Page 102 of The Daughters of Avalon
Rosalynde blinked. “I?—”
His lips curved into a roguish grin. “Perhaps the horse got your tongue?”
Rosalynde blinked, completely at a loss for words. For this very occasion, she’d had an entire fabrication prepared, but at the instant, all thought fled her head.
Fortunately, his eyes never once alit upon hergrimoire, so he mustn’t have been sent by her mother. If so, he’d have seized the book by now and probably killed her long before she’d chanced to open her eyes. Repairing the veil with a hand, Rosalynde studied him as he watched her. And still, he cocked his head as though awaiting some response.
Behind him, a movement caught her attention, and her eyes widened fearfully as she caught sight of yet another man—a giant, with arms as big as trunks and a body like an ox.
“Don’t worry about him,” the man declared. “My brother is harmless.”
The giant rose to his full height and snarled, and Rosalynde hugged her book tighter, not entirely certain he spoke true. His “brother” was scowling at her as though he’d like to rip her limb from limb. It was all she could do not to run.
“I—” Her gaze returned to the kneeling man, who, by now, had still made no move to rise, and, in fact, he put an elbow to his knee and leaned forward, staring rudely.
His voice was smooth as honey. “Tell me, Sister, is that—” He pointed to the mare. “Your horse?” He lifted his finely-hewn chin, and Rosalynde had a terrible sense that his question was a trap. If she answered in the affirmative, he would assign hisharmlessbrother to do his worst.
“Not precisely,” she said, with a lift of her chin, and realizing a nun would never affect such hubris, she lowered her gaze.
Whatever chimera Gilesthought he’d imagined was gone. It was, perhaps, no more than a trick of the light.
Weary as he was after the long night’s journey, he raked a hand through his hair, shaking off his fatigue.
Scarcely dressed for the weather, this woman stood shivering, clutching her book with a look of desperation that called to his heart. Her countenance was indisputably matronly, and this was meant to be kind. She had jowls, like a hound, and her nose was crooked, as though it had been broken many times. Much to his dismay, he was relieved when she repaired the veil, but it wasn’t like him to be so ill-affected by anyone’s appearance, and therefore, even before she began her woeful tale, he suffered the grave misfortune of feeling sorry for her, and favorably predisposed to helping if he could. “I hired a guide in London town,” she was quick to explain. “Once we were on the road, he beset me and stole my purse.” She shook her head, jowls jiggling as she pressed the tome to her breast. “I was afraid… so I hid.”
Who in God’s name would burgle a poor nun? Frowning, Giles peered back at Wilhelm, who was scowling now as well, although perhaps he was more offended that Giles would have called him harmless.
“A guide, you say?”
Wilhelm said naught, but he lifted his brow, as though to challenge Giles. But, what, in God’s name would he have Giles do? Leave the poor woman distraught? She was alone, in treacherous woods reputed to be full of brigands.
“Aye, sir,” she said.
“You paid him? How much?”
The nun sighed despondently. “I had five gold marks. He took it all but left me the mare.”
Wilhelm gave a low whistle and Giles shook his head.
“Good Sister. Did no one e’er advise ye ne’er to travel with so much gold, especially through these parts?”
The woman straightened to her full height—not at all formidable, though her demeanor would have him believe she thought otherwise.
“Aye, sir, and yet, where do you suppose I should have left my purse?” She looked as though she might weep, even with the impertinent tilt of her head. “I left home with all I owned, to offer my worth to God.”
Giles blew out a sigh. “Well… I suppose it will have to be God’s score to settle,” he said. “But I’m sorry to inform you that the mare is notyours. She is mine.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Yours?”
“Aye, she’s mine. So, it seems, yourguideburgled me as well, and if God does not settle the score, I may yet tend to him myself…. only the fool will have to stand in line.”
“Well!” She exclaimed, with as much animus as Wilhelm was displaying. “That fish paste!”
Giles found himself chortling. “What is your name?”
“Rosalynde.”
“Aye, well, Sister Rosalynde, you mustn’t fret,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “We’ll not leave you stranded. Only tell me, where is it do you wish to go?”
