The Unveiling, Tamara Leigh [ebook and pdf reader .TXT] 📗

be her punishment if not something physical? As he had yet to determine that himself, he ignored her question. “That a man should never strike a woman is a lesson you would have learned were you Jame Braose.”

A bitter smile caught up the corners of her mouth. “A lesson your student, Lavonne, did not learn.”

Garr needed none to tell him that, especially this woman who was the most unworthy of all.

She sighed and pushed up the opposite sleeve.

Though Garr should have known she would be marked on both sides, he tensed further.

When she finished with the salve, she held out the pot.

As he had done a sennight past when she had burned her hand, he said, “You shall need it.” He straightened.

She looked up, the salve on her cheek emphasizing Lavonne’s blow, the hard set of her jaw making her appear no less weary for the night’s revelation. Indeed, if he could read her eyes, he would likely see a woman struggling against collapse.

“You are certain?” She turned the pot in her hand. “’Tis nearly as good a weapon as teeth.”

She was proud of that. And she ought to be, considering something so impotent had afforded her escape, brief though it had been. “Keep it.” He turned away.

“Do not say I did not warn you.”

Behind, he heard the creak of the chair as she stood. “I am ready to leave.”

Once more before his chest, Garr considered the tunic he had removed for the journey to Stern Castle. As there were two hours of sleep to be had before all of Wulfen Castle arose to the new day, he decided to delay their departure. Though he told himself it was best that they not ride through the dark while Lavonne and his men were out in it, it went beyond that. And he did not wish to know where.

He removed rope from the chest. “We are not leaving. Not yet.”

She eyed the rope as he strode forward.

“Sit, Annyn Bretanne.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Garr glanced at Annyn where she rode alongside him. She was silent, as she had been throughout the ride, as she had been the two hours she had sat in the chair in his solar staring into the dim.

Though he had intended to sleep that he might be rested for the long ride to Stern, he had watched her from the shadows drawn around his bed. Throughout, her only movement had been the one time she tested the ropes that bound her to the chair. Though his judgment of her may have gone astray, he did know how to tie a knot.

He looked to the sun that was now perched past noon. The horses could not go much farther without being watered and rested, which meant leaving the open countryside for the wood. He did not like it, for there was the possibility they did not travel alone. Of course, considering Lavonne’s injury, he and his men had likely removed themselves from Wulfrith lands. And the Bretanne woman’s man, Rowan? He numbered only one. There was naught he could do against a dozen well-trained men. Still, Garr would be a fool not to wield caution.

He captured Abel’s gaze and nodded toward the wood. They veered left, and Annyn Bretanne heeded the change of course as if she made the determination herself.

When they slowed to enter the wood, they drew their swords. The vigilance of each man tangibly felt, they guided their horses to the stream.

Garr dismounted. “Sir William, Sir Merrick, Squire Samuel,” he called, “stand guard.”

As they turned to search out stations that would afford the best vantage, Squire Warren appeared at Garr’s side. The young man did not look away, but Garr knew he was shamed—as was Squire Samuel—not only for Annyn Bretanne’s breach of the solar, but that she had escaped. The shame was earned, though Garr knew it was more his blame than theirs. He had not better prepared them, but that would be remedied.

He passed the reins to Squire Warren and strode around his destrier, only to find the Bretanne woman had already dismounted. As if he were not an obstacle in her path, she pulled the reins over her mount’s head and brushed past Garr to lead the horse to the stream.

Wondering what thoughts occupied her, Garr stared after her. Did she hope Rowan would deliver her?

“She troubles you, this sister of Jonas Bretanne,” Abel said as he came alongside.

Garr scowled. “She is a troublesome woman.”

“That is all?”

It was not, which was the reason she was so troublesome. “That is all.” Garr returned his attention to where she stood before the stream that yesterday’s rain caused to overflow the banks.

“You have told her the truth of Jonas’s death?”

Garr pressed the heel of his palm to his sword hilt and kneaded it. That day at Lincolnshire, Abel and Everard had been there, and both had aided in making Jonas’s death appear honorable. “She knows all she needs to know.”

“Are you sure it is enough?”

Not for Annyn Bretanne, but it was for the best. “Aye.”

“She is unlike any woman I have met,” Abel murmured, then grumbled, “She lightened my purse a goodly amount.”

He spoke of the wager paid before their departure this morn. Regardless that Braose was revealed to be Annyn Bretanne, Everard would not let it keep him from collecting on his bet.

“I have warned you against wagering him,” Garr said. “He rarely loses.”

“And then only to you.”

“Which is the reason he no longer wagers me. You ought to learn from that, Abel.”

He grimaced. “Then what pleasure would be afforded me?”

