Page 9 of The Protector’s Promise

“My kind,” he said, his voice not as light as it had been earlier. “And what kind is that, my lady?”

“The kind that would steal from the most holy of persons, put a knife to an innocent maiden’s throat and—”

“Innocent? Maiden?” He laughed again, and this time Marion nearly gave in to her urge to kick him.

“You are despicable.”

Instead of responding, Court smiled. A lazy, half smile that said he didn’t believe her. And with that, he turned and walked away.

After a few moments, she realized he wasn’t coming back. Using the time to see to her needs, Marion continued on toward the water, where she washed herself as best she could before returning to their makeshift camp. It consisted of nothing more than a small clearing and, after she pulled it down from his saddlebag, a bedroll.

Court returned shortly after she’d begun to gather sticks into a pile for a fire. He tossed his own logs on top and proceeded to gut the hare he’d caught. Marion made a sound of disgust and turned her back.

“You prefer just to eat it then. No interest in how your meal is prepared?”

She crossed her arms and remained silent. Staring off into the darkness, she listened to his movements behind her. Just as she’d done many times before, usually when someone teased her about her “abilities,” Marion contemplated how to get out of the situation with her dignity intact. She’d only turned around because she could not tolerate the sight of blood, whether it be from a hare or a man. But now she refused to look at him because he expected her to. And because she’d not admit that flaw to him.

And she’d called him stubborn.

“Do you plan to starve, my lady?” he mocked.

Given a cue, Marion did turn then. And gasped.

Court leaned over a fire roasting their meal. He’d removed his surcoat and chain mail. Clad in only a long linen shirt, the neckline open, and woolen hose, he looked dangerous . . . and delicious. With such a wide chest and thick arms, the Englishman could no doubt crush a man’s skull with his hands, and then carry a maiden to his tent.

“See something you like?”

* * *

Court certainly did.

He’d had no intention of making camp this early, but every time Marion shifted, her backside brushing against him, he became more and more uncomfortable.

“Aye,” she said. “Dinner.”

He really should leave it at that, but something about Marion made him want to misbehave.

Walking toward the fire, she placed her hands over the flames and rubbed them together. The warm summer days often, like this one, turned into much cooler nights.

“Mmm,” he murmured, her murderous glare warning him away.

At least, it would have warned off a more cautious man. Court ripped off a piece of meat and handed it to Marion as she lowered herself onto the makeshift seat he’d provided. He watched as she opened her mouth and brought it down on the roasted rabbit.

“Is it safe to have a fire?” she asked.

He concentrated on the flames rather than the redheaded beauty who was likely contemplating how to kill him in his sleep. “As safe as it can be in the borderlands.”

Which meant it was not safe at all. But if they were discovered, it would not be the fire that gave them away. The little-used road would not hide their tracks, ensuring he would have a mostly sleepless night.

“So where is it?”

Court wasn’t foolish enough to look down at his waist, the pocket he’d sewn into his hose to keep the stone safe. Instead, he continued to gaze into the fire. The sound of crickets was the only accompaniment to the crackling of the wood.

“Why did it call to me if I was not meant to take it?” he asked between bites, aware she would not answer him.

Marion licked her fingers. God . . . why had he looked at just that moment? “Tell me who you plan to attack and when, and I will tell you what I know of the stone.”

Court pressed his lips together. He tore off another piece of meat and handed it to her. When their fingers touched, she pulled away as if she’d been burned.