Knights Divided

“Aye…” the man said, choking. “P-please do not strike my mouth. I…the horn.”

Thoroughly disgusted by this craven display, Jamie lifted himself off the man and sat back on his haunches. “See you never strike her again.” Speaking of which, he turned his head and found the girl sitting on the ground a foot away, her eyes round as serving platters, one hand on her cheek. He crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded mutely.

“Let me see.” He took her hand to move it aside, and something ruffled through him. A shock of awareness, a feeling of being connected. His gaze locked on hers, and for an instant the noise and lights faded away. “Wh-who are you?” he whispered, because the air had been punched from his body by whatever was happening to him…to them.

“Em…Emmeline.” She sounded as dazed as he.

“Emmeline.” He savored the taste of it on his tongue.

“Jamie!” His father grabbed hold of his shoulder, breaking the spell. “What happened?”

“I was rescuing the fair Emmeline from yon brute.” Jamie gave her his most dazzling smile. The one that caused ladies to melt at his feet. This lady looked cold as the North Sea in December. “You’ve not asked, but I will tell you ‘tis Jamie Harcourt you have to thank for saving you.”

Emmeline pulled free of his grasp. “I know who you are.” She glared at him with such hatred she stole his breath for the second time that night. Scrambling to her feet, she speared him with one last, damning glance and dashed off into the crowd that had assembled around the musicians.

“What is going on?” his father demanded.

Damned if I know, Jamie thought, staring at the place where the mysterious Emmeline had disappeared. But he meant to find out. No woman ran away from him.

Chapter Two

James Harcourt was here! Her desperate gamble had paid off.

Emmeline hurried through the crowd in search of Toby to tell him the news. He’d come disguised as the minstrels groom and should be near the stables, but in her haste, she got hopelessly lost in the gardens. Dazed and winded, she sank down on a small, secluded bench to catch her breath and get her bearings.

James Harcourt had actually come to his mother’s birthday fete. Proving, she supposed, that there was a speck of decency in even the most evil of men. He charged in to rescue you from Uncle Markham, a sly voice reminded her.

Ha! Such an unprovoked attack proved Lord James was a man of violent temper and ungoverned impulses. Unprovoked? Well, he couldn’t know her foolish taunts had goaded her father’s brother into slapping her. She should have known better than to try the patience of one who had not only disliked her because he hated her father but was jealous of her talent, as well.

Poor Markham, her arrival in London a week ago had set his well-ordered world on its ear. She’d arrived on the doorstep of her estranged grandfather, half expecting to be tossed out Fortunately Alford le Trompour was not one to bear a grudge. He’d made her welcome and even cried over Celia’s death, despite the fact that she’d spurned his offers of friendship years ago. A stiffness in his limbs prevented Old Alford from getting about easily, so he’d turned the running of the Wait over to Markham, his younger son, but he still taught a few pupils.

“None of them is as gifted as you, my dear,” he’d told her as they chatted in his private chamber over a cup of wine. High praise from the man whose musical skills had made him a legend among players and leader of the famous Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the minstrel band chartered by the city.

“Thank you, sir.” She’d smiled briefly, recalling the magical summer when her father’s parents had come to Oxford to meet the children Cedric had never told them about. Small wonder, since his alliance with their mother had béen a lie and a sin. When he’d wed her, Cedric had neglected to mention the wife he already had. ‘Twas not until Olivia found out about them and followed him to Derry that Cedric’s sins had been revealed.

Cedric’s parents had been anxious to meet their only grandchildren, but embittered by Cedric’s betrayal, her mother had refused the old couple’s overtures of peace. Curious as she was to know her grandparents, Emmeline wouldn’t have defied her mother if not for the lute. The one her father had brought her; the only gift he’d ever given her. Gift, ha! It turned out the lute was a priceless antique Cedric had stolen from his father. Alford recognized the instrument as he was leaving her mother’s apothecary shop, but told her she might keep it.

Emmeline had felt bound to return the lute and sneaked out to the inn where Alford and his wife were staying. Alford had coaxed her into playing a song for him and then another. Her talent, raw and unformed, as he called it, had so impressed him he’d not only insisted she keep the lute but offered to teach her. Torn between loyalty to her mother and a soul-deep longing to make music, Emmeline had agreed. The lessons, given in secret, had opened up a whole new world for her, but the glimpse of heaven had cost her dearly. She’d deceived her mother and finally ended up hurting her nearly as much as Cedric had.

