The Kindling (16 page)

If Abel had to name the cause of the heat that rose to his face, he would have said it was anger, and some of it was, but not all. He looked beyond his sister’s husband and met Beatrix’s gaze.

She smiled.

Returning his regard to D’Arci, Abel said, “You have done your duty to your fair wife. Now
I
have a request. Have you time on the morrow to engage me at swords?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Even if I do not, I shall meet with you.”

“Good. I am ready.”

When the meal ended an hour later and Abel rose, his thoughts turned to the bed that awaited him—more, the visit from Helene who would see to his injuries while he drank down her sleeping draught. Or did not.

Was it not time he set aside that medicinal? Allowed his body to sleep the sleep that had, in all the years before, carried him from night into dawn—restful, and yet not so much that sleep made him vulnerable to any who might creep too near as once his wife had done?

Aye, it was time. No more would he partake of the draught that muffled his senses such that no stealth was required to gut him.

“It looks like a game of dice, Abel,” Beatrix said as she and her husband descended the dais behind him.

He looked around, then followed her nod to the men gathered before the hearth.

“If you wager,” she said, “so shall I.”

He nearly smiled at the enthusiasm in her voice that had first been sown by Lady Annyn who had scandalized the Wulfriths by introducing the forbidden game into their home. Much to Lady Isobel’s dismay, it was Abel who had supplied the dice.

“Will you?” Beatrix pressed.

He thought of his bed again and how much he wanted to stretch out upon it.

What? Are you such a very old man?

“I shall,” he said and felt a lightening about his shoulders at the prospect of letting the dice fly. “Unfortunately, I did not bring my purse belowstairs.”

She shrugged. “As Lady Annyn proved, one need not wager with c-coin.”

Which was the only reason Lady Isobel had relented to the fiery Lady Annyn who had not known she would soon bear the name of Wulfrith in opposition to the order given by the man who would become king.

“And what of you, Michael?” Beatrix asked.

Her husband tucked her arm more deeply into his. “Methinks I will best enjoy the game watching my lovely wife play.”

She beamed and, together, they crossed the hall.

Had Abel noticed that Durand was among those gathered, he would not have accepted his sister’s challenge and, likely, had she also known, neither would she have placed herself so near the knight whose feelings she sought to spare with the distance she kept between them as much as possible. But there the man was, and Abel determined he would not be the one to retreat.

Pleased that Helene was not also present, he guessed she had gone to the kitchen to gather her medicinals and mix his sleeping draught as was her habit following supper.

A hand on his arm drew his gaze to Beatrix where she stood between him and her husband. She lifted her chin and, obligingly, he bent an ear to her.

“Do not be so discomfited, Abel. I do not mind his presence so long as he does not mind mine.”

Did
Durand mind hers? The knight did not look at them where they stood on the opposite side of the gathering, though surely he knew they were there. Rather, his eyes were all for the game, though Abel thought it likely a false show of interest.

For half an hour, knights and men-at-arms wagered on the roll of the dice and, unlike when Lady Annyn had led the game, coins exchanged hands rather than pretty favors and undesirable chores and tasks—until Beatrix drew her arm from her husband’s and stepped forward.

“The lady would like to wager,” she announced and, despite the annoyance that some could not conceal, the men made a path for her.

Abel looked to Durand and saw his gaze had gone to her, his longing and sorrow almost tangible.

Though Abel did not want to pity the man who had betrayed their friendship and the Wulfriths by loving one sister and seducing the other, he felt a tug of that emotion—but only that, for a moment later Helene appeared at Durand’s side, her touch upon his arm causing him to shift his regard to her. And—curse all!—the knight’s expression eased when she smiled at him.

“Highest roll,” Beatrix announced where she had lowered to her knees across from the man who had shared a trencher with Helene.

“How much coin would you wager?” the knight asked.

“None, for I am a lady, am I not?”

Chuckles rose from the dozen gathered around.

“I shall wager a favor for a favor”—she glanced over her shoulder—“if my lord husband is of a mind to cast dice with his wife.”

