Misbegotten Read online

I do not understand."

  Maynard has left behind a son, a legitimate son."

  The knight's eyes widened. "Impossible. He cannot have wed without your knowing. The banns—"

  May have been read at Rosemoor, where he wed, or not at all."

  "A special license, then," John murmured. "But even so, we all know of his arrangement with you. He- "

  Liam cut him off. "I ride south within the hour. Do you ride with me?"

  "Of course, but what do you intend?"

  What did he intend? "To take back what is mine," he said, and then pivoted on his heel and left the i night staring after him.

  * * *

  "William!"

  Dragging on the reins, Liam stayed his mount before the drawbridge. The dozen men chosen to accompany him did the same and turned with him to face the interloper.

  Just as the horse Ivo rode was far too fine for a priest, the sword girded about his hip was also misplaced. But it was all that Ivo was and had ever been. 1 Now aged forty and nine, the once-handsome man lived life with God on his lips, warring on his mind, and greed in his heart. He was a man of the church in I name only.

  Straining to suppress his anger, Liam asked, "Have I you not someone to bury?"

  Ivo halted his destrier before Liam. "I do," he snarled, the whites of his eyes veined red with the strain of tears he had wept over Maynard. "But as I your journey will not wait, neither will mine."

  "Go, then."

  "Ah, but I go with you." A bitter smile etched Ivo's hard mouth.

  Liam was surprised that his uncle did not first go j to seek the coins Maynard had left somewhere behind. As it was a considerable sum—the greatest portion of Ashlingford's coffers—it could only mean it was hidden well enough that it could wait. "I do not require your priest's services," he said.

  With the jewels of his crucifix catching sunlight,! Ivo said, "I do not offer them."

  Lord, but he was near to losing control! Liam thought. So near to releasing all that was pent up inside him. However, feeling the shifting unease of his men—who feared the letting of holy blood— Liam reminded himself that, in name or not, he was still their lord. "You are not needed," he said again.

  "Tis to Rosemoor you go, is it not?"

  "It is."

  Ivo inclined his head. "Then I am needed."

  “And I ask you, for what?"

  "To ensure the safety of Maynard's heir—that he reaches Ashlingford alive."

  Alive. As if Liam might resort to murder to attain what was already his! Resenting the accusation, which was as obvious as if it had been spoken, Liam aid, "And you think he will not?"

  "Many are the unfortunate accidents that befall children in travel." Ivo lifted his palms heavenward. I would simply ensure that none of them befall Oliver."

  “As I will not be traveling with him, I assure you your worries are unfounded, uncle," Liam said, his voice level despite his emotions. "I go to Rosemoor only to verify the child's existence—and the validity of Maynard's marriage."

  “And then?"

  “You are far too learned to ask such a foolish question.”

  “You will go to London to petition the king for the barony?"

  Liam left Ivo's question unanswered. "Stay and bury your beloved nephew," he said. "No harm will come to the child."

  Ivo smirked. "Let us be certain, hmm?" He impelled his horse forward and over the drawbridge.

  Though it was a great temptation to overpower his uncle and lock him in one of the gatehouse rooms until he returned, Liam knew he would have the church to answer to. Nay, let the old devil come along, he grudgingly decided. Soon enough Ivo would regret his interference.

  Liam thrust his destrier ahead of the others. We ride!" he shouted.

  2

  "Do not touch."

  “Why?"

  “It has thorns." She touched the base of the plant's spine. "See?"

  “Uh huh."

  “And if you catch your finger on it, 'twill hurt quite badly,"

  "Why?"

  “Because ..." Joslyn sighed. "Ah, Oliver, I have told you before."

  “Tell me 'gain."

  She lapped a gloved finger to his mud-smudged nose. “Nay, I will not, young man. Now along with you.”

  Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Oliver turned and headed back across the garden.

  “And take your bucket," Joslyn called after him.

