Robbie had captured Gyb who had returned from his nightly explorations and involved the cat in his game. Roger sat on the stool beside the dead fire, watching him. He, too, was clad only in knee-length braies and the shirt Lucy had given him. His expression was thoughtful, sombre even as he stared at the boy. As Lucy drew close he smiled, holding her gaze with eyes that were a little shadowed.
Lucy had awoken for the first time since Robbie’s latest bout of teething without having to drag her eyes open and a rush of fondness for the knight took her by surprise. When Roger had burst through the door her heart had stopped beating, then begun to hammer twice as hard as he drew closer to her. She had not known what to expect, but to have Robbie taken with such assured hands was not one of the scenarios that she had ever considered. She shivered as the delicious wickedness of what she had imagined came to her mind. Refusing to grant him her friendship—and more—was becoming increasingly hard.
‘Good morning. I wasn’t sure when I should wake you. Robbie and I have been amusing ourselves as you can see.’
Robbie let go of the cat and hurled himself, squealing, at Lucy’s legs. She picked him up and kissed his soft cheek. Roger was watching over the top of Robbie’s head and Lucy was struck with the odd urge to bestow the same greeting on him.
‘Why did you take him last night?’
‘Hearing you speak of your circumstances made me consider what I had done.’ He looked abashed. ‘I can do nothing now for Kitty, but I can help you.’
Of all the reasons he might have given, this was the least expected.
‘It was only to salve your conscience?’
‘No!’ Roger exclaimed. ‘You made me wish I had acted better, but also I wanted to help you. That was genuine.’
A mix of emotions assailed her. Disappointment that he had been motivated by his guilt over another woman vied with satisfaction that he appeared to regret what he had done.
‘I did appreciate the sleep,’ Lucy admitted, giving him a smile.
‘Well, I wasn’t going to sleep while he was crying.’ Roger smiled back. ‘I’ve trained any number of horses to do my bidding. A little firmness is all that is needed. A boy who was already tired was much easier by far than my roan destrier was to master.’
‘My son is not a horse!’ Lucy giggled, then pressed her lips together at the unaccustomed sound.
‘True enough.’ Roger’s eyes danced as he glanced at Robbie, then back to Lucy. ‘His teeth are less painful when they bite down.’
Lucy watched him in curiosity. Last night she had been appalled to learn he had left a woman in the same situation Lord Harpur had left her in, so to see him appearing so fond of her son was unexpected. If he truly felt shame for what he had done, it would be surprising.
‘Thank you, Roger,’ she mumbled, feeling suddenly shy.
Though she had begun thinking of him without the honorific, to speak it out loud felt strange. The way his eyes lit with pleasure at the use of his name alone made her resolve to become more practised at using it.
‘My pleasure, Lucy.’
Roger inclined his head in the manner he had when he had asked her to dance. He rested a hand on Robbie’s head before dropping it to Lucy’s arm, fingers tracing a light path from elbow to wrist. Lucy’s stomach tensed. She lowered Robbie to the ground. He toddled to the counter and began pulling down the bowls, scattering them across the floor.
‘Now you’re awake I should dress.’ Roger gestured to his shirt. Lucy’s eyes followed his movement, coming to rest on his chest, visible where the garment hung loose in a deep V at the neck. The hair she glimpsed was dark, fanning out across his chest save for the place Lucy had singed it off with the poker. The blister was healing, but the area still hairless. Lucy wondered if it would ever grow back or if the mark would be permanent. The stirring she felt inside took her by surprise: unexpected and unwelcome. She looked away, disconcerted by the desire she felt which was becoming increasingly harder to deny.
‘What is it?’ Roger asked.
She lifted a finger and pressed the tip gently against the spot, just to the right of the small mark. Roger’s muscles tensed as she touched him. The steady rhythm of his heart pulsed beneath her fingertips. Hers felt twice as fast in comparison.
‘I’m sorry for this,’ Lucy murmured.
