the split log table that was sticky from spilled ale and reminded himself again not to look in the direction of the high table. If he did, it would seem as though he were looking at Judith and Lady Madelyne.
Aye, if he turned that way, it might appear that he was interested in what the ladies were doing, or as though he cared whether they had been joined by any of the noblemen who visited the king’s court.
He wasn’t interested and he didn’t care.
On the morrow, he would make certain that Lady Madelyne had her audience with King Henry, and he and the sovereign would determine the best way to notify de Belgrume that his daughter was in their custody. Then, he, Gavin, need have naught further to do with her, and he could return to Mal Verne, knowing that de Belgrume was under the king’s control at last.
He tightened his fingers around the wooden ale cup. Allowing de Belgrume to live was not his preference… but in this, he must obey his king until Fantin misstepped again. Then, Gavin vowed, he would be waiting for the opportunity to finish what had been started seven years earlier.
The sweet sound of a lute caught his ears, wafting over the dull roar of the diners. Forgetting that he didn’t want to look that way, Gavin turned toward the high table where Henry and his queen, Eleanor, supped. Instead of seeking the musician, his gaze found and settled on the willowy figure of Lady Madelyne only three tables away. She’d been seated facing him, but now had half-turned toward the lute player, giving Gavin a covert view of her profile.
He couldn’t pull his attention away. She looked so calm and serene, beautiful in her composure in the midst of the energetic, rowdy crowd. He saw the slim, white column of her neck—bared now that the thick masses of braids had been gathered above her ears—and watched the curve of it shift innocently as she strained to look between the crowd to see the musician. The bareness of her neck seemed almost obscene to Gavin, for she still had the aura of an innocent, virginal nun, and the baring of such skin was too intimate for a protected woman.
He frowned, tasting his ale again, but still unwilling to look away. He could still taste the sweetness of her full mouth beneath his, and had no delay in summoning to memory the feel of her soft curves molding beneath his hands. Desire that he had suppressed sprang to life, sending waves of heat pulsing through the core of his abdomen, and lower.
He swore silently, then buried his face in the ale cup again …but his gaze remained fixed on Madelyne.
Judith chose that moment to glance in his direction, and Gavin looked away too late. He felt his neck warm as he jerked his eyes away, pretending to look at the lute-player. His time would be better spent looking for a willing maidservant in the stead of gaping at a holy woman.
With renewed firmness, he turned away, his gaze scanning the rearmost tables for the comely maidservant he especially sought when at court.
“Who is the woman there?” asked Lord Ferrell, one of the men with whom he was seated.
Gavin swung to look at him and caught the eye of Thomas, who had a brow raised in question. Gavin gave a sharp nod, and his friend replied, “’Tis Lady Madelyne de Belgrume, Ferrell, lately arrived at court.”
“De Belgrume?” Ferrell’s bushy eyebrows twitched in confusion. “The get of Fantin de Belgrume? I did not believe he had an heir.” He turned to look toward Madelyne again, and Gavin could easily discern the thoughts that bumbled through the man’s head. “Did he not have a daughter who perished some years ago? And a wife too? Do you not tell me… ” his voice trailed off and he stared at the woman, his eyes slitting as his brows twitched. “’Tis not the selfsame woman, is it, Thomas? Where has he hidden such a beauty all these years?” He made to stand, brushing crumbs from his tunic and swiping a hand over his wiry gray hair.
“Sit down, Ferrell, and stick your pecker back in your breeches,” Gavin drawled, shifting his shoulders to alleviate the tension that was gathering there. “The wench came from an abbey—-she is promised to be a nun.”
Ferrell looked at him blankly, then returned his gaze to Madelyne. “’Tis a good jest, Mal Verne, but I vow, I’ve never seen a woman who looks less like a holy woman than that wench.”
“I brought her from the abbey myself,” Gavin told him, a bit of steel creeping into his voice. “She’s under the protection of the king.”
Ferrell frowned again, then sank back onto the bench where he’d been seated. “Bloody shame,” he said sadly, bringing his cup to his mouth and slurping. “Bloody damned shame.”
