Through A Dark Mist Part 7

"Biddy!" Servanne gasped, jolted wide awake.

"But you! I thank the Lord your sweet, saintly mother did not live to see such a thing. And with such a one as him! him! Sweet Sweet Jesu Jesu, had I but suspected such a need in you, I would rather have seen you serviced by one of the guardsmen along the way-"

"Biddy!"

"-than by that great, l.u.s.tful brute! At least it could have been arranged with some discretion! Not like this! Not ... not brazenly brazenly walking through the hall, with him naked as a bull and you"-Biddy waved a hand in unfathomable distress- walking through the hall, with him naked as a bull and you"-Biddy waved a hand in unfathomable distress-"you hanging off his neck, looking as if you could scarce wait to have a bed beneath you!" hanging off his neck, looking as if you could scarce wait to have a bed beneath you!"

Servanne made a strangled sound in her throat and sat bolt upright. "Biddy! What are you saying? What are you accusing me of doing?"

"Do you deny you were hanging off his neck when he carried you in here?" Biddy demanded with narrowed eyes.

"I was not hanging off his neck!. hanging off his neck!. I was in a faint!" I was in a faint!"

"So would any normal woman be to see the size of him," came the scandalized retort. "Curse me if I did not think he had grown a third arm to support you!"

Servanne flushed. "Biddy! He was naked because he was bathing in the pond. I fainted because I was ... I was exhausted-you, of all people should know why! And he must have carried me back here because I could not walk the distance on my own."

Biddy stopped fussing with the bit of linen long enough to arch a brow sardonically. "And I suppose he helped you out of your clothing because he was concerned they might choke you in your sleep? I suppose he remained with you in here for nigh unto an hour because he was worried you might not be able to fall asleep on your own?"

Servanne clutched the layer of furs to her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "He ... unclothed me?"

"He did indeed. And And he enjoyed the view for considerably longer than it should have taken to fold the garments and lay them neatly aside-had he troubled himself to do so, that is." he enjoyed the view for considerably longer than it should have taken to fold the garments and lay them neatly aside-had he troubled himself to do so, that is."

Servanne followed an accusing finger and felt her mouth go dry at the sight of her gown and under-garments strewn across the earthen floor. She swallowed hard and pressed a trembling hand to her temple.

"I do not remember," she whispered. "I do not remember anything after I fainted."

Yet that was not exactly the truth either and she did not have to hear Biddy's snort of disdain to feel the heat creeping upward in her cheeks. She did remember something-a feeling, or a sensation of intense warmth and pleasure. But ... it was not possible for him to have lain with her and not left something of his presence behind.

Servanne flung the pelts aside and examined herself critically, searching for bruises or faded blotches that would either condemn or vindicate her in Biddy's eyes. There was nothing, however. No marks on the ivory smoothness of her body, no scent of human contact, no telltale tenderness between her thighs. Surely a man of his size, his weight, his temperament would have left a mark of some kind, either branded onto her body or seared into her mind.

Lacking proof one way or the other, she drew upon her anger. "Where were you all this time? How do you know he was alone with me for an hour? Why were you not here by my side to defend and protect me?"

A new flood of tears sprang from the matron's hazel eyes. "I tried, my lady! Oh how I tried to run to your side! It was that wretched Woodc.o.c.k who held me back. Firstly, he led me on a merry chase around the forest. Then, when he finally returned to the abbey-just in time to see the outlaw leader bringing you in here-the rogue drew his knife and bade me sit in company with several other ruffian misfits while his lord 'attended his private affairs privately.' To have moved or cried out would have earned a blade thrust into my breast, and I did not see how I, dead upon the ground of a pierced breast, could have been of any further use to you."

"What use are you to me now," Servanne snapped, trembling with anger, "when you refuse to believe me when I say I have no memory of what happened, and no cause to feel shame or guilt over my behaviour!"

A second anguished wail from Biddy's throat sent Servanne's eyes rolling skyward and her hands crus.h.i.+ng against her temples. A further distraction-the swirl of her uncombed, unfettered hair around her shoulders-sent her anger boiling in another direction.

"Where is he? Where is the rogue: I shall have the truth from him myself!"

"Oh! Oh, my lady, no. No!"

"My clothes," Servanne commanded. "My combs, my wimple-where are they?"

"Not within my grasp, my lady," Biddy replied, sniffling wetly. "What trunks were fetched with us in the ambuscade have not appeared since. Where they are or what has become of the contents, I cannot say."

"Never mind, then. Just help me dress."

