Loving the Knight: Book 2: Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  “You must be quite weary.”

  Her acknowledgement unexpectedly choked his voice. Weary didn’t begin to describe the deep ache in his bones that never seemed to dissipate. He was less than two months shy of thirty with no permanent home and few survivors left in a family he hadn’t seen for years. Such was the life of a knight. Once elevated to courtier, his duties multiplied. He gulped a mouthful of wine to regain his ability to speak.

  “Aye. But Castleton is my last destination, and then I’m off to London,” he managed, forcing a smile. “To make my report to our King.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her head tilted the tiniest bit. “And what will you tell him, if I might be so bold?”

  Drew almost asked if she was ever not so bold. Instead he broke off a chunk of bread. “I will tell him that his country is devastated. Half or more of his citizens are gone. Land lies fallow and villages are abandoned.”

  Her gaze fluttered to her plate and she nodded her understanding. Her mouth tensed as if she was fighting losses of her own.

  Of course she was.

  She lived through it, didn’t she?

  “Has Edward indicated that he might release David?” she asked, surprising him with her shift of topic. Her light eyes met his, intense and unwavering.

  “No. No’ yet.”

  Drew considered the woman across the table. It was too soon in their conversation to allude to the offer of a ransom, since the landowners would be required to bear the cost of that solution. It was time, instead, to ease the conversation.

  “Your accent,” he began.

  Her chin tilted upward. “Yes, I’m English.”

  Interesting; was he sheltering with an enemy? “Castleton is on Scottish land, my lady,” he continued.

  She dipped a small nod of acknowledgement. “It is now. It wasn’t when my memory of it began.”

  “Oh, aye. The border wars.”

  “Indeed.”

  He watched her carefully. “Where do your loyalties lie, might I ask?”

  Those pale green eyes widened in challenge. “My loyalty lies with my land. And thus, with her sovereign.”

  “Is it so easy, then, to shift your affection?” he pressed.

  “I didn’t leave England, remember.” She leaned closer and though her voice lowered, it gained strength. “England left me.”

  This time it was Drew who nodded, impressed. “Point well made, my lady.”

  She lifted her goblet. “I give you King David II. Long may he live. In the Tower.”

  Drew struggled to keep his reaction in check. What reaction that might be, specifically, he couldn’t say. Part of him scoffed at her impertinence, suggesting that King David should remain a prisoner of King Edward. That smacked of treason.

  But another part of him—the part that had recently grown to respect strong, beautiful women with minds of their own—reacted on a much more physical level. He shifted in his seat to ease the fullness in his hose. She bore watching, this one. He lifted his goblet as well.

  “To King David, then. May he reign long and in good health.” Drew touched her goblet with his and drained it. He watched her for a moment, trying to read the truth about his hostess.

  She met his gaze and slowly blinked her consideration back to her meal.

  “If I’m no’ mistaken, your accent speaks of southern England.”

  Her eyes flicked back to his, but she didn’t speak.

  “Have ye spent time there?” he pushed.

  She swallowed a sip of her wine and carefully set the goblet back in place. “I was educated at Elstow Abbey in Bedford.”

  Drew tilted his head and conjured a puzzled expression. “Why so far away?”

  Her answer was just a hair’s breadth slow in coming, but he marked it. “My mother thought I would be safe there.”

  “Safe?” he probed, determined to hear more of her story.

  Lady Eryn gave him an impatient look. “The border lands aren’t considered the best setting to safeguard a maid’s virtue.”

  Drew flashed her a crooked grin. “No. Ye’re sae right about that.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a little.

  “Are they still as violent?” He gestured with a crust of bread. “I mean, are ye still having troubles here?”

  She shrugged. “They steal our cattle. We steal them back.”

  He sighed, relieved. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he hoped Lady Eryndal didn’t live under the yoke of constant danger. “I’m glad—that is, your king will be glad to hear that the border is peaceful.”

