Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “There is also another matter.” ’Twas time to be rid of this annoying lout. “Sickness has swept through Wode. Lady Brackendale and many others are ill, and as of yet, ’tis not known how the illness is spread.”

  The young man’s face paled. “Claire? Is she—?”

  “She is well,” Tye said. “Yet, until the sickness has run its course or a cure is found, no one is allowed in or out of the castle.”

  “I see. But—”

  “Those are my orders.”

  Concern flickered across Delwyn’s features. He adjusted his grip on his horse’s reins, his gloved hands opening and closing in a gesture of frustration. “What can I do to help? Do you need food? Healing herbs? I can ask my lord—”

  “There is naught to be done for now,” Tye said. “We have all we need.”

  “I will pray for a swift recovery for all who are ill, as well as a cure to be quickly found.”

  A hard smile touched Tye’s mouth. “I thank you. Now, if you will kindly allow us to return to—”

  “The letter,” Delwyn said. Relaxing his hold on his horse’s reins, he drew open his cloak and pulled a rolled missive from his belt. A yellow wax seal gleamed against the whitish parchment.

  “Refuse it,” Braden ground out.

  “’Twill make him even more suspicious,” Tye answered quietly. “Also, there might be information in that letter, word on de Lanceau’s whereabouts that we would be wise to know.”

  “Mayhap.” Braden scowled. “But—”

  “Tell the men to lower the drawbridge.”

  “Tye.”

  “Do it.” Tye held the older man’s glare. “He will hand the letter to me through the portcullis. Then, he will leave.”

  Swearing under his breath, Braden strode away to deliver the order.

  Stepping forward, Tye set his gloved hand on a horizontal slat of the portcullis and met Delwyn’s stare. “I will take the missive for Claire. The drawbridge is being lowered now, so you can ride across and hand me the letter. The portcullis will remain in place.”

  “Agreed.” Relief softened Delwyn’s features.

  With the squeak and groan of iron workings, the drawbridge lowered over the moat. A gritty thud echoed, the sound of the platform settling on the snow-covered dirt.

  The hooves of Delwyn’s mount clattered on the planks as he rode the horse forward. He halted next to the portcullis. Leaning down, he pushed the missive through the slats. The parchment rasped against the barrier, and then it was through and in Tye’s hand.

  He met Delwyn’s gaze, a silent confirmation that their exchange was complete. The young man nodded. Then his eyes narrowed, and he studied Tye’s face before he eased away and straightened in his saddle.

  “Give my regards to Claire,” Delwyn said. “Tell her we will see her soon.”

  Tye waited until Delwyn had ridden halfway down the road that led to and from Wode. Tapping the still-sealed missive against his open palm, and convinced the lad was well out of earshot, Tye turned to Braden, still standing in the shadows. “I want you to follow him for a day or two.”

  A sly grin widened Braden’s mouth. “I will be glad to.”

  “I want to know where he goes next, what he does, whom he meets. We need to know for certain if he is reporting back to my sire.”

  “I will saddle my horse and be on my way.”

  “Also, make some discreet inquiries in the local villages. Find out what you can about my father’s whereabouts. Beware, though. If my sire knows that you helped me and my mother escape imprisonment last summer, you will be a wanted man.”

  Braden snorted and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I have eluded him so far. Moreover, I can fight better than most knights. I am not worried.”

  “Very well. Report back to me as soon as you have news.”

  “Agreed.” The older man’s expression turned smug. “Truth be told, I am glad of a reason to quit the keep for a while.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I gave your mother something to think about this morning. My being away…” Determination and mischief gleamed in Braden’s eyes. “With luck, my absence will encourage her to give me an answer.”

  “Answer?” Judging by the red bite marks and scratches on Braden’s neck, Tye almost didn’t want to know the nature of what had been discussed. If it concerned the plans for Wode in any way, though, he wanted to know all of the details.

  Braden merely grinned and strode for the stables.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three brisk raps on her chamber door brought Claire straightening up from her linen chest, where she’d been searching for a thicker chemise to wear to bed. Night had fallen, and the breeze stealing in around the closed shutters promised a heavy frost overnight.

