Juliana Garnett (14 page)

She stopped there, before her mind lured her to more dangerous contemplation.

Below, she heard familiar sounds of the manor: Dena scolding an errant servant, Edwin tending to the repair of a harness, his hammer tap-tapping against the leather. Over all that, the foreign sound of Norman soldiers milling about the courtyard. Much quieter upstairs, where only the gentle swish of a breeze through open window occupied the room.

Time passed. Edwin’s rhythmic tapping was a lulling song; light through the window slanted over bed and walls, pricked her eyelids with an invitation to close.

She yawned, stretched, fought the urge to sleep. Her gaze drifted about the room, ocher washed in light, shadows held at bay. Mail draped over a chest; boots stood in a comer, one fallen over, the other upright. Good leather, scuffed from use. A wide belt, sheathed sword, his chausses.

Bed ropes creaked. He shifted, muttering softly, but did not wake. She turned to look at him again; heartbeat in her ears a sudden, loud song.

The cover had slipped, inched down with his restless movement.
Fine dark hair furred muscle, taut skin, the span of his linen-bound ribs, a silky ribbon that dipped below the edge of sheet.

Jane sat as if frozen, seized by abrupt apprehension. Breathless. Agitated … 
anticipation
.

He moved again, a foot pushing at the linen, and it slid away with a soft rustle. Lower still; fabric folded over an unmistakable bulge.

An invasion, an intrusion of privacy and decency and her own ethics.… She should cover him or look away. Or both. She should—

Another creak of bed ropes and a turn; the cover fell away to pool on the floor. She sat still. Sunlight licked his body in erotic detail; seductive, sensuous, elegant male, potent and breathtaking, beautiful enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Silence spun, stretched, dissipated when she released her breath in a rush of air.

Outside, a dog barked. Voices rose—she recognized her cousin’s imperative tones below in the courtyard, indignant, demanding. An unexpected—and timely—arrival. Dream fragments spinning away, she moved at last to retrieve the sheet.

She lifted it, stood to settle it over him in a snap of white. It floated down gently, a whisper of sound and air, billowing gracefully to drape in capricious mischief on his thighs and not his groin.

What if he wakes?

Her fingers closed on the edge of linen just as he moved; the side of her hand brushed over his member. Instantly, his body reacted with the predictable response: rising, strengthening, potent proof beneath her palm.

She was shocked. Silk-sheathed steel nudged her hand insistently.
So hot
.… A low, fierce groan from him when her fingers closed in convulsive reaction.
Wrong, dangerous, wicked
.…

Uncertain, churning with confusion, a tight, throbbing knot of flame blossomed between her thighs. It spread, devoured her.… He slid into her fist, a luxurious thrust accompanied by a low mutter that was suddenly terrifying.

She snatched her hand away, reached gingerly for the cover,
pulled it up and over him. Slowly, the pounding in her ears abated, the song dying, the fire turning to ash, sanity returning; hands knotted into her skirts.

He slept still, a satyr washed in gold and shadow, a reminder of vanished hopes and tarnished dreams. Slept, while she burned with unholy thoughts.

11
 

His head ached abominably, as if hammers were steadily pounding inside it. His skin itched. Tré sipped ale and eyed his untouched pottage. He hated the thin broth with parsnips, leeks, and turnips. He wanted meat and wine, not an invalid’s fare.

“You are still weak.”

Guy’s reminder was waved away impatiently. “You need not fear I will die soon. I would have to feel much better than I do now, for I am like to starve.”

An insolent grin widened his mouth as Guy pointed out, “You have recovered more swiftly than expected.”

“A week is not swift—”

“Four days. Not a week.”

“Four days is overlong when Gaudet is left in command.” Shifting, Tré swallowed a groan that came with the movement; a sharp knife thrust in his side. It left him breathless, light-headed; he narrowed his eyes against the late-afternoon light streaming through the window opposite his bed. “Take this tray and pull the shutters.”

