Lady Gallant (12 page)

He pressed her backward so that her only support was his arm, then slowly lowered her until she was lying on the bench. She tried to slip her arms between their bodies, but he quickly pressed his chest to hers and covered her mouth. Sliding a hand up her rib cage, he sought and found the soft hill of her breast. She started at the touch. He was sucking at her mouth when something tugged sharply at his hair. His head snapped back.

"Ouch!" He blinked and tried to rouse himself from the warm heaviness that had invaded his body.

She released his hair and clasped his face in both hands. "You don't like me."

"What?"

"You think me a coward, my lord."

Bracing himself on his elbows, he captured her hands. "This is no time to acquire courage and fight me, sweeting. Be a coward." Holding on to her wrists, he again fastened his mouth on hers while pressing his body against hers.

He was shifting so his thigh could force its way between her legs when he heard a sob. Arousal vanished. Lifting his head, he beheld her tightly shut eyes and the single tear that slid down her temple. He released her at once, lifting his body from hers and drawing her upright.

Nora hugged herself and bit her lower lip. Christian winced, then brushed a lock of hair back from his brow and cursed. Often it suited his purposes to frighten, but never before had he felt the monster he did now upon seeing Nora tremble in fear of him. He'd spent days of frustration, a wolf cheated of its prey, only to find that his taste for blood had vanished at the moment of the kill. He touched her cheek, and she cringed. Slipping to the ground in front of her, he knelt on both knees and extended his hand to her.

"G-go away." She wiped tears from her face with the palms of her hands.

"I beg you to forgive me, sweeting. I thought even you would have been touched by at least one man before now."

Fidgeting on the bench, she sniffled and straightened her skirts. "Go away."

"No."

He thought she would run. She didn't, and he frowned at her. She scooted away from him, and her dress caught on the basket. She scooted back, lifted her skirt to cover the basket again, and faced him, her teeth tearing at her lower lip.

He put his fingertips against the abused flesh. "Don't. You're hurting yourself, and I can't bear that any more than I could hurt you myself. What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything. Please, go away."

"You must have done something, or I wouldn't have Stopped." He rubbed his chin and muttered to himself in awe. "I stopped." He shook his head. "I must need a physick. Perhaps ill humors have built up in my body."

"It is I," Nora whispered. "I am ill. I tingle and—and I'm not comfortable."

He caught his breath, then laughed so hard that Nora jumped again. She recovered and stared at him while he sank down on his haunches and guffawed. When he could speak, he looked up at her again.

"My innocent, my sweet lackwit."

"I told you that you didn't like me."

He shook his head, smiling. "You don't like what you feel when I touch you?"

"No. It's not comfortable."

"What you feel isn't discomfort. It is pleasure."

"Fah."

"It is. Look." He slowly reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. "What do you feel?"

"Warm."

"Where?" he asked.

"Where you touch me."

"And?"

She flushed and shut her mouth tightly.

"Here?" He put his other hand on her thigh, and she began to squirm again. Before she could move, he slid his hand up to her pelvis. His fingers pressed into the flesh of her stomach near the join of her thighs. His voice was rough as he said, "Here as well, I wager."

She slapped his hand.

"God's teeth, woman!" Christian sucked the back of his fingers to take away the sting. A pity nothing would ease the pain between his legs.

"You choose the most inconvenient times to put aside your timidity."

Nora leaped to her feet. Crossing her arms over her chest, she scowled at him. "I am expected in the presence chamber anon, my lord."

"Witch."

"Go away."

"I've not finished with you." He stood and took a step toward her, but halted at the sound of the garden door swinging open.

Glancing over his shoulder, Christian saw a gardener enter carrying buckets of compost. Turning back to Nora, he spoke low enough so that only she could hear.

"Be warned, sweeting. I'm not used to playing the supplicant. I grew up thieving, and I know how to steal what I want. Hide from me all you wish. It will do no good."

Returning to the present with a grunt of disgust, Christian again jabbed the knife into the capon. The blade sliced through meat and hit the metal tray with a
clink
.

"I do believe the maid's never been kissed," he said to himself. "Well past a marriageable fourteen and she feels 'uncomfortable.' "

"My lord?"

He glanced up at a serving man who carried a loaf of bread. The man placed the bread on the tray and gawked at the impaled capon. Scowling at the confused servant, Christian grabbed the tray, then stomped from the kitchens.

A guard let him into the tower room. Blade was lying on his bed, one leg propped on a knee, staring up at the canopy. A pile of unopened books took up most of the surface of the table near the bed. Christian shoved some of them aside to make room for the tray.

"Where is the Latin I gave you last night?" he asked.

"You know I can't read it," Blade said.

Christian picked up a book, rifled through its pages, and read, " '
Disce bonas artes, moneo, Romana inventus, Non tantum trepidos ut tueare reos; Quart populus iudexque gravis lectusque senatus, Tarn dabit elequoiu victa puella manus. '
Translate."

"Stow you!"

"You'd rather tend pigs?"

Blade thrust his slim body. Crouching on all fours, he snarled at his captor. "I can't read Latin. I never could. Never."

