“It will be good to eat again,” she said, and urged her horse into a faster walk toward the inn.
Sir Jack chuckled. “I have never seen anyone eat so much or so often,” he said. “I am surprised you have not become as round as a ball by now.”
She grinned. “I am not fat because you are as bad as a slave master, the way you make me work and work at fighting with the sword. I must eat to keep up my strength.”
“Well, it is working,” he said, and there was a note of approval in his voice. “You are much stronger than I would have expected, and have progressed very quickly.”
His approval warmed her, and she held herself straighter in her saddle. “Thank you,” she said.
“Not that you don’t have much to improve,” he said, deflating her spirits a little. “But you are a quick student.”
She did not mind the check on her optimism; that she had much to learn was truth, after all. She only nodded, however, for they had come to the inn at last, and the early morning scents of baking bread seeped from behind the door, making her mouth water. She had partaken of the cheese and bread earlier, but it had not been enough, and the scent of warm bread made her stomach groan with anticipation.
They went around to the stables, and she was glad when Sir Jack helped her down, for her legs trembled with fatigue and were sore from the long ride.
“Walk around the yard for a bit and stretch your legs,” he said. “I am afraid you will be extremely sore after you rest, but it’s better that you rest than not.”
She did as he said, as he took the horses to the stable, and could already feel how her legs and buttocks ached. But she ignored it for now; there was promise of food, and she almost ran for the inn when he came out of the stable at last.
The smell of baking bread was stronger once Jack pushed open the door and held it open for her. The inn was quiet, for what few guests were in the common room slept on their benches near the fire, and the servants at their duties moved sleepily around them. The most activity seemed to be at the kitchens; voices came from there, as well as the sound of clanking pots and the smell of food.
Catherine almost groaned at the scent, and her mouth watered. Another chuckle sounded behind her. “Patience, mademoiselle. You will eat soon enough. We must get our rooms first.”
She nodded, but she could not help looking toward what must be the kitchen and the source of the mouthwatering scents. There was bread most prominent, but then could there be? . . . Yes, she could smell a ham, and perhaps a roast chicken. She inched closer to the smells, glancing at Sir Jack arguing with the innkeeper. She would not actually go into the kitchen, of course, but certainly Sir Jack would not mind if she went closer. She slipped past Sir Jack and the innkeeper, and would have gone much closer to the kitchen and its wonderful smells, but Jack’s and the innkeeper’s voices rose, and she caught the words “your wife.”
She whirled and stared at Sir Jack, and noticed that the innkeeper gave her a curious look, taking in her male clothing. Her gaze shifted to Jack, and he gave her an apologetic glance and a lifted hand to halt her when she opened her mouth to protest. She shut her mouth, the kitchen suddenly without interest for her, and focused her attention on the two men.
“Well, if that is the case,” the innkeeper was saying, “then you may have the room. You are lucky; it is one of our best rooms, and the only one left, for as you see, we are on the road from Rouen to Paris and it is rare that we have any rooms left at all.”
She looked from the innkeeper to Sir Jack, and saw Jack’s frustrated look. It must have been that he had asked for two rooms, but was refused, and then claimed they were husband and wife so that they might have the one left. She looked about the room and noticed it was a fairly prosperous inn, and thought perhaps the owners could afford to be virtuous, and she nodded slightly at Jack to acknowledge that he had wished to protect her reputation. A relieved expression came over his face, and he nodded to the stairs. “Let us go up, then,” he said, and took the key from the innkeeper.
He hefted their saddlebags as if he had not been traveling for so long, but a glance at his face in the growing light revealed red, tired eyes and weary creases around his mouth. Guilt crept into Catherine’s heart. He had not slept at all this long night, and she knew his day had been occupied with training her as well as writing letters to various court officials for entrée to King Louis. She pressed her lips together in determination. She would make sure he would sleep in the bed this time; she was tougher than he thought, and had been used to sleeping in a cold, dirty alley before this, after all. Sleeping on a blanket next to the fireplace would be a luxury in comparison.
