“I feel sorry for the duchess,” he said. “She has much, but not what she truly desires.”
“She told me. Isabella made me realize the difference between marrying for title, and marrying for love.” Eva leaned her head—the side not injured—on Mathieu’s shoulder and breathed in his musky scent. “I think, mayhap, I am discovering what it is to love.”
He caught her hand in his and squeezed it. “I believe, mayhap, I am as well.”
A warm rush of emotion washed over her, sending her heart to flutter. She looked up and studied him. His warm brown eyes were intense on hers, and his hair was loose around his shoulders, stirring in the warm breeze. He’d shaven since she’d first awoken, and she couldn’t decide whether she preferred his handsome jaw clean or bearded. Either way, looking at Mathieu, surrounded by his scent, feeling his warm skin on hers—all made her heart dance in a way she’d never known before. There was something about his gaze . . .
When he looked at her this way, she felt she could almost hear his thoughts. Eva had never known a man—nay, anyone—who spoke to her with their eyes.
Mathieu did. And what he was saying to her right now made her whole body feel as though it was melting into the turf atop the bench seat. When he lowered his mouth to hers, she welcomed his kiss.
Twining her fingers into his hair, she gave herself up to him, this man who was quickly claiming her soul. He did not wear armor, nor did he hold a title or lands. What Mathieu possessed was something Eva decided was even more valuable—a kind, gentle heart. He had not left her side, she was told, the entire time she was near death. He had held her close the night the fever nearly stole her life away.
Isabella swore ’twas Mathieu’s presence, infusing his life force into hers, that saved her. At this moment, she knew ’twas true.
Their tongues tangled in a sensuous dance that went beyond the physical. Eva quivered down to her very soul. When they finally drew apart, she held his face in both hands.
“I love you, Mathieu of Liège. I know not whether I am worthy of you, or if you can find it in your heart to love one as imperfect as I, but I pray it can be so.” His image blurred in her eyes as she held her breath, waiting for his reply.
He stroked her cheek and pinched her chin between his fingers. “I don’t know when you wormed your way into my very being, Eva of Utrecht. But you are there. I may not ever let you go.”
She wrapped her arms around him, laying her head against his broad chest. It felt so good to hold him, and to be held. His unique scent, leather and lye soap and musky male, did things to her insides she did not understand. Desperately, she yearned to understand this magical feeling more.
Mathieu ran his hand down her head gently, skimming over the linen bandage that still encircled her crown. “I wonder how long before the healer removes this.”
She tensed and closed her eyes. “I will rue the day. I’m certain ’twill be the day you reel away from me in horror. My hair . . . ’tis ruined.”
He pushed back and looked into her eyes. “Remember, milady, ’twas I who tended your wound. I have seen it at its worst.” Reaching into the pocket of his braies, he extracted what Eva at first thought was a length of rope. She gasped when she realized ’twas a plait of her own hair.
“I found this after the surgeon left. This is what he cut away from your wound. You see? ’Tis not much.” He ran it through his fingers. “I washed the blood away and braided it. I’m going to ask the goldsmith to add a ferrule and clasp. I want him to fashion for me a bracelet. I want to carry a part of you with me always.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mathieu watched as the barber-surgeon unwrapped the linen bindings from Eva’s head. It had been almost a fortnight since the injury, and van Bel rode in on his own horse to check on his patient. ’Twas time, he said, for the stitches to be removed.
The look of terror in Eva’s eyes made Mathieu’s stomach twist. He wasn’t sure what pain she might have to endure for this procedure, but he had assured her he would be with her throughout. The healer had given her a strong potion when they discovered the barber-surgeon had arrived. Hopefully ’twould get her through the worst of it.
“I will try to be gentle, Lady Eva. But the stitches must come out. The incision is healed now, quite nicely.” The surgeon smiled down at her. “Even your golden hair has begun to grow back around the wound.”
Eva flashed a tremulous smile at Mathieu but said nothing. He squeezed her hand, which was trembling like a leaf in the wind.
