Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

Gray nearly strangled the chair arms as he pretended to stare at the minstrel. Of the three men who betrayed him to his overlord, Richard Welles had been his friend—and the one who captured him and took him to sea. During his enslavement, he’d staved off despair by conjuring up Welles’s image, especially his traitorous face, when his captors beat him, played games with him, laughed at him.

It was a pretty face but a few years older than Gray; in youth it must have been more suited to one of those expensive boy slaves Saladin kept. Now an old scar earned in a tournament bisected one of his black brows, and beneath those brows gleamed chestnut-colored eyes as large as plums. Richard had one of those long, straight noses bequeathed by the Normans. He also had the Welles ebony hair and his uncle’s bearlike girth that contrasted with the almost feminine beauty of his face. To his muscled bulk he added a great height that rivaled Gray’s.

The image of this black-haired devil’s spawn had helped Gray endure, and he still couldn’t quite believe he’d survived long enough to confront the original. When he’d first known the humiliation of slavery, he had
decided to kill Welles, but years of warfare had cured him of blood lust. Now he was going to use all the circuitous craftiness Saladin had taught him to prick and goad Richard until the bastard finally lost his temper and issued a challenge.

Then, before hundreds of onlookers, he was going to calmly and happily beat the man whose betrayal had made him a slave. Once he had Richard’s heart beneath the tip of his sword, he would demand a ransom of his captive that would beggar him forever. Welles would lose his honor and his nobility in one stroke, a fitting recompense. Ah, life was good at last.

It would be even better if he could have found that disrespectful black-haired maid. He’d sent men in search of her to no avail. Of all his experiences since returning to England, one of the more disconcerting had been to find himself unable to forget mud-soaked softness and damascened eyes. Only confronting Richard for the first time had swept the memory from his mind—briefly. Gray shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had to put aside the recollection or he would lose governance of his body as he had while bathing away mud in the stream this morning and several times since.

The minstrel had finished, and jugglers had taken his place. The performers were dressed in tunics of bright yellow and red trimmed with bells. One of them deliberately dropped the leather balls he was tossing on top of his partner’s head, one by one. To his right, his cousin Arthur Strange laughed at the antics. It was good to see Arthur laugh, for of late his quarrels with his malevolent brother had wiped merriment from his face. Used to the far more sophisticated and lurid entertainments of Saladin’s court, Gray only smiled out of a desire to appear polite. His gaze wandered away from the jugglers’ simple tricks.

He was looking for the girl Yolande, to whom he’d been introduced briefly before they ate. She was delectably small, barely sixteen, pale and blond like a princess in a troubadour’s song. The encounter had taken him aback.

“Oh, my lord,” she had said, clasping her hands in front of her chin. “How exciting it must be to sail the seas and visit the Holy Land.”

Stunned that she would consider being abducted and enslaved exciting, he’d stared at her for a moment, but she gawped at him like an enraptured heifer.

“I, er, I wasn’t in the Holy Land, Mistress de Say. I was in Egypt.”

All he got was a blank look.

“Oh,” she said.

He had considered telling her where Egypt was, but her attention wandered, and he had been spared.

The jugglers were still performing. He glanced at Hugo’s daughters, the voluptuous Laudine and the madonnalike Bertrade. There was another, older sister who had yet to appear. From what he’d heard, she liked learning a man’s skills with weapons more than dancing. Arthur had heard rumors that she’d learned swordplay along with her father’s squires. The Welles heir, Tybalt, and his younger brother, Fulk, were in France attending to fiefs held by the king of France.

Gray stiffened. Someone moved out of the shadow of an arch behind the dais. He saw the figure, but no one else did, so intent was the crowd on the performance of the jugglers. The dark shadow crossed behind the group on the dais. It moved into a pool of light cast by the fire, and Gray caught a glimpse of curves draped in the finest samite. The color of the sky just before total darkness—royal-blue sapphire—shimmered as the figure glided out of the light. Just before the woman joined the group
comprising Yolande and the Welles sisters, he saw a fluted, stiffened cap, barbette, and silver caul.

Cloth of silver and sapphire, clinging samite surrounding a face not quite visible in the darkness. Intriguing. Could this be the missing sister? He hadn’t given her much thought, but that one glimpse had startled him. What was her name? He’d forgotten, but any unmarried girl who held herself back from tournament festivities, appeared only late after a feast, and kept to the shadows, this was an exceptional maid, indeed.

