Sharon Schulze (2 page)

P
adrig caught her as she fell backwards. She barely even touched the water—a testament to his knightly prowess, no doubt. Whatever the reason, Alys was glad of it, for in spite of her taunting prowl through the pool, she’d no desire to immerse herself completely.

He gathered her close and hiked her up into his arms. She gasped at the touch of his wet flesh, for despite the icy water and the slight breeze wafting gently over them, Padrig’s fiery skin smoldered through the linen of her gown as though the fabric didn’t exist. Hot, firm muscles lightly dusted with dark hair and the sensation of Padrig’s chest and stomach against her was nigh branded upon her body for all time.

“I ought to drop you right here,” he muttered. He raised her slightly away from him, still holding her easily within his grasp. “’Twould be no more than you deserve.”

“Don’t you dare!” Alys shifted in his hold and wrapped her arms tight about his neck lest he try to make good upon the threat, although a swift glance at his face confirmed her suspicion that he’d not actually do so.

The movement brought her face close to his. Her mouth tingled with the need to touch his, to test the contrast between the dark whiskers on his jaw and the surprising softness of his lips. Mouth dry, she swallowed and dragged her gaze down before she gave in to temptation.

She should have glanced away instead, however, for everything within her view tempted her.

And she could not look away.

She had to dig her fingers into his shoulders to keep from stroking the smooth, tanned flesh within her reach. ’Twas a feast for her senses; she felt nigh drunk on the feel of him, the fresh scent of his wet body, the warmth radiating out from him to envelop her like a cloak. ’Twas as though they were linked together by invisible bonds. She glanced up and met his eyes—a mistake, for they smoldered with a heat fit to match that of his skin. She dared not hold his gaze, for fear she’d lose her will completely if she did.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head to clear her muzzy thoughts, the movement tugging sharply at her hair where it was caught between their bodies. When she drew away from him to free herself, a feeling of loss rushed over her. The sensation, though painful, brought her to her senses; she wriggled loose and dropped into the water with a splash.

’Twas so cold! The water closed over her head for but a moment before Padrig hauled her up and out of it, but ’twas enough to clear her wits. A tide of heat rose to her face as her actions replayed themselves in her mind.

What had she been about, to tease and taunt him as she had?

Alys found her footing, rose and swiped her wet
hair out of her eyes. Backing toward shore, she risked a glance at Padrig, then whirled away from him in shock.

He’d come after her, leaving the protective cover of the water. He stood before her in all his naked glory—and by the Virgin, he
was
a glorious sight. Fully aroused, his wet body gleamed in the early morning light.

Somehow she forced her reluctant feet into motion,
away
from him, toward the camp.

Unlike her journey to the pool, this time she noted nothing of her surroundings. Instead all she could see in her mind’s eye was Padrig, her only thought a question pulsing repeatedly through her brain.

How in God’s name could she become a nun now?

Padrig watched Alys stumble away from him and along the path with mixed feelings. ’Twas for the best that she’d left, no doubt—but by the rood, how he wished she’d stayed!

He grinned. The Lady Alys he’d observed at l’Eau Clair—though he’d not seen her much, ’twas true—had led him to believe her to be vague, distracted, scarcely aware of her surroundings. She’d surprised him this morn, her actions and her words both, for she’d been quick-witted, clever and enticing.

He had noticed her very soon after his return to l’Eau Clair several weeks ago. She was a comely lass, petite but curvaceous, her dark chestnut hair and light amber eyes a striking contrast to her alabaster skin. Something made her stand out among the young ladies in Lady Gillian’s household, though he could not say what made that so, for more than a few of them were beautiful.

Still, when he’d tried to speak with her on several oc
casions, she’d scurried away with scarce a word to him—she’d barely even looked his way.

When he’d asked about Lady Alys, he’d been told by Hugh, one of the other knights in Lord Rannulf’s train, that she was nigh a lack-wit, scatterbrained to the point where Lady Gillian despaired of teaching her much of anything. She appeared cautious of men, so that none had managed to lure her into the slightest indiscretion—though not for want of trying, Hugh had added with a wry laugh. It had soon become apparent, though, that Lady Alys seemed lost in a world of her own, unaware of most everything and everyone around her.

