Heart of a Knight (8 page)

"Ah, so there is the secret of your love for the game."

"Aye." Quickly, she illustrated the way each figure could move, whether back or forward, straight or crooked.

Thomas absorbed it carefully, beginning to see how the strategy might work. It would be well not to waste the small soldiers, who formed a wall to protect the king, but then how could he release his other warriors, particularly that powerful queen?

"So serious a gaze, sir!"

Jolted from his study of the board, Thomas looked up. For one small moment, less time than the space of a breath, he was dazzled once more by all she was, so clean and high born and beautiful, and a knot formed in his gut, part fear, but much more desire.

It was the desire that lent him strength. He smiled lazily. "Twould wound my pride most mortally if I were trounced by a female. And I do vow your eyes are bewitchment enough to muddy the wits of a far more adept knight than I."

He was only flirting lightly, forgetting himself, but her reaction was swift and surprising. A faint wash of color rose from her breasts to her brow. Her gaze skittered to his lips and back to his eyes, and even over the length of his arm before flying off to some fascination on the bare floor.

A blush. He inclined his head, puzzled more than a little. He would expect it of a maid, but not so lovely a widow, who'd like as not been wooed by the finest lords in all of England. If they were fool enough to overlook her beauty, her rich fief alone would tempt them.

He bent his head closer. His gaze lit on a loose wisp of long dark hair that fell across the pearles-cent flesh of her shoulder. "That is a pretty blush, my lady. Would it deepen if I whispered—"

Her chin came up abruptly. "Save your flatteries for those who are moved by them, sir. I would play chess."

She
was
moved, but he simply inclined his head and gestured toward her. "Then we will play."

The game proved more difficult than Lyssa expected, so much more so that she suspected she had been fooled by his protestations of ignorance of the game. His strategy was unusual, and followed no plan that she could discern, but it was quite effective.

It did not help that she could not keep her attention focused on the board. Lord Thomas was an imposing presence, and hard to absorb all at once. She watched his enormous hands, big as platters, as he moved his pieces. They were huge, but like Lord Thomas himself, they were graceful and deft. She liked the long, elegant fingers and the strong palms, and admired the play of small bones as he plucked a pawn up and moved it forward. It was a hand that could be gentle, as she saw when he reached down beside him to stroke the head of the pup who trailed him devotedly. But she had no doubt there was strength and size enough that he could crush that same pup's head if he were so inclined.

The hands were not all. He straddled the bench aggressively, and her gaze flitted over the length of his hard-hewn thighs, and the heavy weight of his member between. Even she, with her limited experience, was not so foolish as to imagine a man came large only in hands and legs and not elsewhere.

Her mind recoiled at the thought.

Of all, she liked best his face, with eyes the color of a block of indigo, but liquid and expressive—now teasing, now sober, now dancing with laughter. His mouth was not like the mouths of most men. It was wide, the lips full and red, appealing in a face so hard and dark. His teeth were good and white and strong, and flashed easily with his smile.

It was, strangely, a face she could look upon easily and without fear. She recognized its beauty, but also something else—this was not a man given to cruelty or brooding.

But there was something about him that nagged at her. It was more than the fleeting troubled expression she caught on his brow, but she could not name it.

Watching, Robert snorted rudely as Lord Thomas positioned his king behind a half-circle of pawns at mid-board.

Isobel, too, watched the game, leaning on the table lazily, her splendid form sprawled along the bench. "I admire a man who can do something different."

"You admire men," her brother retorted.

Lyssa looked up in surprise. The pair of them stuck together like feathers to honey—it was rare they disagreed. But obviously, Robert had decided the knight was worthy only of his scorn, and Isobel had decided quite the opposite.

"Please, Isobel," Lyssa said, "sit up and give us all a little breath of air."

Like a cat, Isobel moved languorously, a small, smug smile on her face, only to lean over the table, displaying her considerable charms for Thomas.

Lyssa quelled the urge to roll her eyes, but Thomas seemed not to notice at all. Quite suddenly, she liked him for that.

"Your move, my lady."

With a start, she realized his odd strategy had put her in grave danger. A curious half-circle of pawns flanked his king and bishop, and the warrior queen bore down on her king. But the worst threat was a pawn who threatened her queen. Lyssa frowned, and reached for the lady to move her, but realized almost as quickly that she would have to sacrifice the queen to save the king. She raised her brows. "And so she dies as she has lived, serving her lord at the loss of herself."

Thomas smiled. It was slow, and full of mischief. "Mayhap the lady need not lay down her life."

