Chapter Four

“Now, this promises to be enjoyable,” Gertrude said as she settled back beside Edwina at the head table. “I do love a good pageant.”

So did Edwina, usually. Now, too much noise, commotion, and fanfare threatened to overwhelm her. The feast just past, rich beyond measure, had left a slightly queasy sensation in her stomach, and she had a desperate feeling in her heart—one that bade her flee.

But she could not flee and sat pinned like the poor birds the hunters had brought back this afternoon. On her left sat Gertrude with Gertrude’s husband, Marcus, beside her. On Edwina’s right her father boomed with good humor and laughter, despite the fact that no one had brought down the coveted boar this day. Beyond Edwina’s father, her mother glowed with anticipation.

At least someone found enjoyment in all this.

Below the head table the floor had been cleared for the players. Edwina did not know how she would sit still throughout. And to make matters worse she could not locate the fool. She liked to rest her gaze upon him—it made her feel better, somehow—but he had disappeared even as the tables were pushed aside.

Perhaps he had gone out into the moonlight. Oh, how she wished she were there with him. But she had no hope of escape now. The head of the troupe bowed to her, and all eyes turned her way.

“A Christmas pageant, my lady, for your entertainment.”

And once underway, it did prove amusing, with a full measure of the absurd nonsense that delighted Edwina’s heart. A beggar there was, who went from house to house seeking Christmas alms and singing for his ale, becoming more drunk as he went and acquiring a train of others, all in foolish costumes—a priest, a fine lady, a wolf, a tavern wench, a leper, even a haystack.

The fool would have enjoyed it all. Edwina looked for him again, to no avail.

Laughter rang through the hall when the beggar—who turned out to be no beggar at all—kissed the tavern wench, who was taller than he and whose yellow wig hung well over her face. At the end, they all stood together to sing:

Here we come a-wassailing

Among the leaves so green,

Here we come a-wand’ring

So fair to be seen.

Love and joy come to you,

And to you your wassail, too…

And then they were winding through the hall in a great line, picking up members of their audience as they went and singing all the while. The revelers, all well-plied with their host’s mead, proved nothing loath, and soon the hall seethed with song and merriment.

By the time the train wound its way to the head table and one of the players reached out for Edwina, her father just nodded, well pleased. Edwina found herself drawn up by the tavern wench, who wheedled in a high screech, “My lady, come!”

She half saw her parents join the train behind her, and then she became lost amid the voices, laughter, and confusion, her only anchor the tavern wench’s hand. Dancing broke out as the troubadours took up the tune. She found herself in the tavern wench’s arms.

And held far too close.

Who was he? Not a woman, certainly—he stood much too tall, and anyway, everyone knew men always played the women’s parts. But the yellow strings of false hair hung in his face and she could not see his eyes.

He leaned still closer and spoke in her ear. “Ah, now you are having fun.”

The fool. Edwina’s heart lurched and bounded disconcertingly. So he had been hiding in plain sight.

He bent so near she felt his breath tickle her skin before he said, “Come outside with me.”

She should not. She truly should not, but she remembered the warmth of his arms and the magic of the moonlight. Agonized, she returned, “Someone will see.”

“In this crush? I think not. Dance with me.”

An instant later they were turning and whirling, her hair and his both flying out, their skirts tangling. All part of the gaiety and fun it seemed, and no one took notice. He danced her smoothly to the door through which they had exited before and out into the waiting night.

What of the guard? But the man must have stepped inside to watch the revelry, for the gateway stood empty.

They were alone.

And no moonlight, after all. Instead the sky had clouded over, and snowflakes drifted down in a dizzying, magical swirl.

How did the fool know Edwina had always secretly longed to dance among snowflakes?

With the man of her dreams.

“You look so very beautiful tonight,” he told her in his own voice, warm and sweet as honey. She wondered if he would taste of honey, as well. “I could scarce keep my eyes from you, nor remember my lines.”

“You were very good, and quite funny.” Edwina leaned into him and encountered false bosoms—pillows, surely, and even bigger than her own. “I admit, Lord Fool, I find it a bit disconcerting to be in the arms of a woman.”

“I am no woman, so I assure you.” But he halted their whirling dance long enough to pluck the offending cushions from the front of his borrowed gown and toss them on the ground. “Better?” He drew her hard against him.

