Chapter 14

"All of them are still alive," Armand said in Italian. He dragged another soldier across the campsite by his collar and propped the man into a seated position against a tree. The soldier roused a little and put his hands up as if to push Armand away. Armand simply slipped the loop of a leather ribbon around one of the man's wrists. The ribbon was actually part of a set of reins, one of many sets they had dismantled to use as bindings to tie up Faulke's men. Armand wrapped the rein around the tree, and then tied the end to the man's other wrist. The soldier's head slumped forward onto his chest. "Shall we take their horses with us?"

"Aye," Dante answered. He looked toward Avalene, where she lay sprawled on the ground near one of the campfires. Rami held her head in his lap and stroked her forehead, his movements gentle, as if he were tending to an injury. Dante had not allowed himself to touch her yet, but he knew she was not injured. The knowledge did little to calm his fury. "Rami, go cut the girth on each saddle where it cannot be easily repaired. After you are done, help Oliver string their horses on lunge lines."

"Aye, my lord." Rami gently laid Avalene's head on one of the furs he had dragged over from the lean-to, then rose and skipped off to carry out Dante's order.

"I will need you to take charge of some of their horses," he told Rami. "Can you handle six or eight on a line?"

Rami grinned, clearly delighted to be given a man's job. "Aye, my lord!"

Dante surveyed the campsite. Most of the soldiers had been hog-tied with their own reins, their arms bound behind their backs and their legs bent at the knee so their ankles could be tied to their wrists, rendering them completely helpless. A few others, Faulke and his cousin included, had been tied to trees. Fewer still had roused too easily from the effects of the poison so they had been gagged as well as tied to ensure their comrades stayed unconscious as long as possible.

Everything went so smoothly that he was almost disappointed. A good fight would have been preferable. He was ready to spill a little blood.

He walked over to the tree where they had tied Faulke Segrave and stared down at his enemy. Only long years of mental discipline had kept him in the shadows at Segrave's camp. A good hunter did not rush into a den of lions unprepared, and Dante was a very good hunter. There was little question that Segrave would be a formidable opponent in a fair fight, but Dante had never played fair and Segrave was now at his feet, at his mercy.

Here was the blood he would most like to spill, especially after he had watched Faulke put his hands on Avalene. His reactions to Segrave's impersonal touches were worrisome, to say the least. Strong emotions were never good for a man in his position, and what Segrave had made him feel went far beyond jealousy. Rage would be a more apt description, but even that word sounded too tame, too harmless for the fury that had burned through him when Segrave had lifted Avalene into his arms, when he dared speak to her of bearing his children. His blood was far from cooled, but seeing Segrave bound and helpless appeased his temper and allowed him to once again view his rival through somewhat dispassionate eyes.

Segrave's head had fallen forward, his breathing cluttered occasionally by a soft snore. Instinct told Dante the most obvious solution to this problem was to slit the throat of every man wearing Segrave colors. Unfortunately, he had sworn that he would not harm Faulke. That meant his men enjoyed the same immunity. Besides which, murdering his men was not the way to gain Faulke's cooperation concerning Avalene. Given all he had learned that day, it would take a miracle to talk Segrave out of his determination to marry her.

He had been hiding close enough to the lean-to that he had been able to overhear almost all of the conversations between Faulke and Avalene. It always amazed him how close he could get to his enemy undetected when they thought themselves safe because of sheer numbers, or because they were within their own walls, or within their own camp. Oh, they would rouse to a full-on attack quickly enough, but it never seemed to occur to anyone that a lone man with a talent for stealth could get almost as close as he wished, especially after he liberated a Segrave surcoat and cloak from one of the men sent to hunt for firewood.

He had overheard enough to know that Faulke was dead set on the marriage, and although the very idea turned his stomach, Dante couldn't find fault with his reasons. For a man in Segrave's position, a child with Avalene would ensure the loyalty of every Welshman in his territory. Still, Avalene did not sound as pleased about the marriage as she had just a few days ago. Was it because Segrave had all but announced that she would be marrying a traitor, which meant she would be branded a traitor as well?

