Juliana Garnett (15 page)

It was residue of the drug that made him vulnerable enough to recall the past, left him exposed to scouring pain. He sucked in a sharp breath; it raked his wound, welcome and familiar, drowning the other pain, which had no ease.

When he could speak, the memories were banished back to the netherworld where he kept them safe and untarnished.

“Yea, milady, we have all had losses.”

Neutral, calm, as if from a distance he heard his voice; safety lay in detachment.

Her lashes flickered, a swift glance at him; if not for the tight quiver of her hands, he would have thought her emotion false.

“So we have, my lord.”

“If Robin Hood is dead, and the tales with him, where then lies Little John? Will Scarlett? Alan of the Dales and Clym of the Clough? Their fame spreads of late.”

She did not reply; her silence was answer enough.

He nodded. “As I thought. Perhaps your uncle is dead, but not his companions-in-arms.” A lengthy pause while she digested
the challenge, then: “Sir Guy came upon a longbow in your hall, milady. Five feet of Spanish yew.”

Her eyes lifted to his, steady, calm. “Is it so rare to find a longbow in a Norman knight’s home, my lord? Search further, and you will discover pikes, swords, maces—”

“
Five feet
of Spanish yew, my lady. Not six feet. A bow for someone your height. I remember Hugh de Neville. He was a tall man, a man who would draw a six-foot bow. This bow is light, with a sixty-weight draw to it.”

Calmly: “It is not Hugh’s. Even Normans must know that bows are made to fit growing youths.”

“Yet I see no sons about.”

Color drained abruptly from her face. “No, my lord, you do not.”

Her tone had changed subtly; she answered his questions without lying, yet told him little. He already knew the few facts she admitted to—not even the veiled threat that he had proof of complicity was enough to shake her.

Dignified, composed, she allowed him scant hope of forcing from her the names and locations of the men who had been with her in the wood. Still … they would come here to her. Little John had come to her that once; they had tracked him here, though the dogs had lost his scent. He would come again, should he perceive the necessity. Yet, to use this woman in such a manner would be profane.

His head ached. His eyes were scratchy; his skin felt hot beneath the light cover. There had to be another way. It would never be enough to capture the outlaws who preyed on both Saxon and Norman; he wanted those who purposely flaunted Norman authority. Flaunted
his
authority. King John would hardly be impressed with a sheriff who could not capture outlaws even when their names and faces were well known.

The king
.…

Cursed spawn of hell: temperate in nothing, inflexible in all. Ruler of England, tyrant of men, confiscator of lands … of Brayeton.

Brayeton:
sloping hills, fertile marshlands.… His eyes
closed, blotted out the chamber, the filtered light, and the lady; hid the mounting frustration that could betray him. A
baron, and I am reduced to holding public office, reduced to the king’s bidding like a hound.
It was galling.

For a moment he floated, without direction save resentment. He was aware of the lady sitting beside the bed; her breath was soft, her silence loud.

Oddly, he understood.

This silence was different from the last, a subdued moment without tension or pain. A wave of dizziness crept closer, inexorable, remnants of potion reclaiming him. He resisted the stealing of his senses;
Not while she is here
.…

His eyes opened. He groped for words to dismiss her before he unmanned himself, but lost his tenuous grasp of anything that made sense. His vision blurred; her face smeared to a pale oval, shimmering. Abruptly, it faded. From a distance, he heard her voice floating through the mist:

“My lord sheriff … are you unwell?”

No … yes … I am sick to the soul and there is no cure for it.

Her face swam into his field of vision again; brows knitted in a slight frown, wet lips parted. A heady fragrance teased him, seemed to fill the world—mint. Sweet, piquant mint. It surrounded him, imbued him with a mystifying feeling of serenity.