“I am sorry I could not come to London with you after that summer,” she told Alford. “But Mama collapsed, and…”

“You could not leave her.” He patted her shoulder with a gnarled hand. “You are far more loyal than your father. It’s been years since Cedric has crossed our threshold.”

Nay, I am no better than my father. Out of selfishness, she’d deceived her mother and broken her heart. And she’d failed Celia, too, but she was trying so hard to make amends. “I have come to London to learn what I can of Lord James Harcourt.”

“I know of him. He was often at court, being a member of John of Gaunt’s household. A handsome young man and much favored by the ladies, as was his father, Lord Alexander, who was accounted a rake in his day.”

Like father, like son. She explained how Sir Thomas’s hands were tied by Harcourt’s connections and his men’s testimony. Alford had immediately sent out inquiries, but they’d found naught to link James to Celia’s murder. Elusive and mysterious were two descriptions applied to the wayward Harcourt heir. He’d always had a penchant for adventure, and rumor linked him to smuggling and other illegal activities. But ‘twas speculation without a shred of proof. Adding to her frustration had been the disappearance of Celia’s maid. Lily had gone off a week ago, taking with her Celia’s few pieces of plate and the small silver brooch Emmeline had given Celia. They’d not been taken by the murderer, for Sir Thomas had listed them on his inventory of Celia’s possessions. None of Alford’s contacts had been able to find Lily. The silly girl was probably hiding somewhere, afraid she’d be arrested for thievery. Emmeline didn’t care about the pin, all she wanted was answers. And to make James Harcourt pay.

“Ah, there you are,” murmured a deep voice.

Emmeline gasped as the object of her speculation plopped down onto the bench beside her. She would have leapt up and run off, but he was sitting on the edge of her gown.

“Stay,” he commanded when she tried to wriggle free. “Why did you run away?” He stared at her intently from that single, black eye of his. Torchlight filtering in through the bushes limned his ruggedly handsome features, high cheekbones, sensual mouth and strong jaw. Even sitting still, there was a vitality about him that commanded attention. An aura of power, leashed at the moment but likely to explode as it had when he’d attacked her uncle. She’d been right to think him dangerous.

“I—I was afraid.”

“Of me.” He managed to look as guileless as a schoolboy.

Fraud. “You hit Markham, and ‘tis said you killed a girl.”

“Your uncle is a fool and a bully. He deserved a few bruises for hitting you.”

“He was wroth at me because my grandfather insisted I be allowed to play with the Wait” That much was true. When Alford had heard about the party, he’d been certain James would attend and had forced Markham to bring her. Her indignation at being relegated to playing the bells had precipitated the slap.

“Is Alford le Trompour your grandfather?”

“Aye, he is. I’m surprised you know of him.”

“He is a minstrel without equal. As a lad I sat enraptured whenever he came to play for King Edward. I longed to make music as he did.” He gazed at his wide, callused hands lying palm up on his muscular thighs. “You’d think I had ten thumbs so poorly do I play. ’Tis not fair, for I always know all the words.”

“Grandfather says it is a talent you are either born with, or not.” Unfortunately she’d gotten the gift from Cedric, along with other, less pleasant, traits.

“What is your special talent?” He watched her as though her answer were the most important thing in the world to him. His regard, his attention, were too flattering to deny.

“The lute.”

“Yet you play the bells today.”

“Aye. ‘Twas the source of the argument and the slap. Markham does not think me good enough to play with them because I am neither a trained harpist nor a member of the Wait. I am only here because—” She stopped, aghast to realize she’d been about to spill her plans for revenge to Celia’s murderer. What kind of wizard was he to make her so quickly forget her goals?

“What is it? Did the slap cause your head to ache?”

“Nay. Aye.” Emmeline put a hand to her temple. Damn, he was the most confounding man. “Why did you come to my aid?”

He grinned and laid a hand over his heart. “I am the most chivalrous of men. If I see a maiden in distress, I must ride to her rescue like the knights in the ancient ballads.”

“Humph.”

