Page 14 of Lord of Deception

Chapter Twelve

Alys had only been going outside when necessary, too ashamed to meet the gardener face-to-face after her accusation. Admittedly, he acted above his station, which nettled her. But she’d believed him when he’d denied her claims and some part of her knew this simple, handsome fellow was more to be trusted than her cousin Kate.

Having fretted about indoors all week, Alys was delighted when another hawking party was announced, and she had no reason not to join it. As ever, she ended up at the rear of the group while the others trotted ahead, laughing and talking. No one seemed much interested in Alys Barchard, a quiet, hard-working, intelligent nobody. Richard Avery had paid her some attention at the outset, but a scowl from Sir Thomas sent him galloping forward to make great show of paying court to Kate.

Alys settled down to meander through the trees on her slow but docile nag, enjoying the sound of the breeze soughing through the branches and the dappled sunlight on her face. Soon, she was left well behind, but Kate never looked back to see where she was. She always had more important things on her mind than the welfare of her poor relation.

Alys’ merlin flapped its wings restlessly, eager for some sport.

“Soon, little one. When we have caught up with the rest. Mayhap we should wait until all the pigeons have settled in their wake, and fetch a fine fat bird all to ourselves, eh?”

Gradually, the peace of the dozing summer woodland settled over her, and she wandered on in a dream. So when some small, grey creature bolted across her path, she wasn’t prepared for her mount to shy and buck in surprise. She dislodged the merlin, which flapped frantically upside down where it dangled from her wrist, suspended by its jesses. As she struggled to bring the horse under control with one hand, and right the bird with the other, it tangled its feet in the front part of her hair, scraping her forehead with its talons.

“Ouch! No, stop that!”

The bird shrieked and flapped at her face, its claws slashing into her cheek as it struggled to free itself. Fearing the horse was about to bolt, she filled her lungs to scream but, suddenly, she was no longer alone. A deep male voice was murmuring to her mare, Pennyroyal, quieting it until she felt the horse’s muscles relax. The merlin’s jesses were plucked from her hand and, after a few sharp pulls on her hair, she was free of it.

Her rescuer lifted her from her horse’s flank and steadied her in his arms. She didn’t need to see the strong browned hands, the long dark hair, to know it was Kit. The lightning thrill of his touch told her immediately. Heart thudding, she wiped her hand over her face. It came away bloody. Kit’s arm was bleeding, too, where the frightened merlin must have clawed at him. She swayed.

“No fainting now, my lady. Come, give me your gauntlet.” Sliding the glove on, he persuaded the irate merlin onto his fist, where it allowed him to stroke its tiny feathers. Then he seized her horse’s bridle and turned it back the way she had come.

She could do naught but follow him, miserably wiping the blood from her brow when it threatened to drip into her eyes. How great was the damage? Would she be scarred for life, and further ruin her hopes of escape through marriage?

When they were within earshot of the gardens, Kit bellowed for assistance, bringing one of their grooms running. “Take this bird back to the mews, then return to stable the horse. I must see to Mistress Barchard’s injuries.”

The boy gingerly accepted the hawk and its gauntlet onto his hand and hurried off. Kit led Alys, not towards the house, but to one of the gardeners’ huts. She was too sore and miserable to protest as he led her inside—he’d taken control of the situation so adeptly, she felt she had to trust him.

Her skirts brushed against shelves laden with tools and plant pots. There was a pile of bedding in one corner, and a low three-legged stool where Kit bade her sit while he went to fetch a jug of clean water. On his return, she dipped her handkerchief in the water, thankful it was of plain linen, unadorned.

Kit prised it gently from her grasp. “I’ll do it. I can see what I’m doing. Once you’re dry, I’ve a good comfrey and honey salve—gardeners are always cutting themselves.”

She noticed the bloodstains on his arm where the merlin’s talons had pierced the bronzed skin. “Hadn’t you better see to yourself?”

“It can wait.”

When he took her by one shoulder to hold her steady, she closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and tried to ignore the stinging. The gardener’s hand was gentle, the cold water soothing as he dabbed at the cuts on her forehead and cheek.

“Forgive me—I must remove your coif to cleanse the cuts where the bird’s feet caught in your hair.”

She nodded slightly, and he smoothed her hair back to daub water along her hairline. She could feel his breath on her face as he concentrated on his task, smell the male musk of his body, and the hint of woodsmoke that suffused his clothing. This was the closest she’d ever been to a man, except when dancing, and Kit’s proximity was anything but calming.

She kept her eyes tight shut, afraid to look into the handsome, sun-browned face so close to her own. This close, there was a heady temptation to touch, to taste. What if she looked into his eyes and saw invitation there? As she had when she’d caught him in the passageway?

His fingertips grazed her cheek, but it not in a place she’d been hurt. Next, he traced a finger across her lower lip. Her heart cartwheeled.

“What are you doing?” She looked into eyes so dark, they were almost black.

“Just wiping a speck of blood from your lips.” His voice sounded strained.

“Oh.” She flicked out her tongue and licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.

“My lady. Forgive me—I cannot help myself.”

His hand slid inside her ruff, caressing her neck, as he tilted his head towards hers. There was plenty of time to move away, to deny him a kiss. But her mind was filled with what Kate had said about this man’s prowess, and even though she knew Kate had no proof, she half-hoped it was true. To receive one’s first kiss from a man purported to be an expert in the art was too tempting altogether.

His lips moved softly over hers—a kiss of gentle persuasion, not passion. But there was promise in the heat of his lips, the touch of his hand on her neck, firing her blood until she was dizzy and breathless, her soul begging him for more. She sighed her disappointment when he tore his lips away.

“I’m sorry, my lady—I’ve done you a great wrong.”

Her eyes flickered open. Kit had sat back on his heels, his cheekbones ruddy, his breathing rapid. There was anger in his expression, more palpable than the remorse he’d expressed.

“If you would have me flogged, I shall understand it, as it is no less than I deserve. I cannot undo that kiss, and if I remain in your presence, I may steal another—you are too much temptation for a lusty fellow like me.” He knotted his hands together and looked away. “It is best I leave Selwood and not offend your sight again. There’s no need to have me dismissed. I shall see out the week, collect my wages and be gone by the time you leave for Norfolk.”

The man seemed as shocked by his behavior as she was by her own. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she would treasure her first kiss forever, even if it was only delivered by an amorous gardener. But there was too much pride in her.

When her voice came out, it sounded high and unnatural. “We will speak no more of this.” She rose unsteadily from the stool, waving away his hand. “You have your own injuries to attend to. Thank you for attempting to heal mine.”

She burst out of the shed into merciless sunlight, exposing her guilt, which must be written all over her face. How fortunate that everyone was out hawking—she could slink back to her chamber without having to answer awkward questions.

How very commanding Kit had been when she’d had her accident! He’d shown no fear of a skittish horse or a distressed falcon, and he’d commanded the groom as if the boy were his own servant. He’d commanded her, too, and she’d obeyed, meek as a lamb. No servant she’d ever met had such aplomb.

Alys pulled to a halt in the courtyard, feet frozen to the ground. It all became clear now—she hadn’t been kissed by a servant. She’d been kissed by one of her own kind—a nobleman masquerading as a gardener.

So now that she knew the truth, what was she going to do about it?