Beauty's Curse Read online

  Of Welsh descent, Galiana believed in spirits. Knew as sure as she knew her own name that magic was real and that the world was more than what one could see.

  A chill traced up her spine, and she shivered with premonition. But such was her luck that while she might be able to tell something was amiss, she couldn’t say what it was. Nay, her gifts were music, poetry, and perfume. Useless, all of it.

  She eyed a dark rock protruding from the snow-dusted earth beneath the trees and quickly dropped to her knees, scraping the would-be weapon free with her fingers. Galiana knew better than to come to the forest alone. What if both of her brothers had turned back? Spooked, she listened for them so hard that the loud snap of a branch cracking almost made her scream. Covering her mouth with her left hand, she grasped the sharp, pointed rock with her right. “Ed?” Her whisper sounded loud in the eerie quiet. “Ned?”

  Without any supernatural gifts, she at least could hit the center of an archery circle every time. Scrambling behind a grouping of trees, Galiana’s red hair was wet and brownish, helping her blend in with the tree trunks.

  Someone on horseback was coming along the path. From the reverberating thud of hooves, she concluded it was more than one someone.

  Whoever was traveling through the land behind Montehue Manor might just be lost. They were certain to have a good reason for being on the only back road leading to her home.

  She’d been foolish to come here. Just a few days past, a woman had gone missing from the village. These were turbulent times, when even during the winter months men warred instead of rested. The ground beneath her soaked slippers shook as if a hundred horses galloped through the woods. Not that it was possible; a thin walking trail led through the trees toward the stream. There was not room for horses even two abreast, no matter how loud it sounded.

  Her hand tightened on the rock as she hunched farther down behind the tree.

  A soft robin’s whistle drew her attention away from the direction of the hooves. How far away were they? Her teeth chattered with cold. Galiana berated herself. She certainly had acted a child today. If anything happened to the boys, it would be all her fault. The bird sang a louder note.

  Not a robin. A blackbird? They usually didn’t start cawing until spring. Her brothers had taught her more than she’d ever wanted to know about birdcalls.

  “Ned?” Galiana whispered. “Ed?”

  The whistle came again.

  “Ned.” Guilty relief washed over her as she realized she wouldn’t be alone. But danger still hovered in the air as the horses came closer. “Over here,” she said. “There is room for us both.”

  Ned’s wet head peeped from behind a large rock, a stone as big as a haystack. The hooves’ rhythmic thumping made her heart race. They were coming closer. Faster. He wouldn’t have time. She held up her hand, shaking her head and motioning for Ned to stay where he was.

  Galiana dropped to her knees behind the brown trunk of the fir tree, closing her eyes as if that would make her invisible. She knew what could happen to a woman in the woods found by rogue groups of battle-hardened men. Sometimes the battered women came to the manor for aid, but more often than not, they hid their shame.

  Please go away; please go away—to where? She lifted her head. The only place this tiny path led to was behind the manor. Either whoever was coming was bent on making mischief within the forest, or they’d made a wrong turn on their way to Scrappington.

  Visitors would come through the front gate. High walls that could keep out an army did not yet surround Montehue Manor, at the very edge of the north quadrant of the village. With his station newly raised, her father had plans to hire more knights and build taller, thicker walls, but for now it was just the small group of men who guarded the boundaries.

  That small group had been halved. Eight were providing her family safe travel to Falcon Keep, and eight had been left here to do their duty.

  She pressed her hand to her chest, as if that would calm her rapidly beating heart. Crawling beneath the branches, she hugged the trunk, praying she was concealed from view. “Saint Agnes, if you help me now, I promise to marry and be a good, virtuous daughter.” Hastily making the sign of the cross to end the prayer, she poked her head out to see.

  Around the curve of the trail came the largest, blackest stallion she’d ever seen in her entire life. The eyes glowed red, and foamy spittle covered its lips, which were peeled back to bare yellowish teeth. She was shocked to find that such a stallion would even allow a rider, especially one as large and menacing as the one he carried. Covered from neck to toe in shiny dark mail, the knight held the reins loosely in one gloved hand while holding his sword hilt in the other. The blade pointed out as if the knight was after an enemy.