Biddy hastened to collect up the scattered garments. The gown was slightly more crumpled and stained from its stay on the floor, as were the knee garters and short silken hose. The samite surcoat was nowhere to be seen, but Biddy removed her own plain gray mantle and wrapped it securely about her charge's shoulders for warmth. She was about to part and plait the tousled skeins of hair into more modest and manageable braids, but Servanne pushed the fussing hands away and swept out into the corridor.

After a moment's pause to gain her bearings, she followed the dank stone hall to the right. It emerged at the top of a shallow flight of steps overlooking the pilgrims' hall at a point midway between two of the roofless stone arches. The scene before her appeared much as it had the previous evening, with fires crackling in the roasting pit, and torches burning smokily from their wall sconces. Cauldrons bubbled steamy clouds of aromatic mist into the cooler air, adding to the dull sheen of moisture that clung to the charred walls and broken ribs of the abbey.

Trestle tables had once again been set in an open-sided square under the sheltered portion of the roof. He He was sitting there on the dais, the vest of black wolf pelts reflecting glints of fire and torchlight. He was engrossed in a conversation with Gil Golden, but when the latter's eyes flicked to the far wall, the Black Wolf stopped and followed his stare. was sitting there on the dais, the vest of black wolf pelts reflecting glints of fire and torchlight. He was engrossed in a conversation with Gil Golden, but when the latter's eyes flicked to the far wall, the Black Wolf stopped and followed his stare.

Servanne had no notion of the image she presented, nor would she have cared a potter's d.a.m.n if she had. The dark woolen cloak she wore completely encased her slender body from shoulders to toes, leaving only the wild, voluminous cascade of silver-blonde hair to outline an ethereal image against the shadows. The ghostlike apparition startled several of the outlaws, even those who were open in their scorn for the legends and superst.i.tions surrounding Thornfeld Abbey. Many went so far as to reach instinctively for their weapons before recognizing the figure as being of this mortal earth.

The Wolf rose and walked slowly around the end of the table and down the hall. If not for the fickle light that kept his features veiled in shadow, she might have noticed the strange gleam that mellowed the gray of his eyes, softened them, even, to a shade verging on pale blue.

"I trust you are feeling better for your rest?" he asked.

Servanne said nothing until he had come to a full halt before her. When she did speak, it was in a voice so low he almost had to bend forward to hear.

"I trust you enjoyed the liberties you took while while I was resting?" I was resting?"

"Liberties, my lady?"

"How dare you touch touch me," she snapped, "let alone remove so much as a slipper from my foot!" me," she snapped, "let alone remove so much as a slipper from my foot!"

"Ahh," he said, and straightened. "Those "Those liberties. You would have preferred to sleep in cold, wet clothes?" liberties. You would have preferred to sleep in cold, wet clothes?"

"My clothing was not wet," she objected. "I was no nearer the edge of the water than I am to you now."

His grin broadened. "You were very nearly headfirst into the mud and weeds had I not caught you in time. Furthermore ..." His gaze raked appreciatively down the shapeless form of the cloak and left no doubt as to what he recalled seeing beneath. "I did what any chivalrous fellow would do to save his lady the possible discomfort of fever or flux."

Servanne clenched her small hands into fists. "I am not not your lady. And if you were so concerned over my health, why did you not call my waiting-woman to attend me?" your lady. And if you were so concerned over my health, why did you not call my waiting-woman to attend me?"

"I could have," he agreed blithely, "but I thought it a convenient opportunity to a.s.sess the precise value of the goods I am holding to ransom. Had I done so earlier, I heartily believe I would have put a much higher price on returning them undamaged."

"Then ... you did not-" Servanne bit her lip, resenting the flow of ruddy colour that made his smile widen further.

"I am crushed, indeed, my lady, that you should have to ask."

"Biddy believes you did more than see to my comfort. She does not believe I have no recollection of what happened after I fainted beside the pool."

"My reputation as a lecher will be in shreds," he murmured.

"Did you or did you not take ill advantage, sirrah?" she demanded, giving her foot a little stamp of annoyance.

"If I did?"

"If you did"-she searched his face in vain for a trace of humanity-"then you are a lower, viler creature than ever I could have imagined."

The Wolf laughed. "I was under the impression your estimation of my character could sink no lower than it was already."

"I have erred before in crediting a man with too much character," she retorted. "For that matter, most men in general tend to show a glaring lack of consistency when their true faces come into the light."

"Spoken like a woman who is tired of being sold into marriages with one stranger after another."

