by Nicole Locke
Was he frustrated not to be able to see her hips? She’d always thought her body an odd shape. Unlike her sister, who was round all over, she was small on top and large on the bottom—something no gown could completely disguise. No man had ever commented on her flaws, but Evrart appeared to like them.
What colour were his eyes? That strange cross between brown and blue? His hair, damp with sweat, was a much richer brown, and cut brutally short in places, but left oddly long in others. As if he cut it for his own purposes and not for any fashion. It suited him.
It suited her. A section that she could run her fingers through, and another she could lay her palm along to feel the prickle and tingle that would begin but wouldn’t end there.
Just imagining how it would feel was causing her body to react, her breaths to feel a bit short, her nipples to tighten for want of soothing. That spot on his head...she’d cradle it when she tugged him closer, when she—
His gaze swung back up to her face, his eyes holding a question that darkened the colour there. Was her food of any interest, was she?
The hall was silent. Jeanne had left after setting the different plates in front of her just so...after Margery had asked her all the questions she’d been able to think of to keep Jeanne close for company. Today the topic had been parts of the fortress she couldn’t see. Information she’d need to escape. None had been forthcoming, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
And she’d keep trying, because she had more of a chance to leave now with Ian of Warstone not here, than when he returned. She had more of a chance of escaping when she wasn’t locked in her room.
Something this man—this warrior—seemed to understand as he stood there, his gaze changing from questions to something more forceful, more demanding.
What was he demanding? Margery looked at the multitude of dishes before her as if they could answer. They could. Ah, yes, he’d asked a question.
‘What am I doing? I’m eating fresh cheese,’ she replied. ‘It’s newer than most and requires the spoon as well as bread to not waste any.’
‘And that?’ he pointed.
She didn’t look down. ‘Beans.’
He breathed in deep and exhaled roughly, as if whatever he’d been thinking had tightened something inside him as well. She could tell nothing of his thoughts from his expression, though.
‘Cooked with wine?’ he said.
This was what he wanted to question her on? No, he wanted something else—she could almost see it. But what?
‘Ale, and I requested extra buttered onions to top them.’
‘Buttered?’
‘I find the taste of oil flavourless.’
As if she could ever get used to such luxury as olive oil! She’d eaten well with Josse and Roul, but the Warstone wealth was unsurpassed. Perhaps the King of France ate such fare, but she couldn’t get used to it, and it wasn’t what she craved.
It didn’t hurt that asking Jeanne for different dishes also kept her close, so more questions could be asked. She truly wished they could be proper friends...
‘How many meals has Jeanne provided to you today?’ he said.
She tried to keep a straight expression. ‘Ten.’
His lips tightened. ‘How many did you refuse.’
‘Nine.’
‘Jeanne has other duties.’
Margery was certain she did—but that didn’t suit her purposes.
‘How did you get to the hall?’ he asked.
‘I suggested it would be more prudent for me to eat my meal here as it’s closer to the kitchens, and she could do her other duties.’
Sweeping his gaze around the cavernous room, he pulled out a bench.
There was ample space along the giant table, but when Evrart sat down the space between them wasn’t more than the length of her spoon, and when he rested his arm on the thick oak table it shook.
‘Do you want some?’ she said.
He eyed the heavy, thick bread, vastly different from the fluffy buttered raston Jeanne had first offered her and grabbed a roll. She pushed the bean dish over, and he dipped.
He was merely eating, but she felt as if something was in the balance. Something she needed to understand. Because she didn’t want to lose this small victory...didn’t want him locking her up even more than she was already. Ian had several chambers, and the garderobe was down the corridor. But she was aware she could be locked into only one room with no opportunity to be outside it ever again.
‘I’m not outside,’ she said. ‘The private chambers are just up that staircase.’
He chewed, swallowed, dipped his bread again.
‘If I stepped outside, you’d see me because you’re always in the lists.’
He stopped chewing, stared at her. When his eyes narrowed and he audibly swallowed, she realised what she’d just confessed.
That she watched him. Not simply looked outside, but at him. That she knew exactly where he was, and what he was doing.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about her blush.
Evrart grabbed the cup in front of Margery and downed the liquid. He wasn’t surprised it was ale, given the food in front of her. But he was surprised, greatly, that this woman had been watching him.
Him.
Not the lists or the guards. She’d mentioned nothing of the weather, nor the fact the pen around the pigs had been broken by some boys playing, and there had been squealing hogs running loose. They had caused chaos during training, though with one order from him the men had got in line.
Evrart set down the empty cup, but didn’t take the final bite of the roll. His ravenous body was suddenly not interested in food. It was wanting something different—something also at this table but not for his consumption. So tiny, but not delicate. He wanted to devour her.
When people first noticed him, they stared. Most didn’t blink, and some were bold and walked up to test their height against his before they even introduced themselves.
