Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  He gave her a cold smile. “I could be. She is willing enough.”

  “No doubt.”

  He strode into the room and perched on the edge of the bed.

  Giselle backed toward the window seat, apprehension unfurling in her belly. This was not the Piers who showed her humor and kindness, but the one who held coldness in his gaze.

  “I have been thinking of our marriage,” he said.

  “Oh?” She tried to feign calm, but knew she’d failed when his expression turned knowing.

  “If we remain married and Kindlemere is restored to you, it shall be our responsibility to see to the estate.”

  Her eyes narrowed. So, he would accept the marriage if it would gain him Kindlemere, she thought.

  “What skills do you possess to manage such a large holding?”

  “What?” An examination of her suitability to such a task was the last thing she expected him to say.

  He gave her a patronizing look. “Have you experience in overseeing the ordering of supplies?”

  She shook her head.

  “Directing the cook?”

  Again, she indicated no.

  “Ensuring the linens are washed and changed?”

  “Nay.”

  He continued with a long list of duties, many of which Giselle did not even understand. And none of which she had been taught to do.

  Finally, he leveled her with a stare. “If I understand correctly, you cannot manage an estate nor see to its defense if I am absent. You can make tapestries, heal when needed, and, of course, pray until your knees ache with the effort.” His mouth turned down. “You do not even know how to ride a horse.”

  Why the last stung so much, she wasn’t sure. “I am improving.”

  He smirked. “I have yet to give you the full test. Wife.”

  Giselle lifted her chin, wishing her lower lip would stop trembling. “You know I have not been granted the kind of instruction that a lady of the castle would receive. I can learn.”

  “Can you?” He turned a lazy gaze to hers.

  “I will ask Amice to instruct me in the duties of a chatelaine.”

  “What of the duties of a wife?”

  Giselle flushed.

  He stepped closer, so close that she could clearly see his eyes, dark with purpose and something else, something that sent a tremor of alarm and resentment through her. “Nay,” he said. “I shall see to that instruction myself.”

  “Then do it,” she snapped. “Or is threatening me, frightening me more enjoyable to you than the deed itself?”

  “So, the little nun develops some backbone now she knows she is heiress to a large estate.”

  “Kindlemere has naught to do with this. I tire of your taunts. I tire of you being kind one moment, and … cruel the next.”

  Something indefinable flushed in his dark eyes.

  “Perhaps ’Tis a lack of womanly companionship that makes me … irritable.”

  She waved a hand at the window. “Seek out your whore. ‘Twas clear she was all but begging for your attentions.” “That she was. But I find I’ve a taste for innocence.”

  Giselle stood her ground as he closed the distance between them, clutching her rosary in damp hands.

  He brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, his gaze hard on hers.

  “You will not …” Giselle gritted her teeth, “force me.”

  His gaze heated. “Nay.”

  Giselle opened her mouth to tell him to leave her be, but before she could utter a word, he kissed her. No, not a kiss she dimly thought, helplessly surrendering to the addictive taste and touch of him. A brand of possession.

  He pulled her close and she could feel his arousal hard against her belly. Before she could stop herself, she found her fingers wound in his hair, holding him close.

  When his hand skimmed over her breast, she gasped, the memory of her vision too fresh to stamp down.

  Images flooded her vision.

  Piers, his gaze soft and tender, looking at her as if he truly felt affection for her.

  Two bodies, wound together, mating in a frenzy that bordered on violence. Sweat. Cries of passion. The slap of skin against skin.

  And around them, a dark, crushing presence. Mocking laughter in the air.

  Giselle jumped back and put her hand over her mouth, aghast to realize she was panting for breath. Piers’s eyes glittered like burnt amber.

  “Why do you do this?” Giselle managed to sputter.

  “Because I want you.”

  She swayed and sank onto the window seat. “Why?”

  He laughed and the tension in the chamber eased. “You are a beautiful woman, Giselle.”

  She frowned. “Beautiful? Nay, my hair is too pale, my eyes too odd, and my body … is—”

  “Lush.”

