Page 42 of Bold Angel
Now she wished she knew every bitter detail, that the memory burned as bright as her passion. Her loyalty belonged to her sister, not some Norman warlord who had brutalized her and her kinsman.
“Cara?”
The softly spoken word drew her from her musings. She forced herself to meet her husband’s gaze. He was frowning, aware of the subtle shift in her mood. Sweet Mary, what could she say? “I know there are hours left to hunt but I—”
“We return home at once.” His knuckles grazed her cheek. “At least in the castle, I can be sure that you are safe.”
Caryn glanced away. Safe? She had just discovered that in her husband’s presence she was no more safe than she had been with the wolves.
Chapter Nine
On the route home, Caryn rode in silence. Her lips felt bruised from her husband’s passionate kisses, her body still burned from his touch. The tentkeeper had tended his wounds, and for a while he rode beside her, but at her quiet brooding, eventually left and returned to his men.
They had just reached the main road leading back to the castle when Ral called a halt to their journey. Through the men and horses up ahead, Caryn glimpsed the wheel of an overturned wagon. Urging the little gray forward, she saw the road was littered with the debris of the wagon itself and what had once been its contents.
An overturned barrel spilled dried herring into the dust, several broken casks leaked wine, and a bolle of honey had been overturned onto bolts of ruined sailcloth. The merchant had no doubt been carrying a good deal more: butter, ale, pitch, dried herbs, and cheese, pipes of cider, and candles, but those items along with the oxen who pulled the wagon were gone.
At the side of the road, the battered merchant slumped against the base of a tree, cradling his head in his hands, a trickle of blood near his temple.
“’Twas that blackguard the Ferret,” said Geoffrey, riding up beside her. “The merchant is lucky he escaped with his head.”
The Ferret.The outlaw she had once so foolishly aided. Caryn’s stomach tightened. “What will Lord Raolfe do?”
“’Tis certain he will give chase, though I’ll warrant ’twill do little good. The bloody Ferret knows these woods like his namesake, and every blasted trail leading into the mountains.”
Guilt assailed her. If she hadn’t interfered, the outlaws might have been captured and this would never have occurred.
“Mayhap this time Lord Ral will catch them.” She prayed it was so, though Geoffrey’s face seemed to hold little hope.
“Mayhap. Even now our lord gathers the men.” They circled around him, listening to his orders, their horses raising dust in the road. When Ral had finished, he rode in her direction.
“Geoffrey, you will see my lady wife returned to the castle. ’Tis not far now and the threat you might meet rides the opposite way.”
“But I would ride with you, my lord. Surely there is another who might see her home.”
“’Tis you I trust, no other. Richard will accompany you.” He turned as his steward rode up. “Expect our return when the trail grows cold or we’ve the outlaws in hand.”
“Aye, my lord,” Richard said.
“You will be safe with them,” he said to Caryn, then his hard look softened. “We’ve much to discuss on my return.” He smiled, the angle of his jaw looking less severe, his eyes a lighter gray than she had ever seen them. “For once, try to stay out of trouble.”
He leaned forward as if he might kiss her, but when she stiffened and glanced back up the road, he spun the big sorrel, dug in his heels, and urged the stallion away.
In a thunder of dust and hoofbeats, they disappearedover the distant hill, leaving Richard, Geoffrey, and the servants in their wake.
“Climb up in the tentkeeper’s wagon,” Geoffrey directed the merchant, a thin-boned, fragile-looking man with watery blue eyes.
“Aye, sir. And I thank ye for your kindness.”
They reached the castle not long after, Caryn weary and troubled at all that had happened, but distracted a little by the care she must take of the fawn. A servant saw the tiny deer settled in a corner of the stable near the place where she cared for her kittens.
Using the same method that had kept the kittens alive, she called for a kettle of warm goat’s milk and a clean linen rag, twisted the rag into a point to serve as a nipple, dipped it in the milk, and pressed it against the fawn’s hungry mouth.
It had taken several hours for the kittens to accept this strange means of nourishment, but the fawn caught on fairly quickly, pulling on the rag and sucking in the life-giving liquid. Soon it lay sated and sleeping atop a fresh pile of straw, Caryn gently stroking its fur.
Satisfied the fawn would survive, and the stable beginning to fall into darkness, she made her way across the bailey and into the keep to search out her own night of sleep.
Instead what little she got remained fitful, disturbed by heated dreams of her husband’s fiery kisses, and painful memories of the night three years past when the Normans had brutalized her sister.
