A Knight Most Wicked
“A woman alone must need some assistance.” The stranger was a well-dressed Bohemian, but Arabella did not appreciate the steely glint in his eye.
Beyond caring if she attracted attention, Arabella lifted her skirt to run and was yanked back so hard she cried out.
The man’s demeanor changed as he shoved her with unexpected force behind a large tapestry for sale at a merchant’s booth.
“Help!” Arabella shouted at the top of her lungs, a moment before the brute pushed her to the ground and clamped a ruthless hand over her mouth.
Tristan and Simon were already atop their horses and ready to leave when a cry pierced the din of the marketplace.
Requiring no words, the men sprang forward.
Tristan steered his horse through the crowded bazaar, ignoring protests from people forced to clear a path for him.
With a sweeping scrutiny, he quickly narrowed the possible places the scream could have come from. The two most likely spots were either in the back of a Gypsy wagon in a quiet corner of the bazaar, or behind an arras right next to it. Tristan held his horse motionless as he watched the two places simultaneously and listened with the finely tuned hearing of a man used to stealth in battle.
He heard not a sound aside from the shouts of disgruntled merchants in his wake, but he soon saw the tapestry move a fraction of an inch near the ground. Drawing his sword, Tristan slashed it down and watched it fall on top of two struggling forms.
Dropping to his feet, he turned aside the heavy arras to reveal a middle-aged Bohemian man and a rumpled pile of green velvet and dark hair.
A noblewoman.
“Move away from her now.” Though he spoke calmly, he felt the fury of growing bloodlust in his veins. The man wisely scrambled to obey his command.
The villain stuttered his protests as Simon yanked him away from the commotion, but Tristan paid no heed. His eyes were fixed on the woman before him.
Arabella Rowan, the distant beauty he’d met last night at Princess Anne’s reception. Only she didn’t look so immaculately groomed today. Now that she had been rolling around the ground she looked dusty and disheveled and…
Damnation.
Tristan could not believe his eyes as his vision of aloof Arabella Rowan melded with his memory of the green-eyed enchantress from the forest. They were one and the same.
Her hair, so shiny and luxurious the night before, was a formidable tangle around her head. She was covered with dust and smudged with dirt, recalling her forest appearance.
It was the wild glint in her eyes now, however, that confirmed her identity. Unlike her courtly appearance, she now exuded passion. Heat. Fear and anger radiated from her with palpable force. ’Twas clear at a glance this member of Anne’s royal party was not the noblewoman her princess believed her to be.
Arabella knew the instant he recognized her. Really recognized her. The flash of recall revealed itself in the darkening and narrowing of his eyes.
He stepped toward her. Arabella’s first response was to scramble backward but he was too quick. Huge, hard hands wrapped themselves about her waist and lifted her as though she were no more burden than a child. Setting her once again upon her feet, he released her swiftly, giving Arabella the impression the contact had disturbed him as much as it had her.
“You are unharmed, Lady Arabella?” The way he stressed “lady” sounded decidedly unpleasant, conveying his doubt that she deserved the title.
She nodded, her lack of voice betraying her discomfiture.
“The man accosted you?”
Forcing herself to converse with him out of the desire to see her attacker punished, Arabella cleared her throat and met Tristan’s hard gaze.
“He offered his assistance to find Mary. She had disappeared from my view for a moment and I became concerned she had met with harm.”
“And when you refused his help, he attacked you?”
“Yes.”
“When we depart Prague and you are in my charge, you will never wander around without a man to escort you. Do you understand?”
A strange dictate, considering she had been fine today until a man got near her. But perhaps the princess should have asked one of her guards to accompany them, since other noblewomen had disappeared recently.
Then again, perhaps Arabella should not have followed her heart’s desires and asked Mary to leave the safety of the carriage for the marketplace. Guilt pinched her hard, perhaps making her words more biting than she’d intended.
“I would hope that once I am in your charge, sir, I will not be attacked by anyone.”
“I cannot protect wayward lasses.”
