Juliana Garnett (9 page)

Easy enough, to send out patrols across the shire in a conspicuous effort to snare the outlaws, while all the time the lady would be watched. He would set men to hide in the surrounding wood, spies to report a lady’s treachery. A pity that she was faithless.

For she was lovely, this lady of Ravenshed, a realization just remembered. Not, perhaps, in the conventional sense: no mane of blond hair that was so highly prized, no haughty pride to render a swain hopeless with despair. But he had never been a man who admired such things. He left that to the poets and minstrels, the knights of song and leisure. It was not for him.

For him, perhaps, the understated elegance of this lady who now gazed at him with dignity and courage. A lady with eyes of intense blue below delicate winged brows, light brown hair a shimmering loose drape around a face of ivory character. Pristine. Sculpted by a master hand. Clean of line and uncluttered with the excesses of life. Yea, a rare beauty; a treasure; worthy of love were he so inclined.

But he was not. He had made the mistake of loving too well, and it had nearly destroyed him. Not the love, but the loss of it … the end of a life that had set him on this path to destruction, to the ruin of all he had once prized. It was not an error he intended to make again.

Yet it did not keep him from wanting this lady—if not for love, for pleasure. She had lingered in his thoughts; a fleeting memory to intrude at odd times, a swift vision of curving cheek, smooth brow, lips a soft rose color that drew his mind to sweet diversion.

As now.

Inconvenient lust, importuning and impudent, rising to
unsettle him. He wondered if she recalled the details of their last meeting, when he had stood with lifted tunic and she had held a barbed arrow at his throat. Few things left a man feeling more exposed, chagrined.

A sound beyond Lady Neville snared his attention, and the servant hove into view, a silver tray held carefully before her.

Jane turned, something like relief briefly crossing her face as she beckoned the woman forward.

“Dena, place it on the table. And bring a knife for the cheese, as I have left mine in the kitchens.”

“Weaponless, my lady?” His mockery drew her attention again, as he intended. “I feel much safer now.”

“That would be a grave mistake, my lord. Wine?”

He flicked a glance to the cup she lifted. Lightly: “Is it safe, or should I have a taster drink first?”

Deliberately, she put the cup to her lips and sipped. His gaze shifted to her mouth; a glimpse of good teeth, white and straight, save for one that was slightly crooked. The imperfection was somehow endearing, even more alluring. His body responded with a swift, aching erection.

She gazed at him over the rim of the cup, then held it out. Wine beaded her lips, ruby against rose, wet and gleaming with temptation.

He took the cup when he wanted to take her in its stead, and held it in one hand, ignoring the fierce surge of lust that rocked him. Necessary restraint, learned in years of deprivation; a benediction and a curse.

Her gaze was expectant, a bit curious. He sought, then found, the thread of conversation.

“Should I summon your servant if you fall to the floor in a frothing swoon, milady?”

“That only happens when the poison is particularly virulent.” She paused. “Or when the wine is sour.”

An attempt at levity, hard-won from the look of strain in her eyes. He rewarded it with another smile, this one more sincere. A sip of wine, then two, and he gazed at her over the cup’s silver rim as she held her own cup in both hands, long, well-shaped fingers curved around the bowl to hold it steady. He
wanted to see her drink again, the lips to part, a glimpse into forbidden territory. He wanted it fiercely.

“Sweet,” he murmured, and when her brow lifted: “as new wine should be.”

She pressed the cup to her mouth; lips parted on silver to drink daintily. Her throat worked, creamy skin tantalizing above the square neck of her bliaut.

“What will you do, my lord?”

Pleasant reflection vanished at her words, bringing him back to the reason he was there. The brief interlude was over.

“Arrest the outlaws when I find them. And I will find them.” Another sip of wine, a delay while she absorbed that, then a casual shrug of one shoulder. “It is inevitable. I have been charged with their apprehension by the king. I will do my duty.”

Her tongue lapped at a drop of wine shimmering on the cup rim, riveting his attention. Distracted, it took him a moment to digest her comment: “It was told to me that you are not in the king’s good graces, my lord.”

“Doubtless,” he said, watching her mouth while heat pooled in his groin, “you have been ill advised.”

