That all depended on the boy’s identity. “It is possible. Tell me how he became lost to a warrior when those for whom I give coin are of the common class.”
For some reason, his hesitation lessened her fear. She had no experience with men of the sword, but they had a reputation for being forceful, brutally decisive, and short on shame. And in this man’s silence she sensed none of those things. She felt emotion, sorrow, regret.
“Only in recent days was I made aware of his existence,” he said. “I am not certain he is mine, but if he is…”
“Then like many a man, you made a promise to a maiden to persuade her to lie with you and the next morn left her with child. I suppose I am to think it honorable you now wish to take responsibility. Or is it something else? Mayhap you seek to harm the boy to ensure your sin remains hidden?”
“I wish to retrieve my son. If he is, indeed, mine.”
“How think you to prove that? You believe he will have your eyes? Your nose? Not that it is impossible, but it may be too soon to tell. Nay, Sir Knight, methinks it best for all you tell yourself you tried and pay a priest to put finish to your troubled conscience.” She raised her chin. “Now step aside so I may sooner be shed of this farce and gain what sleep remains to me.”
He tilted his head, and she felt the intense gaze of one seeking to see beyond her eyes. No chance of that, cloaked as she was in his shadow.
But then he moved to the side, and moonlight poured over her, making her startle.
She did not know how it was possible to move so sure of foot amongst the fog-ladened roots, but of a sudden he was before her, his shadow once more covering her as he grasped her forearm and rendered the stick impotent—had it ever been of benefit against such a man.
Fearing for Jeannette, Honore strained to the side and saw the young woman ran forward as if to give aid with a sword that would soon prove another stick.
“Run, Jean!” Honore cried, surprised by the clarity that caused her to speak the male form of the young woman’s name. Then she saw a figure emerge from behind a tree to the right. Sword drawn, the man lunged toward Jeannette.
“Run!” Honore screamed.
Blessedly, the young woman swerved and reached her legs opposite.
“I thought he was here to protect you,” the warrior said as he looked across his shoulder. “Not what he appears to be, hmm?”
Honore did not struggle against his hold. It would only drain her of strength better saved should an opportunity for escape present. “You have me,” she panted. “Pray, let him go.”
He did not respond, and a moment later his companion disappeared over the rise.
“Jean is but a boy,” she protested. “He cannot defend himself—”
“That was no boy.”
Then he guessed her protector was a woman? More likely, he thought Jeannette the man she was made to appear. “Regardless, Jean is no warrior.”
He shrugged. “Providing he does not seek to harm my squire, he is in no danger. Francis will bring him back, and whatever you will not tell, I will learn from your man.”
She swallowed loudly. “You wish to know of your son.”
He inclined his head, then turned her with him into moonlight.
To her surprise, he was almost boyishly handsome, the wavy hair brushing his shoulders framing a face fit with dark eyebrows, long-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, and a mouth whose compression could not hide how full-lipped it was. Doubtless, his years fell somewhat short of her thirty and two.
“You are young,” he said, and she caught her breath at the realization he studied her as intently. Though she spent no time in front of a mirror, on occasion she caught her reflection in water or on the silver platter with which Abbess Abigail and she were served light fare when they met to discuss the foundlings. She did appear younger than her years and might even be lovely—providing one viewed only what was visible above her covering. Thus, she was grateful this man made no attempt to divest her of the material slung across her lower face.
“Not the crone I expected,” he murmured, and she was struck by the resonance of a voice deprived of accusation. Though deep, it was almost gentle and held a note of wonder, causing heat to sweep up her chest, neck, and face.
Honore did not understand her reaction—and did not wish to, it being uncomfortably foreign, though it had not always been. In her younger years she had felt something akin to this in the presence of a handsome young monk who accompanied his bishop to Bairnwood to meet with the abbess once and twice a year. Time and again she had repented for imagining how it would feel to stand near him, clasp his hand, tuck her head beneath his chin, feel his arms around her. She had even wondered at his mouth upon hers. And ever that imagining returned her to reality—her reality. Such could never be.
The warrior before her raised his eyebrows.
Realizing she stared, she recalled the words he had spoken and said, “Nor are you the miscreant I expected, though I suppose you will do as well as Finwyn.”
His lids narrowed, though not so much she could not see where his eyes moved when they left hers. Her masked lower face roused his curiosity, the weather too temperate to warrant the warmth the material provided in addition to its true purpose.
But he stayed his hand, and when he spoke again, once more accusation sounded from him. “Where is my son?”
Were the boy amongst those Finwyn and his grandsire had sold to her, there were three places he could be, one readily accessible, one barely accessible, and one impossibly accessible—the abbey, the home of adoptive parents, and the grave. She prayed it was not the latter, though perhaps it was for the best if this man meant the boy ill.
Honore raised her chin. “Regardless of what Finwyn told—”
“He tells you are a witch.”
A chill rushed into her, slammed against her spine with such force it should have doubled her over. His words surprised though they ought not. And frightened as they certainly ought. It was not mere cruelty to be named one who consorted with the devil. It was deadly.
She moistened her lips. “You think me a witch?”
“I do not believe you possess ungodly powers, but that has little bearing on whether you believe yourself so equipped and commit foul deeds in the hope of strengthening those powers.”
“You do me ill to suggest such a thing!”
“Then for what do you buy unwanted babes?”
“To save them. Their parents hire Finwyn—as they did his grandsire before him—to set them out in the wood. For a dozen years I have paid to deliver those innocents from cruel deaths.”
“You are saying you, who look to be fortunate to clothe and feed yourself, have a brood of children?”