A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “Even when you didn’t?” she asked gently.

  “Every moment since,” he repeated. “Especially during the moments in which I tried to convince myself I didn’t. But I knew in my heart that my life would only be sweet if I had but one thing.”

  “One thing?”

  He nodded. “If I had you.” He tucked her hair behind her ears. “Not a day passed that you didn’t consume my thoughts, neither did a night pass in which you did not haunt my dreams.”

  “I wish I had known,” she said wistfully.

  “Well, you know now,” he said, “and if you’ll give me time, I’ll remind you every day from this moment on.”

  “And how will you do that, my lord?” she asked.

  He took her hands and put them up around his neck, then drew her closer to him. “I’ll tell you,” he said, bending his head to kiss her. “I’ll tell you a thousand ways every day, with every look, every word and every touch.”

  “When you’re not grumbling at me,” she breathed.

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “I have a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t want the lads to think I’d gone soft. But,” he said, raising one eyebrow, “that will only be during the daytime.”

  “Is there any other time?”

  “There is the night, my love. And during the nights, I will show you that I love you.”

  “Will you?” she managed.

  “Perhaps not a thousand ways each night,” he conceded, “but certainly enough that there will be no doubt in your heart that it could have been no one but you for me.” He kissed her softly. “No one but you, Anne.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Show me,” she said simply.

  “I will.”

  And he did.

  40

  Robin opened his eyes and came fully awake. It took him a moment or two, however, to understand why he was so warm and why he felt sand beneath his back instead of a finely stuffed goosefeather mattress.

  He was warm because his wife was sprawled over him like a blanket and his back was paining him because he was sleeping on the shore.

  He did have to admit, though, that there were a pair of positive details that came immediately to mind. One, he was still alive, which meant he had survived the night. Two was that he was deliciously warm despite his and his lady’s lack of any clothing whatsoever.

  There was, he decided, something to be said for life in a tent.

  His candle had burned down to its final hour, but the light was enough that he could see Anne’s eyelids flutter and open. She smiled a sleepy smile at him.

  “Oh,” she said with a yawn, “it’s you.”

  He laughed in spite of himself. “Aye, my lady, ’tis me. The lout you fell asleep with last night.”

  “Did we sleep?” she asked pleasantly. “I surely don’t remember much of that.”

  Nor did he, and he was certain that they hadn’t slept all that long. He reached out and brushed his lady’s hair back from her face and wondered if he slept still. Surely that she was his was naught but the stuff of dreams.

  “You know,” he said with a start, “I think I might make a poet yet.”

  “Think you?”

  “I’m thinking very poetic thoughts about you, my love.”

  “A pity I’ve no paper and ink, else I would take them down. Geoffrey the Lutenist would be most impressed.”

  He blinked, then looked at her in surprise. “He told you?” Then another thought occurred to him and he felt his eyes narrow. “You were in the alcove.”

  “I stand so accused.”

  “Anne!”

  She only smiled and leaned closer to kiss him. “It was a marvelous gift, that morning,” she said. “And I think you a perfectly fine bard. Too much gushing sours the song, don’t you think?”

  “What I think, my lady,” he said, “is that you’ve insulted my fine minstrelsy skills. I have no choice but to demand reparation and satisfaction of you.”

  “Oh, please do,” she said with a lazy smile. “Demand all you like.”

  He started to do just that, then hesitated. “Perhaps I am too bold,” he said softly. He had worried, at first, that he might not only crush his lady, but injure her leg. He had been exceedingly careful, though he had to admit that his enthusiasm had overcome him a time or two.

  She only smiled and shook her head. “I am well. Truly.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. Be about your work, my lord. I would think we had yet a bit of night left and I vow I am still unconvinced completely that you love me.”

  He paused and looked at her. “You aren’t truly, are you? Unconvinced?”

  She smiled and pulled his head down to hers. “Leave your thoughts behind, Robin, and love me. ’Tis what you promised me. Remember?”

  He could scarce forget. And so he loved her and as he did so, he could hardly contain his joy. By the saints, he had been blessed more than he deserved, for in Anne he had certain found his match, not only in wits but in spirit.

  And then he found he could not think at all.

  It was a great while later that he finally forced himself to lift up the bottom of the tent the slightest bit to determine if it were indeed daylight outside. He looked at his lady.

  “I suppose we should rise,” he said reluctantly.

  “You still look very tired,” she said. “You’ll likely need a small rest after supper.”

  “Think you?”

  “I’m almost certain of it.”

  He pulled away, then paused and looked at her. “Did I please you?”

  “Which time?” she asked politely.

  “Well,” he grumbled, “we won’t discuss the first time.”

  “Passing unpleasant,” she agreed.

  “It has improved since then, hasn’t it?”

  “Greatly.”

  “Then I did please you?”

  “I’ll tell you once I’ve discovered if I can walk again,” she said, sitting up with a groan.

  “Ah, Anne,” he said, dragging his hand through his hair. “I feared you would suffer because of it.”

