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  Osbert waited until he heard soft, steady snores, then folded the blanket over her.

  In the morning, she was gone.

  Chapter

  Seven

  Bartholomew neighed while Osbert fought down a rising sense of anger.

  Anger—at her and at himself for believing her word—had him clambering for his sword. “Damn her,” he said beneath his breath. The blanket he’d covered her with lay folded on a rock, as if mocking his trust with tidiness.

  For certes, she was a witch no matter her protests. She upset his emotions as wildly as waves crashing against the rocks.

  I should have bound her to a tree—hands, feet—but no doubt she would still have been free come morning. Witch.

  He quickly crossed himself, filled with torn emotions he’d taught himself to subdue. She brought them to the fore, and he was at a loss on how to handle them.

  Os felt the need to protect her from the dangers of the world. Ela had never seen a man’s head severed for believing in a different religion—the streets of Jerusalem had run ruby with blood as the Christians and infidels each fought for their God—and that was during a time of peace.

  His faith comforted him, and he had Sir Percy to thank for showing him the way to Christ. He’d grown up on the coastal shores of Yarmouth, where the old ways collided with different gods as each new ship landed.

  She shook the foundations of his faith. Surely that was a sin as well.

  Sir Percy had preached godliness, yet they still hung rue over the door to keep out evil. Osbert rubbed his cheek, remembering his long-ago jest about covering all angles to enlightenment. Sir Percy had knocked him to his arse with a slap to the face and a warning to be respectful.

  His mentor had been tough, but fair, and completely lacking a sense of humor.

  Not that Osbert ever complained. Without Sir Percy, he would have died—no laughing matter, indeed.

  Even though his impatient warrior’s heart told him to charge through the woods, find Ela, and drag her back to the clearing by her hair, Os knew that he owed God a morning prayer of thanks. Sir Percy had taught him to control his temper by Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

  When he was finished, Os’s anger had faded to a dull, manageable throb.

  He turned to Bartholomew and found Ela brushing his horse’s mane. He hadn’t heard her return.

  “Where were you this morn?” He tried to sound as if he hadn’t been cursing her name since waking up.

  “Bathing. Gathering berries. Are you hungry?” She pointed to a large pile of edible wild berries. “I filled the waterskins too.”

  Os scrubbed his face with his palm. So she hadn’t broken her promise, and she’d gathered food and water and bathed. He gulped, seeing in his mind the vision of Ela, her hair wet around her porcelain, naked body.

  He’d been cursing her name for the wrong reasons.

  “Good. We can leave immediately.” His voice cracked, his mouth dry.

  “You should eat first, just to keep your strength up. Who knows what adventures we shall have today.” Henry ran awkwardly across the grass, a twig dangling in his mouth. The three-legged polecat chirrupped, and Ela bent down to take the stick. Then she threw it, and the polecat raced after it.

  “Like a dog,” he muttered, walking to the berries. Os popped one in his mouth, letting the tart flavor explode over his tongue. They were the best berries he’d ever eaten, because they’d been gathered for him, by her.

  Ridiculous.

  His praying had gotten him nowhere.

  Os could not afford to love her, although it seemed as necessary as breathing. He didn’t understand why he felt such an immediate connection to her, but it was wrong. He would have to learn to hate her. To make her hate him.

  He glared in her direction and was met with a pair of questioning emerald eyes.

  “I can feel your confusion. What, please tell me, are you thinking that has you frowning so? You cannot possibly, in the light of this beautiful morning, still think that I am in league with the devil?”

  She laughed, then kissed a besotted Bartholomew on the nose.

  Os was powerless to say a word. Ela took his breath away.

  Her step was sure and confident, her face beautiful enough to make an angel cry. Her spirit was light and carefree, and her form pure female temptress. If she was truly a test of his faith, then he was losing, by all that was holy, and that angered him.

  “You are a woman,” he said coldly. “And from the time Eve tempted Adam with the apple, you’ve been evil.”

  Ela stopped walking toward him and jerked her head back as if she’d been physically slapped. “Nay. You can’t believe that.”