  Giselle snapped up her gaze at the reverent tone of his voice. “The body of a sinner, like Eve,” she corrected.

  “That sounds like a description by the Abbess,” he said dryly.

  “Aye.” Giselle had to smile at the disgusted expression on his face.

  “Believe me, there is naught at all wrong with the way you are fashioned.”

  Giselle’s smile faded. “You are a something of an authority, I understand.”

  He lifted a brow. “I think of myself as a man who appreciates the unique flow of a woman’s soft curves.”

  Giselle snorted, then blinked, astonished she’d made the sound. Doing such a thing at Kerwick would have earned her an immediate slap.

  Instead, Piers gazed at her with a mix of curiosity and approval. “Come, my lady. ’Tis time for another riding lesson.”

  No wonder I am tense, Giselle thought as she struggled to find her rhythm atop Etain.

  “You are gripping with your knees,” Piers shouted. “Can you not feel it?”

  Giselle flopped forward, and the horse thankfully stopped.

  Piers eyed her with disdain. “That is an excellent way to find yourself on the ground in front of her hooves,” he said.

  “Perhaps I would do better if you were not hovering about, criticizing me,” she snapped.

  “I doubt it.”

  Losing control of one’s temper has no place in God’s grace, she told herself.

  “I have an idea,” Piers said, frowning.

  Giselle was afraid to hear it. “What now?”

  “You need to stop fighting her. Take your feet out of the stirrups.”

  “Why?”

  He grabbed hold of Etain’s bridle. “Just do it. We are only going to walk.”

  Giselle clasped the front of the saddle and shook her stirrups free.

  “Now, sit straight and close your eyes.”

  “Are you mad?”

  At that, he grinned. “Quite possibly, but not in this instance.” He clucked to Etain and she began walking. “Close your eyes, Giselle.”

  Well, why not? she thought. At least if I fall it will only be at a slow pace. She closed her eyes.

  “And breathe,” Piers said.

  What a strange sensation, she realized as she swayed along.

  “Imagine your lower body is made of soft butter.”

  She felt her legs relax.

  “Good.”

  After a couple of turns around the ring, Piers stopped Etain. “Take back your stirrups and try again,” he told Giselle.

  Giselle ached in places she refused to mention, but Piers’s previous expression of disdain stuck in her mind, and she did as he said. Butter, she told herself, as she squeezed Etain forward.

  “She is more interested in that servant walking by with a pile of dirty laundry than in listening to you,” Piers said.

  Ignoring him, Giselle kept going, dismayed to see the horse’s head was indeed tilted, ears pricked, toward a young woman crossing the bailey. “Listen to me,” she told Etain, but the mare just plodded along, giving no indication she’d heard a thing.

  Softly, Giselle began singing her favorite hymn, a song to the Virgin Mary. When Eta
in’s ears flickered back toward Giselle, she sang louder. She envisioned herself riding across the open grass, the sounds of music and song washing over her, and squeezed Etain into the trot. As they moved together, she sang louder yet, and by the time she brought Etain back to a walk, she realized she’d heard nothing from Piers for quite a while.

  She found him standing in the center of the ring with a stupefied look on his face.

  “By St. George’s sword, you did it!” He was grinning at her. “Well done.”

  “Thank you.” She rubbed Etain’s withers, and whispered praise to the horse.

  “You may become an adequate rider yet,” he said.

  His voice had changed. Giselle snapped her gaze to his. Was she imagining things or were his eyes a darker color?

  “As for the rest of your abilities, well, we shall see, I suppose.” With that, he turned and left her alone in the ring, sitting on a placid Etain and feeling the brief bubble of connection between her husband and her burst into nothing.

  The next morning, Giselle crept into the stables, savoring the quiet. It was not quite daybreak, but the dense cloud cover overhead promised a gray day. Etain stuck her nose out hoping for a treat, and Giselle offered her a ripe apple. As the horse happily munched, Angel craned his head out and fixed Giselle with a big, liquid stare.

  Hesitantly, Giselle offered him the second apple. He plucked it gently from her fingertips, his soft lips brushing against her palm.

