‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘A customer,’ Lucy answered. She gave the man a warm smile. ‘One dearly needed, too, husband, so don’t drive him away with your surliness.’
Sir Roger glowered. The man on the bench paid them no mind. Lucy could not imagine why Sir Roger was so hostile when he knew guests were the purpose of the inn.
‘Take the water inside, then go fetch Robbie,’ she instructed Sir Roger. ‘Our son will be hungry.’
The look of astonishment on Sir Roger’s face was extraordinary to behold, but he did as she asked, leading Robbie by the hand into the inn.
‘Pay no mind to my husband, sir,’ Lucy simpered to the traveller. ‘He’s been in a tiresome mood ever since the water scalded him last week when he was brewing.’
‘Perhaps he had better stick to men’s work and let you get on with yours,’ the man answered.
Lucy feigned a merry laugh, drawing closer and tilting her head flirtatiously.
‘That he should. Now, why don’t you try another cup and see how well I make it?’
‘Not tonight. I have to be on my way,’ the man answered. He paid and left.
As Lucy tidied his cup away Sir Roger emerged from inside.
‘Who was that?’
‘A customer. Why did you behave in such a way?’
Sir Roger looked after the departing man. ‘You don’t know who he is and you sat so intimately with him.’
‘And why should that concern you?’ Lucy asked in surprise.
‘It could have been the man who was asking after me.’
Lucy straightened her neckline.
‘It wasn’t. I saw them, remember. But you didn’t know that when you saw him, so if you don’t want to invite suspicion don’t make such a show of yourself.’
Sir Roger frowned mutinously then gave a gesture of resignation. He sat where the man had been.
‘That’s a fair point, I suppose,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But all the same, you were very sharp to me. If I’m acting as your husband we should appear loving. A kiss or cuddle to keep the fiction.’
A tremor ran through Lucy, tipping her stomach upside down and causing her to shiver at the thought of Sir Roger’s hands slipping to her waist, pulling her close into his arms. The idea appealed more than it should. ‘You clearly don’t know many husbands and wives!’
‘I know some wives,’ Sir Roger retorted. ‘It can’t be that hard to feign affection for me, can it?’ He pushed his hair back and gave her a serious look. ‘If you even have to pretend, that is.’
Lucy rounded on him. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I know you find me attractive,’ Sir Roger said, his voice low and husky. ‘It shows plainly on your face when you look at me. Your cheeks colour and your eyes grow wide.’
Lucy drew a sharp breath. She had not been aware her feelings were so easily observed. The treacherous heat that he spoke of was already rising to her breast.
She gazed at him openly. As he had almost invited her attentions she would not deny herself that pleasure, but if he thought she was about to swoon into his arms he was mistaken.
‘You’re a good-looking man, but don’t fool yourself. Anything that my body might reveal is instinctive and nothing to do with my mind,’ she said. ‘If I got a nose full of pepper I’d sneeze. That doesn’t mean I’d welcome the sensation or choose to dip my nose in the pot again.’
Sir Roger burst out laughing, his eyes sparkling.
‘I’m pepper, am I? You have a lot of experience of rich spices?’
‘Enough to know that they seem tempting, but should be used sparingly.’
‘And is that the only reason?’ He caught hold of her sleeve as she moved to go past, his expression now intent. ‘The night I arrived, even through the pain I felt, I could sense the desire growing inside you like a flame lapping at kindling. Or are you scared you won’t be able to stop if you kiss me again?’
The breath caught in Lucy’s throat and a sharp throb of longing caught her by surprise.
‘I could stop,’ she said, uncertain if she spoke the truth.
* * *
Lucy had time to feed Robbie on pottage and egg and ready him for bed before the tub was a quarter full of warm water. Sir Roger sat on the bench by the fire, chewing on the hard heel of the loaf and the remains of a cheese. Gyb sidled into the room and jumped on to the table. He dropped a dead rat in front of Roger. Lucy swiped him away with an angry snarl.
‘Your cat is far too forward,’ Roger remarked.
