Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  "You, there," Gawain snarled, "should come outside with me before you eat."

  "No." Dropping the trencher she'd begun to fill, Lucy turned swiftly. "Gawain, you go out...feed the pig. Emile and I— We have business to discuss."

  Gawain stared at his mistress.

  Emile swallowed. He would rather face Gawain's fists than be left alone with Lucy.

  But Gawain lost his defiant expression. With his lashes lowering, he told Lucy, "As you wish." Then, to Emile's dismay, he walked out the door.

  Emile waited until the door closed and then, slowly, turned.

  Lucy was still by the kettle. Lips pursed, she stared into it, one finger tapping the edge of the counter. Feeling Emile's gaze, she looked up.

  His stomach dropped. Her eyes—they were like arrows to his resistance. With his heart suddenly pounding, he rubbed his palms on his trunk hose. "Ahem. About last night."

  "Yes, about last night," Lucy agreed on a rush. "I—I wanted to thank you."

  Emile's smile froze. Surely his caresses could not have meant so much to her. That would make this even worse than he'd imagined. "Ah," he laughed weakly. "Thanking me is hardly necessary."

  "Oh, but it is." Her eyes brightened as she stepped forward. "I need to thank you for stopping."

  Emile's next stupid laugh stopped in his throat. "What?"

  Nodding jerkily, Lucy continued. "It did not occur to me until this morning. Until I had slept on the matter. It did not occur to me how—how precious is a woman's purity." Her eyes were very bright now, almost glassy. "It was terribly thoughtful of you, self-sacrificing, to save that for me."

  Emile could have knocked himself over with a feather. She was thanking him—for stopping. "I— Think nothing of it," he replied in a hoarse voice. Her purity. Dimly, he recognized this was a great excuse, better than anything he could have come up with himself.

  Lucy slanted him a strange glance. "My next husband will not expect to find such purity in me, having already been married. So that should make it all the more precious, don't you think?"

  Emile blinked some more. "Your—next husband?"

  "Mm. Think about it. After the year is up and you...die, I will be a wealthy woman. It only makes sense there will be suitors."

  Emile stared at her.

  Lucy smoothed her apron and turned. She started stacking trenchers. "So, thank you," she reiterated briskly. "For stopping."

  Emile felt as though a spike had been stuck through his middle. He hadn't had to explain or persuade at all. Lucy did not want him. She was already thinking of him as gone.

  And of herself with her next husband.

  The spike seemed to move into his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  Unconcerned, practical, Lucy continued stacking trenchers.

  "You're welcome," Emile whispered. He turned and went back out to the kitchen garden. Only later did he realize he hadn't gotten a bite to eat.

  ~~~

  Lucy waited for the door to close after him. Then, slowly, she set down the trencher in her hand. For some reason, her arms felt weak. This was strange, for she was not weak, she was strong. Had she not just stopped any more advances from that satyr?

  Snorting, Lucy worked off her apron. Aye, and she had done the job well. The knave had no idea she knew of his perfidy. That is, if he was acting perfidious. Unfortunately, she could not completely put out of mind the small chance of an innocent explanation.

  But who was she kidding? Lucy tossed her apron on top of a dirty pot. There was no innocent explanation. Indeed, it had been difficult to abide his stricken expression, as if she was somehow hurting his feelings. Quite the contrary!

  Brushing her hands, Lucy turned to face the empty room. During the afternoon she had remembered her original plan in setting out on this journey: to rid herself of all dependence on men.

  How foolishly she had forgotten! Ever since Emile had saved them all from the bandits, she'd gone soft-minded.

  But, no more. From now on, she would remember her objective. To that end, she would ignore whatever Emile might or might not be doing with other women. Frankly, to care about such was beneath her. He could bed whomever he liked.

  He could do so for a year. Until Lucy got her dowry.

  Hissing in a breath, she closed her eyes and battled down a perfectly ridiculous inner pain. She did not care. She did not care.

  But it was hard to rid her mind of the memory of Emile's face the night before and the softness in his eyes. When he'd held her, his arms had felt so strong. And then he'd covered her breast with an eager, trembling hand—

  No. No. She opened her eyes again. The image was a lie. Nor was she so soft as to place any hope in it or in Emile. A man.

  She drew in a slow, deep breath. Gradually, she became aware of the scene before her: the remains of the meager meal, the quiet and solitude in a kitchen that should have been bustling with yelled orders and the frantic movements of a staff eager to serve waiting guests.

  Lucy swung around. She grabbed back her apron. The only lasting hope for a woman lay in money, but she was not going to make any standing idle here. She—she had to clean some more, bake some more, cut back on more unnecessaries. She had to make this inn work.

  Breathing fast, Lucy began to clear the table. She was going to get her dowry. And be free of all men forever.