  “Can I help you, my lady?” a man asked.

  Giselle recognized him from the time Piers had attempted to ride Angel. “Nay. I am just exploring.”

  “A beautiful beast, is he not?” he asked, nodding at Angel. “A pity no one’s been able to ride ‘im.”

  “He seems so gentle,” she said, stroking Angel’s nose.

  Michel scratched his head. “Aye, that he is, a true gentleman until some poor fool lands on his back.”

  “Has anyone but Piers tried to ride him?”

  “Aye, a few grooms, but each time has ended in the same way, with the man eating dirt and being lucky to escape injury.”

  Angel nuzzled her hand. “Has any woman tried to ride him?”

  “A woman? Oh, nay, my lady.” He appeared horrified at the very idea.

  A slow burn of anger wound through her. Of course, it could not be possible a mere woman could accomplish what the great horseman, Piers Veuxfort, could not. All at once, his contemptuous questions from last eve rang through her mind, ending in his pronouncement that she couldn’t even ride a horse, seeming to sum up his conclusion on her lack of worth. She gazed at Angel, thinking, and the horse pushed against her arm.

  “You need not stay with me, Michel. I am sure you have tasks to see to.”

  “Aye, my lady. There is no end to those in a stable.” With a nod, he disappeared to the far end of the stable, his whistling blending with the scrape of a pitchfork.

  Giselle took a deep breath and led Angel out of his stall. Glancing around her to ensure no one observed, she quickly saddled him and put on his bridle, hoping she’d remembered how to do it correctly. “Come on, boy,” she whispered, patting his head.

  Angel blew out a snort and meekly followed her into the fenced ring.

  At which point, Giselle realized that she wore a gown. Well, it won’t matter too much if he takes off, she told herself. I won’t be on his back long enough to worry about my attire. “Now, boy, I need you to be good,” she murmured. “I am just learning how to do this.” She studied him, and he bent his head around to gaze at her. He looked relaxed, his ears twitching back and forth, his stance loose.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Giselle hoisted up her skirts, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung onto Angel’s back, fully expecting to be flung over the fence.

  Instead, Angel let out a sigh and dropped his head.

  Giselle tried to remember to breathe, and squeezed him into a walk. As Angel ambled along, she began to relax, holding the reins loosely and swaying side to side with his rocking walk. “What a good boy you are,” she told him, stroking along his withers. “Good boy.”

  “My lady!” Michel shouted. “Get off that horse!”

  She snapped a frown at him. “I am fine.”

  “But, but, he’s a menace! Please, my lady. Get off before you get hurt.”

  “I am not going to get hurt.” She ignored the pleading look on Michel’s face and focused on her ride. You can do this, she told herself. You can do this. Dear Lord, give me the strength and nerve, she silently prayed.

  “Come on, boy, trot!” She clucked at Angel and squeezed her legs. So smoothly she scarcely realized he’d done it, they were trotting along. Giselle let out a laugh, grinning like a fool as they sailed around the ring. I could ride all day on him, she thought. “Good boy!” she shouted.

  And nearly fell off when she caught sight of her husband standing outside the ring. “By Saint George’s sword, what the hell do you think you are doing?” he bellowed.

  Angel tossed his head in annoyance.

  “I am riding,” Giselle yelled back. “And pray, keep your voice calm. You are plaguing Angel.”

  Piers’s mouth dropped open. “Plaguing Angel?” he squeaked. “Do you remember nothing of my attempt to ride him?”

  Giselle clucked at Angel to keep him moving and gave him a pat. “Of course I do. Just as I remember suggesting that Angel simply did not like men.” She shot him a smug look. “Obviously, I was right.”

  Piers blinked, and then slowly smiled as he watched them trot smoothly around the ring.

  “No doubt, some man told you you were not good enough,” Giselle muttered to Angel.

  “Look at that, my lord,” Michel cried.

  “I see. You were right, Giselle. I should have heeded you,” Piers said.

  Giselle glanced at him in surprise.

