Betrothed Page 2

  “And now, you will tell me the truth,” he pronounced.

  * * *

  In the candlelight, in his tent, she was even more lovely than she had been in the daylight. Her copper hair practically glowed and the shadows on her face made her lashes seem even longer. There was not a shadow of a doubt left that she was female— the bound breasts were his final clue. Now without the binding, even through the two undershirts he could see their subtle curves— like small apples waiting to be... He stopped himself from taking that thought any further. God's teeth, she was beautiful enough to make a man groan.

  She was also more than a little afraid of him and the situation in which she'd put herself. So he got down to business.

  “And now you will tell me the truth.”

  She sucked in her breath and looked at him warily. Then she sighed, defeated. She nodded slowly. “I do not wish to marry the man I am betrothed to,” she said slowly.

  “So you ran away?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why do you object to him?”

  “It is complicated.”

  “You have a lover.”

  “Certainly not!” her indignation made him smile. He had guessed by her blushes that she was a maid, but now he was sure.

  “You love another man?”

  “No. No, nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  She sat quietly long enough that he didn't think she was going to answer him. But then she said, “He was the sworn enemy of my father, responsible for the deaths of my father and brothers. And now I've been given to him as a sort of war prize so that he may have rights to the property that belonged to my father.” Bitterness threaded through her voice and her eyes filled with unshed tears. She blinked them back and took a deep breath. “You see, I can't marry him,” she croaked.

  He let that hang in the silence for a moment. “So what is your plan? Do you have one?”

  She flushed. “I have relatives in Normandy. I am hoping they will provide me with amnesty.”

  He considered it. Whether her intended would go looking that far for her depended on how much wealth was tied up in the marriage contract, he supposed. Or how angry he would be at having her disappear before it could be fulfilled. If he were her Normandy relative, he would not harbor her unless he was willing to do battle with her intended. And all that was assuming she made it to Normandy. God's teeth, a lovely maiden traveling alone to Normandy! Even dressed as a page, it was difficult to believe she'd make it at all, but even more-so to believe she'd arrive with her virtue still intact. Especially considering how inept she was at playing a boy. That fierce welling of protectiveness filled him again. He would take her as far as he could. But better yet would be to convince her to return home.

  “What is your name?”

  She blinked at him and didn't answer. He sighed. “You don't want to tell me?”

  She shook her head. “I think it would be best if I did not.”

  “Is it Jacquelyn?”

  She giggled a little and though it should have irritated him, instead he found the sound was as sweet as music. “No, but you may call me that if you like.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “How old are you, really?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And you begrudge your intended too much to marry him.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Nay, my lord. I do not begrudge him. It is the other way 'round. It was my father who wronged him.” She looked at him as if that explained everything.

  “So what is your objection?”

  “My objection!” she spluttered indignantly. “The man will make the rest of my life a living hell. That is, if he doesn't simply send me to a nunnery. And I have no desire to put him to the test, either way.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” she asked with a touch of sullenness. “Can you understand the cruelty of requiring a woman to marry the mortal enemy of her family? A lady is helpless in her husband's hands. He can beat her indiscriminately, imprison her, and take any liberty he likes with her. There is nothing at all she can do to escape his rule.”

  She held a rather bleak idea of marriage.

  “How do you know for certain that your intended holds you responsible for your father's deeds?”

  She looked at him warily and picked at her nails. “Well, I don't. I did not wait to meet him. And I'm not saying he holds me responsible. How could I be responsible for what my father has done?”

  “How indeed?”

  “But that does not mean he would not resent me or wish to punish me for being his daughter.”

  “What exactly did your father do?”

  She sighed and looked at her hands. “He tried to steal his holdings.”

  “I see. Well, there's really nothing personal about that. It happens often enough. I shouldn't think your betrothed would be so insulted. Of course, it depends on the man, I suppose. He is particularly hard-hearted?”

  “I-I think so.”

  “But you've never met him, so you really do not know, do you?”

  “I tell you that I did not care to meet him,” she snapped defensively.

  He held up his hand. “All right, all right. Calm yourself. It just seems to me that escaping your fate may be more difficult that you think. Won't your betrothed come looking for you? And if he does, will your family be willing to go to battle with him over you?”

  The girl stared at him in shocked silence, the despair in her pale green eyes evident. She had not considered that scenario. She shook her head slowly. “I—I could not ask them to, even if they would. My intended could raise an army big enough to defeat any opponent, I fear.”

  “I think you should return, little one. You cannot escape your fate, but you can make the best of it. Be sweet to your husband— and I'm sure he'll be fair with you.”

  Her brows lowered into a glower. “You're sure? You don't know this man. He is ruthless on the battlefield and he did not hesitate to crush my father's troops. Why would he show any kindness to me?”

  “Well, think it over. The longer you avoid him, the angrier he will be when he finally finds you. Not to mention you'll have trouble from whomever it is who made the marriage contract on your behalf.”

