Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore
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She turned to Iain and spoke with what she hoped sounded like authority. “Iain, put up your blade. This is Sir Oliver de Leslille, and he means us no harm.”
Iain came to a halt, one hand on his hip as he ran a measuring gaze over Sir Oliver who was, Lizette suddenly recalled, still soaking wet.
Despite Sir Oliver’s title, Iain didn’t look impressed—but then, it took risking your life in several battles to impress the Scot.
“Good day to you, my lord,” he growled with only the slightest hint of courtesy. “Traveling alone, are you? Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”
“As I explained to your lady mistress, I’m with a party of friends, hunting,” Sir Oliver replied, still genial despite Iain’s brusque and even insolent tone. “I got separated from them. However, since the hour grows late, I should seek them out, lest I be benighted in the wood and forced to eat nuts for my dinner.”
“We’ll be at the Fox and Hound tonight,” Lizette offered. “Perhaps you could send word there in the morning as to how you are. I’ll be worried you’ve fallen ill doing me a service.”
Sir Oliver cut his eyes to the scowling, wary Iain. “I’m flattered by your concern, but I think not, my lady.”
She pursed her lips and silently wished Iain back at Averette.
“As he says, my lady,” Iain declared, “the hour grows late and we’ve dallied here long enough.”
Unless she wanted to stand on the bank of the stream and quarrel with Iain, she had to go. Besides, it couldn’t be good for Sir Oliver to be standing there in wet breeches and boots.
“Farewell, Sir Oliver,” she said with more regret than she’d ever felt bidding farewell to a young man before.
How she wished she and Sir Oliver had met another time, such as in a hall during a feast, where they could talk. He would surely be a very amusing companion. Perhaps they would dance … and touch … and slip off into a shadowed corner to share a kiss …
The nobleman bowed with courtly elegance before addressing Iain. “I commend you for your care of the lady, Mac Kendren, and you need have no fear that I’ll come creeping into the inn under cover of darkness. I’m not that sort of nobleman.”
Iain merely grunted in reply.
Such an act would be most improper; nevertheless, Lizette found herself subduing a surge of disappointment. To think she might have met one man who could tempt her to make love without benefit of marriage, and he was more honorable than most.
Despite her secret regret, it was an insult to imply that Sir Oliver would try to sneak into a woman’s chamber for any reason, and she should acknowledge that. “You must forgive the garrison commander for his lack of courtesy, Sir Oliver. He takes his duties very seriously.”
Sir Oliver bestowed another smile upon her. “For your sake, my lady, I’m glad of it. These are dangerous times, and evil men roam the land.” He backed away toward the stream. “Now I must say farewell.”
Realizing she had no choice, she inclined her head as Iain held out his arm to escort her back to the wagon. “Adieu, Sir Oliver,” she said as she laid her hand upon Iain’s chain-mail-encased forearm and let him lead her away.
She glanced back over her shoulder, but Sir Oliver de Leslille was already gone. He’d vanished like a true spirit of the forest, or a magician who’d stayed only long enough to cast his spell upon her.
LIZETTE LAY BACK upon the cushions piled in the back of the wagon as it jostled and jolted its way toward home. She would much rather be riding. However, given her illness a fortnight ago—one whose seriousness she had exaggerated when Iain arrived shortly after the wedding of Lord Delapont’s daughter, Marian and, in typical Mac Kendren fashion, simply announced that she was going home at once—she had reluctantly acquiesced to his orders, even if, as she’d told him, the motion of the wagon tended to upset her stomach.
There were certain compensations at the moment, as she closed her eyes and her maidservant dozed off across from her. She could dwell on that delightful meeting with Sir Oliver de Leslille.
To be sure, rescuing a veil wasn’t as exciting as saving a maiden from a fire-breathing dragon, but it had been exciting nonetheless, and certainly a welcome respite from this tedious journey home.
She didn’t doubt Sir Oliver would be quite capable of defeating a dragon, if he had to, or anyone or anything else that came against him. She’d met many knights who’d come to court her eldest sister, and none had possessed such magnificent shoulders, muscular arms or powerful thighs.
Maybe he’d be going back to court soon, a place she had never, ever wanted to go before because the king would be there. She hated John for the taxes he demanded to pay for the wars he fought to regain his lost holdings in France, and because he was her guardian, with the power to force her to marry if he chose to use it.
What if Sir Oliver was already married or betrothed? Maybe that was why he hadn’t told her with whom he was staying, or why he wouldn’t send word to her at the inn, although Iain’s rudeness and suspicions might explain the latter, too.
If he wasn’t married …
She remembered some of the things the girls and women at the wedding had whispered about. The younger girls had spoken of the thrill of a kiss, the brush of an arm, the sight of a bare chest.
The older women had spoken of other things, especially when they hadn’t realized the curious Lizette was nearby—more intimate things that men and women did in the dark, whether they were married or not.
Things that reminded her of the times she’d been in the woods on May Day, or Midsummer’s Eve, and heard murmurs and mutterings and soft cries in the dark. creeping forward to see what those sounds meant. seeing couples in passionate embraces, doing much more than kissing …
What would it be like to be in Sir Oliver’s arms? After all, she was no novice hoping to be a bride of Christ. When she’d vowed never to marry, she hadn’t promised to be celibate.
Nevertheless, that didn’t mean she was willing to make love with any handsome man who crossed her path. It would be too great a risk, especially if she got with child. Who could say what King John might do if he realized her value in marriage had been so drastically reduced?
Despite the risk, for once, she was sorely tempted, as well as curious to know about the handsome, chivalrous Sir Oliver, who must be visiting some noble or rich commoner who had a manor in this area. Perhaps Dicken, the wagon’s driver who’d been to this part of the country before, would know.
Moving from the cushions, she lifted the heavy canvas flap that separated the bed of the wagon from the driver’s seat. Dicken’s bulk took up most of the seat, but she could still see Iain, back straight, helmet gleaming, riding at the head of the men as if he were the king.
He was also looking at a parchment he held in his right hand.
In all the years of his service at Averette, she’d never, ever known Iain Mac Kendren to receive any kind of letter or message. Indeed, she was rather surprised to discover he could read.
Maybe that was a message come from Averette—but surely he would have said if he’d had word from Gillian. It could be from Adelaide at court, she supposed, but that seemed even more unlikely. Perhaps it was something personal, although it was difficult to imagine what that would be. Iain had no family that she was aware of.
Maybe it was a list of some kind, for arms or armor or men. Surely it wasn’t anything very important, or he would have told her, she thought, dismissing her concern. “Dicken?”
The driver snorted out of a doze. “My lady?”
“Do you know what noblemen have estates hereabouts?”
“No, um, no, my lady, can’t say as I do. Iain probably does. Want me to call him back here?”