  “Stop telling me what to believe.” Yes, this was the way to control his impulses—by making her wary of him. No more jests and tempting laughs. He would erect a barrier as solid as any Roman wall. He would be on one side, and she would be on the other.

  Sir Percy had always said that to put trust in a woman was a foolish waste of time. They nagged, they took your money, and they were as faithless as a fallen priest. If it was sex you wanted, then you slaked your thirst where you knew what you were getting for your coin.

  Os took the rest of the fruit and tossed it to the bushes. “We leave now. We should reach Norwich in less than a week. Pray God that the earl will be in residence, and then I can be free of you.”

  Her face paled beneath her tan. “You promised my father that you would see me safely returned to him.”

  He had promised that. But what was more important—to be free of this woman’s spell and break a vow, or to risk purgatory and the flames of hell because she made him want to forget everything in her bewitching arms? He shrugged, knowing he had to be cold or risk burning for eternity.

  “I will bring you to the earl, and he can decide your fate. I’ll not sway him one way or the other, but I will be truthful, my lady. I must be.” He tapped his chest twice. Honor, faith, and logic, that was the creed he’d survived by.

  Within moments, they left the clearing to make their way to a road. Os, leading Bartholomew, prayed that he’d passed his test. And that the reward for causing Ela hurt was worth it. He mounted, accutely aware of her behind him.

  Ela munched furiously on a stick, taking her frustration out on it instead of pounding sense into one Warrior of God, Osbert Edyvean. Had there ever been a man so foolish? Were the male species all so blindly focused?

  No wonder women had to be manipulative, after being constantly told that they were the weaker sex … by men. Men were strong, with brute, immovable muscles, but it was common knowledge that if you didn’t bend in a gale storm—she bit down so hard that her stick snapped and her teeth cracked together—you’d break. She tossed the stick to the side of the road. Who was stronger, then?

  She shifted, uncomfortable sitting so close behind him. She would offer to walk, but there was no way she would be able to keep up with Bartholomew’s pace.

  Instead of wearing her veil to cover her hair, she’d made a sling from it to carry Henry in. After this unchaperoned trip her reputation would never recover. So why worry about uncovered hair?

  Unfortunately, she didn’t care about what other people thought. Most other people, she quickly amended. Her grandmother had encouraged her curiosity and had introduced her to Meg when Ela had been just a child. Her parents adored her, and the greatest gift they’d ever given her was the freedom to be herself.

  The “curse” had guaranteed that she’d be able to choose her own mate—if she fell in love. Since she hadn’t, she was an old maid at twenty, cursed to live out her life alone, no children to hold, no husband to whisper secrets to in the night.

  She thought of her sisters, Celestia and Galiana, and their children. She blinked away silly tears as she imagined how they’d talk about her. I am going to be Crazy Aunt Ela, she thought. Alone with cats, like Aunt Nan.

  She could take lovers, she supposed. After all, her reputation was in tatters. How did one go about find
ing a lover? Os’s kisses made her body tremble.

  Staring at the back of Os’s head, she noticed the different colors in the strands of darkly gold hair. Would he have hair on his chest? What color would it be?

  Her cheeks warmed and she squirmed again.

  “What ails you? Do we need to stop?” His cold voice reminded her that she hated him.

  His distrust of her—as if she, at her core, was evil—hurt. She was thoughtless and wild, mayhap—certainly not conventional—but not evil. How could he believe such a thing, as if his path to God was the only way to see Him?

  Father Jonas, and then Father Harold, had taught them that God was in every tree branch and every blade of grass. God and God’s love were all-encompassing. It seemed to her that Os’s God had a more narrow view of things.

  She shivered, hating constraints of any kind.

  “We will stop in the next village.”

  Ela rolled her eyes. His voice and stance shouted for her to stay clear of him, and yet he worried over her comfort. Os was not a cruel man, just confused and stubborn.

  How am I supposed to hate you?

