Kirlham’s was the next room that needed to be searched, so the less he came under that man’s nose, the better.
Chapter Twelve
Alys had only been going outside when necessary, too ashamed to meet the gardener face-to-face after her accusation. Admittedly, he acted above his station, which nettled her. But she’d believed him when he’d denied her claims and some part of her knew this simple, handsome fellow was more to be trusted than her cousin Kate.
Having fretted about indoors all week, Alys was delighted when another hawking party was announced, and she had no reason not to join it. As ever, she ended up at the rear of the group while the others trotted ahead, laughing and talking. No one seemed much interested in Alys Barchard, a quiet, hard-working, intelligent nobody. Richard Avery had paid her some attention at the outset, but a scowl from Sir Thomas sent him galloping forward to make great show of paying court to Kate.
Alys settled down to meander through the trees on her slow but docile nag, enjoying the sound of the breeze soughing through the branches and the dappled sunlight on her face. Soon, she was left well behind, but Kate never looked back to see where she was. She always had more important things on her mind than the welfare of her poor relation.
Alys’ merlin flapped its wings restlessly, eager for some sport.
“Soon, little one. When we have caught up with the rest. Mayhap we should wait until all the pigeons have settled in their wake, and fetch a fine fat bird all to ourselves, eh?”
Gradually, the peace of the dozing summer woodland settled over her, and she wandered on in a dream. So when some small, grey creature bolted across her path, she wasn’t prepared for her mount to shy and buck in surprise. She dislodged the merlin, which flapped frantically upside down where it dangled from her wrist, suspended by its jesses. As she struggled to bring the horse under control with one hand, and right the bird with the other, it tangled its feet in the front part of her hair, scraping her forehead with its talons.
“Ouch! No, stop that!”
The bird shrieked and flapped at her face, its claws slashing into her cheek as it struggled to free itself. Fearing the horse was about to bolt, she filled her lungs to scream but, suddenly, she was no longer alone. A deep male voice was murmuring to her mare, Pennyroyal, quieting it until she felt the horse’s muscles relax. The merlin’s jesses were plucked from her hand and, after a few sharp pulls on her hair, she was free of it.
Her rescuer lifted her from her horse’s flank and steadied her in his arms. She didn’t need to see the strong browned hands, the long dark hair, to know it was Kit. The lightning thrill of his touch told her immediately. Heart thudding, she wiped her hand over her face. It came away bloody. Kit’s arm was bleeding, too, where the frightened merlin must have clawed at him. She swayed.
“No fainting now, my lady. Come, give me your gauntlet.” Sliding the glove on, he persuaded the irate merlin onto his fist, where it allowed him to stroke its tiny feathers. Then he seized her horse’s bridle and turned it back the way she had come.
She could do naught but follow him, miserably wiping the blood from her brow when it threatened to drip into her eyes. How great was the damage? Would she be scarred for life, and further ruin her hopes of escape through marriage?
When they were within earshot of the gardens, Kit bellowed for assistance, bringing one of their grooms running. “Take this bird back to the mews, then return to stable the horse. I must see to Mistress Barchard’s injuries.”
The boy gingerly accepted the hawk and its gauntlet onto his hand and hurried off. Kit led Alys, not towards the house, but to one of the gardeners’ huts. She was too sore and miserable to protest as he led her inside—he’d taken control of the situation so adeptly, she felt she had to trust him.
Her skirts brushed against shelves laden with tools and plant pots. There was a pile of bedding in one corner, and a low three-legged stool where Kit bade her sit while he went to fetch a jug of clean water. On his return, she dipped her handkerchief in the water, thankful it was of plain linen, unadorned.
Kit prised it gently from her grasp. “I’ll do it. I can see what I’m doing. Once you’re dry, I’ve a good comfrey and honey salve—gardeners are always cutting themselves.”
She noticed the bloodstains on his arm where the merlin’s talons had pierced the bronzed skin. “Hadn’t you better see to yourself?”
“It can wait.”
