Lady Gallant (47 page)

"It serves you right."

Christian paused in removing de Ateca's doublet. He ducked his head so that he could see her eyes, and she blushed.

"You saved my life," he said. "I thought you said you didn't care about me."

"Put the clothes on."

"Nora, you killed a man for me."

"I would kill a man for a kitten, too."

"So," he said with a smile, "I at least merit the affection you give kittens and puppies."

She avoided his eyes by pulling up her skirt and ripping a strip off her petticoat. She began wiping the blood on the floor.

"Sweeting."

She scrubbed furiously.

"Nora." He drawled her name in a low, caressing tone. "My little dragon."

She threw the bloodied cloth on de Ateca's body and tore another piece of petticoat.

" 'Behold,' " he murmured in Latin, " 'thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.' "

"Will you hurry? Cozen me not when we have a dead man in our gallery."

Christian began unlacing his doublet. "As you command, sweeting. 'One gracious word that from thy lips proceedeth, I value more than others' dove-like kisses.' "

"God deliver me from all men."

Several days later Nora was sitting on the riverbank with her embroidery while Blade and Arthur fished. At the moment Blade was lying on his back, eyes closed, his fishing pole stuck in the ground beside him. Arthur, on the other hand, busied himself with the task of spearfishing, having found Blade's method too tame.

Nora snipped a piece of gold thread and whispered to Blade, "You should be at prayers begging God's forgiveness for causing that man's death."

"He deserved to die. How many poor peasants do you suppose he sent to their deaths for not knowing the doctrine of transubstantiation?"

"Weeping false tears in front of those Spanish noblemen when they came to fetch the body."

Blade stretched his arms and yawned. "We were supposed to have been close. I had to."

"Telling them what a godly and virtuous man the
conde
was. Saying what a loss to King Philip it was."

"That was Christian's idea. Good, wasn't it?"

Tossing her embroidery aside, Nora clasped her hands and stared at them. "God will never forgive me."

"Nonsense. If He forgives popes for all the things they've done, He'll forgive you for defending your husband. It was your Christian duty."

Heartened, she lifted her head. "Do you think so?"

"Verily."

"I hadn't thought about it in that way."

Nora contemplated this newfound justification while Blade and Arthur gathered their poles and fish and tramped off to the manor in search of food. After she had killed de Ateca, there had been no time to think, only time to conceal the act and survive. Since then she had suffered tormenting guilt, certain that she was doomed to Hell. Not all her husband's reassurances that the
conde
needed killing had assuaged her remorse. The knowledge that she would do the same thing again to save Christian's life had proved to her that she was beyond forgiveness. Now Blade had pointed out that she'd promised to honor her husband before God. One couldn't very well honor a person by letting him die. Mayhap she wasn't doomed.

"To let him die would have been the greater sin," she assured herself aloud.

Satisfied, she looked around for her discarded embroidery.

It was lying on top of her sewing basket. She reached for it, and a shadow fell across the material. Looking up, she beheld the cause of her sin. Christian met her gaze and smiled at her, picking up the embroidery and kneeling to hand it to her. As she took it, he placed his hand on hers, and she started.

Bleakness overcame Christian's smile, and she glanced away from him. Irritated with herself for regretting his unhappiness, she removed her hand from his grasp and took up her needle. It wasn't her fault, she thought. His nearness scattered her wits and sent small demons to torture her body with unwanted excitations.

Christian rose and strolled toward the riverbank, his head down. She watched him, fascinated by the way his thigh muscles moved as he walked. Encased in their second skin of black hose, they seemed at once hard and yet flexible. Once she had heard one of the maids at Falaise twittering in rapture over Lord Mont-fort's legs.

God's mercy, she thought. It was becoming more and more difficult to hate him. She couldn't not hate him, for if she let go of her hatred, he would dominate her, bully her, crush her under his boot. Wouldn't he? Of late he seemed more interested in kneeling at her feet than putting her beneath his.

He turned suddenly to look at her, and she dropped her gaze to her sewing. She tried to ignore him, but he came back to her and dropped to her side. Extending those disturbing, long legs out and crossing them at the ankles, he propped himself up on an elbow.

"What can I do to make you stop hating me?" he asked.

Disturbed by the similarity of their thoughts, she shifted slightly away from him so that she wouldn't have to feel the heat of his body. "I don't hate you."