  “Aye,” she said heavily.

  “Go lie down. Get some rest. You've had a long day,” he said.

  “My lord?” she said hesitantly.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “What about my jewels?”

  He chuckled. He'd been waiting to see how long it took her to ask for them. “Ah, yes.” He picked up the bag. “Describe them to me,” he said peering into it.

  “Ruby ring, rectangular cut. A wedding gift to my mother from my father. String of pearls. Belonged to my grandmother. Given to me on my sixteenth birthday. Sapphire pendant on a silver chain— my mother's....”

  He chuckled again and tossed the pouch to her. She looked surprised, as if she hadn't really been sure he would return them.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Good night, little one.”

  He laid down on his own bedroll and blew out the candle.

  He woke to the sound of sniffling. He'd probably just fallen asleep. He listened silently for a while, but when it didn't let up, he climbed out of his blankets and went to her. Her back was to him, but her stiffness told him that she knew he was there. He sat beside her and put a hand on her back. When she didn't protest, he moved it to her head, smoothing her hair back from her face, tracing her ear with his fingertips. He tried to keep his touch light and undemanding. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear him.

  “You can stay here with me for as long as you like,” he heard himself promising, and wondered what had come over him. She had come over him. This delicate, beautiful lady, who had dressed like a page and murdered a thief with her own knife. Too bad he couldn't claim her as his own because something about her made him want to defend her for the rest of his life.

  Her tears stopped and she lay there quietly, not acknowledging, but still allowing his touch. Eventually her breath deepened and she fell asleep. He wanted to kiss her forehead, but he didn't risk waking her. Wide awake now, he slipped out of his tent to that of his knights.

  “If that's a boy, I'll eat my boots!” Andrew muttered without turning, sensing Bronson's presence behind him. The knights were still awake, playing a game of dice by candlelight. He grinned at them.

  “Indeed. Not a boy but a lady, run off to avoid her betrothal,” he smirked.

  The men chuckled.

  “Not that you mind sharing your tent with her,” John ribbed him.

  “Not a bit. Far more interesting than you men, I'll tell you that.”

  “What will you do with her?”

  He shrugged. “I told her she could travel with us as far as she likes. But in the meantime, I hope to make her see reason. Running away will only make her situation worse.”

  “Aye. Especially if she gets herself involved with the horrible Duke of Pembridge!” Andrew's eyebrows waggled for effect.

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter Two

  Julia awoke to a kick in her ribs. A page was standing over her with his hands on his hips, glaring down. She'd seen him the night before. He must be almost of the age to be squire— mayhap twelve years old and he hadn't liked the idea of another page serving his lord. But she couldn't help that, could she?

  “Wake up, you lazy arse!”

  She scrambled to her feet.

  “Lord Bronson is up and you're meant to serve him.” He eyed her state of dress— the Earl's large undershirt draping down her body like a dress. Oh sweet virgin Mary, she hoped he couldn't see her breasts. Her eyes darted to the linen wrap still hanging from the tent poles. She had to get him out of here so she could get dressed.

  “Matthias!” the Earl's sharp voice brought the boy's head around with a snap.

  “You'd better hurry,” he told her as he left the tent.

  She heaved a sigh and wondered if the Earl had called him out of there to rescue her. He did seem to be that sort of man. She liked him. She liked everything about him, really. But she probably shouldn't trust her own opinions at this point. He was the only “friend” she had in the world right now, so of course she would latch all her affections onto him.

  She wrapped her breasts and finished dressing quickly. The tents were already being pulled down. Matthias was sitting next to the Earl, breaking fast. She stopped, uncertain whether she should start pulling down their tent. The Earl beckoned to her. “Eat. Then you and Matthias will pack my things. The men will tear down the tent.”

  She almost curtsied again. Curse it. She was going to have to rid herself of that reflex. “Thank you, my lord.”

  In the tent, she rolled her bedroll up quickly as Matthias took charge of the Earl's things. He ignored her when she tried to help so she ended up standing there watching his efficient methods. If it weren't so grating, she would see the humor in it. But at least it confirmed her impression of the Earl. Any man who would inspire such loyal and jealous following was a man of worth.

  “The stools go in the wagon,” he finally deigned to speak to her. She picked up the stools and carried them out. There were three wagons, actually. She wondered which one held the lord's things. Then she remembered with a sinking feeling that her dead man was also supposed to go in one of them, and that he was her responsibility.

  “This wagon.” Sir John appeared next to her and pointed to the closest wagon.

  “Thank you,” she said breezily and put the stools away. By the time she turned back, the Earl's tent had already come down and the camp looked mostly packed. Reluctantly, she walked in the direction of the dead man. There was no way she could lift him by herself. She'd have to ask for help.

  But when she arrived at the spot, there was nothing but the dark brown stain of spilled blood on the earth.

