A Lily on the Heath 4 (30 page)

Dimly aware of the soft rattle of mail and its metal barrier between them, Mal shifted, crushing her gently against the wall. His hands were filled with long, heavy hair and lush curves. She tasted like wine and mint, she smelled of moss and lavender, and the heat of her fingers at his neck, sliding beneath the linen of his undertunic, sent little prickles of awareness through him.
 

He covered her breasts, molding them in his hands and finding taut nipples beneath the fabric of her gown as he tasted her neck, nuzzling and gently eating at the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. Judith shivered in his arms, and her soft sighs and rough breathing ignited him further. His cock filled his hose, pressing uncomfortably against the mail chausses and he fumbled his hauberk out of the way, then yanked at the chausses opening to free himself. Heavy and hard, his cock slipped free, bumping against the backside of his hauberk.

Before he knew it, he had his hands beneath the hem of Judith’s gown, sliding it up along her thighs, his cock pressing against her belly, when he heard footsteps.

“My lord? Lady Judith?”

Christ’s nails.
Malcolm froze as he recognized Holbert’s voice. He shoved her away, dropping the hem of her gown as the hauberk fell over his jutting erection. Judith gaped up at him, her eyes wide, her lips full and glistening as she yanked her cloak back around the front of her as her skirt swirled back into position.
 

“We are here,” Mal called just as Holbert came into view.
With
the mother abbess.
 

And
two other nuns.

Praise God Holbert gave us warning of their approach.
Malcolm’s face flushed hot and he dared not look at Judith as he shifted to the side and maneuvered a large hand over his waning erection, which still bulged insistently behind the hauberk.
God’s stones, what was I thinking?

“Ah, there you are. We thought you may have gotten lost,” said the abbess. “For you were behind us, and then you had disappeared. It can be a bit confusing in this labyrinth of hallways.”
 

She was a kind-faced woman with shrewd eyes, but even she didn’t seem to notice the discomfort her appearance caused. Her attention was trained on Judith, who, thankfully, looked no more disheveled than she had upon arrival at the abbey, though was slightly out of breath. “I bethought one of the sisters could draw you a bath, Lady Warwick. And then you may wish to have aught to eat before returning to the women’s chamber. We have night prayer in an hour.”

“Thank you, mother,” replied Judith, also taking care not to look at Mal—who was
absolutely
not looking at Holbert either. “I would greatly appreciate that.”

“Come with me, then, child,” she said. “Sister Pauletta has a jar of wonderful sea salt scented with rose oil and ’tis a most lovely addition to a bath.”

Mal didn’t have time to wonder about an abbey where the nuns bathed in rose-scented water, for he was too busy putting himself back to rights. And as Judith went off with the well-meaning sisters, he realized he was going to have a very long, uncomfortable night.

It didn’t help that Holbert was doing a very poor job of hiding a smirk.

~*~

Tabatha would have been just
as pleased to quit court as her mistress, except for two things.
 

First, that she must leave behind all hope of capturing the attention of Bruin, the fascinatingly silent second-groom…and second, that she must travel with the irritating Sir Nevril.
 

Why oh why hadn’t Lord Warwick taken his master-at-arms with him and Lady Judith and left Sir Holbert to travel with Tabby and the others? But nay. He’d not only left Sir Nevril of the poor jests and the long scar to ride with Tabby and the rest of the baggage, but he’d put Nevril in charge of the small caravan.

Which meant that not only must Tabatha travel with the man, but she must also abide by his commands. And that, she decided, glowering from her perch in the cart on which she rode, was the very worst part of the situation.

She could see Sir Nevril near the front of their group, jouncing along on horseback. His hair curled in small, tight frizzes, and his mail-covered arms gleamed in the sunlight as he conversed with two of his peers. It occurred to Tabby that she would be seeing more and more of the man now that her lady was wed to his lord, and that did not sit well with her at all.

