Before Brogan could reply, the unconscious woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing golden-brown orbs the color of a Cat’s Eye stone. The shade was mesmerizing. She blinkedonce, twice, her gaze falling upon Thel as the woman stood over her. When her eyes came to Brogan, an enormous bear of a man, she stiffened with fright.
“Where am I?” she hissed, struggling to pull away. “Who are you?”
Brogan just stared at her. St. Alban answered. “You are at the Tower, my lady,” he said gallantly. “It seems that you were brought here in some distress.”
The woman blinked again, attempting to clear her thoughts and form her last recollection. Her lovely face flickered with confusion and a cold hand came up, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead.
“Distress?” she murmured with pale lips. “I do not recall.…”
“You were found in the Thames.”
It was as if a flame suddenly ignited. Her eyes widened. “My horse… what happened to my horse?”
St. Alban and Thel looked at Brogan. His granite features were unreadable and he did not reply. Either he did not know or he would not say. St. Alban could see the lady was growing agitated.
“Were you riding, then?” he asked. “Did your horse fall into the river with you?”
The woman shook her head helplessly. “I do not know. He was spooked and we were heading for the bridge. I remember… I remember dark streets, a half-moon, and naught else.”
St. Alban motioned Thel to bring the lady some hot broth that was simmering on the hearth. “Then we shall take good care of you until you are ready to leave,” he said. “What is your name, my lady?”
“Avalyn du Brant.”
“Ah,” St. Alban smiled. “A lovely name for a lovely lady. Where do you live so that we may let your family know of your whereabouts?”
Avalyn Arabella de Beauchamp du Brant glanced at the two men standing over her. Now that her wits were returning, so was her inherent sense of caution. She was at the Tower; that much she knew. But she did not know these men, nor did she know their loyalties. With her family ties and the current political upheaval between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, she must be very careful. Everyone had sides in the War of the Roses, whether or not they wanted to.
The man standing to her right was of particular interest; she swore that she had seen him before, though she could not place his face. And it was quite a face; strong, angular lines and magnificent blue eyes set within weather-tanned skin. His hair was brown with flecks of gold and his powerful neck was as wide as his head. A glance at his arms told her they were absolutely enormous, as was the rest of him. She could tell just by looking at him that the man was pure muscle and power, bred for war like the mighty chargers the knights rode to battle. He was a battle machine.
No, she wasn’t comfortable divulging her background in the least. These were days of vigilance. But she was clever at masking her resistance.
“That will not be necessary,” she said. “I feel much better, in fact, and shan’t trouble you further. If you would just give me my clothes, I shall be gone.”
She attempted to toss back the mounds of covers, but St. Alban stopped her. “Please, my lady, rest a while longer. Take some broth. You’ve had a nasty evening.”
Truthfully, she was very sore. Her head hurt horribly. “Though I appreciate your concern, it is quite unnecessary. I would like to go look for my horse and return home.”
It was apparent the lady did not want to be their guest. St. Alban looked at Brogan for silent support, though he truthfully expected none. Brogan was not the type to bother himselfwith compassion or persuasion, which was the very reason why the lady’s presence here was so remarkable. Brogan concerned himself with no one unless ordered to. But in this case, he had.
“My lady,” Brogan spoke in his deep, heavy accent. “You took a serious fall. You should rest a while before returning home. I will find your horse if that will bring you comfort.”
St. Alban was both pleased and surprised; perhaps some of the manners he had been attempting to teach Brogan over the years were finally taking hold. He felt the strange pride that a father would for a son who had just accomplished something good. But the lady apparently did not share his surprise or pride. She eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
“You are not from England, Sir Knight,” she stated the obvious.
“Nay, my lady,” he replied with some edge. “And I am not a knight.”
An odd tension developed. Unsettled, and the slightest bit anxious to leave, Avalyn tossed the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“I thank you for your kind attention, but I am afraid I really must go.” Standing up, she bobbed about dangerously but managed to stay on her feet. “I must find my horse.”
Brogan took a step towards her, preparing to catch her if she fell. “It is the middle of the night, my lady. You will not find your horse in the dark.”
“Ah, but I will,” she said, uncomfortable with his closer proximity. She tried to move away from him. “I will return to the stable. I am certain he will go back there.”
Brogan wasn’t used to having his wishes contested, much less having this degree of conversation with someone. Because of his heavy accent, he rarely spoke more than a few words at any given time.
“Then I will accompany you,” he said.
