"Truly?" Cordelia glanced up in time to see Delilah push herself a little away from Alain, blushing, eyes downcast, then looking up and smiling, as though thanking him for his concern.
It was like a stab to Cordelia's own heart, that he did not even think of her enough to realize that she might be hurt by seeing him be solicitous to her rival. Either he was so smitten that he did not even remember that Cordelia had reason to object—or he was truly only being chivalrous.
Kindness to a stray kitten? And, in his own mind, nothing that she should object to?
She didn't believe that for a minute.
They chatted as the roast turned on its spit, Cordelia wondering at the back of her mind what Delilah was going to do when it came time to eat. She toyed with the notion of conjuring up knife, fork, and plate, but remembered that this was the boys' affair, not hers. She sat back, hiding a wicked smile, to see what her brother and her besotted beau would do.
She found herself wishing that he was besotted with her.
Then she remembered that he had been, but she had turned him down.
Well, no—the arrogance with which he had approached her had not been besotted, by any means. But she remembered a younger Alain, of only a year before, whose gaze had followed her everywhere she went, and the Alain of five years before that, who had followed her about so persistently that she had scolded him for being a pest.
She regretted that bitterly now. Had that scolding broken her spell over him? Or was it still there, but he, in obedience to her sharp tongue, was no longer allowing it to show?
Watching him closely now, she would have to say that he wasn't besotted with Delilah, really—only very attentive. Too attentive. Far too attentive. And not at all so to Cordelia—though he seemed to be avoiding her out of guilt rather than indifference.
Still, what was Cordelia to do? Feign a swoon? Certainly he would not believe that she needed comforting or protecting! For a moment, a tide of self-pity swept her. For the first time in her life, she found herself wishing that she were not so confounded capable.
Geoffrey solved the tableware problem with slabs of journey bread—flat, round cakes eight inches across. Lady Delilah, however, did not even have a dagger—of course. Alain solved the problem by cutting her meat for her, presenting it on the improvised trencher as though on a silver platter.
"Oh, sirs, you should not trouble yourselves!" Delilah protested.
" 'Tis no trouble at all, my lady, I assure you." Then, as an afterthought, it seemed to Cordelia, Alain turned and, for the first time, addressed her. "Cordelia, may I serve you in like fashion?"
She would have cheerfully served him instead—on toast. But she kept the lid on the seething and smiled sweetly. "Why, surely, Alain. I thank you." She bit back a scathing comment about being second, and probably always being second in his affections. Hot tears stung at her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was silly indeed to think that; Delilah was surely a passing fancy, no more. Surely ...
"I thank you." She held out her makeshift trencher with strings of steaming rabbit meat on it. Alain took it, cut the meat, then handed it back to her, inclining his head gravely, and offered his knife, hilt first. "Take it, I pray you, so you need not soil your fingers."
Delilah froze, a bit of meat halfway to her mouth, her eyes turning cold.
Cordelia was surprised to find herself blushing with gratitude—or was it relief? "Gramercy." She was on the point of refusing the knife—after all, she had a smaller one of her own—but realized she had better not; he might take it as a refusal of himself, too. "I shall endeavor to finish with it quickly, so that you may once again have the use of it."
"An excellent notion!" Geoffrey proffered his own knife, hilt first. "Will you take my point, my lady?"
"Why, thank you, sir." Delilah bestowed a very sweet smile on Geoffrey and took his knife.
Cordelia reflected on other potential uses for the blade as she stabbed the bits of meat and popped them into her mouth. "It is well done, in truth. You are an excellent chef, Alain."
"I learned something in the kitchens, from time to time." Alain smiled, relieved at having found a neutral topic—and wondering why Geoffrey was suddenly coughing so violently.
"I am sure you have," Cordelia said, with a touch of sarcasm.
Alain blushed and looked away.
Oh, no! Cordelia thought. I have set him off now! And she set herself to being pleasant, with renewed determination. What ailed the man, anyhow? If he felt so guilty at paying attentions to Delilah, why didn't he simply stop?
She chatted about the weather and about events in the palace, while Delilah found occasion after occasion for a subtle compliment, drawing Alain into telling her more and more about himself.
Cordelia did her best to change the topic, but not too much. "And how have you fared, knights-errant? I see you have saved a damsel in distress. What of the monster that did guard her?"
She was surprised, and chagrined, when Delilah broke into peals of laughter, and the gentlemen grinned in answer. "We seem to have saved her only from abandonment," Geoffrey explained, "though it may be she would have had more fell creatures than that preying upon her, if we had not come when we did. Still, in your name and for your glory, Alain slew an ogre."
"An ogre?" Cordelia turned, eyes huge. She remembered hearing the villagers thinking of the event, but recognized a chance when she saw one. "How is this, Alain? Does he mock me?"
"He does not, I assure you," Alain said, with grave courtesy. "It was indeed an ogre, though your brother will not admit to his part in its defeat."
"An ogre! Oh! How brave of you, sir!" Delilah exclaimed, clasping her hands at her breast. "But how dangerous! Thank heavens you are returned alive!"
Definitely overdoing it, Cordelia thought—but apparently, Alain couldn't see that. He swelled visibly at her praise. "It was a poor thing, in its way," he said modestly.
"A poor thing! Oh, aye, nine feet tall, with four arms!" Geoffrey scoffed.
"Well, true," Alain allowed. "But it had very little brain."
"Though a great deal of brawn," Geoffrey reminded him, "and it does not require so very much brain to swing a club half the size of a man."
Cordelia stared at Alain. "And you rode against it with naught but your sword?"
"I did indeed." Alain looked rather happy about it. "I will own, though, that I did take a wound of him." Delilah gasped again.
"Though 'tis naught that a little time will not heal," Alain said quickly.
"How gallant of you, sir!" Delilah caroled—but Cordelia was suddenly all business.
"Let me see." Cordelia stepped around the fire and began to unbutton Alain's doublet.
"Why, Cordelia!" he said, eyes wide. "Really, damsel!" Delilah huffed.
"Oh, be still!" Cordelia snapped. "If he is hurt, I must know it. Where, Alain?"
"Why, you are a forward wench indeed!" Delilah gasped. "A wench when it pleases me, but for now, I am a nurse!" She folded the doublet open—and stared a moment.
My heavens, the man had a massive chest! When had he grown all those muscles? She felt the strange feelings beginning to churn within her again, and turned her attention to the rough dressing held to his side by a bandage that was wrapped around and around his abdomen. "That was only a scratch, you say?"
"In truth, it was." Geoffrey frowned. "Do you fault my doctoring, sister?"
"Was it you who did this?" Cordelia looked up. "How deep was the cut? Was any organ harmed?"
Delilah turned pale.
"Nay, only muscle tissue, and not much of that; it scarce passed beyond the layer of fat. No large blood vessels cut, either, but only a seepage from many capillaries."