Seducing His Lady: Novella (Norfolk Knights Book 2) Page 2

  She looked up into eyes that weren’t narrowed now, but warm and interested. The unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach that had begun the moment she’d seen him, intensified. She turned back to the wound. “There is some cloth torn from your shirt inside the cut. I’ll have to retrieve it.”

  “Do what you have to do, my lady. Do not fear that you will cause me pain. ’Tis not physical pain I fear, but the burden of memory.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but, as she looked into his dark eyes, the colour of roasted chestnuts, the questions slipped from her mind. His eyes held an unutterable sadness.

  “Ignore my words,” he continued. “They are no more than the ramblings of a man in pain.” He turned his head and she saw the sadness leave his eyes, replaced by a narrowed gaze of curiosity. “For there can be no other reason I should tell you such things…” His voice trailed off and his eyes drifted from her eyes to her lips.

  Without thinking she licked them and then hurriedly looked back at the cut, forcing herself to focus, willing her hand to stop shaking. He must have felt the tremor, for he gripped her hand more tightly, passing on to her a reassurance that eased her nerves.

  Carefully she withdrew a piece of torn cloth from the wound and dropped it into a bowl. “There’s no need to fear further pain. The wound looks good. You are weakened from loss of blood. But the wound does not seem to have gone so deep as to oppress your breathing, or the beat of your heart.” The smell of fenugreek filled the air as she opened a pot of salve and spread it over the wound. He winced. “’Twill help keep the flesh healthy, help it to heal.”

  “’Tis the colour of woad. You think I am some pagan to paint my flesh?”

  “Mayhap you are.” She glanced into his eyes and then looked abruptly down again, shocked by the warmth of interest she saw there. “But, no. ’Tis an ancient remedy used in the East that I’ve read of. I’ve used it to good effect before.”

  “And how does a gentle lady come to be so well acquainted with such learned texts?”

  “My father.”

  “A local lord keeps learned texts. Ah, I’m sure ’tis the same in every Norfolk household.”

  “My father, sir, was well travelled in his youth and interested in such things. While others in King Richard’s army plundered gold and women, they were not my father’s priority. He plundered books.”

  “An educated and saintly man then.”

  “Educated, but not saintly. They may not have been his priority, but he plundered his share of gold—and, I have no doubt, of women—too.”

  “You have harsh opinions about your father.”

  “I saw him for what he was.” She wound a strip of cloth with wadding around his chest and he winced. She rested her hand gently on his chest, just above his wound and felt the steady beat of his heart quicken slightly. She frowned and withdrew her hand.

  “Why do you frown?”

  She would not tell him that she was afraid of his body’s response to her, and hers to his. Instead she looked up at him and shrugged. “I was wondering… who did this to you?”

  He sighed and rolled his head back on the pillow, looking up at the white-washed ceiling, away from her. “Someone who no longer lives, that much I will tell you.”

  She pursed her lips at the easy admission of murder. “I’m sorry.”

  He frowned. “Sorry? I am not. He would have killed me, if I hadn’t him.”

  “Aye, I suppose. ’Tis just that I spend my days trying to heal people, that to see such wanton waste does not sit well with me.”

  “’Twas not a waste of my energy. He was a murderer and a thief. ’Tis no loss to the world—more men will live because of his death.” He tried to sit up.

  She put out a hand to stop him. She didn’t even touch him and he looked up into her eyes and was still. “Pray, do not move, let your wound heal. I’ll give you something to lessen the pain.”

  She returned to the table, feeling his eyes on her back all the while. A cock crowed loudly nearby and Melisende looked out the window. It was now light and she could hear people already at work on the priory farm. It was all so familiar and yet she felt everything had changed. She looked down at the mixture she was blending, and wondered if anything would ever be the same again. She poured some hop oil into a small cup.