"But you don't love me."

"No."

"All feeling for me is dead?"

He was looking deep into her eyes, and she flushed, changing the direction of her own gaze to the gold and crimson threads of a flower in her embroidery.

"I don't know. Don't touch me!"

Whipping his hand away from hers, Christian rolled onto his stomach. The movement brought his body on top of Nora's skirt, but he was careful not to trespass by touching her body.

"You're not sure," he said. "Sweeting, if you waver, it must mean that you are considering forgiving me for my unforgivable doings."

She shook her head, confused by his gentleness. A contrite and sweet-natured Lord Montfort was a creature of fantasy.

"Please?"

"You hurt me," she said.

"I want to spend my life atoning for it."

"That would do no good."

Christian ducked his head to catch a glimpse of her averted face. "Mayhap you need courting, my flighty mistress. Shall I woo you?"

"Cozen me, you mean."

"Nay, little dragon."

Quick as a fly, he twisted his body and rose on his knees. Sinking onto his heels, he captured her hand. Nora tried to get it back, but he wouldn't release it.

"It is mine by rights," he said. "At least let me hold it for a moment. I promise to do naught else. This time."

"Hmmph."

"I promise. Know you the laws of courtly love?"

She shook her head, for her mouth was too dry to allow speech.

"There are twelve, and the last declares that practicing the solaces of love, thou shalt not exceed the desires of thy lover. I swear to abide by the laws."

"But I don't trust you."

"How could you after what I've done? I must earn your trust, although after I tried to kill that bastard whoreson Spaniard only a stubborn woman would—God's blood, you try my small store of virtue, woman."

"Small store indeed." She yanked at her hand again to no avail.

"Hold still. I'm trying to court you."

"I have no need of courting."

"Yes, you do, and you're going to be courted if I have to sit here until nightfall."

"Oh, very well." She gave up trying to wrest her hand from his possession. Glaring at him, she set her mouth in a straight line and waited.

Christian grinned at her. He stroked the back of her hand with his fingers, then squeezed it.

"Such a mite of a hand." He kissed that hand. "Listen to me, Nora."

Noble lady, I ask nothing of you save that you should accept me as your servant. I will serve you as a good lord should be served, whatever the reward may be.

Here I am, then, at your orders, sincere and humble, gay and courteous.

You are not, after all, a bear or a lion, and you will not kill me, surely, if I put myself between your hands.

She pursed her lips as he finished. His warm voice soothed her skittishness, but not completely.

"You are at my orders, sincere and humble?" she asked. "Humble?"

"As contrite and penitent as a debauched nun."

"Christian!"

"Curse it, I'm doing my best."

"Prove yourself, sirrah. Release my hand."

"But I'm not finished wooing."

"Release my hand or be branded for the cozening runnagate you are."

He threw her hand from him with an exasperated growl and planted his fists on his belt. "You are cruel."

"You said you were at my orders." She was beginning to enjoy her superiority.

"I also said I would be gay. I shall prove myself."

Nora didn't like the sudden glint in Christian's eyes. He began to whistle a tune and then burst into song.

A rustical rosebud

arose with the sun,

took flock and took crook

and some wool to be spun.

Her little flock boasted

a sheep and a she-goat,

a heifer, a bullock,

an ass and a he-goat.

She spotted a scholar

ensconced by a tree:

"
What are you doing, sir
?—

Come and do me!"

Christian whistled another few notes before breaking off to chuckle at her. Nora frowned, annoyed at the way her cheeks burned.

"As I thought," she said. "You're a cozener, a twisty, tricky lizard."

"You wound me, sweeting."

"And you're trying to make me laugh in hopes that I will forget all the terrible things you said to me."

"I confess it. You have me there."

"Well, you won't succeed." She jumped to her feet, scooped up her embroidery and sewing basket, and thrust them at her husband. "There. If you're going to serve me as you would an overlord, you may carry my burdens."

She gathered her skirts in both hands and set off for the manor without waiting to see if Christian followed. He did, though, for she hadn't gone more than ten steps before she heard him close behind, voice lifted in song once more.

I wish I were a throstle-cock,

A bunting or a laverock,

Sweet birds of the air!

Between her kirtle and her smock

I'd hide, I swear.