestured with his hands “—with a strap long enough to sling it over your shoulder.”

Johan shook his head. “This is everythin’. Maybe Bowman was wearin’ it, or dropped it someplace.”

“Then we need Bowman. Send someone out into the forest again, and tell them to look more carefully this time! Sherwood’s got hiding places aplenty—far too many for there to have been a thorough search so soon.” He knelt beside the packs and rummaged through the contents once more. Nothing! He stuffed everything back inside them and held them out to Johan. “Take these with you—the horse, too. I don’t want anyone asking questions about Bowman. ’Tis best if it looks as if he disappeared far from here, so no one suspects we had anything to do with it.”

Richard stood. “Keep looking.” Turning, he began to walk away, then paused and looked back, giving the mercenary his most menacing glare. “The next time I see you, you’d better have something valuable for me.”




Chapter Five


Julianna kept tight hold of the missive she’d found in her patient’s pack, despite his unyielding grip on her fingers and the way his body pinned hers to the rough plaster wall. He might be bigger and stronger than she, but from the way he trembled and rested his weight against her—as much for support, she’d guess, as to hold her in place—she’d only to remain patient and wait a bit before she won this battle.

Before she could read the rest of the letter addressed to her enemy.

His warmth sank through her clothing and into her flesh, tempting her traitorous body anew and reminding her what a fool she’d been. To trust a stranger for even a moment, to lust for a stranger’s touch, when she knew naught of whether he be ally or foe.

Dear God, she must be mad!

The sense of betrayal gave her the determination to slip from beneath his weight. He tightened his grasp, however, his hand fisted around hers, the parchment crumpling within her hold as he spun her around to face him.

“Have a care who you call traitor, milady,” he warned, bending so close to her, his whiskers scraped along her jaw. “Else I’ll be forced to judge you traitor instead.” A swift glance at his face showed no weakness now, only a steady resolve she’d do well to heed. Though his blue eyes burned with fever and pain, she couldn’t mistake the outrage lurking there. Had she insulted him? Could it be that he was no more a traitor than she?

Or mayhap he was simply better at disguising his true nature.

She pushed away from him, making him reel for a moment before he caught his balance against the wall. He retained his grip on her hand, however, maddening her all the more. “With what reason?” she asked. “I am a true and loyal subject of our king—”

“Are you?” he ground out, straightening to his full height and taking a step toward her. “I know nothing of you, lady—not so much as who you are, or the name of this place.”

“Tuck’s Tower,” she told him with hard-won calm. “Do you know of it?”

He shook his head. Then, his lips twisting into a mocking smile at odds with the steel in his gaze, he tugged her nearer. “But who are you? A lady dressed in warrior’s garb…I’ve only known of one other woman who would do so. ’Tis uncommon, you must admit—rare enough to raise questions in a curious man’s mind. Do you command the defense of Tuck’s Tower, milady?” With his free hand he cupped her chin, then slid his fingers down along her neck and over her shoulder before stopping, his open palm pressed lightly just above her breast. “’Tis a puzzle certain to entice a man,” he murmured. “Or could it be you’re simply a siren, meant to lure a man to your bed and render him your slave?”

The low timbre of his voice sent a shiver of awareness down her spine and made her heartbeat thrum faster beneath his hand—he found her alluring?—before the insult of his words and bold caress made its way to her poor besotted brain. He mocked her, more likely.

Though it took all her resolve, she reached up and yanked his hand away. “Hardly a siren,” she scoffed with a mirthless laugh. “Nor a puzzle, either. I am simply a woman, though one with no wiles to tempt a man. I scarce appear a woman at all.” She grabbed the loose-fitting tail of her shirt and held it out. “A man’s garb, stout armor and a strong sword are hardly the weapons of enticement, though they serve me well enough.”

“Aye, they suit you well indeed, milady,” he said, his gaze roaming along her from head to toe, lingering upon her legs in their snug braes before rising to her face and pinning her fast within the heated blue of his eyes. Sudden awareness hardened his features; he shook his head and glanced away for a moment. When he turned back to her, his expression pensive, he added, “Mayhap you’re naught but an outlaw or a robber, then, setting upon any hapless traveler who passes your way. This is Sherwood Forest, after all.”

How dare he accuse her? “The blow to your head has clearly scrambled your brain. I saved your worthless life, you idiot! Is that the act of a robber?” she demanded.

Throughout their discourse he’d retained his hold on her hand and the parchment she’d found in his pack—a fact she had scarce noted till now, to her shame—but her fury made her aware of it, and gave her the impetus to jerk herself free.

It infuriated her all the more that he let her.

“You’ll find no outlaws here—” She clamped her mouth shut, afraid her temper might lead her into dangerous waters. She drew in a calming breath. “Nor traitors, either.”

Julianna wanted nothing more than to pound out her anger and frustration upon his chest, but she greatly feared that to touch him thus would do naught but beguile her to lay her hands on him in other, less aggressive ways.

Sweet Mary save her, had she lost all sense of self-preservation, of right and wrong? The man called her robber and traitor, and what did she do but seek to draw his attention to her in any way she could. She knew better.

