Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion by Glynnis Campbell Page B

likely just saved the little wretch’s neck.
    “Don’t touch me,” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. But this time, like a panicked hound biting its master’s hand, she hauled back her arm and slapped him. Hard.
    The crack of flesh on flesh stung his cheek and split the air like summer lightning.
    He was stunned. He’d never been struck by a woman before. No one intentionally riled the temper of a de Ware. It was like poking a sleeping wolf. Worse still, there wasn’t a shred of apology in her eyes, only mortification at what she’d dared.
    He ground his teeth, wavering between shock and anger. Then he grabbed her by the forearm, forcing her to sit down next to him on the wooden seat, and snapped the reins to set the old horse in motion. Ignoring the curious stares of those who pointed at the odd pair of them wrestling atop the cart, he drove onward toward the fair.
    He’d never felt such anger—never. It wasn’t like him to handle women roughly, but the urge to throttle this one overwhelmed him. She should be grateful. It was thanks to him that her neck was still attached to her shoulders, considering the company she’d kept lately. But nay, the silly wench probably thought she could walk through hell unscathed.
    They rode along in frosty, bone-jarring silence until the castle diminished and slipped from sight behind a hillock. When they reached the cover of the trees, he drew back on the reins to stop the nag in the middle of the road.
    Linet held her breath, her trepidation rising. The beggar had purposely brought her to this isolated spot. What in the name of God did he intend?
    His hand felt like a shackle around her arm. Maybe, she dared to hope, he only intended to rob her. Maybe he’d take her coin and be gone.
    But her worst fears were confirmed as the rogue reached into the pouch at his waist with his free hand and pulled forth a small vial, uncorking it with his teeth.
    Poison!
    She tried to pry loose.
    “Cease, woman!” he commanded, his eyes blue steel beneath the dark brows.
    Casting her pride to the wind, she sucked in a great breath and began yelling at the top of her lungs. “Murder! Help me! Murder!”
    “Quiet,” he snarled, shaking her.
    Some of the contents of the vial dripped out onto her cloak. She gasped in horror, half expecting the fabric to melt away.
    The beggar glanced about to insure that no one had heard her cries. Then he glared at her, not in anger, but rather a kind of bemused disappointment. “Murder?”
    Her heart still beat wildly, and she stared at the spot on her cloak, waiting for the material to dissolve. He followed her gaze. One corner of his mouth crooked up in a sardonic smile.
    “It’s pine sap,” he told her.
    Then he released her arm to pull something else from his satchel, something black and hairy and dead. She recoiled instinctively. But it was only his fake beard, a bit worse for wear from the stomping it had endured. He must have retrieved it from the fair.
    “Perhaps this will cushion the blow next time,” he grumbled. With that, he dabbed some of the sticky sap onto his cheeks and chin and affixed the scraggly beard to his face.
    A bit of the tension drained out of her shoulders. But she wasn’t completely satisfied. “Did you kill the guards?”
    “Of course not.”
    “But you bested them.”
    “Isn’t that what you wanted—proof of my skill?”
    She supposed she might have misinterpreted his actions. Perhaps he truly meant her no harm. Still, she wasn’t about to let down all her defenses. She sat on the verge of the seat, ready to bolt.
    “If you wish to retain custody of your horse and cart,” he said calmly, as if he could read her mind, “I’d advise you remain where you are.”
    She had little choice. She could ill afford to lose her wagon or the nag. She sat helplessly by while he patted his beard into place.
    Suddenly the craziness of the whole episode struck her. Here she was, the hostage of a man who claimed to want only to