He unlocked the door and opened it with a kick, hauling their belongings within. Catherine looked around the room, pleased. The room was well lit with sunlight through the clear windows, and the bed looked clean and lofty with comforters and pillows. Weariness struck her like a hammer at the sight of such comfort, and she could not help a small groan as her body relaxed into a small chair. But she forced herself from the chair again and took a pillow and a spare blanket from the bed, then set them next to the fire. She sighed as she sank down on the blanket and set her head on the pillow.
“What are you doing?”
She turned over to face Sir Jack, who had a frown on his face. She lifted her brows. “I am going to sleep, monsieur.”
His frown deepened and he pointed to the bed. “There is a bed. You will sleep on it.”
She shook her head. “No, monsieur, you will sleep on it. You have not slept at all this night, and I have already slept on a bed. It is your turn now, and besides, I have slept in less accommodating places than on a blanket near a fire.”
His look softened somewhat, but he still frowned. “No, Catherine,” he said more gently. “The bed is for you. I, too, have learned to sleep on hard ground, and you have lately been ill and need to gain more strength.”
Her heart warmed at his consideration for her, but again she shook her head. “I am strong already, M. Sir Jack, stronger than I look. And . . .” She hesitated to bring up the subject. “And you yourself said that my wounds have already healed.”
She wondered if he would withdraw from her at mention of her wounds, but he did not; a thoughtful look came over his face and he nodded slowly.
“It is true,” he said. “Very well, you may sleep by the fireplace.”
She could not help looking at him suspiciously, for he gave in to her argument all too easily for such a stubborn man, but his expression held no hint of anything but bland innocence. She gave him one last wary glance and then turned her back and lay on the blanket.
The warmth of the fire soothed her aching limbs, and she sank into the soft pillow and cocooned herself into the comforting blanket. Her stomach growled, but it could not rouse her; food later, she thought. She would eat later.
Jack watched as Catherine’s body sank into relaxation next to the fire, and his heart also sank . . . into the realization that his feelings for the girl were becoming too complex, too . . . concerned. It was not a good time for amorous entanglements, and he was not all that sure he was the type to be trusted with an affair lasting more than a month. He was too fickle, too used to travel and fighting for this or that.
This or that . . . it did not sound like a dedicated man. The thought niggled at him; he had dedicated himself to the cause of his king, did he not? That was something, at least.
But weariness pulled at him, and he glanced at the bed, and then to Catherine. Foolish woman . . . but one with a good heart, he thought. She had clearly seen his fatigue, though he had done his best to conceal it from her. A slight snore came from her, and he grinned. Stubborn woman, as well. She had not even taken off her boots before she fell asleep, as if she were a well-seasoned soldier on the march.
But they could afford a little relaxation now. He had seen no sight of any monster or other supernatural thing, and surely they were far enough away from Paris by now that Catherine’s enemy had lost t
heir scent. He had made sure that they had gone by a circuitous route—longer, unfortunately, but not one easily traced. And chances were good that they would not be attacked during the day.
His shoulders ached and he rotated them, working out the kinks and the stiffness. Another glance at the bed brought further weariness to the fore, and he sat on the edge of it, slowly pulling off his clothes. Damned if he would sleep in them—after all these hours on horseback, he deserved the feel of soft clean sheets.
A cold basin of water and towels sat on a table near the fireplace, and he liberally splashed himself with it and washed off the grime of travel. He gave a glance at Catherine, and a short, soft snore from her made him grin. He warmed the towel near the fire, then went to her. Her face was dirty.
Gently he wiped her face, and when she did not awaken, drew away the blanket. Taking off her boots and jacket, he lifted her up and took her to the bed. For one moment she turned her face toward him, snuggling into the crook of his shoulder, and a painful ache touched his heart; in that moment, her face was unguarded, and she was vulnerable to him. But he shook off the feeling as he lay her on the bed and pulled the covers over her.
