The Maiden and Her Knight (15 page)

When he told her he was too old for kisses, she never did it again—but she always brushed back his hair, and he never asked her to stop that small, loving caress.

When he was in the Holy Land so far from home and lonely, he would have given anything to have her kiss him once more, or brush the hair from his forehead and bid him a gentle good night.

He sang the last notes low and tender, as if bidding her the farewell he never got to say.

When he finished, Allis sat with her head bowed so that he couldn't see her face.

Lady Isabelle wiped her eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, that was lovely! It was about ill-fated lovers, wasn't it?”

“No. It's a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.”

“It was wonderful, quite wonderful, even if I couldn't understand a word,” Lord Oswald declared. “What do you think, Auberan?”

“I suppose he sings well enough,” Auberan grudgingly conceded. “I've heard Norman minstrels who are better.”

Allis still had not looked up.

“What does my lady say?” Connor gently prompted. It was the weakness of vanity, but he very much wanted to hear her opinion.

She didn't reply. Instead, she shoved back her chair and ran toward the stairway leading up to her father's bedchamber.

Connor sat heavily, too dismayed to do anything but stare at the steps.

Edmond sat beside him, putting his arm companionably around Connor's shoulder. “I didn't think it was so
very
bad. If you like, we can play chess.”

Connor stopped looking at the stairway and gave the boy half a smile as he ruffled his hair. “If you like.”

That would take some time, and he wanted to stay in the hall until he had a chance to speak to Allis and apologize. Of all the things he had been trying to do with his song, he hadn't meant to upset her.

 

As the evening wore on, Connor began to fear Isabelle and Edmond were never going to go to bed without Allis telling them to. Even Lord Oswald's weary assertion that it was time to retire had little consequence. Auberan lingered, too, yet he eventually departed, so that at last, only Connor, Isabelle, Edmond and those soldiers who slept there remained in the hall.

When Edmond's head was nearly lying on the
chessboard and he could hardly speak for yawning, Connor decided that, guest or not, he had no choice but to take command. “Lordling, go to bed, or you will fall off your horse and break your neck tomorrow.”

Edmond raised his sleepy eyes. “One more move and I shall have you.”

“One more move and you will fall into my clever trap. The game is over, and it is time for you to go to sleep.”

“Everybody always orders me about,” Edmond complained, rubbing his eyes.

“If you are to be a squire, you had best get used to that. Being a squire is like being a servant, only with better food. Now
off to bed.
”

Reluctantly, Edmond finally stood and went toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber.

Now only Isabelle remained, seated near the hearth and doing her embroidery. The question was, how could he get Isabelle to her room without leaving the hall himself?

She moved her embroidery stand to the side of her chair and rose. “Is the game so truly decided? If not, I will take Edmond's place and finish the match.”

“The hour grows late, my lady.”

“But not so very late. After all, Edmond is but twelve years old, and I am nearly sixteen. Many ladies of my age are already married, so I should not be bundled off to bed like a child.”

She was right, so all he could do was shrug and say, “The game is perhaps not as decided as I led Edmond to believe. If you would care to take his place, you are welcome.”

She smiled and sat opposite him.

If she was going to be there, he might as well try to
discover what had happened that afternoon. “Tell me, Lady Isabelle, why was Sir Auberan so sour at the evening meal?”

Isabelle chewed her lip as she studied the board. “He was annoyed with Allis.”

“So I gathered. Why?”

“She said she wished he would leave Montclair.”

“To his face?” he asked incredulously.

“No, to me, but he overheard. He was very angry and she was very upset.” She raised her eyes to look at him. “Allis cares too much what people think of her. She has always been that way, but it's been worse since Mama died. She expects Edmond and me to be perfect, too.”

He recognized that grudging tone of voice, for he had used it himself when Caradoc criticized him. Now, as he listened, he heard the childish petulance and regretted that he had spoken so to his brother, who had been right to question the cost of what Connor had desired.

As for Allis, she was not wrong to be wary of the criticism of society. He had lived as an outcast long enough to know it was lonely, sad and difficult. Neither was she wrong to ask Isabelle to be careful, too. “I don't think she asks more of you than she does of herself.”

Isabelle moved her queen. “I don't care what people think of me.”

He studied the board, then shifted his bishop. “Perhaps because you have your sister to worry about that for you, and to smooth over any mistakes you make.”

“It was I who smoothed over Allis's mistake today,” she replied with a hint of pique. “I went to Sir Auberan and persuaded him to stay.”

