I let go immediately. “No, thank you. I prefer to stretch my legs.”
He bobs his head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go help with the horses.”
I stand for a moment, watching the swarm of activity as the party rein in their horses and begin to dismount. A dozen men from the duchess’s army are on fine coursers and stallions, and they jostle for position, trying to steer around an equal number of charbonnerie on their sturdy rouncies and ponies. None of them appears willing to give way before the others, and within minutes it is a chaotic jumble of cursing men and prancing horseflesh. Merde. If this is the sort of cooperation Beast can look forward to, he was beyond stupid to keep me from being the contingency plan. We will be lucky to even reach Morlaix, let alone run off the French so the British troops can land.
A slow realization creeps over me. Rennes is only a day’s ride away, and d’Albret himself will not arrive until late tomorrow at the earliest. If I leave now, I can be there in plenty of time to slip unnoticed into the throng of camp followers that are sure to travel with him.
I glance around the clearing. Yannic is wrestling Beast’s demonic horse to a tether. Beast himself has already fetched his maps and is rolling them out in order to discuss tactics and strategies with his commanders. The charbonnerie are busy casting sullen glances at the soldiers, and the soldiers are busy making their disdain for the charbonnerie plain as day.
No one is watching me. The resolve I feared lost for good rises once more.
I begin sauntering toward the line of horses. As I draw closer, there is a whisper of movement from the trees, and a half a dozen bodies emerge. I freeze, as do the soldiers, their hands going to their swords until Erwan tells them to hold. It is only the charbonnerie women, come to cook for the camp.
During the confusion that the new arrivals bring, I choose a dappled gray gelding tethered the farthest from camp and quickly put his great girth between me and the others, hoping he will hide me somewhat.
I reach out to pet the creature’s silky nose and let him smell me, as if I am merely saying hello. As I do, I glance around, looking for saddle and tack. I will need a bridle if I am to steer this creature back to Rennes. A saddle would be nice, although I can ride without one if need be. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to the gray, but before I have taken two steps, a hand closes around my arm. A big hand as hard as iron. “Must I hobble you as Yannic has hobbled the horses?”
Damn him. Will the infernal oaf just tend to his business so I can tend to mine? I huff out a breath of annoyance, but there is some relief as well. Furious at myself for being relieved, I pull my arm out of Beast’s grip. “No. You do not need to hobble me; you need only to let me go so I may complete my assignment.”
His normally open face is hard and ruthless. It is the first time I have seen his ferocity focused on me, and I force myself to smile so he will not see how unnerving it is.
“We have discussed this already. You are staying here. Camulos knows this mission can use your skills.”
“There must be a contingency plan in case this half-cooked scheme does not bear fruit. And as much as I loathe the abbess and do not trust her, she is correct in that the more opportunities we have to strike at d’Albret, the better our chances of success.”
He reaches out with his other hand and grabs my shoulder. “I will not let you put yourself in that much danger.” For the briefest of seconds, the anger gives way to a look of stark despair, and then it is gone.
His grip on my arms loosens, and slowly, he leans toward me. My own temper forgotten, I hold very, very still. “If you hit me again, I will kill you,” I whisper.
“It is not hitting I have in mind.” And then his hands move up to cradle my head, making me feel small and fragile—no, not fragile, but cherished. As if I am some precious treasure.
As he leans in closer, I do not move—I do not so much as breathe. I watch his lips as they draw nearer to mine, marveling at the shape of them, how there is the tiniest of dimples in the left corner of his mouth, so small you would not see it unless you were close enough to—his lips find mine. Warm, and softer than they’ve any right to be. I am awash in sensations that have nothing to do with relief or fury. I simply want. I want him, his strength, his honor, and his be-damned lightness of heart. I want to drink all those things up like honeyed wine from a goblet and have them fill me.
Unable to resist, I close my eyes and lean into him and let myself imagine that something between us is possible.
But it is not, not with all the secrets that exist between us still.
Slowly, with regret leaking through every pore in my body, I pull away. His eyes open, and they are filled with warmth. “How can you not be angry with me?” I whisper. “I deceived you repeatedly; nearly every word that passed through my lips was a lie.” I am desperate to put some sort of barrier between us or I fear I will throw myself at him like some simpering maid.
He heaves a great sigh, then steps away to lean on a nearby tree and take the weight off his bad leg. “At first, I was. Furious at being deceived and lied to. And by a d’Albret. It seemed as if the gods themselves were mocking me. Intending to stoke that anger, I went over everything you had said, everything you had done. And while your words may have lied, your actions never did. I have seen you in the harshest of circumstances, escorting a wounded man across the countryside while dodging enemy soldiers and hostile scouts with little thought to your own comfort or safety. You gave more thought to the miller’s daughter and the charbonnerie’s plight than your own well-being. And you killed d’Albret’s own men with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.”
I gape at him, unable to speak, as he lays out this new Sybella I hardly recognize.
He runs his hand over his head. “Once I got past being angry, I was outraged that you hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But since I reacted precisely as you had feared, clearly I did not warrant that trust.” He grows serious once more. “But Sybella, I have seen you when there are hard choices before you, not these false choices of memory, and every time, you have chosen well. Chosen the path that helps the most people and hurts others the least. And that is why I bear you no grudge.”
Unable to help myself, I put my hand to his cheek, needing to be certain he is real and not some vision my overwrought brain has concocted. His skin is warm, and his whiskers rough beneath my fingers. “How did your heart grow so very big?” I ask.
A flash of something—pain and perhaps a touch of bitterness—shines briefly in his eyes, then is gone. “Because I have had no one to share it with since Alyse left.”
A shout goes up just then, followed by a ring of steel. A woman screams.
Beast pushes away from the tree and hurries back to the clearing as fast as his injured leg will allow. I lift my skirts and follow.
There is a fight brewing near one of the cook fires. Two charbonnerie women stand warily. I recognize Malina, but not the younger one. Erwan, Lazare, and Graelon have planted themselves in front of the women, like a shield. Facing them all are two of Beast’s soldiers, one with a shaved head, cold eyes, and a drawn sword. “God’s teeth,” Beast mutters as he limps forward. “What is going on?”
The soldier with the drawn sword never takes his eyes from the charbonnerie. “These men have insulted us by drawing their knives. I am only urging them to use their weapons.” His chest is thrust forward, like an angry rooster’s.
“We offered insult? It was you who slandered our wives and sisters by trying to drag them off to the bushes to slake your lust.”
The second soldier—Sir de Brosse—gives a lazy shrug. “Thought she was a camp follower. Didn’t mean any harm.”
Beast reaches out and thwacks him across the back of his very thick skull. “Keep your dagger sheathed, you idiot. There are no camp followers here.”