Autumn Lord (13 page)

That, he told himself, as Diane looked away first, was merely a surge of protectiveness—as if for a

child. But the graceful form outlined by the tightly laced gown was that of a finely made woman. A

woman he'd held close in the dark intimacy of his bed, and woke up wanting. He firmly ignored the

heated rush of blood through his veins that gave the lie to his reaction being anything but a surge of lust.

He was going to deny the girl love, and himself lust, and Jacques could stop handing Diane to him on a

platter, the tempting old serpent.

For all that he was determined to avoid temptation, he still couldn't take his attention off Diane. He

found it a wonder that she didn't wince with obvious pain at every step. Her long hair flowed loose like a

maiden's about her shoulders, to help conceal a badly bruised cheek, he thought. Whatever the reason

she wore her hair down, he took pleasure at the lustrous sight of it.

"That is the blackest black hair I have ever seen."

Simon had also had the thought, but the words came from Joscelin. Simon gave the man a sharp,

annoyed look. Sharp enough to send Joscelin backward a step or two, his expression full of alarm.

"My lord, I meant only that—"

Simon took an angry step toward Joscelin, his hand on his dagger. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" He

growled the words, and thought he sounded more like an aroused guard dog than a man. He was

shocked at his possessive reaction to Joscelin's harmless words.

Joscelin gave quick looks to the girl, and then the dagger. He gulped. "No. Not if you—"

Simon forced himself to be calm, detached, uninvolved. He spoke mildly to the alarmed young man.

"Of course she's beautiful."

"Yes, my lord."

The knight looked at him desperately for direction. An idea occurred to him. Simon smiled, and

recalled, "It was you who defended Diane when she refused to come to the hall."

"I did?"

Simon nodded. "Yes. Quite eloquently. You championed her."

"Did I?"

"Suggested she might be modest."

"Oh, yes. I recall that."

"And you do think she's attractive? Not some ugly foreign monster?"

Joscelin shook his head wildly. "Oh, no, my lord. She's lovely. And in need of protection. I would

have challenged Thierry myself if you had not already—"

"In need of protection." Simon clapped a hand on Joscelin's shoulder. "You have the right of it, lad.

Diane of Brittany requires a champion."

"But, my lord, you—"

"No, you."

Simon watched Joscelin look at Diane as she reached the hearth. She stood quietly between Jacques

and the servant, head modestly down, hands tucked in the wide sleeves of her gown. She looked

beautiful, and vulnerable, and exotic.

How could a romantic young fool like Joscelin fail to fall in love with her?

"As of this moment," Simon informed the handsome knight, "your duty is to guard this young lady's

person. To be at her side at all times. To be her champion, and serve her in all ways gentle and just."

Joscelin's eyes went round, then a smile like the sun breaking through clouds lit his face. "Thank you,

my lord!" he said.

Simon watched Joscelin hurry, to Diane's side. He hid a smile behind his hand as the boy went down

on one knee before her. She stared at Joscelin in surprise. Jacques looked at him in frustrated

annoyance.

Simon walked away, satisfied that he had done his duty. Now all that needed to be accomplished was

for Diane to fall in love with her knight errant. How difficult could that be?

"This is not going to work, you know."

Simon walked over to join Jacques by the window. The old man had been standing in the cold

early-morning breeze watching the garden for nearly half an hour. "You're going to catch a chill," he told

his friend.

"What are they doing out there?" Jacques wondered irritably.

Simon stepped between the wizard and the window. "It's called courtship. Or are you too old to

remember?"

A reminiscent smile crossed Jacques's wrinkled face. "I remember courting my darling Anor very well

indeed. And watching your father and Lady Gilberte. A pity both those dear ladies are gone now. A pity

you never had a proper romance with Genevieve— or anyone else for that matter," he added. "You don't

know what you're missing."

The man's tone was kindly, but Simon winced as though he'd been slapped. "Genevieve and I did well

enough together."

"Until she went to court and discovered love."

Simon's voice was tight with anger as he answered, "I don't need to be reminded."

Jacques, of course, was not warned by Simon's tone. He never was. "You've never been in love. You

only understand duty. Genevieve found that she wanted more."

"So you told me when you persuaded me not to kill the adulteress. She died anyway."

"And you're still feeling guilty about it." Jacques shook his head sadly. "You sent her out in a storm and

she caught a fever. She still went because she wanted to go."

Simon willed his bunched fists to remain at his side, for the temptation to strike the old man was very

strong. "Don't do this to me."

"What? Remind you of your past? If you can't get over your past you'll never—"

"Am I cruel enough to bring up your mistakes? Do I reprove you for Vivienne's wickedness?" Damn!

He'd struggled so hard not to strike the old man with his hands that he hadn't guarded his tongue enough,

and had struck him with words instead. "I'm sorry," he said, as Jacques blinked back tears.

Jacques waved away his apology. "No need. I love my granddaughter despite her wicked ways. It's

her turning her great gift to evil purposes that disappoints me. I don't regret teaching her magic. I regret

her choice, but I don't blame myself for it."

Simon relaxed the tightly curled grip of his hands, and put them on Jacques's shoulder. "You've a

great, forgiving spirit, my friend. You're a better man than I am."

Jacques shook his head. "No. Just older. Age doesn't bring wisdom, just a certain perspective. For

those who don't drown in bitterness from the sorrows that befall them," he added. The tears were gone

from his eyes. The speculative look was back.

