Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (8 page)

Surprise slammed like a rock into her chest. She whipped her head around. “What do you know of that?” she asked sharply.

“Enough.”

She fidgeted with her skirt, shifting her gaze between the two azure orbs of his eyes. “I was correcting an injustice. El Gallo stole goods from my father.” She meant to stop there. She owed the beggar no explanation. But something about the silent encouragement in his face bade her continue. She stared at her hands in her lap. “I didn’t want the wine at all. That wasn’t the point. But somebody had to stop the thieving. That’s why I dumped it out.”

She ventured a glance at the beggar. Damn her ready tongue. She’d said too much. His gaze had melted into some utterly indescribable emotion—something between amusement and pity and admiration. She didn’t like him looking at her like that. It was far too…intimate. If it killed her, she swore she’d not breathe another word to the man.

She was close enough to him now to see that silvery streaks shot through the cobalt of his eyes, as incongruous as silver thread worked into the blue woad of peasant’s cloth, as enigmatic as the man himself. A lock of hair crooked across his forehead and between his brows like black lightning, giving him a dangerous air. His wide mouth had parted the merest bit, enough so she could see the tips of his strong, white teeth.

He was dazzling, she realized with a start. And just as quickly, she remembered he was a pauper. She trained her eyes on the path ahead.

Duncan endured Linet’s curious perusal in silence most of the way. By the time he hauled the old nag up behind the de Montfort pavilion, she’d so thoroughly studied him that he wondered if the poor wench had ever laid eyes on a man at all before.

“Harold!” Duncan called, bringing the servant scurrying out of the booth in surprise. He tossed the reins to the old man. “Thank you,” he said with a nod.

Linet alit daintily from the cart, clearly peeved by his familiarity toward her servant. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat.

“Listen,” she said quietly. “If it’s coin you’re after…”

He grinned. She was ever offering him coin. “As I told you before, I have no need of money. My family is quite rich.”

She looked at him with such frustration that it was almost comical. He supposed the amused glint in his eyes didn’t help to soothe her irritation. “You won’t leave?”

He shook his head in mock sorrow.

She muttered something behind her teeth and began hauling forth bolts of cloth from the wagon with a vengeance. As much as she clearly longed to be rid of him, they both knew she could hardly afford to start a heated exchange in the marketplace. Besides, he had every right to be there. The fair was public thoroughfare.

Still, it didn’t stop her from voicing her opinions under her breath. She muttered as she worked, and he heard bits and pieces of her complaints—“spiteful peasant,” “meddling beggar,” “just take the coin and be on your way.”

Chuckling, he climbed down from the wagon and positioned himself at the front of the stall to watch.

She selected the materials as if she were an artist choosing pigment—gray patterned worsteds and russet woolens, creamy broadcloth with deep green stripes, and some in several shades of blue, even a dark Spanish scarlet. All the while, her hair shimmered about her like a Saracen dancer’s veil. When her nimble fingers caressed the varied textures of her wares, he found himself imagining those fingers upon his own varied textures.

He heaved a languorous sigh.

She’d scarcely completed displaying all her fabric when a golden-haired nobleman approached, eyeing a piece of yellow cloth.

“Ah, the saffron worsted,” she told him, summoning up a convincingly charming smile in spite of her ill temper. “The color comes from a rare and exotic flower, sir. If I may say so, it’s a perfect choice for your fair coloring.”

The man was obviously flattered by her nonsense. His eyes gleamed, and he stroked the material speculatively.

Duncan didn’t like him. And he didn’t like the way Linet was speaking to him, almost as if she were enticing the man to purchase something more than her cloth. He straightened and scowled at the patron from across the row. The man sheepishly backed away and moved on.

Linet whipped around, her fists clenched at her sides. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“I’ve never trusted a man who’d wear yellow,” he invented simply.

She looked at him as if he’d fallen from the moon. “You’ve just cost me a fortune! Do you know how much that worsted is worth?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I won’t tell you how to sell your goods, and you won’t tell me how to protect you.”

“I told you I need no protection,” she bit out.