  “Looking for 'im?” A soldier called out to her, grinning. He was sitting on the side of the wagon, nudging his toe at the dead man, who had been wrapped up in a blanket. She was so relieved she smiled. “Thank you!” she called back. “I was wondering how on earth I was going to lift him in there by myself.”

  The soldier laughed. “You couldn't have.” Then he grew serious. “It was a fine kill, taking down a man twice your size.”

  It was a compliment, she knew. But it caused the same churning sickness in her belly that she'd felt the day before. She nodded in reply as politely as she could muster and stumbled back toward the Earl. His squires had already prepared his destrier, so she went to work saddling her own horse. The mare had grown used to her over the past few days, and she stood patiently as Julia worked at honing her skill of swinging herself up to mount without a boost.

  It was a long day's ride and Julia spent most of it considering the Earl's advice. He seemed to have an objective opinion and he'd brought up several points she hadn't considered— namely, that by running to her family in Normandy, she'd be causing them trouble with her intended, and that there may also be consequences from the king, himself. When news of her father's failed attempt to take over the Duke of Pembridge's land and his subsequent death had reached her, it had come from the king's messengers, who ordered her to pack her things. They escorted her to the king's court where the king had told her of his decision to give her hand to the Duke. It had seemed grossly unfair at the time. But now that she considered it, he could have simply stripped her of the lands and delivered them to the Duke. She might have ended up in a nunnery or worse— as a peasant in her own village. The knot in her belly tightened even further. That may still be where she ended up.

  “Give it to me, I'm handy with a needle,” Julia offered when the Earl tore his sleeve on a bramble at camp that night.

  “I would imagine you are,” he said in a low voice, flashing her a grin that made heat flare low in her belly. He stripped off his tunic and undershirt, and she found herself facing a broad, chiseled chest. Heat flared everywhere. He was beautiful in the manliest way. When she lifted her eyes from his chest to his face, she found he was laughing at her. Her face grew hot and she quickly snatched the shirt from his hands and turned away.

  She sat on a rock, her practiced fingers making neat little stitches as she watched the hum of the organized camp. There was an ease of familiarity and long practice. The men could set up and strike camp so quickly— they each knew their jobs and no one tripped over one another. Well, except for her and Matthias.

  As if cursed for thinking of him, the boy came over and dropped a pile of clothing at her feet. “Lord Bronson says you're to mend these, as well,” he sneered. Clearly the poor page Jake had plunged even lower in the boy's estimation for being able to mend. He squatted next to her and picked up a rock.

  “Did your mama teach you to sew like that?” he said derisively.

  “Aye.” She smiled to herself.

  He scowled at her smile. “Sewing is for sissies. Were you tied to her apron strings until yesterday? Your mama would've done better to make a man of you sooner.”

  “And your mama would've done better to teach you some manners,” she said pertly.

  Matthias' freckled face turned as red as his hair and he stood up. She set down her mending and also stood, recognizing the challenge for what it was. She wasn't afraid. He was no bigger than her, for one thing. And she'd had the fortune of growing up with four brothers who'd taught her the finer points of wrestling.

  His fist swung for her face. She ducked and launched her shoulder into his belly, knocking him on his back on the ground.

  “BREAK IT UP!” she heard dimly as she straddled Matthias' chest. She ignored the yelling and spit in his face and as she did, his eyes widened with surprise. His gaze had gone to the open gap of her undershirt where he got the full view of her bound breasts.

  “Not a word out of you,” she hissed, but she was hauled roughly to her feet before she could say anything more.

  “There's no fighting among the troops!” It was Sir John who was doing the yelling. He yanked Matthias to his feet as well. “That's a beating for both of you, now take off your shirts.”

  Julia's heart stopped and Matthias gaped at her as well. Even Sir John suddenly froze and looked at her strangely and she realized that he, too, must know her secret.

  The Earl's hard voice cut in from behind them. “I will deal with them. Into my tent, both of you. NOW.”

  “What were you thinking?” the Earl snarled at her when they were inside.

  “My lord, it was my fault, I threw the first punch,” Matthias spoke up. Clearly chivalry ran strong in these troops.

  Bronson ignored him. He paced back and forth in the small confines of the tent, making it seem even smaller. He continued to address Julia alone. “You are my guest here, you—”

  “My lord, I was picking on him— I mean, her—”

  At that, Bronson whipped around and advanced on Matthias. He wrapped his big hand around the boy's throat and lifted him to his toes.

  “Did you know she was a girl when you threw that punch?” His voice was deadly.

  “No, my lord,” the frightened boy shook his head rapidly.

  The Earl released his hold from the boy's neck and dropped him back on his heels. Matthias' hand went to his throat. “I'm sorry,” he coughed. “I didn't know she was a girl. I couldn't think why you liked her so well and I guess it made me mad. I was picking on her and when she gave it back to me I punched her.”