The Thief's Countess (Border Series Book 1)

by Cecelia Mecca

  But knowing and doing were vastly different.

  Sara made her way through the hall to the kitchen, where preparations for the morning meal were already underway. When she stopped abruptly to readjust an off-center trestle table in the great hall, she was nearly knocked to the ground from behind. Before Sara could topple into the table, someone caught her. Him.

  “Really … if you weren’t walking so closely—” Sara fully intended to give her protector an earful, but the words caught in her throat as he pulled her upright.

  Geoffrey kept his hand firmly in place around her wrist.

  “I…” Sara had no idea what she’d been about to say. She could only think of his firm grasp on her.

  “Yes?”

  Sara was appalled not only by how often this man had touched her, but by her own reluctance to pull away, as if she had not been bred a gentlewoman but instead a wanton, letting a perfect stranger grope her at every turn. Seconds ticked by—it felt more like hours—as she looked into his eyes. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a more brilliant shade of blue.

  The spell was broken a moment later. The minstrel who had played so expertly the evening before had entered the hall.

  “My lady, a word?”

  Sara forced a smile as she turned toward the bright colors of the musician’s garb. A prior obligation allowed him only a few days respite at Kenshire—more the pity. She had a particular fondness for the lute, and she and her father had always agreed that music brought a welcome cheeriness to the long winters in the north.

  “Pardon me.” Geoffrey attempted to take his leave, but the minstrel stopped him.

  “Sir, if you will. A word with you both would be greatly appreciated.”

  Sara gave him a curious glance. What could he possibly want with Sir Geoffrey?

  “I’m writing a ballad about a woman named Phillida who doesn’t return the attentions of a man—a knight of the realm.” The man’s high-pitched voice and quick speech gave away his nervousness.

  Sara caught the raised eyebrows of her companion.

  “As the song is about a lady and a young knight, I thought mayhap you could lend some insight?” the minstrel pressed.

  Although she adored the traveling minstrels who made their way through Kenshire, the man’s question reminded Sara of why her father refused to retain permanent musicians. Their code of conduct, he’d often said, differed from what most considered polite conversation. She, however, enjoyed their creativity and was happy to help.

  “What seems to be giving you trouble, sir?”

  Ignoring the great bulk of a man beside her, who was barely hiding his contemptuous gaze, Sara smiled kindly at the bald, plump minstrel.

  “Well, my lady, the woman of my story tells her knight, ‘Maids must kiss no men’ when he attempts to steal one from her. But it seems I’m stuck on the next verse.”

  Sir Geoffrey made a grunting noise neither she nor the musician could ignore.

  “I should ask you then,” the man said to Sir Geoffrey, “do you think my knight should acquiesce and admire from afar or press his suit?”

  Sara’s father would be mortified by this open talk of courting and kisses.

  “Do you often need advice to compose your ballads?” Sir Geoffrey scoffed.

  The minstrel looked embarrassed, and Sara could have kicked the barbarian for having asked such a question.

  “What Sir Geoffrey means to say is that while he may be a knight, the intricacies of courtly love clearly elude him.”

  The knight in question stared at her then, slowly uncrossing his arms but continuing to raise thick black eyebrows at them both.

  “Perhaps you should be about your business, Sir Geoffrey,” she added. “We can manage without your assistance.”

  His voice like a caress, the reiver gave his opinion regardless of her dismissal. “Courtly love or nay, your knight should find another fair maid for his attentions.”

  The minstrel tilted his head, inviting an explanation. Sir Geoffrey did not give one.

  Sara knew she shouldn’t ask, but sometimes her tongue was not connected to her sense of reason. “Why do you say so, Sir Geoffrey?” she asked, the words seeming to tumble out of their own volition.

  “Why should he pursue her if she has no interest?”

  At least he had the decency to look sincere. Her experience with love was limited to minstrels’ ballads, but Sara refused to believe he could be so callous. Surely love was worth fighting for. She believed it, even though her own loveless marriage awaited on the horizon.

