by Janet Lane
A light breeze whispered through the grass. Tabor wanted to poke holes in her argument—he knew there were several—but he couldn’t find the words.
“So you lure men to the gambling arena—the archery butts, the bowling courts, and such. You offer them the fantasy of beating you and winning large amounts of money. With your skill, you win, and take their silver.”
“I don’t cheat.”
“You have some integrity. Yet gambling is not so fair an exchange as my dancing. When gamblers lose, they never get their fantasy.”
He allowed himself the luxury of a knowing smile and shook his head. “I did not receive my fantasy from you.”
She returned his smile with a more perceptive one. “I fill some fantasies. I cannot fill all.”
He guided her down the small path to the mill. “Oh, I think you can,” he said, a deliberately suggestive note in his voice.
She ignored his tone. “I already did. If you were honest, you’d admit it. Why else would you toss me a crown?”
“You impugn my honesty and dare say that your dancing is more forthright than my gaming.”
“I do.” The power of her conviction shone in her eyes.
“I’ve seen the many sides of a man’s thoughts, and I understand them.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“The problem for you is that you presume my thoughts to be similar to other women’s thoughts.”
“They are. You revealed your plan to me five years ago. You want to use a man for his wealth. Far from unique thoughts, Sharai. You are predictably female in your goals and schemes. And you can spout all you wish about the stage, but you and I both know what you’re selling when you dance.”
“I promise no more than fantasy. Whether they find it depends on their imaginations.”
“What I saw with my own eyes was not my imagination,” he protested.
“What did you see?” She tipped her head to the side, and new challenge sparkled in her dark eyes. “Men are most imaginative. For some, the lifting of my veil is their favorite part. Others enjoy the bell dance. Some, as you point out, like to see glimpses of my legs. Some like my hair.” She flipped a long braid behind her shoulder. “Which did you like, Lord Tabor?”
His vision seemed to have blurred for all images but that of her face, flawlessly oval, and her eyes, wide set, a rich mink brown, thickly lashed. Power shone in them, a feminine power so compelling. . . .
He swallowed. “It’s merely a performance. Not reality.”
Not reality. Cyrill’s words, too. Nay, Tabor refused to believe passion was only imagined. He remembered the look in her eyes when she retrieved his crown and saw him. “The power that passed between us that night was real. As it is now.” She would acknowledge the womanly charms she possessed, and admit how she clouded his judgment with them. Impulsively he reached for her, pulled her to him.
She gasped, then twisted to the side and pushed a dagger to his throat.
The blade’s point pricked his skin like a rose’s thorn.
Her simmering femininity was gone, replaced with a dark violence that narrowed her eyes and hardened her mouth. “Make no mistake, Lord Tabor. I’ve been sold at auction like a slab of meat. I’ve been starved, insulted, beaten, and I have survived. At one time I thought I was nothing to anyone but a tradable commodity, and I wanted nothing more than top price.
“But then I realized the real price for trading myself. It’s too high, but I’ll trade any of my skills. You need laundering? I’m thorough. Sewing? I excel. Dance? I do it well. I increase my worth to others with my skills, but you cannot buy me. And I will slit your throat before you force me.” Her voice grew coarse with the primitive threat.
Near the drawbridge, Cyrill saw the dagger and drew his sword, rushing forward.
Tabor stilled him with a gesture. He froze, moving neither closer to nor more distant from her. He held her gaze, waiting for the fury to pass.
The tip of the blade remained pressed to his neck. Her anger was fierce, but just a thin veil over sheer fright. He felt the trembling of it, saw it in her eyes. And then he looked past the womanly curves and flirtations, past the prickly exterior and saw the little girl with a dream, a little girl in a hazardous world of dangerous men. Someone had hurt her. Violated her.
He wished he had been able to spare her, but the scars were there, it was too late for that. He tried to tell her, with his eyes, that he cared.
She released pressure on the blade and withdrew it.
