Читать книгу Fool's Paradise - Tori Phillips - Страница 9

That first hour on the road south to Woodstock was the longest, most uncomfortable one that Elizabeth had ever experienced. The hard-packed dirt highway, full of ruts and strewn with stinking manure from all manner of livestock, presented new obstacles at every step. Her feet, accustomed to dainty satin slippers, were soon bruised and scratched. The damp roll of the bundled cloak soaked through Elizabeth’s borrowed shirt; its cord bit painfully into her shoulder.

On the other hand, Tarleton, striding beside her, seemed perfectly at ease as he whistled all manner of sprightly tunes. Determined to prove to the cheerful jester that she could keep pace with him, she concentrated on putting one aching foot in front of the other. Just when she thought she would pitch forward into the dirt and never rise again, Tarleton clapped her companionably on the back.

“We’ll take our ease here,” he said, pointing to a grassy bank by the side of the road. “No use in wearing out our soles.”

Elizabeth merely glared at this last witticism and wiped the perspiration out of her eyes with her sleeve. The grass felt cool and delicious between her throbbing toes. Collapsing in an exhausted heap against his pack, she idly watched the fluffy white clouds swirl lazily across the blue bowl of the sky above her. The caressing warmth of the noonday sun and the humming of a nearby bee made her feel drowsy. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Don’t go to sleep now, Robin Redbreast. We have miles to cover before sundown.” Tarleton stood over her, momentarily blocking out the sunlight. “I have a wineskin in the pack, if you care to move your head.”

With a small sigh of regret, Elizabeth sat up. Didn’t Tarleton ever feel tired, she wondered, watching him rummage through the canvas sack. Elizabeth gingerly massaged her burning feet.

“Ah! Here we are!” He waved a bulging wineskin in front of her face. “Finest vintage from your father’s cellars.”

“You stole our wine?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his audacity.

“Nay, nay! Stealing is a sin. Jane, your sweet cook, gave it to me as a gift for—” Tarleton stopped suddenly, his face reddening a bit.

“For what?” Elizabeth snapped. Jane, she felt, was a little too free with the manor’s provisions. “What did she buy from you?” Elizabeth prodded.

“She bought nothing of me. ‘Twas a gift for an hour or two of pleasure,” Tarleton replied, his eyes burning deeply into hers.

“Pleasure? You mean she…that is, you and she…” Elizabeth colored deep crimson at the thought of the manor’s reed-thin cook caught within Tarleton’s loving embrace. What sweet pleasures would a woman find there? What would it feel like to be held tightly against his chest? Elizabeth shook herself.

Tarleton, instead of looking properly shamefaced at his confession, laughed at her obvious discomfiture.

“Aye, my boy!” He arched his dark eyebrow meaningfully. “The pleasure of a woman’s sweet love! There’s nothing finer on God’s good earth. Nay, do not blush so prettily. A growing lad needs to know these things.” Lowering his voice, he added seriously, “You will hear talk like that—and far worse—on our travels, so best get used to it now.”

“I can’t help it,” Elizabeth replied, wishing she could wipe away her pink cheeks. “I have always blushed easily. Indeed, when I was growing up, my family often teased me just to see me turn red.”

Tarleton’s eyes softened with understanding. Elizabeth was, after all, a gently bred lady. How could he expect to turn her into a lusty lad in only a few hours? Smiling at her, he continued lightly, “Be of good cheer, Robin! Have some wine. Sunshine in each drop.” He held out the wineskin to her.

Trying not to notice the merry twinkle in his dark eyes, Elizabeth took the proffered bag and drank deeply. Tarleton was right, the sweetness of the vintage was a balm to her dry throat and raw nerves.

“Save a bit of that, my boy! ‘Tis all we have for now.” He drank from the bag, then corked it tightly. “Let us be gone.” Taking Elizabeth by the hand, Tarleton pulled her to her feet. He held her fingers in his a moment longer than necessary, then he gently draped the rolled cape over her shoulder once more. “It is not wise to tarry in one place too long,” he remarked, his voice husky.

A party of armed horsemen nearly ran them down in the midafternoon. They neither saw nor spoke to the jester and his scruffy apprentice by the side of the road as they left Tarleton and Elizabeth in the dust behind them.