“He is a beast,” she informed the amber-striped kitten—who was hardly a kitten any longer, but more of a young, lanky cat. “If he mentions rabbit stew once more, I shall run him through with his own sword!”
 

The cat, who was curled up in the lap of Tabby’s skirt, purred loudly as she stroked the stripes into a neat pattern. She’d been surprised when Nevril hadn’t argued about bringing Topaz—as she’d named the creature because of her stripes. Nor had he suggested she leave Bear behind, even though the poor hound was nearly blind and might not last the journey. In fact, Nevril himself had carefully lifted the graying dog into the cart, making certain he was settled comfortably with a bone on which to gnaw.

But it was the man’s comment about having rabbit stew for dinner, cooked over a firepit, that caused Tabby’s irritation. “He knows just what will overset me,” she said. “And methinks he says it apurpose, just to turn me red!”

And so Tabatha was determined not to allow Nevril to overset her any longer. She would ignore his comments and avoid him as much as possible.
 

No sooner had she come to this conclusion than the party stopped in the center of the road. She craned her head to see what caused the delay—a broken wheel on one of the carts, an oncoming travel party, or any number of things—but no obvious answer was forthcoming. She could see Nevril dismount and watched as he walked near the edge of the roadway, joined by another man-at-arms. They conferred for a moment, then to her surprise, he glanced back—and looked directly at Tabatha.

When he hailed her, commanding her to come to the front of the group, she frowned mutinously. But climbed out of the cart, nevertheless.

Making her way along the edge of the road, walking in the grass to avoid the heavy-footed, impatient horses, she approached the two men. Both were now crouched, looking at something on the ground, but it wasn’t until Tabby was nearly upon them that she realized it was a fox, lame and unmoving on the side of the road.

And she understood at once why Nevril had called for her. She glanced at him in surprise, then back at the rust-colored creature, squatting next to him. The fox panted harshly and his bushy tail twitched like that of an angry cat. She saw right away that his two back legs had angry, bloody wounds on them—as if he’d been caught in a metal trap and somehow escaped.

“Can ye help the beast or should he be put from his misery?” said Nevril. His voice was gruff and he avoided looking at her.

The fox bared his sharp teeth, lunging at her hand as Tabby reached toward his leg, and Nevril moved quickly to block the attack. His mailed glove acted as a shield and restraint, allowing Tabby to examine the wounds.
 

“I can help him,” she said carefully, still stunned that the man had even thought to ask her. “But I must get a cage from my grandfather. I do not believe Master Fox will enjoy the journey in my wagon.”

Tessing was riding in a cart with the raptors and their equipment, and Tabby knew she could borrow one of the bird cages to accommodate her new patient.
 

“We must get on our way,” Nevril told her. “I mean to reach Treadwell by sunset. I will fetch a cage and bring the beast to you there, and you can tend to him while we travel.”

She looked at him once more, still confused but happy with the arrangement. “Aye. And…now we are stopped, may I go into the woods for a moment? I am in need of water for the poultice, and also…a moment to myself.”

He rolled his eyes, but nodded abruptly. “Do not dawdle. And there is a stream yonder.”
 

She grabbed a small wineskin from her cart and trudged into the forest, glad to be moving her legs after a long day of travel so far.

When she came back out of the woods a short time later, she found Nevril waiting for her, just out of sight of where she’d sought privacy. For some reason, she flushed slightly at the realization he’d been waiting and watching for her, and she sailed past him without a word. But when he helped her climb back into the cart, she had no choice but to thank him before he turned to speak with Sir Gilbraith about their route for the rest of the day.

The fox was already in a cage in the cart, waiting for her, and Tabby turned her attention to his care. She was surprised to find that someone had tied a falcon jess around the beasts’s snout in a sort of muzzle, then tied it to the cage so she could care for his hind legs without fear of being bitten.
 