Her eyes connected with his and she felt the keen edge of that remark. Tristan Carlisle thought her unworthy of the Bohemian court. He did not think she could be true nobility because he had seen her out in the oak ring, venting her fury to the heavens.
“Wayward?” His remark insulted her grandmother and her heritage as much as it insulted her.
“Arabella!” a small voice cried out moments before Mary appeared from the thick of the surrounding crowd and threw both arms around her friend. “Are you hurt?”
Anger cooling as she reassured Mary of her good health, Arabella decided it would be useless to explain herself to Tristan. He would believe what he wanted.
Heaven knows, most everyone in the Bohemian court already thought she was a wayward lady because of her unusual upbringing. What difference did it make that Tristan Carlisle agreed with their assessment?
What she regretted most about the day was that she had unwittingly broken her grandmother’s most important rule. In the course of an afternoon, she had become very much the center of attention.
After spending a fruitless afternoon trying to twist answers out of the Bohemian trader who’d grabbed Arabella, Tristan accompanied Simon back to the keep to continue their preparations for the journey home. They’d discovered the man’s name was Ivan Litsen, but had learned precious little else about his motive. The man had seemed unconcerned about his encounter with Arabella, assuring Tristan that many men of his acquaintance would have done the same had they spied a beautiful young woman unaccompanied in a crowded marketplace.
If such was the case, why had the princess allowed Arabella and Mary to ride about the city? Did Arabella have enemies at court?
“Arabella Rowan is a fair one,” Simon observed as he studied the horizon from his horse, trotting beside Tristan’s mount.
Simon had been attempting conversation ever since they’d left the alleyway across from the marketplace where they’d questioned Litsen at length and finally given the man into the keeping of the king’s guard.
“Passing fair.” He had no wish to discuss the woman with his friend, whose appetite for feminine diversion had angered more than one protective father in their rare excursions to the English king’s court.
“Are you blind? Such beauty in a lady is as rare as it is striking to the eye.”
“She is no lady.” Tristan wondered if he could be the only man at court who knew of Arabella’s peasant roots.
“I am pleased to hear it. The prospects for our journey home have just begun to improve.”
“No.” Tristan suspected he was being skillfully manipulated—tested for his own interest in Arabella—but the knowledge did not prevent a surge of possessiveness at the thought of Simon with the green-eyed beauty.
“Pardon? Did the Sultan of Silence speak?”
“She is not your type of woman, Percival, and we both know it. You merely mean to examine my reaction to the wench. Why not just ask?” Irritated to realize he indeed found himself attracted to Arabella—nay, more fascinated than attracted—Tristan had no patience for idle talk of her. Yet he listened because Simon was his brother in spirit, if not by blood.
“I thought I was the picture of subtlety.” Simon laughed. “But since you’re offering, I am curious what you think of Lady Arabella.”
“I met her in the woods on one of the last nights we made camp on the way to Prague, and she bore little resemblance to the lady-in-waiting she plays for her princess.” He had not shared the incident with Simon, preferring to remember the encounter in his mind and not pick it apart with questions. “I do not know if the other nobles are aware of a pretender in their midst, or if Princess Anne has purposely gathered as large a retinue as possible, with no regard to the breeding of her travel companions. But either way, Lady Arabella’s court facade is a falsehood.”
“Perhaps the princess knows nothing of it, and Arabella has merely used that charming body of hers to lure a nobleman to her bed in an attempt to be included in the princess’s train.”
“Leave it to you to consider the most illicit possibilities.” Although heaven knows, Tristan of all people should have been quick to consider such a scheme, after having been betrayed by a woman seeking a higher station in life than a lowly knight could afford.
“Women must use what means they possess. A lesson hard won by us both, Tris, wouldn’t you say?”
“There is more.” Briefly, Tristan explained about the knife he found after she left. “It may be just an ordinary tool for gathering herbs, but there are some who believe such weapons are ceremonial items for Gypsy wise women or…”
“You don’t mean to suggest the girl is—”
“I suggest nothing. I’m merely telling you what I found and sharing the local superstitions.”
“You do not believe such rump-fed foolishness.”
