The Fifth Knight(62)

With a nip of cold metal against her throat, the noose fell away. She dragged in a breath, then another.

Benedict urged the stallion back to its feet and palmed the side of its quivering neck. He looked up at her, his dark complexion shades lighter than normal. “I thought they’d done for you.”

“Get me off this animal.” She strained to free herself from the saddle. “Now.” She struggled harder, and the stallion jerked in fright.

“Steady there, boy, steady.” Benedict kept hold of the reins. “Keep still, or you’ll fright him. I’ll get you off, but we need to get out of sight.”

“Then do it and get me down.”

Calling to Quercus to follow, Benedict guided the stallion toward a thick grove of pine trees. Steam rose from the stallion’s coat, matching her own skin, sweat-coated from pain and terror.

Her arms, her legs, screamed for release as Benedict threaded their way through the dense trees, snow sliding off the green needled branches.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Enough! Do you hear me?”

“Quiet.” Benedict secured the stallion to a tree. Knife in hand once more, he sliced through the thick hemp that secured her to the horse. He slid her from the saddle, one arm behind her shoulders and one underneath her knees, as he gathered her to him.

Theodosia stiffened in his hold. He carried her a few steps from the horse’s side to the shelter of a large pine tree, the ground dry with heaps of dried pine needles. He set her down into a seated position, staying hunkered down before her as he severed the ropes across her chest.

“Faith, that devil Fitzurse has you tied like a carcass for market.” He leaned behind her to free her wrists.

She brought them before her painfully, wincing as the blood returned.

He bent to her bound ankles. “There.” He sat back. “You’re free.”

“No thanks to you.” Theodosia ripped the cut ropes from round her body and whipped them across his face.

He jerked back. “What are — ”

“It’s a pity Gilbert didn’t have a yellow suit for you. It would match your cowardice well.” She lashed out at him again, but he ducked to one side with an oath.

“Me, a caitiff?”

“Yes. A yellow-breeched page, Fitzurse called you. He was right.” She scrambled to her feet on the soft ground.

Benedict rose to his feet too, a deep frown carved into his brow. “You’re a convert to Fitzurse now?”

“How dare you!” She launched herself at him in fury, ropes whipping as she tried to land a blow. “You betrayed me, you traitor, you coward. You’re as bad as he!”

He grabbed at her weapons and yanked them from her grasp, flinging them to the ground in a scatter of dried needles. “Then why am I back?”

“Because you saw an opportunity. Sneaking, following, not willing to lift a finger. Waiting until you could grab Fitzurse’s animal, worth ten times the beast you sold my precious cross for.” Shame lit his eyes, and she knew she’d hit true.

She pressed on, anger a wrongful, sinful, delicious hot urge as it tore through her, burning away her self-control. “You left me, to die without hope and, worse, to bring death to my mother too. But what do you care? You saved your shameful skin, turned a profit from stealing my cross. You’ll boil in oil in hell for your avarice, Benedict Palmer. I shall take the greatest pleasure in watching for all eternity.”

“Boil in oil? Are you sure you’re not Fitzurse’s disciple?”

She pointed to her neck, the noose’s welt a painful lump on her skin. “Does this look like I am?” she hissed.

“And neither am I a coward, or a thief.” He reached beneath his cloak and thrust a leather pouch into her hand. “That’s the rest of the money. It’s yours. So will the horses be, once we get to Polesworth.” His dark brows drew together in disdain. “I’d never have traded your cross, but I had to. I told you that.”

“Oh, easy, easy words.” She shook the pouch at him. “Along with your most generous gift — a gift that is mine by rights anyway.” She shoved the pouch into her skirt pocket with a shake of her head. “You abandoned me when the danger got too great, simple as that.”

“Of course I did.” He nodded hard. “You’re right, Sister, as always.” He folded his arms and put his head to one side, as if pondering a weighty question. “Then answer me this. Why did the wolves attack de Tracy?”

“His own foulness. Whatever spoil he had in his saddlebag.”

“And what if the spoil was the meat you bought at the market?” His gaze bored into hers.