by Linda Madl
White greasepaint smudged her lamenting lips. “Augh!” she wailed.
The vassals roared with laughter.
Tyler threw his arms over his head and shrank to the floor in mock fear of losing his life.
More laughter.
Ever pleased to be the center of attention, Brenna's frown of indignation faded into a grin. She joined in the mirth, tossing her curls and wiping the smudge from her lips with the back of her hand. She turned on Tyler Wotte, shaking a finger at him.
"Shame upon you, Master Jester,” she cried with a smile. “Now you pay the penalty of being captured."
The jester hung his head and accepted the blindfold from Brenna with mock resignation. Soon ladies taunted him with their long sleeves, and he stumbled about the room, unerringly knowing the ladies from the gentlemen—the pretty ones from the crones—kissing as many women as he could get his hands on.
Leandra noted that the older ladies demurred and protested his kisses—a little. The younger ladies were more elusive, but Tyler's efforts did not go unrewarded. Finally a frowning feast marshal stripped the blindfold from the young man's grinning face and returned it to Brenna.
"Leandra, you must be the blindman now,” Brenna said, grabbing her cousin by the arm. “Our newly betrothed lady must take her turn."
"I really don't think—"
The crowd clamored approval, drowning Leandra's protest. Reluctant to spoil the people's good time, she allowed the blindfold to be fastened tightly over her eyes. Brenna spun her around until she thought she was going to stagger disgracefully to her knees. When her cousin released her, she swayed uncertainly for a moment, trying to regain a sense of rightness with the world. Sleeves and hoods whipped about the hem of her gown, first from one side, then the other.
To her right she could hear Brenna's stifled giggles and rustling skirts. On her left she could hear the murmur of men talking in the background. Jester's bells jingled softly. Tyler darted in close, then withdrew. He was an old friend she'd known since childhood. She had no fear of him.
Purposely, Leandra turned away from the sound of the bells in hopes of luring Tyler to move in closer. She could hear Brenna's laughter again just beyond her reach. The tinkle of bells. A tug on the back of her skirt. With lightning speed Leandra swung around and threw her arms around her harasser. She embraced a solid body much larger than she'd anticipated. She leaned into him, still just a little dizzy from the spin she'd been given.
"Kiss, kiss,” Brenna shouted, and giggled. “Go on."
"They are not going to be satisfied until we do this."
Leandra knew Sir Garrett's voice at once, and his scent—unfamiliar but welcome—was disturbing. Her reaction to his sudden nearness confused her. She tensed against the strong arms already slipping around her waist. She tried to pull away without appearing to pull away. But he held her fast.
"Think of me as your betrothed,” he murmured, gently drawing the blindfold from her eyes while one hand remained on her waist. “A brief kiss so all the maidens can dream of their lovers tonight. ‘Tis but a game. A little smile would be nice, too. You know, to make your face brighten has become something of a challenge."
Leandra stared up at the handsome planes of the knight's face. A softness settled on the line of his lips, and the warmth of good humor glimmered his eyes.
"Like this?” Determined to submit quickly and without fuss, she forced a smile to her lips. ‘Tis only a game, she reminded herself.
"Nice.” He lowered his lips to hers, pressing warmth and moist firmness against her mouth in a gesture that was meant to be a simple kiss—an innocent display of goodwill for the throng.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the kiss, tasted the knight, smelled the man, became aware of the strength in his mouth and the potency in the body she leaned against. His lips moved against hers as if about to take something from her. A disabling tingle feathered down her spine and whispered into her limbs, leaving her more weak than dizzy. She sagged against him.
His hands tightened, warm and firm on her waist. She knew he'd sensed her weakness. She longed to rest against him an instant longer, drawing on his strength and taking comfort in the warm haven of his embrace. But the insistent chill of reality settled over her. She dare not risk the pleasure. Abruptly she shoved herself away from him.
