For My Lady's Honor

Jesu, but he was a fool!

Branches rustled, the sound moving closer, though he still couldn’t see the women. “We’ll be but a moment more,” Lady Alys called. “Sir Padrig?”

“Aye.”

She’d thought ’twas he. Taking a deep breath, Alys tucked the quill, tiny ink bottle and small piece of parchment she’d been clutching into the leather pouch she used to carry them and tied it to her belt at her hip. Giving the small bag a pat, she squared her shoulders and crept along the near-imperceptible path until she could just see Padrig’s dark blue surcoat through the thick boughs. She could not continue to hide within the forest’s comforting embrace any longer, she thought, wishing herself nigh anywhere else but here.

Nor hide within the confines of her mind’s eye, either, she added silently as she settled the pouch more comfortably on her belt.

She peered through the bushes at Padrig, her coif askew, the neck of her gown still unlaced and her cheeks hot. Sweet Mary save her, had she truly seen this man naked? Been held within his strong arms, her flesh pressed against that muscular body?

Though she took several deep, calming breaths, her heart raced faster—with embarrassment or excitement, she could not tell. Whichever it was, she could not meet his gaze. “You need not wait for us here,” she told him, forcing herself to step away from the thickest bushes and infusing her voice with a confidence she did not feel. “We’re nearly ready.”

“Are you?” He reached out with both hands and took hold of the loose laces dangling down the front of her gown. “I see your maid forgot these.” Fixing her with a steady look, he gave a slight tug.

She glanced up, unwittingly captivated by the mischief glinting in his blue eyes, dragged in a shaky breath and took a step closer.

Had she gone mad? What was she doing? His presence alone drew her to him—her will to resist gone, her wits askew, her strength of mind faded away to a near-silent voice of protest sounding somewhere deep within her addled brain.

She stood motionless before him, scarce able to breathe as he slowly tightened the strings, his knuckles lightly skimming her ribs, then working their way up to delicately stroke the sensitive skin of her throat.

He knotted the laces of her bodice, his hands lingering a moment once he was through.

Were his hands shaking, or was it her own body trembling?

Step back, Alys, step back now.

Move away from him before you do something even more stupid.

Her legs refused to obey her mind’s summons to move, but her hands…her hands rose despite her will, settling atop Padrig’s.

His were strong, warm, hard—so intriguingly different from her own. Tightening her fingers, she drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of him, and gave herself over to madness.

He leaned closer, his warmth surrounding her. His gaze moving over her face felt like a caress; watching him—the flush riding high along his cheekbones, the contrast between his bewhiskered face and the softness of his lips—heated her blood and made her heart pound so hard ’twas a wonder he could not hear it.

She raised one hand and set her fingertips questing, brushing over his mouth before settling along his jaw. If she edged a bit closer…

“Milady, where—” Marie burst from the trees behind her and banged into her, knocking her into Padrig; the armload of clothes the maid had been carrying flew everywhere.

He caught Alys before she could fall and reached out to steady Marie on her feet.

They stood there staring at each other for but a moment before the maid took hold of Alys’s arm and nigh wrenched her free of Padrig’s hold. “Release my mistress at once, you churl!” Marie snarled.

Chapter Three

Alys jerked her arm free of her maid’s grasp and, grabbing the woman by the hand, dragged her back toward the bushes. “Marie! What are you about, to speak so to a knight?”

She turned her back to Padrig and tried to focus her attention on the maid instead. Her heart pounded and her body shook, a combination of Padrig’s recent nearness and being startled nigh out of her skin by Marie. ’Twas all she could manage to keep her voice from quavering.

The maid’s face went pale for a moment, then, glancing past Alys to Padrig, her expression firmed into a mask of determination. “A knight he may be, milady, but it gives him no right to be touching you.” She shook her head and glanced from Padrig to her mistress. “Nor to be looking at you the way he does, either.”

Whatever did Marie mean? How he looked at her…? Curiosity outweighing unease, Alys shifted so she could see Padrig, as well.