  He scooped it up and toted it back to the corner of the walled garden he had minutes earlier abandoned, a patch of earth ravaged by numerous holes and heaps of dirt. Then, issuing another sigh clearly intended for his mother's ears, he plopped down and set about dirtying those rare inches of himself that were still clean.

  Joslyn smiled. From the top of his golden head to the small toes he curled into the dirt he was hers every dear and dirty bit of him. Her heart lightened she turned back to the rosebush she had been in the midst of transplanting when he had come to her with his many questions. However, she had only just begun to pack the roots when a distant sound caught her regard. Sitting back on her heels, she tried to identify what it was that traveled not only on the air but which could also be felt through the earth.

  Horses, she named the vibration beneath he knees. But why at such speed when it was not permitted within the walls of the village? Though none would speak against their lord making such a ride never had her father done so—even when he was id his cups. Of course, something might have happened to warrant it, something that brought her father from London when it was yet three days before he was expected home again. Joslyn stood.

  "Mama?"

  Glancing behind, she saw that Oliver had also risen. "Tis naught," she told him. "Stay here."

  "I come too."

  "Nay, I will be back in a moment."

  "But I want—" "Stay here," she said more firmly.

  His lower lip jutted out, but a shake of his mother's head set him back on his rear end.

  Hoping he would not disobey her, which he'd been doing ever since he turned two, Joslyn walked to the gate and around to the front of the manor house. Shading her eyes with her hand, she scanned the village before her, but all she saw were people coming out of their homes to see for themselves what was happening—as were the manor servants behind Joslyn.

  Concluding that it must be her father and his men come with bad tidings, for surely any others in such great number would have been turned away at the village gates, Joslyn lifted her skirts and started across the green, which was still sodden from yesterday's rainfall. However, she was only a quarter of the way it when the riders rode into sight. Out of the village they came, to turn onto the road leading to the manor.

  Joslyn faltered. Though they were still distant, she could see it was not her father at the fore. Instead, the hone on one who sat taller in the saddle than was possible for Humphrey Reynard—and whose head was crowned with hair of red.

  God, he had come!

  For what seemed an eternity, Joslyn stood rooted to the spot, her mind awash with what it meant. In the end, though, it came down to one thing: her son.

  Fear racing through her, she turned and began running toward the garden. Faster! she commanded her he had to reach Oliver first—get him inside before it was too late. Lord, how she wished this once he had disobeyed her and followed! As there was no entrance-into the manor from the garden, she would have to retrieve him and then retrace her steps.

  Alarmed, the servants called to Joslyn, but she could make no sense of their words. She hadn't time. "Oliver!" she screamed.

  In her frantic flight, she slipped twice on the wet green but quickly regained her footing and continued to the garden. Within, she paused only long enough to locate Oliver. He stood looking across at her with wide, curious eyes—exactly where she had left him.

  "Mama?" he asked.

  Praying for wings, Joslyn rushed forward, gathered him into her arms, and ran back to the gate. However, she had only taken a step out of the garden when her gaze lit on one rider who had
broken away from the others and was this moment heading across the green toward her. He must have seen her, she realized. Must have guessed who she was.

  Measuring the distance from the manor door to the man whose red hair proclaimed him to be Liam Fawke, Joslyn realized it was futile. Never would she make it, especially carrying Oliver. But what then? She could not simply stand here and allow this man to do what he intended, and neither could she scale the back wall, for it was too high.

  "Who's that?" Oliver asked, looking toward the thundering horse with its red-haired knight.

  A thought struck Joslyn. Leaving Oliver's question unanswered, she turned back into the garden and ran to where she had earlier noticed a portion of crumbling wall in need of repair. If she and Oliver could squeeze through it, the thick wood beyond the village wall would provide a refuge.

  Setting Oliver down, she dropped to all fours and pushed aside the stones. Unfortunately, the hole was only big enough for Oliver to pass through. But it would do.

  She turned to where her son stood watching her and said, "Listen to me, Oliver. There is a bad man coming and you must hide."

  "A bad man?"

