Chapter 1 #3
“She never saw me.”
Gyrth slapped his knee and hooted with mirth. “By Woden, I should watch you in action sometime! Come on, though, before her husband turns up with an ax.”
Wrapped in the cloak against the night chill, Aimery lay tangled in thoughts of the dusky maiden even as he sought sleep. He tried to turn his mind to plans of action, but they wove back to the curve of her hip, the silk of her hair, the heated perfume of her skin.
By the Chalice, it hadn’t been that long since he’d had a woman!
He turned restlessly and pulled the cloak tighter. Wisps of verbena and rosemary wrapped around him. He surrendered and allowed his mind the path it desired.
She was comely. Unfortunately their position had given him little more opportunity to see her features than she’d had to see his, but the sweet curve of her cheek was fixed in his mind, and he had studied the back of her neck at leisure.
Smooth, sun-gilded skin over subtle flesh, warm and spicy on his tongue . . .
He stirred restlessly. These thoughts were not adding to his comfort.
He rolled on his back and stared up at the stars.
Perhaps he should just present himself at Baddersley as Aimery de Gaillard and take the pleasure the wench was so eager to give.
Aimery de Gaillard had every right to stop in at Baddersley and request hospitality . . .
This was madness. Baddersley hadn’t been Hereward’s principal estate, but Aimery had visited it often enough to be known. His disguise was effective, but if the Baddersley people saw Edwald the outlaw and Aimery de Gaillard within days, some of them would make the connection and talk of it.
It must have been too long since he’d had a woman if he was letting a comely wench tempt him into such danger.
Aimery awoke the next morning believing himself cured. He and Gyrth breakfasted on fish, bread, and water and set out for Banbury.
The clothes they wore were those of poor peasants—a coarse homespun tunic belted with braided leather and, for a cloak, a heavy woolen cloth with a hole cut for the head. They were bare-legged with leather sandals on their feet.
They carried large packs so as to appear to be petty merchants. If their path crossed that of a Norman patrol, it was as well to have reason to be on the road, and reason to be carrying a better quality of clothing than what they wore.
Aimery had to assume his disguise—dirty his skin and grease his hair again—and so the sun was well up by the time they left the camp. He soon pulled off his cloak and bound it on top of his pack, muttering a profanity.
“You’re like a hungry boar this morning,” said Gyrth.
“I could be clean and on my way home to Rolleston,” Aimery complained, “instead of on a hot, dusty two-day walk to Banbury.”
Gyrth grinned. “Or back beneath a certain wench’s skirts. Kept me awake last night you did with all that tossing and turning.”
Aimery laughed off the idea, but it was true.
His ill temper was because of the unfinished business between him and a certain dusky maiden.
If he’d had his pleasure with her, he’d doubtless not give her another thought.
Well, they’d soon be off Baddersley land, and the memory would fade with distance.
They traveled alert for every hazard, for these were poor times to be abroad in England.
Because of this, as they walked along a ridge path, Aimery quickly spotted a flash of white down near the stream.
He halted, grinning. There she was again, and well away from yesterday’s meeting place.
He found her prudence appealing. He’d have thought less of her if he’d found her haunting the same spot.
“What’s up?” Gyrth asked, hand on knife.
“A hind down by the stream.” Aimery slid off his pack.
“We’ve no time for hunting . . .” Then Gyrth found what Aimery had seen. “Especially not that kind.”
“I have a mind to meet with her face to face.”
Gyrth took a grip on Aimery’s sleeve. “Give her a good look at you, boy, and she’ll remember you another time.”
“I doubt it. We see what we expect to see. Anyway, we’re not likely to meet another time.” Aimery pulled free, but he took care that the dirty bandage he wore covered the tattoo on his right wrist. That was always the thing most likely to betray him.
Aimery slipped down the scrubby hillside toward the stream. He’d been well-trained in woodcraft, and he was within feet of the girl without her being aware of him.
She was nimble and graceful as she hopped across stones in the shallow stream, studying the water.
She had both kirtle and shift tucked into her belt, and he relished the sight of her long, shapely legs.
Her hair was bound today in a thick plait which swung heavily across her back.
He imagined unraveling it and losing himself in the chestnut cloud.
He deliberately stepped on a twig.