  “Yes. Well. The Death calmed things down a bit.” She leveled her cool green gaze on his. “It was a rather harsh mercy.”

  That doesn’t begin to describe the hell of the past years, Drew thought. He wanted to take her hand, offer comfort and understanding. But Lady Bell’s demeanor didn’t invite intimacy.

  If anything, she was subtly trying to push him away. He gave her his most empathetic expression, hoping to soften her shove. She was hiding something.

  And he loved a challenge.

  Servants came and cleared away their dishes. Warmed mead and sweet flatcakes were set in front of him. Drew decided it was time to broach the subject of his business here.

    

  Eryn selected a cake and broke it in half. She held the pieces while she gathered her thoughts.

  She spent the time this eve, between greeting Lord Drummond and sitting down to supper with the knight, planning her story. It made sense to be as truthful as possible. There would be fewer chances to trip herself that way.

  If only the man had the decency to be ugly or stupid her thoughts wouldn’t be seduced away from her purpose. To the contrary, he made her heart thump disgustingly hard when he appeared at the door for supper.

  The gold of his tunic brought out the light autumn of his eyes. Tailored to his frame it left no question of his broad shoulders, sturdy hips, muscular arms. His black hair absorbed the candlelight and threw it back in glossy blue streaks. His roughly blackened jaw gave him an air of danger; a fact which both attracted and terrified.

  She realized he was staring at her, expectant.

  “I’m sorry?” she blurted.

  His eyes narrowed briefly, but he smiled. “It is my purpose to visit all the merchants, landowners and crofters in the area. I shall need your guidance.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She shifted in her chair, still holding the pieces of flatcake. “I hope you don’t mind my asking: how long do you expect to bide with us?”

  “Is my presence a burden, Lady Bell?” he challenged.

  “Not at all, my lord. Your presence is an honor.” Eryn felt her face heating and hoped he couldn’t see it. “I only want to make certain that I might anticipate your needs and provide for them adequately.”

  Lord Andrew gave a dismissive shrug. His long fingers stroked his goblet drawing her gaze there. “I require little, my lady. A fire and a meal at the end of a long day.”

  He paused and she looked at his face. His features softened and he licked his lower lip. A little thrill tingled through her.

  “If pleasant conversation with a beautiful woman was added,” he said slowly. “I would consider myself a blessed man.”

  Eryn cocked a brow at the blatant flattery. Intending to put distance between them, and put the courtier off his slick and obvious game, she offered, “Give me a day and I shall scour the countryside for such a woman.”

  Lord Andrew dropped his head back and laughed. His deeply resonant chuckle bounced his throat under its wiry black coat. When his eyes met hers again, they were pinched at the edges with merriment.

  Eryn’s heartbeat skipped. Shite.

  “I do humbly appreciate your offer, Lady Bell. Ye are most accommodating, to be sure.”

  “Anything for my King.” She lifted her goblet toward him and tamped down her reactions until they were safely hidden, adding, “The Scottish one, in case you wondered.”

  He laughed again, a rich sound that
seemed to well from the depths of his chest and vibrate in hers. “I did. Thank ye for being clear,” he teased.

  His reciprocal jest pulled her onto unproven ground. Eryn hadn’t ever had the opportunity for the sort of love play that happened between young men and women. Only Geoffrey ever came close enough to court her.

  She stood and the knight jumped to his feet. She lifted her chin and looked up to meet his eyes, a position she wasn’t accustomed to, as tall as she was. “I shall excuse you now, my lord. You must be exhausted from traveling in this weather.”

  Turning away from him, she walked along the opposite side of the table. At the door, she paused and looked back at him over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved.

  “If you need anything, you’ve only to ask.”

  Lord Andrew gave her a brief bow. “Perhaps tomorrow I might be introduced to the nine-year-old master of the estate.”

  Eryn stiffened and fixed her features into a carefully pleasant expression. “Rest well, my lord.”

  She left him standing in the room, alone.