  She nodded. "Do you remember—"

  "The red knight?"

  Needing to impress the urgency of the matter on him, she pulled him toward her and tilted his chin up. "Aye, the red knight. Now, do you remember the old oak, the one by the stream with the large hollow in its trunk?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I want you to crawl through here—" she nodded to the breach in the wall— "and run as fast as you can to the postern gate." Unless someone had closed it during the past hour, it ought still to be open. "Go into the wood and hide yourself inside the oak. I will—"

  "But there's bugs in it. You said I could not—"

  "This is different, Oliver. You must hide there so the bad man cannot find you. Do you understand?"

  Clearly not all of it, but he nodded.

  Pulling him into her arms, Joslyn squeezed him tight and pressed a kiss to his brow. "Go now," she said, pushing him toward the hole. "I will come for you shortly."

  Oliver lowered himself to his knees. "Will he hurt you, Mama?" he asked.

  Managing a smile she hoped was reassuring, she shook her head. "Nay, he will not. Now hurry."

  Once his small bottom disappeared and she heard the beat of his feet over the ground, Joslyn straightened and retrieved the rake she had earlier discarded. Then she ran back across the garden, pressed herself against the wall alongside the gate, and raised her weapon.

  Though Joslyn expected Liam Fawke to propel his mount into the garden as recklessly as he had over the green, he did not. Instead, he reined in before the open gateway, the destrier's heavy breathing and the shadow it and its rider threw over the ground the only proof of their presence.

  Liam Fawke was no unseasoned knight, Joslyn acknowledged, for he obviously suspected what he could not see through the gateway. Just as good, though, for the longer he stayed without, the more time Oliver had to reach the wood. However, in the next instant, the horse bolted into the garden.

  Too late, Joslyn swung at the man's back and landed a blow to the air that nearly lost her the rake. Splintering her hands on the wooden handle, she raised her crude weapon again as the knight wheeled his horse around to face her.

  And what an unexpected sight he was! Joslyn had known him only by the red hair Maynard had told her of: the Irish in him. From that, and from her husband's tales of this cruel and treacherous man, she had envisioned a far different person from the one before her now. The bastard brother Maynard had described had been neither so tall nor so broad-shouldered. He'd been older, and certainly had not possessed a handsome face beneath his red hair. Joslyn had pictured that hair as being long and unkempt, rather than groomed as it was—cut short above his ears but longer in back where it curled over his collar. Lord, he looked more the gentleman than the knave of Maynard's tales. But he was dangerous. , . .

  From the woman's flight across the manor green, Liam had guessed she was the Lady Joslyn and that she ran from him to hide her son. But now that he saw her up close, he knew this could not be the woman whom Maynard had wed and bedded, for the creature who stood before him wielding a rake would have held no appeal for his brother.

  From the crooked veil atop her head, which had loosed strands of blackest hair, to the hem of her drab skirts, she was streaked with dirt—including her face and throat. A village woman, perhaps, but certainly not of the manor. She must have run simply out of fear.

  "He is dead," she stated, the first to break the silence.

  Frowning, Liam searched her eyes. They were a brilliant amber.

  She tilted her smudged chin higher. "He said you would come," she continued, in a voice and manner at odds with her appearance. "He said you would try to murder me and my child. Is that what you intend, Liam Fawke?"

  It was she. The shock was difficult for Liam to contain. Perhaps cleaned up, Maynard's wife might be somewhat presentable, but there seemed nothing about her to attract a man. Lord, who even knew what figure she possessed beneath those dirty, ungirded garments?

  "Is it?" she asked again.

  Liam had to think back to what she had said— Maynard had warned her that if he came it would be with murderous intent. "Where is the boy?" he demanded.

  "First you will answer my question," she said. "What are your intentions?"

  She was stalling for time, Liam realized. "To claim what is mine," he said, allowing her what he could well afford.

  "Ashlingford."

  He inclined his head.

  "Then I am correct in believing Maynard is dead?"

  "He is."

