by Alexa Aston
“I don’t mind eating in the common room,” she told him as he took her elbow and guided her up the stairs as they followed the innkeeper.
His look silenced her. She didn’t speak until the owner left and Ferand set their satchels down on the narrow bed.
He grasped her shoulders. “If given the choice, we will always eat in our chamber, Elia. Not only does it afford you privacy, but it keeps men from gaping at you.”
“Men were gaping?” she asked, wanting to laugh off his observation, but she saw he was serious.
“Every man’s eyes were on you,” he guaranteed. “You are a most desirable woman. Trouble brews easily whenever a beauty such as yourself comes round. Adding drink to the mix can create a lethal combination. Rational men suddenly lose their heads. I don’t want to kill anyone unless I have to. ’Tis easier to pretend we are new to marriage and want to spend our time alone in love play. That will help us avoid most problems that might arise.”
Elia was aware of his warm fingers curled about her shoulders. She moistened her lips. “I understand,” she said softly.
His hazel eyes had gone a deep green. “I hope you do. Last time you traveled this route, circumstances were different. You were young and had family and numerous soldiers accompanying you. With just the two of us, we must take precautions.”
Ferand dropped his hands and went to his satchel. Opening it, he pulled out a blade and handed it to her. Elia took it, unsure what he wanted from her.
“Have you ever used a baselard before?”
“Aye. Long ago. My grandfather taught me some about fighting with one and how to use it to skin an animal or scale a fish. I haven’t held one in years.”
“I want you to keep this in your boot from now on. After we finish our meal, we’ll have a lesson to refresh your memory on how to use it.”
A knock at the door sounded and Ferand admitted a stout woman bearing a tray of food. They ate their fill of a hearty stew and bread and cheese before he had Elia take out the baselard. Ferand walked her through various ways to use it on a man in case a dangerous situation arose. He had her repeat defensive moves several times, first slowly, and then speeding up her actions until she felt confident.
“You move well with a blade. As graceful as when you dance.”
Elia’s sensed her cheeks heating as much from his compliment as the way he considered her. It had been difficult being in his arms the entire day on horseback without acting upon the feelings stirring within her. She reminded herself that Ferand was merely an escort and that she didn’t want to involve herself with him. Keeping a tight rein on her emotions would prove difficult over the fortnight it would take to reach Northumberland but she didn’t have a choice.
He stepped away, pouring ale into a cup and downing it.
“We should sleep.”
She glanced to the small bed and wondered how they would both fit in it, much less how she would be able to lie next to him without touching him.
Ferand sat on the floor, leaning his back against the locked door and stretching his long legs in front of him.
“Are you sleeping there?” she asked.
“Aye. The lock is flimsy. ’Tis not unheard of for guests at an inn to be robbed during the night. Same as on the road, which is why we’ll stay alert. Don’t worry, Elia. You are in my hands, which means you are in good care.”
He crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
Elia slipped off her boots and kirtle. She would sleep in her smock.
And dream of Ferand de Montfort’s hands being on her.
Chapter Eight
Elia immensely enjoyed their first week of travel. Ferand proved to be an interesting companion. He told her many stories of his days fostering with Walter Dubosc and the mischief they’d gotten into. In turn, she recounted growing up at Castle Questing and shared countless stories that her grandfather had told her of the old days.
“You spent a lot of time with him,” Ferand noted as they sat near the side of a brook, eating bread they’d purchased in the last village they’d passed and allowing Midnight to graze.
“He may have been the great Nighthawk, son of The Wolfe, but to me he was simply my grandfather—and an excellent storyteller.”
Ferand laughed. “One who taught you how to use a blade and fend for your own supper in the woods, as well.”
“Aye, he did. I recall so many of his stories in detail because I had him repeat them over and over. I remembered them many times when I tried to fall asleep once I’d left home.”
“You’ve missed it,” he noted.
“More than I can say although I know it will be different now with Grandmother and Grandfather dead and Kenneth gone, too. He was my father’s heir. Now Stephen will someday have the title and lands.”
“You rarely speak of your father and you’ve never mentioned your mother.”
Elia toyed with the remaining crust in her hands. “Mother died giving birth to my sister. I was only five. I barely remember her. Father is a quiet man. He spent most of his time with my brothers and rarely spoke with me. I know he loves me but . . . we are not close.”
“And yet you still wish to return home. Why?”
A week ago, she would have had a ready response. After meeting this man, Elia wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“I can tell you that I am tired of court,” she began. “I don’t regret my time spent with the queen. Far from it. She encouraged me to keep reading and learning. She favored me amongst all her ladies-in-waiting and I was fortunate enough to travel with her wherever she went.”
“I heard she even took you to meetings with the king’s advisers.”
Elia cocked an eyebrow. “You are well informed, my lord.” She sighed. “In the end, it wasn’t enough. The king is all about pleasure and gaiety. Everything surrounding the royal court seems so . . . frivolous. The people became tiresome. The conversations dull. I missed the fresh air of the country. Riding horses. Being out on the land.
