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

he seemed so large, nor more a beast. Fear threatening to overwhelm her, she summoned defiance, but it did not answer. A tremor betrayed her, then another.

Why did he wait? Why did he not beat her and be done with it?

His nostrils flared with a deep breath. “Though I wished to spare you and your uncle the truth of your brother’s death, and for that I lied, I shall tell you all that we may speak of it no more.”

He was not going to strike her? Of course he was not.

“Though I know you do not wish to believe it, your brother did hang himself.”

“He would not!”

He jerked her shoulders. “At Lincolnshire, I received a missive from Stephen that laid out plans of attack against Henry.”

The same as Lavonne had told.

“It was discovered missing. All those who were known to be sympathetic to Henry were searched, though not Jonas until he was the only one who remained. As my First Squire, I trusted him and was certain he would not betray though we stood on different sides. I was wrong. The missive was found in his pack.”

Something inside Annyn teetered. Though she did not wish to believe it, a voice within said it was possible. But even if Jonas had betrayed, it was not possible he had hung himself.

“He admitted to taking the missive,” Wulfrith continued, “but said that afterward he realized he could not betray me.”

It sounded like Jonas—reckless, yet true of heart. Was it Jonas?

“Though more severe punishment was warranted, I determined the shame of being returned to your uncle would suffice.” The rest of Wulfrith’s anger seemed to empty as something else rushed in to fill him. “And there again I misjudged. I believed him to be stronger and never considered he would take his life.”

Though Annyn longed to deny that Jonas had died by his own hand, she knew Wulfrith was not done with the telling. And she would hear all of it.

“For that you may fault me with his death, but do not name it murder. I would not have had him die.”

“Jonas did not hang himself.”

“You were not there. You do not know his shame.”

She put her chin higher. “I knew my brother and would wager my very breath he would not end his own life.”

“Then you would also lie dead.”

A memory of Jonas laid on the high table ached through Annyn. The rope burns around his neck, the wound at the center of his chest... “’Twas you who put the arrow through him?”

His eyes momentarily closed. “It was a dagger. I did it to spare your family.”

All these years of not knowing the truth and now... Still she did not know all of it, for nothing Wulfrith could say would convince her Jonas had hung himself. He had been murdered. But not by Wulfrith.

Her breath caught as she finally acknowledged the truth she had refused to accept though it had been presented time and again. Wulfrith could not have murdered her brother. Another had made it appear Jonas had taken his own life.

As she stared into Wulfrith’s eyes, she awakened to another truth. Something had happened that should not have. She had come to feel for this man. And being so near him now caused those emotions to deepen. But it went beyond the senses, beyond this strange awareness of him. It was as if she was leaving behind the girl who had lived for revenge and turning toward the woman who had denied her that revenge—a woman she did not know.

She dropped her chin. Dear God, who am I? Where was Annyn Bretanne who had seethed alongside Duke Henry nearly a fortnight past?

“I am sorry I could not spare you the truth, Annyn,” Wulfrith spoke low, his familiar use of her name causing her to shudder. He released her shoulders and urged her chin up.

Hating that he saw her tears, despising the first that fell, she pressed her lips together.

“More,” he said, softer still, “I am sorry I did not foresee what your brother would do.” His gaze followed the tear’s path to the corner of her mouth. He laid a thumb to it and swept it beneath her lower lip.

That so simple a touch could loose such flutterings was more than frightening, but though Annyn knew she should pull free, she could not.

Wulfrith sought her gaze again and, for those few moments, it was as if the world stopped, as if all behind and before them had never been and would never be. There were two—naught else in all this vastness—and as they stood in that great alone, awareness breathed between them. Then his head lowered.

His mouth covered her untried lips, asking something of her that she struggled to understand. What was it? And why did he kiss her? With her shorn hair and men’s clothes that concealed all evidence of femininity, she was hardly pretty. More, she had sought his death.

He deepened the kiss and, when she did not respond, turned his arms around her and drew her up to her toes.

Ignoring the voice that protested what she allowed, she parted her lips.

Wulfrith groaned.

Hearing the breath pant from her as if from a distance, she slid her hands up his chest. The muscles beneath were thick, and she wanted—

What did she want?

Wulfrith drew a hand up her side, but the tunic and bindings denied his seeking. And reminded her that Jonas was the reason she was here.

Shame washing over her, Annyn pulled her head back. “Do not!”

Realization darkened his eyes and firmed the mouth that had covered hers.

“Unhand me!”

He unwound his arms from her only to grip her where Lavonne had bruised her.

When she winced, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forgive me, I should not have done that.”

Nor should she have allowed it. She was no better than the chamber maids who let the castle guard toss up their skirts. “Release me!”

“Aye!” a startlingly familiar voice shouted. “Release her!”

Annyn whipped her head around.

