Sir Luke quirked his mouth in a way that conveyed bemused forbearance. “They tell me those two are ordinary bandits, not insurgents hungry for Norman blood. They got away, worse luck. Supposedly a party of men is looking for them now.”
“Supposedly?” Frowning, Alex reached up to gingerly finger the bandage wrapped around his head.
Sir Luke cast a furtive look in Faithe’s direction; his brother seemed unaware of her presence. “I don’t know what to believe from these people. They could be lying just to keep me from going after them myself, so they have time to get away. We can’t trust the English, Alex. They despise us.”
He has no idea I can understand him, Faithe realized. And why should he? The notion of her knowing French was as unlikely as his knowing English. She eavesdropped shamelessly as she gathered her things.
“Of course they despise us,” Alex said. “How could they not?” He groped around for something beneath his blanket. “Where’s my sword?”
“Here.” His brother unbuckled the swordbelt and handed it over.
Alex hugged the sheathed weapon to his chest. “Where are we?”
“Hauekleah Hall.”
“Oh, yes? Have you met your bride?”
“Aye.”
The young man grinned. “Is she pretty?”
Faithe stilled, listening intently.
“She looks like a goose girl,” Sir Luke finally said.
Alex chuckled. “But is she pretty?”
Sir Luke glanced uneasily toward Faithe, who pretended to be absorbed in refolding a pile of linen strips. She noticed Sir Alex follow his brother’s line of vision.
“Is that her?” the young man asked delightedly.
Sir Luke rubbed his forehead. “Aye. Don’t stare.”
Alex did stare, openly. “She is pretty! You lucky dog! Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He tried to sit up, but groaned in pain and sank back down onto the pallet.
“Lie still!” Luke shook his head in vexation, then turned to Faithe and said, in English, “My lady, I’d like you to meet my brother, Alexandre de Périgueux.” To his brother he said merely, “Lady Faithe of Hauekleah.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Sir Alex,” Faithe said in her nearly perfect convent French. Both men looked as if they’d just been smacked in the head with a war hammer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go out and tend to the geese.”
Rising, she turned and walked away to the delighted laughter of young Alex. As she passed beyond the front door, she glanced back and saw Luke de Périgueux with his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
About the Author
Patricia Ryan has written more than two dozen novels, which have garnered rave reviews and been published in over twenty countries. A RITA winner and four-time nominee, she is also the recipient of two Romantic Times Awards and a Mary Higgins Clark Award nomination for the first book of her historical mystery series featuring Boston governess Nell Sweeney, which she wrote under the name P.B. Ryan. Pat’s Evil Twin, Pamela Burford, is also a published romance novelist. Visit Pat’s website at http://www.patricia-ryan.com.
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