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Redeeming The Rogue Knight
Elisabeth Hobbes


The spy who sought refuge…When injured spy Sir Roger Danby comes asking for shelter at her inn, Lucy Carew is wary. He may be strikingly handsome, but the disgraced single mother has learnt the hard way with men like him. Against her better judgement, she gives him refuge.Sir Roger has never been at the mercy of a woman before, and he’s never met one as mysterious and bewitching as Lucy. He hasn't come looking for redemption, but Lucy is a woman who could reach in and touch his closely guarded heart…







The spy who sought refuge...

When injured spy Sir Roger Danby comes asking for shelter at her inn, Lucy Carew is wary. He may be strikingly handsome, but the disgraced single mother has learned the hard way with men like him. Against her better judgement, she gives him refuge.

Sir Roger has never been at the mercy of a woman before, and he’s never met one as mysterious and bewitching as Lucy. He hasn’t come looking for redemption, but Lucy is a woman who could reach in and touch his closely guarded heart...


His eyes were soft and his lips slightly parted.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb as his fingers slipped behind her head, drawing her towards him. He was going to kiss her. And she intended to let him.

Roger’s mouth sought hers. Lucy tilted her head until it was within reach. His kiss was eager, his lips hungry for hers. The scent of him flooded her limbs…the taste of him made her grow weak. She gave herself over to the pleasure, allowing him to guide her in pace and pressure until her head spun.

Roger broke away first. He held her gaze in a moment of stillness. The world contained only them.

‘After I won I started thinking about my future—and yours. You don’t have to live the way you do. There is another way.’

He pushed a lock of hair behind Lucy’s ear in a gesture that was at once intimate yet proprietorial. He smiled.

‘I want you to become my mistress.’


Author Note (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

We first met Roger Danby in The Blacksmith’s Wife, which ended with the disreputable knight heading to York for one last tournament and then planning to go abroad, determined to make his fortune after realising too late the value of the woman he had spurned. His story was going to end there, but readers kept telling me that they wanted to know what had happened to him. I too became curious to see how this knight who had jousting ‘groupies’—to use a slightly anachronistic term—dropping at his feet coped when he didn’t have his flashy armour, his fine horse and his noble connections to tempt them.

Brewing was once a female task, with many women making a living as ale-wives, selling from their houses. When I wrote my undergraduate dissertation on ‘The Changing Role of Inns and Ale houses in English Rural Society’ I never suspected I would get to use the information for writing a book!

Lucy brews so frequently because back then beer and ale—there is a difference—did not last. An anonymous source from Saxon times wrote: ‘After two days only the bravest or silliest men of the village would drink the ale, but usually it was only fit for pigs.’ I planned to brew some myself, but decided against it—partly because I suspected I’d end up very drunk or very ill, and partly because an acquaintance told me I’d need a much bigger bucket!

As always, this story has a theme song. Roger chose ‘I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)’ by Meat Loaf.


Redeeming the Rogue Knight

Elisabeth Hobbes






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


ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.

Books by Elisabeth Hobbes

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Falling for Her Captor

A Wager for the Widow

The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

Linked by Character

The Blacksmith’s Wife

Redeeming the Rogue Knight

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


To Mark, housebreaker and hacksaw wielder for damsels in distress! I owe you a pint!


Contents

Cover (#u7673b848-c9fd-5824-b5a8-c4cde9d0b458)

Back Cover Text (#ua34c5af3-eb3a-56d0-945e-717412064b6d)

Introduction (#ube0e3ff8-ea4d-577b-bfcc-0836ce7438ad)

Author Note (#ua3eeca4a-9ac1-58ca-9241-139415a594fd)

Title Page (#u99bbecd4-2328-5b64-8264-f81eaf9b6a88)

About the Author (#u060aab73-33f5-5e5c-b896-cfeb8685109c)

Dedication (#ua0597b37-7aff-5699-8fea-8baa078448d5)

Chapter One (#uc8e94fd5-357b-5ecd-9b8b-66c1bb8ee6a6)

Chapter Two (#u73dee080-94fb-5537-a74a-284f6f158c8c)

Chapter Three (#ubf7faf0f-d5cd-5739-a441-609ef4b174ed)

Chapter Four (#u613b8acf-62c1-5f00-bcf2-1b30195fe120)

Chapter Five (#u6750434d-6f11-5eb8-8504-5c10342f58e2)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

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)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

‘Wake up, my lord! We have to leave!’

Urgent shouts infiltrated Roger Danby’s dreams, whirling him from the home of his childhood on the heather-covered moors to the battlefields of France. The carnage there came almost as a relief.

He’d been dreaming of Yorkshire again, as he had done nightly since returning to England: the endless, purple moors and deep valleys that he had not seen for almost four years. The people from his past were present, too, which invariably caused Roger’s dreams to darken. Even though he was somehow aware he was dreaming, his stomach twisted with loss. He wondered if they thought of him as often as he had thought of them and if his name was ever mentioned within the pink stone walls of his father’s house.

Someone was still calling his name and a dying archer was tugging at the neck of his cloak. He waved his arms to fend off the man, but the tugging continued. The shouts were not part of the dream and when he opened his eyes it was his squire, Thomas, looming over him, hands on Roger’s bare shoulder.

The young man’s eyes were wide and his hair was unkempt. Thomas had fought beside Roger in France so his presence on the battlefield in Roger’s dream was unsurprising, but it took a moment for Roger to shake his dream completely and return to the comfy bed in the manor house of a Derbyshire nobleman, so strange after months of straw pallets or bare ground.

‘My lord, please. We need to leave,’ Thomas repeated.

Dreaming of home always left Roger’s nerves as tightly strung as a bow. He glared up at Thomas in confusion and irritation from the feather mattress. Soft light peered around the edge of the tapestries covering the window. His breath made a cloud in the cold room.

‘Did I oversleep?’

‘No, it’s early.’

Roger threw himself back with a groan. They had stayed three nights with Lord Harpur at Bukestone and had planned to leave in the morning, but Roger had not intended to start so early. The maidservant who had been his companion the previous night rolled on to her side, still fast asleep. Her bare buttocks rubbed against Roger’s hip as she shifted her position and sent small throbs of pleasure through him. He reached for the wine flagon by his side, but found it empty.

‘It’s barely daybreak,’ he growled. ‘What’s the hurry?’

Thomas was already lurching around the small chamber, gathering possessions and stuffing them into his saddlebag. He threw Roger’s boots and cloak at the foot of the bed.

‘Lady Harpur decided to pay her daughter a visit early this morning,’ Thomas muttered. His face took on a pinched expression, his cheeks turning pale beneath his wispy beard. ‘She discovered Katherine was not alone in her room and hadn’t been all night.’

Roger swore. Katherine Harpur was a maid of sixteen with her mother’s fine, pale skin and her father’s dark curly hair. She was a fruit ripe for picking, but Roger had put the flirtation he’d seen pass between her and Thomas as nothing to concern himself about. Apparently he was wrong. He pushed himself from beneath the covers. The cold blast of air served to wake him fully, but even if the room had been comfortably warm his soldier’s instincts made him alert to the sudden danger they were both in.

‘You bloody young fool! Lord Harpur has every right to cut you down where you stand and I’ve half a mind to let him get on with it.’

Thomas’s round face twisted in panic and Roger was reminded of how young his companion was. Despite having survived the battlefields of Europe, the thought of death clearly terrified him. Thomas had not yet reached his nineteenth year and if he continued to act so recklessly would be unlikely to do so, Roger thought with the disdain that ten years’ seniority granted him. If Thomas was old enough to stick his staff into a willing woman, he was old enough to bear the consequences of unwise decisions.

‘How long ago were you discovered?’

‘I ran straight back here,’ Thomas said miserably. ‘Katherine was entreating her mother not to go straight to Lord Harpur, but I do not know how successful she will be.’

That bought them some time. If luck were on their side they would be gone from the house before the incensed father came searching for them.

‘I hid behind the door and slipped out before my face was seen. Lady Harpur might not know it was me.’

Thomas sounded hopeful. Roger turned away so Thomas did not see the irritation on his face. How many dark-haired visitors were staying in Lord Harpur’s house?

Two, he reminded himself, scratching at the beard that covered his own face. With luck, Katherine Harpur would confirm with which of the two men she had been indiscreet and Roger would not be put forward as a culprit. The urge to knock some sense into Thomas filled him, but recriminations and reprimands could wait for later. A quick departure was paramount. Their mission could not be jeopardised by something so trivial, not when it was Roger’s chance to make the fortune he craved.

He pulled on his linen braies, woollen breeches and tunic, casting a regretful glance at his own bed companion. He’d hoped for another tumble with her before they parted. Thomas deserved a clout around the head for that, if nothing else. Ah well, there would be another bed before long, and no doubt someone else to warm it. This way had the advantage of no tearful farewells from a girl who had hoped he would stay longer than he intended. Roger tossed a farthing on to the pillow where the girl would see it on waking. He tied his scrip with his last farthing and penny to his belt.

Thomas had gathered the leather bags containing all their possessions, including the fuller bag of money Roger had hidden rolled in his spare linens. Roger finished dressing rapidly in his thickly padded jerkin and travelling cloak and reached for his sword. He cast a final look around the room in case they had forgotten anything before leading the way to the kitchens where he knew there was a door that would be unguarded. Making friends with the maidservant was proving to have a benefit he had not anticipated and they were able to creep out without being spotted and make their way to the stables.

In silence, they wrapped sacking around their horses’ hooves and shouldered their saddles. The animals snickered in protest at the early start and Roger paused to run his hand across the rough winter coat of the chestnut courser. They led their mounts around the edge of the courtyard. Fortune was on their side as they passed through the gateway without notice.

They saddled the horses, stowed their bags and mounted. Their breath hung in the frosty morning air, but gathering clouds promised the day would be warmer and wet. The horses were not warmed through and to push them beyond a canter would do no good.

When they came to the fork in the road, Roger turned right.

