He grinned, slowly and speculatively and oh, so very attractively. “If I thought it would help, I’d grow it to my ankles. But I assure you, my lady,” he continued, lowering his voice to one of confidential intimacy, “my strength is not in my hair.”
Her throat suddenly dry, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest, she swallowed hard—and reminded herself that she was the daughter of the earl of Montclair merely enjoying a moment of banter with a knight.
In a moonlit garden, where they were all alone.
She should leave, her conscience commanded.
But not before he answered the question that had troubled her ever since she had noticed him in her father’s hall, her heart decreed. “Then why do you wear your hair so long?”
“Practicality.”
That was an unexpected answer. “How is that practical?”
“Extra padding on my neck for the base of my helmet,” he explained. “It rubs there, you see,” he said, pressing his hand to the back of his neck, “and if I use straw, it tickles.”
“You are ticklish?”
“Only in certain places.” He crossed the space between them. “What about you?”
That strange, seductive warmth coursed through her body. She could almost feel his muscular arms around her, his fingers brushing over her heated skin, perhaps to tickle…perhaps for another, more exciting purpose. Her lips parted of their own accord, as if anticipating his passionate kiss….
Gracious God, what in the name of the saints was she thinking? Her imagination was running wild and she must constrain it, for she was a lady, the daughter of an earl, not a simple maidservant to be so thrilled and excited by a knight of no particular importance. “I am not ticklish,” she snapped.
“Not at all?” Still smiling, he eyed her speculatively, in a way that made her wonder if her gown had somehow become transparent in the moonlight—a thought that should not make her feel as it did. She should be angry, not…not…curious.
There was only one thing to be done about this bizarre situation, and his bold, impertinent smiles. “Good evening, Sir…?”
She had not even asked his name.
“I am Sir Connor of Llanstephan.”
She turned to go. “Good luck tomorrow, Sir Connor.”
“You have not heard of me?”
His question made her hesitate and all her former curiosity revived. “Should I have?”
“If you have not by now, you will tomorrow when I win.”
She had heard braggarts many times, but his tone was different. He was not boasting so much as stating a fact. “What will I hear?”
His eyes seemed even more engulfed in shadow. “Something that will not be in my favor.”
Strange that he would admit that. “Will it be true?”
He answered like a witness giving evidence in the king’s court. “Partly, I expect, but not the whole truth.”
“What is the whole truth?”
His deep voice softened again. “That would take some time to explain.” He came nearer.
She could not seem to think or even breathe, everything else subverted by the new and wondrous excitement and curiosity this man created within her. He roused a part of her to life that she had not even known existed.
Still he came closer, and as before, she could practically feel him pulling her into his embrace. Part of her yearned for him to do just that, but her mind urged caution.
What did she really know of him, after all, but that he was a guest in her father’s hall, a knight here to take part in the tournament? And he was poor, while she was not.
Perhaps, despite his gentle words, he was as motivated by lust and greed as the baron. While Sir Connor of Llanstephan was certainly outwardly more attractive to her than Rennick DeFrouchette, maybe he was simply better at hiding his true nature.
She was no naive girl to be swayed into sympathy for a handsome man who might ultimately have all too common designs. Indeed, she had allowed him too much liberty already. “I regret your story will have to wait for another day, Sir Connor.”
She began to leave, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her. “There is no need to flee.”
“I am not running away,” Allis retorted as she lifted his long, lean fingers from her forearm. “I have many things to do.”
“I am sure you do, for I could see that you are the chatelaine here. It must be a heavy burden for one so young.”
His wistful tone threatened to soften her resolve, but the knowledge that he could be like Rennick strengthened her. “I thank you for your concern, but we all have burdens to bear.”
“Some more than others.”
He spoke sincerely, as if he knew all too well about the heavy burden of duty and responsibility and had not the freedom she assumed he possessed. That in his own way, he was as imprisoned as she. “God tests us all.”
“In many ways,” he agreed with no hint of self-pity, but rather merely acknowledging that it must be so.
“Have you been tested?”
He studied the nearest trellis. “I believe so, yes.”
His new reticence might be just another ruse to encourage her sympathy. If so, it was very effective. “Did you succeed or fail?”
“My time of trial continues.”
Despite her suspicions, she could not quell the compassion his words aroused. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Are you, or is this but a polite response a chatelaine makes to a guest?” He waited with tense expectancy, as if her next remark would seal his fate.
How could that be? She did not know him, had never met him before, yet she could not rid herself of this powerful notion. Confused, uncertain as to his purpose, she took what had to be the wiser course and turned toward the door into the hall. “Yes, I am sorry. Now I give you good night, sir.”
“Good night, my lady.”
Before she could move away, he took her hand in his callused one, but he did not kiss it. He brushed his lips over the rise of her knuckles, then slowly turned it over. He did not kiss her palm, either, which would have been a shocking enough intimacy.
He pressed his warm, soft mouth to her wrist.
Heat surged through her arm, to her chest, her face and that most intimate of places between her thighs. Never had she imagined a man’s lips could make her feel this way—overwhelmed and overheated and yet disappointed.