Feeling his brother-in-law’s surprise, then his gaze, Abel looked to D’Arci who murmured, “Your sister is a clever and determined woman,” and strode forward. “I accept the challenge, Lady Beatrix.” He dropped to his haunches where the knight had been and, with a smile that brightened his features that had become drawn in recent weeks, said, “The favor?”

“If I roll highest, come the m-morrow, you shall set aside your books and all other obligations and take me riding from…” Beatrix shifted her lips side to side. “…dawn until the nooning hour.”

D’Arci’s hesitation reflected his reluctance to eschew his duties for the pleasure of spending time with her, but he slowly grinned. “I accept your wager, my lady.”

She answered with a smile that made her more strikingly beautiful. “And what would you win from me if your roll betters mine?”

“Come the morrow, my lady wife will set aside her sewing and all household duties and ride with me from dawn until the nooning hour.”

Though it meant D’Arci would not be practicing at swords with him, Abel laughed with the others—excepting Durand whom Abel was certain would now absent himself from the hall. He was wrong, for the knight remained at Helene’s side as the dice were rolled twice, the last roll proclaiming D’Arci the winner.

As a cheer went up, Beatrix’s husband stood, reached to his wife, and raised her beside him. “To the victor”—he bent down—“a kiss.” It was a brief meeting of lips, but Beatrix was happily flushed when he led her out of the circle.

“Sir Abel,” she called as they neared, “’tis your wager now.”

He stiffened as all eyes turned to him. But just as Durand had not retreated, neither would he. Putting the staff forward, he threw Beatrix a narrow-eyed look to which she tossed up her eyebrows.

Shortly, he filled the space left by her and her husband and ground his teeth as he put as much thought into lowering to his haunches as was needed to spare himself humiliation and pity. To his relief, it was not as difficult as anticipated, though the discomfort exceeded his expectations.

Stabilizing himself, he laid the staff beside him and nearly reached for the dice with his right hand. He scooped them up with the left, asked, “Who will wager me?” and felt a wiggle of the mischief to which he had been partial previous to his injury.

“For a coin or a favor?” a man-at-arms called.

“Regrettably, I have not my purse, so a favor it will have to be.” Of course, who in this gathering could grant him one that was worth the risk of what he would ask to be granted?

“I will wager you a favor.” It was Helene, her voice pouring over him like warm oil.

As a murmur rose from the gathering, she slipped between the men and halted before Abel.

This he had not expected. Indeed, he would have thought her content to watch—and, likely, not long at that. He inclined his head. “Very well, Helene of Tippet, what favor will you ask of me?”

The murmuring transformed into suggestive chuckles and throat clearings.

Ignoring them, she lowered to her knees and seemed to search for an answer though he suspected she had been in mind of one when she put herself forward.

“As I can think of no favor I am in need of”—she shrugged—“I suppose ‘twill have to be a future favor.”

He frowned. “Future?”

“Aye, to be named a day from now, mayhap a sennight, or whenever I find myself in need of one.”

As the voices grew louder, Abel stared at her. Despite the innocent face she presented, he did not think there was anything innocent about her in that moment. “That is a dangerous wager to accept. One would have to be fair certain of winning to agree to such.”

She put her head to the side. “I give you my word that whatever medicinal I ask you to take without complaint will prove beneficial, and if you must needs plug your nose to dull its taste, I shall take no offense.”

“Accept the wager,” one of the men called and others heartily agreed.

Abel heard the small voice that warned him to refuse, one he had often ignored in embracing the thrill of a win that he believed could as easily be his—and which had many times seen his purse considerably lightened—but what kept him from refusing Helene was what he would ask of her. As if the favor he wished granted had been scratching at the window all along, he let it in. “I accept.”

She smiled. “What is your wager?”

As she would not reveal hers, he determined that neither would he announce his, especially in the midst of an audience. “You will recall the
favor
I asked of you two days past.”

Frowning, she shook her head.

“More than once I asked it, and more than once you refused.”