  Afraid to look back, she ascended the stairs with dignified, deliberate steps. The Lady Bell allowed no outward indication of the turbulent emotions, born of the past six hours’ events, until she was safely behind her latched chamber door. She sank to the hearth with a ragged gasp and stared into the fire, hoping its heat would soothe the insistent trembling that had nothing to do with her being cold.

  She realized that she committed a grave tactical error when she announced to Lord Andrew Drummond that the master of the estate was a child. Damn her tongue! Would she never gain control of that unruly appendage? Now she needed to craft a reasonable explanation for his existence here—and hers.

  “I can’t claim to be his mother,” she whispered to the flames. “That only begs questions concerning his father.” Aside, of course, from the boy’s propensity for bellowing that she was not his mother at least once a day.

  A relative, then, of Henry Bell’s.

  “His sister? No, that won’t do. His sister would inherit.” Eryn tapped her chin. “Stepsister, then. No blood relation to either Henry or William, but connected enough to explain my presence and position.”

  That would do. In the morning she would tell Jamie to spread that story amongst the staff and remind them that their security rested on the knight’s acceptance of it. If she was banished—or worse—there would be no one left to care for the estate or see to their welfare.

  Eryn slowly undressed and pulled on the nightdress that waited across the foot of her bed. She washed with water that had cooled to lukewarm, then climbed beneath her pile of blankets.

  She needed to give some serious consideration to one Andrew Drummond.

  No man had caught her eye throughout her adolescence. When other maids trifled with the grooms and footmen, she held herself apart. The sting of bastardy kept her heart locked, unwilling to risk passing her status to a son or daughter.

  When she rose to head housekeeper of the Bell estate, Eryn relaxed a little. Geoffrey began to pay her special attention. For the first time she considered her future.

  Then the dying began.

  She was nearly twenty then; now she was past twenty-six. Well past the age that women married. Though Geoffrey pressed his suit, she couldn’t face more loss in the throes of the plague. She was already an orphan; the idea of becoming a widow was too detestable to consider. She told him to wait a year after the deaths ended, and ask her again at that time if he cared to.

  But she didn’t anticipate the appearance of a man like Lord Drummond.

  His physical strength was obvious in both the bunched muscles of his limbs and the solid breadth of his chest. His political strength was evident in his position as courtier to their king. And the twinkle in his eyes threatened with a different sort of power that she wasn’t certain she could withstand.

  “I shall have to,” she whispered. He would bide with her a short time and be gone. She could do this.

  If only his smiling eyes would get out of her head and let her sleep.

  Chapter Four

  December 2, 1354

  Twenty-six men stood waiting in the Hall when Lady Bell strode into the room. Under her arm was a parchment map of the Bell lands. Jamie followed with smaller sheets of parchment, quills, inkpot, charcoal sticks, wax and the Bell seal.

  A quick glance told her what she expected: all the tenants accepting her offer were young, well under thirty years of age. The remaining twenty-one tenants were apparently unwilling to risk the security of serfdom in their more advanced years. That might be a problem in the future.

  But that future was ten years off. The pressing need this year was survival.

  “Good day, sirs,” she said and flashed a smile as bright as the midday sun on yesterday’s snow. “I understand Jamie made note of when each of you arrived and I will meet with you in that order.”

  “What if someone wants my land?” asked a lanky blond with a fuzzy new beard.

  “If anyone’s desired borders encroach on his neighbor’s, the decision will be mine,” she answered. “But only after I’ve heard both requests. I shall promise to be fair, if you will.”

  The young man blushed and nodded, casting a glance at the stockier, older man beside him.

  Eryn unrolled the map on a table and weighted each corner with a rock. Jamie set the charcoal within her reach. Then on another table he set the ink and quills, wax and seal, and the parchment sheets. He nodded to Eryn.

  “Are you ready, then? Who is first?” she asked.

  “Hugh Scott.”

  A man stepped forward. “My lady,” he said, dipping a respectful nod.

  “Good day, Hugh.” Eryn bent over the map. “What land do you wish to purchase?”

