“I am not their future anything!” Alexandra said, hanging on to her shaky composure with an effort. “I loathe Will Helmsley and for your information,” she finished, pushed to the point of forgetting about her mother’s fragile hold on sanity, “Mary Ellen says Will Helmsley prefers young boys to girls!”
The horror of that statement, which Alex only partially understood herself, sailed right over Mrs. Lawrence’s greying head. “Well, of course—most young men prefer other young men as companions. Although,” Mrs. Lawrence continued, getting up and beginning to pace with the fevered awkwardness of one who has been an invalid for a long time, “that may be exactly why he hasn’t shown a strong reluctance to wed you, Alexandra.” Her gaze was riveted up on Alexandra’s thin frame clad in threadbare, tight brown breeches, a white, full-sleeved shirt opened at the throat, and brown boots that showed she’d attempted to shine them. She looked much like a once-prosperous young lad whose family had fallen on hard times and who was forced to wear clothes he’d outgrown. “You must begin wearing gowns, even though young Will doesn’t seem to object to your breeches.”
Hanging on to her temper with an effort, Alex said patiently, “Mama, I do not own a gown that is not inches above my knees.”
“I told you to alter one of mine for you.”
“But I’m not handy with a needle, and—”
Mrs. Lawrence stopped pacing and glared at her. “I must say you’re putting every obstacle you can think of in the way of your betrothal, but I mean to end this mockery of a life we’ve been living, and Squire Helmsley’s son is the only hope we have.” She frowned darkly at the stubborn child-woman standing in the doorway, a shadow of bitter regret crossing her pale features. “I realize that we have never been truly close, Alexandra, but it is that man’s fault you’ve grown into the wild, unruly hoyden you are today, gallivanting about the countryside, wearing pants, shooting that rifle, and doing all manner of things you ought not.”
Helpless to keep the angry embarrassment from her voice, Alexandra retorted stiffly, “If I were the demure, vapid, helpless creature you seem to want me to be, this household would have starved long ago.”
Mrs. Lawrence had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “What you say is true, but we cannot go on this way much longer. Despite your best efforts, we’re in debt to everyone. I know I’ve not been a good mother these three years past, but I’ve come to my senses at last, and I must take steps to see you safely married.”
“But I don’t love Will Helmsley,” Alexandra burst out desperately.
“Which is all to the good,” Mrs. Lawrence said harshly. “Then he can’t hurt you as your father hurt me. Will comes from a steady, solid family. You won’t find him keeping an extra wife in London and gambling everything away.” Alexandra winced at this cruel reminder of her father’s perfidy, as her mother continued, “Actually, we’re very lucky Squire Helmsley is so very pushing—otherwise, I daresay he wouldn’t have you for a daughter.”
“Just what is my attraction as a daughter-in-law?”
Mrs. Lawrence looked shocked. “Why, we are connected to an earl, Alexandra, and to a knight of the realm,” she said as if that answered everything.
When Mrs. Lawrence fell into a pensive silence, Alexandra shrugged and said, “I’m off to Mary Ellen’s. It’s her brother’s birthday today.”
“Perhaps it’s better if you aren’t present at supper,” Mrs. Lawrence said, absently picking up her hairbrush and running it haphazardly through her hair. “I believe the Helmsleys mean to broach the subject of the marriage tonight, and it wouldn’t do to have you here frowning and looking mutinous.”
“Mama,” Alexandra said with a mixture of pity and alarm, “I would rather starve than marry Will.”
Mrs. Lawrence’s expression made it clear that she, for one, did not prefer starvation to her daughter’s marriage. “These matters are best left for adults to decide. Go along to Mary Ellen’s, but do wear a gown.”
“I can’t. In honor of John O’Toole’s birthday, we’re going to have a jousting tournament like in days of old—you know, the sort of tournament the O’Tooles always have on birthdays.”
“You’re entirely too old to go parading about in that rusty old suit of armor, Alexandra. Leave it in the hallway where it belongs.”
“No harm will come to it,” Alex assured. “I’m only taking a shield, the helmet, the lance, and the breastplate.”
“Oh, very well,” her mother said with a weary shrug.