“I suppose I long to go home because the north in is my blood. I miss the people. The food and customs. How everyone has a purpose they take seriously and yet still find time to enjoy living. King Edward’s courtiers ply one another with falsehoods and insincerity. I want to be where plain speaking is a way of life.”
She tossed her bread crust aside and stood, dusting her hands against her skirts. “Are you ready to continue?”
“Nay. I thought we’d stay here for the rest of the day and tonight. Midnight could use a more lengthy rest. We could wash our clothes and mayhap catch our dinner in the brook.”
“An excellent idea,” Elia agreed, ready for a break from the long days of riding.
Ferand removed their satchels and the saddle from Midnight’s back and hobbled the horse. Elia removed her spare set of clothes, which she’d already washed once a few days ago. She would change into it and scrub clean the ones she wore.
“Would you like me to wash your clothes?” she asked Ferand.
“Thank you.” He withdrew a tunic of deep green and a pair of black pants. “I think I will also bathe. You might wish to do the same.”
He moved behind a tree trunk almost three feet wide. Moments later, he tossed the tunic he wore aside. His pants followed suit.
“Close your eyes, Elia. I wouldn’t want to offend your virgin eyes.”
“Thank you for the warning,” she huffed playfully.
She did as he said and sensed when he came past her. Curiosity forced her to open her eyes a slit. She watched him walk to the edge of the brook, bare as the day he was born. His shoulders seemed twice as broad as when clothed and his back and buttocks looked sculpted from stone. Her mouth went dry as her eyes skimmed up and down his muscular frame.
A low curse sounded as he stepped into the running water. She closed her eyes again and giggled.
“You may open your eyes,” he shouted a few moments later.
Elia did as he suggested and her heart stopped. He stood facing her, waist deep in
the water, his chest and arms bare, a fine matting a dark hair disappearing in a line below the water. Ferand bent and submerged his head, popping back up and shaking his hair like a wet dog. Droplets of water cascaded down his chest. She wanted to lick each one from his body.
Where had that thought come from?
“Would you like some soap?” she called.
“Nay. I can scrub with the sand. Besides, if I borrowed your soap, I would smell of violets as you do. That would drive me mad.”
She scurried behind the same tree he’d used and switched out her clothes so she could wash the ones she’d been wearing. Elia then gathered his clothes and her own and dunked each piece in the water, spreading them on nearby rocks and scrubbing them with a stone. Whether he liked it or not, she rubbed her soap into his clothing, wondering if smelling like flowers would make him feel less manly—or would it remind him of her—and that’s what he meant.
Rinsing the clothing as he splashed in the water, she tried to keep her mind on her task, only to continually steal glimpses of him.
“Would you bring me dry clothes?” he asked.
“Aye.”
Elia retrieved something for him to wear and placed it behind the tree where he’d doffed his clothes.
“I’m coming out.”
Once more, she closed her eyes and then cheated as he passed her, stealing another glimpse of his naked form and longing to run her hands and tongue over him. The fantasy began to take shape in her mind.
Ferand suddenly appeared next to her. “Would you like to bathe?”
“I think I would,” she said, lowering her eyes so he wouldn’t read what they held.
She spread their wet clothes out to dry in the sun and decided to undress behind the tree he had used. She unbraided her hair so she could wash it. Warning him that she was coming out, she leaned around the tree’s trunk and saw his eyes still open.
“Ferand!”
Immediately, he shut them. “Go, wench. Hurry,” he teased. “Before I find myself sinning as I drink you in.”
Elia scampered to the water, her cake of soap in hand, and danced into the deep stream. “Oh!” she cried as she pushed off into the middle of the running water. “It’s freezing,” she complained.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Turn around,” she ordered, seeing that he faced her, though his eyes remained closed. “I won’t have you seizing glances me.”
“You certainly know how to ruin a man’s fun,” he complained good-naturedly but spun so that he faced the opposite direction.
She dug her toes into the sand since the current ran strong. Leaning back, she plunged beneath the water to wet her hair. Elia didn’t tarry because of the cold water. She washed her hair and scrubbed her body quickly, rinsing and rising. Making her way from the water, she told Ferand she was returning. He remained where he was. As she passed him, she checked to see if his eyes were shut and then ran to the protection of the tree.
Elia shivered in the late afternoon breeze and hurried to put her clothes back on, though she left her feet bare for the time being. Emerging from her hiding place, she saw Ferand had gathered twigs and some wood and watched as he started a fire. Once he had it going, he rolled up his pants and walked to the water. His muscular calves had her salivating. He stepped into the stream.
“I plan to catch a fish or two for us,” he called out. “Be ready in case I need you.”
She waited eagerly on the bank, watching him as he hovered just above the water. After several attempts, he plunged his hands into the stream and brought them up, a fish wriggling. He tossed it on the bank next to her.
“Don’t let it jump back in.”
“I won’t.”
Elia collected a few long sticks and put them close to the fire then collected her dagger and cleaned the fish. By the time she finished, two more had joined the first and Ferand climbed from the brook.
Looking at what she’d accomplished, he said, “You know what you’re doing.”
She heard the admiration in his voice. “I’m not just a pretty face,” she teased. “I have talents you’d never suspect.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing you can’t do once you put your mind to it.” Sincerity shone in his eyes as he looked at her.
