“‘Tis more than a kind word he needs, gentle knight.”
Rhys turned; his hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Show yourself,” he commanded, though he’d recognized the voice even as he reacted. Must she always be hiding in the shadows?
A curve of pale light streamed through a chink in the stable wall. Dust motes swam in the hazy shaft, growing thicker in number as Rhys squinted into the darkness and blinked. A teasing hint of jasmine drifted toward him.
Stepping into the thin ribbon of light, she seemed to appear magically, as if conjured out of empty air. Rhys grimaced at the foolish thought and released the hilt of his sword. Jésu, Brian had him as skittish as a colt. A faint smile plied the maiden’s lips, and her dark eyes held bows of reflected light in them. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his mail made a faint clinking sound. He shrugged lightly.
“He has forage and a bucket of water, and ‘tis easy to see that my squire tended him well. What more does the horse need, if not a kind word?”
She moved forward, pushing back the hood of her cloak. Dark, lustrous hair gleamed in the pale light. “He’ll be lame if you don’t tend his right foreleg.”
“Lame?” Rhys stared at her in surprise. She gazed back calmly. Drawing his gaze from her dark eyes, he studied the stallion for a moment. Hay wisps straggled from one corner of its lips and dangled from the long, coarse mane, but the animal looked as fit as always. He looked back at her and lifted a brow. “‘Tis foolishness. He’s shown no sign of being lame, nor of favoring any leg.”
“Has he not?” She moved around him gracefully, her hem dragging through the straw chaff and dirt of the stable floor. “Yet he has a hurt . . . here, above the hoof.”
Despite his skepticism, Rhys knelt to lift the leg she indicated. His thumb pressed into the knee, shank, and fetlock joint with no reaction. He stroked a hand downward, over smooth muscle and bone, then the curved slant of the pastern. Malik stood placidly. He glanced up at her, a quick, derisive look, and she shook her head.
“Lower.”
“Any lower, and the horse will be standing on my hand,” he pointed out.
“No, I mean here.” Before he could stop her, she knelt down and reached for the leg, her slender fingers moving swiftly to the pastern. Malik snorted and jerked, and he wrenched her out of harm’s way before those great hooves did any damage.
A faint frown knit her brows as she pulled free of his grasp. “He won’t hurt me.”
“This is not a cart pony, but a warhorse trained to trample men beneath his hooves. He allows no one near him but those familiar to him, and you are not one of them.”
“If that is true, how do you explain why I am so near him now?”
He had no intention of admitting that he didn’t know. “If I had not pulled you from harm, you’d now be little more than a bloody bundle of rags at my feet. Step back, if you will, should he decide to attack.”
A slow smile curved her mouth. She leaned against the wooden post separating two stalls. “‘Tis an inner bruise. If not tended, it will worsen. You will be afoot by the morrow.”
Malik quivered beneath the palm Rhys laid on his flank, a faint ripple of muscles. There was a possibility she was right; the battle that morning had been violent. Anything could happen in the fury of the fray, as he well knew. But how would she know?
“For a mist-maid,” he mocked, “you feign remarkable knowledge of horses.”
“Do I? Perhaps I’m just guessing. Or, perhaps I actually have a small knowledge of horses.”
“And perhaps you have another reason for being here in the stables.” He lifted his brows, smiling slightly. “Did I not just see you in the inn, fair flower? Tucked into an alcove, perhaps, to watch me in the common room?”
“What a vain creature you are. I suppose when the sun shines, you think ‘tis just for you.” She moved away several steps, and he settled one shoulder against the wall to watch her. She frowned. “Others are in the inn. Why wouldn’t I be waiting for someone, instead of hiding to watch you?”
He smiled, a slow curve of his mouth. She was nervous. Her hands fluttered a bit, and her eyes darted toward the door at the far end of the wide corridor. And he would bet his last penny that she’d been watching for him.
Silence spun, and he let it stretch taut before he said, “Were you waiting on me?”
Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Perhaps.”
