Lady Rowena's Ruin. Carol Townend
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would ensure Lady Rowena understood that she must stay away from the convent for a time, then he would take her back to his manor at Monfort and there they would wait until Lord Faramus came to his senses. Though the idea of marrying Lady Rowena and one day becoming Count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting in many ways, he couldn’t in all conscience force her into marriage.
Rowena felt the wretch who had abducted her take her veil and hair firmly in hand. The knight’s spurs flashed and his horse lurched into a trot. It was a struggle to find air—with every step the horse took the breath was pushed from her lungs. Rowena supposed she should be grateful the knight was riding an ordinary saddle rather than one designed for battle. Otherwise she’d be wrapped round a horrible pommel and then it really would be impossible to breathe.
He planned this. What is he going to do with me? Can he really be one of my father’s household knights? Father will kill him!
The lack of a large pommel was small comfort as they made their way up the rise. Fear felt like a lump of lead in her chest, constricting her breathing every bit as much as the saddle digging into her ribs. The irony of her position flashed through her mind—to think that a short while ago, she’d been wishing for more excitement! Twisting her head the better to see, gasping with the effort, Rowena saw they had reached the small copse. Shadows dappled the grass as they rode in between the chestnut trees.
‘Keep still, my lady. Not much further,’ the knight said.
True to his word, a couple of heartbeats later the grey stallion came to a standstill and the knight dismounted.
‘With your permission, my lady,’ he said.
Warm hands took her by the hips and Rowena was half-lifted, half-dragged from the grey and set on her feet next to a tree. Her veil floated to the ground. Her hair was in her eyes. The knight was yet wearing his helmet and his visor remained down so she couldn’t see his features. Save for the helmet and the knight’s spurs, he was dressed as a huntsman, with a brown leather gambeson over a blue tunic and hose. He towered over her. Determined not to be daunted by his height, Rowena took in a shaky breath and glared up at him.
‘My father will kill you,’ she said. ‘I know you are one of his household knights. You might have the decency to show your face.’
‘Very well.’ Calmly, he unbuckled the strap and removed the helmet.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through dark, tousled hair. He wore it slightly long for a knight. He had warm, unforgettable eyes. Rowena remembered them well, they were green with bright flecks that appeared gold in some lights and amber in others. Here in the copse, they were gold.
She felt her jaw drop. ‘Eric? Sir Eric?’ Her mind raced. Sir Eric de Monfort hadn’t been her father’s man for a few years, but he had indeed been a Jutigny knight. A favourite of Sir Macaire’s, Eric had earned his spurs early. Then he had won his manor in a tourney. Shortly after that he had left her father’s service—a landed knight had no need to be at another man’s beck and call.
Rowena had been delighted by Eric’s success. There was a world of difference between the life of a knight who had won lands and that of a landless knight. A knight with land had some measure of security, he had revenues he could call upon and a place to call home. For someone like Eric—a foundling—that must mean much. If Eric had remained landless, his life would have been very different. He would have been reliant on short-term contracts with men like her father, in short, Eric might have ended up being little better than a paid mercenary. Landless knights too old or too weary to fight often ended up in the gutter. She wouldn’t have wanted that for Eric.
She scowled up at him, she had been fond of Eric. Unusually so. When he’d been a youth she had had a crush on him. Before he had won his manor and gone away, sight of him had filled her with secret longings. Surely he couldn’t have changed that much? ‘I demand you untie me.’
‘You won’t scream or try and run back to the convent?’
‘No.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Not immediately, at any rate.’
His eyes danced and Rowena remembered something else about Sir Eric. He could be charming when he chose, the castle maids had adored him. With a slight huff, she turned to face the tree so he could reach her bonds. Leaning her cheek against the bark, she felt his fingers on her wrists.
‘Hold still, my lady, I don’t want to cut you.’
The rope gave. Turning, Rowena rubbed her wrists and glared at him.
‘Why are you doing this, sir?’ She searched her mind for possible explanation. This was Eric, for heaven’s sake—he had played with her as a child, they had learned to read together. It was hard to believe ill of him. ‘Is this a wager of some kind?’
His jaw tightened. Gesturing her towards a patch of sunlight, he spread his cloak on the ground. ‘Please sit, my lady.’
Rowena stood firm. Her foot tapped. ‘Sir?’
‘No wager.’ His eyes held hers. Above them, leaves rustled in the breeze. Dappled light played over his hair.
She looked back down the hill. ‘What happened to Aylmer?’
‘He’s your groom?’
She nodded. ‘Did you hurt him?’
‘Aylmer will be safely back at the convent by now.’
She felt her brow crease in puzzlement. ‘You do know that Aylmer will send word to my father?’
‘I am rather hoping that he will.’
‘Are you mad? My father will kill you.’
A small smile lifted one side of his mouth as slowly, Eric shook his head. ‘I doubt that, my lady. You see, I am doing this at the behest of your father.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Father asked you to carry me off?’
‘Please, my lady.’ Again Eric gestured at the cloak. ‘Sit down and I will do my best to explain.’
Stunned into silence, Rowena sank on to his cloak. Her father had asked Eric to do this? Her father?
Eric sat on the ground beside her and rested his arms on his knees. Rowena noted the sprinkling of dark hair on his forearms and found herself studying him. She couldn’t remember when she had seen him last, and there were differences as well as similarities. He looked older, although traces of the boy she had known remained. His features were more clearly defined—the line of his jaw, his nose, his lips. A fluttery feeling made itself felt and she jerked her gaze away from his mouth. His hair was as thick as ever, dark brown with rich auburn glints that caught the light when he moved. His shoulders were wide, he looked strong and much more masculine. A man, a real man. Rowena didn’t like many men and she hadn’t been in the company of men as powerful as Eric since she’d entered the convent. It felt strange. Oddly, it didn’t feel as alarming as she had imagined it would, she had known him for many years after all. With a start, she realised the fear she had felt when he flung her across his saddle had gone the moment she’d seen his face. Her heart was still thudding—with excitement rather than fear. She felt more alive than she had in weeks.
Except—there was only one reason she could think of for Eric abducting her. She swallowed. ‘My father doesn’t want me to take my vows.’
‘No.’
‘He’s asked you to take me back to Jutigny?’ Despite herself, her voice cracked. ‘He’s found someone he wants me to marry?’
Eric shifted, he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Reaching for a blade of grass, he picked it and twirled it between his fingers. Fingers that for no reason that Rowena could think of held her gaze. Eric had capable hands, with blunt fingers. His hands were the hands of a successful knight, and as long as she had known him they had never been put to any dishonourable task. She did not think he could have changed that much and yet snatching her from the convent was hardly the action of a man of honour.
‘Eric?’