“Sneaking,” he agreed, his spirits lifting madly as she squeezed his hand again.
Danger may stalk but you are like a lad giddy at the thought of her. In less than a day she has done this. Perhaps she is a witch. I do not care. I cannot wait to kiss her again. I cannot wait for tonight.
“We shall keep watch together,” Eleanor said, solemn still as she could not know his wilder thoughts. “And I will most gladly help.”
“Thank you,” he said, aroused and distracted, wanting to find Shadow and ride off with her into the deepest wildwood to be finally, truly alone.
I cannot wait for tonight.
Chapter Three
To her surprise, Eleanor discovered they were also to sleep at Toft’s, in the hayloft. As this was lately filled with fresh, sweet hay, her youngsters thought it a great treat and Richard’s children a great adventure, so all were content. Replete with good new ale, fresh pottage, not mushroom, soft cheese and warmed oatcakes, the little ones were already bundled together and sleeping.
She had watched the dark-haired, slender Stephen and Isabella with the intensity she gave to cheese-making but Richard’s children had not bullied or imposed their rank once in all their dealings with hers. They had played together as children and she had been glad to see it. Freya had smiled more in the last few hours than in the whole previous month.
They had all been well fed and her own belly was more satisfied than it had been for the previous year. Her hunger cramps had gone and the dancing lights before her eyes had vanished. Replete, almost voluptuous with food, she wanted to be happy and strove to be a good guest but the evening had been tinged with sadness as she recalled other happy family nights in her parents’ cottage when they had been alive.
The time was fast approaching now when she would climb into the hayloft and go to bed—with Richard. She sensed him watching her, as he had throughout the meal.
Before she could reach for more ale to delay the inevitable, he spoke. “Will you go up first, ensure all is well with the little ones? I shall join you presently to sleep.”
By the flickering flames, his features were quite still but his bright brown eyes were alive with possibilities and Eleanor knew there would be little or no sleep. Aware of the envious, darting glances of the smith’s wife and guessing that her face was as hot as the fire, she rose without a word.
Eleanor had scarcely finished praying over the sleeping children and arranging the blankets when a faint creak on the ladder alerted her. She refused to turn and, crouched over a deep, sweet-smelling mound of hay, she continued to smooth the linen cloths for herself and Richard.
We shall be sleeping under these cloths tonight. Blessed Virgin Mary, keep me in your thoughts. She was afraid yet not afraid, tempted by her own desire and at the same time unsure.
“We shall be warm tonight,” she said. A good speech, not a challenge, not too intimate, nicely, friendly.
“The moon rests in your hair, Eleanor.” In silence—or had she not heard his prowling footsteps above her juddering heart?—Richard knelt beside her. “You are all silver, silver as your hair.” He caught a strand between finger and thumb. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
She swallowed, unused to such personal comments from anyone, especially a man, and all she could think of to say was, “The folk at your own house will not be anxious?”
“They know where I am.” With a tiny swish, like the ripple of a smooth, hard pebble skimmed into water, he lay beside the linen cloth.
A fading oxslip flower had hooked itself around his ear, pale as the whites of his eyes. In the semi-dark of the roof thatch, he was an exotic silhouette, his dark hair and tunic lost in the shadows, his face and hands shimmering by the threads of moonlight.
If only it was not a full moon and you were not so handsome.
“The traders will come to my manor tomorrow.” He ran his thumb and finger along the thread of her hair. “And we shall choose combs for you and dolls for your girls and something for the lads. Do you know how peddlers and such always sense when to arrive, when they will best trade their wares? Perhaps the air chatters for them, tells them the news that Eleanor and her children are to live with me.” He tugged very gently on her hair lock before releasing it. “You will, too, I hope? Is it settled?”
Because he had asked, she nodded, then realizing he might not see the gesture, whispered, “Yes.”
She sensed him smiling. “Good, very good. You will like it at my house. There is a new solar and an herb garden that Joanna planted and—” He broke off suddenly and sighed, rolling onto his back.
“You miss her,” Eleanor said.
“She was a good wife,” he said simply. “I see her in Stephen and Isabella. Life goes on, as it does for you.”
She reached out, her fingers colliding with his shoulder, and clasped his arm, a silent comfort.
“I am sorry for your parents.” He drew her into his arms. “Tell me something of them.”
* * * *
Richard felt her stiffen. At first he thought she was fighting her grief for the dead but then she gasped and, for a brief instant, cuddled closer to him—exactly as he remembered doing when, as a squire, an older woman had touched him intimately and begun to reveal to him the delights of the flesh. It was not memory that assailed her now but newness— as it was for himself, although respect for his dead wife kept him silent. He had been fond of Joanna, but this, this somehow was different. Eleanor’s passion, her care for others, and her fighting spirit were all her own, nothing to do with what the church or the knightly class expected of her. Her open and heartfelt responses inspired his in turn. He felt renewed, almost a youth again and eager for more.
The wench has great power over me and does not know it.
“Hush,” he whispered against her throat. “Remember my promise? You may snuggle all night with me and sleep if that is all you wish.”
I shall not sleep, but no matter.
