“Mayhap Morna does. She’s been known to dabble,” Guy interrupted as he bounded across the cottage, past the goat pen. Like a hawk taking flight, he leapt onto the ladder and climbed to the loft.
He flung aside the piles of fur and damask coverlets. The bed lay empty. Guy hurled his great body from the loft to the floor below. He hit the stones with his booted feet spread apart and his hand reaching for his sword.
He faced Sybilla, grabbed the cloak from the chair beside the fire, and tossed her the garment. “Put this on. We need to leave. Now!”
Simon staggered from his pallet, hopping on one foot while he pulled his boot onto the other. “The devil’s arse. What’s all the ruckus?” He stared open-mouthed at the barking Regalo. “Holy Mother. He thinks he’s a dog.”
Sybilla pulled the cloak around her shoulders. Her voice strained, she cried out to Guy, “Where’s Lady Morna?”
Guy scooped up Regalo and slung the colt across his shoulders. “She’s gone. Simon, get Bacchus and Addy and grab the nanny goat. Let’s be off!”
Simon swore. “Damnation. ’Twas against my better judgment to trust a seer. Guy, you have the devil’s knack for entanglement with problematic women!”
With Regalo on his back, Guy kicked the door open. He strode into the moonlit yard, mindful that Sybilla followed close behind him. Simon led Bacchus, Addy and the goat from the cottage.
In an instant, Guy caught a glimpse of movement in the trees. The sound of a horse’s hooves crunching the snow. A single horse. Not ten. Not twenty.
He swore beneath his breath and glanced at Simon. “Bloody hell, at least she’s come back alone.”
Without another word, Simon lifted a startled Sybilla onto Addy. He hauled himself up on Bacchus and set the bleating goat in his lap.
Guy faced the approaching rider. Her red velvet hood fell back, revealing her full red lips, the dark, moon-shaped scar on her cheek in stark contrast against her pale skin.
“I’m sorry to have left my guests,” she said, dismounting, swinging down from the saddle like a knight just come from battle. “I had urgent business to attend.” She looked pointedly at Guy. “The widow Margery has spread the news about the birth of a colt with four white socks. The village is in a clamor. Lord Hamon wants the colt and has sent out a search party. His men are looking for you and Regalo. I could hear the colt barking a half a league away. Make haste to Baldwin Manor. Hamon’s men will not ride onto your Lord Phillip’s land.”
Guy felt the blood drain from his face. Baldwin Manor. His sister’s home, now his, though he hadn’t set foot on the place since her death. The house was abandoned and in disrepair, but it was the closest refuge, close enough to walk with a newborn foal on your back and soldiers on your tail and still have a chance.
Lady Morna pointed at Guy’s velvet pouch, wet and muddied. “I’m glad you didn’t lose it. I know how important it is to you.” She tucked the bag into the waistband of his breeches.
He looked at Morna. Pity and regret stirred his heart. Her delicate face hadn’t aged since they’d been lovers––years ago, before Hamon took her as his wife, then cast her off, claiming she’d been unfaithful and her gift of prophecy was the devil’s work. Her bitter husband hated that she’d taken lovers, but truth be told, her greatest crime was failing to give him a child. He’d needed a reason to replace her, but one which wouldn’t bring the question of his own infertility to light.
As if she’d read his mind, she laid her palm against his cheek, and stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him softly on the lips. “Adieu, Sir Guy. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ll not forget the days we lay together in the meadow watching clouds while I tried to teach you French. Now go. Hamon’s men are but an hour’s ride from here. Another ice storm is on the way and the roads will soon be impassable. Get to your manor house while you can.” She held her hand against his cheek, and Guy felt the wetness on the edge of her sleeve, where the color of her deep red gown had turned black with the moisture. Blood.
He sucked in his breath. God’s breath. How she earned her living now, or whom she accepted as a patron was not for him to judge, but if she’d been ill-used by Hamon…
He clenched his fists. He wanted to take her hands in his and tell her he would defend her from whatever danger she faced, but he was no longer certain he could protect anyone, not even the woman who once held his heart.
“Have you been hurt?”
“No. But Lord Hamon is badly wounded and in a rage. If he catches you, he’ll take your colt and your life.” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Sybilla. “And he means to take the woman who will someday hold your heart.” Regret lingered in her words. “Hamon put a price on her head, and you know as well as I, what he will do to a woman who’s defied him.” Her words fell away and she looked to the woods. “I had to go to him, Guy, to tend his wound. If he died, I could not survive out here.”
Guy hissed through his teeth. Damnation. Hamon kept Morna prisoner as well as if he’d locked her in the tower. But he would not lay a hand on Sybilla Corbuc, not ever. Guy would chain her to his side to protect her if he had too. He’d kill the man with his bare hands if he so much as touched Sybilla Corbuc.
Morna turned and hurried toward the barn, her horse in tow. She called across her shoulder. “By the saints! Don’t just stand there. Go!”
The blizzard’s fury turned the early day into shades of gray and white. The path ahead appeared more like a sinking, snowbound gully than a road. With her legs wrapped around Addy’s bony sides, Sybilla hunched against the piercing wind. The air smelled sharp and burned the inside of her nose, and she kept her eyes closed for long stretches at a time to shut out the stinging snow. Every now and then, her knee touched Simon’s. He rode beside her, while Guy followed afoot with Regalo slung over his shoulders. He called out every few minutes to make certain she was still astride and not frozen. Simon sat silently on Bacchus, holding the goat close.
Addy barely moved now, the old horse’s head bent low against the wind. She walked, but each step seemed weaker and slower than the last. Sybilla let her mind wander with the mare’s plodding pace. She relived the warmth of Sir Guy’s kiss, the way he slipped his arm around her waist and held her close. The way his mouth descended on hers, his lips so soft and supple.
By the saints, if Simon hadn’t entered and interrupted their embrace would she have kissed him back? Or more?
Goosebumps rippled up her arms and neck. Sybilla tucked her chin into the deep hood of Guy’s cloak. Blessed saints, Guy wore only his shirt and the snow-covered foal on his back was his only source of warmth. Simon looked as frozen as the goat in his lap. His beard and the goat’s were both masks of snow.
Sybilla turned her head to speak to Simon. “How much farther? Sir Guy is cold and fatigued. He lags too far behind.”
Snow fell from Simon’s beard as he spoke. “It isn’t far, Mistress Corbuc. Guy’s used to the weather and is as strong as an ox. I’ve seen him haul a tree stump bigger than that foal when his family needed firewood. It’s not the cold or the burden he carries that makes him slow.”
“What is it, then?”
Simon glanced back at Guy, as if he wanted to make certain his friend wouldn’t overhear. “Baldwin Manor was his sister’s house. She and her infant son were murdered, nay slaughtered, not far from here. He can’t abide this place, though it belongs to him. Sir Walter had no heirs, and King Richard bequeathed it to Guy as thanks for saving him at Balmont.”
Sybilla shifted. A sudden surge of sympathy for Guy swelled inside her. She swallowed. “Who would kill his sister and her babe and why?”
“Don’t know. Marauders attacked at night. We