“You summoned me, my lady?”
Sir David’s broad shoulders blocked out much of the sunlight which came through the open door from her solar. Nevertheless, Alisoun finished tracing the number on her account books before she acknowledged his presence. “I did.” She pointed across the narrow table. “Sit there.”
His red tunic and berry blue surcoat smelled from the smoke of the great hall’s morning fires, and he appeared both warm and well fed as he stepped inside. He looked around the tiny, windowless room with interest. “What do you do here?”
“I settle my accounts,” she replied. “And it is for that reason I have summoned you.”
“It’s chilly and dark as a tomb.” He patted the loosely tied leather bag he carried, then swung one leg over the top of the stool and settled on the hard surface. Squeezing himself between the long, sturdy table and the wall, he observed, “Too small, too.”
“The chill and the dark encourage me to do my work faithfully and not linger,” she answered.
Leaning his back against the stone wall behind him, he stretched his long legs out so they reached the wall beside her and settled the bag on his lap. “I know monks with better cells.”
Disgruntled, she ignored his comment. Of course he would think that. He slept in the best guest’s chamber, ate her finest meals, instructed her villagers to watch for strangers, and patrolled her estate, looking for…for…looking for nothing. Since his arrival a month ago, there had been no threat, no danger.
His knee nudged hers, and she looked down. He had placed his legs so they blocked her exit, but that in no way intimidated her. He hadn’t mentioned his crazy scheme to wed her since that morning in his bedroom, and she thought he had forgotten—although forgetfulness seemed unlikely. More likely he had taken a taste of her in that kiss and found her repulsive.
He hadn’t behaved as if he found her repulsive, though. He’d been polite. Painfully polite. A true chevalier in every manner.
Opening the box of gold before her, she counted the coins and held them out. “Your second month’s wages in anticipation of work well done.”
The cool gold warmed beneath her touch as she passed it from her hand to his. He fondled the money between his fingers, tracing the moldings on the coins, then looked deep into her eyes and smiled. “I take Eudo and ride your estate every day, looking for possible trouble, but I’ve found no sign of any malicious activity. Other than that, I’ve done nothing. Nothing at all.”
His pleasant voice revealed no impatience. His well-shaved chin showed a cleft in the middle. He’d just taken another bath—one she had managed to avoid observing, but whose results she appreciated. And with a jolt, she realized he was angry.
Looking closer, she saw the way his jaw flexed when he clenched his teeth, the lines between his brows, the insincere curve of his lips. Aye, he was angry, but why? Evaluating him, she said, “You’ve done much. You found the place where the archer hid.”
“Not I, my lady.” He stacked the coins on the table. “A lad of eleven did that. Maybe it would help if I truly knew what kind of threat I faced.”
“Nonsense.” Inwardly she winced at the heartiness in her voice. “You’ve done much without knowing. What good would knowing do?”
“It would help me plan for an attack.”
“You already strengthened the defense around the castle.”
“Aye, that I did, and so successfully that your unnamed intruder has quietly slipped away without a whimper.”
Startled, she realized he complained because he’d done nothing. She hadn’t thought about it, but perhaps inactivity grated on him. Perhaps he wanted to answer Sir Walter’s constant little taunts with more than the mockery he usually served. Perhaps he was thinking of leaving—and that she could not allow. Utilizing the tone she reserved to encourage her homesick fosterlings, she said, “That is as I wished. You have kept danger away from George’s Cross.”
Placing his hands on the table between them, he spread the fingers wide. “With these hands have I done this.”
“With your mere presence.”
He curled his fingers into fists, and he rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Oh, nay!” She placed her hand over his, trying to encourage him with a brief touch. “You’re not stupid at all. I suspect you’re feeling used and useless, but in sooth, there was a threat and it has disappeared, but only for the moment, I fear.”
He stared at her hand, resting on his, and his gaze sharpened with something that looked like…competition? Hastily she began to withdraw it, but he whipped his hand free and slapped hers flat on the table. He smiled a lopsided smile. “I like to be on top.”