‘This is the wrong direction, my lord. We came this way when we arrived.’

Suppressing his annoyance, Roger nodded. ‘Lord Harpur knows we are heading into Cheshire. If he decides to pursue us that’s where he will go, so we are going in the other direction. Now ride!’

They stopped when Roger’s stomach began to growl, dismounted and led their horses into the shelter of the trees. The rain had begun in earnest and the two men pulled their oiled wool cloaks around themselves for warmth.

As soon as they were settled Roger cuffed Thomas around the ear. The younger man yelped.

‘What did you think you were playing at?’ Roger demanded. ‘I know we’ve been out of civilised company for months—and perhaps in your case you have never been in it—but the general rule is if you’re going to bed one of the household, don’t pick the finest jewel of the lord’s treasure chest.’

‘We didn’t...make love.’ Thomas flushed scarlet. ‘We did nothing wrong. We only lay beside each other and talked through the night.’

Roger laughed. ‘You wasted your time and caused trouble for nothing! What’s a woman for besides swiving? If you’re going to risk getting your throat slit or your bollocks hacked off by an angry father, at least make sure you get your end away first.’

Thomas stuck his lower lip out sullenly. ‘Katherine and I are in love.’

Roger guffawed.

‘After three days in her company! Don’t fool yourself, lad. You may tell yourself—or better still the wench—that it’s love, but don’t confuse the twitch in your braies for the thump of your heart.’

Thomas flushed red. Roger leaned back against a tree and chewed his thumbnail, his anger subsiding now they were clear of Lord Harpur’s lands. He knew well the hot fire that riddled a man’s limbs and refused to be ignored, so his next words were spoken more gently.

‘Balance the pleasure gained with the trouble caused. I don’t blame you for responding to your pole, but you can’t let it rule you.’

Hypocrite, a small voice in his mind shouted. His own had led him into trouble often enough.

‘Not at the moment, when we’ve got work to do,’ he clarified. ‘Once we’ve delivered our message you can sard as many women as you like. You’ll be rich enough to pay for the best.’

‘And what if I don’t want to pay?’ Thomas mumbled. ‘What if I want to marry?’

Roger felt his jaw tighten. ‘Then hope the girl’s father thinks you’ve got enough in your pockets to warrant handing over his treasure and don’t leave it too long to decide she’s the one you want.’

‘Is that what you plan to do?’ Thomas asked.

Roger thought of Jane de Monsort, the woman he had briefly been betrothed to before her father decided Roger’s pockets were not full enough. Thanks to a stint in the newly formed Northern Company fighting as a mercenary, they were fuller now.

‘I have to marry eventually. I’ll find a dutiful, dull girl with good connections and a little wealth who can give me an heir to appease my father.’ He scratched his belly. ‘I can’t say it appeals.’

Thomas was silent, perhaps thinking of Katherine Harpur. Another face filled Roger’s memory, one that caused deeper pangs of regret even years after he had last seen her. He had been fond of Joanna, his brother’s wife, but had not realised quite how deeply until it had been too late. He concentrated on the pattern of raindrops falling into the puddles that were forming rather than let his mind drift back to the mistakes he had buried in his past.

‘Much better to stick to tavern wenches who will give you what you want in return for a ribbon or a kind word,’ he commented, to no one in particular.

‘Do you think Lord Harpur will send men to fight in France?’ Thomas asked.

Roger stretched out his legs, glad of something fresh to think of. He uncorked a wine flask and drank deeply.

‘We don’t get our bounty otherwise, but I don’t see why not. Leaving aside you seducing his daughter, he was interested in the thought of increasing his fortune. The peace won’t last forever, and a man prepared to fight is a man who will become rich.’

A man such as himself.

Roger drew his cloak tighter around him.

‘We’re going to stay here until the sun has passed overhead. Then we’ll head back the way we came.’

‘Past Lord Harpur’s house instead of the higher road to Mattonfield?’

The roads that bordered Lord Harpur’s estate gave it the shape of a triangle with sides of uneven length. To take the route Thomas suggested would mean they travelled on the longest side and over the steepest edge of the hill.

‘Yes. It would add more than a day to the journey if we took the other side of the hill.’

‘We’d be close to my home!’ Thomas said wistfully. ‘It’s a fine inn, the grandest on the road to Mattonfield, and my father would welcome us gladly.’

Roger considered the possible routes. There was hope in the lad’s voice, but Roger was damned if he was going to detour to allow Thomas to pay a call, however tempting a night at an inn sounded.

‘No. I want to be done here as quickly as possible.’ He stared moodily at the ground, Thomas’s mention of home raising an unwelcome thought. ‘I should visit my father before I return to France.’

Thomas looked startled by the dark tone his voice had taken on.

‘Don’t you want to see your family?’

Roger took another drink to delay answering the question that had troubled him since he stepped back on to English soil. Finally he spoke.

‘It’s been a long time. I parted angrily with my brother and I vowed not to return until I was rich and had proved myself. At least that is within my reach now. Let’s get some rest.’

He closed his eyes and settled back. The day had started far too rudely.

* * *

The weather had worsened into driving rain by afternoon. Iron clouds rolled across a steel sky as they climbed the hills into Cheshire. Early spring in England was truly appalling and Thomas looked more miserable with every twist of the road, glancing behind him and pulling his cloak forward to envelop him.

‘Of all the reasons that compel me to return to France, this weather might be the greatest,’ Roger called.

Thomas merely shivered and glanced around moodily. They passed the turning for Lord Harpur’s manor without encountering any hindrance and as they skirted round the far side of the densely forested hills Roger began to believe his plan had worked. Tension he had not known he was carrying began to melt from his shoulders and he slowed his horse to a walk, rolling his head around to ease the knots.

It was probably this slowing that saved their lives, because as they reached the brow of the hill Thomas gave a cry of alarm. The road ahead curved downward, then sharply snaked left around a pool. Just beyond the bend three riders were waiting. If Roger and Thomas had ridden a few paces further the men would have been hidden from view until they rode straight into them.

The men could have been ordinary travellers, but they lingered at the edge of the road in a manner suggesting they were planning trouble.

‘I think we’ve been found,’ Roger muttered.

Thomas let out a moan. ‘Lord Harpur’s men?’

‘Probably,’ Roger muttered. That was the simplest answer and the most welcome. The suspicion they might have been followed from France by men intent on preventing him completing his commission for the King had crossed his mind once or twice since setting foot back in England. Roger felt for his sword, wishing he had a lance to hand. He’d ended more lives with his preferred weapon than he cared to count.

‘We can’t fight them,’ Thomas whimpered.

He was right. Three men against two was not good odds. Roger stared around him. The road was crossing the highest point as it circumnavigated the forest and night would soon be upon them. Taking the easier road had been a mistake after all. In the distance beyond the forest, Roger could see lights coming from different villages and a large cluster that must be the town where both roads joined.

‘We’ll cut through the forest and try to reach the other road,’ Roger decided, wishing he had taken that route in the first place. Cross-country in the near darkness was risky, but better than riding straight into trouble. ‘If we can reach one of those settlements, we may be able to hide.’

A shout echoed in the silence of the hills. One of the prospective ambushers pointed towards them. Roger cursed his stupidity. He’d been so intent on watching the men ahead he had given no thought to their own visibility; on the hilltop they would have been in clear view. Already the horsemen were riding towards them.

Roger plunged through the trees away from the path. Thomas followed. They rode fast into the darkness, pushing their horses as hard as the forest would allow. For the first time since returning to England, Roger was thankful it was early spring. A few months more and the undergrowth would have grown up, making it impossible to ride quickly.

A quick glance behind reassured Roger they had not been followed, but he had not accounted for being intercepted ahead. One horseman appeared seemingly from nowhere to their right. His head was down and he rode directly at them, his cloak obscuring his face.

Roger swung around in the saddle, reaching for his sword, but before he could draw it something punched him in the back of his right shoulder, sharp and cold and forcing the breath from him. He had been stabbed in the leg once during a brawl over a whore in a French inn and the sensation was familiar. There was no real pain yet, but he knew from experience that would follow shortly. He looked down to discover the barb of an arrow protruding from below his collarbone close to his armpit.

Arrows! Roger hadn’t anticipated that! He gave a laugh that ended as a grunt as pain began to spread through him like ripples across a pond when a rock was hurled into the depths.

They were in real danger now. The bowman was fumbling behind in his quiver, but on horseback and amongst trees he was struggling.

‘Give me your sword,’ Roger barked at Thomas.

The boy passed his weapon, but the strength was already going from Roger’s arm. He took the sword in his left hand and wheeled around, slashing behind him blindly. He felt the sword make contact. The bowman gave an unearthly, wordless gurgle. Roger looked and saw to his disgust that he had caught the rider full in the throat. The man fell forward over the horse’s neck. Roger retched and leaned across to slap the horse with the flat of the blade. It whinnied in fear and pain and galloped away with its rider still in the saddle. He dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks.

‘Come on,’ he grunted at Thomas, riding in the opposite direction the horse had taken. There was no time to think where they were heading now, but he rode towards what he hoped was the smaller of the villages. The other two men would not be far behind, but he hoped they would follow their comrade in confusion.

Roger’s head was spinning and his arm felt like ice by the time they reached the depths of the woods. His fingers refused to grip the reins and he knew he was becoming drowsy. He bit his lip, the small pain sharpening his senses as the greater one dulled it. Instinctively Roger reached for the arrow, but stopped. Without examining the shape of the tip he did not know whether to pull back or forward. At the moment there was little blood, but he had seen what happened when such wounds were treated. Now was not the time to deal with his injury. He did not think they had been followed so finding refuge was the priority.

He heard splashing and realised they had reached a shallow river and were halfway into the water. On the furthest bank, the trees began to thin. A single light flickered in the darkness, so briefly that he thought he had imagined it.

‘Can you find your home? Will it be safe refuge?’

‘I think so. I hope so,’ Thomas answered.