  “Because he cares for her?” she pressed.

  “Nay, Lady Sara. He desires her. And he can just as easily desire another.”

  Spoken like a man without morals. Sara suddenly realized they were alone.

  “Where is the minstrel?”

  “He must have found his answer.” His sardonic reply revealed a barely discernible dimple.

  “Well, I’ll be curious to hear his tale this eve.”

  And for the second time in the space of one afternoon, Sara found herself looking into the most mesmerizing set of eyes God had ever gifted to any man.

  She felt exposed. Flushed.

  “I can tell you how it ends, if you like,” he said, still staring into her eyes.

  “Clearly you have experience in such matters.” She really should stop talking.

  “You believe so?”

  The conversation needed to end, but damned if she’d be the one to end it.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was that…”

  “I know what you meant.”

  Sara could feel her own heartbeat. Gently bred but not naïve, she sensed the connection between them. But it was one that needed to be cut short. “Excuse me,” she said.

  At the same time Geoffrey said, “I’m sorry for nearly knocking you down.”

  This man who lived outside the law had no business making her feel anything other than wary. And yet, as they stood inches apart, Sara had the most ridiculous impulse to move closer. Which, of course, she did not. Blinking her eyes, hoping to shut out such thoughts, Sara said, “Thank you for your gallant rescue.”

  Her words were more lighthearted than she felt.

  “My lady,” Geoffrey reproved, his voice deep and strong, “I’m far from gallant. You’d do well to remember that.”

  With those terse words, he turned from her and walked toward the exit of the hall. She watched his retreat, attributing her unmaidenly appreciation of his perfectly formed backside to her inability to think straight. Looking down, Sara was appalled to see her hands trembling slightly. So this was attraction, the kind non-noble ladies were allowed to pursue.

  Fierce and unbridled.

  Sara wondered if she would feel the same for Lord Lyonsford. It seemed unlikely.

  Cursing herself, she drew deep breaths in an attempt to soothe her frayed nerves. She

  shouldn’t have been so forthright with a virtual stranger. While she had never been the type to strictly adhere to the expectations of a proper lady, she nevertheless knew exactly what those expectations were.

  She didn’t like feeling so unsettled, so out of control.

  When had she sat down? Sara stood and began her morning duties as chatelaine, vowing

  to stay as far away as possible from the man who was responsible for her unease.

  Sir Geoffrey knew the last thing he should do was waste time thinking of the pampered countess, but she confused him. Her gown was so much simpler and less adorned than the ones typically worn by women of her station. When he’d saved her from the impending fall, he’d felt the fabric press up against his skin. There’d probably been nothing but a chemise and a layer of cloth between his hand and her flesh. And when they’d looked into each other’s eyes, Geoffrey had felt, not for the first time, a connection that unnerved him. Without a shred of doubt, she was beautiful, but more than that, he sensed a depth in her which most maids lacked.

  Intriguing.

 
; Off-limits.

  Geoffrey strode purposefully out of the great hall and ran straight into the very man he was seeking.

  “Good day, Peter.”

  Most of the household seemed to have been in the Caisers’ service for generations, and Peter was no exception, according to Uncle Hugh.

  “My lord,” Peter said.

  “Nay, sir. Not any longer.”

  Geoffrey could see the grimace behind the man’s thick, greying beard.

  “I’ve no doubt the title will be yours once again.”

  The man reminded him of his uncle, and Geoffrey couldn’t help but admire his loyalty. “It’s no secret along the border that we lost the feudal title along with Bristol, but we’ve not shared that fact with anyone here at Kenshire.”

  Before Peter responded, a servant approached, making his way around a wagon that had stopped not far from where they stood.

  “My apologies, sir,” the man said to Peter, “a shipment of spices awaits your inspection.”

  “I’ll be along shortly, thank you.”

  When the steward turned back to face Geoffrey, he looked as if he wanted to say something. He must have changed his mind, however, because he simply said, “I apologize, my lord. I’m unable to finish our tour of Kenshire. Perhaps this afternoon?”

