Page 19 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Five
God’s Bones, it felt good to be out of that damn cell.
Guided out of the northwest tower by a guard, Jehan paused as he emerged into the sunshine, eyes closed against the brightness of the morning. He smelled loamy moss, the metallic scent of stone, and the tartness of a recent rain. He heard the huff of horses coming from a nearby stable and leather scuffing across the paving stones of the courtyard. The muffled voices of men drifted down from the ramparts as the scent of cooking meat wafted past, along with a heated wind that could only come from the kitchens.
He drew in a breath, expanding his lungs until he felt like his bruised chest would burst. When a clinking of chain mail alerted him to an approaching knight, he opened his eyes.
“A circuit of the courtyard is permitted,” the knight barked, “if your wounds allow.”
Jehan met Sir Rostand’s frowning gaze. Jehan had been introduced to this knight a week ago in his cell, when the viscount had sent his burly vassal as an envoy in a vain effort to negotiate ransom. “Wounds or no wounds,” Jehan said, “I’ll circle this place a dozen times over.”
“Stay within the walls,” Rostand warned. “Don’t do anything so foolish that it will force me to draw a sword.”
“As I told you before, my fight is not with you.”
“Nonetheless,” Sir Rostand said, “my fealty to my liege lord requires me to act if you bolt for the open gate.”
Jehan raised a brow as he cocked his wounded leg to better show the stitches through the rent in his hose. “Put a guard on me if you think you must.”
“Not giving an inch, are you?” Rostand’s frown deepened. “An honorable knight would swear not to escape—”
“—except a viscount with no honor deserves none in return.”
No doubt Sir Rostand would have said more, but Jehan had already glanced past him, distracted by a far finer sight.
Aliénor emerged from the round central tower dominating the courtyard. With hounds dancing about her feet, she skimmed down the stairs as light as a leaf. She was more petite and willowy than he remembered, a slim pip of a woman in a dark blue woolen kirtle. She stopped and glanced his way when he shouted her name.
He took a step in her direction but Sir Rostand slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Be wise,” the knight warned. “There isn’t a man in this castle who wouldn’t cut you in half if you harmed one hair on her head.”
“She is safe in my presence.” He glared until the knight removed his hand. “I owe her my life.”
He headed her way, feeling the wound on his leg tug with each limping step. She waited with the hounds leaping around her feet as her brown eyes widened. He figured he must cut a gruesome figure, dressed in his battered surcoat that still bore bloodstains no laundresses could apparently pound out. He stopped a slight span away from her, so as not to make her fearful.
He said, “I’d wager my sword it’s you who’s responsible for freeing me from my cell.”
She stood like a young deer ready to bolt. “I had little to do with it, Sir Jehan.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He held out his hand. “If you will permit me, I will give honor to the one who deserves it.”
She hesitated, looking askance at his hand. “You’re trying to start trouble.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the donjon. “If my father should see you thus—”
“I shall tell him I was overcome by your beauty.”
“Then he’ll toss you back in the cell for good.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
He spread his palm wider. Narrowing her gaze, she hesitated for another moment before stepping forward to slip her hand into his. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips against the back of her hand. A shivering little current shuddered through her fingers. He breathed in a resinous perfume clinging to her skin, like she’d spent the morning spinning thread from fresh lambs-wool. He resisted a sudden, hungry urge to follow the trail of the scent with his lips.
He let her fingers slip out of his palm and then linked his hands behind his back, locking his fingers together tight. “It’s a fine thing to see you in the bright of day, mademoiselle.
“That’s enough of playing the troubadour.” A little frown-line deepened between her brows. “We are not friends, Sir Jehan.”
“I would change that.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I can’t be your enemy if I’m in your debt, little dove.”
