knew she’d made such a gesture. A sudden streak of heat shot through him at the thought of her scratched and stained hands soaping his body…but he thrust the thought away immediately. He’d do well to find a woman this night. Mayhaps one of the maidservants would oblige him.
Not for the first time that evening, he wondered why he’d heard nothing of the beautiful heiress of Langumont—from either his brother or the court. Certainly a well landed maid as comely as Maris Lareux wouldn’t escape the notice of the unmarried, land-greedy barons at court.
Lady Maris’s voice broke into Dirick’s thoughts as she led him around into the area reserved for the men- at-arms and other important visitors. It was a large room, cordoned off from the rest of the hall by a heavy oaken door—much nicer than many of the men’s quarters he’d slept in throughout England and France. A fire roared in the corner, and a serf slumped against the wall, snoring, with a stack of wood within reach.
“You may place your pallet anywhere you like, Sir Dirick,” Maris offered. She handed him a pile of blankets, more than generous enough to keep one warm—especially with a blazing fire in the same room.
“Thank you, my lady,” he took the bundle.
She paused for a moment as if contemplating her next words, and when she spoke, a small grin tickled the corner of her enticing mouth.
Her words, however, when they came, eliminated any hint of innocence. “Papa bade me see to your comforts. If your need is as great as ’twas yestereve, I will send a woman to you.”
Dirick felt his face flush hot as he ground his teeth together in an attempt to maintain his dignity. Words escaped him, and before he could gather his wits, the little minx took his silence for dissent and whirled away down the dark corridor.
Chapter Four
Maris dressed without Verna’s assistance the next morning. She’d wakened earlier than usual and found too many thoughts trundling through her mind to make more sleep likely, so she rose. It was a frigid morn, and the sun had not even begun to peek over the edge of the earth to warm it.
Down the stone steps she went, breezing through the hall where several men-at-arms were sprawled in a corner. Obviously, they’d not made it to the knights’ quarters where she’d left a dumfounded Sir Dirick the night before.
A bemused smile quirked her face at the memory of his shocked expression, and, engrossed as she was, Maris misstepped and trod upon the cat’s tail. The tabby emitted a yowl of protest (the sotted men still did not stir) and the feline stalked off through the matted rushes, refusing to accept Maris’s apologies.
She tsked at herself, fearing that the cat’s reaction was merely a foreshadowing of what her father would say if he heard of her unladylike gibe at Sir Dirick. She couldn’t keep from glancing again toward the common sleeping area, where he was likely sprawled out on his pallet.
For a moment, she imagined his thick dark hair tufted and curling where he rested his head, his pleasing face lax and smooth in his rest. Mayhap an arm would be thrown out, away from his blanketed body…or a leg might be lying atop the woolen blanket whilst the rest of him slumbered in comfort. His disturbing grey-blue eyes would be closed in sleep—those eyes that looked at her with such intensity that her heart dodged about in her chest. Yet, when they were not focused on her, she’d noticed that they were a soft, cloud like grey, flecked with blue. The color of Langumont Bay on a winter day, and fringed with the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen, or noticed, on a man.
Maris started, realizing in confusion that she had paused in the hall and stood, staring toward the sleeping area as these thoughts danced through her mind. Though no one was about to see her actions, her cheeks warmed and she turned resolutely away. Although there was no harm in mooning over one’s betrothed, she had balked against marriage for so long that it felt odd for her to relish the thought of knowing all aspects of a man’s body. Maris gathered up her heavy wool tunic and draped it over her arm as she stepped over an up ended bench.
The kitchen was deserted except for Bit, the daughter of the cook, who slept in the corner on empty flour sacks. One large blue eye opened as Maris approached, and a yawn cracked across the pudgy, dirty face.
“Milady!” she started awake and jerked to her feet.
“Go back to your bed, Bit,” Maris told her. “’Tis well before matins, and all are sleeping soundly but myself and the cat.”
She turned to root about in an apple barrel, and, finding a barely bruised one, she polished it against the soft blue wool still draped over her wrist. She broke her fast with a piece of day old bread, found wrapped in cloth under a board, and a large swallow of watered down ale.
She made her way out into the bitter morning, crunching the apple. It was nearly as dark as the night she’d trudged home from Thomas the cooper’s wretched home. Stars lit the dark blue heavens, and a large moon still hung in their midst. Despite the cold, Maris stopped for a moment to look up. She drew her squirrel lined cloak tighter about her shoulders as she stood in the center of the silent bailey. The only other creatures stirring were her father’s midnight watch, posted on the north and south walls of the bailey. Sir Richard, on the north wall, saw Maris and waved in greeting and recognition.
She waved back, and, finishing the last of her apple, pocketed the core for Hickory. A shiver took her by surprise, and she hurried on her way to the stable where the presence of the horses would make it warm.
It was indeed warmer in the old building, but much darker. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she could just make out the moving grey shapes of the horses. Maris clicked her tongue hello and moved down the length of the stable to where her mare nickered in greeting.
She buried her hands in Hickory’s warm brown mane, to warm them as much as to say hello. Stroking the mare’s neck, she spoke soothingly to her as the horse poked her velvety nose into the folds of Maris’s cloak. Her mistress never visited without a treat, and the rest of her apple was discovered and quickly munched down.
“How is your leg?” Maris asked her friend softly, kneeling in the stall. She pushed the hood of her cloak back from her face and ran sure hands along Hickory’s foreleg. The mare didn’t wince, and she unwrapped the bindings to find the swelling nearly gone.
“Ah, you
“And what says your father of this plan to snare the wild boar?” The voice behind startled her and she whirled about, heart lodging in her throat.
“Sir Dirick, that was not very nice,” she told him indignantly as she tried to slow her thumping heart. “I could have been talking about you!”
He gave a short laugh. “And mayhap it would have served me right if you had,” he said with better humor than she’d expected.
Awakened much too early by the terrible, haunting dreams of his father’s death, Dirick had been in the corner of the hall and seen Maris slip from the keep in her brilliant blue cloak. Looking for an excuse to escape from the darkness of those dreams, Dirick had taken the opportunity to follow her.
He must spend another day or two at Langumont while he waited for word as to whether Bon de Savrille was in Breakston, and Dirick intended to keep his mind and body occupied so that he didn’t fall into the despair of grief and anger over his need to find Father’s murderer. Lord Merle had promised him some training to keep his body active, and the puzzle of his daughter would serve to intrigue his mind. Soon, he would be on his way on the king’s business…and then to his own matters.
“It seems much too early for a lady to be about her business, whatever that may be,” Dirick commented, squinting in the dim light.
“Aye,” she replied. “But ’tis the quietest part of the day, and I wished to see about Hickory’s foreleg.”
It was starting to get lighter, and the dark grey shadows began to take on muted colors and details as they stood in the stable. Dirick could see that Maris’s hair was uncovered, hanging in a fat braid over one shoulder. He felt a strange intimacy with her, seeing her hair. Although many maids at court had begun to disdain the covering wimples, it was obvious that in Merle’s household they were standard ware, for both ladies had worn them last