"Nay, wolf's head. I am simply tired of men who continually deign to know what is best for me and who then proceed to rearrange my my life to suit life to suit their their needs." needs."

"And what needs, might I inquire, would you prefer to have tended?"

Servanne flushed again. "Mon Dieu "Mon Dieu, but you are an exasperating cur! Will you or will you not answer my question truthfully?"

"Truthfully-" He said the word in such a way as to raise a spray of gooseflesh along her arms. "Had I seen to my own comforts as well as yours, you would not now have the s.h.i.+eld of a blank memory to hide behind. Nor would there be a need to ask what manner of liberties I had taken, for your body would still be singing their effects loudly and clearly."

Servanne's jaw dropped inelegantly. She took a small, stumbling step back, and then another, but before she could turn and run from the mocking gray glint of his eyes, a sharp fff-bungg! fff-bungg! split the air and left an ashwood arrow quivering in the wooden arch beside her. A shriek sent her jumping forward and the Wolf suddenly found himself standing with an armful of trembling, soft femininity. split the air and left an ashwood arrow quivering in the wooden arch beside her. A shriek sent her jumping forward and the Wolf suddenly found himself standing with an armful of trembling, soft femininity.

"Runner coming in, my lord!" someone called.

"Who?" the Wolf asked, not troubling himself to turn around.

"Sigurd's handiwork," said Gil Golden, noting the arrow's fletching with a wry grimace. "No one else wastes so much quill."

None of the other outlaws contributed comments. None even appeared to have heard Gil's, or so it seemed to Servanne. Everyone-the men at the tables, the men not yet in their seats, even the two women who bent over the cooking fires-all of them stood frozen in place, like statues turned to stone. Apart from the hiss and crackle of the fires, there was only silence. A silence so acute that when a second arrow streaked through the darkness to strike the same archway, one could almost swear to have heard the resonant tw.a.n.g of the bowstring.

Like magic, the tableau dissolved. The men and women resumed their conversations and their tasks at hand. Servanne, having once again buried her face in the protective thickness of the wolf pelts, felt a pair of gentle hands pry her loose.

"We use the double signal to ensure the men coming in are our own," the Wolf explained. "Even those who possess limitless courage have been known to give away the deepest of secrets under expert torture, and, since it is not inconceivable to a.s.sume the sheriff has sent his pack of hounds out after us, we have arranged different signals for each day."

"Bah! Old Noddypeak should have chased his tail into a fine tangle by now," Sparrow chuckled, materializing out of nowhere. "Especially since he was sent chasing it in ten different directions."

"I should think Sigurd will be bringing news of a new hound in the forest," the Wolf mused thoughtfully. "One whose nose is tuned to a sweeter scent."

Wardieu, Servanne realized, the excitement flaring within her like a sudden flame. Lord Lucien Wardieu was in the forest, come to rescue her from this ... this ...

With a start, she became aware of how close she was standing to her tormentor. Her fingers were curled around shanks of gleaming black fur; his hands were still resting on her shoulders, the intimacy of the contact hidden from view by the flowing ma.s.s of her hair, but one that was felt most disconcertingly throughout every inch of her trembling flesh.

His potent maleness was unsettling; more so when a vivid picture of him flashed into her mind and remained there-a picture of him standing naked in the knee-deep water of the Silent Pool, his flesh steaming, his muscles rippling beneath the sheath of taut skin.

Conscious of the fact that he seemed to have little difficulty in reading her thoughts, Servanne quickly lowered her lashes and extricated herself from his embrace. As before, she missed the flicker of colour that came and went in his eyes, nor did she see the way his fingers curled and h.o.a.rded the distinct, tingling memory of her warmth.

"I would like to return to my chamber now," she said.

"Whereas I would enjoy your company beside me at the table again."

"I am not hungry."

"I am. And unless you would care to see my appet.i.te roused for more than food, you would be wise not to attempt to defy me in this."

Servanne looked up. The promise was there for a blind man to see, as was the disturbing realization it had only been by the slenderest thread of chance she had awakened alone in her bed.

"I ... should at least like to make myself more presentable," she said tremulously, reaching up with an unsteady hand to smooth the flown wisps of her hair.

"You are more than presentable just the way you are," he insisted, extending an arm in a mockingly gallant gesture.

Servanne doubted she could touch him again and come away unscathed. She gathered the folds of her skirt and cloak in her hands to lift them clear of the fouled rushes on the floor, and, with as much indifference as she could put into the tilt of her chin, preceded him to the raised dais.

