Dark Champion by Jo Beverley Page B

progress down the column. He stopped here and there for a word or a joke. Or a rebuke. Imogen saw one man turn pasty white after a few quiet words.
    Despite FitzRoger’s saying they could not stop, they did stop three times—to rest and water the horses. The comfort of the horses, after all, was much more important than that of a mere heiress. At each halt Sir Renald carried her to a shady spot and settled her on a blanket there.
    He never lingered, however, but was off with FitzRoger making another round of men and mounts, checking, encouraging, admonishing. Imogen had never had anything to do with warfare before, and she began to suspect it was as much a matter of organization and planning as violent action.
    At the third halt food was served—bread, cheese, and ale. Sir Renald brought Imogen her portion, but then went off with his friend on the usual inspection. After a while, however, the two men came and threw themselves down beside her, sharing a skin of ale and a loaf.
    It was past noon and the day had turned hot. Sir Renald pushed back his mailed hood to reveal damp hair. “I hate summer fighting,” he grumbled.
    “Lose some fat,” said his friend unsympathetically.
    “I am not fat,” Sir Renald rebutted. “Only an inhuman monster such as yourself would not feel the heat with thick felt, heavy iron, and a surcoat on.”
    “I feel the heat,” said FitzRoger. “But I enjoy a campaign whatever the weather.” He turned to Imogen. “I hope you are not overheated, lady.” His tone implied that the sentence could be completed “… for I’m not going to do a plague-ridden thing about it.”
    “Since I have on only two thin garments, my lord, it would be churlish of me to complain.”
    He deliberately eyed her swollen body. “Women in your condition tend to feel the heat.”
    Imogen knew her cheeks were flaming as if she roasted. She needed to get the conversation on a different track. “Can you tell me what has become of my seneschal, my lord?”
    “Strange,” he mused, “how any mention of your impending motherhood seems to bring him to your mind. I wouldn’t have thought such an elderly man to your taste, but women are strange creatures…”
    Imogen was about to protest this fiercely when she detected a glint of humor in his eyes. The wretch was daring to tease her! The only response to such impudence was to ignore it. “He is my trusted servant,” she said coldly.
    “Then your trusted servant is back at Cleeve in safe but considerate captivity.”
    Imogen stared at him. He was holding Siward hostage. “It would be dishonorable to mistreat an old and faithful retainer.”
    “If you behave yourself he will not be mistreated,” he countered blandly. At his signal the camp began to prepare to leave—gathering up scraps and tightening girths. As FitzRoger uncoiled to his feet, he asked, “Who, then, is the father of this most inconvenient child?”
    Imogen looked down. “I cannot tell you that,” she answered with perfect honesty.
    He grasped her chin and raised it so she had to face him. “You are not secretly married?”
    “If I had a husband I would have no need of your protection, would I?”
    “That would depend on the husband.” He let her go and strode away to supervise the reassembly of the fighting force. Imogen wanted to hurl a lethal projectile at his arrogant back.
    Renald de Lisle bent and lifted her into his arms.
    “Sir Renald,” said Imogen tartly, “though you doubtless feel your friend has all the virtues, I find him uncivil and unkind.”
    She felt his rumble of laughter as a wave through her body. “Of course I don’t think he’s a paragon of virtue. He’s a rogue like me. But he’s a man of his word. What promises he makes he will keep, and that’s more than can be said for most men.” He deposited her once more in the pillion saddle.
    Imogen shivered. When she thought of some of the promises Bastard FitzRoger had made to her, de Lisle’s words offered no