Robert shook his head. “Or mayhap I am right, he was not amongst them, and ’twas simply their love of coin that kept them silent. That or the knowledge that they would die whether they spoke his name or not.”
“’Tis possible the attacks will cease now that they are dead,” Stephen commented.
Frustrated and weary to the bone, Robert removed his helm. “He will only hire others.”
“Not if he lacks the funds additional mercenaries will require,” Michael said.
Stephen nodded. “If he cannot raise enough, he will hire men of lesser experience who will be more likely to make mistakes.”
“Not to mention less loyal,” Michael added. “They will sing his name as quickly as a raven when our swords touch their throats.”
“Aye. Next time we will unmask him,” Stephen vowed.
Robert appreciated their efforts to lift his spirits from the bottom of the deep pit into which they had sunk. But naught could accomplish such a feat. His failure to find and defeat his enemy could result in more lives lost. Lives for which he was responsible.
Stephen whistled suddenly. “Now I know she is mad, the poor girl. And it looks as though her madness has infected your squire.”
Robert followed his gaze to the steps leading up to the keep, and frowned at the soggy pair huddled atop them.
The two rose as one, hands linked.
His scowl deepened.
Marcus dared to touch Beth so familiarly?
“If your face gets any redder, your head will burst,” Michael commented. “What ails you?”
Jealousy, Robert thought with more than a touch of self-disgust. He was jealous of his damned squire, but would never admit it.
His gaze fastening on the pair’s linked hands, Robert marched across the muddy bailey.
“Go easy on her, Rob,” Stephen said behind him. “I spoke hastily when I said she was mad. ’Twas obviously concern for you that drove her to brave the elements. There are worse things a man can come home to than a beautiful, though somewhat bedraggled, woman waiting upon the steps for his safe return.”
Robert ground to a halt. Spinning around, he gaped at the big knight, unsure which stunned him more—the idea that Beth cared about him enough to sit in the rain and watch for his return or the words his rough-about-the-edges friend had just uttered, which contained what sounded distressingly like a longing for a wife.
Michael, too, stared at Stephen in fascination.
Stephen shifted his weight from one leg to the other and reached up to tug on his earlobe. “What?”
“Since when have you craved hearth and home?” Michael exclaimed. “I thought we had all agreed that no woman would have you.”
Robert’s lips stretched into a smile as he turned back toward the steps.
Cursing erupted behind him. Bickering followed, then the sounds of a scuffle.
Now his spirits lightened. And they climbed even higher when Beth abruptly grew tired of waiting for him.
Dropping Marcus’s hand, she flew down the stairs and launched herself into Robert’s arms. The force of it knocked him back a step. A sound—half-laugh, half-grunt—escaped him as he locked his arms around her waist and clutched her to him, breast to chest, hips to hips, her feet dangling a foot or so above the ground.
Her body trembled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung tightly.
Burying his face in her cold, damp hair, Robert enjoyed the moment, not knowing when or if he might ever experience another such homecoming.
She loosened her hold.
With much reluctance, he released her and let her slide down until her boots sank into the mud.
Retreating an arm’s length, she stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
Did tears mingle with the moisture the storm had left glistening on her pale cheeks? Her nose did look a little pink, but that could simply be from the cold. If he felt a slight chill, he knew Beth must be half-frozen.
Her gaze dropped to his chest, his arms, and lower. “Are you hurt?” She began a hasty exploration of his limbs and torso with her small hands. “Is that your blood? Were you injured?”
“I am well, Beth. I incurred no injuries.” And wished there weren’t so much material and chain mail separating those hands of hers from his skin.
“Are you sure?” she prodded.
Her concern warmed him as much as her wondrous greeting had. “Aye.”
Ceasing her frantic search for wounds, she took one of his hands in both of hers and looked beyond him to the others. “What about you, Michael? Were you hurt? Stephen, were you?”
Surprise and pleasure lit their eyes.
“I am well, my lady,” Michael said.
“As am I,” Stephen told her.
“Your chain mail is torn, Michael, there on your arm. Were you injured?”
He glanced down at the broken links in his hauberk, high on his left arm, near his shoulder. “’Tis but a scratch, my lady.”
“Scratches can kill if they fester.”
He smiled. “Lady Alyssa has been schooling me in the art of healing. I have the proper herbs and vow I will tend it anon.”
She eyed him doubtfully.