The More I See You (7 page)

“Lady, are you going to faint?” he repeated, shaking her again.

“No,” she croaked. “No fainting.”

“Good. We’ve three days of hard riding ahead of us and I’ll not have you slowing down the progress. Warren!”

“Aye, my lord,” Warren said, snapping to.

“If she faints, drag her up out of the mud and catch up as quickly as you can.”

“Of course, my lord!”

And with that, Richard, who Jessica couldn’t believe had enough depth to care about a sea view, spurred his horse on and again took his place at the front of the company.

“I’m dreaming,” she said. “This is all a bad dream. I will wake up soon and find this was all a hallucination brought on by bad cucumber sandwiches. Then I will sue Lord Henry for pain and suffering and buy myself an eleven-foot Steinway and a house big enough to put it in.”

Warren looked at her as if she’d just sprouted horns.

“And I will never again do any kind of wishing upon any kind of heavenly body,” she finished.

He crossed himself, edged away from her, and left her
contemplating the surrounding countryside, which was starting to look more medieval by the hoofbeat.

Then again, maybe more wishing would be called for.

Jessica closed her eyes and began to do just that.

But she had the feeling she wasn’t going to be any more successful than she had been the last time.

Richard stood at the edge of his camp and watched with satisfaction the sight before him. This was what he understood, this manly business of exchanging glorious stories of war around the fire, sharpening weapons, rising when the duty fell to you to walk the perimeter of the camp and watch for enemies. Aye, ’twas a good life, the one before him, and he was proud to take part in it. He looked over the men he’d brought with him and was pleased to see that they attended to their duties with precision and care.

Well, mostly.

Richard didn’t want to look at the handful of men who didn’t fit the mold, but he could hardly help himself. They were, after all, his personal guard.

He looked at his captain, John of Martley. Currently John sat with his head bowed, sharpening his sword. Richard suspected that the pose was less than comfortable, but he also suspected John was doing his best to ignore the two men arguing with each other over his head. Perhaps the habit came from being the youngest of a large family. Martley was in vassalage to Burwyck-on-the-Sea and John had escaped his home and his lack of prospects at
an early age to come serve Richard’s father. More was the pity for him, Richard had always thought, but a lad did what he had to.

John’s hopes for a good meal had been few when Richard had met him again on the continent many years later. Richard had taken one look at John’s skill with the blade and offered him a position in his guard. It was not below a youngest son to accept the like, and John had done so without hesitation. Richard had never been sorry for his choice. John was a good soldier and a loyal friend. And he had the necessary ability of being able to ignore whatever foolishness was going on about him. Such as the present madness.

Richard scowled at the man on John’s left. Sir Hamlet of Coteborne was the son of a man who had guarded Queen Eleanor. Richard had stumbled across Hamlet trying to hold his own against a dozen men he had offended in an inn in the south of France. Apparently Hamlet was convinced that southern men could not possibly woo as well as anyone born north of Paris, and he was not shy about saying the like to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately he had been unsuccessful in trying to convince his audience to agree with him. The final straw had been trying to teach them the proper way to compose wooing verse. Richard had joined in the fray simply for the sport of it, but soon learned that Hamlet fought much better than he sang.

Richard didn’t bother to interrupt the current diatribe. Hamlet wouldn’t have noticed him anyway. When the man took a mind to enlighten those around him upon the finer points of wooing, there was no stopping him.

“And I say,” Hamlet insisted, “that ’tis the
left
leg you stretch out when bowing to your lady, not the right!”

“Nay, damn ye, ’tis the bloody right—”

“The left, you fool! Then should you have to draw your sword and instruct another on proper courtly comportment, you are balanced aright!”

Sir Hamlet stood to demonstrate this and managed to
wallop his unfortunate student full in the face with his blade as he flourished it.

Richard turned his attention to the man now lying on his back, struggling not to howl. Sir William of Holte was a man of few words, but mighty with weapons of all sorts. Less mighty, however, with his wits—which was why he often found himself drawn into these kinds of discussions. Then again, perhaps it was the less-than-pleasing visage of his that caused him to want to assure himself he had his manners aright. ’Twas a certainty he would never win a woman without the like.