  “You look like a witch, with your bright hair haloed in the light, stirring your strange concoctions.” She touched her hair, uncovered by the usual veil. She turned to him and felt again the overwhelming sensation. It was as if someone had whispered in her ear, sending delicious shivers over her skin, erasing all sense, all thoughts. “Are you?”

  “What?” She shook her head, trying to focus on his words.

  He smiled. “A witch, my lady. A beautiful, gentle witch, about to cast a spell on me.”

  Her eyes lowered to his lips, curled into the kind of smile that would have made her gladly believe she was a witch. She turned her attention once more to the preparation of the sleeping draught. “No, sir. No witch.”

  “Then what is that you are stirring?”

  “Something to make you relax, help you to sleep.”

  “Not the belladonna. I will not have that. You are most surely a witch if you plan to use such potions on me.”

  “Not belladonna. Although I have used it,” she couldn’t resist adding.

  “So… no witch then.”

  She went and sat beside him, continuing to stir the liquid. “You speak much for one so badly wounded.”

  He settled back on the pillows. “It takes my mind off the pain.” A silence settled between them. “As do you.”

  She blushed but refused to look him in the eye. “You need to sit up and drink this.”

  He sniffed suspiciously. “Flemish beer?”

  An oil made from hops. ’Twill help you rest, but will not make you sleep unwillingly. Here, lean on me.”

  She hooked her arm around his shoulder blades, aware of the proximity of his face to her breasts that tightened under his quick glance. “Mayhap I have died,” his smile turned into a grin. “And gone to heaven.”

  She thrust the cup to his lips. “Drink.” He drank, both the contents of the cup and her, with his eyes. She felt naked. But, unable to move as he swallowed the liquid, she had to sit on the edge of the bed, her arm around him, their faces close. And, for the first time, her mind and body imagined what it would be like to lie with such a man. To have a body such as his—strong, protective and virile—next to hers, night after night. Lust stabbed low in her belly. He finished the liquid and she eased him back onto the pillows.

  “So, if you are not a witch, and you are not a nun, what are you, temptress?”

  She rose and took the empty bowl to the table. “Simply a novice.”

  “A novice?” He sighed sleepily. The potion was about to work. He rolled his head to one side and gazed at her. Shivers coursed down her spine, as if his eyes were tracking down her back, following the curve of her shoulders, down to her waist and further. “That would be a waste, indeed.”

  She gave him a reproving look. “A waste? To devote my life to the Lord? I think not.”

  “But you are beyond age to be a novice.”

  “My lady Abbess hasn’t yet invited me to take my vows.”

  He huffed sleepily. “Lady Anne always was a good judge of character.”

  She gritted her teeth, checked his wound and covered him over. “Not that it’s anything to do with you but I will make a good nun.”

  “It may be as you say, but Lady Anne is very astute. She may know you better than you think.”

  She bit her lip at the uncertainty and doubt his words inspired. ’Twas what she feared, that she wouldn’t be able to live the life she’d always wanted. The only future she could imagine lay within the confines of the priory walls. All her hopes and dreams were here, and they would surely wither and die if faced with the world her sister, Angelique, had—married to a man she did not love.

  She shook her head and was about to
speak when he turned his head to one side and his eyes closed. His body relaxed as he drifted into sleep.

  She sat back in her chair and studied his face. Who was this man, this man who made her aware of her body, whose presence played upon her, like a bow over a violin, like a hand tapping the skin on a drum, the vibrations resonating deep within?

  Suddenly the door opened and Melisende jumped up, feeling guilty at her errant thoughts. The Abbess quietly entered the room and nodded approvingly at Melisende.

  “The wound?” the Abbess whispered.

  “’Tis clean. God willing, it should heal well.” She hesitated. “My lady, who is he? From whence does he come?”

  The Abbess smiled at Melisende. “Curious as always.” She hesitated and sighed. “You must know him as Father Galien, a priest from my mother’s country of Poitou.”

  A priest? She nodded. She couldn’t face the Abbess, couldn’t allow her to see the shock that her words had evinced within her. She turned away, collected the soiled cloths and walked to the table, struggling to contain the confusion of thoughts and feelings.