“I do not fear the girl could turn me into a hopping toad, if that is what you mean. Yet I know she is not who she pretends to be.”
They were in a more untamed land, after all. A woman brought up in the Bohemian wilderness among the old ways could be a dangerous influence on the English court, even if her only crime was that of deception.
“’Tis all mumble-minded nonsense,” Simon remarked, reining in as they approached the knights’ quarters near the main keep. “Arabella Rowan is naught but a wild beauty with unearthly green eyes, and you would call her a Gypsy witch.”
“Hardly. Mayhap I will simply call her mine, instead.” He had not thought it over before he spoke the words aloud, but the idea had a certain appeal.
“Have you lost your wits? What happened to your aversion to treacherous women?”
“Perhaps my sense of fair play demands I do not allow another ambitious woman to bend the court to her whim.” Tristan was no longer the unknown bastard Elizabeth Fortier had once rejected. After seeing the way his former love had broken the spirits of a much older and far wealthier man following her courtship with Tristan, he had regretted his quiet complicity in her scheme.
He might not have denounced Elizabeth, but he had the power to unmask Arabella Rowan.
Arabella would be the king’s problem in England, but until they reached London, Tristan would be wise to keep a close watch on the reckless female with secrets in her past.
“You’d better be careful then, friend.” Simon grinned, one brow arched in lopsided mockery as he slid from his mount. “If our young enchantress truly is a powerful wise woman in disguise, you may be in for more than you bartered for.”
Tristan did not deny it.
Chapter Four
After days of riding in Princess Anne’s specially fashioned carriage, Arabella thought she would expire from the tedious polite conversation and the confinement of the padded velvet walls.
There were windows in the carriage at least, to provide an occasional breeze, but the view was disturbing.
Tristan often rode near the royal carriage, providing Arabella with too much opportunity to brood over the man.
He looked more at ease on the destrier than most men looked on their own two feet. His black hair was caught in a queue trailing carelessly over his mantle. Dressed in his customary austere black, he bore no decoration on his person, no trace of family emblems, heraldry or garters from the king. As if no ties of loyalty bound him to anyone or anything.
Why her eyes were drawn to him time and again, she could not fathom.
He was dangerous. Arabella knew it because her mother had assured her every man was. And from his crude discussion with his friend, she knew he was accustomed to taking advantage of women. The fact that they were usually widows did nothing to lessen her indignation.
Yet…he’d saved her.
The day at the bazaar had scared her witless. Like a madwoman, she’d fought her attacker with all her strength, the cold certainty that he intended her serious harm driving her to frenzied kicking and pushing.
Out of nowhere, Tristan appeared. In that moment, her heart nearly burst with relief. He seemed larger than life as he loomed over the brute who hurt her. Yes, Tristan Carlisle was dangerous, but all that power and strength had been on her side. She could not forget that feeling of absolute protection.
Unsure how to handle the strange mixture of feelings he inspired, Arabella had done her best to avoid him since they’d left Prague. Her eyes, however, had a will of their own.
Lost in thought as she stared at his broad back, she was caught off guard when he turned and met her gaze, as if he felt her watching.
Flustered, she studied her knotted hands in her lap. Still, he drew closer. Arabella could feel his presence. He reined in near Anne’s window, a few hand spans from her own.
“Excuse me, Your Highness. We are in Cologne now,” Tristan informed her. “It will take all day to reach the countess’s lands. Do you wish to ride straight through?”
“I want to be sleeping under Countess von Richt’s roof this night.” Anne smiled warmly. “Think you we will be there for a late supper?”
“We will make all haste so that it may be. I wish you good morning, Your Highness. Ladies.” Acknowledging the other women in the carriage by a quick bow of his head, he disappeared to rejoin the head of the party.
As Arabella tried to make sense of the feelings he roused within her simply by his presence, she decided she would make every effort to maintain her distance from him during their stay at the countess’s keep. No matter what the leap of her pulse meant when Tristan was near, she was certain it couldn’t be good.
“Let the entertainment commence,” Countess von Richt announced after an endless supper.
