Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ they entered the shelter of the trees, the lout turned around, wary, but not afraid. “You don’t want to kill me. I can get you money—lots of money. Lizette—Lady Elizabeth, the woman you let run off—Lord Wimarc de Werre’s offered me a reward if I bring her to his castle.”

      These men belonged to Wimarc? They were no band of outlaws and thieves, but that man’s mercenaries?

      Then this attack had been on his orders. But why?

      It could be to force a marriage—except that Wimarc already had a wife.

      Rape?

      To be sure, Lady Elizabeth was lovely and spirited, and he certainly wouldn’t put rape past Wimarc, but abducting a ward of the king—which she must be, since her sister Adelaide was—was a far different crime from raping a servant or peasant, or even another nobleman’s daughter or wife. Wimarc wouldn’t dare do something like that unless he thought he could get away with it, or didn’t care if he roused the king’s ire. “What does he want with her?”

      “Who knows?” the lout retorted as sweat dripped down his wide face. “What have men like us to do with the likes o’ them? It’s enough to watch out for ourselves, and he’s willing to pay if we take her to him.”

      Giving Lady Elizabeth to Wimarc would get him inside the man’s fortress, but getting in was never the problem.

      The problem would be rescuing his imprisoned half brother and getting out again.

      Besides, he wouldn’t use a woman that way. Not any woman, and especially not any relative of Adelaide d’Averette.

      But he wasn’t about to let this blackguard know that. “If she’s so important, maybe he’ll pay even more. That’s not so large a sum when split between so many.”

      “Wimarc only offered the reward to me. Those others are Wimarc’s mercenaries. I’m not.”

      The lout licked his dry lips. “And I wouldn’t try to haggle with him, not unless I wanted to wind up in his dungeon. Do you know what happens to his prisoners?”

      “I’ve heard.” Slow starvation. A little food in the beginning, gradually diminishing to nothing.

      Was Ryder still getting something to eat? Or had his time run out?

      The lout took a step forward, only to halt abruptly as the Irishman raised the tip of his sword level with the man’s eye.

      “A fellow’s got to look out for himself,” the blackguard said, desperation in his voice and sweat dripping from his brow. “Come, man, it’s fifty marks he’s offered! That’s twenty-five marks for you, and all you have to do is help me get hold of a woman.”

      “You seemed to be having a little trouble with that woman.”

      “That’s because she’s a hellion, but the two of us should have no trouble taming her. And Wimarc doesn’t care if she’s a virgin. Leastways, he never said she had to be, so add that to your payment. Twenty-five marks and a pretty virgin—that ought to be worth my life.”

      The Irishman lowered his blade.

      “I knew you were a smart fellow,” the lout said with relief. “Come on. She can’t run far. There’s her maid, too. We’ll have fine sport tonight!”

      He went to go past the Irishman, but in the blink of an eye, the Irishman shoved his blade beneath the lout’s arm with a thrust so powerful, it went right through his mail.

      As the Irishman held the former second-in-command of Averette in a deadly embrace, Lindall’s eyes widened with shock. Blood trickled from his lips and he tried, uselessly, to talk.

      “Rape holds no appeal for me,” the Irishman said. He shoved the sword in farther. “This is for the other women you’ve raped, the men who died today, and especially the lady.”

      TRYING TO DRAW IN a deep breath, perspiration pouring down her back and sides, Lizette rounded a bend in the road and saw Keldra hiding—ineffectually—behind a chestnut tree.

      The girl let out a cry of relief and ran toward her.

      “Oh, my lady,” she sobbed as she threw her arms around her mistress, “what are we going to do?”

      Lizette gently disengaged herself from the girl’s fierce grasp. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “We have to hide and wait for Sir Oliver.”

      “Where?”

      “The safest place I can find.”

      “How will he find us if we’re hiding?” Keldra wondered aloud as she trotted after Lizette.

      “He knows which way we went, and we’ll watch for him,” Lizette replied.

      As she plunged into the shadowy undergrowth, branches and brambles caught her cloak and hair. Fatigue and the stress of all they’d been through began to creep over her. She wanted to cry, too—to weep and wail and mourn for Iain, a good man dead because she had been reluctant to hurry home.

      She swiped at her tear-filled eyes. Mourning and recriminations could wait. Now they had to find a safe hiding place not too far from the road so they could watch for Sir Oliver.

      She came upon a thicket of beech saplings around what must have been a boar’s wallow. There was no boar using it now, or the muddy bottom and sides would be churned up. And it would smell of such a beast, too. They should be safe here.

      She pushed her way through the natural fence, pulling Keldra along behind her, then knelt on the leaf-covered ground and peered through the slender branches, making sure she could see the road and anyone who came along it.

      Keldra sat beside her, covered her tear-streaked face with her hands, and wept.

      As they waited for what seemed hours, Lizette tried not to let despair and dismay overtake her, even though she was haunted by the memory of Iain’s death, and racked with guilt.

      If she hadn’t been so annoyed at being summoned home like a child, if she hadn’t dawdled on the road, or fallen sick and then claimed she was still unwell and so must travel slowly, they would all be safely back at Averette by now.

      Perhaps Iain wasn’t dead, but only wounded. Lindall might be lying, or he could have been wrong. Maybe if they went back, she would find Iain seriously wounded, but alive.

      Yet she didn’t dare return to the site of the attack, at least not yet. Not until Sir Oliver arrived and told her it was safe.

      Perhaps he would also know what this Lord Wimarc might want with her. All she could think of was ransom.

      She finally heard something that prompted her to inch forward, moving more branches out of the way. Relief melted her fear as Sir Oliver, scanning the trees, jogged down the road toward their hiding place, his sword in his hand.

      He was alone. Where was the rest of his hunting party? Where were her men?

      She pushed her way out of the thicket, followed by the weeping Keldra. “Sir Oliver!”

      He came to a halt СКАЧАТЬ