  The wayward thoughts and desires of her body had been immediately twisted into guilt. What kind of woman was she to have such feelings for a priest? Mayhap the Abbess was right, she wasn’t fit to be a nun, for how could she be fit to be a nun when such wicked thoughts filled her at the sight of a man’s body?

  But then there was the man himself. What kind of priest was he to talk with her in the way he had?

  “Inform me when he awakes, Melisende.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  A priest?

  It was as if a heavy metal shield had slid into place between them, creating a barrier big enough to hide behind, big enough to protect her from the wanton thoughts that would end up enslaving her. He was a threat to her future no longer and she was relieved because of it. She was, she told herself firmly as she twisted a cork too firmly into a bottle.

  As the door closed behind the Abbess, Melisende turned her gaze to the stranger in the bed and was flooded with doubt once more. Who was he? A wounded man, a man who made her skin heat with just one glance, a priest? None of it added up.

  Who was he really? She didn’t know but she was going to find out.

  Chapter 3

  Galien inhaled the smell of lavender and dreamed he was back in the lavender fields of Poitou. He sighed as a sense of peace filled him. He could almost hear his younger sister’s laughter as she tried to follow him into the forest, could almost see the beautiful castle of Mirebeau, shining brightly in the sunshine. Then his mind drifted to the day when the blue sky had been full of dark smoke—a heavy grey pall that obscured the sun and signalled an end to his idyllic childhood, an end to all his family, except him. The memory cast a shadow over him like a thunderous raincloud from which it was impossible to escape, and he slowly became aware of the aches and pains of his body as he drifted awake.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the white-washed wall on which the shadows of branches flickered over bright sunlight. Seeking to find the light after the dark memory, he turned his head to the unshuttered window. Outside, the fresh green leaves of a beech tree filled his vision. The sky wasn’t the brilliant azure of the south, but a clear, paler northern blue—fresh and cleansing. He breathed deep, and could now discern other, more domestic smells of cooking and wood smoke, but it was the scent of lavender that was most pleasing, the scent his mind focussed on.

  A wooden chair scraped over bare boards and the last of the mists slipped away. A charge like lightning shot through his body. In one swift movement he rose to his feet, groping for his sword as he stood. But what he saw made him stop immediately. She was a vision. The white veil of a novitiate couldn’t hide a lock of blonde hair that peeped from behind the veil. And with no other adornment the blue eyes appeared huge, and more violet in contrast to the flush that filled her face. She was beautiful.

  “My lady!”

  This slender vision of a woman walked up to him and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Sit down this instant, sir! Do you wish to undo all my hard work?” She pointed to his chest, which was bare and bandaged. Blood had begun to ooze from beneath the dressing.

  He pressed his palm against it and looked down, surprised at the lack of pain. “’Tis not so bad as I thought.”

  “Only because you’ve had good nursing.”

  An army would not have halted his advance, a King’s command would not, but her fierce gaze made him sit down. “’Twas good of you.” Up close he could see just how fine her skin was, flawless, with lightly flushed cheeks. “Thank you.”

  She gathered a length of bandage from the table and dropped some liquid onto a wad of cloth. Her movements were deft and graceful, a thousand miles from the rough company he’d been keeping these past weeks. It was as if she’d emerged from his gentle dreams. When he looked upon her, the feeling he’d had when he’d dreamed of his home fell upon him once more. Her presence had the same effect as her medicine, a salve that made him feel whole again.

  She returned to his side and gently unravelled the bloody bandage from around his chest. Despite her authoritative tone, he felt her hand tremble a little as she undid his bandage and surveyed the damage. Galien was mesmerized by the soft scrape of her nails over his skin, of the tickle of her white veil as it fell forward and brushed his shoulder. She dabbed at the fresh blood with a wad of wine-soaked cloth.

  “’The gum has held. It should not bleed again if you do not move suddenly.”

