In The Master's Bed. Blythe Gifford

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СКАЧАТЬ Jane looked at Duncan, warmed to think she had been important enough for him to mention. ‘And why wouldn’t they be?’

      He sat back and took a sip of his drink. ‘Cambridge isn’t always a friendly place.’

      ‘Worse than that. People are mean.’

      ‘Harder than you expected, is it?’

      Mustn’t show her weakness. She shrugged. ‘It’s not too bad.’

      Her drink appeared and she sipped it, wrinkling her nose at the cloudy brew.

      Duncan chuckled. ‘That’s student ale, lad. Good as daily bread.’

      She nodded, grateful to have sustenance filling her empty belly. It tasted of oats and oak.

      Her shoulder brushed Duncan’s and the feel of sitting behind him on the horse flooded back. There, pressed to his back, she had learned the size of his chest and the strength in his muscles, but she had not had to face him.

      Now, he peered at her in the dim light. She leaned into the shadow, afraid he would see too much. Most men only glanced at her, seeing what they expected. Duncan’s eyes lingered.

      To avoid his gaze, she looked at his hands. Large and square, strong, but gentle. Firm when they had gripped hers.

      ‘Have you found a master, then?’

      ‘Not exactly.’ Even a cursory quizzing had revealed she was not ready for the rigours of rhetoric and grammar. She was in grave danger of ending up as a glomerel, condemned to do nothing but memorise Latin all day. ‘I’ve talked to a lot of them.’ She hoped her in-difference was convincing. ‘Still deciding.’

      ‘Well, don’t be too long about it. You must be registered with a master within fifteen days of yer arrival.’

      She tapped her fingers against the table, counting. Ten more days. ‘I’ll find one by then.’

      His smile was sceptical. ‘If you haven’t, you’ll be expelled.’

      ‘Expelled?’ She groaned. How could she be expelled before a master had written her name on the matricula list?

      ‘Or detained,’ he answered cheerfully, with a lift of his mug, ‘according to the King’s pleasure.’

      The King. She wanted to draw his attention for her academic prowess, not for being a student no one wanted.

      But Duncan might be teasing again. Surely the King had more important things to do than worry about Cambridge schoolboys. ‘You made that up.’

      His smile vanished. ‘No, it’s true.’

      She would not let him scare her again. ‘How is it that you know about the University?’

      ‘Would it surprise you if I told you I’m a master?’

      Now he was teasing. ‘You can’t be.’ A master would have completed seven years of study and be ready to teach his own students. He looked the right age, but scholars were sober, celibate fellows, usually seen in a flowing robe, never seen in alehouses. ‘You don’t look anything like a master.’

      ‘Oh? I can see you know as much about masters as you do about the north country.’

      He thought her a fool. No scholar was allowed to wear a beard. ‘You don’t even have a tonsure.’

      He rubbed the top of his head and smiled. She noticed, uneasily, that the hair was shorter there. ‘It went to seed over the summer.’

      She narrowed her eyes, trying to judge him. ‘If it’s true, what do you teach?’

      ‘If? Are you calling me a liar as well as an ignorant barbarian?’

      She groaned. ‘No.’ It was wiser to placate him before he asked her to step outside and put up her fists. ‘What do you study?’

      ‘Not the law, I can tell ya.’ His rough accent had returned. ‘I’m teaching grammar and rhetoric and studying something that actually helps people. Medicine.’

      The very word made her queasy. She shut her eyes against the memory of her sister’s screams. No, she wanted nothing to do with sick bodies.

      ‘Did ya find a place to stay, then?’

      She opened her eyes, glad to see a sympathetic smile replace his moment of irritation. The ale had begun to work on her empty stomach and muddle her wits.

      He wanted to help. Why didn’t she let him? If she asked him to teach her, he would certainly say yes. Then, she would have a master and a bed in his hall and her troubles would be over.

      But sitting beside him made her chest rise and fall. Looking at his hands made her mouth go dry. Meeting his eyes, her boyish bravado evaporated into feminine silliness.

      He was the only man who had ever made her want to act like a woman.

      Which made him the most dangerous man of all.

      No. She could not take help from him.

      ‘I’m staying off High Street.’ She jerked her head vaguely in the direction of Trumpington Gate. ‘Widow lady. Needed help in exchange for a bed. So you see, I didn’t need your help after all.’

      ‘Well, you’re settled then.’

      He turned away and she felt as if a cloud had stolen the sun. No, she must spend no more time with this mercurial man. She was beginning to seek his smiles and long for his laughter.

      She rose, a little unsteady on her feet. ‘Thanks for the ale. I’ll be taking my leave.’

      Duncan grabbed her arm to steady her.

      His touch ricocheted through her, setting off a tingle in her breasts that even the binding couldn’t squash.

      ‘You drank that quickly. Are you kalied?’ Concern touched his voice, though the word meant nothing to her. ‘I can walk you to the widow’s.’

      She pulled away. ‘No, no, you stay and finish.’ Reckless, she drained the rest and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She must leave before she confessed she was sleeping with the horses. ‘I must go now. She’ll be expecting me. For evening tasks.’

      ‘Well, if you get into trouble, come to Solar Hostel and ask for me.’

      She fought the girlish smile threatening her lips. ‘Oh, I don’t think I will.’ She would not see him again. It was a promise she made to herself. ‘I’ll be busy. With my studies. And helping the widow.’ She forced the words out. Words to push him away. If she insulted him again, an easy task, she had learned, he would let her leave.

      ‘I won’t have much time myself,’ he answered, dropping her arm and sitting back. She heard the pique in his voice and longed for the laughter. ‘I have better things to do than to worry about a boy who has no sense.’

      Good. He was angry. So angry he did not tell her to fare well.

      She СКАЧАТЬ