The Warrior's Game (9 page)

Maud’s face began to crumple. “If you die I’ll be alone here. Without you, how will I know what to do?”

“Maud, I promise you. No matter what anyone says of Sir Michel, he’s not going to kill me.” A harsh laugh tumbled from Ami’s lips at the recall of how Sir Michel’s gray eyes had softened into almost blue as she offered him her kiss. Nay, killing her was the last thing he wanted to do unless he could accomplish that slaying upon a bed and use pleasure as his weapon.

Maud’s eyes widened. “Nay, nay, nay,” she whispered. “What I see in your eyes cannot be. Tell me that Sir Michel isn’t the man upon whom you've set your heart. Oh, please, it cannot be on his account that we’ve lingered time and again at the hall’s screen these past days."

“He most certainly is not the one!” Ami cried out loudly enough to make a passing housewife shoot her a surprised look.

What was it that Maud and the goldsmith’s wife claimed to see in her face that convinced them she had any interest in that mercenary?

Ami bent her head near Maud. “You may trust me on this,” she snarled. “I wouldn't have Sir Michel if he were the only man remaining on the face of this earth. Now, come. I want to go back to the hall.”

Ami dragged Maud back out into the street, not even looking to see if their escort followed. As she walked her anger grew until a red haze wrapped itself around her heart. The truth was she'd still murder Sir Michel even if he were the last man on earth and it meant the end of her own hopes of ever having a husband or a family.

Nay, killing him wasn't good enough. She'd shove her band down that patronizing, overbearing, betraying knight’s throat then laugh as he choked on it.

Ami shifted from foot to foot in impatience. She’d picked the spot for her ambush with care, choosing the base of the stairs that led up to the hall. Everyone who wanted their midday meal, and that was anyone remaining in the sparsely populated fortress, had to climb these steps.

And, so folk had. For over the last quarter hour the nobles and gentry, soldiery and stablelads, the laundresses, even the bathmaids had streamed up the steps until the stream became a trickle. From the door a storey over Ami’s head the thrum of conversation floating out into the courtyard abruptly stopped. The chaplain’s voice rang out, bidding the diners to bow their heads in prayer.

Beside Ami Maud sniffled, her noise a complaint. Ami paid no heed. She was too busy cursing Sir Michel for a coward. Each and every day since the king's departure Sir Michel had made his way to the hall for the meal along with the castellan. The castellan had entered the hall to take his seat a few minutes ago. So, where was the mercenary?

Hidden beneath the folds of her mantle, Ami’s hand clenched around her band. By God, but she’d never forgive that churl if he left her starving for both food and vengeance.

A movement across the yard caught her eye. Ami straightened in anticipation, only to relax in disappointment. It was the serving men, each bearing a tray of steaming food braced upon his shoulder, the day's meal chilling with every step.

Trailing behind these men was Mistress Millicent. The old woman wore her working gowns, garments as grayed and marked with age as she was. The only splash of color was the bright embroidery that decorated her cloth belt. Trotting at the dowager’s heels was Millicent's maid, working to keep pace with her sprightly employer.

The old woman offered Ami a wide smile as she came to a halt before the stairs, bringing with her the smell of boiled chicken. “My lady, why do you linger? The meal begins.”

“Mistress, how glad I am to see you,” Ami replied, snatching at the perfect shield behind which to hide what she meant to do to Sir Michel. “Will you serve as my adviser?"

Mistress Millicent glowed, so great was her pleasure at this request. “But of course, my lady. How can I help?"

Ami led the old woman a little way from their servants.

“Pardon, but it’s nothing I care to share with others,” she said, her voice low. That was a lie; she didn’t want Maud protesting when she heard her mistress bend the truth here and there.

“It’s Sir Michel. I've had no success in doing as you suggested on St. Martin's Day. Now, a merchant in town tells me that the mercenary spoke to him, making a purchase supposedly on my behalf.”

There it was, her grain of truth soon to be buried beneath a layer of obfuscation.

