Heart of a Knight (26 page)

In the heat of the day, he'd shed his tunic and worked only in braes that fitted closely over his lean hips and strong thighs, a pleasing sight to any female, no matter how old. As he swung the ax, the muscles in his long, dark back flexed and shifted in a splendidly beautiful dance. His flesh, the color of walnuts and smooth as silk, gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat.

She sighed and stirred the pot, eyeing the color critically. 'Twas criminal how much pure beauty God had granted a single man. And it did not stop with his fine form, for his face and his carriage were as easy to look upon, and even that ethereal part of him that men called soul was as beautiful.

A child shrieked with laughter nearby the well, and glad of the distraction, Lyssa glanced over to see Mary Gillian's eldest daughter, a cherubic girl of seven, running from a boy with a small bucket of water. The pair danced around the well, and the girl dashed toward the safety of the women, the grinning boy hot on her heels. Seeing he was near to losing, he lunged and tossed the contents of his bucket toward the girl with a misaimed fling.

Lyssa did not even have time to duck. The well-cooled water caught her in the face with a stunning shock. She yelped. A taste of copper-flavored air touched the back of her throat.

The boy, horrified, halted where he stood. Before Lyssa could catch her breath enough to reassure him, Mary Gillian's girl caught her skirts. "Milady, he meant no harm. 'Twas meant for me."

Lyssa blinked, and wiped water from her face. She put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "I'm not angry," she said. "But take your game elsewhere. If you'd overturned one of these pots, you'd be most savagely burned."

They scurried away without a second nudging. Smiling, Lyssa pushed tendrils of hair from her face, and glanced at the women. "Shall I get a bucket for each of you? 'Twas quite cooling, in all."

Alice chuckled. "You're a sight, milady."

Lyssa glanced down. Her tunic was wet in a triangle from shoulder to waist, but it was old and plain, stained with old dyes and some blues from this day's work. It would dry soon enough. She shrugged and picked up the bucket. "Some water to drink would be fine enough, I think."

It was only then that she realized the noise of Thomas's ax had halted. Walking toward the well, she glanced at him to find him looking at her quite intently, with more purpose than she had seen on his face since the morning she had begged him not to leave. Blue fire sparked from those indigo eyes, and she saw his gaze touch her chest, where the water had made her tunic cling to her breasts. Smiling to herself, she thought it only fair he should lust for her after she'd spent the day climbing his body in her imagination, and she deliber-ately slowed her pace, for once feeling the womanly power of flirtation move in her.

She knew his eyes would caress her breasts, and the thought was oddly arousing. Deliberately, she turned her back to him to send the bucket down the well, thinking to tease by hiding herself, but as she bent and reached, she grew all too aware of those other parts of her anatomy.

When she had drawn the bucket, she took the wooden cup, and braced the bucket of water against her hip. He watched her as she approached, his eyes burning into hers, touching her lips, touching her breasts.

Mayhap it was the heat, or the simple wonder of his beautiful form that drew her like a moth to a candle, but she found herself smiling up at him lazily. "Water, my lord?"

"Aye," he said, near a growl, and looked away as he drank it. Lyssa found herself staring at the long brown length of his throat as he swallowed, and in a heated rush, imagined her mouth on that place, imagined her tongue stroking the whole long length of it. He drained the cup and gave it back. "More?" she offered.

He would not look at her. "Nay," he said, bending to pick up his ax once more. She admired the cut of his hard jaw, almost painfully clean-shaven.

"Mayhap 'twill cool you, sir," she said silkily.

"Twill take more than a cup of water, my lady," he said, straightening, and he stroked her form with his gaze before looking at her face.

"Pray sir, what more than water?"

He inclined his head, a low gleam in his eye.

"I'm in mind of apples, my lady," he drawled. "White and round and sweet. Or, better still, cherries to nibble."

A flush moved over her chest and face, and her breath felt suddenly far away, but she managed to lift a brow teasingly. "Apples and cherries, sir? At this time of year?"

He leaned closer, and Lyssa smelled his flesh, leaf and sweat and man, a scent as heady as a kiss. "Aye," he said slowly, letting his gaze fix boldly, plainly upon her breasts. "Small tender cherries, and round white apples. And then a long, slow drink of honey."

