Rowena de Sainte-Colombe had been a pretty child and Eric had heard she’d grown into a beautiful woman. However, nothing had prepared him for the sight of her, slender and elegant even in a drab gown and veil that could only have come from a convent. The grey that should have muted her looks did nothing of the kind. It framed a beauty that was simply breathtaking. Her eyes seemed brighter, bluer than they had done when she was a child. Her skin was flawless, perfect, and as for her lips, Lord, Eric had never seen such rosy, kissable lips.
They were the lips of a woman who wanted to become a nun, he reminded himself as he gripped her belt. Lips that wanted to do nothing more than chant litanies and sing psalms. Heavens, this woman had chosen life in a convent over life as the Countess of Meaux and, one day, Sainte-Colombe. She’d certainly looked prim as she had ridden towards him. Prim and aloof. There’d been no sign of the carefree child he’d once known.
As they moved off, Lady Rowena’s grey veil streamed out like a pennon. Eric stifled a grin. She didn’t look quite so prim now. Fearful her veil would become tangled in Captain’s hoofs, Eric leaned forward to gather it out of the way. He found himself holding more than he had bargained for, Lady Rowena’s blonde hair, bound in a neat braid, came too. He juggled with veil and braid, struggling not to pull on her hair. In the tussle, the ribbon fell from the tail of the braid and the long, golden tresses began to unwind.
Holding her firmly, Eric pulled up and glanced over his shoulder to see that Alard had dismounted. Arm looped through his reins, his squire had Lady Rowena’s groom at bay. The two other horses, Lady Rowena’s and the groom’s, were placidly cropping grass under one of the apple trees.
Eric nodded at Alard, it was a signal they had arranged earlier.
‘On your way,’ Alard said, dismissing the poor groom.
The groom hesitated, rubbing his skull. His expression was pained. ‘What about Lady Rowena?’
Alard’s sword caught the light as he leaned towards the groom. ‘On your way. Come back for your sword later.’
The groom stumbled over to the horses under the tree.
‘You may take your horse. Don’t touch Lady Rowena’s,’ Eric said. The groom would, Eric was certain, report what had happened the moment he was back at the convent. Eric was relying on him to do so. Word would be sent straight to Jutigny and Count Faramus would know that Eric had his daughter. Sir Breon would not be called into play.
All was proceeding exactly as Eric had planned.
It had been almost too easy, particularly once Eric had discovered Lady Rowena had not lost her habit of riding out every morning. He’d known that then would be the best time to strike. And with it being broad day, he thought and hoped she would be less fearful. Of course she would be alarmed at what had happened to her and as soon as they were out of sight of the convent, he would reassure her that she was safe.
Eric watched the groom hobble towards the convent gate with his horse and grimaced. It was a pity he’d had to suffer that crack on the head, but he didn’t look to be much the worse for it. Doubtless the convent would soon be in uproar.
Uneasy, he looked at the woman slung across his saddle bow. Even though Lady Rowena was unmistakably a woman, she was still tiny. Petite. She would mistrust him for a time, but it had to be better than her becoming Sir Breon’s captive. Realising that his gaze was resting rather too appreciatively on the gentle curve of her buttock, Eric heeled Captain into a walk and headed for the stand of chestnuts over the brow of the hill. He would set her down in cover of the trees and do his best to explain.
Eric wasn’t looking forward to the moment he took off his helmet. She’d be bound to recognise him, after all he’d been one of her father’s household knights for years. Why, when Lady Barbara had heard Lord Faramus turn down his request to learn to read and write, she’d run the gauntlet of her husband’s displeasure by allowing Eric to sit in on her daughter’s lessons. Eric and Lady Rowena had known each other quite well in those days.
He would ensure Lady Rowena understood that she must stay away from the convent for a time, then he would take her back to his manor at Monfort and there they would wait until Lord Faramus came to his senses. Though the idea of marrying Lady Rowena and one day becoming Count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting in many ways, he couldn’t in all conscience force her into marriage.
Rowena felt the wretch who had abducted her take her veil and hair firmly in hand. The knight’s spurs flashed and his horse lurched into a trot. It was a struggle to find air—with every step the horse took the breath was pushed from her lungs. Rowena supposed she should be grateful the knight was riding an ordinary saddle rather than one designed for battle. Otherwise she’d be wrapped round a horrible pommel and then it really would be impossible to breathe.
He planned this. What is he going to do with me? Can he really be one of my father’s household knights? Father will kill him!
The lack of a large pommel was small comfort as they made their way up the rise. Fear felt like a lump of lead in her chest, constricting her breathing every bit as much as the saddle digging into her ribs. The irony of her position flashed through her mind—to think that a short while ago, she’d been wishing for more excitement! Twisting her head the better to see, gasping with the effort, Rowena saw they had reached the small copse. Shadows dappled the grass as they rode in between the chestnut trees.
‘Keep still, my lady. Not much further,’ the knight said.
True to his word, a couple of heartbeats later the grey stallion came to a standstill and the knight dismounted.
‘With your permission, my lady,’ he said.
Warm hands took her by the hips and Rowena was half-lifted, half-dragged from the grey and set on her feet next to a tree. Her veil floated to the ground. Her hair was in her eyes. The knight was yet wearing his helmet and his visor remained down so she couldn’t see his features. Save for the helmet and the knight’s spurs, he was dressed as a huntsman, with a brown leather gambeson over a blue tunic and hose. He towered over her. Determined not to be daunted by his height, Rowena took in a shaky breath and glared up at him.
‘My father will kill you,’ she said. ‘I know you are one of his household knights. You might have the decency to show your face.’
‘Very well.’ Calmly, he unbuckled the strap and removed the helmet.
He shook his head and ran his fingers through dark, tousled hair. He wore it slightly long for a knight. He had warm, unforgettable eyes. Rowena remembered them well, they were green with bright flecks that appeared gold in some lights and amber in others. Here in the copse, they were gold.
She felt her jaw drop. ‘Eric? Sir Eric?’ Her mind raced. Sir Eric de Monfort hadn’t been her father’s man for a few years, but he had indeed been a Jutigny knight. A favourite of Sir Macaire’s, Eric had earned his spurs early. Then he had won his manor in a tourney. Shortly after that he had left her father’s service—a landed knight had no need to be at another man’s beck and call.
Rowena had been delighted by Eric’s success. There was a world of difference between the life of a knight who had won lands and that of a landless knight. A knight with land had some measure of security, he had revenues he could call upon and a place to call home. For someone like Eric—a foundling—that must mean much. If Eric had remained landless, his life would have been very different. He would have been reliant on short-term contracts with men like her father, in short, Eric might have ended up being little
