by Tamara Leigh
The same might have been said for the amount of soul given to survive the ordeal of slaving a galley. But Lucien had survived, and his scarred body was testament to it. The question was, had he enough soul left to endure the quest to retrieve all his lands? If so, at the end of it, might he find himself soulless?
Vowing he did have enough soul and it would be intact, hoping James Breville would not be swayed from keeping his daughter away from the tournament, Lucien braced his mind and body for the day ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The talk was of Lucien’s triumphs that evening. Though conspicuously absent from the banquet, his deeds filled the mouths of men and women. Even those who had lost to him regaled listeners with accounts of the blows they had traded during jousting and foot combat and the ransom paid for their horse and armor.
Sitting alongside Agnes’s brother, Gavin, Alessandra tried not to think of Lucien and the further injuries he must have sustained. Tried but failed, though over and again she told herself she did not care what became of him and he was undeserving of her concern. All lies.
Averting her thoughts, she returned to swinging her foot beneath overly long skirts for which she had finally found a use. The soft peal of bells fastened about her ankle that were hidden beneath her hem eased her anxiety and gave her something to smile about each time they caused someone to glance her way.
It was rebellious, and the bishop would disapprove if he learned whence the sound issued, but the satisfaction of resisting some things English seemed worth it.
“You will be found out,” Sir Gavin spoke near her ear.
She met his gaze. “Whatever are you talking about?”
He grinned. “I may be mistaken, but methinks I hear the sound of bells coming from ‘neath your skirts.”
“Aye, Sir Knight, you are mistaken.” She swung her foot more vigorously.
His grin softened into a charming smile. “Forgive me. It just seems something your mother might have done.”
She stilled. “Tell me what she was like as a girl.”
“Ah, now ’tis silent.” He tilted an ear to the air. “Methinks the wearer of bells has departed the hall.”
Alessandra gave her foot a shake. “She is still here—merely curious.”
Pushing aside his food, he began to relate Catherine’s sorrow when she had first come to live with his family. Her grief for her parents was not short-lived, but eventually she had settled in and light had returned to her eyes. In relating her antics and the rivalry between her and his sister, he became animated. He chuckled, grimaced, and became teary-eyed when he spoke of the last time he had seen her—a few months following her marriage to James.
“Though she was my cousin, I considered her a sister,” he said. “Indeed, methinks I was closer to her than my own sister.”
Alessandra smiled. “Thank you for telling me. It is easier knowing my mother had you for a friend.”
“Though she did not speak of me, apparently,” he murmured, and she glimpsed hurt in his eyes.
Alessandra touched his arm. “I am certain she thought of you often. It is just that when she spoke of England, it was usually as my father’s wife. Rarely did she mention her childhood.”
Gavin leaned back in his chair. “Now you must tell me of the Catherine who mothered you.”
As she opened her mouth to comply, meal’s end was called.
“Later,” Gavin said and stood.
Assisted by his hand beneath her elbow, Alessandra rose. “I am indebted, Sir Gavin. You have been very kind.”
He snapped a bow, then strode to the hearth where the senior knights had gathered.
Left on her own, Alessandra turned to search out Melissant and found a red-faced Agnes before her.
“You will remove those pagan bells at once!”
Determined she would not be bested by this bloodthirsty woman who had struck her, Alessandra said, “I know not what you speak of.”
“Nay?” Agnes grabbed Alessandra’s skirts, clearly intending to expose the anklet to any who watched, including Bishop Armis.
Alessandra caught Agnes’s wrist. “You would expose my legs when the good bishop has directed they remain covered?”
Agnes jerked at her hand. “I would show what is hidden beneath your skirts.”
“I have my ankles, knees, and thighs,” Alessandra said, “none of which are appropriate to bare.” She pulled Agnes’ hand from her skirt, then stepped around the woman. Bells softly tinkling, she crossed to where Melissant stood before a group of minstrels who tuned their instruments.
Having observed the encounter, Melissant’s face was pale. “No doubt, Mother will forbid me your company again,” she bemoaned.
And again, Melissant would appeal to their father, who would overrule Agnes.
“I wish she did not hate me so,” Alessandra said. “Previous to this day, I did naught to earn her enmity, yet she behaves as if I have grievously injured her.”
Melissant sighed, said softly, “You have, Alessandra. You remind our father of your mother, whom he makes no secret of having loved above all others. Ere you came to Corburry, my mother was lady of the castle and had Father’s affection. Now she is once more eclipsed by Lady Catherine.”
Alessandra nearly protested, for it seemed unfair that she should be blamed for something over which she had no control. But then she recalled the day she had come upon mother and daughter while they studied the household accounts. The older woman’s pain at being second in James’s life had been clear, but Alessandra had overlooked it, exerting little effort to not become entangled in Agnes’s jealousy.
As hard as it was to admit, especially now with even greater animosity between them, she had made a mistake in not heeding the older woman’s feelings.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I should have been more understanding, should have held my tongue better and discouraged Father from lavishing so much attention upon me. Truly, it is not my wish that your mother be reduced to such a state.” She started to turn away. “I shall apologize.”