He met her gaze, his blue eyes steady, his expression impassive, but she could hardly fail to notice the faint tide of pink tingeing his neck and face. “I beg your pardon if I have offended you in any way, Lady Alys,” he said, his tone formal. He bowed and stepped back, gesturing toward the clearing and his waiting men. “If you are ready now, we must be on our way.”

Thankful he didn’t seem to expect a response to his apology—she scarce knew what she would have replied—she smoothed her skirts and nodded. “Of course. We’ll be but a moment more.” She bent to pick up her belongings, scattered on the ground around them, motioning him away when he would have helped.

Her thoughts were jumbled enough as it was; she didn’t need to add the image of Padrig handling her damp shift to the brew.

He hesitated but a moment before he nodded and strode off.

Despite her best intentions to ignore him, Alys clutched the clammy linen in her hands and watched him until he joined the others.

Padrig glanced up at the clouds thickening overhead, scudding fast across the darkening afternoon sky. He’d hoped to keep going until near nightfall, by which time they should have reached one of the villages along the way, but it appeared they’d need to find shelter sooner than that.

They’d been fortunate the past two days, for the sky had remained clear and the roads dry. Though they’d resumed their journey this morn far later than he’d planned—and the blame for that lay as much with him as with anyone—they’d made excellent time.

Lady Alys and her maid had kept up with his men, an unexpected surprise, but one he was grateful for. Perhaps she was simply eager to reach her home—or to be rid of him, he thought wryly. Whatever the reason, he was pleased with their progress. The journey to return Lady Alys to her parents should take four more days, if they could continue on as they had thus far.

Not quite a punishing pace, but close, he thought guiltily. The faster he delivered Lady Alys to her father, the sooner he’d be away from the unexpected, intense distraction she presented.

Yet his frustration with himself—with his weakness—was no reason to drive the others into the ground. He’d need to keep a close watch to be certain he wasn’t pushing too hard.

He’d dealt with distractions before, he reminded himself, and managed to do what he had to do.

Though he’d never before met a distraction quite like Lady Alys Delamare.

A powerful gust of wind buffeted him, pressing his clothes tight against his body and whipping his hair about his head. Muttering a curse, he shoved the unruly locks from his face and scanned the forest.

He could see no place to stop and take refuge from the weather here. The trees loomed close on both sides of the narrow road, the growth so thick it hemmed in the path with a nigh-impenetrable barrier. They had little choice but to stay on the road until it led them to a village, a clearing—any place where they could hole up until the storm passed.

Given the way the trees had begun to sway, he’d no desire to remain where they were. Once the downpour began in earnest, the wind and rain could very well uproot trees or send branches flying.

The air was heavy and damp, awash with a tension he could feel skittering over his skin. Even the horses seemed aware of it. His own destrier, bred for battle and chaos, took exception to a puny flock of birds bursting out of the bushes and nigh unseated him before he got the jumpy beast under control.

He peered back over his shoulder at the others. Moving apace, they were clustered together right behind him, their mounts appearing as unsettled as his own. “Come on—hurry,” he shouted as he nudged his horse to a faster speed.

The sound of Padrig’s voice startled Alys from an intensely pleasant daydream, one of many that had kept her mind’s eye focused firmly inward as she’d ridden along in Padrig’s wake.

Mostly focused inward, she admitted to herself. She could scarce blame herself for taking notice of Padrig on occasion, since he rode just in front of her.

Of course, she’d paid no attention at all to the rest of their party. Despite their proximity, they simply did not intrude upon her awareness.

Fortunately her patient mare, Arian, was used to bearing a distracted rider upon her back. ’Twas ever thus for Alys when she rode—her head would settle firmly into some tale or another, and she’d lose sight of all but the glorious world she carried hidden away within her imagination.

Her fingers itched to at least make note of the bits and pieces, the details swirling through her brain, to record them before they faded from her mind, but she was aware enough to realize now was neither the time nor place to do so.

She bit back a growl of frustration; it might be days before she’d the privacy and the opportunity to write down all that she had spinning about in her mind.

How could she sort through the tumult of thoughts, the sheer chaos setting her mind akilter, otherwise? To be so close to attaining her heart’s desire, and to find herself so easily tempted from her long-held dreams… She needed to concentrate, to refocus her attention where it needed to be.

