Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.
Shame flooded Mathilde’s face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s wisdom when it came to young men.
“I’m sorry,” Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.
“I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson,” Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn’t upset, although she was. “But since I may misjudge this man, I’m glad that you are here to help me.”
Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister’s doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe’s father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.
“Maybe he’s already gone,” Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde’s knock.
“The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave,” Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Perhaps he left in the night,” Giselle suggested.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Mathilde muttered under her breath.
“Dead!” Giselle exclaimed.
Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark. “I do not believe that,” she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. “More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us.”
“Oh, Mathilde!” her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. “Wait!”
It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied—by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.
He was completely naked.
With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee—until she saw Giselle’s worried face.
What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde’s plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.
That she didn’t want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn’t hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.
He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?
“Is he alive?” Giselle whispered behind her.
“He’s breathing,” Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. “I think he’s passed out from drink.”
Closer now, she studied the slumbering man’s remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel—albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.
She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn’t been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he’d even noticed.
Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.
She turned away. “This is not the sort of man we require,” she said to her sister. “Come, Gis—”
A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other.
“God’s teeth, wench,” the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. “No need to rouse the household.”
His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. “Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night’s rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before.”
“Our apologies, Sir Knight,” Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. “We should not have intruded upon you.”
The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde’s beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man’s staring scrutiny.
Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.
“May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady,” he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, “for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice.”
Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.
“We require a knight’s service,” Mathilde decisively announced, her dagger still in her hand, “but—”
“Indeed?” the Norman interrupted, his brown eyes fairly sparkling with delight, as if they were offering him a present.
“How charming,” he continued, addressing Giselle, “although I must confess, I usually prefer to choose my bedmates. In your case, however, my lady, I’m prepared to make an exception.”
Of all the vain, arrogant presumptions! “That is not what I meant,” Mathilde snapped, her grip on her weapon tightening.
The knight turned to look at her. “Why are you so angry? I’m the one who ought to be offended. You invaded my bedchamber when I was asleep and unarmed.”
“But not for…for that!”
“No need to dissemble if it was,” he replied with an amiable smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders, and completely ignoring her drawn dagger. “This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has sought my company in bed, although they don’t usually come in pairs.”
“You…you scoundrel!” Mathilde cried, appalled at his disgusting comment, as she started for
