Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart

a woman should never be trusted. Liars and manipulators, every last one of them. Why, look at the tavern wenches. See how they plot and play for our benefit?”

      “For the benefit of coin.”

      “Aye, what woman doesn’t? From the queen to the lowest peasant, ’tis how they survive and how they are made.”

      Malcolm drained the last of his ale and dropped the tankard on the table. “’Tis true I gave the traitor’s daughter too much freedom. After she saved Hugh’s life and mixed a healing ointment for the old innkeeper’s wife, I grew less suspicious. I thought she only meant to help serve the food.”

      “I cannot believe you would give a woman aught but a good swiving.”

      Malcolm rubbed his aching brow, where exhaustion and long-pent-up rage tensed the muscles, causing a blasting pain.

      “Why, ’tis Sir Malcolm and Sir Ian.” A serving wench well known for more than her skills in dispensing ale appeared at the edge of the trestle table, pitcher in hand. “What a lucky maid I am to host such powerful knights in my tavern.”

      “You, a maid?” Ian’s gaze roamed the wench’s form, from ripe, half-exposed breasts to the swell of her generous hips. “I’ve often been between those thighs. You long ago left maidenhood behind.”

      “Aye, for womanhood pleases me better.” She winked at him, certain now there would be more coin added to her earnings this night, and ’twould not be only from serving ale. She filled both tankards handily. “And you, Sir Malcolm? Shall I send over a maid for your amusement?”

      “Maid?” Ian laughed. “Your maids have too much experience for the Fierce One. They may well overpower him, and his reputation will be in ruins again.”

      “Enough with the jests, Ian. Matilda, I have no need of a woman.”

      As the wench turned, dropping their small coins into her pocket, Ian watched lustily. “Aye, I have me a liking for that one. Rough she is. Knows how to satisfy a man. I hear the king’s nephew attacked your band and you killed half his men.”

      “Aye, but I did not kill the nephew.”

      “Edward will owe you a boon, then. Mayhap it will compensate for the prisoner woman’s escape, and he’ll not demote you.” Ian’s eyes teased, but his words held a ring of warning as he lifted his tankard and drank deeply.

      Fie, would the traitor’s daughter haunt him forever? Malcolm could still feel the womanly shape of her body pressed hard to his in the saddle, for he’d trapped her there, beneath his arms and against his chest. She’d been his captive, a slim reed of a thing, and the memory of it still ached like an old wound, like a tooth slowly festering. He’d scared the spirit from her and intimidated her until she did not dare even look at him.

      He remembered her words, so cocksure and dismissing. Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king’s you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat? He could not remember when anyone had dared to demean the king’s favored knight.

      And he’d left her in the dungeon.

      His guts tightened into hard knots and he drank until the tankard was empty, and the next one after that. But the image of the frightened-eyed maiden chained to the stone wall remained with him and would not fade. Even through a night of sleep and dreams and into the next morning, when word of Caradoc’s fury and Philip’s impending execution buzzed on the lips of the villagers.

      Malcolm watched the new day dawn, and the brightness of it never touched him. For he knew there would be no mercy for the warrior dove. ’Twas the way of the world, and the futility of it deadened him. He gathered his men, because it was yet another day of serving the king.

      “Elinore of Evenbough?” Booted feet halted before her.

      Cold, hungry and stiff, Elin tilted back her head. Her gaze traveled up the hosed legs to the fine tunic bearing the king’s standard.

      “Are you Lady Elinore of Evenbough?” This time it was a rough demand.

      “Aye.” She tucked her ankles together. “Am I to go to the king? Will he hear my tale? I—”

      “Silence!” Unlike Malcolm the Fierce, this man’s voice seemed to resonate with cruelty, as if he treasured doing violence.

      She felt the tug on her chains, and the brutal oaf nearly pulled her arms from their sockets before he unlocked her. She stood and her irons clattered. Her knees wobbled. Fiery pricks of pain shot through her limbs, numb from cold and lack of circulation.

      “Come.” The guard shoved her roughly, and caught her when she stumbled. “He awaits.”

      “Who? Malcolm?”

      Why his name came to her lips, she could not imagine, nor the hope that accompanied it. That man had dragged her here and chained her up like a misbehaving dog.

      All night she had thought upon it, unable to sleep. The night noises of the dungeon were terrifying, and she had much time to think upon her crimes. She had poisoned the king’s men and she was the daughter of a traitor. No king would allow her to live.

      The only man who could stay her execution was Malcolm. And if he’d come for her—

      “Nay, Edward has granted Lord Caradoc a boon.” The guard’s laugh rang with glee, as if he enjoyed bringing the worst of news. “’Tis Caradoc who awaits you.”

      Defeat lodged like a blade between her ribs. Caradoc was planning to claim that they were betrothed. What had she done to deserve this end? She would refuse it—that’s what she would do. She would rather have a swift death at the hands of the executioner than allow Caradoc the right to finish the rape he’d started years ago.

      “Elin, how pathetic you look.” That putrid swine rose from a cushioned chair in a private chamber. He wore an elaborate tunic of embroidered gold on red velvet, and he looked like a rooster, all trussed up for show.

      “Caradoc. I am not surprised to see you. As I walked down the corridor, I could not quite place the unpleasant odor—”

      “I warn you, Elin.” His hand entrapped her wrist, his grip much used to inflicting violence. His eyes gleamed coldly, bold and naked and brutal. “Tempt me not, for I hold the power to spare your life.”

      “What makes you think I want it spared?” She jutted her chin and met his flat gaze.

      “No mortal wishes to face the agony of being drawn and quartered. ’Twould be a shame to waste your beauty on the edge of a blade.”

      Fear at the king’s judgment lodged hard in her stomach. “’Tis preferable to what you propose.”

      His thumb rubbed bruising caresses on her skin. He would not let her go, even as she struggled. “You will marry me, Elin, and your life will be saved. That is, if you hold your tongue and refrain from insulting the king.”

      “Insult him? He needs none of my insults, for he is related to you. That is pox enough on his name.”

      “Now you anger me.” His hand swung back, ready to land a blow.

      She planted her feet and lifted her chin, prepared for the strike.

      It never came. Malcolm clamped his unyielding grip around Caradoc’s wrist. “Edward awaits the girl.”

      ’Twas all he said, and he avoided her gaze. She’d been wrong in believing he might come to free her. He despised her. He’d not forgiven her. She could see it in the cold steel of his face as he released the king’s nephew. His free hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

      He’d come to make certain she would not escape her punishment. A cold anger brewed, low and deep. How she despised him, despised both men.

      The fierce knight’s fingers bit into her shoulder, as if to remind her of his authority. He would escort her down the passageway to her execution.

      She