  After dining with Mary in the hall earlier, she’d been escorted back to her chamber where she’d spent the rest of the afternoon, torn between moments of utter boredom and terrible worry. After writing another entry in her journal, and finishing the wine left in her chamber, she’d decided to go to bed. A good night’s sleep—if her thoughts would unravel enough to let her slumber—would do wonders for steadying her nerves. With luck, the more-than-usual amount of wine she’d imbibed would help her rest, too.

  With the knock on the door, though, her plans for this evening might change. Mayhap she would be taken to Lady Brackendale’s room again?

  Not moving from the linen chest, Claire watched the door. She knew Tye stood outside, because she’d recognized his voice when he’d addressed the guards.

  She waited for the door to swing open, for Tye to stride in with his usual swaggered arrogance.

  The door didn’t budge.

  How curious. Last time, he hadn’t waited for her acknowledgement before entering; he’d just done as he liked. Had Tye actually heeded what she’d told him about noble courtesy? What an astonishing development.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The panel immediately swung inward, and Tye strode into her room. He wore a midnight blue wool tunic that draped to his knees, black hose, and black leather boots. With his hair tied back into a sleek queue, the sensual angles of his cheekbones were even more pronounced.

  Holy Mother Mary, but he was magnificent. He stole her breath.

  She was suddenly unsteady on her feet. With a strangled gasp, she pressed her right hand against her breastbone, where her pulse throbbed in loud beats.

  “Did I frighten you, Kitten? You explained before that ’twas proper for a man to knock—”

  “I did, and you did exactly the right thing. Thank you.” As his grin broadened with pleasure, she wished she hadn’t drunk so much wine. It did not help matters that she felt slightly giddy. “You did not frighten me. I was merely…catching my breath.”

  “I see.” He studied the open linen chest. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Aye.” She bent, reached under a pile of silk gowns, and drew a chemise from the chest. The lid dropped back into place with a resounding bang.

  “Good. Then you are free to come with me.”

  “W-why?” She hadn’t meant to reply so quickly, or sound so unsettled. There was no advantage in revealing that he intimidated her, not just with his demands, but with his raw sensuality that still made breathing more difficult than normal. No doubt the wine warming her innards was to blame for her intense reaction to him, too. If only she’d been more sensible.

  Tye’s lazy grin caused a fluttering sensation in her belly. “I only wish to talk. Surely there is no harm in that?”

  “Not at all.” Talk. She could do that. Of course she could, even if he was the most devastatingly handsome man she’d ever met—a rogue who’d kissed her with exquisite skill and implied he wanted more from her.

  Mayhap tonight he will demand more, her conscience whispered. Are you really willing to trust him? Do you dare?

  She crossed to the bed and dropped the chemise on it, glad her steady hand didn’t reveal her anxiety. Then, she wa
lked over to Tye. He motioned for her to quit the chamber, and she brushed past him and out into the hallway, doing her best to ignore his smoldering stare traveling over her.

  “What do you wish to discuss?” she asked as he fell into step beside her.

  “I will tell you when we reach the great hall.”

  The hall. A silent sigh of relief rippled through her. There would be plenty of other folk there. At least he was not taking her somewhere secluded, such as his solar.

  They reached the landing, and with curious gallantry, he gestured for her to go ahead of him down the stairs to the hall. Most of the tables from the evening meal had been cleared back against the walls, allowing room for the servants to lay their straw pallets to sleep for the night. Three tables had been left standing near the dais, and mercenaries sat at them. Five thugs cast bets on a staring contest between two burly contestants. At another table, four men drank, talked, and laughed, not caring to caution their rough language or lower their voices.

  As Claire’s gaze skimmed the hall, she saw most of the reed torches along the far walls had been extinguished. Children were sleeping in the dark corner, several dogs lying alongside their pallets.

  Tye motioned to the hearth. A fire blazed, its golden glow warm and inviting. Two high-backed chairs had been pushed up to the hearthside. A table nestled between them, set with a wine jug, two goblets, and a plate laden with two thick slices of cake.

