Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) (5 page)

“Then I have all I need.” Elin pressed a kiss to Alma's papery cheek, and then mounted the waiting palfrey before she could change her mind.

She was not sentimental, not one bit, but leaving Alma made her heart ache. As she galloped past the inn, she saw the wide-open door and thought of Malcolm within, the fiercest of knights who now suffered by her hand.

She didn't like what she had done, but she could not depend upon a knight without heart or soul, without mercy or conscience to save her, to plead her cause, to protect her from Caradoc before the king. Malcolm was more shadow than substance, more killer than man.

Yet she'd seen the pain on his face when she'd taken his dagger. He hurt in the way of a real man.

 

Giles leaned against the door frame, sagging from weakness. “She left the prisoners.”

“Even her father?”

“Aye. He curses her alongside the proud Caradoc.”

“I curse her as well.” Bitterness soured Malcolm's mouth, but he was the king's protector, the best knight in the realm, a reputation earned by his skill with a sword and the cold hard calculation needed to win in battle. He should have watched the woman more carefully.

“I fear we've tarried far too long. The king is awaiting Evenbough.”

“I know the king's eagerness to face this traitor.” The king's cousin was dead, a young woman Edward swore to avenge. “I'll not disappoint my king. Giles, take command of the men and prisoners. See them safely to the king's dungeon. There had better be no more attacks, no more poisonings, no more surprises.”

“Aye, I will see to it. You'll hunt down the girl?”

“Hunt her?” Full afternoon light burnished the landscape, and he gazed at the lay of the land, at the rise and fall of hillsides, the denseness of forests and groves. She would not be easy to find. “Aye, the traitor's daughter is mine. Tell that to Edward.”

 

Only as the sun skirted the western horizon did Elin truly feel hunted. Twilight threatened, and she could feel the danger behind her. The vengeful knight tracked her, and he grew closer. But she couldn't see him, even when she paused her mount on a rise and gazed over the valley below. She sensed he was there, somewhere in the gathering dusk.

She'd risked her life to escape him, she knew that. If he found her, she would be as good as dead.
If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king's dungeon myself.

Aye, 'twas best to keep ahead of him. She nosed her
palfrey off the road. Bare limbs grabbed at her mantle and at the hem of her hood. Cool winds through the forest brought with it the scents of the coming night.

 

He trailed her with a vengeance, driving his stallion hard as twilight thickened. Spears of darkness pierced the somber trees and cast ever-deepening shadows along the forest floor.

Lady Elinore of Evenbough. She'd betrayed him, deceived him, poisoned him. The warrior maiden was no different from all women.

Sweat dripped off his brow and into his stinging eyes blurring his vision. The sickness still lay claim to him, twisting his stomach, but he cared not how he suffered. With every passing league he felt stronger and more certain of his course.

He drove his destrier deep into the forest, following the crash of broken boughs and crushed undergrowth. Though it was almost night, he could see the imprints of hooves upon the rain-drenched earth.

Blood thickened in his veins and quickened his heart. He was close; he could taste it. Aye, he was closer than he'd thought. Malcolm could sense her, like a hunting wolf knowing the hidden rabbit shivered nearby.

Shiver she should. He was no longer amused, no longer curious. In the inn's chamber, assisting her with Hugh, he'd lowered his shield. For one moment she'd tempted him, just a bit, and he'd looked at her through a man's eyes.

He would not make that mistake again.

 

As midnight gathered, she could not see before or behind her. But she could hear the ghostly sound of hooves upon the forest's carpet of decaying leaves and rotting branches. Night had slowed her escape, but not the fierce knight's
pursuit. She suspected a man like Malcolm le Farouche saw best in the harsh hours after midnight, when not even stars cast faint light from above, when not even heaven dared to watch.

He was gaining. And likely to overtake her as well. She'd not believed he could trail her, for she worked hard to disguise her tracks. 'Twas impossible to hide all traces, and yet she'd not expected even the king's greatest knight to find her like this, and so swiftly. Especially after a dose of oakwood.

No man was that powerful or that impossible to defeat.

Fear dampened her palms and made her heart kick with a fast, quivery rhythm. Aye, she grew more afraid with each step. She had no doubt he would condemn her, drag her to the king's court and certain death. Or worse.

Well, the battle was not yet won. Elin snared her satchel from her saddle and dismounted. The palfrey nosed her with an inquisitive gesture. 'Twas her father's horse, not her preferred mount, and she hoped the animal would not follow her. She gave the mare a sound smack on the rump. Emitting a startled whinny, the animal leaped and ran, crashing through the undergrowth. That was sure to draw the fierce knight's attention. And as long as the mare galloped, Elin would have plenty of time to escape.