With a look of confusion, he released her. Leandra gulped for air, not because the kiss had been so long, but because she simply could not catch her breath. She stepped back, staring up at him in fear—understanding at last what a danger this man could be to her. How easy it would be to succumb to him, to his handsome face, to his solid strength of will—to be quelled by the hard blue of his angry eyes or entranced by the sunny-blue humor that shone there when he grinned.
For the first time in her life Leandra understood desire—she desired this man, the perfect, loyal knight of her liege lord.
She saw the comprehension flash in his eyes. The uncertain smile on his lips vanished, and a frown creased his brow. He'd recognized the longing in her eyes. She knew that he understood—that she wanted him.
Shame burned in her cheeks. She stepped back another pace and stared at the floor. What a wanton he must think her. Her braid swung down close to her face, hiding her flaming cheeks from him and from the people who crowded about them.
Vassals, men and women alike, hooted their approval of the kiss, and the minstrels played a wild, discordant fanfare. Tyler Wotte danced an antic circle around them, then threw himself between the pair, making a kissy face at Garrett. The knight grinned good-naturedly and shoved the comic aside.
Brenna hurled herself at Garrett, and with a hearty laugh he kissed her on the cheek and led her into the dancing crowd and away from Leandra.
Momentarily forgotten, she retreated to the dais. She sank into her chair muttering a prayer for divine inspiration. She longed for any idea that would force the brave and loyal Sir Garrett to remain in Lyonesse—not so he could protect her people, though that remained important, but because she dare not travel to Tremelyn all those long days and nights with the man who had just kissed her.
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Chapter Five
"LADY LEANDRA NEVER forgets the poor who come to the castle for help,” Sergeant Ralph told Garrett. “She always has something for them, especially the little ones."
The two men were crouched on the battlement above the gate where Garrett had come to inspect the postern gate house.
He'd risen before the ringing of prime—when the dawn's first light touched the treetops—to inspect defenses. The condition of the outer curtain walls was better than he'd expected to find, and he found Sergeant Ralph was more capable than he'd first credited him.
During the tour, they caught a glimpse of Leandra below them, doling out the remains of the betrothal banquet to a line of supplicants. From where he crouched, her face was hidden; only the top of the simple white wimple she wore could be seen. But the morning breeze carried the gentle tones of her husky voice to him.
"She knows them all by name,” Ralph continued. “Cook told me that she once saw Lady Leandra take her own bread and snatch a crust from her cousin's mouth for the women and children at the gate."
Garrett's emotions warred as he leaned over the stone parapet to watch Leandra. He wanted to like her. He clearly recalled the petal softness of her response when he'd held her in his arms, warm and yielding in a kiss that betrayed desire. Then the flash in her eyes—that dazzling flame of passion, had angered him. Only his own cool discipline had kept him from thrusting her away and embarrassing them both in the presence of the cheering vassals.
But what troubled him most about that kiss was his own reaction. Discovering desire in a woman's eyes had never troubled him before. Hardly. As often as not, he'd taken advantage of that yearning expression, depending on his mood and the appeal of the lady herself. Yet that look of longing in Lady Leandra's eyes had disquieted him, had stirred a sharp, regretful longing that h
e had never experienced.
"The lady is generous and honorable,” Sergeant Ralph said, his voice full of pride. “Lord Reginald is getting a good wife."
Garrett made no reply. He studied Leandra at the gate, docile and guileless, giving away the food. She hadn't intended to betray herself with that kiss. He knew that, and he didn't believe she had intended to tempt him. She was not like Brenna. For a moment after the kiss she'd stared at him wide-eyed, like a startled doe suddenly trapped. With surprising strength she shoved herself away from him, then ducked her head, hiding behind her braid. The only chivalrous thing to do was laugh and to throw the attention to Lady Brenna, who plainly adored the feel of all eyes on her.
"I'm certain Lord Reginald will be pleased with her,” he assured Sergeant Ralph. If he thought for a moment that Lady Leandra had willfully tempted him, in all good conscience, he would be unable to complete this undertaking. His honor would not allow him to bring Reginald anything but a virtuous lady.
