Heart of the Hunter Page 10

  "This is wonderful," she said when he came back and seated himself across from her at the makeshift table. Braedon took a large bite of the meat pie, then sopped up some of the gravy with a chunk of bread. He seemed to forget his irritation with her and focused instead on enjoying his meal. He sat back and sighed with pleasure, a momentary show of pure emotion that shocked Ariana. "It's a very good meat pie," she said, letting her own guard down a notch.

  "Aye, the best," he agreed. "England can never match France when it comes to good food. We had a cook in Amiens whose roasted pheasant would make you weep."

  "Is that where you're from--Amiens?"

  He cocked his head at her, a look of hesitancy coming over his sharp-hewn features. His dark brows knit for a moment, but then he relented with a shrug. "Yes, I was born there."

  "Is it very far from Rouen?"

  "Not that far. Why?"

  Ariana gave a little shrug. "Perhaps you will pay a visit your kin after we part company in Rouen." She did not expect him to laugh at the idea. "What? Why is that amusing?"

  "There is nothing for me in Amiens, demoiselle. It was the place of my birth, nothing more."

  "Have you no family there? Not your parents or siblings?"

  "No." He considered for a moment, then shook his head. "In truth, I don't know. I left Amiens to squire for a minor lord in Paris when I was ten years old. Later, I took my skills to England to carve out my own life. I never went back."

  Ariana reached for her cup of ale, frowning. "Didn't you miss home?"

  "No."

  She looked at him in question as she brought the cup to her lips, curious at the note of regret she thought she heard beneath his cool detachment. "You've never gone back in all this time?"

  Light from the fire danced on the knife-edge plane of his cheek as he gave her a dismissive tilt of his chin. "My father and I did not get on well together."

  "Why not?"

  "I suppose because I tried to kill him."

  Ariana stilled suddenly, unsure what to make of his glib remark. "You're jesting."

  But there was no humor in his eyes. No air of levity in his matter-of-fact tone, not even that phantom trace of regret she swore she had detected there a moment before. He looked at her with utter frankness, and Ariana felt a sniggle of fear worm up her spine. Had he really thought to harm his own sire? It was inconceivable to her, the sort of black-hearted passion that would have to inspire such an act.

  Perhaps, warned her conscience, the less she knew about Braedon and whatever demons might haunt him, the better. She did not need to delve into the sort of hatred--or madness--that drove him. Still, she found herself drawn to the bleakness of his gaze, wondering if anyone had ever tried to reach out to him before. Wondering if, in some vulnerable corner of his heart, he might need someone to try.

  She set her cup down very carefully, unable to look away from his unflinching, steel-cold gaze. "What happened between your father and you, Braedon?"

  He took a bite of his meat pie, chewing slowly, thoughtfully, then he washed it down with a drink of ale. "We had an argument." He shrugged, as if refusing to revisit old memories. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter."

  Ariana regarded him gently, accepting that he would not share his shame with her, but admitting to herself that she was never one to leave questions unanswered. As rules were meant to be followed, puzzles were meant to be solved. And the man sitting beside her was a mystery too intriguing to let lie. "Is that what happened to you?" she asked gingerly. "Is that how you got your scar?"

  Her question seemed to surprise him, as though lost in his thoughts, he had forgotten about the mark that savaged one side of his face. His hand came up, long fingers skating over the jagged, silvery welt. "This," he said, resuming his air of nonchalance. "Nay, lady, this was not my father's doing. I came by this badge elsewise."

  "How did you get it?"

  "Through a gross error in judgment." He looked at her as he said it, then dropped his hand to reach for his cup of ale. "As I recall, demoiselle, I was the one asking questions of you."

  Ariana lifted her shoulder. "And I answered them."

  "Ah. Right," he drawled, skepticism lacing his voice. "You fed me a sketchy tale of a sainted brother, whom you scarcely knew for all his absence from your life. A brother who supposedly summoned you to him a half a world away, and you set out to oblige him because you feared he might be suffering from a headcold or temporary malnourishment." Braedon leaned back, bracing himself on one elbow. "Your Clairmont guardsman must have been the very embodiment of understanding for him to be willing to lay down his life to protect you in so foolish a quest."