“Yet you have lands in the north. An estate of your own. You are a baron in your own right. The office of sheriff cannot avail you more than do rents from freedmen and vassals. Unless you are as the others, of course, enriching your own coffers at the expense of citizens—and the king.”

“That,” said Tré softly, “would be dangerous as well as foolish to suggest. I am amazed at your temerity.”

“And I yours, my lord.” A flush pinked her cheeks, made her eyes bright. “You visit evil acts on men of your own rank, and exhibit no shame or remorse. I should not have been surprised that you would do worse to those of lesser rank.”

He recognized the tactic for what it was, a diversion from the topic of outlaws. “Of late, my lady, I am among those of lesser rank. My lands are at the king’s discretion, as are all of our lands. You would do well to remember that ere you find yourself in like straits.”

“Then it is true.” She studied him with wide eyes, as blue
and shadowed as woodland pools. “The king dispossessed you.”

“Let us say that he is merely safeguarding my estates until my business in Nottinghamshire is done.” His tight hold on the stem of the silver cup loosened, and he moved to set it on the table. His fingers were cramped, and he flexed them. “I intend to conclude that business as swiftly as possible.”

Harder now, an edge to his tone, he turned and said, “My patience has its limits, as does my generosity. I freed the outlaws. If they surrender to me, they will be shown mercy.”

“It was not generosity that freed those men,” she said, “but the point of an arrow at your throat. I daresay your version of the tale differs from the other being told.”

“It may.” A tight smile felt frozen on his lips. He still wanted her. Contention did not ease the need, nor did her impudent reminder of his position. Situations changed: One day he would be liberated from the hateful bonds of service he performed for the king. He was a patient man because he had to be, not because he chose to be.

“Are you through baiting me, milady?” he asked when she fell silent. She did not answer, and he smiled. “I have set my men to a search of your estate. For tax assessment, of course. Do me the honor of escorting me outside.”

Outrage was plain on her face, and he did not blame her. It was an outrage to be so misused. No more so, however, than the outrage of having a bodkin tip leave blood on his throat while desperate men were set free to rob and kill again. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was as adept with the longbow as she was with her contempt for the law.

He put a hand on her arm to guide her; her spine was rigid as they crossed the hall. At last, the ache in his groin eased.

They passed the servant, Dena, who had returned with the cheese knife and looked after them apprehensively as they went out to the courtyard. It was bright after the shadowy gloom of the manor house, and he squinted. A glance found Guy lounging against a low wall that enclosed a small garden.

A slight shake of blond head and a shrug; no outlaws had been found there. But he had not really expected it.

“I have made inquiries, my lady,” he said, and put out a solicitous
hand when she stumbled on a loose cobble. “Your late husband left the largest estate to a cousin also named Hugh. These lands were left to you to be held in security against the crown. If you do not remarry, the church receives your dowry grant while you retain dower rights.”

“I am well aware of the terms of Hugh’s will.” Coldly; a distinct chill replaced her heated passion of earlier. “I cannot see where it is a concern of yours.”

“Ah, but it is. It occurred to me that you may be in dire need, thus explaining why one might feel compelled to—thievery.”

A deeply drawn breath was audible. She turned to face him with her back to the stone manor house, a gracious abode and a refuge.

“If you have proof of my complicity with outlaws, arrest me.”

“Jésu, these challenges. Did I accuse you?”

“With all but the words.”

Bold lady, bold enough to lie in wait in the greenwood. His first impression of her had not been altered by this knowledge of her duplicity. There was a bit of larceny in every soul, whether it was admitted to or not. Integrity was defined by a personal code of ethics.

Still, it was gratifying to think her goal was not mere personal gain but a desire to lend misguided aid to those she deemed needy of it. A glance at the manor house proved minor neglect but not need. A husband’s hand would set all aright in short order.

He frowned, and she mistook it for his response to her claim.

“Do you deny it, my lord?”

A moment’s recollection of her earlier remark, and he said, “Of course I do. If I had proof to arrest you, I would have done so.” A lie; necessary, but with this woman, strangely awkward on his tongue. Did honesty beget honesty?

A dog barked and a harsh Norman command silenced it; her gaze flickered toward the soldiers waiting just out of hearing. He was not above intimidation. If it gained him his ends he used it.

