The Kindling (17 page)

He did not like that she believed he was smug over her loss. Had she rolled the higher number, he doubted the favor won from him would have caused her to smile so broadly. Not Helene of Tippet.

He frowned. What favor would she have claimed had the roll gone her way? No matter her pretense, there was something she had very much wanted from him.

He rose from the bed. Though he knew she might be asleep, he once more left the staff behind and crossed to the door, telling himself it would be good exercise and that the stairs to the tower room should present little difficulty since they numbered far fewer than those that ascended from the hall.

Still, there was strain, and when he pushed open Helene’s door, his greatest hope in that moment was that the room held a chair.

Chapter Fourteen

Her dreams were not dark. That was not what awoke her and caused the fine hairs on her arms to rise and the sense of being watched to shoot a shiver through her.

Forcing herself to remain still, she swept her gaze over the side of the room she faced. There was nothing to be seen by the brazier’s faint light, but perhaps on the other side—

“Helene?”

She dropped onto her back and flew her gaze to the dark figure in the doorway. “Abel?” she whispered, and only then realized she had spoken his name without title.

“May I enter?”

She gripped the coverlet to her chest. “Why?” After all, as she had told him, Sir Durand was not the one with whom she should be wary of being alone.

“An explanation is owed, as well as an apology.”

“Now?”

“As I am without my staff and in need of a place to sit a few minutes, now is a good time for me.”

But what of her? It was unseemly to invite him in, especially so late at night and with her abed.

“While you think on it,” he said, “I will wait in yon chair.”

Limp more pronounced in the absence of his staff, he entered, leaving the door ajar. As he crossed to the chair that sat in front of and to the right of the brazier, Helene sat up and clasped the bed clothes against her chemise that would surely be heavier than any his sisters or mother wore if not that hers was so threadbare.

He dropped into the chair. “You told that I should exercise more,” he said.

“Not in the middling of night, and not with my room as your destination.”

Since the orange glow of the brazier mostly lit him from behind, it was difficult to make out his features, but there was no mistaking the white of his smile and she caught her breath in anticipation of his forthcoming defense.

“I remember a night not long ago when you trespassed upon my chamber. And look, I am not anywhere near enough to touch you as you touched me.”

Grateful he could not see the heat in her face, she said, “I came to you in the capacity of a healer.”

“Be it so, though I believe we both know it was more than that, my intentions are as honorable.”

She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Very well, deliver your explanation and apology and be done with it.”

He stretched his long legs out in front of him. “First, recall ’twas you who wished to wager.”

She swallowed. “I had hoped to win.”

“
That
is the hope of all who play at dice. I would strongly advise that, in future, you not wager something it hurts too much to lose.”

“Believe me, Sir Abel, I have discovered that on my own.”

“Then you highly prize the time spent with Sir Durand.”

“I do. We have decided to be friends.”

“Decided? Pray, how did you arrive at that?”

“It suits me, that is all,” she said, loath to reveal the stolen kiss. “But tell me of your explanation and apology.”

After some moments, he said, “First the explanation. I would have you know it was not my intention to make your loss all the more felt by appearing smug.”

“Then you should not have smiled so.”

“My bitter musing, not your loss, was responsible for that.”

“I do not understand.”

He was slow to answer. “It occurred to me that, should my left hand prove inept at wielding a sword, at least it is good for dicing.”

Helene blinked. “Oh.”

“As for the apology, that is for accepting your wager, certain as I was that you did not understand the risk.”

Hope fluttered through her. “Then you will not hold me to it?”

He chuckled. “Would
you
have held me to the wager?”

That was the reason she had stepped forward. “I wish I could say nay, but I would have held you to it as best I could.”

“Then you have your answer. I will hold you to it, Helene.”

How she hated that Sir Durand would once more be alone, especially now that she knew of his heartache.

“And now,” Abel said, “I would know what future favor you set your mind upon that was worth the risk of losing something you so highly value.”