He pushed away from the wall. “Yea, I think you were waiting on me. Here I am, sweet maid.”
She stepped back, then paused. Her nostrils flared slightly, and her lips were parted. The tip of her tongue flicked out, darting over the curve of her upper lip, leaving it shiny and moist. “Your . . . vanity, sir, is great. Much greater than the likelihood that you are right.”
He laughed softly. His gaze lingered on her mouth a moment, then lifted slowly. There was a subtle glow in her eyes that was quickly veiled by her lashes, and she tensed, poised as if for flight. He moved quickly and caught her by one wrist, fingers circling the small bones in a light, firm grip.
“Leaving so soon, fair maid? Do not disappoint me again. I await your pleasure, now that you have me ensnared.” He leaned close, felt the quiver that shook her, and smiled. His breath stirred a strand of dark hair, and it drifted across her cheek. He lifted her trapped arm and placed her palm against his chest, pressing it lightly into the mail. “Do you feel the race of my heart? See how swiftly it beats for you?”
“You dally, sir,” she said faintly, not looking at him, “as if you had much experience.”
Pushing back the errant strand of dark hair, he tucked it behind her ear, then traced the gentle curve with a fingertip. She shivered and strained away from him, but he still held her hand against his chest. “And you,” he murmured, “dally as if you had none.”
Her gaze flew to his face, eyes wide. “Would that disturb you?”
He paused in a slow exploration of the arch of her throat. With his hand resting lightly against her scented skin, he was well aware of the rapid pulse beating against the backs of his curved fingers. “Nay, it would not disturb me. Nor would it hearten me.”
“I do not take your meaning.”
He kissed the tip of her small, straight nose, then the tiny indentation at the corner of her mouth, and released her hand. “‘Tis simple enough—if you are virgin, sweet flower, I will leave you so. I do not deflower young maidens. Even those so impetuous as to pursue me.” He smiled wryly. “Or fey enough to invite me to a May dance in a meadow.”
She stared up at him, eyes as wide and dark as glistening pieces of jet. “And if I am not virgin?”
“Ah, and if you are not virgin, ‘tis another matter. There is always time for negotiations, room for bargaining, terms to be arranged . . .” He let the final words fade slowly, so his meaning would be clear. Dalliance with a beautiful maiden was always diverting, and there had been a time he enjoyed it for its own sake. But not now. Now, there was a hard, tight ache in him that needed easing, ignited by the small damsel staring up at him so intently. Too many hours in Coventry had been spent waiting in an empty church—not exactly the best place to carry on transactions of a carnal nature—as he waited for the messenger from Owain. And then, he’d been too bemused and unsettled by the message even to think of easing himself with a casual woman. Until now. Until reaching this sleepy village and once more seeing the exotic creature who’d ignited his blazing need.
“Terms?” She blinked, confusion hazing her eyes, and he gave a regretful sigh and stepped back.
“Conditions or stipulations, such as the twelve labors of Hercules,” he said lightly, certain she would have no idea what he was talking about. “A reward in exchange for a gallant deed, or retrieval of something valuable. A golden apple from Hesperides.”
“When I heard the myth,” she said, “th
e reward was that the king would leave Hercules alone in exchange for his labors. Is that what you have in mind?”
Amused as well as surprised by her familiarity with the Greek legend, he reached out to cup her chin in his palm. His thumb brushed against the corner of her mouth. “I would never be so churlish as to leave you alone, were circumstances different. But like the legend, nothing is ever easy.”
Unable to resist, he bent to kiss her, a regretful farewell, a final remnant of the desire that made him so uncomfortable. Her mouth quivered beneath his lips, soft and sweet, so tempting he was constrained to pull away before he disregarded his own good intentions. The cursed thing about good intentions was how they always looked better in concept than reality. But, a momentary weakness with an untried maiden could have lasting repercussions and cause unnecessary complications in his life. He had visions of an irate village merchant pursuing him with a pitchfork and the sheriff demanding restitution for his daughter’s maidenhead.