  Ariana stared helplessly at him from within the snare of her self-spun trap, her heart clenching in guilt at the mention of James. She fought back a prickle of sorrow, still blaming herself for the knight's death. She should never have allowed him to escort her to London, although it would have taken a midnight escape for her to have ridden out of Clairmont's gates without the old guard at her side. But still, she regretted having involved him, as she wished she hadn't been forced to involve Braedon insofar as she had already.

  Although she hadn't stretched the truth too far, Braedon had not believed a word of what she'd told him--a fact that hardly surprised her. He had been questioning her veracity from the moment fate thrust them together on the docks at Queenhithe. She did not expect he would stop questioning her until she had bared every secret she held to its naked core. And that, she simply could not afford to do.

  Ariana dipped her spoon into the thick gravy of her meat pie, idly stirring the juice-rich chunks of venison and beef as she considered the strange course upon which she had set sail.

  "Finish your sup, demoiselle," Braedon instructed her knowingly. "Perhaps you'll find a more palatable tale at the bottom of your trencher."

  They ate in guarded silence, Ariana nibbling nervously, too discomfited now to enjoy the hearty meal, while Braedon wolfed down his pie and root vegetables like a growing youth without a care in the world. The bath arrived just as they were finishing up, an interruption no less welcome than the food had been about an hour before.

  Two young lads carried in the big, padded wooden tub, one with a supply of folded linen towels tucked under his gangly arm. The boys were followed by four maids, each carrying a bucket of steaming water in hand. Expedient and polite, the servants filled the tub and left, the last maid offering to carry down the ravaged food tray as she departed.

  "Give them a few coins for their trouble," Braedon said, tossing his purse to Ariana from across the room. She dug into the small bag and withdrew a couple of silver pennies. The girl's face lit up at the gift and she bobbed an awkward little curtsy with her murmured thanks. Ariana closed the door and turned around to face Braedon. She opened her mouth to comment on something, but just what she'd meant to say flew out of her head like a dove spooked from its roost in the eaves.

  Without a care for modesty--hers or his own--Braedon stood near the steaming tub of water and shed his tunic. His leather gambeson was already beside him on the floor, removed evidently while Ariana was distracted by the departing maids. He paid her discomfiture no mind as he drew his dagger from its sheath on his hip and slipped the slim blade beneath one of the knots in his bandage. He cut each one in turn, then unwrapped the soiled linen from the wound on his arm and tossed the rags into the fire.

  Ariana knew that propriety demanded she avert her gaze from his unclothed chest and torso, but she could not help looking at him. Twice in nearly as many days she had seen him in some state of undress. She should be scandalized beyond toleration, not peering surreptitiously at the hard muscle that knotted like thick ropes in his arms and shoulders. His skin looked smooth in the firelight, gilded a deep, golden-bronze. She watched in unwilling fascination as he moved, his lean, strong fingers grabbing the ends of his ruined tunic and tearing it in two. He rent the cleanest section in half once more, then used his dagger to slice the swatch into several long, th
in strips. One of the strips he plunged into the bathwater, then squeezed out over his wound to cleanse it. Bloodied water dripped from his arm into the rushes on the floor. Ariana saw him grimace as the hot water washed over the deep, angry cut.

  "I'm sorry you were injured," she told him from across the room. "You saved my life with Monsieur Ferrand and his men, and I never did properly thank you."

  He shrugged off her gratitude and continued to work on his arm. He had sponged away most of the old blood and was now trying to wrap one of the bandages around it, pressing his elbow to his chest to hold the errant tail of the binding while he worked to wrap the length of it around his arm. The anchored end kept slipping out of its hold. After his second muttered curse, Ariana pushed aside her fear and mistrust of him and crossed the room to take the bandage from his hands.

  He merely glanced at her when she tipped her face up at him in silent command. "You'll be at this all night unless you have some help."

