Lady Of Fire (34 page)

“So like Catherine,” he said. “The looks, the spirit… She lives in you.”

“Pray, Sir Gavin,” she beseeched, “if I am seen, my father will insist I return to the keep.”

“And we would not want that, would we?” He released her.

Snatching the hood over her hair, she said, “As it is the last day, I am determined to see the end of it.”

“Then you will also see my joust.”

She frowned. “I had thought you finished. Yestereve you said—”

“I could not resist one more try. But tell me, will you bestow a favor upon me, little cousin?”

She raised her eyebrows. “A favor from me?”

He laughed. “You need not tell me I am too old, Lady Alessandra. ‘Twould be in remembrance of Catherine only.”

Alessandra’s next words leapt from her before she could think them through. “Were you in love with my mother?”

He looked taken aback. “As I have said, Catherine was like a sister—well loved in that respect. No other.”

Alessandra blushed. “I am sorry. That was rude of me.” She pulled off one of the embroidered red gloves Melissant had given her and handed it to him. “For my mother.” Instantly, she regretted the loss of warmth, for though it was another sunny day, the air was cool.

He tucked the glove beneath his belt. “I will do it honor. Now I must needs seek out the brew ere it is all drunk.”

Alessandra watched him depart, then once more considered the tents. If she discovered which was Lucien’s, would he receive her well? She feared not, but headed for them.

Weaving among those who had eschewed food in favor of watching the preparations of the knights, she quickly located the De Gautier tents of red and gold. Outside the center one, Lucien’s squire polished his lord’s armor. Was Lucien inside?

Alessandra continued forward and was grateful the squire was so intent on his task that he did not look up as she passed.

Outside the tent, she paused to listen for sounds from within, but it was quiet. Had Lucien joined the others who filled their bellies? She peeled aside a corner of the flap.

Back to her, scars more obvious than they had been the night she had ventured to the eunuchs’ quarters, Lucien sat on a stool with his head bowed while his younger brother applied a pungent, herb-soaked cloth to his injuries. Did he sleep, or simply rest?

Alessandra stepped inside. Meeting Jervais’s startled gaze over Lucien’s head, she lowered her hood.

He frowned, but did not react in any way that might alert his brother to her presence.

Footsteps muffled by carpets laid upon the dirt floor, she advanced as Jervais once more dipped the cloth in a bowl that teetered on the small table at his side.

Halting at Lucien’s back, Alessandra reached to Jervais. He narrowed his lids, but passed her the cloth, which she pressed to a livid swelling on Lucien’s shoulder. As she held it there, she looked nearer upon his back. And began to tremble as she took in the numerous scars crisscrossing his shoulder blades, the backs of his upper arms, his lower back, and beyond—the welts he would carry with him into death disappearing beneath the waistband of his chausses.

Lucien came around so swiftly she did not realize he had turned until his face was below hers and her legs trapped between his.

“Oh, Lucien…” She swallowed hard to dislodge the anguish seeking to deny her voice. “I knew it was terrible, but not…” She shook her head, and that slight movement drew her eyes to more recent injuries obtained during the tournament.

These past days had left bruises, gashes, and scabs upon his arms and torso, all of which must have caused him pain, for they were not yet the scars of some distant injury. Any one could have been the end of him, whether some vital organ was struck or infection set in. And yet he continued to accept challengers and subject himself to deadly punishment. For De Gautier lands.

Meeting his reproachful gaze, she silently cursed him, his precious lands, the De Gautiers, even her own family.

“All this,” she hissed, “to avoid wedding a Breville.”

His shoulders rose with a deep breath. “I cannot think of a more worthy cause. Can you?”

Striving to hold back tears, she said, “Once I might have, but now?” She stepped back, and Lucien let her go. But as she made for the tent flap, Jervais stepped into her path. “Brother?” he called.

She peered over her shoulder, saw Lucien close his eyes as if he might return to whatever state he had been in previous to becoming aware of her presence.

He lifted his lids, said wearily, “Stay, Alessandra. We will talk while Jervais armors me.”

She turned toward him. “’Tis clear where your heart lies, Lucien de Gautier. And I want no part of it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not even a small piece? What of the love you professed?”

