Of course, she wasn't at all sure that she didn't like them, either.
She stood a little straighter and tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him. "What do you here, sirrah?"
"Why," said the bandit, "my men and I have come to surrender ourselves to the Lady Cordelia Gallowglass at the behest of him who defeated us in battle."
"Indeed," Cordelia said, with her best attempt at frostiness. "And what is his name?"
"Ah! My lady, that would he not tell us!" the bandit chieftain lamented. "He said only that he was a knight who sought to be worthy of you, and would not use his name in public until he has proven his worth."
Cordelia stared. Such a poetic flight was quite unlike Alain—and coming from the lips of this rogue with the tilted eyebrows and the knowing smile, it set up strange quiverings inside her. "Indeed! You have walked all night to tell me this, sirrah?"
"Alas! We have—for the Wee Folk would not let us rest. Whene'er we sought to halt, or to sit for more than five minutes, they were upon us with pinches and stings."
Cordelia tried to glare at him while she considered. "I might pity you, if there surely had been no reason for..." She withheld Alain's name, not quite knowing why. ". . . for the young knight of whom you speak to beset you so harshly. What misdeed had you done?"
"Oh, no greater than to seek to rob a poor carter of his goods," the bandit said, trying to look apologetic.
"And to reive his wife of her virtue," squeaked a small voice near Cordelia.
Her eyes widened, glaring. "How durst you, sir!"
"Ah!" the bandit said, the very picture of remorse. "I would have stopped my men ere long! We had first to subdue her husband, though, and must needs see that she not seek to aid him."
Cordelia's indignation boiled over. "You have deserved every pinch and every sting that the elves have given you, sir, and far worse, I doubt not. Mayhap I should give you some more of them, myself!"
The bandit chief stepped back, alarmed. He had some notion of what Cordelia might be able to do if the spirit moved her. He braced himself, ready to defend against a telepathic attack.
Her eyes widened; she felt the stir of his mind against her own. "You are a warlock!"
An incredulous muttering sprang up behind him. He glanced back at his men, then shrugged and looked up at her. "I had not sought to make it a matter of general knowledge, my lady—but yes, I am a warlock."
"For shame, sir! A warlock, and one nobly reared, for so I can tell by your speech alone! For you, who were born gifted in both rank and talents, to abuse your powers thus, by preying upon the weak when, by virtue of birth, you had ought to defend them!" Cordelia blazed.
"I know." The bandit chieftain bowed his head. "I had meant to spend my life in defense of they who could not defend themselves, my lady, to use my gifts for the general good—but circumstance has decreed otherwise."
"Circumstance? Nay, tell me!" Cordelia bit off the words sharply. "What circumstances could these be that would turn you from the obligations of your station?" She reddened, suddenly incensed as she realized what the rogue was doing. "You seek to play upon my sympathies! Be sure, sir, I am not so easily gulled as that! But what shall I do with you?"
She narrowed her eyes. "What mischiefs might Puck himself invent? Can I be as ingenious as he?"
"I do not doubt it!" the bandit said quickly. "But I pray you will not! Nay, if there is a gram of woman's pity in you, forbear! Send us to the King's dungeon, if you willset us to a year's hard labor—but do not seek to emulate the Wee Folk in your treatment of us, I beg of you!"
Cordelia gave him a look of contempt. (She thought she did it rather well.)
The bandit only looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes, and a look of intense remorse.
Cordelia made a sound of disgust. "Well, indeed, we shall see that the punishment does fit the crime! Get you to Sir Maris, the King's Seneschal, and tell him of your deeds. Tell him, too, who has sent you. Then, whatsoever punishment he shall give you, see that you bear in patience."
"Aye, my lady." The bandit chieftain bowed his head to hide his relief. "You are generous."
"Begone," she said, "before I forget my generosity."
"Begone?" He looked up and, for a moment, his face was drawn, exhausted. Then he recovered his poise, forced himself to straighten, and inclined his head. "As you wish it, my lady. Come, my men." He turned away.
"Oh, bother!" Cordelia stamped her foot, hands on her hips. "Nay, do not play the martyr! I will not be so cruel as to seed you out with no rest at all. Go, go sit down against the courtyard wall! Guards!"
The Captain of the Guards stepped up beside her. "Aye, my lady?"
"Keep watch over these men, and if they seek to move more than a yard from the places where they sit or lie, have at them! Steward!"
"My lady?" Everybody was on hand, of course, watching and waiting to be called upon.
"See to it these men are given gruel and water. Let them rest till noon, then send them out."
"In the heat of the day, my lady?" The steward looked appropriately horrified.
"Aye, even in the heat of the day!" Cordelia declared, with some heat herself. "'Tis the least they deserve, who have sought to wreak havoc on the weak." She turned back to the bandits. "Rest then, and begone." And, in a whirl of skirts, she turned and stalked away into the castle.
Forrest watched after her, reflecting that, if this was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was certainly not far from it. The vivacity, the fire within her, made her quite the most fascinating female he had ever encountered. And she was a witch!
He had heard stories of the delights that lay in store for those who lay in love, warlock and witch, their minds melding as their bodies did. He wondered if such ecstasy awaited those who found themselves in such an embrace, even if they were not in love.
Then, with a start of dismay, he realized that for himself, at least, the question was academic. He fell in love easily and frequently—and he knew the signs well. He had fallen again ... And from the look in her eyes when they first saw each other, he thought that Cordelia might have, too.
"You make it sound as though it were a trade to which a man might be apprenticed, Geoffrey!" Alain complained—almost, Geoffrey thought, scandalized.
"Well, 'tis not quite so methodical as that," he said, grinning. "'Tis more a matter of an art for which one must have a talent."
"As you have, to be sure," Alain said wryly. "But even given that talent, there still seems to be a great amount that is simply knowledge."
"Knowledge for some men, instinct for others." Geoffrey shrugged. "If you enjoy the game for its own sake, you learn it quickly enough. If you do not, you shall never play it well, no matter how many years of study you invest."
"It can be learned, then!"
"Me forms, at least," Geoffrey agreed, "though they are worth little without the true spirit. If you would court a lady, you must dine by candlelight and, if 'tis possible, with a fiddler or three nearby, but out of sight, playing softly."
"But her duenna..."
"Ah, we are assuming that her duenna is not there." Geoffrey raised a forefinger. "We do not speak of ladies only, after all, but also of village wenches. Still, if you would win the heart of a fair lady, you must need find some time to whisk her away by herself for conversation, even if 'tis only for the quarter of an hour. A sheltered nook in her garden will do, or a bower—and have your fiddlers seeming to stroll by, or mayhap a lad who shall play soft songs of love on a flute."