Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) by Jillian Hart Page B

animal leaped and ran, crashing through the undergrowth. That was sure to draw the fierce knight’s attention. And as long as the mare galloped, Elin would have plenty of time to escape.
    Like dry leaves in a wind, the quiet crackled as he spurred his great warhorse into a similar gallop. He exploded past low boughs and high brambles, thundering through the night like an ancient god.
    She crouched low until he was out of sight, and then she headed north, toward the safety of her devoted aunt’s castle. Elizabeth would protect her by cloistering her away until the traitor Philip of Evenbough was forgotten and his daughter not even a memory in the minds of dangerous men.
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    He found the palfrey, saddle empty, standing in a clearing, munching on last summer’s dead grasses, for stubborn winter still gripped these lands. He laid a hand against the mare’s neck and felt the heat from a hard ride still damp upon her coat.
    How long had she been without a rider? How long did the traitor’s daughter think she could outsmart him?
    Malcolm retraced his route, and could tell by the change in the depth of the tracks where she’d dismounted. She was not far. He studied the thousand shades of black upon black in the forest and felt her. Yet he saw no movements, no shifting shadows, no human eyes gazing out at him from behind fern or bramble.
    She was very close.
    He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.
    She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn’t bargained on his tracking skills. As the king’s favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could hide from the power of the king. Or from Malcolm le Farouche.
    The soft imprint, barely discernible, was buried in shadow and decaying leaves.
    He laid his hand upon the cold steel hilt and drew his sword. “I’ve not been that ill since my last trip across the Channel.”
    He heard the slightest whisper of movement, and knew her intent.
    â€œDrop that upon my head and pay, traitor’s daughter. My temper has been tested beyond endurance. Climb down,else I will come up after you. Believe me, you’ll not like the sting of my fury.”
    The limbs above shivered in answer. He heard the creak of wood upon wood and the scrape of branches against moss. She was descending, but what plot did she have now? He would not endure humiliation by a woman a second time.
    â€œWhat? Are you going to slay an unarmed woman, Sir Cowardly Knight?”
    â€œI warned you, maid, tempt me no further.” He spotted her hanging halfway down the tree trunk and wrapped his left hand around her upper arm. She was so small that his fingers easily encircled her. He hauled her, not roughly, to the ground. “Surrender your dagger.”
    â€œI have no—”
    â€œGive it to me.” Cold anger iced those words.
    She heard his threat and the fierce control that even now kept him from violence, and knew she’d pushed him too far. Still, ’twas not easy to surrender. “’Tis in my packs. Check my palfrey.”
    â€œYou lie, little manipulator.” He drew himself taller, fiercer, then lifted his sword and swung.
    She stumbled back, hitting her spine against the tree. Rough bark bit her flesh. Sweet Mary, his blade cut the air soundlessly. In the space of a breath, her fingers curled around the cold hilt of the dagger at her waist and she drew it out. Steel sparked upon steel.
    â€œUnhand the weapon.” He tore the knife from her grip with an inhuman strength, spurred by rage. “Do not think to lie to me again, or you will regret it.”
    She believed him. By the rood, she believed him. For the first time in her short life, she’d met an enemy she could not conquer, could not outsmart and