She stepped away before her temper led her into worse foolishness, pausing an arm’s length away. ’Twould be better to ease the tension between them than to aggravate it further. Closing her eyes, she combed her hair back from her face with one hand and eased her grip on the parchment with the other. “Thus far we’ve managed to do nothing but provoke each other,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with a note of apology. “Surely we can be more civil than that—and resolve our differences, whatever they might be.”

“I’m willing if you are,” he said, his expression amused.

Did he doubt she was capable of civility? If so, he’d reason, she had to admit. She’d shown scant evidence of courtesy to him.

Though she did know the trappings of well-mannered behavior, she’d look a complete fool to curtsey in shirt and braes. He’d have to be satisfied with polite words, not actions.

She eased her crushing grip on the letter and lowered her hands to her sides. “I am Julianna d’Arcy,” she said, nodding. “I bid you welcome to Tuck’s Tower.”

“You are lady of this keep?”

A strange question, but asked in a most reasonable tone—mildly curious, not accusing or judgmental in any way. “Aye, and defender of it, as well.”

He nodded, then, taking her free hand in his, he swept a low bow. “Lady Julianna, I am William Bowman, a simple knight in the service of Lord Rannulf FitzClifford.” His gaze fixed upon hers, he raised her hand to his lips. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you,” he said, the words causing nigh as much effect as the feel of his fingers stroking her palm and his mouth upon her flesh.

Julianna nearly snatched her hand away before he straightened and released her, so intense was her reaction to the change in his voice. ’Twas all she could do to suppress the quiver skimming over her skin at the sound of it, to resist the urge to lean closer to him, to bask in the feel of that audible touch.

Oh, but he was a clever man! No doubt he used that low, caressing murmur as a weapon to manipulate women; he’d be a fool not to.

But he’d soon discover it had no effect upon her.

She’d see to that, she vowed, no matter how difficult it was to accomplish.

No matter how much it went counter to the inclination of her suddenly traitorous body.

She drew herself up to her full height, tried for an imperious bearing, met his gaze and gave a cool nod. “Now then, Sir William—”

“Will,” he said with an easy smile.

Did he think to cozen her with but a smile? She’d dealt with charming men before—aye, she knew any number of persuasive scoundrels. She also knew ’twas best to give them no chance to attempt to work their wiles upon her. It did naught but annoy her, though with Sir William, she feared her reaction would be anything but annoyance.

He’d not find her an easy target.

“Sir William, what were you doing wandering through Sherwood alone?” she asked.

Will held Lady Julianna’s gaze, silently pondering the sudden change in her bearing. Thus far in their brief acquaintance he’d seen her soft and yielding beneath him, and fierce as any warrior. But this serene woman, wearing the mantle of command so effortlessly on her shoulders, showed him another facet of her altogether—for despite the well-worn men’s garb she wore, he could never mistake her for anything but a noble lady.

He weighed the determination in her amber eyes, his mind—still awhirl from the battering he’d taken—pondering the best way to proceed. She still held one of Lord Rannulf’s letters clutched in her hand, and the leather pouch he’d carried them in lay on the floor behind her. Though ’twould be a pleasure indeed to take his time with her, he’d no business toying with a lady.

Nor did he have time to dally here; Lord Rannulf had set him a task, one he’d yet to complete. It was too important for him to let anything go awry.

Could he bargain with her for the letter? Or would she simply hand it over to him if he asked?

Her lips firmed; her expression, though weary, showed not a whit of compliance. Though she’d been civil, indeed, ’twas clear she’d not simply give in. His pulse quickened in anticipation.

He smiled, and Lady Julianna’s chin rose, her look of stubbornness growing more pronounced. Though he knew he’d have to work to regain his possessions, there was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the process. He’d always enjoyed a good fight, especially a verbal one.

And it appeared his warrior lady had every intention of enjoining him in battle.




Chapter Six


Will folded his arms and leaned his shoulders back against the wall, more to provoke Lady Julianna, truth be told, than because he needed the wall for support. “If I asked you most politely for my pack and the letters, would you give them to me and allow me to continue on my way?”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere at the moment, save back to your pallet,” she said, her tart tone a perfect accompaniment to the fire in her eyes and the faint tinge of color mounting her cheeks. “So I see no reason to return any of your belongings to you just yet.” She stooped to pick up the leather pouch from the floor, her dark hair swinging like a cloak about her and shielding him from her view.

Will took advantage of the moment to reach for the dagger he kept tucked in the top of his boot, only to realize that his feet were bare—though even if they’d left his boots on, they weren’t likely to have left a weapon so easily at hand.

Not that he’d have used it against her, in any case. But as a threat, if necessary…

Lady Julianna rose, shook her hair out of the way and faced him before he could disguise the movement as anything but what it had been. She tucked the parchment into the bag, closed the flap and swung the strap over her shoulder, giving the pouch a final pat that made the bundle of messages crackle.

Reaching down to her own boot, she slipped a dagger free. “Were you looking for this?” she asked. She straightened, tossing the dagger and catching it by the hilt with the ease of long practice. “It seems a fine piece,” she mused as she inspected the design etched into the blade. “Well-balanced, and well-used, too, from the look of it.”




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