  “Angel is yours, lady wife.”

  Giselle settled Angel to a halt, eyeing her husband doubtfully. “You will give him to me? But, surely he is very valuable.”

  “I did pay a goodly amount of coin for him, true, but until now he’s been naught but a waste of food and water.” He tilted his head. “He belongs to you.”

  “Thank you.” Giselle bent down and hugged the horse’s thick neck. “Did you hear that, my sweet boy? You belong to me now.”

  Angel simply stood there, accepting her gesture of affection as if it were his due.

  Beside Piers, Michel slowly clapped his hands. “I never woulda believed it, my lady, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Just wait until I tell the rest of the men about this!” He grinned. “The nun has tamed the wild beast.”

  Something shifted in Giselle’s chest as she dismounted. She turned to the groom, who was gleefully chuckling. “I am a nun no longer,” she said.

  Piers’s eyes opened wide, but he said nothing, standing back to let her lead Angel back into his stall.

  Chapter

  XIII

  That evening at supper, Giselle’s ride on Angel was the talk of the castle. Piers didn’t know whether to be proud of his wife or to take her aside and try to shake some sense into her. She’d surprised him yet again, his timid nun of a bride, who was turning out not to be so timid after all.

  Dear God, he’d thought his heart would stop when Michel ran to tell him Giselle refused to get off that damnable beast. And then when he saw her, calmly trotting around the ring, a victorious smile on her face, a whole other feeling had taken over his heart.

  “Well done, Lady Giselle,” Gifford called down the table atop the dais.

  “Thank you, Gifford,” Giselle said softly as she sat beside Piers.

  Cain slanted a look at Piers, then at Giselle. “ ’Twas quite a brave thing to do, Giselle.” His voice held a note of curiosity.

  “Aye,” Amice agreed. “I know well how to ride, but I would not have risked climbing onto that beast.”

  Giselle smiled, a soft but undeniably triumphant smile. “I simply tested an idea,” she said as she reached
for a chunk of cheese. “I thought perhaps Angel’s problems were due more to a fear of men than a truly wicked spirit.”

  “And so you proved,” Gifford boomed, slapping his hand on the table. “Showed you, didn’t she, nephew,” he added with a chuckle.

  Piers abruptly realized that was precisely Giselle’s intent. And why. He cringed inside, remembering his harsh words denigrating her value, words more of Eikki than himself, but uttered nonetheless. “Aye, that she did,” he automatically agreed, his mind dwelling yet again on what he could do to send Eikki back to whatever hell he’d been rightfully condemned to. Pray God that Iosobal would aid him.

  He looked up to find Cain regarding him with an expression of concern. Piers forced his lips into a light smile and averted his gaze.

  “ ’Twas not my intent to … embarrass you, my … uh, Piers,” Giselle said quietly, her fingers playing with the folds of her bliaut.

  “Of course it was. And well-deserved.”

  Her gaze snapped to his, color staining her cheeks.

  “I was unduly harsh with you, Giselle.”

  Her flush deepened, but she did not look away. “Your words were largely true. I do not possess the skills to be mistress of an estate like Kindlemere.” “A lack that is certainly not your fault.”

  “I tell you, I saw something,” Gifford said in a loud whisper.

  Amice tried to hush him, but he shook his head vehemently. Saraid put a hand on his shoulder, her expression fondly resigned.

  “ ’Twas in my workroom.”

  Piers grinned. “More likely one of those infernal substances you’ve got in there caused your mind to imagine things.” He blinked when Giselle scooted her chair closer to his.

  “Is he talking about a ghost?” she asked.

  “Aye,” Gifford answered. “I am, indeed.”

  “Gifford, please,” Cain said, running a hand through his hair. “Not again.”

  “Why is that no one will believe me?” Gifford took a long drink of ale. “Damned bunch of narrow-minded souls.” He pointed a finger at Amice. “You, of all people should heed my words.”

  “I believe you,” Giselle said.

  Piers about fell out of his chair. Even Gifford turned and stared at Giselle open-mouthed. “You do?” he asked, blinking.