  ~~~

  The owner of the King's Head was a short, round man. His bald pate shone in the candlelight from above as he bent over Emile. "If ye're not goin' t'play, then ye'll 'ave t' pay fer those drinks."

  Brusquely, Emile waved the man away. "Fine, great. I'll pay."

  Orville wavered above Emile. Probably wanted to see the color of his coin.

  "Go on," Emile urged him. "Or I'll never come back to your miserable tavern again."

  That put the fear of the devil in the man. His eyes widened, and he moved off.

  Emile went back to his beer.

  Her next husband.

  He lifted his tankard and took a hefty swallow. Emile imagined the fellow. Crude and awkward, he would own a big wart on the end of his nose.

  "Come on, Emile. Do the knife trick!" The call came from across the room.

  Emile simply lifted his hand and waved toward a waiter. "Another drink here!"

  Knife tricks. Emile wrapped his hands around his empty tankard. Would Lucy's next husband do knife tricks? Ha. In an instant Emile lost the image of the crude fellow with the wart. Instead, he saw a man utterly serious and sober. Industrious. Full of all kinds of tiresome virtues. Unlike a certain lazy, good-for-nothing juggler, he would know how to read and write—more than just his name. He would cipher and know all about horses. He wouldn't have to worry that his roguish character would lose him his wife's affection. Emile's chin sank to rest on the rim of the tankard.

  Why, that juggler, he was not even worthy enough to bed!

  "Your beer, master."

  The corners of Emile's mouth pulled down. Indeed, why bed the juggler when it might ruin her chances with her next husband?

  "Your beer?"

  In a rush, Emile flowed up from his seat. He nearly knocked the poor waiter down. "Oh, sorry." With one arm, Emile steadied the boy while also keeping the beer on the tray from spilling. "Where's that lute?" he called.

  Enough of the gray doldrums. He didn't like himself as morose. Nobody—except possibly Lucy—liked him this way.

  Orville popped up from his chair in the corner. "You want to play?" A broad smile stretched across his face.

  "Nay." Unwilling to wait for someone to find a lute, Emile turned and grabbed the full tankard of beer from the tray. He was determined to be gay. Raising his hands, he balanced the mug on top of his head. "A shilling I won't spill a drop," he challenged.

  "I'll take that!" someone shouted.

  "Double," cried another.

  "Doing what?" another, more suspicious voice wanted to know.

  Emile swiveled. The tankard wavered. Seeking balance, finding it deep in his
sinews, Emile adjusted his position. He pointed to a table made of a plank set on two stools. "Going under that table," he declared.

  "Och, four to one."

  "I'll take that. Emile can do it."

  Every muscle under control, Emile lowered to his haunches. The tricky part was scooting onto his rump. He felt the tankard sway and adjusted. For something like this, he was an expert.

  "Five to one!"

  "You're on."

  Using his heels to drag himself forward, Emile scooted under the plank table. Cheers and whistles greeted his emergence on the other side. Meanwhile, an idea occurred to him. Ah, it felt like a seed dropped into fertile soil.

  "How low?" Emile called. "I'll do it again." Even as his attention focused on his challenge in the tavern, the seed of an idea sent forth roots in his mind.

  In the King's Head, two men took hold of the plank from his last trick. Others shifted the stools out of the way.

  "No lower. He had barely any room to spare the last time."