Finally.
The meal had dragged for Arabella, whose seat provided her with an unimpeded view of Tristan Carlisle with Rosalyn de Clair. The sight diminished her appetite even though she had promised herself not to be drawn in by the knight.
“Come, Arabella.” Mary pulled her along to the side of the room as the trestle tables were moved aside for dancing.
When the music began, Mary partnered with one of the countess’s sons for a dance and Arabella watched, enthralled, as the couples moved by in a graceful swirl of velvets and silks. The lady’s dress would swing away from her body with a swish, the man’s head would incline to hers for a private exchange, and the music would move the pair along the floor. It was so pretty.
“Would you like to join them?” a voice asked from behind, and she knew who would be there if she dared to turn around. Tristan’s question caressed her cheek. A shiver chased down her spine.
“No, thank you,” she whispered, unable to face him and yet unable to move away.
“Yet you seem to enjoy it.” The heat from his chest warmed her back even though they did not touch.
She swallowed hard.
“It is beautiful.” Her heart pounded so loudly he must hear it above the minstrels’ music. But was it fear exactly? Arabella had known the cold dread of fear after the bazaar attack. This was not it.
“Were you the kind of child to sneak from your bed and watch the entertainment in your family’s keep?”
His question confused her. “Oh no. My home is not so splendid as this. I have never seen dancing like this before.”
She did not count the times she had danced beneath the stars to the music of the heavens on warm summer nights. Seeing the way others danced brought home how simple her rudimentary steps seemed.
“You do not dance?”
“I do not know how.” One of the couples glided by her and she smiled, thinking that her grandmother had been right to send Arabella into the world, even though the experience had frightened her.
It frightened her still. Especially with a powerful warrior at her back and a mixture of confusing thoughts in her head.
“But you would like to learn.”
“Yes, but—” she began, until she recalled she could not always speak her mind anymore. “I mean, no. I’d like to someday, maybe…” Her words trailed off because her answer did not sound convincing, even to her own ears.
“I would be glad to teach you.” He turned her gently around to face him and her senses spun at his touch.
He looked different this evening. She had realized that earlier when he’d been sitting with Lady Rosalyn. But now that she viewed him close up, she could identify the subtleties of the difference. The dark cape circling his neck was held together with a silver brooch of intertwining serpents. The sapphire eyes of the strange beasts glittered.
The shirt he wore beneath the cape boasted a fine linen, the fabric snowy-white against his darker breeches, the stitches closely sewn. The clean scent of his clothes told her they’d been washed by the maids of Prague keep. She remembered the sweet herbs the washerwomen had used for their soaps.
Merciful heaven, how long had she observed him thus?
“No, thank you, sir.” She sounded cold when she had not meant to be. She owed him so much and she had not even thanked him. But sweet Jesu, he unsettled her.
Just then there was a break in the music and a general changing of partners. Rosalyn de Clair extracted herself from the arms of one of Countess von Richt’s many sons and attached herself to Tristan’s side.
“Tristan, you promised me a dance.” The woman touched his arm lightly with a trembling hand.
Arabella vowed she would never let her feelings for any man appear so obvious. Seizing her chance to escape the confusion Tristan wrought, she hurried from the hall. She did not look back as she found the main doors to the keep and fled down the stairs into the cold evening. It was late autumn, but the brisk night air helped clear her mind after the heady atmosphere in the hall. The nearness of the man and the beauty of the dancers had rendered her spellbound and starry-eyed.
Rosalyn de Clair’s arrival had been a welcome slap in the face. The raven-haired noblewoman in the scarlet-red dress reminded Arabella of the nightshade flower that was beautiful but poisonous.
Thinking of the nightshade reminded Arabella that she was alone out of doors, where she could peer around the grounds for some late autumn herbs. How she missed her forest. She had brought along a great variety of herbs from the Rowan lands, but it would be interesting to see what she could find in this part of the world. Mayhap something unusual she would not be able to identify.
The prospect so enticed her that she wandered away from the keep. She found some hawthorn, and some spices, but not many medicinal herbs due to the late season. She used her gown to carry the things she picked.
