Faiga. He was tired after his contest with Cerdic and didn’t particularly feel like fending off any unwelcome advances.
He glanced at the pond. It looked deep and inviting. A dip in those cool waters would be just the thing—except that he would be in plain view of half the village if he did that here.
Seeking a more secluded spot, he kept walking until he rounded a curve in the road and came upon a grove of willow trees along the riverbank, their graceful branches hanging to the ground, some grazing the river itself as it made its leisurely way toward the sea. Yes, this was much more to the purpose, he thought, ducking under the branches and removing his clothes.
Naked, he waded gingerly out into the water, wincing as he walked barefoot over the rocks and pebbles. When the water was up to midthigh, he dove.
The shock of cold water hit him like a blow, but he didn’t come up for air immediately. He struck out with strong, clean strokes.
Sir Leonard had insisted his charges learn to swim, too. All had succeeded, more or less, and this was one skill in which he’d excelled. Merrick, who was otherwise the best warrior, had proven to be surprisingly awkward in the water, while Ranulf always seemed to be rowing Sir Leonard’s boat.
Smiling at the memory of the time he and Merrick had overturned the boat and dumped Ranulf into the shallow water before Sir Leonard had embarked, Henry broke the surface and rolled over onto his back. Ranulf had been furious—but he’d deserved it.
How merry they’d been in those long-ago days, even the usually silent Merrick. Now Merrick was a great lord, married and with a child on the way. As for Ranulf, Henry wondered, and not for the first time, what exactly had happened that time Ranulf had been at court without them. Something certainly had, for he’d returned a colder, more cynical man.
No doubt it had to do with a woman. Who could understand the fairer sex? They were mysterious, unfathomable creatures, bold and haughty one moment, fearful and uncertain the next….
What the devil? When had Lady Mathilde become the model for her sex? If anything, she was the opposite of what a noblewoman ought to be—quiet, demure, gentle…dull, boring, lifeless.
He was being ridiculous. If there was any woman here worth pursuing, it was the beautiful Lady Giselle who, fortunately, wasn’t already betrothed.
He wondered why. If Lady Mathilde had been the eldest, he would have assumed that their father believed that the younger daughter shouldn’t marry before the eldest. Certainly finding a man willing to marry the brazen, outspoken Lady Mathilde would prove a difficult task. Since Lady Giselle was the eldest, perhaps no suitable candidate for either lady had been forthcoming.
Cooler now, and cleaner, and still determined to ignore any wayward thoughts involving the younger lady of Ecclesford, Henry walked out of the river. He swiped the water from his body as best he could, then tugged on his breeches. He threw on his shirt, but decided against putting his tunic and sword belt back on. He sat to draw on his hose and boots, then rose, grabbed his sword belt and, with his tunic hanging over his arm, started back to the poorly defended Ecclesford.
“Sir Henry?”
He halted and slowly turned around when he heard Lady Mathilde call his name. What in God’s name was she doing here and had she seen him naked—again? He wasn’t normally the most modest of men, but he didn’t enjoy feeling as if his entire body was available for her perusal.
Fortunately, Lady Mathilde was far enough away that she probably hadn’t seen him in the river or on the bank. Thank God.
Her head was uncovered and she carried a basket in her hand. Her chestnut hair hung in a single braid down her back nearly to her waist; that must be her veil tucked into her girdle. With her plain light brown gown and uncovered hair, she looked like a simple country girl.
The first woman he had ever made love to had been a dairymaid.
God’s blood, it had been years since he’d thought of Elise, and the passionate excitement, unique to youth, to be found in her welcoming arms. That must explain the sudden heating of his blood and the rush of desire in his loins.
Whatever Lady Mathilde looked like and whatever she aroused, she was no milking maid eager to instruct him in the ways of love.
“My lady,” he said, bowing in greeting as he waited for her to reach him, glad his shirt hung loose to midthigh.
She ran a puzzled gaze over him. “Have you been in the water?”
“It’s a warm day,” he replied, “and I thought I’d save your servants the trouble of preparing a bath. Cerdic challenged me to show my skill and I obliged. Afterward I wanted to wash more than my face and hands.”
Her brows knit with concern. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”
He couldn’t help smiling a little. “He was the one left lying on the ground.”
“You defeated Cerdic?” she asked incredulously.
He shrugged with chivalrous modesty. “As I said, I can wield more than a sword.”
She started walking toward the castle, her strides betraying her agitation.
He’d better keep quiet about the wager, he decided as he fell into step beside her. “Would you rather I let him hurt me?”
“I don’t know why you had to involve yourself at all,” she snapped, her full lips turned down in a peeved frown.
“I had nothing better to do. Neither you nor your sister were in the hall to offer suggestions as to how I might spend my time while I was your guest.”
He let the implication that they had been remiss in their duty hang in the air between them.
“I thought Giselle would be in the hall when you finally deigned to get out of bed,” Lady Mathilde replied, her voice betraying some slight remorse. “She usually does her sewing there, and there was no need for her other skill today.”
“Other skill?” he asked, curious as to what that might be and trying not to get annoyed with Lady Mathilde’s less-than-ladylike tone.
“She tends to the sick in the castle and the village.”
A most excellent quality in a knight’s wife, Henry reflected. His recent recovery would surely have been aided, and made all the more pleasant, had he been cared for by such a physician. “And you, my lady?” he inquired politely. “Are you similarly skilled?”
“The smells of the sickroom make me ill and the sight of a bloody wound turns my stomach.”
Blunt and to the point, as always, and should he ever require another reason that this lady would not make a suitable bride, there it was. “I take it you weren’t visiting the sick in the village then,” he remarked, nodding at her basket.
“No,” she curtly replied. But then her lips curved up in a secretive and surprisingly intriguing little smile. “I was visiting one of my tenants whose wife just had a baby.”
He suddenly noticed a little beauty mark on the nape of Lady Mathilde’s neck, like a target for a kiss—a light kiss, no more than the brush of a moth’s wing. A caress of the lips before they traveled toward her full mouth
