Heart of a Knight (14 page)

Thomas did not belong here, and they would sense it about him, just as young Robert had done. Women cared less for such things than men.

With the dawn, he would take Alice and move on. She would object, for she had grown comfortable here, but it was dangerous to stay.

But as if the fates meant to taunt him, Lady Elizabeth appeared at the door to the hall. Excitement showed in her flushed face. She paused at the top of the steps, her hands on the rail, and called out a greeting, lifting an arm.

A swift, sharp wave of yearning struck Thomas. Her hair was loose, a tumbling mass of darkness that shone with deep gloss around her body. One tendril fell over her shoulder, curved round a breast, outlining the dip of waist and flare of hip, and brushed down to her knee. She came down the steps as lightly as a cat, clad in green. He glimpsed her small feet and neat ankles below the gown, and thought of putting his mouth against that delicate joint.

He'd kept himself aloof from his desire for her till now, telling himself she was too richly born for the likes of him. But as he stood in the shadows of the stable, thinking of the very real possibility that he might never gaze upon her face again after this night, a rebellious need rose in him. A need to touch her, to hear her breath against his neck, and feel that hair whisper over his body; a need to kiss her, deeply, till she trembled.

She strode now across the yard, her skirts kicking up before her, and he watched the gossamer surcoat slide over her hips, the fabric somehow illuminating the curve of her buttocks with gloss-ings of faint light.

Yesterday, when she had been in his arms, he'd seen her forget that she was a fine lady and he only a common knight. There had been heat on her lips, and curious, unwilling desire in her eyes. He had wanted to taste the heat on those lips, and tease it to a greater fire, and feel her body soften against his.

Instead, she had realized what she revealed, and pushed away from him, and he'd let her go.

He narrowed his eyes, searching the faces of the party once more, carefully, to be sure he had missed nothing. One night was all he asked. One night to perhaps coax her to kiss him one time.

An annoyed cry drew his attention back to the steps to the hall. Isobel, half dragged by stout Nurse, who grinned happily as she hauled the girl into the yard. As ever, Isobel was precisely groomed—if a vainer soul had lived in a girl's heart, Thomas had never seen it. For once, her adornments were simple—a deep sapphire tunic with a gold surcoat trimmed in miniver, with only a golden girdle around her waist, and a simple veil over her head. Nothing could cover the abundance of that figure, however, and Thomas glanced toward the gathered men as she approached, watching in amusement as the young lord struggled to hide his delighted astonishment, and hurried forward to bow over her hand. Isobel only tolerated it, and snatched her hand back quickly. When Nurse thrust an elbow in her ribs, she curtsied low.

Thomas spied Lady Elizabeth looking over her shoulder, most likely for some sign of him. A finger of dread thrust up through his gut, but he would be missed if he delayed any longer.

He stepped from the shadows, praying with all his soul that his face caused no trigger of memory in any of the men, that none would know his secret. On the morrow, he would leave here, but he most heartily wished for this night to call his own.

Isobel ached. The feast should have been an evening of triumph; she had schemed for a week on the best way to attract the attention of Lord Thomas this night. She thought she could make him fall in love with her; it had been her most powerful gift since she was twelve: men loved her when she wished it, and often when she did not.

She did not lie to herself; the knight was clearly more interested in seeing Lady Elizabeth in his bed, dismissing Isobel as a callow girl with nothing to offer him. She'd heard the village girls gossiping about his prowess, and his lusty appetites, but he let none of those girls into his bedchamber now. His lust was focused upon one woman.

In a way, Isobel liked that fixed attention. It illustrated that he could have a faithful heart if it were engaged. She only wished to focus it upon her instead of her stepmother. A man of such virility would be wasted upon Elizabeth.

But since it was upon Elizabeth that Thomas had gazed with such favor, Isobel had studied her stepmother to see what she might learn. To her surprise, it was not difficult to see why a man might like such a woman—she laughed easily, and she was kind when she spoke, even to the lowest minion. Her figure was slim and graceful, though Isobel could not see what a man could like about the boyish bosom, she knew some men did.

Elizabeth's greatest beauty, however, was in her hair. Hair that was utterly unlike Isobel's blonde curls that halted their growth at the middle of her back no matter how often she washed it in nettles or brushed it or tugged on it.