Chapter Four
MOUNTED UPON OLD THUNDER, a swaybacked, eviltempered gelding who was older than she was and who had belonged to her grandfather, Alexandra plodded down the rutted road toward the O’Tooles’ sprawling cottage, her rifle in a scabbard beside her, her gaze sweeping the side of the road in hopes of spying some small game to shoot on the way to Mary Ellen’s. Not that there was much chance of surprising any animal this afternoon, for the long lance tucked under her arm clanked noisily against the breastplate she wore and banged against the shield she carried.
Despite her unhappy confrontation with her mother, Alex’s spirits rose, buoyed up by the glorious spring day and the same sense of excited expectation she’d tried to describe to Sarah.
Down in the valley on her left and in the woods on her right, spring flowers had burst into bloom, filling her eyes and nose with their rainbow colors and delicious scent. On the outskirts of the village there was a small inn, and Alexandra, who knew everyone within the eight-mile circle that encompassed her entire world, shoved the visor of her helmet up and waved gaily at Mr. Tilson, the proprietor. “Good day, Mr. Tilson,” she called.
“Good day to you, Miss Alex,” he called back.
Mary Ellen O’Toole and her six brothers were outside the O’Tooles’ rambling cottage, a rollicking game of knights-of-yore already in full progress in their yard. “Come on, Alexandra,” fourteen-year-old Tom called from atop his father’s ancient horse. “It’s time for a joust.”
“No, let’s duel first,” the thirteen-year-old argued, brandishing an old saber. “I’ll best you this time, Alex. I’ve been practicing day and night.”
Laughing, Alexandra awkwardly dismounted and hugged Mary Ellen, then both girls threw themselves into the games, which were a ritual reenacted on each of the seven O’Toole children’s birthday.
The afternoon and evening passed in exuberant games, cheerful rivalry, and the convivial laughter of a large family gathered together—something that Alexandra, an only child, had always longed to be part of.
By the time she was on her way home, she was happily exhausted and nearly groaning from the quantity of hearty food she’d eaten at the insistence of kindly Mrs. O’Toole.
Lulled by the steady clip-clop of old Thunder’s hooves on the dusty road, Alexandra let her body sway in rhythm with the horse’s gentle motion, her heavy eyelids drooping with fatigue. Left with no other way to bring her suit of armor back home, Alexandra was wearing it, but it made her uncomfortably warm, which made her feel even drowsier.
As she passed the inn and turned old Thunder onto the wide path that led through the woods and intersected the main road again a mile away, she noticed that several horses were tied in the innyard and the lamp in the window was still lit. Masculine voices, raised in lusty song, drifted through the open window to her. Overhead the branches of the oak trees met, swaying in the spring night, casting eerie shadows on the path as they blotted out the moon.
It was late, Alexandra knew, but she didn’t urge her mount to quicken its walking pace. In the first place, Thunder was past twenty, and in the second, she wanted to be sure that Squire and Mrs. Helmsley had departed by the time she arrived.
The visor of her helmet abruptly clanked down across her face again, and Alexandra sighed with irritation, longing to take the heavy helmet off and carry it. Deciding that Thunder was unlikely to feel either the energy or the inclination to try to run off with her, particularly after his exhausting day at the “lists,” Alexandr
a pulled him to a stop, then let go of his reins and transferred the heavy shield she was carrying to her left hand. Intending to take off the helmet and carry it in the crook of her right arm, she reached up to pull the helmet off, then halted, her attention suddenly drawn to the muffled, unidentifiable sounds coming from the perimeter of the woods, a quarter of a mile ahead near the road.
Frowning slightly, wondering if she was about to encounter a wild boar, or a less threatening—perhaps edible— species of game, she withdrew her rifle from its scabbard as quietly as her armor would allow.
Suddenly the serenity of the night was shattered by the explosion of a gunshot, and then another. Before Alexandra had time to react, old Thunder bolted in wild-eyed confusion through the thinning woods—galloping blindly, straight toward the source of the shots, his bridle reins flicking the ground beside his flying hooves, with Alexandra’s legs clamped in a death grip against his sides.
