Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart
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what he plans? There still remains doubt over the true cause of his wife’s death. Can you blame me?”
“Nay. Do as you must.” Troubled, Alma laid her hand over the cross at her neck. “Promise to take care. I love you as a daughter and could not bear to lose you.” Tears misted the old woman’s eyes.
And burned in Elin’s throat. “You’ve been a mother to me, Alma. If le Farouche harms you, he will answer to me, king’s protector or nay.”
“Aye, fierce you are.” Alma’s affection whispered in her voice, soft like an east wind. She lifted the chain from her neck. The silver cross, hand hewn, caught a flash of sunlight from a crack in the roof.
“Nay, I cannot—”
“Take this with my blessing. ’Twill bring you safely to Elizabeth’s.” She secured the chain around Elin’s neck, tears on her face. “My prayers are with you.”
“Then I have all I need.” Elin pressed a kiss to Alma’s papery cheek, and then mounted the waiting palfrey before she could change her mind.
She was not sentimental, not one bit, but leaving Alma made her heart ache. As she galloped past the inn, she saw the wide-open door and thought of Malcolm within, the fiercest of knights who now suffered by her hand.
She didn’t like what she had done, but she could not depend upon a knight without heart or soul, without mercy or conscience to save her, to plead her cause, to protect her from Caradoc before the king. Malcolm was more shadow than substance, more killer than man.
Yet she’d seen the pain on his face when she’d taken his dagger. He hurt in the way of a real man.
Giles leaned against the door frame, sagging from weakness. “She left the prisoners.”
“Even her father?”
“Aye. He curses her alongside the proud Caradoc.”
“I curse her as well.” Bitterness soured Malcolm’s mouth, but he was the king’s protector, the best knight in the realm, a reputation earned by his skill with a sword and the cold hard calculation needed to win in battle. He should have watched the woman more carefully.
“I fear we’ve tarried far too long. The king is awaiting Evenbough.”
“I know the king’s eagerness to face this traitor.” The king’s cousin was dead, a young woman Edward swore to avenge. “I’ll not disappoint my king. Giles, take command of the men and prisoners. See them safely to the king’s dungeon. There had better be no more attacks, no more poisonings, no more surprises.”
“Aye, I will see to it. You’ll hunt down the girl?”
“Hunt her?” Full afternoon light burnished the landscape, and he gazed at the lay of the land, at the rise and fall of hillsides, the denseness of forests and groves. She would not be easy to find. “Aye, the traitor’s daughter is mine. Tell that to Edward.”
Only as the sun skirted the western horizon did Elin truly feel hunted. Twilight threatened, and she could feel the danger behind her. The vengeful knight tracked her, and he grew closer. But she couldn’t see him, even when she paused her mount on a rise and gazed over the valley below. She sensed he was there, somewhere in the gathering dusk.
She’d risked her life to escape him, she knew that. If he found her, she would be as good as dead. If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king’s dungeon myself.
Aye, ’twas best to keep ahead of him. She nosed her palfrey off the road. Bare limbs grabbed at her mantle and at the hem of her hood. Cool winds through the forest brought with it the scents of the coming night.
He trailed her with a vengeance, driving his stallion hard as twilight thickened. Spears of darkness pierced the somber trees and cast ever-deepening shadows along the forest floor.
Lady Elinore of Evenbough. She’d betrayed him, deceived him, poisoned him. The warrior maiden was no different from all women.
Sweat dripped off his brow and into his stinging eyes blurring his vision. The sickness still lay claim to him, twisting his stomach, but he cared not how he suffered. With every passing league he felt stronger and more certain of his course.
He drove his destrier deep into the forest, following the crash of broken boughs and crushed undergrowth. Though it was almost night, he could see the imprints of hooves upon the rain-drenched earth.
Blood thickened in his veins and quickened his heart. He was close; he could taste it. Aye, he was closer than he’d thought. Malcolm could sense her, like a hunting wolf knowing the hidden rabbit shivered nearby.
Shiver she should. He was no longer amused, no longer curious. In the inn’s chamber, assisting her with Hugh, he’d lowered his shield. For one moment she’d tempted him, just a bit, and he’d looked at her through a man’s eyes.
He would not make that mistake again.
As midnight gathered, she could not see before or behind her. But she could hear the ghostly sound of hooves upon the forest’s carpet of decaying leaves and rotting branches. Night had slowed her escape, but not the fierce knight’s pursuit. She suspected a man like Malcolm le Farouche saw best in the harsh hours after midnight, when not even stars cast faint light from above, when not even heaven dared to watch.
He was gaining. And likely to overtake her as well. She’d not believed he could trail her, for she worked hard to disguise her tracks. ’Twas impossible to hide all traces, and yet she’d not expected even the king’s greatest knight to find her like this, and so swiftly. Especially after a dose of oakwood.
No man was that powerful or that impossible to defeat.
Fear dampened her palms and made her heart kick with a fast, quivery rhythm. Aye, she grew more afraid with each step. She had no doubt he would condemn her, drag her to the king’s court and certain death. Or worse.
Well, the battle was not yet won. Elin snared her satchel from her saddle and dismounted. The palfrey nosed her with an inquisitive gesture. ’Twas her father’s horse, not her preferred mount, and she hoped the animal would not follow her. She gave the mare a sound smack on the rump. Emitting a startled whinny, the animal leaped and ran, crashing through the undergrowth. That was sure to draw the fierce knight’s attention. And as long as the mare galloped, Elin would have plenty of time to escape.
Like dry leaves in a wind, the quiet crackled as he spurred his great warhorse into a similar gallop. He exploded past low boughs and high brambles, thundering through the night like an ancient god.
She crouched low until he was out of sight, and then she headed north, toward the safety of her devoted aunt’s castle. Elizabeth would protect her by cloistering her away until the traitor Philip of Evenbough was forgotten and his daughter not even a memory in the minds of dangerous men.
He found the palfrey, saddle empty, standing in a clearing, munching on last summer’s dead grasses, for stubborn winter still gripped these lands. He laid a hand against the mare’s neck and felt the heat from a hard ride still damp upon her coat.
How long had she been without a rider? How long did the traitor’s daughter think she could outsmart him?
Malcolm retraced his route, and could tell by the change in the depth of the tracks where she’d dismounted. She was not far. He studied the thousand shades of black upon black in the forest and felt her. Yet he saw no movements, no shifting shadows, no human eyes gazing out at him from behind fern or bramble.
She was very close.
He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.
She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn’t bargained on his tracking skills. As the king’s favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could