“Arthur,” he whispered. His cousin was laughing at the tumbling jugglers again. “Arthur!”

“Yes, cousin.”

“That girl in dark blue beside Yolande de Say, who is she?”

Arthur glanced at the girl in the shadows. “I think that’s Hugo’s eldest, Juliana. Oh, yes, hmmm.”

“What does that ‘hmmm’ mean? Come now. I know your appetite for gossip. What do you know?”

“Little,” Arthur said, but he leaned nearer Gray and gave him a salacious look. “It’s said she never recovered from being spurned by my brother. Indeed, Edmund said she vowed to kill him, and I’ve heard other tales of her foul temper and unruly manner. Welles can’t rid himself of her, so he’s resorted to allowing her to take minor vows and retire to some ruined fief she got off the Countess of Chessmore. She’s reputed to be good with herbs and healing—”

Gray rose suddenly as the juggling ended. “Enough, cousin. She sounds far more unpalatable than her garb would betoken. Come. The dancing is about to begin.”

With Eastern guile, he allowed his hostess to direct him to a group of dancers that included Laudine and Bertrade, but not Yolande. The heiress had already been whisked away to be linked with Richard. The musicians
struck up on lute, harp, horn, and drum. Gray bowed to Laudine on his right and Bertrade on his left, then linked arms with both as they all formed a chain. Arthur was the leader, and he began to sway from side to side as the pattern dance commenced.

Gray followed Arthur’s intricate steps easily, but soon found himself the object of Laudine’s frankly interested gaze. Seldom had he encountered so open a look of sexual appraisal in a maid. Generous of figure, with dark gold hair like her mother, she gave him such a knowing look that he almost blushed. He looked away, only to encounter Bertrade’s stare. The girl quickly lowered her lashes, and he was struck again by her resemblance to paintings of the Madonna. She looked up at him again. He blinked into the cool blue gaze of a beautiful saint and somehow realized that the look was meant to challenge a man to break through the façade of saintliness to the passion beneath.

“Just God.” These two were dangerous.

Laudine squeezed his hand, demanding his attention. “Is aught the matter, my lord?”

He was saved when Arthur increased the pace so that the dancers had to skip quickly to keep up with him. They whirled in a circle, faster and faster until the ends of the chain linked. The circle spun several times before the music suddenly ended, causing the dancers to halt and give a cheer. As quickly as the first tune stopped, a second began. Laudine grabbed his hand again, and surreptitiously pressed it against her hip. As they began to dance, she looked him up and down.

“By the Lord’s mercy but you’re a right lovely sight. Have you heard the story about the knight, the shepherdess, and the herd dog?”

“Which story is that, Mistress Laudine?”

He shouldn’t have asked, for he got a story of such
foolish bawdiness that he laughed aloud in the midst of the dance. Lucien was on the other side of Laudine and heard the tale too. Soon the whole circle had heard the story. Laughter hopped along the chain until it came back to Gray. Jesting and quips passed from one dancer to another, and Gray realized that Laudine’s bawdy humor was well-known to her friends. He allowed his tight control to slacken a bit and countered the teasing and provocative enticements Laudine directed his way.

“No, mistress, I’m not going to give you a favor in return for one of yours. I fear what you may request of me.”

“Mmmm, Gray de Valence, then you’ll not be getting one of my sleeves for your lance tomorrow.”

He leaned close to gaze into Laudine’s merry blue eyes and said, “Then I’ll have to steal a favor.”

“Oh,” she said in a low voice. “Do try.”

“I will, if you do me another kind of favor.”

He glanced over at the circle containing Yolande and Richard, then whispered in Laudine’s ear. She giggled and nodded. The second ballad came to an end, and a farandole began. They hadn’t taken two steps before Gray swung out of the chain. Laudine gripped his hand and sped after him as they darted into the circle between Yolande and Richard.

Gray snatched the girl’s hand out of Richard’s grasp while Laudine pulled her cousin out of the circle and shoved him into Arthur’s group. A shout of laughter erupted from both chains of dancers.