The bandit’s head jerked toward the eruption of clanking metal from the woods beside them, and Jordan Townsende tore his gaze from the deadly hole at the end of the pistol that the second bandit was aiming straight at his chest. The sight that greeted him made him doubt his eyesight. Charging out of the woods to his rescue atop a swaybacked nag was a knight in armor with his visor pulled down, a shield at the ready in one hand and a rifle in his other.
Alexandra stifled a scream as she crashed out of the woods and catapulted straight into the midst of a moonlit scene more sinister than any of her worst nightmares: A coachman was lying wounded in the road beside a coach, and two bandits with red handkerchiefs concealing their faces were holding a tall man at gunpoint. The second bandit turned as Alexandra clattered down on them—and pointed his gun straight at her.
There was no time to think, only to react. Tightening her grip on her rifle and unconsciously counting on the protection of her shield and breastplate against the inevitable bullet, Alexandra leaned to the right, intending to launch herself at the bandit and knock him to the ground, but at that moment his gun exploded.
In a frenzy of terror, Thunder stumbled and lost his balance, pitching Alexandra helplessly through the air to land in a heap of rusty metal atop the second bandit. The impact nearly dislodged her helmet, sent her rifle skidding uselessly into the road, and knocked her half-unconscious.
Unfortunately, the bandit recovered before Alexandra’s head stopped reeling. “What the bloody hell—” he grunted and, with a mighty shove, pushed her limp body off him and delivered a vicious kick to her side before running over to help his accomplice, who was now engaged in a physical struggle with their tall victim for possession of the pistol.
In a blur of panic and pain, Alexandra saw both bandits pounce on the tall man, and she heaved herself forward with a strength born of sheer terror—crawling, scrambling, and clanking toward the dark gleaming shaft of her rifle lying on the rutted road. Just as her hand closed around the stock of her rifle, she saw the tall man wrest the pistol from the thin bandit and shoot him, then crouch and whirl, pointing his pistol straight at the other one.
Mesmerized by the terrible deadly grace of the tall man’s swift maneuver, Alexandra watched him coldly and calmly level the gun at the second assailant. Still sprawled on her stomach, she closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But there was only the loud click of an empty gun.
“You poor, stupid bastard,” the bandit said with an evil laugh and lazily reached inside his shirt, pulling out his own pistol. “Do you think I’da let yer grab that second gun off the ground if’n I didn’ know fer sure it was empty? You’re going to die real slow for killing me brother. It takes a long time for a man to die when he’s been shot in the stomach—”
Her mind screaming with fear, Alexandra rolled onto her side, rammed the bolt of her rifle into place and sighted down the barrel. When the bandit raised his pistol, she fired. The powerful recoil slammed her onto her back, knocking the air from her chest. When she turned her head in the dirt and opened her eyes, the bandit was lying in a shaft of moonlight, the side of his head blown off.
She hadn’t merely wounded him as she’d hoped to do, she had killed him. A groan of terror and anguish rose in her throat and tore from her constricted chest, and then the world began to spin, slowly at first, than faster as she watched the tall man kick over the bandit she’d killed, then start toward her, his long-legged gait swift, menacing somehow. . . . The world spun faster, carrying her down through a black hole. For the first time in her life, Alexandra fainted.
Jordan crouched down beside the fallen knight, his hands rough in his urgent haste to tug off the helmet so he could assess the injuries to the inhabitant of the suit of armor. “Quick, Grimm!” he called over to his coachman, who was staggering to his feet, recovering from the bandit’s blow which had knocked him unconscious. “Give me a hand with this damned armor.”
“Is he hurt, your grace?” Grimm said, rushing over to his master’s side and kneeling down.
“Obviously,” Jordan said brusquely, wincing at the cut on the left side of the small face.
“He wasn’t shot, was he?”