She drew a deep breath. “I do love you, though I am almost ashamed to once more speak the words.”

The silence between them stretched, then Lucien snatched his tunic from the carpet and dragged it on over his head—doubtless, so she could not look further upon what he had not meant her to see.

Gaining his feet, he said, “Leave us, Jervais.”

Behind Alessandra, the tent flap rustled.

Alone. How long since she and Lucien had shared a space with no others? Too long.

As if his body were one great ache, he stiffly strode toward her. “You are missing a glove,” he said, eyeing her hands clasped at her waist.

“So I am.”

He halted. “Given as a favor?”

“It was.”

“Sir Rexalt again?”

“Nay, another.”

“What of my favor?” He reached up and brushed the hair back from her face. “What will you give the one you love to remember you by when next I do battle?”

Reminding herself she was angry, she fought the impulse to turn her mouth into the calloused palm that grazed her cheek. “What would you have me give you? My girdle? A stocking? What say you to a glove that has sadly parted ways with its match?”

He drew his hand down her jaw, lingered upon her throat. “A memory is all I want.”

She knew she should spurn him as he had spurned her, but she could not move—even when he began to work the brooch fastening her cloak, nor when the garment slipped from her shoulders to her feet.

“You should not,” she breathed.

He lowered his head until his mouth was a moment from hers. “To whom do you belong, Alessandra?”

Him. Only him. She lifted her arms and cupped his bruised face. “Pray, do not enter the lists again, Lucien. Take me to wife, and the lands will be yours.”
 

He brushed his lips across hers. “I cannot. Now tell me—who, Alessandra?”

She was tempted to fall back into anger, to stamp a foot and pout, but it was a woman she aspired to be—a woman to this man. “I belong to you, Lucien de Gautier.”

How she loved that mere words from her mouth caused his mouth to curve.

“Are you certain ’tis love you feel for me?”

“I am.”

He drew his head back. “Look at me, Alessandra. I am no prize. Every place, I am scarred. Even before the crescent was cut into my face, I had not the beauty of Vincent, not even Jervais.”

She touched it, traced its path to the corner of his eye. “You are not handsome like Vincent, nor Rashid,” she acceded, then drew her hand down and pressed it to where his heart beat. “Here, though, you are most beautiful—or will be if ever you let yourself feel it. It is that which I love.”

Lucien longed to believe she truly was different from the two to whom he had been betrothed. Since the day he had arrived at Corburry to participate in the tournament, he had watched her closely when possible. And never had he seen her look at Vincent with the same cow-eyed longing as other women did. On the first day of the tournament, when he had seen her viewing the banners and helms, she had seemed reluctant—even annoyed—at Vincent’s attempt to engage her in conversation. And when he had left her, she had done something out of sight of all.

Only later had he discovered what it was. When he had accepted his helm from his squire, the smudge of a cross where it broke the perfect polish had caught the light of the sun. Alessandra had blessed it.

The renewal of faith in womankind had begun to spread through him. But then she had given her favor to Sir Rexalt.

As much as the need to regain his lands, jealousy had driven him to fight that day, and to fight over and again these last days. From it, he had gained the strength to defeat his challengers and accept new ones, even when the weight of his armor threatened to bear him to the ground.

“I am yours, Lucien,” she said again.

“I am glad,” he said and pulled her against him. “Now, the favor.”

He parted her lips beneath his, lightly drew his fingers down her spine, splayed them against the small of her back. “Mine, indeed,” he said and deepened the kiss.

Alessandra slid her arms around his neck, her hands into his hair, and pressed herself nearer.

Gripped by the discomfort he had experienced on the ship when he had lain with her in the cot, he stepped back. “I must armor for the joust.”

Hurt flashed across her face, and she caught his arm. “No more, Lucien. I beg you, stop now.”

“I cannot.”

Anger, frustration, and fear took their turns on her face, then she asked in a rush, “Do you love me?”

On that, neither could he accommodate her. “Alessandra, I will be late to the lists.”

Her teeth snapped. “If you truly cared for me, you would not do this. You would lay down your arms and reject further challenges.”