When he took her by one shoulder to hold her steady, she closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and tried to ignore the stinging. The gardener’s hand was gentle, the cold water soothing as he dabbed at the cuts on her forehead and cheek.
“Forgive me—I must remove your coif to cleanse the cuts where the bird’s feet caught in your hair.”
She nodded slightly, and he smoothed her hair back to daub water along her hairline. She could feel his breath on her face as he concentrated on his task, smell the male musk of his body, and the hint of woodsmoke that suffused his clothing. This was the closest she’d ever been to a man, except when dancing, and Kit’s proximity was anything but calming.
She kept her eyes tight shut, afraid to look into the handsome, sun-browned face so close to her own. This close, there was a heady temptation to touch, to taste. What if she looked into his eyes and saw invitation there? As she had when she’d caught him in the passageway?
His fingertips grazed her cheek, but it not in a place she’d been hurt. Next, he traced a finger across her lower lip. Her heart cartwheeled.
“What are you doing?” She looked into eyes so dark, they were almost black.
“Just wiping a speck of blood from your lips.” His voice sounded strained.
“Oh.” She flicked out her tongue and licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.
“My lady. Forgive me—I cannot help myself.”
His hand slid inside her ruff, caressing her neck, as he tilted his head towards hers. There was plenty of time to move away, to deny him a kiss. But her mind was filled with what Kate had said about this man’s prowess, and even though she knew Kate had no proof, she half-hoped it was true. To receive one’s first kiss from a man purported to be an expert in the art was too tempting altogether.
His lips moved softly over hers—a kiss of gentle persuasion, not passion. But there was promise in the heat of his lips, the touch of his hand on her neck, firing her blood until she was dizzy and breathless, her soul begging him for more. She sighed her disappointment when he tore his lips away.
“I’m sorry, my lady—I’ve done you a great wrong.”
Her eyes flickered open. Kit had sat back on his heels, his cheekbones ruddy, his breathing rapid. There was anger in his expression, more palpable than the remorse he’d expressed.
“If you would have me flogged, I shall understand it, as it is no less than I deserve. I cannot undo that kiss, and if I remain in your presence, I may steal another—you are too much temptation for a lusty fellow like me.” He knotted his hands together and looked away. “It is best I leave Selwood and not offend your sight again. There’s no need to have me dismissed. I shall see out the week, collect my wages and be gone by the time you leave for Norfolk.”
The man seemed as shocked by his behavior as she was by her own. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she would treasure her first kiss forever, even if it was only delivered by an amorous gardener. But there was too much pride in her.
When her voice came out, it sounded high and unnatural. “We will speak no more of this.” She rose unsteadily from the stool, waving away his hand. “You have your own injuries to attend to. Thank you for attempting to heal mine.”
She burst out of the shed into merciless sunlight, exposing her guilt, which must be written all over her face. How fortunate that everyone was out hawking—she could slink back to her chamber without having to answer awkward questions.
How very commanding Kit had been when she’d had her accident! He’d shown no fear of a skittish horse or a distres
sed falcon, and he’d commanded the groom as if the boy were his own servant. He’d commanded her, too, and she’d obeyed, meek as a lamb. No servant she’d ever met had such aplomb.
Alys pulled to a halt in the courtyard, feet frozen to the ground. It all became clear now—she hadn’t been kissed by a servant. She’d been kissed by one of her own kind—a nobleman masquerading as a gardener.
So now that she knew the truth, what was she going to do about it?
Chapter Thirteen
Kit had run out of curses. He’d called himself every name he could think of for having given in to temptation. Yet, with her head tilted back, her eyes trustingly closed, and her luxuriant black hair cloaking her shoulders, Alys had looked as if awaiting a lover’s kiss. He knew, having touched it, that her hair was like sun-warmed satin. He’d wondered what her skin would feel like, and the fragile petals of her mouth. How could any man resist such allure?
