by Колин Глисон
He rounded the last corner, thinking little about where he was going, but focusing his attention on what could be wrong with D’Orrais—and why he would not be a prime choice for Madelyne—and hurtled straight into a warm, soft person.
“Lord Gavin,” murmured a familiar voice. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Therese?” he responded, refocusing his thoughts. “What are you doing out of your chamber at such an hour?”
She placed her hand on his arm, smoothing it up toward his shoulder. “I had hoped you would return this evening that we might have some moments to…talk.”
“Talk?” Gavin repeated in confusion. Then, her very insistent hand moved over his chest and, tugging his arm, propelled him toward her.
“Nay, you are correct. Talk is not what I would prefer from you,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his.
It was a testament to his confusion and distraction that Gavin did not feel the weight of the eyes staring from behind him as Therese pulled him into a dark alcove.
* * *
“There! ’Tis off through that underbrush!”
Gavin bent low over Rule’s neck as the destrier thrashed through bushes and bramble in the wake of the dogs and a wild boar that was now their quarry. Thomas’s mount nosed up beside his, and he could hear the crashing of the others just behind them.
Gripping his lance tightly, Gavin shouted, “I’m to the left!” and Rule veered off toward that direction in response to the pressure of his thighs. A low-hanging branch whipped toward him, and Gavin ducked in time to feel only the scrape of twigs over his bare head. Wearing a helm during a hunt was uncomfortable, but distaining one left a man vulnerable to being toppled from a mount or having a scratched face.
Gavin rose slightly in his saddle as Rule pounded through the wood, the stallion relishing the chase as much as his master. The baying of the hounds echoed shrilly in the air, and he saw the dark rump of the boar as it leapt over a small creek.
Some of the others in the party had split off to follow Gavin, while the main group continued on in the boar’s path. “There! Again!” shouted Lord Ferrell, coming up from behind.
“Aye!” Gavin gave a short wave, bending low in the saddle, and feeling the exhilaration surge through him. Even if he didn’t get a shot at the boar, the thrill of the ride and the wild danger was enough to satisfy him.
Ferrell’s horse took a leap over a small bush and dashed ahead of Gavin and Rule, its rider throwing a white-toothed grin as they passed. “First!” he called back, letting Gavin know that he would take the initial shot and his friend should be prepared to follow with a second.
“Go!” Gavin shouted. He didn’t need to kick Rule to urge the horse faster. They were bounding over fallen trees and between thin saplings at breakneck speed. Green and brown blurs passed on each side, broken only by splashes of bright sunshine where it streamed down into the forest in erratic patterns.
The hunt was dangerous—most especially for those in the lead, and even more so when it was a cornered boar they sought. Riding at top speed, dodging the pitfalls of a forest, and clutching a lance at the same time made it as hazardous as fighting a battle. The boar itself could be erratic and fast, and Gavin had seen more than one fatal swipe of a horn gouge man, horse, or dog.
The cry of the hounds grew more urgent, and he knew that the boar had been cornered. Shifting his lance, Gavin stood again in his saddle as Rule careened toward the noise and the scent of fear.
Just as Rule, nostrils flaring and breath streaming in hard pants that matched Gavin’s own zeal, leapt over a fallen log, Gavin felt his left leg give way. In an instant, the world tilted and he was falling, rolling, crashing, out of control. A shout registered in his tumbled mind, pain seared along the shoulder and arm on which he’d landed, and a high-pitched squeal that meant danger to his ears shocked him to continue rolling back to his feet.
Dizzy, out of breath, Gavin groped for support at the log over which Rule had leapt and found himself facing a red-eyed, well-horned black boar. His fingers closed reflexively, but the lance was long gone during his tumble, and the boar was already charging.
Shouts and the thudding of hooves penetrated his mind as Gavin reached for a heavy stick. He swung at the tiny-eyed, black-bristled face as it barreled toward him. He connected with the flat nose that was close enough he could see water dripping from it, and an enraged squeal rent the air as Gavin stumbled away from its flailing hooves and overpowering stench.