When Margery had first seen him, her eyes had swept over him the same as everyone else. When Ian had assigned him to her, he’d been treated as no more or less than Jeanne. She talked to him the same way, she touched him the same way. Now she had invited him to sit and dine with her.
Who was she? It was not the first time he’d asked himself that question, and it wouldn’t be the last. There was still more to know about her. Anything she’d told him could be a lie. Perhaps she did know Ian, and she was here for some other purpose. Maybe she was a spy Ian had planted whilst he was gone.
Yet none of that mattered as it should because...she’d watched him.
The true question was: did she want to know about him? Not as a conquest or to gain position in the household, but him as a man?
As she shifted in her seat and picked up a bread roll, only to set it down, then pick it up again, he thought she might. And just the possibility, just the thought that someone could want him, blasted through every reason he had for staying away.
She wasn’t staying in the room as it was. When he’d stand in the corridor, and she’d walked to the garderobe and back, she’d stare out through the archways to the grounds below, and do the same again on her return towards him.
And Jeanne, as quiet and shy as she was, always kept the doors open for Margery to gain access to the corridor. He knew she’d been in his room yesterday when his worn tunic wasn’t exactly where he put it. Already the servants were taking risks against Warstone’s wishes, and that was significant.
So why shouldn’t he? Because he hadn’t done it before. There had always been something or someone to jeopardise his family. Was this woman worth it? Reason told him he didn’t know, not with any certainty. But the way he felt sitting across from her... He didn’t want to let that go. Not yet...not if he didn’t have to.
If he was intelligent there wouldn’t b
e much danger—at least not while Ian was away. No one would question him if he acted the way he always did. Who was to say he wasn’t guarding her still? It was safer to keep her closer. Today she’d been in the corridor; tomorrow she could be elsewhere.
If he watched her, made certain she didn’t talk to others, what harm could there be?
Also, if he was wrong. and she wasn’t trustworthy or innocent, keeping her close would allow him to extract information that he or Ian could use. It would be easier to catch her in some misdeed if he allowed her the opportunity.
It would be completely against Warstone’s wishes, though, and a risk. But he’d take it. Because he wasn’t starved for food or drink—he was starved for something he hadn’t known he was hungry for.
Her.
‘What are you thinking?’ she said.
Evrart chewed on the bread and beans that would provide him strength, but little else. The woman before him was what he needed, and whatever measly touch she gave, whatever tiny offering of kindness she pushed across the table to him, he’d take.
‘How did you get into my room?’ he asked.
Her fingers fumbled with the abused bread roll in her hand. ‘How did you know I’d got into your room.’
Because he’d felt it before he noticed his tunic hadn’t been draped over the chair the way he did. Had almost been able to smell her scent in the fabric, as if she’d didn’t just move it, but clutched it as she picked it up.
He no more wanted to threaten Jeanne than he would a small kitten. Whenever he entered a room, Jeanne always found a way to leave it. No, he couldn’t reprimand Jeanne. But Margery...
‘You only guessed that’s what I did, and I just confirmed it!’
She grinned and leaned her elbows on the table. He was all too aware it brought them closer.
‘Is this cheese your favourite?’ she asked.
Her hands were flat on the thickly textured wood table. How easy it would be to touch her!
‘Which cheese?’
Why was she talking of food when her eyes danced as they did? Had they looked this way when she’d entered his room? Now he wondered what else she touched.
‘This one.’ She laughed and pointed. ‘The newer kind—so soft you have to eat it with a spoon or spread it on a dense loaf?’
How did she...? The bowl was empty. Whilst he had sat and thought of her, he must have eaten the lot.
‘I’m willing to guess you don’t like to talk,’ she said. ‘So, if I say something wrong you could just blink twice.’
She wasn’t going to force him to speak. He could do this. Say a few words, and no one need know why he was here. He was just her guard. That was all. Simply guarding her...
‘You’re like me,’ she said. ‘Small village? Perhaps your family tilled the fields? Perhaps they’re poor and you’ve had to make the decisions that led you here?’
This was the flaw in his thoughts! He might not talk. He might be guarding her. But he would be exposed to her and her thoughts, her words and deeds...
Evrart set the roll down and brushed crumbs off his legs. Not this. They couldn’t talk of this.
She reached out. Her hand was right there.
‘I’m sorry, did I—?’
A mistake. How long had he been here? Enough time to eat a bread roll, and in that time he’d made a mistake. His proximity to her put his mother and his sister at risk, and not just because of the Warstones.
Perhaps if they were caught he could explain to Ian why he’d allowed Margery outside the room. But telling her of his family? Of himself? It was too much.
He shoved the bench away from the table and stood. ‘You aren’t to leave your room for anything or anyone. I will, however, accompany you every day on any walk that you wish to have. Your games with Jeanne must stop. They put you, and more importantly her, at risk.’
