Eleanor drew her hooded cloak tightly about her against the late September chill. The assize would be in a week’s time, and still, she had no solution to the poaching. Osbert had met with her only yesterday, hunting cap in hands, looking remorseful.
“I fear I have no news,” he said. “Much silver has changed hands and has closed men’s mouths, they say.” He sighed. “There are whispers everywhere, but everyone has heard only that someone great and powerful has them all in thrall.” He shrugged, his palms facing upward. “I cannot force anyone to speak, Milady. I have failed you.”
“Nay, Osbert,” Eleanor replied. “You have not. You have been a loyal chief forester and continue to serve me well.” She noted Osbert’s slight frown, no doubt at her using the word “serve,” but she continued. “‘Twill all come out, I am sure. We must just watch and wait.”
She dismissed him with a wave, and he reluctantly left the hall. Osbert seemed to accept her new reserve, and she could see he did not like her reference to his being a loyal chief forester and underscoring his relationship to her as a servant, but she had to put his foolish hopes and all the rumors to rest. She had enough problems with Hugh about the poaching, without his suspecting she was shielding Osbert because of a love affair. Ugh! The thought of kissing Osbert was repugnant. She shuddered a little. Even though Osbert was kind and loyal, she could never, ever even think of having any of those sorts of feelings about him.
But, Hugh, then, was another matter. She colored under her hood, hoping no one saw her sudden blush. Why was she thinking this way? Couldn’t she control her own thoughts? Were all the giggles and whisperings of Anne and her ladies true, then? Was love something to look forward to and enjoy? If so, it would be a new experience for her. But, if it were to happen, she would far prefer to have that new experience then with Hugh—not with William of Litchfield! Ugh! Eleanor bit her lip in chagrin and took a deep breath. Enough of this, she commanded herself. She could not—she would not—fantasize about the man who might become her own sister’s husband—the man who treated her with such condescension!
Eleanor’s horse, Autumn, picked her way across the drawbridge, and Eleanor turned to look back at Strathcombe. She would return in a week’s time—in time for the assize. Please God that she would return still a widow and not as the Countess of Litchfield. She had to stand her ground with William, no matter the cost.
The assize! Eleanor gripped the reins tighter. She would have to allow Osbert to be arrested, and she in turn would arrest John de Bretton, that wily scoundrel. Certes, Hugh had no trust for anyone, but, then, if John de Bretton were her chief forester, she would not trust him, either. She would have to use every bit of her intelligence to get any information from him, she well knew. And Hugh—how could she face Hugh down, she wondered. Could he read her thoughts in her eyes? He seemed always to look so searchingly at her that it quite took her breath away.
Did he, too, have these kinds of thoughts of her, or did he not think that way at all? According to Anne, all that men thought of was how to bed each comely woman they met and how they would have their way. Thus, wouldn’t Hugh think the same? Did he dream of her, as she did of him? Or—Eleanor swallowed hard—did he dream of Mary, instead? She shut her eyes for an instant, gripping the reins even tighter.
As they rode on, Autumn’s gait finally lulled Eleanor into a calmer mood, although she gazed anxiously through the trees from time to time, wondering if any poachers were doing their evil deeds deep in the forest, as she and her company rode past them. There were no disturbances, however, and after a long day’s ride through the forest, past hamlets and peasants bringing in the late harvests from their crofts, the company assembled in a dell, the knights putting up tents for Mary and Eleanor and their ladies, the cooks bringing out salted meats and ale and bread. Anne sat next to Eleanor and Mary in the dappled shade, her inquisitive eyes gleaming.
“Will Hugh of Wykeham be at the christening?” she asked.
Eleanor felt her heart stop for a moment at the mention of Hugh’s name. Of course he would be at Litchfield for the christening. She had been preoccupied with preparations for the journey and with what she would say to William in person about his possible betrothal to her, but not so preoccupied that she had failed to consider who else might be coming. Hugh!
She felt her face heat up as she remembered her dream the night before. Last night, she had dreamt that Hugh had come to her at Litchfield, stealthily opening the door of her solar, finding her reading. The fire in the hearth threw his shadow on the wall while he approached her quietly, boots barely making a sound on the stone floor, and leaned over and stroked her cheek, his warm breath feathering her ear. She had looked up from her book, felt his breathing accelerate as his face moved closer to hers.
He lifted her chin with his hand, and then his mouth sought hers, lips moving first lightly, then more urgently. Slowly, she had kissed him back. With a half-smile, he had then gazed at her for a moment, and then he took her book from her and began gently and methodically kissing first her earlobe, then her neck where it met her jaw line, and she gently kissed his temples and brushed her lips across his forehead. His scent, his skin—she breathed in, deeply. More, she wanted more, she wanted…
Her heart felt as