’Twas all over in a few moments and with nary a tear shed. Van Bel worked quickly, snipping the stitches and jerking the twisted lengths of silk gently to free them. Like a hawk, Mathieu watched his lady’s face, which remained scrunched into a tense mask the entire time.
When the last stitch pulled free, Mathieu murmured, “’Tis all over now, milady. You can open your eyes.”
In that moment he was so incredibly proud of her, his heart filled to bursting. Love washed over him in a hot wave. I must ask Philip for her hand, he thought, as soon as he returns from Ghent.
The duke did arrive, later on that very day. He did not, however, arrive alone. Mathieu was sweeping out the stables near noon when he heard the trumpet sound.
Not that the duke ever traveled alone. Philip had taken a dozen of his knights with him on his journey, and they surrounded him as he made his way into the bailey. But this day an additional rider accompanied them. The man was tall, angular, and dark-haired, much like Philip himself, yet he wore no armor nor even a mail tunic. For a moment Mathieu wondered if this might be yet another of the duke’s bastard sons.
Pages and squires scurried to help the men with their mounts, and the ostler headed straight for the duke. He kneeled at the horse’s head and bowed before him.
“Good to have you home, your grace. Did your journey go well?” he asked as he helped Philip dismount.
“Aye, it did. I accomplished much. And I hope to have tied up yet another loose end.” He turned to the tall man, who now stood beside him. “Mathieu, this is Stefano de Lucca. He is the apprentice of my good friend, the clothier, Giovanni Arnolfini.”
The man’s name struck Mathieu in the chest as painfully as an arrow. ’Twas the man Eva mentioned when she first recovered. The man who intended to ask for her hand.
The ostler shook Stefano’s hand briskly. He was taller than Mathieu, with the chiseled good looks of a nobleman. His black hair was curly and hugged his head like a cap. Dark eyes of almost the same color scrutinized the ostler, yet he did not smile.
“I understand you are the man I should thank for tending to my Eva. The duke speaks highly of you, ostler.”
My Eva.
With those two words alone, a fire blazed to life within Mathieu’s chest. The slight quirk at the corner of the man’s mouth said more than mere words. This Italian knew, somehow. He knew Eva was special to him. Stefano was also well aware that with his status as a nobleman, apprentice to one of the duke’s comrades, he definitely held the advantage.
Pulling his hand free, Mathieu said nothing. He simply nodded and took the reins of Philip’s horse, heading for the stable.
When the time came for the noon meal, Mathieu was in the middle of setting out his hunting birds in the yard. He thought to ignore the call, but curiosity and dread pushed him to tether the last two falcons quickly and head for the Great Hall.
Immediately upon stepping through the doors, he regretted coming straight from his work. On the dais, Isabella and Philip were flanked by the usual occupants, Knape and La Laing. Next to the admiral sat the newcomer, Stefano de Lucca, dressed in clean clothes after his journey. He looked every part the nobleman, and Mathieu glanced down at his own dust-covered tunic. Stopping short, Mathieu took a step backward. The least he could have done was to wash his hands and face.
But too late. Isabella had spotted him and called his name.
“Mathieu, welcome. Would you please go to the girls’ quarters and retrieve Lady Eva? You c
an tell the guard outside her door I have sent for her.”
Wiping his hands on his braies, Mathieu nodded and headed down the hallway. At least the duchess had acknowledged him as Eva’s escort. He couldn’t help wondering if ’twas all he would ever be to her.
Alys met him at the door of the dortour. When he asked for Eva, she held a finger to her lips.
“The lady sleeps, ostler. I do not think the duchess wants her disturbed.”
“Aye, she does. Lady Duchess herself sent me to retrieve her.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Eva has a visitor,” he mumbled.
Mathieu waited in the hallway, his stomach churning. The very last duty he wanted to perform was to deliver Eva—his Eva—to this man who arrived with such lofty assumptions. Yet in his heart the ostler knew the truth of the matter. ’Twould be Philip, the maid’s father, who would decide her fate when it came to a betrothal. The very thought made the bones of his chest feel as though they were cracking in two.
