Page 4 of A Knight in Tarnished Armor

Linnet slid back the peep slot and tiptoed up the narrow stone steps of the hidden passageway. She felt in the dark for the door handle and slowly pulled it open, before she slipped out into a back castle corridor and pressed her back against the stone walls. Her heart hammered high in her throat and she felt ill and fearful at the thought of the man— the monster among men—her grandfather would force her to wed. The man must be horrid if Grandpapa had not yet even told her of him. She moved toward her chambers in the defeated manner one of the condemned walks toward the block, head down, shoulders sagging, and her hands folded tightly in front of her.

Within a few minutes four cats trailed behind her, and one, still little more than a kitten, nipped at her heels, then bit down on a scrap of her hem; Linnet dragged him as she walked, stopped and turned. "Swithun! You must stop that." She bent and picked up the kitten, stroking his gray fur.

She looked down at the growing group of cats gathered so trustingly at her feet. They stared back at her with eyes full of devotion. She almost burst into tears. She hugged Swithun closer to her chest, unconsciously protecting his small neck with her hand, and she raised her chin. "No one will harm you. No one."

She spun around and ran up the stairs toward her chamber, Swithun clutched to her and the other cats trotted along behind her. She opened her chamber door, then cast a quick glance up and down the corridor. When no one appeared, she leaned down close to the cats and whispered, "Come, sweetings. Crispin, Elmo, Vitus, Ambrose. Come inside. I have a plan."

2

As plans went, this looked to have all the makings of a poor one. Lady Linnet pulled the hood of her dark mantle forward and glanced around the dim tavern. It was loud and smelly, and almost unbearably stuffy, made so by the downdraft of a blazing fire in a sooty stone hearth and what appeared to be a veritable sea of medieval manhood raising tankards of dark yeasty ale.

For strength she took a deep breath, blanched at the stink, then stepped into the lantern light, walking with a calmness she was far from feeling toward a large table in the corner. Hearty male laughter grew louder for only a brief instant before the crowd began to part, slowly, man by man, in front of her.

From behind she could hear the suddenness of stunned silence, until the last rowdy warrior quieted and moved out of her way. Linnet faced the one man she sought. And she had her first true taste of fear.

William de Ros sat sprawled in a chair, his long legs outstretched, his worn leather boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the table edge. It was a relaxed stance, yet instinct told her he wasn't as unaware of her as he appeared.

She glanced down, only to see his battle-scarred hand slide to the jeweled hilt of a deadly dagger that was slung almost too casually from a studded belt at his waist. He wore a dark leather tunic spotted with spilt ale and his free hand gripped a frothy metal tankard. He had thighs as big around as her waist and they were taut, his black chausses showing the rippled power in his leg muscles, muscles that could hold in check the most deadly of warhorses.

She looked into his face again. And almost ran.

No emotion showed in his expression. Nothing but time-weathered experience and the scores of battles he was rumored to have fought and won.

His hair was black as the loam in the forest, and too long, almost barbaric in length. His gold earring was barbaric, in spite of the small cross that dangled from it. She wondered what God thought of it, and of him.

He had a face she would never forget. Sharp, chiseled in raw angles, and his skin was bronzed from the harsh rays of the desert sun, where legend claimed he'd spent years as a hired warrior, a battle-scarred mercenary who sold his finely honed skills to the highest bidder.

Rumored was de Ros had no crusade but avarice. No fealty to anyone, except he who held the heaviest purse. Once enough money crossed his calloused palm, the greatest fighting sword in all of England was sold to whoever had paid the high price.

And that was why she was here. Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, youngest granddaughter of the earl of Arden, intended to buy herself a warrior.

Until she actually faced this mercenary knight whose determined jaw and keen eyes showed a ruthless intelligence she'd never before seen in any man.

Perhaps now that she saw him, she thought quickly, she would not buy this particular warrior. And certainly not tonight.

Suddenly gutless, she turned. Run! She took a quick step.

He was quicker. His arm whipped out in front of her. She caught a flash of something silver and froze. His battle sword blocked her path.

She turned around slowly, then took a small step backward and stopped, feeling the wide steel blade of his sword pressed flatly against her lower back. The air left her lungs.

Not even a breath could be heard, though her heart's pounding grew louder in her ears. There must have been at least fifty men in the tavern, but at that very moment the room was utterly silent. Nothing . . . until the random snap of a green log in the fireplace crackled through air as tense as dawn on a battlefield.

Linnet watched de Ros. He paused, assurance to everyone in the room that he was in command. He laid the sword on the table as if to say, "You may run now."

She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. His expression showed he knew exactly what she was thinking. She said the first stupid thing that came to her tongue, "I've heard you can be bought."

He said nothing, but raised his tankard of ale and drank deeply.

She swallowed thickly. "I meant your sword could be bought."

He stared at her, directly, assessing her, unnervingly so.

"I meant I need to buy protection," she blurted out and winced slightly because her voice cracked.

He gave her the oddest look.

She took another breath, her mind desperate and racing. He was a man. She'd give his pride a stroke, which usually worked with her grandfather. "I wish to buy your powerful sword."