She tried to slide her hand out from underneath, but his grip tightened. Not cruelly, but firmly. Her long fingers peeked out from his palm, but his hand swallowed most of hers. His calluses scraped her skin, making the simple act of hand-holding into a sensuous adventure. It had been difficult to linger over the brief contacts when he helped her onto the bench to dine or shared her trencher, but now he held her, and she waited, hanging by her expectations, for him to speak, or…whatever.
“Sir Walter proclaimed when I arrived he had no need of my help, and it appears he told the truth.” Leaning forward, he turned her hand.
A squeaking noise came from somewhere close. She glanced at the floor, expecting to see a mouse, but nothing skittered over the floor. Then, with his fingers, David traced the length of her palm, and she forgot the noise. While he was touching her in an unusual manner, no one could call it intimate. No one except an aging virgin like her, tantalized by a mere contact. “If Sir Walter told you that, he is not the man I believed him to be.”
“Most people are not,” he conceded.
Her fingers were so long that she always thought they looked freakish. As he stroked the length of each one, she cloaked her embarrassment with hasty words. “But people are formed by their place in life and their duties, so a wise woman knows what to expect and how to handle it.”
The movement of his hand on hers ceased and he searched her face with his gaze. “If that were true, all villains would be the same, all kings would be the same, all knights would be the same.”
The amusement and insight in his eyes made her want to squirm. In the turmoil of his life, had he learned something she hadn’t? Surely not. She’d lived her life by her beliefs, and a very successful life it had been. He had no reason to undermine her confidence.
He cocked a brow at her silence. “Why do some born to poverty remain there, and others rise above their births to become something greater?”
Was he talking about himself? Had he risen above the circumstances of his birth? And if he had, was it possible for her to sink from the pinnacle of hers? David’s babblings seemed to make the chamber close in on her. That, and the way he cupped her hand as he would a sacred vessel.
“What of rebellion?” he asked.
She didn’t think he spoke of a political thing. She’d watched him this last month, and every day had been a rebellion against the formality of life as she knew it. Every day he spoke to the common folk. He’d charmed and encouraged them, and in the waning and waxing of one moon, she’d observed the results of his interference.
In sooth, it had been odd to have old Tochi answer her questions about her garden with such confidence, but she hadn’t truly minded. Tochi did know more than anyone on her estate about growing herbs, so why shouldn’t he beam when he showed her the sprouting seedlings?
“What of laughter?” David asked.
She’d pretended not to notice as he mocked Sir Walter’s pomposity. She blamed Sir Walter for the death of her cat and for Edlyn’s abduction almost as much as she blamed herself. Blamed him, because he had been derelict in his duty. Blamed herself because the responsibility for the safety of George’s Cross was ultimately hers, and she had failed to notice how complacent, even insolent, Sir Walter had grown.
David’s voice deepened, little twinkles lit the darkness of his brown eyes, and a whimsical smile tugged at his lips. “What of dreams?”
“Dreams?”
“Aye, dreams.” Lifting her hand, David placed it on his lips and enunciated clearly, as if to communicate through touch as well as sound. “Dreams are the forms in your mind where you dance to the tune of what may be.”
She knew that to be nonsense. “Dreams are a waste of time,” she said firmly.
“I possessed my dreams ere I possessed truth.” He watched her with something that looked like pity. “I was nothing but a younger son, turned out into the world with a shield and sword. I won King Louis in my first French tournament, and I never looked back. I only looked forward, trying to see that place where my dreams would take shape.”
If she had ever dreamed a man and hoped to have him, the man she dreamed would be David. It was as if he had somehow ascertained everything she admired in a man and distilled it within himself.
“Radcliffe is that place, and now I dream of the day it will be as prosperous as—” he looked at her hand at rest in his, “—as George’s Cross.”
Funny thing, though. She rather missed his crude humor and honest reactions, and for that she scolded herself. She wasn’t a silly miss who knew nothing of her own needs. She was the lady of George’s Cross. “I don’t have dreams.”