Not worth the bother.

A day ago, he might have agreed—reluctantly, ’twas true, for he’d continued to be drawn to her.

Yet now… Now he could only wonder which woman was the real Lady Alys.

He bit back a laugh. He had no doubt which he’d rather she be!

Though in truth, it should matter naught to him whether she were a woman, a horse, a missive to be conveyed. So far as he was concerned, delivering her safely to her father’s care should be a responsibility he must fulfill.

Nothing more.

Yet he’d never before felt anything stronger than a sense of duty toward
anyone
he’d been obligated to escort, to protect.

Nor should he now, he reminded himself sternly, no matter how sweet, how enticing the provocation.

Padrig waded to the side of the pool where he’d left his clothes and sword, relishing the sensation of the breeze on his damp skin. His body had finally begun to
cool, now that Lady Alys was no longer there to tempt him, though the desire she’d stirred still simmered low in his belly and thrummed through his blood like the hot, dark embers buried deep within the heart of a banked fire.

He’d do well to ignore that craving until it disappeared, rather than let his continued exposure to the lady rouse it to fever pitch again. A man in his position couldn’t afford to give in to his passions whenever he encountered a pretty maid.

He’d never had trouble keeping himself in check before, a fortunate thing, as all too often the women who caught his attention were as far beyond his reach as the moon.

The same could be said for Lady Alys. She was far enough above his station that any attention from him could be considered bold arrogance on his part, at the very least.

And if his suspicion about the reason her father wanted her back was true, he’d be an idiot, indeed, to allow himself the slightest interest.

He wasn’t about to become a fool now. He tucked his shirt loosely into his braes, picked up his sword and dagger and headed for the path Lady Alys had taken through the trees. He’d yet to meet a woman who was worth more than a moment’s thought anyway.

Why, then, had he already spent so much time thinking about her?

The camp was astir by the time he returned, some of his men busy loading and saddling the tethered horses, others gathered near the ashes of the previous night’s fire to break their fast.

Of Lady Alys he saw no sign, though her maid lin
gered by a thicket on the far side of the clearing, her expression troubled, her hands waving about in agitation as she spoke to someone within the bushes.

Her mistress, no doubt.

He wondered what reason Alys had given for her state of soggy dishevelment. He glanced at his men. Had anyone realized that he and Lady Alys had been away from the camp at the same time, and that though they’d returned separately, they were both wet?

His own damp state was less apparent than hers had been, but it scarce took much imagination to consider…

His face grew hot, as it had not since his youth. Thankfully no one could guess what they’d been doing, nor would they realize his lapse in judgment as he’d taunted Lady Alys with his words….

With his nakedness.

Jesu, but he must have been mad, to have treated a noble lady thus!

Nor would anyone ever imagine—for he could scarce believe it himself—that Lady Alys had also done her innocent best to tease
him
.

He shook his head and forced away the nagging sense of guilt that plagued him. They’d done nothing amiss. ’Twas the knowledge he’d behaved badly plaguing him, nothing more.

Nay, no one would expect such behavior of Lady Alys—and he’d shown naught but the slightest, most general interest in her. They were more apt to believe she’d fallen into the pond on her own—for ’twas precisely what they’d expect of her, after all—and that he’d had to rescue her.

Padrig crossed to his baggage and drew out a dry shirt, turning away from the men nearby as his face
grew hotter still, in anger this time. What must it be like, to have everyone assume the worst of you? To be treated as though you were nigh brainless?

His stomach knotted—not from hunger, but because he recalled all too clearly what it was like to be the focus of attention, to be watched, weighed and found wanting.

To be the cause of jeering and mockery.

For the most part it had been silent attention in his case, but he’d been aware of it all the same. His fear mounting as he waited for his body to betray him, to fold in upon himself for lack of breath, his strength flown with his last lungful of air.

How could he fight in battle, be a warrior, when he didn’t know when next he’d be stricken?

