He rose, and Richard cast a curious glance at him. “Your sister is unwell, sire,” he said politely. “I’ll see her safely to her room.”
“Sick, is she?” Richard bellowed. “Not used to good food. Take her away, Sir Thomas. And there’s no need to warn you to behave yourself—that’s why I chose you. I doubt you even know how to use a woman anymore. That witch Gwyneth unmanned you.”
Sir Thomas didn’t even blink. Claire had risen to her feet, albeit unsteadily, and he put a strengthening hand beneath her elbow. She was shaking, and it struck him that perhaps she really was sick.
“Don’t worry, I’ll have Grendel whip you up a potion to put starch back in the old blade,” Richard said. “In the meantime, give us a kiss, dear sister.” He reached for her, one meaty hand clawing at her wrist, and Thomas wondered whether they were about to indulge in a tug of war. Granted, Richard was his liege lord, but he wasn’t about to release Claire when she could barely stand.
Lady Claire took care of the problem most efficiently. She look at her brother, focusing on his wet, bewhiskered mouth, and promptly spewed her supper all over him.
Richard leapt up, cursing furiously, but Thomas had already drawn her away. “I warned you she was unwell, sire,” he said, trying to keep his voice deferential.
“Sickly bitch,” Richard fumed, ripping his soiled tunic from his body and revealing his coarse, thickly muscled body. “Take her to her womenfolk before she hurls again!”
“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said meekly. Claire looked entirely capable of it, one trembling hand pressed to her mouth, and he hurried her from the room before she could disgrace herself again.
She sagged against him, and he drew her to the stairs, sitting down and pulling her weak body against his. She was trembling, shaking so hard he thought her bones might break, and an odd, choking sound signalled that she might be ill again.
And then she looked up at him, and her green eyes were full of mischievous delight, and he realized she was shaking with laughter, and the choking sound was her attempt to stifle her amusement.
“He’ll think twice about kissing me again,” she said breathlessly, a stifled giggle in the back of her throat.
He wanted to jump up, denounce her as a foul, deceitful strumpet, but he didn’t move. He had seen a look in Richard’s eyes that he didn’t dare interpret, but he sensed that Richard deserved such punishment and more.
“You’re a dangerous woman, Lady Claire,” he said. “That’s a formidable weapon you’ve got.”
She still looked faintly green. “It doesn’t require much,” she said brightly. “Just have Richard kiss you on the mouth and you’d be able to spew as well.”
Beaten. She deserved to be beaten. And he deserved to be punished for not chastising her. But he found he couldn’t. He looked down into her unrepentant green eyes, and thanked Christ and all his saints that she’d just thrown up.
And that her soft, wicked mouth was no temptation for his. For the moment.
Chapter Eight
She had fallen asleep again, Simon realized. It was quite an odd habit she had, of simply drifting off in his presence. He’d worked hard at presenting a formidable appearance to all the inhabitants of Summersedge Keep, and indeed, Lady Alys was frightened of him. But quite obviously not frightened enough to keep awake.
It was one thing when he’d drugged her wine with sweet poppy. Tonight he expected her to be alert, ready to learn of the herbs he showed her, ready to argue and banter with him as she had at dinner. It was a rare thing to have anyone capable of talking back to him, and the novelty enchanted him. The fact that it was a woman he desired made it even more interesting.
But she’d sat on the pile of cushions on the floor, watching him out of her calm, steady eyes as he started to tell her of the dangers of wormwood, and then those eyes drifted closed, and she slept, her back against the thick stone wall, her legs curled up beneath her. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts with complete fascination, almost as if he’d never seen breasts before. And he had, unclothed, wondrous breasts. The soft swell beneath Lady Alys’s monumentally ugly gown shouldn’t have absorbed him with such intensity.
But then, he’d already accepted the fact that there was no reason to his fascination with Richard the Fair’s half-sister. It simply existed, and he accepted it. Without question it would disappear once he’d bedded her. In the meantime he could simply enjoy the uncharacteristic ache she inspired within him.
He rose, moving toward the simple desk. No one was allowed to clean his rooms but Godfrey, his manservant. No one was privy to his secrets but Godfrey, and Godfrey was mute, his tongue removed by a spoiled German prince who wanted to assure himself that his servants wouldn’t talk.
The German prince himself would no longer talk - Simon of Navarre had killed him, and Godfrey had followed him with patient, intelligent devotion ever since. He was the perfect servant, friend and confidante, devoted to his master, deft in his handling of herbs, thoughtful and learned. It mattered not that Godfrey could write and therefore pass on the secrets that had been silenced from his mouth. Few people—and Richard de Lancie was not one of them—were able to read.
The inhabitants of Summersedge Keep would wonder why a man with a crippled right hand would have the kind of desk used in a scriptorium. If they knew. But since very few people saw the inside of his rooms, very few people thought to question.
He took the seat, then stretched his scarred hand out fully, reaching for the quill. The page of the herbal was just as he had left it, the colors clear and bright Transcribing manuscripts had been his self-imposed treatment during the years he