Within moments Eva appeared. She was fresh-faced and smelled of lavender. A bandage no longer necessary, one of the handmaids had fashioned her hair in a braid that wrapped around her head, covering her wound. Tiny white flowers adorned the braid, giving her the look of an angel.
Wearing a kirtle of dark green, her eyes shone as she smiled up at him.
“Mathieu. Is it time for the noon meal? I am starving.”
“Aye, milady. But the duchess herself calls for you. The duke has returned from Ghent.”
He watched as she wilted, a flower in the hot sun. “In truth, I’ve been dreading his return.”
“As have I.”
“I hope . . .” Eva began the thought, then allowed it to fade, hanging in the air between them.
Without another word, Mathieu closed his hand over hers and led her down the hall toward the Great Hall.
He wanted to scoop her into his arms and head straight for the stables. Once aboard horses, they could be far away from this place in a matter of minutes. He would take her to a place where no one could find them, to a small church, and marry her before any man could stop him. Surely with his experience with the horses and hunting birds, he would find work somewhere . . .
But then what? Dread dropped over him like hot pitch. There was nowhere to go, and no way to get there.
Mathieu didn’t even own his own horse.
When they reached the hall, Eva stopped short in the entrance, jerking the ostler to a standstill. Her panicked gaze flashed from the dais to Mathieu and back again. “Stefano,” she muttered.
“Aye.”
After helping her up onto the raised platform, Mathieu watched as Eva took her seat next to the Italian apprentice. His skin prickled as he clenched and unclenched his fists. When he realized there was no place for him at the head table, even though La Laing was present, he turned to take a seat at one of the common ones.
’Twas the longest and most uncomfortable meal he’d ever sat through. Although the fare smelled delicious—roast hen and spring pottage—Mathieu found it all to taste the same. Bitter, like resentment. Cold, like the icy claw wrapped around his heart.
Philip and the Italian’s lively conversation did nothing but aggravate him further. Eva seemed detached, offering little to their talk of fine silks, tapestries, and bejeweled velvets. The words all blurred into a monotonous hum in Mathieu’s mind as he spent more time with a mug in his hand than a knife on his plate. Until two words pierced his brain.
Wedding attire.
He watched Eva stiffen, her mouth flattening into a line even as her eyes rounded. She didn’t appear to be eating much either, even though she’d claimed to been starving. The appearance of the Italian apprentice had extinguished more than just the ostler’s appetite.
When Stefano’s hand closed over hers, it was all Mathieu could do to keep from launching himself up onto the dais at the Italian. He ground his teeth and sucked in a shaky breath, waiting.
Eva leaned forward and shot a panicked glance toward the duchess, whose eyebrow had risen at the mention of wedding attire. She blotted her mouth with a napkin and laid it on the table before she spoke.
“I’m aware, Philip, that the clothier possesses a fine array of imported fabrics for any special occasion. But Alys, as you know, has already fashioned the gown for her wedding day. Which, by the way, will now be held five days hence. Since Eva is now well, and you have returned home, Your Grace.”
Philip began shaking his head before Isabella had even finished speaking. “I have spoken much with Stefano on our journey back from Ghent, dear lady, and I think mayhap we should push the betrothal back a few days more.” He glanced toward Stefano and winked. “We may, in truth, have a double wedding to plan for.”
Eva’s goblet slipped from her fingers and clattered to the table, splashing red wine everywhere. Stefano jumped to his feet, brushing frantically with his napkin—at his own tunic.
With no regard in the least for the lady’s welfare.
Mathieu leapt up and, knowing he was breaking with tradition, climbed onto the dais, heading straight to Eva’s side.
“Are you well, milady?” he asked, his voice soft. “Here, let me help you.”
Eva pinned him with tear-filled eyes. She sat as still as stone as he blotted the wine from her kirtle and lap. Philip’s sharp retort shot through him like a hot blade.