There was also Faulke's belief that the king intended to imprison Avalene in the Tower. The theory was plausible, close enough to the truth that Avalene probably believed it as well. Perhaps she would appreciate the opportunity to make a life for herself in a convent. Or would she see it as another form of imprisonment? Either way, her opinions didn't really matter. The convent was the only choice left to her, since there was no longer any possibility that she would become his mistress.

His fists moved reflexively as he looked down upon the man responsible for taking away that last prospect, still frustrated that the only thing he could do to punish Segrave was take Avalene away from him and make sure he would never again touch her. Now the only question was would she be grateful for her latest rescue?

At the very least, she should be happy that he had saved her from marriage to a traitor, as well as a man so clearly unsuited for her. He had noticed the way she flinched each time Segrave touched her. Aye, she would be much happier in a convent.

Why her happiness should matter to him, he didn't know. He was simply doing what he had pledged to do, although he no longer had a pleasurable reward to look forward to. Her distaste for Segrave would look paltry next to her terror when she realized he had recaptured her. Likely she would scream whenever he tried to touch her in the most innocent of ways. All because of one man's interference.

Faulke Segrave should consider himself the luckiest man in England to still be alive.

He knelt down next to Segrave, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his rival's head back. Faulke's eyes opened but it was obvious he had trouble bringing anything into focus.

"Can you hear me, Segrave?"

Faulke made a lunge against his restraints with a sudden speed and ferocity that surprised Dante. "I'll kill you!"

"You can try, but first you must find me," Dante said. Faulke's eyes closed, so he slapped the man's face to bring him around again. He wasn't gentle. "Listen to what I have to say, Segrave. You know that we are bound for London. Do you intend to follow us all the way to the city?"

"Kill you. London," Faulke muttered.

"Aye, London," Dante said agreeably. "We are bound for London, and that is where you and I will finish our business. There is a place in Southwark called the Ox Head Inn. Have you heard of it?"

Faulke's struggles to comprehend Dante's words were readily apparent. His head bobbed and weaved, but he carefully watched Dante's mouth. "London."

"Southwark," Dante clarified. "The Ox Head Inn. Now, repeat what I have just told you."

"Kill you!" Faulke said with more feeling. "London!"

"Meet me at the Ox Head Inn at Southwark," Dante repeated, without any real conviction that Faulke would remember this conversation. He was even more skeptical as Faulke showed no reaction when Dante drew his dagger.

Rather than threaten Faulke, he began to scratch a pattern into one of the leather bracers that covered Faulke's forearms, a crude but recognizable symbol for an ox. Unfortunately, Faulke's arms were bound behind him so he couldn't point out the markings and it would only antagonize the man if he carved the symbol someplace more noticeable, such as his thigh. It was a tempting thought, but when he had finished the pattern on the bracer, he carved the same symbol deep into the dirt next to him and made certain Faulke saw it. "The Ox Head Inn. Southwark. The day after you reach London, I will be there at midday. Do you understand?"

Faulke looked from the symbol to Dante's face, but the movement seemed to once again throw his focus off balance. "Aye."

"You can go to sleep now," Dante told him. His spies would let him know when Faulke entered the city. He would send a street urchin to deliver the same message to Faulke, just to be certain. "I will be waiting for you at the Ox Head Inn. There is nothing else for you to do now but sleep."

Faulke wanted to argue with him, that much was apparent. In the end, his chin eventually returned to his chest and his eyes drifted closed.

"Everything is ready, my lord."

Dante looked up to see Rami peering over his shoulder at Segrave.

"All of the men are tied and those who are alert are gagged," the boy said. "The girths are cut and their horses are on three lunge lines. Are we really going to leave them in the wilderness without horses?"

"We will leave their horses tethered on the road a day's walk from here," Dante said. "The men will likely free themselves by morning. Between searching for their horses and repairing their saddles, 'tis doubtful they will cause us any additional trouble on our journey. Now, go mount up and take your line of horses from Oliver."

"Aye, my lord."