Joining John in the sharpening of his warriorly gear was the final member of Richard’s guard, Godwin of Scalebro. Richard watched the man work on some painful-looking implement of torture and found himself glad yet again that he had never been on the receiving end of Godwin’s ministrations whilst the man was at his work. He could torture like no other, though Richard had found little use for those skills. The threat was often enough to intimidate and Richard was pleased to have that threat at his disposal. Unlike Godwin’s former employer, Richard kept the man well supplied with the sweet pastries he craved and that seemed to be enough to ensure his loyalty. Richard considered it a small price to pay.

He looked at his little group and indulged in a small feeling of satisfaction. Despite their small flaws, they were fine warriors all. He had earned their loyalty and was grateful for it. Richard nodded approvingly. This was a sight he was accustomed to and one he felt very comfortable with.

Yet somehow he was less than comfortable. There was something not right, something out of place, something that didn’t belong in his orderly world of men and horses.

He wandered the camp again, then came to a stop and looked down at that something. She sat on the ground at his feet, wrapped in his cloak yet still shivering. He had to admit that looking at her gave him the shivers as well.

Kin of the king. Why was he not surprised?

He had grilled Warren thoroughly, once he’d convinced
his brother that Jessica could not possibly be possessed and that the bump on her head had likely addled her wits. Warren had divulged that she came from a village called Edmonds and that she was related to the king. Other than that, she had revealed none of her intimate details.

Richard gave her noble status a bit more consideration. In truth, her relation to the king made his task easier. Henry was rumored to be coming north within the next month. All Richard had to do was keep Jessica fed and relatively happy, deliver her to the king when he arrived, and then be done with the tale. Perhaps Henry would think it a favor and Richard might have a boon of him.

Though the only gift he could think to ask for was to be left alone to enjoy his peace and quiet.

But he would have no bequest at all if Henry’s kinswoman was aggrieved by his treatment of her. ’Twas a certainty that she didn’t look very comfortable at present and that forced a scowl to his features. By the saints, he had no time to dance attendance on some woman’s whims for the next month! He had a hall to complete before the chill of winter set in truly. And he would also have to think on hiding enough of his stores to see his garrison fed for the winter, as he was certain that when Henry arrived, he and his retinue would deplete whatever of Richard’s larder was uncovered and vulnerable to the eye. He sighed deeply. There were times he wished Hugh had been the eldest. It would have saved him a great deal of grief.

He looked down at his current trial and frowned again. Naught but her face showed from inside his cloak. Warren sat next to her, shoving food into his mouth as quickly as it would go. Apparently Warren had decided that just because Jessica had lost her wits was no reason not to enjoy the fairness of her visage. Either that or he felt he stood a better chance of filching food from Jessica than from anyone else. There was certainly no doubt that Jessica wasn’t eating. That might not have bothered Richard another time, but it did now, for it meant she would
slow him down. By the blessed saints, a woman was a bother!

He squatted down before her, taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face upward. “You need to eat. You’re pale.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said curtly.

He was surprised by her tone, unpleasantly so. The woman was not as meek as she should have been, given the circumstances. He had saved her, hadn’t he? To his mind, that demanded a bit of gratitude.

“You don’t look sound,” he retorted.

“I’ve had a few shocks today. I won’t hold you up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Though her answer was a good one, he didn’t care for the delivery. It was more than clear that her father had done nothing to teach her her place. Never mind her supposed kinship to the king. Richard was a lord in his own right, with several holdings to his name. He preferred not to think on the condition of most of them, but that was beside the point. He deserved a bit of respect just the same.

“Richard, remember,” Warren said, tapping his head meaningfully.

That was hardly an excuse for such cheek, but perhaps Warren had it aright. Richard looked at Jessica, wanting to hear for himself that she had suffered some kind of wound to her wits.