“That’s quite enough, ostler. How dare you touch the maid in this way?” The duke called for a servant girl. “Bring wet cloths, wench, and help the maiden clean her dress.” Then Philip stood so abruptly, his chair toppled to the floor behind him. He pointed a long, bony finger at Mathieu. “Out, ostler. You belong not here at the high table. Begone to your duties in the stable.”
Mathieu’s pulse pounded so violently in his head, he heard nothing else as he headed across the bailey. Philip had never—ever—belittled him so. In front of everyone, no less. Mortified, he was angry beyond bounds. His shattered pride, however, was the least of his pain.
’Twas his heart that bled freely in his chest. At least, that’s how it felt.
So engrossed was he inside his own seething mind, he jumped when a hand clapped over his shoulder. Spinning around, fist raised, he nearly landed a punch squarely in the man’s face. When he saw ’twas the admiral, all the air whooshed out of his lungs.
“Sorry about the scene, Mathieu. I think the duke is pretty puffed up thinking he’s outsmarted the duchess, and found Eva a husband before she did.” The admiral fell in step beside Mathieu, shaking his head.
“I wish I’d gotten to him first, Admiral. In fact, I’ve already told the duchess I intended to ask for Eva’s hand when he returned.” The ostler swiped a hand down his face. “’Twould seem I am too late.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. As you know, the duke may be in charge of such things, but he’s oft swayed in his decisions by the duchess. Ask for an audience with him.” La Laing stopped at the stable door and faced Mathieu. “And speak again with Isabella.”
As the admiral turned to leave, Mathieu asked, “Admiral, what of your trip to look at horses? Was that cancelled?”
La Laing replied quietly. “I wasn’t about to ask you to leave while Eva’s life hung in the balance, boy. And now that her future does as well, I won’t ask you to leave now. It can wait. The colts aren’t going anywhere.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I should like to take a walk with you, milady. The duke says the castle gardens are lovely this time of year.”
Eva sat rigidly, still at the table on the dais. The meal was long done, and only she, the duchess, and Stefano remained in the hall. He’d been trying to make conversation with her since she first arrived, but didn’t take the hint very well when all she offered were one- and two-word replies. When his hand closed over hers, multiple times, she deftly slipped it away to hide in her lap. She found the mere touch of this man’s skin on hers repulsive.
Even before, she remembered. Before she’d ever left Ghent to come to Coude
nburg. Before she’d met Mathieu, a man who stirred very different emotions within her.
Now, the revulsion toward Stefano was even worse. Since she had experienced such opposite emotions. With Mathieu.
Anxiously, she glanced again and again toward the duchess, who was observing her and the Italian with a detached expression. Philip and the admiral had left long ago, leaving the duchess, so it seemed, to act as chaperone.
When Stefano mentioned the gardens, the duchess tipped up her chin.
“They are lovely, Stefano. If you would like to take Eva out for a short time, her guard would be happy to accompany you.” She motioned for the guard who’d been assigned to watch over Eva since her recovery. The huge man stepped forward and nodded.
Isabella added, “Just don’t keep her out too long, my lord. She’s still quite weak from her injury.”
Eva wondered, at that moment, where the guard had been while she and Mathieu sat in the garden earlier. Numerous times, in fact, since her recovery.
I guess the duchess trusts me with Mathieu. That in itself should be a telling sign of what’s meant to be.
“Oh, and Eva? When you return, please join me in my solar.” The duchess turned and disappeared into the stairwell.
Stefano offered his arm as he rose from the table, then helped Eva down from the dais with hands clasped firmly around her waist. Eva fought a wave of nausea at his intimate touch. When his grip lingered a bit longer than necessary, the guard stepped forward, eyeing the man warily. The Italian shot him a resentful glare.
“The lady has difficulty walking, my lord. I am simply ensuring she is steady before we proceed.”
’Twas true, Stefano knew all about Eva’s affliction. He’d been coming around to the tailor shop for nigh on five winters, since Eva was just a girl. At first, she’d been fascinated with the handsome Italian, whose accent and dark good looks were so different from the other men in her life. Her stepfather, like her maman, was blond and fair. Many of the Dutch who did their business with them were also light of hair, skin, and eyes.
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