Читать книгу A Knight Most Wicked - Joanne Rock - Страница 10

“Chovihani?” she asked, more incensed now than afraid.

It was a Gypsy word for witch and Arabella did not appreciate the description, or the implication that she had committed some crime. She struggled to pull away, but his hold did not waver.

“I did not mean to startle you. I wondered where you had disappeared.” His voice caressed her ear and she felt her knees weaken just a little as he spoke. And there was that flip in her belly she knew only happened when he was near. She stopped struggling and he released her.

“What do you mean by calling me witch?”

“Imagine yourself as I have seen you.” Tristan turned from her to look up into the star-filled sky. “I believe I am in the Bohemian woodlands alone until I hear an awful, gut-wrenching cry, like an animal in pain. Venturing through the forest, I find a beautiful wailing woman in a ring of ancient oaks.”

Arabella felt her cheeks heat.

“But she does not look like any woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He stepped closer to her. Arabella could not move. “She is barefoot, with a veil of wild hair enveloping half of her body and covered with twigs and leaves. She is like a wood nymph or…an enchantress.”

Arabella shook her head in mute denial. “Never, I—”

“Then, when I find her again, she is transformed into a princess of a woman I barely recognize except for the green eyes, but every now and then I get a glimpse of the wild woman out in the moonlight, gathering herbs to make strange potions and waving sticks around her head in some sort of ancient ritual.”

“I am no chovihani. If some people choose to believe medicine is an art of witchcraft, that only shows their lack of knowledge. But I think you know better.” Or, she hoped he did. She spied intelligence in those gray eyes of his, even when he called forth unexpected feelings from deep inside her. “Call me drabarni, herb woman, mayhap. That name would be more fitting.”

“You are a healer?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“I try to be. There will forever be some things that are impossible to heal. But I try to find cures and relieve ailments, and in some instances I have been granted the grace to really heal. But even when I can’t heal, I can usually help.”

She took pride in her skill and had worked all her life to be as knowledgeable as her grandmother in the healing arts. She saw no reason to hide her talents.

“You possess a great talent,” Tristan said, his voice hinting at genuine admiration. “From years of battlefield experience, I can appreciate a good healer. It is painful to watch a man die whose time has not yet come. England has great need of you.”

“Perhaps she needs me, but will she want me?” Arabella peered up at the partial moon as a chill crept over her skin.

“What do you mean?”

“Will England welcome me, or will her people make the same mistake that you did and shun me because of my calling?”

“Others have made such an error?”

“Indeed sir, you are one of the few who have even bothered to admit their mistake. Most people feel more comfortable with their superstitions, even when the truth of my gift stares them in the face. Were I somewhat less skilled, people would not accuse me of witchcraft. It is because I am exceptionally good at my art that I make people uncomfortable.”

Tristan frowned. “After witnessing your abilities, I would think most people would be grateful.”

She shrugged, powerless to understand human nature.

“I really must return to the keep.”

“Wait.” His fingertips reached out to curl lightly over hers. “Let me show you how to dance.”

Tristan had not planned to ask her as much. He scarcely knew what had made him chase her through the keep. In part, he had wanted to elude Rosalyn de Clair’s company, since his head warned him away from her obvious advances. But he supposed Arabella intrigued him more than she should. He’d wanted to maintain a boundary between his knights and the Bohemian noblewomen, but she called to him on a gut level, no matter what his reason had to say.

Now he found himself playing courtier to her when what he really wanted was far less chaste.

“I should not stay.” Her eyes told him a far different story, however. And her feet—remaining firmly planted on the dark earth of a rocky hillside—were even more telling.

He would not take advantage of her. But he could linger with her.

“We will stay but a moment. Would it not be useful for you to learn the steps of our dances out here, where there are no witnesses but the trees? The great halls of the English king’s keeps might be less forgiving.”

She bit her lip and his mouth watered. He knew he played unfairly with her. And yet it was she who had left the safety of the countess’s hall. She who had put herself in this most vulnerable position.

“Do I have to wear my slippers?”

Tristan laughed, drawn to her untamed spirit. They would be well matched in so many ways that he ached at the thought.

“Nay. You do not need your slippers.” He drew her a step closer, trailing his thumb over the back of her hand to savor the delicate skin. “Allow me.”

Sweeping Arabella off her feet and into his arms, he strode to edge of the clearing. She started to protest until she seemed to realize his intent. Gently, he sat her down on a large, flat rock and knelt to remove her shoes.

“I do not blame you for wanting to be rid of these shoes your princess has all of you wearing.” Forcing himself to keep his touch gentle, he skimmed his hands over one ankle in the space between her hem and her shoe. It was only a thumbnail’s width of her that he stroked, but the knowledge of how easily he could take more was enough to make the touch sweetly passionate.

“I—” Arabella’s breath caught in her throat as he trailed a finger down the arch of her foot. “The curled toes are a bit awkward for me.”

Tristan removed her other shoe quickly before he scared her out of the clearing. He would carry this only so far—at least for tonight.

