Alinor Read online

  Ian gathered the rein in his hand and rose into the saddle. As soon as his feet found the stirrups, the men sprang away from the horse’s head and ran for safety. It was, as Ian had foretold, completely unnecessary. The stallion stood quietly now that authority and security had been restored with the solid weight on his back and the steady pull of the bit on his lips. Ian uttered an exclamation of irritation. In his concern for his mount, he had forgotten Alinor. He turned to apologize for not lifting her into the saddle and saw that she, too, was remounted.

  How kind of her, Ian said to himself, to spare him embarrassment, but somewhere inside an uneasy feeling that she wished to avoid having him touch her woke. To a certain small degree that was true. Now that the violent action had subsided and the most necessary reactions to it had been taken care of, Alinor wanted to avoid Ian’s notice. She knew he was sure to begin wondering how she had made herself vulnerable to abduction by so inefficient and ill-armed a troop. Alinor needed a little time to decide what to say to him, because she had no intention of confessing her true purpose. Ian would not be any more approving of the idea of waylaying and possibly murdering a king’s messenger than Simon would have been. Thus, she not only needed an excuse for being out of Roselynde Keep so close to evening for herself, but also some explanation of what so large a number of huntsmen were doing wandering around when no hunt was planned.

  The latter was easy enough to explain as soon as Alinor’s fertile mind concentrated on it. The huntsmen were out marking game for killing when they should be needed for the wedding feast. The animals would be kept close by laying out fodder for them. What she herself was doing abroad was less easily explained. Alinor thought of and discarded a number of lame excuses while the troop finished gathering up the corpses, mounted, and got started back toward Roselynde.

  Actually, Alinor had more time to think than she had expected, because Ian had arrangements of his own to make. Obviously it would be too late, by the time he had escorted Alinor back home, to hope to catch the outlaws that night. Nonetheless, some men had to return to the farm in case the Welshmen came back with news of the reavers’ camp. There was also the chance that one of the other groups had come to grips with a band of the thieves. They might need to summon other portions of the dispersed troops to their aid, or they might have taken prisoners who should be questioned. Owain would have to go. He was the only shadow of authority and, besides, the only one who could make head or tail of what the Welsh would say.

  As long as the troop rode east, the path of those who headed for Roselynde and those headed for the farm lay together. Ian spent that time giving Owain instructions. At the parting of the ways, he sent ten men back with the squire. When he finally had time to turn his attention to Alinor, she diverted him from the topic she feared with a mention of the wounded man-at-arms. Ian dispatched two men to search for him. Then Alinor made an ingenuous remark as to how fortunate her huntsmen were abroad in force. That led to mention of the wedding feast and thence to the subject of the wedding. Alinor was delighted at how willing Ian was to discuss that event. She could have wished that his interest was more personal and less political—he concentrated mainly upon the men he wished to have invited—but she reminded herself that it was ungrateful to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  In fact, it was not until Ian was getting ready to step into the tub to wash the blood from himself that he asked the question she feared. First he said something about killing the lice with which he had become infested and then, as Alinor turned to tell a maid to fetch the stavesacre salve, he said softly, “Stay, Alinor.”

  Alinor instructed the maid and came back, glad that the flaring light of the torches would conceal the color that had risen to her cheeks. The last thing Ian said, before he mentioned the lice, had been a clarification of a final detail in the marriage contract. Alinor thought his mind had returned to that; perhaps he would at last say something that was not purely business. Could the rage and fear that turned him into a berserker when she was threatened all be his duty to “Simon’s wife”? Was it possible for duty to spark such violence? Surely the fear had been—a little, at least—for Alinor.

  “I have just bethought me,” Ian said sharply, “that my one chance of taking the reavers completely by surprise has been ruined by this little excursion you made into the woods. What were you doing abroad at night, Alinor? And with only five men-at-arms?”