“Not even a hint of a smile to reward my foolishness? You are far too serious, my lovely little harpist”. He leaned closer, his face so near it filled her vision. “Damn.” Gently grasping her chin, he tilted it toward the light. “He marked you.” His thumb barely grazed her cheek. “I should have been quicker.”

Light as the touch was, it sent an odd tingle streaking down her neck, leaving gooseflesh behind. His fingers were so warm, his expression so full of concern she felt herself being drawn in, drowning in the depths of his dark, compassionate gaze.

Shivering, Emmeline struggled back from the edge of disaster. Pulling her chin from his hold, she said, “Please…”

“Your head aches. Small wonder.” Quick as lightning, his hands slid around to the nape of her neck and attacked her braid.

“Wait! What are you doing.” She leaned away. Or tried to, but only succeeded in getting her hair pulled. “Ouch!”

“Hold still.” He was nimble and knowledgeable. In seconds he had her braid undone. “There.” He tunneled his fingers into her hair at her temples and gently massaged her scalp.

It felt so good a moan escaped her throat.

“See. Is that not better?” he murmured. His fingers slid in farther, tracing circles on the sides and back of her head.

More than better. ‘Twas magic, pure and simple. Her mind ceased to function. Her eyes drifted shut; her head fell back into the supporting cradle of his hands, her entire being focused on the wondrous sensations created by his touch. Exciting little ripples radiated down her spine. Deep inside her, something ruffled, like a flower unfurling beneath the warmth of the sun.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he murmured, his voice blending with her drifting senses. “Dark and soft as finest silk.” His breath fanned her ear as he leaned close. “And it smells of flowers. I’d like to see it spread across my pillow.”

“Mmm,” she said from her cloud.

“But not here. My ship’s in London harbor…we sail on the tide. Will you come away with me, my lady fair? And all the wonders of love’s pleasures will we explore.”

“Mmm…what?” Emmeline’s eyes flew open as his words penetrated her haze. A pirate stared back at her, a cocky smile on his lips, his single eye smoldering with the sort of fire she’d avoided all her life. “Sweet Mary!” She yelped, jumped back and yelped again as a few hairs remained in his grasp.

“Don’t be alarmed.” His grin was a pale blur in the dimness. “I realize we’ve only know each other a short time, but I believe in plain speaking. I want you, and I think you feel the same.”

Emmeline gaped at him a moment before finding her tongue. “How…how can you think I’d agree to such a thing? Is it because I am only a common minstrel and you think—”

“There is naught common about you, Emma. What I feel for you is most uncommon, I assure you.”

“Oh, they were right. You are a rogue and a scoundrel.” And a murderer. It occurred to her that he had taken control of her inquisition. And he’d never denied killing poor Celia. Cheeks hot with shame and fury, she leapt from the bench. “You…you…”

“Easy, I meant no offense.” He stood, taking her shoulders in a painless but unbreakable grip.

Determined not to show weakness by struggling, she glared at him. “How could I not be offended by so low an offer?”

“My aim was just the opposite,” His gaze, warm and appreciative, moved over her face. He towered head and shoulders above her, sun-streaked blond hair gleaming like a beacon in the gloom. Even with the eye patch, he was a handsome man, his deeply tanned face set off by a blue velvet doublet that gave him the flash of a songbird. “I meant to laud you, to cosset you and please you. ‘Twould be good between us…I feel it.” His seductive mouth hiked up in one corner as though he knew something no one else did, a secret that would bring her untold pleasure if only she would come away with him. ‘Twas a tempting offer, especially embodied by an elegant, dangerous man. The lure of exploring such a mystery was a siren’s call to which countless women had harkened…including her sister.

Sobering thought, that. Beneath his smooth demeanor and sleek finery, he was as ruthless as a hunting hawk. “Your interest is not returned,” she said coldly. “Kindly unhand me.”

His smile fled. “Why? I know when a woman is interested in—”

“You, sir, are a lecher…a conceited lecher. I’d not share a cup of wine with you, much less a bed.” She tore herself from his grip, picked up her skirts and fled into the night.

Stunned, Jamie listened to her footsteps on the gravel path. What the hell? He had not mistaken the intense connection, the awareness that had flowed like a molten river between them.

“My compliments on the lady’s taste, whoever she was,” grated an all-too-familiar voice. Giles Cadwell strolled out of the darkness.