‘I’m sorry I gave you cause to inflict it!’
He covered Lucy’s hand with his, trapping her fingers against his chest. He stepped closer to Lucy in one fluid movement until they were close enough for Lucy to see the honey flecks smattering his horse-chestnut-coloured eyes.
‘Do you realise how magnificent you were that night?’ Roger whispered. ‘You tell me you were terrified, but I can’t think of a woman in a hundred who would have been as capable and quick-thinking as you were. I only wish I had been fully conscious to appreciate it.’
Roger’s lips were slightly parted, the neatly trimmed beard and moustache framing lips that were full and tempting. Lucy licked her own lips and noticed how Roger’s mouth curved into a smile in response. He tilted his head slightly to one side.
Excitement boiled in Lucy’s belly, rising up to meet the lurching anticipation that squeezed her heart in a clash that either could win. She looked into Roger’s eyes and found them asking a question. She wondered what answer he would see in hers.
A crash cut the silent anticipation that had arisen between them, breaking the spell that had cast itself over Lucy. Both she and Roger jerked their heads to the source of the sound.
Robbie had tipped over the flask of lamp oil Lucy had stored away now the nights were growing lighter. The oil had spilled all over the rushes in a wide puddle between the counter and hearth. Lucy gave an exclamation of annoyance and rushed to retrieve the empty flask before Robbie covered himself, too. She watched in dismay as the oil soaked into the rushes, beyond saving.
When she looked up again Roger had left the room.
* * *
Neither Lucy nor Roger spoke of what had almost passed between them when he returned, fully clothed. He had smiled warmly, but when she greeted him with arms firmly folded and the smallest smile politeness would allow, he frowned and asked what she wished him to do. Lucy set Roger to work emptying out the straw from the chicken run while she strained the wort from the batch of ale she had brewing. Robbie followed his new friend to see the chickens, the temptation of this double treat being irresistible. Lucy shook her head ruefully whenever she thought of how close she had come to kissing Roger—which was more frequently than she would have liked. How foolish to have ever revealed the fascination he held for her.
‘No more,’ she muttered beneath her breath as she tipped the remaining liquid into the fresh bucket. She resolved that she would be polite, but there would be no more nights sitting together by the fire, no more dancing, and however much Robbie cried, her bedroom door would remain firmly shut.
She dragged the heavy tub of waste grain to the door of the brewing shed, intending to store it for Mary Barton to collect. What she saw as she looked outside made her stop in astonishment.
Roger had finished his task and, with nothing better to occupy him, was using the broom as a sword. Lucy leaned against the door frame and watched the spectacle in fascination as Roger drilled himself in exercises, changing seamlessly between positions, feet dancing and shifting back and forth with a lightness that surprised her given his broad frame and height. He made a series of sharp thrusts towards an invisible opponent with skill that took Lucy’s breath away and made her want to cheer aloud. Robbie, equally captivated, had stopped his game and drawn close, his expression rapt.
Lucy’s pulse began to race in astonishment at Roger’s prowess. She had long admitted his appearance caught her fancy, but that had been easy enough to ignore when his arrogance and the assumption it was enough to command her had overshadowed it. It h
ad not been Roger’s attractiveness that had brought her to the brink of giving in to him that morning, but his kindness the night before, his gentleness towards her and the sincerity with which he had thanked her for what she had done. Watching him as he parried, back straight and head erect, he became the knight she had not seen before.
He had more sides to him than a honeycomb and at times proved just as sweet.
Perhaps she had been too rash. She need not exile herself from his presence as long as she was careful to keep a safe distance and did not find herself looking into those eyes that captivated her and made her lose all sense of propriety. Then her heart and what remained of her virtue would be safe.
Roger was starting to tire. The arm that held the makeshift sword wavered ever so slightly as he held it aloft and advanced step by step towards the chicken coop. So much vigorous exercise with a wound still fresh seemed unwise, but Lucy could see no fresh blood appearing on his shirt, no matter how closely she studied his broad shoulders.
