Page 11 of One Knight in the Forest

“There were many branches down, and I had to help some travelers whose wagon was stuck in the mud close to the town,” Cyn said quietly. “How is Magdalen?” He’d thought of her every moment that he’d been away. No matter how hard he’d tried to focus on his duties, memories of her lingered, along with endless questions. Mayhap later today she’d be well enough, trusting enough, to answer some of those questions that plagued him.

“She ate some pottage, and I gave her more of the herbal drink. She has slept soundly since.”

“Good. She needs the rest.”

“Any word on why William was pursuing her?”

“Nay. However, I expect he will arrive here on the morrow with his men-at-arms in tow. I intend to get answers from him then.”

Borden’s lips flattened. “Do you mean to hand her over to him?”

“Of course not!”

A smile brightened the older man’s face. “As I had hoped.” He gestured to Cyn’s mud-splattered garments and boots. “I will pour out some hot water for you to wash, and heat you some pottage.”

“Thank you.” Cyn pulled off his boots, took the heated water from Borden, and then padded into the small room off the kitchen where he normally slept—except that Magdalen was using his bed. He stripped off his dirty clothes, scrubbed clean with herbal soap, and then dressed.

As he strode back into the kitchen, Borden looked up from the pot hanging over the fire. “The fare is ready.”

“I will eat once I have checked Magdalen’s leg.”

Borden nodded and returned to the dried herbs laid out the nearby butcher’s block, likely to be made into a fresh healing drink.

Moving silently, Cyn went to the cot. Magdalen was sound asleep. How beautiful she looked while she slumbered; she was even lovelier than the maidens spoken of in the old stories he treasured. Her fair skin was smooth and unblemished. Her long, dark lashes swept against her face, while her shimmering hair trailed in unfettered abandon across the pillow.

His gaze shifted down to her lips, as pink as a damask rose and slightly parted in sleep. His hands curled at his sides, and he forced his attention away, resenting the anguish that flickered within him. He had no right to stare. To want. He was not worthy of one as innocent, as exquisite, as Magdalen.

He carefully drew the blanket away from her leg, untied a few of the bandages, and inspected the wound. The stitches looked good. Satisfied no more could be done for her that night, he put the blanket back in place and started for the kitchen.

As he walked, his gaze found Magdalen’s clothes and leather bag still drying near the fire. His strides slowed. When he’d secured the bag to the line, he’d marveled at the weight of it. Whatever she’d taken with her from Glemstow, he’d be wise to know—especially if ’twas the reason she’d run from William.

He crossed to the hearth and unfastened the bag. Guilt nagged at Cyn; he really should ask Magdalen’s permission to examine her belongings, but that would mean waking her. Moreover, he was acting in the crown-appointed role of sheriff; by law, he didn’t have to ask her consent. Cyn eased the bag open and reached inside.

Something cool and roundish in shape brushed against his fingers: A stone? As he took it out into the firelight, his breath lodged in his throat, for ’twas a ruby the size of a hen’s egg, its surface polished to gleaming perfection. White streaks shot through the gem. They branched out from the center like the antlers of a stag.

Where had she come by such a magnificent ruby? It must be worth a small fortune. As far as he knew, William hadn’t owned such a stone…which meant it must belong to her.

Some men would kill to possess such a gem, but not William. Not the William Cyn knew—which meant William had another reason for wanting to capture her.

Cyn’s uneasy gaze flicked to Magdalen, still slumbering, before he set down the ruby and reached into the bag again. He withdrew a small, clinking bag of coins and a soggy chunk of bread, wrapped in a handkerchief, along with a stack of damp letters tied with a ribbon.

Ah. The letters must contain damning information.

He quickly read through them. They were written to Magdalen by a woman named Aislinn, and unless they were penned in some kind of secret code, were merely reflections on Aislinn’s life with her husband Hugh and his daughters at a castle named Hallingstow. Frowning, Cyn put the coins, handkerchief, and letters aside, and tossed the bread into the fire. Was he missing clues that should be obvious, or had he just not found yet what William was after?

When Cyn reached into the bag one last time, cold metal fitted into his hand. The object felt familiar.

Disquiet tingled through him as he pulled the object out into the fire glow. Light gleamed on the silver doe as long as his hand and wrought from silver. A beautiful piece made by a very skilled craftsman—and one that made his heart freeze then slam hard against his ribs.

God’s holy blood.

He definitely wasn’t going to let Magdalen go. Not until he had some answers.