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Authors: Nicole Margot Spencer
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could not help but fear what other madness he might now pursue.
After he stripped off his gauntlet and his buff coat, he buttoned the heavy hide coat around his back and breast plates and suspended the entire cumbersome package from his black’s saddlebow alongside his sword hanging in its baldric. He then untied a sizable leather roll from behind his saddle, set it down at his feet, and turned back to me, surveying me with grim humor.
“You told me you would not leave Tor House.”
“I have run away.”
“You? But you said . . .?” his words trailed off, mocking me.
I went to him and pressed my fingers over his mouth, irritated at the joke he made of my situation, yet needing his support. His arms came around me, and he pulled me close. The temptation overcame me, and I snuggled against his warm chest. With growing remorse, I knew that I needed and cared for this man.
Tenderly, he pulled strands of long black hair from my face. “You are safe here.” His hand stopped. “This raised bruise—did you run into something? Or did someone hit you?”
Tears came, and I could not stop them. I pulled away, suddenly conscious of smirking cavaliers at mist’s edge who could not help but witness this wanton display. What was I thinking of? How could I stand among the quiet clank and creak of the vanguard of the Royalist Horse and do this? I cleared my throat in distress.
“Who?” he demanded.
“A little bump on my head is nothing,” I said, attempting to regain my composure. “Lord Devlin is a very powerful man and used to having his way.”
He eyed me suspiciously, his dark eyes clouding, then turned and called for another horse.
“I must find supporters,” I insisted. “And failing that, I must get to the King.”
His expression twisted into a resentful smirk, though he said nothing. He reached into the leather roll close by his feet and pulled on a long-sleeved woolen shirt. When his face reappeared his yearning eyes sought mine.
“Within the confines of the war and my responsibilities to Prince Rupert, you have my allegiance and my oath to assist you in any way I can.”
At a loss for words, I sought to contain my amazement. My stiff hand clenched and unclenched on my cloaked chest.
But he went on about his business, as though committing himself to a woman’s cause was an everyday occurrence. He pulled a large black bundle out of the leather roll, collapsing the leather, then carefully set the black bundle atop a wide tuft of grass. After retrieving his gauntlet and sash from the relatively dry safety of his saddle, and rolling up his red cloak, he re-rolled his leather around them, and re-tied the newly stuffed leather roll behind his stallion’s saddle. Out of the black bundle he pulled a big black hat. He twisted his long hair, piled it atop his head and pushed the crushed old hat down over it, then took his baldric and sword off Ajax’s saddlebow, and slipped the baldric on, sword suspended at his side.
Too late to say anything meaningful, I walked around him and looked him over.
“Quite nice,” I said. “You look like an armed tinker.”
“I will escort you to Bolton, yes, as an armed tinker.” He grinned, the light flashing on his russet, day-old beard.
“Why do you want to go to Bolton? Do you doubt my word?”
“Not at all.” He adjusted his pistols and the knife at his belt, then bent over, shook out, and whipped on the remaining black cloak, a wet spot near its hem where it had sat on the soaked grass. “I will escort you to your friend’s house in Bolton and, in the process, do some reconnaissance
I did not believe him. His fearlessness was alarming.
Chapter Six
Some time later, a soldier took Duncan’s black stallion away and left a sway-backed roan in his place beside my edgy Kalimir. I had tired of waiting and was prepared to mount when Duncan, his huge black cloak flapping behind him, rushed out of the thinning fog into the solitary little copse of
After he stripped off his gauntlet and his buff coat, he buttoned the heavy hide coat around his back and breast plates and suspended the entire cumbersome package from his black’s saddlebow alongside his sword hanging in its baldric. He then untied a sizable leather roll from behind his saddle, set it down at his feet, and turned back to me, surveying me with grim humor.
“You told me you would not leave Tor House.”
“I have run away.”
“You? But you said . . .?” his words trailed off, mocking me.
I went to him and pressed my fingers over his mouth, irritated at the joke he made of my situation, yet needing his support. His arms came around me, and he pulled me close. The temptation overcame me, and I snuggled against his warm chest. With growing remorse, I knew that I needed and cared for this man.
Tenderly, he pulled strands of long black hair from my face. “You are safe here.” His hand stopped. “This raised bruise—did you run into something? Or did someone hit you?”
Tears came, and I could not stop them. I pulled away, suddenly conscious of smirking cavaliers at mist’s edge who could not help but witness this wanton display. What was I thinking of? How could I stand among the quiet clank and creak of the vanguard of the Royalist Horse and do this? I cleared my throat in distress.
“Who?” he demanded.
“A little bump on my head is nothing,” I said, attempting to regain my composure. “Lord Devlin is a very powerful man and used to having his way.”
He eyed me suspiciously, his dark eyes clouding, then turned and called for another horse.
“I must find supporters,” I insisted. “And failing that, I must get to the King.”
His expression twisted into a resentful smirk, though he said nothing. He reached into the leather roll close by his feet and pulled on a long-sleeved woolen shirt. When his face reappeared his yearning eyes sought mine.
“Within the confines of the war and my responsibilities to Prince Rupert, you have my allegiance and my oath to assist you in any way I can.”
At a loss for words, I sought to contain my amazement. My stiff hand clenched and unclenched on my cloaked chest.
But he went on about his business, as though committing himself to a woman’s cause was an everyday occurrence. He pulled a large black bundle out of the leather roll, collapsing the leather, then carefully set the black bundle atop a wide tuft of grass. After retrieving his gauntlet and sash from the relatively dry safety of his saddle, and rolling up his red cloak, he re-rolled his leather around them, and re-tied the newly stuffed leather roll behind his stallion’s saddle. Out of the black bundle he pulled a big black hat. He twisted his long hair, piled it atop his head and pushed the crushed old hat down over it, then took his baldric and sword off Ajax’s saddlebow, and slipped the baldric on, sword suspended at his side.
Too late to say anything meaningful, I walked around him and looked him over.
“Quite nice,” I said. “You look like an armed tinker.”
“I will escort you to Bolton, yes, as an armed tinker.” He grinned, the light flashing on his russet, day-old beard.
“Why do you want to go to Bolton? Do you doubt my word?”
“Not at all.” He adjusted his pistols and the knife at his belt, then bent over, shook out, and whipped on the remaining black cloak, a wet spot near its hem where it had sat on the soaked grass. “I will escort you to your friend’s house in Bolton and, in the process, do some reconnaissance
I did not believe him. His fearlessness was alarming.
Chapter Six
Some time later, a soldier took Duncan’s black stallion away and left a sway-backed roan in his place beside my edgy Kalimir. I had tired of waiting and was prepared to mount when Duncan, his huge black cloak flapping behind him, rushed out of the thinning fog into the solitary little copse of
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