  God help whoever was in his way.

  She turned.

  Ned’s eyes were as wide and blue as bachelor buttons. Galiana could see he was stunned by the size and force of the knight bearing down on him as he stood frozen in the stallion’s path. He held a branch in his hand as if to block the sword’s deadly blow.

  Without a thought, Galiana jumped from her hiding place, getting a hoof-full of dirt in her hair as she followed the stallion. “Ned!” she screamed loudly, hoping to get his attention so that he would jump out of the way.

  The stallion kept running, and Ned remained still. Before realizing what she was doing, she saw the rock she’d held so tightly in her hand sailing across the air with deadly accuracy.

  It hit the only uncovered spot on the knight’s body: the back of his head, directly behind his left ear.

  The stallion raced on, not realizing that his master was falling backward. The clank of the sword dropping on a rock as it fell from the knight’s fingers brought Ned around just in time to avoid being trampled. He leapt to the side, the horse’s metal stirrups slicing across his shoulder as the stallion passed by.

  The pounding hooves of more men on horses drowned Ned’s scream of pain. Galiana knelt, mesmerized by the sight of blood flowing from beneath the knight’s helmet. Then she was thrown to the ground, her arms wrenched behind her back.

  “Bitch! What have ye done? If ye’ve killed him, I’ll see ye hanged meself.”

  Rourke Wallis came to, roused from the oddest dream imaginable by the annoying sound of a lute. He had nothing against the stringed instrument usually, but his head ached and his leg hurt. In his sleep, it seemed he’d been searching the entire forest for a stable boy who’d tried to steal his pack.

  The pack carried valuable papers, and if he didn’t get it back, all would be lost. But then the dream changed, and the pack carried the Breath of Merlin, recently stolen from King William’s treasury. Rourke’s charmed life would not be worth half a pence if anybody knew he was sworn to find it and return it to Scotland.

  Time was of the essence, and he urged his stallion faster, although as was the way of dreams, he couldn’t go fast enough. Spotting his prey, a blond boy with huge eyes, he drew his sword when he heard from behind a feminine voice, as smoky and rich as a cask of Scottish whiskey. He’d turned to find her, but she was gone. Changed into a pine tree. Bloody damn it all. One minute things were clear, and the next all was shrouded in a mist so thick he couldn’t find his arse in it.

  Awake now, he realized he still couldn’t see and it had nothing to do with the damnable mist. After attempting to lift his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes three times in a row, he concluded that his hands were tied. He was lying down on his back, bound and blind.

  “Jamie,” he bellowed with all his might. It came out as a croaking whine. The light strumming stopped, and that deep whiskey voice said, “Calm yourself, sir, before you cause more injuries.”

  “What happened?” Christ’s bones, what had happened? He couldn’t complete his assignment if he was lying in bed like a whining sissy. He blinked again, and the scrape of his lashes against cloth only annoyed him further. “Why have you blindfolded me? Never mind; get it off.”

  “I— —”

&nb
sp; “Release me. I demand it.” His blood surged as he quickly calculated the consequences of his captivity. He could be ransomed, unless whoever held him knew he was a master spy. Then nothing but torture and death loomed. “Bring me my knights, and get my hands bloody well untied.”

  He waited for his orders to be followed.

  And waited.

  The door slammed, and the scent of lemon and lavender lingered in the room. Rourke was alone.

  His calf was on fire, and it felt like someone was sticking a hot poker in his eye. “Jamie! To me.” He refused to give up. Knowing there was not one good reason—as if any reason would be good—he could be kidnapped and bound, he yelled until his voice was hoarse and his head pounded so hard he almost lost consciousness.

  Finally, he heard muffled boot steps, then the creaking noise of leather hinges as a wooden door was opened. Boots … Jamie, coming down a set of wooden stairs. He strained his ears as if that would help him hear.

  “Rourke, yer awake, man. We thought you dead.”