Like dry leaves in a wind, the quiet crackled as he spurred his great warhorse into a similar gallop. He exploded past low boughs and high brambles, thundering through the night like an ancient god.

She crouched low until he was out of sight, and then she headed north, toward the safety of her devoted aunt's castle. Elizabeth would protect her by cloistering her away until the traitor Philip of Evenbough was forgotten and his daughter not even a memory in the minds of dangerous men.

 

He found the palfrey, saddle empty, standing in a clearing, munching on last summer's dead grasses, for stubborn winter still gripped these lands. He laid a hand against the mare's neck and felt the heat from a hard ride still damp upon her coat.

How long had she been without a rider? How long did the traitor's daughter think she could outsmart him?

Malcolm retraced his route, and could tell by the change in the depth of the tracks where she'd dismounted. She was not far. He studied the thousand shades of black upon black in the forest and felt her. Yet he saw no movements, no shifting shadows, no human eyes gazing out at him from behind fern or bramble.

She was very close.

He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.

She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn't bargained on his tracking skills. As the king's favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could hide from the power of the king. Or from Malcolm le Farouche.

The soft imprint, barely discernible, was buried in shadow and decaying leaves.

He laid his hand upon the cold steel hilt and drew his sword. “I've not been that ill since my last trip across the Channel.”

He heard the slightest whisper of movement, and knew her intent.

“Drop that upon my head and pay, traitor's daughter. My temper has been tested beyond endurance. Climb down,
else I will come up after you. Believe me, you'll not like the sting of my fury.”

The limbs above shivered in answer. He heard the creak of wood upon wood and the scrape of branches against moss. She was descending, but what plot did she have now? He would not endure humiliation by a woman a second time.

“What? Are you going to slay an unarmed woman, Sir Cowardly Knight?”

“I warned you, maid, tempt me no further.” He spotted her hanging halfway down the tree trunk and wrapped his left hand around her upper arm. She was so small that his fingers easily encircled her. He hauled her, not roughly, to the ground. “Surrender your dagger.”

“I have no—”

“Give it to me.”
Cold anger iced those words.

She heard his threat and the fierce control that even now kept him from violence, and knew she'd pushed him too far. Still, 'twas not easy to surrender. “'Tis in my packs. Check my palfrey.”

“You lie, little manipulator.” He drew himself taller, fiercer, then lifted his sword and swung.

She stumbled back, hitting her spine against the tree. Rough bark bit her flesh. Sweet Mary, his blade cut the air soundlessly. In the space of a breath, her fingers curled around the cold hilt of the dagger at her waist and she drew it out. Steel sparked upon steel.

“Unhand the weapon.” He tore the knife from her grip with an inhuman strength, spurred by rage. “Do not think to lie to me again, or you will regret it.”

She believed him. By the rood, she believed him. For the first time in her short life, she'd met an enemy she could not conquer, could not outsmart and could not fight. He
stood like stone in the night, living stone that could not be chipped or beaten or destroyed.

She trembled. “You'll take me to Caradoc and the king.”

“Aye, but 'twill be a gentler fate after enduring my wrath.” He drove the tip of his sword into the soft mossy earth, impaling it there.

Elin watched, horror spearing through her chest and into her heart, as he pulled the length of rope from his saddle and dragged her hard against him. He held her with bruising force to the span of his steeled chest.

“Lady Elinore of Evenbough, daughter to Philip of Evenbough, suspected traitor to King Edward, you are my prisoner. You have attempted to kill the king's knights—”

“I meant only to sicken—”

“Silence.”
His roar echoed through the forest. “Another word and I shall gag you as I did your father. I
will
do my duty to my king and bring you to him alive, but how I bring you and in what condition, the good sovereign cares not.”

He felt her every tremble, for she was tucked beneath his chin and caught in the shelter of his arms. She was slight and delicate—easily crushed. Now she seemed aware of that fact as she leaned against him, rigid with fear, unable to stand on her own.

Good, 'tis as it should be.
She ought to be afraid.

He bound her wrists tightly, so she could not escape. The small noise in her throat, the one that said he'd bruised her, made him wince. He hated treating a woman thus, but 'twas not his choice. 'Twas Edward's. And Malcolm's oath to serve his king drove him now.

“But my father's mare—”

“Will follow us or nay. 'Tis not my concern.” He swung her up onto his saddle.