Dante returned to Avalene, eyeing his own men as he walked. They would have their hands full until they rid themselves of Segrave's horses. Already the animals were jostling each other, unaccustomed to being herded so tightly together. He could tell it was a challenge for Oliver and Armand to control their own mounts as well as their lunge lines, but Rami seemed to have no problem with his line of animals. Still, they needed to move quickly.

He spared a quick glance at Avalene's pale face before he hefted her over one shoulder like a sack of grain. It was a challenge, but he managed to mount his own horse with his burden and then he settled her more comfortably in his arms. He turned his horse away from Segrave's camp and finally let himself enjoy the familiar feel of her. He pressed his nose against her temple and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. His body reacted predictably, but this would be the last time he felt the yielding warmth and softness of her body in his arms. When she awoke, she would no longer look at him with wonderment shining in her eyes. Segrave's words made certain she was lost to him. The loss was inevitable. Hadn't he always known that this innocent creature was never truly meant for a monster like him?

Even his imagined future with her had been a short-lived one, a future that would have lasted only as long as it took her to see the darkness in his soul and realize he was not the honorable, chivalrous Sir Percival who would take her to her family in Wales. Instead she would see a liar and thief who would use her trust and abuse her innocence.

On the other hand, he could not imagine forcing her from his life in just a few short weeks. She was everything he wanted, and everything he would never have. He knew with a certainty that defied logic that even if he lived to a very old age, he would never find another woman like her.

He studied her face in the fading light from the campfires, memorizing her peaceful features. His heart had been a cold stone for longer than he could remember. There had been no room in his life for tender emotions, yet somehow she had reached past his barriers, brought light into the darkest corners of his soul. Just yesterday morn he had counted the long weeks until they reached Venice the way a miser counted his gold. Now they stretched out before him as a trial of endurance, the penance he must pay for daring to dream that she would be his, even for a little while.

Mordecai's last words in the Tower came to him unbidden. Marriage or murder, mistress or nun, the girl is yours to do with as you wish once Segrave is convinced his marriage prospects lie elsewhere . Marriage and mistress were off the table. What if he was unable to convince Segrave to relinquish his claim to her? Would the convent also become an impossible future for her? That left only one other possibility. If Mordecai gave the order, could he end her life?

The answer should be obvious and immediate. He had never hesitated in his duty, no matter his opinion of a situation. His faith in Mordecai's strange abilities was absolute; he had seen the proof of it too many times to have any doubts. It was Mordecai's abilities that had shaped Dante's life in England and guaranteed his success in his quest for vengeance. In every sense of the word, he owed Mordecai his life. His willingness to destroy one innocent girl should not even be a question in his mind and yet it echoed there incessantly. Can you kill her?

He knew the answer. Something inside him had changed when he met her, every goal and objective in his life revised to include her. He would kill anyone who tried to harm her. Given Mordecai's prediction, his own death might be counted among that number.

…it is imperative she remain alive until you convince Faulke Segrave to choose the English bride. Your own fate does not change until that time. Only then will you have a choice of what to do with the girl .

Who was the English bride?

He was suddenly anxious to be back in London, to meet with Mordecai again and get answers to the questions he should have asked in the first place. Somehow Segrave must be convinced. He would not think of Avalene's future again or torture himself with doubts until Mordecai shed more light on the situation. If he could not have her, he would make certain a convent would.

He turned his thoughts to the immediate task of putting more miles behind them. He would not risk another meeting with Segrave until he could be certain Avalene was safe. And that led back to thoughts of her constant presence in his life until they reached Italy. His arms ached already with emptiness and she was still in them. It would be torture to see her every day and yet know she was forever beyond his reach.

The beast inside him whispered sinister suggestions in his ear, ever selfish, ever plotting. Where would be the harm in drugging her again if the yearning to hold her this way became too unbearable over the weeks ahead? She would never remember if he stole a few kisses. He could kiss her now and she wouldn't remember. He could—

She began to stir in his arms and her eyes fluttered open, as if she had heard his dark thoughts. "Sir Percival?"

Her words were slurred from the effects of the poison and he knew that she was no more alert than Faulke and his men. She would remember nothing of this conversation, but it was time to own up to the truth. Let her see him for what he was.