  “I feel dead. Untie me.”

  “You heard him, lass, untie him.”

  That smoky voice wavered, then said, “No.”

  Rourke gathered the last of his strength and yelled, “No?”

  Spent, Rourke concentrated on her words, pinpointing each noise she made. Her footsteps were so light that if it weren’t for the fact he was concentrating, which contributed, no doubt, to his damn headache, he never would have heard them. She walked like a lady. The press of her cool fingers against his forehead was an unexpected balm to his hot skin.

  “I cannot untie his hands. He is a strong man.”

  Rourke puffed with pride, and even that hurt.

  “But in pain, and more than likely stubborn. He’ll not keep the bandages around his eyes. He may cause himself permanent damage.”

  His pride burst. Yes, he felt as if he’d been trampled, and, aye, he was stubborn. But no mere woman was going to tell him what to do.

  “It’s a risk I’ll take.”

  There was a tiny voice inside his head that warned of disaster, but he didn’t listen to it either.

  “Mayhap.”

  “Do you understand, lass, who yer talking to?” Jamie’s tone left no room for rebuttal, and, once again, Rourke found himself indebted to his foster brother.

  Of dubious Scottish birth, both had been raised at Eleanor’s court. Told to learn and become rich, to overcome their bastard status and make men of themselves, men who could be both Scottish as well as English. Which had made sense until King Richard had sold King William Scotland for the price of a crusade.

  Both knights had returned to Scotland to swear their loyalties to their newly reinstated king. Neither had been welcomed. To the public eye, they were hardly a step above mercenaries.

  Rourke heard the hitch in the lady’s voice before she said, “Nay, Sir Jamie, I do not know who this man is. You’ve barged into our home as if you have every right to be here—”

  Jamie, never soft-spoken to begin with, broke in, “Ye tried to kill him.”

  “What?” Rourke struggled against his bonds, the back of his head thumping anew and competing with the pain at his temple.

  She explained to Jamie in a rush, “You were in our forest, and he was about to run down my brother.” Rourke heard the strain as she fought to remain calm. “I was but protecting my kin. That is not against any law.”

  “Ye’ll hang, I’ll see to it, if my man dies.”

  “I’ve no intention of dying,” Rourke said, scenting the woman’s fear in the air, stronger than her perfume. Confused, he clarified, “The blond boy, the stable lad who tried to steal from me? That’s your brother?” Somehow he’d thought her noble, not a serving wench or a tavern maid. Her speech was cultured.

  “What? Nay. My brother stole nothing from you. And Ned is no stable boy; he’s a squire for my older sister’s husband, Lord Le Blanc, and heir in his own right, through my father, Lord Montehue. Poor Ned, injured by your stallion”—Rourke wondered if her brother’s injury was the source of her underlying fear—“is locked in the upstairs chambers, along with our knights. I wish, nay, I demand that you release them.”

  “Not to worry, Rourke. They put up a fight, but until we know what happens with ye, locked up they’ll stay. And lucky to have their heads.”

  “Brute.”

  If he wasn’t at such a loss, Rourke might have laughed at the sheer indignation she’d poured into that one word. But he didn’t understand what was going on, so he ordered, “Untie me. Take off these bandages.”

  She sighed. “Certainly, if you insist, I shall. But you are a fool. When you fell from your stallion, you hit your temple. The cut sliced downward, and you almost lost your left eye.”

  Rourke heard the knife slice through the cloth at his wrist. “Is that why my eyes are bandaged?”

  She leaned over, and Rourke was bathed in the fresh mint of her warm breath as she stated, “I am not a healer. I did the best I could to clean the wound, which curves, like this,” she traced the area lightly, “and ripped your lower lid. Your eye was filled with blood, so I rinsed and washed it with rosemary water until it stopped bleeding. You kept scratching at it, so you had to be bound. You could not control yourself.”

  Close to tearing the strips of cloth from around his eye, Rourke paused at the insult. “Wench.”