When her eyes widened, he glanced at Durand and saw in the man’s darkening expression that he knew the nature of the favor. But it was not for him that Abel put it to Helene. It was for her—whatever was required to ensure she did not fall prey to seduction.

“Do you accept?” Abel asked.

All evidence of her smile gone, she said, “I do.”

He was surprised and yet not. Did she believe Beatrix’s loss, if it could even be called that, put the odds in her favor? That this time it would be a woman who won? One thing was certain—whatever the identity of this future favor, it would cost him much.

He reached the dice to her and she opened a hand and closed her fingers quickly around the cubes he dropped in her palm.

“Roll,” he said.

“When I am ready, Sir Abel, not before.”

As their audience snickered, she peeled back her fingers, considered the dice, then covered and shook them. A moment later, she spilled the dice.

“Eight!” someone shouted.

Abel eyed the six and two before sweeping up the dice and rattling them within the cage of his palm and fingers. Before he released them, he looked to Helene and thought she must be holding her breath, which made it all the more imperative that he roll a nine or higher.

He swept his hand forward, opened his fingers, and watched as the dice tumbled corner to corner and side to side before coming to rest near the hem of her skirts.

“Eleven!” the same voice heralded.

The din increased, and it occurred to Abel that, should his left hand not respond well to wielding a sword, at least it was good for dicing. The thought rousing a bitter smile, he looked to Helene whose expression was near stricken, and something told him it was not merely because she had lost. It was his smile.

As he lowered it, she said, “It seems you are the victor, Sir Abel.”

He inclined his head. “I am pleased with the favor granted me.”

“I am sure you are.” She rose, turned, and slipped past the others.

Pulling himself upright with the aid of the staff, Abel saw the back of her as she headed for the stairs. As for Durand, he was already gone.

“Whatever you asked of her,” Beatrix said low when he started past her, “you should not have.”

He eyed her. “Nay, I should have, though I take no pleasure in her unhappiness.”

“Sir Durand?” she asked.

“Aye, no good can come of her being alone with him.”

“I believe ‘tis only friendship between them.”

“What do you think it was between him and Gaenor?” he retorted.

She looked momentarily away. “I do not think it was friendship between him and our sister, Abel.”

“That makes it all the worse then, does it not?”

She sighed. “It would seem so, and yet I do not see Helene longing for him as our sister did.”

Abel did not like the word ‘longing’ in regards to anything to do with Durand and Gaenor or Helene. “Regardless,” he said, “providing the healer keeps her word, I need worry no more about it, and that is all I want from her.”

Beatrix harrumphed. “It most certainly is not all
,
but if it comforts you…”

Abel glowered. “Sleep well,” he said and made greater strides with the staff than ever he had allowed himself.

The stairs were unwieldy, but less of a challenge than they had been days ago, and when he entered his chamber, his breath was hardly strained. Partway across the room, he noted the tray was in its usual place upon the table beside the chair, evidence Helene had delivered it before appearing at Durand’s side in the hall.

Guessing she would not be tending him this eve, annoyance flared, but he pushed it down with the assurance that he could see to himself. In fact, if not for the preparation of her medicinals and that she was useful to D’Arci in tending the castle folk, she could return to Tippet and John this very eve.

“Unfortunate,” he muttered. Worse, though, was that he did not truly wish her to leave—that Beatrix was right. He wanted something from Helene beyond the comfort of knowing Durand lacked the opportunity to seduce her.

Remembering her expression when she had lost, he lowered into the chair, removed his boots and belt, and applied himself to his injuries as he had seen Helene do often enough that he did not need direction in which pots to unstopper.

When the sleeping draught was all that remained, he considered the goblet of wine. One last night of good rest?

Leaving it untouched, he pushed up out of the chair and pulled his hand back from the staff he was too quick to reach for. Though he might not be ready to eschew it entirely, he could make it to bed without its abhorrent thump.

Shortly, he lowered to the mattress, only to groan at the realization he had not put out the torch or candles. Still, he laid back and stared at the ceiling. And again saw Helene’s stricken face.