by Nicole Locke
If she wanted quince, he’d get her quince—and it wouldn’t take him long because the damn trees weren’t much taller than him.
‘Good suggestion!’ she said.
As if he’d made one...
Even her encouraging words were affecting him now—making him feel something that wasn’t cold, desolate, alone. Something that wasn’t what he had been since he left his childhood home.
He wondered how much farther he could be from her and protect her; how much further to not see her, hear her, and somehow not still feel her.
Chapter Nine
Margery carefully dropped another quince into the basket. She’d preferred it when Evrart had held up the basket, so she didn’t darken the fruit. She attempted again to make conversation with him, but it seemed his unflappable patience had finally abandoned him.
All day she’d wondered why these trees were far from the fortress and not as cultivated as the other fruit trees, which had been pruned for ease of picking. Perhaps this orchard was older, but it was large, the sun shone bright, and the scent from the broken fruit beneath their feet was intoxicating.
But none of this fecund beauty was as vibrant as the warrior who thrashed and huffed, mumbled and growled, and acted completely differently from the man she’d become acquainted with these many days.
This warrior—this man—was magnificent. She watched the arc of his shoulder as he reached overhead and dropped another fruit, before stretching both arms in the air and pacing quickly away, only to roll his shoulders, bow his head and return to the basket. Actions, he repeated many times—until he looked towards her and caught her staring at him.
Then the look he wore tugged at her in a way she’d never felt. It was something dark, surprising—like catching Hades in the daylight...like being tempted by Hades in the daylight.
What was this? Any feelings towards him were dangerous at most, foolish at least. He’d said he must be loyal to Ian—Ian, whom she knew should have killed her.
Ian... When he returned, would he make her his mistress in truth? If not, then what? He wanted something from her, but even in all her experience with men she couldn’t guess. He was so distant and cold.
There was nothing cold about Evrart, and the more time she spent in his company, the more she thought she could know his thoughts. Not by his words, but by his body.
He was striding towards her now, carrying his filled basket, and there was nothing icy about his movements. He was gruff and a little awkward, as if knowing she watched him.
This man didn’t want to pick quince. In truth, she’d say he hated it from the way he bashed at the trees and snatched any and all of the fruit within his reach. He indicated he didn’t want to be here, told her he’d rather train, and in truth trees made for feeble adversaries.
When she looked in his basket, it was clear the fruits had been poor sparring companions as well.
‘Why did you pick these?’ she said.
His brows drew in. ‘They’re quince.’
‘They’re not ripe yet; they’re green.’ She fumbled through the basket. ‘These are yellow. Did you just randomly pick quince?’
‘Two baskets. Two people. It was faster.’
She hadn’t thought to offer him advice on only choosing the ripe fruit. He knew how to pick the ripe, didn’t he?
‘You’ve eaten them before?’ When he shrugged, she added, ‘And you can see my basket?’
He didn’t bother to look. ‘They’re all the same—small round things.’
She wanted to dismiss this as manly disdain. He hadn’t been happy picking quince, had wanted to train... But the two things didn’t match. He wasn’t acting as if it was beneath him, and over the past few days he hadn’t complained when she’d wanted to see inside the cordwainers’ building or the ale house. Nothing had been denied her. So his picking unripe fruit was something else.
Curious, she held up one and then another to his nose. ‘Here—smell these.’
‘They smell different.’
‘But they look the same to you?’ she said.
‘They look almost the same,’ he answered, but there was something in his eyes now. Watchfulness? Amusement?
‘Let me try something else.’
She grabbed his hand and unfurled his thick callused fingers to place a ripe quince in one palm and an unripe one in the other.
‘Can you feel one is softer than the other?’
Keeping his eyes on her, he rolled the fruit in his palms. His hands were the hands of a warrior—one who had wielded a sword every day since becoming a man. If the difference was between a new quince and a ripe one, he would probably be able to tell the difference, but given it was autumn, and these were ripe or almost ripe, it would be an impossible task beneath his thick fingers.
Still, he looked to her, and then to the fruit, which were tiny in his large hands. One after the other he brushed his thumbs over the knobby fruit.
When she looked up, his expression of bemusement was gone, replaced by something more intense. Something she had a difficulty blinking away. Something she didn’t want to ignore now his gaze was on her lips.
He swallowed hard. ‘They are the same to me.’
‘What do you mean the same?’ she said, her voice a little breathy. ‘This is green...this is yellow.’
‘If you say so.’ He raised his slumberous lids.
She shook her head. Half to break her gaze, half to break his. ‘Evrart, stop. What colour is this?’
‘You tell me it’s yellow.’
Did the corner of his mouth curl? ‘And this one?’
‘You told me green.’
Was this about the quince or something else?
She lifted a curl of her hair. ‘And this?’
His head tilted. ‘Light...almost white.’
‘My eyes?’
His gaze swept to hers and locked. Stayed. But his stare wasn’t blank...it was searching, searching, searching—until she looked away.
