Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (27 page)

He should never have gotten her drunk. At the time, it had seemed a rational solution. After a lot of cajoling and a bit of painful experimentation, he’d discovered that Linet’s reticence toward singing was well-founded. Never had he heard such atrocious attempts at melody. Still, undaunted, he reasoned that singing wasn’t everything. All he had to do was to get Linet relaxed enough to at least join him on the dais before the castle folk. Once the men laid eyes on her, the shortcomings of her voice would be quickly forgotten and forgiven.

He was right. No one seemed to care that Linet was humming along with the tune a full fourth above pitch, nor that she sounded like a rusty portcullis. Their attention was doubtless drawn to her emerald eyes, her honey hair…her alabaster skin…that tiny dot of a birthmark low on her breast…

He blinked his eyes. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He couldn’t remember the next chord, and he must be on the ninth verse by now. Not only was his playing suffering, but his cursed body was responding to Linet’s nearness with all the finesse of an untried squire. Lord, it was going to be a long evening.

Meanwhile, in a dark crevice of the hall, out of the throng and far from Duncan’s eyes, Tomas and Clave huddled together in stolen monks’ cassocks. They gnawed on the hard crusts they’d begged from the kitchen and pulled their cowls closer about their faces.

“I told you we’d find them,” Clave whispered. He tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth.

“I hope she does not mean to sing again,” Tomas complained around a doughy bite. “Her caterwauling in the forest was awful enough to frighten the animals away.”

“Her caterwauling was what led us to her,” Clave reminded him.

“I see no medallion.”

“She’s probably hidden it somewhere.”

Tomas licked his fingers. “You mean we’ll have to search her?”

“
I’ll
have to search her.
You
will be busy holding her guardian at sword point.”

Tomas started to protest, but Clave shoved a piece of bread into his mouth before he could speak.

Linet was absolutely enthralled by the moment. Not in all her years of merchanting could she remember having so much fun. The free-flowing wine had gone swiftly to her head, warming her all over, making her feel as light as down. Before long, her foot was tapping in rhythm with the beggar’s roundelays. She forgot her reticence, forgot their differences. She even forgot, for a short span of time, that she couldn’t sing.

And the beggar—he was magnificent. His fingers fairly flew over the lute. When someone pressed a harp into his hands, he proved to be a master of that as well, running his fingers across the strings as smoothly as water over pebbles. His wit was charming and lightning-quick. He regaled them all with daring tales of adventure and sweet love songs, with ribald poems and turns of phrase that made her dizzy. She laughed at the droll repartee he exchanged with the lord of the castle. Then, just as easily, she was moved to tears by a particularly tragic ballad.

She stared at him—the dark-haired beggar-jongleur who held such sway over her emotions—and realized in a flash how narrow her own world was. She lived a life of numbers and tallies, a life motivated by profit and expense, a life devoid of dance and song and other gratuitous pleasures.

But the beggar…he’d been places, seen things, even through his pauper’s eyes. He’d drunk deep the draught of life. Yet he sang about the beauty of a rose with the same relish as he told the tale of a Crusader’s last battle. Listening to him, she could almost taste the wine of the Holy Grail. Watching him, she could almost imagine what it would be like to awaken in his adoring arms.

In the midst of a humorous madrigal comparing the moon to a faithless woman, Linet began to notice the expressions on the faces of the other women in the hall. Peasant girls and noblewomen alike regarded the beggar dreamily. Some fluttered their lashes, smiling coyly. Some looked as if they’d devour him. Some even impudently wet their lips.

She had to protect him, keep him from these women who planned to make him their next meal. After all, he was
her
beggar.

Overcome by a surge of possessiveness, she sidled closer as he played. She ducked under his arm, insinuating herself between him and the harp, and rested her head against his chest. There, it seemed he was singing only for her. She reveled in the strong, soothing vibration of his voice as the song reverberated against her ear. It was
her
song, and he was
her
jongleur. She sighed happily.

Duncan’s fingers faltered on the harp, and his voice caught in his throat. What the devil possessed Linet? All evening she’d been staring at him. The desire couldn’t have been more evident in her smoldering eyes. And now she was practically sitting atop his lap. God’s bones, if she remained there much longer,
his
desire would become evident, painfully so. As best he could, he brought the song to a rapid conclusion and extricated himself from Linet’s possessive embrace. Then he stood and bowed toward the high table.