She clutched the stallion's mane with her delicate fingers. “But my herbs—”

“Not another word.”
He caught her ankle before she could level him with a kick. He bound her well, wise to her tricks of defense, and mounted behind her.

“But my satchel is in the tree—”

“Where you are headed, worldly possessions are of no concern. Now, you've disobeyed my order to stay quiet. Open your mouth.”

“Prithee, do not force a gag on me.”

He could see her clearly. The deep pools of her eyes gleamed with honest terror. She was daughter to a brutal man, and at the thought Malcolm's chest tightened. No doubt she expected all manner of brutality from the land's fiercest knight.

But he did not harm women, regardless of how they treated him. He relented on the gag, certain now that she would obey him and remain silent. He sheathed his sword and gathered the reins. Imprisoned in the strength of his arms, the warrior woman was subdued enough.

For now.

He spurred his warhorse into a well-disciplined lope and protected her the best he could from the slap of stinging limbs. She still trembled. As she sat in the cradle of his thighs, he was not unaware of her soft, womanly curves. Even through his armor, he could feel her heat and her temptation.

If his shaft hardened and his blood thickened, 'twas a weakness a man who lived and died by the sword could ill afford.

Where once he had vowed to help her, he was now bound by duty to his king to condemn her.

A
fraid to say even one word for fear of the discomfort of a gag, Elin endured the long hours trapped against Malcolm's steeled chest. She was not unaware of his maleness, of the solid man hewn of muscle and bone, or of the hardness of his shaft, unmistakable against the back of her thigh.

He held her trapped against him endlessly as he drove his stallion across vale and hill and through a world brushed by shades of night. No other living creature stirred until dawn grayed the edges of the eastern horizon and the first birds woke the world with song.

Still she felt the hardness of the man and his virility. His arousal remained solid and rigid, and she feared it. She feared what one as dark and powerful as this king's knight might do. He did not even glance at her, but the threat lingered.

Aye, she was vulnerable without weapon and protector, vulnerable to this man without mercy.

He sat tall, easily guiding his giant destrier as dawn brightened. He looked magnificent riding in the blinding gleam of the rising sun. Light radiated all around him in eye-watering shafts.

He stopped to allow her to tend to her body's needs, and then wordlessly offered her drink and food. They rode again, unrelenting and hard. They traveled thus for two days. And when Elin saw the silhouette of a city on the horizon, she knew a different sort of fear. One so quiet and cold it wrapped around her soul like a winter's freeze.

She would die in that city. 'Twas a certainty. And would Malcolm the Fierce feel even a twist of conscience, knowing that he'd hunted her down like a ruthless wolf, only to deliver her to her death? That he could have shown her mercy and allowed her to escape, but had not?

Eyes averted, he hauled her from his horse and slung her over his broad shoulder. He easily carried her down stone steps into a dungeon rank with the scents of rotting wood and cruelty. He lowered her like a sack of grain to the floor and chained her to the wall.

Terror beat in her heart as she listened to the click of the lock. Though darkness cloaked him, she felt the force of his gaze.

He towered above her like a mythical warrior. Then he turned without a word, leaving her alone in a dark hell.

 

“Malcolm, I heard a woman got the best of you.” Ian the Strong slapped Malcolm on the shoulder, a gesture of old friendship. “Heard she rendered you and every last one of your men sick as dogs.”

“Tease all you wish. If Edward hadn't assigned you to a different task, you would have been retching in the courtyard with the best of us.”

“Nay, my friend. I would have had the brains to know a woman should never be trusted. Liars and manipulators, every last one of them. Why, look at the tavern wenches. See how they plot and play for our benefit?”

“For the benefit of coin.”

“Aye, what woman doesn't? From the queen to the lowest peasant, 'tis how they survive and how they are made.”

Malcolm drained the last of his ale and dropped the tankard on the table. “'Tis true I gave the traitor's daughter too much freedom. After she saved Hugh's life and mixed a healing ointment for the old innkeeper's wife, I grew less suspicious. I thought she only meant to help serve the food.”

“I cannot believe you would give a woman aught but a good swiving.”

Malcolm rubbed his aching brow, where exhaustion and long-pent-up rage tensed the muscles, causing a blasting pain.

“Why, 'tis Sir Malcolm and Sir Ian.” A serving wench well known for more than her skills in dispensing ale appeared at the edge of the trestle table, pitcher in hand. “What a lucky maid I am to host such powerful knights in my tavern.”