“That suggests the mercenary already begins to spend what isn’t his. I must confront him, but I fear doing so. No man likes to be chastised by a woman and certainly not in public."

Approval softened the creases on Mistress Millicent’s face. “You do well to act with care on this, planning carefully, my lady, but then I expect no less of you. Unlike many of those in our king’s custody, your mother did a fine job raising you. She would be proud of the woman you have become."

That tore a hole in Ami’s outrage. Pride would hardly have been her dam’s reaction if she’d lived to see her daughter’s misadventure of this morning. Nor would Ami’s mother have approved of what her daughter now contemplated. Then again, her mother wouldn’t have approved of much that happened at John's court.

"As for approaching Sir Michel," the old woman continued, "you must do so this very moment. If the knight refuses to heed you, as I’m certain he will, you must rush to pursue other avenues of complaint, even speaking with our royal master if need be.”

Millicent leaned closer. “Look around you," she said, the sweep of her arm indicating the courtyard around them. "Here, in this yard, and as soon as the meal is over would be an appropriate time and place to confront the knight. All you need is a chaperone to watch over you as you meet with him. And that," the dowager said, offering her arm to Ami, "is a role that I will happily play on your behalf.” Forbidden, lurid interest stirred in the old woman's blue eyes.

The last person Ami wanted to witness any interaction between her and Sir Michel was Millicent. “We can’t confront him after the meal if he’s not in the hall.”

“He’s not already above?” Millicent asked in surprise. “But he must be. It's his duty to sit at the high table.”

“What can I say?” Ami replied with a helpless shrug “I’ve waited here, hoping to approach him as he entered but he hasn’t arrived. Now that you’ve assured me I do no wrong by using the yard for our meeting, I’d like to linger here a little longer in case he’s been delayed. But you need not wait. I don't care to keep you from enjoying the fruits of your labors. My maid can serve as my chaperone?" Ami made the statement sound like a question so it would seem she was begging Millicent’s approval rather than dismissing the woman.

Disappointment flashed in the old woman’s eyes only to disappear beneath a facade of propriety, proving that Millicent held herself to the same standards of behavior that she demanded of everyone else. She’d rather die than openly admit she owned a fleck of curiosity.

“As you will my lady. However, should the mercenary appear, remember to remain within sight of the hall door and keep your maid at your side the whole while,” she instructed.

With Millicent’s approval came the old woman’s tacit promise that, no matter what someone inadvertently witnessed or overheard, she would defend to the death Ami’s right to meet the knight this way. The dowager never admitted to an error in judgment.

“Come, Alys,” Millicent called to her maid. The two women started up the stairs, weaving their way around the last of the serving men and their trays.

Halfway up, Millicent paused to look over the railing at Ami. “My lady, I shall save you a spot next to me.”

The invitation was nothing less than a demand for payment. Even as Ami nodded her mouth tightened in refusal. The old biddy would wait forever before she got a single detail of the meeting. That was, if Sir Michel deigned to appear so Ami could vent her wrath on him.

Ami returned to stand next to Maud, who turned a teary look upon her mistress. “Please, my lady. He’s not coming. Let’s go up into the hall.”

“Oh, he’s coming,” Ami snapped as she forgot the courtesy that her mother had taught her to practice toward her servants. “He’s slinking in late, hoping to avoid me."

A quiet hiccough left Maud, then she shrank back, her eyes wide, her gaze aimed over Ami’s shoulder. “God save us both!”

Ami whirled, following Maud's look. There, at the stables was Sir Michel. He and his ugly man were leading their horses out of that building. The knight had shucked his casual attire in favor of military dress. If his man looked frightening in boiled leather armor sewn with metal rings, the knight's appearance was even more daunting, his mail gleaming like ebony under a weak autumn’s sun. As ever, he was bareheaded, having forgone the leather undercap he wore beneath his mail hood. His helmet hung from his saddle near his shield, his mail coif dangling down his back between his shoulder blades. The day’s breeze made free with his hair, lifting the dark strands.

