She set forth from the trees, strolling closer, waiting for them to notice her. It was the woman who looked up first, then looked again, surprised, staring. The men noticed and broke off their laughing, looking up. Geoffrey stared, as startled as though he had seen a mouse walking about on the bottom of a river, and Cordelia had the immense satisfaction of seeing Alain turn pale. Then he blushed beet-red and turned away—as well he might, Cordelia thought grimly. But she smiled as boldly as she could and stepped forward. "Well, brother! At last I have found you!"
"Indeed!" Geoffrey smiled. "You are well met, sister. But wherefore did you seek me?"
He knew very well who she was seeking! "I have wearied of my duties at home, and have come to see that, if you may go adventuring, so may I."
"A woman, adventuring?" The vixen stared, scandalized. "It is not seemly!"
Well, she should know, if anyone should. "Quite so," Cordelia agreed. "A woman alone may not—but in her brother's company, there is surely nothing improper."
She had the satisfaction of seeing the look of dismay flit across the hussy's features, though it was quickly masked. It was even more gratifying to see the look of delight that crossed Alain's face, even though it was hidden so quickly as to leave Cordelia wondering if she had really seen it. She felt a stab of remorse—how badly had she hurt him, that he dared not show pleasure in her company?
"Well, this will be pleasing." Geoffrey smiled, amused. "And timely: we are about to concoct supper. Surely you will join us—must she not, companions?"
"Oh, surely she must," said the vampire, all syrupy sweetness. Alain mumbled something that sounded vaguely affirmative and looked away. He certainly should, Cordelia thought, with a flame of white-hot anger—but she suppressed it with a self-control that was new to her; she had more important things to fry than Alain's conscience. She advanced toward them, doing her best to simulate the movement of a cat on the prowl. "Do you gentleman fetch some game for us, and we shall set about building a fire for it. We shall see what we may do to spark a blaze among kindling—shall we not, damsel?"
"Indeed!" For a second, the minx looked startled. Then she smiled in amused anticipation.
Geoffrey cast a dubious glance from one to the other, then shrugged. He, protect Cordelia from another woman?
As well to think of protecting a lynx from a kitten! Besides, he had a notion of what was about to follow. "Well enough, then. Milady, this is my sister, the Lady Cordelia." He almost said "Gallowglass," then thought better of it—an instinct to caution, Heaven knew why. But they were, after all, supposed to be incognito. "Cordelia, this is the Lady Delilah de Fevre."
"Delighted," Delilah purred.
"The pleasure will be all mine," Cordelia assured her, carefully not specifying what she would take pleasure in. "Come, Alain, let us seek out game!" Geoffrey turned his horse back toward the woods. With a dubious backward glance, Alain rode after him.
The clearing was quiet for a moment, only birdsong and breeze, as the two women regarded one another, both with slight smiles. Cordelia only wished that she really felt as confident as she looked. Well, anger would have to serve in place of confidence, and she surely had enough of that at the moment! "Perchance we may come to know one another," she said. "Come, let us chat, whiles we gather firewood and tinder."
"Gladly, if you will show me what it is," Delilah said. "I would not know what to seek, for my servants have always done such chores."
Cordelia held down her indignation and forced a saccharine smile. "'Tis the curse of we who are well bred," she agreed, "that we cannot care for ourselves when the need arises."
"The need has arisen for you, then?" Delilah said sweetly. "And you know that it will arise again?"
"Perchance," Cordelia said between her teeth, "and then, perchance not. It was my mother's teaching that every woman should know how to fend for herself if she must, that she not be dependent upon a man's whims and cruelties."
"Your mother was no doubt wise," Lady Delilah purred. "Had she cause to know?"
That stung worse—because, of course, Gwen had had cause to learn how to take care of herself, until Cordelia's father Rod came into Gwen's life. Cordelia was a little hazy on the details, knowing only the story of how they met, courted, and wed, with very little about how Gwen had occupied her time before Rod had come unto her life; she knew only that they had not married until Gwen was twenty-nine—very late for a medieval woman. "My father did not think so," she said sweetly. "Did thine?"
A frown creased the smooth perfection of Delilah's brow. "My what?"
"Your father," Cordelia explained. She sighed, as though striving for patience in explaining something elementary to a five-year-old. "Did your father find need for your mother to be dependent upon him?"
"Surely she did rely on him, and he proved ever reliable," Delilah said, amused. "In truth, I thought she fended for herself most excellently in that."
Cordelia frowned. "How so?"
"Why," said Delilah, "the lady who fends for herself, and has no true need of a husband, will not have one." Cordelia stared at her, frozen for a moment, fuming—but she kept the fumes inside, forced them into a curdled smile, and said, "She who does not need a man for living will have naught but the best of men—and only for love, true love."
"Ah! True love!" Delilah looked away toward the trees. "How each of us does long for it! But what if it comes not, Lady Cordelia? How then shall we fare?"
"As well as we wish," Cordelia snapped.
"Oh, nay!" Delilah turned huge, demure eyes upon her. "We shall do as well as we may."
Alain, Cordelia saw, was as well as Delilah had decided she might do. A change of subject was obviously in order. She turned away, stooping to pick up a twig here, a stick there. "How came you here, maiden, to the company of my brother and his friend?" She put perhaps a little more emphasis than was necessary on the word "maiden."
"Alas!" Delilah lamented. "I came at the behest of him whom I love—but he betrayed me, and did not come." That snatched Cordelia's poise away from her. She stared, aghast. "Truly he did not mislead you so!"
"Aye," Delilah sighed. "I fear I am ever too trusting."
Cordelia knew, with dead certainty, that "trusting" was one thing Delilah was not—except, perhaps, trusting in her own ability to manipulate a man. "Did you not fear the outlaws of the forest?"
"Oh, aye!" Delilah touched her eyelid, where a tear had presumably formed. "I feared they might hurt me soreyet not so sorely as my lord has hurt me." She looked away—and sure enough, fat tears trembled in her eyes, then rolled free. For a moment, Cordelia almost embraced her in a rush of sympathy—but it was replaced with a rush of anger. So the female serpent could actually weep on demand! Her admiration for the woman's artistry rose one notch higher, even as her opinion of the woman's honesty dropped even lower.
Still, she strove to sound sympathetic. "The night must have been long indeed."
Delilah said, "Any night is long, when one's love is not near one."
Cordelia had been wondering about Delilah's right to the title "maiden," but she was fast becoming sure. "I would not know," she said sweetly.
Delilah gave her a sudden, searching stare. "Nay," she said, nicely seasoned with scorn. "I think you would not." Cordelia felt her cheeks flaming—why, she did not know; to be a virgin was something to be quite proud of. How dare this flaunting flirt make it sound like a deficiency!