“You, a maid?” Ian's gaze roamed the wench's form, from ripe, half-exposed breasts to the swell of her generous hips. “I've often been between those thighs. You long ago left maidenhood behind.”

“Aye, for womanhood pleases me better.” She winked at him, certain now there would be more coin added to her earnings this night, and 'twould not be only from serving ale. She filled both tankards handily. “And you, Sir Malcolm? Shall I send over a maid for your amusement?”

“Maid?” Ian laughed. “Your maids have too much experience for the Fierce One. They may well overpower him, and his reputation will be in ruins again.”

“Enough with the jests, Ian. Matilda, I have no need of a woman.”

As the wench turned, dropping their small coins into her pocket, Ian watched lustily. “Aye, I have me a liking for
that one. Rough she is. Knows how to satisfy a man. I hear the king's nephew attacked your band and you killed half his men.”

“Aye, but I did not kill the nephew.”

“Edward will owe you a boon, then. Mayhap it will compensate for the prisoner woman's escape, and he'll not demote you.” Ian's eyes teased, but his words held a ring of warning as he lifted his tankard and drank deeply.

Fie, would the traitor's daughter haunt him forever? Malcolm could still feel the womanly shape of her body pressed hard to his in the saddle, for he'd trapped her there, beneath his arms and against his chest. She'd been his captive, a slim reed of a thing, and the memory of it still ached like an old wound, like a tooth slowly festering. He'd scared the spirit from her and intimidated her until she did not dare even look at him.

He remembered her words, so cocksure and dismissing.
Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king's you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat?
He could not remember when anyone had dared to demean the king's favored knight.

And he'd left her in the dungeon.

His guts tightened into hard knots and he drank until the tankard was empty, and the next one after that. But the image of the frightened-eyed maiden chained to the stone wall remained with him and would not fade. Even through a night of sleep and dreams and into the next morning, when word of Caradoc's fury and Philip's impending execution buzzed on the lips of the villagers.

Malcolm watched the new day dawn, and the brightness of it never touched him. For he knew there would be no mercy for the warrior dove. 'Twas the way of the world, and the futility of it deadened him. He gathered his men, because it was yet another day of serving the king.

 

“Elinore of Evenbough?” Booted feet halted before her.

Cold, hungry and stiff, Elin tilted back her head. Her gaze traveled up the hosed legs to the fine tunic bearing the king's standard.

“Are you Lady Elinore of Evenbough?” This time it was a rough demand.

“Aye.” She tucked her ankles together. “Am I to go to the king? Will he hear my tale? I—”

“Silence!” Unlike Malcolm the Fierce, this man's voice seemed to resonate with cruelty, as if he treasured doing violence.

She felt the tug on her chains, and the brutal oaf nearly pulled her arms from their sockets before he unlocked her. She stood and her irons clattered. Her knees wobbled. Fiery pricks of pain shot through her limbs, numb from cold and lack of circulation.

“Come.” The guard shoved her roughly, and caught her when she stumbled. “He awaits.”

“Who? Malcolm?”

Why his name came to her lips, she could not imagine, nor the hope that accompanied it. That man had dragged her here and chained her up like a misbehaving dog.

All night she had thought upon it, unable to sleep. The night noises of the dungeon were terrifying, and she had much time to think upon her crimes. She had poisoned the king's men and she was the daughter of a traitor. No king would allow her to live.

The only man who could stay her execution was Malcolm. And if he'd come for her—

“Nay, Edward has granted Lord Caradoc a boon.” The guard's laugh rang with glee, as if he enjoyed bringing the worst of news. “'Tis Caradoc who awaits you.”

Defeat lodged like a blade between her ribs. Caradoc
was
planning to claim that they were betrothed. What had she done to deserve this end? She would refuse it—that's what she would do. She would rather have a swift death at the hands of the executioner than allow Caradoc the right to finish the rape he'd started years ago.

“Elin, how pathetic you look.” That putrid swine rose from a cushioned chair in a private chamber. He wore an elaborate tunic of embroidered gold on red velvet, and he looked like a rooster, all trussed up for show.

“Caradoc. I am not surprised to see you. As I walked down the corridor, I could not quite place the unpleasant odor—”

“I warn you, Elin.” His hand entrapped her wrist, his grip much used to inflicting violence. His eyes gleamed coldly, bold and naked and brutal. “Tempt me not, for I hold the power to spare your life.”

“What makes you think I want it spared?” She jutted her chin and met his flat gaze.

“No mortal wishes to face the agony of being drawn and quartered. 'Twould be a shame to waste your beauty on the edge of a blade.”