‘But if you take me out—’
‘I have no risk,’ he said. ‘Now, finish this meal and I’ll walk you upstairs.’
‘Evrart, I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know...’ She slid to the end of the bench and stood. ‘I asked, but you didn’t answer, and now I know—’
Despite himself, despite knowing better, he said, ‘What do you know.’
‘That he’s threatening your family, too.’
Chapter Eight
Margery glanced at the man walking beside her. True to his word, he no longer trained his men all day, no longer locked her in the room all the time. Instead, for the last few days, he’d roamed the castle with her.
It was a welcome but fragmented reprieve.
That day in the hall, when he’d eaten all her food, he’d seemed to come to some conclusion. But then she’d asked of his family and he became as the fortress—a wall of cold stone.
He’d stopped talking and she hadn’t known what to say or how to apologise and return to something approaching amicability between them.
By the time they’d reached her door she had been in a panic. She’d clutched at it, then at his arm. When he’d finally looked at her all she’d been able to do was apologise again. Vow not to talk of his family—or him. She’d felt the tension ease from under her hand, and she’d had the impulse to track that small movement. To feel more of him.
The next day he had been at her door, pointing not at the garderobe but towards the stairs.
And now here they were, though it still startled her to be out in the air, and that he’d allowed her suggestion for what they did. Of course he stayed close, which precluded her from attempting to run or looking for a way to escape.
Any freedom was impossible with the men at the gates. Every glance she made to the ramparts, or around the courtyard, revealed how well trained they were—and she was hardly a gifted escapist. She’d learnt to watch people to protect herself. Flinging herself into a dangerous situation wasn’t a skill she possessed.
At least by walking with Evrart she was able to observe, and maybe an opportunity would present itself. People avoided Evrart, and as a consequence her as well. She wasn’t certain Evrart would allow her to interact anyway, but to not be given the opportunity was an odd sensation. Margery was used to people running towards her. Now she received stares, but they were quickly averted, and no one dared approach them.
Unfortunately, however, the first few times she’d attempted to investigate the kitchens or greet Jeanne had been a failure. There had been no visiting Jeanne or being introduced to Thomas. As for Cook—she’d seen him, more often than not slumped in a chair asleep. She couldn’t imagine it was he who was preparing her food. Not that she minded the simple fare...
Had something happened to Cook? She didn’t know and didn’t know how to ask—not with Evrart at her back and people walking as far away from them as possible.
It wasn’t all terrible. Being avoided gave her some freedom. She was able to roam the chapel gardens as much as she’d like.
But after a few days of walking the inner courtyard, and a day or two of access to the outer courtyard, Margery wanted more—and not only for herself. She was all too aware of the stares she garnered, but she was aware that Evrart had his fair share, too.
Did it bother him? His expression was as stoic as ever. The man truly was like the walls of the fortress. But something weighed on him. She’d touch his arm to gain his attention and he’d roll his shoulders afterwards. Or she’d stand on tiptoes to whisper closer to his ear so as not to be overheard and he’d flex his neck.
Sometimes it was the things she’d say, and he’d get a pained look on his face. Though she avoided talking of his family, and quickly told him of hers, she still bothered him.
Was it her choice of conversation? Her requests to wander farther and farther? She didn’t know. And she wouldn’t ask—not while he allowed these odd outings.
Right now, however, Evrart’s expression was as impassive as
it had been when he’d greeted her this morning and she’d announced she wanted to pick quince in the orchards. He was just as quiet, too.
Despite those two things, he still gave off premonitions of his displeasure—and yet there was some eagerness in him which was at odds with his reluctance. It was odd for her, too, for she recognised her happiness to have his company. If she’d truly hated it, she would have stayed in the room.
If she told someone of Evrart, she’d say he wasn’t good company. Except he was exactly the company she wanted. He had been ordered to guard her, but she felt comfortable around him when everything about him should have repelled her. Not because of the sheer size of him, but because he was Ian’s personal guard and anything she did would be reported to him.
She’d never been comfortable or trusting with a man. Josse had coddled her; Roul had exposed her. And being ripped from that world and put into Ian’s, which was more sinister than anything she’d experienced before, should have terrorised her.
But this time with Evrart wasn’t frightening. How could it be when she teased him about his cheese or when he agreed to their picking quince?
‘The days would go much faster if we could converse, or you could give an opinion, or...’
‘I need to train.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you needed to do something else today?’
When he said nothing more, she sighed. Maybe she was comfortable around him because he wasn’t comfortable around her. He’d said he had a duty to watch her, but she wondered again if that was the reason he allowed her out of the room.
‘We can walk after midday if you wish,’ she said.
‘No.’
There were days when Evrart was almost congenial—this didn’t seem to be one of them. Still, she did like to tease him. His expressions were always good for some amusement.