“He grabbed me. I tried to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth. I bit him on the hand, but he just held me harder, hurting my face. He dragged me off the path and into the woods.”
She continued talking in a monotone voice, until she said, “He managed to take my knife, but I got away from him before he could really hurt me.” Anxiety seeped back into her voice as she said, “I tripped and fell, and I was so terrified.” She lowered her voice to a whisper as she said, “Then someone came and lifted me up.”
“Who was it?”
She didn’t say anything. A tear dripped from her eye.
“Was it Gilbert Carpenter?”
She shook her head.
“Was it Stephen Blundel?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “He’d heard me try to scream. I told him to run, but he picked up the rock to defend us from the bailiff. He threw the rock and it hit the bailiff in the head. And that’s all. If Stephen hadn’t been there, the bailiff might have caught up with me, and … he would have …” She shook her head and wiped her face with her hands as tears began streaming down her face.
“So it was Stephen.”
She nodded, her head down as she tried to hide her tears from him.
The young furniture maker. He finally knew the protector’s identity, but seeing Annabel’s distress, he was almost sorry he had forced her to tell and to relive that terrible night.
She leaned forward and grasped his wrist. “Please don’t tell anyone. He begged me not to tell. He begged me. Please don’t tell.”
She was suddenly gripped with guilt. Had she done the right thing? Oh, Stephen, forgive me! I’m a terrible, traitorous friend. What would happen if the bailiff died and the coroner found out it was Stephen? Would Stephen be executed? Would he have to pay a heavy fine to the king and to the bailiff’s remaining family?
He’d told her he had some money, and he was saving it to build a house for himself and his mother. His plans would be destroyed. What would he think of her?
Compassion was clearly etched on Lord le Wyse’s brow. He slid closer. “I’m so sorry.” He placed his arms around her and pulled her to him.
She let him hold her against his chest. She was getting his shirt wet with her tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. When she started to sob, he held her closer, his arm cradling her shoulders.
She should pull away, stand out of his reach, but instead, she leaned against his solid chest and let the warmth and comfort of his arms flow through her. But the worry over what would happen to Stephen came back.
She lifted her head from his chest and grabbed his arms, holding him away from her. Choking back tears, she said, “I bind you, sir, to what you said before — that you are my friend. Please help Stephen if Sir Clement finds out about him.”
“Please don’t worry. I will take care of Stephen and help him every way possible.”
She sagged in relief, and Lord le Wyse pulled her back into his arms. Her head fell weakly against his shoulder.
She should push him away. His arms were strong, but he would not force her to stay.
But she didn’t want to push him away. He promised he would keep Stephen safe, and she realized she trusted him to do that. She heard his warm, deep voice say, “Don’t cry. All will be well.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth and closeness of him. She sniffed, and Lord le Wyse handed her a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry.” She pushed back to wipe her nose and her eyes. She shook her head. “I-I shouldn’t be crying in your arms. It’s wrong. Please forgive me.”
“I do not feel wronged.”
His voice was so altered, so raw, Annabel looked up. Lord le Wyse’s expression was strange again, the way he had looked when she drew away from him in the upper hall after Sir Clement had finished his questions.
Slowly, he reached his hand toward her face. Her heart trembled in her chest as he placed his palm gently against her cheek. His thumb caressed the damp skin under her eye. “I will miss you,” he whispered.
Her skin tingled beneath his touch. She stared at his lips. They looked so inviting, so enticing. What would it feel like to kiss them, to feel loved? Before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched Lord le Wyse’s cheek with her fingertips, staring into his warm brown eye.
The rough texture of his beard against her fingers seemed to bring her out of the fog in her mind. She pulled her hand away and leaned back.
“Sweet saints above,” she whispered. Her heart hammered faster than any smith’s mallet as Lord le Wyse removed his hand from her cheek but continued to capture her gaze with his.
Now what had she done? What did it all mean? They both sat, pretending to be calm, but she saw something in his eye that told her he was reining himself in … No, she was imagining things. Her lord would never … think about … what she was thinking about. He would never think about kissing her.
Lord le Wyse closed his eye, breaking the connection. He turned his head slowly, as if the motion caused him pain, and stood to his feet.