Elizabeau dared to look up at Rhys; he stood beside her, more than a foot and a half taller, gazing steadily at her with his brilliant blue eyes. He hadn’t said a word, nor had he changed expression. She was suddenly coming to feel the least bit guilty for her difficult behavior. A powerful chill raced through her and she pulled the cloak about her as tightly as it would go, averting her gaze at the same time.
“It is not my intention to be difficult,” she said quietly. “This… this has all been a bit overwhelming for me. I’ve never had men try to kill me before. I never knew I was going to be a queen before.”
David’s manner softened somewhat. He glanced at Rhys, who was looking at the lady’s lowered head. David cleared his throat quietly.
“We want you to be queen, else we would not be risking our lives so,” he said. “We are trying to help you achieve this, for all of England. Do you not understand this?”
“I do.”
“Then it would help our cause considerably if you would simply cooperate.”
She looked at him, then. After a moment, she sighed heavily and lowered her eyes again. “As you say.”
David simply nodded; he didn’t believe her for a moment but would not contradict her. Like his brother, he knew women somewhat, having a spirited wife of his own and her two equally spirited sisters that lived with them. He knew what it meant to contradict a woman when one was attempting to gain her compliance. He would have a battle on his hands.
He turned back to Rhys. “Get her to Hanwell. The inn is on the outskirts, called the Blond Gazelle. We’ll meet you there.”
With that, he pulled his mail hood back on and turned for his charger, now munching on wet grass. Rhys took the lady by the elbow again and led her back to their leafy haven.
His charger had cooled somewhat and was nibbling on the bushes he was tethered to. Rhys secured his shield and his crossbow and led the horse out of the foliage. He mounted Elizabeau without a word and leapt on behind her.
“Sir knight?” Elizabeau’s voice was soft.
“My lady?”
She turned slightly, gazing up into his strong face. “I do apologize if I have made this a miserable trek for you. It was not my intention.”
Rhys had been largely silent since the beginning of the foray. It was what it was, and she was the way she was. He accepted it.
“It is of no matter, my lady,” he said honestly.
“But it is,” she insisted. “I never meant to imply that I was ungrateful for your loyalty. It’s just that I have lived my entire life in relative peace, with a relatively normal routine, and suddenly two days ago I am told I am heir to the throne of England and my uncle, whom I have only met twice in my life, is out to murder me. It is all so difficult to believe.”
Rhys’ professional persona was wavering slightly. He wasn’t used to emotion or apologies, in any form, especially from a woman. In fact, he’d made it a practice in life to stay clear of women in general. They could topple a man faster than the mightiest enemy. He’d seen it before.
Now the firebrand was banking her heat and he had no idea how to deal with it. But he knew, instinctively, that he did not trust her. There had to be an ulterior motive to her kindness.
“Understood, my lady,” he said.
“I would wager that if I could only speak with my uncle, I am sure we could settle this issue. Perhaps this is all some horrible misunderstanding.”
“Impossible, my lady. It is my duty to keep you safe and I shall do so with my last breath.”
It wasn’t much of an answer. In fact, it was the generic knightly rhetoric. With a resigned wriggle of well-arched brows, Elizabeau returned her attention to the landscape before them. Even as he spurred the charger forward, her mind lingered on a final thought; what if these knights attempting to supplant John and place her on the throne were wrong? What if they were all wrong?
She wondered.
CHAPTER THREE
Hanwell was a town inundated by the driving rain. The streets were flooded and so were some of the houses. As Rhys and Elizabeau entered the outskirts of the berg, some of the residents were bailing water out of their homes. Doors were open and buckets were flying. Rhys steered his charger clear of more flying water as they made their way down Argyle Street toward the northwestern edge of town.
The Blond Gazelle wasn’t hard to find. It was a brightly lit place with several drunken patrons lingering by the open door, soaked to the skin but not caring. They were having a marvelous time. Rhys pulled the charger to a halt when he came to within several yards of the place, watching the activity for a moment before proceeding. He wanted to make sure there were no obvious signs of John’s assassins.