“Did you mark their livery? Were they Sir Robert’s men?” Elizabeth asked, glad to see the mounted figures recede from sight.

“Nay, the poxy knaves went by too fast.” Tarleton smiled encouragingly at her. He did not tell Elizabeth that he recognized the lead rider. La Faye’s henchman had tried to cheat Tarleton at cards in the kitchen of Esmond Manor. So, Sir Robert was indeed on the move! Tarleton ruffled Elizabeth’s soft hair. “Foot it, my lad! We’ve some miles yet to go this day.”

“Where are we going?” Elizabeth asked wearily. Only the occasional farmer’s cottage dotted the distant fields. Visions of a hot bath danced maddeningly in her brain.

“To visit the Queen!” was her companion’s jaunty reply.

“I mean tonight. You said we were going to stay in a nice place tonight.” She stifled a yawn. She would not let Tarleton see how exhausted she was.

“Did I?” Tarleton cocked his head, then chuckled. “I do not recall that I said ‘nice.’ But at least ‘twill be a roof over our heads.”

“What is this place?” she asked warily. Something in the tone of his voice warned her that she wasn’t going to like his choice of accommodations.

“An inn of the lowest sort, I fear, but this route is not traveled by the upper crust of society. And I thank you for reminding me of something.” He stopped so suddenly in the middle of the road that Elizabeth almost ran headlong into him.

“What now?” she asked irritably, angry that Tarleton had deceived her with his earlier promise of a goodly inn.

“We shall be expected to sing for our supper.”

Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “Sing in front of strangers? You are jesting!”

“No jests, I fear. ‘Tis the hazard of my calling—and now yours, prentice. So, as we walk along, I shall teach you some fine tavern ballads. ‘Twill lighten your heart—and help take your mind off your blisters.” Guiltily Tarleton watched her tighten her jaw, as Elizabeth shifted her weight on her swollen feet. He vowed to do something about her lack of shoes at the first opportunity. He admired her courage. Not once had she mentioned her obvious pain. “Listen to the words carefully.”

Clearing his throat, Tarleton broke into a rippling ditty. “She had a dark and rolling eye/And her hair hung down in ring-a-lets/She was a nice girl/A proper girl/But, one of the roving kind!”

The tune was merry enough, but the lyrics grew more and more bawdy with each successive verse, as the song extolled, with explicit detail, each and every one of the roving girl’s myriad charms. Elizabeth’s ears, as well as her cheeks, were burning by the end of the last chorus.

“You cannot possibly expect me to sing that!” she sputtered. “It’s awful! It’s… it’s shameful! And not for a lady at all!”

“You are right, chuck,” he agreed, daring to call her by a lighthearted term of affection. “‘Tis not fit for a proper lady’s ears, but we left the very proper Lady Elizabeth at the bottom of the river, remember? You, prentice, will stand high on a tabletop with your legs thrust boldly apart. You will throw back your head proudly, and you will sing that song at the top of your sweet lungs.”

“Never!” declared Elizabeth, glowering at him. “I shall die first.”

“No, you won’t. Who knows?” he teased her. “You might even get to like it. And just think what a surprise ‘twill be when you sing it for the ladies of the court!”

“I couldn’t!” she gasped. Had the jester completely lost his wits?

“Oh, but you could!” He grinned, amused by her reaction to his suggestion. “In private, of course. Truly, those fine ladies at court will enjoy it just as much as the ruffians on the road do. The only difference is the setting. Now, my lad, sing!” He began the first verse again, making Elizabeth repeat each line after him.

Over and over that beautiful, high summer afternoon, the jester and his stumbling apprentice practiced “that awful song” until Elizabeth had it note perfect. Tarleton was pleasantly surprised to discover that his reluctant pupil was gifted with a clear, pure voice.

“Where did you learn to sing?” he asked as they rested later that afternoon, eating more of his windfall apples.

“In France. I was taught in a convent there.”

“A convent?” Tarleton’s eyes widened. “Sweet angels! Were you a nun?”

“No, only a student taught by them. My mother’s family insisted upon it, and my father agreed. My mother was French, but she died when I was quite young.”

