by Jill Barnett
In a sudden motion, he grabbed her wrist and the cloth fell from her fingers. She blinked at him, startled. He realized his grip was too hard and slackened it, then gently stroked his thumb over the thin and fragile blue veins beneath her honey-colored skin. "Enough." he said gruffly.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No." He didn't release her hand.
She returned his direct look for the longest time— time that seemed to have stopped—until she finally averted her golden eyes and stared at their joined hands.
Since the moment he had first seen her singing in the woods, he knew his life was nothing. nothing because she had not been part of it. And now, as he watched the top of her bent head, he wondered if he should give in to the urge that was consuming him. He wanted nothing more than to lie as one with this woman in the sweet grass. To lie in her for all his tomorrows.
But something stopped him. Some emotion that tasted of a morality he hadn't known he had. Morality and something that had the sour flavor of a sudden lack of confidence—a weakness foreign to him. He had always known he could win any battle, so he had won. Whether his confidence had come from a foolish and youthful idea that he was invincible, or actually from bravery he knew not. What he did know was that his confidence had left him when it came to Linnet. He felt awkward and out of place with her, afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing, afraid to touch her lest she recoil.
Perhaps it was because he had never had to court a woman. And he did not know how to go about it. The women he'd known needed nothing but a look that promised long nights of hot passion or a morning's reward of silver coins.
He'd known Eastern women who were schooled in the art of bedding, women whose skill and purpose was to satisfy a man, and who had taught him that his strongest satisfaction lay in firing a woman's passion to as hot a flame as his own.
There were the women who waited on the fringes of a battle, ready for men whose blood still ran wild, women who liked it rough and savage. And there were the skilled women of the court, who wanted to bed a new baron, the king's friend, or the man whose reputation made him some kind of sexual prize.
But he'd never known a woman like Linnet. A woman with a heart so big she cared for a herd of cats, ducks, and rabbits. A woman whose gentleness tamed a forest and a fierce knight's wild heart.
So for the first time in his life he played coward and stood quickly, startling her.
"William?"
The sound of his Christian name on her lips almost broke his resolve. He wanted to hear her say his name again. He wanted to hear her say his name in passion.
She frowned up at him.
The look he gave her was hard and emotionless, the opposite of how he felt inside. But his stony manner covered his weakness for her, a weakness that frightened him because it came upon him so strongly. He turned away.
"What is wrong?" She sounded hurt.
He had been so concerned that he would do the wrong thing. And now he'd done so. He had hurt her. He took a deep breath. "We've tarried here long enough. Half the day is gone!" he barked over a shoulder and strode toward the horses. Away. Safely away from a battle he had no idea how to win.
Chapter Five
“One for you, Wenceslas, and one for you, Ximenes." Linnet turned and put the last of the salted fish into the cage with Yves and Zeno, then secured the latch. They had ridden with few words between them until William had finally grunted something about resting here.
A moment later he crossed the small clearing and stood behind her. "Come," he ordered. "Feed yourself." He gestured to some bread and cheese that lay upon a huge flat rock a short distance away.
She quietly followed, wondering what she had done to anger him. He hadn't looked at her again with anything remotely close to kindness. He just stared into the woods around them, like he was doing now. She followed his gaze, but saw nothing of interest. She looked at their meager meal, then said, "I need to fetch something." She hurried over to one of the pack animals and untied a heavy sack. It plopped to the ground. She grabbed the ties and began to drag it through the dirt.
An instant later William was beside her. He hauled the sack easily over his broad shoulder and strode back toward the rock, muttering.
She followed, rushing to keep up with his long strides. "Did you say something?"
He stopped and gave her a wry look, then shook his head. He dropped the sack on the ground and sat down on the rock where he drank from a wineskin.
She knelt and untied the sack. "I brought a few things."
He snorted.
"Food from the larder." She bent and looked inside, then sat up, pulling things out. "I have pears and grapes and apples . . ." For the next five minutes she unloaded the sack. ". . . Capon with herbs, honeyed figs, and"—she held up a small crock—"pickled eel!" She frowned down at the crock. "Who eats pickled eel?"
William wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the pile of food she had brought.
"What would you like?"
Now he looked at her.
"A honeyed fig?" She held up the fruit.
He did not look pleased. He was staring at her with the oddest look. Finally he shook his head and looked away.
She stared at him, her throat suddenly tight when she realized she could not do anything to please this man. She had never had anyone treat her so coolly. Her grandfather adored her, and she could always make him laugh. Her sisters' husbands treated her like a younger sister. But William de Ros had a wall around him that she couldn't penetrate. And it hurt her to think he might dislike her. She stared at the food for a long time before she finally whispered, "I'm sorry."
She could feel his stare.
"What?"
"I'm sorry if I did something wrong."
He sighed, then said, "You did nothing wrong."
She glanced up, not understanding his mood, searching for answers. "Do your wounds pain you?"
"My wounds?" He frowned as if he had forgotten about them. "No."
She plucked at the grass and asked, "Why are you so angry."