He shook his head sadly and placed the leather bag on the end of the table. “No dreams? But without your dreams, how will you know when you achieve them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Truly, she didn’t. Dreams wasted precious time. They were wanderings of a mind meant to be snared and trained.
“You don’t even allow yourself to imagine?” Somehow he managed to gain possession of her other hand. He might have been talking to himself when he said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have withheld my kisses. I’ve never seen a woman so in need of kisses.”
He stood, seeming massive in the tiny room, and she shrank back as if he threatened her. He didn’t, only she had the sensation of hearing something she’d known for a long time and steadfastly ignored.
He encouraged her to think beyond her earliest teachings, and she didn’t want to. She wanted to cling to the safety of her prejudices. Yet when he bent over her, she felt the winds of temptation buffeting her.
“Don’t be afraid,” His lips brushed her forehead, his hands enclosed her arms. “This won’t hurt.”
How could it not? She could have laughed at his conviction. He was dragging her from safety to peril, and he thought it wouldn’t hurt? She ached, she couldn’t catch her breath, and all he did was lift her to her feet and wrap his arms around her. The table between them cut into the flesh of her thighs, and probably his, too. She had to lean forward, her spine curved at an awkward angle, and her face pressed against his chest. She couldn’t have been more stiff and uncomfortable, but for some reason, she didn’t move. One of his hands massaged her neck, the other rubbed circles on her back, in a manner reminiscent of Philippa’s comforting of her child. And why did he think she needed comforting? She’d been nothing but sensible this morning. Still, the massage made her want to turn her head and close her eyes, and with a sigh so big it surprised even her, she did so.
“That’s better,” he crooned. Slowly, rhythmically, he started rocking her sideways, back and forth, back and forth. The keys on her belt rattled against the wood and the motion hurt her thighs where they rested against the table, but she resisted the pain. The motion soothed her, and if she complained he would stop, she knew. After all, that would be the sensible thing to do.
But when she tried to shift her legs, he noticed.
“What’s wrong?” Then he recognized her dilemma. “You should have said.”
She stepped back against the wall, relinquishing the solace without outward sign. “It was nothing. It’s just that the rubbing felt so…well, that is, it seemed to…what are you doing?”
Stupid question. He vaulted the table. “That’s better,” he said.
But how he could think so, she didn’t know. Between him, the wall, the stool, and the table, they barely had room to stand. He stood so close against her, she had to lift her head straight back to look in his face. “We don’t fit,” she said.
“But we do. Better than you think, sweetling.” He lightly kissed her.
“I’m going to fall.”
“You’ll have to hold on to me, then.” He kissed her again.
Her palms itched to wrap around his waist. “It’s not proper.”
“Dreams are never proper.” In one slow, hot sweep, his mouth slid over her chin and across her throat.
She had to hold him or else totter backward over the stool, so she held him. For her dignity’s sake, of course. And because he warmed like a brazier, giving off heat to toast her very bones.
Cupping her head in his hands, he pressed it sideways and explored under her ear. His breath and the touch of his tongue set off a shudder that rattled her spine.
“You’re cold,” he whispered.
“Nay.” She whispered, too, although she didn’t know why. Why did she suddenly wish she’d shut the door? Why did they always kiss in full view of anyone who chose to look in?
“Cold for far too long.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about. With his lips, he followed the outline of her wimple around her cheek and over her forehead.
Then he tilted her even further and looked at her dazed face. “Do you trust me enough to close your eyes?”
Did she?
“You trust me enough to have me care for your estate,” he reminded her. “Have you made a mistake?”
She closed her eyes.
Chuckling, he kissed her lips again. She didn’t know why it pleased her to make him smile; he was laughing at her, after all. But it was not in cruelty, and if he laughed at her, she knew without a doubt he laughed at himself just as often. Then he kissed her a little deeper, and she didn’t notice when his laughter stopped. She noticed nothing but the care with which he handled her—the slow embrace, the gentle probing of his tongue, the frequent breaks for air and reassurance.
