He paced away. "Perhaps you tire of this place and wish to go now to Bowland."
"No, and risk the pestilence?" she asked quickly.
He turned. "Was little sign of it enough, my lady. Only at Liverpool."
"Who speaks to you of this—that I would go?"
"I think of your place, and your holdings. You can't look to sojourn here long, to your lands' neglect."
She stood up. "Who said you so?"
"It's common wit, my lady. I should have seen you to Bowland, as we intended. It's not fitting I should have brought you here to detain you."
"Your minstrels said you so!" she exclaimed.
"My minstrels?" he repeated blankly. He stopped in the face of her vehemence. "No, they said no such."
"William Foolet has whispered in your ears, and the Bassinger, to say you of my lands' neglect, and plague is no danger to me!"
"No they didn't."
"Do you care less for me than for your people? They're commanded to stay within your plessis wood for fear of pestilence!"
"That wasn't my meaning!" He found himself near to shouting in response to her wild accusations. "Faithly—I didn't know you feared the plague so much."
"I do."
Her violet eyes regarded him, shaded in black lashes. She had never seemed overconcerned to Ruck. She did not seem so now. With her head lifted, her kerchief sparkling with gems, she seemed more angry than alarmed.
"You don't choose to make all haste to your lands, then," he said.
"I fear pestilence."
He shook his head with a slight laugh. "My lady—I don't know that you ever speak me true."
"I do! I fear to go out, for the pestilence."
Her lips made a strange pressing curve—an aspect there and gone, a shadow between her brows before she smoothed her face again to cool composure. Always she was a secret, impossible to read. It could have been a hidden smile or a hint of tears. But he thought it was not a smile.
She faced him wholly. "You said that I may stop here, where no ill could come, so long as I wished!" She made it a challenge, as if she expected him to deny it.
"Then do we not go, my lady," he said, "until I know it to be safe for you."
"Oh," she said, and closed her eyes.
"I thought me that you would wish to depart soon."
She made a tiny shake of her head.
"Melanthe," he said, "will I never understand you?"
Her eyes opened. "When I wish it."
He bent and retrieved his wet mantle, throwing it across his shoulder as he stepped up onto the dais. "My lady," he said, giving her a brief, stiff bow before he went through the door and mounted the stairs.
He had stripped himself down for dry clothes when she came. She closed the door and looked at him with a look that made the blood run strong in his veins. He could not hide himself, though he turned away from her—but she came to him and touched him and put his hands at her waist.
He kissed her. He held her hard and laid her on the bed, knowing he'd been befooled somehow, that she meant to wile him by her days of denying and now giving, heartless wench that she was. But she'd only wiled him into what he wanted anyway, to keep her here and love and overlie her until she gasped in frenzy beneath him, her hair escaped from the kerchief to spread all about the pillows.
He buried his face in the black silken strands, groaning his release through clenched teeth. He lay atop her and felt her breasts rise and fall against him, her sheath tight and delicious, faint throbs in her that ran through him like sweet kisses.
She turned her lips beside his ear. "Now," she said, "you understand me."
He gave a laugh, his teeth still clenched. "No, Melanthe. Only you make me cease to care if I do or not."
In a careful fold over her arm, Cara carried an altar-cloth and the vestments she was to mend. She crossed Bowland's dim and busy hall, jumping back from a woodman's bundle of fagots as he stopped suddenly in front of her and dropped the load. The wood thudded almost on her toes.
"Beware!" she exclaimed, one of the English expressions she was learning well among these savages.
The servant turned with a great show of surprise, but he was smirking beneath it. He didn't even bow, but only leaned down to grab the roped bundle.
"You did that on purpose!" she cried in outrage. "Disrespectful oaf, you'd have broken my foot!"
He didn't understand her French, or pretended not to. She pressed her lips together. In less than a fortnight here, the small slights were mounting to open disdain. She hated this place, and these people. A hot sting threatened behind her eyes.
Someone stopped beside her. Still in his travel mud, the English squire Guy seized the woodman's collar and dragged him up close. He growled something in English. The servant's insolence vanished as he tried to choke out words and bow at the same time, his face turning red with effort.
Guy spoke again, short and fierce, and shoved the woodman back. He fell over his own pile of fagots, landing on the rush mat with a loud thud and yelp. Guy made a gesture toward Cara. When the servant was slow in heaving himself up, Guy stepped over the bundle and aimed a kick with his armored toe.
The man yelped again, scrambling into a kneel before Cara. He begged her pardon humbly, in perfectly adequate French.
Everyone in the hall had paused to watch. Guy swept a look over them. "Surely a noble house serves its ladies with good cheer," he said, his quiet voice carrying to the corners.
The hall was silent. Slowly, as Guy maintained his arrogant stare, one or two of them bowed, then more, until finally every servant in the hall had acknowledged him.
He gave Cara a curt nod and strode back toward the passage beyond the screens, his blue cloak flaring from his shoulders. She looked down at the still-kneeling woodman and the respectfully bowed heads around her, and hugged the vestments close, turning to go after him.
She caught up with him in the passage. "Sir!"
He stopped, looking over his shoulder. When he saw her, his face broke into a boyish grin.
"I must thank you, sir," she said, halting a few feet away from him and lowering her face.
"Did you see that?" he exclaimed. "It worked. I can't believe I did it."
The excitement in his voice made her look up. He was still grinning, with a streak of mud she hadn't noticed on his jaw. When she had first seen him, his blond hair had been damp and plastered to his head—she hadn't realized what a bright color it was, shining like a golden crown in the dismal passage. He didn't wear the flesh-colored hose now, but a soldier's armor. He did not appear silly at all.
"It's the manner," he said. "Soft and steady. Confidence."
"God grant you mercy, sir, for your aid," she repeated, taking a shy step backward.
He bowed. "It was an honor to serve you, my lady."
She almost retreated, and then paused. "You've been traveling."
He lowered his voice. "Seeking after news of your mistress. Navona and Lord Thomas have divided a few of us to search and report."
"You've found something?" Cara asked anxiously.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. Nothing. But you must not fear that we'll fail." He gestured toward the door. "I must give my account to them now, and so haste, if I don't offend you."
"Oh no—of course you must go." She moistened her lips. "Where do you lodge?"
"Over the postern gate, with the squires."
"I'll see that a bath is made for you, your robes ready when you wish them." She wrapped the vestments close about her arm and went quickly toward the hall. She hesitated at the screen, glancing back.
He stood looking after her, his golden hair a faint gleam against the stone. She smiled, making a little courtesy, and hurried into the hall.