‘Get me there,’ Roger ordered. They were his last words as he slumped forward in the saddle. He dimly saw Thomas dismount and take both reins. Roger closed his eyes. His last thought was that if he died tonight he would at least be spared from making the decision to return to Yorkshire and face his family.

* * *

The chickens were safely shut away for the night. Any fox that hoped to help himself would find he was out of luck. Lucy Carew picked up the lantern from the ground and made her way round the side of the brewing shed towards the door of the inn, swinging the light back and forth to light the path.

She dropped the bar across the door. Shivering as a draught blew through the rip in the linen window covering, Lucy hung her cloak beside the door. The fire was almost spent. She gave the solitary log a vigorous prod with the poker and sank on to the stool beside the hearth. The rain had eased, but the earlier downpour had meant no passing customers had called since mid-afternoon. Lucy took her cap off and let her hair fall loose from its plait.

A hammering on the door made her jump. She was halfway to her feet when she caught herself and sat back down. She badly needed the money that customers would pay for their drinks, but her head ached and several tasks remained before she could retire to bed.

Apart from the lantern and the glow from the fire, the inn was in darkness. If she sat quietly they would leave. She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever was about in the bad weather, but not enough to rouse herself and let them in.

The hammering grew louder and more insistent. It was not going to cease.

A male voice bellowed, ‘I know someone is there. I saw your light.’

Lucy pushed herself from the stool. Clutching the poker behind her, she eased up the latch and pulled the door open a crack. It was pushed open with unexpected violence from outside, causing her to spring out of the way with a gasp of alarm.

Two men pushed their way inside. One had his arm slung around the other’s shoulder and was being supported. He staggered as he walked, moaning softly, and his tangled black hair obscured his face. The second man’s head was bowed under the strain of bearing his companion who was taller and broader.

Lucy gritted her teeth.

‘I don’t want drunks at this time of night.’

‘He isn’t drunk, he’s hurt,’ the supporting man wheezed. He raised his head and Lucy gave a cry of surprise at the face she had not seen since he declared his intention to fight with King Edward’s army in France.

‘Thomas? Is it really you?’

Lucy started forward, but her brother drew a short sword from beneath his cloak and brandished it. Lucy gave a squeak of alarm at the sight of her younger brother with such a fierce expression which ill suited his kind face. Thomas was an amiable dolt and to see him acting so fiercely was disconcerting. She clutched the poker firmly in her hand and retreated to the bottom of the staircase.

The man she had taken for a drunk now raised his head, which had been lolling to one side. He gave a wolfish grin beneath his thick beard, but it was his eyes that transfixed Lucy. Brown as walnuts and studying her with such intensity that a sensation stirred inside her she had not felt in longer than she could remember. She felt a blush begin deep between her breasts that was only prevented from spreading by the dawning realisation that her admirer’s gaze was so intense because he was struggling to focus.

‘What happened?’

‘Ambush,’ the injured man slurred. ‘Don’t fear, little dove. We won’t hurt you. If you do what we ask.’

‘Are you alone?’ Thomas raised his sword again and stepped towards Lucy, dragging his companion with him. ‘Has anyone else come this evening?’

‘No one,’ Lucy answered, sweat pooling in her lower back at the sight of the weapon. ‘I’m the only one here.’

Except for Robbie. A throb of anxiety welled inside her as she thought of her son lying peacefully in his cot in the room above. A son whose uncle did not know of his existence.

‘Thomas, what is happening?’ she hissed. ‘You left four years ago. Why are you here and who is this?’

‘I’ve been in France, fighting with the Northern Company.’

Lucy gaped. ‘A mercenary? You?’

‘Why are you here?’ Thomas asked. ‘Where is Father and why is the inn in darkness so early?’

Lucy dropped her head. When Thomas had lived here the inn was always busy and open late. Now was not the time to explain why it had changed so greatly. ‘I came back...to nurse Father. Thomas, Father died almost a year ago,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know how to contact you.’

Thomas shook his head, his eyes filling with grief.

‘No! Oh, bad tidings, Sister.’

Lucy’s heart twisted. This was not the way a son should learn such news. Thomas would regret their father’s passing more than she did. But then Thomas had never suffered the consequences of having disappointed him as greatly as Lucy had.

The man groaned. Thomas glanced at him. ‘Tell me more later, but now we need to take him upstairs to a bed.’

Lucy took a step back, shaking her head. Not to the floor where Robbie slept in peace, blissfully unaware of the drama happening beneath him. She barred the way, finally revealing her poker and brandishing it like a sword.

‘Come, little dove,’ the injured man slurred, grinning crookedly. ‘Be sensible and we all might live.’

Lurching forward unexpectedly, he raised his left arm and knocked it out of her hand. He staggered, as if this had taken the last of his strength, and fell forward towards her. Instinctively Lucy reached her arms out to catch him, her hands sliding beneath his armpits. She stepped backwards and found herself wedged between him and the wall, his weight crushing her. She yelped in pain as something sharp scratched her left shoulder through her thick wool dress. She looked down to see the head of an arrow protruding from the man’s right shoulder.

‘He’s really hurt!’ she exclaimed.

‘Don’t let me die unmourned, dove,’ the man slurred, his voice deep and husky.

Before Lucy could think how to reply he had reached his left arm to the back of her head, tilted it back and covered her lips with his.


Chapter Two (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

The kiss took Lucy by surprise, the rough beard scratching at her cheek and lips teasingly, sending shivers through her. His mouth enclosed hers, his lips firm and his tongue seeking hers with a fierceness that left her weak. Her mind emptied as desire lurched in her belly and without intending to she was kissing him back. If he could kiss like this when close to death, what would his touch be like when at full strength?

She came to her senses almost immediately and jerked her head away. His mouth followed, greedily seeking her out again, and his good hand slid from her neck down her body, fumbling at her breast.

A kiss she could tolerate, but the groping was too much. Outrage surged inside Lucy and now she had her wits about her. He was not the first of her customers who had tried to force attentions on her and was likely not to be the last. Injured or not made no difference. She twisted her leg until it was between his and brought her knee sharply upward.

The man gave a whimper of pain and crumpled on to her, his eyes rolling back in his head. He went limp and Lucy realised, aghast, that he was close to passing out. Her hand shifted against his back and touched feathers. The fletch of the arrow was sticking out. Guilt swept over her that she had done such a thing to a wounded man. She bit her remorse down. She had not asked for her home to be invaded, or to be kissed. He had brought it on himself.

She supported him as best as she could, but he was a tall man and broad with it, and was crushing the breath from her as she leaned against the wall. Even by the feeble light of the fire, the man looked as pale as a wraith with a waxy sheen to his brow. His hair was matted to his cheeks. He must have bled from his wound, but against the darkness of his cloak it was impossible to tell.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, reaching to brush the hair from his face. His forehead was cold to the touch and her fingers came away damp with his sweat. He opened his eyes.

‘Do you have wine? Anything stronger?’ he moaned.

‘Enough of this!’ Thomas cried. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, reminding Lucy he had always been as prudish as a monk when it came to shows of physical affection. ‘Get him upstairs before you do him any more harm. We may not have much time.’

He pulled the injured man off Lucy. Lucy ran to get the lantern, thrusting the poker back into the fire where she could find it later if needed.

‘Bring wine,’ the injured man growled.

Lucy ran to the counter where the flagons and cups were stored and found what he had requested. Carrying a bottle in each hand and the lantern hooked over her arm, she followed as her brother half dragged the injured man up the narrow staircase.

The first floor was low ceilinged and dark. Lucy’s room took one half of the space, though it was filled with all manner of boxes and piles of unused or unusable objects she could not bear to throw away. The second room contained pallets for travellers who wished to spend the night, but until the better weather arrived the frames were piled up and the straw mattresses wrapped in oilcloth as prevention against vermin. It was this room that Lucy intended to take the two men into, but Thomas entered the bedroom that had once been their father’s and where Lucy now slept. She opened her mouth to protest, but decided it was better to make no arguments and hope that Thomas would explain before long.

Robbie’s cradle was pushed into the far corner and he slept silently, mercifully not stirring as they entered. Lucy did not dare look directly at him, fearing she would alert the men to his existence, but they were more intent on reaching Lucy’s bed beneath the small window.

‘Lay me down and give me a drink,’ the injured man mumbled. He appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Lucy wondered how much blood he had lost.

They lowered him on to the bed, pushing the blankets to one side and edging him over so that his shoulder was hanging over the furthest edge of the frame with the fletch of the arrow free from the mattress. Thomas pulled the injured man’s boots off and placed them at the side of the bed. Lucy held out the bottle of wine and he tipped it back, drinking deeply until it was half-empty. He put it on the floor and fumbled with his left hand to unclasp the buckle of his cloak. His fingers were clumsy and he let loose a string of expletives.

‘Help me get this off,’ he commanded.

Thomas began to fumble at his neck, but the man pushed his hand aside.

‘Not you, Thomas. You go tend to the horses. Dove, you can do it.’

Lucy knelt by the bed and tried to do as he asked, but when she attempted to ease the cloak from his back, it stuck fast around the shaft of the arrow. The man gave a gasp of pain as she tugged. Lucy let go, realising the arrow had gone through all the layers of clothing. Something moved in the corner of her eye. Thomas was pointing a dagger at her face. His hand shook and the expression of fear in his eyes made him almost unrecognisable.

‘Cut it free,’ Thomas said, pushing the dagger into her hand. ‘Remove all the clothing you can. When I return, we remove the arrow.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the man who had earlier appeared intent on violating her. The word we did not give her any comfort, either.

‘You heard what he said. I must hide our horses. We are being hunted. I’ll explain properly later.’ Thomas gazed around frantically as if expecting assailants to appear from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed or behind the open door. He lumbered out, pulling the door shut.

‘What is this place called?’

The man on the bed had spoken, his voice rough and rasping. Lucy jumped in surprise. She looked at him more closely. His cheeks had a touch of colour beneath the mass of beard and his eyes were brighter. Lying down and filling himself with wine seemed to have rallied his spirits and returned some of his vitality.