The meal progressed as it had the previous evening, the exception being that Servanne shared her settings with the outlaw leader rather than with Sparrow. The latter, happily taking on a joint of mutton almost as large as he was, kept the conversation light and easy, but though he tried his valiant best, failed to win a smile from their silvery-haired hostage. He a.s.sumed it was because she had overheard Sigurd's report, delivered halfway through the meal, that there was indeed a new player in the game of hide and seek. While he was not far wrong in his guess, he was not exactly right, either. For every one thought Servanne had concerning the whereabouts of the Baron de Gournay, she had three for the man who sat on her right-hand side-the man who met her gaze each time without a hint of shame, or guilt, or regret; just the infuriatingly smug self-a.s.surance of someone who believes his way is the only way.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly. "Why have you come to Lincoln?"

"I have already told you who I am."

"You have not told me why I should believe you."

He seemed to want to smile at that. "Have I ever lied to you?"

He was looking at her, into her, through her, and Servanne felt the flesh across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly tighten, as if left on a tanner's rack too long. "As far as I know, you have lied to me about everything."

"Everything?" he asked, his thigh brus.h.i.+ng not-so-accidently against hers.

Servanne s.h.i.+fted on her stool and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. "You have lied about who you are, and what you are," she insisted softly. "You hide behind the lincoln-green badge of an outlaw, yet your motives for being here in these woods have nothing to do with bettering the conditions of the poor, or righting injustices committed in the king's name, or fighting against oppression-real or imagined. You have gathered about you a few local villagers to give some credence to the charade, but you are not from these parts. I doubt you have been in England as long as it took to grow the hair past your collar-or long enough to know there have been no black wolves in Britain since King Henry laid a high bounty on their pelts. Certainly not enough to fas.h.i.+on so fine a mantle, or be willing to throw so casually on a bed."

The Wolf was mildly taken aback; moderately impressed. After some consideration for the surprised silence that had fallen over the other outlaws seated on the dais, he carefully wiped the blade of his eating knife clean, sheathed it, and stood up, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. "Come. Walk with me. There is but a half moon tonight, perhaps enough to hint at what the gardens may once have held."

"Absolutely not!" she gasped, horrified at the suggestion.

The Wolf gave her a moment to reconsider of her own accord, then leaned over close enough that his words went no further than her pink-tipped ears. "You can either walk with me now, or lie with me later; the choice is yours where we take a few words of private conversation."

The mist was more pervasive out-of-doors. Thick, opalescent sheets of it swirled at knee level over the slick cobbles, masking the weed and rot, the neglect, and the decay. There were no torches lit outside the hall, but as Servanne's eyes adjusted to the faint light of the crescent moon, she could see the vague outlines of the other ruined buildings, the stone cistern in the centre of the court, the vine-covered arches that formed a narrow walkway leading toward the chapel. She was thankful for Biddy's warm woolen cloak, and drew it close about her shoulders. Tiny droplets of mist clung to her face and throat, and coated her hair like a fine-spun silver web.

"The gardens are this way," said the Black Wolf, walking toward the arches. "If you look closely enough, you can still find the odd wild rosebush growing amongst the bracken."

How vitally important to know, Servanne thought angrily, stepping around a jagged gap in the stone cobbles. She stretched her arm out for balance, startled slightly when she felt his huge, warm hand take hold of hers. Rather than jerk it away and appear twice the fool, she permitted the infringement until the footing was once again solid beneath her. A short distance into the steeped silence of the ancient gardens, she balked completely, refusing to go another step in the company of a man whom she had every reason to believe would kill her without hesitation if the situation arose.

"Who are you?" she asked again. "And why have you come to Lincoln?"

He stopped on the path just ahead of her and slowly turned around. "My name is Lucien Wardieu," he said quietly. "And I have come home."

"You say say you are Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it all these years without anyone challenging his ident.i.ty before now?" you are Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it all these years without anyone challenging his ident.i.ty before now?"

The Wolf crossed his arms over his ma.s.sive chest and leaned back against one of the arches.

"A great many questions, my lady. Are you sincere in wanting to know the answers?"

"I want to know the truth," she said evenly.

"The truth should not require proof, and a man should not have to prove who he is if he swears to that truth upon his honour. I know who I am. So does the impostor residing at Bloodmoor Keep."

"That ... impostor, as you call him ... has ridden to war with Richard the Lionheart."

"I do not doubt he has."

"Prince John trusts and confides in him."

"You would use such a recommendation to vouchsafe a man's character?" he scoffed.