"Nay, my lady." He gave her a grim look. "Faulke Segrave guessed correctly. I am the King's Assassin."

It was the sunlight that awakened Avalene, the light so bright behind her eyelids that she lifted her hands to shade her face…at least, she tried to lift her hands but for some reason they wouldn't cooperate. Strangely enough, that did not alarm her. She felt as if she were floating along the edges of a dream. There were voices nearby, familiar voices, those of a boy and a man. Rami and Sir Percival. She couldn't understand the words, and then realized they were speaking in Italian. She turned her head and tried to drift deeper into the dream, but something kept pushing against her shoulder.

"Lady. Lady." The insistent nudging continued. "E 'ora di svegliarsi."

She opened her eyes to the blinding sunlight, then quickly closed them again and groaned. "Rami?"

"Sì, signora."

The sunlight felt warm on her face, stirred by a breeze that also set leaves to rustling, and she could smell crushed grass as well as the damp earth. It was the middle of the day and she was lying on the ground, but why? Her mind felt as sluggish as her body. She wanted nothing more than to roll over and continue to sleep, but then fragments of memories came back to her in a sudden rush. Faulke Segrave. Sir Percival. Assassin.

Her eyes flew open and her hands worked this time as she cupped them over her forehead to shield her eyes from the sunlight. "What…where am I?"

"Mi dispiace, non capisco."

She tried to think of the right Italian words but failed. Given the trouble she was having speaking her own language, translations into Italian were beyond her at the moment. Instead she concentrated on taking deep, cleansing breaths. Something was wrong with her. Her limbs felt weighted with lead and her thoughts refused to take focus. Rami made matters worse by tugging on her arms in an obvious attempt to make her sit up.

She finally gave in to his prodding and managed to get herself upright with his assistance, although a wave of dizziness made her thankful she had not tried to stand. At the same time, a shooting pain took up residence between her temples.

"Good. You are awake."

That voice she would know anywhere, the way its deep timbre set her pulse to racing. And yet her pulse no longer fluttered with giddy desire, but a healthy dose of fear. Bits and pieces of the day she had spent with Faulke Segrave were coming back to her. Sir Percival was not Sir Percival. She struggled to gather her scattered wits.

"W-what happened?"

"You were poisoned."

"W-what?" She tried to look up at him, but the sun sat directly over his shoulder. The blinding rays were more than her head could tolerate and she swiftly lowered her gaze again. Aside from a splitting headache, her stomach protested each abrupt movement and she put one hand over her mouth, hoping that would quell the feeling.

"You were poisoned," he repeated. "I put a potion in the cook pots."

She recalled all the men who had also eaten from those poisoned pots. Were they dead? Why was she still alive? She rubbed her temple with her free hand and tried to make sense of the news.

"Rami, occuparsi di cavalli," he said. After the boy moved away from them, he asked, "Do you feel sick?"

She nodded and then he, too, walked away.

So much for his consideration, she thought, although she should have known there would be no more kindness from him. He was no longer her knight to command, or her lover to seduce. He was a man feared throughout England for his ability to murder anyone, anywhere, at any time. And she was his prisoner to do with as he pleased.

That thought should terrify her. Instead she felt strangely calm. Aye, there was a good measure of fear, but not panic. It was as if she were watching all of this happen to someone else. She supposed it was the poison that had dulled her senses. For now she was still alive and that was all that mattered.

She tried again to look around her. The sunlight was not quite so painful now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, but her vision was still a little blurry. She rested on a small hillock above a wide, grassy meadow. Rami was a few dozen paces away, tending to their saddled horses, while Oliver and Armand were busy tying more than a score of unsaddled horses to a long picket line that stretched beneath a stand of poplar trees. She wondered who the horses belonged to and then realized they were likely the Segraves' mounts. The absence of Faulke and his men spoke volumes.

He returned and held out a water bag. "Here, drink some of this."

She eyed it warily. Her hands began to tremble, whether from the poison or from fear, she could not say. "Do you…do you intend to kill me now?"

"If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead long ago." His voice was toneless.

