A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

Suddenly, he realized where he was, what he was doing, and he jerked away, nearly sending her spinning to the floor. “’Sblood!” he groaned, staring at his trembling hands. His breath rasped harshly, as if he’d just felled a man in battle, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as he realized how very near he’d come to taking her right there.

Maris had pulled back as if she too had just become aware of herself and her comport, and she stooped quickly to retrieve her cloak.

Dirick found his voice, h

oarse as it was, and attempted an apology, “My lady, I cannot—”

“Enough, my lord,” she cut in flatly. “Have we not been through this act before?”

Pushing a hand through his tousled hair, he stood, attempting to regain some semblance of order within. He could not understand why he made a living fool out of himself in front of this woman. “Aye we have—but that doesn’t change the fact that my conduct was inexcusable. Mayhaps ’tis best that I do be on my way. ”

She looked up at him, an indefinable emotion flickering in her gold and green eyes. “Aye. ’Tis best that you do. ”

He brushed past her, accidentally catching her hair on a nail in the wall, and paused to free the curl. His fingers slid down the shiny brown length and he brought it to press a light kiss to his mouth.

Then he turned away, annoyed at his sentimentality, and bridled the neglected Nick. She watched in silence. Feeling her gaze on him made his fingers clumsy beyond belief, causing him to hurry and thus tangle it up even more. At last, he led the destrier from the stable, aware that she followed behind, watching in an unusual silence.

Outside, where their breaths showed white puffs under the starlit morn, he swung up on Nick and looked down at Maris. She’d covered her hair once again, drawing the veil closely about her neck. Dirick reined in and gave her a nod of farewell.

“Go with God, Dirick,” she whispered.

“Fare thyself well, my lady. I am certain Victor d’Arcy will be a fine husband to you,” he forced the words from between bitter lips, making them sound sincere. “Your father wishes only the best for you, know you this, my lady. ”

“Aye. ”

“May the Lord keep you,” he said, turning Nick to ride away. “Adieu, my lady. ”

And then he was off, giving Nick his head to unleash his stored power, feeling the green gold gaze that followed him into the darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

Breakston possessed a forbidding looking keep, set near the top of a low lying mountain. It was much smaller than both Derkland and Langumont Keeps, and it was not in the same pristine condition that those lands and buildings were in. Dirick could see parts of the walls crumbling even from a fair distance.

The village, again smaller, was filled with peasants that veered from Nick’s path and peeked out from behind closed doors as Dirick rode through. Most of the roofs seemed to be in decent condition, but the silence of the village ate right through to his bones.

The journey had not been long. He’d spent the full day riding hard, spending Nick’s pent up energy. Now that he approached the portcullis and the sun was sinking, Dirick was well ready for his pallet. Cold wind was bitter upon his face, and the food that Maris sent with him was long gone.

Maris.

She had been much on his mind the day through. Too much.

Dirick reined in abruptly at the huge iron gates looming above him.

“Who goes there?” called a voice from above.

“Dirick de Arlande, begging for succor,” he called back, tilting his head to see.

There was a long moment, then the voice returned, “From whence come you, Sir de Arlande?”

“I am originally come from Paris and most recently, Dover,” he replied. “I have traveled for days, looking for work. I am quite skilled in arms. ”

Again, there was a long pause. Then, “You are French?”

“Aye. I hail from near Brest,” Dirick replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Most often, unless there were unusual circumstances, questions such as these were saved for after a lone knight was allowed entrance.

At long last, the portcullis began to creak and shake violently as the gate was raised. Dirick urged Nick forward, uncertain that the ailing gate was in good enough repair to ensure his safe passage. Once inside the bailey, he was greeted by a stocky, pock marked man that held himself in high importance.

“You are well come to Breakston, Sir de Arlande,” he said. A man hovered in the background until he was urged forward, “Take this man’s mount, Severn. ”