Silent Knight. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ Tudors ruled England, after a century of civil unrest. Guy wondered if the news of King Henry’s obsessive infatuation with Anne Boleyn had reached the ears of this hamlet, so far from the intrigues of Westminster. How would this landlord react if he knew that Henry’s lawful queen, Catherine, was ignored and virtually banished from the court? Being a prudent man with an obviously thriving hostelry, the innkeeper would probably only shrug.

      After stepping off Daisy’s back, Guy turned toward Celeste to help her down from her saddle, but slowed his steps before he reached her. That service was Gaston’s by right. He watched Gaston place both hands around Celeste’s slim waist and lift her easily from her palfrey. Sweet Saint Anne! The girl must weigh less than thistledown. A green worm of envy wriggled through Guy. He pushed away the insidious emotion, reminding himself that she was merely his charge. He had already dedicated his heart to a higher calling.

      “Thank the guardian angels the monk knew of a good rest house,” muttered Gaston, handing Celeste her saddlebag. His gaze swept around the washed-down cobbled yard. “This is the best lodging I’ve seen in a fortnight.”

      Celeste studied the wide half-timbered facade, with its many gabled windows jutting out from under the slate roof “Oui.” She chewed her lower lip. “But who will speak to the innkeeper, now that Aunt Marguerite is no longer with us?”

      She broke into a smile when she spotted Guy, standing by Starlight’s head. “Ah, Brother Guy! Will you use your slate and tell the innkeeper what we require for the night?” She looked relieved at the idea.

      In answer, Guy took out his slate and quickly wrote upon it. He passed his message to Celeste,

      Probably can’t read, spelled the blurry chalk letters.

      Her eyes darkened into twin purple storm clouds. “But if the innkeeper is unlettered, who will speak to him?”

      She looked adorable, standing in the middle of the bustling yard, clutching her worn leather bag with such a perplexed look on her upturned face. Guy almost smiled at her, but caught himself in time. Hardening his features, he gravely pointed to her.

      “Moi?” she squeaked, her eyes widening at the prospect. “But my English is so... so barbaric.”

      Guy wiped the slate with his sleeve, then wrote Good practice for you.

      “Fah!” she snorted. Guy remained unmoved. “well, if it is to be, then let us confront this English lion in his den. At least, it looks to be a clean den.” Turning on her heel, she marched smartly to the door of the taproom, with Guy and Gaston following close behind.

      “Such fire, that little one!” Gaston chuckled. “Let us hope her new husband is not a milksop, or she will reduce him to pudding.”

      Guy gnashed his teeth at the thought. Walter Ormond was no whey-faced boy. Nor would he be ruled by anyone—certainly not a sweet maid with a poor command of the English language. Guy reminded himself once again that her future married life was none of his concern. Why not? that annoying little voice asked him as he pushed his way through the door of the boisterous Feathers.

      Unerringly, Celeste singled out the master of the establishment. “Pardon, monsieur.” Taking a deep breath before continuing, she ran her tongue over her lips, which immediately gained her the innkeeper’s appreciative attention.

      “We want room for the night, yes?” Celeste smiled coquettishly at the ruddy-faced man and fluttered her lashes.

      Hooding his eyes, Guy observed her. The little vixen might be young, but she knew enough tricks to befuddle a man’s wits.

      The innkeeper appraised her with a shrewd glance. “Frenchies, by the look of ye.”

      Celeste drew herself up to her full height, which put her at chin level with the man. “Oui, but we pay in the English silver.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, then nodded toward Guy. “And the goood brother ’ere is English and understands all you say.”

      Stepping forward at this introduction, Guy loomed over the host. Taking in the monk’s height and shoulder width, the innkeeper stepped back a pace.

      “Begging yer pardon, Friar, but we had a wee bit o’ trouble with the frogs afore, and a man can’t be too trust in’ with any o’ that lot.”

      Before Guy could react, Celeste erupted with a sputter of French, followed by an equal torrent of English. “Frog? Mon Dieu! ’E says I am the frog?” A delightful blush of pink crept into her cheeks. “Bah! Imbécile! Am I green? Do I ’ave the face of the frog? Look you!”

      Lifting the hem of her gown, she displayed a slim ankle and the lower portion of a shapely calf, encased in a bright yellow silk stocking. “Is this the leg of a frog?”

      The landlord whistled through his gapped teeth at the unexpected sight, while the nearby patrons of the taproom craned their necks for a better view. Glowering, Gaston tugged at her hand.

      “Lady Celeste! Drop your skirt!,” he muttered in rapid French. “What do you want these pigs to think you area woman of no reputation? Marguerite de la Columbiaire would have my brains served for a dog’s breakfast if she knew what you were doing.”

      “My aunt will never know, Gaston,” Celeste whispered back to him, though she immediately let go of the velvet burgundy skirts.

      Guy stepped closer to her and sent a scorching look at the jostling assembly. Jesu!, This was only the first night! He would be lucky to get her to Snape Castle in one piece, at this rate. And why did she have to possess such a fine leg? He promised himself he would sleep without bedding tonight in penance for the pleasure he took in the revelation of that dainty part of her.

      Celeste smoothed her skirts, then cocked her head at the innkeeper. “Now, monsieur, do I ’ave the room?” Smiling, she fluttered her lashes again. “The best in the ’ouse, oui?”

      “My pleasure, m’lady,” he all but slobbered.

      “I also ’ave men, ’orses, and the wagon?” Her smile became broader.

      “The stable lad will see to them. ’Tis a shilling a horse.”

      Celeste looked to Guy for approval.

      Glaring at the landlord, the monk shook his head. The man was nothing less than a highway brigand. Guy held up four fingers, then all ten.

      “Ah, the good Brother Guy say three shillings for all our ’orses, and my men-at-arms—weeth supper, oui? ’E is a man of God, monsieur, and is très ’onest.”

      Repressing a smile at her bargaining skills, Guy nodded in agreement. The landlord glanced at the giant monk, then to the grim-faced sergeant, and finally to the dimpled lady. He threw up his hands in resignation.

      “I’ll be a-standing in line at the dole hatch yet, and no mistake, but seein’ that ye’ve men-at-arms, I trust ye to be a lady of—” He flushed and glanced at the hem of her gown, which now primly concealed the yellow silken leg. “Of quality. ’Tis me best room, at your service. Second floor, at the end of the hall.”

      Celeste produced a groat from her reticule, which hung from her waist. Taking the landlord’s beefy hand in both of hers, she pressed the coin into his palm. “Merci, monsieur. And there will be ’ot water and a fire and supper, all in an instant, oui?”

      “Oui,” СКАЧАТЬ