The Knight's Return

Ah, they could be so accommodating when it pleased them, couldn’t they? She peered past him to the fresh spurts of spring grass and budding trees, an awakening world she’d spent little time noticing until she’d had naught to entertain her but the seasons and her son.

Would it be so dangerous then, to sit in the garden with him, this man who had already proven no threat to her well-being? She had not spoken at length to any noble person—any adult noble person—since she had been banished. Her sister, Onora, had attempted to visit her, but Sorcha had feared Onora would suffer at their father’s hands for the efforts and had forbade her younger sibling to visit the cottage anymore.

Surely Sorcha could keep this knight at bay when his intentions were more—corporeal than violent. After her first romantic encounter with a man, she’d learned too late the power of a woman’s ability to say no, but she would put that lesson to use well now, if necessary.

“I will join you shortly.” She pointed to the left where her garden awaited. “There is a bench nearby. I will bring us some mead.”

Hugh’s head tipped back and a short bark of laughter sounded.

“And a knife, I’ll warrant.” Nodding, he stalked out to the garden, reading her far too well.

Had her expression become so transparent in her year away from court that even a knight with such unpolished manners would see through her purpose so quickly? Ach. She was as awkward and unpolished as he after keeping no company for so long.

Perhaps she should not turn away Hugh Fitz Henry without a bit more thought. Conversation might do her good. She could hone her skills and sharpen her mind grown dull from lack of use. If she hoped to talk her father out of locking her away in a convent, she would need a smooth tongue and sharp wit.

Tucking a sheathed blade into her garter, Sorcha hurried around the kitchen to assemble a tray. A pitcher of sweet mead. Freshly baked honey bread. Two flagons. When all was ready, she carried it out into the garden and set it on the bench.

Hugh was nowhere in sight.

Had she scared him off already? Perhaps a woman who threatened him with a blade had not been what he’d hoped for in a courtship. Surprised at the twinge of disappointment that filled her throat, she was about to retrieve the tray when she heard the rustle of tree branches and a crack of wood.

“Sir?” She peered around the garden to the woods nearby and didn’t see anything.

Until she looked up.

And spied Hugh Fitz Henry perched in a tree, his big body balanced on a thick limb as one boot dangled from a freshly broken branch. With one hand, he held tight to the oak. With the other, he reached out for a tiny puff of white and black. Her son’s six-week-old kitten.

“Oh!” Sorcha raced over to stand beneath the tree, nervous the animal might fall. “The bold little thing. He is not yet weaned and he would scale heights as if he were a bird.”

She lined up under the small animal, holding her skirt out from her body like a cradle to catch the poor thing if he should lose his tenuous grip. Conn would be sad and puzzled should any harm befall his wee friend.

But Hugh stretched a hand’s span more and snatched the animal up while the kitten mewed piteously. Relief flooded through her. For although the kitten was a small thing and the mother cat had litters of many to safeguard against the loss of one, this particular little beast remained special to her son. And therefore, tremendously special to Sorcha.

“Thank you.” She waited impatiently for Hugh to descend, finally taking the kitten from him when he was but a few feet from the ground. “You have averted tragedy, sir, and I appreciate it greatly.”

She wrapped the mewling creature in her long sleeve as she crooked her arm, smiling as the feline licked her wrist in joyful obliviousness of his near accident.

Hugh leaped to the ground as nimbly as a squire, though the expression on his face bore little resemblance to a boy’s.

“You should have a care with the revelation of your legs, my lady.” His voice took on a growling note that surprised her in the middle of her happy reunion with the cat.

And then she recalled lifting her skirt.

“Thankfully a woman’s garments allow her to dispense with a layer without revealing—anything.” Her cheeks heated nevertheless. And while she would like to pretend that it was her long and lonely exile that had turned her manners so coarse, she suspected she would have been as quick to flash her underskirts even while she lived beneath her father’s roof.

“You forget that men require little encouragement to envision the exact shape and texture of a woman’s thighs.” He stormed past her, boots pounding an angry tempo on the ground as he closed in on the pitcher of mead. Helping himself to a flagon, he downed it quickly, readjusting his tunic.