  And so it began.

  Each tenant stepped forward as his name was called. He pointed to the map while Eryn sketched on it in charcoal. When the boundary was satisfactory, Jamie wrote the necessary documents making the ten-year agreement official, dripped it with wax and stamped it with the Bell seal. When the requests were all confirmed, he would trace over the charcoal with ink and stamp the map with wax as well.

  Four of the men had requested their plots, and one minor dispute quickly settled, when the room grew unnaturally quiet. Eryn looked up from the scribbled map and pushed her hair out of her face with charcoal-blackened fingertips.

  Lord Andrew Drummond stood in the doorway and his powerful figure stopped her breath. Over a black velvet tunic he wore a purple silk mantle stitched with a raised pattern of gold and red threads. Knee-high leather boots over black hose enhanced the massive muscles of his long legs. He pushed black leather gloves over his fingers.

  All eyes shifted from him to her; she felt the weight of the tenants’ confusion pressing against her. She straightened, stepped around the table, and tried to ignore the smoothly-planed features released by the man’s close morning shave. He was astonishingly beautiful.

  And rested. Gone were the half-circles that shadowed his eyes at supper. His cheeks held more color. His hair—freshly washed—pooled on his shoulders, black as Jamie’s ink.

  Her voice was amazingly clear and strong and did not betray the quiver spreading outward from her core. “Good day, Lord Drummond. I trust you slept well? The morning is gone.”

  “Aye, my lady.” His words rumbled in her chest, even from across the Hall. “I hoped to meet the young master.”

  He hadn’t forgotten. Shite. “He spends his mornings with his tutor, of course. Perhaps after his noon meal?”

  “Perhaps this evening,” he countered. “Might I inquire as to what task ye are set to?”

  Eryn waved one hand. “Merely business between the tenants and their lady, my lord. Might I inquire as to what task you are set to?” She heard a quiet gasp behind her.

  Lord Andrew’s eyes shifted and his mouth tightened. “I am riding out to talk to the merchants in town.”

  Eryn nodded, but didn’t respond. Instead, she slid sidewa
ys in front of the map to block his view. He tipped his head as if to try and see through her.

  “I shall return afore dark,” he offered. “Afore the boy is put to bed.”

  “I’ll see that supper is served at one hour past sunset then, to give you time to refresh yourself.”

  Lord Andrew spun on his heel and his cloak swirled around his thighs like a living thing. His absence pulled air from the room. Eryn’s heart thumped when he disappeared from her view, but the intense perusal of her tenants propped up her composure.

  “Shall we continue?” she asked, striding back into place. “Who is next?”

    

  Drew rode with Kennan, silent. He wanted to meet the boy to whom this estate would someday belong, though his foremost curiosity lay in the lad’s parenthood. Would he display the unusual height or the startling eyes of the lady, claiming her as mother? And if he is her son, where is his father? Likely her husband was a victim of the Death.

  She was a puzzle, to be sure. Strong and intelligent, aye. But behind that cool gaze and pleasant expression lay a secret. He felt it strongly in his gut.

  What sort of scheme might the Lady Bell be about? It was obvious she didn’t want him to examine her actions by the way she stood between him and the table. He might have pressed her on it, but for the distracting and oddly endearing smudge of black across her temple. He saw her paint it on—unaware—as she tucked a loose hank of her gold-streaked hair behind one ear.

  He smiled at the memory.

  There was time. Tonight at supper he would draw it out of her. And maybe learn a bit more about her, as well. For now, though, he needed to concentrate on the situation at hand, and not on her green eyes, thick lashes and flushed cheeks.

  From the pleasant to the appalling, then.

  “Thank God this is our last town, eh, Kennan?” he said.

  “Aye, Sir,” his vassal agreed. “I’ve had enough of death to think I’ve already died twicet over!”

  “I wonder…” Drew juggled an idea, bouncing it in his mind against those who might care. “Winter is upon us and we are three weeks from Christmas.”