“Are you a papist?” Tarleton eyed her sharply. Politics and religion were often the same thing in these turbulent times. Tarleton made it a practice to avoid both whenever possible.

“Only when I’m in France.” She smiled. “Here I profess the new learning, but I pray privately in my own manner.”

“Amen to that.” Tarleton breathed a sigh of relief. At least, his employer would not be making any irrational or unhealthy moves, such as insisting upon attending a popish mass.

She arched her eyebrow at him. “I am sure that the good nuns who taught me to sing would not approve of your choice of hymn, Sir Jester. I’d be in penance for a month!”

“You have a beautiful voice, and you learn quickly.” Tarleton complimented his apprentice. “As a reward, I will teach you another—”

“Oh, no! One is more than enough!”

Tarleton’s lips twitched with amusement. “This one, I promise, will please you. ‘Tis a love ballad, one that you could sing before your reverend mother without a blush. Listen!” He sang in a deep, rich tone. “‘Under the greenwood tree/Who loves to lie with me/And turn his merry note/Unto the sweet bird’s throat?’ There, what thinkest thou?” he asked when he had finished.

“It’s better than the last one,” Elizabeth conceded.

“Then let us be merry, too long we have tarried!” Pulling Elizabeth to her feet again, Tarleton swung down the road, smiling to himself. Her hand felt even warmer and softer than before. “Sing, sweet Robin!” Tarleton cheerfully called to her over his shoulder.

The sun was low behind the haystacks in the fields, when the travelers came to the promised inn. Elizabeth’s weary heart sank at the sight of it. The Blue Boar sat at the side of the highway like a squat, old, painted woman. Its cracked plaster walls had not felt the touch of a paintbrush for a decade, at least. Several shutters hung at rakish angles from the narrow, grimy windows. Its wooden sign creaked on rusty hinges above the battered door; the namesake boar more gray than blue in color. Determined to make the best of it, Elizabeth started toward the entrance. Tarleton yanked her aside.

“Around to the back, my boy. We are not paying customers. We’ve come to do business with the innkeeper.” He pushed her into the cobbled stable yard, past stinking piles of kitchen refuse and manure.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Elizabeth reminded herself that she had indeed agreed to this charade. Squaring her shoulders, she tried to look as manly as possible. Roughly she pushed away a thin yellow cur who sniffed at her bare toes with interest.

Tarleton engaged the florid-faced innkeeper in deep conversation. After a bit of haggling, the man nodded, and pointed toward the stable. Tarleton swept him a courtly bow and strode off in that direction.

“Robin! Look lively, boy!” he called gruffly, snapping his fingers at Elizabeth. Bewildered, she followed him across the filthy cobblestones into the barn.

“Up we go!” Tarleton stood at the bottom of the loft ladder.

“Up there?” Elizabeth’s heart dropped to her toes, and all her manly intentions fled. She drew in her breath to tell Tarleton exactly what she thought of his proffered lodgings, but Tarleton moved faster than her indignation. Grabbing her roughly by the scruff of her neck, he practically threw her up the first two rungs.

“I said move, churl! Are your ears full of wax?” he yelled at her. “Damn your hide! I’ve a mind to give you a sound whipping, and no supper!”

Stunned by this sudden rough treatment, and shocked into silence by Tarleton’s unexpected coarse language, Elizabeth blinked back her angry tears as she scurried up the ladder. On the top rung, a stray splinter drove itself deeply into her foot. Suppressing a cry of pain, she limped into the hay-filled loft.

Following close behind her, Tarleton surveyed the area with a practiced eye. Pulling her to a far corner where the sweet-smelling hay was piled the highest, he heaved the pack to the dusty floor with a contented sigh.

“Oh! Have done with me!” Elizabeth moaned as she threw herself into the straw, burying her head in her hands.

Dropping down beside her, Tarleton gathered the worn-out girl in his arms. Gently he rocked her back and forth.

“Don’t…” She wanted to protest more, but her words were muffled in his jerkin. Instead, she relaxed into his cushioning embrace.

“Hush! Hush, sweetling!” he whispered softly in her ear. “Forgive me for all. Don’t cry.” He gently stroked her ragged hair, still silky despite its rough treatment. “There was a stable boy below, watching us. I acted as any master would have done to his apprentice,” he explained. “A man’s world is a rough one. Shush, fair one. We are safe. We have this fine, warm place for the night, and a supper, as well—if we sing prettily enough for it.”