  “Please. Sit,” Tye said.

  She did, sitting close to the chair’s edge. The faint scent of ginger wafted over the tang of wood smoke. Was that ginger cake on the plate? Cook’s special treat, made from a recipe that had been passed down through the women in Cook’s family? Claire’s favorite? How had Tye managed that, and why would he have bothered?

  You know why. Tonight, he will demand more, her conscience taunted.

  Fighting a fresh wave of lightheadedness along with a tingle of dread—aye, ’twas surely dread, not excitement—Claire clasped her sweat-dampened hands on her lap. He might demand more, but she would refuse him. ’Twould take far more than a piece of cake to sway her.

  Tye dropped into the other chair, leaned against the carved back, and propped his left booted foot sideways on his right knee—a posture that made him look both relaxed and controlled. The fingers of his left hand trailed over the smooth, polished arm of the chair; the small, deliberate caresses roused the image of him brushing his fingertips over her bare skin.

  Claire stared straight ahead at the fire and tried to remember how many pairs of shoes were in her linen chest. Counting would help to rein in her wanton thoughts.

  “You are ready to run, I see.”

  “Run?” She clasped her hands tighter. “Nay.”

  “As I said earlier, I wish only to talk. Anything more would require a far softer surface beneath you than a wooden chair.”

  Mercy. When Tye said things like that, counting shoes most certainly didn’t help. “You speak very brazenly this evening, milord.”

  “Every evening, actually.”

  ’Twas likely the truth. She smiled, while the scent of cake teased her. How shameful that her mouth watered with the remembered taste of the moist, spicy delicacy.

  “Would you like some cake?”

  Oh, indeed she would, but she mustn’t be too eager. “What kind is it?”

  His grin didn’t waver, as if he knew exactly why she was delaying in taking her portion. “’Tis ginger cake, with plenty of raisins. The cook mentioned this is one of your favorites. I understand you also like apple tarts with custard and—”

  “You were discussing me with Cook?”

  “Not you in particular.” He picked up the plate and offered it to her. Claire delayed one more moment, and then could fight the temptation no longer. She took the closest slice of cake. She bit into it, sighing as the spicy and sweet flavors tumbled into her mouth. Tye took the other piece, bit off a mouthful, and chewed. “Very good,” he murmured.

  “Mmm.” Claire agreed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him eat. He didn’t cram the cake into his mouth and gobble it, but ate it a mouthful at a time, savoring it. When his tongue slid out to lick a crumb from the corner of his mouth, her mind immediately shot back to the day in her chamber when he’d licked the spoon, over and over in a most sinful manner. She fought to keep her thoughts under control. “You were saying?” she finally asked. “About Cook?”

  “I visited the kitchens yesterday to see what kind of state they were in,” Tye answered. “She went on and on about the leak in the thatched roof near the back wall, bemoaned her worn pots and pans, and pointed out the need for new pantry shelves. In her opinion, the kitchen is not to the standard it should be for a castle of this size and renown. She insisted she could make much finer fare with better cookware.”

  Fighting a pang of regret, Claire downed another mouthful of the cake. Cook had been asking Lady Brackendale for months to have the roof fixed and for new pots and pans. Her ladyship had promised to see to the matters, but caught up in her grief and despair, had done naught.

  “I promised Cook that once Wode is formally awarded to me, I will fix the thatch and buy her whatever cooking implements she needs. I could see she was delighted, although she tried to continue the ruse of being indignant about my takeover here. Today, when I stopped by the kitchens, she presented me with the ginger cake. She barely smiled when she pushed the plate toward me, but I could see she wanted me to taste it.” Finished eating his cake, he brushed crumbs from this tunic. “I did my best to sound appreciative of her talents. If I am lucky, she might surprise me with another treat tomorrow.”

  With a sigh, Claire finished the rest of her slice. “You are not only bold, but devious,” she said, licking a bit of cake from her finger.