When he pulled away, her lashes lifted, casting trembling shadows on her cheeks, and he felt a twinge of satisfaction that he wasn’t the only one affected. She caught his hand before he could release her chin and held it with a surprisingly strong grip.
“I never said,” she murmured in a soft, breathless voice, “that I was a virgin.”
“Nay, you didn’t.” He swept her with an appraising eye. Was it all a game? A masquerade to amuse her and tease him? If so, she was expert at it, for she handled herself very much like a virgin. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the lingering effects of her performance in the weald, he might have noticed it that day in the meadow. But then she’d seemed age-old, timeless, as wise as the Madonna. Now, she looked only very young, very nervous, and very intense.
Her fingers slipped over his hand, curled into his palm, and held tightly. She smiled up at him. “Then shall we discuss the terms, sir?”
SASHA’S HEART thumped so hard, she was certain he could hear it. A bold idea had formed as he was pulling away from her with such obvious regret. She had seen not only the answer to her prophecy slipping away, but long years of tedious existence in Elspeth’s village yawning before her like the shades of hell. Perhaps the idea wasn’t as audacious as the twelve labors of Hercules, but it certainly was a close rival. Would he agree? Would he think acting as her champion far too great a task for what she promised in return?
The romantic tales of knightly deeds performed for a lady would have her believe that no labor was too great for love, but this was not a man who seemed to care about romance. What then, could she offer in exchange? Not even in her most fanciful thoughts did she believe he would consider a night of pleasure adequate reward for besieging a fortress. But she had taken full note of his adherence to the rules of chivalry and knew that this was a knight who would keep his sworn word. Once he had given it, he would not default on whatever promise he made.
And therein lay the solution.
His hand closed around her fingers, holding tightly. “Yea, lady fair, name your terms.”
She affected an alluring smile that felt stiff on her lips and hid the tremor of her hand by gripping his. Not too much said, nor too little, or the ploy would be for naught.
“Twelve labors, as those performed by Hercules, would be too great a request.” His amused snort was evidence that he agreed, and she ignored him as she continued with a touch of playful artifice and sidelong glances. “But perhaps a few lesser tasks would be sufficient to win my attentions for an evening, dread knight.”
“A few?” His mouth twisted, and an amused gleam lit eyes the clear gray of smoke. “How great a number does ‘a few’ encompass, flower?”
“Perhaps . . . three?”
“Three. For a single evening. It sounds intriguing, but I’m not certain I would be able to consummate the bargain after completing three arduous labors, fair blossom.”
She placed her hand lightly against his chest, fingers tracing over the metal links of his mail, then moving up to skim along the thrust of his jaw. Beard-stubble rasped beneath her fingertips. Her fingers lightly explored the hard set of his mouth, then drifted to the pale curve of scar on his high slash of cheekbone. Tension simmered in his tautly held frame, and gray eyes narrowed at her beneath the dark brush of his lashes. She rose to her toes to put her other arm around his neck. He was too tall for her to manage properly, and she settled for letting her hand rest on his broad shoulder as she gazed up at him.
“Very well, beau sire. I’m adept at compromise. A labor for a night.”
“Ah, and what happens if I perform my labor, but you grow too shy to settle the debt, sweet lady? I caution you—I always keep my sworn word and deal rudely with those who do not.”
He was smiling, but there was a steely warning couched in his words that left her slightly dizzy. She swallowed, keeping the smile on her lips though it felt wilted and weak. She must secure his pledge to help her, yet the resort to trickery was growing increasingly nerve-racking.
“La, sir, do you think I would play you false? First, the evening of entertainment, and then the labor performed. There, you see? You risk nothing, lose only what you will, and gain”—her fingers grazed the strands of wheat-blond hair over his ears, drifted down to toy with the thick waves that brushed the draped coif of his mail—“all that you desire to gain,” she finished softly. There was a quick flash of light in his eyes, so swift it was a fleeting glimpse, then his arm coiled around her back to hold her hard against him.