His braies.

Sweet. Merciful. Heaven.

She needed to remain mindful of being around a man. Heat washed through her like a summer fever even though she had no business imagining anything so—physical about this bold and unusual warrior. Quickly, she averted her eyes, although she hadn’t seen anything untoward. It unsettled her enough to have imagined the discomfort his movements hinted at.

Flustered and frustrated with herself that she only perpetuated the man’s probable view of her as having loose morals, Sorcha kept her distance while he took a seat beside the tray of bread and mead. The scowling expression on his visage told her to run back inside the cottage. Yet he held himself firmly to the bench as he poured a second cup full of mead.

The man possessed restraint, if the flexing and tightening of the knot in his jaw proved any indication. That spoke well of him.

Still…how to proceed? She’d had every intention of sharpening her conversational skills and improving her manners, yet here she stood, speechless and supremely ill at ease.

It did not help matters that her thoughts had turned as warmly intimate and disconcerting as Hugh Fitz Henry’s must have. But then, how could a woman’s thoughts remain pure when a man insisted of speaking about the shape of her…er…legs?

“Forgive me for my lapse of judgment, sir,” she said finally, only half meaning it. She’d hardly flaunted her body in front of him, but if she was going to humble herself enough to ask her father to let her raise Conn, she would need practice in swallowing her pride.

The task had never come easily to her.

“No, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. It is not your fault that a man’s thoughts are wayward and inappropriate.” He poured the other flagon full of mead. “Here. Come and join me, my lady, and I pray you do not hold my ill-tempered outburst against me. Your mead would soothe the ragged beast in any man.”

He lifted the second cup, holding it out to her. Entreating.

Saints protect her, she felt as frightened as the tiny kitten must have, perched on a high branch and teetering against a fall only to be given an alternative that appeared every bit as scary. But she, too, found herself moving inexplicably toward Hugh Fitz Henry.

She came to him.

Hugh thanked all that was holy that he had not scared off the woman who might be his only link to his past. For that matter, even if Sorcha could provide him with no hints of his identity, at least he had been admitted into her father’s service. Where else would a man with no past and no true name obtain such a chance? There was a certain safety in that acceptance that he would not risk for the sake of the heat Sorcha stirred within him.

“Thank you.” She gripped the cup he offered and brought it to her lips with a hand more steady than her breathing.

He turned his attention back to his own drink lest he lose himself in watching the way her lips cradled the smooth silver vessel.

He knew in that moment she was not like most women. But how did he know that? As soon as he formed the thought, he attempted to chase down the root of it. What other women in his past had helped him form the basis for comparison? He possessed a sense that females did not appreciate being reminded of a man’s baser nature. Many a noblewoman would have fled his presence at the mere suggestion of what the shape of her legs did to him.

Yet all his struggle for an image of any other woman yielded nothing. No face of a mother or sister, wife or betrothed.

The only woman he could see was the one who sank slowly to the bench beside him, her cup clutched in a tense grip. Had her father been correct in his assessment that she would permit any man to court her—even one as coarse as he—if it meant she might gain freedom from her exile?

“Your gardens are a sight to behold,” he observed lightly, needing to divert their attention.

And yet even that topic weighed awkwardly on his tongue. How could he comment on the lushness of her budding fruit or the heavy blossoms on the vine without sounding like he meant something else entirely?

“I have far too much time to tend them,” Lady Sorcha returned mildly. “I do not know what you have heard about my situation, but as an exile, I am not allowed in my father’s presence and I have no duty to his house. That leaves me with substantial time to tend the flowers.”

Settling her empty cup on the tray beside his, she refilled them both from the heavy pitcher before proceeding to slice a squat loaf of sweet bread.

“He gave me the impression you were free to leave your home with a guardian.” He extended his palm to receive the bread, but she was careful not to touch him as she handed it to him.

Instantly, he regretted putting her on guard to such an extent.