He looked uncomfortable and raised the wineskin and squeezed a spigot of wine into his mouth. He swallowed, then looked at her again.
She was still waiting for his answer.
"Eat," was all he said.
She didn't eat.
He took a deep breath, then shook his head. When he looked at her again there was at last a small glimmer of kindness in his expression. "I'm not angry with you," he said in that same gentle voice he'd used in the tavern. "I'm . . ." he paused as if he were trying to make a decision, then he said, "I have things on my mind."
At least she had an answer of sorts and she felt better knowing she had not angered him. They ate in a companionable silence. He even ate honeyed figs and some meat after she had offered it to him three more times.
He swallowed a fig and picked up the wineskin. He leaned down from the rock and handed it to her. "Here."
She took the wine, sensing that it was an offering of peace and knowing that he would not explain himself to her. He sat on that rock, one leg drawn up, resting his weight on one tightly muscled arm.
The small cross on his earring swung a little as a small breath of cool wind flew by them. His face was shorn of feeling, rigid as that rock he sat upon, and yet there was a sense of depth to this man, a vast and complex mixture of distance, hardness, and kindness all together. His thoughts were as unknown as the identity of the black knight, but she could sense his isolation. Odd how it drew her, how it called out to that natural and fey part of her that could befriend God's wild and precious beasts.
He needed time and to be left alone. She understood that. With a small sigh, she distractedly raised the wineskin high above her face as he had done and squeezed.
Wine shot onto her forehead. She burst out laughing, knowing what a fool she must look. Her reward was to see amusement in his expression. But no smile. For some reason she knew not why, she needed to see this man smile. He looked as if he desperately nee
ded some laughter in his life. She tried to drink again and came closer to her target. This time, she hit her ear. "How did you do that?"
"Experience," he said. "Years of experience."
She was determined to do this. She tried again. And hit her chin. She laughingly swiped at the drips of wine, then licked the wine from her fingers.
His amusement drained away. He was still as stone. The look he gave her was filled with an intense hunger.
Frowning, she set the skin aside. "Do you want some grapes?" He said nothing. He stared at her mouth, so she wiped it again. She held out the wedge of cheese. "Cheese?"
He didn't move.
"Wine," she asked hopefully.
His answer was to stand up suddenly. "I need to water the horses." Then he gathered the leads and disappeared into the forest behind their camp.
‘Twas some time before William came back. He had stayed away until his blood had cooled. But he'd had to wade into the stream to cool it. Water dripped from his chausses onto the ground and his hair was soaked and stuck to his neck. He didn't care. He reached up to tie the leads to a nearby tree.
"Oh! You fell in the stream!" Linnet hurried toward him with a blanket. "You'll freeze to death!"
William gave her a long look and almost laughed. "I doubt it."
She stood there with the blanket in her hand, looking completely confused.
Again he was reminded of how very sheltered she had been. He still had no idea how to win her over. He felt foolish and awkward, which was as frustrating as that intense passion he felt for her but had to keep in check.
She had moved to stand close to him and tugged on his arm. He looked down. She reached up and placed her hand on his forehead, then frowned. "Your brow is cool."
"There is a God," he muttered.
"You're not fevered?"
"No," he said more sharply than he intended, then softened it with, "I am tired."
She smiled and patted his chest. "I have just what you need." She spun around and rushed over to a pile of sacks, a large pile of sacks.
"You unpacked."
"Aye," she said and dumped out one of the sacks, then grinned. "Velvet pillows. For our comfort." She dumped out another sack. "More pillows." She dumped out another. "And a feather coverlet . . ."
He leaned against the tree and watched her dump out sack after sack until the small clearing looked like the inside of a harem. Any moment he was certain she would unpack silk hangings for the tree limbs.
"I know it is here somewhere," she mumbled, and two more pillows sailed over her head to land at his feet. "Ah-ha!" She turned and held up a large yellow and red striped cloth. "Look!"
He stared at the cloth, frowning.
"You cannot see? This is a tent."
"I know what it is." It looked to be the type of tent used in a tourney. He could see four bright yellow pennants still lying on the ground behind her.
"I brought it to sleep in. Here." She handed it to him, then stood there looking very pleased with herself. "Now we have everything we need."
"Except the poles and stakes."
"What poles?"
"The tent poles."
She began to chew on her lip.
"Poles that hold up the tent," he explained.
She snapped her fingers. "So that's what those sticks were for."
He began to laugh. And he laughed loud and hard.
She laughed too then said with a giggle, "What a shame we cannot merely use the pickled eel."
He shook his head and his laughter faded, his smile remaining for another moment.
She touched his arm again. "I like it when you laugh," she admitted with that honesty that still jarred him. Then she foolishly smiled back at him.
He stared at her for a long moment, then gave her a taste of his own honesty. "That's a sure way to find yourself well kissed."
She blinked, somewhat surprised, then she said, "I always wondered how that was done."
He laughed, more at himself than at her. "So my lady has never been kissed."