What might she feel if he pressed those lips against hers?
What might she feel should he do more?
That thought was enough to make her stumble backward, away from this stranger with those eyes and those lips, that smile and that virile body, that deep, compelling voice…the very personification of all risk and all danger, the living temptation to cast aside duty and honor for one hour of passion in his arms.
She feared Sir Connor then, more than even Baron DeFrouchette. And so she turned and fled.
Chapter 3
Rennick DeFrouchette swatted the head of his squire as Percival tried to pull off his master’s scarlet leather boot. “Well, who is he?”
“His name’s Connor,” the thin, auburn-haired youth panted as he finally got the baron’s boot off. Red-faced from the effort, he wiped beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
Rennick frowned, and the glimmering light of the candle made him look demonic, despite the luxurious surroundings. This private chamber was second only to the earl’s in terms of size and furnishings, as befitted an honored and important guest. Rennick had made certain it was so, ordering the servants to provide him with the earl’s finest linens and furnishings while he visited, which was often. After all, the grieving earl needed his advice on so many things.
“Connor? What kind of barbaric name is that?” he asked.
“Welsh, my lord,” Percival replied as he straddled the baron’s leg and made ready to remove the other boot. “His family holds land in the march. He’s Sir Connor of Llanstephan, second son of a baron. His father was Norman, his mother Welsh.”
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�Second son, eh?” The baron put his stockinged foot against the thin young man’s backside and pushed.
“Aye, my lord,” Percival cried as he fell forward, boot in hand, his red hair flying. He nearly crashed into the carved bedpost. “He was in the Holy Land with the king.”
A muscle in Rennick’s jaw twitched as Percival straightened. “Ah. One of the chosen, was he?”
“Yes, my lord, and very well regarded by King Richard, too, until they quarreled. Richard cast him out of his retinue and sent him back to England.”
The baron reached for the silver goblet containing some of the earl of Montclair’s excellent wine. “Cast out, was he? Like Lucifer from heaven.” He raised the goblet to his lips. “What was the nature of the quarrel?”
“Seems he told King Richard he had acted unchivalrously.”
Rennick swallowed his wine so quickly, he nearly choked. “I can imagine how Richard took that. The fool’s lucky our illustrious and martial sovereign didn’t cut off his head.” He took another sip of wine. “So he was sent home. Is that all?”
“No, my lord,” Percival replied as he stood waiting for further commands. “His family is seriously behind in the payment of their taxes.”
“Ah.” A knowing grin spread across Rennick’s face. “So he is poor. No wonder he kept looking at me. He likely thinks to capture me in the tournament tomorrow.”
“I would if—” Percival fell silent.
“You would if you were he? Of course you would, for I will be the richest man on the field.” Rennick eyed his squire again. “And you would emulate me in other matters, too, eh, Percival? How goes the wooing of the fair young Isabelle?”
Percival flushed and didn’t meet his gaze.
“She is pretty and comes from a good family, so why should you not try to win her affections?”
The relief on the youth’s face was pathetic.
“Does she seem to reciprocate?”
“No, my lord,” Percival admitted.
“Pity,” he lied. The last thing he wanted was for this oaf—albeit a highborn one—related to him in marriage. “I wish you success. Perhaps a victory in the squires’ melee will improve matters.”
Just as he hoped a victory in tomorrow’s tournament would make Allis appreciate him more. “How is Sir Connor on the field?”
“Very good.”
“He does lose?”
“Yes, my lord, he does…occasionally.”
“I see.” Rennick twisted the stem of the goblet in his long fingers while Percival shifted nervously.
“My lord?”
Rennick glanced at him.
“My lord, you told me to watch Lady Allis and I did. After she left the hall, she went to the kitchen, and to her father’s chamber.”
“I thought as much. And then she retired.”
“No, my lord. Then she went into the rose garden, and she was not alone.”
Rennick sat up abruptly. “Who else was there?”
“Sir Connor, my lord. I saw him leave.”
Rennick set his goblet down on the arm of the chair so hard, he bent the base of it. “Did he see you?”
“No, my lord.”
He stared at the stone floor, scowling. He had been more than patient waiting for Allis to see that he and he alone was a worthy match for her.
Unfortunately, he had lived long enough to know that for most women, it wouldn’t matter that Connor of Llanstephan had no more money than a pauper at the castle gates, or that he had been cast out of the king’s retinue. He was good-looking, young and virile, and had probably seduced scores of women who had less to offer than Allis. He was likely well aware of the large dowry that awaited the man who married Allis of Montclair and would use every means and skill he possessed to woo and win her.
It was not enough for this Welsh dog to be among the king’s chosen. Now this dishonored whelp wanted Allis, too?
If that were so, Connor of Llanstephan was as good as dead. He had not waited and planned and schemed and put up with Lord Montclair all these years for some impoverished knight to swoop in and steal what he deserved. He was going to wed and bed Allis, and he was not about to let Allis—and her dowry and the power of being the earl’s son-in-law—slip away from him.