“‘Tis intriguing, sweet flower. Name the labor that you wish done, and if agreed upon, our negotiation is complete.”
Sasha hadn’t really thought he’d be fool enough to agree blindly and had half formed a phrase she hoped would suffice. If distracted enough, he might not see through the obscure meaning to her true purpose.
Leaning against him, pressing her breasts against his chest and hoping that his imagination could supply the details the mail obstructed, she drew one hand over his mouth in a soft, lingering glide. His lips closed on her fingertips, white teeth gently catching them in a tiny nip. Rubbing her hips in suggestive contact over the iron-muscled length of his thighs, she mimicked every woman she’d ever observed entice a man, from field whores to highborn French mistresses, fabricating what she could not remember.
Apparently, it was working, for his breathing grew shallow and quick, and his arm tightened convulsively behind her back, holding her harder against him. His hips thrust toward her. His hand tangled in the loose hair of her nape, pulling her head back, and his mouth came down on hers. The kiss was hard and demanding, but provoked the most intoxicating sensation she’d ever known. Rivulets of fire spread through her, dropping to the pit of her stomach, then pooling between her thighs, making her throb. She moaned. His tongue slipped between her teeth to touch hers, a light exploration that stole her breath and her wits. She couldn’t think, could only hang there in his arms and try not to be swept away into the nameless sphere that loomed beyond her knowledge.
When his head lifted, they were both panting and aroused, though it was difficult for her to tell exactly who was most shaken. She was, she thought, as this was completely out of her realm of experience.
Yet, unnerved as she was, she was able to laugh softly, give him an arch glance, and say, “A victory, sir, such as those knights who wear their lady’s colors at a tourney. I crave a victory.”
“A victory, you say, a wearing of your colors.” He grinned, a flash of white in a sun-browned face. “A unique payment, but you are a unique reward, flower. I assume there is a tournament where you wish me to ply this victory.”
She smiled. “Yea, beau sire, of sorts. Do you swear? Do you swear to wear my colors and fight for a victory on the field of combat?”
“I would not refuse such a sweet request, for it combines two of my most cherished things, tournament games and love play. But I must leave early on the
morrow.” He grasped her hand, kissed her fingertips, the faint smile on his mouth doing nothing to diminish the hot glitter in his hungry gaze. “May I swear to a victory for the future, fair lady?”
“Yea, dread knight, if you will swear it to me, as I swear to come to your bed, I shall wait on my promised victory.” Lightly, with teasing smile and fluttering lashes, she took his hand and placed it on the hilt of his sword. “Swear it by your knight’s sword, beau sire, swear to wear my colors . . .”
She held her breath, then closed her eyes with relief and satisfaction when he said huskily, “I swear it, lady fair. On my honor as a knight, I swear to fight for victory in your name.”
It was, she thought weakly, even better than she’d hoped.
Chapter Four
LAMPS SPUTTERED and hissed, and smoke filled the inn’s common room in stinging drifts. Open shutters allowed in air laden with the damp promise of rain. Laughter came from a gloomy corner. Rhys glanced again at the inn door and propped his feet atop a bench opposite him. He stared at the toes of his boots. He plucked at one of the brass circles that studded the wide belt encircling his surcoat. Vesper bells had rung in St. Mary’s Priory next to the church, the designated hour had come and gone, yet there was no sign of her. Impatience made him restless.
Ridiculous, the coy delay, when a swift tumble in a sweet, clean pile of stable hay would have sufficed for his pressing need. Women must have their vanities, the illusions that kept reality at bay. The reason was a mystery, as incomprehensible as her need to create a fictional quest for yielding that which she intended to yield all along. He knew full well there was no tournament to be conducted in Edwardstowe, as she must know. There wasn’t even a market fair planned, or the entire village would be abuzz. ‘Twas all a ploy, a play of words meant to disguise her desire for him. Yet if it appeased her qualms and gained him his ends, he would not begrudge her flights of fancy. He glanced at the door again. It was still firmly shut, no hint of a sloe-eyed mist-maid shadowing the portal.
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