She'd held her own when they'd sparred in the past, even when the talk grew bawdy. This time, her mind instantly filled with a vision of that mouth upon her breasts, his black hair scattering in silky softness over her face, and she could think of no parry to return. She only stared into his indigo eyes blankly, her lips parted for the words if they came. She grew hot with embarrassment.

He grinned. "What's this? She's gone speechless?"

"You are too bold, sir," she retorted, and suddenly flung the entire contents of the bucket at him.

His reflexes were quicker than hers, and without halting to wipe water from his face or hair, Thomas laughed and dropped his ax, his eyes leaping with mischief. "Methinks you're the one in need of cooling," he said, moving toward her with a swift step.

Lyssa backed away instinctively, but he grinned all the more and easily captured her with one arm, sweeping her against his body as if she were a sack of fresh milled wheat. Alarmed at the sudden feel of his body and his intentions, she struggled mightily. "Thomas, what are you doing?" She shoved at his arms and swung her feet. "Put me down."

"I think not."

Wickedly, he let his thumb, hidden below her arm, stray upward to the side of her breast, and at the unexpected touch, she froze. "Thomas," she protested in a whisper.

He halted at the well, and braced her against his thigh, his thumb moving deliberately in that hidden way, swirling dangerously close to the aroused center of her breast, though no one watching would know. It made Lyssa feel hot and weak, a thick golden feeling in her middle, and she wanted nothing more than to wriggle closer, to let her breast fill that palm.

"Turnabout is fair play," he said quietly, using his free hand to send the bucket down. More quietly, he said against her neck, "Though I'd rather you were bent over the well again. That was a pretty view."

She renewed her struggling, a playful fight. She pounded against his arm, kicked at his shin, but he held her as if she were a kitten, and all her frustrated noises did nothing but make the bored hot group in the bailey chuckle with pleasure at the unexpected amusement.

When he drew the bucket up, he turned to them. "Shall I?"

"Aye, aye!" they cried, laughing and clapping.

She raised her hands in protection, caring not how he touched her now. "Thomas!" she squeaked, struggling afresh. He nearly dropped her, but managed to capture her again, this time hauling her tightly against his fierce erection so she'd not mistake it. "I think we're both in need of cooling," he said for her ears only, and upended the bucket of water over them both.

Spluttering and squealing, Lyssa bent her head against it, and the gesture pressed her buttocks closer to his flesh, and her breast spilled into his hand. She trembled at the dizzying combination, and tried to wriggle away, but he held her tight.

At last, Lyssa laughed. "You win, sir!"

The movement of his hands was covered by the position of their bodies, and Thomas fingered an aroused nipple discreetly. Against her ear, his voice dark and intoxicating as mead, he murmured, "Not yet," and let her go.

Suddenly free, Lyssa wiped water from her face and turned to watch him go back to his wood-chopping. A leap of anticipation bloomed in her belly as he bent, those muscles stretching long in his back. A faint small voice in her head sang,
at last
!

But she dared not acknowledge it. Lifting her chin, smoothing her wet tunic, she bowed to the laughing number in the yard, and went back to her dyeing as if nothing at all had changed.

Giddiness infected Lyssa before supper that evening. By virtue of the work she'd done all day, standing over the hot tubs, and struggling with sodden wool, she ought to have been tired. And though she felt the work in a tight pull in her arms and low in her back, she was not weary in the slightest. She felt she could dance for a week—nay,
needed
to dance, for days and days, to burn away the restlessness that jumped in her knees and across her shoulders, and burned with a sense of urgency in her chest.

Alice, sensing her mood, took out a gold gown, embroidered with green at sleeve and hem, and a brocaded surcoat trimmed with silk. A girdle of gold belted her waist, and Alice wove flowers into her hair, leaving some loose, some braided, so it flowed in a dark wash over the gold tunic.

When Lyssa looked at herself in a silver mirror, her eyes were unnaturally bright, her cheeks rosy as if she were overheated, and she put a palm up to see if she were feverish. "What ails me this night?"

Alice chuckled. "I see naught amiss, milady. Only hale health and young spirits, lighting up those pretty eyes."

Still Lyssa stared at herself perplexedly. "'Tis true I have not felt young much."

"Go tonight and dance and play. You'll see how it makes that restlessness leave you."