"Your accent gives you the lie." Christian glanced down at the passage and translated it himself. " 'Learn noble arts, I counsel you, young men of Rome, not only that you may defend trembling clients; a woman, no less than populace, grave judge or chosen senate, will surrender, defeated, to eloquence.'
The Art of Love
, Ovid."

"You're trying to make me into a gentry cove. I'm a cozener, a lockpick, a cutpurse and dagger, not some lost nobleman's spawn."

Christian picked up the knife from the tray, stabbed a chunk of the half-butchered capon, and held it out to Blade. The boy eyed the offering and Christian with distrust, then snatched the meat.

"Why do you think I bundled you from tradesman to artisan for over a fortnight?" Christian asked.

Blade swallowed the meat and shrugged. "To drive me mad."

"When I set you to work for my father's steward, he said you couldn't carve a peacock, you know nothing of polishing plate, and that you can't even fold linen."

"The steward is a fat ass."

"I arranged to have you serve a tanner, a smithy, and a pigkeeper. None of these trades could you master."

"I told you, I'm a dagger."

"You're a fool."

Christian opened the chamber door and snapped out an order to the guard. The man produced two swords, and Christian faced Blade. Hurling one of the swords at his captive, he saluted with his own weapon.

"Listen closely or you'll be worms' meat.
Pasado
." After saying the word, Christian brought his sword down and thrust forward, aiming at Blade's chest. Even as he moved, Blade's steel flew up into position to parry.

"
Punto reverso, "
Blade said. Leaping back, he executed a backhanded stroke that hit Christian's sword, and the two weapons slid together until they locked at the hilt.

The two faced each other over the cross formed by their swords.

Christian smiled. "You move like a student of a first fencing house, my cutpurse. And answer to the
pasado
in the Italian manner."

A furrow appeared in Blade's brow. Gazing at the crossed swords, he muttered, "Midnight said he taught me."

"Midnight speaks no foreign tongue. He's a franklin, Blade, tossed off his land by some greedy noble who enclosed his estates for profit. Why do you think he hates the highborn? His wife and two sons died of exposure when their lord cast them out. Midnight speaks no foreign tongue."

"But I—"

"Answer to Italian while fencing, as one taught by a master." Christian stepped back, withdrawing his sword.

Letting his own weapon fall, Blade stared at Christian, his thoughts obviously distant.

Christian raised his voice to break into the boy's reverie. "
Honi soit qui mal y pense."

"Shamed be he who thinks evil of it," Blade replied without hesitation. " Oh."

His sword swinging in his left hand, Christian sauntered over to him and whispered in his prisoner's ear. "Yes, think upon it, my surprised one. How is it that you can translate the motto of the Order of the Garter?" He watched the color ebb from Blade's smooth cheeks and quickly slipped a hand under his arm. "Sit you down before you fall. And let this be your lesson—
fronti nulla fides
."

Blade sank down onto the bed. "No reliance can be placed on appearance." He put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. "Stop, please."

"You can't ignore Jack Midnight's duplicity."

"Christian."

It was the earl. Christian straightened from his looming stance over Blade and turned to face his father.

"What have you done?" Sebastian asked. He stepped between his son and Blade. "The lad's pale as a whitefish and shakes as if he has an ague."

Christian bent and picked up the sword he'd cast aside. "He's quaking because he's found out Jack Midnight isn't a bloody saint."

Sebastian eased Blade into a reclining position. "Fear not, boy. Christian has a banquet to host and Nora Becket to seduce. He won't have time to put you to the rack further today."

"Oh, there's time aplenty," Christian said.

The earl sighed and left the room, shoving Christian before him. Christian stumbled out onto the landing that led to the tower stairs, then caught himself and whirled around. His arms crossed over his chest.

"You will leave that boy alone tonight. It is my wish."

"He needs—"

"Peace. The lad needs peace. I ought to know. I've reformed young knaves before."

Christian ground his teeth together. "Yes, sire."

"And speaking of knaves," Sebastian said as he walked his son down the stairs, "our three guests haven't made their departure."

Halting on a stone step, Christian gaped at his father. "What happened?"

"Bloody Bonner is watching the port. The ship's captain took fright and sailed without them, and I must arrange passage all over again."

"God's arse. We're entertaining Bloody Bonner and his minions tonight, and those three heretical weasels are still under our roof."

"I'll put them in the cellar," Sebastian said.

"And I'll find a lock even Blade couldn't pick."

"There are new guests." Sebastian stepped down so that he shared a stair with Christian. "I saw Becket at Unthank's and invited him. And Flegge."

"Sire, what jocund wit you have. I do believe you seek to discomfort me."

"Not at all, my son. If the truth be sought, I think Nora Becket an unsound choice for a wife for any man. Too quiet, too plain, and she fidgets and dithers when faced with travail of any kind. If I thought you entertained yearnings for her other than physical ones, I would forbid you to seek her out."

Christian nodded, his wits unraveling like the threads of an old tapestry. "Too quiet and plain. Fidgets, yes, she fidgets."

"And dithers."

"Dithers, yes. An unsound choice." Christian took another step down. "Mark you, sire, I wasn't thinking of Nora Becket for a wife."

"Then we agree."

"Of course," Christian said in a faint voice. He shook his head and managed a chuckle. "Besides, what man wants a woman who prattles that he makes her uncomfortable?"