Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart
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in order to feed his greed. But treason?
“Put down your sword, Baron Philip of Evenbough, by command of the king,” the black knight ordered.
“I trust you not, Farouche. You have long been known for your dubious misdeeds.” Father’s sword slid from its scabbard, a sound of metal upon leather in the still night. “I command you, le Farouche, to put down your arms and let us go as peaceable men.”
“Since when are a murderer’s deeds peaceable?”
Elin could see the knight’s great gleaming darkness as, clothed in shadows, he lifted his sword. Malcolm the Fierce. His voice came as sharp as his sword, hard as his name. She could see broad shoulders, wider than she’d noticed on any man, and the power of his arm. Painted in shades of night, he led the charge.
“No!” She could not hold back the cry that tore from her throat. Her hiding place revealed, she slapped her hand to her mouth. But she remained unnoticed as the clash of sword upon sword and the blood cry of battling men filled the forest. She could smell the sweat of horses, the fresh musk of upturned earth beneath their hooves and the sharp scent of blood.
“Down, girl.” Alma’s hand curled in the fabric of her sleeve. Not until that moment was Elin aware she’d risen to her feet.
She knelt back in the shadows, her fingers growing clammy around the hilt of her dagger. Violence frightened her, but something terrified her even more.
It came as a whisper in her mind, a shimmer of foreboding as intangible as the night. Her father would lose this battle. Had King Edward’s knights tracked them from Evenbough to kill or capture them? Or was Father right? Was le Farouche working against the king for his own vile agenda? Either was possible. There had been rumors, aye; there were always rumors. But as flawed as her father was, Elin found it hard to believe him capable of murder. And yet—
“We must escape whilst we can,” Alma whispered, her voice raspy from age and fear. “Come. That is Brock who has fallen. There, on the ground by the lee side of that boulder. Do you see him?”
“Aye.” Cold hard fear clenched Elin’s belly. Brock had failed to stop the dark knight, Malcolm the Fierce.
“They may not know we are here,” Elin said. “If we attempt to move, they may spot us.”
“Not in the heat of battle.” Alma tugged hard on Elin’s cloak and, stooping so as not to disturb tree boughs, took a small step. “Those knights are no fools. They are the best in the realm, chosen by Edward himself. They will count the bodies—”
“Then count the horses, and come looking for us,” Elin finished. “We have no choice. We must run. Quietly, now.”
A twig snapped. The fingers gripping her cloak let go. Was she alone? The dark shadows beneath the trees made it impossible to see. “Alma?”
Cold metal touched her throat, and then a hard male hand gripped her shoulder with crushing force. Sinew and bone bruised beneath those mighty fingers, and Elin cried out. “Where is Alma? She’s an old woman. If you hurt her, you devil’s spawn, I shall make you pay.”
Male laughter rang above the sounds of the forest. “God’s teeth, a warrior woman. I truly quake in fear.”
She jabbed her elbow backward and struck chain mail and immovable man. Let him jest. She had not yet begun to fight. She lifted her right hand and slashed at the hard male fist holding a knife to her throat. She hit a steel gauntlet and did no harm. “Fie!”
More laughter. “Easy, little dove. I do not hurt women.”
Before Elin could stop him, he’d stripped the knife from her grip and lifted her into the air. She fell hard against the jagged surface of his mail. It bit into her flesh and she cried out again. When she kicked, trying to flee, he held her more tightly to his chest. Such a broad, unyielding chest.
“Set me down.” She would not allow this man or any man to ravish her. Not without a fight. If only she had her knife. “Set me down, cowardly knave.”
“As you wish.”
Her feet touched ground, and she saw her father. She twisted away from the dark knight’s steely grip, running toward the old man who knelt on the bloodstained road, head bowed. “Father. You’re hurt.”
“Wrongly accused is more like it,” he growled, anger fueling his voice.
Elin knelt beside him. “You’ve a cut to your head.” She reached to better inspect the wound, but steel wrapped around her wrist.
The great black knight stared down at her, and they glared at one another, eye-to-eye. Even in the shadows she could measure the power of the man, the strength and cunning that all should fear.
But she would not. “Are you proud of your deeds? You’ve injured an old man and kidnapped an old woman. What a brave warrior.”
She saw darkness in those hard eyes, a glint of warning. “Do not fool with me, maiden. I strike with the authority of the king. If you have more to say, then tell it to Edward.”
“Nay, I—”
“Silence,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His voice was low and dangerous.
No good would come from pushing one so fierce. But Elin was not through with him. Not by far.
“The old woman you speak of is safe with the horses.” The dark knight raised his sword. “Prepare for travel. We have a long ride this night.”
Elin met his gaze, already hating this man of war and violence who had used brute force to carry her from the woods and who now raised a sword against her father.
What knight was he who made the weak and the old cower before him? Well, Elin would not cower. She was not weak or frightened.
But as she allowed another knight to help her onto her palfrey, she knew she ought to be afraid of the man of darkness, of Malcolm le Farouche.
Malcolm looked down at the baron, wounded and dishonored. Had Philip of Evenbough committed another crime, Edward may have found some way… Nay, regardless of rank, a grave punishment awaited the man. Philip would pay with his life for killing Edward’s cousin.
Now, what was to become of the girl? She ought to be safe in a husband’s bed, not journeying along dangerous roads with a traitor. A thorough search revealed only enough food to see the party to the coast, but no gold. Passage to Normandy had its price. Either the girl had been brought along to be sold, or Evenbough had a supply of hidden coin.
Was she innocent or criminal? Had she known of her father’s actions? She was young, between fifteen and twenty summers, he wagered, and weighed little more than a child. Yet she was not helpless, as she appeared. The traitor’s daughter was no peaceful dove.
“Bind him,” Malcolm instructed his men, pointing his sword at the dishonored Evenbough. “We take him alive to the king, as ordered.”
“And the women?”
He remembered the knife, now in his possession, and recalled how the maiden had wielded it with skill. “Bind them, but do not strike them. And take care not to tie the old one too tightly. Tell her that if she escapes, I will take her charge’s life. She will believe me.”
Malcolm the Fierce had killed many and often. Even now three more bodies littered the road. But none were his men, of that he made sure. He worked them hard so in battle they would not be defeated, would not lose their lives carrying out the orders of a fickle king. What was justice in a world ruled by men? They were easily led astray by gold, power and women. Malcolm sighed. He’d seen too much in the Crusades, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. He no longer believed in any cause.
“Unhand me, you knave.” The girl’s voice rang with a bold fury.
“Ow,” Hugh cried.
Malcolm gave more orders to his men and, certain he would be obeyed, strode to the horses, arriving