“I don’t think so. Hold his head—gently, dammit!— while I pull this monstrosity off him.” Tossing the helmet aside, Jordan pulled off the breastplate. “God, what an absurd costume,” he uttered, but his voice was worried as he surveyed the limp body before him, looking for a bullet wound or a sign of blood in the moonlight. “It’s too dark to tell where he’s hurt. Turn the coach around and we’ll take him to the inn we passed a few miles back. Someone there will be bound to know who his parents are, as well as the direction of the nearest doctor.” Reaching down, Jordan gently grasped his young rescuer under the arms, shocked to discover how light in weight the lad beneath the armor was. “He’s just a boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen,” Jordan said, his voice gruff with guilt at the harm he had evidently caused the courageous youth who had charged to his rescue. Effortlessly scooping the child into his arms, he carried him to his coach.
* * *
Jordan’s arrival at the inn with an unconscious Alexandra in his arms caused a furor of lewd comments and bawdy suggestions from the occupants of the common room who, because of the lateness of the hour, were deeply in their cups.
With the supreme indifference of the true aristocrat toward lesser mortals, Jordan ignored the raised voices and stalked toward the barmaid. “Show me to your best room and then send the innkeeper to me at once.”
The barmaid glanced from the back of Alexandra’s curly dark head to the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman and scurried off to carry out all his commands in the order they had been given, beginning with the inn’s finest bedchamber.
Gently, Jordan laid the lad upon the bed and unfastened the laces at the neck of the boy’s shirt. The boy groaned, his eyelids fluttered open, and Jordan found himself staring into an amazingly large pair of eyes the startling color of liquid aquamarines, fringed with absurdly long, curly lashes —eyes that were gazing back at him in disoriented bewilderment. Smiling reassuringly, Jordan said gently, “Welcome back to the world, Galahad.”
“Where—” Alexandra wet her parched lips, her voice an unfamiliar croak. Clearing her throat, she tried again and managed little more than a hoarse, thready whisper. “Where am I?”
“You’re at an inn near where you were hurt.”
The gory details came flooding back, and Alexandra felt hot tears burn the backs of her eyes. “I killed him. I killed that man,” she choked.
“And saved two lives by doing it—mine and my coachman’s.”
In her dazed state, Alexandra seized on that reassurance and clung to it for all the comfort it offered. Not able to focus perfectly yet, she watched as if from a distance as he began running his hands up and down her legs. No hands but her mother’s had ever touched her person—and that not for years and years. Alexandra found the sensation both faintly pleasant and oddly disturbing, but when the man’s hands began gently probing at her lower rib cage, she gas
ped and clutched his thick wrists. “Sir!” she croaked desperately. “What are you doing?”
Jordan’s gaze flicked to the slender fingers gripping his wrists with a strength that seemed born of fear. “I’m looking for broken bones, stripling. I’ve sent for a doctor and the innkeeper. Although, since you’re awake now, you can tell me yourself who you are and where to locate the nearest physician.”
Alarmed and indignant at the exorbitant cost of a physician’s services, Alex burst out desperately, “Do you have any idea how much a leech charges nowadays?”
Jordan stared down at the pale lad with the amazing eyes and felt a deep stirring of compassion mingled with admiration—a combination of emotions that was completely foreign to him. “You incurred these injuries on my behalf. Naturally, I’ll stand good for the charges.”
He smiled then, and Alexandra felt the last vestiges of haziness abruptly clear from her mind. Smiling down at her was the largest and unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, ever imagined. His eyes were the silver-grey of satin and steel, his shoulders very wide, his baritone voice rich and compelling. In contrast to his tanned face, his teeth were startlingly white, and although rugged masculine strength was carved into the tough line of his jaw and chin, his touch was gentle, and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes to testify to his sense of humor.
Looking up at the giant who loomed above her, she felt very small and fragile. Oddly, she also felt safe. Safer than she had felt in three years. Loosening her grip on his hands, she raised her own hand and touched her fingers to a cut on his chin. “You’ve been hurt, too,” she said, smiling shyly at him.
Jordan caught his breath at the unexpected glamour of the lad’s glowing smile and froze in amazement when he felt an odd, inner tingle from the boy’s touch. A boy’s touch. Brusquely shaking off the small hand, he wondered grimly if his boredom with life’s ordinary diversions was turning him into some sort of perverted dilettante. “You haven’t yet told me your name,” he said, his tone deliberately cool as he began exploring the boy’s lower ribcage, watching his small face for any sign of pain.