Once a Knight (8 page)

Rolling onto his stomach, he propped his chin onto his hands and grinned. “Well, it felt odd to have clean sheets, a clean body, and a room to myself, but I suspect I could easily get used to it.”

“Aye, it is pleasant to have a clean body.” She stacked the material on the bench by the fire hearth. With peculiar emphasis, she said, “It is more pleasant for the people around you, also. The sun is rising. It's time for you to take on your duties.”

His grin sagged. “My duties?”

“You'll want to consult with Sir Walter today, and I've told him you're to have the freedom to wander where you will and speak to whom you please.”

“That's generous of you, my lady.”

Ignoring both the words and the sardonic tone, she shook out a tunic of red linen and a surcoat of berry blue wool. “I thought these would fit you and be appropriate for your coloring.”

Dumbfounded, he repeated, “For my coloring?”

“A man as large as yourself with brown eyes, brown hair, and brown skin must take care not to appear to be a tree trunk.”

He viewed the colorful array of cloth in her hands with misgiving. “Mayhap being a tree trunk is an advantage when danger stalks.”

“I thought of that.” With a snap, she shook out a black cloak trimmed in green. “I doubt that you'll be in danger in broad daylight, and in the early morning and late at night, this cloak will keep you warm and protect you from being seen unnecessarily. Get out of bed. I want to cut your hair.”

She'd left her scissors on the table last night when she'd left the room, but she obviously hadn't forgotten
them. Why was she so insistent on removing his mane? Like bathing, was this some kind of ritual required when one entered the home of Lady Alisoun?

“Let me get dressed first.” The door stood open behind her, but she was alone, and for the first time he wondered why. The lady of the house should never have been reduced to carrying his clothing, but mayhap the chief maid had been correct when she giggled and told him that their mistress found him attractive—when clean.

Naked as a newborn, he put his feet on the step stool beside the tall bed, then stepped onto the floor, keeping his gaze fixed on Alisoun for reaction. “Did you bring hose?”

Lifting two black wool tubes, she showed them to him. “Don your braies,” she commanded. “Then sit on the bench. You'll not want your clean tunic cluttered with hair clippings.”

He did as she told him, watching her carefully for signs of interest or intrigue. There were none. She laid out a towel on the table beside the bench, tested the scissors, then stood and waited, hands folded before her, for him to seat himself.

It occurred to him she was a restful woman. That lack of expression which so frustrated him made her an easy companion. It also made him want to prod her to get a reaction. He sat, and as she wrapped a cloth around his shoulders, he said, “I was wondering…why did you leave last night?”

He saw her hand appear from behind him, pick up an ivory comb, then retreat. The comb bit into the hair at his forehead, then slid over the top. A tangle caught it, and it stopped with a jerk at his neckline. “Ow!” He clapped his hand over hers as she tugged to separate the strands. “Ow, ow! Stop that!”

A warm chuckle floated over him, pleasing his ears, and he tried to twist around, to view this miracle of emotion from the lady. That only made the comb bite deeper, and she pushed him back into place. “Do you always whine? If so, I wouldn't want to have been anywhere near when you were actually wounded.”

“That's different. This pain is unnecessary.” Feeling as if he'd been chided, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at nothing while the comb tugged and maneuvered. Then he realized she'd changed the subject. She'd established herself in control and silenced him all at once. “You vixen,” he murmured.

The comb paused in its work. “What?”

He straightened his spine and wished his shoulders had the breadth they'd once had. Too many months of near-starvation had reduced his bulk and made him less awesome than he'd been in his prime. But, he reminded himself, last night she'd still left after he'd stood in the tub. “I did ask why you failed to finish bathing me, didn't I?”

Her hand appeared again, picked up the fine steel scissors, and disappeared behind him. In his ear, he heard the “snick” sound as she tested them, then their cold metal rested against his neck.

