“So your answer is no?” Owain pressed, and Sasha blew out a heavy breath.
“I have not been near the milk pails today or any day, and I cast no spells.”
Owain glanced at Rhys and nodded. “I shall note your response in the ledgers.”
“And the second question?” Sasha asked.
“What is the boy to you? We need to know his character.”
“If you mean Biagio, he is many things, but he is not a witch.”
“It is not witchcraft that concerns me with the boy,” Owain replied. “There have been reports that his loyalties may lie elsewhere than Glynllew.”
For a moment Sasha just stared at him. Then she shook her head, a slight movement that shifted her long braids and scented the air with jasmine. “Biagio has loyalties to me and Elspeth. Beyond that, his loyalties lie with his best interests. It would not be in his best interest to become involved in intrigue. He has seen what it can do to those caught between feuding barons.”
“How do you explain his ranging among the halls, ferreting out information from maids and unwary soldiers?” Brian burst out. “He plays the part of a spy far too well, to my mind.”
“He is bold, brash, and often rude,” Sasha said. “But he is not a spy.”
“He was adept at drugging Gareth’s soldiers,” Brian countered, still not looking directly at Sasha. “Can he be trusted not to do the same to us for reward?”
“What was Biagio’s reward for drugging Gareth’s men?”
Brian flushed. “Your rescue, I trow.”
“Yet if I am also a spy in league with Gareth, I had no need of rescue. Nor if I am witch do I have need of rescue, for I can render myself invisible and walk past guards. Biagio would not be needed.”
Turning to Rhys, Brian accused, “She speaks in riddles to confuse us.”
Owain spoke up: “I understood her to say she nor the boy have need to spy. I concur.”
After a moment, Rhys said, “I deem her answers to be satisfactory. Mark the ledger. And Sir Brian, tell yon kitchen maid to inspect the milk pails more carefully upon delivery. I do not wish to pay for sour milk.”
Brian’s mouth tightened, and he gave a curt nod of his head in acceptance. “Yea, my lord. I will see to it.”
When the knight had quit the solar, taking the armed guard with him, Owain said, “His fear of the unknown blinds him to all else. He is a good man, and loyal, but is prey to beliefs in magic.”
Standing up, Owain smiled at Sasha. “Do not judge him too harshly, Mistress. Many are ruled by their fears.”
“I do not judge him at all. Well, perhaps a little. And I admit I have done nothing to ease his fears. It was unkind, and I should not have tweaked him as I did. I meant to mock his fears. Instead I made them worse.”
“You did indeed, demoiselle,” said Rhys. “I grant you, his dread of faeries and magic was already considerable.”
She sighed. “It is true of many. ‘Tis much easier to explain mysteries with magic than to make sense of them.”
“Again, you surprise me, fair maid. Of all, I thought you would defend magic.”
“There is magic in the first cry of a newborn child, in the miracle of flowers, the wind, the sun and sea, but that magic is expected. It is the unexpected magic that can awe and frighten people.”
“She is more philosopher than I first thought,” Owain said as he gathered the ledgers and put them in a chest. “Be’ware, Mistress Sasha, for while Sir Brian would not do you a deliberate mischief, not all are so cautious.”
“I am not so certain Sir Brian would not do me a mischief if he thought Lord Rhys in danger from me,” she said frankly, and Owain nodded.
“It is entirely possible. Lord Rhys has earned much loyalty from those who follow him. Now I shall tend to other matters, my lord, if you give me leave.”
When Owain’s eyes briefly met his, Rhys nodded. It was as the steward feared, but it had to be resolved. If there was to be a resolution at all, every avenue, every suspicion, must be fully addressed. A traitor in their midst could not be ignored, even if it should be Bowen.
Owain closed the solar door behind him, and silence fell in the chamber. Shutters over the windows were open so that light streamed in from the south, warm and clarifying. It felt, for a moment, peaceful. The faint scent of jasmine teased the air, the maid who haunted his days and nights was near enough to touch, and serenity closed around him in a gentle embrace. Rare, lovely peace, as elusive as a unicorn, as welcome as redemption; he had not enjoyed much of it in his life. Standing near the fire, listening to burning logs hiss, the world beyond the solar faded.