This wasn’t like the first kiss, all hunger and fire and sweeping resolution. This kiss gave comfort and reassurance. It frustrated her that she did need comfort and reassurance, that she liked this closeness, and the way he delicately tasted her. Yet she was a woman, too, who’d been given a sip of heady passion and wanted another.
Working her arms free, she put her hands on either side of his face and held him until he opened his eyes. “You’re not doing it right.”
He mocked her gently. “You would know.”
“I know more than you think.” Her own bravado shocked her. How could she imagine that she knew anything?
But he nodded amiably. “In sooth, you know more of what pleasures you than I.”
“Women like—” she thought, then finished, “—different things.”
“What do you like?”
Now that was an inquiry, asked by the devil for his own purposes. To discover what she liked, she would have to experiment, and no one in George’s Cross was available for experiment—except David.
She should be dubious. She should know he did this to further his ridiculous suit of marriage, to gain custody of her twelve sacks of wool and all that went with it. But just moments ago she’d convinced herself he’d forgotten all about that, and the nurturing seemed so real. The comfort she drew from it was real, and her need now—that, too, was real.
Too many questions, and no answers she could accept.
Looking at him, his mouth pulled suspiciously straight, his brow set quizzically, she wondered what he thought and wondered why she cared.
Then his arms tightened and he took a short breath. “Too much control isn’t good for a man.”
Thinking that he meant her, that she suffered from too much control and that he displayed none whatsoever, she tried to correct him. But his hands ranged lower, onto her bottom, and he pulled her tighter against him and rubbed himself against her. She liked being rubbed, and she rubbed him back, undulating against him to increase sensation. From his low groan and the golden flames that lit his brown eyes, she supposed he enjoyed it, too.
He picked her up without respect for her person or status. Knocking her account book off, he deposited her on the table, and when she tried to object, he kissed her—correctly, this time. He took advantage of her open mouth and thrust his tongue inside, then pulled it out. She tried to speak again, and he did it again and again, until she comprehended.
He didn’t want her to talk. He did want to kiss her, and possibly he wanted more. Her whole self rested along the length of the table, and he slid her along the smooth finish, then lowered her back until her head rested on the boards. “You can’t get away now,” he said, and she heard distinct satisfaction in his tone.
She felt sure she still had control. After all, she had only to shout and the serving women in the solar would come running. Still, the hard table chafed her back and David leaned over her, using his arms to trap her between them. And he kissed her with more than his mouth, teeth, and tongue now. Somehow his fervency had brought the weight of desire to bear. Her legs moved restlessly, the keys rattled on her hip, and he noticed. To placate her, he sank onto the table himself and laid his body against hers. One of his legs separated hers, and one of his hands stroked her thigh, creeping close to the place she really wanted stroked, then moving away.
His ignorance angered her—after all, he was the one with experience—and she freed herself from the kiss, grabbed his hand and put it where she wanted it. “There!” She glared into his eyes. “Do I have to do everything?”
His lids narrowed. He smiled. Not one of his pleasant, merry smiles, but more like the smile of a big, bad wolf about to eat an innocent girl.
Worse, that smile thrilled her. Thrilled her and frightened her, all at the same time. “David?”
“A man could revel in you.”
She wanted to answer in a snap, but he pressed his palm firmly against the fork of her thighs, then released it, then pressed again. She grabbed his shoulders and arched her hips up, seeking more, and he obliged her. Her breasts ached, her stomach jumped, her breath quickened. She closed her eyes, then opened them, then closed them again. He kissed her mouth, not deeply this time, and whispered, “Who’s doing this to you?”
Her hands clenched him, echoing his rhythm.
He removed his expert hand. “Who?”
“David!”
“That’s right.” He kissed her again, caressed her again, and she subdued a moan, fighting to keep it behind clenched lips. “By the saints, you’re hot and sweet as honey on a firestone.”