‘It has no name,’ Lucy answered.

The man gave a wheezing laugh. ‘A nameless inn. Perfect for a nameless man such as me. Does its mistress have one or are you equally anonymous, dove?’

‘Lucy Carew is my name,’ she answered reluctantly.

‘Carew! Sister of Thomas, or wife?’

‘Sister,’ Lucy answered, wondering what sort of man would kiss a woman who might be his friend’s wife.

‘Give me more wine, Lucy Carew,’ the injured man demanded, reaching for the bottle. Lucy picked it up, then paused before handing it over and took a sip herself. It did little to calm her nerves. The man drained the bottle, spilling a good measure down his face and neck. Lucy wrinkled her nose in disgust. Her mattress would reek of wine—though if it survived without blood being spilled on it that would be a wonder in itself. Gripping the dagger, she bent over the bed to do as she had been bidden. Her hands trembled and she hesitated, drawing her hand back from the cloth.

‘Have you never undressed a man before?’ the man asked with a leer.

‘Never with a knife,’ Lucy answered curtly.

He laughed.

‘I thought a pretty dove who can kiss like you did must know her way around a bed.’

His voice was mocking and Lucy flushed with anger. Voices of condemnation pressed down on her, whispering names that set her cheeks aflame with shame. The voices were right though, weren’t they? Otherwise why would her body have responded in the basest way possible to the uninvited touch of his lips?

She held his gaze, noticing his eyes were increasingly unfocused and the colour was leaving his cheeks once more. He would most likely pass out again, if not from his injury then from the wine he had drunk. She bent over to widen the hole around the arrow at the front and back. The evil-looking tip was crusted with blood, as was his clothing, and her stomach heaved.

The cloak was thick, but the dagger blade was sharp and it came away without too much work. She dropped it down between the bed and wall. Beneath the cloak the man wore a sleeveless padded jerkin, laced at the front. By some fortune the arrow had missed this, piercing his flesh where arm joined body, and the garment was intact. The jerkin was the colour of oak and the cloak was of good quality. Lucy wondered for the first time who he was. She unlaced the jerkin, aware all the time of the man’s eyes upon her.

‘You’ll have to sit up to take this off.’

‘You’ll have to help me, Lucy Carew,’ he slurred, raising an eyebrow.

He gave her the same grin that had made her stomach curl. Now alone on her bed with him she felt a stirring of anxiety. It had been a long time since a man had shared her bed and, even though he was not there for that purpose, the sight of him made her stomach twist. She weighed up the likelihood of him repeating what he had done downstairs and decided he looked incapable of much harm.

She sat on the edge of the bed and eased her hands beneath his armpits, pulling him forward until he sat upright with his face close to hers. He eased his left arm about her waist, holding tightly to support himself and tried to do the same with his right arm, but there was no strength in it. Lucy slipped her hands inside the front of the jerkin, acutely aware that her hands were running across the contours of his chest. He drew a breath as her fingers slipped across the bare flesh at his neck. He looked at her with an expression of hunger, tilting his head to one side and parting his lips as if he was preparing to kiss her once more. She hastily bent her head to better look at what she was doing, conscious of the heat rising to her face.

‘You haven’t asked my name, Lucy Carew,’ he breathed as she pushed the jerkin over his shoulder.

‘I don’t care to know it,’ she answered.

Together they contrived to remove the jerkin, easing one arm out, then twisting the fabric until it slid over the arrow. Once or twice it caught, jerking the shaft slightly. Each time it happened the man gave a guttural growl deep in his throat, the fingers of his left hand tightening on Lucy’s waist. Now he was left with only a wool tunic.

‘Cut it off,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘I have others and I fear I cannot sit any longer.’

His grip on Lucy’s waist slackened and she eased him back on the bed. Lucy made a long cut from the neck past the arrow and down to the hem of the tunic. She did the same along both sleeves and hacked away at the fabric until he lay naked to the waist. Lucy concentrated her gaze on his blood-encrusted wound. She didn’t want to think what would happen when Thomas tried to remove the arrow. The idea of her own involvement made her stomach heave.

The man was sweating yet shivering violently, his chest rising with each uneven breath he drew. Removing the jerkin must have caused him agony, but beyond the growling he had made no complaint throughout. Gently Lucy pulled the blanket up to his neck, easing it over the arrow. His eyelids flickered, but did not open. He smiled and for the first time it was neither leering nor mocking and Lucy’s lips curved in response. She reached for the second bottle—the one containing the spirits he had demanded—and lifted it to his lips.

His eyes opened and he frowned, blinking to focus on her.

‘When Thomas returns...’ He sighed and fell silent. He appeared to have lapsed once more into unconsciousness, or perhaps the amount of wine he had consumed had sent him into a stupor.

Lucy stood anxiously by the bed, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. Where would Thomas have concealed two horses? The barn where she brewed her ale would be too small, but she hoped he had not tried to force the door.

The room was silent so when Robbie stirred in his cot and gave a whimper it sounded as loud as a cockcrow at dawn. She glanced at the man in the bed to see if he had heard, but he showed no signs that he was aware of anything.

She crept to the cradle and patted her son’s head, smoothing down the dark curls and pressing a cool finger against the red spot on his cheek where his latest tooth was growing through. He opened one eye, yawned and closed it again, rolling on to his front with his mouth drooping open. Lucy knelt by his side and watched as he settled back into sleep, overwhelmed by the love that consumed her. Robbie would never know the crisis that had played out while he slept.

An intense annoyance at Thomas filled Lucy’s entire being. He had left four years before with no plans beyond intending to seek his fortune as a soldier. There had been no word and no way of contacting him. Now he had returned with no explanation, bringing chaos with him. With luck he would leave again as soon as possible.

Thomas burst into the room, slamming the door back against the wall.

‘Sir Roger, I am back.’

Slowly Lucy turned and stared at the man on the bed, recalling the fine clothing she had cut from him and the imperious manner in which he had commanded her, as if he was used to giving orders. Her stomach tightened with dread as she remembered the assault she had made on him. Cold sweat crept down her spine at the thought of what his retribution might be against the commoner who had dared oppose his attentions.

She had no time to dwell further on the revelation because the door slamming and Thomas’s voice had woken Robbie, who gave a high-pitched, wordless wail. He pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the cradle as he attempted his recently discovered trick of climbing out and making his way to Lucy’s bed half-asleep.

‘A child?’ Sir Roger roused himself, craning his head to follow the sound.

‘My son.’

‘You have a son? Where is his father?’ Thomas looked at Lucy, his eyes wide with astonishment and outrage. ‘You said you were alone here.’

Lucy lifted her chin and glared at the men. She had done enough explaining and apologising since Robbie’s birth almost two years previously and the shame that had once weighed heavy on her shoulders had dulled into a low throb in her belly. Nobleman or not, she had no intention of justifying her son’s existence to a stranger. Come to that, Thomas could wait for his explanation, too.

‘He doesn’t have a father,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am alone.’

‘Good, I want no disturbance,’ Sir Roger grunted from the bed. Thomas merely glared at her, scandalised.

Lucy picked up Robbie from the cradle and hugged him tightly to her breast, making soothing noises.

‘Put the brat down and come over here,’ Sir Roger instructed loudly. ‘You’re going to help Thomas before I become fully sober.’

Lucy kissed Robbie’s forehead. He beat his fists against her shoulder and screamed louder, making his displeasure at being awoken known.

‘Let me soothe him first,’ Lucy said, jiggling up and down rhythmically.

‘This is more important than his temper,’ Sir Roger growled. ‘I’m stuck through with an arrow and every moment wasted puts me one step closer to the grave!’

Arguably he was right, but Lucy bridled at his tone when the child was distressed.

‘He isn’t in a temper. He’s been woken from sleep and his room is full of strangers who are shouting. He’s confused and probably scared. On top of that he’s cutting teeth.’ She hugged him tighter and realised her hands were trembling. Robbie might be scared, but he was not alone in that. Now that something familiar from her life had intruded on the evening’s dreamlike events, she was most definitely frightened.

‘The quicker you put him back, the quieter he’ll be,’ Sir Roger insisted.

Lucy walked to the bed, still rocking Robbie against her chest, and stared down at him.

‘You clearly know nothing about children.’

‘Nor do I want to,’ he retorted with distaste, eyeing Robbie’s red face.

‘It will be easier to lay him down if he’s sleepy and calm,’ Lucy insisted. ‘Otherwise he’ll scream for hours and be clambering half-asleep into your bed a dozen times during the night.’

Sir Roger looked horrified at the prospect. Lucy glared back until he grimaced.

‘The dove has become a crow! Or perhaps an eagle defending her young. Do what you need to, but be speedy. And give me that bottle back. I need to dull the pain. Thomas, are you ready?’

Lucy gave Sir Roger the bottle, but instead of drinking it he splashed it on to his shoulder. He paled and swore, his chest lurching upward as the sharp liquor bathed the wound. Lucy winced in sympathy. The man was rude and crude, and whatever circumstance had led to him being shot was probably well deserved, but Lucy could not help but feel sorry at seeing him in such pain.

Thomas had been searching inside a large leather bag that he had brought inside with him. He crossed to Sir Roger and pushed a small bottle into his hand. Sir Roger took a swig. Thomas picked up the dagger Lucy had used and bent over the bed. He rolled Sir Roger on to his left side, straddled him and began to carve away at the shaft sticking through Sir Roger’s back to pare the feathers away.

‘Isn’t that child asleep yet?’ Sir Roger grumbled.

Lucy moved into the darkness to better settle Robbie. In a low voice she sang the song that usually settled him when she put him to bed and he yawned. She was surprised to hear the same tune whistled from across the room and stopped. Sir Roger was waving his left arm over the edge of the bed, his lips pursed.

‘You can sing me to sleep, if you wish, dove.’ He slapped his naked chest. ‘Right here against my heart. Or anywhere else you wish to lay your lips.’

Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.

Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.

‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’

Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’

Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.

* * *

Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.

Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.

‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.

‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’

Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.

‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’

Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’

What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.

‘She’s taking too long.’

He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.

‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.

‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.

‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’

Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’

‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.

‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.

If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.

He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.

‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’

He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.


Chapter Three (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She stamped them out urgently before they caused the rushes to catch, letting the floor bear the brunt of her anxiety.

Lucy put two knives on the countertop, thinking they might be useful. She slid on to the stool beside the hearth and closed her eyes, her legs feeling hollow as straw as she imagined the additional pain the poker would cause when the iron tip seared Sir Roger’s flesh. The sooner she returned with the poker, the sooner the deed would be done and the men would be on their way.

She knew it was a comforting lie. Even assuming Thomas was not home to stay, the injured man would not be going anywhere until morning. He must be close to reaching the limits of endurance now and a wave of sympathy rippled through Lucy. Leaving aside his continual innuendo, she decided on balance she would rather he lived than leave her with his corpse and an agitated brother.

She pushed herself from the stool and began to hunt in the cupboard beneath the counter for the bottle of eye-wateringly strong spirit her father had kept for when the canker in his gut ached him beyond endurance. She also found a clay pot of powdered pain-killing draught that she had bought from the surgeon in Mattonfield.

Bought! Her nose wrinkled at the description of the transaction. No money had exchanged hands, but she had paid for it dearly, indeed. Mixed together, the brew always sent her father into a deep sleep in which he would experience much less pain and from which Lucy could gain an afternoon of peace from his continual censure of her for producing a baseborn child. Sir Roger would no doubt benefit from the same remedy and Lucy would appreciate the silence.

She had her head beneath the counter, feeling her way in the near blackness when three loud thumps on the door made her jump in alarm and she banged her temple sharply on the edge of the counter. Dazed, she sat on the floor and was hidden from view when Thomas appeared from the floor above.

‘Where are you, Lucy?’ he muttered, his voice low and urgent, and laden with anxiety. He raised his sword before him. ‘Show yourself quickly.’

His voice was unexpectedly vicious. Whatever he had done in four years had given him a tough attitude, but Lucy could see the desperation in his eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead, which felt tender from the bump. She stood and placed the bottle on top of the counter alongside her two knives.

‘I was finding...’ she began, but Thomas silenced her with a hiss and a wave of his hand. He held his finger to his lips. Lucy gestured at the bottle and he relaxed his stance. The beating on the door started again. Lucy started towards it, but Thomas stepped in front of her, seizing her upper arm.

‘They must not come in,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Keep silent. Perhaps they’ll go of their own accord.’

‘Who are they?’ Lucy whispered, her blood chilling at his words. ‘Why are they looking for you?’

Thomas looked shiftily from side to side.

‘I have done everything you asked,’ Lucy reminded him. She folded her arms and gave him the look she used on Robbie when she caught him pulling the kitchen cat’s tail. ‘You appear here with no explanation or warning and throw me into something I don’t understand. Why has my home been invaded?’

‘It’s my home, too,’ Thomas muttered.

Lucy placed her hands on her hips and glared. ‘A home I’ve been keeping while you were off doing goodness knows what!’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Is this to do with your Northern Company?’

‘No!’ Thomas protested. He bowed his head. ‘We were staying with a nobleman not far from here. It was Sir Roger’s fault. He offended our host.’

‘What did he do? Tell me or I will call out right now.’

‘He seduced Lord Harpur’s daughter,’ Thomas admitted with an odd expression on his face.

Lucy folded her arms tighter as surprise coursed through her. To hear that hated name from Thomas’s lips! He couldn’t know her connection to the nobleman.

At the same time, her worries eased a little. They were not thieves evading capture. They had not murdered or committed treason, or any of the other crimes she had been imagining. From the little she had seen of Sir Roger’s behaviour towards a woman, a seduction did not seem unsurprising and the tale had the ring of truth to it. Sir Roger was guilty of doing what any nobleman assumed was his right, but to trespass against John Harpur, then take refuge in Lucy’s house was a cruel twist of fate. It struck her as far too funny and made her want to laugh: a deep eruption bubbling beneath her brittle surface that would most likely never cease if she allowed it to the surface.

The thumping on the door stopped abruptly. Perhaps the men had assumed the inn was deserted and gone. Lucy was uncertain whether or not to be relieved. She felt a pang of sympathy for cold, pinch-faced Katherine Harpur who would no doubt be suffering her father’s cruel temper. She was mildly surprised that Sir Roger had found the mouse-like woman worth risking his neck over. The kiss he had pressed on Lucy—unwelcome though it had been—felt oddly diminished by the knowledge.

Nevertheless, she felt a delicious sense of spite that Lord Harpur had been shamed in such a way. If Katherine had been left with a child, would she, too, be cast out to starve?

She smiled at Thomas and reached for the bottle.

‘Let’s take this back to your friend. I think they’re gone, but I promise I won’t open the door. Lord Harpur is no friend to me.’

‘Why?’

Thomas looked puzzled at her abrupt, and what must seem confusing, change of attitude, but she had no intention of revealing the reason behind it. That was her secret alone.

‘That is no concern of yours.’

Thomas was not completely dull-witted; perhaps he would work the reason out for himself. Eventually.

Thomas lowered his sword. They were halfway to the stairs when a thump louder than before thundered around the room. The previous noises had sounded like fists on wood, but this had a more sinister tone. There was a second thump and the door hinges creaked, light bursting round the frame. Lord Harpur’s men had found the means to try to force entry and the old door would not withstand them for long. She glared at Thomas in desperation.

‘They’ll break in. I can’t refuse to answer it.’

Thomas glanced from the door to the stairs. He crossed the room, drawing his sword once more, and slipped into the shadows, crouching at the end of the counter where the door would conceal him once open. Lucy ran her hands through her hair, tangling it and pulling some of the fine, brown strands forward across her cheek. She unlaced the front of her kirtle and pulled at the neck, easing it low until more of her linen shift could be seen than was decent. She eased the neck of her shift down, too, dragging the cloth to one side. She rubbed her eyes to redden them. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she asked, pressing her hands on the wood and putting her lips close to the gap at the side of the frame. The door thumped once more, sending tremors running through her palms and up into her arms. She cried out in shock.

‘Open up!’ came a harsh voice. ‘We mean you no harm. We are searching for fugitives.’

Thomas paled.

‘That voice! Open it. But please, do not betray us,’ he whispered.

He sounded terrified and Lucy ignored the unfair insinuation. She nodded.

Thomas hid beside the door, disguised amid the folds of Lucy’s cloak. For the second time that night, she slowly drew the latch back, her hands trembling. She opened the door slightly and peered through the gap. Two men tried to look past her, one large enough he had to stoop to look at her. She wedged her foot against the door.

‘I have seen no one all night.’ She yawned and brushed the hair from her eyes, frowning at them in confusion. ‘You woke me from my bed.’

‘It took long enough to rouse you,’ the smaller man remarked. ‘Let us in. One of them might be hurt. Perhaps both. They’re dangerous men and we need to find them.’

‘On whose authority?’ Lucy asked.

‘On our own,’ rumbled the giant from deep within his hood. ‘Let us in or we’ll flay the skin from your back.’

Lucy opened the door wide, careful to conceal Thomas without hitting him and making the door bounce back. Still holding the door to prevent the men closing it, she beckoned them in. Her heart was in her throat as she watched them take in the sight of her inn, gazing all around the small room. Lucy stood silently, glad the only light was from the dying fire.

The men finally turned their attention to Lucy. One man, dark haired and swarthy, could not take his eyes from her. She smiled nervously, hoping he would treat her kindly. His companion, hulking, equally dark but beardless, was not so easily distracted.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked, jerking his thumb towards the storeroom.

‘It’s where I keep the ale.’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Who are you searching for?’

The giant walked into the storeroom. His companion stayed with Lucy. She could hear the sound of boxes being moved and the lid lifted and dropped on the ale cask.

‘We’re hunting a pair of thieves and rogues,’ the dark man answered, his black eyebrows coming together.

Neither man looked like someone in Lord Harpur’s employ. Lucy wondered if Thomas had told the truth about why they were being hunted.

‘They took something that they should not have,’ the large man called from inside the storeroom. He emerged with a hunk of bread in his hand, chewing loudly. Lucy’s eyes narrowed in anger that the man could talk of theft while helping himself to her bread.

‘What did they take?’

‘What it was doesn’t concern you. They’re thieves and killers.’

‘Killers?’ Lucy’s scalp prickled. For all his new-found ferocity, she could not imagine Thomas cutting down anyone in cold blood. Sir Roger she knew nothing of, but her brief impression was that his mind seemed to focus entirely on seducing women and not on fighting, stealing or killing.

‘No better than a dog in a bear pit. When we find them, the misbegotten curs are dead men.’

He made a slitting motion across his throat, then tossed the bread to his friend who snatched it from the air and tucked it into the front of his tunic, eyes still on Lucy.

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘My bedchamber,’ Lucy answered. She swallowed. If they asked outright if the men they were looking for were there she could not lie, but the mention of death set her legs trembling with terror. The men began to move to the stairs. Unless she prevented them, they would discover Sir Roger.

‘Stop! You can’t go up there!’

‘Why not? What are you hiding?’

Lucy faltered, desperately trying to think of a reason. Perhaps it was the talk of Lord Harpur and his wife that put the idea into her head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of.

‘My husband is up there asleep.’

The men paused and looked back suspiciously. Lucy hoped she had been the only one to hear Thomas’s sharp intake of breath from behind the door. The men exchanged a glance, then looked back at Lucy, eyes raking over her. She drew her kirtle high to her neck as if ashamed of what they might see, whilst at the same time contriving to push her breasts together with her wrists so that the full mounds were visible where the fabric dipped. The smaller man was leering openly, his eyes following and lingering on the shadow between her breasts. Good. If he was looking there, he was forgetting to search the inn, or examine the space behind Lucy too closely.