  "Two feet!" someone called.

  "Six inches!" cried another.

  "One foot," Emile judiciously broke in. He made a motion with his hand. "Lower it." In his mind, his seed of an idea was growing leaves and flowers.

  Chuckling, the two men lowered the plank.

  Smoothly, his concentration on the weight of the tankard on his head, trusting his muscles and his bones, Emile lowered to his stomach.

  "I don't believe it."

  "Not a drop, mind you. Not a drop!"

  Like a frog, Emile swam his way under the plank.

  "I still don't believe it!"

  Emile wore a wide smile as, on the other side of the plank, he plucked the tankard from atop his head. Tipping the thing toward Orville, he raised it to his lips and drank.

  "Something to eat over here."

  "Bring the man another drink—on me."

  "I've got to get my brother in here tomorrow."

  Orville scurried to accommodate the fresh list of orders.

  Emile closed his eyes and kept on drinking. The beer went down his throat, tart and stinging. Every muscle of his body felt the strain of his last feat, felt alive. Grinning, Emile wiped the beer foam from his mouth and looked out over the hungry, thirsty crowd. It was a busy—profitable—scene.

  Oh, his idea was a fruited tree now, and it was magnificent. Lucy wanted her next husband, the industrious boor who knew about horses? Marvelous. Lucy could have the man—with Emile's blessing.

  But first he would give her something to think about the one she was giving up.

  Smirking, he tilted his head back to take another swig. As for her precious purity— Emile lowered his head and wiped more foam from his mouth. Aye, she could have that, too. Indeed, Emile would not sully Lucy's cherished virtue. Not if she got down on her knees and begged him to do so.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  For three weeks Lucy followed her plan to become an independent tavernkeep. She cleaned the inn from top to bottom. She repainted the courtyard gate, she tried new recipes to serve her non-existent guests. Every waking minute she employed her considerable energy toward the success of her tavern—toward the getting of her dowry. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was important. Nothing.

  Then one afternoon, three weeks after she'd thanked Emile for saving her virtue, she had to admit she was deceiving herself. She was not as indifferent to her husband as she pretended.

  She still harbored hope.

  Her unpleasant epiphany started in the barn with a pathetic mewling sound. Lucy had been trying to salvage a broken pair of shears when the noise stopped her.

  A cat? she wondered. Perhaps the animal was hurt.

  She paused to listen for another mewl so she could locate the poor creature when she was distracted by a different sound, that of metal clanging. Looking over, she spied Emile strolling down the center aisle, a milk pail banging against his knee.

  She froze. While she had determined to remain indifferent to the man, Lucy had also made a point to avoid being alone with him. Now a big rock seemed to lodge in her chest. Not for the first time, she wondered: what if he wasn't bedding the barmaid? What if there were an innocent explanation?

  Upon seeing her, Emile came to a halt. For a tense moment they simply stood and looked at each other.

  Emile recovered first. He half-lifted the pail. "I understand there's a cow needs to be milked." His tone was stiff, barely civil, the way it had been for three weeks now. He acted as if she had been the one to insult him instead of the other way around.

  Lucy put down her broken shear. She was careful to keep her voice civil, too. "Milking the cow is Moll's job."

  He lifted a shoulder. "Moll is away."

  "And so you do it for her." The careful civility in Lucy's voice faltered. It should have been anger that filtered through, fury at his daily betrayal of her. Instead her voice quavered with something...weak. She still was not certain. Was he bedding the barmaid?

  Saints, should she simply ask?

  Fortunately, Emile did not wait for Lucy to act upon her weakness. With another shrug, he brushed by her. "It's not as if you've paid her recently."

  Lucy suppressed the natural retort—that she might have enough money to pay her staff if Emile did not lure all potential customers to her rival, the King's Head. To mention this would be too close to begging favors of the man. But concern for the cow had her following Emile toward the speckled animal tied in her stall.

  "If Moll is unsatisfied with the arrangements," she said, "then I will milk the cow."

  Something hitched in Emile's otherwise smooth motion of setting down the pail. "Nonsense. I'm already here, and you have plenty of other work to do."

