is good at many things,” Aileas replied, divesting a capon of its leg.
“I daresay. And fighting of any kind.”
“Yes.”
“Can he read?”
Aileas stopped chewing and looked at him incredulously. “Read?” she said, her mouth full of capon. “Why should he read? He’s not a priest.”
“Obviously,” George replied lightly. “The rule of chastity would be quite beyond him, I’m sure. He’s the sort of fellow that has a different woman every night of the week, provided he can pay them, of course.”
Aileas’s eyes narrowed as she kept chewing, regarding him suspiciously.
“Forgive me, Lady Aileas, for speaking of such things in front of a lady.”
She glared at him even more suspiciously.
He held her gaze, regarding her steadily, and then he smiled very, very slowly.
Stunned by how warm Sir George’s knowing smile and shrewd gaze made her feel, Aileas tried to swallow—and instead began to choke.
Instantly Sir George began to pat her back, and in a moment, she spit the offending piece of meat out and cursed softly.
“What the devil happened?” her father demanded, eyeing her crossly. He had been in the midst of discussing the seige of Acre with Father Denziel—again—and he was not happy to be interrupted.
“A piece of meat went down the wrong way,” Aileas explained, all the while acutely aware that Sir George’s hand was still on her back. Not moving. Just...there. Warm and strong, as it had been when he had held her hand to his muscular forearm. Again she caught that pleasing scent, a fruity and spicy aroma that reminded her of festive feasts and mulled wine.
It must be the herbs sprinkled on the rushes.
Her father returned his attention to the priest and Aileas moved her shoulders until her companion removed his hand. “I am quite all right, Sir George,” she snapped, surprised to discover that she could still feel the pressure of his palm on her skin. Indeed, she felt as if she might as well be naked in front of him.
It had to be this damned gown, she thought, shivering. She was indeed naked beneath it, for while she did own two gowns, she had forgotten that she didn’t have proper undergarments. Nor did she have a maid to help her get into it. She had done her best to tie the laces herself, yet she feared they might come undone any minute.
She grabbed the neck of her dress and tugged it up. It kept slipping lower. And as for the sleeves, she would have done well to hack them off before she had ventured downstairs.
No matter what her father wanted, she vowed, this would be the last time she dressed like this. Why, she had nearly tripped on the hem on the stairs. She could have broken her neck.
She wouldn’t risk that, not even for the pleasantly complimentary look on Sir George’s—Rufus’s—face when she came into the hall.
But Rufus hadn’t met her gaze since.
Why? Surely he knew that she preferred him to this perfumed, overdressed popinjay with his fine embroidered tunic who sat beside her, eating as daintily as a nun.
Could his deference be because Sir George was rich? Did Rufus feel that he didn’t deserve her because his family lacked wealth?
Yet what was that if he cared for her as she did him? He must know that she had little regard for wealth or station; the man himself was all in all.
“I am glad you are quite recovered,” Sir George said softly.
She risked a glance at his face, to find that he was smiling at her again, regarding her with his very astute eyes, so different from Rufus’s amiable brown ones.
Which, come to think of it, were not unlike those of one of her father’s hunting hounds.
She quickly turned her scrutiny to the hall and spotted Rufus, deep in conversation with the armorer. They were probably discussing the merits of buying a new sword rather than repairing his old one.
She wished she could join them. She wished Rufus would look at her and wave for her to come to their table. Indeed, she wished Rufus would just look at her.
Anything to turn her attention away from this man beside her, whom, she vowed, she would not like, no matter how he smiled at her.
Chapter Four
The next morning, Aileas, wearing her customary garments of shirt, shortened skirt, breeches and belted tunic, hurried up the narrow stairs leading to Sir George’s bedchamber, a pile of clean linen in her hands. If anyone saw her, they would assume she was taking the linen to his room. While that was a servant’s task, it would be at least some excuse for what she was about to do.
Which was sneak into his chamber and see what he had brought that could possibly require so much baggage. As for the reason behind her curiosity, she told herself she was searching for more reasons to prove his unsuitability as her husband.
She stifled a yawn. The sounds of loud laughter and male conversation from the hall bad prevented her from falling asleep for a long time after she had retired. That and venturing below to see what all the noise was about. She had seen Sir George in the middle of a boisterous gaggle of soldiers, apparently regaling them with tales of his exploits at several tournaments.
It had not pleased her to see Rufus paying rapt attention.
It would have been better to have found him sulking in the corner, looking envious or angry. Instead, he had looked positively... admiring.
But then, Sir George was an easy man to admire when it came to storytelling. In his deep, mellifluous voice, he told his tales with droll, self-deprecating humor, not bragging bravado. A few simple words or actions sketched a person for his audience, and his plain recitation—so different from the flowery stories of minstrels—proved unusually fascinating. Even she had lingered and—
She had to find proof that while he might have participated in tournaments and apparently with some distinction, he was too used to soft living to suit her.
She reached his bedchamber and quickly slipped inside. She closed the door, then turned to look into the formerly barren room.
The sight that met her eyes made her lean back against the door and clutch the linen to her chest as she stared, openmouthed.
It was as if she had suddenly been transported to a sultan’s palace. On top of the simple bedstead was the thickest, softest-looking feather bed Aileas had ever seen or imagined, covered with fine blankets and a fur coverlet, as well as several brightly colored cushions.
On the floor was a carpet, as colorful as any of the cushions, and so thick it seemed incredible that one was supposed to step on it. A bronze brazier, piled high with coals, stood in a corner. A small, finely carved table was by the window, and the basin and ewer her father had provided sat upon it. In another corner stood a large wooden tub.
He