Fear at the king's judgment lodged hard in her stomach. “'Tis preferable to what you propose.”

His thumb rubbed bruising caresses on her skin. He would not let her go, even as she struggled. “You will marry me, Elin, and your life will be saved. That is, if you hold your tongue and refrain from insulting the king.”

“Insult him? He needs none of my insults, for he is related to you. That is pox enough on his name.”

“Now you anger me.” His hand swung back, ready to land a blow.

She planted her feet and lifted her chin, prepared for the strike.

It never came. Malcolm clamped his unyielding grip around Caradoc's wrist. “Edward awaits the girl.”

'Twas all he said, and he avoided her gaze. She'd been wrong in believing he might come to free her. He despised her. He'd not forgiven her. She could see it in the cold steel of his face as he released the king's nephew. His free hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

He'd come to make certain she would not escape her punishment. A cold anger brewed, low and deep. How she despised him, despised both men.

The fierce knight's fingers bit into her shoulder, as if to remind her of his authority. He would escort her down the passageway to her execution.

She clamped her jaw, determined to hold back the tears balled in her throat. She shook with terror, yet she did not fight le Farouche as he herded her down a long corridor. “I suppose you take great pleasure in my execution.”

“I take no satisfaction.”

She heard no anger in his voice, yet his rage had been unmistakable when he'd chained her in the king's dungeon. “I sickened your men. I humiliated you.”

“You made me writhe on the ground in intestinal agony, 'tis what you did.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, the only sign of emotion on the rogue's face. “You leveled a half-dozen warriors with your evil herbs.”

“Herbs are not evil. Only man has the capacity for that.”

“And woman.” His chain mail jangled, echoing in the stone corridor.

“I suppose you intend to stand by my side and make sure I take the noose obediently. Or will you terrify me into it?”

“Your words are far too bold for a disgraced woman facing death.” His gaze did not meet hers, but his voice held censure. He nodded to the guards who flanked a pair
of great iron doors. “Consider acting contrite before Edward.”

“What, you give me advice?” Her stomach curdled, and she tried to swallow the sob in her voice. She did not want him to know how terrified she truly was. “A cowardly knight like you? I'd think you would advise me on how best to swing from a noose.”

“Do not call me a cowardly knight.” Low and harsh rang his warning, as lethal as a wolf's growl.

The ringing din of voices within the hall silenced. Elin looked up to see a tall man robed in brilliance, and she knew at once she gazed upon the king, upon Edward, and that he had heard all that she'd said to his favorite knight.

Heat flamed her face. 'Twas far too late to act meek and contrite now, not that she was good at acting. She might be a traitor's daughter, but no one, not even Malcolm the Fierce, could call her a coward.

She set her chin and stepped forward. “Your highness—”

“Do not speak until I request it of you.” Like a hard punch, she heard the king's icy condemnation and knew the truth: death awaited her.

“On your knees, traitor.” A rough hand shoved her to the ground, but it wasn't Malcolm's grip or Malcolm's roughness.

Her kneecaps struck stone, and pain shot upward. She bit back a curse, and then realized she did not kneel alone. Her father huddled at her left shoulder. To see him again made her heart stammer. She both feared the man and pitied him. She couldn't rightly say she cherished her father, but to see him like this…

Though his head was bowed, he looked furtive. His brown hair, greasy now, had grayed since she'd seen him
last. His proud face was haggard, with many wrinkles and lines.

“Philip.” The king's voice boomed, and riveted the onlookers. Even Elin started at the innate authority in his royal manner. “You have been found guilty of murder and treason. Now, after much consideration, I will sentence you.”

There was no startled gasp from the crowd, and no remorse shown on the king's face as he delivered his judgment. “Your lands and title will be seized. All your wealth now becomes mine. You shall be immediately hanged, drawn and quartered, a just penalty for the death and suffering you brought to my cousin and her protectors.”

“'Twas not me,” Philip cried pitifully. “I will give you all I own, sire. But pray, spare my life.”

“As you showed no mercy, none will be shown to you.” Edward lifted a hand, as if dismissing a scornful fly on a dung heap. “Guards, give him his just punishment.”

“But you misunderstand, dear sire.” Philip's eyes sparkled with cunning. “I was Edith's lover, but not her only one. The killer you seek is Caradoc—”

“Silence.”
Fury drove Edward forward, his royal robes whispering of masculine power as he moved. He leveled a mighty punch to her father's jaw, and the man reeled backward, knocking against the stone floor. “That was for Edith, a gentle woman who suffered by your treachery. Guards, take him.”