Just as he hauled himself upright, another shout and a shriek of rage echoed in the clearing…followed by a second shriek that became almost a moan at the end. Thomas rode up at that moment, tossing Rule’s reins to Gavin. “Are you hurt?” he asked as his friend heaved into the saddle.
“Nay,” Gavin replied, breathless, as he gathered his wits about him enough to look at the scene before him. The boar lay on his side, shuddering its last breath, with three lances piercing its hide. The dogs sniffed eagerly, and were being called back by the masters even as the hunters clustered in more closely.
“What a fall!” Ferrell loped over on his mount. “What happened?”
Gavin suddenly remembered and slid off his saddle. “I felt the stirrup give way as Rule jumped,” he told them, and held up the broken leather stirrup. “If I had not been standing for the leap, I’d likely have kept my seat,” he frowned. “But it could not have broken on its own.”
“Could you have sliced it with your lance?” asked Lord Michael d’Gloetherin.
“What fool do you think I am?” he snapped, suddenly feeling the pain in his shoulder and arm. “I manage my weapons and would not make such a foolish mistake. And, if I’d been so careless, or someone else had been close enough to be so, would not Rule have been cut as well?”
“Aye. And you have great care for your saddle and Rule,” Thomas added gravely. His eyes met Gavin’s and their suspicions mirrored each other. Fantin.
King Henry rode up at that moment. “Mal Verne—are you hurt? I did not see the fall, but I am told ’twas most magnificent.” His infectious smile flashed as he saw that Gavin was unhurt.
“Though I would not wish to repeat it, I would agree that it would be hard to match it ever again.” Gavin grunted in pain as Thomas jostled close enough to touch his shoulder. “I’ll have some care to my arm when we return, but it does not pain me overmuch. Shall we ride on?”
“Nay. We return. The others found two deer and a wild pig, so we are in need of no more,” replied another hunter.
Gavin would not have admitted it aloud, but he was thankful for the reason to return to the castle sooner rather than later. Now that his energy had ebbed and they rode along at a much less dangerous pace, the throbbing in his shoulder increased enough to make him grit his teeth and keep his conversation to a minimum.
A sudden thought bloomed in his mind, soothing his discomfort: he would return and seek out Madelyne to care for his hurt.
In the past, when he’d received small injuries, he would have squirreled out one of the king’s squires or pages who could plaster on a paste of putrid herbs and wrap his injury—as would any other man injured in such a way. But now, he would impose upon her to see to his needs.
Her long, narrow fingers would smooth on some paste that likely smelled awful but cooled and appeased the injury. She’d wrap it gently and mayhap offer him a tea or infusion to drink to ease him in his sleep. And he’d think, yet again, of her as a calm, quiet Madonna…and smell the scent of her as she bent to him…and feel the warm heaviness of her touch…
The clattering of hooves across the wooden bridge leading to Whitehall pulled Gavin from those oddly disturbing thoughts, and the proximity to the woman in question brought upon more disconcerting ones. What if she didn’t want to take care of him? She was not obliged, and he had no right to ask it of her. He shouldn’t ask it of her. She owed him nothing and soon she would belong to Reginald D’Orrais.
The frown settling between his brows must have been a fi
erce one, for Thomas trotted over and said, “It appears that you are in more pain than you displayed in the wood. Allow me to have Rule brushed down and stabled for you. Seek you help in taking care of your injuries.”
“I’m fine,” Gavin replied gruffly, sliding down from his saddle. Clem appeared and ’twas with great relief that he handed the bridle to him. “Thomas, you have enough to do. Clem can take care of Rule for me.” He looked at his man. “Do you know where Madelyne is? I have a need to speak with her.”
Clem shifted as he fought to keep Rule from storming toward the stables. “I believe she is in the orchard garden. At the least, ’tis what her maid told me when I last saw the harpy some half hour past.”
Gavin forbore to acknowledge his man’s uncharacteristically caustic comment. Instead, he gave Rule a last pat of thanks for being so beautifully sure-footed, and said, “My thanks Clem. I’ll be off to locate Lady Madelyne.”