A soft, tentative kiss settled like a moth against his chin.
“Kisses, eh? I can do kisses.”
Richard heard her light, fast breathing and somewhere off in the darkness, one of the little ones snoring. He settled her more comfortably against him—more comfort for her at least, since his body already felt as taut and humming as a harp string. Eleanor lay in the crook of his arm, her side against his flank, one leg curled over his. No longer as rigid as a plank of wood, she was relaxing, softening—a distracting, tormenting softness.
Stop moaning. Better to be alive and lusty and tormented than not. She is a lovely little creature.
“Talk or kiss?” he said, hoping his voice was not a growl. Another moth-like kiss against his chest was her answer. For a moment he was sorry he was still fully clothed but then, as she shifted and sank deeper into his embrace, most glad indeed.
She is as shy as a doe and not quite comfortable to trust. Lose her now and it may be forever.
She does not need to know you are as ready as a battle lance.
“Did your wife do this?” she asked then caught her breath as if berating herself for lack of tact.
He stroked her forehead, tracing the contours of her face. “Ask what you wish, we have no secrets here. Yes, I loved Joanna and yes, we loved and so may we, Eleanor. I have not changed my mind.”
“Good,” he thought he heard her mutter though he was not sure.
“Eleanor.” He savored her name. “Were you named for King Henry’s queen or King Edward’s?”
“For my grandmother,” came back the reply, a little smug and confident, which he was glad to hear. “Richard?”
“Mmmm?”
She stretched and gave him another swift kiss, this time directly on his mouth. The clever lass had got him to reply so she could do just that.
And two can play such a game… “What flower do you like best?”
“The rose.”
He tracked her answer and found her lips, kissing her in a slow, unhurried way. “You smell of strawberries,” he told
her. It was true.
“And you of salt, a sweet salt.”
He kissed her again. “Do you like music?”
“The songs in church and the chants. And you?”
The same.” He kissed her mouth lightly, and then her nose.
She turned her head. A slim drizzle of moonlight through the roof thatch lit her eyes and some of the amazing web of her hair. Desire ramped and roared in him again. To kiss her was not enough, not by a long way, and yet in a strange fashion he was mightily content.
“Your favorite color for a gown?”
He expected a prompt answer he could reward by another kiss, not a silence followed by, “Green?”
Then he understood. Eleanor had no favorite color for any of her clothes. A gown was what she could make or barter.
“Dawn is my favorite color,” she went on as if to make amends for her earlier hesitation. “And the best time.”
“With all the work still to be done?” he teased, running a line of kisses across her mouth and cheeks.
“And all the promise of the new day,” she countered, tracing his jaw with a careful finger.
His chin and the lower half of his face throbbed where she had touched. He longed to lose himself entirely in her, to scoop her up and toss her on her back, and have his way with her. Why not? It was how lords dealt with peasant lasses.
But not me and not with Eleanor. She deserves more.
Richard caressed her cheek, marveling at how smooth and supple her skin was, how warm and soft. Finding her poor, raw palms, he dropped kisses into them, promising her a salve for the rope grazes. He wished he had more light to see her, to truly enjoy and worship her body and yet this darkness joined them, united them by touch, the intimacy of gentle, shared breathing and kisses.
“El? I am thirsty,” came a sleepy voice from somewhere in the hay. There was a rustle as Nigel sat upright.
“Stay,” Richard said as Eleanor began to move. “I will fetch some ale for all of us. It is weak enough for the youngsters and will do them no harm.”
The others would stir but he did not truly mind, he told himself, ignoring his aching, burning loins. He could help Eleanor, pamper her, and that was all good.
We have time for more. He shinned down the ladder to the main room to feel about carefully for the jug of ale and cups. Later tonight or tomorrow, we shall have time.
Richard smiled at the prospect.
Chapter Four
Richard had scarcely returned when there came a huge hammering on the door.
“Hide and keep quiet,” he warned her and then was off again, dropping down from the ladder into the dark.
Eleanor ignored his urgent order and scrambled to the top of the hayloft to look down into the main house, while telling the stirring youngsters to stay where they were.
There was some light in the house itself from the flickering fire, and her breath stopped as Richard sprang from his crouch and straightened. The firelight played over his tall, rangy figure, making him appear like some ancient pagan god, the tips of his shaggy, uncombed hair bronzed in the ruddy glow.
Reminding herself to breathe, Eleanor found herself wishing she had touched him more, untied the strings of his tunic, and laid bare those stiffened, sculptured muscles.
Shaking her head at her folly, she saw Toft and his wife wide-eyed and wallowing in their bed by the hearth, still dazed with sleep. Standing before them, shielding them with his own body, Richard snatched up a stool. With his dagger steady in his other fist, he stalked to the door, keeping back from the thatch, presumably in case of a sword thrust.
“Who wants me?” he demanded. “State your name and business and I shall treat with you outside.”
“My lord, are you there?” asked a male voice.
Eleanor saw Richard relax from his battle stance, though at the same time a spasm of feeling crossed his face. She did not know him well enough yet but she guessed it to be a wary pity, an instinct confirmed when he sheathed his dagger and stood silent, still on guard against a possible attack.
