a horse, then a jackass, and now a buck.”
“I was mistaken,” she said swiftly. “In truth you are never anything but a jackass, my Lord DeForte!”
She nudged her horse hard. Her mare went leaping forward, startled by her sudden command.
And she rode on past DeForte, hearing the echo of his laughter in her wake.
Later, when they paused in a small farming village for a drink of ale, she was startled to discover Pierce DeForte watching her again. For the briefest of moments, there was something puzzled within his gaze. Then the curious gleam was quickly shielded. He bowed low to her and turned away, slipping an arm around Anne and walking back toward their horses.
To her amazement and distress, she felt a catch in her throat, then a warmth filling her.
And an aching.
She quickly mounted her own horse. When Jason Padraic asked if he might ride along with her, she offered him a warm and inviting smile.
They came to the ancient inn in the forest. The place had once been a small fortress, and was built unerringly solid, in the Norman way. Long hallways led to guest chambers, and there was a massive hall below where guests could gather. Servants saw to their things while they found places at planked tables in the great hall, with the rotund innkeeper running about, delighted to entertain this royal party. His daughter, equally rotund, with bright eyes and a wide smile, ran about, too, loaded down by a platter of roasted fowl decorated with new potatoes and cabbage leaves.
Rose looked about, wondering whom she should dine with. But before she could move, she discovered Jamison’s hand upon her arm, leading her toward a table where the Lady Anne was already seated, and Lord DeForte was in the process of joining her. Anne smiled at Rose with such welcome that Rose’s protests died in her throat. “Do join us, my dear! It’s been a splendid day, hasn’t it?”
“Splendid,” Rose agreed, meeting DeForte’s gaze. She took her seat and discovered that Anne’s brother was beside her, grinning her way.
Ah, they had a way of quickly making her lose her appetite! At the very least, she’d not turn into a fat goodwife this way!
“Good woman!” Jamison called to the innkeeper’s daughter. “Bring us wine here, lass! My throat is dry and parched. Come, lovely Rose, let me pour for you! Dear sister Anne, and my Lord DeForte!”
For a moment it looked as if DeForte would protest simply because he disliked Jamison so much. But Anne, wanting to keep the peace, cast her supplicating gaze upon him, and he winced as he gave her a barely perceptible nod. “Fine, Bryant, pour.”
Rose bit her lower lip, quickly looking downward. He was so very courteous to Anne! Despite herself, she wondered what it would be like if he were ever so tender to her.
Jamison poured the wine, filling all their cups. He pointed out various antiquities in the room as he did so, telling Rose that his own home had been built not long after the Norman Invasion of England. DeForte seemed uninterested in the conversation. It was obvious to Rose that he endured Jamison and Jerome only for Anne’s sake.
He managed to down several cups of wine, even as he murmured to Anne beneath the din in the room, pretending that Jamison spoke to Rose, and Rose alone.
Rose saw Jerome watching his sister, then his curious gaze fell upon her. He smiled. She tried to do the same.
Food was brought to the table. She tried to eat. She didn’t seem to be very hungry, but perhaps that was because she was drinking so much wine. Every time she looked about the room, she turned back to find Jamison’s eyes probing into hers. He’d refill her wine cup and press it into her hands.
The king rose and spoke to the company, dedicating the event to his queen, who blushed and thanked him. Rose wondered fleetingly if she was aware of his numerous infidelities. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she accepted them. She was, after all, the queen. And there was no more tender man than the
“I was mistaken,” she said swiftly. “In truth you are never anything but a jackass, my Lord DeForte!”
She nudged her horse hard. Her mare went leaping forward, startled by her sudden command.
And she rode on past DeForte, hearing the echo of his laughter in her wake.
Later, when they paused in a small farming village for a drink of ale, she was startled to discover Pierce DeForte watching her again. For the briefest of moments, there was something puzzled within his gaze. Then the curious gleam was quickly shielded. He bowed low to her and turned away, slipping an arm around Anne and walking back toward their horses.
To her amazement and distress, she felt a catch in her throat, then a warmth filling her.
And an aching.
She quickly mounted her own horse. When Jason Padraic asked if he might ride along with her, she offered him a warm and inviting smile.
They came to the ancient inn in the forest. The place had once been a small fortress, and was built unerringly solid, in the Norman way. Long hallways led to guest chambers, and there was a massive hall below where guests could gather. Servants saw to their things while they found places at planked tables in the great hall, with the rotund innkeeper running about, delighted to entertain this royal party. His daughter, equally rotund, with bright eyes and a wide smile, ran about, too, loaded down by a platter of roasted fowl decorated with new potatoes and cabbage leaves.
Rose looked about, wondering whom she should dine with. But before she could move, she discovered Jamison’s hand upon her arm, leading her toward a table where the Lady Anne was already seated, and Lord DeForte was in the process of joining her. Anne smiled at Rose with such welcome that Rose’s protests died in her throat. “Do join us, my dear! It’s been a splendid day, hasn’t it?”
“Splendid,” Rose agreed, meeting DeForte’s gaze. She took her seat and discovered that Anne’s brother was beside her, grinning her way.
Ah, they had a way of quickly making her lose her appetite! At the very least, she’d not turn into a fat goodwife this way!
“Good woman!” Jamison called to the innkeeper’s daughter. “Bring us wine here, lass! My throat is dry and parched. Come, lovely Rose, let me pour for you! Dear sister Anne, and my Lord DeForte!”
For a moment it looked as if DeForte would protest simply because he disliked Jamison so much. But Anne, wanting to keep the peace, cast her supplicating gaze upon him, and he winced as he gave her a barely perceptible nod. “Fine, Bryant, pour.”
Rose bit her lower lip, quickly looking downward. He was so very courteous to Anne! Despite herself, she wondered what it would be like if he were ever so tender to her.
Jamison poured the wine, filling all their cups. He pointed out various antiquities in the room as he did so, telling Rose that his own home had been built not long after the Norman Invasion of England. DeForte seemed uninterested in the conversation. It was obvious to Rose that he endured Jamison and Jerome only for Anne’s sake.
He managed to down several cups of wine, even as he murmured to Anne beneath the din in the room, pretending that Jamison spoke to Rose, and Rose alone.
Rose saw Jerome watching his sister, then his curious gaze fell upon her. He smiled. She tried to do the same.
Food was brought to the table. She tried to eat. She didn’t seem to be very hungry, but perhaps that was because she was drinking so much wine. Every time she looked about the room, she turned back to find Jamison’s eyes probing into hers. He’d refill her wine cup and press it into her hands.
The king rose and spoke to the company, dedicating the event to his queen, who blushed and thanked him. Rose wondered fleetingly if she was aware of his numerous infidelities. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she accepted them. She was, after all, the queen. And there was no more tender man than the
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