A Knight's Vow Part 28

"I will bring some food later," she said to the guard. "You have not even given him water."

"He was unconscious," the guard replied defiantly. "And the earl gave no such orders."

"Do you not think for yourself, John?" she said, and the guard's face reddened. Duncan realized that the

guard was smitten with the maid.

"You can bring it," he said after a moment.

She smiled. "You are a good man, John," she said as she gave Duncan a wink and went through the

door.

That smile again. She had the same courage as her mistress. She would be a fine addition to Worthington. Mayhap Rhys...

The door clanged shut, and he was left alone again, the ringing still loud in his head. Tonight. If nothing

went wrong, he would be riding away with a woman he truly loved.

If it did, he might not see the morning, nor might she ever again know freedom.

For now he would have to wait. It would, he knew, be the longest wait in his life.

eight.

Willa and Lynet whispered together, knowing a guard stood outside Lynet's room. Though the door was a heavy oak, the gravity of the upcoming evening and its dangers lowered their voices.

Their hands clenched together, in antic.i.p.ation and fear and in friends.h.i.+p. After tonight, it seemed unlikely they would see each other again. There would be no more delay in dispatching Lynet to the convent.

"Thank you," she said to Willa. "Thank you for being my friend."

Willa turned red. Her eyes misted. "I will miss you, my lady."

"And I you." Lynet went to a box that sat on a chest and took out several pieces of jewelry, including a necklace of pearls and another of amethysts. She held them out. "Take these, Willa. Sew them in your dress. Sell them if you are ever in need. I will also give you a note saying I have gifted you with them. No one can ever accuse you then of taking them."

Willa's hands trembled as they held them. "It is too much."

"There will never be 'too much' for such loyalty," Lynet replied with a break in her voice. Willa was risking her own life. "I will not let you leave the room without them. And," she added sadly, "I will not be needing them."

"You can take them," Willa said. "You can escape and use the funds yourself. You can meet your Robin later."

"I cannot dishonor my father any more than I have," Lynet said. "I cannot deepen the shame for my sisters."

She made her tone determined. She had to be determined. She had already done so much damage to her family and to Robin. To everyone she loved. All for a few fanciful hours. And that's all they were, she told herself. A few moments of magic that could never last, could never really be real.

"Go now," she said, knowing that she could not be resolute much longer. Oh, how she wanted that magic. The gentleness of his fingers, the branding of his lips. Her chest ached almost unbearably as she wondered whether she could ever quench the burning, untamed yearning inside herself.

Willa tucked the jewels inside the bodice of her gown. "I will keep them for you, my lady," she said as she opened the door, and nothing else could be said without being overheard. "I will bring your supper later."

The rest of the day pa.s.sed by slowly. Lynet spent most of the day at the window, looking down at the bailey below, envying the freedom of the men riding in and out. Would she ever have the freedom again to ride free, to wander in the woods, to sing?

She fought waves of quiet despair. The only comfort was knowing-hoping-that Robin would be freed. He, at least, could still have life.

She would not cry. She had memories now. Memories she had not had before.

She did not move as the sun sank below the horizon and shadows turned the green hills dark. A few stars appeared, but most were hidden by clouds skittering across the sky. She prayed for rain. Rain would justify a full cloak. Rain would also erase the tracks of a fleeing rider.

How long now? Willa was going to wait until late in the evening, when the guards would already be sleepy.

They had talked about trying to drug the wine, but neither had any access to a potion that would be safe enough. The wine itself would have to accomplish their aim. Would John take it?

Probably. Her father had never been a feared master. He seldom disciplined his people, a failure for which her mother often took him to task. But he hated personal conflict. He usually just turned away from it and pretended nothing happened. That he had not done so this time showed how very angry-and disappointed-he was.

She knotted her fingers together. Another hour. Dear Mother in heaven... How could she bear it when every minute seemed a day?

The floor of the cell was damp and cold. Duncan had slept in worse places and had always been able to sleep. Not now.

Willa had promised to return. Would she? Would she be allowed? And Lynet? He tasted the sound on his tongue, and he liked it. He had liked "Mary," too, but it had never seemed to fit her. "Lynet" did. It had a grace that she had never quite been able to hide.

And now? He'd been caught in his own trap. He did not even have his own ring, the Worthington seal, with him. He had thought it might give him away. Now he wished he had not been so cautious. Nor so clever.

How much of his adventure had been a true attempt to fulfill the vow to his mother, and how much his wish to escape responsibilities even for a short time? He had commanded soldiers since he was nineteen, and he could not remember a carefree day until a week ago.

And now someone else-someone he knew now he loved-was paying for those moments. Others might also pay, including the young maid.

But if he had not indulged himself in fancy, in whimsy, he might never have met Mary. No, Lynet. Even if he had met her, he may never have seen the wood sprite beneath the lady, the gentleness and pa.s.sion under a lady's manners and breeding. He wanted to think he might, but in truth would she have seen "Robin" under a soldier's uniform and his fierce reputation? Or would she have been repelled by it?