  “Robin,” she said, flicking him smartly on the ear, “I meant it in jest. As a compliment,” she added.

  He blinked at her and wondered why he had ever thought Anne of Fenwyck to be shy and reticent.

  “What?” she asked with a smile. “Do I offend you?”

  “Saints, nay,” he said, with feeling. “I prize your honesty.”

  “You may regret that someday.”

  He pursed his lips. “You’ve bludgeoned me with sharp words regularly over the course of my life, my love. I daresay I would suffer from the lack of it if you ceased. Please, speak your mind freely.”

  She laughed. “Are these the words of love I can look forward to during daylight?”

  “Those and more,” he grunted. Then he looked at her appraisingly. “’Tis barely dawn. Are you prepared for words, or would more deeds suit you better?”

  She wasted no time returning to the comfort of warm coverings. “Deeds,” she said. “Especially if they can be wrought under cover.”

  Robin blew out the candle. Anne of Fenwyck, lately of Artane, was his and he would miss no opportunity to show her that he was grateful for the like.

  The dawn could wait a bit longer.

  It was well past first light before he emerged from his tent, drawing his lady out behind him. He bid her wait for him whilst he looked about them and determined that all his guards were still at their posts. He called to his captain, who with Jason had pitched what would serve as a mess tent and garrison hall a goodly distance away. Jason emerged, rubbing his eyes, but looking none the worse for the wear. Robin beckoned to him. Jason looked about him, then dashed for their tent.

  “Well?” Robin asked. “Any movement?”

  “None, my lord,” Jason said. “The men have been taking watches all night and nothing unusual occurred.”

  “And all are still accounted for?”

  “Aye, my
lord.” Jason made Anne a bow. “My lady.”

  “My lord Ayre,” she said in return.

  Jason looked at Robin and smiled hesitantly. “You passed the night well, my lord?”

  Robin snorted, put his hand on the back of Jason’s neck, and shook him. “’Tis no affair of yours, my lad, but aye, we survived.”

  “The lady Anne looks lovely this morn,” Jason said.

  Robin looked at her and tried to frown. Her hair, which was ever tidy, looked as if she’d rolled from her bed without thought of comb or braid. Perhaps that came from his burying his hands in it too often.

  And then there was her mouth, which looked as if it had been kissed thoroughly—and more than just once, at that.

  Indeed, if Robin had to tell the tale true, it looked as if the woman had been thoroughly bedded the night before and had just risen to stretch before returning for more of the same.

  And that was enough to make him seriously consider a small nap. After all, ’twas his duty to see his marriage well consummated.

  “—justice rolls?”

  “Eh?” Robin asked, realizing that Jason was talking to him. “What was that?”

  “The justice rolls,” Jason said again, looking at Robin with wide eyes. “Do you want them, my lord?”

  He could think of several things he wanted much more than scribblings from his day of dispensing justice, but perhaps ’twas best he be about his business whilst he had the wits to concentrate on it. Besides, the sooner he managed to unravel the mystery of the note, the sooner he could pack up his gear and return to his father’s bedchamber and his father’s soft, comfortable goosefeather mattress.

  And that left him looking at Anne purposefully.

  “The rolls, my lord?” Jason said pointedly.

  Damn the boy. Robin glared at his squire. “Fetch them,” he growled. “I’ll look them over right away.”

  Jason bolted and Anne laughed. Robin turned his glare on her. “Something amuses you?”

  “You look at me as if I’m a tasty leg of mutton you’ve a mind to gnaw on.”

  “’Tis a compliment,” he said archly.

  She smiled up at him. “I know. And I would kiss you for it, but your squire returns.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve a reputation to maintain, my lord.”

  “It is but my squire.”

  “There is that,” she agreed.

  “Now, were it my captain, or another nobleman,” he said slowly, “then I would no doubt be forced to forgo such sweet attentions until a more appropriate time.”

  “But it is just Jason,” she said.

  “He can be intimidated.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Well?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth. Robin made a grab for her before she could pull away, and clutched her to him. And then he wondered at his own stupidity, for though it might have just been his squire gaping at him, there was his own distraction to worry about.

  “No more,” he gasped, when she pulled away. “By the saints, my mind is mush.”

  Anne only smiled serenely. “Poor lad. Shall I sit by you and aid you?”

  “The saints preserve me,” he said with feeling. “Jason, I hope you brought wine. Cold wine. Cold something. Quickly.”

  Anne laughed and Robin smiled at the sound. He stole a look at his lady and couldn’t help the lightening of his heart either. She was beautiful and content and he could scarce believe he’d been fool enough to have let so long pass before he wed her.

  At least he was a fool no longer.

  He could only hope he would live long enough to enjoy that.

  And it was with that thought that he set to work pouring through the scribe’s notes, looking for something amiss. Jason fed the fire and Anne read over his shoulder. And he thought he might expire from the tedium of it all. He simply could not believe that disputes over livestock and water could anger a man enough to drive him to murder his liege-lord.

  Though he supposed he’d seen men murdered for less.

