Heart's Magic (9 page)

“Tell me exactly where it hurts and I will
try to ease your discomfort, Sir Giles.”

“Here.” He touched the midpoint of the scar.
“It pulls most painfully when I move too quickly, and it aches in
damp weather.”

“The scar tissue has attached itself to the
flesh below.” She pressed her own fingers next to his. “It is the
rigid connection that restricts your movement. The wound was not
well sewn.”

“There were so many wounded that day,” he
said. “The barbers had no time to work with care.”

“I have a liniment that may help.” She took a
jar off a shelf. “I keep a good supply of this at all times and use
it often. The men-at-arms suffer frequent aches after too-vigorous
weapons practice. Some of them have scars similar to yours and as
you say, old wounds are worsened by the cold, damp weather of which
we presently have a plentiful supply.”

She expected him to put his tunic on at once
but, without seeming to notice his own half-naked state, he began
to walk about the workroom, peering at the contents of the shelves,
sniffing the hanging herbs.

“Hugh said it was a pleasant room.” He
glanced at the jar of liniment. “Will you rub some of that into my
side now, my lady? Since I am right-handed, it will be difficult to
do it for myself, and if I know Hugh, he will be an hour or more
talking with the blacksmith. Like most men, I desire relief from
any discomfort as soon as possible.” His sparkling blue eyes
challenged her.

“I will warm it first. Heat makes it more
effective.” She poured a little of the liniment into a clay bowl
and set it on top of the furnace. Giles came to stand beside her.
Unlike the men-at-arms or the servants whose aches and pains and
stomach upsets she regularly treated, Giles’s body odor was fresh
and clean and, with her senses heightened by his nearness, deeply
disturbing.

“Sir Giles, you must step back. I need room
in which to move.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” But he did not
move by a single step. Mirielle was trapped in the angle formed by
the furnace and the wall. Giles put a hand on either side of her
head, bracing himself against the wall.

“You could help me if you would,” he
murmured.

“I am attempting to do so. Step aside, Sir
Giles.” Her voice trembled.

“Mirielle, you need not fear me,” he
said.

“I think I would do well to fear you
greatly,” she responded.

“Perhaps it is I who should fear you.”

“I believe the liniment is warm enough now.
Please, Sir Giles, let me apply it before it becomes too hot.”

“I could scarcely tell if it were.” But he
dropped his arms, letting her reach the bowl of liniment.

“May I stand here?” he asked. “It is warm by
the furnace.”

Mirielle did not answer him. She was trying
to convince herself that she could apply the liniment to his side
without giving way to the emotions that threatened to overcome her.
She wanted to put her arms around Giles, and she wanted to feel his
arms around her. She wanted to rest her cheek on his hard chest, to
feel safe and cherished…

Telling herself she ought to have more pride
than to give way to unseemly desires, especially with a man she
barely knew, whose motives were suspect, Mirielle took up the bowl
of warm liniment, dipped her fingers into it, and began to work the
thick liquid into Giles’s scar. There was mint in the mixture, and
finely ground nettles, and a special oil that Cerra had taught her
to make from thyme leaves.

“It tingles on my skin,” Giles said, “and the
warmth is soothing, but I think the greatest efficacy comes from
your skillful fingers.”

“Hold still.” Save for the scar itself, his
skin was smooth and firm, the veins beneath pulsing with life.

“Ah, there,” he breathed. “That’s the sore
spot.”

Mirielle rubbed steadily, massaging the
liniment into the scar, paying special attention to the place he
indicated.

“My lady, your hands work a comforting
magic.” When she put the bowl down he caught her hands, kissing
them.

“Please, you must not.” She pulled her hands
from his grasp, but she could not force herself to move away from
him as she knew she ought to do. As if she were the one held by a
magical charm her fluttering fingers touched his lips, his cheeks,
his brow. She brushed aside an errant lock of his brown hair.

“Sweet lady,” he murmured, “I fear I can no
longer resist your spell.” His arms encircled her, drawing her
close, and this time he did not stop short. This time he took her
lips with firm assurance.