‘He isn’t mine.’ Lucy watched the cat saunter off, rat in mouth. ‘He showed up one day unasked and unwanted and decided to stay. I might as well make use of him. If he doesn’t like it, I’m sure he’ll leave.’
‘So I’m not the first stray you’ve taken pity on,’ Roger observed in mock seriousness.
‘Not the first battered tom who would have his end away with any female that takes his fancy?’ Lucy asked scathingly.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ Roger asked, grinning, his eyes bright.
‘Aren’t you?’ Lucy held his gaze with a challenge.
Roger laughed and carried on eating.
When Lucy picked Robbie up and bade Sir Roger goodnight he looked at her in surprise.
‘You haven’t eaten.’
‘I ate before you arrived.’ Her stomach threatened to loudly proclaim her lie. She scraped her finger round the bowl, scooping up the remains of Robbie’s egg and licked it, then gathered the crumbs of cheese. ‘Your bath is prepared. I should give you some privacy.’
‘You can’t go. I’ll need help redressing my wound.’
Sir Roger began tugging at the hem of the tunic to pull it over his head. Lucy caught a glimpse of the dark hair fanning from the waist of his trousers to his chest before she dragged her eyes away. Desire fluttered through her. She had seen him half-naked, and more besides that, but the notion of being present while he bathed made her cheeks flame.
‘You can call me when you’re done,’ she muttered. She fled with Robbie in her arms before he could object. She waited in the bedroom until she heard her name called, trying not to picture Sir Roger’s hands moving across his broad frame as he bathed.
She settled Robbie in his bed and rushed to the door. She flung it open and stopped short, colliding with Sir Roger who was standing outside the room. He was facing away, but turned at her footstep so they were face to face, bodies close.
He was naked from the waist up and his tunic hung loosely around his neck, soaking up the drops of water that clung to him. As Lucy watched, a droplet fell from his hair and landed in the hollow of his collarbone. She bunched her fist to stop herself reaching out to wipe it away. He had not removed his whole beard, but had shaped it neatly and had cut away the length of his hair to leave it curling around his jaw as it began to dry. The effect was to make him look younger and more innocent. And twice as attractive as usual.
‘I didn’t hear you come up.’
Sir Roger was holding the wad of dressing to his wound. Fixing her eyes on the area in question, Lucy peeled it back. It looked better than expected. The hole was deep and the area red, but with none of the inflammation that had been present as he lay unconscious. Lucy ran her fingertips across his shoulder and chest, gently examining the area, causing Sir Roger to give a soft sigh. Could he be as aware of Lucy, of the way the sensation of his still-damp muscles made her skin awaken?
She folded the pad so the clean side was against his skin and, as she had done before, rewrapped the bandages around it to hold it in place. This was easier now Sir Roger was upright rather than lying in bed. He followed her every instruction, lifting his arm, tilting his head, silently obeying her and never taking his eyes from her. Lucy was glad of the near darkness to mask the flames that ignited in her che
eks. She tied the end of the binding and stood unmoving, hands still on Sir Roger’s chest until a soft cough brought her to her senses. Sir Roger craned his head to look down at her work. He brushed his hand over the dressing, fingertips briefly touching hers. Lucy lowered her hand rapidly.
‘It’s clean now. Keep it dry,’ she murmured.
‘That should be easy enough to manage.’ His lips slid into a suggestive smile. ‘I’m clean also.’
He was, as he had pointed out, clean and fresh, damp and enticing. Without answering, Lucy dipped her head and plunged back into her room. She pressed her head against the cold wall, feeling feverish with desire that threatened to spill over.
When Robbie woke in the night as he always did, he found his mother already awake and pacing the room, unable to sleep because of the tug of her senses towards the room beyond and the man inside.
* * *
Lucy proved to be a tiring mistress. She was already awake and moving around downstairs by the time the daylight woke Roger and he dragged himself from his mattress. Robbie had been wailing again in the night, his cries disturbing Roger’s rest and awakening him while Lucy’s soft singing to comfort her child served to lull Roger back to sleep. In the morning light her eyes bore dark circles that told of her sleepless night. She nodded to Roger silently as she passed him a cup of ale, seemingly too tired to make conversation.