  It wasn’t long before they came to a dirt crossroads. “Fardonton to the left, and the fields are plowed. Surely they will have a place where we can get food and … rest.”

  Ela had noticed that most villages seen from the road consisted of a chapel and a few houses with thatched roofs. The fact that Fardonton had a road sign was a step above the rest. Her stomach growled. “Whatever you want to do,” she said.

  “You’ll have to hide the weasel and cover your hair.” His voice dropped as if he spoke of something distasteful.

  Ela ran her hand through a few of the gnarled strands and wished for a comb. “Henry is a polecat, not a weasel.”

  “He’s a pest, and you’ve tamed him like a cat—nay, a cat would never play fetch.”

  She stiffened. “Is this where you accuse me of spell-craft? I’ll have you know that it took me from spring to winter to train him to do that. It was hard, not impossible.”

  He rode silently, as if refusing to waste his breath, either on arguing with her or on acknowledging that she was right. Finally he asked, “Why would you even think to teach a wild animal a silly pet’s trick?”

  Inhaling through her nose, she counted to ten and exhaled. “Henry needed to learn how to balance on three legs. It was part of his recovery—and as you can see, he runs fine.” She shrugged. “With a list to the right, mayhap, but as fast as ever. And since he isn’t leashed or bound, he needed to have the skills to protect himself in the forest.”

  Again, Os was silent. Now what is he thinking?

  The least he could offer was a grunt that he’d heard her.

  If he were going to ignore her, then she would ignore him right back.

  Braiding her hair to hide the worst of the knotted mess, she was never so happy to pass by the unguarded gates of Fardonton. There was but one main road, and it didn’t take long to find the wood board with a blue mug painted on it announcing the inn.

  Without waiting for Os to help her, she jumped to the ground. Henry crawled up by her nape, and she draped the gold veil over her hair and back, hiding her red braids as well as her odd pet.

  She understood, on an educated level, why Osbert was wary of her, but from pure emotion she was disappointed that he didn’t understand that her gifts were as old as the earth. It didn’t matter.

  He used his faith as a shield from his emotions, and she couldn’t get past it.

  Ela would meet with the Earl of Norfolk—who would hopefully be more open to her talents than Os—answer his questions, find answers to her questions, and return home to help her family replant the crops that Thomas de Havel had burned.

  If they lived. Of course they lived. She would be an empty husk if they’d died.

  It was a practical plan. In her own eclectic way, she was a pragmatist at heart.

  Os tied Bartholomew to the hitching post, and Ela followed him inside. The interior of the Blue Mug Inn was dark and smelled of earthy hops and rich lamb stew.

  Ela’s mouth watered, but this time it was Os’s rumbling belly that rang out loud and clear.

  She couldn’t help but laugh softly at his mortified look. “Hungry?”

  “Aye,” he admitted, relaxing his animosity toward her. “But it seems nobody is here. Where are the people?”

  “Ring the bell on the counter.” She pointed at the long wooden high bar, then at a side door. “I wonder if that is the kitchen where all of those wonderful smells are coming from.”

  “Should we be worried that there aren’t any customers?” Os’s brow furrowed. He was dedicated, loyal, and conflicted. And so handsome. Ela reached out her hand to touch his forearm, wondering if she could help ease the headache she was certain he had.

  “And what am I, then?” An old, quavering voice came from a shadowed area to the left, and Ela whirled toward the sound.

  The crone scooted to the edge of the bench so that her face was visible. Ela smiled warmly. The old woman’s aura was a deep rose, rich with compassion and health.

  The woman smiled back, her teeth interspersed randomly along her gums. “The stew is worth getting here early for, aye, and by noon there won’t be room ta stand at the bar. Good thing, strangers, that ye’re here early too. Care to share my table?”

  Ela nodded, but Os held her back. He said, “You don’t know her. Let’s take a different table.”

  “So you can ignore me all during the meal? Nay, I would rather sit with the woman. Her aura is lovely, and for certes, she will be better company than you. Come.”

  She took his hand and led him to the table.