‘So it wasn’t sleep that kept you from answering straight away.’ The dark man laughed, finally raising his eyes to meet her face. ‘Why was it you who came down rather than him?’

‘My husband has a fearsome temper,’ Lucy whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes as the composure she had somehow maintained throughout the evening began to crumble. She edged around the room to the bottom of the stairs so that the men had to turn to keep her in view, their backs to Thomas’s hiding place.

‘Please don’t disturb him,’ she entreated.

The large man loomed over at her. ‘If I find you’re lying...’

He raised a fist and Lucy flinched. He lowered it again and peered at her face closely, his thick fingers lifting the hair at her temple. She recalled the bump on her head and lifted her fingers to it. The mark must be red and the man’s assumption was clear. Lucy looked at the floor, caring nothing that she had in one instant branded Sir Roger as the basest of husbands.

‘We’re going up anyway. You first.’

Almost in tears and unable to think of another way of preventing them, Lucy led them up the stairs. The men followed close behind her. She would be unable to warn Sir Roger, even if he had been in a position to defend himself. She stopped in the doorway. The oil in the lamp had burned almost to nothing and the room was in near darkness. Lucy hoped it would be enough to prevent the men recognising the occupant.

Sir Roger was lying where she had left him, the blanket tucked high beneath his chin and covering the arrow. He was unmoving and appeared asleep with his head lolling towards the window, though Lucy suspected he was unconscious. His right arm had dropped down the side of the bed and his left was tangled in his dark curls that spread across the pillow. Just in case he was conscious and pretending to be asleep, she spoke loudly, filling her voice with fear that she did not have to act.

‘See, my husband is sleeping. Please, kind sirs, don’t wake him. It will be the worse for me if you do.’

The smaller man sniffed deeply.

‘Sleeping? I think not.’

Lucy’s legs threatened to give way, but instead of pulling a sword and running them both through, the man gave a guffaw of laughter.

‘I can smell the wine on him from this far away!’

Drunk. Of course! Why had she not thought of that? The blanket was sodden with wine, as was the occupant. Lucy slipped across the room and knelt by the bed, blocking Sir Roger from view. She gathered the empty bottles in her arms. Bowing her head over them as if ashamed at least gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. It was possible this might just work.

‘You could be tricking us.’ The giant sounded less certain now he was confronted with the scene before him. ‘How do I know this is your husband?’

Lucy raised her head imploringly.

‘Who else would he be? Please, leave us alone,’ she begged. ‘I cannot bear the shame if this becomes known. My husband is a good man, but he cannot help himself.’

She began to cry in earnest, the tears falling freely down her face as her fear and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. As she wept she leaned slightly forward, knowing that it would give the men a perfect view of her full breasts and hoping that would draw their attention from examining Sir Roger too closely.

‘Lucy?’ Sir Roger mumbled, lifting his left arm. He attempted to fumble for her, but merely succeeded in clouting her across the shoulder. It did not hurt, but Lucy sensed the opportunity for further proof of his abuse and gave a small cry.

‘Just bring me my wine like the sweet, obedient dove you are. I need warming,’ Sir Roger crooned. His voice was thick with the effects of the painkilling draught. She looked round at him. Shadows played over his face giving him a demonic—and hopefully unrecognisable—demeanour. A lustful grin spread across his lips, making his face glow with life despite the sweat beading on his forehead and the pallor of his flesh. ‘Sweet one, my dove. I’ll never hurt you.’

His words sent her stomach tumbling, until she recalled he had most likely said something similar to seduce Katherine Harpur into bed. Lucy clambered to her feet, deciding a change of tone was needed. Still standing in front of Sir Roger, she wiped her hands violently across her eyes and stared coldly at the two intruders.

‘Are you satisfied?’ she asked angrily. ‘You see I am harbouring no rogues here. Is it enough I must parade my shame before strangers, or would you further question my integrity?’

The giant nodded slowly.

‘I still don’t like this,’ muttered his companion. ‘What is your husband called, mistress?’

Lucy opened her mouth. She could not call him Roger and reveal his identity, but an alternate name had not occurred to her. It would be too cruel for the deception to be uncovered when it was so close to success.

‘Henry,’ Roger slurred from behind her. ‘Leave my woman be!’

He dropped his head back and began to snore. Before she could wonder how Sir Roger had pulled the name from the air, or if his shout had been a coincidence or intentional, Robbie gave a shrill wail of alarm. He had been slumbering in his cradle, but for the second time in the night his home had been invaded and his sleep interrupted by strangers.

Nailed to the spot, Lucy watched her son clamber from his bed. Red-faced but half-asleep, he tottered across the wooden floorboards towards the bed. Pulling at his dark hair with his podgy fists, he looked around with unfocused eyes then, in a manner that Lucy would ever be grateful for, he did what he always did when he half-awoke in the night.

He tumbled on to the bed, tugging at the blanket until there was space to climb beneath and pulled himself up beside Sir Roger. The two men in the doorway looked at the bed where two dark heads now lay. Seeing her salvation Lucy exclaimed, ‘See! My son knows his father!’

That might have been the end of the matter in any case, but at that moment there was a commotion from outside. A voice shouted. Then another answered. The sound of hooves—two sets—grew louder as they neared the inn and diminished as they went past. Lucy had forgotten Thomas in her desperation to prevent the men discovering Sir Roger’s identity, but he had clearly been active while she had been engaged upstairs. He must have led the horses on foot along the road before mounting to give the impression they were riding past.

The two men lunged for the stairs in unison. Lucy raced after them, close on their heels, and slipped her way between them. For a moment the three bodies stuck at the top of the narrow stairs. She succeeded in tangling their feet between hers and wedging the giant back into the door frame, delaying them all reaching the bottom of the stairs. The door was closed and by the time they pulled it open and ran outside, the two horses were the size of Robbie’s toy cow, climbing the hill towards Mattonfield. Both horses were close together and heavily laden. One rider appeared oddly hunched over until Lucy spotted that the old sacking she had wrapped around the small apple tree had been removed. Thomas had cunningly contrived to give the impression there were two riders.

The pursuers ran to where their own horses were tethered to the fence alongside the house and attempted to pull the reins free. Upon discovering they were knotted and tangled together, the giant swore loudly. Lucy hid a smile and backed into the shadows as the men fumbled to disentangle their animals. Thomas had been hard at work while they had been distracted upstairs. As the men swung themselves into the saddle the smaller one shifted round to look at Lucy. His expression was not unkind.

‘You had a lucky escape, mistress. Keep your door barred until daylight. Your life will be worth nothing if you stand in the way of these rogues. Liars, thieves, and one is a killer. He’s killed tonight already.’

He dug his heels into the horse’s belly and galloped off to join his companion who was already ahead, leaving Lucy alone in the dark.


Chapter Four (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

Lucy watched until the figures began their climb up the hill. They rode fast, but Thomas was far enough ahead by now that once he reached the town his pursuers would have too many roads to choose from to catch their quarry for certain. Even if they did not catch him they were very unlikely to come back to her again now they had proof that she was not harbouring the fugitives.

He’s dangerous. A liar, thief and killer.

The warning echoed in Lucy’s ears and she clutched weakly at the door frame, willing herself to not faint. Relief coursed through her that the men had gone. Dread followed it close behind. She had felt so clever at hiding Sir Roger from their sight but now she was left with a dangerous man in her bed. She could not hope Thomas would return that night; it would be far too risky. He would surely find a way to double back as soon as it was light, but until he did, Lucy was alone in the inn with Sir Roger.

Except she wasn’t alone.

The blood drained from her limbs, leaving her cold as the grave as she thought of her child upstairs with Sir Roger. How could she have let Robbie slip from her mind so easily? She spun on her heel, racing back inside, and only paused long enough to bar the door as advised. Her hands shook as she lowered the latch. Was it worse to be trapped inside with a murderer or leave the door open for other intruders to enter? She looked around frantically for anything she could defend herself with should Sir Roger take it in his mind to harm her or her child.

The better of her two knives had gone. Thomas, of course!

‘Oh, Thomas! You horrible thief!’ Lucy exclaimed.

He had always had a tendency to help himself to anything he liked, even as a child. She took the poker from the fire and clutched it tightly, focusing on the now-glowing tip as though it was a beacon. If he had hurt Robbie, Sir Roger would not live to see the sun rise.

Lucy crept back up the stairs, torn between the need to hurry and the desire to remain unnoticed. She pushed the door open, heart in her throat pounding painfully. She stopped in the doorway and lowered the poker, taken aback by what she saw.

In the darkness she could make out the bundled shape of the two figures still lying together. Robbie was curled up in the crook of Sir Roger’s arm, his small face buried deep against the man’s neck, his tiny fist clutching the edge of the sheet. The blanket had slipped and the child’s linen nightdress contrasted with the dark hair and tanned flesh of Sir Roger’s bare torso. Sir Roger’s broad arm was draped across the child’s back in what looked like a caress. He had his eyes closed and lay unmoving. He looked as if the grave had already stamped a claim on him and for a brief, unkind moment, Lucy’s heart soared in hope that this was the case and the problem was solved. She drew closer, still holding the poker. He had already surprised her by revealing himself to be half-conscious before and she could not trust he would remain asleep for long.

They looked serene, the two dark, curly heads together, so close in colouring it was no wonder they had passed for father and son. Robbie had never slept in the arms of the father who refused to admit his existence and never would. At the sight, an odd pang of sadness clutched at Lucy’s stomach that the boy had found comfort so quickly. What instinct had told him he was safe with the man who had forced his way in and apparently killed a man tonight? It felt almost cruel to move him when he was sleeping so peacefully after a night of chaos and disruption.

She shook her head forcefully, reminding herself this was not a loving father. Robbie was lying in the arms of a man who must barely be aware of his presence and would care about it even less were he awake. Her son was too young and trusting to know the ills the world held. He had no understanding of the possible danger he was in, feeling only that he was warm and being held tight.

