Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore

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      Instead, the joviality left his face, and he said, in a voice soft and low that acted upon her like a bold and intimate caress, “Would you say yes if I did?”

      He must be teasing. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

      Yet her heart throbbed as if it wanted to break free of her ribs. Her lungs seemed to stop functioning. God in heaven, she’d craved excitement and adventure all her life, and here it was, in the flesh. Handsome, seductive flesh.

      “My lady!”

      She’d completely forgotten about Keldra. And Iain. And everything else in the entire world except Sir Oliver de Leslille of Ireland.

      She looked back over her shoulder to see Iain Mac Kendren marching toward them, his sword drawn and a hostile expression on his sun-browned face. Keldra must have gone to fetch him, for she came scurrying along behind him.

      Iain, who was forty-five if he was a day, had spent most of the journey from Lord Delapont’s castle ignoring her complaints that the rocking motion of the wagon made her queasy. He’d also made it quite clear that he resented being sent to bring her home to Averette, although he couldn’t be any more annoyed than she at being summoned home as if she were a child.

      In spite of Iain’s belligerent bearing, however, Sir Oliver didn’t appear the least disturbed, and he once again regarded her with amusement in his dark eyes.

      “Who’s this, then?” he inquired, quirking a brow. “I hope not an irate father or husband?”

      “No!” She cleared her throat and spoke in a more ladylike tone. “No, he’s the garrison commander of Averette, the leader of my escort.”

      She turned to Iain and spoke with what she hoped sounded like authority. “Iain, put up your blade. This is Sir Oliver de Leslille, and he means us no harm.”

      Iain came to a halt, one hand on his hip as he ran a measuring gaze over Sir Oliver who was, Lizette suddenly recalled, still soaking wet.

      Despite Sir Oliver’s title, Iain didn’t look impressed—but then, it took risking your life in several battles to impress the Scot.

      “Good day to you, my lord,” he growled with only the slightest hint of courtesy. “Traveling alone, are you? Bit dangerous, isn’t it?”

      “As I explained to your lady mistress, I’m with a party of friends, hunting,” Sir Oliver replied, still genial despite Iain’s brusque and even insolent tone. “I got separated from them. However, since the hour grows late, I should seek them out, lest I be benighted in the wood and forced to eat nuts for my dinner.”

      “We’ll be at the Fox and Hound tonight,” Lizette offered. “Perhaps you could send word there in the morning as to how you are. I’ll be worried you’ve fallen ill doing me a service.”

      Sir Oliver cut his eyes to the scowling, wary Iain. “I’m flattered by your concern, but I think not, my lady.”

      She pursed her lips and silently wished Iain back at Averette.

      “As he says, my lady,” Iain declared, “the hour grows late and we’ve dallied here long enough.”

      Unless she wanted to stand on the bank of the stream and quarrel with Iain, she had to go. Besides, it couldn’t be good for Sir Oliver to be standing there in wet breeches and boots.

      “Farewell, Sir Oliver,” she said with more regret than she’d ever felt bidding farewell to a young man before.

      How she wished she and Sir Oliver had met another time, such as in a hall during a feast, where they could talk. He would surely be a very amusing companion. Perhaps they would dance … and touch … and slip off into a shadowed corner to share a kiss …

      The nobleman bowed with courtly elegance before addressing Iain. “I commend you for your care of the lady, Mac Kendren, and you need have no fear that I’ll come creeping into the inn under cover of darkness. I’m not that sort of nobleman.”

      Iain merely grunted in reply.

      Such an act would be most improper; nevertheless, Lizette found herself subduing a surge of disappointment. To think she might have met one man who could tempt her to make love without benefit of marriage, and he was more honorable than most.

      Despite her secret regret, it was an insult to imply that Sir Oliver would try to sneak into a woman’s chamber for any reason, and she should acknowledge that. “You must forgive the garrison commander for his lack of courtesy, Sir Oliver. He takes his duties very seriously.”

      Sir Oliver bestowed another smile upon her. “For your sake, my lady, I’m glad of it. These are dangerous times, and evil men roam the land.” He backed away toward the stream. “Now I must say farewell.”

      Realizing she had no choice, she inclined her head as Iain held out his arm to escort her back to the wagon. “Adieu, Sir Oliver,” she said as she laid her hand upon Iain’s chain-mail-encased forearm and let him lead her away.

      She glanced back over her shoulder, but Sir Oliver de Leslille was already gone. He’d vanished like a true spirit of the forest, or a magician who’d stayed only long enough to cast his spell upon her.

      LIZETTE LAY BACK upon the cushions piled in the back of the wagon as it jostled and jolted its way toward home. She would much rather be riding. However, given her illness a fortnight ago—one whose seriousness she had exaggerated when Iain arrived shortly after the wedding of Lord Delapont’s daughter, Marian and, in typical Mac Kendren fashion, simply announced that she was going home at once—she had reluctantly acquiesced to his orders, even if, as she’d told him, the motion of the wagon tended to upset her stomach.

      There were certain compensations at the moment, as she closed her eyes and her maidservant dozed off across from her. She could dwell on that delightful meeting with Sir Oliver de Leslille.

      To be sure, rescuing a veil wasn’t as exciting as saving a maiden from a fire-breathing dragon, but it had been exciting nonetheless, and certainly a welcome respite from this tedious journey home.

      She didn’t doubt Sir Oliver would be quite capable of defeating a dragon, if he had to, or anyone or anything else that came against him. She’d met many knights who’d come to court her eldest sister, and none had possessed such magnificent shoulders, muscular arms or powerful thighs.

      Maybe he’d be going back to court soon, a place she had never, ever wanted to go before because the king would be there. She hated John for the taxes he demanded to pay for the wars he fought to regain his lost holdings in France, and because he was her guardian, with the power to force her to marry if he chose to use it.

      What if Sir Oliver was already married or betrothed? Maybe that was why he hadn’t told her with whom he was staying, or why he wouldn’t send word to her at the inn, although Iain’s rudeness and suspicions might explain the latter, too.

      If he wasn’t married …

      She remembered some of the things the girls and women at the wedding had whispered about. The younger girls had spoken of the thrill of a kiss, the brush of an arm, the sight of a bare chest.

      The older women had spoken of other things, especially when they hadn’t realized the curious СКАЧАТЬ