To Kiss in the Shadows (2 page)

“Bind him,” suggested the first of the other women in the solar.

“Nay, lure him,” said the second.

“Help him slip into his cups, lure him, and then bind him,” said the third. Then she gulped in surprise, as if that thought were too bold a one to voice.

Lianna let the peat smoke, perfumed oils, and stratagem flow over her. She had no stomach for joining in the talk—not that the ladies behind her would have allowed it. A member of court though she might be by command of the king, she was not accepted by that court. It had troubled her at first, that shunning, but she had grown accustomed to it. Besides, 'twas better that she keep to the work under her hands. Let the tapestry of the court be woven without her single thread running through it. She had her own pattern to see to.

She tilted her frame to catch the final shaft of sunlight that bravely entered the chamber despite the daunting thickness of the walls. To have fully succeeded in seeing her work, she would have had to turn her face to the women behind her, but that she could not do. Instead, she sat with her back to the chamber and made do with less light than was needful.

Much as she did in her life.

“Lie in wait for him,” said the first. “In the passageway, where he must speak as he passes.”

“Lie in wait in his bed,” corrected the second with a lusty laugh, “and then see if he can pass on such an invitation.”

“I would lie anywhere,” said the third breathlessly. “Mayhap he would tread upon me.”

“He will not be trapped by such simple ploys,” said a fourth voice in a tone that cut through the speculation like a sword through living flesh.

Silence descended, silence broken only by Lianna's needle as it pierced the cloth again and again. She was powerfully tempted to look over her shoulder and see the looks the other women—save the one who had spoken in the end, of course—were wearing fixed to their no-doubt quite pale visages. But drawing their attention would only draw the attention of their sharp tongues as well, so she forbore. Perhaps listening to what she was certain would be a severe rebuke would be amusement enough for the afternoon.

“Kendrick of Artane will not be trapped by foolish gels who have no head for strategies,” Maud of Harrow said, and she said it so decidedly that only a fool would have dared argue with her. “He is cunning and shrewd. To catch him, one must be his equal in stealth.”

“But,” said the woman who had spoken first, sounding rather hesitant, “would he not find it unpleasing to have a woman as full of wit as he?”

Lianna stitched contentedly. Adela was certainly lacking in wit, so that would not be a problem for her.

“I still say it matters not what wits you have, if you have enough of them to find yourself betwixt his sheets,” said Janet, Adela's sister, whose most heartfelt desire seemed to be to find herself betwixt sheets—anyone's sheets—as often as possible.

“I agree,” said the third timidly. She was Linet of Byford, and of the women behind her, the least vicious, to Lianna's mind. At least Linet flinched when Maud's tongue began to cut. “Surely,” Linet continued, “his preference is a woman warm and willing in his bed.”

“Many women have tried,” said Maud, “but he refuses them all. Nay, the way to have him must come from a more subtle attack.”

And how would Maud know?
Lianna wondered. Perhaps she had given the matter much thought in an effort to find a diversion from her own terrible straits. And why not, given the life she had? The woman was wed to a man with a tongue so cruel few could bear him. Lianna shuddered. Had she been wed to such a man, she soon would have been reduced to cowering in the corner, of that she was certain.

Maud never cowered, not even before her lord. Then again, her tongue was as sharp as his. Lianna knew this because she'd listened to Maud use that weapon on her vile husband more than once. And, of course, she'd felt the bite of it herself—which was part of the reason she placed herself with her back to the chamber. There was little to be gained by giving Maud or her companions a constant view of her ruined visage. Maud tormented her enough while facing naught but her back.

But none of that explained how Maud knew so much about Kendrick of Artane's habits. Had she tried to have him in the past and failed? Did she intend to try again now? She was at Henry's court whilst her husband was off on an errand for the king in France. Mayhap she considered this a perfect time to trot out a new strategy.

“We might have more success with his brother,” Linet offered timidly. “The one still free. The youngest.”

The numerous swift intakes of breath were startling. Then there was absolute silence for the space of several heartbeats.

“Jason of Artane?” Maud asked. Her voice could have been full of what another might have termed fear.

Lianna was so surprised, she ventured a look over her shoulder. To her astonishment, Maud looked as frightened as the rest of the women.

“He isn't of Artane,” Linet said. “Well, he was. But now he is of Blackmour.”

And the women, as one, crossed themselves.

Lianna wondered if she might have passed too much time during her youth with her face pressed against linen to judge its usefulness for her stitching purposes. Obviously, she had missed several delicious rumors.

“The Dragon of Blackmour's squire,” Adela agreed.

“You're a fool, sister. Jason de Piaget is the Dragon's former squire,” Janet corrected. “He's his own man now. And likely as full of evil habits as the old worm himself.”

“I hear he's handsome,” Linet ventured.

“He was trained by Blackmour, who we know is a warlock,” Maud said crisply. “No doubt Lord Jason, as fair of face as he might be, mastered many dark arts at his master's hand. Would you sell your frivolous souls to such a man in return for his deadly kisses?”

There was a bit of low murmuring, as if the other women considered it. Lianna was spared further speculation by the abrupt bursting open of the door.

“He's here!” a body announced breathlessly.

“Jason?” Linet asked with a gasp, sounding so terrified that Lianna could only assume she had reflected a bit more on Maud's words.

“Nay, Kendrick,” the voice from the door said. “He's here!”

“Have you seen him?” Maud demanded.

“Nay, but I heard tell—”

Apparently, that was enough for the women, even Maud, though Lianna wondered what Maud's husband would say when he returned from his journeys and found out his wife was pursuing one of the most sought-after knights in the realm. For herself, Lianna was unsurprised by Maud's actions. She had ceased to be appalled by wedded women hunting desirable, unwedded men, even though in her home such a thing would have been unthinkable. Her parents had been devoted to each other. The thought of her mother having looked at a man other than her father never would have occurred to Lianna.