Now, though, he might well have spoiled everything. If only he could get her to Worthington, then they could work out the whole blasted mess. Her family would be pleased. How could they not with a match such as he would propose?

His rank and properties far exceeded those of any of the men Willa had mentioned.

But first he had to get out of here.

His head still pounded, though it no longer bled. He was hungry, but he'd been hungry before. The most surprising of his wounds was his heart. It ached for her in ways he had never thought a heart could feel. When his mother had asked for his vow, he had thought love would be a comfortable, calming accommodation. He had never believed the poets and minstrels. He had never thought it could be an all-consuming thing that burned even as it refreshed, that it could make him forget even ordinary caution, that it could turn the sky to sapphire instead of blue and the breeze to perfume, and sprinkle the water with gold. He had never held such thoughts before, had not seen the world through eyes that enhanced rather than saw it coldly and logically.

His feet had never been so light, nor had a song been in his soul. Which was, he thought wryly, why he'd been such a miserable failure as a musician. But had he taken the song from Lynet in return? The thought was excruciating.

He heard footfalls again. Voices through the door. Willa's voice, seductive this time. He moved closer.

"You can leave it with me," Duncan heard the guard say.

"I must see him to report back to my mistress," she said. "And I have also brought something for you." Her voice was lower than he remembered. It held a promise.

A key turned in the lock of his cell, and a basket was thrust inside. Duncan had only a moment to see Willa's face-and a faded blue wool cloak-before it closed again. He took the basket and started to eat the bread even as he listened.

He heard Willa laugh. "It is fine wine, John. It was my mistress's and she sent it to you for allowing the minstrel some food."

"Just a small sip then," the guard's voice said.

"A sip only," Willa agreed.

Duncan listened as time rolled on, and the guard obviously took a second sip, then a third. The man's voice roughened, and Duncan heard him plead, "A kiss, Willa."

Duncan closed his eyes and tried not to listen. He wondered why Willa was doing this. He knew, though, that he would find a way to reward her.

After a few more murmured pleas for more than a kiss and teasing protests from Willa, he heard her say, "I will get some more wine, John, and then..."

There was a protest, then steps hurrying away.

Duncan finished the last of the bread, then looked out of the small barred window. The guard, sprawled across the chair, had a tankard tipped upward. His eyes were turned toward the corridor where Willa had disappeared. Several minutes later, the tankard clashed on the floor. The man barely moved at the sound.

Duncan's hands balled into fists. Was Lynet going to come down? If not, he would find her. By the saints, he would find her.

He paced the room restlessly. Then he went back to the door and waited.

It seemed forever before he heard steps again. He peered again through the barred window of the door.

A blue cloak, this time the hood over the head. The walk seemed different from Willa's but the form was the same. Heavier than Lynet's, more buxom.

Willa again. Disappointment crashed down on him, even though he knew why she was there. His freedom. But Lynet had not chosen to come. Not chosen or was not able.

The figure stooped next to the guard. Loud snoring noises continued.

Fingers took something from the belt around the guard's tunic, then the hooded figure came to the door

and fitted the key into the lock. It did not work for a moment. She tried again and finally, with a rasp, the

lock turned and the door opened.

He stood and stared for a moment. Although the hood covered the upper part of her face, a lock of bronze hair tumbled alongside her face. From the candles impaled in the hallway, he could see the soft gray-green of her eyes.

"Mary," he said with the slightest hint of a smile. "Or is it my lady?"

The air, already heavy, thickened with strong emotion as her gray-green eyes looked shadowed, tired,

wistful. Even through the dim light, though, he saw a sudden response to him. Her eyes seemed to light.

"Robin. Are you... well?"

Her hand went to the side of his head. He knew from past injuries it must be ugly. The rest of him was

none too pretty either. He had several days' beard and his hair was lank and damp with sweat. Still, herhand clasped around his when he held it out. "I prayed you would come," he said.The light faded from her eyes. "You must go. Now."He gave her a bow. "It is my lady?""I did not mean to lie to you," she whispered. "But if I told you who I was, I feared you would go.""I think not," he replied, bringing her hand to his mouth. "Will you come with me now?""I lied to you," she said.

"Sometimes there is reason to lie," he replied.

"No," she said in a broken voice. "There is never a reason good enough. I might have brought ruin upon you. You must leave now, and I cannot go."

"Because I am not a lord..."

She took his hand and kissed it. "Because it could well mean your death, and I cannot do that."

"I should make that decision."

"There are others too," she added, and he saw a tear hover at the side of her left eye. "My father. My

sisters. Even my mother. They will all suffer. I cannot let that happen."

"Will spending your life in a convent help that?"

She looked up at him. "Willa... should not have told you."