‘He was noisy last night. Does he ever sleep peacefully?’ Roger grumbled, indicating Robbie who was drawing with his fingers in the fire ashes. Spit mingled with the ash, creating a paste that he swirled into patterns.
‘When his tooth comes he’ll be happier. I kept him as quiet as I could, but it’s hard.’ Lucy answered. She narrowed her weary-looking eyes. ‘Of course, usually it doesn’t matter as there is only me to hear it.’
She stifled a yawn and Roger bit back his next grumble. Her night had been more disrupted than his and he sensed any further comment would earn him a less than friendly retort. They drank quickly, chewing on hard bread, the silence only punctuated by Robbie’s demands and Lucy’s attempts to occupy him with small tasks.
Women’s work was both harder and more tedious than Roger had expected. He was set first to raking out the hearth, despite Robbie’s protests at the disruption of his game.
‘Be patient,’ Roger instructed. He carried the ash bucket outside, returned and picked the child up under his good arm, carrying him like a barrel to where he had made a small pile of ash beside the front step. ‘Play here and tire yourself out so that tonight you might let your mother and me rest!’
Robbie giggled and set about covering himself in the mess. Roger set about lighting the fire. He bent over the pile of wood and kindling as he arranged it, conscious of Lucy’s eyes on him. Fortunately for his pride the kindling caught quickly. He sat back on his heels and smiled triumphantly.
Lucy’s response was a nod of the head. ‘Smartly done, my lord. I wasn’t sure if a nobleman would know how to do a servant’s job.’
‘I was a soldier,’ he pointed out. ‘I know how to take care of myself when there is no other option.’
‘That’s good as there’s more to be done,’ Lucy answered. ‘You can start on the rushes.’
Roger bit back his disappointment that his work had barely raised a smile or word of praise from Lucy, puzzled why he should feel it so keenly. Lucy scrubbed the table and every surface with vigour, though her sleepless night must have affected her. Determined not to prove himself lacking, Roger began to lay fresh rushes on the floor, stamping them down until a sweat broke out. He paused, resting against the wall as a wave of light-headedness overtook him.
Lucy came over to peer at him.
‘I’m not as fit as I hoped,’ he admitted grudgingly.
Lucy’s forehead wrinkled and Roger wondered if he looked as weak as he felt. She raised a hand to his brow with a feather-light touch. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly.
‘I’ll do this.’
She set him instead to chopping vegetables in preparation for their meal. He recognised the knife as being the one he had taken from her and used to free himself.
‘You trust me with a weapon now?’
She lifted her long-lashed, grey eyes to him. ‘You have no reason to harm me so I have no reason not to. Besides, you’re already in a borrowed shirt. I don’t think there’s anything else you’d want to cut off.’
Her voice lacked humour, but her eyes were dancing with some private amusement. As soon as Roger smiled, the humour vanished and a hint of rose touched her cheek. She fumbled the knife out blade first towards him.
‘You can’t cut cabbage by hand. I’m sure you’ll be capable of the task.’
‘Don’t hold a knife like that, unless you’re planning to stab someone,’ Roger chided, reaching around to take the knife by the handle.
His hand closed over hers as he waited for her to loosen her grip. They were standing close enough that he noticed when her eyelashes flickered as he touched her skin. Roger would have felt triumphant at the proof that she was not insusceptible to his presence except for the way his stomach answered with a flutter of its own. Lucy slid her hand free, leaving a trace of heat on Roger’s palm. He investigated the meagre bag of vegetables, wondering how exactly onions were to be dealt with. After Lucy’s scathing reference to his capabilities and his dismissal from rush-laying he was determined not to ask for help.
