Chapter 9
Nine
With Alys trailing behind her, Emily came down the stairs with a heavy heart. She wished she could say a quick good-bye to Christina, but her friend was still in her solar with Orrick.
Though it would serve Lord Draven right to wait for her again, Emily didn’t have the heart to even torment him. Not when she felt this disappointed. She had come so close to seeing a fair.
Crestfallen, she descended the stairs to find said ogre waiting by the door. Without a word, she handed Draven the saddlebags.
In turn he handed the saddlebags over to her maid. “Take those back upstairs.”
Emily frowned as she raised her gaze from the floor to his face. “Now I’m not even allowed to take those with me?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “You may bring it if you like, but you’ll look rather odd carrying saddlebags at the fair.”
Joy raced through her as her mood instantly brightened. “You’ll let me go after all?”
He gave her a chiding stare. “You should have told me Simon had yet to take you. I never break my word, milady. The whole reason I allowed you to come here was to see the fair. I wouldn’t consider returning you to Ravenswood until you’ve had the opportunity.”
Impulsively, she threw her arms about him and squeezed him tightly. He tensed and quickly stepped out of her hold.
Still, his actions didn’t daunt her. She felt too wonderful at the moment to take any slight.
“Careful, milord, else I might begin to suspect you’re not the evil ogre you portray.”
He didn’t answer her verbally, but there was a subtle softening to his features.
“How long will it take us to get there?” she asked.
Draven felt the urge to smile at her, but he quickly caught himself. She looked like a child at Christmastide. “It won’t take long. The horses are saddled and awaiting you.”
She rushed past him, then paused at the door and looked back to see he had yet to budge. “Well, come on, milord, hurry!”
Draven did as she commanded, and this time when he helped her mount, he was most careful not to touch her any longer than what was absolutely necessary to finish the task lest she haunt him further.
All except for the honeysuckle scent of her hair. The luscious smell clung to him as he mounted his own horse and led her out the bailey.
The way to the fairgrounds was short, but she chatted the entire way.
“Do you think they’ll have jugglers?” she asked as soon as they passed through the barbican.
“I so love to watch them. I bet they have a maypole. Christina used to tell tales of the annual fair in York where she’s from and they always had a maypole even though the fair was in August. Have you ever seen an acrobat who could twist his feet over his head.
One came to my father’s years ago and I. ...”
On and on she went until his head rang from it. He’d never been around anyone who seemed to love to talk as much as the Lady Emily. Not even Simon.
In truth, he didn’t see how she found so many words. Did the lady never run short of them or of ideas or questions?
She would pause only long enough for him to give a short, glib response and then she’d be off again.
When they finally reached the gathering, she fair jumped from the horse to the ground before he even had a chance to dismount. It amazed him that she hadn’t hurt herself.
“Oh look!” Her eyes shined as she twisted and turned about like a lark trying to take in the entire forest. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Draven studied the field of crowded tents, tables and milling people. He’d never cared for such events, but the Lady Emily didn’t share his jaded view. The multi-colored tents and pennants announcing wares and goods looked gaudy to him.
“Just make sure you don’t stray from my side,” he warned as he tied their horses to a pole and paid an attendant to watch over them.
“I won’t.”
Draven closed his purse and turned to her. “Then lead the way, milady. The rest of the day is yours.”
Her face bright, she lifted her skirt up ever so slightly and made her way across the field. Draven had never seen anything like her as she moved through the crowd with the curiosity of an exuberant child.
The sunlight reflected off her golden tresses and the color pink rode high in her cheeks as she darted from booth to booth examining everything.
“Sweetened chestnuts for milady?” a merchant asked as she drew near his table.
Draven noted her hesitation before she shook her head in declination. “Thank you, but nay.”
He nodded at the merchant and passed a half penny to him. Taking the shelled, roasted nuts which were wrapped in thin sheepskin, he followed her to the next stand where she looked over an assortment of toiletries.
“Here.” He passed the confections to her.
She looked from his hand to his face then smiled. “How did you know I wanted them?”
“A simple guess.”
Her smile widened as she took a single nut and placed it on her tongue. “Hmm,” she breathed, closing her eyes and savoring the bite. “‘Tis wondrous.”