“Did he suggest I might be endlessly grateful for the chance to escape?” She arched a brow and studied him assessingly, her earlier discomfort fled in the face of her irritation.

He debated the wisdom of a lie and decided such a course would be unwise with this woman. Clearly she knew her father well and, perhaps, was as well versed in manipulative games as her sire.

“Are you so content with your banishment?” he asked instead, tearing into the honey bread with the enthusiasm of a man still recovering from a long journey.

His food on the road had been sparse and dependent upon his hunting, something he indulged only upon dire need with his focus so keen to discover his name. His home. He savored the rich texture and delicate scent of the honeyed bread, so different than any scantly cooked beast on his travels.

“No one would seek such isolation as this, and yet I have discovered small delights in the silence of a summer night where there are no servants to sneak about the courtyard stealing embraces or reveling knights to sing and jest till sunrise.” Sorcha broke off a bit of her repast and nibbled the morsel. “Here, I am not subject to my father’s tempers or marched in front of his guests like an exotic animal on display.”

“So you do not wish to hasten your release?” He helped himself to more bread, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he had eaten well.

Or perhaps he merely ate to quiet another hunger. His gaze strayed entirely too often to the princess’s mouth as she licked a crumb from her lips or tasted her mead.

“On the contrary, I cannot wait for my release.” Her green eyes took on a new fierceness. “But I will never be so desperate that I will accept any man my father places in my path in order to secure freedom.”

“I would like to think I have placed myself in your path.” He studied her with new respect, appreciating her shrewd assessment of the situation. “I was not summoned to Connacht by the king. I arrived at his gate under my own accord.”

“If you do not see my father’s larger designs, you are not as clever as I suspected.” She returned her cup to the tray between them with a thump, startling the wee kitten that had fallen asleep in her lap.

The furry beast lifted its head and blinked bright blue eyes before dropping back into slumber amid Sorcha’s skirts.

“I suspect your father wishes you to wed so he does not have to send a cherished daughter to the convent.” Hugh stretched his legs and tipped his head back to the warmth of the spring sun, not daring to gaze upon the fiery Irish princess for long lest his thoughts stray again into uncomfortable terrain.

And while Sorcha might not be desperate to accept his suit, he needed her acquiescence with every fiber of his being. If she refused, he would be dismissed from Connacht and separated from the only clue he had to his past.

“I hardly think my position on the far outreaches of his lands makes me cherished, but you have seen his purpose well enough.” She shifted on the bench beside him and he straightened to see her rise, the kitten now in her arms.

Her feet followed a stone path through the hedges and flowers, a small nod to order in a garden overflowing with pleasant disarray.

“And you know my purpose as well,” she continued, halting to meet his gaze from where she stood. “That leaves me at a disadvantage because I do not comprehend your motives at all.”

Her searing gaze told him she would not tolerate lies lightly.

Nor could he tell her the truth.

That left him in uncharted terrain, just like the whole rest of his anonymous life. He settled for shades of the truth instead.

His eyes raked over her, taking in her proud spirit and womanly form. From her straight shoulders and proud tilt to her chin to the way she cradled the young kitten in her arms, Sorcha was a study in contrasts. And underneath his need to know why she recognized him, Hugh simply wanted to know her.

“I couldn’t forget you after I saw you in the forest yesterday.”

Chapter Four

Onora Con Connacht stifled a gasp of surprise at the strange knight’s presence in her sister’s garden.

So this was the Norman mercenary who had caused such an uproar in her father’s court? She urged her mount closer to the garden wall, determined to obtain a better view. Standing on her palfrey’s back, she could just see over the moss-covered enclosure where the kings of old used to install their mistresses or—occasionally—a widowed queen out of favor with the new ruler. Now Sorcha lived here, a prisoner in her own realm for daring to defy their father.

“Be still,” she hissed at her horse, her balance unsteady as she stood on the mare’s back. “I’m almost there.”

Gingerly, she reached past the thorny branches of a yew tree to the smooth trunk of a young pine. As the palfrey stilled beneath her, she bent her knees and leaped, keeping the pine in her grasp as she flung herself to the top of the garden wall.