  She gasped. “I do not mean to be unkind. ’Tis that I fear if you strain your vision, or move about before the eye is healed, you may regret it for the rest of your days.”

  Hearing genuine empathy in her voice, Rourke decided not to have her killed. “Jamie, find me a real healer.”

  She stood abruptly, and he grabbed at her hand. He could tell she was a lady by the slenderness of her fingers, a musician by the light callous on her thumb. “Where are you going?”

  “Release me.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t free her.

  “There are no other healers,” Jamie said. “It seems that her entire family can heal but her, and she’s the only one here.”

  “What about in the village we came from? Scrappington?”

  “Sorry, Rourke, but this is the best there is.”

  He tugged at her hand. “Take off my blindfold.”

  She hesitated. “Fine.” Leaning over him, she slowly peeled the cloth away. He expected to open his eyes and see. He opened his eyes and saw nothing.

  “Jesu,” Jamie said into the silence, “That was close.”

  Apprehension curled in his gut as the mattress dipped. She knelt on the side of the bed, and gently brought his fingertips to the wounded area around his left eye. Softly, he probed the stitched gash. “Ye did this with a rock? I don’t believe it. My helmet fits over my head, and I had the visor down.” He’d been after that boy, that thief.

  “Aye. But the back of your head, betwixt the crown and nape, was bare.”

  “You were in such a rush, ye forgot to wear the mail,” Jamie unnecessarily pointed out.

  Rourke put his fingers over his right eye, which was not swollen nor hot. But he couldn’t see, even though it was open. He knew better than to run to battle like an untrained squire. Dread settled in his stomach. “Impossible. You came from behind and threw a rock and just happened to knock me from my stallion as I was galloping past? You lie, lady!” he demanded, although he knew she spoke true, as the back of his head throbbed with each word from his mouth.

  “Why would I?” Again, her voice was indignant, as if braining a man with a rock was acceptable, whilst lying was not. He imagined her, noble born, with straight, brown hair and thin, convent-ready lips. Throwing a rock?

  Jamie said, “We were right there, Rourke, and saw you falling. She’d just thrown it.”

  “I am an accurate shot, my lord,” she huffed.

  “Obviously. That does not explain why I can’t see.”

  Jamie asked, “At all?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “You landed against some rocks when you fell, a
nd your visor cut into your temple. It was an accident. Please tell your men to release my brother and my knights. We can make you welcome; you needn’t treat us like you’ve got us under siege.”

  “They’ll be released when I say so, lass. They never should have attacked us when we were coming in.”

  Her answer to Jamie was prim and curt. “You had me over the front of your horse, and Ned draped over another. What were my knights supposed to think?”

  Rourke knew he should do something, but his head was now hurting all the way to his heels. Jamie could handle it.

  Jamie was handling it. “And you, lass, will make certain that Rourke keeps his eye or else.” Jamie pounded the wooden bedpost, and Rourke groaned as the mattress moved. He was not feeling well.

  “He needs more medicine,” she said. “The pain is returning.”

  “Ye’d best not be poisoning him.”

  Rourke’s stomach heaved, and he grunted, knowing he’d never been this bad off in his life. He felt the sweat pop out over his forehead and lip, and his flesh grew hot. He supposed he could still serve his country with one eye, but it wouldn’t be as easy. Downed, and not by a battle wound, but by a convent girl with good aim.

  Ah, hell. Did she say her father was Lord Montehue? The rock had scrambled his brains. Loyal to the king, a strong warrior with a sizable income, properties, and a new title. Rourke had been sent to marry the man’s daughter and stop a potential enemy in the event Prince John made a bid for the crown—by order of the prince.

  Now he knew why Jamie had been dropping hints about “who” she was talking to—as in, Jamie hadn’t given away Rourke’s identity. Normally, he was not so daft. He supposed he owed the lady an introduction.

  “I,” he swallowed past the bile rising up his throat. “I am Rourke Wallis, and you are my prisoner until I say otherwise.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, then felt her cool hands as she pressed him back to the bed. “You are rude, as are your men. Why steal when something is freely offered?”