The coveted peace was abruptly shattered.
“Am I also free to leave, my lord?”
He looked down at Sasha, smiling a little as he recognized her posture as poised for flight from the solar. “Do you wish to fly, little bird?” he murmured, and she didn’t reply.
Instead, she walked closer to the fire, held out her hands, palms to the heat, gazing into the flames. He studied her slender pose, the silky fall of her hair, the frayed and patched material of her cotte, threadbare slippers on her feet. There was little resemblance now to the mysterious presence he had first seen on a wooded road. Gone was the impression of an Elf Queen, royalty of the faeries, and in its place, a lovely, ordinary maiden, a merchant’s daughter.
Then she turned from the fire to face him, skirts swirling around her legs in a graceful turn, and he realized how wrong the impression of an ordinary maiden had been. Her chin lifted, exotic eyes beneath lush lashes staring into his soul, and he felt as if he could drown in them. A lovely death. Exquisite creature, a maid of mystery after all, for he could not imagine what she was thinking as she gazed up at him. Did she think of him? Did he linger in her dreams? Did she see him as a man worthy of tender regard? Perhaps even now she wondered the same about him as he did her. . . .
“Your sister is not at all as I first perceived her,” she said, breaking the silence, and he sighed. Foolish, to think he would invite the maid’s high regard, he supposed. After all, he still held her as a hostage, and had accused her of being a spy if not a witch.
“So it seems, since you seek out her company,” he replied.
“She is young and unhappy.”
“That is a common malady, demoiselle. Unwise actions do not usually summon harmony. I have pardoned past reckless behavior due to her circumstances, but future events will convince me of the loyalty of those around me.”
“A warning for us all, my lord.” Sasha put a hand out to the table as if to steady her balance, long fingers pressing into oak.
He had not meant it as a warning, but let her consider it as such; it may save trouble. She did not look at him, but stared at the floor. Did she consider mischief? It was possible Catrin had sought her out for that purpose, but Gwyneth had reported no strife since the outburst at dinner. There were times he felt beset by all sides, not knowing whom to trust; even Brian, his most ardent supporter, had the deranged notion that this wisp of a maid would bewitch them all. It was not her magic that lured him, though he would not tell Brian that, but the hazy memory of her atop him in an English inn that made him loathe to part with her. He should send her on to Elspeth’s village and remove at least that concern. Yet, he had not.
Sasha looked up at him, her eyes huge in her face, complexion pale in the harsh window light.
“I don’t suppose you have a crust of bread or some cheese, my lord? I’m afraid I feel a bit faint as I’ve not eaten . . .”
To his instant consternation, her eyelashes fluttered, she uttered a soft sigh, and slipped toward the floor. He caught her before she crumpled at his feet, lifting her in his arms, and cast about to decide where to place her. The table still bore quills and ink, the chairs were unsuitable, and he strode toward the huge bed in his chamber beh
ind the screens.
When he laid her on it, she gave another sigh, and he put a bolster beneath her head. He felt utterly at a loss. What did one do with a swooning woman? He had no idea. It had never been his lot to deal with fainting females. Indeed, he had little experience with gentlewomen at all, as his time spent in their company had been scant.
He must call for her maidservant, Elspeth.
When he stepped away from the bed, Sasha moaned, and he halted, going to her to take her hand, uncertain what he should do. If it were a wounded soldier, he would pour cold water in his face or try to pour wine down his throat. Wine. He left her and returned with a cup of wine. He sat on the mattress next to her, lifting her awkwardly, cursing his clumsiness, and held the cup to her lips.
“Drink, lovely flower,” he murmured. “Just a sip.”
