Dark Champion Read Online Free PDF Page B

find out what FitzRoger was really like.
    Siward put an arm around her and said, “My wife’s not feeling well…”
    “Master wants to see you,” the man stated. “She can be sick later.” When they hesitated, he seized them by the arms and began to haul them along. He moved at such speed, that every part of Imogen’s body complained and she let out a scream.
    “None of that, woman,” the guard growled. “I’m beginning to think there’s something fishy about you two. You wanted justice from the Lord of Cleeve, and by the Rood you’ll get it.”
    Chapter 3
    Imogen stumbled along as best she could, clutching her paunch and biting her lip to stop further moans.
    “Harry, what are you doing?”
    The guard stopped as if he’d run into a wall. There was bluster in his voice as he said, “Bringing these peasants to you, me lord. The ones I told you of.”
    Imogen looked up and her heart chilled.
    It was the man with the whip.
    She couldn’t mistake him, though his bare torso was now covered by a dark shirt. His clothing was plain and he wore only a studded leather belt with pouch and knife, but there was no mistaking his authority. It had to be Bastard FitzRoger.
    He whipped his own malefactors? Imogen thought in horror, and her instinct took her a step backward.
    On the surface there was nothing to fear. He was clean, personable, and civilized. His features were fine and lean, his eyes a clear green; on a woman they would have been called beautiful. His dark hair rippled down onto his shoulders in the latest fashion her father had so deplored. He was tall and had broad shoulders and strong legs, yet a fineness in his build denied the looming brutality of some fighting men. He was nothing at all like Warbrick.
    So why was Imogen’s heart racing? Why had her throat constricted beyond hope of speech? Why was her instinct screaming that she should flee?
    Perhaps because of the coldness of those arresting green eyes. As they flicked over her, they seemed to see to her soul and not like what they found there. He glanced at the guard and Imogen was sure she felt the man’s hand tremble before he let her go. A simple nod and Harry made himself scarce.
    Bastard FitzRoger sat on a convenient keg, one knee raised to support his arm. “You came to seek justice? State your case. I don’t have much time.” The voice was crisp and impersonal, and she could only be glad of it. The last thing any human being would want would be to attract the interest of this man.
    Imogen’s voice was frozen. What could they say that would get them out of Castle Cleeve immediately?
    Siward nervously filled the gap. “We were thrown off our property, lord. By Lord Warbrick.”
    Imogen saw a spark of interest at the name. She remembered they’d come here because Cleeve and Warbrick were old foes, come here seeking vengeance. That had not changed. Why was she quailing because Bastard FitzRoger had proved to be a hard man? She was looking for a champion, not a troubadour. FitzRoger seemed just the sort of person to be able to help her regain her castle, and the fact that he made her shiver was nothing to do with the matter.
    “Where was this property?” FitzRoger asked.
    Siward glanced for guidance at Imogen, but her mind had gone blank. “Tatridge,” he said at last.
    “Carrisford land?”
    “Aye, lord.”
    “Do you know the castle?”
    Siward hesitated, then said, “Aye, lord.”
    ‘Tell me about it.“
    “Lord, we’re only simple folk come to get justice—”
    “Tell me about it.” The voice was not raised, but the command was imperative.
    Even Siward stuttered slightly as he replied, “L-lord, I don’t know what you want to know. Ask me questions and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
    Imogen watched in fascination as Bastard FitzRoger turned a heavy gold ring on his right hand. He had well shaped hands which promised both strength and deftness, but the movement transfixed her with its silent menace.
    “How many