by Anne Stuart
Richard stood up abruptly, signalling the meal was at an end, and the others hastily followed suit, a few of them choking on their ale-soaked bread. Thomas vanished back into the shadows of the hall, waiting his chance to accost the devious wench, to find out the truth.
But luck was still against him. She came sailing by on Sir Hector's arm, flashing a brief, triumphant smile in his direction. "There's no need to hover, good Sir Thomas," she murmured. "I'm certain Sir Hector can be trusted to keep me safe."
The elderly Sir Hector preened, and Thomas knew a sudden, unworthy desire to kick the old man's cane out from beneath his gnarled fist. "As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing slightly as they moved past.
And then her ladyship looked back at him, and there was a wicked smile in her eyes. "You might spend your free time improving your riding skills, Sir Thomas. You never know when you might find yourself caught up in a chase."
He watched her go, and now he could see the dew-bright dampness on her thick plaits. And he wondered, quite absently, whether anyone had ever spanked her. And he wondered if he were going to break his self-imposed rule against violence to women, and administer that punishment.
"You seem quite cheerful this morning, Sir Thomas," Brother Jerome observed, coming up beside him. "It's not often that the morning finds you smiling."
Thomas jumped guiltily. "You must have misread my expression, Brother Jerome. I was thinking of someone quite troublesome."
Brother Jerome followed his gaze quite pointedly, looking at Claire's disappearing figure. "Some of the most delightful creatures in God's creation are troublesome indeed, my son. We missed you at morning prayers."
"I… was called away," Thomas mumbled, aware that he was treading perilously close to telling the good brother a lie.
"Were you?" Brother Jerome glanced at Claire again. "I am not the man to remind you of your vows—you are much harder on yourself than our Savior would ever be." He leaned closer, putting a gentle hand on Thomas's clenched fist. "Trust me, my boy. There's nothing wrong with smiling."
She found him in his workshop. It was a small blessing—Alys had no desire to broach Navarre in the intimacy of his solar. In truth she had no desire to face him at all, and her reaction to his absence at the breaking of the fast was relief tinged with anxiety. The longer she put off seeing him, the worse it became. She would have much preferred facing him in public. The memory of last night was still too strong in her senses, and she wanted to avoid a replay, or even worse, an escalation of last night's kiss. She had been tormented, unable to sleep, pacing the floor for long hours as she listened to the distant crack of thunder. For once it wasn't her fear of storms that kept her awake. It was her fear of Simon.
Not that she was about to let him see it. He was busy at the far end of the low, narrow building, and when she stepped inside he didn't look up; he was absorbed in whatever potion he was concocting, completely unaware of her presence. Or seemingly so—with Simon of Navarre one could never be certain of anything.
It gave her a chance to study him at her leisure, with no one as witness. Viewing him dispassionately, she should have found nothing to be afraid of. He was a man, with all the frailties of mankind, no doubt, even if he had yet to display any. He wore his hair long, a thick rich brown streaked with lighter colors, as if he'd spent many hours in the sun. And yet he was a creature of shadow and darkness, was he not?
His skin was a faintly golden color as well, matching his light, amber eyes. He looked a bit like some exotic being, not quite human, and he doubtless did what he could to reinforce that impression. His long robes were better suited to an older man—they were elegant, made of rich fabrics in jewel-like colors. The dull gold that he wore today matched his gilded features, and she imagined him as some great wild beast, a huge cat, perhaps, sleek and dangerous.
He moved with elegant, unhurried grace, and his back was lean and straight beneath the robe. He lived among books and herbs and healing, away from far more natural and tedious male pursuits such as hunting and riding and fighting. Why would he be interested in something as mundane as kissing?
Except that there had been nothing even remotely mundane about last night's kiss. Even with her total lack of experience she knew those moments with his mouth upon hers were unlike what most people felt from such embraces. She had endured it, and then she had reveled in it. And now it frightened her.
The room smelled of spices, thick and mysterious, and she could feel the smoke dancing through the air, swirling toward her, calling to her. She felt herself sway toward it with sudden longing, and she wanted to reach out her arms and embrace it, embrace him, when cold, wicked sense shattered the illusion, and she saw there was no smoke swirling in the room, and the man at the far end was watching her with his calm, jewel-like eyes.
"Did you wish to see me, my lady?" His voice made her skin shiver. She wondered why. It was low, even, but in all, very powerful. Another weapon that he used wisely, she told herself, struggling for equanimity. And failing to find it.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said, summoning the manners Sister Agnes had drilled into her. "You hadn't realized I was here, and I planned to come back later…"
"I knew you were here," he said, watching her. "And you make a habit of disturbing me."
She flushed, her nervous fingers pleating the ugly brown stuff of her loose-fitting gown. "I'm sorry, I've never been particularly good at being demure and fading into the background. You would think I'd learn the art of dutiful silence with a glorious creature like my sister to revel in being the center of everyone's attention, but I've always had difficulty controlling my tongue and my thoughts. You wouldn't believe the penances I've suffered, and they've failed to curb my questioning mind. The nuns had given up hope of me." She stopped abruptly, realizing that she'd been babbling.