Roger made another series of manoeuvres, but Lucy could see he was aware of his diminishing capabilities. He dropped the broom abruptly to the ground and threw his head back as he stretched his limbs, then unexpectedly sagged. He rested his hands on the fence, shaking his head gently and muttering under his breath. His entire body spoke of despondency that tore Lucy’s heart to see. She stepped towards him.
‘That was wonderful!’
Roger stiffened. ‘How much did you see?’ His face was guarded. Tendrils of hair clung to his cheeks and forehead where he had worked up a sweat. Lucy’s fingers itched to brush them back.
‘Enough to know you spoke the truth when you said you were a great knight.’ Lucy smiled.
Roger snorted, though he looked pleased at her compliment, giving her a wide smile. Embarrassed at her unguarded enthusiasm Lucy gestured to the brewing shed.
‘I’d better...’
‘Let me help,’ Roger offered. ‘I’m fascinated by what you do.’
Lucy stepped back. Her pulse had begun to slow and sense was taking over.
‘There’s no need. I can manage by myself.’
Roger looked hurt.
There were a dozen jobs she could assign him, but Lucy cocked her head towards him. Roger fell in beside her, taking hold of the bucket handle so they carried it between them. He asked eager questions about what she was doing and what was still to come. Lucy found herself explaining in further and further detail to an unexpectedly interested listener. Perhaps Roger himself regretted the kiss that had almost happened and this was his way of avoiding the issue. But if he had wanted to do that he could have left her alone rather than accompanying her.
‘Why are you making more?’ Roger asked. ‘You don’t appear very busy.’
Lucy ground her teeth. As if she needed reminding of how quiet the inn was! She crumbled the yeast into the wort and stirred the pan vigorously, as if doing so could hurry the process. Head bent, she dragged the wooden lid across, not wanting Roger to see in her expression how important this batch was. The urgency of ensuring she sold enough to pay off Risby twisted her innards, anxious nausea making her feel faint. Time was passing too quickly and as yet she had no sign of meeting her obligations. She blinked back sudden tears before continuing.
‘It’s the St Barnabas Fair in Mattonfield two days from now. The current batch won’t keep that long. Even if I waste it I can’t afford not to brew more. I can’t miss the opportunity to sell there. I have to pay...some debts.’
She trailed off, sensing Roger’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes were faraway and his smile eager.
‘A fair? It’s too long since I’ve visited one. I’ll look forward to it.’
Lucy looked at him in surprise. ‘Isn’t it better for you to stay here? What if you’re seen?’
‘Then the men who have hunted me will have to answer for what they did. I’m not hiding, Lucy. Besides,’ he said wistfully, ‘I miss the excitement and liveliness that a fair brings. The games, the dancing, the food...’
He trailed off, his eyes softening as he was lost in thoughts of pleasures to come. For her a fair meant whispers behind hands and judgemental eyes on her and Robbie as they walked among the people who knew her shame. She didn’t want Roger to witness the level of contempt she was held in.
‘I’m sure you’d be disappointed if you went. It won’t be like one of your grand tournaments,’ she cautioned. ‘Mattonfield is a small town. The jousting isn’t even on horseback. You’d hate it.’
‘Jousting!’
She knew at once that she had said the wrong thing because Roger leaned towards her over the edge of the pan, almost upending it in his enthusiasm. Excitement was etched into every line of his face, giving him a boyish air.
‘Not on horses,’ Lucy cautioned.
‘Just as well, considering I don’t have one.’ Roger laughed. ‘Which variation is it?’
‘I don’t know what it’s called. Running on foot at rings or hitting a target on a wooden arm.’ Lucy waved her hands vaguely to illustrate her meaning.
‘That’s called a quintain. The rings are a tilt. Of course I won’t hate it, I used to practise both when I was a squire. It’s been so long since I had the chance to compete in anything.’
‘What about France?’
