Heart of a Knight (33 page)

Mary cast an apprehensive look toward Lyssa, but Thomas ignored it in his buoyant good humor. "Tomorrow we make London, is that it?"

"Aye." Lyssa barely looked at him, though he sat right next to her.

He reached below the table and took her hand. She pulled it away with a warning glance toward the others in the room.

For the first time, true doubt wove through him. "I'd like a word with ye, lady, if you might spare me a moment."

Alice shook her head in warning, but Thomas stood arrogantly. "Come, my lady," he said with more bite than he'd intended. "Do you not wish to stretch your back, and take a little of the good country air?"

She lifted her face, and Thomas saw it was still drawn and pale, her eyes too big against the hollows above her cheekbones. But she got to her feet. "I'd not mind a little stretch."

It was near dark as they stepped out to the clearing before the inn. Tall trees rose up against a midnight blue sky, their leaves making intricate patterns against the light. Thomas breathed the air deeply, thinking there was a new taste to this place, something sweetly fragrant he could not name. "'Tis a lovely spot," he commented, gesturing. "But I'll warrant those woods are bursting with thieves. We'll only walk a little."

"Thomas," Lyssa said abruptly, "I am going to marry Lord Harry."

He stared at her, pleasure draining from him. She lowered her head and plucked at her skirts. When the silence stretched, she finally looked at him. He saw his own despair reflected in her eyes, but it did not blunt the bitterness that rose in his throat. "To spare my life, oh noble lady?"

"Please," she whispered.

"Or did you find you could not stomach the thought of a base-born knave in your bed after all?"

"I do it to spare your life."

He lifted the tankard and drank thirstily, trying to soothe the stinging burn of his shattered hopes. "Twas a cruel way you've gone about it, offering hope with one hand, only to snatch it away with the other." He did not look at her.

"I know," she said, and he tried not to hear the pain in her words. "I should have thought long on the matter, before revealing my wishes to you." She lifted her chin. "But if I'd told you again the morning when we left Woodell, you would not have come with us to London, and I do intend to present you to my cousin for his blessing, so you might find that knight's life you've been training for."

Anger and humiliation spread through him, sticky and black as tar. With a furious gesture, he flung the contents of his tankard on the ground, and stepped close to her. "I'd thought you made of sterner stuff, Lady Elizabeth. But you're as weak as any of your kind."

"I did not intend to wound you, Thomas."

"Fine way ye have of showin' it." He heard his carefully practiced accent bleeding away, and did not care. "Did ye not think I'd mind you takin' my babe away to another? Do ye think I won't be burnin' with a murderous heart on your wedding night?"

"My lady," came a deep, gravelly voice. "Is all well?"

Thomas whirled to see Margrave, the blackmailed messenger who'd brought the news from the king. "We're fine, sir," Thomas said dismis-sively. "Leave us in private."

The man ignored him, hand on his sword. "My lady?"

Enraged, Thomas pushed Lyssa behind him and drew his own sword. "Did you no' hear me?"

Warily, the man measured Thomas, and Thomas, with a giddy sense of triumph, saw that Margrave had been aching for such a moment. Though smaller and less muscular than Thomas, he was wiry, and no doubt far more skilled with a sword.

With a tight smile, Margrave drew his own sword. "Dark Thomas they call you," he said. "And many a tale do they tell. Are you so unlucky at love that you must take what should be willingly given?"

Lyssa rushed between them. "Put your weapons down!" she cried. "There is naught here that cannot be salved with cool heads."

"Out of my way, Lyssa," Thomas said, his eyes glued to his opponent. A heat, like the thrill of a hunt, rose in him, tangled now with darker emotions roused by Lyssa's betrayal. A sense of power, of knowing, moved through his sword arm and he felt the weapon balanced and deadly in his hand, felt his body tense and ease all at once. For months now, he'd ached to test his skill in true battle, rather than in a safe sunny field tilting at a boy or a hay-stuffed effigy. Bloodlust filled him, and he felt as feral as a hound.

And in the face of the black knight, Thomas saw the same swift challenge, the same thirsty pleasure. His eyes on Thomas, Margrave said, "My lady, his name has been on Kivelsworthy's lips for a fortnight, and I'd welcome the pleasure of gutting him for your daughter's honor."

"This is madness!" Lyssa cried. "You!" She pointed at Margrave. "Kivelsworthy is mad for Isobel and misread what happened. Do you think I'd let him stay in my walls with the stain of rape against him?"

She pointed the other hand at Thomas and glared at him. "And you—you do vent yourself wrongly, knight. If you've a wish to run someone through, at least do not punish one who has no crime against him."

