Page 18 of An Outlaw’s Desire

Blythe gently pushed back the blanket so the girl could see then tapped her nose. “All right, Starling. Let us go to your nest and tuck you in.”

Pitt crouched behind a pile of rocks a short distance from the stone circle. Covered by grass poking out of the blanketing of snow, the mound had once been a burial place for an ancient ruler—one of several such barrows on Lord Montgomery’s lands.

As the bracing wind chapped Pitt’s face and found its way inside his garments, he narrowed his gaze on the guards, clearly visible in the moonglow, at the ancient site. Judging by the sounds of their voices, they were chatting and exchanging jests; doubtless trying to make their shift on a freezing night more bearable.

The guards faced the castle, not his direction, so when the wind picked up, he crept from his hiding place. Keeping close to the ground, he approached the monoliths making up the outer circle of stones. He’d stay in the darkest shadows; would listen in on the conversation for a while. He might overhear some useful information. Ignoring another prick of his conscience, he stilled behind a large stone.

“That visiting lady: Blythe.” One of the men whistled. “There’s a woman to rob a man of his common sense.”

Surprise jolted through Pitt. He hadn’t expected to hear the name Blythe. His Blythe couldn’t be the lady they were discussing, surely?

“Aye, Harlow, she’s a beauty,” the other guard said. He sounded younger than the first, his voice vaguely familiar. “I have to wonder, though, if she is all right in the head.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw her in the corridor near the solar yestereve….” The lout’s voice trailed off, as though he were about to divulge grave news. “In her hands, she had….”

“Aye? Go on.”

“…a book.”

A book? That was so heinous?

Harlow laughed then coughed several times. “Galven. ’Tis hardly a crime.”

Ah. Pitt remembered a warrior named Galven who’d been part of Wallensford Keep’s garrison years ago. Likely the same man.

“’Tis inviting trouble,” Galven said, “letting a lady fill her head with ideas.”

Pitt barely resisted a chuckle. The Blythe he’d known would have been quite insulted by such statements.

“She is probably reading romantic poems. Women like to swoon over writings about courtship, holding hands, and kissing.”

“’Tis not such gentle reading. I heard from a chamber maid that the lady borrowed a special tome of his lordship’s. It contains writings on all the strange happenings in these lands. You know, ghost sightings and haunted places, like this…er…ancient circle.”

“Mayhap his lordship has a reason for loaning her the book.”

Pitt crept to the next stone. He could see the guards now: both well-armed. One tall and with the broad shoulders of a seasoned knight; the other, stouter and leaner. Aye, the stockier guard had to be the warrior Pitt remembered.

Galven snorted. “What reason—?”

“Hush.” Harlow’s gloved hand moved to his sword.

Pitt froze. He’d been careful not to make a sound, but he might have betrayed himself.

If the men turned around, if they looked in the shadows of the third monolith to their left, they’d see him.

He waited, his breathing shallow. The frosty air tickled his throat, but he didn’t dare swallow or move to shield his mouth.

“Is that…something moving in the field?” the younger man asked.

“’Tis a person wearing a cloak. Headed this way.”

After tucking Clarine and her bird into bed and singing them a lullaby, Blythe returned to her chamber. She set the burning taper on the trestle table then rubbed her neck to ease a crick she’d gotten earlier, when she and the girl had sewed. Truly, Blythe didn’t mind the discomfort. When Rosetta and the others walked into the decorated great hall upon their return, their delight would be well worth all the work of the surprise.

With the back of her hand, Blythe trapped a yawn. She should retire to bed now. But, she hadn’t been able to forget the worry in Rosetta’s eyes. A walk in the crisp night air might help calm Blythe’s nerves and allow her a proper rest.

After donning a fur-trimmed cloak, boots, and gloves, she headed to the bailey. A short walk later, she slipped through the postern gate in the fortress’s outer wall. Her breath forming a white mist in the air, she pulled the cloak’s hood farther over her face, tightened her hold on the burning reed torch, and started across the field.