At His Command-Historical Romance Version (6 page)

He didn’t want to miss a step, but watching Amice’s glowing face and slender form while keeping track of Ginelle’s feet proved a challenge.

Amice smiled as Nicholas grasped the simple pattern, noting his graceful movements. He seemed to be having a good time, and hadn’t even tried to refuse when she asked him to join them. Joy filled her as the dancers moved as one.

Their gazes met across the circle. The rest of the world disappeared. She no longer heard the music or laughter of those around her. Could he know her smile was only for him? Did he watch her with equal fascination, or did she just happen to be in his line of sight? The day took on a new meaning because he was there to share it.

After other dances came the games, including races and contests in jumping distances, archery, and ball throwing. Nicholas won the archery competition, and accepted his victory ribbon from Queen Ginelle with as much grace as he might have shown Queen Margaret had she bestowed him with a title.

They feasted upon bread colored green with parsley, green peppermint rice and fruited beef. Seated next to Amice, Nicholas felt happier than he had in years.

Amazing how quickly things could change for the better. One minute he bemoaned being the outcast, the next he happily cavorted in the midst of the festivities. Had he ever been as at ease? Felt so at home? In his travels, he’d seen others prize their homes, but he hadn’t truly appreciated the significance until this visit to Castle Rising. Until he met Amice and basked in her glow.

How would he find contentment without such a home for himself? Without her?

The next day, on her way to the inside kitchen, Amice found Maggie the laundress and Agnes the weaver jostling for position in an open doorway.

“Ah, Sir Nicholas,” Maggie sighed. “What a body on that one, eh?”

Unwillingly, Amice understood.

Nicholas worked his horse in the bailey as other men engaged in mock battles. Sounds of clanging swords and pounding hooves filled the air. He rode shirtless.

“I’ve never seen the like,” Agnes said. “But really now, if he was your man, would you want others all agog, wantin’ him, too? There’s not a woman in this place who doesn’t hope he’ll glance her way. And more.” She patted her brown hair into place.

“Everyone? Even Lady Amice?”

Amice, who’d been about to encourage them to return to work, stopped short. The two were so focused on the men they hadn’t noticed her approach. She couldn’t resist the temptation to listen.

“Why not? After that awful husband, you can be sure she’s wantin’ a good man,” Agnes said. “That Master Edwin, always pokin’ at whoever was passin’ by. And so old and cranky too.”

Amice gasped in shock. How could this have been going on and she’d known nothing of it? Add one more black mark to the tally against Edwin.

“Can any be trusted? How do we know they all aren’t after the next female that catches their eye?” Maggie asked. “Or whatever other part responds,” she added with a giggle.

Amice had heard enough. She walked by cheerfully calling, “Hello, Maggie. Agnes.”

With a quick curtsy, Maggie picked up her basket of linens and walked off. Agnes also bobbed before returning to her loom.

As she continued her journey upstairs, Amice couldn’t stop herself from watching the men. From the safety of the shadowed window, her eyes sought Nicholas as a flower seeks the sun.

His long black hair tossed about as he turned Merlin in tight circles. Not overly bulky like those of the blacksmith, Nicholas’s muscles accentuated his broad chest and added to his powerful aura. His arms flexed as he changed his grip on the reins. The rhythmic movements emphasized his masculinity.

A deep, powerful yearning filled her. She looked forward to their every meeting with a thirst strong as a hot August day after hours of gardening. That need could be satisfied with a cool drink from the well.

How could her need for Nicholas be met, when he’d come to take her to her new husband? She didn’t even know if he felt the same. He, who could have most any woman to wife.

Maggie and Agnes were right.

All of the characteristics she’d hoped for in a husband had found their way to Nicholas. He was intelligent, hard working, considerate, an interesting companion. And the most attractive man she had ever met, with a compelling gaze, a nose with just enough shape to give it character, a square jaw. And his smile moved her, made her want to make him smile.

Perhaps she only yearned for what she couldn’t have.

Amice stepped deeper into the shadows. She’d allow herself one last look before willing herself to get on with her day, to help the cook determine what supplies to order.

Nicholas looked around as if he sensed her presence. He frowned. Had he sought but not found her?

She backed away. His head snapped in her direction. Was he that aware of her? He picked up a sword and joined the mock fray but kept looking toward her window. His obvious lack of attention to his opponent earned him a thwack on the shoulder.

Smiling, he parried the blow and continued his battle. She smiled, too.

As Amice tied her overgown over her kirtle of pale blue the next morning, she heard a knock. Who could it be at such an early hour, and who would come to her chamber? Word from the king? Had Harry escaped again? A sense of foreboding filled her as she opened the door.

“My shirt has a tear.” Nicholas walked into her room as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do. He looked quite offended as he pointed to the back of his shoulder at the sleeve’s seam, as though the shirt had torn itself on purpose.

A gasp of relief preceded her peal of laughter. “Let me see it.” Amice approached, feeling heat emanating from him. She jumped as the feel of him sent a shiver through her finger to the rest of her, and looked at her finger in surprise.

“What is it?”

Amice’s hand flew to her side. “Just a small tear. I can mend it.”

Nicholas pulled the shirt over his head and turned to hand it to her. They were alone in her bedroom and he was shirtless. They stood, staring at each other, the shirt still in his outstretched hand. The sound of her breathing seemed loud in the quiet room.

His hair, a few shades darker than hers, shone as the rising sun streamed through the window. She couldn’t ignore the lure of his blue eyes. His scent, now familiar and welcome, floated into her senses. A simple need brought him to her. Suddenly mundane sewing turned into something special.

It seemed natural for them to be standing so close.