“He was there but a little while, my lord,” Percival stammered, his face pale. “I am sure the lady did nothing unseemly. She is a very model of propriety, my lord.”
“You are not sorry you told me this, are you, Percival?” Rennick inquired, his emotions once more restrained.
“No-no, my lord.”
“Good. You were following orders, as a squire should if he is to be knighted. And I quite agree. Lady Allis is above reproach.”
The young man’s slender shoulders slumped with relief. “Yes, my lord.”
“The Welshman is a different matter. Sometimes, Percival, it falls to us to remind these rebellious up-starts of their place.”
The next morning, Allis stood in the storeroom checking the amount of clean linen available when Isabelle and Edmond burst in, quarreling yet again. She set the napkins she had been counting on the nearest shelf and prayed for patience.
“It isn’t fair!” Isabelle cried. Her hands balled into fists as if she was considering hitting Edmond, which had been known to happen. “I don’t understand why I can’t watch the melee from the battlements, too.”
Allis crossed her arms. “Because a lady does not watch a tournament. A knight doesn’t stick out his tongue, either,” she chided Edmond, having caught him in the act.
“A lady doesn’t get to have any fun,” Isabelle mumbled. She picked at the hem of her long cuffed sleeve and pouted.
This was also a frequent complaint. “If you mean watching grown men ride at one another like a pack of dogs and bash each other, no, we don’t.”
“You’re just jealous!” Edmond declared, his feet wide apart, and his arms crossed in unconscious imitation of his elder sister.
“I still think we should be allowed to watch. I’m going to ask Father—”
“No, you won’t pester Father about this,” she interrupted sternly. “No ladies of rank watch tournaments, and you are a lady of rank. As such, you enjoy certain privileges, and as such, you have a duty to behave as you should.”
As Isabelle flushed, Allis was very glad Isabelle didn’t know about her sister’s meeting with the knight in the garden last night.
She should have commanded him to leave the garden at once, and not let herself be drawn in by his good looks, his gentle humor, or his wonderful rich voice. Whatever he said, it was best forgotten, and she should not spend another restless night thinking of him, or imagining being in his passionate embrace, his strong arms around her and his lips upon hers, kissing her as she could easily envision a man like that could kiss.
She had acted very inappropriately, and was justly ashamed of herself, which explained why she felt so warm even now. After all, she was not Merva, but the daughter of the earl of Montclair, no matter how much she wished it could be otherwise. “Besides, I could use some help in the tent for the wounded.”
“You will let me do that?” Isabelle asked, her eyes widening with eager excitement.
“Yes, I think you are old enough not to swoon at the sight of bloody noses and broken limbs.”
Isabelle turned to her brother and stuck out her tongue.
“Isabelle, I will need a helper, not a girl who needs looking after herself.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” she promised.
“See that you do—and don’t spend all your time talking with the handsome young fellows who get hurt, tempting though that may be.” As she well knew.
Isabelle blushed. “I won’t.”
“So off you go, Edmond, to the wall walk. Don’t shout or do anything that might distract our guests. You are there to watch and learn, not cheer.”
“Yes, Allis,” her towheaded brother called out as he ran off.
“When do we go to the tent for the wounde
d?”
“They are only gathering now. It will be a little while before the melee begins.”
Isabelle sighed and leaned against the large chest holding various linens. “I think being a lady is generally very boring.”
Allis picked up the dozen napkins she had put on the shelf and closed the lid. “But we can do things others cannot. For instance, if I feel a need to ensure that Lord Oswald’s chamber is in good order—again—and should I decide to linger there, no one will tell me I cannot. And if I happen to glance out the loophole toward the field where the melee is about to begin—”
“You can see the tournament!” Isabelle finished with sudden, enthusiastic understanding.
“Or as much of it as I care to,” Allis agreed, smiling. “Truly, I don’t have any great desire to see men hurting each other, but the first charge is generally very exciting. As soon as the first charge is over, though, we must go to the tent for the wounded.”
“Aren’t there servants enough for that?”
“It is our duty to see that our guests are well cared for.” Allis assumed a guileless expression. “Of course, if you don’t think those young men will be filled with admiration for a girl gently tending to their aches and cuts—provided she does not encourage any impropriety…” She let her words trail off suggestively.
“Allis,” Isabelle said with a giggle, “if you were not my sister, I would say you were a wicked creature very well versed in how to attract a husband.”
Allis instantly sobered. “I don’t want a husband. It is enough for me to look after our father and Edmond.” And you, she finished inwardly.
With an apologetic look, Isabelle patted her sister’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Besides, you’re practically betrothed as it is.”
If only Isabelle knew how that remark dismayed her! But she would not burden Isabelle yet with all that duty and responsibility might demand of a woman nobly born. “Come along, Isabelle. And whatever you do, do not tell anyone we watched.”
Fortunately, they didn’t meet anybody except Merva as they hurried to the south tower, and she was too busy sweeping out the hearth to pay any heed to them. She looked exhausted, too. No doubt she had had a busy night.
The Maiden and Her Knight Page 3