  Geoffrey liked the man well enough, but that did not mean he was going to stand here exchanging pleasantries with him. He needed answers.

  “What I’d really like to know is what we’re doing here.”

  If he thought to get a better answer from the steward than his own uncle, Geoffrey was mistaken.

  “You’re here to protect Lady Sara’s claim.”

  “If Randolf does attack, two are just two more men among a retinue stronger than most.”

  Peter glanced in the direction of the spice merchant making his way toward them. The man’s velvet cloak and silk-lined hood reminded Geoffrey to add, “And I am no lord.”

  “In the eyes of the law, mayhap not,” Peter said, wisely avoiding his question. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must do my duty.”

  After a quick bow, the second most important person at Kenshire walked away, leaving Geoffrey with more questions than answers. With his uncle overseeing the gatehouse fortifications and Lady Sara safe inside the keep as the household broke their fast, Geoffrey decided that some practice with his sword would suit him better than sustenance.

  Once suited, he asked the staff for directions to the training yard. He wasn’t surprised when the grunts, yells, and clanging of swords quieted as he approached. Knights, green young boys, and hardened men alike turned to stare at him. Most didn’t know what to make of a border reiver turned protector. Hell, he didn’t quite know what to make of himself.

  He didn’t belong here. Or anywhere.

  Geoffrey strode through the yard, intent on finding the most highly skilled swordsman. Only by practicing with the best would he hone his own skills. With a few questions and even polite nods, he finally found his man.

  He already knew of Sir Jerold, a knight who had served the Earl of Kenshire his entire life, as his father had done before him. The knight had made a name for himself well beyond the castle and its village. Each year during the Tournament of the North—the only time other than the Day of Truce when the English and Scottish, friends and enemies, set aside their differences—Jerold was a favorite, and he’d been the reigning overall champion more than once.

  Even if the others hadn’t told him which of the knights was best, Geoffrey would have picked Jerold from the crowd. His muscles bulged beneath his thin linen shirt, a sign of years of hard, dedicated practice, and the fact that he wore no armor, or even chainmail, spoke to his position among the other knights.

  “Sir Jerold, care for a bit of practice?” Geoffrey asked.

  The bearded knight, almost as large as he was, glanced around them. There were at least forty men in varying states of dress watching them. Several shouted encouragement to Sir Jerold.

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  “You’ve always a choice. But if you’d rather not fight a reiver…”

  “Knight, reiver, king. It matters naught to me.”

  A young squire handed each of them rebated swords. Most reivers favored the lance over the broadsword, but Geoffrey regularly practiced with both.

  A smile spread across Geoffrey’s face as the match began. Sir Jerold wielded his sword with deadly precision, and he had an easy grace for such a large man. They were well matched, but Geoffrey still had no doubt that he would win. Both of them had clearly benefited from years of devoted practice and natural skill; only one of them had a determination bred from a desire for vengeance. In feats of strength and skill, Geoffrey had never been beaten.

  Sara, having quickly changed after her discussion with Sir Geoffrey, was finishing a light meal of freshly baked bread when she heard shouts coming from the courtyard.

  As she made her way toward the commotion, she looked down at her admittedly odd attire. Would her new guests be there? What would they think of a woman in an altered version of men’s breeches? The women in her family often wore them—a tradition dating back to Sara’s extremely unconventional grandmother—despite the fact that it was still illegal for a woman to do so. Perhaps she should have let Faye talk her out of changing. Sara looked around for … nay, not Sir Geoffrey … her steward, and found she wasn’t the only person both curious and apprehensive about the growing volume of noise from the courtyard. Dozens of people were headed in the same direction.

  The shouts grew louder as Sara strode through the bailey and then headed past the stables. The crowd around the training yard was almost impenetrable. When she fought her way to the front, she realized why.

