Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  Apparently.

  She took a firmer grip on her filched sword and prepared herself to defend her own honor.

  Chapter 4

  Gervase sat at the table and contemplated the nearness of his escape from a life of absolute hell.

  That hell had nothing to do with his supper, which was surprisingly edible, or the fact that his leg was throbbing so badly that there was no possible way for him to be comfortable, which was nothing out of the ordinary. It had, unfortunately, everything to do with his guests, the exalted and very impressive Duke of Coucy, his lovely wife, and the conspicuous absence of their eldest daughter, Evelyne. The other daughters had come along, of course, but the one Gervase had once been betrothed to had apparently had other things to do.

  He wasn’t nearly as devastated by the slight as he was sure Evelyne had intended he be. Indeed, he wasn’t feeling slighted at all. Instead, he was sipping his wine while holding the cup with his left hand and marveling at the blessed fact that he was still unwed. That he ever should have found himself bound in any way to the souls around him was enough to send shivers down his spine.

  The young misses weren’t without their redeeming qualities, he had to admit. They would grow up to be absolute beauties like their eldest sister, which would no doubt guarantee them a long string of suitors their father would examine like rare pearls on a string before choosing just the right one to complement their lovely faces. They would also, poor things, learn at their mother’s knee how to manage the intrigues of court and castle. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think too much about what sort of women they would end up being, but that was, he supposed, something he wouldn’t have to witness. He had already seen it in their sister and didn’t care to see any more of it.

  Ah, for a woman who didn’t relish that sort of sparring.

  He made polite conversation with the duke and duchess, because that skill at least remained with him, though he had the feeling that taking the time to do so would cost him his ability to walk easily. Sitting in the same place for too long, he had learned by painful experience, never served him—

  “You have to come witness this.”

  He jumped a little when he realized Joscelin was whispering in his ear. Truly he had to get hold of himself. He never would have been taken thus unawares before his accident. Obviously he was spending too much time ruminating on his aches and pains as if he’d been a hoary-headed soldier holding court in front of the warmest spot in the pub. He looked at his half brother with a frown.

  “Witness what?”

  “A pitched battle in the kitchens.”

  Gervase swore. “Can’t you see to it?”

  “I could, but I think you might like to have a look first.”

  “I have the feeling this is going to ruin my evening.”

  “I think you might be surprised.”

  Gervase managed to push his chair away from the table, but he suspected that might be the extent of his successes at the moment. He was appropriately grateful when Joscelin stepped into the duke’s line of sight and peppered the man with questions about his supper. Guy did the same for Her Grace, which left him the chance to heave himself up, clutch the table for a moment, then sling his arm around Joscelin in a comradely fashion.

  “Guy, come sit in my chair,” Gervase said expansively, hoping his smile came out as more a smile and less a gritting of his teeth. “Domestic troubles, apparently.”

  Guy took over so smoothly, it was as if he’d been born to do just that. Gervase thought a kind thought or two about his brother, then continued on to the kitchens, trying not to lean so hard on Joscelin that he brought him to his knees.

  “A hint?” he asked.

  “Oh, nay,” Joscelin said with a half laugh, “I wouldn’t think to spoil your pleasure at what awaits you.”

  Gervase hardly dared speculate. He simply walked along the passageway silently. Well, silently except for the occasional catching of his breath he couldn’t quite muffle when he made a misstep.

  He came to the door of his kitchens and stopped so suddenly, he almost pulled Joscelin off his feet. He could scarce believe what he was seeing, but there was no denying it. There was a lad there he didn’t recognize, but he was sporting Coucy’s colors so perhaps it was safe to assume he belonged to the duke. That knight, and Gervase used that term advisedly, was currently trying to retrieve his sword from a slip of a thing who was wielding the sword in question with, ah, absolutely no skill at all but a fair amount of enthusiasm. He had no doubt that at some point, she actually might manage to do damage to someone, most likely herself.

  Gervase leaned closer to Joscelin. “And just who,” he managed, “is that?”

  “The lad you rescued on the road.”

  Gervase realized two things right off. One, the lad was definitely not a lad—a reassuring realization, actually; and two, the lad was going to kill the kitchen staff if someone didn’t get that sword away from him—er, her.

  “Very lovely for a lad,” Joscelin murmured.

  Gervase shot him a glare, then released him and stepped forward with as much grace as he could manage.

  “Enough!” he bellowed.

  Coucy’s guardsman leaped back as if he’d been burned. Gervase took note of the man’s bloodied nose and realized that perhaps there had been more going on than he’d suspected at first. He sauntered over to the guardsman with as much swagger as he could manage—which wasn’t much, as it happened—stopped, and wished he could fold his arms over his chest without wincing. He settled for a silent study of what that lad—er, girl, rather—had left of the young man in front of him. Actually, he suspected Coucy’s guardsman wasn’t all that much younger than he himself was, which told him everything he needed to know about the fool’s judgment.

  “Assaulting my servants, are you?” Gervase asked politely.

  The man looked at him with fury. “She’s just a serving wench—”

  “Who belongs to me, which you should have had the wit to remember.”