There was nothing to be done about that. The one thing Isobel could do was imitate her stepmother's simple graciousness, and demure, ladylike attire. She would hide her insignificant hair under a veil, and wear a gown that fit her properly, and she would not be bold, only laughingly flirtatious. For days, she had planned what to wear, how to behave tonight.

Tonight, she was to have danced with him, and begun her seduction.

And now it was ruined. Instead of dancing with the dark and virile Thomas, Isobel would be forced to spend her hours in the company of this milky imitation of a man. He was no more than a boy, really, not more than a year older than herself. What would she want with a boy?

Examining him from below her lashes, Isobel saw that he was fair. She might have been pleased indeed had she not seen Lord Thomas first, but next to the dark, giant Thomas, Stephen was a slim little stick, washed plain of color.

She glowered at Elizabeth. As if they had agreed to change strategies, it was Elizabeth tonight who looked as if she knew her way around a man's pleasure. The emerald of jewel and fabric set off the light in her vivid eyes, and there was something about the way her clothing moved about her that drew the attention to her breasts and waist. And to Isobel's dismay, Elizabeth had left her hair loose. It was unseemly for a widow, but no one seemed to mind—it was too beautiful. She had every right to be vain over such hair.

And oh, Lord Thomas noticed! As the evening's festivities progressed, he left Elizabeth to the business of entertaining guests, but Isobel saw him watching her, his eyes hungry, Isobel would die to have him look that way at her—and Lyssa did not even notice.

As they feasted on the roasted stag, goose, and raisin cakes covered with precious icing, Stephen leaned close to Isobel, his eyes moist with desire so plain it annoyed her. "Will you dance, fair Isobel? Mayhap you will not find me lacking if you but give me but a moment's chance."

A swell of irritation rose in her. "And mayhap, you'll be more lacking than ever," she said sharply, and stood up, unable to bear another moment. As she hurried away, she heard Lyssa speak her name sharply. Isobel ignored her.

She took refuge in the dairy, where none would bother her, and there sunk close to the cool wall and wept bitterly. It was so unfair that the king could simply say, "Marry," and marry she would, or face the consequences.

But how could she marry Stephen when she loved Thomas? For she did not doubt that she loved him. Never had she wanted a man as she wanted this one. She ached for his attention, hung on every smile he bestowed upon her, listened for his beautiful voice in the passageways. She dreamed of kissing him until her body burned.

There must be some way to thwart Lyssa's plans for her. But what?

She peered into the darkness with narrowed eyes, as a plan revealed itself. It was not ideal, perhaps even a little evil. She faced humiliation and complete disaster at worst. But at best, she might just win the husband she wished.

Buoyed, she made her way back to her chamber, and washed her face in cool water, then changed her clothes. There were some tools no man could resist—and Isobel had made it her business to know them all.

The feast, lent grandeur by the appearance of Stephen's party, was bright with laughter and good humor, and Lyssa refused to allow the sulking of a spoiled child ruin it for her. She enjoyed it as much as any of the villagers, for it gave her a chance to celebrate her return to her home, and her reunion with people she had feared would be dead. She ate heartily of the game and motrews and honeyed cakes and young carrots, and drank as freely as any villager of the ciders and ales that flowed like water into upheld cups.

Since Isobel proved difficult, Lyssa kept Stephen de Kivelsworthy next to her. She let him entertain her with tales of court, and the doings of Edward's rather spoiled daughter Isabella, and the queen's growing plumpness. She asked after her sister Eleanor, who was well.

Seeing that Kivelsworthy only half-heartedly listened to her, one eye on the door through which Isobel had disappeared, Lyssa sighed. "You must not take to heart her actions this night, my lord. She is headstrong and proud, and she did not know I had asked for a husband for her."

Even in the light of sputtering torches set around the bailey yard, Lyssa saw the deepening of color in his cheeks. "Am I so obvious?"

"Only to me."

He turned wide blue eyes to Lyssa. "She far surpasses her reputation as a beauty. There is no lovelier maid in all of England." Then, as if horrified, he added hastily, "Aside from yourself, of course."