Elia accepted his compliment. He was so different from the noblemen who flooded the royal court. Again, she found her resolve weakening.
She continued cleaning the fish while he used the sticks she’d collected to spear them. Ferand gathered some stones and built a small pile near the fire which he used to brace the sticks. That kept the fish above the flames of the fire so that they didn’t char on the outside while remaining raw inside.
Rinsing her hands and blade in the stream, Elia decided to retrieve her comb to keep her hair from tangling as it dried.
“The fish won’t be ready for some time. Here, let me help you.”
Ferand took the comb from her fingers and had her sit near the fire, placing her between his legs. He dragged the comb leisurely through her hair, working through any snarls he found. The feel of his fingers resting against her scalp and the comb gliding through her long waves brought an utter feeling of bliss. Elia closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation.
When he finally stopped, she had to bite her tongue to keep from begging him to continue.
Leaning close, his chin grazed her neck as he handed the comb to her. Elia turned her head toward him, and his lips brushed against her ear and landed on her cheek. One arm went around her waist as the other cupped her face. He pressed his mouth to hers softly.
A snap of a twig nearby caused him to spring to his feet. Elia glanced up and saw two men heading their way. Ferand already had his sword in hand.
“Greetings,” said the taller of the two, by far the better looking with deep brown hair and warm brown eyes.
His companion, short and stout, could only be termed ugly at best. One eye wandered about. A jagged scar rent one sallow cheek in two.
“May we join you?” the handsome one asked. “We could smell the fish. I’m afraid we haven’t eaten today.”
Ferand had told her that travelers on the road often joined together for meals, even though they were strangers. She remained quiet, letting him decide.
“Of course. Come. Sit,” Ferand invited. “There is plenty. ’Tis almost ready.” He glanced to her. “Lady Wife, be so kind as to bring more of the bread.”
“Aye, my lord,” she said, withdrawing to his satchel.
Elia gave him the half-loaf still left and went to the tree, where her boots and blade still lay. She wanted the protection both offered since both men had stared openly at her bare feet, making her uncomfortable. She put on her boots and slipped the baselard into one and then returned to the fire, noting Ferand had returned his sword to its resting place.
“I am sorry if we interrupted you,” the tall man said.
She thought it odd neither stranger had introduced themselves and noted Ferand had done the same.
Ferand shrugged. “We don’t mind company while we eat, friend, but being newly wed, we would prefer to spend the rest of the night alone. If you know what I mean.”
He gave her a lewd smile, which took her aback, but Elia understood the game he played and went to him, linking her arm through his and stroking his forearm lightly as she smiled up at him.
The tall stranger nodded knowingly. “We will share your meal and be on our way.”
It couldn’t be soon enough for Elia.
Chapter Nine
Ferand watched the pair leave, glad to see them gone. He hadn’t liked the way either of them looked at Elia. Now, he remained alert, ready in case they came back. His gut told him they would.
Later tonight.
The fire burned low. He slipped one log onto it and strolled to a large oak several feet away. Squatting, he leaned against its trunk and then spread his legs apart. Catching Elia’s eye, he motioned for her to come.
As she approached, she asked,
“Do you think—”
“Nay. No talk tonight. Sit with me.”
She knelt before him, a puzzled look on her face. Ferand leaned forward and, grabbing on to her waist, pulled her to him and spun her around till her back rested against his chest. His arms went round her waist. She settled her forearms on his, her small hands stacked atop his.
He sensed her disappointment by not conversing. He felt it, as well. Over the last week, this had become his favorite time of day. They had discussed many topics, from their childhood to history and politics. Ferand knew Elia’s favorite foods and colors and how she enjoyed walking and riding. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. She was a remarkable woman, intelligent and kind, with an unblemished soul and a heart full of goodness.
The exact type of woman he wanted as his wife.
Nay, Elia was the only woman he would consider. She had ruined all others for him. If he married anyone else, he would be settling for less than he wanted. Somehow, he had to change her mind. Make her want him as much as he wanted her.
Ferand knew a deep attraction lay between them but didn’t think that was enough for Elia to give up her dream of returning to her home and people in the north. He believed they could be happy together. But how to make her believe the same was what worried him. He had another week—ten days at the most—before they arrived at her father’s estate.
Mayhap he should ask the Virgin for a miracle.
Ferand remained aware of their surroundings but put his worries aside so he could enjoy the feel of this woman in his arms. He’d pulled her snuggly against him, the same as when they rode upon Midnight. He marveled at how they seemed to be two pieces of something that had been separated and how they fit together as if they’d been made for one another. In this moment, Ferand knew utter contentment.
He inhaled the scent of violets, stronger now since she had used the scented soap earlier. Her glorious mane of raven hair spilled about her shoulders and to her waist. She hadn’t time to braid it after it dried since the two travelers arrived and they’d eaten the cooked fish and bread. Glancing down, he liked it this way and could imagine her looming above him in bed, the silky waves tickling his chest as he leaned up and took her breast in his mouth. The thought caused him to groan softly.