Wicked

by Jill Barnett

  As she finished tying the knot, she looked down at his hooded head and she cursed herself for not paying more attention during the feast meal, when all the guests were sitting at tables in the hall and she, who sat just below the head table on the dais, was in a position high enough to the salt for her to have seen every guest. Then she would know what he looked like.

  If she had only been paying attention, which she had not She had been intent on stuffing her face with wedding treats and frumenty. She stepped away from him.

  “Hoodman! Name your forfeit!” Someone called as he rose to his feet. Gracefully and surprisingly, the way heavily armored knights did.

  She cast a quick glance at him. He was tall, that one. She retreated a step or two.

  “Aye!” All the circle agreed. “Name the forfeit!”

  He said nothing, but stood there so tall and straight that it was like looking up at the tower. She felt suddenly small, which annoyed her. She did not want to feel frail and inconsequential.

  She waited, and waited.

  He was silent.

  She wondered what he was waiting for. When he still said nothing she looked around her, at the others, then shrugged and relaxed her stance. “Perhaps I tied the blindfold so tightly the hoodman can no longer think or speak.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  Then his voice cut through their laughter. “I demand three kisses from my challenger.”

  “Three kisses?’ she whispered, frozen to the ground like a deer caught in a snowdrift. “What kind of a forfeit is that?”

  “The best kind.”

  There was more laughter and cheering by the others, which annoyed her to no end. Kisses? Who would think of kisses. It certainly had never entered her mind. Think, she told herself. And think she did, quickly, and she spoke just as quickly, “Three kisses? Is that not gluttony, hoodman?”

  “No more gluttonous than three pieces of cake,” he said quietly.

  She was stunned to silence—a miracle to those who knew her—and she did little more than stand there in the center of the game circle and gape at him, until she realized what she was doing. She then clamped her mouth closed, an action that rang clear through her teeth and jaw.

  She did not stop looking at him, but she could feel her expression change and her eyes narrow to a cold glare. “Fine. Three kisses it is,” she agreed in a clipped voice, then spun around and marched over to the outside of the circle, where she faced him with her hands on her cocked hips and her head held high and haughty. “Catch me if you can, hoodman blind.”

  Chapter 4

  She watched Edith disappear through the crowd. Sofia wanted to disappear, too. Instead she had to stand there in front of Sir Tobin de Clare and act as if her heart wasn’t pounding, as if nothing that happened in their past could possibly matter, as if she were as calm as stagnant water.

  “There is something between us.”

  Lud! He felt it, too.

  “We have a debt to settle.”

  Now all she felt was foolish. He was not speaking of the odd attraction she felt, but of the forfeit she owed him.

  Face the devil, she thought. Do it! She turned back toward him slowly, shook her head and raised her chin so it appeared as if she were looking down at him, even though she was a full foot shorter. “You cheated.”

  He cocked his head and frowned a little, as if he had expected her to say anything but that “There was a huge circle of witnesses that day.” He gave a wry laugh. “Tell me exactly how I could have cheated before all those pairs of eyes.”

  “I do not know.” She waved a hand in the air. “I am not that devious-minded.”

  “You? Lady Sofia Howard? Not devious-minded?” He roared with laughter, while Sofia stood there, staring at the half-moon-shaped nails on her right hand.

  No one had ever claimed that she did things halfheartedly. Lying therefore should be no different. If she was going to lie, the lie should certainly not be a puny one.

  He obviously found her very amusing, for he was still laughing softly. She did not know if she liked that or hated it.

  He took a step closer to her. “Tell me, Sweet Sofia, just how did you manage that day to get the Queen to call for you at the exact moment I was about to collect my debt?”

  She would never admit to him that she had done nothing, that the Queen’s timing had been only pure luck. Let him think she was that mystical and shrewd.

  “Come. Confess.”

  She gave him a smile. “I shall tell you, sir, when you tell me how you managed to chase only the girls in that circle who had,” she paused, “blossomed.”

  He shrugged, denying or admitting nothing, a tactic she knew well since she frequently did the same thing.

  He pinned her with a penetrating look from those intense and knowing eyes. “I think over the past two years you have cooked up the notion in that cunning little head of yours that I won only because I cheated.”

  “Three years,” she said. “Not two years.”

  His sudden laugh had a victorious sound that told her she had fallen into a trap of his words. He had known it was three years, but tested her.

  He moved so close his hips brushed against her side. “I stand corrected, milady. Over the past three years, you have conveniently decided you do not owe me anything because you can claim I cheated.”

  “There was nothing convenient about my memory. I know, not think. And I know that no one could possibly have moved as quickly as you did, especially in my exact direction.” She kept her ground. It was uncomfortable, to have him standing mere inches from her. She could not think as sharply.

  But she knew he was trying to intimidate her with his height and size. Men did that, used their physical powers to compensate for the lack of their mental ones. So she tilted her head back to look him straight in the eye, which usually surprised arrogant men because they were used to meeker women. She did not bow her head but would look anyone in the eyes.

  However, he did not appear surprised, which annoyed her to no end. The least he could do was be predictable.

