ran from the yard, her hair flying behind her like golden ribbons.
Lyssa narrowed her eyes. The girl was spoiled. What did she know of the loathsomeness of some husbands? Grabbing her skirts into her fists, she was about to go after the girl and box her ears, but a sudden stir from the gates stopped her.
Robert came through first, his face bloodied from a nasty gash below his eye. He looked disheveled, furious, and dirty, and when Lyssa would have halted him to examine the cut, he vio-lently ducked away. "Do not touch me!" Lyssa let him go.
The dogs came next, leaping and swarming in a pack, half-crazed by the smell of the meat. Thomas and Harry carried a stag, its feet lashed to a stout branch they carried between them. Its horns dragged a line through the dust. Delighted, Lyssa rushed forward. "What a feast we shall have tomorrow with that beast roasting in a pit!"
Thomas grinned. "Indeed, my lady." He, too, was grimy from the hunt, his hair mussed on his shoulders, his hands dirty, a streak of something dark across the side of his tunic. Blood. Robert's or the stag's?
But with the stout branch hanging from his immense shoulders, the smile of victory on his beautiful mouth, his azure eyes glinting happily in the dark face, he was a vision of knightly strength and health. After a fortnight, Lyssa thought she would be used to the sight of him, but it had not happened. Each time she saw him anew, the same small jolt went through her chest, the same odd weakness settled in her hips and knees.
She drew closer, almost as if he were some magic beacon. "I see your pup has had a good day, as well."
"Aye." Thomas let a group of villeins ease the branch from his shoulder, and shook his arm as if to waken it. "He'll be fit to take boar by winter. He's a fine animal."
The pup, sitting in adoration at the knight's feet, wagged his tail, making feathery patterns in the dirt. Idly, Lyssa wondered if that was how she looked, leaping toward him like some friendly hound the minute he appeared.
"I'll send a girl to draw you a bath, sir," she said, waving her hand as if she could not tolerate the smell of him.
Thomas only laughed, the sound booming out, rich as mead. "You mislike my stink?" With a quick move, he stepped forward and grabbed her by the waist, hauling her up against him in a mocking display of force. Lyssa went rigid against him, dizzily aware of his hard thighs, of the line of his ribs against the softer flesh of her breasts. He held her tightly, his blue eyes glittering down at her. "A man risks life and limb to bring back meat, and she whines about his smell?"
Harry cackled, as Lyssa knew he was meant to do, and she knew that unless she played along, she would reveal to all that she was like that devoted pup of his, and all the besotted women swooning round the castle. With a toss of her head, she lifted one hand and delicately pinched her nose.
She heard the others laughing, but when she stopped pushing at him, he'd tightened his grip just enough that her body was close against his, and his hand—that huge, skillful hand, spread open on her back, and the light in his eye changed. The teasing remained, but there was more, too—a flare of his nostrils, and the smallest parting of his lips, which somehow made her want to part her own, made her want to see his tongue.
And all at once, she grew aware of a stiffness against her belly. As if he knew the exact moment she noticed it, he leaned closer, putting his mouth close to her ear. "The hunt makes man randy."
It was an outrageous comment, but she was engulfed by him, his arms and his body and his voice. His hair brushed her face, and she was startled at the silkiness that fell against her mouth.
But most dizzying of all was the true smell of him, heat and sunlight and that dark note of forest floor mingled with sweat and leather and horse. It filled her head, and gave her visions of lying with him and sweating and crying out. Her spine felt thin and weak, like a
Lyssa narrowed her eyes. The girl was spoiled. What did she know of the loathsomeness of some husbands? Grabbing her skirts into her fists, she was about to go after the girl and box her ears, but a sudden stir from the gates stopped her.
Robert came through first, his face bloodied from a nasty gash below his eye. He looked disheveled, furious, and dirty, and when Lyssa would have halted him to examine the cut, he vio-lently ducked away. "Do not touch me!" Lyssa let him go.
The dogs came next, leaping and swarming in a pack, half-crazed by the smell of the meat. Thomas and Harry carried a stag, its feet lashed to a stout branch they carried between them. Its horns dragged a line through the dust. Delighted, Lyssa rushed forward. "What a feast we shall have tomorrow with that beast roasting in a pit!"
Thomas grinned. "Indeed, my lady." He, too, was grimy from the hunt, his hair mussed on his shoulders, his hands dirty, a streak of something dark across the side of his tunic. Blood. Robert's or the stag's?
But with the stout branch hanging from his immense shoulders, the smile of victory on his beautiful mouth, his azure eyes glinting happily in the dark face, he was a vision of knightly strength and health. After a fortnight, Lyssa thought she would be used to the sight of him, but it had not happened. Each time she saw him anew, the same small jolt went through her chest, the same odd weakness settled in her hips and knees.
She drew closer, almost as if he were some magic beacon. "I see your pup has had a good day, as well."
"Aye." Thomas let a group of villeins ease the branch from his shoulder, and shook his arm as if to waken it. "He'll be fit to take boar by winter. He's a fine animal."
The pup, sitting in adoration at the knight's feet, wagged his tail, making feathery patterns in the dirt. Idly, Lyssa wondered if that was how she looked, leaping toward him like some friendly hound the minute he appeared.
"I'll send a girl to draw you a bath, sir," she said, waving her hand as if she could not tolerate the smell of him.
Thomas only laughed, the sound booming out, rich as mead. "You mislike my stink?" With a quick move, he stepped forward and grabbed her by the waist, hauling her up against him in a mocking display of force. Lyssa went rigid against him, dizzily aware of his hard thighs, of the line of his ribs against the softer flesh of her breasts. He held her tightly, his blue eyes glittering down at her. "A man risks life and limb to bring back meat, and she whines about his smell?"
Harry cackled, as Lyssa knew he was meant to do, and she knew that unless she played along, she would reveal to all that she was like that devoted pup of his, and all the besotted women swooning round the castle. With a toss of her head, she lifted one hand and delicately pinched her nose.
She heard the others laughing, but when she stopped pushing at him, he'd tightened his grip just enough that her body was close against his, and his hand—that huge, skillful hand, spread open on her back, and the light in his eye changed. The teasing remained, but there was more, too—a flare of his nostrils, and the smallest parting of his lips, which somehow made her want to part her own, made her want to see his tongue.
And all at once, she grew aware of a stiffness against her belly. As if he knew the exact moment she noticed it, he leaned closer, putting his mouth close to her ear. "The hunt makes man randy."
It was an outrageous comment, but she was engulfed by him, his arms and his body and his voice. His hair brushed her face, and she was startled at the silkiness that fell against her mouth.
But most dizzying of all was the true smell of him, heat and sunlight and that dark note of forest floor mingled with sweat and leather and horse. It filled her head, and gave her visions of lying with him and sweating and crying out. Her spine felt thin and weak, like a
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