Page 49

A li dreamed of her mother. She sat next to her at the priory, in front of the fire in the guest hall, and listened to the worn, soft voice of the abbess.

She couldn’t understand the words, but that didn’t matter.

Her mother held Ali’s hand in hers. Every now and again, she would look at her and smile that smile full of love that made Ali feel as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Then her mother turned back to the abbess. Soft laughter was exchanged, and more quiet words that washed over Ali and wrapped her in their warmth as if in a blanket. And all the while, her mother never let her go.

Ali was certain she’d never felt so at peace.

Her mother turned to look at her, then reached out and put her hand on Ali’s shoulder. And then, quite suddenly, the hand was not so gentle and the touch on her shoulder no longer resembled a gentle caress. It was shaking that left Ali gasping in surprise.

And then she realized that the face leaning so close to hers was not her mother’s, but rather Colin of Berkhamshire’s. He already looked annoyed.

“Aaaack!” she exclaimed, sitting up and groping for her dagger.

“Damnation,” Colin said, jumping back, “’tis only me. You needn’t poke me.”

Ali drew her hand back. “Forgive me, my lord. I thought—”

“You thought I was an enemy and did as you should have. But, as you can see, I am not the enemy and you need not fear me. Aye?”

Ali rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and struggled to shake the sleep from herself. She looked at Colin to find him kneeling next to her, looking very concerned.

“Are you unwell?” she asked. “Sour bowels?”

He grunted at her. “I am perfectly sound. ’Tis you whom I worry about.”

“You woke me in the middle of the night. How do you expect me to react?”

“I suppose,” he said doubtfully.

“Why am I awake?” she asked, dragging her fingers through her hair.

“We’re leaving. I think it best we travel during a time when we might not be expected.”

Given the events of the day before, she could well understand that.

“We’ll have time enough to rest at Solonge,” he said, “though I’ve no desire to stay overlong there.” He peered at her closely. “Do you have an opinion on it?”

“On what?” she asked with a frown.

“On how long we stay at Solonge.”

I’d rather not go at all was the first thing that came to mind, but she decided against saying as much. So she smiled weakly.

“I’ve no desire to linger,” she said finally. “Nothing therefor me.”

Besides death.

But there was no use in saying that either.

“I’ve no reason to dawdle there myself,” Colin said. “Let us be on our way, be about our business quickly, and then we’ll see where our path leads us. But for now, let us make haste. We’ll leave Jason behind, lest he slow our progress.”

She rose and packed her handful of belongings.

She was ready far sooner than required and followed Colin silently out to the courtyard, where their mounts were saddled and ready.

She wished, absently, that she’d had more time to spend at the priory.

Her memories of it were quite faded, but definitely pleasant ones of time spent with her mother alone.

No wonder she had dreamed so deeply and vividly of the woman.

She shook her head suddenly to clear it before she broke down and wept.

By the saints, she was not feeling herself lately.

Just the slightest thing made her give in to tears.

Perhaps she had spent one too many days as a man.

It was likely enough to wreak havoc on the most sensible of women.

Or perhaps it was that she was on the verge of going back to the very place she had fled in terror and vowed never to return to.

Would Marie recognize her on sight? Would one of her bloody brothers blurt out her name the moment she walked through the door?

She couldn’t have been fortunate enough to return and find them all safely wedded and ensconced in other keeps.

Francois, at least, would still be hanging about, doing everything but an honest day’s work and passing all his hours trying to convince their sire that he should merely give Francois what he wanted without question.

She was not looking forward to seeing her brother.

She could only hope he wouldn’t recognize his mail shirt—even altered as it had been by Blackmour’s smith.

At least she had no fear of her brother recognizing his filched sword.

That had been melted down to fashion the saints only knew what.

Cleaning tools for Blackmour’s cesspit, if there was any justice at all in the world.

She mounted her horse and followed Colin from the courtyard, listening with half an ear to the vociferous complaints Sir Etienne couldn’t seem to keep to himself.

Colin ignored the man, and she followed his example zealously.