  “I think what you mean, Sofia, is that you think no one can move as swiftly as you can. Your pride drives you. You believe that you are the only one with a quick mind and even quicker feet.” The cad took a step closer. He was almost standing on her feet. She could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

  She stepped away. “What I believe is that you cheated. Now if you will excuse me, sir, I am off to watch the races.” She turned with her nose high in the air, lifted her gown and planned to walk away with a haughtiness that would do Queen Eleanor proud.

  She got no more than a few feet

  His hand closed around her upper arm. “I shall be happy to escort you to the races, Lady Sofia,” he said so loudly she was stunned, so she looked up. He had almost bellowed it like a herald announcing the King’s demands.

  People around them turned to stare.

  He gave her a slight, courteous bow as he pulled her arm through his, casually, in the manner of courtier doing the bidding of his love. But in truth he was clamping her arm firmly to his side so she could not pull it away, which she had already tried twice.

  He began to walk, his strides so long she had to almost run to keep from being dragged along slave-like behind him.

  “Would you slow down?”

  “Only if you will stop trying to snatch your hand away.”

  She relaxed her hand on his arm and stopped trying to jerk it back, so he slowed his steps. She would lull him into thinking he had won.

  She walked in silence, staring at their arms, at their hands, looking for the perfect moment to pull away and run like the very Devil himself.

  But the moment did not come. She did not run. She could not get her hand free. She stared at her hand resting on his forearm, then gritted her teeth and glanced up, eyeing all around them. She realized that they looked as if they were any other knight and lady walking through the crowds. Except the other ladies did not have their escort�
�s big, hammy hand smashed over theirs so they couldn’t snatch it away.

  “Perhaps, milady, together . . . ” he squeezed her hand “ . . . we can find the man you were seeking.”

  Die. She wanted to die, but she would never let him know it. With a casual tone that was the exact opposite of what she was feeling, she said, “Perhaps so, sir. You are tall enough to see above the crowd.”

  Flatter him. Tell him he is tall. It implies he is superior. Most men loved to think they were superior, so while he was preening, she would devise a way to escape him. Somehow. Someway.

  They walked along, his hand over hers, her mind racing toward a goal. Neither of them spoke, which was good because she did not want any distraction when thinking was so hard. The sounds of the hawkers and the gaiety were all around them. Normal sounds that broke up her thoughts. Lively sounds. But then she had a dark moment; she had the horrid, sinking feeling that nothing would ever be truly normal again, certainly not whenever Sir Tobin de Clare was this close to her.

  His scent. His breaths. His walk. She was stunned to realize that she was more in tune to the rhythm of his strides and the sounds of his breathing than she was to the loud and boisterous throng around her.

  Even worse, her hand almost burned under his touch. She swallowed hard and kept up with him.

  “As I remember it . . . ” he said in a thoughtful and lazy tone, “you told Lady Edith this man you sought had raven black hair.”

  He had heard her describe him to Edith. Lud! Lud! Lud! She could feel him looking down at her. She knew if she looked at him she would see that infuriating grin of his, so she fixed her gaze on a juggler who was balancing wooden pins on his ears and nose. She waved her hand at the juggler. “I wish I could do that. Balance pins like he is doing. What amusement that would be.” She changed the subject, which usually worked for her. If you had no good answer, just confuse them.

  “Interesting.”

  “Aye. They are interesting the way they can balance so many objects at once. Do you suppose it takes long to learn to juggle? Probably,” she answered quickly before he could. “I do find jugglers the best of entertainments.”

  “I was not speaking of jugglers.”

  “Oh.” She did not ask what he was speaking of. Perhaps he would forget.

  “I was talking about this man you were seeking. I find him very interesting.”

  She looked at him then. “Why? Do you prefer the company of men to women, sir?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly and she bit back a small smile of satisfaction.

  “What I find interesting is that the man you seek should have black hair.”

  “There must be a hundred men here today who have black hair.”

  “True.” He paused, then added, “Even I have black hair.”

  She kept walking as if all was well with the world and his comments were no more important to her than the dandelions that floated in the wind.

  He took a few more lazy, catlike steps, then added in a pensive tone, “This man was wearing blue, you said. Aye, that was it. You said ‘blue.’ I heard you clearly.”

  His sudden grip tightened on her hand before she could move. It was almost as if he could see into her mind before her thoughts were even close to complete. She had been waiting for the perfect moment to catch him off guard. And the devil knew it.

  He stopped then. So suddenly it was as if they had run into a wall.

  “Why are we stopping? The race is that way.”

  He was frowning down at his clothing. “How amusing.” He looked up, his expression all feigned innocence and devilry. “I am wearing blue.” He looked at her then, waiting.

  She waited longer, letting time work for her instead of against her. She blinked up at him innocently, then gave him her biggest smile. “Beg pardon, Sir Tobin. I did not hear what you were saying,” she lied beautifully, sounding as if her mind were in London instead of here.

  “I was just making the observation that I am wearing blue.” He sounded as if his jaw was just a bit tighter, as if his back teeth were clamped together.