Though he started off with alacrity, Gavin slowed his footsteps as he approached what was known as the orchard garden. What fool was he that he should impose upon her—even that it should occur to him to seek her out to care for his needs? Indeed, why had it been such a natural, unconscious thought that he would go to her? She owed him naught but disdain, and, in truth, he was beholden to care for her far more than she would be answerable to his well-being.
Gavin’s steps faltered as he found himself entering the garden—which was, in reality, more of a grove of trees and benches than any true orchard. She would be sitting with Judith, mayhap, and some other ladies who did not hunt, and he would thus approach like a young boy with a scraped knee.
Distaste filled his mouth and he whirled abruptly to leave. He would seek comfort from some other lady who might care to deliver it. He thought fleetingly of Lady Therese, who had kissed him well and soundly in the alcove the evening before…but then decided he preferred to find a squire taught in easing war wounds instead.
He’d taken two more steps back out of the garden when he heard his name called behind him. Cursing under his breath, he turned back to see Judith hailing him from near an apple tree.
“Gavin! Are you hurt?” she asked, reaching to touch his arm.
“Nay…only a small injury,” he told her, glancing beyond her shoulder to see if Madelyne followed. Dirt and blood must have dried on his face for Judith to have guessed at his accident.
“If you seek Madelyne,” Judith spoke, reading his mind, “she sits back under the pear tree.”
“Nay, I…we just returned from the hunt, and I am dirty and wet.” He turned to go, realizing how filthy and sweaty he must be.
“She sits with Reginald D’Orrais,” added Judith casually. “All the court knows that he is to be named her betrothed on the morrow.”
Gavin looked at her, but she had turned to wave to another lady-in-waiting who hurried past the garden gate toward the castle. Judith looked back at him. “I must go, for I am promised to the queen now that she has returned from the hunt.” She hurried off, leaving him to stare after her with an angry tightening in his belly.
D’Orrais. The man might be plying suit for her hand, but it had not yet been granted to him, and he presumed overmuch. Gavin clenched his fist and wheeled back into the garden, setting his teeth in line so hard his jaw hurt.
He would remind Madelyne that she was not yet betrothed and that sitting in the garden unchaperoned would only lead to damaging rumors about herself. She was not accustomed to court life, and could not realize that such simple actions were often the cause of much destruction.
Gavin fed his anger thus, stalking toward the corner of the garden where the pear tree grew.
He came around the bush into a full view of Madelyne and Reginald D’Orrais. They were in an intimate embrace.
Twenty
When Reginald’s lips covered hers, Madelyne stilled. She neither moved closer nor further from the man whose arms slid around her shoulders, and whose mouth pressed to hers.
’Twas a soft kiss—nothing like the one she’d shared with Gavin in the wood—and Madelyne felt as though she waited for something more to happen. It did. Reginald pulled her closer to him and fitted his mouth more tightly to hers, angling his head and drawing her face toward him.
Warmth trickled through her and she allowed her hand to reach tentatively to touch his shoulder. It was pleasant, she thought dimly. Neither frightening nor disturbing, she realized with relief. He would be her husband, and it did not alarm her when he kissed her. Nor did it cause her veins to jump and her body to soften into a mass of warmth as Gavin’s kiss had done.
Their wedding night would be different, she knew, with much more than a gentle kiss to occur. Would she feel the same… nothing then, or would Reginald’s touch make her limbs feel light and her skin jump?
She vaguely noticed that Reginald’s fingers brushed the side of her face as he pulled slowly away. “Madelyne,” he whispered, “I would that you are mine.”
Then he drew her to him, more forcefully this time, his mouth plastering against hers so fiercely that her breath caught. Her heart raced now, as she tried to assimilate this new experience, and determine how she felt about it.
Then, abruptly, Reginald pulled away, allowing her to settle back into her place on the bench.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting, D’Orrais” came a voice she knew very well—a voice calm, deep, and frigid.