It was a bliss Mirielle had never
anticipated, had not known could exist. If Giles claimed to be
caught in a spell she had woven, then she was equally caught in
his. She could not help herself. Her mouth welcomed Giles’s, her
hands crept around his shoulders. He pressed harder, deepening the
kiss, and she opened her lips. She uttered one soft little gasp at
the flood of new sensations, and then she was clinging to him,
returning his kiss, suspended outside time, aching for an eternity
of Giles’s kisses.

It ended too soon.

“Dear heaven.” He released her and stepped
back. The shock of leaving his embrace sobered her at once.

“What have we done?” she cried.

“We?” Giles shook his head. “Lady Mirielle, I
thank you for that kind we, when the fault is so clearly mine.
Still, it is an error in judgment that I find I cannot regret.” His
fingers lightly brushed across her cheek.

“It is my fault, too,” she whispered. “I do
not know you, I fear your presence at Wroxley, yet I have allowed
this to happen.” How could she not feel shame for what she had just
done? But she knew no shame, only a wild, singing joy that coursed
through her body in a tumultuous flood.

“Wroxley,” he repeated, as though he had just
remembered something important. “Mirielle, were you here while the
old baron was still alive?”

It was the last thing she expected him to
say. She stared at him until, unable to bear the cool assessment of
eyes that had burned passionately into hers only a few moments
before, she let her own gaze stray downward to the firm mouth
surrounded by a thick brown beard and mustache. How sweet that
mouth could be, how tender in a kiss. His lips moved but she was
too bemused by him to comprehend the words he spoke until he
repeated them.

“Lord Udo. Did you know him?”

“We never met.” Mirielle made herself pay
close attention to what he was saying because she was beginning to
understand that the questions he was asking were the real reason
for his presence in her workroom. And for his kiss, which probably
had meant little to him. To him, the kiss would have been no more
than a way to soften her resistance to the questions he planned to
ask. He could not know how much it had meant to her or how hurt she
was to learn he did not share the emotions she had felt—was feeling
still.

He was Hugh’s friend; therefore, she told
herself, he could not be a villain. Behind the deceit of Giles’s
kiss there must be some honest purpose. She had to believe it was
so.

“Brice and I did not come to Wroxley until
after Lord Udo was dead,” she told him.

“Brice did not know Udo, either? Are you sure
of that?”

There was a note in his voice that made
Mirielle wonder why the answer to that question was so important
and why he should ask it of her and not of Brice.

“I am not entirely sure,” she admitted. “Lord
Udo did take Alda with him to court several times when he went to
fulfill his yearly forty days of service to King Henry. Alda told
me about it. She loves to talk about her visits to court. Brice
could have been there at the same time. Since Alda and Brice are
distantly related, it is possible that the three of them might have
come together then.”

“Perhaps they did. I never considered that
possibility.”

“Why are you asking these questions?”

“I cannot tell you why.”

“Then you will understand that I can supply
you with no more answers.” Hurt made her angry, made her speak
coldly to him when all she really wanted was to go back into his
arms, to be kissed again. But she had her own loyalties to
consider. She had already given Sir Giles too much.

“If you will leave tomorrow,” she said, “if
you will go from Wroxley without touching me again or seeking me
out in private, if you will not attempt to speak with me beyond the
polite formalities required in public places, then I will say
nothing to Brice about the questions you have asked of me.”

“The questions were innocent enough,” he said
in a smooth voice she had not heard from him before. “They might
have been asked during the midday meal, while I sat at the high
table.”

“But you did not ask them there,” she said.
“You sought me out in my workroom and waited until we were alone.
You kissed me first, to make me more amenable to providing the
answers you wanted.”

“Perhaps I was only making polite
conversation.”

“You and I both know that is not the case.”
She met his eyes squarely, unmoved now by the sensual temptation he
presented. He had used her. Why, or to exactly what purpose she did
not know, but she did not like the feeling.

“I have not lied to you.” When she did not
respond to his statement, Giles sighed. “Perhaps you are right.
Perhaps Sir Giles the pilgrim should be gone from here.”