“Then.…” Uncertain hope in her voice.

“Then you have been warned of outlaws nearby. If any are seen, send a messenger to Nottingham ere you find your household suspect.” He paused to allow the silent threat to sink in, and saw from the sudden light in eyes quickly veiled by her lashes that he had succeeded.

“If any are seen, my lord, I will send a messenger.”

Nodding, his gaze drifted again to the manor house. Sunlight picked out a loose shutter, a few broken cobblestones in the walled courtyard, overgrown shrubbery. Clouds of ivy swarmed up walls to the thatched roof and cascaded over the front door. At one side, gardens were laid out in neat squares and bisected with paving stones; fronds of mint, basil, sweet fennel, and pennyroyal waved in a light breeze.

A faint fragrance wafted toward him: fresh mint from the lady. He breathed deeply. The sunshine was warm against his face, welcome. A relief after days of rain and grayness that made his hands stiffen and his injured side ache.

He flexed his fingers, idly, letting the moment drag on too long. It was pleasant just standing in the sunlight; it was rare leisure. The domestic sounds of chickens and sheep were a low murmur, the sweet scent of mint and woman close and oddly soothing.

“Warm tallow will ease the stiffness, my lord.”

Wary, surprised, he looked at her. “Tallow?”

“I have used it before. It is an old remedy. Dip your hands into a pot of warm candle tallow—not too hot. Leave them only a moment. When they are cool, peel away the tallow and your hands will be eased of stiffness.”

“Will they?”

Caught, lured by the sunlight and an unfamiliar sense of domestic tranquillity, he took her hand in his, heard her soft, drawn breath as he scraped his thumb over the hill of her palm. Long fingers, shaped nails; slight traces of rough skin lent evidence of their use. He thought of the strength it took to bend a longbow, of these hands fitting arrow to string, and smiled.

“Deceptive … soft hands. Unlikely that they have known much stiffness, milady.”

It was acutely humbling. Her hand lay like a white dove in
his dark palm; calluses roughened his skin, earned in years of wielding a sword. Not for him the purchased spurs and title of knight, he had been knighted in battle at twenty; in the thirteen years since there had been few days without a weapon in his hands.

“My husband … Hugh. His hands often ached.”

His thumb pressed into her skin. He thought of her wed; remembered words of grief for her husband. A year since he had died? He tried to summon a clear memory of Hugh de Neville and failed. He had known him well by reputation, met him on occasion, a long time ago.

But he would remember Hugh’s widow … had remembered a dozen things about her after having seen her but that one day in Nottingham.

Mint teased him; he would never smell it again without thinking of her.

He still held her hand in his. Exerting slight pressure to pull her forward, he was inexplicably drawn to touch her hair, her brow; his bent fingers skimmed the curve of a cheek as soft as a rose petal. She did not pull away.

Brown lashes quivered over deep, blue eyes; her lips parted slightly.

He lifted her hand to his mouth, a courtly gesture that was seductively potent with this woman. Lips grazed the back of her fingers; he heard a soft inhalation and turned her hand over. The pads of her thumb and fingers were raw; unaccustomed to the snap of a bowstring, perhaps. There was a blister in the cup of her palm. His eyes lifted to her face, caught the fleeting shadow of guilt. Deliberately, he pressed his mouth to her palm while he held her gaze.

The smell of mint filled his nose, mouth, and lingered. Working lower, his lips found fragile blue veins beneath the pale skin on her wrist. The sleeve of her bliaut brushed against his jaw. He imagined her naked beneath him, ivory skin lush and warm beneath his hand. His thumb tested her wrist, leaving a red mark.

He watched it fade, a faint flower. Anticipation rose, ached; the hunger was back, stronger this time, scalding. If he allowed it, she would destroy him.

Abruptly, he released her hand.

A desultory breeze curled a strand of ash-brown hair over her face to tangle in her lashes. Her hand lifted to brush it aside, a graceful movement of arm and wrist that was both eloquent and dangerous.

A dog barked again, and the shouts of Normans and Saxons mingled. Welcomed distraction, shattered expectation, and the thread of tension snapped, freeing him.