At least he’d kissed her tenderly, schooling his body to thoughts of gentleness, not passion. He’d been surprised by her complacency—it was not what he’d expected from the very proper Mistress Barchard. The idea that she might be concealing a passionate nature and untried desires fired his blood.
His mouth twisted as he yanked up another handful of cleaver plants. They dragged at his skin, stinging him, but he needed the pain, needed some outlet for his anger. Ripping up pernicious weeds was the best he could come up with at short notice.
“A splendid morning’s chase, was it not?”
Kit froze at the sound of feet crunching on gravel. Richard Avery’s voice. Was the hour so late? He’d lost track of time. Instinct kicked in and, although the voice had come from the other side of a thick rank of box plants, he threw himself down and rolled into the lee of the hedge, pulling the heap of dead cleavers over him.
“It was indeed.” Sir Thomas Kirlham. Was it just the pair of them?
“I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Something private?” There was warning in Kirlham’s voice.
“There’s no one about. The servants are having their victuals. But if you insist, I’ll peer over the hedge.”
Kit held his breath as the leaves rustled above him. How would he explain his present position if challenged? He willed himself to blend with the shadows.
“Nothing there. You worry overmuch. Now, you know the new gardener employed by Kate?”
Kit’s blood thrummed in his ears. They were talking about him?
“Aye, what of him?”
“He’s too subservient, yet at the same time more… visible than an undergardener should be.”
“How interesting to hear you say that.” Turning his head slightly, Kit could see Kirlham’s paned leather shoes through the stems of the ancient box plants. The man was close enough to touch. Or skewer with a sword. But there was no evidence to implicate the knight in any plots.
“He has come to my notice on a couple of occasions,” Kirlham continued. “I saw him in an embrace with Kate when I first arrived, although ’twas explained away by her cousin. Then I caught him coming out of Kate’s chamber—again with a seemingly legitimate excuse.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Kate so much as the cousin, Mistress Barchard. I noticed upon the yester how she got left behind, so I eventually went back to seek for her. I found her bird in the mews, and her horse in the stables, and observed the lady herself rush precipitously out of the shed where the new gardener spends his days. I wonder what she can have been about?”
Avery’s words set Kit’s heart thumping. It seemed he wasn’t the only person spying upon Alys.
“Nothing untoward, I trow. She’s not likely to be having a tryst with him—far too apt to judge and find wanting. She considers our Kate dissolute, wicked, shallow, weak-willed—in fact, everything we want the outside world to believe about her. At present, Mistress Barchard’s vocal disapproval is as good a cover as we could have wished for.”
Why would these two men want people to think ill of Mistress Aspinall? There was a riddle here to be solved. Kit prayed the pair would not decide to walk on, out of earshot.
“So, what do you make of her running from the gardener’s shed?” asked Avery.
“Did you see the fellow himself?”
“Nay, I didn’t think to look within. Of course, he might not have been there. Alys may have just wandered in to look at some flowers—I know she’s fond of them.”
“But if he was within, it would be a most singular event. If anything out of the ordinary happens in this house, we should act upon it, especially when we’re so close to our goal.” Kirlham’s foot tapped irritably on the path.
Avery shifted position. “The gardener might be thought a handsome fellow by an impressionable female. Perhaps that’s all there is in the case. I thought Kate was interested in him for a while, but I’m now certain ’tis part of her pretense. Best not interfere with her plans in that direction—I think she enjoys the masque.”
“Might not an amorous liaison between Mistress Barchard and the gardener be a threat?”
“Only to my manhood,” was Avery’s response. “For I had thought to have her knees tremble only for me.”
Kit suddenly wished he was armed with a sword. How dare they speak of her thus? “Ha! I wish you luck with her. I’d rather bed a French trollop than that block of ice. But mayhap you jest?”
The image of Kirlham’s head spitted on a pike flashed into Kit’s mind. He wished the man was guilty of treachery—nothing would please him more than to see the fellow condemned.
“I quite like the woman,” countered Avery. “She has a witty tongue, and I’m sure could flourish in the right society. You know, when the cause is triumphant, I think I might make a project of her.”
