The Conqueror
Something flickered in the gaze he dropped to her. “Marcus fitzMiles wants you?”
“Not quite. My money.”
“Ahh,” he said companionably, his eyes on the now-advancing line of knights. “He’s never been one for surprises.”
“Who dares assault my lord’s betrothed?” called out de Louth. The soft hiss of swords sliding from scabbards made a steely-leather hush in the damp darkness, then there was silence.
“I’m not his betrothed!” she shouted over her saviour’s arm, then lowered her voice. “He sent his men to assure me I wished to wed him.”
“Mmm.” Silence except for the sound of back-stepping boots and advancing hooves. “They’ve done a rather poor job of it.”
“The army at my castle was to succeed should they fail.”
“No surprises,” she heard him mutter.
Then, before her mind could register movement, he swung to his right under a giant oak tree and raised the most monstrous-looking longbow she’d ever seen. He tugged one of three arrows from his belt. Sweeping the bow in an arc overhead, he pulled the string taut to his jawline and peered down the length of the weapon.
De Louth flung his arm to the side, halting his men. “We want only the lady, rogue,” he called out. “You’ll not be taken to the sheriff, nor accosted in any way. You have my word on that. Just give us the woman.”
He barked in genuine laughter, the sound startling amidst the deadly, somber scene. “And you have my word on this: you will leave without the lady. If you try to take her, your blood will spill across the false king’s highway. And you will still leave without her. Go, now.”
Gwyn started. False king’s highway?
“Not without the woman.”
The apparition, who was becoming quite real, lowered a square chin and sighted along the arrow shaft. “The lady stays.”
One of de Louth’s men spurred his horse forward, visions of gallant knights brighter in his mind than good sense. An arrow hummed in the air and sliced through his windpipe. He slid off, spinning as he fell. Gwyn caught a glimpse of a wicked tip, bathed red, nuzzling out the other side. A flutter of bloody hands, a strangled cry, and the soldier hunched sideways, dead on the road.
The other four stared in astonishment, but the man at her side already had another arrow notched and ready for flight. Silence descended. The terms were clear: no more arrows would be launched if they left, and they were not leaving.
“Oh my,” she breathed, touching his arm. “You’ve killed one of Marcus’s men. He will not be pleased.”
In the distance, de Louth dropped his foot from the stirrup and kicked the dead man onto his back.
“Endshire’s pleasure has never been my concern.”
She dragged her gaze up to his shadowed face. “You are either foolish or mad. Let me tell you of Marcus’s pleasures. Once he was so enraged by the death of his merlin that he smeared his falconer, d’Aubry, with honey and staked him on an anthill for five days. D’Aubry did not return, at least not all of him.”
He glanced at her.
“Marcus has served honey at every meal since. Warmed over,” she emphasised.
A pair of muscular shoulders shrugged. “As I said, Endshire’s pleasures are not my concern,” he murmured, and something close to comfort pulsed through her heart.
Reaching down, de Louth tugged the arrow free from the dead man and looked at it. A glint of silver flashed across the road as the moon emerged from behind the clouds, then de Louth dropped the arrow. He slid his boot back into the stirrup.
Gwyn wrapped her cape tighter around her shoulders. “I ought to force you to leave this matter to me—or me to it—and take your leave, while your hide is still intact.”
“I would not go.”
“And I would not have you end up as d’Aubry the falconer.”
“My hide is not a matter for Endshire to decide.” He glanced down, one corner of his mouth crooked in an infinitesimal grin. “And I prefer sweeter things than honey, my lady.”
She was about to smile back, could have smiled, wanted to, but didn’t. It simply did not make sense, given the circumstances.
De Louth was straightening in his saddle, turning to his men and speaking in a low voice.