“Is that so?” he asked.

She met his gaze and he was momentarily taken aback by the bleakness in her eyes. Saints, but he readily recognized the desolation. Aye, she’d lost much. Whether that included part of her memory was something he couldn’t tell, but she had certainly lost something dear to her.

A man?

The thought flashed through his mind before he could stop it, but he squelched the impulse to pause and consider the idea. It mattered not to him if she pined after some fool. All that mattered was that she eat so she wouldn’t
be an encumbrance to him on his journey. Trying to make peace with Hugh had been a foolish idea. He had no intention of leaving his keep to do anything remotely as foolish again. Aye, the journey had been naught but a misery from the moment he’d left Burwyck-on-the-Sea in a torrential downpour to the moment he’d felt a sudden wave of chivalry sweep over him like nausea and prod him into scooping up a troublesome wench to save her from Hugh’s dogs. He should have let them make a meal of her.

The memory of finding her in Hugh’s fields brought another troubling question to his mind. How had she come to be there alone, without any trace of gear or baggage? Had she merely wandered off, or had her companions left her behind? And if they’d left her behind, was it because she was daft?

Or was she, as Hugh supposed, a faery?

Richard clapped a hand to his head. By the saints, he was the one on the path to madness. The woman had likely just become lost and he had worsened her dilemma by sending her flying off his horse. The least he could do was see her fed until Henry arrived, then his task would be done.

He reached over and snatched an apple from Warren’s pile of sustenance. Without ceremony, he pulled Jessica’s hand free of the cloak and slapped the fruit into it.

“Eat. If you’re weak, you’ll hinder me and I’ve no time for that.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That matters not to me. Eat, lest you provoke me further.”

“I’m not your servant to be told what to do!”

“You’re of less worth to me than a servant,” he said bluntly, “for a servant would do my bidding without question. Put away your foolish womanly sorrows and obey my command. Your trivial cares will not be what keeps me from reaching my home as quickly as possible.”

“Trivial?” she echoed, her eyes wide with sudden pain.

“Aye, trivial,” he pressed on ruthlessly, “as are all womanly cares.”

She opened her mouth to retort, then shut it with a snap. She reached over and took a piece of bread and a hunk of cheese from Warren, ignoring the lad’s bereft look. Then she took the apple and bit into it viciously.

“Do you know what you are?” she said, between bites.

Richard watched the fire in her eyes and found that the sight of it relieved him somewhat. The last thing he needed was a bawling woman to contend with. Not that he was used to contending with women anyway outside the bedchamber, but he supposed if the task was thrust upon him, ’twas better that the wench have a bit of sharpness to her tongue.

Then again, perhaps ’twas better he return to his former position of wanting her to be meek and tractable. Surely she would be easier to cow if that were her mien.

Richard suddenly had the desire to throw up his hands and retreat to the safety of a sentry post. He had no idea which way he would have preferred the wench before him and it irritated him to find he was even having such a foolish debate with himself. He cared nothing for the handsomeness of her face, nor for the fire in her eyes. He had a bloody keep to build and no time to be distracted by some foolish girl who had obviously gotten separated from her company and wandered onto Hugh’s fields.

“A month,” he muttered. “I can endure this for a month.”

“Well?” she demanded. “Don’t you want to know?”

He suspected he didn’t, but there was no sense in her thinking he was afraid to hear her assessment of his character.

“What am I?” he asked reluctantly.

“A chauvinist.”

Chauvinist
was no word he’d ever heard before and he prided himself on having learned a great deal on his travels. He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

“A chauvinist?”

She nodded, taking another bite of apple that made him
very relieved she hadn’t take a like bite out of his backside.

“Aye,” he said, deciding suddenly to assure her he was familiar with her term for him, “that I am. You would do well to remember it.”

“I doubt I could forget it, even if I wanted to.”

Somehow, he had the feeling
chauvinist
was not flattering. And, torn between admitting his stupidity and saving his pride, he walked away. The wench was eating. He’d won that battle.