He felt her heat through his doublet, her softness and the clean smell of her hair. He raised his left hand, tracing the handle of the dagger, down her fingers, closing gently around her hand, never leaving her eyes. “By my patron saint Monica, and by every saint who has lived and died, Sharai, I will never force you.”
* * * * *
She made her way to the castle, patting her chest to settle the storm swirling in her chest. She should not be alone with him. Kadriya would not again talk her way out of Lauds. From now on Sharai would rouse her lazy bum out of bed and force her to go with her, every day.
He had come so close to her. She thought he might kiss her, and something inside made her wish for it.
Remember, Sharai. Nobles want pleasure. Only pleasure.
She supposed they could not help themselves. Men had needs.
But not all of them were bad, were they? She thought about the men she’d known in her life. Her father. She saw him in her mind’s eye, strong, handsome, an intense man, covering his quail cages, his talking bird perched on his turban. But he’d left them, only to die on the road out of town at the hands of thieves. Damir, the pottery maker who wooed her mother, then betrayed them. Count Aydin, whose kindness carried a dear price: no permanent home and life with a man who repulsed her.
But Father Robert at St. Giles Church was kindly. The priests seemed to overcome their preoccupation with the physical and act in a truly noble way. Good men, she thought, must struggle with their urges. Women were not afflicted thus, thanks be to God.
A sham as false as a summer breeze in autumn, Sharai. You felt it, too. She did not wish to be like Diana and Codi, but she didn’t a nun's life, either. Codi’s voice echoed. “Just one kiss.”
Ridiculous. Never.
Take a chance, Etti had urged. Sharai closed her eyes, remembering his touch, how it had traced fire on her skin. She put a finger to her lips, wondering.
* * * * *
Tabor found Cyrill at the quintain, waiting for him to begin daily exercises with the squires. Cyrill wore his padded hauberk and a no-nonsense expression on his face that should have warned the squires that hard work was in order. The squires, if they saw it, were deliberately oblivious. They thwacked each other on the butt and played keep-away with their battered helms, their pouldrons slipping haphazardly on their bony shoulders.
Cyrill looked relieved to see him. “You would do well to consider taking the Gypsy girl’s dagger. What stirred her to such anger, my lord?”
Tabor shook his head. “I was merely seeking logic in a whirlpool.”
He felt weak from his efforts to retain self control. It had happened again with her, a heady desire stronger than with Aurora, but something more, like a . . . He struggled to find the word.
“My lord?”
“Connection. Some manner of connection.”
“What say you?”
Tabor made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, touching the small surface cut her blade had left on his neck. “Never mind.”
He caught a flying helm, and the squires stumbled over themselves to stop. Their grins vanished, and they hurriedly settled the helms on their heads and stood at attention in the warm sunshine. “Good day, my lord,” they mumbled.
“And to you,” Tabor said. “Now, fetch your lances and get to work.”
* * * * *
Sharai watched the attendants clear the high table of the last of the pigeon and sweet pastries. Another night’s feast. Kadriya had joined some childr
en for a game of hoodman’s blind, and Lady Anne, pleased with the fortune Sharai had ventured in her hand, had retired for the eve.
The great hall was mostly cleared, save for Sharai and Tabor, the attendants, the dogs, and a few knights who gathered at the fireplace, deep in their cups and tales of valor.
The harpist still lingered, her fingers dancing over the strings like gleeful spiders after a windstorm. The melody lilted, striking clear, pure chords that lightened her heart.
Sharai followed the notes, light, more delicate than the raucous gitterns and lively tambourine rolls she'd enjoyed during her childhood. Drifting in a moment of freedom, when she could allow her thoughts to fly from daily demands. The music swelled, receded, and then ended.
“That was lovely. Thank you.” At Tabor’s signal the harpist bowed, stored her harp, and left the hall.
Tabor placed his hand on the table, palm up. “Be you ready to read my fortune, Sharai?”
Sharai smiled to herself, careful to not let him see any evidence of her amusement. Even a big, powerful man like Lord Tabor held curiosity about his future. As if he needed to be told that he would be prosperous and live a long life, sheltered in this fine castle, eating this superior food, his wish a command to any within earshot.