He looked at the blanket and pillow near the fireplace and shook his head. Damned if he was going to sleep on hard stone when there was a bed big enough to accommodate both of them. A wry smile twisted his lips. She was safe from him for now; weariness sat on him like a large stone, and he doubted he’d have the energy to do anything but sleep. He was tired to death; propriety was suddenly of little importance in comparison.
He slipped into the bed and pulled the covers over his shoulders, his body aching as it relaxed into the soft mattress. God’s blood, but he needed this. He often felt that he had never quite relaxed in all the years he’d been exiled with King Charles. He’d always looked back over his shoulder for Cromwell’s spies, or forward toward whatever opportunity he could find to scratch out a living and gain funds for the king. He’d done well for himself, come to that. He had built up a good sum in the French banks, and had siphoned off enough for the king from time to time, as well. But all that was nothing compared to what he might be able to get from King Louis . . . if he could get the French king’s ear, that is.
A slight sound next to him made him turn and look at Catherine, still asleep. She frowned for a moment, and he wondered of what she dreamed. Something unpleasant, no doubt. He thought of the quickly disappearing wounds on her back and on her hands, wounds that seemed to appear and then disappear. He had seen blood on her hands as she had fought the monster, and it had not been the creature’s blood, for green slime had flowed from it when Catherine had cut off its head. A soft feeling—pity, he thought—entered his heart. Whatever her wounds meant, he was sure she had suffered greatly and had fought as bravely as any man might. He propped himself up on his elbow and gazed at her, her profile now serene in deep sleep. Her features were delicate, almost fragile for a woman of clearly great strength of body and heart. It made him sorry that duty made it necessary for him to return her to her family.
She turned, then, and her hand fell on his chest. Gently he took it and kissed her fingers, then gathered her into his arms. Surely it would not hurt to do this, to give some comfort and take some, even in sleep. He let himself relax into the bed, and settled his head on the pillow. Surely she would not mind. . . . He grinned before sleep took him. Well, she might mind, but he could argue her out of her irritation, he was sure.
Catherine let the fog over her mind and body persist, for it was warm and comfortable, and warmth and comfort were worth jewels to her after her long sojourn in the alley. Except for the cold air that chilled her face, she was surrounded in the soft heat; below, around, behind—
Behind was not so soft, though it was warmer than anything else. It was a hard warmth, in fact, and if she was not mistaken, it extended around her waist and cupped her breast in what felt like a very large hand.
She opened her eyes, the unfamiliar surroundings at first disorienting her, then the memory of the night’s travels flooded into her mind. She raised her shoulders, retreating from the dreadful images of dark and monstrous, and her back met the hard warmth again. Slowly, she turned and her gaze met the sleeping face of Sir Jack. She remembered where she had lain down to sleep, and how Sir Jack had argued with her, and now . . .
And now, here she was in bed with him.
Panic seized her and she froze, then frantically pushed herself away, breathing in short, gasping breaths, waiting for anger and pain and—
His arm fell from her, lax in sleep. He rolled to his back, and a slight snore came from his open mouth. He closed it again and rolled on his side again toward her, but did not wake.
She slowed her breathing and gathered up the scrambled thoughts in her head. He was only asleep . . . in this bed. He had agreed they would sleep apart. Her cheeks flared with anger and embarrassment, and she put her hands on his chest to push him off the bed, but noticed that she was still clothed—indeed, she was fully clothed in the shirt and trousers she had worn on their journey.
So, he had done nothing but sleep next to her. She bit her lower lip in thought. He had taken off her jacket and boots, and obviously carried her to the bed, and she had been so tired and so deeply asleep that it had not awakened her. He could have taken off more, and she was sure she would not have noticed.
She was suddenly conscious that her hand was still on his chest, and that her fingers had threaded through the slight furring of hair there. She quickly pulled back her hand, watching him to see if he would wake.
