Splendor, page 4
By now Eloise had appeared at the periphery of the glade. “Milady? What on earth are you—”
“Run, Eloise!” Catherine shouted, kicking out at her captor’s shins. “Alert my father! Alert Miles!”
The breath whooshed from Catherine’s lungs as she was pulled hard against a solid chest. Looking up at the tall warrior, she watched as he nodded toward Eloise. Catherine had forgotten all about his companion.
“Run, Eloise!” she cried again.
A thump and a thud met Catherine’s ears, and she cringed. When she was spun around, she saw that her nurse lay unconscious on the frozen ground.
“What shall we do with her?” the older knight asked, inclining his head toward the woman he’d felled.
“She’s seen our faces. We’ve no choice but to take her with us.”
Catherine’s wrist ached from the pressure of his fingers. Bending over, he scooped up the priest’s vestments and wiped his cheek, then tossed all but the coif into the thickness of the brush. With the scrap of linen, he again blotted his wound. Catherine hoped the scratches became infected and festered. With luck he’d take the poisoning and die.
“What if she awakens and starts thrashing about?” his companion queried while eyeing Eloise. “I imagine she’ll be hard to control.”
“Then show her no mercy.”
Catherine fought back her tears as she was pulled toward one of the horses. “Barbarian,” she denounced.
“If I were really a barbarian she would already be dead.” They had reached the destrier’s side. “Give me your other hand,” he ordered after taking a strip of leather from across the saddle.
Catherine refused.
“Your nurse’s life could depend on your present and future actions, so I suggest you do as you are told. Now give me your hand.”
Catherine glared her discontent, but she obeyed. As he bound and tied her wrists, she looked to where Eloise lay. The older knight had just finished knotting the leather that secured Eloise’s feet. Grabbing the front of her gown, he pulled the woman up from the ground and, with a grunt, lifted her fully across his shoulder.
“She’s a heavy one,” the man said as he moved toward his horse.
“If the added burden wearies your steed, rid yourself of her along the way.”
His order given, her captor looked Catherine fully in the face. Immediately she berated him. “You odious bastard! When we are found, I pray you suffer mightily for this.”
A hard glint showed in his eyes. “Since I am unsure of my parentage, your assumption may be correct. As for the other, I doubt we will be found. But if we don’t leave here this moment, you may get your wish. Let’s go.”
Hysteria bubbled inside Catherine. If she didn’t do something now, it would be too late. She opened her mouth, but before she could scream he had shoved the coif between her lips. A heavy cloak was draped across her shoulders, the ties secured; then she was cast upon the saddle, her abductor mounting behind her. With a nod at his companion, he looped his arm around Catherine’s waist and reined his destrier toward the opposite side of the glade.
Miles!
His name tore through Catherine’s mind as the foursome entered the shelter of the forest. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the jutting tower at Avranches slip farther and farther away. A tear rolled down her cheek to fall upon her breast. Dismally, Catherine feared she’d never see her betrothed again.
An angry Miles swung Clotilde around by her hair to face the men who stood in the great hall, all of them blond in coloring. “Do you see the bastard?” he asked, the words gritting between his teeth.
“N-no, milord.”
“Are you certain?”
“Y-yes, milord. He’s not among them.”
“Stupid wench,” he said. “As unappealing as you are, it is beyond me how you could ever think a man would be interested in you solely for yourself.” He shoved her away. “Get from my sight before I thrash you.”
Tears streamed down Clotilde’s pale cheeks. Her sobs followed her as she ran from the room.
When Catherine had not appeared in the hall to break the fast, William had gone to the women’s quarters, looking for his daughter. At Clotilde’s pronouncement that her mistress had not yet returned from the chapel, both father and maid sought her there. Behind the altar they found the priest, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and stripped nearly nude. William had rightly feared the worst and sounded the alarm.
Freed from his bonds and wrapped in William’s mantle, the chaplain began recounting his ordeal. By then Miles and Geoffrey had arrived. It was when the priest described the man who had accosted him that a loud gasp escaped Clotilde. Naturally, all eyes turned her way.
