Chapter 8

Eight

Nearly half a dozen times through the long night, Giles had considered stopping for a piss and a rest.

He didn't for a number of reasons: To begin with, there was every possibility his thief would be traveling north. The deduction was elementary: He knew of an inn near-about, where the most unsavory of characters were wont to gather. There was no way to say whether his thief could be in route to this place, but there weren't many establishments along these roads, so if he found the inn, he would, conceivably, discover his thief, and then he would give the knuckle-dragger a Yuletide gift he wouldn't soon forget.

And if he didn't find his thief, there would be other stolen horses to purchase.

He followed his gut, pressing forth, never imagining how close he was, until, right before sunrise, he made a fortuitous discovery. Wilhelm may have passed on by, but Giles had a nose for his horse; her scent tickled his nostrils.

She must have scented Giles as well, because she nickered softly, and Giles reined in abruptly, dislodging Wilhelm's head.

"Wha—"

Giles elbowed his brother in the belly. "Shhhhh!" he said.

Sensing trouble, Wilhelm sat upright, sobering.

Dismounting quietly, Giles made his way toward the sound of grazing and what he discovered in the thicket hobbled his tongue as surely as she had hobbled his sable.

God's bones! His thief was a woman—a nun.

She lay sleeping peacefully, her wimple askew and her veil concealing only half her face. Even so, Giles found himself tongue-tied, and would have roused the girl, except… there was something about her that disoriented him.

He'd seen her face before, if only in his dreams. But nay… this girl was like a chimera—undefinable at the edges…

Tilting his head, Giles studied the nun, and couldn't say whether she was young and lovely… or if she was old and unattractive. Her nose wavered between pert and small to hooked and crooked. But… if he looked very, very intently, her skin appeared so perfect as to seem translucent…

Achingand sore from her crude bed, disoriented from her fitful rest, Rosalynde cracked her lids and found a strange pair of eyes peering down into her face—not Arwyn's nor Elspeth's, who each had violet-blue eyes, and not Seren, whose eyes were the silvery blue of a winter sky, nor Rhi, whose eyes were gold, like a wolf's. Nor were they precisely like Morwen's eyes—so uncannily black that one could scarce see where her pupils ended and her irises began… these were the eyes of a stranger.

Squealing, she scrambled to her feet, only belatedly remembering to retrieve her book. Her heart hammering with fear, she nevertheless bent to seize it, and noticed that the man didn't bother to stop her.

He merely stared.

"Who are you?" she demanded to know.

"Who am I?" he asked, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "You know… I wondered the same about you." He was still posed on one knee, making no effort to rise, but his gaze shifted to the mare grazing nearby.

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 her grimoire, 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 his harmless brother 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 not yours. She is mine."

The woman's eyes widened. "Yours?"

"Aye, she's mine. So, it seems, your guide burgled 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?"