“We are to sleep here? In a barn?” Elizabeth’s reserves of courage melted away. She was tired, sore, hungry and frightened in these strange, coarse surroundings.

“‘Tis no Esmond Manor, I warrant you, but then again, there are far worse places we could be in. So be of good cheer!”

“You hurt me!” she whispered fiercely.

Tarleton winced at her accusation. “Not by choice. Please, sweetling, understand I do what I must for your own safety.”

“Does that include laming me?” she snapped. The splinter felt as if it were on fire.

“Laming you? Nay, ‘tis only a sweet stroll down a dry road on a sunny day. How is it that you are now lame?” he gently teased her.

“I have a splinter in my foot from the ladder.”

Tarleton laid her down on the straw. “Which foot?” he asked, concern etched his voice.

“The right one, just under the largest toe. Ouch! That’s it! Oh, please, don’t touch it again!” She gritted her teeth as Tarleton ignored her protests.

“‘Tis not a deep one, only large. I can pull it easily.”

“Oh, no!” she moaned.

He held out the pack strap to her. “Bite on this, but don’t cry out. We can’t have that stable boy poking his head up here,” he commanded sternly as he produced the wineskin.

Wincing from the pain, Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before putting the dirty cloth into her mouth. It tasted of earth and sweat; Elizabeth nearly gagged on it. Tarleton touched her cheek tenderly, brushing away a traitorous tear with his thumb. Then he smiled encouragingly at her, his gaze as soft as a caress. Something in his manner soothed her. Nodding, she bit down hard as Tarleton poured some wine on the wounded area. More tears burned in her eyes as he probed for the splinter. She gripped handfuls of the hay as the stabbing pain increased under his probing.

The jagged splinter was lodged deeper than he thought. Glancing at Elizabeth, Tarleton noted how white she looked, her eyes squeezed shut. His heart tightened.

“What manner of company are you keeping of late, sweet Robin?” he joked, trying to take her mind off the pain. “For I see that your sole has become very black.”

His quip was rewarded by her fleeting smile.

“‘Tis gone!” he announced triumphantly. Bright red drops of blood welled up in the spot where the splinter had been. Placing his lips over the injury, he sucked at the tiny wound.

A soft gasp escaped Elizabeth. Tarleton’s lips were surprisingly gentle. As they caressed the burning skin of her foot, she felt a lurch of excitement within her. Her breath caught in her throat; her heartbeat hammered in her ears. His nearness was overwhelming.

“Oh!” she moaned again, softly this time, her pain forgotten.

Recognizing the sound for what it meant, Tarleton quickly released her foot. “I trust you are better now,” he remarked in a tight, hoarse voice.

She was as intoxicating as new wine in autumn. He tried to shake off her heady effect. If Elizabeth had been any other maid moaning so passionately at his touch, Tarleton would have cheerfully pressed his advantage immediately. As it was, his loins throbbed hotly and grew tight. Elizabeth was a lady, he reminded himself—and the Queen’s own goddaughter! He would be moonstruck to even consider the idea of a romp in the hay.

“Tarleton, I—” she began.

“What you need are shoes,” he muttered gruffly. “Stay here, and rest.” Leaping up, he built a low wall of straw in front of her. “Behold my lady’s chamber,” he whispered.

Not moving from where she lay, Elizabeth watched him through her thick lashes. His presence made her senses spin. For a long moment, she felt as if she were floating. As her heartbeat slowed, soft waves of fatigue enveloped her. The straw beneath her was fresh harvested and smelled sweetly of sun-filled summer days and flowering meadows. Basking in the warmth of Tarleton’s low voice and the memory of the caress of his lips, Elizabeth drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Tarleton smiled ruefully down at her; she looked like a kitten curled in the sun. She was so tiny, barely as tall as his shoulder. “How high is my love?/Just as high as my heart,” sang the old refrain in his head.

“I will return soon,” he whispered, watching her delicate eyelashes fan against her pale cheek. Oh, my lady, what have I done to you? And what have I done to myself?

Turning quickly, he left her.