“Is my lord’s appetite well-sated?” he asked politely when he finally found his voice.

Fortunately, the plump lord yawned and nodded in contentment. “Lad, you’ve earned that chamber with the soft pallet you so desired.” His timid wife whispered something in his ear. “Ah, my lady wife wishes to obtain the verses to that last madrigal. Might you recite them for our scribe before you take your rest?”

“With pleasure,” Duncan lied, approaching the high table as a servant fetched parchment and quill for the scribe.

The lord and lady took their leave. Behind him, the diners at the lower tables guzzled down the last of their ale and rose from the benches to go. From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw several ardent admirers beginning to stalk Linet like hunters sneaking up on a defenseless hart. He cursed under his breath. In her condition, she didn’t have half a chance.

The scribe dipped his quill in the ink and waited expectantly.

“How like the pale and shining moon…” Duncan recited.

Across the hall, Linet giggled, and Duncan clenched his teeth.

“How like…” the scribe repeated, scrawling slowly across the page, “…the pale…”

“And shining moon,” Duncan prompted impatiently.

Linet’s shocked laugh grated on his ears like a blade on a grinding wheel.

“And…shining…moon,” the scribe said.

“Listen. Give me the parchment. I’ll write them out myself,” he told the scribe, unmindful of how odd it might seem that a jongleur could read and write. With careless haste and a hand that would have shocked the chaplain who’d taught him to write, Duncan scribbled out the words to the song and shoved the finished parchment toward the scribe.

By that time, Linet was completely surrounded by them. She hiccoughed loudly, and then was off and giggling again, leaning with drunken grace against a nobleman whose fingers rested rather boldly upon the low neckline of her dress.

Anger flared in Duncan quicker than fire on a thatched roof. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His fingers itched to clout the nobleman who’d dare lay hands on his angel. But he wisely counted to ten before he tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Good pardon, sir,” he sang out with deceptive cheer, though he could scarcely keep the malice from his eyes. “I can’t say I fault you for your fine taste in wine and wenches. But methinks this vintage is yet young.”

The men laughed all around. But the nobleman peered slyly down his nose at Duncan. “I see your game, my fellow,” he retorted, digging deep in his waist pouch. “How much coin to add a few years to her vintage then?”

Duncan silently thanked God Linet was too drunk to follow the conversation. “Why, none, good sir, for you see it’s a family recipe, this wine, and not for the selling at all.”

The nobleman scowled.

“She’s my own dear cousin, my lord,” Duncan whispered loudly, his hand over his heart, “and I assure you, her father would beat far more out of me than you could possibly pay were this wine to lose its cork.”

After the nobleman digested his words, he guffawed heartily, releasing his hold on Linet. His friends clapped him on the back, swigging the dregs of their ale, and the lot of them left to seek more docile game.

Sighing with relief, Duncan swept Linet from the golden warmth of the hall’s roaring fire. He followed the servant, who directed them to their quarters through the starlit courtyard. Linet listed tipsily on his arm as they crossed the grassy expanse.

“You were wonderful,” Linet gushed.

He grinned. Lord, was she drunk. “And you thought I had no marketable skills.”

She stumbled. He caught her.

“And I thought I couldn’t sing,” she beamed, tripping again.

“That remains to be seen.” In one swift movement, he swept her off her feet into his arms. “However, I seem to remember you
could
walk at one time.”

She giggled. It was a delightful sound. “You shouldn’t be carrying me, you know,” she chided, wagging her finger at him. “You’re a commoner, and I’m…” She frowned, puzzled.

“You are?” he prompted, carrying her up a set of curving stone steps and dismissing the servant with a nod.

“I’m…drunk.” She buried her laughter against his chest.

When he pushed open the oak door of the bedchamber, she made a soft sigh of approval. She scrambled out of his arms, padded across the floor, and flounced down upon the bed, kicking off her shoes and wiggling her toes.

