“I am Synclair, first in command. You may look to me when Lord Ryppon is not present; he has charged me with your welfare, lady.”
“I see.”
Synclair inclined his head but did not lower his gaze. There was a firm confidence in him that reminded her of Curan, but it did not send a jolt down her spine. This man was just as hardened, just as polished in his skills, but there was nothing drawing her closer to him.
At least it would appear that she was not wanton. Or only when it came to Curan, it seemed. A curse with a blessing attached, now there was a paradox if ever she had heard one.
“You should eat, lady.”
Her thoughts had distracted her yet again. “Yes, I shall.”
She reached for the bowl and had to force herself to do so calmly. Her belly rumbled low and long, berating her for losing sight of how hungry she was. The night would seem endless if she neglected to fill her stomach.
Synclair watched her silently. His armor breastplate was missing, but a gold knight’s chain sat proudly over his shoulders. It was a symbol of his years in service, and the intense focus of his eyes on her felt misplaced because every other man had spent the day looking away from her. This knight appeared to take the matter of her not eating as more important than the need to allow her privacy. That spoke of command and grooming to rise in rank. Unless she judged incorrectly, this knight was one whom Curan relied upon to help command his men. One of his captains, his helmet would have feathers that proclaimed his rank. He was one that she would have to watch if she planned to escape.
“It is not necessary for you or Lord Ryppon to give so much attention to my eating habits.”
She found it difficult to consider taking even one bite while being scrutinized so closely.
“The pair of you are treating me like a prized mare. I am not some child who must be monitored.”
Surprise registered on Synclair’s face, but he remained firmly in place for another long moment, clearly considering her words against those of his lord’s.
“Yet you are prized, lady. The border land is an uncertain place. Attention must be paid to ensure your safe arrival at Amber Hill.” His gaze shifted to the wagon cover that was tied securely in place along the sides of the wagon now. “It is not my intention or Lord Ryppon’s to see your modesty bruised.”
But keeping a close eye on her would be their way, no matter her feeling on the matter. Bridget saw that truth clearly illuminated in his eyes. A firm, unwavering set to his expression confirmed his opinion of her position as his responsibility. Her mother’s words returned.
Wise advice, indeed. Synclair did not move until she uncovered the meal he had brought. The way he watched her definitely bruised her pride. She felt the sting of this hurt even after the knight inclined his head and left her to eat in privacy. Escaping would not prove simple. She resisted thinking that it might be impossible. She resisted thinking that she would prefer it to be impossible.
Then she truly would be free to enjoy what delights Curan promised her.
She scoffed at her own ideas. The man had more threatened her with those pleasures of the flesh than promised her them. She recalled very plainly the look in his eyes and the feeling of his hand tugging her skirt up. Firm purpose, coupled with the same passion she felt burning her as well. A passion that removed any conscious choice in the matter because her body had already decided to yield.
She had to remain firm; to falter would see her ruined. No matter how much Curan desired her body, the man had contracted her for the connections and dowry that came from her father. If her sire cut her off without a shilling for disobeying his command to marry Lord Oswald, she would be less fortunate than a whore, for she would have nothing for the favors she gave to Curan.
Not only would she have nothing at all, but possibly a child in her belly. Her best option was to beg to remain as his leman when he took another wife who brought him everything he desired from marriage.
She stopped eating before finishing the portion given to her, her grim thoughts killing her appetite. When had life become so dim? Truthfully, she had been spoiled. Never had there been such a lack of hope in her life. Now there was only the very difficult task of somehow escaping the diligence of Synclair and Curan, before attempting to cross the border into Scotland while avoiding any Scots who might decide to slit her throat simply because she was English.
These thoughts were quite dark indeed, crowding her mind and giving her little peace throughout the night. She huddled beneath the bedding and woke several times, keenly aware of the howl of the wind. It sounded colder and lonelier than she could ever recall. The only mercy came when the camp began to stir at the very first hint of dawn. But the day was gray; the thick clouds massing above them were black with the promise of rain.
The precipitation began to fall before noon, but there was nothing to do save continue onward. The wagon cover was well oiled, providing her with a haven of dryness that none of her escort enjoyed. From the opening at the foot of the wagon she could see the water turning chest armor shiny. Drops dripped off helmet edges, and the horses’ coats darkened. The steady clop of their hooves became a sloshing sound when the road turned to mud. The wagon began to sink, and the team pulling it snorted as they tried to drag it through the mire.
Bridget truly tried to temper her thoughts and recall that appearing docile would serve her intentions best, but when Synclair or Curan did not appear at the rear of the wagon and the team continued to struggle, she lost the resolve to not challenge Curan’s authority publicly. Sliding to the edge of the wagon, she made sure her shoes were tied well before jumping to the ground. Her feet instantly became cold, but she turned and stepped out of the way of the mud being flung by the wagon’s wheels.
Horses snorted and jostled at her appearance, making the knights riding them struggle to control them. More than one annoyed glance was shot at her, but the grumbling was kept low. The felted wool of her surcoat absorbed the rain quickly, making it necessary to grip the front and hold it up to avoid tripping. The clouds were pressing down on them, creeping along the sides of the hills to promise her a long day of chilling rain.
“Get back into the wagon.”
Curan was angry with her. A side glance showed her an expression that was tight and inflexible. He held the reins of his stallion in one gloved hand while the other rested on top of his thigh in a hard fist.