Patience, she reminded herself. She ought to have developed a bottomless fount of that virtue by now, for she almost never had the chance to write when she wanted to…nay, when she must.

To use her tales to settle her mind.

’Twas a compulsion as strong as the need for food or sleep at times, a siren’s call she could not ignore.

In the peace of the cloister she’d be free to—

The wind whipped round her, startling her from her musings, tearing loose her veil and sending her unbound hair whirling about. She caught the gauzy fabric before it flew away and slipped it off, finally clear-headed enough to pay heed to her surroundings.

Cool air nipped at her skin, a shocking change from the earlier warm damp.

When had it become so dark? Surely ’twas not nightfall already?

They were trotting along at a rapid pace, the gait jarring, too swift for the narrow, rutted track. She hadn’t understood what Padrig had shouted earlier, but he must have been urging them on. Despite her distraction—or perhaps because of it—Arian had gone faster to keep pace with the others.

The wind gusted hard now, tearing loose leaves and small branches that battered at them, making it difficult to sit upright in the saddle. The sky grew ever darker, filled with a strange dusky half-light that sent an icy chill of foreboding down Alys’s spine and dragged her firmly into the present.

The road widened. Padrig shouted again, his words muffled, barely audible in the howling storm. However, his intent was clear when he spurred his mount to even greater speed.

Everyone did the same, until they were all thundering along the track. Alys tightened her legs and hung on, wrapping one hand in her mare’s mane and clinging to the reins with the other.

The rain began then, a cascading deluge that made it nigh impossible to see or hear. Water pooled on the hard-packed road in a matter of moments, concealing the uneven surface and forcing them to slow their headlong pace. ’Twas as though the clouds had opened wide overhead, a frigid, pounding torrent that drenched them to the skin at once.

They slowed, then halted; the horses, tense and uneasy, sidled about. Alys could hear the others, but though she knew they were close by, she could scarcely make out where they were in the murky gloom.

Arian twitched and sidestepped, demanding all her attention. The leather saddle was slick, and Alys’s clothing a sodden, heavy weight to drag her out of it. She tightened her grip on the reins and murmured soothing nonsense to the poor mare, who shifted, soaking wet and quivering, beneath her. It did no good, however, for surrounded as they were by the squalling storm, ’twas doubtful the animal could hear her—or would have cared if she could.

Lightning blazed overhead, a volley of thunder rolling over them almost at once. Alys’s mount squealed and reared up. Hooves sliding in the mud, the frightened beast flailed sideways. Alys caught a brief glimpse of Marie’s pale, terrified face beside her as their two mounts crashed into each other.

Arian, panicked beyond any hope of restraint, began a maddened dance, bucking and slipping on the muddy track. Praying aloud, Alys fought for control, but ’twas all she could do to remain in the saddle.

Lightning split the sky again, so close the flash was blinding. The thunder was a force itself, a pummeling wave that shook the ground, and sent Alys lurching sideways to cling, shaking wildly, to the slick leather seat.

Her heart pounding hard in her chest, she tried to right herself. Muttering a curse, she dragged herself upright just as, with an ear-splitting crack, a massive tree fell toward her.

“Go!” Alys shouted to Arian, slapping the reins against the mare’s neck and digging in her heels. Hooves scrambling for purchase, Arian gave a valiant leap forward, only to come crashing to the ground beneath the tree’s weighty branches.

Bright pain shot through Alys’s head, and she knew no more.

Chapter Four

Her limbs leaden, her vision a blur, Alys came to her senses, sprawled flat on her back beneath a veritable thicket of fallen trees and the icy lash of rain. She opened her mouth to call out, but gasped and choked as a torrent of water poured over her, carrying with it bits of bark and leaves that clung to her face and filled her mouth. Coughing, she tried to rise, but her strength was no match for the mass of branches and debris pinning her down.

Last she remembered she’d been in the saddle, riding hard as the storm raged around them…urging on Arian to avoid a falling tree….

She blinked her eyes to clear her vision, yet still she could see naught but a deep, shadowed darkness all around her.