His free hand pushed her wimple off, she heard him say, “Saint Michael be praised,” but words meant nothing to her. She comprehended only his body as it spoke to hers. The press of his chest against hers, the press of his groin against her hip, the tug of his hand in the hair on her head all promoted this sense of struggle within herself. Something in her fought to get out. Something not proper. Something wild and indiscriminate. It smacked headlong into her propriety and battered at it, using her body as a battleground.
Worse, she was on the wild thing’s side. She wanted to allow it freedom, but she just couldn’t.
He must have sensed her struggle, for he murmured, “Virgin.” Taking his hand from between her legs, he replaced it with his body. He would have crushed her against the wood, but he held himself on his elbows and knees and made contact in only the important parts. The parts which, when placed together, could make a whole. She had to work to force her eyelids to lift so she could look at him, and when she did, she was sorry.
He appeared to be violent. His face was red, mottled where he had shaved it, and drawn into a scowl. But through lips that scarcely moved, he whispered, “You’re my dream.”
And she didn’t believe, not even for a moment, that he was talking about her lands.
Her clothes itched. His clothes covered too much. If she had control of her hands, she would have removed every stitch, but he began to thrust and she forgot everything but the wild thing he’d discovered inside her. As she concentrated on the sensations, she moved restlessly. She tried to lift her legs, but he rested on her skirt and they were caught. She tossed her head and ran her hand through her own hair, clenching it in her fist, trying to find ease.
Her upraised elbow struck his leather bag, and she distinctly heard a mew, followed by a scratching. The two on the table tried to ignore it, but the creature, whatever it was, grew frantic. Both of them lifted their heads and stared at the sack. Irritated enough to scream, she demanded, “What’s in there?”
He laid his hand on the bag, and the pressure seemed to placate the inhabitant. With a sigh of what sounded like relief, he asked, “Do you really want to talk about it now?”
“Nay, but I…nay.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again. “Later.”
But he didn’t kiss her, although she clearly invited him. Instead he lifted his head. “Listen.”
Booted footsteps crossed the floor of her solar, and in a rush she remembered—she’d asked Sir Walter to come and consult with David. She’d thought it appropriate to try and unite the men in their common cause, and then, frivolous as any maiden, she had forgotten.
She had lost control.
“Blessed Mother!” She tried to slide back; David obligingly let her go. Snatching her wimple off the table, she grabbed a handful of flyaway hair. She couldn’t subdue it, not easily, anyway, and David tried to help her. But they couldn’t move fast enough, and when Sir Walter stepped into the doorway, they remained tangled on the table like guilty lovers.
Which they might have been if not for Sir Walter’s interruption.
Taking a deep breath, she decided she could handle this situation. After all, she’d been in worse. Right now, she couldn’t remember when, but surely she’d been in worse. Sitting up, she smoothed expression from her face and became the lady of George’s Cross, impervious to criticism.
Then David said loudly, “Is the louse out of your hair now?”
Alisoun froze in horror. Was he mad?
He got to his knees on the table and efficiently finished wrapping her hair in the wimple, then nodded judiciously. “You’ll have no more trouble, I’m sure.” Turning to Sir Walter, he said, “She had a louse in her hair. I removed it.” Climbing over her, he slid off the table and onto his stool, angelic expression in place.
The jiggling brought another “mew” from the leather bag on the table, but Alisoun had no attention to spare. A louse? He’d said she had a louse in her hair? She, who had never had vermin on her in her life, supposedly had picked one up in her own castle? She didn’t believe it.
Sir Walter didn’t believe it, either. He just watched, stone-faced. No doubt he thought she taunted him, or worse, that she couldn’t control her wayward passions.
And could she? She’d forgotten her schedule for David.
She glanced at him and realized it was possible to be peeved at a man and lust for him at the same time. No matter what David had said, she wished she’d ordered Sir Walter chained in the dungeon so she could have finished pursuing that odd, wild pleasure she found in David’s arms.
