Lady Of Fire (33 page)

Shortly, music sang upon the air as the minstrels played a tune that brought the young people to their feet.

From the sidelines, Alessandra and Melissant watched others take up the dance that soon turned vigorous.

“It surprises me,” Alessandra said. “I did not know the English could dance so. The steps Lucien taught me were slower and more controlled. This reminds me—”

“Lucien taught you to dance? When?”

She had not meant to reveal that. “On the ship. He schooled me in many things English, dance being one of them.”

Melissant smiled. “Only the slow dances, I wager—those where he held your hand and turned you about.”

Recalling Lucien’s warning, Alessandra did not mention he had also shown her the more intimate peasants’ dance. Her toes curled in her slippers in remembrance of his body brushing hers, pressing, withdrawing.

Deciding it best to turn the conversation, Alessandra nodded at the dance floor. “What is this dance called?”

Melissant laughed, but obliged. “The tourdion.”

“It is livelier than the other dances.”

“Would you like to try?”

Alessandra longed to, but was reluctant in the presence of the bishop and Agnes. “Nay, I am content to watch.”

“Liar.”

Alessandra sighed. “That I am.”

“Resist as long as you can,” Melissant said and crossed to a group of young noblemen. Shortly, a partner in tow, she joined the others on the dance floor.

As Alessandra watched the quick, vibrant steps of the couples who smiled broadly and spilt laughter, she struggled to keep the music from sliding beneath her skin. But it found its way in, tempting her feet to move and body to sway.

She closed her eyes to block the sight, but behind her lids arose the women dancers of the harem. Gossamer garb billowing, they turned and twisted, leapt and sprang, bent and arched, spread arms wide and drew them close. And there Alessandra found herself, joining them with abandon that would surely earn her Jabbar’s reproach. But all that mattered was now. This moment. The dance.

She lifted her arms, circled her hips, and gave her feet to the rhythm.

Marvelous!
her body sang.

Deeper the music pulled her into its embrace, tighter it wrapped around her.

More!
pealed the bells about her ankles.

Laughing, she dropped her head back. And in the midst of unfolding joy, acknowledged something was not right.

Where was the caress of light garments, the brush and tickle of unbound hair catching in eyes and mouth?

The garments she could do nothing about, but her hair…

She pulled free the pins that secured the braids to her head and dragged fingers through the crossed sections of hair. As it tumbled past her shoulders and joined her in the sway of the dance, she once more raised her arms and teased the air with her fingers.

Beyond slightly raised lids, she glimpsed a large figure, felt the heat it radiated, then the brush of hands. She laughed and whirled away—only to find it once more in her path, and this time a hand gripped her arm.

Alessandra opened her eyes and startled to find before her the one person she had not expected to see this evening—Lucien. But a Lucien who no longer wore the turban and robes of a eunuch. A Lucien whose stern countenance dropped her back down in England.

Breathing hard, she looked past him into faces that reflected shock, among them Agnes’s and the bishop’s. Even the musicians whose instruments had gone silent, stared at her. The couples who had been dancing moments—or was it minutes—before, stood on the outskirts of the dance floor, leaving Alessandra and Lucien near its center.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

Realizing that what she had done had not been in her head, she returned her gaze to his. “I do not know…”

“Your hand,” he repeated.

When she remained unmoving, he reached and lifted it in his own. Then, with a nod to the minstrels who scrambled to accommodate him, he led Alessandra into the first of the dances he had taught her.

“Smile,” he said, “and do not forget your feet.”

She did as told, focusing on his face so she would not have to look upon the others who surely condemned her for her behavior.

Though Lucien was hardly pleasant to look at, numerous cuts, bruises, and abrasions causing his crescent-shaped scar to pale in comparison, she could not imagine anyone she would rather rest eyes upon. Whence had he come?

“Lucien?”

“Later,” he quieted her.

 
Not until well into the dance did the other couples return to the floor, and the dance that followed—another lively number—lessened the rapt attention with which they were regarded.