Where was Arian?

And the others? They’d been riding close together, racing to outrun the storm’s fury. How many trees had come down? It felt as though she were buried beneath a veritable forest!

By the sainted Virgin, what had happened?

Marie had been nearby, her own mount frightened, out of control. There might have been still others as close to them—she hadn’t been able to see much of anything through the rain-filled gloom.

Pain washed over her, emanating from her back and shoulder and radiating outward, pulling her firmly into the present with a vengeance. It hurt to so much as breathe. She could tell she’d any number of scrapes from head to toe, for each one stung like fire beneath the force of the pelting rain. A dull throb from her ankle told her she’d at least one other injury.

Taking shallow breaths, she sought for calm and focused her senses. She tried to free her right arm; she could not make it move, though the attempt sent a surge of stomach-roiling pain washing over her. Swallowing back a gasp, she wriggled her other arm from beneath the branches and shifted it enough to push aside her sopping hair and wipe her eyes.

The deep, harsh rumble of thunder mixed with the sound of horses squealing in terror and voices sharp with alarm surrounded her. She could see little through the rain-filled darkness until a flash of lightning split the sky, giving her a moment’s glimpse of chaos.

It seemed as if she was buried amidst a thicket of fir branches, the scent of pitch and needles sharp and nauseating. Had the entire forest come down around them, to create this dense jumble? She caught flashes of movement along the edge of the pile—men and horses both, it appeared—so clearly not everyone was ensnared within the tangled mass.

She heard whimpering and moans close by, and held her breath for a moment to listen. The whimpering ceased at once—had she been crying and hadn’t known it?—but the moans continued, coming from somewhere near her, off to her right.

She wasn’t the only one injured…or trapped, as well?

The realization brought her no comfort; instead it sent a wave of dread coursing through her, fear that Marie might be injured, that others might be hurt. Her heart beat faster, lending her the strength to try again to move—using her left arm this time, since her right would not obey her. Teeth gritted against the pain wrapping her from head to toe, Alys shifted, barely turned to her side within her prickly cocoon.

“Marie!” she called, her voice little more than a faint, uneven squeak. “Where are you?”

She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the pain as she sought to control the way her entire body shook, and reached out, trying to shove her arm through the tangle overhead. “Marie! Sir Padrig—” A flood of debris and water filled her mouth again. Sputtering, she turned her head and spat, then tried again. “Padrig…anyone…I’m here.”

His sense of dread growing by the moment, Padrig concentrated on digging carefully through the huge tangle of trees that spilled across the road and into the forest. What he really wanted was to tear at the mound with his bare hands, to rip it all away until he found everyone and knew they were safe.

Lady Alys was missing, as were her maid and three of his men. They had to be trapped somewhere within this morass, though he hadn’t any notion precisely where to start looking.

The situation appeared grim. The horses of those missing were gone as well, save for Lady Alys’s mount. Her mare had evidently bolted free; unfortunately in the confusion no one had noticed where she’d been before the trees collapsed. She now stood, shivering and lame, away from the mess with the rest of their horses and the pack animals.

No help there.

Though twelve of them had set out from l’Eau Clair, their company was badly depleted. Besides those unaccounted for, only four of their remaining number had escaped serious harm, including himself. One of his men was dead, man and mount both crushed beneath the trunk of a massive tree. Two others were badly hurt, though it was difficult in these circumstances to determine just how severe their injuries were.

It had taken but a few moments after the falling trees had settled before those of his men who could move had regrouped in the road ahead of the collapse. They’d escaped misfortune only because they’d been at the front of the column and had already passed over that stretch of road.

When they’d made their way around the tangle blocking the road, they’d found the injured men and the pack animals on the other side. After hastily treating their hurts and settling them as best they could out of the rain and away from danger, they went to look for the others.

It was nigh impossible to see much of anything in the fitful light and pouring rain. He’d called out for the missing at once; they all had as they’d frantically begun to search, till he realized they’d never hear a response over their own shouts and he’d called for silence. But only the unremitting rumble and crack of thunder, accompanied by the sporadic, ear-splitting sounds of more trees crashing down close by, disturbed the relative silence.

