I glanced again at the impossibly handsome man who would become my husband. Lurid images were all too easy to summon in my imagination, but what did Faulke see when he looked at me?
“Is something wrong?” Faulke asked.
Now there was a question I would not answer. I took the blanket from Hilda and handed it to Faulke. “There is a path that winds through the maze to the herb beds. Shall we?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Smitten
Gerhardt stepped forward in an obvious move to follow us. I spoke to him in French, for Faulke’s benefit. “There is no need to accompany us, Sir Gerhardt. We will be within the gardens. I am certain you will hear me call out, in the unlikely event I need assistance.”
Gerhardt frowned at Faulke, but then bowed his head. “As you wish, Princess.”
I smoothed my skirts and then set off on the path that led to the herb gardens. My thin kid slippers were adequate for the grassy lawn beneath the trees, but they proved flimsy protection against the crushed shells that formed the garden paths. I stayed in the very center of the path where the shells were ground even finer by foot traffic. Faulke fell into step behind me.
The path wound through the fruit trees and then merged into the maze where thick hedges rose several feet above our heads. The maze was not all that large or challenging, but it gave the gardens the illusion of privacy. We were no longer within sight of my people, although I could still hear the musicians.
“This maze is remarkable,” Faulke said. He gestured toward the towering walls of greenery, but his gaze remained fixed on me. He watched me in a measured way that made me aware of every stitch of clothing I wore. Everything felt too tight. “The palace is just as remarkable. Ashland rivals the size of Hawksforth, and yet it is in the midst of London.”
“The four wings of the palace enclose the gardens,” I said, relieved to talk about something impersonal. “I’m told the grounds encompass six acres.”
“You are familiar with the architecture of palace?” he asked.
“Aye, Chiavari’s steward gave me a tour when we first arrived.” I kept my gaze on the path, finding it easier to ignore his ridiculous handsomeness if I did not look directly at its source. Unfortunately, I could do nothing about the sound of his voice, or the way it seemed to vibrate through my bones.
“Could we slow our pace?” he asked, a few moments later.
I glanced over my shoulder and realized I had forced him to walk a few steps behind me when the path narrowed. I slowed my steps and moved to one side so he could walk next to me again, and then spread my hands. “Is this better?”
“Aye.” There was the shadow of a smile around his mouth. An answering warmth in my belly made me wish he was still behind me where I could not see his smiles. “Are you always so…intense?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“There is little purpose to a leisurely walk, other than to simply enjoy the journey,” he answered. “You seem intent upon the destination.”
I thought about what he said and realized he was right. “I suppose I am the sort of person who focuses on the destination rather than the journey. Everyone in Rheinbaden is industrious, on the whole. If someone is seated, it’s often because the task they are performing requires a stool. If someone is walking, it’s because they have somewhere to be. Leisurely pursuits are few and far between, even for the nobility. I had forgotten that the English are more indulgent of their idle time.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an insult.” His eyes crinkled a little at the corners, and I quickly glanced away before I could be swept up again in my strange fascination with his eyes. “And, if you will recall, you are English, too.”
My insult was unintentional, but I felt an irrational urge to apologize. Instead I gave a small shrug. “My blood is English, but I have spent little time in this country. The customs of Rheinbaden are more familiar to me than those of England.”
I winced when I stepped on the sharp edge of a shell and my weight shifted clumsily to my left foot. He reached out as if to steady me, then seemed to think better of the idea when I ignored his outstretched hand. I kept talking to distract him from my awkwardness.
“My sister, Joan, and I were both born in the Holy Lands,” I said. “We were still babes when my parents learned that my grandfather had died and my father was king. My parents began their journey home to claim the throne as soon as they received the news, but my father was still recovering from an attempted assassination. An infidel had managed to get a poisoned knife into his arm at Acre.”
“Every Englishman knows the story,” he said with a nod.
“Oh.”
I was still unaccustomed to people knowing so much about my family, when everything I knew came from tutors and my mother’s letters. The woman who sent those letters had never seemed quite real in my mind, and yet I kept each letter and reread them countless times over the years.
“I did not mean to interrupt,” Faulke said. “Please continue.”
“His recovery and our journey home took almost two years,” I went on. “When my parents eventually reached France, they left Joan and me with our grandmother in Ponthieu. By the time affairs at court had settled enough for Joan and I to journey to England, I was betrothed to Hartman.”
“I thought you spent more time in England when you were a child,” Faulke said, “although I must admit that I knew nothing about you until a day ago.”
Aye, the lost child, the one my parents gave away and forgot about until now. No one in England even remembered that I existed.
“I was six years old when I journeyed to England for the first time,” I said. “I left England for Rheinbaden less than two months later.”
He stared down at me without comment, his brows lifted, the look in his eyes expectant. I could almost hear him say, continue.
I had to draw upon well-exercised memories to even recall the brief weeks I had spent with my parents in England.
