Her gaze fastened on his lips, which were parting … seemed to be lowering …
Shouting and sounds of crashing vegetation erupted all around them. Galvanized, he drew his sword and whirled into a crouch, ready to defend her.
A dozen men brandishing weapons burst from the trees, led by Mattias and young Withers. Their battle cries died in their throats and their blades lowered as they recognized their commander and spotted Chloe, frozen and wide-eyed, behind him.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” Sir Hugh demanded, straightening and lowering his sword.
Mattias peered pointedly around him to Chloe and seemed a bit uneasy.
“Well, ye didn’t come back, so we tho’t ye might need some help. Wouldn’ want nothin’ to happen to the little Sister there.”
“As you can see,” Hugh snarled, grateful for the darkness that hid his reddening face, “she is perfectly safe.”
He, on the other hand, was in great danger. Of forgetting every lesson on lust and licentiousness he’d ever learned. Of succumbing to a temptation he’d never faced before. Of doing something unforgivably stupid.
“Now get back to camp.” Frantic to escape their scrutiny, he seized her wrist and pulled her along through the trees, setting a wickedly purposeful pace over logs and around snags. He could almost feel his men’s eyes boring into his back, questioning what he was doing with the little Sister out here in the dark. And with damned good reason. If they hadn’t interrupted him …
He had to do something. If nuns’ garb wasn’t enough to protect the maids from his men’s baser urges, then he’d have to find something that did. They needed a better disguise … something truly convincing … something that could make even Chloe of Guibray look nothing like a woman.
When they reached the camp he dragged her across the circle, straight to the fire built in the midst of the wagons.
“Sit!”
At first she just stood glaring at him. Then, apparently remembering his strength and his willingness to use it, she tucked her arms with a jerk and sat down on one of logs that had been dragged near the fire.
Chloe watched as he conferred with Sir Graham, who seemed stunned by whatever he was saying and stared uneasily at her across the flames. Then Sir Graham strode off to speak to some of the men and Sir High-and-Mighty came to deliver what she sensed could only be bad news.
“We need your garments.” When she just blinked at him, he expanded on it. “Your habits. You’ll have to remove them and hand them over.”
“What?” She shot to her feet, listing slightly as she tried not to put weight on her injured ankle. He seemed utterly serious. “We’ll do no such thing.”
“They were meant to provide you protection and security, were they not?” He leaned down to speak slowly and succinctly, as if he were explaining to a child. She was a twitch away from slapping him silly. “Well, after today, they will only provide you protection if
someone else
is wearing them.”
That took a moment to register. It annoyed her that she couldn’t think of a clever and devastating rebuttal.
“And, pray, who do you think
should
wear them?”
He seemed to sense victory at hand and pointed to a clutch of soldiers being herded their way by a grim Sir Graham.
“Them?
They
will wear our clothes? And what, pray, will
we
wear?”
He turned to young Withers and ordered him to remove his mail and tunic, holding out a hand to receive them. She watched with dawning comprehension as he hooked fingers in the garments’ shoulders and held them up to her.
“Ohhh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” His smile was laced with vengeful glee. “And you’ve no one to blame but yourself … you gave me the idea. ‘How many brigands do you know who wear a religious habit?’ Sound familiar?”
* * *
Late that same night, miles away, one of the pot boys from the village ambled down the convent’s cellar steps to fetch some eggs and soon raced back up the
Shouting and sounds of crashing vegetation erupted all around them. Galvanized, he drew his sword and whirled into a crouch, ready to defend her.
A dozen men brandishing weapons burst from the trees, led by Mattias and young Withers. Their battle cries died in their throats and their blades lowered as they recognized their commander and spotted Chloe, frozen and wide-eyed, behind him.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” Sir Hugh demanded, straightening and lowering his sword.
Mattias peered pointedly around him to Chloe and seemed a bit uneasy.
“Well, ye didn’t come back, so we tho’t ye might need some help. Wouldn’ want nothin’ to happen to the little Sister there.”
“As you can see,” Hugh snarled, grateful for the darkness that hid his reddening face, “she is perfectly safe.”
He, on the other hand, was in great danger. Of forgetting every lesson on lust and licentiousness he’d ever learned. Of succumbing to a temptation he’d never faced before. Of doing something unforgivably stupid.
“Now get back to camp.” Frantic to escape their scrutiny, he seized her wrist and pulled her along through the trees, setting a wickedly purposeful pace over logs and around snags. He could almost feel his men’s eyes boring into his back, questioning what he was doing with the little Sister out here in the dark. And with damned good reason. If they hadn’t interrupted him …
He had to do something. If nuns’ garb wasn’t enough to protect the maids from his men’s baser urges, then he’d have to find something that did. They needed a better disguise … something truly convincing … something that could make even Chloe of Guibray look nothing like a woman.
When they reached the camp he dragged her across the circle, straight to the fire built in the midst of the wagons.
“Sit!”
At first she just stood glaring at him. Then, apparently remembering his strength and his willingness to use it, she tucked her arms with a jerk and sat down on one of logs that had been dragged near the fire.
Chloe watched as he conferred with Sir Graham, who seemed stunned by whatever he was saying and stared uneasily at her across the flames. Then Sir Graham strode off to speak to some of the men and Sir High-and-Mighty came to deliver what she sensed could only be bad news.
“We need your garments.” When she just blinked at him, he expanded on it. “Your habits. You’ll have to remove them and hand them over.”
“What?” She shot to her feet, listing slightly as she tried not to put weight on her injured ankle. He seemed utterly serious. “We’ll do no such thing.”
“They were meant to provide you protection and security, were they not?” He leaned down to speak slowly and succinctly, as if he were explaining to a child. She was a twitch away from slapping him silly. “Well, after today, they will only provide you protection if
someone else
is wearing them.”
That took a moment to register. It annoyed her that she couldn’t think of a clever and devastating rebuttal.
“And, pray, who do you think
should
wear them?”
He seemed to sense victory at hand and pointed to a clutch of soldiers being herded their way by a grim Sir Graham.
“Them?
They
will wear our clothes? And what, pray, will
we
wear?”
He turned to young Withers and ordered him to remove his mail and tunic, holding out a hand to receive them. She watched with dawning comprehension as he hooked fingers in the garments’ shoulders and held them up to her.
“Ohhh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” His smile was laced with vengeful glee. “And you’ve no one to blame but yourself … you gave me the idea. ‘How many brigands do you know who wear a religious habit?’ Sound familiar?”
* * *
Late that same night, miles away, one of the pot boys from the village ambled down the convent’s cellar steps to fetch some eggs and soon raced back up the
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