It was a waxing of the moon, so that meant good, constructive herbs could be collected. Arabella had no cause to gather any other kind. She was interested in herbs for their medicinal value, but knew there were others who used them to wreak harm. Zaharia had met such people before and assured her they could be very dangerous.
The thought of such darkness made Arabella grow cold, and she waved a small branch of hawthorn in a circle around herself. A tree of good fortune, its twigs could be used to ward off bad spirits.
“Witchcraft is punishable by death in this country, chovihani.”
Arabella was so startled she dropped her gown full of herbs to run.
“Not this time, Arabella.”
A warm hand yanked her back and she found herself held fast in the strong arms of Tristan Carlisle.
Chapter Five
“Chovihani?” she asked, more incensed now than afraid.
It was a Gypsy word for witch and Arabella did not appreciate the description, or the implication that she had committed some crime. She struggled to pull away, but his hold did not waver.
“I did not mean to startle you. I wondered where you had disappeared.” His voice caressed her ear and she felt her knees weaken just a little as he spoke. And there was that flip in her belly she knew only happened when he was near. She stopped struggling and he released her.
“What do you mean by calling me witch?”
“Imagine yourself as I have seen you.” Tristan turned from her to look up into the star-filled sky. “I believe I am in the Bohemian woodlands alone until I hear an awful, gut-wrenching cry, like an animal in pain. Venturing through the forest, I find a beautiful wailing woman in a ring of ancient oaks.”
Arabella felt her cheeks heat.
“But she does not look like any woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He stepped closer to her. Arabella could not move. “She is barefoot, with a veil of wild hair enveloping half of her body and covered with twigs and leaves. She is like a wood nymph or…an enchantress.”
Arabella shook her head in mute denial. “Never, I—”
“Then, when I find her again, she is transformed into a princess of a woman I barely recognize except for the green eyes, but every now and then I get a glimpse of the wild woman out in the moonlight, gathering herbs to make strange potions and waving sticks around her head in some sort of ancient ritual.”
“I am no chovihani. If some people choose to believe medicine is an art of witchcraft, that only shows their lack of knowledge. But I think you know better.” Or, she hoped he did. She spied intelligence in those gray eyes of his, even when he called forth unexpected feelings from deep inside her. “Call me drabarni, herb woman, mayhap. That name would be more fitting.”
“You are a healer?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“I try to be. There will forever be some things that are impossible to heal. But I try to find cures and relieve ailments, and in some instances I have been granted the grace to really heal. But even when I can’t heal, I can usually help.”
She took pride in her skill and had worked all her life to be as knowledgeable as her grandmother in the healing arts. She saw no reason to hide her talents.
“You possess a great talent,” Tristan said, his voice hinting at genuine admiration. “From years of battlefield experience, I can appreciate a good healer. It is painful to watch a man die whose time has not yet come. England has great need of you.”
“Perhaps she needs me, but will she want me?” Arabella peered up at the partial moon as a chill crept over her skin.
“What do you mean?”
“Will England welcome me, or will her people make the same mistake that you did and shun me because of my calling?”
“Others have made such an error?”
“Indeed sir, you are one of the few who have even bothered to admit their mistake. Most people feel more comfortable with their superstitions, even when the truth of my gift stares them in the face. Were I somewhat less skilled, people would not accuse me of witchcraft. It is because I am exceptionally good at my art that I make people uncomfortable.”
Tristan frowned. “After witnessing your abilities, I would think most people would be grateful.”
She shrugged, powerless to understand human nature.
“I really must return to the keep.”
“Wait.” His fingertips reached out to curl lightly over hers. “Let me show you how to dance.”
Tristan had not planned to ask her as much. He scarcely knew what had made him chase her through the keep. In part, he had wanted to elude Rosalyn de Clair’s company, since his head warned him away from her obvious advances. But he supposed Arabella intrigued him more than she should. He’d wanted to maintain a boundary between his knights and the Bohemian noblewomen, but she called to him on a gut level, no matter what his reason had to say.