She must have disturbed a group of birds, because there was an outcry nearby and the flap of wings. Onora held herself steady, waiting to be discovered and hoping against hope she would not be.

This wasn’t the first time she’d sneaked into Sorcha’s domain, though her older sister forbade the secret trips. Onora missed her sibling dearly and knew if their positions were reversed and Onora had been banished, she would want someone to visit her. As it was, Onora took great pains to escape her father’s watch, his vigilance far more formidable with his younger daughter than it had been for Sorcha. A fact that had proven a vast inconvenience, but she took pride in finding new ways to elude her protectors.

Of course, she could never remain away from her father’s keep for long and she confined herself to bringing the occasional length of exotic silk or a wildflower cutting. Her presents were small and often attributed to one of Sorcha’s attendants. But it pleased Onora to know she’d touched her sister’s life anyhow.

When the garden quieted again, Onora felt certain she had not been discovered. Carefully, she seated herself on the stone wall to watch amidst the cover of thick branches. In the distance, her sister conversed with the tall Norman, their talk too low for her ears.

How could her father have permitted this stranger to visit Sorcha with no guard? The Normans would march on Ireland before long now that the exiled king of Leinster had asked the Normans for help regaining his kingdom. The Normans always rejoiced at trouble in Ireland since they lived for the chance to steal power in the greatest land on earth. So why trust a Norman with his own daughter?

Or could the stranger bring an honest offer to Sorcha that might save her from the convent? Onora’s romantic nature rejoiced at the possibility.

“Lady Onora?”

From outside the wall, a man’s voice startled her.

Her hand flew to her waist and the protection of her dagger as she turned. There, standing at the base of the wall, stood a frowning young groom she recognized as the caretaker for Sorcha’s horse.

“Eamon,” she whispered, wishing she did not feel a pang of feminine pleasure at the sight of someone so wholly inappropriate to her station. Why couldn’t her heart beat with such speed at the sight of a noble who came to court her instead of a man destined to wed a village girl?

He was broad shouldered in a way that made the female servants of the court sigh, his muscular form filling out his tunic admirably. His dark hair and blue eyes marked him as Irish, while the deeper shade of his complexion suggested a hint of the exotic, as if his mother had been wooed by a spice trader at the village fair.

“Come down at once before you are injured.” Eamon glared at her with the displeasure one might cast upon a disobedient child. Then he began to scale the wall.

Hand over hand, he climbed quickly, his nimble fingers finding purchase between the mossy rocks. Alarm tingled up her spine.

“You cannot order me about.” It was difficult to infuse her voice with the proper authority while striving to whisper, but she did not wish anyone to hear them.

“I am keeping you safe, Princess,” he retorted, closing the distance between them rapidly.

“Shh!” she hushed him, fearful now for him as much as her. At least her rank would save her if she was discovered. “Have a care with your voice. My sister is within.”

Eamon reached the top of the wall, his long, tanned fingers splaying along the rock so that the smallest of the digits rested a hairsbreadth from her bottom. She scooched back a bit, the pine tree impeding her movements.

“All the more reason you must descend.” He pulled one leg over the wall so that he straddled it like a horse.

He faced her, his thighs bracketing her without touching.

“You, sir, are highly improper.” She glared at him to cover her nervousness.

“Unfortunately, sneaking out to your sister’s cottage against your father’s orders is even more improper.” He winked, a wicked smile revealing straight, white teeth. “It’s not me who’ll have to worry if we get caught. If you’ll allow me, I’ll help you descend safely.”

He extended his hand like a high king shuttling his queen about the great hall with much ceremony. Being the center of a handsome young groom’s attention would not have been a hardship, except that Onora had the impression that Eamon thought she was more of a bother than anything. And that wounded her feminine pride far more than a tumble off the wall would injure the rest of her.

“I will allow no groom to command me.” She looked down her nose and ignored the girlish urge to accept his hand.