Melissant pulled her back. “Just now, I do not think she would be receptive.”
A glance over Alessandra’s shoulder confirmed it. The bishop her companion, Agnes looked entirely unapproachable. “Then later,” she acceded.
Shortly, music sang upon the air as the minstrels played a tune that brought the young people to their feet.
From the sidelines, Alessandra and Melissant watched others take up the dance that soon turned vigorous.
“It surprises me,” Alessandra said. “I did not know the English could dance so. The steps Lucien taught me were slower and more controlled. This reminds me—”
“Lucien taught you to dance? When?”
She had not meant to reveal that. “On the ship. He schooled me in many things English, dance being one of them.”
Melissant smiled. “Only the slow dances, I wager—those where he held your hand and turned you about.”
Recalling Lucien’s warning, Alessandra did not mention he had also shown her the more intimate peasants’ dance. Her toes curled in her slippers in remembrance of his body brushing hers, pressing, withdrawing.
Deciding it best to turn the conversation, Alessandra nodded at the dance floor. “What is this dance called?”
Melissant laughed, but obliged. “The tourdion.”
“It is livelier than the other dances.”
“Would you like to try?”
Alessandra longed to, but was reluctant in the presence of the bishop and Agnes. “Nay, I am content to watch.”
“Liar.”
Alessandra sighed. “That I am.”
“Resist as long as you can,” Melissant said and crossed to a group of young noblemen. Shortly, a partner in tow, she joined the others on the dance floor.
As Alessandra watched the quick, vibrant steps of the couples who smiled broadly and spilt laughter, she struggled to keep the music from sliding beneath her skin. But it found its way in, tempting her fee
t to move and body to sway.
She closed her eyes to block the sight, but behind her lids arose the women dancers of the harem. Gossamer garb billowing, they turned and twisted, leapt and sprang, bent and arched, spread arms wide and drew them close. And there Alessandra found herself, joining them with abandon that would surely earn her Jabbar’s reproach. But all that mattered was now. This moment. The dance.
She lifted her arms, circled her hips, and gave her feet to the rhythm.
Marvelous! her body sang.
Deeper the music pulled her into its embrace, tighter it wrapped around her.
More! pealed the bells about her ankles.
Laughing, she dropped her head back. And in the midst of unfolding joy, acknowledged something was not right.
Where was the caress of light garments, the brush and tickle of unbound hair catching in eyes and mouth?
The garments she could do nothing about, but her hair…
She pulled free the pins that secured the braids to her head and dragged fingers through the crossed sections of hair. As it tumbled past her shoulders and joined her in the sway of the dance, she once more raised her arms and teased the air with her fingers.
Beyond slightly raised lids, she glimpsed a large figure, felt the heat it radiated, then the brush of hands. She laughed and whirled away—only to find it once more in her path, and this time a hand gripped her arm.
Alessandra opened her eyes and startled to find before her the one person she had not expected to see this evening—Lucien. But a Lucien who no longer wore the turban and robes of a eunuch. A Lucien whose stern countenance dropped her back down in England.
Breathing hard, she looked past him into faces that reflected shock, among them Agnes’s and the bishop’s. Even the musicians whose instruments had gone silent, stared at her. The couples who had been dancing moments—or was it minutes—before, stood on the outskirts of the dance floor, leaving Alessandra and Lucien near its center.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
Realizing that what she had done had not been in her head, she returned her gaze to his. “I do not know…”
“Your hand,” he repeated.
When she remained unmoving, he reached and lifted it in his own. Then, with a nod to the minstrels who scrambled to accommodate him, he led Alessandra into the first of the dances he had taught her.
“Smile,” he said, “and do not forget your feet.”
She did as told, focusing on his face so she would not have to look upon the others who surely condemned her for her behavior.
Though Lucien was hardly pleasant to look at, numerous cuts, bruises, and abrasions causing his crescent-shaped scar to pale in comparison, she could not imagine anyone she would rather rest eyes upon. Whence had he come?
“Lucien?”
“Later,” he quieted her.
Not until well into the dance did the other couples return to the floor, and the dance that followed—another lively number—lessened the rapt attention with which they were regarded.
“Now?” she asked.
“Later.”
Telling herself to be content with being so near him, she concentrated on the steps he guided her through. It still amazed her that one so large could move as smoothly as he did. As on the ship, he made her feel one with him, the meeting of their hands the point at which they flowed together.
With the commencement of the next dance, Lucien ushered her from the floor and into an alcove.
Alessandra smiled up at him. “Once again, you save me. I thank you.”
He did not return her smile. “Did your father not warn you of the punishment of heretics?”
She felt her insides sink. Though his displeasure was deserved, she did not need to be told. “I am not a heretic,” she said, squinting to pick out his features amid the shadows.
“You learned naught from what happened today, did you?” he snapped. “You don the bells and flaunt the dance of an infidel without thought of the consequences.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had purposely worn the bells, but the dance had just happened. “I do not understand why you care,” she said. “I hear nothing from you for weeks, and when you finally appear, you ignore me as if we never shared a kiss.”