Simon stepped away from him. He looked out the window, which was, of course, what Jacques had

wanted him to do all along. Diane and Joscelin were in the garden. In the last three days, Joscelin had

made an effort to show Diane every square inch of Marbeau. Or so Jacques had been at pains to tell

Simon. She apparently made these excursions with the greatest of reluctance, but had taken a liking to

the garden. Of course she liked the garden, Simon thought. It was privacy she sought, needed. He knew

that instinctively. He knew that they were much alike.

Jacques was dissatisfied with Joscelin's efforts to win the fair lady's regard. Simon made himself deal

calmly with the wizard's frequent reports. He never mentioned Diane's name, but he listened with more

interest than he admitted. It was not his place to give Joscelin advice about the young woman. Besides,

he didn't want to.

He careful y kept to his own chamber as the courtship proceeded. In fact, he'd spent three days

fighting the urge Jo ask for Diane to join him to tell one of her stories. He would not ask. He would not

order. He would wait. It was her choice to keep him company, or stay away. It was her choice to speak

when she would. With any luck she would soon be in love and her voice would be free to say anything

she wanted, in the meantime, he would not call her into his presence and demand the one thing that was

hers to give.

This matter of choice was a new thing for him, and he didn't like it. It was a disturbing notion, and he

didn't know how he had come to it. It wasn't natural to not be making the decisions for someone under

his care. It went against the order of the world. It didn't feel right. The very notion of it, and not the

longing to spend time with the absent young woman, kept him pacing his chamber like a caged cat while

he allowed her the freedom of the castle. Or so he tried to tell himself.

Then there was the ridiculous matter of having to fight off the hollow ache that came from knowing she

preferred to spend time with Joscelin instead of with him. It was an unexpected and thoroughly ridiculous

reaction, and one he'd brought on himself.

"She's a great deal of trouble, isn't she?" Jacques asked from behind him.

Simon did not turn around to challenge this provocative statement. He didn't turn because his attention

focused on the couple on the still frost-rimmed path below. Even from this distance he could make out

the look of vaguely annoyed puzzlement on Diane's face.

When Joscelin put his hand on Diane's shoulder, and she immediately scurried backward, Simon

shook his head in disgust. He ignored the jolt of jealousy that also passed through him as he said, "She's

not ready to be touched yet, you young fool."

When Diane looked up and saw him watching her, he stepped back and closed the shutters, but not

before intercepting a look from her that left him unreasonably shaken. He denied his soul's call to join her

in the garden and made himself think about the duties he needed to perform.

There were parchments to be read on his work table. There were things to discuss with Jacques.

There was All Saints' Day service to attend in less than an hour. He had more to occupy his mind and

time than a pleading look from one large-eyed girl. But it was that swift glance and the unpleasant image

of her with another man that he couldn't get out of his mind.

******************

him, either. He even slept outside Jacques's door. The problem was, she understood very little of what

he meant. She understood the courtly words, but most of them were silly. Most of the time she just

smiled vacantly while his utterances passed through her like white noise. His language was flowery,

flamboyant, and apparently meant to impress her with his dedication to her chaste and comely person.

Or something.

His terminology was so convoluted it was kind of hard to tell what he meant sometimes. She missed

Simon's plain, sarcastic, caustic way of speaking. She never had trouble understanding just what the

master of Marbeau meant, sometimes without him having to say a thing.

Except that Joscelin wore chain mail instead of a plaid flannel shirt, he reminded her of her last

boyfriend. Brad hadn't talked that much, but there'd been an air of puppylike devotion Joscelin shared

with him. An air that was probably as false. Brad was a supposed musician who'd wandered out of her

life when he'd discovered her mother only worked with classical or jazz artists. Joscelin was hanging out

with her because Simon told him to. She wondered if there was anyone who was interested in her for

herself.

Simon had seemed to be the only one without an agenda. Her presence had been forced on him by

Jacques. He'd done the best he could with the situations that had forced them to be together. Of course,

now that he'd palmed her off on Joscelin he didn't have any interest in her either.

There was no reason for him to. She had no reason to be interested in him. It was just the gratitude

she felt toward him, and the sense of security he gave her, that kept the gnawing longing to be near him

from fading as the days passed.

It took a great deal of effort not to run away when Joscelin touched her. To give in to panic would be

to let Thierry win, to let a dead man control her life. She was determined not to let that happen. Thierry

wasn't going to have power over her.

She didn't run up to Simon's room when she saw him watching her from his window. She didn't

acknowledge the heartache when he turned away. She made herself smile at Joscelin. She wasn't going

to let Simon control her life, either.

Simon understood that, she knew he did. He understood that she needed to find her own way instead

of hiding in his shadow. And in his usual autocratic way, he had set about detaching her from his person.

It would have been nice if he'd given her the choice to walk away. A typically high-handed move from

Simon de Argent, she thought as she backed away from Joscelin.

He followed her. She took a seat on a bench and proceeded to ignore him. It was a crisply cold

morning, clear and refreshing but definitely a prelude to a winter sort of day. Several layers of clothing

and a heavy wool cape kept her warm enough. Even her ears were warm, since the servant who'd been

assigned to her had talked her into covering her hair with an embroidered veil. She looked the part, she

supposed, of Joscelin's medieval fantasyland lady, except that her features were different and she still had