Ordinarily Sharai did not dukker the vast but she had witnessed enough palm readings to know the procedure. She had given Lady Anne three satisfying readings so far.
She studied the big hand he offered. Large enough for her to place both of her hands in his one, it was calloused from his sword. His skin felt warm to the touch, the pulse strong.
Heat raced up her arms, speeding the beating of her heart. She took a slow, deep breath to calm herself .
“Heart line.” She spoke aloud to quell the faeries that fluttered in her chest. “See, ’tis the line that runs from under your little finger across your palm.” She traced it with her fingernail.
He jumped visibly.
He’s sensitive.
She tuned out the thought. “This line curves upward. When it comes to your love life, you can be extremely demanding. You tend to get jealous easily, and you crave constant attention.”
His brown eyes met hers. “You’re still angry.” He paused, as if contemplating whether he should continue. “Forsooth, I brought you here to save you from the count’s advances.”
His gaze was direct and sincere. She felt surprising relief at his admission. She pressed for more. “And?”
A shadow of irritation crossed his face. “And yes, I needed a seamstress, so we’ve helped each other.”
“Thank you.” She returned to the lines in his hand. “You are also extremely close with your family, and if given the choice, you would like to be near them as much as possible.”
Pain filled his eyes.
“You lost your father and brother. I’m sorry.” She rushed on. “This line, from under your index finger across your palm, is your Head Line.” His was straight, indicating a lack of self confidence, but she would not say that. “You’re comfortable with order and structure. Strength in numbers.”
“True.”
“Now let’s look at your bracelets.” She pushed his big paw backward, revealing a series of lines where hand met wrist. “You have several bracelets. You will enjoy many years of happiness.”
She looked at his lifeline. “Something unexpected will come into your life.” She noted the sudden change in direction of his line, its abrupt ending, and cold settled in her stomach. His life would end violently, and soon. Her heart skipped in alarm, for him and for her. She found him exciting and looked forward to seeing him, being near him. . . .
His brows wrinkled in question. “What else?”
She could not tell him he would die. “But you will find a way to conquer the challenge,” she finished hastily.
“That’s all?”
She released his hand. “You have a strong will, Tabor, and will enjoy much happiness.” She knew naught of palm readings, she told herself, dismissing the fatal sign. She’d probably confused the lines.
A probing query entered his eyes. “You’re unsettled.”
She fluttered the linen at her neckline. “Nay, just a bit warm, from the fire.”
“Thank you for the reading. Allow me to repay you by escorting you for a walk in the night air.”
“Nay, ’tis not necessary—”
“But worthwhile,” he said with a wink.
Her insides fluttered in spite of herself. He’s a noble. Yes, but he’s kind to his mother. Yes, but his eyes reveal danger. Yes, but he saved me from Aydin. Yes, but he won’t save me from himself.
“Sharai?”
She waved the chorus of warnings aside and accepted his hand.
Outside, the air still held the warmth of summer. The earth released its musky scents, and a gentle breeze touched her face.
They walked along the interior moat shoreline. The water shone, sparkling in the moonlight, the surface broken occasionally by swirling fish, the silence interrupted by frog tunes.
“’Tis a very wide moat.”
“Widest in Wiltshire and Hampshire.” Pride rang in his voice.
The image of his severed lifeline interrupted the peaceful moment. He was overbearing, but he had shown her kindness and hospitality.
“You shiver.” He offered her the cloak he’d insisted on bringing. He draped it gently on her shoulders and tied the front. The cloak warmed her shoulders and seemed to embrace her. She may be a beggar lost in the spell of riches and she knew her childish dreams would never come true, but for some reason, she could not dispel the fleeting joy of his tenderness toward her.
She touched his hand, and his eyes connected with hers.
She felt a rushing in her ears, and the air hummed between them. She could feel his breath on her skin, and his masculine scent, touched with a hint of apple wine, filled her senses.