Then he did something startling. He clasped her elbow very gently until she looked at him again.
‘I can’t see colours,’ he said, his voice low, rumbling. ‘Not like you can.’
‘I don’t understand...’ He hadn’t let go of her elbow, and the heat from his palm was rapidly radiating from that insignificant spot.
‘I can tell these are different because they are shades of almost the same colour, but there is no yellow or red, like you see, nor green. My brothers teased me on it when I was a child.’
She’d never heard of such an ailment. ‘Can’t you see a healer?’
Again there was that light in his eyes, as if he was amused at her concern. ‘No—and my soul isn’t the devil’s.’
She remembered how she’d thought he was like Hades in the orchard. ‘I know that.’
‘I’m not in Purgatory, nor one of God’s chosen, either.’
His words were so earnest, she couldn’t help but smile. ‘I never would have suggested it.’
‘Don’t tell.’
His expression was troubled. Because he thought it a weakness, or an oddity? Had someone harmed him because of it or thought him cursed? She wanted to harm them if so.
‘Why?’ She shook her head. No, that wasn’t what she wanted to know. She pinched her skirt and lifted it. ‘What about this?’
‘I can’t tell the colours. I don’t know what they are, so I can’t explain what I see. I can smell or touch the difference, but I can’t see the difference. Not the way my brothers told me or the way you showed me just now.’
‘How did I show you?’
‘With smell and with touch.’
‘You knew what I was conveying when I asked what you were picking?’
He gave a curt nod.
‘So why did you...?’
He glanced away, cleared hi
s throat.
Nothing of his words gave away his thoughts, but his body did. It showed in the pained expression he wore. She’d thought she bothered him, but when she touched him...
Whatever it was she felt for him, he felt it too. He was bothered by her. What would it feel like to be caressed, undressed, by someone who wanted her...someone she wanted?
That way lay death.
Ian was gone now, but he would return. Yet she was loath to end things between her and Evrart. He wanted to train, but in light of what he’d told her... Not to see colours... Not to know that the warm sun above them was yellow or that late frost looked white on cowslip... Except... Were colours only experienced by sight? Maybe—
Standing, she grabbed his hand. ‘I know what to do.’
Margery was tugging his hand, but it was her joyous smile that Evrart followed. Grabbing the two baskets in one hand, and letting her clasp his other, he was led by the petite woman out of the secluded orchard. It wasn’t appropriate, and it wasn’t allowed. Even if they’d been married, it would have been an oddity on Warstone grounds, and still he allowed it.
Once they emerged from the trees, he had to let go. So he did. Never stopping in her hurried pace, she looked at his free hand, and then at him. He must have shown something, because her open, happy expression dimmed and a tenseness settled on her shoulders. When she began to look to the side and behind her, like someone who had been attacked in the past, he had a mad urge to grab her hand again.
They’d risked much already in doing what they had. To willingly hold her hand as they walked into the kitchens wasn’t safe for them or his family. Still the impulse was there...
He didn’t have impulses.
He did since he had known her.
Like now.
He watched her grab things and put them in an empty bucket. Every few steps or so she’d glance at him, then ask a kitchen servant for something else. When she’d got what she wanted, she ran past him.
‘Hurry, hurry, hurry. Follow me.’
She was beyond his reach and sight as he swept his gaze around the kitchens and scowled. Too many people were interested in what Lord Warstone’s mistress was doing...too interested in his presence beside her.
All these years, he’d kept to himself. It was better to protect Ian, but also himself. Now he almost didn’t care to protect himself. Not if letting go of her hand meant she’d wear that wary expression again. And in that was probably his demise—for he knew, for reasons he didn’t understand, that as long as she kept grabbing his hand and telling him to follow, he would.
It would all end soon enough. Any day now Ian would return and whatever this was would be gone.
‘There you are!’ she said when he opened Warstone’s private door. ‘I told you to hurry.’
‘Margery, now wait—’ The door closed behind him and the latch fell. It was audible, and he swore he felt it. It was significant. ‘We can’t have the door closed.’
‘We’ll open it again later.’ She pulled him forward by the arm. ‘Hurry, because it’ll melt and you won’t understand.’
He didn’t understand now.
He’d been guarding her with the door open whilst he stood in the corridor. He shouldn’t be in these rooms; the door shouldn’t be closed. It shouldn’t be possible that a woman who barely came up to his chest could drag him over to the bed where she now sat.
‘I should get Jeanne.’
‘Not Jeanne or anyone. This is for you.’
‘What are we doing?’ he said.
‘You’ll see!’
That wasn’t good enough. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘You won’t want anyone watching what I’m about to show you.’ She patted the bed.
He looked down to the bed and back to her, swallowed hard. Which wasn’t the only hard thing. His entire body was reacting to the way she looked at him.
‘Margery...’
‘I’m showing you what is in this bucket, and I can’t do that unless you’re right next to me. Come—your reluctance is taking longer than the trial.’