Lyssa laughed. "No need to flatter me, sir. I am many years past maidenhood, and well-used to the dazzlement my stepdaughter causes." She touched his arm kindly. "She is fortunate to have been matched to a young and handsome knight who will care well for her."

"Mayhap she will come to see it so." Lifting a cup of ale, he sobered. "'Tis that we must speak of—our betrothal. I have me an errand to deliver on behalf of my father to an estate well south of here. We must fly in two days. Think you it better to let the formal declaration lie till we return? Perhaps then she will have warmed to me a bit."

"Nay, I do not wish to wait. It will be a formal betrothal before you leave, and then she may warm or not as she pleases." With a faint frown, she added, "She is headstrong. You will have to tame her."

Stephen's attention was seized in such a way that Lyssa knew without turning that Isobel had reappeared. The youth lowered his cup, his mouth agape, and before he seemed to even know, he had half-risen. In a hushed voice, he said, "I vow 'twill be worth any taming."

Lyssa turned, and narrowed her eyes. Somehow, Isobel had kept the red silk gown she was forbidden to wear, and she glowed in it like a single tongue of flame. It set alight her pale hair, which she'd left free beneath a gold-shot veil. Her plump white breasts strained against the bodice long out grown, and near spilled free.

And above it all was that face, so perfectly of the moment with the high white forehead and slim delicate nose, and the wide blue eyes that gave her such an air of innocence. It was the very play of innocent eyes and face against seductive red and lush flesh that made her so irresistible.

Seeing the effect she had on Stephen, Lyssa decided to leave the girl to her tricks; whether she meant them for Stephen or not, the youth would now kill rather than let another man possess her.

"A word, sir," Lyssa said.

He could not bear to take his eyes from Isobel for even a moment; he glanced at Lyssa, then back hungrily at Isobel, who joined a dance beneath the rushlights. "Speak quickly, my lady, I beg you."

"It is that eagerness that will cause you dismay, Stephen. She is used to the attentions of all men, and you will intrigue her only if she thinks you are not already caught."

Stephen gave her an expression of dismay. "But, lady, how will I—?"

She lifted a shoulder. "The particulars I leave to you. But if you wish to truly possess her, you will heed my advice."

The chin, so hard in that angelic face, lifted. "I will try."

Lyssa watched him depart, wondering if he would have the strength. Already there were knots of young men forming around the bright flower, as if they were bees needful of her nectar.

A hand fell, briefly, against her shoulder, then lifted. Thomas rounded her and took the place Stephen had vacated. "So long a face, my lady!" he said lightly. "Methinks you have not drunk enough wine."

"Wine cures only an hour's care," Lyssa said, but she took the cup he offered.

"So, for this hour, forget." He lifted his own cup and drank deeply, his eyes upon her face. In the torchlight, the irises were like pools of dark water. Flames danced on the surface. "Tomorrow is soon enough to worry again." His grin flashed. "'Tis very fine wine."

Lyssa smiled. To show him a spirit of festivity, she drank the cool, intoxicating beverage, feeling it warm her belly and limbs. It tasted of summer and harvest and cool, moonlit nights. "It
is
very good wine," she said, tasting it again on her lips.

He sat with his legs outstretched before him, lazily crossed at the ankles, his elbows propped on the table behind him, and Lyssa admired the long exposed length of him—the breadth of his chest, the sleek line of his waist and lean hips, the long, long legs. How had she never realized how pleasing it could be to admire a man thus? To simply enjoy the way he fit together? Her tongue loosened with wine, she said suddenly, "I am glad the blizzard trapped you here, Lord Thomas. I have not enjoyed the company of a man much before this." She held up her cup and drank, smiling bemusedly at the realization.

But he seemed not to know how to answer her. The amusement that danced so often upon his face was replaced with a more intent expression. "I am thankful," he said softly. "For else I'd not be sitting here in the dark with the most beautiful lady in all of England."

Her stomach twisted. How she wanted to believe he truly thought her so fair! But he was adept at flattery, and she would do well to remember it. She gave him a wry smile and gestured toward Isobel. "Then, you have not been looking, sir."

"She is beautiful," he said agreeably. "There are many beautiful women at Woodell. But none so lovely as you, my lady."