Madelyne’s stomach flipped as she twisted around to see a tall figure—Gavin—standing with his back to the sun, looking down at them. She could not see his face, as the sun was bright and it shadowed his countenance, but his stance bespoke of the barest of control.
“His majesty has just returned from the hunt and it is my understanding that he wishes to speak with you,” he continued in that cool voice.
Reginald, who had not removed his attention from Gavin, stood immediately. “My thanks, Mal Verne.” He turned to Madelyne, taking her hand and bringing it swiftly to his lips. Pressing against them softly, he spoke, his mouth moving against her skin, “Mayhap ’tis the news I have been waiting for. I shall find you at supper, then, my lady.”
“Of course,” Madelyne spoke, finding her voice. Had she expected Gavin to be angry with Reginald for kissing her? Why would she have assumed he’d feel the same annoyance that she’d felt when observing him and Therese together?
But he was not angry at all—instead, he came bearing glad news for her suitor.
The thought left her empty and bereft, and she stood as Reginald started off.
“Nay,” Gavin commanded, his hand coming out to grasp her wrist. He directed her back to her seat. “I wish to speak with you.”
Now she saw it, as he sat next to her on the bench: the darkness smoldering in eyes the color of tempered iron. She noticed, too, the bloody scrape along his cheek and the dirt streaks along the side of his face and arm. “What has happened?” she asked, reaching automatically to touch the dirt on his sleeve. “Have you been hurt?”
“’Tis naught of your concern,” he responded, pulling back as her fingers brushed the rough fabric of his tunic. She saw him wince as he moved, and knew he was in pain.
“Gavin, you are hurt—”
“Madelyne, do not attempt to sway me from my purpose! Your concern for my hurt is a meager balm at this time—”
“Your purpose?” Her interruption surprised him, Madelyne observed with satisfaction—she was not so much the shy little nun she once had been, thanks to his own actions. “Your purpose was to inform Reginald that the king wished to see him, and now that task is completed—”
“’Twas a falsehood,” Gavin said flatly. “The king does not wish to see him—’tis my task to give him the news that he may wed you.”
Emptiness swelled within her, but she pushed it aside in favor of growing irritation. “What then is your great and lofty purpose, Lord Mal Verne, that you should interrupt my peaceful seat in the garden with your anger and annoyance?”
“Ah…yes, I did interru
pt, did I not. I cannot in truth apologize to you, my lady, for coming upon you as I did and attempting to salvage your reputation.” Anger flashed anew in his gray eyes. “Do you not know he only wishes to brand you as his own? ’Tis why he kisses you in the public garden where any may see it—and thus wonder about your virtue.”
Madelyne recoiled, and then annoyance surged through her. “’Twas only a harmless kiss,” she responded evenly, realizing that she must speak her mind. “He has been courting me gently, and never attempted such a thing before today.”
“Madelyne, I—do you love him?” His voice was rough.
“Love him?” She had not expected such a question…’twas almost as if he had some care for her. Mayhap… Resolve built within her. “Why would I not love him? He is kind and gentle and treats me with respect…and he is most certainly not hard upon the eyes! What woman would not love such a man…most especially a naive little nun who knows naught of a man’s world?”
She tilted her head to look at him steadily while trying to keep her gaze from resting upon his beautiful mouth: the only part of his face that appeared pliable.
Now, as he returned her stare, Madelyne felt surrounded by his presence. Gavin’s body so close to hers on the bench suddenly made her feel as though they touched—when they did not. His thigh rested just next to hers, thick and ridged with muscle, his cross-garters and hose sagging below the knee.
“Do you like his kisses? Do you wish to marry him?”
“His kisses were…adequate,” she replied coolly, taking care to keep her voice steady and nonchalant. “It has been my experience that one kiss is the same as another…would you not agree, Lord Mal Verne?”
She looked away with great casualness, forcing herself to focus on the tiny green apples that grew just beyond their bench.
All at once, large, firm hands closed over her shoulders and she was hauled toward him and into a solid, imposing chest. Gavin’s face—dark and hungry—blurred toward her, his mouth descending upon hers before she could draw a breath.