  Sara had watched men train many times, though she found it uncomfortable when blood was shed. She herself was passing fair with the crossbow. Her father, who had insisted that she learn at least one skill to protect herself, had spent countless hours overseeing her training. Yet she had never seen anything like this.

  No one ever defeated Sir Jerold. But apparently that news had not been shared with Geoffrey. He stood over the other warrior in naught but a light jack, his bare arms covered with sweat and dirt, his expression full of confidence and reserve.

  Why does he look more like a seasoned warrior? A knight of the realm?

  Geoffrey offered an arm to Jerold, who took it in stunned silence. Not used to being beaten, he was clearly both humiliated and in awe.

  “Well played,” Jerold finally said, lifting himself to his feet.

  “Thank you, Sir Jerold. I’m glad to finally have a worthy training partner.”

  When the other knights and servants who’d gathered began to disperse, muttering reverently about Sir Jerold’s defeat, Geoffrey looked up and saw her, his eyes widening in recognition. He stared for a moment, most ungentlemanly, and then nodded as if he’d made a decision. The hunger in his eyes at once excited and unnerved her

  “Excuse me,” he said to Sir Jerold. Then he made his way to where she stood.

  Sara looked for an escape, but before she knew it he had reached for her hand, pulling her away from the crowd.

  Protesting, Sara attempted to pull back from the vise-like grip. Rather than explain himself, Sir Geoffrey continued to drag her along, pausing only to hand his sword to one squire and to thank another for the cloth he’d been given to clean himself.

  “Sir, I must protest.”

  She had wasted her breath. Since courtesy hadn’t worked, she muttered a quite unladylike curse under her breath, but the cur didn’t so much as turn around. He kept walking through the courtyard and inner ward, leading her toward a path few knew existed. Sara clenched her teeth, not sure if she wanted to slap away his hand or revel in the feel of it wrapped around her own.

  For reasons she did not quite understand, she followed him.

  Geoffrey had made it a priority to learn every inch of Kenshire, seeking out any vulnerabilities in the event Sir Randolf fo
olishly decided to use brute force to wrangle the title and land from Lady Sara. The battery gate and sea path had been built by the second Earl of Caiser as a secure passage to the coast of the North Sea, or so Sara’s steward had told him. The sound of crashing waves and smell of the salt air became stronger as he led Lady Sara down the path. It had been rash of him to lead her away, but the feel of her hand in his, her skin so warm and soft and yielding, assured him he’d made the right decision.

  He stopped so abruptly Sara nearly crashed into him. Her hand made contact with his bare arm as he spun around to face her, and Geoffrey knew from the look she gave him there’d be no protest. He reached behind her back to pull her closer, lowered his head and, without further warning, his lips were on hers.

  Geoffrey knew this was madness, but he had felt an overwhelming desire to taste the fullness of Lady Sara’s lips. He could feel her innocence, a fact that should have penetrated his need to pull her even closer, but he found himself coaxing her lips open with his tongue, raising one hand to the back of her neck to deepen the kiss. To his surprise, she tentatively leaned in.

  Forcing himself not to focus on the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest, he moved his lips over hers as his tongue teased with the promise of more. He was determined to give her something to remember when she closed her eyes to sleep that night.

  Geoffrey relented only when he felt himself harden.

  Pulling back, he gazed into her liquid brown eyes, staring at him with a comely mixture of shock and desire.

  “I’d apologize,” he said roughly, “but I’m not in the least bit remorseful.”

  Sara took a deep breath, but it did not calm her—instead, his masculine scent assaulted her senses. Stunned that he had actually dared to kiss her, she had a hard time reconciling her own feelings. Unlike the chaste kisses she’d experienced in the past, he’d used his tongue to open her mouth, sweeping it inside and touching it to her own. She was preparing to verbally eviscerate Geoffrey when she became aware of his hand on her neck, still in the same spot as when he’d kissed her. Hesitant to interrupt the slow, sensual pressure of his thumb, Sara merely glared back at him, showing rather than telling him she wasn’t sorry either.