Page 37 of Hers To Command
Her heart was pounding so hard, she thought he must be able to see it. A swift, sidelong glance told her he was looking at her neck, and she wondered if he could tell that she was agitated. So she struggled to keep her voice steady and make him doubt what he was seeing when she replied, “Of course.”
“I’ve been thinking you should give an ale in the next few days, as a reward to your men for working so hard to learn new skills, and to the villagers for…well, in case there are hardships ahead. I gather the innkeeper sent quite a quantity of ale here already, enough to withhold a three month siege and more.” His grin was devilment incarnate. “I asked.”
That intimate grin was nearly impossible to resist, although she realized he would not be paying for the ale. Even so, the menhadbeen working hard and the villagers could be facing hardships to come, whether they won or lost. “I think that’s an excellent idea. I wish I had thought of it myself.” Something else about his proposal made her heart a little lighter. “So you don’t expect Roald to attack soon?”
“He might, but if he doesn’t, such a celebration would do much to lift the people’s spirits.”
“Then there is no more to be said,” she replied, briskly getting to her feet. “My sister and I will host an ale in three days’ time.”
He rose, took her hand and pressed a gallant kiss upon it. “You are a most kind and generous lady. Excuse me, then, while I go and spread the news.”
She watched him hurry away, his pace swift, his long strides strong and purposeful.
Even if what she felt for him was not wrong—and it was—she must remember that one day, he would leave, perhaps with that same firm purpose. The only reason he would stay would be to court Giselle.
That would be even harder to bear than watching him go.
CHAPTER NINE
THREE DAYS LATER, on a cool afternoon in October, Henry patted the strong neck of Apollo, his battle-trained destrier, attempting to calm the excited animal as they waited their turn. This contest involved trying to catch an iron ring suspended on a thin rope between two poles at the end of the field with the tip of a lance.
Cerdic was taking his last turn now, his horse galloping down the field, his lance waving a bit too much. Cerdic was leaning a bit too far forward, Henry thought as he kept an instructional eye on the man and fought the urge to look at the spectators—Mathilde in particular.
It was getting more and more difficult to ignore her, and not just today. As his time here had passed, he’d come to admire her resilience, strength and resolve, as well as her ability to organize and run a large household virtually by herself. He had grown to respect her for her concern for everyone under her protection, right down to the lowliest spit boy. He was impressed by her goodness and generosity, and the ease with which she addressed all and sundry, whether well-to-do or not.
Most of all, though, he admired, respected and appreciated her astonishing courage and determination. How many other women could so boldly, bravely face the man who had done such a degrading, disgusting thing, and demand her rights? He knew what it was to be attacked and humiliated, and his experience had been easy compared to hers. He had been beaten and scorned, but not violated as she had been.
How could he not think her worthy of a man’s highest regard? What hadheever done that could compare with her confrontation with Roald?
Nothing, came the answer. Nothing at all. Compared to her, he was the feckless wastrel his brother always claimed he was. Compared to her, he wasn’t even worthy to command her garrison, let alone think of—
So he wouldn’t think of that, he told himself, and he’d keep his distance, knowing that even the touch of her fingers was enough to ignite his passionate yearning. Every time they sat together at table, he wanted to kiss that little beauty mark on her neck and he was nearly overwhelmed with desire whenever he saw her bustling about the hall or in the yard. He kept imagining her intheirhall, or intheirbed, making love, sometimes tenderly, with gentle restraint, sometimes ardently, with thrashing excitement. He wanted her in a way that was both primal and different from anything he’d ever felt for a woman before. He desired much more than a few nights in her bed.
So in spite of his determination to keep his attention on Cerdic, he was well aware that she was standing beside Father Thomas, that she had on her gray cloak and wore gloves on her slender hands, and that a lock of waving chestnut hair had escaped her wimple.
A cheer went up and his gaze flew to the end of the field where Cerdic’s horse pranced. Cerdic held up his lance, a ring around its shaft.
“Damn,” Henry muttered. Everyone in this contest had missed once, except for Cerdic, and him. If he missed on this pass, Cerdic would be the winner.
The exultant Cerdic trotted past the spectators, a wide grin splitting his face. He had every right to be pleased, and Henry didn’t begrudge him his triumph. But that didn’t mean Henry didn’t intend to get his lance through a ring, either.
Turning away, he saw Lady Giselle watching Cerdic. A moment’s fleeting expression crossed her face—and it was one he recognized at once.
God’s blood, wasthatthe way the wind blew? Lady Giselle and the proud blond warrior? How had he not seen this before? How could he, justly known for his perception in such matters, have been so blind to that mutual attraction?
Did Mathilde know? If she did, she must approve, or her displeasure would hardly be a secret. Perhaps she’d been too distracted by her trouble with Roald to see love blooming right beneath her nose.
When she did find out—for such things invariably came to light, no matter how one tried to hide them—would she, could she, approve of their liaison? Would she be able to accept a marriage between her sister and a man without birth, without wealth, without an estate? A marriage that would see Cerdic the lord of Ecclesford?
“Are you ready, Sir Henry?”
Henry started and regarded Toft standing beside him. The soldier held up a lance for Henry to take. “Yes,” he replied, reaching for the weapon.
Since this was a friendly competition, and his “opponent” nothing more than a ring on a rope, Henry wasn’t wearing any armor or even heavy padding. The worst he could expect was a tumble from a horse and while that could be dangerous, he was at far less risk than he would be in a battle or a melee in a tournament. Nevertheless, the tip of his lance had been covered to blunt it as a precaution.
Gritting his teeth, determined to succeed, Henry kicked his heels lightly against his horse’s sides. That was enough to set the huge horse cantering.
Urging Apollo to a gallop, Henry put everything else from his mind and concentrated on the ring. It seemed miniscule in the distance, although it was a good ten inches wide. He had chosen a relatively easy target for his men, so more would have a chance of getting their lance tips through it.