When she didn’t respond, he dipped a finger into the wine and dragged it over her lower lip. Beads of wine glistened, and finally her tongue eased out. He dabbed more wine on her lip, and as she lapped at it, he lifted her slightly with an arm behind her shoulders, holding her to his side as he coaxed the cup to her parted lips. She drank more, blindly, eyes still closed. He set the cup on the table near the bed when it was empty, feeling awkward as she nestled closer.
He held her, warm against him, smelling of jasmine and wine, and remembered how long she had slept after the night of her rescue. Had it done lasting damage? Women were said to be more fragile than men, but he had the thought this slender maid had more stamina than most foot soldiers. He gently pushed back an errant strand of hair that escaped from her braid; her lashes quivered, and dusky rose flushed her cheeks.
An unfamiliar tenderness swept over him; he marveled at it. There hadn’t been time in his life for softer emotions. In truth, there wasn’t time now. Yet he let it ease through him as he held her, murmuring comfort, smoothing her hair from her face, savoring the softness of her skin; he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand as he held it, and her fingers closed on his hand, holding him.
For a moment he was uncertain; did she know what she did? Then he looked from their joined hands to her face. Her eyes were half-open, lashes veiling them.
“I feel foolish,” she said huskily, and he smiled.
“Then it is not your desire to fall at my feet? I admit to disappointment.”
“We all have our share of disappointments. May I sit up, beau sire?”
He sat up, relinquishing the moment with regret. “There is bread and cheese on a table in the solar. Shall I call for a servant to bring meat?”
“Pray, do not. I would rather no one know I dropped at your feet like a miller’s stone.”
Amused, he watched as she sat up, smoothed her hair, then her cotte; it had ridden up to her knees, and woolen hose sagged slightly. She bent to tie them at the knee, managing it with a grace borne of frequent repetition, giving him a glimpse of bare leg and saving her modesty.
He stepped into the antechamber and fetched the platter of bread, cheese, and fruit, and when he returned, she sat up with her feet off the bed, looking composed.
“I should leave you to your tasks,” she murmured as she took a piece of bread and cheese he offered.
“Not yet.” He set the platter on the table next to the empty cup of wine. “If you are still weak, a fall down the stairs may injure more than your pride.”
“I find it quite embarrassing,” she said frankly. “I never faint. I should have listened to Elspeth, I suppose, and broken my fast with the porridge she brought to the chamber, but I’ve never fancied it much although she has spent years trying to force it on me. I prefer fruit.”
“There is fruit preserved in honey on the platter. Apples and cherries are my favorites.” He held up a cherry covered in honey, then, smiling, popped it into his mouth. “Demoiselle?”
“Wild berries should be plentiful now,” she said as she chose a ripe, red berry impaled on a straw. “I have seen these strewn through the meadows all over England.”
When she dropped the berry, exclaiming at her clumsiness, he swiftly chose another one. “Your hand still shakes. Since I do not want berries strewn about my chamber, it may be tidier if I help,” he said and touched her mouth with the heart-shaped red berry.
Smiling, her lips parted as she pulled the berry from the straw with her teeth. Berry juice stained her mouth, and he silently thanked the enterprising lad who had sold the berries; village boys picked them, put them on straws, and sold them in the markets as treats, and Owain had bought an entire basket from the lad who appeared at the pantler’s door.
He teased her with the next berry, dragging it over her bottom lip, then her top, pulling it away when she tried to bite it, and after a few passes, she pressed her lips together.
“What? No more appetite, demoiselle?” In reply, she swiftly bit the berry from the end of the straw, and he grinned. “I see I shall have to be more cautious.”
“Indeed, beau sire. Or learn to share.”
On impulse, he bent, touched his tongue to her mouth and licked away a drop of juice. It was a mistake. Fire shot through him at the contact, the berry sweetness and lush promise of her mouth a siren call to disaster. He should resist. He would resist.
But then she parted her lips and touched her tongue to his, and he was lost.
