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turning her fury on him.
"I think mayhaps you are right after all, my love. There can be no doubt of a
sacrifice being made this day."
With a bemused smile, Caradoc accepted another sugar-encrusted apple tartlet
from the proffered tray.
The Lady D'Arbois was putting him off, delaying him with charm,
procrastinating with small talk, and treading the razor edge of his anger with
a light step. She was nonetheless doomed. If Ceridwen ab
Arawn was not soon brought before him, he would gut every living soul within
the castle walls and burn
Wydehaw to the ground.
He had asked for Lavrans with no more success. That the two of them should be
missing at the same time did not bode well for his old friend. Yet Dain was no
boy to be led about by his cock. The two hundred marks were with Caradoc's
captain, Dyfn, along with saffron and violet sugar, enough to reimburse
Lavrans for his trouble. There were no oranges, in part because there were no
oranges to be had, and in part because he would allow himself to be pushed
only so far by either friendship or necessity. Past that point, he would
simply take what was his.
"Did you have much rain on your journey?" Lady Vivienne asked, touching her
fingers to his forearm in a gesture so coyly seductive that Caradoc wondered
if there might be reason to keep her alive longer than the others. The green
wool of her gown was embroidered round the neck and sleeves, which were short
to reveal the yellow kirtle beneath. The girdle hanging about her hips
repeated both colors edged in gold.
He let his gaze rise to her face. She was pretty enough in an insipid way
others might find appealing. For himself, he preferred drama to prettiness in
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a face, though the cruel little twist that passed as her smile held promise.
"No rain that I noticed," he said.
She laughed and touched him again, this time letting her fingers slide down
his sleeve and over the bronze points on his arm guard, until they caressed
the bare skin of his hand.
D'Arbois was married to a whore. How intriguing.
"How long until your husband returns, lady?" he asked.
"Oh, not long," she assured him, then, as if realizing a missed opportunity,
she lowered her lashes. "Or should I say, not nearly long enough."
'Twas his turn to laugh, and he did heartily. After he gutted her husband and
burned her home, he'd take this one north with him.
Vivienne blushed on cue, a well-practiced art, and wondered how much longer
she could hold her guest's attention without having to take her clothes off.
Soren had put her in an impossible situation. Stave off the Boar, he'd said,
as if she were a soldier wielding a sword and buckler.
The shame of it was, if they were unable to produce the chit, the Boar was
likely to leave in a rage without giving Vivienne a chance to properly seduce
him, and she so wanted to seduce him. The sorcerer paled in comparison to this
man.
Caradoc was tall, broad, and muscular, without the gross excess of flesh that
marred Ragnor. His hair was not the beast's wiry red, or Lavrans's silky
chestnut, but was gold upon gold, thick and heavy like a royal lion's mane.
The similarity to the king's heraldry made him seem even more the warrior, as
did the studded leather guards on his forearms. He was no slave to fashion,
but to battle.
Yet he was beautifully fashionable. His tunic was of the softest, warmest
brown wool, the shirt beneath of the finest cream-colored linen. His chausses
were dark brown, his boots fit him to mid-calf. No jewelry adorned him besides
a simple brooch that held his cloak, but he needed none. His eyes were finery
enough. A mysterious hazel they were, with flashes of green and gold and even
white, she would swear within the blue-toned depths.
The only unsavory thing about him was the man he'd brought with him, a leech
dressed in monk's clothes with the odd name of Helebore. Fortunately, the man
was not given to company. Shortly after their arrival, he had disappeared into
the chambers assigned to Caradoc and had not been seen since.
"Mayhaps you would like to see the rosary," she suggested to the Boar. "There
are few blooms as of yet, but 'tis enclosed with a high wall."
Caradoc leaned in close, and she saw that indeed, there were flecks of white
in the irises of his eyes. "I
have spent many a pleasant hour in ladies' gardens," he said, "and am sure
that even without the sweetness of spring's first blossoms, yours would prove
to be as fragrant as any I have dallied in."
There was no pretense in the blush that flamed in Vivienne's cheeks. The color
was caused by true emotion, excitement strummed to life by the dark timbre of
his voice.
"Shall we meet this afternoon?" She would have wine brought up from the
cellar, and more of Renaud's apple tartlets baked. There should be a coverlet
or two discreetly arranged on one of the benches. No sense in dirtying a gown.
"Aye," he answered. "Let us meet this afternoon." He smiled, and Vivienne near
swooned with the thrill of it. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]