Lucien caught her chin and lifted it. “We shared more than a kiss, Alessandra.”
His acknowledgment made her mouth go dry. “Did it mean anything to you?”
“Had it not, I would have left you to your dance and the bishop’s denunciation.”
Meaning he still felt something for her? “If that is true, why do you cause your body to suffer so much abuse when what you seek could be had by wedding me?”
“I am not craven, Alessandra!”
Images of him exchanging blows with her father rose before her. “Certes, not in battle. Indeed, you are very nearly an animal—one who chooses bloodshed and preservation of the De Gautier name over peace.”
“You do not understand,” he said gruffly.
She pulled free and stepped back, causing the bells to peal softly. “I do understand. You do not love me as I love you. And even if you did, you would not allow yourself to feel it past your loathing of the Brevilles.”
Whatever might have shown upon Lucien’s face was lost in shadow. “There is one rule of war you would benefit from knowing,” he said. “Never let your enemy know the emotions which drive you, for he will turn them against you.”
War. Enemy. Emotions. His choice of words felt like a fist to her belly. “It is good to know you and I are at war, Lucien de Gautier,” she said. “Until now, I had not realized I was your enemy.”
Lucien stared at her, hated himself for being responsible for the hurt upon her face. It was true she was his enemy, but not in the broader sense of the word. She was the enemy of his heart. But if it would keep her from the lists and mock carnage, he would not disabuse her of the notion. Once he regained his lands, there would be time aplenty for explanation.
“All Brevilles are my enemy,” he said. Words only, but intended to send her away until the time was right.
Alessandra drew herself up to her full height, turned, and walked opposite.
Brave shoulders, Lucien thought. They did not slump or sag, but remained squared as if she went into battle. But something was missing—bells. Her departure had not been accompanied by their music.
Catching the glint of gold where she had stood, he scooped up the anklet. It was still warm from her flesh. Accursed bells. They were the reason he had come from his tent in the first place. Having left the banquet early, Vincent had mentioned the speculation caused by the sound coming from beneath Alessandra’s skirts.
Though Lucien had ached from head to foot, his body demanding rest, he had once again appointed himself her savior and arrived in the hall to discover her the center of attention. Like the others, he had stared at her exotic dance. Unlike the others, he had momentarily slipped into memories of the first time he had laid eyes upon her.
He had not intended to dance with her, but to drag her from the dance floor. But it had seemed natural—and safest—to take her into his arms. And he had savored every moment.
Lucien stepped into the light, opened his palm, and considered the miniature bells. Alessandra would not know it, but he would carry them into the tournament on the morrow. A favor ill-gotten, but his.
Alessandra closed the door of her chamber, leaned back against it, and released the sob she had barely kept down. Though she hated the self-pity gripping her, she could not prevent tears from spilling over.
“What more must I do to gain his love?” she addressed the darkness. He cared for her, but not as much as she cared for him.
Wiping the back of a hand across her eyes, she started to move away from the door, but halted at the sound of laughter.
Straining to hear who passed outside the door, she recognized Agnes’s voice. To whomever she was with, she spoke husky words, then laughed in a way that sounded of intimacy.
> Did Agnes intend to cuckold James? Did she seek to lessen the pain of his love for Catherine by spending time in another’s arms?
Once the couple had passed by, Alessandra eased open her door and peered down the corridor. And blinked in surprise.
It was James to whom Agnes spoke words of love, his arm around her that guided them toward their chamber, he who paused and covered her mouth with his, his voice that said, “I do love you.”
Agnes tipped her head farther back. “Even though I am not Catherine?”
He heaved a sigh. “Foolish woman. How you anger me, how you test every whit of my patience, how you make me want to shake you ’til your teeth clack.” Another sigh. “Of course I love you, but stop asking me to prove it. I have done enough.”
She rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his, then walked beside him to their chamber.
Gently, Alessandra pushed the door closed. It was a side to both Agnes and James she had not expected. Well they played the warring lord and lady of Corburry, but there was tenderness, too—as there had been between her mother and Jabbar.
The difference was that if Agnes and James remained faithful to each other, there would be no other with whom to share their affections. On the other hand, though Jabbar had loved Sabine, his other wives and concubines had time and again come between them.
Alessandra sank down on her bed and dragged the covers over her. “I see, Mother,” she murmured, better understanding Sabine’s insistence that her daughter was unsuited to life and marriage in Algiers.
One man, one woman. Lucien and Alessandra.
Dare she continue to hope?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Alessandra had intended to stay away—had not wanted to witness more bloodshed—but the final day of the tournament had drawn her back to the lists. It was not that she wished to join in the revelry. Rather, she thought it might be her last chance to see Lucien before he returned to Falstaff.
Lest her father caught sight of her, she hid her hair beneath the hood of her cloak and kept her head down as she moved among the crowd. Eschewing the pavilions, she made a place for herself at the sidelines where lesser nobles and villeins watched.