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“My name is Sir William de Wolfe,” he said with quiet authority. “Remember it, for I shall return one day to thank you properly and I do not wish to be cut down while bearing a gift.”
It took a moment, but even in the moonlight he saw her face go white and her jaw slacken.
“Sweet Jesu,’” she gasped. “Surely ye’re not the English captain they call The Wolf?”
He looked at her, sensing her surge of fear. He sighed; he did not want her to fear him. This was the one time when he wished his reputation had not preceded him.
“I simply said my name was de Wolfe, not The Wolf,” he murmured.
She looked extremely dubious. “But ye were in his command?”
He shrugged vaguely. “Now, back to what I said,” he said, shifting the subject. “I will return with a proper reward for you. Will you accept it?”
She could not be sure that the knight wasn’t, in fact, the hated Wolf, but it was truly of no matter now. It was done. Perhaps she did not want to believe he was the hated and feared devil, so she chose to believe as such. How could she live with herself if it was discovered that she had tended to the man that had killed more kinsmen that she could count? She knew she could not, so she forced herself to believe his words. Furthermore, her aunt had said The Wolf was dark and devilish. This man was uncannily beautiful in a masculine sense.
After a moment’s pause, she finally spoke. “English, if ye survive this wound then I will gladly accept yer gift.”
He smiled weakly, deep dimples in both cheeks and her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. He was indeed the most handsome man she had ever seen, even if he was English. But she had the most horrible lurking feeling that he was indeed who she feared he was. It made her want to run.
“Luck be with ye,” she said as she abruptly turned and trudged back up the hill.
William watched the figure in the billowing cloak, his pain-clouded mind lingering on the silken hair and beautiful face. He had never seen such a fine woman. Angel was certainly an apt term. If she were to be the last person he saw on earth then he would die a contented man.
He suspected that she did not believe his evasive answer but, thankfully, had made no more mention of it. The thought that she feared and hated him brought a curious tightness in his stomach that he quickly attributed to his helpless state. He did not want to admit that it might be regret.
He was growing weaker with each breath. His strength was waning as he leaned back against the tree, wondering if he would again see the light of morning. He closed his eyes for he could not keep them open, and without realizing it, his mind drifted into unconsciousness, safe and warm and dark.
CHAPTER TWO
April, Year of our Lord 1232
Langton Castle, 17.7km northwest of the English border
“What a lovely day,” Caladora exclaimed softly. “This is the first day the sun has dared show itself in months.”
Jordan eyed her cousin from behind her tapestry loom. “Bright the day, I give ye, but there is still a chill in my bones.”
“Yer always cold, Jordan.” The comment came from another cousin, Jemma. The brunette-haired lass stabbed at a pretty piece of embroidery. “Yer hands are like ice even on the warmest days.”
“Always,” Jordan concurred regretfully.
Caladora Scott, daughter of Nathaniel and Anne Scott, sat back to her needlework. Tall and lovely in a fragile way, she had the luxurious red hair with highlights of gold, a color enhanced on her older brothers Robert and Benjamin.
Jemma Scott, on the other hand, was as short and dark as Caladora was tall and fair, but she was well-proportioned and busty. She was a very pretty girl and a possessed the true fire of a Scot; with three older brothers, she had learned to take care of herself. Her father Matthew was forever chiding his daughter on the true qualities of a lady, lest he never marry her off, but her mother Lilith had given up lecturing Jemma a long time ago.
Jemma would marry in due time, her mother knew, but her husband would have to possess the patience of Job and the strength of Samson to handle her. She had been betrothed shortly after birth to a young lad from the McKean clan; however, the lad had died at five years of age and Matthew was reluctant to promise her again due to her wild nature. No man wanted to tame the wild horse.
“Isn’t it wonderful that the English have finally come to their senses and have given us a few months of peace?” Caladora sighed, distracting the others from their wandering thoughts.
Jordan shrugged, biting at her lip in concentration. “We shall see how long it lasts. I dunna trust the English.”
“And what of the messenger that arrived yesterday?” Jemma wanted to know. “My father said he came from the English king himself.”
Jordan scowled. “Pah. He was probably sent here to demand our unconditional surrender.”
“Jordi, ye are a cynical soul,” Caladora said.
“ ’Tis my right to be cynical,” Jordan replied. “I have seen war and death by the English for nigh twenty years now. I canna trust them.”
