Beauty's Curse (31 page)

“Excuse me”—she pulled her horse forward so the heads were all equal—“but Prince John said were three men who could marry me. I think 'tis only right that I meet this man, this knight who is hoping to win my hand.”

Rourke gritted his teeth.

“My lady, this is not the kind of man who will appeal to your delicate nature,” he tried to say.

“Pah, I am not a girl.”

He watched her touch her hipbone, the third time she'd done so. Was she injured? Sore? No, it was as if she held a token of bravery—the ring.

Rourke would wager his horse that she had the ring in her skirt.

“Feeling lucky, my lady?” he asked, glancing pointedly at her hip.

Her pointed chin lifted, and then she drew her hood closer around her face, as if hiding her features.

Smart.

Suddenly an arrow landed at the ground between Rourke's horse's feet. His stallion reared, backing into Galiana's horse.

This was war. Christien obviously had no desire to talk. All he could think of was Robert and all of the blood, and what Christien might do to Galiana.

“To the trees!” he cried, turning Galiana's horse around and smacking its flanks. “Go, as fast as you dare!”

Damn it. Could they make the forest, where the horses would have better purchase?

Jamie and Will used their horses like plows and cleared the way as best they could, and yet Christien was gaining. Godfrey and Franz took the rear, and Rourke stayed right on Galiana's tail.

She was a bundle of blankets, but Rourke knew it wouldn't matter what she looked like. Christien was after land and coin, and he had his nose so far up Prince John's ass he had a stench about him.

The man couldn't be trusted.

The trees were close, five horse lengths ahead of him. They had to make it.

Galiana bent low over her horse's head, and it occurred to him that she rode as if she'd raced before.

Where?

Why?

Her laughter as they broke through the first line of tall pine trees took him by surprise. She should be terrified, or at the least, cautious, but instead she galloped on as if it were a day of fun and frolic.

He grinned before remembering she needed to be careful.

“Galiana,” he called so loudly that she lifted her head to turn and looked back at him. Her large dark eyes were eerie in the frame of her furred hood, “You'll marry me. As soon as we find a priest,” he ordered.

“Ha!” She spurred forward, staying right on Will's heels. They reached the section of the forest trail that was barely wide enough across for one horse, but she didn't falter.

Rourke focused on Galiana and kept the pace.

“Ah!”

He heard Franz bellow with pain but didn't stop. There was no place to turn around, and no place to stand and fight. He watched Galiana lift her head, and he knew she'd heard the sound of Franz's anguish as well.

She didn't stop.

She raced ahead, skinnying her horse past Will, risking, foolishly to Rourke's mind, her horse and Will's.

Then she overtook Jamie, yelling, “Follow close!” as she sped on.

Rourke felt useless as he lost sight of her and had to focus on Will's arse instead. But where there was a narrow trail, there suddenly was a low-hung dark cave, and his stallion reared up. Rourke banged his head against the rock ceiling. He thought fast enough to reach out from the cave and grab Franz's reins to pull his man in and to the back with Godfrey.

The sound of the horse's whinnying echoed in the dark, but Galiana didn't seem to care, as she alone urged her horse to the farthest back—where it was impossibly darker, at least to Rourke's eye.

“Come,” she said, her face pale and ghost-like. “Follow me to the other side of the hill. It will take us closer to Scrappington.”

Rourke hated feeling incompetent, and he detested having to rely on someone else to save him.

He didn't want to die, though—not today, not until he had tasted the sweetness of Galiana.

He pressed his knees into his nervous horse's barrel chest. “Come on, men, and duck.”

The dark gave rise to all kinds of damning thoughts, but Rourke stayed close to Galiana's horse's surefooted stride.

“You've been here before, my lady,” Rourke stated.

“Aye.”

“How is it that you, a lady born, would know of such a dark cave?”

“I've had to evade a suitor or two before,” she said dryly. Rourke assumed her fright blocked her usual sarcastic tone.

“It is our good fortune, then. Where does this lead?”

This time she clearly jested, “The other side, my lord.”

“Galiana, will you marry me?”

“We've no priest.”

“We can handfast. 'Tis still common enough among the peasants.”

“Now?” she squeaked, and Rourke thrilled over getting past her natural defenses.

“We could.”

“I'll not marry you whilst we ride through a damp, spider-filled cave, Rourke. That is utterly ridiculous.”

“We have the order from Prince John, and we can get the vows blessed later. We have but to say the words, and then we can celebrate with cakes and people later. My name will keep you safe.”

“What words?”

“I, Rourke Wallis, take thee, Galiana Montehue, to be my wife.” He held his breath and waited.

“Now you say it,” he prodded.

“Nay,” she said. “That is so old-fashioned.”

“'Tis legally binding.”

“We need to turn. Let me think.” She halted, and Rourke barely made out a left tunnel and a right.

“This way.”

“For certes?”

She shrugged. “If I'm wrong, we end up where we came in. If I'm right, we are on the other side.”

Galiana paused, and Rourke watched as she calculated her choice.

“Left,” she said. “Aye, left.”

“Will ye say yer vow, my lady?” Will called from the back.

Galiana squealed. “What say you? Were you eavesdropping?”

“The sound carries, mademoiselle,” Franz said apologetically.

“Oh!”

Rourke, frozen to the bone, practically blind and wet through, wanted nothing more than to drag Galiana, his prim and prudish lady, from her horse to his lap and kiss her senseless.

He followed her, as did his men, past each curve—straight out of the cave … and into Lord Christien's waiting crossbows!

Galiana struggled as the bastard tried to catch her and take her for himself.

Kicking and screeching, she yelled, “I take you, too, Rourke, I take you, too!”