Rowan stood alongside a tree, arrow nocked and ready to fly.

Rebuking himself for his desire for a woman no man ought to want, Garr tightened his hold on her. Not that he would use her as a shield. A man did not take cover behind a woman.

“I say again, release her!”

Annyn met Garr’s gaze. Though one could not be certain with women, he thought there was pleading in her eyes. “Do not shed blood over me. ’Tis better spent elsewhere.”

Who had watch over this part of the wood? Where was the man whose incompetence permitted Rowan to creep near?

God in His heavens! First his squires allowed Annyn Bretanne to seek a dagger to him, now this. It seemed his father had been right—as long as Garr allowed God so prominent a place in his training of young men, they would not attain the worthiness of those trained by previous generations of Wulfriths. But God was all Garr had taken of his mother from Stern Castle, and only because He was not something Drogo could lay a hand to. How his father would scorn his oldest son were he alive.

“Wulfrith!” Rowan barked.

Garr considered the bow. If the arrow were loosed, it would clear Annyn and strike him high in the chest and to the right.

“I beg you,” she whispered.

He looked into her face, and in that moment knew the answer he had sought since discovering she was a woman. He would let her go. His lie had given her a reason to seek his death, and for that no punishment was due.

Whether Drogo had made Heaven or been banished below, he was surely shaking his head, for he would never have spared the Bretannes the shame of Jonas’s death. Indeed, he would have lifted it up for all to know how great the regard for receiving knighthood at Wulfen. And the consequence of betrayal.

Garr released Annyn.

“It is done?” she whispered. “You will not seek revenge?”

He wondered that his hands had never felt so empty. But this was the best end to Annyn. “Vengeance is not mine. It belongs to God.” One of the hardest lessons a man must learn. “Aye, Lady Annyn, I yield to Him above.”

As if what he said was a revelation, she stared. But then, considering what she had come to Wulfen to do, perhaps it was a revelation.

“You?” she breathed. “’Twas you who taught Jonas that?”

Garr frowned. “It is as I aspire to teach all who seek knighthood.”

“I—”

“Make haste, Annyn!” Rowan shouted.

Annyn? Not Lady Annyn? Garr would have sworn she was untried, that no man before him had tasted her. Had he been wrong? Was he right in first believing she and Rowan were lovers?

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and ran.

The best end, Garr told himself again. However, as she neared Rowan, he caught the bow’s movement and saw the arrow was now centered on his chest. He lunged to the left and reached for his sword, but before he could pull it, the arrow burned a path through his flesh and staggered him back.

He looked to his blood-splattered sleeve and the shaft piercing his sword arm, then jerked his gaze to Annyn.

She stood beside Rowan, eyes large in her face, but the words she spoke to her man fell beyond Garr’s reach.

Rowan reached for another arrow. “That which we came to do,” he snarled as he fit the string.

Arm protesting, Garr swept his sword from its sheath and started toward them.

A shout to his left—Sir Merrick?—tore across the wood.

Annyn grabbed Rowan’s arm. “We must go!”

The man narrowed his eyes on her bruised face, then turned his seething gaze one last time to Garr before fleeing with her.

Blood coursing the back of his hand to coat his sword hilt, Garr gave chase. The two stayed out of reach, winding the trees and jumping debris, unhindered by the pain that slowed their pursuer. Then, ahead, was the horse that awaited its lord’s return.

Rowan mounted, reached a hand to Annyn, and swung her up behind. With a jab of the spurs, their departure scattered leaves before Garr.

“God’s blood!” he shouted. He glared at the sky, then again at the arrow piercing the shoulder of his sword arm. Not God’s blood, but his, and too much of it. He snapped the arrow shaft near its entrance, then looked to where Annyn and Rowan had disappeared. Nay, it was not the end.

“My lord,” Sir Merrick called, nearly breathless as he reached Garr’s side.

Garr swung around. “What happened to your watch?”

Brow furrowing at the sight of Garr’s wound, the knight said, “Apologies, my lord. I fear I lost my breath.”

It was several years since the man had experienced such trouble, though Garr had glimpsed instances of its effects since Annyn’s arrival. Still, Merrick had failed, but that would be dealt with later. What was needed now was a horse.

As he stepped past Merrick, Abel arrived. He reined in and dropped to the ground. “Bloody rood! She did this to you?”

“Her man, Rowan.” Garr sheathed his sword, pushed past Abel, and put a foot in the stirrup of his brother’s mount. As he swung into the saddle, four more of his men halted their horses alongside.

“Whose watch?” Abel demanded. 

Garr looked to Squire Warren. “Give me your bow and quiver.”

The young man hurriedly passed them to his lord.

“Your wound must be tended,” Abel protested.

Garr jabbed his heels to the horse.

“Do not give your life for her!”

The woods sped past in a blur of greens, browns, and