She knelt beside the bed and edged Sir Roger’s hand down to his side until she was able to tug Robbie free. She eased him across her shoulder. The child wrapped his arms around her neck and did not stir. Sir Roger muttered and rolled his head from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. Now she had her son back, Lucy could breathe easily once more. She paused to look curiously at the man in her bed.

Sir Roger. But Sir Roger who? And of where? She had heard of no knight or lord of that name in Cheshire or Derbyshire. She had no idea where he had come from, or where he was hoping to go. He would not want to remain here long if he had slighted Lord Harpur, she knew that much. Instinctively she tightened her hold on Robbie.

‘He’ll never know he has you to thank for his life,’ she whispered against the boy’s ear.

Robbie needed his bed. Lucy, too, though where she would sleep was anyone’s guess. Not in her bed, that was for certain. She felt the beginnings of a blush around the back of her neck as she remembered Sir Roger’s hands on her body. The arm that had held her son was muscular and iron hard, the neck and chest well shaped. Robbie was not the only one whose bed was a solitary place of rest.

She eased herself to her feet and stepped away. As she did, Sir Roger gave a great gasp. His eyes snapped open and he jerked upright, clutching hold of Lucy’s skirts. He bared his teeth and snarled.

‘Run, wench, lest they take you, too!’

Biting down a scream, Lucy pulled away, but his grip was strong and he held her fast. Still holding Robbie in one arm, she could not tug her skirts free. In panic, she brought down the poker she held in her other hand, flailing at his chest to push him away. The tip was hotter than she had expected it to be and as it touched the bare skin above his heart there was a hissing, accompanied by the sickening smell of singeing hair and flesh.

Sir Roger cried out, loosening his grip on Lucy’s skirts and falling back on to the mattress. The back of the arrow landed on the bed, driving the tip forward through his body, but not fully out. Sir Roger screamed at the pain—the angry, agonised roar of a felled boar. His head lolled back as he slipped into a deep faint.

Lucy dropped the poker in horror at what she had done and backed away. In her arms, Robbie began to whimper. She kissed his damp forehead, trying to quiet her own sobs, and backed against the wall by his cot. When Robbie had settled, she eased him into his bed. She slid to the floor and hugged her knees until she stopped trembling.

Sir Roger did not move. Lucy’s assault had drained him of any remaining strength.

For now.

The room still smelled of charred flesh and Lucy’s stomach heaved. She needed to see what damage she had inflicted and tend to the wounds, but she could not trust that Sir Roger would not awaken before she had finished. Her skin crawled at the idea of him seizing her once again and she thought furiously what she should do. She clambered to her feet and ran back down the stairs, returning with a length of thin rope and a knife.

Biting her lip to stop her heart leaping from her throat, Lucy tiptoed close to the bed and knelt on shaking legs. She worked quickly, passing one end of the rope under the bedframe and wrapping it once round the leg of the bed closest to her. She securely tied the ends round each of the unconscious man’s wrists. To her relief he remained insensible throughout.

Lucy sat back on her heels and examined her handiwork. Sir Roger’s hands lay at his sides on the mattress. His bonds would cause no discomfort, but the rope was short enough that he would not be able to bring his hands together to undo the knots. If he attempted to grab her with one hand, the other would be pulled beneath the frame of the bed by the motion.

Now she finally felt safe enough to examine him, she brought the lamp close and settled by his side. Asleep he looked less fearsome, the lines on his forehead smoothed. She wondered what he would look like without the thatch of beard. She pulled the sheet down to his waist and peered at him, her fingers hovering over his body. His chest was broad and the muscles that Lucy had felt as she had undressed him were well defined beneath the soft dark hairs that covered his torso. Lucy drew her hand back, examining the wound she had inflicted. The poker’s tip had left a livid red mark on the skin above his heart. It had already begun to blister and she winced with guilt.

Lucy fetched a pitcher of water and pressed a damp strip of his torn-up tunic over the wound. Sir Roger’s eyelids flickered, but he did not wake. The arrow wound had begun to bleed, but slowly. It oozed out around the wooden shaft that now stuck further out. She wetted more strips of cloth and contrived padding around the wound. Perhaps she should remove the arrow while he was unconscious and less likely to feel pain, but the lamp was beginning to sputter, almost empty. She would have to wait until morning and Thomas’s arrival. She did not want to think what would happen if her brother was caught and never returned.

She watched until the blood stopped. There was nothing more she could do tonight, but if he died it would be from infection, not from his lifeblood ebbing away. Lucy shivered with cold, wishing she had been in bed long before now. She could not deprive her patient of the blankets in the state he was in so she leaned over and retrieved his cloak from down the side of the bed. Even cut and bloodstained it was of better quality than anything she owned herself. Wearily she dropped to the floor beside Robbie’s cot and slept on the bare boards, wrapped in the knight’s ruined cloak with the unfamiliar musky scent of man enveloping her.

* * *

Lucy woke early. Her body ached and she felt nauseous, her stomach churning after the night’s happenings. She crept to Sir Roger’s side, hoping not to awaken him, but he was still deeply asleep. So deep, in fact, that Lucy believed it must be the combination of alcohol and whatever Thomas had given him that accounted for his slumber. He could barely have shifted in the night as the blankets were precisely where she had placed them, halfway between his waist and shoulders.

Daylight edged through the gaps in the wooden shutters and in the light she could see his skin was ashen beneath the dark hair, except for the area around his bandaged wound. The flesh there was red and angry, with blood crusted around the arrow. Cautiously Lucy placed her fingers on the wound and found the flesh as hot as it was scarlet. She lifted the cloth from the burn above his heart and placed her fingers there, spreading her hand wide over the taut muscle. At her touch Sir Roger drew a rasping breath, his chest rising beneath Lucy’s hand. Her skin fluttered as his firm muscles tensed. She drew back hastily.

No man had shared her bed here and she had no expectation, nor wish, for any to do so in the future, but the unanticipated longing for this man was confusing and his kiss had been intoxicating. He was by far the finest-looking man she had encountered, but those muscles had been hardened in battle and the deep brown eyes had seen danger and death she could barely contemplate. Even half out of his mind with pain he exuded an air of danger. To imagine repeating such a thing would be akin to throwing herself into the middle of a dogfight.

Sir Roger murmured, his head tipping to one side. He half-opened his eyes and looked at Lucy, though she doubted he really saw her. His forehead creased and he gave a slight moan. Lucy reached a trembling hand and stroked her thumb tenderly across his brow. The creases vanished under her touch and he closed his eyes once more.

The cockerel crowed, his raucous interruption reminding Lucy she had other matters to attend to. Unexpected resentment rose in her—a much safer emotion than the ones imagining Sir Roger’s touch had provoked. She was too tired for the start of the day and had enough tasks to keep her busy until nightfall without having to think of Sir Roger. This was a burden she did not need. One child was enough to manage, let alone a fully-grown man.

‘You’ll have to wait, my fine lord,’ she told the sleeping man. ‘I have ale to brew and a house to keep.’

She brushed her hands down her dress, which was creased and felt grimy from being slept in. She only had two and the other was lighter cloth better suited for warmer days. It would have to do as she could not bear to remain in this one any longer. She pulled the dress from the chest at the end of the bed and quickly changed with her back to Sir Roger in case he should awake and catch her in her linen shift.

Her eye fell on the small glass vial that he had drunk from the night before and she held it to the light. A few drops remained. She inspected the ropes on Sir Roger’s wrists. He would be going nowhere when he awoke, but just to be certain...

She narrowed her eyes and looked down at Sir Roger.

‘You’d rather sleep and be free of pain, wouldn’t you,’ she said. ‘We don’t want you waking before I’m ready to deal with you.’

She knelt by the bed and held the rim to Sir Roger’s lips, parting them with her fingers to allow the liquid to slip into his mouth. His throat moved as he swallowed and his tongue darted out to lap up the droplets that remained on his lips, reminding Lucy of Robbie suckling in the night when asleep and unaware of what he was doing. Her breasts gave a sudden throb and she wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Robbie had only recently given up nursing and she put her body’s reaction down to the memory of that. It was most definitely not because of the idea of Sir Roger’s lips on her breasts.

The thought of Robbie raised another issue that she had not previously considered. If Sir Roger was sleeping and drinking like a babe, there would be other needs that would arise. If it came to it, she would deal with those in the same manner she dealt with Robbie, but as she picked up her son and left the room she fervently hoped Thomas would return long before she had to assist with anything that involved more of Sir Roger’s body than she had already encountered.

Lucy went about her daily tasks. She fed the pig and the chickens and put Robbie out to play in the yard behind the house, a long rope around his waist so he did not stray to the stream. Once or twice someone passed by heading to or from Mattonfield. She greeted them with a wave, calling brightly that there would be new ale within the week. Noon passed and still Thomas did not return, but neither was there a sound from the bedroom. Robbie began to wail and she spooned boiled apple into his mouth, sitting him on her lap.

‘Mama will crush the malt next,’ she told him with a smile, ‘and you can go see if Gyb has caught anything.’

He burbled excitedly, pleased to be given permission to torment the burly orange tomcat that sometimes graced them with his presence. That would keep him busy while Lucy ran upstairs to check Sir Roger had not lapsed into a fever. His wound would need bathing and she should try him on some of her father’s draught. Perhaps he, too, would take some of the mashed apples that her son was busily smearing in his hair.

She frowned. Where was Thomas? She had hoped him to be back by now so she could be rid of her burden as soon as possible.

She went to the shed and began crushing the malt and tipping it into the bowl to soak. When she heard a familiar whistling coming down the road she forced herself to finish the task, covering the vat with a damp cloth before wiping her hands down her apron and emerging.

The visitor was Widow Barton, an old friend of Lucy’s father. She leaned on the stout stick she used for walking and tugged her cap into place, tucking wiry grey strands beneath it.

‘Good day, Lucy.’