Gavin’s mind echoed those thoughts, and he swiveled to cast a last glance at Madelyne’s table. His momentary relief vanished when he saw Lord Reginald D’Orrais laughing as he took a seat next to her.
’Twas heaven…pure heaven.
Madelyne sighed, pushing away the knowledge that, strictly speaking, it was a blasphemous thought, and closed her eyes. Strong fingers kneaded her skull, threading through her hair and loosening the ten braids that had pulled her scalp taut for hours. The dull ache gave way to relief and she sighed again, resting her head in the palms of her maid’s hands.
Tricky’s chatter flowed in and out of Madelyne’s consciousness just as her nimble fingers brushed through Maddie’s long hair. “…Never seen such food! I could barely choose betwixt the rabbit, the capon, and the roast goose…an’ when they brought forth the stuffed pigeons, I thought I’d eat to bursting!” She reached in front of Madelyne for a comb carved of wormwood with bits of mother of pearl inlaid amongst the etchings on its side.
“How did you come by such a pretty comb?” asked Madelyne curiously. It slid smoothly through her hair, running over her shoulder and along the length of her back, past the edge of the stool on which she sat.
“’Twas a gift,” Tricky replied smugly, maintaining her rhythm of long, sure strokes. “Whilst Clem and I were gone to seek aught for you to break your fast, we chanced upon a merchant showing his wares. I made such a moon-face of myself that he had no choice but to buy it for me.” She giggled girlishly, jerking Madelyne’s hair in her distraction. She froze, smoothing her fingers solicitiously over the tender spot. “Ah, my lady, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Madelyne laughed softly at her friend’s enthusiasm. Since leaving Lock Rose Abbey, it had become clear to her that Patricka was in no manner suited for the life of a nun…nor was Madelyne any more certain that she was cut of a maid’s cloth. “You didn’t hurt me, Tricky, ’though such inattention could do so in the future. Nevertheless, you have worked such magic on my aching head that I would forgive you in a trice even if you had pulled my hair.” She sighed, smiling, suddenly in a delightful mood. “I shall remember not to ask you of your paramours whilst you have a brush in my hair anon.”
“Paramours! Hah!” Tricky nearly caught the comb in a tangle again, but caught herself in time. “Mayhaps one could name Jube such, but I do not care for that malcontent Clem at
Madelyne felt her eyebrows rise at such a blatant criticism, but she could not fault Tricky for accuracy in her observations. Indeed, she had felt the weight of Gavin’s surly stare that evening. Firming her lips, she reminded herself that ’twas she who had cause to be furious with him, rather than the other way around. Despite the fact that her heart had jumped into her throat when she’d turned to see him, and regardless of the acuteness of the memory of his lips tasting hers, Madelyne knew she couldn’t trust those flighty emotions. She could not trust
For some reason, that realization pained her more than leaving the abbey. Emptiness and unease settled around her, and the back of her throat hurt when she swallowed. Before the surprise tears could materialize, she stood and Tricky let the comb slip from her hair. Fighting sadness, Maddie walked toward the tiny fireplace, her eyes fixed on the orange flames. Peg had set the fire and it burned calmly in its little enclosure, whilst Peg herself snored on a pallet in the corner.
“Methinks my lady has attracted her own paramour,” Tricky said slyly, shoving her comb into a small linen pouch. She pulled on the strings to tighten the opening of the bag and glanced at Madelyne.
“What do you mean?” Maddie asked, startled. A warmth that had naught to do with the fire suffused her face. She folded her hands in front of her and sat on the stool near the fireplace, looking over at her maid.
“Lady Judith had the right of it when she said you would attract attention,” Tricky responded, busying herself by folding one of the tunics Judith had loaned Madelyne. “I saw many people staring at you, my lady—”
Madelyne relaxed. “’Twas no more than curiosity, Tricky.”
“Mayhaps from some, aye. But the tall man who sat next to you had more than curiosity in his face.” She spoke matter-of-factly, turning to open a trunk where the other tunics were stored.