She believed him. Although she heard Sir Percival's voice when he spoke, this man was a stranger. "Then why—"

"Drink this," he repeated, as he dropped the bag into her lap. "'Tis some of the willow bark tea you brewed for Rami. It will help calm your stomach."

"Th-there is no poison in it?" she asked, as she picked up the bag. And then she remembered Faulke's theory about why she was still alive. It was beginning to make the most sense.

He folded his arms across his chest and remained silent.

"Why did you take me away from Coleway?"

"If I recall correctly, you left Coleway with me quite willingly. Indeed, our escape from the fortress was entirely your idea."

It was the truth, and yet it was wrong. Everything about him was wrong. Two days ago she had thought everything about him was just right. Today she knew better. There would be no magical explanations that would make everything right. Her perfect knight had deceived her. How he must have laughed at her willingness to help in her own abduction. He was no better than John. Indeed, he was much, much worse.

"You must have thought me a fool," she said in a soft voice. She removed the stopper from the water bag but still could not bring herself to drink before she knew the full, damning truth. "Faulke told me that you are not my father's knight. Faulke said you were sent by the king to murder or abduct me so that Faulke could not marry me. He claims you are an assassin. The King's Assassin."

He remained silent.

"You do not deny his charges?"

"Does it matter?" he asked. "You have already decided that I am the enemy. I can see the fear in your eyes."

She had no answer for that bit of truth. The man who stood before her was not Sir Percival. He was not the kind, chivalrous knight she had thought him to be. In addition to her pain and anger, this man frightened her. "Is Faulke dead?"

He said nothing for a long moment. "Why do you care? He blackmailed your father into a betrothal and intended to force you into marriage within the next few days, willing or not. You were his prisoner as much as you are mine."

There was only one way he could know all of that, and she recalled the feeling of being watched while she was in Segrave's camp. How had he managed it? "You heard everything Segrave said to me?"

"Do you care for him?" he countered.

What an odd question. She lowered her head and stared down at the water bag, unwilling to let him study her face as she considered her answer. "How could I care for a man I just met?"

His next remark cut more effectively than a knife.

"You developed an affection for me rather quickly."

"That was different!" She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth. There was no way she could explain the difference without sounding pathetic. "Everything Faulke told me came as…quite a shock. Still, I do not want to be the cause of his death. I do not want to be responsible for anyone's death!"

"You should have thought of that before we left Coleway," he said. "What did you think I would do if Lord Brunor and his men had caught up with us?"

"There would have been too many of them." She realized even as she spoke that she was being hopelessly na?ve. His surrender would have meant his death. He never would have handed her over without a fight if they had been caught. She would have been responsible for unleashing this weapon upon her own family.

"Drink the tea," he said again, in a voice that brooked no argument.

She followed the order in a daze and began to take small sips.

"Segrave and his men are alive," he went on. He sounded as if he spoke of something that disgusted him. "I did not use enough poison to cause any lasting damage. You will all recover within a few hours."

Her head and stomach didn't think so. Still, there was a sense of relief that he intended to keep her alive. For now.

"Your face is the color of parchment," he said, as she swallowed the tea. "You will be of no use to me if you are too sick to ride."

And that would likely be the extent of his concern for her welfare; whether or not she was healthy enough to aid in her own abduction. She took several more sips of tea, relieved that it did, indeed, have a calming effect on her stomach. Even her head felt clearer. Still, nothing made sense.

"Where are they?"

"Who, the Segraves?"

Her gaze went to Oliver and Armand, who were still tending the horses. "Aye."

"They are more than a half day's ride from here, probably feeling much as you do right now."

She had only his word that they were alive. He had lied to her from the moment they met. Nothing he said could be trusted. On the other hand, if the Segraves were already dead, why would he take their horses only to leave them on the road? Surely he would only go to this much trouble if he needed to delay their pursuit.

The tracks from the horses would be easy enough to follow. When and if the Segraves recovered, they would probably send a search party to retrieve the horses, and then return to the camp for their gear and saddles. A half day's lead had just turned into a lead of at least two days. If they really were still alive, and unless something else drastic happened, the Segraves would never catch them before they reached London.

"We have already lost too much time," he said. "You will need to ride your own horse for the rest of the day."