Should she ease his curiosity? Submit to his scorn? Though tempted to refuse, she said, “Unfortunately, even had I won, I do not know that I would have won.”

“Am I to make sense of that?”

She put her chin on her knees. “I would have had to win a wager with Sir Durand ere I could claim what I had won from you. And I do not know that he would have accepted the wager.”

“What was the favor?” Abel’s voice was rough with frustration.

“That you practice at swords with him. And if you are angry at that, ‘tis no less than I expected.”

Abel stared at the woman who looked small where she sat, though it was not as if the bed were of a grand size. What she had intended did stir his wrath, as felt by the chair arms even his right hand could well enough grip.

“I need not part the shadows around you to know you are, indeed, angry,” she said.

Were his emotions that forceful? Did they frighten her? That last pulled him back from the edge he found himself upon and made him rethink what she had sought to do. And he was struck that, as much as she valued what she had lost in the wager, she had risked it to aid him.

Fatigue gripping him harder, he said, “I am not angry. Not anymore.” He sat forward, clasped his hands, and regarded her face that she probably did not realize was better lit than his own. Not that he could see the color of her eyes, though he knew they were the dark blue of a day that was nearly night, not that he could see her faint freckles, though he knew they were most familiar with her fair nose and the tops of her cheeks, not that he could see the precise outline of her mouth, though he knew its upper bow and lower fullness, but her hair…

The light of the brazier picked out the dark reds and danced golden light across them.

Dear Lord, is she indeed a witch that I should be so entranced?

“Why are you not angry?” she asked, and he heard the wariness in her voice—that she did not believe he would so soon abandon the emotion. Not that it was entirely gone. It just no longer had control of him, and the ease with which he had let it go reminded him of how quick he had once been to cool his wrath.

“If you truly enjoy Sir Durand’s company as much as you say, ‘twas a great sacrifice you made—for me.”

After a long moment, she said softly, “I would see you restored as near as possible to the knight you were ere you stood against Sir Robert and his brigands.”

“Why should it matter to you?”

“It does, that is all.”

Abel stared at her, wishing she was as easy to set from his mind as other women whom he had known more than he knew Helene of Tippet. Or
had
he known them more than this one he had not even kissed?

“You should leave,” she said, her voice a wisp of a thing.

She was right. He pushed upright only to lurch when his leg cramped. “God’s teeth!” he growled and dropped back into the chair.

An instant later, Helene stood over him, and he thought she must have unfolded her wings and flown to him.

“The sleeping draught is taking effect,” she said.

Grinding his teeth against the pain that shot knee to hip, he reached for his leg. “I did not drink it. ‘Tis a cramp.”

She looked to the fingers he plowed over the straining muscles, then dropped to her knees, pushed his hand aside, and applied both of her own. As she kneaded the muscles, more careful to avoid the injury than he had done, Abel gripped the chair arms and pressed back in the chair.

“Lord!” he growled. “Is this to be my life?”

“It is not.” Her fingers pressed and pulled and rolled. “For I know you will not let this burden you to your end days.”

She sounded so certain that he could not argue—longed to believe in himself as she believed in him.

Gradually, the cramp eased, fading into jerks and twinges until, at last, he relaxed into the chair.

“’Tis gone?” Her hands stilled upon his thigh.

He opened his eyes. “It is. I thank you.” In the next instant, he regretted being so quick to assure her, for she removed her hands and stood.

Abel reached and caught her arm. Only after he closed his fingers around it did he realize they belonged to his right hand that would not hold her for long if she did not wish to be held.

But she did not wrench free when he pulled her forward and drew her so near that he felt her breath on his jaw and saw uncertainty in her eyes, so near he was achingly aware of her thin chemise and how little it covered her, unlike her heavy woolen gown.

Tempted as he could not remember being tempted, he murmured, “Helene,” and imagined pulling his fingers through the thick plait that hung between them.