Miles immediately began interrogating the girl, and without mercy. Although she’d been instrumental in leading Catherine’s abductor straight to her, it was clear that Clotilde hadn’t intended anything of the sort. Of all those present, only William took pity on her.
“You were far too hard on the girl,” he now stated.
“Was I?” Miles shot back. “Since it is your daughter, William, I’d think you’d be more distressed than you are.”
“No one is more distressed over this than I, sir. But maligning the girl won’t give us the answers we seek. If we are to help Catherine, we need to keep a clear head and a keen mind. Instead you are behaving like a fool. Continue to comport yourself thus and I’ll do worse to you than what you ever intended for Clotilde.”
Miles and William stared at each other, long and hard. It was then that Geoffrey intervened. “William is right, Son. Keep your wits about you, or else we’ll never find your bride.”
“You called for me, milords?” the sentry asked as he tried to stifle a yawn, for he’d just been roused from his bed. All three men spun toward him.
“On your watch, did the Lady Catherine leave the castle?” Miles asked.
“Aye, she and a priest. Said she was going to the west wood to do penance.”
“What hour was that?” William questioned.
“A little after dawn.”
“What of her nurse? Did you see her?”
“No. The watch was changed right after the Lady Catherine left. Perhaps my replacement saw her.”
Miles and Geoffrey, along with several guards, followed Catherine’s father from the great hall. The sentry on duty confirmed he’d seen Eloise leave the castle shortly after he’d begun his watch. He hadn’t seen her since.
“To the woods,” William ordered.
A short time later, while skirting a small glade, a flash of white caught William’s eye. Leaning from his horse, he snatched the wadded cloth from the brambles. “These are the priest’s robes, and there’s blood on them.”
Miles and his father were across the way, searching through the undergrowth. On his hearing William’s words, a hissing epitaph erupted from Miles’s lips. “The bastard’s tupped her.”
Geoffrey captured his son’s arm. “Remember to watch your tongue,” he ordered in a low voice.
“Watch my tongue? ’Tis not to my liking to take a bride who is another man’s leavings.”
“Whether she’s been defiled or not is not the issue. The bride’s portion is what concerns us. We can ill afford to lose it. Now quit fretting about your own vanity and show some concern for your betrothed.”
Wresting himself from Geoffrey’s hold, Miles rode across the glade. Once beside William, he grabbed the robes and examined them. “If the bastard has harmed her, I’ll kill him.”
“I’ll grant you that privilege after I’m through with him myself,” William stated.
A shout sounded from deeper in the wood. “Milords,” a guard called, “we’ve found some hoofprints.”
William, Miles, and Geoffrey rode to where the others were. “From what I can tell, there are two horses. By the size of their hooves, I’ll wager they are destriers,” William said, then he turned to Geoffrey. “Instruct one of your men to return to the castle. We’ll need arms, food, and more troops.”
“Do you intend to follow?” Miles asked.
“Aye. Do you?” William countered.
“The tracks—the ground is frozen. These might be all there are.”
“They are all I need, sir. They point west. With or without you, Miles, I am striking out for the coast.” Turning his steed, William traveled deeper into the wood. He reined in. “Are you coming or not?”
For a long moment, Miles looked at his father. “Aye, I’m coming,” he said, pointing his horse in the same direction as William’s. “I’ll not forsake that which I’ve so longed to have. Come. Let us find Catherine.”
They were nearing their destination.
His back as rigid as a stake, Rolfe kept his arm tight around his captive’s waist, pulling her snugly against his chest. Her hair, the color of rich sable, shone like shimmering liquid under the sun’s rays, mesmerizing him. Her scent, like a field of wildflowers on a spring day, filled his head each time he breathed. The effect made him dizzy. As her body moved against his in time to the galloping motion of his steed, he gritted his teeth. Unequivocally, she was driving him mad.