She was one of the few inhabitants of the nearby town who had remained on good terms with Lucy after she returned home with a swelling belly and no husband to save her honour—and the only one who knew the identity of the man who had caused her shame. The old woman took the leftover ale mash to feed her pigs, in return for an occasional flitch of bacon, without which Lucy’s diet would have been scant indeed.

‘Did you hear about the commotion in Mattonfield last night?’

Lucy shook her head truthfully. The news had not reached her, but her nerves jangled as she imagined who might have been the cause.

‘Two men searching for two more. They tried to raise the hue and cry, but Lord de Legh refused as they would not account for why they were searching. He told them if they could not name the crime he would have no part in it.’

‘Did they catch the man?’ Lucy asked.

Mary gave her an odd look.

‘The men,’ Lucy amended. She averted her gaze, annoyed at her slip.

‘No one was found,’ Mary answered after a pause. ‘They must have come past your way before they arrived in town.’

‘I suppose they might,’ Lucy agreed, ‘though there are many ways to travel.’ More on her guard now, she stopped herself from finishing the sentence ‘...from Lord Harpur’s estates.’

Mary gave her a shrewd look. ‘You’ll meet a bad end living out here alone. Your father should have sold up when he knew his time was at hand.’

‘Should he have left my brother nothing to inherit when he returns?’ Lucy asked.

It was remarkably easy to speak of Thomas as if he was still in France. For years she had believed he would never come home and that most likely he was dead somewhere across the water. A guilty thought crossed Lucy’s mind that if Thomas did not return to claim his friend, he would not claim the inn, either.

Mary glanced towards the inn, which was showing more signs of disrepair as each month passed. ‘There’s not much to inherit,’ she said kindly.

Lucy’s lips twitched. ‘I keep it going as best I can.’

‘I don’t blame you. Your father should have found you a husband to help run it.’

‘He tried. I refused,’ Lucy reminded her. ‘Besides, no man of any regard wants a wife with a bastard brat hanging off her.’

Any husband, whether of good standing or not, would have been suitable in her father’s eyes to rid him of the shame of an unwed daughter with a child. Mary knew this already. Lucy suspected the widow even approved. She had five grown children and no husband for the past decade.

Mary sniffed, her beak of a nose flaring.

‘Are you brewing again?’

Lucy held an arm out, glad of an excuse to draw the older woman away from the house and off the subject of husbands.

‘Come see.’

She led Mary into the shed, talking all the while of the new mix of yarrow and elderflower she was planning to use as gruit to flavour the brew, of Robbie’s final emerging tooth—the goodwife had helped birth the boy and still took a keen interest—and of the fair to be held in Mattonfield at the end of the month.

Anything to keep the old woman from suspecting that upstairs she had a drugged nobleman tied to her bed who would very soon require her attendance.


Chapter Five (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)

Through the haze of pain, Roger became aware he was not alone in the room. He groaned weakly, trying to speak, but his throat was too dry. His arms were leaden and would not rise. He fought down panic.

Cool fingers stroked his forehead, brushing the hair from his brow and easing away his anxiety. A woman’s voice, soft and high, murmured soothing words that jumbled in his mind. He felt something cool and damp pressed to his brow, stroking gently and he sighed.

‘Joanna?’

The stroking stopped. ‘No.’

An unfamiliar voice.

The hands moved down to his jaw, firm strokes cleaning away the grime from his cheeks. Despite the coldness of the cloth, Roger’s skin began to burn hotter from within. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him unbidden with such gentleness and desire began to awaken, tickling with devilish fingers at his groin.

Good. If he could still contemplate a spot of swiving between the sheets he was not yet dead. He opened his eyes to see who was caring for him, but his lids felt unaccountably heavy. He forced them wide anyway, but the brightness hurt and the woman was silhouetted against the window so he could see nothing of her features. He screwed his eyes tight, wincing.

A pale face framed with fine, light-coloured hair and the impression of a grey dress filled his mind: the girl from the inn who had been half-terrified to death by their appearance.

Lucy Carew. He hoped it was she who was nursing him. He remembered her mouth, hot against his, resisting at first in alarm, but quickly giving in to his kiss and meeting him with as much fire as he was exuding. It would be pleasant indeed if it were she.

Lucy—Roger would assume it was until evidence proved otherwise—removed the cloth from his forehead and put it to his cheeks, freshly damp. She began to bathe his neck and chest, lifting each arm to wipe it before moving down towards his waist, which sent shivers of bliss cascading over him. The sensation was so unbearably erotic Roger felt he would be consumed by the sheer pleasure of it. However, when he gave himself up to the indulgence, he realised the reaction was in his mind alone. His body was refusing to acknowledge anything was happening to rouse him. Perhaps he was closer to death than he had realised after all. He lapsed into sleep with this troubling thought.

* * *

He woke again to find himself being bathed still. Or perhaps a second time because now the room was darker. The hands moved over his body as before, but shifted now to his right shoulder. As they probed the wound searing pain shot through him, obliterating any thoughts beyond making the torment end. He cried out, but his voice rasped painfully.

‘Thirsty...’ he managed to croak.

Those bewitching fingers stroked his brow once more. He felt the back of his head cradled and lifted, firm fingers burrowing deep into his thick hair. A cup was put to his lips.

‘Not too fast,’ a soft voice instructed.

It was ale. Cool and thirst-quenching. Roger could not remember the arrow being removed, or Thomas returning, but the pain in his shoulder was so intense it must be from the brand that sealed the wound. Panic filled him once again and he twisted his head from the cup. Lucy’s firm hands guided it back and the cup was put to his lips once more.

‘Drink this,’ she commanded, her voice allowing no possibility of disobedience. ‘It will ease the pain.’

Her voice brooked no argument. If it meant those delicate fingers exploring his body once more he would do anything she asked.

It was not the same cup. This brew was sickly and bitter at the same time. He was being drugged.

He groaned with relief. Wonderful woman, to ease his pain in such a way.

His head began to swim once more. Oh, he’d thank her indeed when he was back to strength with everything working as it should. He could think of so many ways to show his gratitude that did not even involve leaving this bed.

‘The arrow?’ he mumbled. His mouth now felt too small to hold his tongue.

She drew a sharp breath and the hand at the back of his skull tightened briefly. She muttered something to herself and Roger caught Thomas’s name.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It’s still in your shoulder.’

He felt her move away and shortly the door closed, leaving him alone.

The news was bad, but the matter was out of Roger’s hands for now. However hard he tried, he could do nothing to fight the sleep that was claiming him.

He fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of Lucy.

* * *

When Roger next achieved full awareness, it was night once more and opening his eyes did not require the effort it had earlier in the day. The air that kissed his skin was cold, deliciously so, for his flesh felt hotter than he would expect, especially one spot just above his heart. His vision began to clear. He craned his head to search for Lucy, but he was alone. He shivered and pain surged through him, radiating from the wound outwards. The God-rotted arrow was still there, wasn’t it? He bit down on his lip to stop the sudden trembling that began as he thought of what removing it would entail.

His stomach growled and he became aware of another discomfort; a clenching ache in his belly that demanded to be filled. He had barely eaten yesterday and by all accounts had slept the whole day away. No wonder his limbs felt leaden and his body weak.

‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ he called. His throat rasped painfully. He coughed and tried once more. ‘Woman? Dove? Where are you? I’m hungry.’

Roger waited for her to arrive with increasing irritation. Possibly the wench would be serving in the room downstairs and could not spare the time immediately. The inn was unusually silent compared to those Roger had been in before. Perhaps that wasn’t the reason. He would have to go in search.

He tried to move his arms, but they would not lift from beside his body. The right arm he expected to be weaker, but the left had nothing to hinder it. With mounting anxiety he tried again. Something was preventing him. He took a deep breath and tried to fight down his fear, but visions filled him of a life of paralysis, his body useless and relying on the goodwill of others to survive. A puppet being fed and wiped like a babe.

His father’s form swam before Roger, his puckered eyes gazing sightlessly on Roger’s face and his twisted arm hanging limply by his side.

‘At least you have your sight. Be thankful for that.’

Roger moaned, remembering his father bellowing a warning, the lance splintering. Was a similar incapacity to be Roger’s penance? He clutched at the rough blankets covering him. The relief that flooded him as he felt his hands curl about the homespun cloth was incomparable. He tried once more to bring his hands together and this time he succeeded in lifting them both, but bringing them together was impossible. A tugging at his wrists was confusing, but the last dregs of the painkilling draught Lucy had given him were wearing off and as a result his head felt less clouded.

Concentrating on what he felt, he came to the conclusion that he had not lost the use of his limbs. He was being restrained by something tied around his wrists holding him to the bed. He tilted his head to look at his arms. Cold sweat broke out across his body as he confirmed it.

The bitch had tied him down!

He jerked his left arm up and his right was wrenched from the bed, hitting the floor with a loud thump and bashing his knuckles. The movement caused further pain in his shoulder and he gritted his teeth to stop from crying out. He eased his hand upward to the sore spot above his heart that had mystified him earlier and his fingers touched blistered flesh. Someone had burned him.

Had he been subject to torture and blocked out the memory? He cast his mind back to Lucy’s pale, frightened face that had filled his vision the previous night as she cut his clothes from him. In his earlier befuddled state he knew Lucy had bathed him, given him water, and soothed his pain away with her gentle hands and soft words. She had done all that knowing he was bound. Would the next thing she did be to slip a dagger between his ribs or slit his throat? It seemed unlikely. He could not imagine the quivering girl would have dared do something so rash as take him captive alone, so she must have been instructed to do it by someone else. If she was not responsible for his situation, who was, and was Lucy being mistreated also?

Roger’s fists clenched. The worry for Lucy’s wellbeing was so unexpected it brought him up sharp. He gave a wry smile. He had often been accused of dishonour. What a pity those who had laid the charge at his feet would never know how he had spared a thought for the girl before they both died. Memories of battles in France threw themselves about his brain, captured soldiers herded like cattle, roped together awaiting death. Innocent townspeople slaughtered, women and children among them.




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