At midmorning Highlord Aidan summoned Garrett from his inspection of the castle to the great hall for the signing of the marriage contract, the final irrevocable step in the alliance.
When Garrett arrived, he found to his annoyance that Leandra was already reviewing the document.
"My daughter will be finished shortly,” the highlord explained to Garrett, then he turned to address Father John about a holy matter.
The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing Leandra in a golden glow as she sat at the table, poring over the sheets of parchment. That she could read did not surprise him. Reginald had mentioned the fact and seemed pleased to be gaining a literate wife. From where Garrett waited against the wall, he could see the understanding play across her features as she read. She was dressed as demurely as she had been at the gate, covered like the lady of the castle, her bearing like that of a princess. Her white coif hid her hair and glowed pure against the innocent blush in her cheeks. Her fingers caressed the contract gently, lovingly.
After their banquet discussion, he should have known that she was well-acquainted with the terms and all the Latin phrases used to set them down. He prayed that she would advise her father to sign this document without more trouble over who would command the castle's military.
Across the room below the cruciform, Highlord Aidan debated amiably with Father John whether Christ had owned his clothes or not—an obscure theological issue that only churchmen could find worthy of dissection. The highlord appeared ready to argue either side, frontward or backward, with equal enthusiasm.
* * * *
AT THE TABLE, Leandra drew a slender finger down the ship's manifest. The number of weapons and the men-at-arms satisfied her. And the dowry terms—everything but the details about the command of the castle's fighting forces pleased her. She touched the precious document tenderly and once again noted Lord Reginald's signature and seal at the bottom. When Father John had unrolled the scroll across her worktable to reveal the earl's name, she had almost let out a noisy sigh of relief.
Her marriage and Lyonesse's future lay in the words of the contract before her. But it would never do now to rush or to agree to something she would regret later.
"Nothing is said about who will command the castle's fighting forces,” she said, glancing up at Sir Garrett near the hearth.
She'd avoided looking at him all morning, afraid that at the sight of his good looks she would be lost in the weakness that had overcome her when they'd kissed. What she saw when she raised her gaze to meet his was that the deep blue of his samite tunic matched his eyes. His short tawny hair shone like a polished gold helmet in the morning sun. Could he be an earth-bound angel sent to tempt her?
She gulped silently. Thanks to his kiss, she'd spent a sleepless night thinking of what she might do to entice him to stay in Lyonesse.
"I don't believe my lord expected protection of the castle and village to be an issue. Cedric is a qualified sergeant.” Garrett folded his arms across his chest and straightened, standing head and shoulders above the other men. “He was concerned that you have an escort appropriate to your station."
"I have little care for who escorts me,” Leandra began then stopped as she realized how insulting her words might sound. “What I mean to say is that appearances mean little to me. I want security for my people."
Garrett moved away from the hearth, coming to stand before her worktable.
Gazing up into his stern face, she reconsidered her words again. “I mean, I appreciate Lord Reginald's concern, but—” She decided a change in tactics would be best. “You are a bachelor knight, are you not, sir? You have yet to win your lands?"
"Yes, my lady.” Puzzlement crossed his brow.
She might have hit on something here.
"I could offer you a manor along the southwest coast with a keep. ‘Tis in need of some repair, but it's a fine, large fortification within an hour's ride from here. The holding offers hunting and fishing rights, as well as rich forestland and grazing. The men and women of Lyonesse are most grateful for your service yesterday, and I—"
She broke off when she saw his face turn cold and hard as stone. His eyes, which she'd found so attractive only a moment ago, turned icy. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Mother have mercy, what had she done now?
Inexplicably, her heart began to pound in her chest. She stared down at the marriage contract, unable to meet the knight's frosty glare. His anger sent a chill through the hall. Her father and the priest ceased their friendly debate.