“What are you doing here?” Jamie demanded.

“I came with my lord of Oxford.” He was Oxford’s tool, a shrewd, ambitious man who would go to any lengths to serve his powerful master. His comely features and courtly polish belied a genius for cruelty, which Oxford exploited. A dangerous enemy, indeed, Jamie thought as Giles’s malevolent gaze cut to the path Emmeline had taken. “An interesting piece, lovely hair. Mayhap she’ll find me more to her taste.”

Jamie schooled his face to betray none of the possessi veness raging inside him. “Only if she has a preference for snakes.”

Giles’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Name the time.”

Anytime, but Jamie could ill afford to kill Oxford’s man and land himself in trouble with the crown. “I’d not want to bloody your fashionable new garments.” He looked Giles up and down. His close-fitting green doublet was cut so scandalously short it revealed the tops of his golden trunk hose and the padded, bejeweled codpiece. The church called such displays sinful. Jamie thought it boastful for a man to wander about with his private parts decked out like a Fleet Street whore.

“I’d be happy to strip them off,” Giles said. Though he looked the fop, he was a dangerous man.

They’d been enemies since their days as pages to rival lords, Jamie with Lancaster, Giles with Oxford. But it wasn’t only political. Giles had a mean streak, a penchant for abusing defenseless creatures, that Jamie found abhorrent. They’d crossed words and swords several times when Jamie had stepped in to protect some hapless victim. But tonight Jamie had to protect himself and his mission. “I’d not want to ruin my mother’s fete.”

“Ever the gallant. I’d forgotten how solicitous you are of women…except for poor Celia.”

Jamie’s hand fell to his sword hilt. “Careful, Giles…”

“I meant that the girl might still be alive had she not shunned me and gone off with you that night.”

The breath caught in Jamie’s chest; his mind whirled. If not for Giles, Jamie never would have met Celia or bedded her. Had the whole thing been staged by Giles in hopes he might use Celia to spy on Jamie? “Are you saying you killed Celia because she had the good sense to reject your advances?”

“Of course not.” Giles looked more amused than affronted. “I was not even in London that night.”

“Nor was I,” Jamie growled.

“Hmm. Your men say you were aboard ship bound for Calais, but they’d tell the sheriff whatever you bid them. I, on the other hand, was with His Majesty’s court in Lincoln…in full view of a hundred noble witnesses.”

Jamie crossed his arms and silently counted to ten…his father’s technique for controlling a hot temper. “Have you proof I was not aboard the Lady, or is this just idle talk?”

“I have no proof…yet. But I know you are up to something. I mean to find out where you keep sneaking off to.”

Jamie’s blood ran cold. Damn. Did Giles know about the ships, or was he merely grasping at straws, trying to bring him down while Lancaster was too faraway to help? If they succeeded, they’d ruin more than they guessed. Stiff as he was, he managed to shrug. “Just a bit of honest trade.”

Giles snorted. “I think you’re trading with the French. I’ve men searching the most likely ports. I’ll catch you.”

Damn. Was he looking as far as Cornwall? “Oxford would be the one to know about such things. Is his man, Roger Salisbury, not negotiating a treaty with the French?”

“King Richard is exploring all means of preventing war,” Giles said hotly. “If a peaceful settlement could be arranged, ‘twould be our salvation.”

“Or our ruin. King Charles would use the treaty as an excuse to gobble us up without having to wage a war.”

Giles’s lip curled. “Brigands such as you would not understand a pledge made between honorable men.”

Jamie glared back to hide the fact he was shaken by Giles’s astute guesses. “You wouldn’t know an honorable man if he came up and bit you in the arse.” He watched anger flare in Giles’s face. “Charming as it has been to cross words with you, if not swords, Giles, I must attend my lady mother.” Jamie walked away, as though dismissing the man as harmless when the truth was just the opposite. Giles was a danger to his plans. It had been a mistake to come here, a weakness to want to see his parents one last time…just in case things turned sour.

“Do ye still want to go through with this?” Toby asked.

Emmeline nodded, hoping the shadows in this corner of the stable hid her flushed cheeks. She’d rebraided her hair, but her emotions were still in turmoil. “I know he’s guilty. He sidestepped the question when I asked if he’d killed her.”

