Chapter 13 #2
She halfway expected him to wrap his other arm around her waist or bend down to whisper in her ear—indeed, she hoped for as much, but he stepped back and disappointment made her irritable. Was she not sufficiently desirable for this knight even to flirt with her?
“I wished to ask you something of Annossy,” he said and she glanced his way. “My lord Quinn would know every way in and out of both keep and solar. Do you know of any that are secret?”
Berthe looked down at the cider. “Have you asked my lady?”
“Should I?”
“I doubt she would tell you,” she said, turning to meet his steady gaze. “If indeed she knew of one.”
Bayard eyed her for a long moment, then nodded. “I wanted also to ask you what you thought of this.” He spoke quietly, as if for her ears alone, and she found his expression unexpectedly serious. In his hand, he held a small dark bottle that looked to have some liquid within it.
“What is that?”
“A token of the East,” he said. “It was given to me as a gift.”
“By a lady?” Berthe could not keep suspicion from her tone.
Bayard shook his head. “Nay, a keeper whose tavern we favored. We were eight and when we said we rode for home, I think he knew he would miss our custom. He gave each of us a gift.” He held up the bottle so that it caught the light.
It was not black glass, as Berthe had originally thought, but glass of a very deep blue.
“This was mine.” His gaze met hers and his eyes seemed even darker than she knew them to be.
“What was it like?” she asked on impulse. “In Palestine?”
Bayard exhaled. “I do not think you truly want to know.”
“Aye, I do. The priest talks of it as if it is a paradise...”
“It is no paradise, to my thinking.” His voice was grim.
“Then tell me.”
“It is different from all I knew before,” Bayard admitted, his gaze fixed on the glass bottle.
He turned it in his hand, apparently fascinated by the way it caught the light.
Berthe guessed that he was sorting his memories and choosing which to share with her.
She wondered how many horrors he had witnessed.
“Because it is hot and dusty, and I was thirsty all the time I was there. We fought nigh all the time we were there, unless we were idle and waiting for the call to battle. Either I was fighting for my life and that of my comrades or we played endless games of draughts.” He lifted his gaze to hers again.
“Men died on all sides, yet I have never felt that any endeavor was so futile.”
“But you must have won battles and regained territory.”
“Aye, and like as not, lost them again afterward. It is, in its way, another endless game of draughts, save that men die when they lose.” Bayard frowned and took a deep breath.
“And yet it is familiar, because there are people tilling the fields and harvesting crops, cooking and praying, and living.”
“Then you did not like it at all.”
“I liked that I met my comrades, like Quinn,” he said. “I saw places that I had only heard the priests talk about, places I had never been certain were real. I tasted foods that were unknown to me, and I was glad of all that.” He smiled at the little bottle and her heart twisted at the sight.
God in heaven, but he was an alluring man. If he spoke to her thus all the time, she would lose her heart in moments.
It had to be a ploy to get beneath her skirts, and Berthe tried to remember that.
“But what is best of all is the gift that my comrade Quinn gives to me,” he said solemnly. “For it is both unexpected and my heart’s desire.”
“What is that?”
“He asks me to remain here with him, at Annossy or Sayerne, to serve him.”
“How is that a gift?” Berthe asked, confused. “You served together, but now you will pledge fealty to your friend?”
“And willingly, for Quinn grants to me a home.” His eyes shone then and Berthe’s heart skipped.
“I have been without a home for many years, and indeed, that is why I went on crusade. I hoped to find some measure of fortune, but I found better. I came to this place and have been offered a home and a position—and better yet, I met the most intriguing maiden.”
“Here comes the tale!” Berthe scoffed but Bayard shook his head.
“There is no tale.” He offered her the bottle. “And as a token of my intentions, I give this bottle to you.”
Berthe frowned in confusion.
Bayard took her hand and placed the small bottle within it. The glass was warm from his hand, and his hand was warmer as he folded her fingers around it. He leaned closer. “Open it and think of me.” Then he smiled, nodded, and strode away.
Berthe opened her hand and looked at the bottle. Was this a tale he told to all the maidens he desired? Did he tell her this tale because he did not desire her? What an irksome man. She could not fathom what he desired of her at all.