  “New married, are ye?” The old woman laughed and rubbed her gnarled hands together. “Been a long time since me Len passed. Me nights are a lot colder now,” she winked at them and Ela grinned.

  Os sputtered. “We aren’t married.”

  The old woman nodded wisely. “Ah.”

  “Ah?” he asked suspiciously.

  Ela elbowed him, hoping he would take the hint and be quiet. “I’m Ela, and this is Osbert. What is your name?”

  “Hilda. Old Woman. Wise One. Hag to some,” she laughed again. “Depends on whether they come to the front door or back, aye?”

  Ela sighed. “Truth, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Our village wisewoman can save a mother and child with her herbs and prayers, but come Sunday, they won’t meet her gaze at church.” Ela glanced at Os, who was staring at Hilda in horrified fascination. “Meg says she doesn’t mind. It’s doing good works that matters.”

  “She sounds wise indeed, this Meg,” Hilda said. “You, sir, would ye care to hang your cloak? There’s pegs by the door.”

  Os shook his head. “Nay. It stays with me.”

  Hilda patted his shoulder. “I see you wear the cross. Have you been to the Holy City? You don’t look old enough to have fought in the Crusades. My grandson died, fighting in a strange land.”

  “I was in Jerusalem. Because of brave men like your grandson, I was able to see the Holy City without fear.” Os lowered his eyes respectfully. “Many died, Hilda. I am sorry for your loss.”

  How could he be so suspicious of everyone and yet so decent at the same time? Ela studied his Romanesque profile. He was classically beautiful, but he carried a bitterness beneath the surface. It bothered her that she couldn’t read his aura. She missed her grandmother, wishing she had someone to talk to about it.

  Lady Evianne would understand. Her sisters were too far away to be of any help, and besides, they had their own families now. Her brothers, bless them, cared only about fighting and women and war. The curse left the males unaffected, and they could do as they pleased. Lucky them.

  “Thank ye. Ah, here comes Sal with the bread. She’s quite the cook. Of course, she’s on her fifth husband, but never mind that. Her stew will leave you moaning with joy.”

  Ela smothered a laugh as Os sent a concerned glance toward Sal. Sal weighed more than fi
ve men put together, and from the ease with which she carried seven trays filled with steaming loaves, not all of it was fat.

  Os quickly leapt up to help her, but she shooed him out of the way. “Thank ye, but I’ve got it balanced just so. Ye’d only make me drop the lot!” She set the trays side by side along the bar, then began slicing and scooping some of the insides of the bread to hollow out a bowl. “No touching these while they cool, Hilda, dearie, or I’ll serve ye last.”

  “Ach! Ain’t my fingers ye need to warn,” she laughed and Sal joined in. Ela watched, enjoying the companionship vicariously. She and Meg were friends such as this. Had Meg made it through the fires safely?

  She felt Henry sniff her neck and laughed at the tickle. Stay. No need to terrify poor Hilda by having you peek your nose out of my hair, you rascal … you know I’ll save you a bite of lamb.

  He settled down against her nape, his whiskers twitching. Ela and Henry weren’t the only ones being tormented by the scent of sage and rosemary, garlic and butter. Hilda and Os were silently appreciative too.

  The door to the inn banged open, and two men in work boots came in. “Sal, ‘tis like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “Ye ain’t dead yet,” came the shout from the kitchen. “But ye will be, Will Morris, if ye touch my loaves afore they’re cooled.”

  Ela watched Os as he eyed the men and the loaves. She could just imagine him guarding the bread as if it were precious gold. Honor.

  Soon the inn was filled just as Hilda predicted. Sal, and a young man who was obviously her progeny, came out of the kitchen with a vat of stew. The man grabbed the cooled loaves and literally tossed them one to a customer. Then Sal followed, ladling stew into each one.

  Theirs was a practiced routine that had everyone served while the food was hot and fresh. Next, frothing mugs of ale were poured and passed with familiarity and goodwill. “This is a wonderful inn,” Ela said, taking another mouthful of lamb stew. “How long has it been here?”