"Merd, mon dieu, "he said softly. "There are different forms of disturbance. You manage to disturb me when you're sound asleep." He glanced toward the dim daylight beyond the open door to his workshop. "I assume you aren't about to fall asleep again, are you? You would probably find better rest in your own room."
The memory of her sleepless night assailed her, and she grimaced. At least he could have no notion of how restless she'd been. "I'm not tired," she said, a boldfaced lie.
"Astonishing," he said softly. "Considering that someone spent most of the night pacing in your room, and it could scarcely be your silly-headed sister, I would have thought you'd be in dire need of a rest."
She froze. "You were watching? You set spies on me? How could you do such a thing?"
"Quite easily, in truth, but I did not. If you had managed to keep your eyes open during one of your nocturnal visits to my solar, you would have realized that I have a view of both the surrounding countryside and most of the keep. I can see the room you share with your sister simply by looking out a window."
"Did you watch me undress?" The sharp question was out before she could call it back.
Her mortification was increased by his laughter. "My eyes are not that good, and I keep my looking glass in the workshop. Though now that you mention it, perhaps I should have my servants bring it up to my room so that I can peruse your naked body at my leisure."
"You enjoy tormenting me," she said stiffly.
"You are so very easy to torment," he murmured, and she realized he was very close indeed. She hadn't even been aware of his moving toward her; he'd accomplished it with his usual stealthy grace. "If I wished to watch you take off your clothes I would simply arrange to have you brought to my room and make you do so."
"Don't you think my brother might have some objection?"
The look in his eyes failed to reassure her. There was a bitter humor that was entirely lacking in warmth, and even in the heated room Alys suddenly felt chilled. "Your brother needs me, Lady Alys," he said. "I expect he would deny me nothing."
She believed him. She would believe almost everything bad of Richard, and Simon of Navarre was not the man to make
idle boasts. "What does he need you for?" she asked.
"Everything his heart desires, my lady," he said with a cynical twist of a smile.
For a moment she said nothing, perusing the shadowy confines of his workshop. The brazier glowed at the far end of the long, low room, and the scent of spice was in the air. "My brother wants power," she said. "He wants wealth."
"I can give him those things."
"He wants women as well."
"I can provide him with herbs that will make the most recalcitrant of females overeager."
She froze. "Is that what you put in my wine?" she demanded in horror.
He was too close to her. He touched her chin, tilting her face up to his so he could view it with care. "No, my lady. Why do you ask? Have you been feeling over-eager?"
She pulled away from him, stumbling back over her long skirts. "No," she said. "But I have no doubt you think I'm the most recalcitrant of females."
"It's part of your charm," he murmured.
"You should have no wish to wed an unwilling woman."
"Ah, but I thought you were willing. You offered yourself so sweetly in the place of your little sister. Have you changed your mind?"
"I cannot imagine what you would want in either of us," she said bluntly.
"An alliance with the house of de Lancie is not to be taken lightly. Lord Richard is a very powerful man, and with my help, that power may increase. It would be a prudent marriage for me."
"And you are a prudent man?"
"Not particularly."
"Then why have you agreed to marry me?" She wasn't absolutely certain she wanted to hear the answer, but she was sure she wouldn't rest until she knew.
He smiled down at her, a cool, wintry smile that didn't reach his golden eyes. "Because I was bored," he said. "And you seemed far more likely to interest me than your silly little sister."
She believed him. He was a strange man, one who'd marry out of boredom, one who'd give his loyalty to a man far less worthy. A man would own her, possess her, body and soul. She was afraid of him, it would be foolish to deny it.
But she was also fascinated by him, like a fat, juicy mouse being hunted by a snake, all she could do was stand still and quiver, looking at him out of her wide eyes…
She laughed at herself, breaking the spell he'd cast over her. She half expected fury on his part, but he simply looked at her with a question in his eyes. "Something amuses you, my lady?"
"My own over-active imagination," she confessed. "There is no reason on earth that I should be frightened of you. Is there?"
"Is there?" he echoed.
And in the distance, she thought she could hear the faint hissing of a snake.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Simon of Navarre had one strong, immediate need. To strip that phenomenally ugly brown dress from Alys of Summersedge.
It wasn't a need to have her naked, though that was a strong enough motive. He was used to holding his desires at bay—it sharpened them, and made their fulfillment all the more satisfying.
But the sheer ugliness of her clothes was an affront She was standing at a work bench, her narrow sleeves pushed up her forearms, her neatly plaited hair escaping from the restraining veil and circlet The warmth of the brazier had caused a faint sheen to glisten on her broad, calm brow. The sweet, clean scent of flowers and soap mixed with the richness of spices.
The dress was laced up the back—he could simply take a knife and cut the ties, and with luck it would fall at her feet. Except that he would need two good hands to accomplish such a feat, and he wasn't about to trust Lady Alys with the truth.