“Now?” she asked.

“Later.”

Telling herself to be content with being so near him, she concentrated on the steps he guided her through. It still amazed her that one so large could move as smoothly as he did. As on the ship, he made her feel one with him, the meeting of their hands the point at which they flowed together.

With the commencement of the next dance, Lucien ushered her from the floor and into an alcove.

Alessandra smiled up at him. “Once again, you save me. I thank you.”

He did not return her smile. “Did your father not warn you of the punishment of heretics?”

She felt her insides sink. Though his displeasure was deserved, she did not need to be told. “I am not a heretic,” she said, squinting to pick out his features amid the shadows.

“You learned naught from what happened today, did you?” he snapped. “You don the bells and flaunt the dance of an infidel without thought of the consequences.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had purposely worn the bells, but the dance had just happened. “I do not understand why you care,” she said. “I hear nothing from you for weeks, and when you finally appear, you ignore me as if we never shared a kiss.”

Lucien caught her chin and lifted it. “We shared more than a kiss, Alessandra.”

His acknowledgment made her mouth go dry. “Did it mean anything to you?”

“Had it not, I would have left you to your dance and the bishop’s denunciation.”

Meaning he still felt something for her? “If that is true, why do you cause your body to suffer so much abuse when what you seek could be had by wedding me?”

“I am not craven, Alessandra!”

Images of him exchanging blows with her father rose before her. “Certes, not in battle. Indeed, you are very nearly an animal—one who chooses bloodshed and preservation of the De Gautier name over peace.”

“You do not understand,” he said gruffly.

She pulled free and stepped back, causing the bells to peal softly. “I do understand. You do not love me as I love you. And even if you did, you would not allow yourself to feel it past your loathing of the Brevilles.”

Whatever might have shown upon Lucien’s face was lost in shadow. “There is one rule of war you would benefit from knowing,” he said. “Never let your enemy know the emotions which drive you, for he will turn them against you.”

War. Enemy. Emotions. His choice of words felt like a fist to her belly. “It is good to know you and I are at war, Lucien de Gautier,” she said. “Until now, I had not realized I was your enemy.”

Lucien stared at her, hated himself for being responsible for the hurt upon her face.
 
It was true she was his enemy, but not in the broader sense of the word. She was the enemy of his heart. But if it would keep her from the lists and mock carnage, he would not disabuse her of the notion. Once he regained his lands, there would be time aplenty for explanation.

“All Brevilles are my enemy,” he said. Words only, but intended to send her away until the time was right.

Alessandra drew herself up to her full height, turned, and walked opposite.

Brave shoulders, Lucien thought. They did not slump or sag, but remained squared as if she went into battle. But something was missing—bells. Her departure had not been accompanied by their music.

Catching the glint of gold where she had stood, he scooped up the anklet. It was still warm from her flesh. Accursed bells. They were the reason he had come from his tent in the first place. Having left the banquet early, Vincent had mentioned the speculation caused by the sound coming from beneath Alessandra’s skirts.

Though Lucien had ached from head to foot, his body demanding rest, he had once again appointed himself her savior and arrived in the hall to discover her the center of attention. Like the others, he had stared at her exotic dance. Unlike the others, he had momentarily slipped into memories of the first time he had laid eyes upon her.

He had not intended to dance with her, but to drag her from the dance floor. But it had seemed natural—and safest—to take her into his arms. And he had savored every moment.

Lucien stepped into the light, opened his palm, and considered the miniature bells. Alessandra would not know it, but he would carry them into the tournament on the morrow. A favor ill-gotten, but his.

Alessandra closed the door of her chamber, leaned back against it, and released the sob she had barely kept down. Though she hated the self-pity gripping her, she could not prevent tears from spilling over.

“What more must I do to gain his love?” she addressed the darkness. He cared for her, but not as much as she cared for him.

Wiping the back of a hand across her eyes, she started to move away from the door, but halted at the sound of laughter.