It had been a long while since he’d held a woman this close. Never, though, was she as soft or alluring as the one now in his arms. Nor was she as treacherous.
Given the opportunity, Catherine de Mortain would kill him. Despite his growing fascination with her, Rolfe swore he’d not allow her the chance.
That he was exceptionally wary of her didn’t surprise him. Since that fateful day on the road to Antalya, he’d trusted few. Garrick was an exception, of course; so was his squire, Aubrey, but in Rolfe’s eyes he was yet a boy. Last there was Duke Henry, Rolfe’s liege lord. Of the three, he thought Garrick and Aubrey to be the most faithful. They would lay down their lives for him, as he would for them.
As the great destrier carried his captive and himself easily across the low, rolling hills, Rolfe was thankful that the first leg of their journey was almost over. In less than a league, they would reach the coastline. Rolfe hoped that the sea was calm.
Without warning, his captive shifted in the saddle. Her small, round derriere rubbed against his groin, and Rolfe bit back a groan. She moved again, and he sucked in his breath.
God’s wounds! Could she not be still?
As the question tore through his mind, he belatedly wondered why he had insisted on volunteering for this mission. True, he wanted to exact revenge on Miles, but from Rolfe’s way of thinking, the tables were now turned. His mistake was in not anticipating how appealing his captive would be. Per Henry’s own decree, Rolfe was to take great care not to despoil the fair Catherine. But as her appetizing young body continued its attack on his, Rolfe knew the command might prove impossible to obey.
His jaw set, he rode onward. Soon the group topped the last hill. He reined in and looked across the marshes toward the jutting rock and the building atop it.
“’Tis an abbey,” Catherine said, the coif taken from her mouth long before.
“Aye, milady. Mont St. Michel, to be precise.”
She looked at him questioningly, and he noticed how her hazel eyes had changed color. Where once they were a deep gray, now they were a muted green. He wondered absently their shade when she was in the throes of passion.
“The sacred mount of the Archangel?” she asked, disbelief ringing in her voice.
“Aye,” he said. “’Tis my home.”
CHAPTER
3
HIS NAME WAS ROLFE DE MONT ST. MICHEL, AND SHE HATED him.
In the dim candlelight, Catherine stared at her abductor, wishing beyond anything that he were dead.
He stood across the way, his squire helping him disrobe. His helm and mail coif, which he’d donned once they were away from Avranches, rested on a nearby bench. Beside them lay his broadsword, at most an arm’s reach away. Steam rose from a wooden tub centered in the roomy cell inside the abbey. His bath awaited him.
As the layers of clothing were peeled away, first his hauberk, followed by his chainse, garters, and mail chausses, most maids would have looked away, but not Catherine. She hugged the wall, eyeing him the same as a cornered rabbit watched a hungry predator. Her hands were still bound, but she stood ready. Should he dare approach her, she’d lunge at him, inflicting as much damage as she could before he overpowered her.
He was now stripped to his braies. His long fingers caught the ties that held the garment snugly in place between his waist and hips. “Turn around, Catherine, and face the wall, or your maidenly eyes will see more than what is intended.”
She defied him by ignoring his command. He shrugged, then jerked the ends of the string. The garment fell to his ankles.
He boldly met her stare for stare. Silence encompassed them, until he said, “Does milady approve of what she sees?”
Living in a castle where privacy between the sexes was as tenuous as a wooden screen or a cloth curtain, Catherine had some knowledge of the male anatomy. Grudgingly, she had to admit his was exceptional.
He possessed a warrior’s body, well muscled, agile, and strong. Dark blond hair furred across his broad chest, then darted to his navel, and past, where it fanned and thickened.
Her eyes never wavered as she continued her examination of him, down to his feet. Save for three obvious scars—one on his left forearm, another at his waist, the last slashing across his right thigh—he was without flaw.
Unflinchingly, he withstood her scrutiny. Then she saw his lips twitch. A wide smile stretched across his handsome face, exposing straight white teeth.