  She set the bandages aside, then rewet the cloth and gave the wound another cleansing, taking care to blot tenderly as she inspected the laceration. Braedon's gaze was fixed on her the whole time; she felt the heat of it as surely as if he'd been physically touching her. The notion unsettled her, made her fingers tremble slightly as she retrieved a strip of bandage from his outstretched hand. The silence was like a weight between them, filled with awareness of the incongruous intimacy present in the tiny chamber. Ariana felt compelled to fill the silence, hoping it would dispel some of her awkwardness.

  "When I was a child," she began, speaking softly as she wrapped the clean strip of bandage around Braedon's arm, "one of our cats had a litter of kittens in the buttery off the kitchens. We kept a few around to discourage vermin, but my father refused to allow them in the keep. He had his hunting dogs--large, mean beasts that terrified me nigh to death. I so wanted a kitten. I tried to plead with him, as children are liable to do, but he wouldn't hear of it."

  Braedon grunted, his gaze fixed on her fingers as she worked the bandages, but distant, as though his thoughts tugged him toward his own memories, toward another place and time. "Let me guess. You decided to keep one anyway?"

  "No," she denied quickly. "I couldn't. I didn't dare disobey my father. When the mother cat died a few weeks later and left her kittens helpless, I took it upon myself to take care of them. Twice a day--more than that, when I could manage it--I sneaked down to the buttery with a cup of cream and whatever scraps of meat I could smuggle from the table to feed them. On one of those excursions, Cook happened by the storeroom and noticed the door was ajar. Before I could cry out that I was there, he slammed it shut and bolted it from outside. I beat on that door until my hands ached, but it was no use. I was trapped."

  "For how long?"

  Ariana's brows knit, remembering the pitch darkness of the storeroom, feeling the coldness of the hours she spent behind that heavy door, alone and crying, unable to see even her own hand in front of her face for the complete lack of light. And there were the rats. She shuddered, still able to feel the light trace of animal footsteps pattering beneath the hem of her skirt, over the tops of her light leather slippers. She hadn't known if they were rats or kittens crawling on her, so she dared not kick anything away. Instead she stood in fright the whole time, beating on the door and desperate to be let out into the light.

  "I was locked in there for two days." Two days, but the awful terror of the incident revisited her even now, some ten years later. She could hardly enter an unlit chamber without feeling a wash of dread sweep over her. Sometimes, in the dark, her remembered fear was so strong, it robbed her of her breath.

  "Good God," Braedon murmured. "Did no one wonder where you were all that time?"

  "No. No one noticed." She schooled her face to stillness, trying not to wince under the sting of her humiliating admission. "My mother was already passed away, and my father...well, my father was a busy man. He was occupied with his own matters. I expect I could have been missing a week before he would have noticed anything amiss."

  Braedon said nothing, merely watched her with an intensity that made her want to bite off her tongue. Why had she shared this humiliation with him? she wondered helplessly in the moments of silence that followed. She had never told a soul about it before, not even her small circle of friends at Clairmont. They'd all felt sorry for her that she had no mother, but she couldn't bear to admit that she'd had no father, either. She was as good as invisible at Clairmont, no matter how hard she tried to be useful and relied upon. To be needed.

  It was a bitter pain she carried, yet for reasons she could not comprehend, here she was, baring her soul to this hard man, a veritable stranger. Would he laugh in dismissal, as her father had, when he learned of her foolery? She would perish on the spot if Braedon mocked her.

  Eager to avoid it, she gave a little wave of her hand and picked up the last of the bandages. "No harm was done, and I learned my lesson. Kenrick was the one who found me. He was so angry he was shaking, and he scolded me quite thoroughly for making him search the castle high and low for most of the day. I think he wanted to throttle me when he pulled open the storeroom door and saw me standing there."

  She laughed, but it was something of a forced sound, and Braedon did not so much as smile. "You truly would do anything for him, wouldn't you?"

  Ariana nodded resolutely. "Yes, I would."