“Then I wish you Godspeed.” She made her
voice as hard and cold as she could. “Do not return to Wroxley, for
if you do, I will certainly tell Brice about this last hour.”

“My lady, I do swear to you that after I have
left Wroxley Castle, you will never again see Sir Giles the
pilgrim.” He took up his undershirt and drew it on, then grabbed
his tunic.

“Sir Giles! Wait!”

He was already at the door and he turned with
his eyebrows raised in surprise that she should call him back after
such a dismissal. Mirielle picked up the belt he had left forgotten
on the table. Coiling it quickly into a roll of hard leather, she
threw it at him. He caught it in midair before it had time to
unroll.

“My thanks, Lady Mirielle. For everything.”
His rich voice was filled with humor and his sparkling blue eyes
laughed at her. And then he was gone.

Mirielle sank down onto the bench, shaking
with unpleasant and barely repressed emotion. Her right hand came
up to her mouth, the fingers tracing her lips as she recalled
Giles’s kiss.

“False and yet honest,” she whispered. “No
liar and yet untruthful. Innocent questions and important answers.
What a fool I am, for all my learning! Have I unknowingly betrayed
Brice? Should I report to him the things that Giles asked? And what
of Hugh? I believed everything he said, but he is a powerful mage.
Did he lie to me while making me believe each word he spoke was
true? Am I entirely mistaken in Hugh?”

Her head was aching. Because of all the
questions tumbling through her mind she could not fix her thoughts
on any one matter and thus she could not come to a decision about
what she ought to do. Folding her arms on the table, she put her
head down on them, closed her eyes, and tried to think of nothing
at all. It was a method she had employed all too often in recent
months, usually after Alda’s demands and continual insistence upon
her own comfort before everything else had driven Mirielle to near
distraction.

She took deep breaths, concentrating on the
scents of the herbs and oils and on the warmth emanating from the
furnace. Minn jumped up on the bench to sit beside her. Gradually,
the sound of the cat’s purring combined with the quiet of the
workroom to soothe Mirielle until she was able to sort out the
events of the last two days. Half an hour later she lifted her head
and straightened her back, her decision made.

“I will not tell Brice that Sir Giles
embraced me twice and kissed me,” she said to Minn, “but I do owe
it to him to report those questions Giles asked of me. Brice needs
to know, in case the danger I sense is aimed at him or at Wroxley.
At the very least, I owe it to Brice to explain that Giles and Hugh
are not the simple pilgrims they pretend to be. I must find Brice.
He is most likely in the mews again with that sick falcon of
his.”

Brice was indeed in the mews, but there was
no sick falcon. The birds sat upon their perches a bit restlessly,
as if responding to the presence of humans. The mews were in
shadow, with the shutters fastened tight against the lashing rain.
The falconer lavished great care upon the birds and Brice was
equally fussy about his beloved falcons. Not wanting to annoy
either man by disturbing the birds, Mirielle opened the door only
as much as was needed to allow her to slip inside, and she moved as
quietly as she could.

The falconer was absent, but a couple stood
in the center of the mews, wrapped in a close embrace. Mirielle
stopped short.

“Brice?” Mirielle whispered, not believing
her eyes. Then, louder, “Brice!”

To his credit, he did not jump away from the
woman. Brice gave no sign that he was doing anything wrong. In
fact, there was no wrongdoing, as Mirielle quickly realized. But
there was danger in what she beheld, danger to Brice and to the
woman in his arms.

“Donada?” Mirielle knew the woman well. She
was Robin’s widowed mother, whose late husband had been the
seneschal before Brice, and Mirielle was on excellent terms with
her. Donada’s good looks and her demure manner had brought her
several offers of remarriage, all of which she had steadfastly
refused, preferring instead to make for herself a not-very-secure
place as a skilled seamstress to the demanding Alda.

“Yes, Lady Mirielle.” Donada stood quietly,
hands clasped at her waist, betraying neither anxiety nor
confusion. “If you wish to speak with Sir Brice in private, I will
leave.”