Lightning continued to flash—over them, around them, everywhere, it seemed—the erratic light a fitting accompaniment to the hellish chaos surrounding them. Though daunting, nonetheless it was their sole source of illumination. A mixed blessing, for as long as the storm continued, they—and those yet to be found—were also at greater risk of further injury.

Between the accident, the constant barrage of thunder and lightning and the driving rain, the horses were cold, soaked, their nerves on edge.

He and his men were in little better state.

“Sir Padrig—over here,” Rafe, his second in command, shouted from the opposite side of the jumbled trees. “Hurry!”

Padrig dragged aside the cumbersome branch he’d disentangled from the pile and hastened to his side. Rafe lay draped over a massive tree trunk, his body half-buried within its thick boughs.

“Have you found them?” Padrig asked as he reached him. “Who? How many?”

“Quick, sir—grab my feet,” Rafe gasped. Padrig caught hold of him just as he began to slip away and, bracing himself, held the other man steady. “I’ve got a cloak in hand,” he added. “I think I’ve found one of the women—’tis too fine a cloth to be one o’ ours.”

Jock and Peter, the other two men, had arrived hard on Padrig’s heels; they immediately set to work shifting away the maze of branches surrounding the tree Rafe lay draped over while Padrig kept hold of him. Once the worst of the debris was cleared away, Padrig maintained his grip on Rafe even as he climbed up onto the fallen tree, as well.

“Lady Alys?” he called, leaning over to peer down into the stygian darkness. He shifted to pin Rafe’s feet in place with his body and one arm. Reaching down into the gap in front of Rafe, he skimmed his free hand through the space and came up empty. “Damnation!” Abandoning that fruitless act, he moved back a bit and caught Rafe by the ankles again. “Marie?”

The only sound coming out of the opening was Rafe’s raspy breathing. Coughing, Rafe squirmed lower on the tree, cursing as his boots slipped from his feet and he slithered downward.

Cursing as well, Padrig flung the empty boots aside and grabbed the back of Rafe’s tunic with both hands. Bracing his legs against the rough trunk, he gave a mighty heave and hauled Rafe upright, barely keeping them both from falling headfirst into the void.

“I can’t believe I lost her!” Rafe flopped onto his back and lay gasping in the downpour. Spitting out a mouthful of water and bark, he sat up. “By Christ’s toe-nails, everything’s so slippery you’d think ’twas ice fallin’, not rain.” He picked up one of his boots, shook it out and rammed it onto his foot, jerking the lacings taut before knotting them. “I held on tight as I could manage,” he said, disgust tingeing his voice, “but I could scarce get a hold o’ her to begin with.” He tugged on his other boot and tied it. “Let me have a moment to catch my breath, Sir Padrig, and I’ll give it another try.”

“At least you found her,” Padrig reassured him. “’Tis a start.”

He sprawled next to Rafe, mind awhirl. While he was heartened by Rafe’s determination, he couldn’t help but wonder what they’d discover once they rescued the woman who lay buried here. The fact that she’d made no sound at all when Rafe attempted to lift her out was not a good sign.

Should he assume she was dead, and go back to looking for the others?

He straightened, horrified. There was a thought to make his heart stop, whichever woman was the victim.

Jesu, if it were Alys…

Gone in an instant, her lovely smile and unexpected wit snuffed out—

He refused to consider such a notion, lest the hideous thought become reality.

He’d not abandon her—nay, anyone—to such a fate.

Despite his efforts to calm himself, his hand trembled a bit when he raised it and swiped it over his face. What if someone else came to further harm while they struggled to search here?

He could set Peter and Jock to work elsewhere while he and Rafe looked in a different place.

Yet what if the woman trapped beneath them was not dead, but instead was unconscious, or injured too badly to speak?

They could not ignore her; rather they must get her out as soon as possible and treat her injuries.

He shook his head and focused his racing thoughts. Jesu, mayhap they should wait till morning to search further, when presumably the storm would have passed, the sky would brighten and they could see what in God’s name they were doing!