  She glanced up at him and he was at once aware of the strange mixture of fragility and strength. It was compelling and hit him full force, making him almost forget why he was there, forget the hatred that burned deep in his heart. Almost. But not quite.

  He watched her move away to fetch more bandages, the pale folds of her unfashionably loose tunic making her appear more slender, more vulnerable than he wanted her to be. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such respite from a person. He couldn’t remember, and he couldn’t afford to remember. There was no room in his life for softness, for feeling. Only revenge.

  “’Twas a deep knife wound,” said the vision. “But clean. Whoever your assailant was, he used a good quality blade. He was no rough outlaw.”

  He frowned. She was clever as well as beautiful. He shrugged. “Who knows where these outlaws steal their blades from? When they slash at you with a sword ’tis hard to dodge.”

  “But ’twasn’t a long sword, sir. You see”—she fingered the wound—“the knife wound is quite small, but the wound deep. ’Twas a dagger, close up, that did this injury to you.”

  He narrowed his gaze but said nothing. It seemed anything he did say, would be unpicked by her, his lies detected. Could she see into his very mind?

  “And here…” Her gentle yet firm fingers swept over his bruised cheekbone and he closed his eyes without meaning to, relishing the long-forgotten touch of someone who healed, someone who wanted neither money, nor to kill him. “Here, your strong bones held you in good stead. The blow—with a fist I think—would have shattered most men’s bones.” Helplessly he watched as she picked up his hand, and curled his fingers into a fist, exposing his bruised knuckles. “But from the damage to your skin here, it would appear you gave as good as you got.”

  How could such softness of hand penetrate his tough, war-hardened skin? Not just touch the skin, but send shivers of sensation skittering through his body, finding a home in his groin that threatened to give away his arousal? He shook his head, trying to clear it of this madness. He withdrew his hand from hers and shifted his body so the parts that threatened to betray him were hidden by the covers. “A fight, like any other.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I did not realize priests were so well acquainted with fighting.”

  He held her gaze. “’Tis strange times we are living in.”

  “When a priest becomes a fighter, aye. But”—she shrugged—“as you wish. I have no desire to pry.”

  For
someone who had no desire to pry, she’d come close to learning the truth—that he’d fought one of the King’s men and killed him, and been seen so doing. He’d jeopardized the mission he’d undertaken for the King of France with an act of revenge and was now a marked man with no alternative before him but to accept the shelter of the Abbess before returning to France. He couldn’t let his cover be blown by this young woman. Who knew where the King had spies?

  “In these days of the Interdict, priests do whatever they have to do to enable both themselves and their faith to survive.”

  She turned from him and walked back to the bench. “Maybe. But…” She hesitated for so long he wondered if she was going to complete the sentence. Then he saw her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath. “But I think you look most unlike a priest.”

  “Since the Pope has forbidden religious ceremony in England, many priests prefer a disguise. That way, at least they escape notice of the King.”

  “A disguise? Um…” She didn’t turn around but continued to grind powder in a pestle. “That would only be necessary if you were a priest but I don’t think you are, are you?”

  There was something in the absolute simplicity of her question, of the aura of truth that surrounded her, that made the first lies that sprang to his lips die away. “I’m many things to many people.” He tried to keep his tone light. “What would you have me be to you?”

  She turned then and he saw an urgency in her eyes, a frightened desire, that swept away the lightness he’d tried in vain to communicate. “I would have you be a priest, despite what my senses tell me.”

  He nodded, understanding at once. It was best that he was a priest, for both of them. Sometimes it was safer and easier to have barriers before temptation. The attraction was obviously mutual and could be good for neither of them.

  “So… am I to be confined to bed like an invalid?” He smiled, but she did not.

  “No. Just be sure to make no sudden movements. You may walk, with care.” She turned back to her work bench where she was blending some aromatic concoction with a mortar. In front of her stood a neatly stacked wooden tray of pots. Two books lay open on the bench, one in which she had been writing and the other some kind of learned text.