pulled him closer, her breasts pressing into his arm. “A widow such as myself, I am most familiar with loneliness and heartbreak.”
He turned into her embrace, as she’d known he would, and Judith Angwedd pressed her lips to both his damp cheeks. “You must not mourn for poor Alys, who is surely dead and cold and stiff now. You must live, Clement!” She kissed his mouth. “Live!”
He leaned into her and kissed her, his mouth wet and eager, his tongue snaking thickly past her teeth. Judith Angwedd moaned deep in her throat.
But then he pushed her away with a cry. “Oh, I dishonor the memory of her, my betrothed, my sweet and innocent beloved!”
Judith Angwedd pulled him back to her roughly. “She would not wish for you to be alone this night, Clement. Not her greatest love, alone and weeping. She would want
this,
want your friend to comfort you. Let me, Clement.
Let me.”
She drew his face to hers again, and he did let her.
And a moment later, he let her pull up her gown and mount his lap in Fallstowe’s darkened great hall, sitting on a bench at one of the common tables. He let her, until he cried out her name and it echoed off the stones.
Chapter 8
Piers had never gained so much insight from someone he was doing his best to ignore.
All the long day they had walked, breaking camp early that morning when the sunlight was only a silver sliver on the horizon through the crowding, skeletal gray trees, the fog of his breath hanging solid in the frozen air. Alys Foxe had awoken cross and tightlipped, perhaps still feeling the sting of his rebuff from before they had gone to sleep. After a pair of hours though, she was back to her usual loquacious self, commenting on this or that, relating various bits of gossip from her noble circle of acquaintances, slyly phrasing questions to Piers, to which he remained steadfastly silent. Then she would grow piqued at his lack of response and let him be for the next hour. But it was not long before she was chattering again.
And Piers was finding it increasingly difficult to not answer her. Without any interrogation of his own at all, he was learning quite a lot about the youngest Foxe sister, and to his dismay, he was beginning to wonder if she was as shallow and silly as he had first thought. Her remarks were witty and well formed. Her opinions substantial.
It was unsettling.
For as much as Piers was determined to keep a mental if not physical distance from the wayward lady, his psyche was being increasingly pulled toward her. She was enchanting, engaging, and quite intelligent. There had never been anyone in Piers’s life—noble or otherwise—who had wanted to speak with him at such length. And her chatter had the added benefit of occupying his mind to thoughts other than his throbbing, burning fingers or the dangerous pair who hunted him.
For an instant—and just that most fleeting instant—Piers wondered what it would be like between them should he and Alys Foxe be of similar station. He laughed darkly at himself. Even were they of equal rank, she would not so much as glance his direction in his current state—filthy dirty, scarred and still bandaged in spots. She was obviously a lover of tales, was her monkey’s moniker any indication, and so she likely would think him more akin to monstrous Grendel than brave Beowulf. He was surly, disrespectful, and had, at times, been physically intimidating to her. They were not meant to be friends, and that was for her own good whether she realized it or nay.
But that didn’t mean Piers had to continue in the state he was. He could barely stand himself any longer, and he knew that he had become at least partially accustomed to his odor. He couldn’t charge into Edward’s court looking like some ghastly beast—his claims would be difficult enough to prove. Lucky for him, he could hear the rush of the river not far from where they walked. The road must have wound back to meet it once more.
“We’re crossing the
He turned into her embrace, as she’d known he would, and Judith Angwedd pressed her lips to both his damp cheeks. “You must not mourn for poor Alys, who is surely dead and cold and stiff now. You must live, Clement!” She kissed his mouth. “Live!”
He leaned into her and kissed her, his mouth wet and eager, his tongue snaking thickly past her teeth. Judith Angwedd moaned deep in her throat.
But then he pushed her away with a cry. “Oh, I dishonor the memory of her, my betrothed, my sweet and innocent beloved!”
Judith Angwedd pulled him back to her roughly. “She would not wish for you to be alone this night, Clement. Not her greatest love, alone and weeping. She would want
this,
want your friend to comfort you. Let me, Clement.
Let me.”
She drew his face to hers again, and he did let her.
And a moment later, he let her pull up her gown and mount his lap in Fallstowe’s darkened great hall, sitting on a bench at one of the common tables. He let her, until he cried out her name and it echoed off the stones.
Chapter 8
Piers had never gained so much insight from someone he was doing his best to ignore.
All the long day they had walked, breaking camp early that morning when the sunlight was only a silver sliver on the horizon through the crowding, skeletal gray trees, the fog of his breath hanging solid in the frozen air. Alys Foxe had awoken cross and tightlipped, perhaps still feeling the sting of his rebuff from before they had gone to sleep. After a pair of hours though, she was back to her usual loquacious self, commenting on this or that, relating various bits of gossip from her noble circle of acquaintances, slyly phrasing questions to Piers, to which he remained steadfastly silent. Then she would grow piqued at his lack of response and let him be for the next hour. But it was not long before she was chattering again.
And Piers was finding it increasingly difficult to not answer her. Without any interrogation of his own at all, he was learning quite a lot about the youngest Foxe sister, and to his dismay, he was beginning to wonder if she was as shallow and silly as he had first thought. Her remarks were witty and well formed. Her opinions substantial.
It was unsettling.
For as much as Piers was determined to keep a mental if not physical distance from the wayward lady, his psyche was being increasingly pulled toward her. She was enchanting, engaging, and quite intelligent. There had never been anyone in Piers’s life—noble or otherwise—who had wanted to speak with him at such length. And her chatter had the added benefit of occupying his mind to thoughts other than his throbbing, burning fingers or the dangerous pair who hunted him.
For an instant—and just that most fleeting instant—Piers wondered what it would be like between them should he and Alys Foxe be of similar station. He laughed darkly at himself. Even were they of equal rank, she would not so much as glance his direction in his current state—filthy dirty, scarred and still bandaged in spots. She was obviously a lover of tales, was her monkey’s moniker any indication, and so she likely would think him more akin to monstrous Grendel than brave Beowulf. He was surly, disrespectful, and had, at times, been physically intimidating to her. They were not meant to be friends, and that was for her own good whether she realized it or nay.
But that didn’t mean Piers had to continue in the state he was. He could barely stand himself any longer, and he knew that he had become at least partially accustomed to his odor. He couldn’t charge into Edward’s court looking like some ghastly beast—his claims would be difficult enough to prove. Lucky for him, he could hear the rush of the river not far from where they walked. The road must have wound back to meet it once more.
“We’re crossing the
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