Straining to hear who passed outside the door, she recognized Agnes’s voice. To whomever she was with, she spoke husky words, then laughed in a way that sounded of intimacy.

Did Agnes intend to cuckold James? Did she seek to lessen the pain of his love for Catherine by spending time in another’s arms?

Once the couple had passed by, Alessandra eased open her door and peered down the corridor. And blinked in surprise.

It was James to whom Agnes spoke words of love, his arm around her that guided them toward their chamber, he who paused and covered her mouth with his, his voice that said, “I do love you.”

Agnes tipped her head farther back. “Even though I am not Catherine?”

He heaved a sigh. “Foolish woman. How you anger me, how you test every whit of my patience, how you make me want to shake you ’til your teeth clack.” Another sigh. “Of course I love you, but stop asking me to prove it. I have done enough.”

She rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his, then walked beside him to their chamber.

Gently, Alessandra pushed the door closed. It was a side to both Agnes and James she had not expected. Well they played the warring lord and lady of Corburry, but there was tenderness, too—as there had been between her mother and Jabbar.

The difference was that if Agnes and James remained faithful to each other, there would be no other with whom to share their affections. On the other hand, though Jabbar had loved Sabine, his other wives and concubines had time and again come between them.

Alessandra sank down on her bed and dragged the covers over her. “I see, Mother,” she murmured, better understanding Sabine’s insistence that her daughter was unsuited to life and marriage in Algiers.

One man, one woman. Lucien and Alessandra.

Dare she continue to hope?

Alessandra had intended to stay away—had not wanted to witness more bloodshed—but the final day of the tournament had drawn her back to the lists. It was not that she wished to join in the revelry. Rather, she thought it might be her last chance to see Lucien before he returned to Falstaff.

Lest her father caught sight of her, she hid her hair beneath the hood of her cloak and kept her head down as she moved among the crowd. Eschewing the pavilions, she made a place for herself at the sidelines where lesser nobles and villeins watched.

The jousts that followed, and the occasional foot combats, were tame compared with the battle she had witnessed between Lucien and her father. In fact, Alessandra found much of it interesting, though she still thought it a primitive means of proving one’s valor.

Vincent de Gautier’s entrance into the lists caused a stir. Surprised, Alessandra listened as the chief marshal announced his victories. Of the four jousts in which he had participated, he had lost only one—to Melissant’s uncle, Sir Gavin.

In the evening, Alessandra had heard only tales of Lucien’s victories, each bringing him closer to his goal of regaining his lands. Having been privy to none of Vincent’s and Jervais’s successes, she had assumed they had not prevailed.

Now, curious as to how this De Gautier fought compared with his older brother, Alessandra watched as he readied himself at one end of the tilt. The cry “do battle” sounded, and Vincent and his opponent sent their horses charging toward each other. Then the crack of their meeting…

Lances broken, Vincent and the other knight took up position again, and again met midway down the tilt. This time, Vincent unseated his opponent who tumbled to the ground amid the clamor of armor.

“Fairly downed!” the crowd shouted.

Vincent thrust his lance high.

Alessandra looked to the center pavilion where Melissant clapped and shrieked, and to which Agnes put a quick end.

It seemed Melissant was not immune to Vincent. Because he had redeemed himself with this show of valor?

Two jousts later, Jervais also proved he was capable, gaining ransom from his opponent after only one run down the lists.

How close were the De Gautiers to regaining their land? Alessandra wondered, thinking the ransom of horse and armor must be quite high.

The chief marshal interrupted her ponderings with the announcement of a break in the tournament and the promise of two challenges Lucien had accepted to be played out following the respite.

Hungry for the vendors’ savory meat pies and pastries, the crowd dispersed, leaving Alessandra staring toward the tents pitched nearby.

Resisting the urge to seek out Lucien, she turned and walked into a wall—of sorts. A chuckle rose from the chest before her and a hand whipped back her hood.

Sir Gavin grinned. “I thought ’twas you.”

She reached to retrieve her hood, but he stayed her hand.