Had Nevril done that? She glanced at him as the cart started off again with a jolt. He was on his mount near the front of the caravan, but stood off to the side as it began to travel past him. When her cart reached him, to her surprise, he urged his mount into position alongside her.
 

At first, Tabby was able to distract herself by applying the poultice to her patient’s wounds. But when she was finished wrapping them up in strips of cloth, she had naught to occupy her mind—and he still rode along next to her.

“Do you mean to remove the muzzle now?” Nevril asked, clearly having been watching her work. “Have a care, for the beast was none too happy when I put it on.” Without further explanation, he pulled off his mail glove and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it. She’d never worn mail before, of course, and had hardly ever handled it. The last time she’d done so, in fact, was when her father was still alive. It was heavy and cool, and all at once, Tabby was struck with a wave of a memory she’d forgotten until now…actually wearing her father’s chain mail
sherte
, storming about their chamber with a wooden sword, pretending to be a knight herself.
 

She was no more than eight, and the edge of the
sherte
dragged along the stone floor. The sleeves were too long for her, of course, and the weight of the garment was substantial. But she’d managed to tramp about quite a bit before she tripped on the hem and fell. Father had picked her up and bundled her into a hug, mail and all.

“What is it?” Nevril demanded, pulling her from the reverie.

Tabby wiped her eye. “’Tis nothing,” she said, turning her attention to the beast in the cage. She slid her hand inside the glove. It was warm from Nevril’s hand and so large, it would have slid right off if she hadn’t held it in place.
 

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“Nay,” she replied, using the glove to hold the fox’s head in place as she untied the muzzle. Despite the ungainly size, it worked quite well and she withdrew her hand with no injury. The poor fox panted and looked around, but now he was bandaged and safe—even though he likely didn’t know it.

Tabby handed the glove back to Nevril, hoping that he would ride on back to the head of their train. But he did not.
 

“He will heal?” the master-at-arms asked after a moment.
 

“I am sure of it,” she replied. “If for no other reason than to make certain you do not wish to turn him into a hand muff.”

Nevril chuckled. “I do not think you would allow it, Mistress Tabatha. I believe I have learned my lesson from your sharp tongue.”

She smiled. “Well, at the least the old saying is not true: an old dog
can
be taught new tricks.”

He glanced at her sharply, then returned his attention to the road ahead. His bearded jaw shifted. “An
old
dog? I am not so very old.”

Tabby looked at him in surprise. His tone was odd and mayhap there was a little ruddiness on his cheeks. “But I did not mean you were ancient,” she replied. “Only that you are…no young pup.” His hair had no gray in it—though it was hard to tell for certain, as it was light in color and tight with curls. But mayhap it was the scar that made him seem old. Or, at the least, older than her.

“I am only one score and a half,” he told her, still looking straight ahead.
 

“Ah,” she replied. Then, feeling the need to change the subject—for ’twas clear he had no intention of leaving her to ride along in peace—she said, “Yestereve, when we were stopped for the night, I heard you jesting with Sir Galbraith. About a lute for Lord Warwick? Does my lord play the lute?” Tabatha knew she sounded incredulous—but after all, picturing her lady’s new husband crooning a song over a lute was nearly as ludicrous as picturing Queen Eleanor begging forgiveness of Lady Judith.

Now Nevril looked at her once more and she saw a hint of humor in his expression. “Nay, Warwick doesn’t play the lute. ’Twas only a jest we had some time ago when he was preparing to wed Lady Beatrice. He was in a fine mood all the time for several days, after having been an angry bear for a fortnight. Gambert and I jested that mayhap he could be playing the lute for us, he was so light of heart.”

“Warwick was to wed Lady Beatrice?” Tabatha said in surprise.
 

“Aye. He was sending messages nearly every day from court—to her father, the Lord of Delbring, Peter of Blois, Salisbury and others. The contract was being negotiated and we were all very happy for that—for ’twas the reason we’d come to court.”