nowhere, shooting down to the place between her legs as she recognized some intense emotion in his face. Gavin breathed as though he’d been running, and his hands returned to the bench beside him as he shifted slightly away. “I should offer my apology—” He held up a hand to stop her as she drew in her own staggering breath to tell him that he could offer his apology to her backside “—but I will not.”
Then, as though he himself was returning to place and time, Gavin moved again, placing more space between them on the bench. Some of the sharpness returned to his features—but a sense of peacefulness remained, too, Madelyne saw, even as she wondered why he would shutter himself so quickly from what had just occurred. Despite the fact that she wanted to revel in the kiss…to explore what it meant and if it made him feel as soft and happy and unfinished as it did her…Madelyne accepted that he was not yet ready to do so.
“Gavin, you must allow me to see to what it is that ails you,” she urged, reaching to touch him again. This time, he did not pull from her reach, but nodded, and she felt that that was some small accomplishment.
“I fell from Rule during the hunt,” he told her. “My shoulder and arm are likely bruised more colorfully than Eleanor’s jewels, but I do not believe anything is broken. I would welcome any attention you might be willing to give my injury—or, if ’tis too much trouble, I can seek out another healer to treat me. ”
“Gavin, how can you think I would see you in pain and do naught to help? Of course I will see to it.”
He looked back at her, those gray eyes probing more deeply than his kiss. “Nay, Madelyne, I did not know whether you would care to ease me when I have caused you much greater hurt.”
She reached to touch his face, but pulled her trembling hand back before connecting with his dirt-streaked skin. “I cannot hold against you that which makes you who you are—a man of vengeance and honor. Nor would I withhold my care for one who is injured. You need not fear asking that of me, for I will gladly serve you thus. I see no reason that Lord Reginald would object to my caring for my appointed guardian,” she added, watching him carefully. “I do not believe, however, that he would approve of any further kisses between us. Most particularly since I have changed my mind.”
The change that passed over his face was astonishing. Eyes, cheeks, mouth, skin all appeared to tighten, harden, darken before her eyes. “Aye, Madelyne, D’Orrais could have little to say were you to see to my needs, but ’tis true that he would likely object to any kiss other than one of peace to pass between us.”
He stood abruptly. “You may have no fear—I shall not place you in such an awkward position again. It grows late, and I must bathe the blood and sweat from my body. Allow me to return you to your chamber so that I can go about my business.” He offered her his arm.
Madelyne took it, frustration and annoyance coloring her mood. “Thank you my lord,” she told him, resorting to chilly formality as she could think of no other way to express her irritation.
He looked down at her, then began to propel her toward the front of the garden. “What is it you have changed your mind on, my lady?” he asked carelessly as they strode along at a pace faster than she would have wished.
“I no longer am of the opinion that one kiss is the same as another.” Madelyne did not look at him, and did not take any pause in her steps. She continued to walk toward the keep as though she had not just laid her heart out for him to step upon.
And Gavin did not make the merest of pauses himself. His strides went on, unbroken as well—as though he’d heard nothing.
Twenty-One
“What ails Lord Mal Verne?” Tricky asked, looking up into Clem’s stoic face.
He shrugged, his large shoulders moving with rugged grace against the stone wall at which he leaned. Tricky pulled her attention away from those broad, capable shoulders and found her interest wandering over the meaty arms that crossed over his middle and then back up to be trapped by his gaze.
She felt her heart pick up speed. He was such a large man, and when he looked at her like that—with a combination of irritation and flat disinterest, but so heavily that she felt her chest swell—Tricky felt light-headed and the need for support. She groped for the bench and sat upon it, focusing her attention on her feet and the arrangement of her skirts over them.
“He nearly threw himself down Jube’s throat when he brought my lady back to her chamber this day,” she continued, feeling the need to fill the silence that yawned between them. “He scolded him for allowing Madelyne to be unchaperoned in the garden—but I know that she was not alone. Lord Reginald…” She stopped and felt the familiar squiggly feeling she got in her stomach when something interesting was about to happen—like when Lord Mal Verne had arrived at Lock Rose Abbey to take Madelyne away with him. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she chewed over her theory for a moment.
“I’m certain that Jube was most obliging when you offered him comfort in the face of our lord’s ill temper.” Clem looked idly at the fingers on one hand, then glanced briefly at Tricky.
“Aye…the man has a charm about him that would wither the most dispassionate of women,” Tricky responded lightly. Why was the oaf forever talking of Jube when she was with him? “While you, sirrah,” she stood, moving close enough to him that she could tell that he held his breath, “are naught but a malcontented killjoy.” She stepped closer, effectively trapping him between herself and the wall. “I wonder,” she mused, running her fingers slowly up along his arm, “what it would take to lighten your mood… ”
Clem pushed himself away from the wall—and away from her—and stood at his full height. Not as tall as the blonde Jube, but much taller than diminutive Tricky. “I must see to my lord Gavin, for he was injured during the hunt this day. Mayhap that is the reason for his ill humor.”
She could not help but notice the rapid rise and fall of his barrel chest. “If you believe that his injury from the hunt is the reason for his poor temper, Clem de Ardethan, you are the veriest fool I know!” She poked him in the chest with her index finger, noting how hard and firm it was. “Look you more closely at what transpires and you will see that there is more to it than that! Did you not know that Lord Mal Verne has kissed Lady Madelyne?”
The expression on Clem’s face was one of such disbelief that she thought for a moment he would dissolve into a fit of laughter. Then, irritation flashed across his face. “A kiss between them? Pah! Even if it were true, ’twould mean little more than a moment of foolishness on his part!”
“Is that, then, what a single kiss betwixt a man and a woman signifies? A moment of male foolishness?” Angry now—after all, Clem had kissed her one time, and the man was dense besides!—Tricky slammed her hands onto her soft hips. “I vow that makes you the veriest of fools, Clem de Ardethan!” She whirled, stalking off down the corridor, away from the man who—she hoped—stood gaping after her.
Tricky fumed as she rushed back to Madelyne’s chamber. Men were so foolish—so thick-headed!
When she arrived there and found her mistress seated next to the fire, Tricky did not hesitate to share her frustration with Madelyne.
“Clem is the veriest of fools! I can see it in his eye that he desires to kiss me…yet he makes the greatest of excuses to walk away!”
Madelyne set her embroidery down and looked at her with unblinking gray eyes. “Tricky are you so sure this is true—or do you only speak of wishes?”
“Oh, nay, Maddie…’tis in his eyes and was in his kiss. It’s just that men seem to fight it when true love smacks them in the backside. Lord Gavin—’tis happening to him too, you know. He doesn’t know what to do with his feelings for you.”
“What nonsense you speak.” Madelyne’s attention was fixed closely on Tricky. “Lord Gavin does not care for me—he is about to give me in marriage to Lord Reginald.”
“Oh, nay, Maddie…’tis not so. Mark my words…you will not be wedding with Lord Reginald.”
“We have had the betrothal contract prepared,” Henry told Gavin as he drummed his fingers on the table next to him. The ever-present goblet of wine rested near his elbow, and a plate of dried apples and a hunk of bread next to it. “All that remains is to tell young D’Orrais and seal the betrothal. The wedding can take place immediately after—mayhap this Sunday.” Henry chuckled. “He’ll owe my coffers twenty gold pieces and two years service of fifty men for the privilege of wedding with the nun.”
Gavin drank from his own goblet, draining it, then moved to refill it. A strange gnawing scraped his inner
