Page 34 of One Knight in the Forest

Chapter Twelve

“You are not coming with me.”

Wrapped in her blanket, Magdalen matched Cyn’s glower. God’s bones, but he was the most stubborn, infuriating man she had ever met.

’Twas the morning of the twenty-first, and if she hadn’t woken to find him gathering his weapons, preparing to leave, he would have ridden off to The Merry Hen without her.

“You are not leaving me behind, Cyn.”

Shaking his head, he secured a knife to his leather belt. “’Tis too dangerous. I have arranged for some men that I can call upon as sheriff to be there, but I cannot protect you every moment—”

“I can protect myself.”

His narrowed gaze skimmed over her. Beneath the blanket, she was still wearing one of his shirts, because despite Borden’s best efforts to clean her chemise and gown, she’d finally had to admit that the bloodstains and dirt were not going to wash out. There was no point trying to repair the tears in such badly damaged garments; she’d have to buy new ones.

Gesturing to her bandaged leg, which had greatly improved but still hurt now and again, Cyn said, “Your wound puts you at a disadvantage. I would never forgive myself if you were hurt again.”

“Why not give me one of your knives?”

His dark brows rose. “Do you know how to use one?”

Oh, the nerve! She tapped her foot, barely holding at bay her rising temper. “It cannot be that difficult.”

He sighed. “Regardless of your skill with a knife, there are more obvious concerns—”

“Such as?”

“Such as,” he said firmly, “the fact that you do not look like a woman who belongs in a tavern.” His mouth eased into a lazy, lop-sided grin as he glanced down at her bare legs. “You certainly cannot go dressed like that.”

She raised her chin. “How should I be dressed, then? I would love to know, since you seem to be an authority on what women wear while frequenting taverns.”

Borden, kneeling by the hearth with Perceval at his side, chuckled and grinned at Magdalen before continuing to load fresh logs onto the fire.

A flush colored Cyn’s cheekbones. “’Tis not…what I meant.”

“Whether I am wearing the right garments or not, whether you grant me permission or not, I am going to The Merry Hen. You cannot stop me.”

“Magdalen.” Now he spoke as if she were a silly little girl who was tugging on the very last thread of his patience.

“I am not being foolish. If the black-haired man I witnessed in the town with William is at the tavern, I will recognize him. I may recognize others, too. That, surely, would be useful to you and your men?”

“The lords might recognize you, jeopardizing all.”

Regrettably, ’twas true. Edwina and William had entertained many local noblemen at feasts held at Glemstow. “I will wear a disguise. No one will recognize me if I am in peasant clothes, and if I wear a hooded cloak that hides my face.”

Cyn scowled and cursed under his breath.

He could fume all he wanted; she was not going to yield, not in this instance. “Do you not want to capture the men involved in the arranged murder, to find out what other treachery they are plotting? Are you willing to risk them escaping tonight?”

Cyn’s hand tightened on the hilt on his dagger. “You know damned well I want to capture them.”

“Then take me along.”

“Very well.” His attention shifted to Borden, brushing bits of bark off his hands as he stood. “Go to the town. Fetch Dyane. I want her here as swiftly as possible.”

***

With brisk tugs, Dyane straightened the moss-green linen gown she’d pulled over Magdalen’s head. Earlier, the woman—who had brazenly flirted with Cyn from the moment she’d arrived—had shooed Cyn and Borden out of the room, stripped off Magdalen’s shirt, and then had tightly bound strips of linen around her breasts, to push them up and create more cleavage.