“No answer, Catherine?” he asked, then shook his head. “I’m surprised at you. I thought by your confession this morning you were a virgin, but the mark of innocence evades your lovely face. I suppose that means your betrothed has already reaped his prize.”
Catherine stiffened. Had it been Miles who was standing thus, her cheeks would be flaming like fire. She loved Miles. The mere thought of him set her emotions to spinning, pleasantly so. This man she despised. The only feeling she held for Rolfe de Mont St. Michel was contempt.
“Since I find you to be such an odious creature,” she said, malice deliberately sounding in her voice, “there is no reason for me to blush.”
She refused to respond to the last of his statement, but he wouldn’t let it pass.
“Are you a virgin, Catherine?” he asked softly.
Should he decide to ravish her, she doubted it mattered whether she were intact or not. She was, but if he wanted the truth, he’d have to discover it for himself. “My physical condition is none of your affair. I am betrothed. That’s all I will say.”
Rolfe chuckled. “I admire your pretense at bravery. However, being a man who has had carnal knowledge of not just one woman but many, I can see you are as innocent as the day you were born. You may ease your worries. You are safe, and so is your virginity.”
He stepped from the fallen braies and walked toward the tub. Unchivalrous lout, she thought. His touting the fact that he’d made numerous conquests of the fairer sex proved he didn’t take his knight’s oath seriously. No doubt he was a mercenary, his services rendered to the highest bidder. At first Catherine wondered exactly who stood to profit from her abduction and why. Then she decided it was Rolfe himself, and his motive was gold.
He stepped into the tub, then eased himself down into the hot liquid, whereupon he sighed contentedly. When he next looked her way, he asked, “Why are you smiling?”
Catherine hadn’t realized she was. Naked and ensconced in a tub, he was at his most vulnerable. Fancifully, she’d been pondering his reaction should her father or Miles burst into the room, sword drawn.
Oh, what she’d give to see the expression on his face just before his bathwater ran red. Would it be one of surprise or embarrassment? Or perhaps a little of both? Whatever his response, Catherine wished she could witness the event forthwith.
“I asked you a question, milady. I would like an answer.”
“I’m smiling because you are far too confident. By now there is undoubtedly a small army searching for me. Considering your present situation, perhaps you are not as intelligent as you would have everyone believe.”
“If you refer to the fact that I’ve taken the time to bathe, let me assure you there’s little chance I’ll be caught unawares. The abbey is virtually impregnable.”
“But not totally.”
“Nothing is invincible. At least nothing of an earthly nature. However, this day I perceive no danger. After all, the Archangel is purported to guard not only this mount, but also the marshes and the sea surrounding it. I have every certainty he’ll continue to do so. Hence, I am comfortable in my present situation.”
“And I say the Archfiend holds dominion here. That is the real reason you are so at ease.”
He chuckled. “That’s sacrilege, Catherine. Had your chaplain heard those words you’d be doing penance for years to come. Be a good girl and sit and eat,” he said as he leaned forward, allowing his squire access to his back.
The lad, whom Catherine surmised was only a year or two younger than herself, ran a soapy cloth over his lord’s shoulders, then down his spine.
“You’ll be needing your strength,” her captor finished as the lather was rinsed away.
“Why?”
“Tonight, when the tide is right, we leave for England. Once we meet her shores, we’ll be traveling overland. The journey ahead is long. As I say, you’ll be needing your strength.”
Catherine glanced at the half loaf of crusty bread and the thick chunk of cheese. The two rested on a linen square atop a small wooden table only a few feet from her. A chalice filled with wine sat in the table’s center. It was now midday, and even though she hadn’t eaten since the night before, she was far from hungry. She looked back at him.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. She was desperate to know the true reason he’d carried her to Mont St. Michel, to learn the motive behind his taking her to England.
“It has been a while since I’ve had a bath. I thought for milady’s sake I should take one.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she snapped. “Whether you bathe or not is of no concern to me.”