  The disappointment was like a blow in the face. Alinor had all but forgotten that Ian was likely to ask that question. Driven by her own desire, she had unconsciously prepared herself to hear words of love, Ian’s nakedness, the dimly lit chamber, the late hour, the quiet aftermath of the bloody rescue, had all suggested that tender words, even embraces, should follow talk of marriage. Before she could think, Alinor lashed out to avenge the hurt.

  “My purpose can be nothing to you,” she replied icily. “I am sorry for the disruption of your plans. I am sorry also for my carelessness, but no sign of the outlaws had ever been seen so close to the keep or to the shore. I thought it would be safe. You need give no further thought to the matter. I will not be so caught another time.”

  “What did you say? I have just killed fourteen men. Will you not deign to tell me why?” Ian responded furiously.

  “You said you killed them for the threat to me.” Alinor’s brows went up disdainfully. “I did not realize that was a polite fiction and you needed a better reason. I am sorry if you do. I have no better to offer you. In fact, I bade you spare the last three.”

  “Alinor,” Ian bellowed, “what were you doing outside the keep with only five men-at-arms when night was drawing on?”

  “I was attending to my own business, using half the men you had left me, and I expected to be back in the keep before dark,” she replied in no milder voice than his own.

  “When I ask a question,” Ian choked, striding toward her, “I expect to be answered.”

  Alinor drew her knife. She held it close to her body, tilted up wickedly like an experienced knife fighter. There was no waving the weapon at arm’s length, which was typical of hysterical women.

  “And when I do not choose to answer a question my husband asks, he may rest assured the answer does not affect his profit or his honor. It is a subject private to me, and I will keep it that way.”

  Ian stared at the knife in Alinor’s hand with startling eyes. “Put that away,” he said, almost whispering. “Put it away now, and do not draw upon me again or you will need to kill me to keep me from lessoning you.”

  “I am not one of your helpless fancy ladies, Ian,” Alinor spat. “I do not choose to be beaten to soothe your bad temper.”

  “I will lay no hand upon you, upon my honor, if you put up that knife. If you do not—”

  “Do not threaten me,” Alinor shrieked. “I am no man’s chattel to be used well or ill at his pleasure. I am Alinor, Lady of Roselynde.”

  Ian took another step toward her, raising his fisted right hand while the left, open, was ready to feint at the knife. Because his glance flickered between Alinor’s lace and the weapon she held, the movement brought his bloodstained hands into his line of vision. Ian suddenly uttered a gasp, dropped his hands, and backed away precipitately.

  “Begone,” he gasped, “get you gone from me before I do you a hurt against my will and against my honor.”

  The words were still threatening, but the face and the voice were not. Alinor read the fear and the pleading note aright, although she misunderstood their cause. She remembered very vividly the berserker—and she believed Ian did also. Furious as Alinor still was, she was quite sane enough not to try Ian’s temper further this night. In the morning, when the heat of fighting was not so close upon him, they would have this matter out. Alinor slammed her knife back into its sheath and stalked out of the room.

  For one long moment Ian remained rigid, staring at the spot where Alinor had stood. “Hellcat!” he muttered. “What did I say to make her turn on me? What did I say?” Then he uttered an
explosive obscenity and looked down at himself as if he needed visual evidence of the sensation that had gripped him. So violent was the need that Alinor in her flaming rage had aroused in him that Ian’s next move was to look around for a maidservant to ease his lust upon.

  The chamber was empty. Not only the maids were gone, but Ian’s squire as well. There was nothing for it but to master his desire as best he could. Geoffrey would come if he called, but even in his present condition Ian realized that it would be wrong to send the boy to fetch a woman for him. He would not even have sent Owain, whom he knew was not innocent. To take a maid to bed in his betrothed wife’s home was bad manners and a bad example. Certainly he could not ask Geoffrey, who might well still be pure of body if not of mind, to pander for him. Cursing vilely, Ian stepped into the tub and began to wash.

