Page 11 of Lord of the Forest

“Does my body upset you?” It was a genuine question, but one a lady ought not to answer. Especially when the answer could so easily be “not at all”.

“Upset is not the right word. You must know that a man’s body, like a woman’s, is best kept covered, lest it stimulate lust.”

“You sound like a walking Bible.”

He knew the Bible, then. Now, she was even more certain he must be a man of quality, despite his current state. But who was he, and what had he done to be suffering this exile?

“Have you read the Bible?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Far easier to, now that it’s in English.”

“Do you read Latin, too?”

“I think so—I don’t remember. I have my shirt on now.”

She turned around. He did, indeed, have his shirt on, but it was worn so thin in places that she could see the dark hue of his flesh beneath. Just how much time did he spend naked beneath the sun in this sequestered grove? Quite a lot, judging from the bronzed skin on his legs.

Before she could indulge in any further unladylike speculation, she felt a trickle of moisture through her shoe.

“Oh, our eggs!” She scooped them out of the ashy mess of the cooking fire, then righted the pot and burned her fingers.

“Foolish wench.” Lancelot lifted her up and carried her across to the brook. “Dip your fingers in there to cool them.” He left her, then returned with the eggs and the pot, both of which he doused in the chill water.

“They’ll be soft, but I won’t risk lighting another fire.”

She was still getting over the fact that he’d carried her, for which there was no need. Her heartbeat had not yet returned to normal when he hunkered down beside her, cracked an egg on a stone, poured the contents into his mouth and washed it down with cupped handfuls of water.

Why did this man have so profound an effect on her? She should be terrified, horrified. Instead, she was fascinated. All the same, she ate her own egg daintily, meaning to lead by example.

“You look hot—your cheeks are burning.” Lancelot smeared the back of his hand across his mouth. “Put your feet in the stream.”

“I can’t—” She paused. Why couldn’t she? There was no one to see but the wild man and the rooks wheeling in the sky above. She chuckled. “If I do, you must tell no one.”

He gave her a sideways look. “We’ll keep each other’s secrets, shall we?”

“Indeed.” Shyly, she removed her shoes, then her stockings. Then, as an afterthought, rinsed the stockings out and laid them on the stone to dry.

Lancelot grinned at her. “You’re learning fast how to cope with life in the forest. It must be different from what you’re used to.”

“On the contrary. I love being outside, growing and harvesting herbs, hunting through the fields and woods for rare plants.” She dangled her feet in the brook. It was deliciously icy and refreshing. “Do you enjoy it here? I should imagine it’s vile in bad weather.”

“Is this what’s called polite conversation? I care not for such things.”

She gave a little toss of her head. “It is polite, aye—and you should care for it.”

“Nay. I have none to please but myself.”

“But don’t you want to re-join the world? You can’t hide away here forever. What if you get sick?”

He reached a hand to the back of his head and scratched at it. She swallowed a grimace of distaste—he probably had all kinds of things crawling around in his hair and beard. What would he look like if they were trimmed? If his cheeks were shaved? Possibly quite handsome. Nay—he was a lumpen, thoughtless oaf, and she shouldn’t allow herself to be intrigued.

He rinsed his hands in the brook. “I’m fit and healthy, aside from having lost my memory and not knowing how I came to be here. If I was truly sick, I’d go to the village and see if I could trade something for physick. My shoes might fetch something, and you say my doublet is of fine cloth, so I might barter that, too. Time enough, if it happens.”

Despite her vow not to be, she was more captivated than ever. “I’d love to see your shoes. They might help identify you.”

“How may shoes identify a man? Oh, very well. I see you’re set on it. They’re next to my bedding, in the hollow tree. I’ve made a shelf to keep my good things out of the water when the brook floods. As it does every winter.”

He didn’t offer to fetch them for her. Of course, not—he had the manners of the boar he’d imitated earlier when he’d frightened off the dog. She stifled a laugh. That little drama had been highly entertaining. As she walked barefoot across the rough grass to the tree, she trod on dead holly leaves and regretted leaving off her shoes. She was too proud to let out an exclamation—Lancelot would just mock her for her soft feet.