Page 6 of A Knight in Tarnished Armor

She watched him uneasily.

"Come." He held his hand out for her. It was a hard hand, calloused from the grip of a sword handle and crossed with thin and ragged white scars. "We will speak in private."

Suspicious, she watched his expression again and saw an unexpected gentleness. There was something more, something that told her he carried a bit of his own concern. With a sudden realization she knew he was concerned that she would not willingly go with him.

As she digested that, he covered his vulnerability quickly with the same cold and hard look he'd first given her. And she stood there looking at this barbaric warrior who had only moments before frightened the very breath from her.

She was struck by something familiar about his manner. She watched him a moment longer before she understood what it was. De Ros was like a wounded animal that attacks in fear, strikes out and fights viciously when cornered because he is acutely aware that he can be so easily conquered.

In that one instant, she understood him and her fear waned away. She placed her hand in his and slowly raised her head to look him in the eyes.

His face was unreadable as he led her through the crowd toward the opposite side of the tavern. She was aware of little but the feel of his hand about hers. He held her hand with a gentle firmness. She could feel the hard calluses of his palm against hers and she could feel his warmth. Somehow that, too, made him seem more human.

He stopped in front of a thick oaken door near the rear of the tavern. She hesitated for a heartbeat. He looked back at her before he gave a short bark of wry laughter as he opened the door. "I assure you, my lady, this is not the door to hell."

She looked into his face and read the challenge there. She took a deep breath and a step. "I know your words are meant to amuse, sir, but," she raised her chin as she passed him, "there is some element of truth in every jest."

He said nothing as he followed her inside, but hung her cloak on a peg and gestured for her to sit in one of the large chairs that flanked another smaller fireplace. She sat and arranged her skirts in the silence, then looked around the room, trying to choose her words more carefully than she had earlier.

He sank into the other chair and watched her through narrowed eyes, his jaw tense, his hands stiffer than before.

"I am Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, and I need safe conduct to the convent at Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?" He wasn't looking at her. But instead, he sat rubbing a finger over his lips and staring at the opposite wall.

"Tomorrow my grandfather will leave for a week. ‘Twill be the only chance I shall have to leave."

"The convent is near the north borders."

"Yes."

"The journey will take at least six days "

She stared at her folded hands. "I know."

He was silent for what seemed like a very long time, then he leaned back in the chair and pinned her with a hard stare. "Why?"

She looked at him then and said, "Why? Because I asked."

He frowned. "Asked what?"

"How long the journey was."

He eyed her for the longest time, strangely, as if she had two heads. He looked away and cleared his throat. When he looked back he seemed to be chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "I'll try this again. Why, my lady, do you wish to go to the convent?"

"Because I'm being forced to wed," she paused, then sighed and hung her head miserably, "to the horrid Baron Warbrooke."

He said nothing.

She looked up and added, "He kills women."

Silence.

"With his bare hands. His hairy hands."

Still he said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

She gripped the arms of the chair and leaned closer "He has cloven feet. Can you imagine?"