  She lowered her lids over those incredible eyes— the only remarkable thing about her—but when she lifted them again, there was no sign of grieving there.

  She was cold, Liam concluded. Unfeeling, just as Maynard had been. It was this, then, that had drawn them together. Like attracted like. "You seem hardly saddened by the news, my lady," he remarked, though he nearly laughed aloud at having bestowed the title on one who could not possibly look less the noblewoman.

  Her amber eyes flashed at him. "As you do not know me, Sir Liam," she said, "do not attempt to judge me."

  But he did know her. What more needed to be told about the woman than that she had wed Maynard? Of course, she may have had no choice. Though some women had a say in whom they wed, most did not.

  "What are your intentions toward my son?" she repeated.

  Liam prodded his destrier nearer her, provoking her into raising the rake higher.

  "Come no closer," she warned.

  Turning his mount sideways, he looked down the length of her weapon and into her eyes. Aye, as a mother protecting her babe, she would use it if need be—even if in vain. "On the morrow I ride to London to put my case before the king," he said. "Oliver will accompany me."

  "Why?"

  It was true Liam had not planned to do this when Ivo had questioned him about it, but the more he pondered, the more it appealed to him. Let the king see for himself the heir Maynard had named. Let him decide if a barony of the magnitude and importance of Ashlingford belonged in the hands of a child. "Where is he?" he asked.

  A satisfied gleam entered her eyes. "Where you cannot touch him."

  "In spite of what you think of me," Liam said, "no harm will come to your son."

  Her eyes said she did not believe him.

  Liam gestured to the rake. "Do you plan to use that?"

  "If I must."

  There was something almost humorous about the situation, Liam thought. What would his father have said of an armed and mounted knight facing off a bedraggled waif whose only defense was a rusty old rake? "Put it down, Lady Joslyn," he said. "You need not fear me."

  "Needn't I? You are not a stranger to me, Liam Fawke. I know the man you are."

  Maynard had made certain of that. "Then what makes you think that silly thing will prevent me from taking what I have come for
? Am I not armed?"

  Her gaze fell first to the thrusting sword that hung on the front of his saddle, then to the shorter sword suspended from his hip belt, and last to his dagger.

  "Were I the murderer Maynard led you to believe," he continued, "I assure you that you would not still be standing where you are now."

  She must have known it was the truth, but still she refused to give up her weapon. "I will not allow you to take my son."

  Liam was about to assure her again of the boy's safety when he heard beyond the garden walls a child's voice raised in protest. "But I have him already," he said.

  Fear flooding her eyes, Joslyn dropped the rake and ran from the garden.

  Liam prodded his destrier forward and followed her around to the rear of the manor, where Sir John and three other knights rode toward them.

  "Nay!" Joslyn cried as she lunged toward the squirming, screeching child beneath John's arm.

  Liam turned his destrier into her path. "You will be trampled underfoot," he warned.

  Snapping her head back, she leveled all her loathing at him. "That would fit well with your plans, would it not?"

  Liam gripped the reins tighter but, rather than argue his character, turned his eyes forward again. She would believe what Maynard had told her before she would ever believe the words of a stranger, and as it was unlikely Liam would have occasion to disprove his brother's lies, it would be a waste of time even to try.

  As Sir John drew near, Liam got his first glimpse of this child who was Maynard's. Though it hardly seemed possible, the boy was even filthier than his mother.

  "Mama!" he howled, catching sight of her. Then he stretched out his arms as if he thought she might fly into them.

  A moment later, Sir John brought his horse alongside Liam's. "He bites," the knight grumbled.

  Joslyn reached to take her son from him. "Give him to me," she demanded.

  At John's questioning look, Liam shook his head.

  Catching the exchange, Joslyn turned her angry gaze on Liam. However, she did not argue the matter—quite likely fearing it would upset the child even more. "Tis all right," she said, patting Oliver's knee.

  Although her touch and nearness comforted him enough to still his fitful movements, he continued to reach for her.