nonsense. The Blacksmith has a rather masterful manner, as well.”
“Swoon over your phantom hero outside my hearing.”
“I do hope he comes around again, so that I may offer him more of my gratitude.”
With her head swimming, she donned her garments, stopping now and again to take a steadying breath, lest she found herself tossing up her wine-filled stomach all over the floor.
“And how is it you show your gratitude?”
“On my hands and knees, of course, with my bottom bared.”
“Faithless witch.”
Giddy from the wine, she bit her lip to stop from laughing. Could the man actually be jealous of himself? Mayhap, his heart wasn't completely armored against her. “I felt, in our fleeting time together, that I could sense his soul.”
“While he fucked you on all fours?”
She bowed her head as if chastened. “You have made me see the error of my ways. I shall devote myself entirely to him. Body and soul.”
“Well, we know what your devotion is worth, don't we?”
“Pray, do not lecture me. How many women have you enjoyed since you first took me to bed?”
A slight breeze stirred his long black hair. “A man does not stray if he has all he wants.”
A lump formed in her throat. She suspected she'd actually wounded him with her impulsive actions. But she needed only to think of his new bride to keep her mouth shut on the truth. What matter if he thought her a disloyal bitch? She snatched up her bundle of clothes. “Where is it those who are banished go? I believe my mother's people are still in Yorkshire. Mayhap, I would be welcome. Or shall I become an outlaw in the forest as my lover is?”
His face shed all its color at her last provocative statement. “Leave the grounds and I shall come for you.”
She did not doubt his threat. “You would hunt me down? I remind you that we were once friends.”
“Now we are only master and servant. Conveniently for you, Lady Pikhorn has requested an attendant.”
“I'd rather not be a maid to your new bride.”
“You have no choice, my false-hearted wench. 'Tisn't Blanche Pikhorn you will be tending, it will be her mother.”
“ Pikhorn? Not wed yet?” Unreasonably, she felt a measure of relief. “Mayhap, when the glad day arrives, you will take pity on me and allow me the privilege of marrying as well.”
“To whom? The Blacksmith?” His dark eyes glinted with anger.
From her bundle of clothes she plucked the jeweled headband he'd given her. “In future, I shall remember to beware of knights bearing gifts.” With a jerk of her wrist, she sent the glittering band spinning across the room and watched as he snatched it out of the air.
Chapter Eight
Lady Pikhorn lifted her milky blue eyes from the sampler she was working on as Christiana eased into the room. “Lord Dareford has sent me, my lady,” Christiana said with a curtsy.
The old woman's countenance grew instantly bitter, the skin puckering around her lips. What had likely been brilliant red hair was now the translucent white of a spider web. Wisps of it peaked out from the wimple she wore on her head. “Start by untangling those skeins. And light more candles.” Her eyes narrowed to lizard-like slits. “Your master can afford it, so do not dare give me that look, or I shall clout you one.”
Christiana had not been aware that she had reacted to the woman's spendthrift demands.
“And only beeswax, if you please. I will not have tallow fouling my air and leaving smoke stains on my fine needlework.”
The candle flames flickered as the door opened. Dripping in jewels and scent, Lady Pikhorn's daughter strode purposefully across the room. Seated atop the window seat, Christiana craned her neck to peer up at the towering woman. She snatched the yarn from Christiana's hands and threw them back into her mother's basket.
“I need her to brush my hair. Come, girl.” She wedged a piece of silverplate into the shelving and took a seat in front of it. The reflection widened the
“Swoon over your phantom hero outside my hearing.”
“I do hope he comes around again, so that I may offer him more of my gratitude.”
With her head swimming, she donned her garments, stopping now and again to take a steadying breath, lest she found herself tossing up her wine-filled stomach all over the floor.
“And how is it you show your gratitude?”
“On my hands and knees, of course, with my bottom bared.”
“Faithless witch.”
Giddy from the wine, she bit her lip to stop from laughing. Could the man actually be jealous of himself? Mayhap, his heart wasn't completely armored against her. “I felt, in our fleeting time together, that I could sense his soul.”
“While he fucked you on all fours?”
She bowed her head as if chastened. “You have made me see the error of my ways. I shall devote myself entirely to him. Body and soul.”
“Well, we know what your devotion is worth, don't we?”
“Pray, do not lecture me. How many women have you enjoyed since you first took me to bed?”
A slight breeze stirred his long black hair. “A man does not stray if he has all he wants.”
A lump formed in her throat. She suspected she'd actually wounded him with her impulsive actions. But she needed only to think of his new bride to keep her mouth shut on the truth. What matter if he thought her a disloyal bitch? She snatched up her bundle of clothes. “Where is it those who are banished go? I believe my mother's people are still in Yorkshire. Mayhap, I would be welcome. Or shall I become an outlaw in the forest as my lover is?”
His face shed all its color at her last provocative statement. “Leave the grounds and I shall come for you.”
She did not doubt his threat. “You would hunt me down? I remind you that we were once friends.”
“Now we are only master and servant. Conveniently for you, Lady Pikhorn has requested an attendant.”
“I'd rather not be a maid to your new bride.”
“You have no choice, my false-hearted wench. 'Tisn't Blanche Pikhorn you will be tending, it will be her mother.”
“ Pikhorn? Not wed yet?” Unreasonably, she felt a measure of relief. “Mayhap, when the glad day arrives, you will take pity on me and allow me the privilege of marrying as well.”
“To whom? The Blacksmith?” His dark eyes glinted with anger.
From her bundle of clothes she plucked the jeweled headband he'd given her. “In future, I shall remember to beware of knights bearing gifts.” With a jerk of her wrist, she sent the glittering band spinning across the room and watched as he snatched it out of the air.
Chapter Eight
Lady Pikhorn lifted her milky blue eyes from the sampler she was working on as Christiana eased into the room. “Lord Dareford has sent me, my lady,” Christiana said with a curtsy.
The old woman's countenance grew instantly bitter, the skin puckering around her lips. What had likely been brilliant red hair was now the translucent white of a spider web. Wisps of it peaked out from the wimple she wore on her head. “Start by untangling those skeins. And light more candles.” Her eyes narrowed to lizard-like slits. “Your master can afford it, so do not dare give me that look, or I shall clout you one.”
Christiana had not been aware that she had reacted to the woman's spendthrift demands.
“And only beeswax, if you please. I will not have tallow fouling my air and leaving smoke stains on my fine needlework.”
The candle flames flickered as the door opened. Dripping in jewels and scent, Lady Pikhorn's daughter strode purposefully across the room. Seated atop the window seat, Christiana craned her neck to peer up at the towering woman. She snatched the yarn from Christiana's hands and threw them back into her mother's basket.
“I need her to brush my hair. Come, girl.” She wedged a piece of silverplate into the shelving and took a seat in front of it. The reflection widened the
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