Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Ransom

She lifted her chin another notch and glared at Gervase’s worn garments. “I doubt the man has the coin to pay.”

“Better than coin.” Philippe gestured to the sword.

Cat’s eyes widened. “Where did he get it?”

Witch, Gervase thought. Spoiled, arrogant little witch. When he got her to Alleuze he’d see she worked for her food alongside his people. Aye, a fortnight of scrubbing floors should bring her down a peg. “He got it from his father,” Gervase said icily.

“Lord Ruarke would welcome such a fine piece, my lady,” Philippe said in the chilly silence that followed. “As his agent I’ve agreed to exchange Thor for the sword and hold it till after the tourney when Sir Gervase will redeem it with his winnings.”

The color rose in her cheeks and her mobile mouth thinned in frustration, but surprisingly she didn’t rail against the inevitable. “I hope he falls on his ass ere the melee starts,” she snarled. Tugging on the reins of her horse, she spun and galloped away. Her escort scrambled after her.

Despite his pique, Gervase noted they numbered some thirty or so heavily armed men, led by the pair he’d seen with her the night before. Thirty against the twenty men he’d brought with him. Clearly he must find a way to improve the odds, or get her by herself in order for his plans to succeed. And the way things stood between them, he had as much chance of getting her alone as he had of being crowned king of France.

Mayhap ‘twas time to mask his rage and see if he still remembered how to be charming to a woman.

“He’s still watching you,” Margery whispered.

“Oh?” It took Cat a moment to locate him, lounging against the fireless hearth, one shoulder propped against the marble mantel. He had on the same unadorned black tunic he’d worn the first night. Its simplicity made the brightly garbed nobles look silly and frivolous by comparison. His dark head was bent in conversation with his friend, Perrin, but Gervase’s gaze was full on her. Cat shivered as the impact of those pale, glittering eyes worked its way down her spine and lodged in her belly.

Why him, of all men? she thought angrily. Tossing her head, she turned away and fixed her eyes firmly on the pair of tumblers cavorting in the center of the hall. Part of her was excited by this game of cat and mouse he seemed to be playing with her; part of her was afraid.

Three days had passed since the disputed purchase of Thor. Gervase had spent them on the training field, coming late each night to the castle for the feasting and the entertainment Lord John had arranged. In all that time, he had not spoken to her or tried to approach her. But he’d watched her.

Sweet Mary, how he watched her. Openly, relentlessly. His visual pursuit left him time for little else. He drank sparingly, flirted and danced not at all. Even with Clarice, who had smiled, teased, pouted and finally flounced off after easier game.

Gamel and Garret had been all for waylaying him in the dark and teaching him respect for his betters. Oscar, who had a bit of a romantic streak, had forbidden it. “There’s no harm in a knight being smitten by a lady. Courtly love, the minstrels call it.” Cat scoffed at that. There was nothing courtly in the way Gervase St. Juste’s hot glance followed her about. The only place she was safe was in her chamber, and she refused to hide there like some miscreant. She’d done that for weeks after her father rescued her from Henry. Never again.

“I think he’s trying to impress you,” Margery murmured.

“By making me uncomfortable?”

“Why would Sir Gervase’s regard make you uneasy? Half the men in the hall stare at you.”

“I…I do not know.” Liar. Gervase unnerved her because there was something about him that made her want to stare back.

“Mayhap he is trying to work up the courage to ask if he may wear your favor in the tourney.”

“He has a strange way of doing so.”

“Oh, I do not know. You’ve yet to give a token to any of the many men who have asked.” Margery grinned mischievously. “Mayhap you are waiting for Sir Gervase to approach you.”

“Margery!” Even as she scrambled to deny it, Cat’s eyes strayed where she’d bidden them not to—across the circle of people cheering the entertainers. He was gone.

“Were you looking for me, my lady?” a deep voice asked.

Cat started and turned her head. Her gaze fastened on the mouth that had haunted her dreams, then moved up. The eyes that had made her waking hours as tortured as her nights sparkled with suppressed laughter. ‘Twas the last straw. Her temper—never an easy thing to controlbroke its leash. “I would speak with you in private,” she snapped.

“I am at your disposal, Lady Catherine. May I suggest the garden, in five minutes? Without your two guards.”

“The garden it is,” she hissed back, conscious of the curious stares they were drawing. “But I could not leave without Gamel and Garret, even did I wish to…which I do not.”

Disappointment flared briefly. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

His low voice sent her pulse racing with possibilities. She angled her chin higher to counter them. “I’d not sully my family’s good name by comporting myself in an unseemly manner.”

“Ah, your family. Of course. They must come first.”

“Always,” she replied, not certain what had doused the fire in his eyes and hardened his jaw.

“We will all meet in the garden in five minutes.” Gervase took grim satisfaction from her grudging nod, then worked his way to the side door where Perrin waited for him.

“I have learned your uncle was right. There was a scandal involving Lady Cat and a man named Henry,” his cousin whispered.

“What kind of scandal?” Gervase’s jaw tightened as he watched the lady in question take the arm of a stout man in shocking green velvet with pear appliqués and join the dancing.

“Sim was a little sketchy on details. Either because he didn’t know them or because the ale I’d plied him with had finally dulled his brain,” Perrin added. “Apparently she ran off with a man…Henry Norville, a young groom.”

Gervase stiffened. So she not only played the whore, she was one in fact. “Did she wed him?”

“Nay. Sim says his lordship was too quick on their trail. I gather the family doesn’t speak of it and the man in question is no longer alive to do so.”

Gervase looked away from the dancers. “Ruarke killed him?”

“That is one of the details I didn’t get. Only that Lord Ruarke was mightily upset and hired those two hulking brutes.” He inclined his head toward the twin towers of bone and muscle hovering at the edge of the dancing. “The smaller, scar-faced man we’ve seen her with is Oscar. The others are Gamel and Garret…experts with the dirk and cudgel respectively.”

“Not to mention their fists. They look more like bears than men.” Gervase sighed and closed his eyes briefly, tired of the intrigues of court, sick of worrying about how he’d get Cat Sommerville off by herself and away from here.

“And then there are the forty men,” Perrin said. “The ones who will be guarding the lady during the tourney.”

“Forty,” Gervase said faintly. “Damn. I stayed in hopes we’d be able to steal her away during the excitement and confusion.”

“I’d forget that, if I were you. Nor does the lady seem overly interested in a dalliance with you.”

She was interested. His practiced eye had caught the flare of desire in hers. “I’m not rich enough. She won’t sully her precious family name by associating with the likes of me.”

Perrin grunted. “What will you do, then?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve managed to rouse her ire, at least. I’m to meet her in the gardens in a few moments, along with her guards,” Gervase added. “I wonder if she plans to set them on me?” His gaze narrowed as he picked Catherine out from the swirl of dancers. Her eyes outshone the amethysts shimmering in her elaborate headdress. She was the very image of everything he detested—pampered, polished, spoiled, English. Her gowns and jewels bought with the blood of his conquered countrymen.