His own anger stirred. “You give me an ultimatum?”

She looked stricken, but said, “I do.”

Lucien pulled his arm free. “Then you lose.”

She dropped her chin, but not before he glimpsed moisture in her eyes. Turning her back on him, she scooped up her cloak.

As Lucien watched her jerk the garment around her shoulders, the misery coming off her yanked at his caged emotions. But as much as he wanted to explain all to her, there was not time. Nor was there any guarantee all would fall into place despite what James had agreed to in the heat of anger. Brevilles were treacherous like that.

Lord help me,
he silently beseeched,
I am weary.

The tent flap parted.

“Pardon.” Jervais said. “The bishop comes this way.”

Alessandra swung back to Lucien, her fear-widened eyes reminding him of the night she had come to the eunuchs’ quarters.

“Someone shadows you,” he said, then addressed his brother. “Delay him.”

Jervais inclined his head and departed.

Lucien stepped forward, refastened Alessandra’s brooch, and pulled her across the tent.

“You intend to hide me here?” she asked. “Where?”

He drew her to the far side of the tent, released her, and swept his dagger from its scabbard. Punching the blade’s tip through the heavy canvas, he sliced an opening waist-high to the ground. Once assured none lurked on the backside of the tent, he said, “Go,” and thrust the canvas aside. “We will not be caught again.”

She bent, paused. “Lucien—”

“Alessandra, this time the punishment will not be mine.” He gave her a push. “Go!”

It was no empty threat. Unlike in Algiers when he had been beaten like an animal, most—if not all—of the blame would be hers for being alone with a man not her husband.

“Just tell me this,” she beseeched. “Do you or do you not love me?”

He glanced toward the tent flap, beyond which could be heard the voices of the two outside. “Love is an emotion reserved for children. And we are not children, Alessandra.”

Did something in her eyes die? he wondered even as he named himself a cur. Later, he told himself. Now was not the time to work out the emotions he had battled with ever since he had first laid eyes upon her.

Jaw quivering, she said, “Farewell, Lucien,” and disappeared through the opening.

He retrieved a stool, placed it before the torn canvas, and lowered himself just as Bishop Armis entered.

“You are alone, De Gautier.” The man made no attempt to hide his surprise.

“You expected otherwise?”

“I thought you might be enjoying a woman’s company.” He stepped forward, his gaze searching the corners of the tent.

“I speak of a joy woman, of course.” The bishop brushed his fingers across the dusty top of the trunk containing Lucien’s belongings.

“Then you have mistaken me.”

“‘Twould seem so.” Bishop Armis looked up. “You will, of course, provide us a good show this afternoon, hmm?”

Lucien resisted the urge to demonstrate his prowess that very moment. “Certes, a performance worthy of you, most esteemed bishop.”

“I look forward to it.” The man inclined his head and swept from the tent in a flurry of silken robes.

Lucien eased his heavy shoulders. Something was unfolding. Something that would do Alessandra harm if she did not tread more carefully. Pondering what it might be, and who the players were, he strode to the small box he had earlier tossed on his cot. He lifted the lid and picked out the belled anklet to which he had added a length of chain. He considered it, then fastened it around his neck.

Since the night Alessandra had left it behind, he had worn it beneath his armor, the noise of the crowd and the clank of metal masking its soft peal. He was certain it had brought him good fortune, and just as certain his purse would be more heavily weighted within the hour. Enough to buy back De Gautier lands.

Then he would explain all to Alessandra. And, God willing, she would still have him.

I am sick of it all
, Lucien silently acknowledged as he wheeled his horse around to discover the fate of his fallen opponent.

The man lay motionless, his left pauldron—that piece of articulated shoulder armor which Lucien’s lance had broken free—thrown to the opposite end of the lists.

Lucien thrust his visor back and waited with the crowd as the squire of the downed man dropped to his knees, lifted his lord’s visor, and peered inside.

The long silence boded ill.

Had the knight broken his neck in the fall? Lucien wondered as he was shot through with regret, guilt, and something near self loathing. Though it could be said to have been a fair joust, and many would see it as confirmation of his mastery of the game, he wanted to shout to the heavens at the injustice of it.