To his surprise, she moved nearer, angled her head, and touched her mouth to his. “Abel,” she breathed his name into him.

He slid his other hand around her waist and pulled her down onto his thighs. Only vaguely aware of the discomfort of her weight upon his injury, he lifted her chin, and this time it was he who kissed her and with more hunger than was good for either of them.

She kissed him back, drew a hand up his neck, and slid it over his scarred, bearded face.

Abel knew he should stop, but he had thought on her too long to let her slip away.

It was Helene who ended the kiss. “’Tis as I feared,” she whispered. “I like your mouth upon mine far better.”

As he leaned in to reclaim her lips, she inserted a hand between them. “Do you know what I am saying, Abel?”

He knew enough—that such intimacy with him was more pleasing than any she had known. “What a man most wishes to hear.” He kissed her fingers.

She pulled her hand back. “’Tis more than that—more that you should know and that, as much as I wish to keep it from you, I cannot.”

Her words bothered, and even before he said, “Then make it so,” he guessed what she would tell.

“This day, Sir Durand kissed me in the wood.”

Something of great volume and enormous heat filled him, causing his sword hand to ache over the absence of steel.

“Abel!” The urgency in her voice told that she felt his roiling. “I did not tell you that your wrath might rise against Sir Durand. Or me. I told you so that what happened—what did
not
happen—would not be a secret between us.”

He hated his inner warring, this wanting her off his lap that vied with wanting her nearer. “What did
not
happen?” he ground out.

“Anything beyond a brief kiss that we both acknowledged was sorely lacking.”

“Did he force it upon you?”

She hesitated. “He sprang it upon me, but ‘twas not ravishment and certainly not seduction. How could it be when his heart lies elsewhere just as mine does?”

Her heart? What did she mean? Did she speak of love?

“Friends,” she said. “That is all Sir Durand and I will ever be.”

Not if Abel had any say in it. And he did, for he had won the wager. He nearly reminded her of it, but something made him look closer upon her words and he realized her confession was not complete. “Where does Sir Durand’s heart lie, Helene?”

“I now know the tale, and though there is much of it to which I should not be privy, he told me so that I might understand why he left me to the brigands as long as he did. And I do understand, though I am sorry if you believe my knowledge trespasses upon the Wulfrith name—and their pride.”

Though part of him struggled to keep hold of his anger, the greater part grudgingly admired her honesty—that she was unafraid to call up his wrath, that she did not play games and shirk the truth in order to appear better than she was. Helene was not one to withhold the truth as his wife and her family had done, setting a trap for him that had nearly seen his life sundered. For certain, he did not know all there was to know of this woman, but he did not think he could have liked her better.

He looked from her face to the plait that rested across her shoulder, then slid his hand down it and tugged off the scrap of linen that bound its end.

“Abel?”

He drew his fingers through it, loosening its weave and confirming that the strands were like silk against his skin.

“You should not,” she breathed.

“This I know.” He glanced at her wary eyes. “For I cannot make a life with you.” At least, not yet. That last thought was unexpected and unwanted, and yet there it was.

“Because of your wife?” she asked.

He jerked. “Curse Durand!”

She gasped. “Do not! Mayhap he should not have told me, but that I am perched upon your lap in near darkness with your hands and mouth upon me surely means I ought to know. Unless, of course, play between the sheets is all you want from me.”

“’Tis not all I want,” he snapped.

“Then to make me your leman?” She shook her head, causing the strands between his fingers to slip free. “I will not be that to you.”

He had vowed never again to wed, but that was before he had known this woman. Accursedly, now that he did know her, he was unable to perform the duties required of a husband—and a father.

He dropped his head back against the chair and lowered his hand so it would not be tempted to her hair again. “You should not have come to Soaring.”

Her silence was so thick it seemed that the keenest knife would struggle to slice through it, and so he left it to her to undo.

“I had to,” she finally said, “even if I shall leave less whole than when I arrived.” She eased off his lap. “Should I retrieve your staff?”