Horrified, angered, she slapped at his hand with her free hand. “I’ll get it.”
When he lowered his hand, she stepped away from him, still shackled to him by her right wrist. She shoved her hand down the front of her armor and easily found the book. She hesitated for a moment, glaring at him. A red mark had formed on his cheek where she kicked had him. Satisfied at the mark, she pulled the book free.
He snatched it from her hand and tossed it to the ground.
A spear of lightning forked in the sky above their heads, and Sage cringed.
He grabbed her free hand and pushed her wrists together, wrapping the rope around them.
Sage scowled. She had lost this battle. But the war was just beginning. Marcus didn’t know she was leaving a trail for her sisters of ripped parchment from the page she had taken from Brother Nicolas.
Marcus rode with Sage before him into the town. She sat sidesaddle and his hands wrapped around her to grip the reins, just in case she decided to slide from the horse and flee.
His jaw still ached from her kick, but he resisted the urge to caress it. He wouldn’t let her know she had hurt him. He had mistaken her for a timid woman, not a woman who would fight to escape. It was a mistake he would not make again. Everything he had heard of the Hawke women was true. He would not forget it.
Yet, he thought back to when he had to restrain her, when he was on top of her. Her lips. Her full, wet lips. When he had her pinned to the ground, his gaze had found her lips, even in his anger. It was the most ridiculous thing. And now, he thought of them again, wondering what they would taste like. He scoffed silently. That would never happen. And he didn’t want it to.
The sky was dark, and lightning flashed above their heads, followed by a loud boom. He steadied his horse and urged the animal through the street.
Most of the villagers were scrambling to get to cover before the storm hit. A woman seized her boy’s hand, pulling him into a daub and wattle cottage. A man led a horse beneath the shelter of a building. A child chased a duck across the road toward home.
Marcus steered the steed toward the smithy, spurring it into a gallop. Gareth, the blacksmith, was a family friend. Marcus had known him his entire life. On his travels, his father had often visited Gareth’s shop for weapons. Many knights sought Gareth out for his expertise in sword making, including Templars and the king. He boasted loyalty to the king, but Marcus knew his true loyalty was to coin.
As the first big drops began to fall from the sky, Marcus reached the smithy and guided the horse into the small yard.
A young boy with bowl-cut dark hair rushed out of the wooden building to greet them. When thunder clapped overhead, the boy flinched.
Marcus held the horse steady with a firm hand as he attempted to rear. He quickly flipped the boy the reins and swung his leg over the horse to dismount. He turned to help Sage, only to find her easing from the saddle and landing on the ground on her feet. As the sky opened with a deluge of water, he took her arm and hurriedly directed her inside the smithy.
As he entered, he brushed the water from his eyes and scanned the room.
It was organized chaos. Against the wall, swords, axes, and horseshoes hung, all forged by Gareth. Against the back wall, a large stone oven stood, its fire long since smothered. A bellows stood before the forge to keep the coals hot. A square anvil was positioned to the side of the forge. Beside this, a bucket of water stood nearby. Hammers, tongs, and the rest of his tools were organized around the walls. The smell of burning metal hung thickly in the air.
A door at the side of the room opened. A short man, with a balding head and gray hair that hung in strings on the sides of his face, strolled out.
Marcus noticed he was not wearing his leather apron, so he knew Gareth was done working for the day.
Gareth’s gaze swept Sage and then lit on Marcus. A grin stretched his lips. “Marcus!”
Marcus stepped forward and grasped his arm just below the elbow.
Gareth returned the greeting, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Good to see you, old friend,” Marcus said.
“Old friend?” Gareth winced. “That means you need something. Whenever you call me ‘old friend,’ you want something.”
Marcus put a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“Do I?” Gareth asked. “When was the last time you visited without asking me for a favor?”
Marcus bridled, not being able to think of even one time he had come for only a visit. “I’m busy.”
Gareth nodded. “As I suspected.” He glanced at Sage and then back at Marcus. “What is it this time?”
“A night out of the storm is all I ask.”
Gareth glanced at Sage again. He draped an arm around Marcus’s shoulder and led him into a corner away from Sage. “Do you have something else to tell me?”
