Next to the ravishing Claire she was plain indeed. Her face was pale, composed, her hair pulled back into a thick braid of brownish-blonde and mostly covered with a wimple. Her eyes were large, but of an indeterminate color, halfway between brown and green. She was short, sweetly plump, dressed in a gown of some muddy shade that cast her into obscurity. And he had no doubt whatsoever that she was the beauty’s older sister. The one he’d originally been chosen to marry.
There was fear in her eyes as she looked at him. Courage as well. He wondered how she’d react when she saw his twisted hand. Would she flinch? What if he touched her with it? Would she gag? He suspected her younger sister would.
“Welcome!” Richard boomed out, all heartiness now that he was getting his way. “Make my sisters welcome! They’ve been too long from this household. My lady wife is sadly absent, on pilgrimage to Canterbury, but she should return soon enough, and in the meantime we’ll do our best to make you welcome. Come sit by me, sweet Alys, and tell me the wonders you’ve seen.”
“In a convent?” Alys said, a faint trace of humor in her soft voice.
Richard’s face darkened. He was not a man to make jest of, as Alys would soon discover, Simon thought. She should curb that tongue of hers. That surprisingly warm voice, that dangerous trace of wit. Richard would likely beat her.
Beautiful Claire had said nothing. She’d finally noticed him, but she kept those lovely green eyes carefully averted. Wary of him. She must have heard she would take her sister’s place. For some reason her uneasiness failed to excite him. He was more interested in the plain one.
“Tell us your visions then,” Simon said, and there was a sudden hush in the noisy room. “Did you see God?”
It was borderline blasphemy, and only the magician could get away with it. The plain sister turned to face him, her fear carefully kept at bay. “No,” she said, her warm voice a dangerous delight. There was faint huskiness in it, making him think of scented secrets and long, languorous nights, and he found himself oddly aroused. “But I’ve seen demons.” She looked directly into his eyes, and he wanted to laugh with pure pleasure.
He didn’t. She was a danger, with that clever tongue, those wise eyes, that oddly sensual voice. Claire would be prettier, safer, easier. But he found he’d made his choice. Safe and easy had never appealed to him.
He wasn’t about to inform any of them. Life was full of opportunities, and he didn’t squander any of them. He raised his twisted hand and pushed his hair away from his face. She didn’t even flinch.
He could feel Richard’s eyes upon him, curiosity rampant. For once, however, he kept his counsel. “Simon of Navarre,” Richard called out. “Make my sisters welcome. One of them will be your bride if you so desire. I make little doubt which one you’d choose. Alys, sit by me, and entertain me with tales of life in a convent. My wizard will see to your comfort, Claire.”
There was no way either lady could dispute Richard’s high-handed disposition of them. And indeed, Simon of Navarre had no desire to interfere. He rose as the Lady Claire approached him, looming over her, and she flounced into her seat with all the appearance of pleasure. Keeping her eyes averted from his face, from his hand.
He was half-tempted to use his right hand to pour her wine for her, but he resisted. He merely sat again, leaning back against the carved wooden back of the chair, and watched her, his eyes taking pleasure in the undeniably lovely sight of her. His body unmoved.
The meal was endless, and for once Alys’s appetite had fled. She was used to plainer food at the abbey, boiled fowl and brown bread. The nuns had been sparing with the wine as well, and the stuff she’d grown used to was strong and vinegary, not at all like the delicate, fruity wine in her jewel-encrusted goblet.
She could no longer see the Demon, which was only a slight comfort, knowing that Claire was caught in his company. Ah, but Claire had always been braver than Alys; she would doubtless survive very well indeed.
He wasn’t what she had expected. And yet, he was far worse. Given the name they called him, given the whisperings of the peasants, the rumors that had swept over the convent, she had expected someone old, ugly, evil-looking.
My lord Simon of Navarre was none of those things. Indeed, she wondered that anyone even noticed her crude brother with a creature like that by his side.
He was past his first youth—probably in his thirties, though by no means old, despite the streak of gray that coursed through one side of his thick, dark brown hair. He was clean-shaven, when most men wore beards, his face narrow, distant, lit by curiously golden eyes. His skin was tawny, and his clothes were richly colored, long robes in jewel-like hues that accentuated his height and the leanness of his body.
He was a strong man, she sensed it, though compared to her brother’s muscular knights he might seem too slight. He wasn’t a fighter—she had seen the twisted, scarred shape of his hand, and she hadn’t flinched from that either. All she could think of was the pain he must have felt.
And then his eyes had met hers. Those golden eyes, and she’d had the certain knowledge that this was no mortal man. He would be the death of her, perhaps. He would have power over her that no other man could even come close to. And considering how powerless she truly was in this world run by rampaging, war-like men, that was a monumental realization.
She didn’t look away from his glance, and she didn’t let her own fear show. Wasn’t that what Claire had always tried to tell her? You can’t