“Jesu, Mary and Joseph…ye cannot accuse a murderer—”

“Oh, I—I worked it into the conversation so it didn’t sound that way. He didn’t answer. You’ll never guess what he did.”

“What?”

“He…” Emmeline sucked back the rest of her words. How could she explain to Toby that she had turned out to be as weak as Celia where this man was concerned? “He attacked Markham for slapping me.”

“Markham slapped ye?” Toby’s fists clenched.

Emmeline grabbed hold of Toby’s hand. “’Twas only a slap, and I provoked him with my demands to play his lute.” See where her thirst to display her talent had gotten her? Her mother had been right, emotions were a bad thing. Twice tonight an excess of emotions had gotten her into trouble.

“I don’t care if Cedric did try to steal the Wait from him, Markham’s got no cause to take his grievances out on ye.”

“Life is rarely fair. And Cedric’s antics would try a saint Now, how are we going to capture Lord Jamie? Oh.” She straightened on the cask she was using for a stool. “I should have gone with him as he asked. ‘Twould have been easy to—”

“Gone where?”

“Er, never mind that. I think I know how we can take him.”

He had tarried too long. Jamie strode quickly down the path toward the stables. Already the moon rode high in the starry black sky, and he’d have to set a merciless pace if he hoped to reach London before the tide turned. But his heart wouldn’t let him go till he’d danced with Jo, his mother and his aunts, and talked defensive strategy with his father and uncles. He’d left behind a few tears and lies that tweaked his conscience, but he could not even hint at the desperate odds he faced.

As he rounded the keep, he spied someone walking toward him. Hugh! ‘Twas like gazing into a mirror. Except that his twin didn’t have an eye patch. Hugh’s scars were more easily hidden.

“Jamie.” Hugh stopped a few feet away, his glance going first to that damned patch. “You are looking well.” So formal. So cold, but that was Hugh for you. Ice to

Jamie’s fire.

“And your limp is scarcely noticeable.”

Hugh glowered. “Only you would be crass enough to mention my crippled leg at all.”

“Why, when I am responsible for it? I thought we’d agreed I am crass and low.” They stared at each other like rival dogs sizing each other up, except they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses all too well. He’d forgotten how eerie it was to look into a face so like his own, yet not. The absence of the black patch wasn’t the only difference. Though Hugh was tanned from riding over the estate, his skin lacked the burnished glow Jamie had acquired from years at sea. Hugh’s chin was a little softer, no doubt because he’d stuck it out less often than Jamie had his. And his eyes were colder, his mouth unsmiling.

“You’ve come home, then,” Hugh said.

“But not to stay, so you can lower your hackles.”

“Harte Court is yours, after all.”

“True, but you’d not be pleased if I did decide to claim the estate you’ve sweated over these past years.”

“Tis yours by right of birth.” He looked grim, yet determined to do the honorable thing and step aside, if that’s what Jamie wanted. Hugh had not changed one whit.

“If not by deed.” Jamie held up his hand to forestall Hugh’s rebuttal, the bitterness so acrid he nearly choked. “I have not returned to take up the mantle I tossed you when I rode away.”

“I do not understand how you can turn your back on this.”

Because I owe you. The silence deepened.

“Where are you bound this time?” Hugh asked at length.

“To sea. I’m patrolling the coast in hopes of encountering French spies.” That, at least, was the truth.

“If the king succeeds in negotiating a peace treaty, such measures won’t be necessary.”

Jamie snorted. “The treaty could be a trap.”

“I…I agree ‘tis risky to trust the French,” Hugh said slowly. “But surely the hope of peace is better than war. Harte Court does not lie very far north of London and would doubtless be pillaged by the French if they invaded.”

“I would hate to see that happen, but—”

“I’ve done all I can to keep us safe,” Hugh said earnestly, and began detailing all the precautions he’d taken, from building new storage buildings inside the castle walls to hold more foodstuffs to arming and training the villeins to defend the lands around Harte Court.

Jamie could well imagine similar efforts going on throughout the country. The knowledge that such measures would, at best, only slow the advance of the well-armed French, strengthened his determination to see his own plans through. “You are a fool to trust the French to negotiate in good faith.”

Hugh stiffened. “How like you to want a war. To you, life is one long adventure. You were always charging into danger.”