The thought of sitting on a horse made her stomach give an alarming lurch. The thought of riding with Sir…Liar or one of his men was equally distasteful. Now that her vision had finally returned to normal, she braced herself, locked down every ounce of weakness, and forced herself to look up at him.

It helped that he had moved to one side, out of the direct line of the sun, but she still had to shade her eyes to see his face. The pain was not as bad as she had feared it would be.

He looked the same; his head held at an aloof angle, his green eyes pierced with intelligence, his face devastatingly handsome. Whatever she had expected to see, evil, or avarice, or anger, she did not find it. No enemy should look so…appealing, although his lingering appeal almost made her feel better about being so easily deceived. Surely his virtuous manner had deceived countless people. Perhaps she was not quite so stupidly gullible as she had first thought. He was most definitely the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing. Her traitorous heart skipped a few beats and she wondered if the sudden heat in her face revealed a telltale blush.

She lowered her gaze before he could see the unexpected wave of longing that washed over her. What was the matter with her? She knew that he was her enemy. She knew that he was…Good lord, she did not even know his name.

"Who are you?" she asked. "That is, what is your real name?"

He remained silent for so long that she began to think he had no intention of revealing a secret that many in England would likely kill to learn.

"My name is Dante Chiavari," he said at last. "Segrave made another correct guess; I am a foreigner, an Italian by birth."

"That much I had already guessed," she said, mostly because it helped explain his effect on her. She recalled the way the Italian merchants treated the women at Coleway, the way they made each woman feel as if she were the most beautiful and fascinating creature they had ever encountered, and she had watched the women melt into simpering puddles at their feet. Their intense and seemingly genuine appreciation of women was a common trait among the Italians, not a crafted skill, but a mannerism they were all seemingly born with. Dante had simply used the brand of charm on her that had been bred into him. "You speak Italian, Rami speaks Italian, both of your men speak Italian. I realized quickly enough that you were all Italians masquerading as Englishmen."

Her boldness amazed her. She could still speak with him as easily as she had when she thought him to be Sir Percival. In her defense, he looked and sounded the same as her knight, even down to his mannerisms. She watched one eyebrow rise.

"Actually, Oliver and Armand are Englishmen, and Rami is Circassian." His lips curved upward, as if he found humor in her ignorance. "I am the only Italian."

His smiles had always been her downfall, and it was an unpleasant realization that she was no more immune from them now than she had been before. It should be a crime, how handsome that grin made him. It drew her eye to the masculine lines of his face and the rough stubble that spoke of his days away from a shaving blade. Was that small smile designed to lull her back into his deceptions? Or was she simply a weak-willed idiot where he was concerned? Oh, he was good at his craft.

When her mind wandered to the sinful ways he had touched and kissed her, she looked pointedly away from him. There was most definitely something wrong with her. The problem became clearer the longer she refused to look at him.

It would take time for her heart to accept what her mind already knew. None of the attraction she felt for him had been real. It was simply another part of his deception. He would deceive her again, if she allowed it. She had to push aside the curtain of infatuation and see the truth. He was not charming her with a smile. He was laughing at her.

She focused her gaze on a point just past his shoulder. "Did you murder the real Sir Percival?"

He shook his head. "I have never met the man."

Well, that was a point in his favor, she supposed. "But you are the King's Assassin?"

"Aye."

The answer was expected, and yet to hear it aloud was more crushing than she had anticipated. It was the final nail in the small coffin of hope that this had all been some sort of terrible misunderstanding. "So, you have no intention of taking me to my father?"

"None," he confirmed.

"Are we still bound for London?"

"Aye."

It was another expected answer that sank her hopes to even greater depths. Faulke had been right about everything. There was no marriage in her future. The King's Assassin had done her no favors by allowing her to live. She would be imprisoned in the Tower for the remainder of her life.

"'Tis time to leave." He reached down and took the water bag before she knew what he was about, and then he turned and walked toward the horses. He spoke to her without turning around. "Be on your horse anon, or you will ride with me until you can manage a horse on your own."

It was an effective threat. She struggled to her feet and staggered after him.