“King Rudolph sent representatives to my father to negotiate my betrothal to his son, Hartman,” I went on. “The representatives would not sign the contracts until they were certain I was healthy and whole; thus, it was necessary to bring me to England from my grandmother’s court in France. Once the papers were signed, my father and King Rudolph had already agreed that I should be raised at the Rheinbaden court. I was to be their queen. It only made sense that I learn the language and customs of the people I would someday rule.”
That part of my marriage had actually worked out as planned. However, I was always an ausländer in their eyes, an interloper who would never be fully accepted as one of their own until I produced an heir. When that failed to happen…Well, those were the parts of my story that I would never willingly share with anyone in England.
“Of course, everything changed when Hartman died.” I spread my hands to indicate our surroundings. “I arrived again in England a little more than a month ago, so in all, I have had just a few months’ experience at being an Englishwoman in England.”
He studied the path as he walked. The shells made a soft crunching sound under his boots, marking our progress. “Someday I would like to hear more about the years you spent in Rheinbaden.”
I could wait a good long time for that day, but nodded as if I agreed. I pretended to watch the path as we walked, but stole sideways glances at him. His body was different than Hartman’s, more muscular, broader, and several inches taller. Inappropriate questions started to drift through my head. What does that broad chest look like without a shirt? How many other women know the answer to that question?
Ach.
“You spent so little of your childhood with your parents,” he said at last. “I suppose you barely know them.”
“None of us were raised in their care,” I said. “We were all fostered at young ages to relatives, or we were given to the families of our
betrothed to be raised.”
“My eldest daughter is nine years old,” he said. “My father thinks it past time for her to be fostered, but I find it hard to send her away from Hawksforth at such a young age. I could not imagine sending any of my daughters halfway around the world at the age of six.”
Under normal circumstances, I would not question anyone as to how they raised their children. However, it was only natural that I would be curious about Faulke Segrave’s daughters. After all, I would soon be their stepmother. How much influence would he allow me to have over his children? “Do all of your daughters still live at Hawksforth?”
“Aye,” he said, “but my father sent for them weeks ago, soon after he began negotiations for our betrothal. They arrived in London a few days before me.”
I turned toward him before I even realized I had stopped walking. “They are in London?”
“The girls are at our townhouse near Black Friars,” he said with a nod. “My father assumed you would want to meet them, once our betrothal became official. Indeed, if the circumstances of our betrothal were different, I would have made the same arrangements.”
“They are in London right now?” I could not seem to get beyond that fact.
He nodded again. “Would you like to meet them?”
Yes! Maybe. No? I didn’t know for certain. I had assumed the girls were in Wales and I would not meet them for many weeks or even months. Now he was telling me that they were across town, rather than across the country.
The churning in my stomach could be either excitement or terror, or likely a mix of both. I turned and started walking again. Faulke fell into step beside me.
“Tell me about them,” I demanded, my thoughts spinning.
He remained silent for a time, and then all he said was, “Claire is nine years old, Jane is six, and Lucy is two.”
“Avalene told me that much,” I said with an annoyed glance in his direction. We were nearing the end of the maze and I could see a few of the herb beds ahead of us. “However, she knows little else about—ouch!”
The edge of an especially sharp shell cut into the arch of my foot just as I put most of my weight there. The thin kid leather wasn’t meant to protect against this type of abuse. I scarcely drew a breath before Faulke had one arm around my waist. His other arm was suddenly in front of me where I braced my hands to steady myself.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Embarrassed, I shook my head. Before I could make any objection, he leaned down and then I was abruptly upended. I made a small noise that was as much surprise as protest, but by then he held me securely against his chest.
My first absurd thought was that no one had carried me in their arms since I was a child. The feeling was disorienting, an odd mixture of alarm and comfort. I relaxed a little when it became clear he could handle my weight with no obvious effort. He was so big that he actually made me feel small and dainty. Still, I thought myself immune to this unexpected chivalry until I drew a deep breath.
My second absurd thought was that he smelled wonderful, a mixture of cedar and leather, and some indefinable male scent that made me want to lean closer to him.
I stiffened my neck to resist my urges and looked over his shoulder as he set off toward the herb beds. A tan lump of wool lay on the path behind us. “You dropped the blanket.”
“I will retrieve it later,” he said. “Is there a bench nearby?”
“Aye.” I pointed toward bushy spikes of greenery that were dotted with pale purple flowers. “By the herb gardens, between the rosemary and yarrow.”
He carried me to the long stone bench, then he simply stood in front of it, me still in his arms, still feeling foolish.
“You can put me down now,” I said, even though I would not object if I had to stay in his arms just a little longer. I had the oddest yearning to lay my head on his shoulder, to nuzzle into his neck. It required a disturbing effort to do neither of those things.
He looked back toward the path where the blanket lay while I admired his profile. “Your gown looks costly. I brought the blanket so you would not soil your skirts on a bench or the grass, if you decided to sit.”