He’d won his spurs despite the hurdles the ailment placed in his path, working hard to become physically powerful, to hone his skills till he could hold his own against all opponents. Through strength of body and of will, he had proven the naysayers wrong.

And been fortunate enough to outgrow the weakness—so he hoped. It had been several years since he’d last been set upon by the malady.

Pray God it never returned again.

Enough! Such thoughts belonged in the past, buried deep, nigh forgotten, where they couldn’t slink forth to weaken him.

He’d dressed and armed himself while he’d been lost in thought. A glance up at the brightening sky told him ’twas past time they were on their way. He looked around the campsite, noting that his men had finished their preparations and appeared ready to leave.

Where was Lady Alys?

He crossed to where he’d last seen the maidservant. There wasn’t so much as a path through the trees here, though the underbrush was bent where the women had trod upon it.

He’d no intention of going into the forest after them, however. He’d rather not even imagine Lady Alys’s state of dress—or undress. He felt unsettled enough already from the morning’s earlier events; no sense making matters worse.

A low murmur of voices sent a wave of relief through him, swiftly followed by impatience. He moved aside several leafy branches and moved into the trees—but not too far. “Milady!” he called. “’Tis past time we were on our way. Come along now—I doubt you want me to come in after you.” He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth, for the image that rose to his mind set his pulse pounding as wildly as it had during their encounter by the pool.

Jesu, but he was a fool!

Branches rustled, the sound moving closer, though he still couldn’t see the women. “We’ll be but a moment more,” Lady Alys called. “Sir Padrig?”

“Aye.”

She’d thought ’twas he. Taking a deep breath, Alys tucked the quill, tiny ink bottle and small piece of parchment she’d been clutching into the leather pouch she used to carry them and tied it to her belt at her hip. Giving the small bag a pat, she squared her shoulders and crept along the near-imperceptible path until she could just see Padrig’s dark blue surcoat through the thick boughs. She could not continue to hide within the forest’s comforting embrace any longer, she thought, wishing herself nigh anywhere else but here.

Nor hide within the confines of her mind’s eye, either, she added silently as she settled the pouch more comfortably on her belt.

She peered through the bushes at Padrig, her coif askew, the neck of her gown still unlaced and her cheeks hot. Sweet Mary save her, had she truly seen this man naked? Been held within his strong arms, her flesh pressed against that muscular body?

Though she took several deep, calming breaths, her heart raced faster—with embarrassment or excitement, she could not tell. Whichever it was, she could not meet his gaze. “You need not wait for us here,” she told him, forcing herself to step away from the thickest bushes and infusing her voice with a confidence she did not feel. “We’re nearly ready.”

“Are you?” He reached out with both hands and took hold of the loose laces dangling down the front of her gown. “I see your maid forgot these.” Fixing her with a steady look, he gave a slight tug.

She glanced up, unwittingly captivated by the mischief glinting in his blue eyes, dragged in a shaky breath and took a step closer.

Had she gone mad? What was she doing? His presence alone drew her to him—her will to resist gone, her wits askew, her strength of mind faded away to a near-silent voice of protest sounding somewhere deep within her addled brain.

She stood motionless before him, scarce able to breathe as he slowly tightened the strings, his knuckles lightly skimming her ribs, then working their way up to delicately stroke the sensitive skin of her throat.

He knotted the laces of her bodice, his hands lingering a moment once he was through.

Were his hands shaking, or was it her own body trembling?

Step back, Alys, step back now.

Move away from him before you do something even more stupid.

Her legs refused to obey her mind’s summons to move, but her hands…her hands rose despite her will, settling atop Padrig’s.

His were strong, warm, hard—so intriguingly different from her own. Tightening her fingers, she drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of him, and gave herself over to madness.

He leaned closer, his warmth surrounding her. His gaze moving over her face felt like a caress; watching
him
—the flush riding high along his cheekbones, the contrast between his bewhiskered face and the softness of his lips—heated her blood and made her heart pound so hard ’twas a wonder he could not hear it.