He could not miss the exchange of grateful glances, but no one said anything as they dismounted. Radulf swung down to the ground and strode back toward Lily, still atop her mare, every movement he made proclaiming his anger.
Lily stiffened, watching him approach. Her eyes were reddened and gritty from lack of sleep, while apprehension had drained her face of all color. But she refused to let him see her weakness, gripping the reins tightly to hide the trembling of her hands, reminding herself of who she was. She had gone from misery to hatred so many times, she no longer knew what she felt.
Radulf barely paused as he reached her, lifting her abruptly from the saddle. Her hands were tied before her, so she was unable to prevent him, but she made her body rigid and unhelpful. As Radulf set her down, however, her breasts brushed his chest. That, and his hard hands at her waist, almost shredded her carefully constructed defenses, and she had to exert all her strength to prevent herself from melting against him. Focused so hard on being strong, she didn’t notice how very gently he set her on her feet.
Dark eyes looked down, gray eyes lifted. Fury and ice clashed and collided. Perhaps it was the proud coldness in her eyes, so at odds with her bedraggled state, but suddenly Radulf found his anger unraveling. When he spoke to Jervois, his voice was almost mild. “Has she had aught to eat and drink?”
Jervois had hurried along in his lord’s wake, and sounded breathless. “No, my lord. She will take neither.”
Radulf grunted. He lifted Lily’s hands, checking on the tightness of the rope, and saw at once the red marks where the coarse fibers had rubbed her tender skin. Something twisted inside him, a truth he had tried to keep buried until now. She let him inspect a bruise on her wrist and a torn fingernail pretending haughty indifference. She was like a queen, only far more regal than any queen Radulf had ever known. He felt a wild urge to pull her into his arms and hold her fast until this proud stranger was vanquished, and all that remained was his sweet, beautiful Lily, the girl from Grimswade Church.
Instantly he stifled it.
This was no time to loose his grip. The part of him that was his father’s son might want nothing more than to throw all caution to the four winds, but Radulf the warrior knew better. Still, the sheer madness of such a thought at such a time brought a gleam of appreciative humor to his dark eyes.
Lily recognized it, and her own eyes widened.
Radulf had pulled her jeweled dagger from his belt and was slicing through her bonds. When he lifted his face again, it was once more a stony mask, and his eyes were as bleak as winter.
“Now, eat!” he ordered, and turned and walked away.
Lily watched him go.
Her body ached, her head ached, but most of all her heart ached. And although she had known what would happen if he ever learned the truth, in some small corner of her being, she had hoped that somehow he would understand and forgive.
How could she have been so blind?
This was a Norman lord, to whom duty would always come first. He would take her to his king and sacrifice her at the altar of his own pride.
Better you had gone with Hew.
Lily shook her head. No, she could never go back to being the consort of such a man. And now Hew had escaped. Lily didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry about that; a little of both, maybe.
She was glad that Hew had thwarted Radulf, but sorry that someone with Hew’s evil intent was again free in the north.
“Come, lady, you heard what Lord Radulf said,” a voice murmured bracingly at her side. “You must eat and drink; you must stay strong.”
A cup of water was pressed into her hands, and Lily sipped it without thinking. She allowed Jervois to lead her to a flat rock, and press her down onto the makeshift seat. A chill wind tugged at her cloak and her hair, stinging her eyes. Jervois removed the cup and replaced it with food. Lily chewed slowly, gazing at nothing.
“Good.” Jervois nodded, and eyed her a moment more before turning in Radulf’s direction.
His lord and master stood stiff-backed, pretending an inordinate amount of interest in the surrounding countryside. Jervois shifted his shoulders, as if there was an invisible weight upon them. In truth, the situation he now found himself in was more wearisome and worrisome than any battle he had ever encountered.
He had been with Lord Radulf for nearly four years, and he had seen him angry before. But never this mindlessly, boilingly angry. And all over a woman! She was pretty, yes, but Jervois was never very comfortable in the company of women. He rested his green eyes once more on the lady. At least she was looking less white and strained, less like she might collapse. Radulf had been forcing the pace, riding as if the devil were on his back, but it would not do for her to collapse before they reached the king at York. Jervois had the uneasy feeling that despite Radulf’s own thoughtless haste, the man would have Jervois’s head if the lady suffered.
It made no sense, but then Jervois had found that when it came to the fair sex, sense went out the door. Give him a good battle any day! Man pit-ted against man. He was far more at home at war than faced with a lady’s smile.
And yet . . . a very pretty picture of golden hair and bright blue eyes leaped into his mind. Alice of Rennoc. He had seen her, spoken with her, during his short visit. His head had naturally been full of Radulf’s orders and Lily’s lies, but still he had retained the look of the girl and the scent of her skin.
“I am sure my lady Lily had good reason for her actions,” she had declared, when questioned.
Jervois admired loyalty. He had found himself remembering her words, and the inflections of her voice, ever since.
While Jervois puzzled over life’s inconsistencies, Lily was berating herself for being dim-witted. For one so used to living in the constant danger of Vorgen’s keep, she had been very lax. The fact that Radulf had not set a guard at her door should have alerted her at once to his trap. Like a cunning wolf, he had been watching her, waiting, and when the time was right he had pounced.
Lily doubted Radulf had been born to a flesh-and-blood mother, rather he had been created by Olaf the armorer, wrought in fire and fashioned in iron.
He had no heart.
