"Indeed." She lost the smile and tilted her chin up, gazing at him in disdain. "And what has the light of the sun shown, sir?"
"Why," said Geoffrey, "a dozen tiny features that I could not see by night—how red your lips are, how rosy your cheeks! Though your complexion, I note, is as flawless as ever it was—even the alabaster that it seemed by night! And surely the stars, that had fallen from the skies in despair of matching your eyes, knew truth, for you outshine them all!"
Delilah gave a laugh of delight. "A very pretty speech, sir! Nay, I think I will listen to some more—if you have any in your repertoire."
Cordelia glanced back, frowning just in time to see Geoffrey kissing Delilah's hand, and to hear her laugh again. "La, sir! Pretty speeches are not enough!"
Then, more softly, so that Cordelia could not hear, "What actions can you show me?"
"Why, what you will." Geoffrey looked up with a slow smile that turned into a grin. "Name the deed you fancy, lady, and I shall do it."
Delilah cocked her head to the side, evaluating him. "I think that I shall wait to say it. Until I do, sir, you shall lie low."
"As low as you wish," Geoffrey said, his voice husky. "But where shall we lie? Sooth, we must wait for night!" Delilah's eyes sparked with anger, but her mouth curved in amusement, then in derision. "You shall show me nothing, sir, if you must wait for night—for then there will be nothing that shows."
"Ay de mi!" Geoffrey leaned closer. "Must I wait? For you tell me that if I do, I shall have nothing!"
"Why, then," she breathed, "do not."
He covered her mouth with his own, both leaning from their saddies to bridge the gap, only their lips touching. Cordelia glanced back again at the sudden silence, and stared in indignation, then whipped about, eyes front, face burning.
"Why, how have I offended, beautiful lady?" Alain cried, wounded.
Cordelia thawed a little, turning toward him, and bestowed a smile upon him. "Why, in no way, sir, and neither has Forrest. I am only indignant when I remember the verse."
"Then blame me not, for I have made no promises." Alain's voice softened, and he leaned closer. "I have only asked them, and they have not been given."
Cordelia stared at him a moment. Her own lips curved, and she said, "Then do not ask again until you are sure they will be granted."
"And when shall that be?" he breathed. "When will the sun fall from the sky?"
They looked up, startled; then Alain's face darkened at what he thought was Forrest's impertinence—and perhaps it was, but the outlaw was gazing up through the leafy canopy at the sky. "There cannot be so much of daylight left. Where shall we camp?"
"There is no need." Alain's voice was stern. "Lady Delilah has said we shall come to her father's house ere darkness falls." He turned back to Delilah. "Shall we not, milady?"
Delilah broke off from the kiss, though not quite as quickly as she might have, considering how surprised she looked. Alain stiffened, and Cordelia's heart twisted.
"Shall we not what, sir?" Delilah tucked at her hair, though it didn't need the attention.
"Come to your father's house ere nightfall." Alain's tone was stiffly polite. "Shall we not?"
"Nightfall?" Delilah looked up through the leaves at the sun rays. "By suppertime, or not long after, I should say. Indeed, there is no need to hurry."
"That is well." Alain turned back to face front, seeming relieved. "Then let us tell tales as we go along—or shall we sing?"
Geoffrey shrugged. "Sing, if you will—but let it be a tune that we all know."
"Why, so I shall." Alain thought for a moment, then began to sing in a clear, rich tenor.
" `By all the promises that e'er men broke, In number more than women spoke.' "
Geoffrey joined in with the baritone line, and the two girls began to sing a descant. Forrest's voice underscored them all with a warm, resonant bass—resonating within Cordelia, giving her shivers. She glanced down at Forrest; he glanced back at her. Some electric current seemed to pass between them. Cordelia shivered, and turned her gaze resolutely back to the front. Perhaps Alain was the safest for her, after all. But did she truly wish to be safe?
The tall stone pillars seemed to rear up very suddenly, for they were right in the middle of the woodland. Huge iron gates hung from them. Behind them sat a serf in tunic and hose. Cordelia stared for a moment, startled, then glanced to either side. The woods were so thick, the roadside trees so intertwined with bramble and thorn, that what she had mistaken for a thicket was really a very artfully constructed fence. It would not deter an armored knight, of course, but it would protect the people within from the casual trespasser or poacher, and from most wild animals. "Willem!" Delilah carolled. "How fare you?"
The porter jerked awake out of a doze and stared as though at an apparition. "My lady Delilah!" He leaped from his seat. "Is it truly you?"
"Yes, Willem. I am returned to you, thanks to the protection of these good folk. How fares my father?"
"In anxiety and woe, my lady. He wrings his hands and cries out every hour, that his men can be of no worth if they have not found your trail. Ah, praise Heaven you are come! For it has been a grievous time for all of us!"
"Why, then, I am filled with regret." Delilah bowed her head. "But I am filled with gladness to be come home again. Send word to my father."
"Aye, milady, as you say!" Willem unlatched the gate and swung it wide. The party rode in, Forrest at its head. Willem latched the gate behind them. "I shall run with the news, milady!" He sped away.
The party followed more slowly, riding up along a gently winding track that was overhung with graceful maples and oaks—not planted in neat rows, Cordelia saw; rather, the roadway had been picked out between them. Somehow, the idea struck a chord of rightness within her.
"I have told a gardener, my lady, and he bears the word!" Willem paused by them to duck his head in a bow before he ran back to his post.
Through the trees, Cordelia could see hedges, flowers, and a closely cropped lawn. The gardeners were busy indeed. Then the road took a final turn—and there, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was a huge old house of stucco, half-timbered, its leaded panes glinting in the sun. Cordelia caught her breath; set in a border of flowers and ornamental shrubs, it was really quite lovely. She hated to admit it, but Delilah had a beautiful home.
As they neared the house, a gray-haired, gray-bearded man came hurrying out to the steps, his servants streaming behind him. They stood waiting, and cheered as the company rode up, reining in their horses.
"Delilah!" the old man cried in a deep and resonant basso. "Come to my arms, my child! Oh, thou hast worried me so horribly!" He ran down the steps, reaching up; she hopped down into his arms, and he crushed her to his breast, then held her back to look at her, beaming. "I was so filled with anxiety, so horribly afraid that some harm might have befallen thee, that thou wouldst never come home!"
"Alas! I feared, too, Father!" She threw herself into his arms again, embracing him.
Alain looked on, smiling fondly—but Cordelia glanced at Geoffrey, and found him glancing at her, too, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. Cordelia gave a tiny nod; it did seem rather artificial. She decided that she would have to marry Alain, if for no better reason than to protect him from people who would take advantage of his good nature.