A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3) - Page 22

She heard him laugh—a low, masculine, husky laugh that heightened her awareness of him. His conversation carried over the noise of the meal, collecting in her consciousness, as close to her as if he whispered in her ear. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling as he alternately admired and charmed Allegra, and debated and argued with Merle, was soothing and exciting and haunting.

A simple kiss…a simple kiss had made her as aware of him as she’d become aware of herself.

Even now, her fingers trembled when she remembered the heat, the shock of pleasure that took her by surprise and made her body come alive. Warm, demanding lips and the hard strength of his body were enough to steal her breathing and pool desire into the center of her being.

Even now, she felt the stirring of desire, the flutter of arousal in her middle.

The memory of his lips still burned on her mouth as she sipped from her wine. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted to know if the kiss they had shared could be duplicated, if it would be the same charge of energy should it happen again.

Casting a covert look in his direction, she saw him leaning flirtatiously toward her mother, a smirk curling his mouth, and realized suddenly, with a cold shock, that he was most likely well accustomed to kissing maidens in the wood. That knowledge settled in her middle like a large chunk of bread and she turned away to sip from her goblet.

It was her own doing, she reprimanded herself, for she had wanted to kiss him, and had known he wanted to kiss her when he helped to pull her to her feet. She’d welcomed the chance to see if kissing was any better now that she was older than when her father’s squire Raymond of Vermille had stolen a kiss from her years ago.

It was.

“Daughter, are you ill?” her father asked suddenly, turning his attention to her, and startling her from her own thoughts. “You are no louder than a mouse this night. ”

“Nay, Papa,” she gave him a soft smile. “’Twas a long and wretched day, for I could not save the cooper’s wife. ”

His face sobered. “Ah, aye, Father Abraham’s servant sent word to me. ”

Maris pushed back the sadness that threatened to bring tears back to her eyes and replied, “There was naught I could do. ”

He smoothed a comforting hand over her arm. “I know you did all you could, dearling. ”

“They had a leech in!” she said, her grief replaced by anger. “It was the cause of it, and still the villagers won’t listen.

He shook his head. “Maris, I know Venny taught you well, and he knows many things, but there are others—leeches—that know medicine as well. They are not always bad. ”

“I have yet to meet one that has not worsened the situation,” she told him defi

antly.

Her father tsked, for they had had this conversation many times. Obviously knowing that neither of them would win the argument, he said, “I am sorry that she died. I will send three chickens to the cooper on the morrow, and visit on Justice Day. Is the smith’s daughter still wet nursing the babes?”

“Aye. She will do a fine job, and mayhap the cooper and she will marry. She is of an age, and lost her own husband to the fever several moons ago. ” She flickered a glance at Dirick, who was mooning over her mother’s slim hand, then looked back at her father. “I’ve brewed some fresh tea from the bearberry bush for you this night. ” She patted his arm lightly. “I know you’re in need of it, for Mama told me this morn in Mass. The leaves are fresh and the tea is strong. I’ll have Verna bring it to your chamber when you retire. ”

“Thank you, dearling. Though I despise the taste of it, I cannot complain about the good your bearberry tea does for my pains. Have Verna bring it to me anon, and I vow I’ll drink it. ”

“Very well, Papa. I shall hold you to that vow,” Maris said as she stood. “I must see to Maisie’s daughter, for she’s not feeling well, and then I will brew your tea,” she explained, carefully avoiding any more than a brief glance at Dirick. “Good night, Sir Dirick, good night, Mama. ” She bent over to kiss her father on his cheek, then she turned to walk from the hall.

Dirick watched her go. He’d spent the entire meal alternately cursing and congratulating himself for seizing the opportunity to taste those lovely lips. He was not an impulsive man when it came to women. He took his time, wooing and flattering, teasing and titillating a woman until she was like a ripe peach falling into his hand. There were plenty of willing women, ladies and whores alike, that made themselves available and giving him no cause to take chase. That was the way he preferred it.

Nevertheless, not only had he enjoyed his day at Maris’s side, but he knew he would kiss her again—betrothed or nay.

She had just disappeared into the kitchen and the hall was beginning to quiet down when the messenger made his appearance.

Most of the men-at-arms had retired from bawdy conversation and raucous story telling to the beds of whores, chess and dice games, or the night watch. Dirick himself was ready to find his own pallet when the seneschal approached Merle.

“My lord, a messenger at the gate brings tidings to our guest, Sir Dirick de Arlande. ” The man stood silently, waiting permission to call the messenger within.

All thoughts of sleep and of Lady Maris’s luscious mouth fled Dirick’s mind to be replaced by anxiety. The news must be bad indeed for a messenger to track him whilst on a secret mission for the king. Fresh from the experience of having news of his father’s death brought in the same way, he was immediately concerned.

Merle nodded his assent to the seneschal, who disappeared to retrieve the messenger. The moments that passed until his reappearance seemed an age to Dirick as he forced nonchalance, sipping more ale. At last the messenger appeared, and Dirick’s concern was heightened when he recognized a man-at-arms of his brother Bernard, now the Lord of Derkland.

“The message I bear is best given in private,” the messenger said as he approached the high table.

“Then let us step to a private corner. ” Dirick stood, his mouth compressed and his middle roiling.

Tags: Colleen Gleason Medieval Herb Garden Romance
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