Gray bent down to murmur into Yolande’s ear. “I couldn’t bear another moment deprived of the honor of dancing with you.”

Yolande peered up at him, eyes wide, cheeks crimson. Her small bow-shaped mouth popped open in amazement, but she appeared unable to speak. It was just as
well. He was beginning to realize she was one of those women who thought a childlike demeanor attractive to men. Later he would free her of that misconception. They intertwined arms and swayed from side to side. Each time he swayed in her direction, he whispered sweet compliments to her.

“Forgive me, lady, but I’ve never seen hair like spun clouds.”

He got a smile and a giggle for that comment. When he glided in her direction again, he continued.

“Your eyes rival the azure of the sky, and I think their magnificence has slain my heart.”

Yolande giggled again, but over it he heard a most unattractive snort and turned to his right to look at the other lady with whom he’d linked hands but hadn’t noticed until now. He met a gaze of silver brilliance, of derision and mockery, of disbelief—and definitely not of admiration. It was the lady in sapphire and cloth of silver.

He scowled at her, then looked closer. They stared at each other. Her black brows lifted in scorn, but Gray didn’t respond. Those eyes. Damascened eyes. The silver framing her face and holding her hair made her eyes glitter like a sword blade in the morning sun. He glanced at the rest of her, but the rich garb seemed to deny what his senses told him. The silver caul that gathered her hair revealed nothing, for she had wrapped her tresses in cloth of silver before donning the jeweled net. But he knew those silver eyes, that dagger stare, that insolence.

“Just God, it’s the arrogant little wench with the damascened eyes.”

She gawked at him for a moment as they danced into a circle, then jerked her hand. He was too quick for her and tightened his grip before she could free herself and run. Then the music ended and the circle broke. Distracted by the sudden appearance of his peasant wench
in the guise of a lady, he lost his hold on Yolande. When the dance circle re-formed, Richard darted in and swept her away to join another group. Gray could only scowl as he watched them go. He heard his other partner smirk.

“Good.”

Rounding on her, he found the girl gloating at him.

“I
know
you, but you can’t be Mistress Welles.”

Music began again, and the girl took refuge in the dance. He kept her hand imprisoned in his, but she refused to look at him or speak to him. The floor was crowded now, with many circles of dancers, musicians, and dozens of onlookers. He waited until their circle broke into a chain. As they neared a deep window embrasure, he freed his left hand, broke his tormenter’s grip on the hand of the man at her other side, and pulled her into the crowd. He didn’t stop until he ducked into the shadows formed by the embrasure.

Pulling her nearer, he kept a tight grip on her arm. “I crave speech with you, lady.”

“Release me, or I’ll call my father.”

“Ah, then you are Juliana Welles.”

She tried to pull her arm free, but he kept it imprisoned. He saw her mouth open to fulfill her threat even as she tried to pry his fingers open.

Leaning down, he put his lips near her ear. “Do call him. Then I can tell him about my encounter with a ragged peasant maid who wallowed in the mud with me.”

Juliana stopped struggling and glared up at him. “Puling upstart knave. I heard that hog’s swill you were spouting at Yolande. Spun clouds, slain heart. Thunder of heaven! You’re nothing but another lying rooster knight, only prettier and richer than most.”

While she ranted at him, he had been trying to see her eyes. He moved closer so that she was caught between
his body and the wall of the embrasure. Now he caught the scent of violets.

“Just God but you’re a wild-tempered maid.”

He was vaguely aware that she’d thrust her hands between them and was pressing her palms against his chest, but he was engrossed in catching a glimpse of her eyes, which we’re of a gray so light that they rivaled the sheen on his most precious silver drinking goblet. She was in the midst of another tirade, but he’d missed most of it.

“I know why you’re trying to suborn poor Yolande.”

That got his attention. He went still and asked in a silken voice, “And why is that?”

“You’ve come to avenge yourself upon my cousin. Oh, don’t look so amazed. Everyone knows how you ruined your liege lord’s wife, and how Richard was forced to remove you from England.”

“An old tale, long past and forgotten,” Gray said lightly. “I’m afraid, Mistress Juliana, that you’ve mistaken courtly graces for something more. Perhaps it’s because you’ve never been to court, and after all, I’ve recently been in France, where these matters are better understood.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps it’s because you’re still a maid.”