Sir Walter cleared his throat. She still sat on a table in her accounting room with her skirts thrashed and her lips red from the impact of such fine kissing, and both men observed her to avoid looking at each other.
Early in her life, she’d discovered that her imperious lady-face could be undermined by a hint of color in her cheeks, and she’d learned to ignore the emotions that caused her to blush. But this embarrassment was apparently not subject to her authority, and she blushed so brightly she feared to light the room. With a distinct lack of grace, she scrambled off the table. The keys jangled; a bright, cheerful sound that seemed to illumine her mortification. Sitting on the stool, she leaned over to pick up her tumbled account book and found that her fingers trembled. Hastily, she placed the parchments on the table before her and folded her hands to conceal her agitation. In a reasonable voice, she asked, “Sir Walter, would you explain to Sir David what you wish from him?”
Sir Walter bowed, a jerky, graceless obeisance. “You and Sir David should discuss it between yourselves. The two of you obviously have a superior understanding.”
His boots thudded, each step louder than the other until he left the solar with a slam of the door. Then she turned on David. “Why did you say that?”
“Say what?”
Mimicking him, she said, “Is that louse out of your hair now? Do you think he’s a fool? I don’t have lice. You condemned us with your playacting.”
“Pardon, my lady. I presumed you wanted him to remain in ignorance of our…”
He hesitated, and she asked frostily, “Aye?”
“Our growing acquaintance.”
His tactful reply infuriated her, and for the first time since she was a child, she spoke without thinking. “I’m the lady. Whatever I do, must be right.”
The breath he took expanded his chest. Then it collapsed as he said, “Ah.”
She wanted to cover her face. Arrogance. When had she ever shown such arrogance? But the way he sucked in his cheeks, as if he suppressed a smile, made it impossible for her to apologize. She snapped, “Don’t ever try to dissemble for me again. You’re no good at it.”
His concealed amusement vanished, and he snapped back, “A man needs a moment to calm himself, my lady. I’ve already shown Sir Walter the shape of my passion once. I doubt he wanted to see it again.”
When she understood, one of those discerning blushes began again, starting from her toenails and working up. She wanted to ask if he’d calmed himself so rapidly and what it portended if he had not. But she couldn’t bear to reveal her ignorance, so she asked, “Well? Will you do it?”
“Do?”
“As Sir Walter desires.”
Leaning back against the stone wall, he crossed his arms across his chest and leveled a stare at her. “Where did you learn that trick?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But she did.
He explained anyway. “The trick of pretending nothing happened when almost everything that could happen, did.”
“On the table, you mean?”
“As delectable a meal as I ever enjoyed.”
“We had our clothes on.” She’d wanted them off, but that had been a momentary aberration.
“I could have had you, clothes on and all.” He pointed at her, interrupting her before she could say anything. “It wasn’t my plan, but nothing I did in here was part of my plan. Remember that when you think of our time together, my lady of the frustrations.”
How could she reply to him? She knew only the proper forms of address. She didn’t know how to quarrel, for no one ever quarreled with her. She’d never learned spontaneous repartee. Most especially, she’d never mastered the art of a lover’s frankness, for no one had ever wanted her for a lover. She wanted to think about how David seemed to sincerely desire her, and she needed to understand that wild part of her and what had spawned it.
He waited for her to gather some semblance of order, then asked, “What does the estimable Sir Walter wish from me?”
“Ah.” She fiddled with the book of accounts to avoid any eye-to-eye contact. “He suggested that since you have little to occupy your time, you might take over the training of our squires. They respect you a great deal and would receive instruction gratefully.”
Now she waited, and when he didn’t reply, she looked up. His mouth had dropped open, and he just stared.
“Will you train the squires?”
“Nay!”
His explosion startled her. She knocked the book off the table again and it landed with a thud.
He didn’t care. Pointing his thumb to his chest, he said, “I’m Sir David of Radcliffe. I’m a legendary knight. I don’t train mere squires.”
