“Look you here,” she pulled at his cloak, and he kneeled down next to her. Shiny, dark green leaves clustered under the snow, cluttered with dried leaves and branches. A few red berries still clung tenaciously to the sturdy mahogany stems, but she ignored those and began to pluck the leaves.
“’Tis called bearberry?” he asked.
“Aye,” Maris explained, stuffing the leaves into a leather pouch that she’d pulled from the folds of her cloak. “It’s a wonder the leaves are still here under all this snow,” she remarked.
Dirick started to pull some of the berries from the plant. “Need you the berries as well?” he asked, proffering a small handful.
“’Tis only the leaves are good for steeping in a draught. They help fluids pass easily from the body. The berries are beautiful, but I know of no use for them. ”
“Ah, I see,” he tossed the dark red berries onto the snow where they scattered like drops of blood.
He turned to clearing away more ice while she picked as many fresh leaves as they could find. Their heads were bent together and he was close enough that a light lock of her hair tossed daintily against his cheek. The fresh scent of lemon and another smell he could not identify reached his nose above the crisp cold of winter. It was so very different from the thick floral scents favored by the ladies at court.
“’Tis pretty,” he said without thinking, sniffing lightly.
Maris turned and the smell became stronger. “Pardon?” she asked, her green and gold eyes so close that he could count the thick lashes that framed them.
“’Tis lemons. I smell lemons and another scent,” he said quickly, moving away from her.
Dirick felt her smile all the way to the pit of his stomach. “’Tis a soap for my hair,” she told him, “It cleans it well and makes it smell fresh. Lemon verbena and mint and rosemary,” she explained.
“I find it very unusual,” he told her, trying not to be obvious as he sniffed again.
The tiny dimple on the left corner of her chin appeared. “Ah, Sir Dirick, ’tis quite the diplomat you are,” she brushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I know ’tis unfashionable, as my mama tells me. I shouldn’t smell of utilitarian herbs, and I should be embarrassed ere ’tis noticed. ”
“Nay,” he told with a warm smile, “’tis but uncommon—as you are, my lady. After all,” he said, trying to ignore the heaviness singing through his veins, “it has never happened before that a lady has me digging in the snows for shiny green leaves!”
Maris looked up at him so quickly that she almost lost her balance. “Marry, Sir Dirick, I did not think…oh, what you must think that I have involved you in the tasks of an old midwife!” The tinge of pink from the cold flared into a darker, rosy flush over her face. Obviously flustered, she began to struggle to her feet, but her cloak had become wrapped around her foot and she lost her balance, tilting backward into the damp snow.
“Nay, my lady, ’twas a jest!” Dirick grasped her hand to help her regain her balance. “And a poor one at that. ” He smiled as he faced Maris, squatting in the ankle deep snow as he steadied her by holding both of her hands.
Their faces were near each other, as near as they’d ever been, and his breath misted in the chilling air. “Lady Maris,” he said quietly, then was caught by her gaze. Her lips parted slightly and he felt the slight shift in her breathing. “It’s been a pleasure to be in your company all the day, throughout the time at the cooper’s as much as assisting you in this simple task. ’Tis only as a compliment that I call you uncommon…and you are uncommonly beautiful as well. ” Those last words came as a surprise to him, and he found himself caught in a very warm, trusting, golden gaze.
Dirick swallowed heavily, knowing that he was going to kiss her and fearing that her reaction might be a heavy hand across his cheek. Pushing that aside, he tugged gently on her hands and she came forward—easily—and he met her lips halfway.
They were sweet lips…so sweet….
His mouth was tentative at first, but when she didn’t pull back, he pressed more firmly against her lips. They were chilled from the winter air, but melted warmly, softly against him. One of his hands freed her fingers and slid to cover the back of her head, digging into her braid. He fingered the thick rope of hair, touching its fat smoothness, his rough skin snagging it as he slid his hand down its length. A charge of desire swept through him with such force that he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, surprised, wanting more. The scent of lemon verbena and rosemary caught in his nostrils, mingling with the crispness of the cold air, dancing through his being with the nearness and the taste of Maris.
She was responsive, warm, taking him into her mouth and kissing him back with a passion he hadn’t expected. He felt a tiny shiver race through her body and knew it was not the cold. Nevertheless, he slipped his mantle over her shoulders, pulling her closer and into his arms. She was small and delicate and he sighed, sliding his hands down her waist and over her hips.
At last—though it seemed like hours, it was a mere few seconds—Dirick regained his senses and pulled away quite suddenly. His breath was coming in faster, whiter puffs now and he forced himself to set her away from him. He was heavy and hard with arousal, and when she looked up at him with glazed hazel eyes and swollen pink lips, he nearly reached for her again.
Instead, he pulled away from the temptation, resting his hand against the smooth bark of a birch tree as if to keep it from doing any further damage. “My lady,” he said, trying to speak coherently when all he wanted to do was pull her to him again, “that was unforgivable. I hope you will find it in your heart to allow my escort back to the keep. I’ll return you to your father’s care and you need not be bothered by my presence again. ”
“Nay, Sir Dirick,” she said, struggling to her feet with a dazed look on her face. “Have no worries that I’ll bring tales to my papa,” she said, brushing two fingers lightly over her full mouth. “I allowed you leave to kiss me only to have some questions of my own answered. ”
He quirked an eyebrow at her, ignoring the throbbing between his legs and trying to act as cool as she. “And did you have your questions answered?” he replied.
“Aye,” she breathed, still touching her mouth unconsciously, “aye, that I did. ”
CHAPTER SIX
At dinner that evening, Maris avoided looking at Sir Dirick.
He sat on the far side of Merle, sharing a trencher with Lady Allegra. The two men, seated next to each other, were engrossed in conversation regarding the latest news that had come in from Westminster—the king’s call to arms for his battle to subdue Geoffrey of Anjou.
Though he sat away from her, and she couldn’t see him unless she leaned around her father, Maris was as aware of Dirick’s presence as if he’d brushed against her. His hands, serving Allegra and himself, moved in and out of her view, and she found herself watching them, noticing their tanness, the short, clean fingernails, the molding of muscle and tendon and sprinkling of dark hair, the way the sleeve of his tunic fell back to expose a narrow, tanned wrist.