Garrett leaned over the table. His shadow, like his anger, fell dark across the surface and Leandra. When he spoke, his voice was low and angry. “My liege lord charged me with escorting his betrothed to Tremelyn safely. I will do that to the best of my ability. I am no knight for hire. Do you understand me, lady? I am a loyal Bernay, and my fealty is pledged only to Lord Reginald."
He stepped back, his shoulders rigid with rage. His embittered glare swept the hall from Highlord Aidan and Father John to Sergeant Ralph and the Lyonesse guards. “I will challenge anyone to combat who questions that."
Leandra sat fixed in her chair as Sir Garrett's glare returned to her. Indignation narrowed his eyes and pulled down on the corners of his mouth, sending a frisson of fear through her. She'd never dreamt he would take such violent offense to the proposal.
Highlord Aidan rose from the bench beneath the cruciform. “I'm certain no one questions your loyalty, Sir Garrett. Leandra meant no insult. She meant only to say that we appreciated your defense yesterday. We consider ample protection of Lyonesse of utmost importance."
"Of course, the earl and Sir Garrett understand your concern for Lyonesse, my lord Aidan,” Father John chimed in, also rising from the bench. His gaze moved from Leandra to Garrett. As if he treaded on eggshells, the priest crept to the knight's side and plucked at Garrett's sleeve. “Sit down, sir. Allow Lady Leandra to finish her review of the contract."
Garrett shook off the priest, his gaze still searing Leandra.
She forced herself to meet his wintry glower once more. His eyes bore into her, drilling home the awareness that she was but a worthless sinner presented to a wrathful saint for judgment. How was she to know that he would consider her offer an insult of the most grievous sort? She resisted the urge to cross herself.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she chose her words carefully. “I see that you honor your word to your liege lord. I respect that. Please believe that no offense to your constancy was intended."
* * * *
AS GARRETT'S ANGER subsided, he came slowly to his senses. The tense silence hovering in the hall rang in his ears. He looked at those about him. Everyone stared back, each frozen in place as if any movement would set off something dangerous. At his side Father John regarded him with a stricken expression. Alarm widened Leandra's eyes. Anxiety furrowed Highlord Aidan's brow.
Garrett rubbed a hand across his forehead. He had spoken too hastily, said angry words that were uncalled for. But before he
could add anything, the tall oaken doors of the great hall were flung open.
The castle bailiff bolted into the hall, his face white, his cap askew.
Like the others, Garrett turned to stare at the shaken man.
"Sir Leofric has entered the city gate and is on his way here,” the bailiff blurted out, gasping for breath. One hand clutched his heaving chest, and the other grabbed at his hood. Garrett feared the poor man was going to have a falling down fit before he could tell all his news.
The bailiff scurried past Garrett, rudely stepping between him and Leandra's table. The man ducked a hasty but respectful bow. “Sir Leofric demands to see you immediately, my lady, and he demands that the Earl of Tremelyn withdraw his men and ships."
Garrett watched Leandra pale slightly and turn to the document.
"Leandra?” The highlord hurried across the hall to the worktable. His white beard trembled. “What do we say to Lord Leofric? You sent him our refusal, did you not?"
"Yes, I did. Father. He never responded to our invitation to the betrothal banquet."
To Garrett's surprise, the lady's solemn mouth, so soft and vulnerable beneath his lips the night before, hardened into a tight line.
"Tell Lord Leofric when he arrives to wait outside,” she instructed the bailiff. “I will see him at my convenience. Serve him wine. Whatever he wishes."
"I will do my best, my lady.” The doubtful bailiff scuttled from the hall, pulling closed the tall doors behind him.
Garrett stepped to the table. He wanted a signature on the contract now. Leofric may have been refused, but the varlet was known for being unable to take no for an answer. He wondered whether Leandra had heard the rumor that only last year the man ravished a lady who had lightly flirted with him. Then he killed her husband in a tourney.
Resolute but without apparent haste, Lady Leandra was already reaching for the quill and ink pot, “Father, sign this document, now."
"But, daughter, Leofric is a neighbor,” his lordship protested. “Is there a need to rush? Can we not offer him our hospitality?"