Their gazes met. Again she read his flat expression with ease. He was dismayed to see her.

Smug satisfaction stirred. So he should be. No amount of armor could protect him from her wrath.

Maud made a croaking sound, then whispered. “I told you he would come armed and ready to kill us.”

“I’ll tell you again that he has no intention of killing me,” Ami spat out, boldly meeting Sir Michel’s gaze, her voice just loud enough that it carried across the yard to him. “The only thing his armor means is that he’s afraid of me.”

Michel gave vent to a scornful snort. Afraid of her? In what world? Not this one, not even when her presence destroyed his elaborate escape plan.

There was nothing for it now save to join her and let her do her worst while he made certain no one witnessed their interaction. He hoped she didn't prove to be a shrew or an alewife in her rage.

Stripping off his steel-sewn gloves, Michel tucked them into his belt and studied the two women. While Lady de la Beres stood boldly, her maid, a frail creature, was doing her best to hide behind her mistress. When the slip of a girl noted his attention she reeled, colliding with the stair wall then crumpling to sit onto the hard-packed earth of the courtyard floor.

Michel signaled to Roger. His captain bent his head closer. “The lady will not relent until she's vented what boils in her and I cannot afford witnesses," he said, his voice low. "To that end I will try to move our conversation around the stairs so we're away from the hall door. On your part fetch the lady's maid and keep her back turned to us while we speak."

Roger cocked his unscarred brow. “What makes you think the lady will let her maid go so far from her?”

The corner of Michel’s mouth lifted. "I did her a grave insult. Against that, it will take but the sound of my voice to make yon lady forget she ever had a maid.”

Roger grinned as Michel turned to meet his opponent in this duel of words. Four steps closed the distance between him and the woman he meant to wed. Amicia de la Beres watched him come, not a shred of fear in her gaze. What reason had she to fear him? It was her own starving lust that was her worst enemy.

With that thought came the need to confirm her unwitting message of this morn. So many men had besieged Lady de la Beres’s walls and failed, while he had done the trick with but a touch. Was it true? Was he the man, the only man, to whom she'd give herself?

As he stopped before her the lady made a show of looking him up and down, then lifted scathing brows. “Most men eat their meals in more comfortable attire, Sir Michel,” she began, only to make a startled noise as Roger stepped past her to stop beside her still-sitting maid. The young woman freed a quiet cry as she looked up into Roger’s face, the sound not shock over a ruined visage but that of recognition.

The lady whirled on the soldier. “You’ll get away from her, you will,” she commanded with all the imperiousness of her class.

Paying the gentlewoman no heed, Roger offered his hand to the seated servant, speaking quietly in her native tongue. To Michel's surprise the maid easily accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. As the two started away from the stairs Lady de la Beres reached out as if to grab her maid's arm.

“Maud, what are you doing?”

Michel shifted to stand between her and the couple as they escaped around the horses. “Let her go, Amicia,” he said, using the lady's given name when he had no right to it.

Amicia's mouth fell ajar. “How dare you address me so?”

“It seems only right to banish titles and formality between us. After all, we’re no longer mere acquaintances, not after this morn," he replied, knowing what his taunt would win from her.

Her eyes narrowed. “You are despicable," she snarled, her cheeks afire with what boiled in her.

“I am,” Michel agreed.

As he spoke he took a step toward her, seeking to drive her where he wished her to go. Instead, just as she'd done in the past, Amicia held her ground. He took another step, bringing them within arm's reach.

"What else did you expect of me? Am I not the one you called churl, despising me for my common birth?"

Her chin jerked up as if she didn't like hearing her words repeated for her consideration. “You are a churl. Here," she stretched out her hand, offering him her veil band. "This is yours. You purchased it and forgot to take it from the shop when you left. Oh, and by the by, your attempt to ruin me has failed. My name remains spotless and intact despite your attempt to besmirch it.”