“Let go of my wife,” Rourke said, his sword hovering over Lord Christien's wrist.

“Yer wife?” Christien broke out laughing. “I don't think so.”

“'Tis true!” Galiana said, the panic rising in her tone making Rourke even angrier.

“We were all witnesses, my lord, so take yer hands off our lady before I slice them off at the elbow,” Godfrey said.

Franz and Jamie had their swords out, and even squire Will bore his knife with courageous intent. Rourke knew he couldn't falter, not now in the face of the enemy.

He narrowed his eyes until most of Christien's evil countenance came into partial focus. “How did you know where to find me?”

“You were but a means to an end,” Christien said, trying to contain Galiana as she squirmed like an eel in a net. “I wanted this,” he said, before doing something that caused Galiana to squeal, which in turn pissed Rourke off even more.

“She's fine, sturdy. She'll give me good sons, as well as her father's lands. Prince John promised me gold, as well.”

Jackass. Rourke bowed his head, listening for the first opportune moment to wield his sword; nay, he thought, the small dagger at his waist would fly truer and faster.

“Defeated, Rourke? I told John's man ye didn't stand a chance against me, and I was right.” He chuckled, turning toward his men, who laughed with him.

Hoping the arrogant knight wore no neck armor, Rourke fluidly snatched his knife from his leather belt and threw it where he imagined Christien's strong neck to be. He was rewarded with the sucking sound a blade makes when it pierces flesh; then he heard Galiana scream. Had he hit her?

Nay!

He squinted, praying for sight. Rourke was able to watch Galiana, a blob in gray, hop to the ground as Lord Christien slid lifelessly to the trampled snow of the forest floor.

“Saint Mary, Saint Paul, Saint Jude, oh, God's bones, he's dead. I heard the whish of the blade, and then he's dead,” Galiana's voice sing-songed in hysteria.

“Come to me, my lady,” he ordered through her nervous litany. He held out his hand, and she took it at a run, easily vaulting to a sideways position in front of him on his horse.

“I'll not faint,” she whispered, burying her cold face below his chin. “How'd you do that? You could have killed me.”

He felt her tremble, so he rubbed her back. “Nay. I knew where he was. I listened”—he tapped the side of her head—“in here.” Her hood had slipped, as had her kerchief and scarf. The lady's hair contained broken pieces of tree and a leaf or two.

She wouldn't be pleased, but it made him smile.

“Bollocks, but that was a damn fine throw,” Jamie said, his voice so proud it was as if he'd done it himself.

“Aye,” Will said in an awed hush. “Damn fine.”

“That was a gamble I wouldn't have dared, mon ami. God surely was guiding your hand.”

“Get yer lord, and be gone.” Godfrey strutted his stallion before the two stunned knights. “And let it be known that Lord Rourke will not be givin' his lady up.”

Rourke focused on holding Galiana close and asked in the lowest tone possible, “What are the two men doing?”

Galiana turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, shaking her shoulders as if she was crying. “They look angry, and uncertain. Young. Newly knighted, mayhap? They're bearing the same dragon banner as Lord Christien.”

“Good,” he said, patting her back. “I would have saved you, even if you hadn't returned my vow.” He laughed softly.

“'Tis a handfast, my lord, and so be advised that I can still set you aside if you displease me.”

Done with her false sniffling, she jumped from his horse to the ground below, putting her hood back over her hair and covering her face once again.

“We can say the vows again and again, my lady.” But he knew the one thing that would truly unite him and his brave lady, and it was going to happen tonight.

Galiana could hardly believe she'd been so bold. Telling him she could still set him aside. La, but what had she been thinking? She laughed to herself as she pulled herself up and over her horse. “I'm sorry, good sirs, for leading us straight to the enemy. I turned the wrong way.”

“How did ye know the cave was there?” Will asked.

Thinking of the times she'd run away from other prospective suitors, she shrugged. “I grew up in this forest,” she said. “But it's been years since I've ridden this way, and I forgot the turn.” Riding had gotten to be a hassle that just wasn't worth it unless she had the family knights with her.

And they didn't appreciate riding across fields bareback into the wind. They always told her mother. Sweet Saint Agnes, she was wed. She couldn't think about it.

“Now where?” Jamie asked, eyeing her speculatively.

“We follow this road, and it leads to the next village.”

“Scrappington?”

“No, no. Bartle, a quarter-day ride from there. 'Tis not as big as Scrappington, but we should be able to find rooms there. My father said it took two days of riding to reach Windsor from there when he went over the summer.”

“He swore fealty directly to the queen?” Jamie asked.

“Aye,” Galiana said, the leftover adrenaline leaving her faintly nauseated. It had been a while since she'd been chased like a fox to ground. At first it had been exhilarating, but Lord Christien's hands had pinched her through her clothes, and she knew—just knew—she'd rather die than be married to such a brute.

“What did your father think of Eleanor of Aquitane?” Jamie's brogue deepened with the question, and Galiana recalled those green, lush forests in her vision.

She looked behind for Rourke, who was plodding toward them. She waited until his stallion could see her horse's tail. “Well, my father said she was regal and still beautiful.”

“Nobody could be more beautiful than Queen Eleanor,” Rourke said, joining the conversation.

Franz, hearing the comment, sniffed. “Not your usual charming self.”

Galiana stiffened, but then acknowledged that Rourke hadn't ever actually seen her and that what he knew of her didn't always put her in the best light.

Jamie discreetly shook his head at the knights and verbally agreed that Queen Eleanor was a beauty. What was Rourke's man up to?

“I meant no disrespect to Galiana,” Rourke said earnestly. “But Queen Eleanor has been the subject of love songs and poems; she remains the muse for courtly love.”