Guy took the tray from him. Impatience gnawed Tré, as sharp as the pain.

Wood creaked, a dull thud as the shutter thumped against the window frame. Abruptly they were in soft gloom; he managed to shift position. It cost him. Silent, jaw clenched, he watched Guy move about the chamber, shoving furniture against the wall, repositioning a chair.

A glance, a shrug: “When you must rise, you will not need to dodge these chests.”

“So I am considered a feeble cripple now. Enough. We leave on the morrow.”

Guy turned, leaned back against the wall with arms crossed. He shook his head.

“It is not worth it, Tré. I sent Oliver to Nottingham. He will keep Gaudet on a short leash until our return.”

“Oliver is only captain of the guard. He can do nothing should Gaudet foment trouble.”

“He can do more than you, should exertion kill you.” Blunt, the words lay between them for a moment.

Tré’s hand knotted in the linen sheet, crushing it. “A few days more,” he said finally. “Only a few. I weary of lying here listening to nothing.”

Guy shrugged. “At least you do not have to contend with two females. Lady Neville has a sharp tongue, and Lady Dunham is even worse.”

“Dunham—the cousin from Gedling.” A smile formed at Guy’s obvious irritation. “Did the lady come to Ravenshed just to annoy you?”

“I begin to think that true. She takes far too much pleasure in bedeviling me. At least Lady Neville only speaks her mind when pressed.”

“Yes.” He paused, thought of Jane, and nodded. “She does speak her mind at inconvenient times.”

“Most inconvenient. I thought to learn from Lady Dunham what I could not discover from her cousin, but Lady Neville interrupted.”

“What news in that quarter?”

“Nothing more on the outlaws. The giant, Little John, has disappeared entirely. Gone to ground like a fox. Tales are still told of this Robin Hood. Do you think them the truth? These Saxons lie boldly, with not a flicker of an eye.”

“As would we.”

Wryly, Guy grinned. “Yea, as would we. Yet I do not understand. They moan of outlaws’ depredations, then hide the thieves when we go in pursuit.”

“I have been pondering that.” Tré eased one leg up to bend his knee, relieving pressure on a backside sore from lying abed. “It seems there are the outlaws who prey upon Norman and Saxon alike. Then there are outlaws who prey only upon Normans. These last, do the Saxons favor with vaunted tales of courage and nobility.”

Guy grunted in disgust. “They would not prate of courage had they seen the giant flee the Talbots.”

“No.” A pause. “Yet they might if told he laid me low first, then killed two of the dogs before escaping.”

Silence fell. Memory of that night was still sharp despite the potions he had been fed: The giant rising up out of dense shadows, quarterstaff a whoosh of deadly sound before striking true to send him from his horse. The baying of hounds, shouts of his men, and pursuit cut short was more hazy. But the giant—that image burned clear: anger in his light eyes, bearded face bellowing rage and frustration, the force of emotion behind powerful arms.

If he had not ducked, the blow would have killed him.

“I want that man,” he said quietly, and saw in Guy’s face a similar desire. “Little John. I want him taken alive. I want an answer to the tale of Robin Hood. I want,” he added, “to speak with the Lady Neville.”

“It will avail you little. She gives away nothing. If her servants know, they do not tell either.”

“If her uncle is truly this outlaw, it explains much. Yet it does not explain
her
presence in the greenwood.”

Guy pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning. “It is evident the lady is willful.”

“Do you recall the lessons of our boyhood, Guy? How did our masters curb stubborn defiance?”

“With stout rods; but I do not think you mean to do that with this lady.”

“No.” A soft laugh, then: “But I do mean to show her who is stronger.”

“It might be better to
wait
until you are stronger. At this moment, the lady could best you in a wrestling match.”

“I do not propose to wrestle her. Fetch her to me, Guy. There are more methods than strength of arm to gain an end.”

Still dubious, Guy paused in the doorway to glance back at him. “You are not yet fully healed—”

“Fetch her, Guy. She will not attack me.”