Michel ignored her geegaw and shifted toward her again. “Tsk Amicia, such rudeness. It was a gift and nothing more. All I want is to give you what you desire.”

Her eyes widened in shock as his blow hit true. So great was her rage that she forgot herself. She leaned toward him and shoved her hand against the center of his chest. Her band gave a metallic tink as it came to rest against his mail.

“Give me what I desire? You sir, couldn’t begin to know what I desire, much less be capable of providing it for me.”

He should have been disgusted by her bold behavior. He should have let her comment go. After all, he needed to end this encounter and be on his way.

He couldn't do it, not when he was absolutely certain she didn't realize what she'd just said to him.

“On the contrary Amicia, I know exactly what you desire. How could I not when you so clearly showed me what you need this morn?”

She gasped and snatched back her hand, pressing her band to her own heart, then staggered back a few steps, unwittingly moving in the direction Michel desired. He followed, still speaking as he drove her farther from the hall door.

"You've showed me that I can awaken your hunger without even touching you. Imagine what would happen if I but rested my fingers on your cheek? Nay, I’m more than capable of satisfying any desires you may have.”

As she took the final backward step that bore them into privacy, he watched her shock give way to new rage. She planted her feet. "Nay. Not another step. I will not give you another opportunity to besmirch my name.”

With an amused breath, Michel leaned toward her. "You're wrong, Amicia. It's not me who seeks to besmirch your name. Indeed, if your good name remains intact it is because of me. I saved you from yourself when I refused your kiss this morning.”

His words ripped through Ami's rage, tearing it to shreds, because they were true. All desire to repay him for his insult died. In its place was the need to turn tail and run as far from him as possible. How could he be so horrid?

His eyes were again that warm blue-gray. The corner of his mouth began to lift in the motion that Ami now recognized as his smile.

“I forbid you to laugh at me,” she snapped.

He blinked. The blue in his eyes immediately hardened back into gray. Ami drew a swift breath in triumph. As little as she liked the way he teased her lusts to life, he liked the way she read his expressions even less.

In her eagerness to deal him a blow equal to the one he'd just sent her way she let her tongue run wild. “Be gone with you, commoner. I'm done with you." As she spoke, she turned her body to the side and showed him her shoulder.

He made a harsh sound low in his chest. Catching her by the upper arm, his grip so tight she flinched, he wrenched her back around to face him. Ami yelped, stumbling, but her outraged protest died unspoken. Gone was the man of a moment ago, the one who had almost smiled at her, the same man who had nearly accepted her offer of a kiss this morn. This man’s eyes were empty of all emotion, his jaw so tight Ami wondered that the bone didn’t shatter.

“Hear me, madam,” he said, his words edged in steel. “No matter what you think of my parentage, you will never again turn your shoulder to me.”

“Let me go,” Ami demanded quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of his man and Maud.

Instead he shoved her back against the wall, using his hands on her shoulders to pin her in place.

“You have no right to hold me,” Ami protested, bracing her hands against his chest and heaving with all her might. She yet held her veil band. Against his ebony mail the gold looked too bright, too gaudy.

She shoved at him again. Trapped behind her and twisted across her shoulders, her mantle strained against her effort. She shoved again and her mantle pin popped, the shank slipping from its loop as it bent. Still, the man in front of her didn’t budge an inch.

Panting and trapped, she relaxed against the wall and looked up at him. His face might have been carved from stone. Just as she had read the amusement in his gaze a moment ago she read the new message in his now-blank expression. He was demanding an apology from her.

Everything in Ami resisted. Why should she apologize when he had not?

“I am the king's ward," she told him instead. “No man may touch those whom our royal master guards in his household. Think on it. If someone sees you holding me this way your life could well be the forfeit.”

Ami gasped. Here and now, she held the mercenary's life in her hands. One shout. A single scream of protest and the whole hall would witness this commoner threatening her just as Roheise wanted.