‘War is nothing like a tournament.’ His voice became gruff. ‘I wish I had known that before I went there.’
He half turned away with a shake of his head. Lucy walked around the boiling pan and rested a hand on his shoulder. He met her eyes and blinked, ridding himself of whatever memories haunted him.
‘It will do me good to remember what I loved. I’ll be strong enough to walk that far by then.’ He clasped her hand suddenly. ‘You’ll be there to watch me, of course!’
Lucy hid a sigh. It was not her place to prevent Roger doing as he wished. Even if it had been within her power, seeing the delight on his face was enough to banish all thoughts of trying. If he was intent on competing in the fun, he might not notice the way she was shunned by the people in the town.
‘Of course I’ll watch you. Robbie, too.’
His smile set her heart glowing.
* * *
For the next two days Lucy brewed and, when Roger was not watching the process or carrying out the tasks she assigned, he practiced his swordplay. Travellers to Mattonfield passed by and some stopped to laugh at the sight of the tall man swinging a broom as a sword. Lucy noticed that when others were present Roger’s strokes became clumsier, more like a novice with none of the skill she had previously witnessed. She smiled her best and joked with them and succeeded in selling ale to two of the men, though not as much as she would have liked.
She bade them farewell and took their cups inside. Roger joined her. Lucy cracked eggs into a bowl, conscious that Roger was still standing there.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I’ve watched you with the travellers passing through,’ he said, leaning against the table. ‘You smile and jest and play the coquette.’
‘I don’t do it because I like them!’ Lucy exclaimed. She had not been aware how closely Roger must have been observing. She took a knife and beat the eggs furiously. ‘They put bread on my table. If a smile and the possibility of a kiss makes them feel more inclined to spend, then I’ll do it.’
Roger folded his arms. ‘That’s very calculating.’
‘I’m too poor to be anything else,’ Lucy said. A knot began to tie itself in her throat as she thought of the essential purchases she needed to make and the debts she had. Risby’s face loomed in her mind, knowing how she would have to pay him.
‘You never smile on me as you smile on them,’ Roger remarked.
Lucy had smiled on him plenty, and each had been genuine and more freely given. The injustice of his words stung.
; ‘You have nothing to spend and you owe me enough already.’
‘And if I did, would you grant me a smile like that too, dove?’
His tone held no mockery. Lucy met his eyes, intending to flash them in the manner he had criticised her for, but his expression was so sincere her heart leapt.
‘I might.’
He bowed his head. ‘Then I had better win at the games tomorrow.’
Lucy poured the eggs into the pan of pottage and carried it to the fire. For the first time since Risby’s visit her stomach was not filled with lead. Roger had as good as said he would pay her if he won. In turn she might be able to pay Risby and not be forced to resort again to means she preferred not to dwell on.
* * *
That night as they sat by the fire Roger told tales of tournaments in which he was invariably triumphant in the lists. He found a willing audience in Robbie as he galloped the child’s toy horse across the floor to illustrate his stories.
Lucy sat at Roger’s side, drawn in by his enthusiasm and glad she could put Risby from her thoughts. Her mind was filled with images of brightly streaming pennants, gleaming armour and roaring crowds, and she tried not to imagine the ladies vying for the attention of the knights at the feasts and dances he had described. Why had she not danced with him while she had the chance? She imagined the sort of woman a young knight must most likely encounter. Simpering, modest girls like Katherine Harpur, who spent their days idly waiting to be found a husband while others tended to them. Women who had never needed to raise their voice and most likely would not dare to. No doubt Sir Roger would marry such a woman one day. Until then, of course, he would amuse himself by seducing women like Lucy. All the more reason to resist her heart dragging her towards him.
Robbie tired of the tales long before Lucy and began to yawn and screw his fists into his eyes. Lucy drew her son on to her lap and rocked him gently. Roger watched with a serious expression. Robbie had trailed after him persistently for days, but the knight did not seem to mind.
Redeeming the Rogue Knight Page 17