King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

The baron paused, then nodded and moved toward the door. “Well, madame, I will disturb you no longer. Should you have any troubles with outlaws….”

“I shall not.”

“But if you do…?”

“Yours will be the first name on my lips.”

His gaze dropped to hers at the mention. “Mistress,” he said slowly, “I know how hard times are. Should your…blacksmith not visit this eve, I am staying at the inn by the mayor’s.”

A fist of anger struck Tadhg in the stomach. As he’d said, fools would pass her by, but Sherwood was no fool. He was cunning, with an incisive, ripping-open sort of mind, and he saw at once what Tadhg saw: Magdalena was magnificent.

“You are a beautiful woman,” Sherwood went on, “and I am not in the habit of asking people to give away that which is their greatest strength.” He paused again. “I pay extremely well.”

Tadhg’s gaze was pinned on Magdalena, her long hair, the profile of her face, the way her hands were clenched into fists at her side—surely she could use Sherwood’s money—then her delicate, square chin lifted slightly in the air.

“Beauty is not my greatest strength, my lord. But I will recall your words to mind.”

“Do,” he urged, and shut the door behind him.

Chapter Nine

MAGDALENA HURRIED forward and locked the door, then bent her wobbly knees and sunk to the floor, still holding the lock. Fear, pent up inside her, came out in soft gasps.

It was the outlaw’s hand that lifted her to her feet, drew her back into the dim, protected space behind the counter, to sit on one of the holding crates. She realized she was trembling.

She touched the knuckles of her hand to her mouth. “He will be back,” she whispered.

“Not before morning.”

She nodded. “I do not like him.”

He blew out a soft breath through his nostrils. “Och, lass, we could populate a kingdom with men who feel as you do.”

Silence enfolded in the little shop and the space behind the counter. They sat, side by side, on crates in the dark. The only light was pale silvery moonlight visible through and around the edges of the shutters, and a faint glow from the fire in the kitchen. Deep orange and warm, it spilled out in a pulsating glow, as if trying to reach them.

“You were magnificent,” he said in a voice pitched low.

Warmth flowed through her chest. Ridiculous, to be so affected by praise from an outlaw. Still, there it was, glow due the praise of an outlaw. “I was terrified,” she admitted.

“Wise of you. He is the worst you shall encounter, and you bested him.”

A small, bright flame alit inside her.

She had done it. Again.

Outside they heard voices and doors being hammered on, other denizens of the town being roused on a cold January night to be asked questions they could not possibly answer. The voices grew more distant as the search moved down the street.

Beside her, he slid off the crate, stretched his mail-clad arm in front of her nose, and reached into the basket of greens and holly that sat, somehow undisturbed where she’d laid it, on the floor beside the counter.

He shifted his hand amid the fragrant greens, releasing their fair, sharp scent, then pulled back. She saw a flash of something silver and the dark glint of red, then it was gone again, hidden within the wool and leather and pouches covering him. He slid back onto the crate, tipped his head to the wall, and closed his eyes.

For a long minute, there was nothing more.

“Where is your family?”

She jumped at the low query and looked over, but he still sat, head to wall, eyes closed.

She cleared her throat. “My apprentice…she is at the miracle play. At the abbey.”