He managed the task, to his relief. Holding a sword might be beyond him, but he was able to grip the short-bladed knife firmly enough and slice the cabbage and onions. It felt a dreadful deterioration for a man who had once entertained dreams of glory in the lists. He pictured the neck of the man who had shot him lying on the table instead of the vegetables, slicing with vigour.
Roger carried the pot to the hearth and set it on the stand over the fire, adding ale, a handful of barley and the sparse ham bone that Lucy indicated. His stomach tightened as he gave the iron pot a stir, but from the amount of food going in he did not hold out hope for a full belly that night.
Bending over the table had given him a crick in his neck and a dull throbbing in his shoulder. He leaned back against the wall by the hearth and dug his fingertips deep into the muscles to loosen them. He took a brief moment of respite, enjoying the view of Lucy’s legs as she twisted her feet to grind the rushes firmly into place. In the time it had taken him to finish his task she had completed half of hers. She looked as though she was working her way through the measure of a dance.
Roger began to whistle the tune to a French jig that sprung to his mind. Lucy stopped mid-step, one leg bent with heel raised in a pose that twisted her hip to the side and caused the curves of her waist and breasts to command Roger’s attention. The effect was only spoiled by the manner in which she glared at him suspiciously. He explained what he was doing and she rolled her eyes as if it confirmed her opinion of him as a wastrel, lowering her leg and smoothing her dress down.
‘We could dance together and finish in half the time,’ Roger suggested with a bold grin. Despite the soreness of his wound he suddenly found himself yearning for further movement. The idea of taking Lucy in his arms and pulling her close as they worked through the steps made his spirits lift. Some dances involved more than hand-holding and polite bowing. She did not refuse immediately and looked almost as if she was considering his suggestion seriously, but then shook her head.
‘It’s been too long since I danced. I fear I’d make a poor partner for a man used to fine company.’
He’d expected refusal, but not this excuse. Denial that she had time to spare for such diversions, possibly. Suspicion that it was a ploy of some sort, almost certainly. A criticism of her own abilities, not at all.
‘I don’t think you would,’ Roger said.
He walked to stand opposite her, adding a slight swagger to his walk. He took his time as if he was
taking his place in the middle of a dance floor in front of assembled nobles, enjoying Lucy’s eyes on him. Lucy shifted her stance, straightening her back and letting her hands drop to rest at her sides, watching as he crossed to her. As much as she might deny it, Roger recognised she was readying herself to dance. His pulse began a low drumbeat in his ears.
The skin at the creamy hollow of Lucy’s throat flickered as she lifted her head to meet his eyes, gazing intently at him through pale lashes, before glancing away in a show of modesty that made his blood begin to race all the more for doubting it was real. The room grew hotter, smaller, enfolding them both in a moment that had sprung from nowhere. Roger swallowed, acutely aware of how much he wanted the woman standing before him.
‘Some things you never forget how to do, no matter how long it’s been since you tried.’ He held a hand out, cocking his head to one side. ‘I was always reckoned to be a partner worth having. If it pleases my lady, I could instruct you.’
Lucy folded her arms across her body. Her lips were set into a line. Roger ground his teeth in frustration. He had said the wrong thing and once again she had raised the drawbridge around herself.
‘I’m no lady, Sir Roger, as well you are aware!’
Roger had meant nothing by the term beyond play-acting, but she was right. Lucy might hold herself like any of the noblewomen he had flirted with, but she wasn’t one of them. She was better. She had more fire in her than any of the simpering, mild-eyed women he had encountered. How he would love to see the expression on his brother’s face if he walked into their father’s house with Lucy on his arm. Dressed in fine silks or cloth of gold, Lucy would capture the attention of every man. The challenge in her voice ignited the furnace in his belly. He withdrew his hand, but his heart skipped a beat.
‘That’s the first time you’ve addressed me directly since we met.’
She wrinkled her brow at his words. ‘Is it really? I hadn’t noticed.’
He nodded and stepped closer. ‘It is, but it won’t suit. If I’m to play your husband I cannot be a sir. Call me by my name alone.’
Redeeming the Rogue Knight Page 14