  Lucy forced an appearance of ease, but she would not put up with her husband doing Moll's work. She leaned against the edge of the stall and crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you know how to milk a cow?"

  Emile grabbed the rim of a milking stool. "Of course." He set the stool before the cow's udder and took a seat. "When I was a boy, we used to sneak next door into old Brady's place before the milkmaids were up."

  Lucy raised her brows. "You roused that early?"

  "Aye." Seated on the low stool, Emile shot her a challenging look. "This is what we did. See?" Taking hold of one of the cow's teats, he directed it toward his mouth. But when he squeezed, the arc of milk hit him in the side of his face, not his mouth. With his expression otherwise frozen, Emile closed his eyes.

  Lucy felt a tug, deep inside. If relations with her husband had been different, she would have laughed at the humor in the moment. They both would have laughed, and she would have felt a part of something light and wonderful.

  But relations with her husband were what they were, so Lucy straightened with a jerk. She was displeased to feel pain instead of anger. Why, oh why, couldn't she be angry? "You must have gone hungry," she remarked.

  Emile wiped his face with his sleeve. "I had better aim in my youth."

  "If you say so." Lucy moved briskly into the stall. "Go on, then. Move. I will milk the cow."

  But Emile remained mulishly on the stool. "I can learn."

  Lucy stopped. "What?"

  "I don't know how, but I can learn."

  Lucy frowned. Emile wanted to learn...something useful?

  Meanwhile, Emile pointed to the other side of the stall. "There's another stool. Get it. Teach me."

  Lucy turned her head, more to give herself time to think than to spy the second milking stool, propped against the side of the stall.

  "Surely you're not afraid?" Emile asked softly.

  Her head whipped around.

  He was looking up at her, eyes atilt.

  "Afraid?" Lucy queried. "Pray, what would I have to fear?"

  Emile raised his shoulders.

  "Very well." Lucy brushed her skirts out of the way and went for the second stool. "If you insist, then I will show you how to milk the poor cow."

  "Excellent."

  Lucy dropped
the stool next to Emile. She sat. Immediately, she became aware of how private they were. The round belly of the cow was like an arbor, secreting the two of them behind it.

  "Ahem." Lucy reached for the udder, ignoring the heat climbing up from her chest. Once again, for one supremely stupid moment, she considered simply turning and asking Emile: what were his relations with the barmaid? Wouldn't it hurt less to know the truth for certain than to harbor this tiny seed of hope?

  Swallowing hard, she stifled the stupid impulse. He would probably laugh at her. Nor would she be able to trust any answer he gave her. So instead of her question, she instructed Emile. "You simply take—"

  "Nay." Emile caught her hand.

  Lucy couldn't help jumping.

  Fortunately, Emile's gaze was on the cow. "Nay," he said again. He took her hand and put it over his own, then directed both to the cow's teat. "Don't tell me. Show me."

  Her shoulder was nearly up against his chest, her palm covering the strong angles of his hand. She felt hot and trapped. "Very well," she said, in tones of frost. "I will show you." Over his hand she squeezed, as if it were the cow's teat.

  But his hand was not like the cow, soft and limp. It was hard and muscled, a physical manifestation of power. There was a strange excitement in controlling this power. A whimper nearly escaped Lucy as she made herself squeeze Emile's hand again, demonstrating.

  "Like this?" With a deft motion, Emile slipped his hand from beneath Lucy's. He rolled it on top. She could feel the soft, warm teat of the cow beneath her palm and the smooth strength of Emile's hand on the other side. He squeezed her hand over the teat, making its will his own. A stream of milk hit the pail, hissing. He did it again.

  "Yes, yes. That is correct." Lucy wriggled her hand and pulled it free. "You were right, you learned." Her inner temperature spiked as she rose to her feet. Control was slipping. Good Lord, she was desirous of him. Of a man like Sir Robert who spurned and betrayed her. "You can do it by yourself now," she claimed.

  Before she could leave, Emile grabbed a fistful of her skirt.