Garr knew to what he referred—the long stretches without a woman that suited neither Abel’s lusty bent, nor Everard’s, the civility of the hall, the discipline. But they were Wulfriths, and this was their destiny. Once wed, the administration of the lands they were given would regularly take them from Wulfen, but still they would return to train boys to men.

“What pleasure?” Garr mused. “The pleasure of being the master of your coin.” He stepped past.

“I thank you for that,” Abel called, then slyly added, “and your consideration of the Lady Annyn that granted me two hours of sleep I had thought were to be denied me.”

That last pricked. Abel liked to think he understood people better than they understood themselves. But if that were so, he would not wager Everard.

At the sound of Wulfrith’s approach, Annyn hugged her short mantle nearer and stared harder up through the trees.

He halted at her back, causing her to stiffen though she tried to appear unmoved. “You require something, Wulfrith?” Just as she no longer affected a deeper pitch, neither did she afford him the title she had so loathed.

“I ponder what you are thinking, Annyn Bretanne.”

She turned. Though she knew his use of her full name—meant to deny her title—was a small thing, it reminded her too much of her audience with Henry when he had played her as a wooden soldier, moving and controlling her as he pleased. Resentment warming her bruised face, she said, “I am thinking I would have you cease calling me that.”

He peered at her through narrowed lids. “Surely you do not ask that I call you Jame Braose?”

She glared. “I ask that you not call me by my full name. I do not like it.”

“You would have me call you Lady Annyn?”

It did sound strange on his lips, especially considering this past sennight, that she continued to wear men’s clothing, and that she denied him his own title, but it was as she had always been called. “I do not doubt ’tis as displeasing to you as the drone of Annyn Bretanne is to me, but it is what I prefer.”

“Very well. Now tell me, Lady Annyn, what are you thinking?”

Of the tree from which Jonas was hung, of the lie Lavonne had told that had denied her rest before leaving Wulfen, of what Wulfrith would say if she confronted him with it. He would say nothing, she concluded. He would simply name Jonas’s death “dishonorable” as he had done on the night past.

“I was thinking which evil I would choose given the opportunity—the ill end you have planned for me or marriage to Lavonne.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “And?”

“I fear one may be as bad as the other.”

“That does not speak well of Lavonne.”

She drew a hand from beneath the mantle and touched her cheek. “Nor does this.”

A muscle twinged near his eye. It angered him. Regardless of his statement that striking a woman was something men should not do, she had yet to understand why he should care that the baron had struck her. After all, her attempt to kill Wulfrith made her more his enemy than Lavonne.

“Come.” He turned away.

Alarm leapt through her. Now he would mete out punishment? “Where?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You have been hours astride, Lady Annyn. ’Twill be night ere our journey’s end.”

Relieved her punishment was not at hand, grateful he was not more blunt about the need to relieve herself, she inclined her head. “Of course, but I can see to my own needs.”

“You cannot.”

He thought she would run. And he was right. Somewhere Rowan lay in wait, though how she was to take advantage of that with Wulfrith over her shoulder, she did not know. As she followed him away from the others, she met Squire Charles’s hard stare. She had made a fool of his lord. Thus, she had made a fool of his squire. And he resented it. If she could apologize, she would.

Wulfrith’s hand fell to his sword hilt as they left the others behind to pass deeper into the wood. “There.” He nodded to a thicket.

Though it offered adequate privacy, Annyn was warmed by embarrassment. Averting her face, she hastened behind the cover.

When she emerged, he was scanning the wood. Did he sense Rowan? If he was near, a better chance of aiding her escape was not likely to appear. But that realization gave rise to fear. Though Rowan was skilled in arms, he was not the warrior Wulfrith was. A contest between the two men would likely see Rowan dead.

Annyn quickened her step to Wulfrith’s side. “Still you have not said what is to be my punishment,” she attempted to draw his regard.

“I have not.”

“I ask again, is it to be the same as my brother’s?”

He gave her the regard she sought, though she would have preferred to be spared its wrath. “I did not hang him, Annyn Bretanne.”

She ignored the loss of title. “Then who did?”

He did not answer.

“This morn you said his death was dishonorable. I would know how dishonorable, and do not dare tell me he hung himself!”

His grey-green eyes narrowed. “I do dare, Annyn Bretanne.”

He lied. Four years of anger, hatred, and helplessness flooding her, she struggled to keep her hands at her sides, but one broke free. She drew it back and landed a slap to his cheek.

Color suffusing his face, he regarded her with eyes so chill she feared he would strike her as Lavonne had done.

With a sharp breath, she turned to run, but he seized her shoulder and dragged her back around.

“I have suffered your claws, Annyn Bretanne, your teeth, and now your hand. I have endured your trespass, your lies, your attempt on my life, and your false accusations. But no more.”

With his great hands pinning her body to his, never had