“The ground is smooth here.” He offered his arm and guided her a few steps away toward a patch of open ground. “Do not stray from me, lest you step on a root or fallen branch.”

Not that he would release her long enough for her to go that far.

He explained the pattern of the dance—the step together, step kick alternating—and then moved her briefly around the clearing to demonstrate. When they were ready to begin, Arabella faltered for a moment.

“What?”

“What if I miss a step?” She peered down at their feet, his heavy and booted, hers small and bare. “You will surely break my foot.”

“You will be safe as my partner.” Tristan squeezed her hand, reminded anew of her innocence despite her earthy appeal.

“Shall I sing the minstrels’ tune to guide us?” Her green eyes were dimmed under the dark sky, the stars reflected in her gaze.

“You have such a gift for song?” He could not even recall the music, let alone repeat it, yet a tune hummed from between her lips, light and sweet.

Gently, he steered her forward to begin their steps, the song wrapping them in the moment. She followed him easily, although her focus remained directed at her feet for the first few passes as they wove their way around the clearing. When at last she looked up at him, a smile lit her face.

The knowledge of her joy damn near robbed him of his breath. Her happiness made him regret his duty to inform his sovereign of the rumors about her. Indeed, in that moment, he found them difficult to believe himself.

Moments passed before he realized her song had faded along with their steps. They stood frozen in the moonlight, their breathing evenly matched.

“Thank you.” Her simple gratitude humbled him at a time when his thoughts already strayed to a future date when she would resent him for revealing her past. Her family.

By all that was holy, he already resented his position himself.

“It was my pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, recovering his wits. “Shall I deliver you back to the keep?”

“Only if you promise to safeguard our encounter as a secret. I would not have my princess think that I am as wayward a lady as you once believed.” Arabella’s scent drifted on the cool breeze, her gown and her hair bearing a hint of spring flowers despite the lateness of the year.

“If I protect your secret, you must agree to keep mine.” He would be damned for taking advantage of her. He knew it, and yet he could not stop himself.

“I know nothing of you to remain quiet about.” She shivered from the chill in the air, or perhaps from her body’s awareness of his.

He hadn’t missed her response to his nearness as they danced, as her gown was a tighter fitting affair than the costumes customary for English noblewomen. Heat suffused his limbs, calling him to advance upon her and show her exactly why her cheeks burned and her soft breasts tightened whenever he touched her.

“You must never tell anyone about this….”

Lowering his mouth to hers, he brushed a kiss across her lips. She made a small sound in the back of her throat—whether it was a squeak of surprise or protest, he did not know. But he did not lock her against his body and she could easily back away.

She did not. Her cry faded into a sigh of pleasure before she relaxed against him. She parted her lips and only then did he pull her into him, wrapping one arm around her waist and lifting her off the ground to stand atop his boots. He gathered the dark masses of hair flowing down in his other hand and gently tilted her head back. Arabella followed the subtle demand, arching her back to offer him a better taste. The effect of her breasts flattened against his chest stole his last intelligent thought and steeled every inch of his flesh.

He ran his tongue along her lower lip before allowing himself the sweet reward of her mouth. He let go of her hair and stroked the length of the silken tresses, feeling the curve of her spine right through the soft locks. When his hands reached her rounded hip, Tristan summoned every scrap of restraint to resist a more carnal touch. Instead, he reached up to touch her face, his fingers none too steady from the force of blood pounding his veins.

He half waited for her to push him away, to find some sense of maidenly outrage. But instead she wound her arms about his neck and held tight, forsaking all control of the situation. Raw lust swamped him, testing his honor and his will, until a noise sounded in the forest very close to them.

A light, animal snuffle.

Tristan stilled, gripping Arabella’s arms tightly as he shot her a warning look. Only when he was certain she understood did he turn to peer into the surrounding woods.

Responding to the slightest movement to their left, Tristan charged into the forest only a few feet behind a dark figure. He knew he would quickly overtake the person who lumbered awkwardly through the night, but just before Tristan laid his hands on the spy, the fleeing man reached a scrawny horse. The lout leaped onto the mount and urged the nag as fast as it would take him.

Devil take the rutting hound.

“Tristan?” Arabella called from much too near and he realized she had quietly followed him through the trees. He had to admire her speed and soundlessness, though her feet would no doubt protest the trek.

Tristan swore a mild oath as he trudged back to where she stood.

“You’re going to need to be very careful, Arabella. I don’t know who would be watching us secretly, but I have to believe whoever it was could be following the princess’s retinue.”

“Of course.” She swept her hair behind her ear, her silver circlet askew. “I will return to the keep with all haste.”

“Not without an escort.” Tristan halted her quick retreat with a restraining hand. “There will be no more late-night escapes from the rest of your party or secluded searches for herbs unless you are with me. Do you understand?”

Her curt nod told him that he had wounded her feelings, yet he could not temper his warning when her safety depended on it. He had been idle-witted to allow himself to touch her, to allow himself to forget for a moment his purpose in escorting the princess’s women. The mission that had started out as a courtier’s errand had turned into a critical duty with high stakes.

No wild and reckless beauty would tempt him away from it, no matter how sweetly she danced for him in the moonlight.