“Much better.” Edwina’s senses swam; she told herself it was from the dance. “But I cannot see your face.” She reached up and brushed the strings of the wig aside.

“You can scarcely see me anyway. ’Tis dark.”

“Not that dark. And I wish to look into the eyes of the man I am going to kiss.”

“Are you going to kiss me?” he wondered, and shoved the wig from his head.

Edwina breathed, as she leaned still closer, “Oh, aye.”

Their lips met tentatively, soft and searching, in a rush of sweetness. He did taste of honey, she thought—or at least of honey mead—and then desire kicked her in the belly like a bull calf, and she tumbled into pure sensation. Heat, taste, wonder, all poured through her like a spring flood and sent the last of her common sense spinning into the night.

And oh, she had always dreamed of this. On some level she had known he existed in the world, this man who could claim her heart and heat her blood as well. And here she held him in her arms.

Fire raced from his mouth to hers, surged wildly, and streamed along her blood. His lips wooed hers, persuaded and parted them; willingly she opened for him and felt the touch of his tongue like an invading spear of flame. Claiming her, owning her—wondrous, marvelous fool. Perfect man.

He made a sound deep in his throat that sent another bolt of desire through her. Edwina stretched herself against him, twined her arms about his neck and thrust her fingers into the thick, brown hair.

His hands slid down her back to her buttocks—oh, highly improper, but delectably titillating—and hauled her still closer. She felt… By the sweet heaven, her fool stood as ready for her as a stud horse. She knew she should be shocked, but it felt far too wonderful, because her body fit his, and every part of her longed to welcome him.

He broke the kiss on a ragged breath and said, “By God, I have been longing to do that since first I laid eyes on you.”

“Have you, truly?”

“Most truly—among other things.” His hands, palms still spread across her buttocks, moved suggestively. The fire inside Edwina flamed higher.

“I confess, Lord Fool, you have aroused my curiosity as to what.”

“And I ache to show you.”

She could feel that. And she longed to fuse her body to his in still another dance, one which she could only imagine. But they stood here on the perilous edge of discovery. How long before someone came looking for her, or the guard returned to his post?

“Do you mean to spend our precious time talking,” she demanded on a rush of breathless laughter, “or do you mean to go on kissing me?”

In answer he bent his head again, found her lips, and claimed her mouth like a man starving for her. His tongue entered her, searched as if memorizing her heat and flavor, and a delirious languor possessed her. The world narrowed to the taste and feel of him, and the desire to be with him in the ways of a woman with a man.

Not until he set her back down on her feet—when had he hoisted her up against him?—did a small measure of sanity return.

“Fool, Fool, Fool,” she murmured, “this cannot be.”

“Faith, beautiful lady, it already is.”

Edwina knew that. She understood full well what this feeling meant. Had she not been waiting for it all her life?

“Ah,” she nearly sobbed, “why could you not be some lord’s son? Why not a sprig of some elevated family?”

“Because I am not.” He went very still in her arms, though she could feel his heart beating, slamming like a hammer against her breast.

She told him, on an upsurge of grief, “My father will never accept this, accept you.”

“Why not?” He gazed into her eyes, all serious now, and intent, with the snowflakes gathering like feathers on his dark hair. “You said he is a self-made man.”

“That is just the reason he wishes to elevate his descendants—his grandchildren.” Edwina’s stomach tightened at the very thought of bearing this man’s children, and all that implied.

“He seems a kindly man.”

“Kind and stubborn. He has planned, ever since my brother’s death, for me to wed into nobility.”

“There must be a way.” Thorstan’s arms tightened. “I will not see you go to one of those greedy halfwits. Perhaps if you speak to your father, implore him.”

Desperately, Edwina demanded, “And say what? That of all the noblemen he selected, I desire the fool?”

Again, he stilled. “Do you desire me, lady?”

With all her heart. But how could Edwina speak the words, or those other still more meaningful ones that hovered on her lips? Aye, she had always believed she would know her true love when she looked into his eyes—merry, dancing eyes—and she might well find being with him here among the swirling snowflakes even more romantic than she had dreamed. But it would be the height of madness to tell him she loved him.

Desire, though—that already raced through her, impossible to deny. So she whispered against his lips a moment before she claimed them, “If you cannot tell that, you are a fool, indeed.”