But not half as wondrous as the lady before him. He’d sell whatever he had left of his soul to be the fare she sampled with such gusto. Licking her lips, she took the sheepskin from his hand.
“You must taste this.” She selected another nut and lifted it towards his lips.
His first instinct to pull away, Draven forced himself to part his lips. Her fingers burned his lips as she brushed them while placing the salty, sweet morsel into his mouth.
“Delectable,” he said, more in response to the feeling of her soft skin against his than to the taste of the food.
Something caught her eye then, and she turned her head away.
Draven exhaled, and stamped his soured leg against the ground in an effort to bring his lusting body under his control. The pain did very little to abate his desire.
“Oh look! A juggler.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him away.
Dumbstruck, he allowed her to pull him through the crowd. He knew her touch meant nothing to her, she was merely excited and yet it burned him to the core of his being.
She stood there for several minutes watching the juggler alternate from eggs to melons to knives.
When the juggler finished, she jumped up and down and applauded mightily while cradling the sheepskin of nuts to her bosom. He stared at the small bag nestled between her breasts with envy. At the moment, he’d gladly trade places.
She turned to look up at him with a dazzling smile. “He was very good, wasn’t he?”
Draven never had the chance to answer for she took his hand, spun him about, and headed in the opposite direction they had come.
Her next stop was a table of ribbons and cloth.
“A pretty ribbon for milady? Or new cloth for a kirtle or veil?”
Emily shook her head. “Nay. I am but browsing. Thank you, though.”
After a moment, Emily paused and looked back through the crowd for her next distraction, and it was then he saw the honey crystals on her bottom lip.
Entranced, he stared, wanting desperately to kiss it away.
To draw that lip between his teeth and lick the sugar away while he tasted the sweetness of her mouth.
She took a step and Draven pulled her to a stop. She looked up with a puzzled frown.
“You have...um.. There’s...” Draven paused.
It was just honey for the sake of St. Anne! What was the matter with him that he couldn’t tell her to just lick her lips and be done with it?
He reached a hand out to touch the crystals, but as soon as he saw the way it trembled, he dropped it back to his side.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
“You have honey on your lip.”
There, he had said it.
Finally.
“Oh.” She beamed. “Thank you.”
The tip of her pink tongue darted out over the area and if he’d thought the honey bad, ‘twas nothing compared to the lightening quick heat that seared his loins at the sight of her tongue.
And then she ran her fingertip over her lip and he was damn near undone.
“Did I get it?” she asked innocently.
Not yet, he thought drily, but he’d love to be the one who gave it to her.
Clearing his throat at the treacherous thought he nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis gone.”
“Come one, come all,” called a voice from the center of the crowd. “Alfred, King of Minstrels, is about to play.”
A minstrel? Draven moaned silently. Surely Emily had better sense than to subscribe to their brand of ridiculousness about love and honor.
Personally, he would rather be flayed to death than listen to the crooning of some mewling musician.
“A minstrel!” she said enthusiastically.
Of course, she wanted to go.
He groaned aloud.
But she paid no heed to his pain. Grabbing his wrist, she practically ran through the crowd to the space that had been sectioned off for such torturous events.
Benches had been set up around a tree stump where a minstrel sat, tuning his lute. Draven directed her to a bench to the left of the minstrel. After the area became crowded, the minstrel began singing a tale of a lady and her love.
Draven didn’t listen for long before he turned his full attention to the lady at his own side.
The light breeze swept through her hair, moving wisps of it about her face. Absently, she lifted one graceful arm up and tucked the wayward strands behind her ear. Her fingers caressed her ear and jaw, sending ribbons of molten lust through him.
Draven imagined reaching out for those tendrils and running his hands through them, of pulling her against him and yielding to his desire to see her kissed well and fully.
He clenched his teeth in desperation. How on earth could he live out a year with her and not touch her when all he could think of was claiming her?
What had Henry been thinking?
In that moment, he could forget his past, his temper. Everything. Everything save her and the laughter she brought into his empty life.
How did she do it? How could she find such thrill and wonder at things as simple as a chestnut or ribbon?
Dear Lord in Heaven, give him the strength he needed to hold his oath. Or send an archangel to kill him where he sat before he had a chance to corrupt his honor.