But, although he would die, Roheise wouldn't have her rebellion and Ami would be ruined beyond even a position as a lay sister in some barren convent. It wouldn't be just the tale of this event that circulated. Before long the smith and his wife would be sharing the events of this morning. No knight or gentleman would rise in rebellion because a man pursued some lusty tart, no matter her gentle birth.

Against that Ami closed her eyes in defeat. “I beg your pardon,” she said softly. “I should not have turned my shoulder to you.”

The knight's hands didn’t loosen on her arms. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Rage still held his features taut. What if he was the sort of man who couldn’t release what boiled in him until he’d used his fists?

“Michel,” Ami tried, using his Christian name, praying the familiar address might shock him the way his use of her has pierced her. “You must let me go.”

His expression didn’t soften but his hands opened and he took a half-step back from her. Ami let relief escape on a heartfelt breath. She straightened and her mantle slid off the open pin’s shank.

As the expensive garment started to slip down to the ground Ami snatched for it. Before she caught it Michel’s hands again closed around her arms, this time at her elbows.

Without the thickness of her mantle between them she could feel the imprint of his fingers on her arms through her sleeves. His thumbs moved at the crease of her elbows.

Rendered mute by the sensation, Ami studied his face. The tenderness of his touch wasn’t reflected in his expression; his eyes remained dull and lifeless. By touch alone he gently, carefully, urged her to lean back against the wall. She did as he bid. His hands slid down her forearms until they rested atop her clenched fists. Neither of them wore gloves. Sir Michel’s were tucked in his sword belt while Maud yet had Ami's in her purse; she'd removed them while in Mistress Hughette's kitchen.

Ami's heartbeat quickened. It had been years since a man had touched her, skin to skin. Lord, but it was a wondrous sensation. Michel’s palms were hard, made so by the demands of a warrior’s work, his fingers startling supple as he traced the curl of her fingers and the landscape of her knuckles.

At the pressure of his touch Ami’s clenched hands opened. Her forgotten circlet clattered to the ground at her feet. Craving more still, she turned her palms to meet his.

His expression was yet flat and lifeless as he twined his fingers with hers. It was only as their hands joined that Ami realized what she, what they was doing. She jerked her hands away from his and pressed her palms against the wall behind her. Cold stones sapped the heat he’d left upon her skin.

“Do not,” she commanded at a whisper.

Michel only braced his hands on the wall at either side of her shoulders, doing again what he'd done in the alcove. He leaned toward her, his mail jangling quietly. Heat flowed from him, wrapping itself around her.

Ami's breath left her on a shaken sigh. Without thought, she lifted her mouth in invitation. This time, he accepted and his lips brushed hers. She gasped quietly, then, as his mouth came to rest on hers again, her eyes closed.

The clean scent of his soap filled each breath; she tasted Mistress Hughette’s barley water on his lips. How could she have forgotten that a man’s beard against her skin could be both rough and soft in one glorious instant?

His kiss deepened. A wave of pleasure crashed over her. With it came the image of tangled bedclothes, of candlelight, bare skin and joy. Against that, Ami leaned blindly into his body, pulling herself closer to him as she begged him to give her what she so needed.

Even as his mouth clung to hers, he put his hands on her hips and set her back from him, then began to straighten. Wild refusal exploded in Ami. He couldn’t leave her unsatisfied, not now!

With her eyes still closed, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him. Remembering everything Richard de la Beres had taught her of waking a man’s pleasure, she raised herself to her toes and moved her hips across his. Michel made a sound not unlike a growl. His arms closed around her, his hands slipping down her back until they cupped her hips and lifted her against him.

Ami didn’t care that his armor tore at her gowns. She pulled herself closer still, craving the feeling of his body against her own. His mouth slashed across hers, demanding that she yield to him, and she did so without hesitation, her thighs opening. Joy’s pressure grew within her with every move of his lips, promising that explosion of ecstasy she hadn’t forgotten despite the years. Desperate for more, Ami tore her mouth from his and pressed a kiss against his cheek then to his throat.