“It is not assault that concerns me.” With a wry twist of his mouth that left no doubt as to his meaning, he left, leaving the door open behind him.

Tré leaned back; he contemplated a shaft of hazy light that pierced a chink in the wooden shutters. Dust motes floated in the persistent beam, drifting in lazy layers. His eyes burned, and he closed them.

He must have dozed; when he opened his eyes again, Jane stood beside the bed. Hands were folded calmly in front of her. Her rose cotte was plain, simple and unadorned save for a gold cross that dangled from a thin chain around her waist. A silk wimple fluttered slightly when she moved, a soft pink frame around her face.

“Be seated, milady.”

“Are you certain? It was just this morning that you evicted me from your sight.”

It was the sort of comment he had come to expect from her: audacity swathed in courtesy.

“I grew weary of poppy juice and vile potions,” he said evenly. “You seemed determined to keep me insensible.”

“Indeed I did, my lord. Awake, you seem bent on your own destruction.”

It was the perfect opening. He smiled, saw her eyes widen a bit as he said, “As do you, milady. It is a matter of concern to me that you persist in a course that can only cause you disaster. Be seated.”

A touch of steel in his tone, and she sat, perching on the edge of the chair as if poised to flee, the hare from the fox, alert to danger.

Tré studied her face at leisure; he let the moment draw out and increase her tension. Lovely brow, clear eyes, seductive
mouth … he remembered too well his last visit to Ravenshed, and the overpowering need he had felt for her then.

Her hands twisted in her lap; slender fingers clasped together and drew his attention. He thought of her hand on him, cool, competent, arousing—her touch had lured him from drugged slumber. It was not a dream, though he had thought it was, then. The soft touch of a hand on him, a whisper of air, an instant, aching erection that found no ease in a brief grasp.

Gone too soon, leaving behind an empty chamber and raging need. No, not a dream … this lady of Ravenshed had held him in her hand, an intimate touch that had nothing to do with his injury. He was certain of it.

Eyes half-closed, he stared at her from beneath his lashes until she began to fidget, unclasping her hands and smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt. Her hands clasped again, knuckles white and strained. He waited. She would break the silence first.…

“You summoned me for a reason, my lord?”

No reference to disaster. She avoided it, knowing what he meant.

“Yea, Lady Neville, I did. The outlaw Robin Hood—tell me what you know of him.”

A pause, barely perceptible, a careless shrug; then: “I know what all know. In the days when John was still prince, he was outlawed, then pardoned by King Richard. Ballads were sung, tales were written. Most were exaggerated, some with a bit of truth in them. Robin has disappeared like the tales.”

“Has he.”

It was not a question but a challenge, and she recognized that.

“By all reports, my lord.”

“Yet I believe you know differently. Do you not? Is there not more about this Robin Hood? Is he your kin?”

He left her no room for evasion, only for a direct lie. Lie or truth, she would tell him what he wanted to know.

Silence was a sticky web of indecision; she sat like stone, staring at him, conflict obvious on her eloquent face and in her shadowed eyes.

“Yes. He is my uncle,” she said finally. “
Was
my uncle. He is dead now. Gone for near fourteen years.”

“Gone? Or dead? Different things, milady.”

“Dead!” Suddenly fierce, her hands tightened into fists in her lap. “Gone on Crusade to honor King Richard but never returned—sliced to ribbons in a pagan country, all to—”

She halted. Her lips pressed tightly together. He let the silence claim her again, a calming absence of response or demand. When color replaced her pallor, she released a soft breath. A sigh that was oddly poignant.

“It is painful … to suffer the loss of someone dear. It is common, I know; yet, on occasion, the loss is—particularly difficult.”

Words stuck in his throat. No smooth reply meant to lure her to the truth would form; nothing could be summoned to ease the moment, her pain, or his own sudden stark memories.

Aimée
.…

Softness and light … gone. Lost to him forever. An emptiness nothing could fill.