She was good, he admitted. Very, very good. Only the most consummate diplomat managed to convey a threat while saying nothing. But, he wondered, why did she feel the need to threaten him? He'd done nothing more than ask a simple question.

She seemed to realize it, for she said, “I do apologize for abandoning you, but on my first night home, I had many duties which required my attention—not the least of which was soothing Sir Walter after your impressive display.”

He pounced on that. “So you
did
think it an impressive display?”

The scissors sliced through his hair with that peculiar, irritating sound, and a shiver ran up his spine as wisps of brown swirled down toward his feet. “Every woman in the castle thought it an impressive display, and if they didn't see it themselves, they heard an expanded version.”

“But
you
were impressed?”

She blew the hair away from his ear, and he shivered for a reason other than fear. “Very impressed.” She clipped off the words as sharply as the scissors clipped off his hair.

Satisfied, he said, “Don't cut it too close.”

“Don't you trust me?”

Funny, when he wasn't distracted by looking at her, he deciphered her moods a little more easily. Her voice betrayed her more than she would like, and her hands lost their graceful movement when he aggravated her. “Don't
you
trust
me
?”

The comb and scissors paused. “What do you mean?”

“You haven't yet told me what is threatening you. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To protect you against some menace.”

The comb and scissors moved along. She answered reluctantly, “Someone has conceived a dislike for me.”

“Enough of a dislike to shoot arrows at you?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

He decided that was a lie. “Who?”

“I don't know.”

Another lie. But what she'd told him was almost as interesting as what she didn't tell him, and why she'd told him even more interesting than that. When he wanted information from Alisoun, it seemed, he would
have to introduce a subject she wanted to avoid, like her response to his body, then allow her to speak on an alternate subject, like this harassment against her. “Why don't you go to the king and press charges against this lord who so plagues you?”

She combed his bangs into his face. They were long, past his nose, and they tickled. He blew at them, and she scolded, “Stop that. I need to cut these, too.” She stepped over the bench and stood in front of him.

Breasts! She had breasts that pressed against the thin blue material. The straight drop of the cotte she wore hid the rest of her shape from him, but her breasts begged him to kiss them. He could almost hear them calling his name, and he wanted to press his ears close to better heed them. Perhaps they were smothered under there. Perhaps they wanted him to free them. Perhaps…perhaps he'd better subdue another impressive display. Hoarsely, he prompted, “The king?”

“King Henry already tries to exert more authority over me than law or tradition allows him. I will not involve him in a matter which would leave me indebted to him.”

She answered steadily, as if she wasn't aware that her breasts thrust themselves into his face. Maybe breasts were unruly, like penises, and she had no control over their behavior. But he knew what his penis was doing—didn't she know about those impertinent breasts?

“I do comprehend your concern about King Henry, but if you had a man to take care of you—” A wad of hair landed in his open mouth.

She stood back, withdrawing those breasts from his reach, and watched as he spit and sputtered, then sneezed. When he finished, she said, “I don't need a man.”

“How would you know?” He pushed back the half-trimmed curtain of hair from his face to watch her. “Your maids call you the oldest virgin widow in England.”

Typically, she showed no reaction. “I meant I don't need a husband to protect me. It was easier to hire you.”

She didn't deny her maidenhood, he noted. “
I
meant you would do well to take a man into your bed and find out what you're missing.”

“And I suppose you have a candidate in mind.”

Smiling his guaranteed maiden-melting smile, he twisted the remaining long strand of hair. “Why not me?”

“Because you're a poor, landowning baron. What could you bring me?”

“Pleasure.”

She took a startled breath at his bluntness, then reality came to her rescue. “And a babe in nine months. Then we'd have to negotiate a marriage settlement, and you could bring me nothing to match what I have here.”

“More important from my point of view—what could you bring me?” He had the satisfaction of seeing her chin drop. “In sooth, you're wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, and that's an advantage to me.” He sighed gustily. “The churchmen say that money doesn't buy happiness, but I want a chance to prove it.”