He did not. He slept with one hand under his head, the other lax on the bed where she had been. She remembered how she had been pressed against him and how his hand had cupped her breast. It had been very comfortable, she admitted to herself, warmer and softer than huddling next to a fireplace, for a fireplace only gave heat to one side of her, and hard stone to the other, while she had felt comfort and warmth all over when next to Sir Jack. All this was not to be scorned, not after the freezing cold she had lived with every day and night in the alley. Indeed, the part of her that was still the creature in the alley felt it would be good to settle into him to sleep a little more.
But curiosity stirred in her, something that had not had much play in her mind, she realized, for she had been occupied thinking mostly of food and warmth for so long. She wanted to know more of Sir Jack.
She stared at him, at how he breathed deeply and how his relaxed face looked very young, as if he were less than her own age instead of four years older. The scar that had made him look dangerous when he was awake seemed only a slight crease down his cheek rather than a reminder that he had faced death. Her gaze went from his face down to his neck and chest again—he was obviously not much clothed, she thought belatedly, and shook her head at herself. She had thought of warmth and comfort, rather than propriety. But she could not help looking at him, at how the slope of his neck met his shoulder, firm with muscle even in sleep, at how his skin molded around a chest both deep and hard—hard, she knew, for her hand had moved as if on its own and touched him there again. The hair on his chest was soft, and she could see it flowed down to his belly, and she wondered if it was just as soft there. She glanced at his face again—he was still asleep, his breathing slow and regular. He had traveled long and hard, with no rest until now. She doubted he would wake. Her hand moved a little lower. . . .
And was caught in a hard grip. Her eyes flew up to gaze at Sir Jack, and saw that his face was grim.
“There is only so much, mademoiselle, that a man can stand,” he said. “Touch me further and there will be consequences.”
Fear lanced through her, and she strained against his hold. “Will you hurt me, then?”
His expression softened, and he released her. She lay still, suspended between primitive fear and the hope that his changed expression meant he would not hurt her. He lifted his hand, and she could not help flinching.
Pained disappointment flickered over his face
. “Don’t be afraid, Catherine.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “I would never hurt you.”
She nodded slowly, letting out a deep breath, determined to keep to her vow to not give in to fear. She made herself lie still, instead of jumping out of bed, and then closed her eyes when his hand descended to touch her cheek.
His touch was soft, a caress, and there was no hurt in it, said the creature-in-the-alley part of her. She let out another slow breath and let the tension flow out of her as she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He gazed at her, his head propped up on his hand, studying her intently as if she were a book he needed to memorize. Again his hand came up, but this time he touched her with only a finger, from her temple down to her cheek, then slowly, slowly over her lips. It soothed her, and she let her body relax more, and let out another sigh.
“Will you let me kiss you, Catherine?” he asked.
She gazed at him, his eyes still intent, and thought of how he had kissed her before on the cheek, and how it had been very gentle. She would not mind it, if it would be like that, soft and comfortable and warm. She nodded, not trusting to speak.
He came nearer, and she did not flinch, but put her hand to his cheek. His face felt rough—he had not shaved, of course—and it felt interestingly different from the soft hairs on his chest. She felt his arms come around her, gently, slowly, as if he were a hearth-heated blanket. And then his lips came down, not to her cheek, but upon her mouth.
She could not help giving a gasp of fear, but the fear was quickly gone, for the touch of his lips was featherlight, a summer breeze, no more than that. Warmth, said the creature-in-the-alley part of her. Heat. She moved closer, and shifted her hand from his cheek to behind his neck.
Again he kissed her, and again it was light and warm and lasted longer. His arms drew her closer to him, and she did not mind it, for it made her even warmer. His lips released hers then, and she felt a . . . disappointment, for he drew away and there was less warmth. But when she looked cautiously up at him, he only stroked her cheek, a considering look on his face, and she thought he might not mind it if she lay her head upon his chest.
Dark Enchantment Page 10