"Am I so easy to read?"

"I were a young woman once." She patted Lyssa fondly. "Go now, be young."

Lyssa smiled, and impulsively kissed the woman's still-smooth cheek. "You're hardly old now. Come you and dance tonight."

"Go."

The air within the hall was close and sticky, and Lyssa had ordered the trestle tables to be set up outside for supper. To cool the humors of their bodies, she'd ordered a simple meal to be served: cold roasted chicken, vinegared cucumbers, and ale cooled in the well. As she emerged into the twilight, she saw torches had been set into the earth, ready for lighting, and the food was piled high on tables set against the kitchen's north wall. A harper and a lutist, happily employed here since St. Swithin's Day, tuned their instruments, and close by was a drum. A red-haired piper would make a show of playing both when the evening flowered. A trio of soldiers played dice at one table, and with satisfaction, Lyssa saw Isobel, demurely attired in a tunic of deepest blue silk, with a gossamer veil over her hair, listening to something Stephen de Kivelsworthy said earnestly, waving his hands to explain.

At least that seemed to be going well, Lyssa thought. Isobel had made a complete change since that disastrous night a few weeks before, and seemed at peace with her betrothal. They would be married at Michaelmas, in King Edward's chapel, as befitted the high station of the participants. While Lyssa looked forward to the bustling pleasure of a visit to court, she shied from thinking much on it. She feared Edward might give greater thought to a husband for her, so all could be safely wed at once.

Already most of the castle's inhabitants were present, but Lyssa realized she was seeking the one face that had not yet appeared: Thomas was noticeably absent.

A flush touched her at the thought of his seductive play this afternoon. The bawdy teasing and the feel of him against her had been exhilarating, and she wondered if all knew the lady of the manor had a yen for the strapping knight.

Ah, how could they fail to know it? She lifted her chin and strode over the neatly clipped lawn to join Isobel and Stephen. Let them all make what they wished of it. 'Twas not their concern.

"Good even," she said to the young couple as she sat down.

"My lady," Stephen replied with a nod and a smile. "I was only telling Isobel how lovely you are."

Lyssa shot a glance toward Isobel. That could not have sat well with the spoiled beauty. "My thanks, sir," she said, her eyes on Isobel, who felt the gaze and glanced up with a droll expression hidden in the pale blue irises. Discreetly as she was able, Lyssa winked. "Where are Robert and Lord Thomas?"

"They went off on some secret errand an hour ago."

Stephen leaned forward earnestly, his eyes darkening, his mouth hard as always when the knight's name was mentioned. "Tell me, Lady Elizabeth, have you uncovered anything more of your mysterious knight?"

"More?" Lyssa echoed, deliberately vague. A dull knife of fear cut through her ribs. "What more should I learn?"

Isobel snickered. It was a quiet sound, but Lyssa's fear leapt a notch and she looked at her stepdaughter in alarm. And there, in the diamond-hard eyes, Lyssa saw smug knowledge.

Somehow, Isobel knew. And bided her time. For what purpose?

Stephen, unaware of the undercurrents, leaned forward earnestly. "I sense something amiss with the man. Why have I never seen him at a list in all of England or France? How came he to be here, and where lie these great lands of his?"

Lyssa swallowed her terror, and in a calm voice, said, "His lands are far to the north and all were plague-killed. When he chanced upon Woodell, which had been deserted by my own men, he stayed to defend the villagers who had none. I asked him to stay till harvest. Where is the great mystery in that?"

Stephen scowled. "I do not like him."

"Why here comes our noble knight," Isobel purred. The tiniest of smiles turned her lips at the corners, making her look like a cat.

Stiffly, Stephen stood. "I'll not share a bench with him. Come, Isobel."

Isobel rose, sweetly as a child. While Stephen's back was turned, she cast a spiteful smile toward Lyssa, then laughed softly and moved away as she was bid.

Fear cooled Lyssa's restless blood. Fear and dismal reality. No matter how she wished it, she could not lie with the man who so inflamed her. For he was not even the rough knight all believed, but only a peasant. The danger threatening him would be trebled if Lyssa gave in to her selfish wish.

"He spares no love for me," Thomas said, sitting down across from her. Lyssa looked from the departing pair back to Thomas.