“So you admit it. You want me only for my wealth, just like a thousand other knights.”

He could have danced with triumph. She hadn't dismissed him with a laugh. His little trout was rising to the bait. “Not at all. Your lands are magnificent, but you're also quite attractive.” She opened her mouth to retort, and he added, “When you keep quiet. That just doesn't seem to happen often.”

She snapped her mouth shut.

“I'm a gentle man. I've proved myself the better of
every warrior in England.” Painfully, he corrected himself. “The better of all but one warrior in England. But I have no need to prove myself stronger than a woman. I don't hit them. I never hit my wife, and if ever a woman…well, you can ask any of my people. I don't hit those weaker regardless of the provocation, nor does my dignity suffer when a woman lashes me with her tongue.” Placing his hand flat on the table, he leaned toward her. “With me, my lady, you can be right all the time, and I won't mind.”

“I
am
right all the time,” she said, but her voice faltered.

“You see?” He took the scissors from her hand. “A man could easily murder a woman like you. For your sake, you'd best marry one who answers your sarcasm with wit rather than blows.” He chopped the last of his hair off.

“Nay!” She sprang forward. “Oh, nay, now look what you've done.”

“What?”

“You've cut it crooked.” She combed, parted, separated, then shook her head. “Now I'll have to do the front again until it's even. The castle folk will think I've lost my touch.”

“You can't do everything yourself. You can't be chatelaine, chief knight, and barber all in one. That's too much of a burden for any one person to bear. Believe me, I know.” He tapped his chest. “I've been trying to do it alone, too. Together we would halve the duties.”

“And double the cares.”

The new cut her scissors made probably failed to even up the line, but he consoled himself the hair would grow back. “The king wants you married, and married you'll be. You asked for advantage. Well, shouldn't
your husband be a man over whom you
have
an advantage?”

Her eyes were round as she observed her handiwork. She combed again, then put her hand over his bangs to hold them down, and leaned close to his face. The scissors touched him again, but her constant handling had warmed them. “When a woman is married, she is her husband's chattel. She can do nothing without his permission.” She cut again, then stepped back and looked. A catlike smile curved her lips, then disappeared when she saw how steadily he watched her. “All advantage is lost with the signing of the marriage contract.”

“You do yourself an injustice. I give you fair notice, Lady Alisoun, that I intend to demonstrate the advantage you will have, and keep, over me.” He laughed out loud. “Come here.”

“What?” She actually took a cautious step back, and that for her was a rampant manifestation of wariness.

“I need help donning my clothes and hauberk, and I have no squire.”

“I'll assign you one.”

He inclined his head. “I would be most grateful.”

She hovered for another moment, then came forward to stand beside him. “In the meantime, I will assist you.”

By the saints, she was a brave woman!

A stupid woman, but a brave one.

“If your knife is honed, I will shave you before I dress you,” she said.

He remembered the implicit threat of her scissors. And she wanted to put a knife at his throat! His eyes narrowed. “Nay. I thank you.”

She blessed him briefly with a smile, and he realized how skillfully she put him in his place. But other, greater nobles had tried to keep him in his place. Other, greater
circumstances had oppressed him, and he had emerged tough, resilient, superior. His difficult life had taught him much and given him the advantage over this well-bred lady. He had only to remember that.

While he removed the cloth from around his shoulders and wiped off his neck, she laid his tunic and surcoat on the table. As briskly as if he were a dallying child, she ordered, “Raise your arms.”

He obeyed, flexing his muscles as he stretched. “Do you think I'm too thin?”

“Aye.” Jerking the tunic impatiently over him, she tugged it down to his waist to cover him. “But if you keep eating like you did last night, you'll regain your bulk soon enough.” She surveyed him, and he clearly saw a gleam of satisfaction. “Then you'll win your title back.
Then
you'll be the greatest mercenary in England again.”