Then two young ladies approached, and she was forced to grit her teeth and smile again. Duncan nodded politely to the pretty maids. They giggled. Linet elbowed her way in front of him to show them a length of damask in soft brown, but they gave it only a cursory glance. They weren’t interested in Linet’s cloth. They were interested in
him
. He gave one of them a wink. The maid blushed, murmuring something to her friend behind her hand.

“Does anything catch your eye, ladies?” he quipped, gesturing to the cloth draped about the booth.

The girls gasped and giggled again. Then, either too shy or muddled of wit to pursue further conversation, they scurried off, fluttering their eyelashes in farewell.

Linet gave him a withering glare. “You’re interfering with my trade.”

He bowed and retreated to a less obvious post beside the counter. “My apologies.” But he didn’t feel apologetic in the least. He was enjoying himself.

“
You
may have no need of coin, beggar, but
I
depend upon it.”

He snorted. “After what you took from the de Ware coffers, I should think you could live comfortably the rest of your years. Though that may be a short time for one who traffics with sea reivers.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Lady Alyce was charged fairly for her cloth,” she huffed defensively. “As far as sea reivers—”

“Sea reivers?” a fat woman with red cheeks aped as she picked up a piece of green broadcloth. “Are these stolen goods?”

“Nay,” Linet hastened to assure the lady, giving Duncan a warning glare. He obediently returned to the far side of the lane, but not before flashing his most charming grin. He heard her continue. “Everything here is come by honestly, my lady, and what a clever woman you are to have spotted that green.”

It was going to be a long day, he thought, leaning back against an elm and folding his arms across his chest. And it was going to be a Herculean task to keep troublemakers away from her—his angel with the dancing eyes, the dazzling smile, the heavenly curves.

A smile touched one corner of his mouth. It would be hell all right. But he supposed somebody had to guard angels here on earth.

Linet had been so certain the beggar would leave by day’s end. Surely by then he’d have tired of his game, seeing how intently she focused on her work and how seldom she paid him any heed. But still he remained, standing across from the stall with his arms crossed, watching the merchants, watching the passing crowds, but mostly watching her. It seemed as if every time she glanced up, he was watching her.

It had affected her business. She’d sold only ten ells of cloth today, and there was little hope of selling more. Already the sun sank in the half-wooded copse, dancing in dappled patterns across her fabric. The acrid smells of the dying fair hung on the air—rusting apple cores, horse dung, stale beer.

Soon a great fire would blaze in the nearby clearing. All were welcome to roast their own meat and apples over it or perhaps purchase a joint or a pork pie from a vendor. Some of the merchants packed up their wares and carted them home. But the village of Avedon, where Linet kept her mesnage and warehouse, was too far away for the daily trip, so she’d bed down in her pavilion.

“What will you have for supper tonight, my lady?”

Linet pressed a startled hand to her heart. She hadn’t even seen the beggar cross the lane.

“A pasty? Mutton mortrews?” he asked.

“Nay. I have a little salted cod and—”

The beggar made a face. “Salted cod?” He shook his head. “That’s not food. That’s punishment. You must have a proper meal.”

She opened her mouth to stop him, but he snagged a passing squire, mumbled some instructions to him and pressed several silver coins into the boy’s hand before she could speak. God alone knew where he’d come by the money, but she doubted he’d see it or the boy again.

Thus it was a complete surprise when, even before she and Harold had finished folding the cloth away, the lad returned, juggling a veritable feast. The beggar must have purchased a half dozen pasties and fruit coffyns. There was a great joint of beef, a wedge of hard cheese and even a jack of ale. Her mouth was still agape when the beggar shoved a pasty into it.

“I hope you like lamb,” he said.

Before she could reply, he called out, “Harold! Give those old bones a rest. I’ve got supper.”

Harold dropped the cloth he’d been folding and toddled eagerly forward, not about to question a free meal.

“Weary of that nasty cod, are you?” the beggar asked.

“Oh, aye.” Harold licked his lips.

Linet would have protested the beggar’s meddling, but she was still chewing on the lamb pasty. It was admittedly delicious, the meat succulent, the crust flaky. It was far better than another meal of salted cod and hard bread. But she’d be damned if she’d tell him so.

