Lyn Stone - My Lady's Choice

Unable to resist, she watched him soaping his mighty arms furiously and refusing to look at her.

“Go below and have some food sent up,” he ordered. “When I’ve dressed and eaten, I would tour the keep and grounds.” Then he seared her with a glare and added, “Alone.”

“As you will,” she answered with a beatific smile and took her time in leaving. Her reason for intruding on his bath had been satisfied.

Surely, once Richard realized that she offered her friendship sincerely and without reservation, he would not mind her presence so much. And after he grew comfortable with that, who knew what might happen?

Richard found Fernstowe a better keep than he had hoped for in terms of defense. The curtain wall stood in good repair. The place boasted no moat, but the ground sloped away at such a steep angle war machines could not be levied close enough to do harm. If any brigand took the place, he must use either stealth or prolonged siege to starve them out.

“The problem with the reivers lies in the outer reaches of my—our—property,” Sara informed him as though he could not see that for himself.

She had accompanied him, despite his protests that she remain within. A light drizzle fell, though the weather remained warm as was usual for July. His luck, to get shackled to a woman without sense enough to get out of the rain.

Richard could not understand the woman’s motives for anything she did. First she had all but thrown herself—and failing that, the dim-witted Darcy—at him while he sat randy as a goat in his bath. And in this past hour, she had nearly convinced him she possessed more knowledge of this property than a steward would.

Unseemly, quite forward, and more than a little mad, Richard thought. But Godamercy, she stirred his blood, this woman.

He avoided looking at her after noting what the rain-soaked gown revealed. The soft, wet wool molded her proud breasts like a drape of clinging silk. He cleared his throat since he couldn’t clear his head.

“Have the Scots stolen many of your herds?” he asked.

“The cattle that were in their path they slew and left rotting. They were not after food.”

Richard halted and stared at her in disbelief. “What purpose in that kind of waste?”

“What does that matter? They murdered my father! Who cares how many—”

“I care and so should you!” Richard said, throwing up his hand. The instinctive gesture cost him, but he stifled the groan. “These raids are crimes of hatred, not of need. Or even greed for that matter.”

“Why should that surprise you? The Scots do hate us! They made that perfectly clear to me when they killed Father.”

“We should bring in those folk who live betwixt here and the border and do it right soon,” he suggested.

Sara pursed her lips and sauntered away from him. He knew she bit her tongue to prevent arguing.

“What? The plan’s not to your liking?”

She turned, one hand resting firmly on her hip, the other worrying her chin. “Those we bring inside the gates, we must feed. Our stores would exhaust within a week. Aside from that, I doubt they will come willingly and leave their homes vacant.” Her amber gaze pinned him with the question even before she asked it. “Why not simply kill the rogue who leads these marauders and be done with it?”

Richard took to strolling the perimeter of the inner ward again, so that she must abandon her challenging pose and follow. “I am but one man and none too hardy at present. Once I recover my strength, matters will be remedied.”

How could he admit to Sara that the man she spoke of was his brother? How could he believe it true? If Alan were responsible for the killing of Lord Simon, what was his purpose in doing so? The cattle were there for the taking, the people outside the keep vulnerable to sacking whenever it pleased the Scots.

Yet his wife would have him believe that Alan had lured her father out and horrified everyone along the length of the English border by killing the noble and bragging of it.

It was as though whoever did that deed had deliberately set out to incur King Edward’s wrath against him and all his kind. Were the Scots trying to instigate war?

That toady king of theirs had not the ballocks for it. All Balliol had ever wanted was the crown on his head, and Edward had been the one to let him wear it. No, Richard concluded, this was not a collective effort by the Scots.

The issue would not be solved right soon, so he decided not to dwell on it today. Instead, he headed back toward the hall where he could dry himself by the fire. If he went, so would Sara. The henwit looked like someone had thrown her fully clothed into the nearest river.

With a growl of impatience, he stopped her and pulled her cloak together where it gapped in front and framed those pert breasts of hers. The woman had no shame. Likely no one had been looking after her properly since she came of age.

“A wonder you don’t catch your death,” he muttered. “Go straight to your chamber and change, you hear?”

She beamed up at him, shining droplets caught upon her lashes and her lips. The breath caught in his throat as he watched her mouth come closer and closer still. Suddenly it met his own, brushed lightly and was gone on the instant.

Damn, he thought. He’d not had time to taste her.

Like a sprite tripping through a rainy forest, she gamboled up the stairs to the hall and disappeared inside.

For a long time, Richard stood there wondering how a woman of her height could move so gracefully, as though she trod upon air. And why the devil he should notice or care.

More than a fortnight had passed since his wounding. Richard thanked God the Scots had stayed on the other side of the border for the time being. Though he had healed well, he had enough trouble as it was right here at Fernstowe.

As a rule, he rarely dreamed. Now Sara not only invaded his privacy by day, but also by night. In the days following her interruption of his bath, he could not banish the woman from his mind no matter how hard he tried.

The clean, flowery scent of her clung to his pillows as though she had slept there. He would awake with his nose buried in their softness, seeking the phantom source of her essence.

His hands tingled for want of touching that fine, smooth skin of hers. More than anything, he ached to teach that impudent mouth of hers a lesson, to devour it with his own and make her groan with need as he felt like doing. She set his senses afire, waking and sleeping.

On this particular morning, he again woke in a sweat, highly aroused and with every detail of the fantasies fresh in his mind. Before he’d had time to recover, she swept into his chamber chattering. Though nothing she said was in any way provocative, the mere tone of her voice made him burn like a brush fire.

“’Tis dawn! Looks to be a lovely weather. I thought we might hold the court outdoors.”

“Court?” he questioned, squinting at the window and its meager light of early morn. He had sudden visions of a daylong harangue between squabbling peasants.

She handed him the cup of ale she’d brought with her. “Not really court as such, though it is the time for it. There are no quarrels to settle that I know about, but the villagers and many of those farming the outer reaches will come today to swear fealty to you. I thought we would make a celebration of it. Nothing grand. Extra ale and sweet cakes, cheese, broken meats.”

She whirled around and threw open the lid of his clothes chest. “What will you wear? I’ll help you dress.”

He thunked down the cup on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful to keep his body covered lest she see the state he was in. “Go along. I’ll be down directly.”