  Indeed, he’d fought for men who had less reason for war than that. It was entirely possible that he had angered someone during his day of sitting in his father’s chair. But he couldn’t believe he could have inspired murder.

  Though he’d certainly inspired the like in Maude of Canfield.

  He shuddered and pushed himself to his feet. He needed to pace and whilst he could not go far, he could at least roam about the fire for a bit and see if that didn’t provide him better answers than sitting idle.

  Maude had wanted Anne dead, and he could almost understand that. Even when he’d looked on Maude with a bit of favor, he’d wondered if there was something amiss in her mind. He’d feared she would call their marriage banns herself after the first time he’d shared a trencher with her. But for her to ensconce herself in Artane as a servant for the sole purpose of harming Anne?

  Unlikely.

  It had to be someone else, someone with enough wits to plan a murder. Robin began to wonder if Maude had been but a pawn in the fiend’s scheme. But that would mean that the true murderer had known of his association with Maude.

  Which meant it had to be someone who had at least visited Canfield.

  Or someone who had overheard gossip at Artane.

  Robin paused and looked down at his lady. She sat near the fire with her lame leg stretched out before her and the other knee bent so she could rest her chin atop it. Her hair glinted in the sunlight as it lay spread about her shoulders. The light also caressed her fair skin, coloring its paleness with a golden hue. Robin felt his heart clench within him. He couldn’t lose her. There was a part of him that almost wished he’d never had her, either in his bed or in his heart. He certainly could have spared himself grief that way.

  Ah, but what he would have missed. He walked over to her, then knelt before her. He looked into her pale green eyes and couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and kissing her softly.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “By the saints, Anne, I vow I do.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek, her eyes full of tears. “I love you as well,” she said quietly. “So much, it almost pains me to look at you.”

  “Then we are both in sorry shape, lady, for those are my thoughts exactly.”

  “Then what shall we do?” she asked wistfully.

  “We shall live,” he said. “Very long lives.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “I hope so.”

  Robin looked at her a moment longer, memorizing her smile and the love he saw in her eyes. Then he rose and looked for his squire. The sooner he was about his work, the sooner he would solve his mystery.

  But when he saw Jason and who accompanied him, he began to wonder if the solving might come sooner than later.

  “Who,” Robin said curtly as Jason came to a halt before him, “is this with you?”

  “Reynaud of Agin,” the man said with a low bow. “Lately of Segrave, thanks to the lady Joanna’s generosity.”

  One of his grandmother’s peacocks. Perfect. And Robin suspected he was the one who had been in charge of the pointy-toed shoes. It was hard to tell one from another, but Robin had seen more of this dolt than he’d cared to.

  “I bring word from said lady,” Reynaud said, with another bow. “Here.”

  A scroll was presented with a flourish. Robin read it quickly, scowled, and looked up into the sky. He noted that it was blue, which was odd for the time of year. Usually the coast was wreathed in fog, but he wasn’t ungrateful for a bit of sunshine.

  Fog could, of course, easily hide an assassin.

  Robin made a decision. He shoved the scroll at Reynaud.

  “Tell her I agree,” he said shortly.

  “As you will, my lord,” the man said with an expansive bow that almost caused him to impale an eye on his own ridiculous footgear. “I’ll return immediately.”

  “Do that,” Robin suggested. He watched until the man had summited the last rise of
sand before he turned and went to sit next to his wife.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “My grandmother has a plan.”

  “Of course she does.”

  “It includes dancing.”

  Anne laughed. “Of course it does.”

  He scowled at her. “I’m not certain I like it.”

  “I could expect nothing less from you.”

  “She thinks to invite the surrounding nobles to a celebration in our honor.”

  “And will she interrogate them at the hall door, or invite them to the dungeon where she may use the hot irons?” Anne asked politely.

  Robin grunted. “The saints preserve us.”

  “It might work.”

  “It might end both our lives.”

  “Teach me to use a knife,” Anne suggested.

  He looked at her and wondered if he could possibly do such a thing. Sweet Anne with a knife in her hand? He shook his head. Now, his sister was very handy with several lengths of blade and he had no trouble envisioning her plunging any number of said blades into any number of assailants. But Amanda had a steely side to her he could not credit Anne with.

  “I can do it,” she added.

  Robin looked at her a bit longer and considered. Perhaps he misjudged her. She certainly looked determined enough. And he could see the advantages of her at least knowing enough to protect herself.

  “Could you kill?” he asked softly.

  She returned his look unflinchingly. “If it meant protecting you. Or a child. Aye, I could.”

  “You could not hesitate,” he warned. “Hesitate and you would be lost.”

  “Teach me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But you need to.”

  He moved as close to her as he possibly could, then put his arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t enough. He carefully lifted her into his lap and wrapped both arms around her. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair.

  “Ah, Anne,” he whispered. “I don’t know how—”

  “You’ll manage,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

  He held her until the harshness of the idea trickled out of his soul. The waves rolled in one after another and the sound of it soothed him until he almost managed to think about it without wincing. And when he thought he could speak again, he sighed.