Her heart fluttered oddly in her breast as she kept her eyes trained on the garden. Unfortunately, she had moved too far behind the pine tree to see Sorcha or her knight any longer. She could see only a pitch-covered trunk and, if she looked to her right, a small waterfall in the brook that trickled through the garden. Peering to the right was not an option, given Eamon sat so near.

“You see naught but a groom then?” He lifted a hand to a leafy limb of an overgrown apple tree and followed Onora’s gaze. “Are you always so quick to believe what you see?”

“What else would I believe?”

He plucked a white flower tinged with pink and rolled the stem between his fingers.

“We sit among branches that bear naught but decorative flowers today.” He stilled the bloom and offered it to her. “Yet the tree has not revealed its true purpose with the fruit that will follow, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Do you mean to suggest you are working toward a higher purpose?” She knew some ambitious villagers lifted themselves out of drudgery to become clerks or even clerics.

But as she cast a wary eye upon her strong and virile companion, she could not envision him taking priestly vows.

“I mean you have not discovered my hidden task in dismissing me as a mere groom.”

He turned his sea-blue gaze upon her, unsettling her with the frank assessment contained therein. The look he gave her bore none of the subservient ducking or downcast eyes she usually received as the king’s daughter. Eamon studied her the way a man might research a keep he wished to conquer. He seemed to seek out her weaknesses and strengths, as if he viewed her for the first time.

Awareness swirled inside her, a warm, tingling sensation that danced through her veins like a sip of well-made wine.

“You overreach to suggest otherwise,” she complained, although he certainly gave her pause. Why claim to be something he was not? “I have seen you tend my sister’s mare these last many moons.”

As soon as she said it, she regretted the implication that she’d noticed him at all. Flirting with grooms—even grooms who aspired to a higher station—was out of the question. If her sister had been exiled for being with a knight, what would the king do to a daughter who dared dally with a servant?

Turning on the wall, she lifted her legs over the other side so she could climb back down. Her visit with Sorcha would have to wait. She didn’t wish to have witnesses to the news she brought from the keep.

“Allow me to help you, Lady Onora.” The man plucked the apple blossom from her fingers and tucked it behind her ear, using the stem to secure a bit of her hair along with it.

He touched her so quickly that she scarcely had time to protest. Her pulse pounded in her veins, warming her skin all over. Even now, he moved to steady himself on the top of the wall, lying on his belly so that he might guide her down the sheer face of the enclosure.

“Nay.” Shaking her head, she refused his help. “I will depart on my own, but it will be the last time you chase me away from my own sister. Whether or not my father approves of my visits, he shall hear of your presence if I see you on the premises again.”

“That would only aid my true purpose, and for that I would thank you.” He kept his eyes upon her as she made her way carefully down the wall, her toes seeking chinks in the rock more slowly than his had done. “Be sure to mention I tried to keep your pretty neck intact.”

She flushed even warmer, confused by the strange encounter. Shoving the thought from her mind, Onora leaped to the ground.

“I will not give any credit to you for saving a neck that was never in danger.” She turned on her heel and wondered how she could mention the strange meeting to her father. She was curious now, and wanted to know about this mysterious groom even more than she wanted to know about Sorcha’s new Norman.

But she could not risk her father’s wrath in admitting this visit since that might encourage Tiernan Con Connacht to rid himself of his eldest daughter all the sooner. Onora had only come to tell Sorcha her time avoiding the convent was almost over. Their father made plans to send Sorcha away before harvesttime.

And Onora would not lose her sister to the nunnery without saying goodbye.

“I think you’d better take your leave.” Anger poured through Sorcha. Did Hugh think her so daft that she would believe such idle flattery?

“Have I offended you by declaring a fascination with you?” He remained seated, a fact she appreciated since his physical size would intimidate her even with a whole slew of her father’s knights to protect her.

And, truth be told, his imposing presence made her acutely aware of her femininity. Her petite stature and slender limbs. The sexual element of that contrast was never far from her mind and she could not understand why. How many times had she regretted her passionate decisions? She could not afford any more. Especially not with a man who bore a strange resemblance to Edward.