Chapter Fifteen
AT LAST. SASHA yielded to the sweetness of the moment, sighing as Rhys kissed her mouth, trailed a path of kisses along her jawline to her ear, then her neck. Heat beat through her veins, a flush like steam suffuseing her as she caught her breath. The world stood still, time nonexistent as she hung suspended between conflicts. The prophecy lingered in the back of her mind but had little effect on what she felt for Rhys ap Griffyn as a man. That was a dream and a promise, and Rhys was here and now, solid and tempting.
If she had learned nothing else in the past years, she had learned tomorrow was not a guarantee, the past oft formed the present, and an instant’s decision could change the future. Only this moment held tantalizing possibilities. Desire beckoned, and she answered.
Reaching out, she touched him boldly, her hand spreading over his chest, untying the laces of his undertunic at his throat. He lifted his head, stared down at her, eyes gone silvery in the pale, reflected glow of candles and distant sunlight.
“Chérie,” he murmured and took her hand, kissing the tips of her fingers, then sliding her hand over his chest to his belt until her palm grazed the broad buckle. “You must set the pace, ere I find myself unmanned again.”
Her heart beat rapidly. “My apologies. It was too hasty a reaction, beau sire.”
“Aye, it is not one I care to risk again.” He held her gaze, a faint smile lifting one corner of his mouth, watching and waiting.
Slowly, she unbuckled his belt, and it slid down his hips to the floor. He stood silently, his blue tunic looser over his chest, reaching to mid-thigh over long braies, boots laced to his knees, his undertunic just visible at his throat. A darker blue with gilt threads edged the neck, hem, and sleeve cuffs. Save for the night at the Boar’s Head, she had not undressed a man and was at a loss how to proceed. The tunic and undertunic would go over his head; the braies had waist cords to untie, the boots, more laces. She surveyed him for a moment, then sighed.
“I fear I am out of practice in disrobing a man.”
“So I suspected. Tell me, fair flower, how many men have you disrobed in your travels?”
She lifted her eyes to his face, studied his expression, the slight smile and narrowed gaze, and said glumly, “One.”
“An illustrious career, then.”
“Perhaps I prefer my men to disrobe before they come to me,” she retorted as she saw her fiction of being experienced in love-play unraveling.
“Ah, sweet flower, you confound me.” He leaned toward her, took her chin in his palm,
and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Most women pretend a virtue they do not possess. You boast of experience you do not possess.”
“Have you forgotten that night in the inn?”
“Nay, not for a moment.” He lifted both her hands in his, pressed his mouth against her knuckles, watching her as kissed each one. “I have vivid memories of you atop me, of your body as close to mine as possible, but there is no memory of our joining.”
Dare she confess? Would he refuse her if he thought her still a maid? Her heart thudded against her ribs, the intimacy she sought slipping away.
“Do you not recall the heat of our passion, my lord?” she murmured.
“I recall heat, and I recall a small blue jar.”
Guilt flushed her cheeks; she felt the heat as if she’d spread the ointment on her face. “It was my idea to deceive you with the salve,” she said abruptly. “I hoped to get you drunk on wine and let you think we had consummated our bargain.”
“Instead you used poppies.”
She could not betray Elspeth. She nodded. “It was by mistake.”
“And if you had not made a mistake? What then?”
She looked up and met his eyes. “I would have kept my promise.”
He still held her hands; he pulled her gently toward him. “All for a prophecy?”
As he pulled her into his embrace, she said, “All to regain what was stolen from me.”
“And if I steal your maidenhead?”
The breath caught in her throat. “You cannot steal what is freely given, beau sire.”
He held her close against him, his tunic not hiding the strength of his desire. “Nor can I return it if you have regrets. You have bewitched me beyond all sense. I think of only you when I should be writing letters to the prince, or sending messengers to the king, or counting the sheep in the meadow—ah, Christ, sweet maid, you both terrify and madden me, but I cannot deny my need for you.”
Her cheek rested against his chest; he smelled of sandalwood soap, and his heart beat strong and steady. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and when he asked, “Do you feel the same?” she said, “Yea, Rhys of Glynllew, I feel the same. Solve the mystery for me, ere I go mad from the waiting.”
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