“May I ask how?”

“I told him Allis would be very upset if he left, which is quite true.”

“Was that all?” he asked with his most persuasive manner.

“Well, I cried.”

Connor hid his knowing smirk. No doubt Isabelle's tears were a valuable weapon.

While Allis…It would take a great deal to make her weaken enough to cry, especially in public. She would hate revealing that much vulnerability, as would he. “It might have been better to let him leave, given the way he was behaving tonight.”

“That's what I think, too, but Allis wouldn't agree. She's afraid he will tell everybody how rude she was and our family honor will suffer.”

“It might.”

Isabelle tossed her blond head. “Well, what if it did?”

“A family's lost honor is not something to be treated lightly, my lady, as I well know.”

She moved another piece. “Not even if it is lost in a good or just cause? Not even for love?”

He wondered what she meant by that, then decided this was a subject best avoided, and this conversation must come to a close. He could not stay in the hall all night, no matter what he wanted to do. “Who can say when a motive is purely unselfish?” he queried as he shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “When you see your sister, will you please tell her I meant no harm with my song?”

“Yes, of course. Checkmate!”

Connor stared at the board. She was right. Good God, she had snatched victory from him without him seeing it coming.

He raised his eyes, to see her grinning, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “I see I underestimated your skill, my lady.”

“A lot of people do.”

“I give you good night, my lady.”

“Good night, Sir Connor,” she replied as she watched him stride from the hall, a triumphant smile still on her face.

I
n the still, dark hours of the night, Allis sat beside her father's bed watching him toss and turn. He mumbled and muttered, and sometimes wept, too. She held his hand, hoping that would quiet him. Often that simple thing seemed to bring him comfort. Or perhaps it only pleased her to think that her loving presence made a difference.

When he finally fell into a deeper sleep, Allis sighed wearily and leaned forward, laying her forehead on the bed beside his thin, frail arm. Once, together with her mother, he had made the world a safe and secure place. Once, he had been as strong as Connor.

When she had watched Connor sing tonight, his eyes closed and a peaceful smile upon his face, love in every note and syllable, she had remembered a better time, when she had been happy and carefree. She had
yearned for those blissful, innocent times, then realized that in truth she didn't really long for the past to return. She craved a different present, one that allowed her to be with him, as his wife.

When she was with him, she felt so much more than secure and happy. Then, it was as if there were a whole new realm of joy awaiting her, full of peace and security, as well as the excitement of a passion that made her heart sing and her blood throb and that titillated her whole body. The thrill of mutual, fervent desire poured through her, where before there had been only the bleak despair of an arranged marriage to a man whose touch repelled her, and the cold comfort of duty done.

She didn't want Connor to leave Montclair. She wanted him to stay and be part of her family. To be her friend, her lover, her husband.

“Please, Father,” she softly prayed, “show me a way.”

The earl lifted his trembling hand and laid it on the top of her head. “Allis?”

She had not been talking to him, but he must have roused and thought she was. “Yes, Father?”

His face shone in the moonlight, and worry knit his brow. “Are you crying?”

“I was thinking about a song I heard today, that's all.”

“What song?”

He sounded tender, concerned—almost like his old self, in the days when he would comfort her after she had hurt herself, or been upset over some little thing like a missing toy. “A song one of our guests sang. It was a lullaby, and very sweet.”

“Did I hear it?”

Her chest constricted with dread. “No, Father, you were not in the hall tonight. You took your evening meal here in your chamber.”

“Oh, yes, just so. Who sang the song?”

“A Welshman, Sir Connor of Llanstephan.”

“A Welshman? He was a fine singer, then?”

“Very.”

“Good enough to make you weep over his song, eh?” her father asked with a hint of gentle humor.

He sounded so well, so happy. “Yes, but not just then. I was resting.”

“Perhaps he will sing it for me tomorrow.”

“I shall ask him. How is your head, Father?”

“Much better. It doesn't hurt at all. Indeed, tonight nothing aches.”

“Oh, I am so glad!”

“But I'm tired. Very tired. I was having a strange dream, Allis, about your mother and me. We had quarreled over something—I can't remember what—and she left me all in a huff, the way she used to sometimes. Do you remember?”

“She never stayed angry for long.”

“No, because I would find a way to make her laugh. I always could, you know, Allis. I could always make her laugh.”

“I remember.”

“Marry a man who gives you laughter, Allis.”