  Although the combatants had not noticed, the maids had sidled from the chamber as soon as they perceived the first sign of hostilities, long before Alinor had drawn her knife. Wise by long experience, they had shepherded the frightened squire before them. They were quite accustomed to marital tussles. Alinor and Simon had loved each other deeply, but their marriage had been no milk-and-water affair. Until Simon fell ill, there had been frequent explosions, most based on very similar grounds. The lady had gone her own way; the lord had asked for explanations; the lady had refused; bellows and, occasionally, although rarely, even blows had been exchanged. Invariably peace had been restored, most often in bed. In any case, it had been made plain to the servants in the household that no audience was allowed either to the arguments or to the settlements.

  In her own chamber Alinor tore off her clothes, casting them blindly in the direction of a chair and not caring when they missed. She was still so furious that she did not notice the absence of her maids. She threw herself into bed muttering, “Convenience! He will make a marriage of convenience, will he? Mayhap he will not find it so convenient to be married to me!”

  She fully intended to lie awake and marshal the demands Ian must agree to before she went further with the marriage. He must understand that she meant to retain her independence. It was one thing to yield to a man for love. A man’s pride was a delicate thing, and a loving woman would not wound that pride. A business relationship was something entirely different. Partners in business did not need to worry about each other’s pride. It was sufficient to be polite and honest.

  It had been a long day, far fuller of physical activity and violent excitement and emotion than Alinor had had in months. Even as a faint doubt aroused by her last thought flickered in Alinor’s mind, her eyes closed. She had not been very polite, it occurred to her, as she slipped into sleep, nor very honest, either. Perhaps Ian was not completely at fault. She slept deeply for the first time since Simon’s death, free of the racking pain caused by the absence of his big, warm body in the bed. Later in the night she stirred and reached out, but the eyes in her dream were not blue and tender; they were as hot and as black as the silky curls that shaded them.

  The warm water was soothing. As Ian washed, his violent turmoil subsided. It could not have been what he said; it must have been how he said it. His tone had been accusatory, blaming Alinor for everything that had taken place. Some fault was hers, of course, but really very little. He himself had told her that the outlaws were not operating near the keep and were based outside her lands. Why should she fear trouble so close to her stronghold? She was well beloved of her people and certainly needed no protection when she was among them. Ian wished now that he had not had the last three men killed out of hand. He should have questioned them first. Were they part of the larger band? Were they riding to rejoin the main group? Had their original purpose been to take Alinor?

  As he thought her name, an inner trembling seized Ian. God, God, he thought, what am I to do? He had believed that when he was assured of her willingness to marry him, he would be free of the doubts and desires that tormented him. Instead they grew worse. Anything to do with Alinor pushed him right beyond reason. In his whole life, nothing had driven him berserk before, and he had fought some very ugly battles. How could he have been so mad as to have overlooked the need to question those men? Possibly with the right persuasion they could have led him directly to the outlaws’ camp.

  Even now, Ian realized, while his brain berated him for the lost opportunity, his blood boiled anew. If the men had been restored to life, he knew he would kill them again. They had looked at Alinor as if she were a common woman. One had even suggested “using” her. The huntsman waiting in the brush to see which way they would go had heard and faithfully reported. Ian looked down at his hands. He had crushed the bar of soap he was holding to pulpy fragments. It was bad enough to fly out at others, but he could no longer maintain his control in Alinor’s presence. It seemed as if he could hardly exchange a word with her without either offending her or quarreling with her. Another scene like the one just past and she would refuse him.

  Ian erupted from the tub and bellowed for Geoffrey. “Dry me,” he said when the boy came running, “gently on the back. I am still sore. When you are done, find me some clothes. I will wear my own armor. I see that is here on the chest. Enough! That is enough! Take that salve from the pot there and smear it over me. Gently! Now that cloth around me. I will do the rest. Give me the cloth. Go. Dress yourself. Then rouse the men and bid them in the stable to saddle the horses—another of the gray stallions for me. Hurry!”

