Suzanne Robinson (9 page)

Blade lifted his nose and looked down the length of it at her. “The greater the wound, the more silent I become. You may ask my man René. See this mark?” Blade turned toward her and lifted his right arm to reveal a long scar that went from his back to his navel. “When I got this, I was as quiet as a pilgrim in a cathedral.”

She looked at the scar and lifted a brow. “How brave, my lord.”

“Hmmmph.”

“Raise yourself, please.”

Blade’s good humor returned, and he smiled as she surrounded him with her arms and began unwinding the soiled wrappings from his shoulder. Each circuit brought her face close to his, and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. She shivered and felt her body begin to tingle in strange places.

She came near again, and breathed in his scent, all wood and spice. Her lungs began to work hard, and she had to stop herself from fleeing as he murmured something unintelligible and lifted his body toward her. Luckily she finished unwrapping and straightened to gather the bandage. Her hands were shaking, and she prayed he didn’t notice.

While she worked, he continued to stare at her in silence. She could still feel the heat of his body and was relieved when she could move away from him without the appearance of haste. Dropping the wrappings and bandage in the basin of towels, she wiped her hands on the front of her gown and fastened her gaze on it. He shifted his weight and cursed.

“The wound pains you?” she asked.

“No more than most.”

“Let me see.”

She came close and studied the reddened wound and its stitches. She touched the flesh near the threads, and quickly lifted her eyes to his. She found that he had been studying her. For long moments they stayed as
they were, he half lying on the bed, she bending over him, growing warmer with his very nearness. He drew a deep breath, and his hand lifted to touch one of the long curls that had drifted onto his chest.

That simple movement woke Oriel. She lifted her hand from the wound, but Blade caught it.

“Please? Your hand on the wound is soothing. So warm.”

“I should find the apothecary.”

“I don’t need him with you so near.” His hand tugged on the curl.

She snatched the curl from his grasp and bounced away from him. Standing over him, she gave a most indelicate snort.

“God’s breath, my lord, how can you find comfort in the presence of a weasel?”

He groaned and lay back on his pillows. The covers slipped lower on his hips, but he failed to notice.

“Saints and apostles, I thought you forgave me for my rancorous barbs.” His hand darted out and caught her skirt. “I insist that you forgive me.”

“I have. Now loose me.”

Oriel dug in her heels, but he dragged her to him and captured another lock of hair.

“You haven’t, you ill-tempered sprite. I’ll content me with nothing less than true forgiveness, not courtesy.”

“I’ll not repeat myself.” She slapped at his hand, but couldn’t free her hair.

Blade began to rise from the bed. “Oh yes, you will, or I’ll kiss you.”

“No!”

“Thank you for being so obstinate,” he said, grabbing her shoulders.

Thoroughly alarmed, Oriel twisted in his grasp, but even wounded, he was the stronger. He put a hand on the back of her head and forced it down to his own. She watched his lips draw close and fall open. Crying out,
she thrust her hand between them and covered his mouth with her fingers.

“I forgive you!”

Beneath her fingers his lips moved, and she tingled again. His tongue tickled her skin, and she yanked her hand from his lips. He burst out in a chuckle and released her.

“Beshrew you, Oriel Richmond, for depriving me of the succor of your lips.”

Oriel dashed out of his reach and scowled at her tormenter. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looked down on him.

“I shall fetch the apothecary, my lord.” She turned sharply and marched to the door.

“I need no apothecary, and I’d much rather have your nursing to make my blood rush,” Blade put a hand on the covers over his groin, “and my body stir.”

“I shall fetch the apothecary,” Oriel said again, for all her clever retorts fled when she saw his hand spread out in so blatant a gesture.

He smiled at her, and murmured in the same low voice that had enthralled her from the first. “Don’t fly,
chère
. I won’t hurt you.”

Oriel paused. “I’m not fleeing you. I’m going to fetch the apothecary.”

“As you wish. But I’ll be on my feet by tomorrow, so you’d best accustom yourself to having me near. I’ve come to press my suit again, you know.”

She knew her mouth fell open, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Again?”

“Yes? Didn’t Lord George tell you?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I have, with his blessing, so you must needs learn to accept me. Don’t run away.”

Oriel had raced into the gallery and looked back at him. He was still grinning at her and still hadn’t covered
himself. No doubt he sought to cozen her and beguile her with his body.

“I would never run away from the likes of you,” she said.

“We’ll see upon the morrow,
chère.”

Oriel lifted her chin. “We will not.”

He wasn’t listening to her. His gaze had fastened on her face and then dropped down the length of her body.

“Mirabile visu, chère
, most wondrous to behold.”

Oriel swore, picked up her skirts, and ran, heedless of those mocking eyes and his annoying laughter.

Blade sat in the withdrawing chamber between Uncle Thomas’s library and apartments and his own chamber and polished the hilt of his sword with a cloth. He was in a foul humor. He’d been caught off guard and attacked by that scurrilous bastard Midnight and there was naught to show for his suffering except a sore shoulder and, to his disgust, an uncontrollable desire for Oriel Richmond.