She jerked around, wide-eyed, a scream hesitating on her lips.
“Good day, Lady,” Aimery said.
Gyrth was right. He was mad. Was he just going to throw her down and rape her?
They couldn’t even communicate unless he revealed his knowledge of French.
She was as lovely from the front as he’d imagined, though, with a smooth oval face, clear dark brows over beautiful eyes, and soft, sweetly curved lips.
“Good day,” she said with a horrendous accent.
“You speak English,” he said approvingly.
It was the same voice, thought Madeleine, with a thrill.
And yet she was disappointed. She’d imagined her faery prince to be a little more glamorous than this.
She’d spent many sleepless hours picturing him as a noble, daring warrior.
Her mind had drifted ever closer to the entrancing notion that he might be a potential suitor.
After all, it was rumored that Judith and Agatha were to be used to buy the allegiance of noble Englishmen.
But now here he was before her, a peasant in rags.
They were staring at each other like simpletons.
“I speak very little English,” she said haltingly.
He stepped closer. “Lucky then that I speak a little more French.” His French was the coarse peasant tongue, but he seemed fluent.
Madeleine realized with a chill that she had revealed her nationality and she wasn’t even sure he was her faery prince. His greasy hair was quite dark and his skin was grimy, not gold. His smile began to look wolfish to her.
She backed away . . .
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “What’s your name?”
Madeleine was poised for flight, but something held her back. She knew, however, it could be dangerous to tell him she was Madeleine de la Haute Vironge. “Dorothy,” she said.
“Don’t run away, Dorothy. I won’t hurt you.”
Madeleine relaxed under the influence of the same soft, soothing voice. It was him. And there was something else reassuring. Something in his smile . . .
She realized it was his teeth. They were white and even, unlikely in a ragged peasant.
She smiled. He was in disguise. He was her faery prince, doubtless an English noble, traveling incognito.
Once she’d framed this thought, it was amazingly easy to see through the dirt and rags to the handsome face, the powerful body, and the golden hair.
He had startling green eyes, she discovered, which crinkled entrancingly when he smiled.
“I’m Edwald,” he said. She knew it was a lie but understood.
“How is it you know French?” She made each word clear and separate. She knew how hard it was to understand a foreign tongue when spoken quickly.
“I’ve traveled to France.”
That argued high birth. Perhaps he was one of the sons of Harold who were trying to avenge their father. But in that case she would expect his French to be more elegant.
He spoke again. “Do you make a habit of wandering the woods alone, Dorothy?”
Madeleine glanced back down the stream. The real Dorothy was just visible, the guard just out of sight. “I have friends nearby.” It was a warning as well as information.
He followed her gaze, then took her hand to draw her away from the stream and behind a thicket. Heart pounding, Madeleine knew she should run. If he tried to stop her she should scream. She did neither.
He rested his hands on her shoulders and smiled down at her. His eyes really were very attractive. “I wanted to see you properly,” he said.
The darkened skin and greasy hair muddied her vision. “I wish I could see you properly, too.”
Danger flashed in his eyes, but then he laughed and shook his head. “How have you survived in this harsh world, Dorothy? Don’t worry. I won’t harm you even if you do hold my life in your hands.”
He gathered her hands together and dropped kisses into her palms, tickling them with warm breath that stirred something hotter inside her, something she recognized as forbidden. Her conscience made her pull away, but when he tightened his hold to stop her, she did not persist.
His hands slid along her bare forearms, and inside the loose sleeves of her kirtle to her shoulders, rough skin and callouses against her smoothness. “Your skin is like the finest silk,” he murmured. “You must know, though, my sweet Dorothy, that I cannot see you after today.”
No one had ever touched her so intimately, and she was softening like wax on a hearth. “Why not?” she breathed.
“How can I risk it? You would know me for an outlaw and tell your king.”
“No,” said Madeleine with certainty, “I wouldn’t.”
His thumbs rubbed against her collarbones. “You should. It would be your duty.”
But they blinded traitors and rebels, or gelded them, or lopped off hands and feet, Madeleine thought, shivering. “No, I promise. I will never betray you.”
He freed his hands of her sleeves and drew her close against his hard body. Her conscience cried the alarm. This was wrong. She should run. Now.
But surely she could stay just a little longer. It was honey-sweet to be in his arms.