Lady Rowena's Ruin. Carol Townend
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the town at their backs, the track wound steadily up through the apple trees. They were about a mile from the main road. A couple of horsemen had drawn rein at the top of the rise. They were looking towards the convent.
A knight and his squire? Rowena’s fingers tightened on the reins. She only had instinct to tell her that she was looking at a knight and his squire, but she was certain she was right, even though the horsemen bore no insignia that she could see. They were too far away for her to make out their features. She marked the flash of a gilt spur—yes, that larger man was definitely a knight—and felt a flicker of unease. He had dark hair. She would feel happier if she could make out his features.
The knight was mounted on another grey, a stallion. Rowena found herself staring at it. She knew her horses and the stallion on the rise put her strongly in mind of a grey she had seen years ago in her father’s stables. No more than mildly alarmed—she was yet on convent lands and if this knight was one of her father’s, surely she had nothing to fear—she spurred up the hill.
As she and Aylmer approached, the knight jammed on his helmet, and again Rowena felt that flicker of disquiet. The man wasn’t wearing chain mail, just a brown leather gambeson, and the way he had shoved his helmet on—it was almost as though he didn’t want to be recognised. Held in by a strong hand, the stallion sidled.
Rowena glanced at the squire, a lad of about fifteen. He had honest brown eyes and a scatter of freckles across his nose. He looked like a choirboy playing at being a soldier. This time something about him was definitely familiar. When she drew level with the squire, Rowena came to a halt. ‘Do I know you?’
The boy blushed to his ears and made a choking sound. His hand was curled firmly round the hilt of his sword. Familiar or no, the way he stared at her had Rowena going cold.
The knight’s horse shifted. A large hand caught her wrist and held it in an iron grip. Choking and spluttering in outrage, Rowena dropped the reins and wrestled to free herself. ‘How dare you? Release me this instant!’
Aylmer cried out, ‘My lady!’
The knight tightened his grip. Rowena flailed about with her free arm and Lily snorted and sidestepped.
Rowena was conscious of the knight’s squire closing in on Aylmer, but she was too busy fighting to free herself to pay him much attention. She heard a thud and then Aylmer’s voice again, faint and full of distress. ‘My lady!’
Poor Aylmer was on the ground, his sword lay some feet away. The choirboy squire had him at sword point.
The knight captured Rowena’s free hand and immediately set about tying her wrists together. Icy fear shot through her veins. Fury had her choking in anger. She twisted and wriggled, but it was impossible to see the face behind the gleaming visor of his helmet, just the faint glitter of green eyes. The knight shifted his hand over her mouth even as she began to scream.
‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Let me go!’
Her heart thumped as she fought to escape that iron grip. Then, just as she was certain matters could hardly get any worse, she was hoisted from her saddle and thumped face down—like a sack of wheat—in front of the knight. The wretch had shoved her across his saddle-bow.
The harness clinked and his horse began to move. The knight was abducting her! The blood rushed to her head, she could see the grey’s threshing forelegs, the ground rushing past—the grass, a daisy, a buttercup...
‘Who are you?’ she gasped, jolted by the movement of the horse. Dismayed as she was, she was certain this man was in some way connected with Jutigny. Who was he?
A large hand settled in the small of her back. She felt his fingers curling around her belt, holding her firm. ‘Never fear, I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.’
She knew herself to be outmatched, and a sob escaped her.
‘My lady, you are quite safe. You have my word.’ Amazingly, his voice sounded soothing.
‘Let me down!’
‘I’ll let you down when we are out of sight of the abbey. Be still, my lady.’
Eric kept a firm hand on the wriggling bundle of fury that was Lady Rowena. He had hardly recognised her as she had ridden towards him through the orchard. How long had it been since he had seen her? Two years? Three? She must be eighteen by now.
Rowena de Sainte-Colombe had been a pretty child and Eric had heard she’d grown into a beautiful woman. However, nothing had prepared him for the sight of her, slender and elegant even in a drab gown and veil that could only have come from a convent. The grey that should have muted her looks did nothing of the kind. It framed a beauty that was simply breathtaking. Her eyes seemed brighter, bluer than they had done when she was a child. Her skin was flawless, perfect, and as for her lips, Lord, Eric had never seen such rosy, kissable lips.
They were the lips of a woman who wanted to become a nun, he reminded himself as he gripped her belt. Lips that wanted to do nothing more than chant litanies and sing psalms. Heavens, this woman had chosen life in a convent over life as the Countess of Meaux and, one day, Sainte-Colombe. She’d certainly looked prim as she had ridden towards him. Prim and aloof. There’d been no sign of the carefree child he’d once known.
As they moved off, Lady Rowena’s grey veil streamed out like a pennon. Eric stifled a grin. She didn’t look quite so prim now. Fearful her veil would become tangled in Captain’s hoofs, Eric leaned forward to gather it out of the way. He found himself holding more than he had bargained for, Lady Rowena’s blonde hair, bound in a neat braid, came too. He juggled with veil and braid, struggling not to pull on her hair. In the tussle, the ribbon fell from the tail of the braid and the long, golden tresses began to unwind.
Holding her firmly, Eric pulled up and glanced over his shoulder to see that Alard had dismounted. Arm looped through his reins, his squire had Lady Rowena’s groom at bay. The two other horses, Lady Rowena’s and the groom’s, were placidly cropping grass under one of the apple trees.
Eric nodded at Alard, it was a signal they had arranged earlier.
‘On your way,’ Alard said, dismissing the poor groom.
The groom hesitated, rubbing his skull. His expression was pained. ‘What about Lady Rowena?’
Alard’s sword caught the light as he leaned towards the groom. ‘On your way. Come back for your sword later.’
The groom stumbled over to the horses under the tree.
‘You may take your horse. Don’t touch Lady Rowena’s,’ Eric said. The groom would, Eric was certain, report what had happened the moment he was back at the convent. Eric was relying on him to do so. Word would be sent straight to Jutigny and Count Faramus would know that Eric had his daughter. Sir Breon would not be called into play.
All was proceeding exactly as Eric had planned.
It had been almost too easy, particularly once Eric had discovered Lady Rowena had not lost her habit of riding out every morning. He’d known that then would be the best time to strike. And with it being broad day, he thought and hoped she would be less fearful. Of course she would be alarmed at what had happened to her and as soon as they were out of sight of the convent, he would reassure her that she was safe.
Eric watched the groom hobble towards the convent gate with his horse and grimaced. It was a pity he’d had to suffer that crack on the head, but he didn’t look to be much the worse for it. Doubtless the convent would soon be in uproar.
Uneasy, he looked at the woman slung across his saddle bow. Even though Lady Rowena was unmistakably a woman, she was still tiny. Petite. She would mistrust him for a time, but it had to be better than her becoming Sir Breon’s captive. Realising that his gaze was resting rather too appreciatively on the gentle curve of her buttock, Eric heeled Captain into a walk and headed for the stand of chestnuts over the brow of the hill. He would