Rosalyn hid herself behind the small wardrobe when she heard the door to Tristan’s chamber open. She tensed with anticipation as she heard him step into the room and close the door behind him. Too bad she had to resort to such drastic measures, but Tristan had disappeared after their dance. Afraid he had gone to find the Gypsy Rowan woman, Rosalyn decided she would waste no more time. She needed to lie with him tonight.

It was fortunate that the captain of the English guard had been given his own chamber in the castle, rather than sharing quarters with the other knights. Tristan’s quarters gave Rosalyn the opportunity to see him in private and to consummate their relationship before her condition developed more noticeably. With the help of a few restraining garments, her waist remained tiny. The only hint of her upcoming babe was the new weight in her breasts that enhanced her figure. She smiled in the darkened room, knowing that she had already won this battle.

Surprised Tristan had not already lit a candle and discovered her, Rosalyn wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should she wait for him to spy her in the moonlit room, or should she announce her presence? He might not notice her at all and she could slide into bed beside him after he lay down. She decided to do just that if he did not notice her on his own, and watched in breathless anticipation as he removed his houppelande and the tunic underneath.

Rosalyn ran her tongue around her lips as her mouth went dry. The man was magnificent. His broad chest boasted great strength. The muscles that his tunic had hinted at were now clearly revealed to her hungry eyes. Sitting on the bed, Tristan removed his boots and let them fall to the floor. He was about to remove his breeches when she stepped out from the shadows in her scarlet gown, one sleeve already slipping purposefully down her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” His stillness was not the response she had expected.

Taking a deep breath, she called upon devices her mother had taught her long before Rosalyn turned away from her father’s fallen whore to claim the nobleman’s protection. Rosalyn arched her shoulders enough to press her breasts more fully against the seams of her surcoat.

“Are we back to being strangers, Tristan?” She draped herself across him. “I thought we were better friends than that,” she purred into his ear.

“Mayhap we could have been. But I fear you are sweetly attired trouble.”

He had spoken softly, but his words cut her almost as much as his obvious imperviousness to her offer.

She slid from the bed and stared him down.

“What are you insinuating?” Rosalyn’s mind raced, wondering how he could have guessed her plan.

“I mean no insult. But I fear ’tis not me you really want. Are you using me to hurt someone else? Another lover, mayhap?”

She spun away from him as though in the throes of emotion, although she needed solely to conceal her surprise. He missed the mark on her intentions, but—truth be told—not by all that much.

“No. I have no other lover, although mayhap at first I spoke to you to take my mind off of a cruel man who misled me.” Sniffling, she turned back to face him and thought his stance appeared slightly softened.

“He was a fool,” the English knight assured her, his taut muscles bronzed by the golden glow from the hearth.

“A man of noble standing in Bohemia led me to think he wanted to marry me and I foolishly let him pay court to me at our home.” Heaven knows, her father hadn’t helped her obtain the match. De Clair thought he’d given her all she deserved when he’d opened his home to her six years ago and had graced her with his name.

“The matter of marriage is often fixed long in advance. Perhaps your father had hopes that you would ally yourself with another.”

Someone well beneath her, no doubt. But Rosalyn would not be sold off so cheaply.

“I cannot say, because I forgot all about the Bohemian nobleman and my father’s wishes when I saw you.” She reached out to touch him and smoothed her fingers across his chest—a most pleasurable diversion. Something stirred inside her and it was not her fledgling bairn.

Trusting her womanly senses, she trailed her hand down his bare stomach to the waist of his breeches and beyond. Only then did he reach out to restrain her, holding her hand in midair.

“You are a beautiful woman, Rosalyn.” The hoarseness in the knight’s voice made her hopeful. “But I am without lands and a title. Your parents would not approve of me.”

“But you are well respected by your king. Your undertaking here proves that. King Richard will reward you when you bring him his bride.” And by the saints, she had affected him. She could see it in the impressive rise of his garments.

“The English king rewards knights who win battles, not knights who guard royalty. I am afraid I will receive no such reward, no matter how valuable the princess is to my sovereign.”

Something in his answer did not settle well upon her ears. She had told enough lies in her time to recognize one when she heard it. Tristan was obviously a strong warrior. Anger swelled in her belly where desire had been. With an effort, she forced a few tears from her eyes, desperate to make her ploy work.

“I am rejected again, no matter how prettily you spoke to me at dinner.” With a broken cry, she lunged for the chamber door, hoping he would stop her. She even paused on the threshold.

“Good night, my lady.” His feet remained firmly planted until Rosalyn had no choice but to leave. She would try another approach tomorrow, or perhaps she would shift her attentions to Tristan’s second in command.

Departing the chamber and closing the door softly behind her, Rosalyn heard a startled gasp in the hall. She turned around to see a wide-eyed Mary drop her eyes quickly to the floor. Of all the blessed, wonderful good fortune.

Hiding a smile, Rosalyn feigned embarrassment as she straightened her drooping gown and wiped false tears from her eyes.

“Oh please, Lady Mary,” she begged. “Do not tell anyone.”