  His gaze on hers, gray eyes as soft as they were thoughtful, he slowly lifted his other hand and traced the line of her cheek with a gentle caress. "Now that, demoiselle, I do believe."

  His touch lingered, as did his gaze. His hand was warm against her skin, the cradle of his palm cupping her jaw line, his thumb idly smoothing along the slope of her cheek. He paused there for an indeterminate time, sending Ariana's heart into an anxious flutter as she recalled their kiss on the boat. She should back away now. She should turn out of his unbidden caress at once. She meant to, but before she could summon the will to do so, Braedon's hand slowly fell away.

  With no apology or excuse for his boldness, he stepped back a pace and retrieved his dagger from where he'd set it on the edge of the tub. Sheathing the slender blade, he bent for his satchel of belongings. He dug through the pack and withdrew another tunic, this one dyed a deep earthy brown. He donned it somewhat hastily while Ariana picked up the remaining supplies. "The bath is yours, if you want it, my lady. You should have ample time to partake of it while I'm gone."

  "Gone?" Ariana glanced up sharply. "Where are you going?"

  "I must see the sail maker about repairs."

  "Oh," she replied, knowing she should be relieved that he was leaving her to her peace, even if it would be only for a short while. "How long do you think it will take before we can leave Calais and go on to Honfleur?"

  "The repairs to the sail won't take too long, I expect. But it's the weather that will cause the delays. If the storm keeps up, no vessels will be safe to leave port for a week or more."

  A week? A sudden swell of panic climbed into Ariana's throat. "But that's too long! I can't possibly wait that long."

  Braedon's dark, considering look silenced her, but not before her worry had betrayed her to him once more. He strode toward her, that keen gaze rooted on hers, cornering her as surely as a wolf would run down a hare. "Don't think I'm unaware that you haven't told me everything, Ariana. Keep your childish loyalty to your kin. Keep your secrets, and you can take all of it with you, by yourself, to Rouen. You have until I return to decide how we proceed."

  Chapter 7

  Braedon had been prepared for more hedging and evasion on Ariana's part. He expected more vehement insistence that she was hiding nothing from him. To her credit, she had done neither, merely watched him in considering silence as he slung his mantle over his shoulders and left her alone at the inn. He felt the daggers of her ire jabbing at his skull for some time after he quit the place and walked the Calais streets toward the sail maker’s shop.

  As much as Ariana needed him, she resented him. Th
at much was clear.

  And why shouldn't she? He hadn't made it easy for her. The way he saw it, he had no reason to. He was a man accustomed to being on his own, without the responsibilities of kin or clan. His life was simple and orderly now. The way he preferred it. The very last thing he wanted was to become any further entangled with a headstrong woman like Ariana of Clairmont on her dubious quest to tend her sainted brother.

  If he were smart, he'd repair his grounded boat and leave port as soon as possible. He'd forget the past two days had happened, forget she was waiting for him at the inn, and simply go. Divest himself of the obligation entirely.

  Aye, that was what he should do. Instead, he was standing in the musty heat of the sail maker’s shop, thinking about everything Ariana had told him, and wondering at all she hadn't said. And he nursed an irksome, continuing measure of desire for the woman that plagued him all the while he listened with half interest as the ancient craftsman inspected the torn sail and described in meticulous detail the work to be done.

  "How long will it take to complete the repairs?" he asked, loath to cut the proud old man off, but in no mind to tarry much longer in the stuffy shop. By his estimation, he had been gone nearly an hour already. If his curiosity over Ariana was not enough to lure him back to the inn, a sudden nagging sense of foreboding certainly was.

  "In a hurry to leave Calais already, are you?" The white-haired sail maker chuckled as he set down his ruler and chalk. His rheumy gaze traveled Braedon's face, flicking with only the mildest interest at the cruel line of his scar. "Where do you go that you are so impatient to travel in this terrible, soupy weather?"

  Although the old man gave him no reason to mistrust him, Braedon offered him a lie. "Cherbourg," he said, naming a fishing port several miles away from his intended destination of Honfleur. "I have work waiting for me there."