Amice had seen him shirtless from afar, and thought that was wonderful. But it was nothing compared to him up close. She saw the contours of each muscle, the black hair on his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His chest rose and fell with each breath, making her want to lay her head against it to know the warmth of his skin, hear the beat of his heart.

She couldn’t meet his gaze any longer, so she looked down. A mistake, for she wound up gaping at his lower half. His legs were encased in tight cotton hose and worn thigh-high leather boots. Without a shirt or tunic, his powerful thighs were on display. As was the outline of his manhood. Her cheeks flushed.

What would he do if she touched him? Could she be so bold? She moved her hand toward him, anticipating the feel of his skin against hers.

“Amice, I’ve wanted to tell you something.” She froze as he looked at his feet. Swallowed. What was making such a confident, well-spoken man hesitate? “I—”

Robert raced into the room at full speed and ran straight into Nicholas.

“Oof!” Nicholas caught his balance before toppling onto her.

“Oh, here you are,” Robert said. “I didn’t hear you awaken. I went to the stables and Merlin was still there, I went to the hall, the bailey….”

Amice bit back a smile. Robert worried his hero would leave and do something exciting without him. Confusion wrinkled his brow, perhaps because the two of them had been alone in her chamber. But he was too well-mannered to ask questions.

Amice glanced at Nicholas. The mood was broken. What might have happened had Robert not interrupted them? What might either of them have said or done? She yearned to know.

“I tore my shirt and brought it to Lady Amice to repair.” Nicholas ruffled the lad’s hair.

Amice fetched her sewing basket from her coffer. After preparing a length of thread and a needle, she took the shirt from Nicholas and set to work. She tried to focus on the torn fabric, resisting the temptation to look at him instead.

Ginelle poked her head into the room, her red hair tucked demurely into a simple headdress.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide as she took in the scene before her. “Oh,” she repeated, noticing Robert behind Nicholas. “Maia wanted to know how much white bread you wanted her to make today.”

“I’ll speak to her in a few minutes.”

Ginelle nodded and left.

Amice turned to Robert. “Don’t you have lessons with Father Heydon this morning?”

The guilty look on his face answered the question. He dutifully started toward the door. “What are you doing today, Sir Nicholas?”

“If Father Heydon tells me you worked hard on your studies, you may come hunting with me this afternoon.”

Robert’s face brightened and he ran off.

They were alone again. What had he been about to say? She wanted to tell him how she felt, because she might not have another opportunity. But what purpose would it serve? If she knew he felt the same, each glance, each word would be bittersweet. Maybe the knowing would bring them closer together. But again, to what purpose…to be wrenched apart when she was handed to another?

Amice broke the thread. That’s all that held them. A mere thread of interest. No point trying to strengthen it. “Here.”

He examined her handiwork, running a finger over the tiny stitches. She imagined that finger on her arm.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but turned and left.

It was for the best.

Keeping secret her interest in Nicholas went against her nature. Perhaps because she couldn’t discuss the issue, it took on excessive importance. Like the last bolt of silk at a fair. After purchasing several she wanted, somehow the last bolt she didn’t buy and now couldn’t afford seemed all the more desirable. Of course, she could exchange one bolt for another.

She still couldn’t see a way to change her situation. And any day, she could run out of time.

That evening, Amice tried to concentrate on Cyril’s tallies and supply orders as she sat in her solar, but her thoughts kept straying like wayward sheep. When would news arrive? Who would the king…? No. Focus on salted meat. Rye and wheat flour. Peas and beans. Then if—when—she had to go to court, Castle Rising would fare well in her absence. She didn’t want to worry about her home in addition to her future.

She set down her quill and idly rubbed her tight neck. Closing her eyes, she savored a rare moment of privacy. Of quiet. The quiet before the storm.

Her mind wandered. She saw Nicholas seated at her table. Talking, laughing, his smile illuminating his strong features, setting his blue eyes asparkle. She hadn’t wanted him there, not at first, because he was an intruder. Now she wished he’d leave because she admired and was attracted to him. If she had to wed, a man such as he might not be a hindrance, but an asset.

She didn’t want merely a man such as he. She wanted him.

Amice sat up straight. What if she could wed Nicholas? Her people already liked him. She already liked him. More than she should. The way he made her feel….

It wasn’t too soon to consider this plan. She didn’t know how much time she had. And many matches were made without the bride and groom knowing each other well, or at all.

He might not hold a high enough rank, the king might have other plans for him, but it was worth a try. She’d write the king again and amend her request. Shoving the tally book aside, she reached for a piece of parchment, hope filling her heart for the first time since Nicholas revealed his news.

Eagerly, she dipped her quill.

A foul-smelling hand grabbed her mouth, pulling her tight against a bony chest. Nails dug into her cheeks. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t wriggle free.

“I will have you to wife, Sir Nicholas and his men or no.”

Harry.

Her heart battering her ribs, she jabbed the quill into his hand. Ink splattered her eyes. She blinked against the sting.

“Aaaah!” He stumbled back.

She jumped to her feet and headed for the door.

He grabbed her skirts, pulling her off balance. She crashed to the floor. Pain burst through her hip as she fought for breath.

“Help! Hel—!”

Harry scrambled atop her, pressing her down. She couldn’t draw in air.

His uninjured hand slapped over her mouth. “I will have you. You belong—”

Suddenly his weight was yanked from her. She sucked in a huge breath.

Nicholas, fury in his gaze. He punched Harry in the jaw. Harry dropped, making the wood boards shake beneath her. Two of Nicholas’s men dragged him out.

Amice sighed with relief as Nicholas reached for her and helped her to her feet. His hands were warm and reassuring in hers, which were ice-cold. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, keep her safe and—