He came no closer, keeping his promise to not force her. She would need to move to him.
Her whole being became overwhelmed with waiting, waiting, and an insistent yearning.
His gaze was soft as a caress, inviting her.
“Just a kiss. No more.” She heard a husky voice scarcely recognizable as her own.
“As you wish, Sharai.”
She followed the roar of her heart and moved toward him. Take a chance, Sharai.
His lips felt soft against hers, touching, not demanding.
He deepened the kiss, his mouth sliding gently across hers.
The rush in her ears became a pounding, drawing her closer.
His tongue entered her mouth, and she felt flickers of heat in her stomach, new sensations that brought both a trembling weakness and an overwhelming new boldness.
She met his tongue and heard a strange sound escape from her throat. She recognized the sound of desire in her own voice. Surprised, she drew back.
He buried his face in her neck.
“Sweet Sharai, you make me your slave with your kisses."
A slow roar filled her ears, pierced with the word, slave. Humiliation, and a curtain of old shame fell upon her. She realized he was still talking.
"Come you to my chamber tonight. I will please you, I vow.”
She pushed him away. “I am not your slave.”
“I only meant I’d do anything for you. I’m sorry.”
She turned from him. “Forgive me. I must go.”
* * * * *
Sharai thrashed in her bed, lost in dreams.
She was eight, back in her native Lipscani. Damir, a family friend, had been courting her mother, and was there that night.
Just before dawn several men broke the small door with their heavy boots and ripped the shutters from their windows, smashing her mother’s clay pots and flowers. “Come with me,” Damir had said, and he smuggled Sharai, her mother, cousin, aunt, and uncle to a field in a valley not far from their home, and they huddled in the cover of dairy cows in a pen adjacent to the barns. Riders approached.
�
��Stay still,” Sharai’s mother, Reena whispered. They hugged the ground.
The men opened the gates and rode in, scattering the cows. “There. See them.”
Sharai and her family jumped the fence, running into the fields.
Run, Sharai!
The men followed on horseback.
Sharai’s uncle and aunt fell, and the sound of clubs hitting their bodies roared in her ears.
Sharai and her mother ran for the cover of trees.
A man neared them and struck Reena on the shoulders.
With a groan, she fell.
Terror seized Sharai. She could not leave her mother. She ran to her, tried to pull her up.
They were dragged back to the cow pen, their hands and feet tied.
In the early light of dawn she saw Damir, visiting with the evil people who had captured them.
“Romani?” they asked Damir.
“Aye. Strong. Healthy.” He accepted a small bag from them.
Damir met Sharai’s gaze. He cast his eyes downward and then left on horseback, never looking back.
Sharai’s hands formed into fists, and she shook them at Damir. “Choro!” she screamed. “Thief! May the mulla dudia haunt your every step.” She fell on the ground, pounding the grass.
“There, now, There. ’Tis all right. Just a dream, is all.”
Sharai felt a tapping on her shoulder. She blinked.
Kadriya knelt in front of Britta, Lady Anne’s maid, who held a candle. Kadriya put her small hand on Sharai’s shoulder, steadying her. “It’s all right, Sharai.”
* * * * *
The next morning, Britta lit a torch and filled the basin with warm water.
Sharai rose. Kadriya’s side of the bed was empty. She must have already dressed and gone. “You needn’t help me, Britta. I can do that.”
Britta wore a hood over her greying hair, and the small fan of wrinkles around her eyes were evident in the light. “I worry for you.”
The nightmare. “I’m sorry to have awakened you.”
Britta placed the basin and towel by the fire. “Will you be washing your hair again this morn?”
Sharai sat close to the fire and submerged the fresh linen. “It’s late. Just a quick bath today.” She washed her face and neck, moving down the right side of her body, covering it to ward off the chill, then washing the left side. She cherished this luxury of having a morning fire and a snug roof over her head, under which she could clean to start her day. She swabbed her teeth with sage leaves, rinsing with mint tea.
