Sharon Schulze - For My Lady's Honor

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.

She raised one hand and set her fingertips questing, brushing over his mouth before settling along his jaw. If she edged a bit closer…

“Milady, where—” Marie burst from the trees behind her and banged into her, knocking her into Padrig; the armload of clothes the maid had been carrying flew everywhere.

He caught Alys before she could fall and reached out to steady Marie on her feet.

They stood there staring at each other for but a moment before the maid took hold of Alys’s arm and nigh wrenched her free of Padrig’s hold. “Release my mistress at once, you churl!” Marie snarled.

Alys jerked her arm free of her maid’s grasp and, grabbing the woman by the hand, dragged her back toward the bushes. “Marie! What are you about, to speak so to a knight?”

She turned her back to Padrig and tried to focus her attention on the maid instead. Her heart pounded and her body shook, a combination of Padrig’s recent nearness and being startled nigh out of her skin by Marie. ’Twas all she could manage to keep her voice from quavering.

The maid’s face went pale for a moment, then, glancing past Alys to Padrig, her expression firmed into a mask of determination. “A knight he may be, milady, but it gives him no right to be touching you.” She shook her head and glanced from Padrig to her mistress. “Nor to be looking at you the way he does, either.”

Whatever did Marie mean? How he looked at her…? Curiosity outweighing unease, Alys shifted so she could see Padrig, as well.

He met her gaze, his blue eyes steady, his expression impassive, but she could hardly fail to notice the faint tide of pink tingeing his neck and face. “I beg your pardon if I have offended you in any way, Lady Alys,” he said, his tone formal. He bowed and stepped back, gesturing toward the clearing and his waiting men. “If you are ready now, we must be on our way.”

Thankful he didn’t seem to expect a response to his apology—she scarce knew what she would have replied—she smoothed her skirts and nodded. “Of course. We’ll be but a moment more.” She bent to pick up her belongings, scattered on the ground around them, motioning him away when he would have helped.

Her thoughts were jumbled enough as it was; she didn’t need to add the image of Padrig handling her damp shift to the brew.

He hesitated but a moment before he nodded and strode off.

Despite her best intentions to ignore him, Alys clutched the clammy linen in her hands and watched him until he joined the others.

Padrig glanced up at the clouds thickening overhead, scudding fast across the darkening afternoon sky. He’d hoped to keep going until near nightfall, by which time they should have reached one of the villages along the way, but it appeared they’d need to find shelter sooner than that.

They’d been fortunate the past two days, for the sky had remained clear and the roads dry. Though they’d resumed their journey this morn far later than he’d planned—and the blame for that lay as much with him as with anyone—they’d made excellent time.

Lady Alys and her maid had kept up with his men, an unexpected surprise, but one he was grateful for. Perhaps she was simply eager to reach her home—or to be rid of him, he thought wryly. Whatever the reason, he was pleased with their progress. The journey to return Lady Alys to her parents should take four more days, if they could continue on as they had thus far.

Not quite a punishing pace, but close, he thought guiltily. The faster he delivered Lady Alys to her father, the sooner he’d be away from the unexpected, intense distraction she presented.

Yet his frustration with himself—with his weakness—was no reason to drive the others into the ground. He’d need to keep a close watch to be certain he wasn’t pushing too hard.

He’d dealt with distractions before, he reminded himself, and managed to do what he had to do.

Though he’d never before met a distraction quite like Lady Alys Delamare.

A powerful gust of wind buffeted him, pressing his clothes tight against his body and whipping his hair about his head. Muttering a curse, he shoved the unruly locks from his face and scanned the forest.