Her day had been a fine one for the sun had shone gloriously, melting the snow into wet, sticky masses. She’d spent the morning in the herbary, preparing tonics and poultices for her first trip into the Village since her near drowning. Then, her leather bag filled with dried herbs and small bottles of medicines and tonics, she slipped out of the dark keep into the sharp, clean air.
Drawing a deep breath, Maris started across the bailey with brisk steps. The morning sun in her eyes, she nevertheless noticed her father’s men gathered to practice their art of warfare. She would have passed them by with naught but a bare glance except that her gaze was drawn to one mock battle.
Maris stopped, curious, and recognized Dirick matched against Raymond of Vermille. Dirick had tossed his dark tunic aside and wore only a sleeveless linen pelisson and close fitting woolen chausses. The swords flashed, catching the rays of the sun with each twist and thrust, arms and legs moving in perfect accord.
In spite of her other tasks, Maris’s attention focused on Dirick, admiring his grace and relentless power as he drove her father’s best swordsman back into the crowd of bystanders.
She leaned against the stone wall, watching from the shadows. She couldn’t help but study every fluid motion as Dirick’s breeches clung and loosened, embraced and released his powerful legs. When the chausses tightened over his thighs during one forceful lunge, she swallowed deeply, her hand clutching the leather sack.
Sweat gleamed on his tanned arms, trickling over the ridges of muscle and tendon to fling into the air as he parried Raymond’s skillful sword. Sun and shadow played over his huge arms and glistened on hair sprinkled forearms. Maris’s throat grated when she tried to swallow. He was beautiful, godlike, graceful…masculine.
She could not pull her attention away, even when she felt her father’s gaze shift briefly to her. The dark haired warrior fought on, ignoring the bystanders, unaware of Maris’s own presence—even disregarding the thick hank of hair that dripped sweat into his eyes. Intensity furrowed his face. His eyes, hooded from the sun, did not waver from his opponent. Dirick’s full lips—those same ones that had so sweetly kissed her—were now tight with concentration, perfectly sculpted in his granite face. Chin thrust forward, he pushed a grunt of exertion from his chest, and veins and tendons coursed his neck as he rounded ferociously upon Raymond, driving him back, back, back—in one powerful pass.
A sword clattered to the ground and with a bellow of triumph, Dirick raised his own weapon aloft, then dropped his arms to his sides and stood, breathing heavily. A victorious grin lit his face and he swiped the hair out of his eyes amid the whoops and hollers of the spectators.
As he turned to acknowledge the ring of men clustered around him, Maris spun on her heel, hurrying away before he could notice her goggling at him. She rushed out of the bailey, barely greeting the guards at the portcullis, and hastened into the Village.
Though she busied herself for the rest of the day by visiting the ill and making suggestions to the village goodwives, Maris’s thoughts returned again and again to the powerful, agile knight. She’d spent time with him, teasing and conversing as if he were little but a squire or an ordinary man-at-arms…but now…now she could see him as naught but a fierce warrior, harsh and ruthless, relentless…formidable…manly.
Her breaths became shallow. A warrior had kissed her with gentleness. ’Twas impossible to reconcile the tenderness and warmth of that kiss after seeing what great strength he owned.
Maris brushed her fingers over her own lips, remembering the surprise of desire welling inside her on that crisp, cold day. Even the memory of it made her fingers tremble. And she knew he would kiss her again, given the chance. That truth had been evident in his gaze yesterday, when she sat to play chess with him. She swallowed, remembering the heat smoldering in those thick lashed, silver black eyes.
Another truth became known to her, suddenly and with a shock of heat. Should he try to kiss her again, she would not deny him. Maris shivered.
A noise behind her jerked Maris’s thoughts back to the present, back to her chamber, where she was dressing for dinner.
Verna stood beside her, offering a wimple and looking at her with an odd expression. Pulling to her feet, she took the wisp of cloth and started from her chamber.
Hurrying down the dark stone stairs, she tucked her thick hair into the sheer wimple, and entered the hall just as the meal began. As she pushed her way among the serfs that served the food, and between the rows of trestle tables, Maris saw the two strange men sitting with her parents and Sir Dirick on the dais. Her heart leapt into her throat and she almost stopped in the center of the hall. Could the man her father intended for her have arrived so soon?
Merle rose as Maris approached the table. “Ah, at last, my daughter joins us. ”
“I’m sorry to be late, Papa,” she said as she made a neat curtsey. Although she didn’t look up, she felt the absence of Dirick’s attention on her, and at the same time, the weight of attention from the newcomers.
“Come dearling, let me make you known to Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe,” and he continued, “…and his son, Sir Victor. ”
The emphasis Merle placed on those last words was enough to confirm her suspicion. Victor d’Arcy was the man he’d chosen for her betrothed. The band of discomfort tightened around her chest and she found herself hardly able to swallow past the lump in her throat.
When she glanced at her father before turning to greet the men, she saw a hint of warning in his eyes, an expectation that she should act accordingly.
Maris masked her anxiety and extended her hand first to Lord Michael and then to his son. The elder d’Arcy seemed to hold her fingers longer than necessary before pressing a kiss to her palm.
Victor clasped her hand lightly, and his lips brushed the inside of her wrist. “My lady, I have already prepared the most tender pieces of capon and removed all bones from the fish,” he told her, patting the seat between himself and her father.
Maris leaned over before taking her seat to greet the other guest at table. “Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said.
“My lady,” he replied. His gaze was cool and flat, as if they were strangers and had never even spoken.
Stung by his curtness, Maris sank onto her seat next to Victor and forced herself to smile at him. Steeling all of her composure, she gathered her wits and courage and dutifully began to play the part in which she’d been cast.
Edwin Baegot entered the great hall of Breakston’s keep to find his friend and lord, Bon de Savrille, in an uproar.
“At last he deigns to grace us with his presence!” Bon bellowed drunkenly when Edwin was announced.
The man was sprawled on a heavy oaken chair that would have rivaled Henry Plantagenet’s throne had someone the urge to move them side by side. His buff colored tunic, embroidered with red stags and stallions, was stained and hung haphazardly over his broad shoulders. The cross garters that should have kept the hose fitted to his legs had drooped into a pile just above his ankles.
“Greetings, my lord,” Edwin gave a short little bow, then turned to help himself to a cup of ale.