  There was hope!

  “Are you wearing blue?” She stepped back and gave his attire a long appraisal. “So you are.” She paused, then added, “I had not noticed.”

  He said nothing more, but began to whistle slightly, a jolly and vastly annoying tune as they walked farther along.

  She stared straight ahead, her eyes now locked on a scarlet pennant with a lion that flew from a standard near the drawbridge. She tried to think of some way to change the subject.

  “’Tis a small world, is it not?”

  She was learning to greatly dislike that casual tone of his. “A small world, sir?” She laughed. “I do not think so. I believe that more than half the court is here and there are many other noblemen who have traveled far, like yourself. I would not call this small,” she said brightly. “It seems to me that this is a huge crowd.”

  He laughed softly and under his breath she could have sworn he muttered the words “stubborn witch.”

  She refused to look at him. He did not yet know the word “stubborn.”

  “Sofia.” He spoke her name softly and stopped walking so she could not move on. The only choice she had was to look at him.

  But she did not. Instead she stood there, looking everywhere but at him.

  “Look at me.” His voice was quiet, but the tone was still a command.

  A command. The perfect thing for her to ignore. Perhaps now she would annoy him the way he annoyed her. She would not obey him, even though some small part of her wanted to look up at him because even though he annoyed her terribly, he was still so very sweet on the eyes.

  “Ah!” He snapped his fingers and nodded. “I remember now.”

  “What?”

  “You are afraid if you look at my face you will forget to breathe.”

  That made her to look at him, just at the same moment she felt the color drain from her face. Those were her exact words, her passionate confession to Edith about the man of her dreams. About him.

  She felt her humiliation keenly, down to her toes, and she wanted to close her eyes so she would not have to see the look in his, the action of a coward, so instead she picked up her skirt in her free hand and took a couple of steps.

  But he did not move.

  She got barely two feet away when he jerked her back. She stumbled. His arm shot around her waist, catching her and pulling her against his chest.

  A moment later she was staring up at him, her palms against his chest, her feet off the ground. Again.

  He leaned his mouth toward her ear. “Ah, sweet Sofia . . . we must stop meeting like this.”

  She jerked her head back and away from him. His breath and voice were still chilling her ear and she could not think clearly. “Then stop pulling me around. I am not a handcart!” She tried to wiggle free, but he was too strong. “Put me down, now.”

  He did put her down, but her toes barely touched the ground before he was moving again, walking so fast with her plastered against his side that for every other step her feet did not touch anything but air. He was half carrying her along with him. She wished to heaven that she were a foot a taller and a few stone heavier.

  Through gritted teeth she said, “Stop this! Put . . . me . . . down!”

  He glanced down at her with feigned worry. Just a glance. “I would not want you to fall on your face. It is such a famously beautiful face. You might break your lovely little nose.” Then he stared straight ahead with a determined look. “Imagine that, Sweet Sofia. No suitors groveling at your feet. What would you do for amusement?”

  “I demand that you put me down.”

  He ignored her and walked even more swiftly.

  “Do as I say, sir, or I shall scream so loud the castle walls will crack.”

  “Try it and you’ll find my hand.” He looked down at her. “Or better yet, my mouth over yours. Do not forget that you still owe me those three kisses. We could always start here.”


  “I still say you cheated. Now let me go!” Before she could struggle free, before she could jab a bony elbow into his belly or figure out how to twist so she could kick his shin or some other equally painful place, he turned into an archway that led into one of the guard rooms in the tower near the outside wall.

  “Where are you going?” She looked off toward the direction of the lists. The opposite direction. “The races are that way!”

  He shifted her under his hard arm so she could not move her body, only pedal her feet uselessly, then he shoved open a door and went inside with her hanging on his hip like a sack of oats.

  The air inside was cooler, dark and dank, and a steep and narrow stone stairway led up to the outside crenels of the guard tower. She had no place to run.

  He kicked the door shut; it closed with a dull thud, like a warrior dropping from battle or a jouster falling from his mount. It was the sound of defeat.

  He set her on her feet and released her so suddenly she had to slap a hand on the stone wall to keep her balance. She shoved the tangled hair out of her face with her free hand and glared at up him.

  Her look had no apparent effect on him.

  They stood there, staring at each other, locked in a new kind of battle that was not unlike the staring contest they’d had across the lists.

  Then he advanced, took a step toward her.

  She retreated, just one small step. Her back hit the stone wall, her palms flat against it, pinned there. Suddenly cornered, she raised her chin because she had to look up at him to keep eye contact, to let him think she was not the least bit intimidated.

  He planted his hands against the wall, on either side of her shoulders.

  He was so close her traitorous breath caught. He leaned forward until he was but a few inches from her face, close enough that she could feel his warm breath when he said harshly, “Enough games.”

  She gave him as unyielding a look as he was giving her. Silence stretched out between them, taut as bowstring. Soon her own breath came a little faster, and it was shorter, as if someone were stealing the air she breathed.

  She should have ducked down under his arms, grabbed her skirts and run as fast as she could. She knew that, the thought was clear in her head. Do it!