She pursed her lips. No one challenged her arrogance, for in her prideful heart, she knew she was better than anyone around her. But Sir David didn’t think like she did. The greatest warrior England had ever produced shrugged off the worship lesser men offered. In some ways, he was a humble man, and a humble man didn’t refuse to train a pack of worshipping youths who followed his every move with eager gazes and knelt at his feet to hear pearls of wisdom. “You like to train Eudo.”
“He’s just a lad.” Deep in thought, David scratched his stomach. “He doesn’t know much.”
“If they know much, you don’t wish to train them?”
“Hugh’s a man grown. He’s a better fighter than…well.” His braies must have grown looser, for he adjusted himself. “He’ll be a knight, soon.”
“’Twas Hugh’s armor I purchased while in Lancaster. I would like to sponsor his knighthood with a whole heart, but…” She dangled the bait, hoping he would take it.
He sneered at her obvious gambit, then he took the bait anyway. “What’s the problem with Hugh?”
“His swordwork is exemplary, he handles every horse in the stable with ease, he is a terror with a lance and mace, but he refuses to work with a knife.”
“Why?”
“He says an honorable knight has no reason to fight with a knife.”
“I suppose you’d want me to teach Andrew and Jennings, too.”
“I had hoped—”
“What’s Sir Walter going to do while I take over all his duties?”
Her voice sharpened at his petulance. “I had hoped he would assist you.”
“What makes you think he’ll settle for assisting me?”
“It was his idea.”
That drew him up short. Slowly, he drew the word out. “Why?”
“He said you had not exercised your skills since you arrived, and thought perhaps it would be a pleasant way to practice while performing an added duty.”
David snorted, and for the first time she wondered at Sir Walter’s sudden spirit of cooperation. She had thought he simply detested David’s inactivity and sought to remedy it. Did he have another motive? And what was it? She didn’t like dancing to Sir Walter’s tune all unknowing. “Perhaps this is not such a good idea.”
David pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why not? At least you’ll get something for your money. That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
Grateful for his surliness, she forgot the warm, soft sensation he’d given her and remembered only her earlier resentment of him. Of the luxurious life he’d lived at her expense, and how every one of her people worked for less than Sir David. It made her remember, too, that earlier he had seemed to resent his inactivity, and she again confronted the puzzle of a man. “It would give me much pleasure if you would at least—” The leather bag wiggled and released a definite “meow.” She snapped, “What is in that bag?”
“That? Oh.” She could read the fury in him, but he subdued it to loosen the strings and lay the bag open.
A blinking black kitten lifted its head and looked around.
Alisoun jumped back.
“It’s only a kitten,” he said.
“I can see that,” she answered irritably.
“You’re acting as if it were a wolf, prepared to eat you.” Gathering up the tiny creature, he scratched it under the chin, then waved it in her face. “Isn’t it cute?”
She flinched. “What are you doing with it?”
“Giving it to you. Eudo said your cat had been killed, and—”
“Oh, nay.” She waved her hands. “I don’t want another cat.”
Placing the creature on the tabletop, he said, “I thought you liked cats.”
“I do.” She watched as the little thing scampered over to the edge and looked down. “In their proper place.”
“In the stable?”
Sure that it would break something if it tried to jump, she nudged it back. “Aye.”
“I barely rescued it from under Louis’s hooves.”
The kitten tried again to look over the edge, and again she pushed it away. “I can see why.”
“Why I rescued it? Aye, it’s a darling thing.”
“Nay, why it was under Louis’s hooves. It’s stupid.”
He sighed. “If you don’t want it, you can just put it down on the floor. It’ll probably survive among the dogs and the other cats, and its life will still be better than it would be in the stable.”
She stared as the kitten sauntered toward one of the lit candles, then realized that David, too, sauntered—but he was heading out the door. “Wait! You take it.” Then, belatedly, “Where are you going?”
“To train your squires.” He stuck his head back in. “May I depend on your messenger to again take the gold to Radcliffe?”
“In sooth, but the cat—”
“Bless you, my lady.” He disappeared, and both the gold and the kitten remained on the table.