Of course, that was before, before her family had been slain, before she had been fetched by the king's courtiers and brought to court, where she had seen many things she never would have believed possible. 'Twas little wonder she passed most of her waking hours in the queen's least-used solar, hiding from the intrigues and horrors of court, and trying desperately with needle and thread to recapture some of the beauty she'd lost.

The door banged shut, and the excited shrieks of the women faded. Silence descended swiftly, leaving Lianna with nothing to face but her own thoughts. She looked over at the window and marked with dismay the waning of the daylight. Dusk meant she would have to descend to the great hall and take her place at the king's table. How she loathed evenings! A pity she couldn't hide herself in some darkened comer of the hall. Nay, her place was determined by the vastness of her father's holdings.

She often wondered why Henry hadn't kept those lands for his own, but perhaps he had enough to fret over without them. Far better to sell her and her soil to a man who could manage the both of them. The king had need enough of allies, and she, after six months at court, had few illusions about what her fate would be. Her only surprise was that she hadn't met that fate yet. Surely her freedom couldn't last much longer. Even she was old enough, and wise enough, at a score to understand that.

But even though her holdings and her station guaranteed her a place at supper, they didn't guarantee her freedom from stares and smirks.

Would that they could.

The door behind her opened softly. She sighed but didn't turn her head. That was something else she'd learned at Henry's court: to hide her face. Tongues were cruel and never more so than when gazing on her poor visage. Better a knife in her back than words to pierce her soul.

There was a substantial pause, then a soft footfall that came her way. Lianna ducked her head. A long form settled across from her on one of the stone benches set into the wall. Lianna glanced up long enough to see that it was a man, but not one dressed in the trappings of a lord. Given his clothing, he was nothing more than a squire, and a poor one at that. She had nothing to fear from such a man. She could dismiss him easily.

She bent her head to her stitchery. “You shouldn't be here,” she said firmly.

“Aye, there's a goodly bit of truth,” he said with feeling. “The saints preserve me from the intrigues of a woman's solar.”

Given that such had been her thoughts as well, she risked a look at the man facing her. And the beauty of his visage, even cast as it was in the last rays of sunlight, was enough to make her catch her breath.

His breath caught as well, and a small sound of dismay escaped him. But that brief flash of pity was gone so quickly, she almost wondered if she'd imagined it. He smiled a smile that would have felled her instantly had she not been so firmly seated on her chair.

“The pox,” he noted. “I had it, too. I'll show you my scars, if you like.”

She blinked at him.

“They aren't on my sweet visage, as you can see.”

She made a strangled noise of denial, hoping fervently that the man wouldn't feel the need to strip down to his altogether to ensure her comfort.

His smile turned into a mischievous grin that had her smiling in return—regardless of any desire she might have had to do otherwise.

“Your maidenly eyes are safe,” he promised with a wink. He stretched out his long legs. “Who are you?” he asked. “And where are your fellows?”

“Lianna of Grasleigh,” she answered promptly, then realized that perhaps giving an unknown man her name wasn't wise. “And the ladies are coming back immediately,” she added hastily.

“Off hunting, are they?” he asked.

“Hunting?”

“Aye,” he said easily. “I know their kind. Always after some poor fool or other.”

“The poor fool for the afternoon is Kendrick of Artane,” she said with a scowl. “The handsome, wealthy, apparently infinitely desirable Kendrick of Artane.”

“You seem to know much of him.”

“I've been forced to listen to a listing of his virtues for the past se'nnight.”

“But surely you must believe the reports,” he said.

“How could one man be so perfect?” she asked. “I daresay the tales are magnified far beyond the truth.” She listened to herself and was surprised to find that her courage was magnified far beyond its usual bounds. Speaking so freely to anyone not of her family wasn't her habit. Perhaps her tongue had reached its limit in patience.

“And what are those tales?” he asked, looking quite interested. “I've always a ready ear for ladies' gossip.”

Lianna jabbed her needle into the cloth with vigor. Why not? If he had nothing better to do than listen, she had little better to do than talk. Besides, he wasn't laughing at her, nor was he insulting her. For that alone he deserved to be indulged. Perhaps he, too, sought only a respite before the torture of supper.

She let her needle fall and watched as the thread untwisted. “They say,” she said, picking the needle back up, “that he has a visage to rival any angel's and a smile to set an abbess swooning into his arms.”

“Sounds unlikely.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “Of course, that is but the beginning. They say he has seduced so many women to his bed that he's lost count and skewered so many of their lords on his sword that the blade won't surrender the blood-stains.”

“Poetic,” he said with a sigh. “Truly.”

“That he has bedded so many?” she asked sharply. “Or that he has slain so many?”

“The latter, surely, but the first is more interesting.”

“How so?”

He shrugged. “A man does what he must in matters of love.”

“Better that he had denied himself now and again.”

The man lifted one eyebrow. “The pleasures of a woman's bed? Think you?”

“If he has no control over his passions before he weds, how will he have any after he weds? Should he manage to distract some daft wench long enough to drag her before a priest, that is.”

The man laughed. “You've given his bride much thought, I see.”

“Aye, poor girl.” She pursed her lips. “Surely she would expect more from him than so many indiscretions.”

The man looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then shrugged. “For all you know, tales of his prowess are false.”

“Are they?” she asked skeptically.

“Tell me the tales, then let me judge. There are more reports of his antics, aren't there?” he asked hopefully.

“Aye. Enough to nauseate you for days.”

“Tell on, then. I can hardly wait to hear them.”