She put down the pot of cider and gently removed the stopper from the glass bottle. It was tight, but then, she supposed it had been sealed all the way from Palestine. She took a sniff of the contents and blinked.
It was scent.
A wondrous, exotic, glorious scent. Berthe could not name it, but it made her toes curl.
It made her feel warm and alert. It filled her with anticipation, and desire.
She took a deeper breath of it, closing her eyes as the beguiling scent slid through her.
It loosed her inhibitions, which should not have surprised her in the least.
She put the stopper back and dropped the bottle into her purse, its weight there a reminder of the intensity of Bayard’s expression. It was when she was pouring the cider into the cup for her lady that she realized the import of what he had confided in her.
He meant to remain at Annossy.
He meant to make a home here or at Sayerne, in service to Lord Quinn.
She did not need to fear that he would tempt her affection and then disappear.
And he had given her a gift, given it to her and no other. She looked but he had left the kitchen, perhaps returning to either stable or hall.
Berthe considered the import of that.
What if Sir Rogue was not such a rogue after all?
She left the cider, asking a scullery maid to tend it for a moment, and ran after Bayard. She found him outside the stables, conferring with the ostler, but he turned as if he had guessed she would follow.
Or hoped she had. For his eyes lit with a pleasure that told Berthe her instinct was right.
“I think it wondrous,” she told him, then stretched up to whisper in his ear. “It is said that a man can climb the tower on the side furthest from the gates, that there are handholds and footholds hidden in the stone, and that the solar can be gained that way.”
“Why would anyone allow such a course to exist?” Bayard asked.
“It is said that the lord could retake the solar thus, if it was held against him.” She smiled and shrugged. “I do not know if it is true, but the grey stone is said to be the place to begin.”
Bayard smiled then and bent down so quickly for a kiss that she had no chance to evade him.
Or so she told herself.
“I thank you,” he whispered, then touched his lips to hers again. Before he could have more ideas, Berthe pivoted and hastened back to the kitchen, her cheeks burning and her heart racing. She was well aware that Bayard watched her all the way and that there was something new in his expression.
He meant to stay.
The night fell like a black cloak over the valley and the rain drummed upon the roof of Annossy. Melissande moved from window to window in the solar, seeking some sign of Quinn’s return. There was only darkness in every direction and the gleam of water on every surface.
She stood with her cloak wrapped tightly around herself and considered the myriad possibilities.
He could have been injured. He could have been thrown from his steed and be lying in need of aid.
He could have been attacked by brigands and left to die.
He could have forded the river in a poor location and been swept away, taken by surprise by the rising water.
He could have abandoned her.
But no man of sense would surrender a holding so rich as Annossy. Quinn had taken the seal, though.
Perhaps he only left her.
The fact remained that he had vowed to return this very night. Melissande reminded herself that Quinn kept his pledges and feared that something had gone awry.
It made no sense to worry about Quinn. The man had been all the way to Palestine and back. He had fought in crusade, been imprisoned and wounded, and survived it all. He was clearly strong, but the longer he was gone, the more Melissande worried.
There was naught that she could do and Melissande did not like that truth a whit.
Nay, there was one thing she could do, one deed that Quinn did not fulfill this night.
She donned her heaviest cloak and settled herself beside the window that faced the mill. Quinn was not at home to watch for the fire that would signal an attack on the mill, so Melissande would watch in his stead.
’Twas the duty of a wife and lady of the keep and she would not disappoint her lord husband.
The rain fell incessantly once it started, continuing through the night.
The river rose ever higher and the mist was so close to the ground the next morning that it felt as if Annossy had been swallowed by the clouds.
Sound was both muffled and amplified and Melissande was tired, having sat at the window all the night long.
Gaultier was in a sour mood, and tempers were short in the great hall.
She returned to the books and Berthe brought her mending to sit beside her.
Melissande wondered if she was the only one listening for hoof beats.
When she heard them, it was late afternoon. She looked up, scarcely daring to believe, then rose to her feet when there was a shout from the curtain wall.
“My lord Quinn returns!” cried a man and there was cheer from the villagers.