Her eyes were large and in earnest. He didn’t know the colour of them, but they were compelling. So he sat on the edge of the bed, as she was, with the bucket between them.
She moved the bucket to her side. He eyed the empty space between them as if it was a field between enemies. She grabbed his hand and placed it between them, palm up.
‘We’ll start with blue first, because it’s disappearing.’ She stuck her hand into the bucket. ‘Close your eyes.’
He was with her in Lord Warstone’s chambers, with the door closed, and she wanted him to close his eyes.
Like butterfly’s wings, she brushed her hand over his eyes. He closed them as her soft palm whispered over his face, but opened them when he sensed it was gone. Then she poked him. In the eye.
He grunted.
She laughed and winced. ‘Sorry, but please keep your eyes closed.’
He would—because it was dangerous otherwise. Hand on the bed...eyes closed... He felt strangely vulnerable. He hadn’t felt like this since...he’d never felt like this. She was looking at him, and he was allowing it. What did she see?
There was the brush of those soft fingers against his inner wrist, across his palm to the tip of his fingers. His entire body tightened, and he only just hid his shiver. He heard another dig into the bucket. It wasn’t only his body that was tightening. It was his thoughts as something cold and wet was centred in his palm. His fingers flinched.
She laughed low and he wanted to toss the ice to the side. No, place it on her skin and—
‘That’s blue like I see it,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘No, don’t open your eyes.’
He closed them again. ‘When you’re told something is blue, this is what it looks like to me.’
‘It’s cold. I thought the sky was blue?’
‘It is blue, but it’s warm today because of the sun. But when the morning is cold, just think of that as blue.’
‘What else is blue?’ He opened his eyes again.
‘Snow in the morning, or water.’
He looked at her, his gaze speculative. ‘Ice is like water?’
She flashed a grin and snatched the ice. ‘That was a terrible example.’
‘No...’
She laughed again. ‘Close your eyes. Now I’ll show you yellow and red.’
He laid his hand on the quilt and felt her leave the bed and come back. But she didn’t sit. Instead she stood, and he felt the weight of her skirts against his leg before she put something heavy in his hand.
Cursing, he jumped up, and dropped the hot metal.
‘Sorry!’ She grabbed his hand.
He stilled immediately when the cool air from her pursed lips brushed across his palm. Truly stilled. And he wasn’t sure he could draw a breath when she did it again.
He swallowed hard. ‘I believe you should have shown me blue after yellow and red.’
Letting go of his hand, she sat down hard. ‘Will it blister?’
He opened and closed his stinging palm. ‘No, it is merely...red.’
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘Pain is not red?’ He couldn’t help grinning.
‘Actually, it is. Your palm that is...it’s red. And...blood when spilled is red.’
He looked at his hand. ‘Pain is red? Blood is red? The sun is red?’
‘The sun is yellow.’ She grabbed the tiny scrap of ice, placed it in his pained palm, and curled his fingers around it. ‘This is a poor test. Your hand hurts, and blue is impossible to show you.’
Keeping his hand in hers, he sat on the bed, rummaged through the bucket and pulled out a weed. ‘What’s this?’
She snatched it from his hand. ‘It’s lavender. Dried. There’s
nothing fresh, but you can still smell it. In the spring we can go out and you can feel how soft it is and... But this is foolish.’
‘What is it supposed to be?’ he said.
She huffed. ‘My eyes.’
He snatched the dried herb out of her hand and tossed it aside. ‘That smell isn’t your eyes.’
She blinked and looked away. ‘Well, no...it’s dried and doesn’t have quite the scent. But the colour is.’
She wasn’t understanding, and how could she? He barely used words, let alone the right ones. ‘Your eyes are you. Your softness, your scent. I can’t see colours, but it doesn’t mean I can’t see you.’
Her gaze swung back to him. Her eyes were wide and searching. His instinct was to move away, to look elsewhere, but there was a delicate wonder there and he stayed still for it. For her.
‘I want to give them to you,’ she said.
Had anyone given him anything? His mother, certainly, and his sister had bundled some weeds with sticks when she’d been very young. For what purpose he didn’t know, but she’d been three, and he’d taken them when she’d handed them to him. But other than family, no.
‘Why? I have given you nothing.’
She looked down at her hands in her lap, and then up. ‘I wouldn’t say nothing. I have a whole bucket of quince I can’t use.’
Chapter Ten
Evrart grinned. The kind of joyous happy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and creased his cheeks.
He was breathtaking.
On impulse, Margery laid her hand on his cheek to capture it.
He froze; she swallowed hard.
‘How is your hand?’ Not truly wanting to know about his hand, she didn’t look away.
Not looking anywhere but at her, he opened his hand, wiped the pool of water there on the quilt. ‘It is fine.’
The intensity of his eyes drew her in. What more would he allow? Keeping her touch light, she trailed her fingers along the angle of his jaw.
His lips parted as he took in a shaky breath. His skin was warm, alive...the feel of his beard was rough but the skin underneath soft, as was his startled expression.