She looked like a pagan queen, standing in the dusk with her arms outstretched and the fire of righteousness in her brilliant green eyes. With a long, promising look at Margrave, Thomas sheathed his sword, and at his capitulation, Margrave did the same.

But their eyes met, and spoke.
Another day
.

"May I see you safely within, my lady?" Margrave said with a slight bow.

"When I think it fit to retire, I'll see myself within," she said. "Meantime, I have business with Lord Thomas, if you would be so kind."

With a mocking smile, he said, "Of course."

Thomas choked on the civility of the pair of them, and with a curse, flung the cup on the ground. When Margrave was safely out of earshot, Thomas said, "Waste no more of your breath on me, my lady, for well do I see the way the wind now blows."

Lyssa reached for him, imploring, but he stepped out of reach. "I do thank you for the chance to be crowned a good and proper knight, but if it be the same to you, I'll be taking my chances alone from here." Alone as he'd ever been.

She stood straight and tall in the gathering night. "'Tis only foolish pride speaking, Thomas."

"There are times pride is all we have."

"Then go with God, my love."

He whirled, and took her by the arms. "Do not call me by endearments again!"

"Ah, then are we back to lout and pig?"

The words near startled a chuckle from him.

With a sense of cool clarity, he really saw her, in this very moment. Her face, tilted up to his, was tired and pale, and Thomas ached to smooth away the burdens laid upon her. He ached to bend and kiss her sweet lips, and breathe heat into her limbs. Instead, he simply slid his hands down her arms and took her hands into his, and lifted them to his lips. "Ever am I your servant, my lady. You need but speak my name, and I will be there."

Tears filled her eyes, and she said, brokenly, "Thomas—"

But dangerous emotion welled in him and he hastily turned away, making his way to the stables, for he would away tonight, or never leave her side.

And he had to leave her, else he'd be humbled evermore. He saw a vision of himself, crawling into her chamber whilst her husband battled in some far-flung war, saw himself watching their children call another man father, and knew he would rather die than see the respect drain slowly from her eyes. Nay, he'd leave her now, even if he mourned her the rest of his days.

Before he could change his mind, he went to the stables and saddled his horse and set out in the darkness for London with naught but his horse, his sword and mail, and a warm cloak. After an hour, he realized he ought to have brought bread with him, at least, for he had not even a penny to his name.

Even so, he did not turn back. What he had was more than he'd been born with, and he'd kept his belly full enough in the past. 'Twould not hurt him to be hungry again.

 19

Lyssa did not sleep well
, particularly after Mary and Alice, hearing what she'd done, turned cold backs to her and slept on the floor on palettes they laid upon the clean, sweet-smelling rushes.

She had hoped Thomas would rethink his rash departure, but there was no sign of him as they all gathered on the next morn in preparation for their departure. She wondered what meaning the soldiers would put on it when Margrave told them Thomas had left over a quarrel with the lady in the yard.

She had no doubt he'd told them. When she mounted, trying to keep her expression blank to hide the despair welling in her, she caught the black knight's eye, and was chilled to her soul over the glitter in the cold pale depths. Likely he'd guessed they were lovers, but Lyssa could not find it in her to care. She was a widow these four long years, and none would fault her for taking a willing man to her bed.

The morning was bright and crisp, with the first taste of autumn in the apple-scented air. It gave her a sharp sense of mourning, this evidence that the summer would soon be gone. The long golden summer she had spent with Thomas.

For days she had known that she would lose him, that the fleeting sweetness of their time had drawn to an end, but she'd thought he'd somehow be part of her days, that she might glimpse him now and again, or hear word of him. Not this sudden, abrupt departure that left a wide, gaping wound in her breast.

His absence made the whole world seem more silent. Even on these past days as they traveled, she had been aware of him, riding with Robert or one of the guards, or chatting amiably with Mary. Lyssa could glance up and see his dark head shining, or catch the notes of his robust laughter floating on the breeze, or simply reach out with something inside of her and touch that essence of him, knowing he felt when she did it.

It had been the comfort of his nearness, while she resisted her need to touch him.
be
with him, that had persuaded her that she could live with the decision to wed Lord Harry. As long as he was somewhere close by, she could bear it.

Now she reached with that heart of her and felt nothing. Nothing. He was gone.

And though Lyssa had braced herself, she did not know if she could bear his absence. No more to breathe his scent, or touch his skin, or share some gossipy tidbit that would make him laugh. No more to be startled in her solar with his bold smile and the bolder way he took her.