“Salted cod’s not much good for anything beyond Lent, I say,” the beggar confided. “Here, my good man, have a pork pie and a swig of ale to chase it down.”

“Thank ye, m’lord.”

M’lord? Linet choked on the pasty. Had Harold actually called the peasant
m’lord
? Her eyes watered, and she began to cough.

“Or perhaps
you’d
better have the first drink,” the beggar offered with a wink, clapping her on the back.

She seized the ale from him and downed a big gulp. When she’d swallowed properly and could finally catch her breath, she returned the jack. “Harold, he is
not
your lord,” she scolded. Then she turned to the beggar. “My servant and I were quite content with our cod.”

“Ah.” He was laughing at her. She could tell.

“I won’t pay you for what my servant eats,” she informed him.

“I won’t ask you to.”

Fine, she thought, as long as they understood one another.

She dusted the crumbs from her skirt and surreptitiously eyed the fruit coffyns. They looked delicious, all golden and shiny and flaky. She wondered whether they were apple or cherry. The thought of the sweet fruit within made her jaw tingle. Her tongue flicked once lightly over her lip. Apple or cherry?

Perhaps, she considered, if she played along, if she
did
partake of his food, the beggar would leave willingly.

“The only payment I ask,” he said with a shrug, interrupting her thoughts, “is a small measure of gratitude.”

“Thank ye, m’lord…again,” Harold repeated, thinking the reminder was meant for him.

“He is not a lord, Harold!” Line hissed, bristling. Then she turned on the beggar. “And just what do you mean by ‘gratitude’?”

“I’ve purchased you a fine meal,” the beggar explained, “and I’ve kept the robbers from your stall. Surely that warrants—”

“Robbers? Aye, you’ve kept the robbers away, and the lords and their mistresses and everyone else with coin in their purse! I’ve not sold enough today to keep a pauper alive since you took up residence across the lane, watching me like…like some hawk on the hunt.”

“Really?” he drawled with that irritatingly smug smile. “Well, if
you
had kept your eyes on your
patrons
instead of letting them rove in
my
direction every few moments…”

The blood rushed to her face.
“My
eyes!” she gasped. “I never…
You
were…”

Linet could see by his knowing smirk that the beggar didn’t believe anything she said. And she knew she’d only dig herself further into that pit of shame if she continued. She shoved the half-eaten pasty at him, dusted off her hands, and, with as much dignity as she could muster, resumed her task of folding the cloth.

The man was an arrogant fool, she thought, snapping a square of broadcloth, if he thought she’d have any interest in looking at him. He was a peasant, for heaven’s sake—a filthy, unscrupulous peasant, and she—she was a lady. Or nearly a lady. Nay, no matter what he said,
he
had been staring at
her
. She was sure of it.

She slammed the folded broadcloth down on the counter and began with another.

Harold continued to eat with untamed enthusiasm, licking his fingers and rolling his eyes in ecstasy. She should have made him stop as well. He was her servant, after all. She could order him to cease eating that ill-gotten food. But he looked so happy. And the pasty had been delicious. The beggar was eating the rest of hers now, but there were plenty remaining. Her stomach growled in complaint.

She smacked the broadcloth into quarters atop the counter.

She glanced at the fruit coffyns. They were balanced precariously on the beggar’s thigh as he leaned against the booth. If he weren’t careful, he’d drop them and waste all that delicious fruit. Apples wouldn’t be so bad, but cherries…

Her mouth watered.

She smoothed the material with wide, brusque strokes.

She glanced up. A drop of rich brown juice hovered on the beggar’s lower lip.

She bit the inside of her cheek and creased the fabric.

“Mmm, there’s nothing like tender English lamb, is there, Harold?” the beggar crooned, lapping up the juice.

“Nothin’, m’lord,” Harold agreed, then glanced up quickly at her in apology. “Er…nothin’.”

Linet gripped the edge of the counter to keep from screaming. Her supper of salted cod seemed less and less appetizing by the moment. “You may leave as soon as you finish your meal,” she told the beggar tautly.