Lyssa looked back at the board in sudden worry. Had she missed something?

Thomas reached out and took a knight that protected her king. She was neatly trapped—rook at her back, pawns scattered, the queen helpless in her corner. With a defeated smile, she reached out to lay down the king. "Well done."

His smile was broad and cheerful. "I have remembered me more than I thought."

"I
suspect you did not forget at all."

That great hand covered his breast in mock horror. "Do you doubt my honor?"

"I will play," Isobel said, straightening.

Lyssa looked at her in surprise. "You loathe the game."

"'Tis made different by Lord Thomas."

"Aye," said Robert, "he's made of it a peasant's fantasy. Pawns taking the king." His voice dripped disdain.

Lord Thomas glanced at the boy, then at Lyssa. "He is my page, is he not? To discipline as I will?"

Lyssa met his gaze with amusement. "That he is."

"I'm no page to you!" Robert shouted, jumping back as Thomas stood, rising and rising to his great height. "I am cousin to the king by marriage, and I'll not be manhandled by a common knight."

If Robert had been less rude, Lyssa might have felt pity for him. Thomas loomed over the boy, fierce as a dragon, his shoulders casting a deep shadow over Robert's white face. His eyes went wide as Thomas reached for him, capturing him neatly at the back of the neck. "You've a tongue like a harridan, boy," Thomas said, and even that rumbling voice seemed darker.

Robert cringed, holding his hands up. "Don't beat me, my lord! You'll kill me."

"Quit yer grovelin'," Thomas growled, and Lyssa noticed the blurring syllables of his speech instantly. "I've better ways to train a boy to respect than to see him bloodied." He shoved Robert in front of him, and Robert stumbled forward. "To the barns with ye."

?

"The—"

"No more of yer tongue, or it'll only be worse."

Lyssa quelled a chortle. Long had Robert needed a man's hand, and none had dared try taming him till now. The boy scurried toward the door, and Thomas paused. "I only mean to have him shovel dung an hour or two. 'Twill be good for him."

"You have my blessing, sir."

For a heartbeat longer, he did not move, and Lyssa found herself thinking he was magnificent. That thick black hair, the indigo eyes, his great size and grace. If more men were made as he was, she might not have grown so cold.

"Twas a good meal, and good company, my lady." He bowed his head. "Good even."

"And to you."

"Sweet dreams, Lord Thomas!" Isobel said.

He gave her a brief nod, and followed Robert out the door.

Isobel gave a sigh. "Oh, now ballads were written for a man like that."

"You need a husband, Isobel," Lyssa said, unreasonably irritated by the comment. "A man need only have breath for you to wish to bed him."

"Bed him?" Isobel gave her a wounded, shocked look. "And ruin my chances to wed? Nay." But her face shone as she stared after the departed Thomas.

Lyssa eyed her stepdaughter through narrowed eyes. The low-cut gown, the unseemly way she carried herself, even the way she now absently brushed the tips of her fingers over her pale bosom—all were warnings to her guardian.

"I have me a letter to write," Lyssa said. She would send it to Edward requesting a husband for the girl. "Do not tarry. 'Tis time you learned to weave. By Tierce tomorrow, you will be in my solar."

"Aye, my lady." Isobel lifted her smoky eyes, and Lyssa glimpsed contempt and pity.

But one could not discipline a glance, and Lyssa simply left her. She would write the king and get Isobel a husband, and then she would be finished with her.

  5

To Lyssa's
delight
, all her women gathered the next morning in the solar. Isobel, sullen and swollen-eyed from lack of sleep, nonetheless did appear, and since there were no men to impress, she was simply dressed, with a veil over her head. Nurse perched on a bench below a window, and hummed to herself as she stitched flowers into the hem of a skirt.

Lyssa had expected this pair. She had not expected Tall Mary, nor Alice Bryony. Mary came early, her red hair caught in a long braid, and Elizabeth exclaimed in pleasure. "Mary!" she cried. "I am glad to see you."

She seemed her normal self this morning, her blue eyes bright, her white skin with the scattering of freckles over the nose clear. It was a face she much missed, but remembering Mary's strange distance two nights ago, she only patted the bench beside her.

Mary sat. "Alice is coming. Michael Barley stopped her to ask some cure for his wife, but she said she would be along anon." She clasped her hands around one knee, crossed over the other, and inclined her head. "What have you there?"

Lyssa held up a wad of raw wool. "'Tis time Isobel learned to spin."

Mary grinned at the girl, who rolled her eyes. "Your hands will be soft as clouds. Think on that."