At first he’d blamed his rampant lust upon his wound. He’d awakened to find her close to him, her wild hair floating about her face, her wide green eyes fixed upon him. He remembered thinking he’d been caught sleeping in an elf’s bower. Later she’d touched him, and with her touch transformed him into a vile
satyr nearly mad with appetite. The violence of his craving for her had caught him unprepared, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from approaching her, which had frightened her.

Once frightened, she had avoided him, and no amount of feigned sickness had brought her back. After three days, he’d grown as randy as his own stallion. As the hours passed and Oriel stayed away, his indignation grew.

Who was she to ignore him? He had captured the hearts of French, Italian, and English women of high and low degree. He was being grievously insulted—no treated as if he were a leper. Each day that went by saw his frustration and his determination grow until he vowed to himself that no cloistered little spinster would scorn and defy him.

He’d been so disturbed by Oriel’s rejection he’d almost lost sight of his real task, which was to search out any privy knowledge kept by Thomas Richmond about the vows taken by Anne Boleyn and Henry Percy. This evening he would join the family at table, and there he would begin his prying. He would make himself agreeable to the old man, mayhap by enlisting his aid in pressing suit with Oriel. Thomas had visited him several times, and he’d taken care to win the old man’s regard by praising Oriel. Thomas seemed most fond of the girl, and perchance through her, he could court the uncle’s friendship.

Meantime, since the evening meal was two hours away, he would spend the time setting lures for the elusive Oriel. Blade slipped his arm out of the black silk sling the apothecary had fashioned for him and rose. He crossed to a window seat and picked up an ivory lute.

The withdrawing chamber was a small room, the walls of which were faced in mahogany. The gleaming wood had been carved in rectangular panels two hand spans in length. These panels marched up and down the walls except where they were interrupted by a door set
in a pointed arch, and by the fireplace, with its white marble chimneypiece. The size of the room, the paneling, and the fire combined to make the chamber warm and welcoming.

Carrying the lute, Blade returned to his chair near the fire and placed his right hand over the strings. Propping his sore arm on the chair, he plucked a chord, winced, and began tuning. He was twisting an ivory peg when someone pounded at the door. Before he could answer, the chamber was invaded by the three Richmond brothers, followed by Uncle Thomas.

“How do you this e’en, my lord?” asked Uncle Thomas. He shook his head when Blade offered his chair.

“Well, I thank you, Sir Thomas.”

Lord George stalked over to the fire and thrust his hands out toward it.

“We’ve been hunting those thieves who attacked you,” he said.

Leslie came to stand behind Blade’s chair and leaned on the back of it. “Yes, but there’s no sign of them since that fellow brought you to us. We’ll have to start afresh tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t,” Blade said as he plucked a lute string.

“Why not, pray you?” asked Robert. He was the tallest of the three and had to duck as he lowered himself into the window seat.

“Your thief is Jack Midnight, a highwayman of surpassing talent and wit. By now he’s fled the north country altogether.”

Thomas leaned on his walking stick and surveyed Blade. “Know you this ruffian, my lord? How haps it that you’re so familiar with thieves?”

“We’ve met before, near Blackheath, and he spared me for old times’ sake.”

“A most garrulous and merciful outlaw, this Jack Midnight,” said Thomas, “that he would spare your life and those of your men when he hasn’t spared others.”

“As I said, we’re old acquaintances.”

“Curious company you keep,” Robert said.

Leslie moved to stand beside Blade. “Ah, thievery. I’ve often thought rampaging about and stealing from rich fools like our George would suit me.”

George scowled at his youngest brother, but it was Robert who responded. “You surprise me not, given your laziness and aversion to all honest labor. But I warrant even Mother would disapprove of your taking up such a vice.”

“Even then,” Leslie said softly, “she would love me better than you.”

“Boys.” Uncle Thomas’s warning caused both men to close their mouths.

Thomas began to address another question to Blade, but Oriel’s voice calling for George delayed him. She came in, clad as usual in a simple gown of russet wool and no cap. She directed her attention to George after a little curtsy to Uncle Thomas.

“Aunt Livia sends for you. She’s furious about one of the serving men missing morning prayers.”

“I’ve already fined the man,” George said.

“It matters naught to Aunt Livia.”

Robert spoke from the window seat. “Negligent servants and murderous highwaymen. This kingdom is under the devil’s sway. The true religion kept such indecencies under abeyance. If the rightful queen were on the throne—”

“Robert!” George’s face went strawberry red. “I’ll have no treasonous talk under my roof.”

“Peace,” Leslie said. He left his perch on the back of Blade’s chair and wandered over to prop himself beside Robert. “Good brother, why can’t you keep your religious habits private? Her Majesty has said she likes not prying into the secrets of men’s hearts if they give their obedience to her.”

“To obey a heretic queen is a sin.”

George swore. “More treason.”

He stomped over to the window seat, but Uncle Thomas followed him and nimbly insinuated himself between his two great-nephews. George would have gone around him, but Thomas whacked his nephew on the shin with his walking stick. George yelped, hopped back out of reach, and bent over to rub his leg.

“Saints and apostles,” said Thomas. “I’m tired of this unending quarrel. Robert, the family gave up the old religion when Queen Mary died. Queen Elizabeth has been gracious to us as a result, and even you have benefited from her generosity. Your flapping tongue will get us all tossed into the Tower.”