She could feel Sir Etienne glaring at her, even in the dark, but Colin seemed determined to keep himself between the two of them, so perhaps she would make out all right in the end.

She thought back on the attack of the day before and knew it for what it was.

Somehow beyond reason and beyond belief, Sir Etienne had arranged the entire thing.

Hadn’t the ruffians gone only for Jason?

Colin had been assaulted by a token pair of men, and Sir Etienne by the same number, but Jason had been assailed by the bulk of the force.

Of course, she might have had her doubts, but one thing had told her beyond doubt that it had been no accident: the pointed look Sir Etienne had given her as soon as the bushes had discharged their hidden members.

And now Jason lay in the priory, wounded.

At least he wasn’t dead. She supposed he had Colin to thank for that.

Watching him had been a revelation. She’d believed the rumors of his skill, of course, seen for herself his displeasure with others, even watched him parry mercilessly with Jason.

But to see him actually protecting those he cared for was something else entirely.

He had chortled. He had fought with grace and ease, making those who came at him look as if they’d never held swords before. He had either slain or maimed eleven men, fighting many of them en masse, and he’d made it seem as if it were nothing more than an easy morning’s exercise.

But as enlightening as that had been, it hadn’t compared to what she’d discovered as she stole a look at Sir Etienne during that little bit of fighting. She supposed what she’d seen on his face was something he would have concealed if he’d known she’d been watching.

Envy.

Naked, hungry envy.

She considered that as she rode alongside Colin in the darkness.

Sir Etienne was jealous? She could understand that well enough.

But to kill Colin because of it? Or mayhap he only used that as a threat to her, to get her to do what he wanted.

That he might actually accomplish the deed was something she just couldn’t believe.

And that likely galled him to the depths of his soul.

Perhaps he would have his recompense after all.

She found, a goodly while later, that she had been dozing in her saddle. The sky was growing light and the forest around her was beginning to take on familiar shapes.

She realized, with a start, that she was nearing the place where she’d buried her clothes and her hair.

And she thought she just might be ill.

“Henri?”

She looked at Colin. “I am well, my lord.”

He turned to Sir Etienne. “Take the lead. Through the forest path, then on to the keep.”

“Aye, just as I told you,” Sir Etienne said, but he didn’t sound pleased. “And ’tis a road far better traveled at midday.”

“So you said. I prefer to travel under cover of darkness.”

Sir Etienne huffed in irritation, and spurred his mount ahead. Colin looked at Ali and motioned for her to go before him. He put his hand meaningfully on his sword hilt. Ali took a deep breath, loosened her sword in its scabbard, and moved in front of him.

And she prayed she would be able to avoid notice once she reached her home.

Soon, though, she was no longer praying but merely wishing desperately that she were anywhere else, that she had confessed to Colin weeks ago, that she was safely in her grave where she did not have to face what awaited her but a half hour ahead.

She wished most of all that she didn’t recognize her surroundings.

Unfortunately, she could number every tree, recognize most all the bushes, and list in her mind the dips and swells of earth that would eventually spew her out before her father’s gates.

She wished, absently, that she might have vomited up all her fear.

A pity she couldn’t seem to manage it. Perhaps she’d passed too much of the sea voyage doing the like.

She would have stopped to ponder that, but worrying was her current, all-consuming passion.

She found herself powerless to resist entertaining in her mind all the possibilities that might await her.

Death.

Torture.

A long, slow, painful death after a goodly bit of torture.

By the time she’d reached Solonge’s gates, she was trembling with fear and merely praying that she could avoid drawing attention to herself by not falling off her horse.

Colin made no move to take the lead through the barbican gate.

Ali kept her eyes down and her hood pulled close around her face.

All she needed was for one of the guards—and she couldn’t be fortunate enough to have it be the one she’d bribed to let her from the keep—recognize her and alert her father.

Who would, no doubt, immediately take the happy tidings to his beloved wife.

They rode into the courtyard. Ali forced herself to look at the ground. There was no point in looking about her anyway. She knew what her home looked like. Indeed, the very smell of the place hadn’t changed. She felt for a moment as if she hadn’t left at all.