She was concentrating on the task he'd set her, a simple enough mixture of horehound and rosemary that would cure all but the most stubborn case of body lice. She was a quick enough learner, exact in her measurements, steady in her gestures. He enjoyed watching her move. She did so with a certain calm grace that was both unhurried and profoundly alluring, and yet he doubted she had any inkling of her sensuality. The kiss he'd given her last night had left her shaken, but he'd done his best to lull her into feeling safe and secure with him once more. He'd let her stay that way. For a while, at least.
"Do you intentionally seek out the ugliest clothing you can find?" he asked, leaning against the high work table and surveying her. "Or are you merely lacking in taste?"
Her flushed face darkened. "It would be very vain and foolish to wear costly garments."
"Vanity and foolishness are expected in women."
The glance she cast in his direction was wonderfully derisive. She said nothing—she didn't need to.
"You could ask your sister for advice," he continued, wickedly interested in forcing a reaction from her. "Her clothes are graceful and appealing. She could help you choose something new."
"I choose my sister's clothes," Alys said. "If it were up to her, she would dress in stable clothes all the time. And when one is possessed of Claire's beauty, everything is flattering."
"Trust me, Lady Alys, muddy brown complements no one."
It was working. She bit her lip, casting a troubled glance at him, obviously torn between hurt and annoyance. "If my lord Simon finds me that ugly then I wonder why you should agree to marry me?"
"It's your clothes that I find ugly," he murmured. "Fortunately clothes can be removed."
He'd scared her this time. Not enough to make her jar the careful mixture she was stirring, but enough to flame her cheeks. "Or I can have prettier clothes made," she countered.
"There is that alternative," he agreed. "One does not necessarily preclude the other."
"One may delay the other," she shot back.
"True enough," he said, enjoying himself. "Though it could work in any number of ways. I could strip you of your clothes and be so enchanted that I would wish to keep you in that particular state. Alternatively, prettier clothes might make me more impatient to take them off you."
"There is always the dire chance that once you saw me without clothes you would be so appalled you would make haste to keep me properly covered."
He laughed at that, unable to stop himself. She was a dangerous woman indeed, with a quick tongue and a ready wit, and a slow, sensual grace that was driving him to distraction despite the clumsy clothes.
A moment later he knew his timing could not have been worse. The doorway to his workshop darkened, and he knew instinctively who was there.
"Did I hear my Grendel laugh?" Richard the Fair demanded in his deceptively boisterous voice. "Surely I must be mistaken. Such a fearsome creature as my most trusted advisor would never laugh over some trifle."
Simon said nothing, watching as Alys stiffened, immediately plastering a plain, quiet expression on her face. She didn't like her half-brother, not a bit. But she wasn't afraid of him, she who was afraid of so many things. Her future husband included.
"He was laughing at my clumsiness," she said, stepping back from the worktable.
"Oh, I don't think so," Richard replied, stepping into the room, his great bulk casting the entryway into shadows. "He's not the sort of man to find humor in something so commonplace. You are reputed to be wiser than most of your sex, little sister. It is a rare woman who can make Simon of Navarre laugh. I may have underestimated you."
Richard the Fair was gifted in the art of making subtle threats. Alys blinked, aware that she was in some sort of danger but unused to the machinations of her elder brother, and Simon deemed it time to intervene.
"It's never wise to underestimate anyone, my lord," he murmured. "Even the most humble of vassals might prove to be unexpectedly dangerous."
"And my sister is hardly a humble vassal, is she?" Richard replied in a silky voice seemingly full of good cheer. "I forgot—she's the smart one, the other's the pretty one. I still say you made a bad choice, Grendel. But now that you have, I'm not in the mind to let you change. I have other plans for the pretty one."
"I have no wish to change my decision, my lord."
"You
're a deep fellow, Grendel," Richard said, shaking his head. "I'll never hope to understand you. Keep the girl busy. I have received word that Hedwiga will return tonight, and I have things to accomplish before she does. I don't want anyone getting in my way." He was gone as abruptly as he arrived, leaving Alys staring after him with a perplexed expression on her face.
"Why does he call you Grendel?"
"Surely a wise child such as you would know who Grendel is?"
"The bone-cracking, blood-drinking monster that Beowulf slew," she replied. "I fail to see any connection."
"You flatter me. Richard likes to see me as his pet monster, someone who can terrify his people into instant obedience."
"I find Richard far more frightening."
"No, you don't. You're quite immune to his bullying. But all I have to do is move close to you and you shake like a frightened rabbit confronted by a hungry wolf."
"I rather saw myself as a white mouse," she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "And you as a snake."
He smiled slowly. "In the garden of Eden? Do I tempt you, Lady Alys?"
He already knew the answer to that question, even if she didn't. He could sense it in the faint quiver of her mouth, the distant look in her changeable eyes. He could feel it in the air surrounding her. Dampness, heat and longing.
She wisely ignored his question. "Why did Richard tell you to keep me busy? Why should my presence be a constraint to him? I'm not likely to intrude on his private rooms uninvited."
He'd hoped she hadn't noticed the oddness of Richard's request She was too sharp, and he doubted she would believe even the most likely of lies.
"I imagine it's your room that he's intruding on, in truth. And your sister."
She stared at him. "What business would he have with Claire?"