  Stumbling with fatigue, Geoffrey found shirt and surcoat in one chest, chausses in another. Tears came to his eyes when he could not discover cross garters, but at last his scrabbling hands tangled in them. Already half clothed, Ian tore them from him and shoved him toward the door. Geoffrey snatched up his cloak, thanking God that he had been expecting a summons and had not undressed completely for the night. He could return for his own armor while the horses were being saddled. By the mercy of the Mother of God, his master might be gone from the chamber by then.

  Owain might have attempted to reason with Ian. Jamie the Scot might have pointed out the insanity of dragging tired men out in the middle of the night for no reason. The Welshmen might have quoted staves about triad troubles bred by hasty and inconsidered acts. No one in Ian’s present train was prepared to do anything except obey him implicitly. The red ruins he had created not so many hours before were too clear in all minds. Even the guards at the portcullis and drawbridge had heard about the slaughter. Old men and crippled veterans, they raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge without any argument.

  In the morning, Alinor lay abed somewhat later than usual. Her mind skipped from her dream of Ian to her quarrel with him and back again. The quarrel had to be mended, but how? She lay very still, battling the desire simply to run to him and beg his pardon, as she would have done with Simon. Just outside of her range of vision her maid Gertrude waited for her mistress to wake, wringing her hands in distress. She had to tell Alinor that Ian was gone. Not to tell her would bring swift and painful retribution, but it would be an evil day for them all. If the mistress could not vent her spleen where she desired, she was not averse to venting it on anyone who happened to be near.

  Although it started evilly, the day was not as bad as Gertrude had feared. Her mistress’s initial reactions were violent enough, but when Alinor had questioned everyone who had seen the new lord leave and had examined the chamber, her rage had diminished. For some time she had sat by her embroidery—as she had sat for weeks after the old lord died—not working, only staring at it. This time, however, the fit had not lasted. After a while, she had picked up the needle and worked with great industry. Finally, she had abandoned her position altogether and gone to seek Father Francis. Since then, peace had reigned. Lady Alinor and the priest had remained closeted together.

  After Ian had flung himself down on the filthy pallet in the serf’s hut, Owain tugged at Geoffrey’s sleeve and drew the younger boy outside. At first Geoffrey resisted, terrified that his master would have some desire that he would not be ther
e to fulfill. He was so exhausted and so fearful that it took some time for him to realize that Ian had fallen asleep almost as he lay down. That seemed as incredible to Geoffrey as all the other events of this totally incredible day.

  “What has befallen?” Owain whispered. “Is he still mad? I could have sworn it was past. I thought he was near to falling from his horse with tiredness when we parted.”

  “I do not know,” Geoffrey replied, his voice trembling near tears. “He was quiet all the way to the keep—at least, he was talking to Lady Alinor very pleasantly. When we came to the town he sent the—the dead men’s bodies down with instructions that they be displayed by the gates with criers to tell the tale of what they had done and what their punishment was. Then we went in, and the lady called for a bath. They spoke of the wedding guests and the marriage contract. Then he told her of this hut and the dirt and fleas and said he needed cleaning, and she sent a maid for something, and—and I do not know! Suddenly they were screaming at each other. I do not know why, and the maids ran out of the room and drew me out with them. I—“

  “By God and all the blessed saints, it is the woman!” Owain exclaimed.

  “It is because she is beautiful,” Geoffrey sobbed.

  “That is part of it,” Owain agreed, “but he has played with those more beautiful, and they have never touched him. The difference is that he loves this one—and has loved her long, I think. Yes, yes, it must be so. He has been different, very quick to anger—which was never true of him before—since he had news of Sir Simon’s death. I thought he was grieving for his friend and lord, but all the time it was the woman. I suppose he desired her and feared lest there be some dishonor in taking his old lord’s wife.”