  “Sometimes, ’tis necessary to be devious. It got me into Wode, and I am here to stay.” Tye watched her tongue glide over her skin. His gaze darkened and filled with a hunger that made her quickly drop her hand back down into her lap.

  “Tell me about Delwyn de Lysonne, Claire.”

  Her eyes widened. “How do you know about—?”

  “He arrived at the castle gates earlier today. He brought a letter from your sister.”

  Claire could barely contain her joy. “Johanna is so good at sending letters. She must have realized, with the snowstorm, that I was still at Wode—”

  “Still at Wode? Do you not live here as a ward of Lady Brackendale?”

  “I do. However, I decided weeks ago, for…personal reasons, to leave Wode and go and live with my aunt. I was meant to travel to her keep, providing the weather was good, on the day of the siege.”

  “Lucky for me, then, that the snow fell and I chose that day to attack,” Tye said with a wink.

  Lucky? Goodness. Trying to ignore an inappropriate tingle of delight, Claire said, “I must write to Johanna. Once the situation at Wode is settled, of course.”

  Tye nodded, but the piercing heat of his stare didn’t diminish. “You did not answer my question yet. Delwyn—”

  “He is a friend, a squire at the keep where Johanna lives as a ward.”

  “He spoke fondly of you.”

  “I have known him since we were children. He has delivered every letter from my sister.”

  Tension suddenly seemed to define Tye’s posture. “Is he courting you?”

  Shocked laughter bubbled from Claire. “Nay.”

  “He seemed the perfect man to catch your eye. Young, comely, and of fine noble breeding.”

  In the flickering light and shadows of the fire, Tye’s features appeared hewn from stone. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was jealous. “If Delwyn is courting anyone,” she said, “I hope ’tis Johanna.”

  Tye’s gaze didn’t waver. Not so much as a flicker of his eyelashes.

  “I have always thought he and Johanna well suited. They are close to the same age. They share many friends. I have encouraged my sister to accept his advances, and I believe I have been succe
ssful.”

  “’Tis the truth?”

  “If you have read my letters from Johanna, as you have claimed to have done, then you would know I am telling the truth.”

  The silence between them persisted, marked by the pops and hisses of the fire. Then, Tye smiled. His crooked grin held such devastating charm, Claire’s head spun. She must still be feeling the effects of the wine she’d drunk a short while ago, or else Tye was entirely responsible for her giddiness. She grabbed hold of one arm of the chair to steady herself.

  “I have read only a few of her letters,” he finally said. “There has, as you know, been a great deal to accomplish in the last few days.” Before Claire could say a word, he added quietly, “I am also a slow reader. It takes me a while to make out the words.”

  ’Twas a rare admission from such a proud man. “If I may ask, who taught you to read? ’Tis not common for…” a man of your ilk, her thoughts continued. But, she didn’t want to offend him. Not when she had such an ideal opportunity to learn more about him. Frowning, she tried to find the right words.

  “For a rogue and a bastard, you mean?”

  She bit down on her lip. “I did not mean—”

  “If you must know, a wealthy French widow taught me. Her name was Georgette. I was her much younger lover, a role I greatly enjoyed and lived to the fullest.”

  Judging by his reckless grin and the teasing gleam in his eyes, Tye had hoped to shock her. He had. Yet, Claire couldn’t ignore a pang of sadness, to know he’d been the plaything of a rich woman and subject to her whims. Had he let himself be used in such a way because he’d believed he had no other choice in life? Mayhap he’d desperately needed Georgette’s generosity to eat and have a place to sleep. Claire shouldn’t care to know his reasons, but she did.

  “In the afternoons,” he was saying, “after I had satisfied all of her desires, Georgette liked to sit in her bed, open to a page in a book, and teach me words. She had a small collection of leather-bound tomes that had become hers after her husband, a spice merchant, died. She told me that teaching me to read was her gift to me. She said her husband’s ability to read had helped him in deals with less-than-honorable buyers, who had added clauses into contracts without telling him beforehand. He was able to point out the additions and correct the documents. Likewise, she insisted that being able to read would help me avoid unfavorable deals in my life. If I wished, I could become more than a mere sword for hire.”