As Duncan bolted the door shut, he couldn’t help but smile at the pretty bundle of contradictions perched on the edge of the bed. With her hair springing every which way in a riot of curls and her gown slipping provocatively off one shoulder, she was the picture of a fallen angel. Her bare feet dangled and kicked innocently over the side of the pallet even as she studied him with a curious mixture of inebriation and desire. Such heady passion resided in her heavy-lidded eyes that he felt the heat of her regard even as he bent to stir the banked fire on the hearth.

The flames of the fire lapped upward like petals of an orange flower under his prodding. When he turned toward his angel again, the soft planes of her skin—the apple of her cheek, the hollow of her shoulder, the cleft between her breasts—were bathes in golden light. God, she was lovely.

Linet sighed happily. The beggar was most pleasant to look upon, she decided. The muscles of his shoulders strained the seams of his tunic as he poked at the cinders, and his long legs were as sturdy as trees. His inky hair glistened in the glow of the wakening coals, and his hands as he picked up a log to toss on the fire were strong and capable. A delicious dizziness washed over her, and she leaned back onto her elbows to take in her surroundings.

“What is this place?” Her words came out in a breathy slur.

“It’s the real bed I promised you.”

“Mmm,” she reveled, lying back to enjoy the softness of the feather pallet. “’S’wonderful.”

She threw her arms with abandon over her head. Not since she was a child had she felt so carefree, so content. There was something else, though, something languorous and hungry and sensual that hadn’t been part of her youth. The curious sensation made her laugh, a throaty laugh that felt like it came from another woman hidden deep inside her.

That unexpected sound shot a bolt of desire through Duncan’s body that took his breath away. He stood stunned for a moment, his eyes locked onto the tempting bit of woman sprawled on the bed. She rolled her head to the side and peered at him through lowered lashes, and he felt his tongue rise to the roof of his mouth. God help him, he wanted her.

Linet let out a rich sigh. He was so handsome and gallant. The firelight burnished his skin to copper and lent warmth to the rougher planes of his face. His eyes glowed, their sapphire depths mysterious. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips as she stared, transfixed by his sensuous mouth.

“You,” she mumbled with a hiccough, “gave me too…much to drink.”

His eyes softened. “Aye.”

Duncan smiled. Linet was right. She was well and truly besotted, too drunk to be responsible for her behavior. He knew that. He knew that bedding her now would be a mistake, even if he’d at long last found appropriate accommodations. No matter how she stared at him with those lust-filled eyes, no matter how much willing flesh she exposed, he must take control of the situation. He must curb his own passions. He’d pull the coverlet over her and douse those fires at once.

He took a step closer to the bed.

Her face was flushed with desire, her lips curved in a ripe and inviting smile. Her hair fanned out about her and dripped like amber honey over the edge of the bed. As her bosom rose and fell, the fabric of the damned kirtle stretched taut across her breasts, and he saw the tantalizing outline of her nipples against the cloth.

He swallowed hard and, closing his eyes, groped blindly for the coverlet. With a rapid swoop of his arm, he flung the blanket over her like a child trapping a pet coney.

She promptly kicked it off. “It’s far too hot,” she explained.

Dear God, now the gown had ridden up, exposing her knees and a length of lovely thigh. He reached across her to grasp the coverlet again.

Linet wondered distractedly what all the fuss was about. She was perfectly comfortable as she was. Her belly was full, the bed was soft—she couldn’t wish for anything more. Well, she amended, perhaps a taste of that delicious mouth would be nice. It would taste as sweet as mead, she knew. She waited until he drew near. Then she captured his head with her arms and brought him down, pressing her lips full against his.

Duncan was paralyzed for an instant. All his chivalrous instincts told him to pull away, but when her lips rose to his like eager, grateful blossoms toward the rain, he was lost. He plunged into her mouth with reckless abandon then, tossing aside his better judgment as readily as the coverlet, twining tremulous fingers in the fragrant ocean of her hair.

Linet cleaved to him, letting his musky, wine-sweet breath mingle with hers as she drank in delights that were even more intoxicating than the wine. His lips seared her, and his tongue traced fire across her mouth. His hands rustling through her hair made her shiver, and the strong, masculine, leather-and-smoke smell of him engulfed her senses.