  “She has my sword!”

  “I’d say you were fortunate she hasn’t managed to use it on you,” Gervase snapped. He walked forward until he was standing almost toe-to-toe with the other man. “If you move, I’ll use it on you myself.”

  “As if you could—”

  The lad stopped speaking for two reasons. The first was that Gervase hadn’t hesitated before plowing his fist into the other’s mouth. He suppressed the urge to faint from the pain of that. The only thing that kept him on his feet was sheer feistiness, something that had come in handy over the past few months more often than not.

  His own labors might have only silenced the other for a moment or two, but Aubert had caught the miscreant as he stumbled backward, turned him around, and invited him to place his face very ungently against the stone surrounding the enormous hearth that found itself conveniently within reach. Coucy’s lad slumped to the ground with a groan, then was still. Gervase smiled pleasantly at his captain, then turned to look at the other player involved in the evening’s entertainment.

  He felt the eyes of all his servants on him, but he didn’t bother to check for looks of disdain or horror. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen him in all his ruined glory before. None of them would miss his right hand that was a web of scars from flames that had burned him. At least someone had possessed the charity to put out the flames on his smoldering self before his face had been burned as well. Then again, he supposed his foul humors made up for any saving of his visage.

  He ignored his servants and concentrated instead on the girl standing there holding aloft a sword that she couldn’t possibly manage.

  He felt as if she’d just taken that sword and stabbed him through his damned belly.

  What had he been thinking? Honestly, he just didn’t know. Perhaps the wet had rotted his brain to the point where he would have mistaken his horse for a lad. Perhaps he’d been so damned preoccupied with his own sorry life that he hadn’t been capable of looking beyond it at what lay a
head. Perhaps he had never seen a woman that beautiful before and his instinct for self-preservation had taken over and rendered him not only blind but daft.

  It was indicative of how his life was progressing that such a wench as that one should be a servant.

  He took the sword out of her unresisting hands and tossed it in the direction of its proper owner. He turned back to her, then decided abruptly that looking any closer at what was before him was a very bad idea indeed.

  Again, he was without a doubt one of the dimmest men in France.

  Then again, perhaps he could be forgiven for mistaking her for a lad given the circumstances of their meeting. It had been pouring with rain, he had been indulging in a substantial amount of self-pity, and she had been puking her guts out into the weeds. The only thing he could say with certainty was that if he ever had the chance to do a little damage to her attackers, he might just have to linger at the task.

  He considered her appearance and thought that perhaps he couldn’t be blamed for having failed to properly identify what she was. She was dressed in lad’s clothes, her hair was short almost to her chin, and her face was slightly worse for the wear. Obviously she was in disguise.

  Why was the question he supposed he would have to find an answer to sooner rather than later.

  He folded his arms over his chest and suppressed a wince at the pain that caused him. It made it easier to dredge up a scowl, which he supposed could only serve him at present.

  “Who are you?”

  She didn’t lower her eyes, which gave him pause. Rather cheeky for a mere serving girl, to his mind.

  “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “He’s lost his memories,” Joscelin said helpfully.

  Gervase shot him a look that had him holding up his hands in surrender.

  “Very well, she has lost her memories. That’s inconvenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  Gervase had many things he thought he could say, beginning and ending with questioning aloud what in the hell he was going to do with a woman of that beauty in his kitchens. She would be a beacon to any and all rogues in the area and he would likely be hearing soon that she was with child, which wouldn’t allow her to scrub his floors.

  “Her hands are blistered,” Cook offered helpfully from his right. “Can’t manage a proper day’s labor, that one.”

  “And this is my affair?” Gervase said, stepping back because he had no choice in the matter. If he caught another sight of those aqua eyes in that face of absolute perfection—

  Well, he would have drawn his hand over his eyes. If he’d been prone to exhibiting weakness, which he most certainly was not. Failing that, he supposed he could have invited his captain to help him also place his face rather ungently against the stone of the hearth until good sense was dislodged.

  By the saints, he was lusting after a serving wench. What next? He scowled at his cook.

  “Put her to sewing then, or something useful.”

  “If you say so, my lord,” Cook said doubtfully.

  “I do. And supper was delightful.”

  Cook harrumphed a bit in pleasure, then sent her kitchen staff scattering with bellows and judicious wieldings of her spoon.

  “Not her,” Gervase said before he thought better of it.

  Cook shot him a look he gave her back accompanied by his fiercest frown before he turned and made his way from the kitchen without looking at his . . . well, whatever she now was. Not quite a scullery maid, but perhaps close. The saints only knew what Cook would set her to doing. Whatever that was, it was no longer his affair. He had important things to be seeing to and no time to concern himself with a lass who should have been home where her mother could have watched over her.

  What in the hell had she been doing out in the rain masquerading as a lad?

  He was tempted to gnaw on that mystery for a bit, but, as he had said to his cook, supper had been delightful and he didn’t want to ruin it by speculation that would no doubt leave him with indigestion.

  He stopped midway up the passageway, then looked at his brother.