Beside her, Freya, who, to her surprise, had disobeyed her instruction—it was usually Nigel who was the bold and curious one—put her thumb in her mouth and nodded as if satisfied.
“My lord, will you not answer? Have I displeased you again?”
Richard sighed, put down the stool and opened the door. “Clement, you never offend or displease me,” he said to a dark, slight figure lurking on the threshold. “Did Matthew not tell you I was here tonight?”
“As your body squire, my lord, I should be here also.”
“Come in.” Richard stood back and beckoned. “Come in before the heat goes out and warm yourself up. You look chilled to the bone.”
“I walked all the way from the manor, sir. I was not sure if I should bring a horse.”
“As my squire, of course you can be mounted,” said Richard brusquely.
Instinct told Eleanor that Richard did not like the squire very much but was striving to be fair.
Clement dragged back his hood. The light from the still-open door revealed a sparsely bearded lad with sulky eyes deep-set in a round face. He was very tall and skinny and dressed in a mirror image of his lord—gold tunic, blue cloak.
“Nasty man,” mumbled Freya around her thumb, a comment which luckily Clement did not hear, but that set the other wakened youngsters giggling.
He did hear the laughter though and glanced upward, his eyes finding Eleanor at once but dismissing her with a slow, deliberate blink.
“My lord, I am truly sorry to have disturbed you…” Clement said but Eleanor did not believe him. She had seen the small smirk hovering on the youth’s thin lips and spotted the squire clutching his blue cloak, one hand making the sign against the evil eye in her direction. Richard did not react, as he was watching Clement’s face and obviously did not see the rude gesture.
This sulky squire does not like me. She returned to the children to divert them with a cup of ale each. Worse, I sense he resents me. But why?
* * * *
“Clement is one of Joanna’s kindred, a cousin,” Richard explained several hours later. He had asked Eleanor to walk with him in his manor garden, strolling along the turf paths and admiring the primroses and cowslips.
Richard had set the squires, Clement included, to watch out for the peddlers and the children were busy playing hide-and-seek in the yard. Eleanor could hear their happy shouts and was relieved they were all so settled. It was one huge worry less.
“Clement was fond of her?” she asked now, already suspecting the answer.
“Everyone loved Joanna, it was her gift, but yes. Clement was always most attentive to her. Do you think it important? That he might have done the trick with the foxgloves?”
“Probably not.” Eleanor kept her face bland, not wishing to share her thoughts yet concerning the squire. She did not want to prejudge him but she could not like him. Since his appearance at the smith’s, Clement had attached himself like a burr to Richard. Richard had introduced her and the squire had offered her some courtesy but nothing much.
A squire lovesick for his mistress, resenting her death, resenting the living lord, resenting me—here surely is the poisoner. Yet to accuse him, to compel him to some trial by ordeal, would that not be wrong? The obvious is not always the true.
Her mother Agnes had often said so, usually prefigured by a sigh. “Remember, Eleanor, in your haste to judge, that only God sees all. We all believed Simon the thatcher was a wife beater until she was discovered bruising herself for pure malice and attention. The obvious is not always the true.”
Missing her mother again, wishing she could embrace her, Eleanor thought of Clement and his grief and wished for more charity in her dealings with the squire. If Richard can be patient, so can I.
“Will he stay with you for long?” she asked.
“Another year or so.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as part shyness, part
exasperation. “Can we not enjoy the noonday? I have had Clement clinging like a shadow for most of last night and all morning.”
“Certainly we can,” Eleanor said quickly. “Do you see that plant in the herb garden, the one with the blue-gray flowers?”
Richard stopped on the turf path but not because he was attending to her lesson. He was frowning at her. “Your hair looks really pretty in the veil and I am pleased to see your palms are less red raw than yesterday. Was that the salve?”
She nodded.
“But why have you not changed your gown? There was a new one, a red one which Joanna never wore and shoes to go with it. Did you not like them?”
“I liked both well but the gown was too long and the shoes too small,” Eleanor lied easily.
She had been offered no such gown or shoes by any of the maids when they had attended her in the late morning but she did not wish to cause Richard any more petty trouble. In time, she would deal with the maids herself. As her father had always said, respect must be earned.
“My lord!”
“God’s bones, what now?” muttered Richard as Clement hurried into the garden, his scrawny figure as slim as a noonday shadow. “Are the traders come?” he asked aloud with a voice that suggested trouble if they had not.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Go on ahead and greet them,” Eleanor said easily. “Should I fetch the children?”
“Oh yes, or Isabella will never let me forget it. She wants a red ribbon for all her dolls.”
“The great hall?”
“The hall.” Richard kissed her forehead, frowned again at her drab gown and then was gone.
Eleanor lingered by the hyssop, waiting to discover if Clement would speak to her.
The squire nodded once to her.
Before he could trail after his lord, she plucked a spray of the herb. “Hyssop is a good plant, Clement,” she remarked conversationally. “A truthful herb.” She twirled the spray in her fingers. “If I touch you with the hyssop and ask you if you told the maids to remove the red gown, will the herb curl away from you?”
The Lord and Eleanor Page 3