His arm lifted slowly, the movement weighted, as if under water; he caught her chin in his palm. Pale skin, flawless as new snow, his hand a dark intrusion against such purity. He had a brief impression of wide eyes that mirrored light from the window; he pulled her close, then covered her mouth with his. She breathed a soft exhalation of surprise. He swallowed it and deepened the kiss. She tasted of mint, of enticement. He wanted her with a ferocity that was startling in its intensity. He must be delirious, drugged, deranged.

Yet, in his delirium, incited by poppies and raw need, he could lose sight of everything but this woman. It would be so easy … too easy.

He put his tongue into her mouth; a shudder went through her, a muffled moan. The tiny sound sparked heat in him, a searing fire surging through his body. Months of denial evaporated
like morning mist; he was hard, ready for her, ready to ease himself in her velvet warmth, an act that would save them both, if only for a little while.

Then she wrenched away, the sudden loss leaving him bereft and throbbing. He sucked in a deep breath, sanity returning with air for his starved lungs; his vision cleared, blood beat more slowly, his body eased.

His lashes lowered, blinked away shreds of fog still clouding his mind, and the dizziness passed. Jane stared at him. Eyes, blue shadowed, unblinking, regarded him steadily. Suddenly, he felt a fool, compelled to belittle his lack of control.

“A moment’s dalliance. I meant nothing by it.”

“Did you not?” A pause, rife with scorn, though her voice shook a little. “I am grieved to hear it, my lord. I thought you a better man than to yield to baseless impulses like a common cur.”

Anger, chagrin, summoned a wave of heat that burned his face and throat. He stared at her, eyes slightly narrowed; it was not undeserved.

“You have a wicked tongue, milady.”

“So I have been told. May I take my leave now?”

He was suddenly drained of energy to continue the conversation, or even to remain awake.

“Take your leave. And take with you my vow that I will find and arrest the outlaws. Whether Robin Hood or Little John, I will destroy them.”

“You chase empty shadows, my lord. Robin Hood died on Crusade. Only legends remain alive.”

“Then I will destroy those as well.”

Cold, calm, the promise neither silenced nor intimidated her. Her brow lifted, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“You will never destroy the legends. It is all that is left to England now—pride in our champions. That is what you Normans do not understand, will not understand.” She turned toward the door, then paused to look back at him. “I pity you for your empty soul.”

The door closed softly behind her. He stared at the blank expanse of English oak. The silence was bleak. The echo of her words revolved in his head with mocking accuracy. How had
she known? What had betrayed him? What chance word or deed had exposed his secret?

It was true—his soul was empty. Had been empty for a long time. An abyss, a dark place; it yawned before him if he looked, but he knew better than to look. The desolation was too much to bear.

I pity you for your empty soul
.…

He was lost, lost, drowning in misery and emptiness; he did not know how to save himself—did not know if he wanted to save himself. Nothing eased the pain he carried like an open, raw wound; how ironic, that the wounds of the body were so much easier to heal than the wounds of the soul.…

12
 

Guy saw Lissa of Gedling in the small garden off the side of the manor house; she was perched on a stone bench with a lute cradled in her lap. Long fingers plucked the strings with a quill plectrum to produce a light melody that was unfamiliar. Her head was bent; a wimple of green silk draped in folds around her face, shrouded mystery as he approached.

“A lovely tune, milady.”

Her head tilted, a smile curved her lips. “Do you like it, sir?”

“Charming. I do not think I have heard it before.”

She laughed, a light trill of sound. “No, I expect you have not. It would not be a song Normans would appreciate, I think.”

Amused, he thought,
A song of victory in battle.
“Will you sing it for me? I enjoy all music.”

“If you like.” She paused; her fingers glided over the strings gracefully, a ripple of music, then a swift glance. Amber eyes gleamed like gold coins. “It sounds better in English, so you will pardon me.”

Guy shrugged. Though he used it little, he understood the language well. English was a crude tongue compared to
Norman French. His long legs bent to deposit him on tufted grass at her feet. His gaze drifted; eyes drawn to the luscious expanse of white skin visible above the square-cut neckline of her bliaut, riveted on the suggestion of shadow between her breasts that lured his attention more than the song. For a brief moment he was immersed in the luxury of envisioning what he could not see. A delightful interlude on a pleasurable day, a recess from the tedium of inactivity.