  “Take a message for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell Cook privately to keep that wench out of sight until this rabble leaves.”

  “Should she have a guard?” Joscelin asked mildly.

  “Aubert will see to that.”

  “You didn’t say anything to him.”

  “You know I didn’t need to.” Gervase shrugged. “We don’t talk much.”

  Joscelin smiled faintly, then turned and walked back down the passageway. Gervase continued on his way, then stopped before he reached his great hall. He waited until his captain, who had been walking ten paces behind him, caught him up. He considered, then looked at the older man.

  “Did I need to say anything?”

  Aubert merely shook his head.

  “Did you know he was a she?”

  The look his captain sent him almost made him smile. He pursed his lips in an effort to keep himself from it.

  “Very well, I’m an idiot. It was raining and my wits were soggy. It was also no mean feat to get that one up on my horse, not that she weighs more than a boy.”

  “I haven’t said anything, my lord.”

  “Aubert, my friend, you never need to.”

  Aubert made him a solemn bow, then waited until Gervase had walked on ahead. Gervase supposed that left him on his own, which was a place he had to admit he didn’t particularly care for of late. It was ridiculous, of course, because no respectable warrior allowed something as trivial as lack of company to unsettle him. Never mind that he’d been alone when he’d been attacked—or so he thought. The precise details of the encounter continued to elude him.

  He thought he just might have a bit of sympathy for that poor daft wench in his kitchens.

  Daft, stunning wench that she was.

  He walked back to the table, booted Guy from his chair, then sat down with as much grace as he could muster. It took quite a bit of effort, as it happened, to sit without groaning, but he managed it because if he had learned nothing over his score-and-eight years, he had learned to never show weakness.

  “So, Gervase,” Frédéric of Coucy said slowly, “how is your investigating coming?”

  “Investigating?” Gervase echoed politely.

  “Into the accident,” Frédéric said, frowning slightly, as if he couldn’t understand why the subject wasn’t a clear one. “Surely you wonder how it all came about.”

  Gervase lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “Occasionally.” Aye, every single moment of every single bloody day. If an accident it had been and not a planned assault.

  “But aren’t you afraid it might happen again?”

  He was, every day, all day every day until there were days he was so caught up in a maze of his own damned thoughts, he feared he might never emerge from them again. He looked at Evelyne’s father and shrugged carelessly.

  “I’ll find the perpetrator eventually, I imagine.”

  Frédéric looked slightly uncomfortable, if such a thing were possible for the pompous arse sitting there. “Of course, the betrothal . . . ”

  Gervase waved away the man’s words before he could finish spewing them out, mostly because there also hadn’t been a day since he’d regained consciousness that he hadn’t rejoiced that he wasn’t going to be wed to Frédéric’s eldest daughter. Blessings came from unexpected places, apparently.

  “No need to discuss it, of course,” he said.

  “Well, your face was spared, but—”

  “Let us speak of more cheerful things,” Gervase interrupted. “How are things at court these days? The boy king’s mother is still wielding her influence, I assume?”

  Coucy’s conversation tended to be limited first to his own dazzling self, then his equally fascinating adventures at court. Gervase was happy to sit in front of a hot fire where the heat seemed to do his body good, sip wine that he was fairly sure wasn’t poisoned, and let Frédéric carry the
conversation without any help from him. There was something to be said for entertaining insufferable noblemen.

  It was nothing he’d cared to do in his youth, to be sure, no matter his place in his father’s house. His sire had adored that rot, the endless parleys with other nobles, the long suppers where affairs of the realm were discussed until the less-interested diners were falling asleep onto their trenchers, the endless machinations of court and castle. If there was a bargain to be made, a treaty to be signed, the mending of a broken alliance to be seen to, his father had been there, fair breathless with enthusiasm over yet another opportunity to sit and chew on the intricacies of the same.

  He would have rather been shoveling out the cesspit.

  Which was why he had spent as much time as possible and in any guise possible on the battlefield, mock or real. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sit and discuss things that bored him to tears; he simply didn’t care for it. As he was not caring for it at present. He was, however, as capable as the next lad with mud and dung on his boots at keeping his countenance, so he pasted a polite smile on his face and listened to the long-winded fool in front of him go on about things Gervase supposed he might be sorry he hadn’t listened to.

  Why had a girl of that beauty run away from her family?

  He sipped his wine and allowed himself the pleasure of thinking on a mystery that was slightly more palatable than the one that concerned his sorry self. The bumps and bruises he could easily attribute to her unfortunate encounter with ruffians. He hadn’t paid any heed to the bump on her head, though he supposed he could ask Master Paquier about it easily enough. Had she simply been out for a walk and found herself clouted over the head?

  Perhaps the better question was, why had she been out for a walk dressed as a lad?

  Determining those answers seemed like handy enough sport for the next few days and heaven knew he needed a bit of sport in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something simply for the distraction of it. He’d spent his youth preparing to be a knight, then his majority, such as it was, driving himself in tournament after tournament, pausing only to engage in the flirtations expected of a young man with a heavy title awaiting him.