Not if I kill you first. No, wait, his fury had made him miss something. Of what cause were they speaking?
“If you insist, Avery. I’m sure there’ll be rewards aplenty when we’re successful, so you’ll be able to keep her in admirable style. There’s nothing like a fat coffer to open a woman’s legs.”
Guffaws of laughter followed this remark, then the two men moved off, leaving Kit staring between the box stalks at the poppies on the other side of the path. He wanted the path colored the same, red with Kirlham’s blood, and Avery’s, too. But hotheadedness would achieve nothing.
Perchance he had found his traitors. But the household was leaving for Norfolk, and he’d promised to be gone by then. How was he to find the evidence he needed to condemn them with so little time left?
As he eased to a sitting position and plucked the clinging cleaver seeds from his shirt, one thought gladdened his heart.
Whatever Mistress Aspinall, Kirlham and Avery were up to, it seemed Alys was not involved. But if she was not a party to their machinations, didn’t that place her in deadly peril?
Chapter Fourteen
It was Thursday, market day in Cheyneham, Selwood’s nearest town. Kit stuffed his latest dispatch into the lining of his hat, hoping this latest information would salvage his mission, and that his debt to the queen would be paid.
With coin jingling in his pocket and a false jaunty whistle, he set off down the road for the five-mile walk. Jacob had sent him for some bags of seed, and he’d decided he might as well enjoy himself while he was there.
The road was filling up with travelers on their way into town. At the sound of hoofbeats behind, he moved aside, but the horse slowed as it approached him. Puzzled, he looked up, straight into the blue-grey eyes of Alys Barchard. His breath caught in his throat.
“Good morrow, Kit.” Her voice was polite, distant. “Do you leave us already?”
He stared at her, gawping like a simpleton—her appearance was so sudden, and he’d just been reminiscing about her creamy skin and virgin lips. “Nay, my lady,” he croaked, bowing his head. “I am for the market. But have no fear—I shall be gone by Sunday as promised.” But whoever replaced him in Norfolk must swear on their life to protect her.
He continued staring at the ground, waiting for her to spur her horse onward.
“I no longer wish you to leave.” She bent down in the saddle, bringing her head closer to his. “I’m a grown woman, after all, not easily offended by a trifle.”
His mind blanked, his eyes feasting on the silken swell of her breasts above her bodice, and the delicate tapering of her waist. Then he realized she’d referred to his kiss as a “trifle”.
Coloring, he bowed again. “You are very forgiving, my lady, but I must go.” But one day, they’d meet again, and she’d learn what it was to be kissed properly. Then he looked past her and discovered she was alone. Had she come after him on purpose, to make amends?
“Whither are you bound? Why is there no groom to attend you?”
She eased back, sitting stiffly in her saddle. “I’ve been sent to market to buy ribbons for my cousin. No one could be spared to attend me.”
“It is not fitting that you ride about the highways with none to protect you. What can your cousin be thinking of?”
“It is always thus. I have never come to harm. I know many of the people in town, and I’ll not travel after dark.” She tilted her head to one side. “I wonder that you, a mere servant, dare criticize my cousin’s behavior. What does a gardener know of how the gentry should behave?”
“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.” Why did he find it so hard to play the role of underling with this woman?
“The answer to my question is that you are no gardener.”
His heart dropped like a stone, but he hid his alarm. “Of course, I’m a gardener—what else could I be?” He spread his hands, palms upward, and shrugged.
She tutted. “No. You do the work of a gardener, but I know you to be a gentleman. What tale have you to tell?”
He grasped her bridle and brought his head closer to hers. “These are heavy accusations, Mistress Barchard. I must hear your reasons so I can refute them, but not on the public highway. It would demean you to be seen arguing with an inferior here.” His hand went to his hat, where the dispatch was hidden, to reassure himself she hadn’t seen through that ploy as well.
Lord of Loyalty (Trysts and Treachery Book 2) Page 5