Another knot of dread balled in her stomach. “I am already betrothed, Father, to Baron DeFrouchette.”

He didn't appear to hear her. “Ah, I loved Mathilde so! There is not a moment I do not miss her.”

“I know, Father.”

“Now I am tired, and I must sleep. Good night, Al
lis with her mother's eyes,” he murmured, smiling, as his eyes fluttered closed. “I hope I shall dream of Mathilde again.”

His hand slowly slipped from her head, and his chest rose and fell with peaceful sleep. She pressed a gentle kiss upon his thin hand. How good it was to hear him speak thus! Perhaps everything was going to be all right now. Perhaps the worst was over.

Her father would rest soundly for the rest of the night provided he was not disturbed, so she rose and bent to press another soft kiss upon his forehead before leaving his chamber.

She hurried toward the curved stairway leading up to her bedchamber. She had no candle or rushlight, but she knew the passage well, and there was a little light from the moon.

Before she reached the stairs, a man stepped out of the stairway, as if he had been hiding there. Shock and fear sprang to life, and she gasped and stumbled back, prepared to run.

“It's me. Connor.”

At the sound of his deep, gentle voice, her shoulders slumped with relief. Now she recognized his broad-shouldered silhouette. “What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked quietly as she walked toward him, scarcely able to make out his features in the dim moonlight.

“I was going to wait until tomorrow to try to speak to you, but I couldn't. I couldn't rest until I apologized for upsetting you with my song.”

“Oh, Connor,” she said with a sigh as she took his hand and led him back into the shadowed stairway. “You don't have to apologize.”

“I didn't mean to distress you so. If I had known—”

“That your gentle song would touch my heart, you would not have sung it?” Moved by his concern, she caressed his cheek, his stubble rough against her palm.

He nodded his head.

“But touching your listener's heart is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, the light pressure comforting as his gaze anxiously searched her face. “Then you are not angry with me?”

“No, certainly not. In fact, right now,” she murmured, sliding her hands up his powerful chest as wondrous desire warmed her blood, “I am happier than I have been in a long time. My father seems better tonight, almost as he was before my mother died.” Or so she hoped.

His hands slipped down her arms, gently stroking her. Her breathing quickened as the familiar, intoxicating excitement of his touch took possession of her. “For your sake as well as his, I am glad to hear it.”

“This is not the most convenient place for us to meet.”

“No.” His lips brushed along her cheek. “But I was not thinking of anything except the need to apologize.”

She shivered at the delightful sensation and relaxed against him as her hands glided around his waist. “How did you get back into the castle?”

“I told the guards I forgot something.” His mouth crept gently down her neck.

Every tantalizing touch of his lips seemed more exhilarating than the last, and, with a moan, she arched back. “You cannot stay the night here. You must go back.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You had best go, Connor.”

“I will,” he mumbled before his mouth captured hers in a fervently passionate kiss.

Excitement, raw and primitive, fired within her. Snared by the heady feeling, she forgot where she was, and everything except him—his lips and his body—and her own burgeoning need.

Still kissing her, he maneuvered her back against the curved wall. The stone was hard and cold against her, but in the next instant, that, too, was forgotten. He slipped his arm from the sling and laid his left hand flat against the wall beside her before leaning closer, pressing his body full against hers.

Wrapping her arms about him, she returned his kiss, passion for passion, heat for heat. Her tongue plundered his mouth. He was her love, and she gave herself up to him and to the feelings he brought to such intense life within her.

His hand fumbled with the lacing of her gown and the bodice loosened. The cool air touched her skin as his hand slipped inside her gown to her breasts. Her flesh burned as his strong, callused hands roved over her heated skin and an exquisite tension grew.

She had to feel his skin and glory in the sensation of his nakedness beneath her fingers, so she slid her hands under his tunic and shirt.

“Sweet heaven,” he gasped as her hands stole over his bare flesh and the ridges of his scars, reminding her that this was a warrior who held her, a man powerful enough to wear eighty pounds of armor as if it were linen, who knew what it was to lose people he loved. Who had dared to speak his mind to his king, and suffered the consequences. And who could surely have any woman he wanted, but who wanted
her
.

He took his hand off her body and out of her gown.
She vaguely wondered why, until his palm cupped her between her thighs. The pressure he exerted made her writhe and gasp for breath.

“I want you, Allis, so much,” he murmured hoarsely. His fingers moved and new vistas of need opened. A hunger, powerful and primitive, surged hot and demanding.

