Колин Глисон - A Whisper of Rosemary

Maris stood reluctantly, dismay by her father’s innocent command. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with this man. She’d felt his attention returning to her again and again during the evening, and had been unable to ignore the interest in his stare. Try as she might, she’d been unable to keep her mouth closed and her mind on her food—as her mother had admonished her many a time. Nay, if the man was to wed her, he’d know from the beginning that she had her own thoughts and opinions, and an interest in the world beyond Langumont’s walls.

“Of course, Papa,” she said in a voice that disguised her discomfort.

Obviously, Sir Dirick did not miss her mislike of the situation, for as soon as Merle and Allegra were out of earshot, he said, “Lady Maris, I am perfectly able to find my own pallet.”

“Nay, ’tis my father’s wish. I should not put a guest out,” she smiled at him, swallowing the resentment she felt for being pressed into a marriage she did not want. In all honesty, it was not this man’s fault—and he seemed pleasant enough now that he was not ahorse. “Have you bathed?”

“Nay,” he shook his head, surprise flashing in his gray-blue eyes.

“May I offer you a warm bath before I direct you to your pallet?” she asked. “Gustave will bring the water. I won’t take long, and you will soon be for bed.”

“You?” Those eyes turned on her with a sudden intensity, and he looked at her for a moment, a very faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

Maris’s throat went dry and she nearly stepped away from him and the unexpected stirrings in her middle. The sudden image of this man, devoid of his chausses and tunic, settled into a tub that would hardly fit his large body, filled her mind. His dark hair, which now curled wildly about his face and jaw, would be sleek and dripping, his broad shoulders bare and steam rising from dark skin—

Maris bit her lip as her cheeks flushed with warmth. What was wrong with her? She’d never had such lewd thoughts over such a mundane chore. “Aye, of course,” she managed to say in response to the question she’d nearly forgotten.

“Nay,” Sir Dirick rumbled after what seemed like forever. His smooth, low voice carried easily to her ears, even over the noise of the servants as they cleared off the tables and stacked the benches. “I do not believe I should put myself through such torture.”

Her heart in her throat and her mind whirling—unsure as to what he meant by such a comment—Maris spun away to hide her discomfiture. “Then if you would follow me,” she murmured and blindly began to make her way between the nearly empty tables, anxious to be rid of her charge.

As they approached a group of rowdy knights, Maris paused, resting her hand on the shoulder of a burly, red headed one. They quieted almost as if she’d commanded it. “Sir Raymond, how fares your shoulder? Is the pain lessening?”

The man’s face nearly matched the color of his hair when he turned it up to look at her. “Aye, my lady. The pain is nearly gone.” He moved his arm as if to demonstrate.

“You will come to the herbary on the morrow and I will check it again,” she ordered. It wouldn’t do for her father’s best man to have an injured arm. “The last I dressed a wound for you, ’twas only once that you came to me—and look what has happened to it because of your carelessness!”

He grinned up at her, “Aye, my lady. On the morrow, I will allow you to torture me yet again. ’Tis only because your touch is so sweet that I can sit through the pain,” he teased in the manner of a big brother.

Maris, who’d grown up with Raymond pulling at her pigtails and chasing her through the keep with spiders, planted hands on her hips as the other men laughed. “Aye, and you should keep such sweetness on your tongue, or I will put you through more tortures if you spread tales. Did I not warn you that some day you would pay for the frog in my bed?”

There wasn’t a hint of guile in her actions, Dirick thought as he watched. She had no concept of what she did to a man, with those teasing golden green eyes and vibrant smile—particularly the redheaded knight, whose besotted expression was not quite brotherly. Whatever reason she’d been in the village at night, it hadn’t been for a tryst—he was now certain of it.

Dirick’s skin still prickled at the memory of her innocent offer to bathe him, and he wondered if her father knew she’d made such a gesture. A sudden streak of heat shot through him at the thought of her scratched and stained hands soaping his body…but he thrust the thought away immediately. He’d do well to find a woman this night. Mayhaps one of the maidservants would oblige him.

Not for the first time that evening, he wondered why he’d heard nothing of the beautiful heiress of Langumont—from either his brother or the court. Certainly a well landed maid as comely as Maris Lareux wouldn’t escape the notice of the unmarried, land-greedy barons at court.

Lady Maris’s voice broke into Dirick’s thoughts as she led him around into the area reserved for the men-at-arms and other important visitors. It was a large room, cordoned off from the rest of the hall by a heavy oaken door—much nicer than many of the men’s quarters he’d slept in throughout England and France. A fire roared in the corner, and a serf slumped against the wall, snoring, with a stack of wood within reach.

“You may place your pallet anywhere you like, Sir Dirick,” Maris offered. She handed him a pile of blankets, more than generous enough to keep one warm—especially with a blazing fire in the same room.

“Thank you, my lady,” he took the bundle.

She paused for a moment as if contemplating her next words, and when she spoke, a small grin tickled the corner of her enticing mouth.

Her words, however, when they came, eliminated any hint of innocence. “Papa bade me see to your comforts. If your need is as great as ’twas yestereve, I will send a woman to you.”

Dirick felt his face flush hot as he ground his teeth together in an attempt to maintain his dignity. Words escaped him, and before he could gather his wits, the little minx took his silence for dissent and whirled away down the dark corridor.

Maris dressed without Verna’s assistance the next morning. She’d wakened earlier than usual and found too many thoughts trundling through her mind to make more sleep likely, so she rose. It was a frigid morn, and the sun had not even begun to peek over the edge of the earth to warm it.

Down the stone steps she went, breezing through the hall where several men-at-arms were sprawled in a corner. Obviously, they’d not made it to the knights’ quarters where she’d left a dumfounded Sir Dirick the night before.

A bemused smile quirked her face at the memory of his shocked expression, and, engrossed as she was, Maris misstepped and trod upon the cat’s tail. The tabby emitted a yowl of protest (the sotted men still did not stir) and the feline stalked off through the matted rushes, refusing to accept Maris’s apologies.

She tsked at herself, fearing that the cat’s reaction was merely a foreshadowing of what her father would say if he heard of her unladylike gibe at Sir Dirick. She couldn’t keep from glancing again toward the common sleeping area, where he was likely sprawled out on his pallet.

For a moment, she imagined his thick dark hair tufted and curling where he rested his head, his pleasing face lax and smooth in his rest. Mayhap an arm would be thrown out, away from his blanketed body…or a leg might be lying atop the woolen blanket whilst the rest of him slumbered in comfort. His disturbing grey-blue eyes would be closed in sleep—those eyes that looked at her with such intensity that her heart dodged about in her chest. Yet, when they were not focused on her, she’d noticed that they were a soft, cloud like grey, flecked with blue. The color of Langumont Bay on a winter day, and fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen, or noticed, on a man.