Lost in pleasant reverie, it took a few moments for the words of the song to seep through his sensuous haze. His head jerked up as she sang:

“… When Robin came to fountaines abbey whereas that fryer lay, he was ware of the fryer where he stood, and to him thus can he say … ‘I am a wet weary man,’ said Robin Hood, ‘good fellow, as thou may see, wilt beare me over this wild water, for sweete Saint Charity?’ ”

Guy put up a hand to stop her. “Milady, ’tis not wise for you to sing so provocative a song in this company.”

Her hand stilled on the lute; her brow rose. “It is not usual for Normans to speak English. Most disdain it as a crude tongue.”

“As do I.” His jaw hardened at the scorn inherent in her tone. “While most of the men with me do not understand the language, the sheriff does. It would not be to your advantage to be heard singing such a melody.”

He thought she would be intimidated; he misjudged her. She only laughed softly. “Perhaps your sheriff needs to broaden his knowledge. Shall I go and sing it to him so he will learn the nature of the men he pursues?”

“Only at grave risk, milady.” He sat back on his heels, staring at her in appalled fascination. “Do not make the mistake of thinking your sex will save you, for he does not discriminate—”

“La, I have rarely seen the man who discriminates when it comes to sex, sir.”

“You will find,” Guy said carefully, “that Tré Devaux is not like most men.”

“So I have seen for myself.” One hand stroked up and down the slender neck of the lute, a suggestive motion that took him
aback. A faint smile curled her mouth, then Lissa leaned forward, her voice soft: “He is a most well-favored man—but so are you, Sir Knight.”

The forward movement made the neck of her bliaut gap; creamy skin, soft globes of ivory flesh, sweet temptation visible beneath the bodice. A flirt of pink nipples, just a glimpse, before she straightened. Immediately, his body reacted; any reply snared on his tongue.

“Thou art quiet, Sir Knight,” she murmured in English. Her eyelids lowered, lashes fanning her cheeks, bold, an invitation and a suggestion. “Do I offend thee?”

The tip of her tongue swept out to wet her lips, an intoxicating swipe that made him think of things he knew he should not.

Desire surged, hot and strong, rendering him incapable of getting to his feet lest his erection be noticed. His knees pressed into the grass, weight balanced on the balls of his feet—it would be so easy to reach for her, pull her to him. A haycock or shadowed corner; it would not matter, save she was a lady, wed to a Saxon baron. If he touched her, his life may well be forfeit.

Still, he wanted to cover that wet gleaming mouth with his own, cup her round breasts in his hands and taste them until she yielded all.… He wanted to push her skirts up and put himself inside her.

Lissa rose to her feet; the lute dangled from one hand as she smiled down at him.

“As my music distresses thee, I will cease. Wouldst thou accompany me to the house, Sir Knight?”

Temptation … indecision; he hesitated. Dimples flashed in both cheeks, winsome and more innocent than the lady. She leaned toward him. Loose material afforded an ample view of generous breasts, rose-pink and cream. A whisper in French: “I will tell no one of our … conversation.”

The implications were obvious. He lurched to his feet, angry that she would so tease him.

“There is nothing to tell, milady.”

“Is there not?” A sideways glance, a smile. “Perhaps you are
right.” She straightened, half-turned, cast a long glance over one shoulder. “There is still time to change that, Sir Knight.”

Guy did not move; he stared after her as she crossed the courtyard and took a path by the garden. Tense, taut with need, he watched her slow progress: slender hips, pale head touched by sunlight, green wool kirtle the color of new leaves—unrestrained desire. Uncomplicated by emotion or the need for reassurance; with Lissa of Gedling, there would be no need for pretty words or false declarations. She was everything the priests warned against.