Above, in the tower, a door opened. “Who is there? Allis, is that you?” Isabelle called out.

She wanted to groan with frustration and keep kissing him, but Connor abruptly let go and stepped back. His chest heaved as if he had run all the way from London.

“Go back to bed, Isabelle. I'm on my way.”

“Heaven help me, your family has a damnable habit of interrupting,” he whispered, sounding as frustrated as she felt.

“Yes, I know.”

Yet even though she regretted the interference as much as he, they could not stay where they were. If they were seen…!

She reached back to do up her laces. He saw what she was doing and, putting his strong hands on her shoulders, turned her so that her back was to him and began to tie them for her.

The light brushes of his fingers against the nape of her neck made her weaken with longing to be alone with him and damn the consequences.

Isabelle's voice drifted down the steps. “Are you ill? You were making a very strange noise.”

“I stubbed my toe. I have no candle to light my way.”

“I've been waiting for you, so I have a rushlight still burning. Wait there and I'll bring it.”

“Now you really must leave,” Allis whispered to Connor.

“Aye, I must,” he agreed as he backed away. “But I am not wanting to.”

Then he disappeared into the dark as if he had been a phantom lover.

Taking deep gulps of air, she pressed her cool hands to her flushed cheeks. She was not being wise about Connor. Not wise at all. But when she was in his arms, she didn't want to be wise. She wanted to be wild and wanton, reckless and free.

To care for Connor was folly. She was only heading toward misery and heartbreak, and perhaps disaster.

Yet she could not help it. She could not ignore how Connor made her feel, as if she were utterly alive. She could not stop herself from wanting him. She could not help loving him.

But as Isabelle appeared on the stairs above, clad in her white shift and illuminated by the flickering rushlight as if she were a messenger of heaven, one thing remained clear and immutable: whatever happened, she must protect her family, and that she could never forget.

 

The chapel was as dim and cool as always, yet Auberan perspired anyway. “I don't care about your plans and schemes. I won't take her. I won't stay and I most certainly won't marry Isabelle. Didn't you hear what I said? They were
laughing
at me!”

“Auberan, Auberan, Auberan, calm yourself,” Oswald soothed, laying a placating hand on the young man's arm. “It is women's nature to make sport of men. You take it too much to heart.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“No,” Oswald replied, moving away toward the statue of the Virgin Mary.

As before, she looked down serenely at them, head bowed, hands piously folded, her cares not of this world, but of the world to come. “I wouldn't take their jests to heart if I had more important things to consider, like the woman's dowry and social position. Besides, once she's your wife, you can make her pay for every insult.”

At the sight of Lord Oswald's cold smile, Auberan swallowed hard. “Isabelle doesn't want me. She wants that Welshman. She's always with him, supposedly watching her brother, but I know better. I'm not a fool.”

“So what if she finds him attractive? What better than some competition to make the game that much more enjoyable for you?”

Auberan looked at Oswald as if he were spouting absolute nonsense.

“Why didn't you leave Montclair immediately, if you are that insulted?”

“Isabelle was so distraught, I thought tomorrow would do just as well.”

“She cried, didn't she?”

Auberan studied the toe of his boot. “Yes.”

“So you see, she cares for you. It would be a mistake to leave now, and when you seduce her,” Oswald patiently explained, “your triumph will be all the greater if there is another man competing with you for the prize.”

“
Seduce
her?”

Oswald strolled over to the votive candles. He bent down and blew five out in one puff.

“Why do you do that?” Auberan demanded peevishly.

Oswald turned to him, and the flicker of the remaining candles gave his face a ghastly glow. “Because it pleases me to ruin someone's heavenly petition.”

Auberan paled. “As pleased as I am that you believe I can seduce Isabelle,” he began, stammering slightly, “I don't think I—”

“You
will
seduce her, to ensure she marries you. When you are wed, you will be united by marriage to Rennick. Between the pair of you, you will hold all the Montclair land and all the power and respect that goes with it.”

“I do not think I'm so repulsive that—”

“It's not a question of whether or not you're attractive, Auberan, and it's not as if I'm asking you to do something repugnant, is it? We must guarantee that there will be no refusal, for any reason. If you take her maidenhead, she will not dare say no.”

Auberan hesitated for another moment, but as Oswald's stare turned into a stern glare, he finally nodded. “Very well. I shall do my utmost to seduce Isabelle.”