A Knight's Vow Part 25

She felt herself pale. Had her father already broadcast news? Or had Robert? He had been sure enough of himself. If such gossip had already spread, then...

Her silence seemed to tell him what he asked. He gave her a rare wry smile. "You do not think I can sing."

"No," she said, "but I was told... the wedding is months away. There is no... need."

Duncan watched her carefully. She was lying. He could see it in the way her face had paled. Her gaze wouldn't meet his. But why?

He stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. She was obviously trying to rid herself of him. And yet her eyes sent a different message altogether. There was fear, confusion. Need. Yearning. The kind of yearning-he suspected-that echoed in him. He had more than thirty years and he'd never felt like this before. He had the terrible feeling that he never would again.

Was there indeed only one true mate for every man?

He could just grab her and carry her away. But there would be no honor in that. Not even love. Might never overcame that particular emotion. It was the one, he speculated, that had to be returned in full measure. It could not be forced.

He stepped away from her. He took his lute from his pack and strummed a song that she had taught him.

Had it sounded this sad before? He thought not. He sought a way to keep her with him. "If you believe me still so ill-prepared, will you teach me more songs?"

Her gaze met his. "One more lesson. Will you then leave?"

"Is that your wish?"

"Yes," she said defiantly, chin high. And yet it trembled slightly. She really was a very poor liar. She

wanted him as much as he wanted her, yet something was keeping her from admitting it.

But he knew he would learn nothing else by direct questions. If he continued with them, he feared he would never see her again. So he merely nodded and said, "I am grateful."

She suddenly smiled, a relieved and spontaneous smile. No more personal questions. No more questions

she couldn't answer. What was she hiding? A secret deeper than his own? "It is easy to teach you anything," she said. "You have a talent."

"You do not have to leave soon?"

"Not until noon."

"You have a lenient master. Or father." He was probing again, but she merely smiled.

"I did not bring my own lute," she said.

He went back to her and gave her his. Her hands ran over the strings. "This is very fine," she said. "You said a friend gave it to you?"

"Aye. A Welshman."

Her eyes questioned him. Wales was known for its wildness. And the wildness of its people.

When he did not elaborate, she strummed the strings and sang a song of a love that could not be. One

lover died, then the other killed herself.

"That is not very cheerful," he noted.

Her eyes, when she looked up at him, were wistful. "Do you believe people die for love? Or is it a

myth?"

He had always scoffed at the thought before, but now...

"I would not know, mistress."

"Have you ever loved anyone?" Her eyes studied him as her fingers continued to play the lute.

"Yes," he said.

"And you left her?"

"No."

Frustration crept into her eyes. "Will you tell me about her."

"I do not know much about her," he said. "She appears as if by magic and leaves the same way."

Surprise crossed her face, then it slowly reddened. "You must not jest that way."

"I do not jest, mistress. I have already asked you to go away with me."

"But you never said where, sir. You seem to enjoy your... freedom."

"My home is south of here. It is modest enough."

"You have never been wed?"

"I have been fighting these last ten years, some of them on the continent. There was no time for love."

She placed the lute next to her and touched his scar again, her fingers running over the ridges. "How did

this happen?"

"Carelessness."

"I do not like to think of you being hurt." The feeling in her voice made him ache almost unbearably.

There had been few people who cared about his health.

"It was nothing."

She took one of his hands in hers and studied it, the calluses formed by years of using a sword. Training.

Killing. By the saints he was weary of it all. He wanted peace. And this woman represented peace.He needed that. Most of all, he knew, he needed her. He did not care about her position or her rank.She had a tranquillity that would win over whoever she met. Even Henry. He had fought ten years for theTudors. The king could not deny him this. But then he knew the king's fury when someone defied his wishes. He'd wanted a wife for Duncan, but he'd wanted one that would solidify his power. He'd wanted a valuable alliance.

If Henry opposed a marriage to a commoner, then he might well lose his estates and be forced into exile

once again.

But did she want him? Did she feel the same?

If he had to leave England, would she leave her country, her family? Was it even fair to declare his

intentions and ask before making sure of his position with Henry?

Her eyes seemed to say so, but did she... want him enough, love him enough to risk everything for him?

Were the minstrels and jongleurs right? Was there such a thing as mutual love?

His hand went up to her face again, touching it with infinite tenderness. His fingers explored her face,

seeking to know her thoughts, her very soul. Who was she, this maid of the forest? A siren who could change a man's path and fill him with a longing that he'd never known before?

Her eyes widened, then seemed to plead with him. Wide and wondering and full of mystery.

The air between them was expectant with questions unanswered and yet neither was ready to shatter the magic that had wrapped around them. There was a silent intensity, a rare understanding that he knew would vanish if he questioned any longer.

Duncan leaned down and kissed her again. It was a mistake. The kiss became hungry, desperate, her lips as eager and needy as his. He tried to smother the growing ache in himself, to hide his agonizing need, but he could not, especially not as her body leaned against his, all the hesitant shyness fading.

His hands touched her back and moved with seductive practice. He felt her tremble again, then his kiss deepened and the fire between them ignited once more, this time with an appet.i.te and greed he could no longer control. And, he knew instantly, neither could she.

An elemental force bound them now, and it was impossible to contain.

Even had he wanted to.

His hands moved up and down her back, causing her body to move into his, and his lips broke away from hers and went to the nape of her neck. He nuzzled it, feeling every movement of her body as it reacted to his hands, to his mouth. His body was responding in the same elemental manner, growing hard under his garments.

She cried out and his mouth moved from the back of her neck to her lips again, claiming them with a raw need while one hand played with the back of her neck, fingers running over her skin with breeze-light teasing. Hunger was nuanced. Needy yet almost achingly gentle. His fingers went to the ties of her gown and were fumbling with them when he heard the first noise behind him. He heard a profanity, footsteps rus.h.i.+ng at him, and then there was pain.

And darkness.

seven.

The men appeared so suddenly and the blow fell so unexpectedly, Lynet could not react quicklyenough. A scream died in her throat as her minstrel fell over. She barely reacted swiftly enough to stopthe blade that was about to drop on him.

She threw herself over him. "No," she said.

Robert, the Earl of Kellum, stared at her, then lowered the sword. "We heard you cry out." He looked at the prostrate form on the ground. "I'll kill him."

"Nay," she said. "He was not attacking me. He has done nothing." Her hands touched the bleeding wound on his head from the blow of a mailed fist.

"Who is he?" Kellum demanded, his facial expression full of disbelief.