She shook her head and sighed. "I always thought my first kiss would be in the garden at Ardenwood." She smiled a dreamy kind of smile. "With the moon shining and the night roses and honeysuckle blooming, and me in the arms of a handsome knight who had paid court to me."
"How does a lady dream of being courted?" He tried to sound casual, not giving away how important her answer was.
"How? I'm not certain. The usual way I suppose. With flowers and sweets and romance. My sisters' husbands courted each one a different way. Michael played the lute and sang love ballads to Maude. ‘Twas truly touching. John wrote the most passionate poetry for Elizabeth."
William stifled a groan.
"Isabelle's husband brought her silks and scents from the East, and delicious comfits and a posy. He was very romantic."
Romantic. Something William was surely not. He could not spout pretty words and he'd been told his singing voice sounded like the rusted chains of a drawbridge. He said nothing, just set the tent aside and walked toward the trees.
"Where are you going?"
"We should get some sleep."
She followed, rushing to keep up with his longer strides. "But what shall we use for shelter?"
"The trees are our shelter." He shook out a blanket with a snap, dropped it, and stretched out on the ground, crossing his boots at the ankle.
She stood nearby, hugging two pillows and looking at the sky as if she expected it to fall on her at any time. "But what if it rains?"
"It is not going to rain." He locked his hands behind his head.
"Oh." She sat down next to him and began to arrange a bed. "You sound certain."
"I am certain."
“If you are certain,” she said with a shrug, then proceeded to lay every blanket stop her pillow pallet and lastly topped it off with the feather coverlet.
He'd sweat to death under all that, he thought.
She finally crawled underneath the covers. After a minute of peaceful silence, she asked, "William?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you like some of these pillows?"
"No."
"I have plenty."
He grunted.
"Perhaps only one? On which to rest your head?"
He turned over and looked at her. She was holding out a pillow. He took it, stuffed it under his head, and closed his eyes.
She shifted around for a few more minutes, then finally lay down.
He resisted the urge to applaud.
"William?"
"Aye?"
"I have more blankets too."
"I'm fine."
"You'll freeze with only one blanket. And you did fall into the river. It must have been icy. You could become ill, especially sleeping on the ground."
"I've slept more often on the ground in the past few years than in a bed." He turned over and looked at her. He felt suddenly very foolish. "You have never slept anywhere but in a bed, have you?"
"I slept in a hammock once. ‘Twas quite interesting. Took me four attempts before I managed not to spill out of it. ‘Twas the only time I have ever bloodied my nose." She laughed at herself, then pulled the covers over and around her and huddled under them. With only her face showing she looked like a spring cabbage.
He called himself all kinds of an idiot. Again. He should have planned a place for her to stay. Somewhere warm and with some comforts for a lady, just as he should have planned for more elaborate food than meager meals of bread and cheese. He hadn't thought about what she would need. He had been too determined to get her alone. Too ready to be with her. Too desperate to think clearly.
Now he was with her, alone, and his time was passing quickly, like water leaking from the jar of a water clock. He felt each droplet was a lost moment.
"This is rather nice," she said with a sigh. "Look at all those stars." She sounded surprised and pleased. "I don't think I've ever seen the sky like this. It's as if above us is a canopy full of stars." She paused. "So
very interesting . . ."
"What is so interesting?"
"Somehow seeing the sky like this makes the night less dark and frightening."
He stared up at the night sky, wondering how someone could think it frightening. The lack of sunlight gave him a sense of privacy. The air was still. Cold. And it was quiet. To him there was a strange power in the darkness of the night. A peace. Battles were not fought at night.
"Do you think the tales are true?"
"What tales?"
"That all the stars are angels."
He looked at the sky and wondered at such fanciful nonsense. "Men use the stars to guide them home," he said quietly.
"Did you?"
"Aye. I sailed home on a ship. A ship's crew uses the stars to keep on course."
"I didn't know that."
"See that bright star directly above us? That's what is called a mariner's star."
"It's very beautiful." She paused. "What is it like to sail on a ship?"
He turned, frowning.
She must have read his puzzlement because she added, "I mean, how does it feel?"
He stared at the night sky and wondered when he had stopped noticing things—the vast numbers of stars, the sweet taste of a honeyed fig, the feel of the sea. He sat up a little and rested his head on his hand while he looked down at her.
Her hands were folded prayerlike beneath the pillow and she just lay there, calmly, looking at him with expectant eagerness.
"The sea is unpredictable. There are times when a ship can glide smoothly over the water, and other times where the sea can pound so much water into the ship that one is certain it will sink at any moment." He paused thoughtfully. "I suppose sailing is like war in a way, a battle of the elements—wind and weather and the massive seas—things, powerful things, that one cannot control."
She was quiet, then she cocked her head. "I think perhaps I'd be frightened to death. Yet I can hear in your voice that you find pleasure in danger, don't you?"
He shrugged, uncomfortable at speaking so plainly of his thoughts, but he fought to keep his expression impassive. ‘Tis a challenge."