Ah, the mystery of the blanket, solved at last. His lack of romantic intentions suited me just fine. My resolve had been wavering, my senses bombarded by his heat and strength and delicious smell, but I could not become another of Faulke Segrave’s conquests. Nor could I afford to wonder how he might go about the conquest. Ach! Stop!
“This is an old gown,” I assured him, thinking it was past time to stand on my own two feet again. “And the bench looks fairly clean. In any event, I am perfectly able to stand.”
“You cut your foot on the shells,” he said. “You should not stand on it.”
“I think it is just bruised,” I admitted. “How did you know?”
He looked down at me and I found myself fascinated again by his eyes. They shimmered like sapphires in the sunlight, the color so vibrant that I had to concentrate on what he said. “Ladies’ slippers are notoriously thin. I am not certain why women even wear them.”
“Mine are kid,” I said defensively, already applying the worst possible speculations to his knowledge of women’s footwear, “and I think it is just a bruise.”
“Hm.” He set me on my feet, but kept an arm around my waist until he was certain I could balance on my good foot. “Stay here. I will be right back.”
He turned and jogged down the path to retrieve the blanket. A moment later he returned and then spread the blanket on the bench.
“Take a seat,” he ordered. “Let me look at your foot.”
“I am not injured,” I insisted, even as my foot throbbed. “Truly, I am fine.”
He gave me that look again, a silent, patient look that said he had no intention of doing or saying anything until he got his way. It could not be a good sign that the first trait I found familiar in him was one that annoyed me.
“Oh, very well. Look if you must.” I released a little huff of breath as I sat down, and then I lifted my skirts to my ankles and stuck out my injured foot. “There is nothing wrong.”
He stared at my foot for a long moment. “You are not wearing stockings.”
“I do not like to wear them in the summertime.”
He shook his head, and then knelt in front of me. I smothered a gasp when he took hold of my ankle. His big hands were gentle as he removed my slipper, incredibly gentle and incredibly…personal. My ladies helped me dress each morning, but there was quite a difference between my ladies’ impersonal touches and Faulke’s.
Oh, what a delicious difference.
I watched him examine the sole of my slipper, and then he returned his attention to my foot as his fingers stroked along the arch. His grip on my ankle tightened when I tried to jerk my foot away from him.
“Did I hurt you?” He rested one hand on top of my foot, his expression curious.
For some reason, I decided to admit the truth. “I am ticklish.”
He looked up and a slow smile transformed his face.
That was all it took. One smile that focused all of that virile male attention on me, and everything logical in my brain melted.
Smitten, smitten, smitten.
That was the word that kept running through my mind, the easiest explanation for an emotion that instantly turned my muscles to warm butter. I wanted to lean toward him and return his smile. How easy it would be.
Instead I sat up straighter and tried to control my racing pulse. No matter how bone-melting his smile, I could not afford to let my guard down around this man. “Why are you smiling?”
“You are always so rigid and dignified,” he said, still smiling. “I never imagined you would be ticklish.”
“Aye, well, I cannot help it.” I frowned at my foot, suspicious now that he was laughing at me. Dignified was an acc
eptable impression of me, I supposed, but rigid? “Have you finished?”
He gave a nod, and then carefully replaced my slipper. “You were right. Nothing is cut, but a bad bruise is already forming.”
He took a seat next to me as I rearranged my skirts. I moved as far as I could toward the end of the bench to put space between us, but he simply moved closer. “Thank you for your care, even though it was unnecessary.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “That is the most insincere thanks I have ever received.”
“I told you I was not injured,” I said, “but I do appreciate your concern.”
His hand was propped on the bench behind me, which made his arm constantly brush against my back and side. His thigh touched mine from hip to knee, but I was teetering so close to the end of the bench that I couldn’t avoid the small touches. My body kept alternating between melting warmth and goose flesh. He wasn’t even aware of what his nearness was doing to me. Words spilled forth without conscious thought. “ ’Tis nice to know you will show me the courtesies any lady would expect. I thought you would continue to hold me in the same low esteem you hold my father.”
Now he did not look so amused. “Again, that sounds suspiciously like an insult. Two insults, actually.”
“Then people must not often speak the truth around you.” I pressed my lips together. Who was in charge of my mouth today? Why was I antagonizing him? He studied my face for what felt like an eternity. Now I felt guilty.
“Ach, forgive me,” I murmured. “I was rude. My remarks were uncalled for in the face of your kindness.”
“All true.” That dangerous smile was back, warm, secretive, and yet somehow inviting.
More things began to melt inside me, and my thoughts began to slide away as I recalled what his touch had just felt like on my bare skin. And then I thought about what it had felt like when he carried me, what he had smelled like, what he had—
“Ah, you do know how to smile,” he said. Humor colored his words, but his gaze was fixed upon my mouth. “You are too serious, Princess. Tell me, what do you find enjoyable in life?”
The Princess Page 6