Pleased to see that the bright blue chicory was already blooming, Maris pulled several plants from the soil, shaking dirt from the heavy roots. They were sturdy plants with bristly leaves and finely haired stems and were good for many uses. She cut the roots and wrapped them in thick cotton sleeves to later be brewed into a light tonic, then stuffed the leaves into a different cotton bag. The leaves were useless when dried, so fresh ones were always of value when available.

She strolled further across the meadow, toward a s

mattering of trees where she suspected raspberry bushes grew. Those leaves created the best tea, along with peppermint, for breeding women. The tea eased nausea and helped the babe root itself firmly inside the mother. As she reached the line of shade from tall oak trees with branches that spread across the sky, she noticed the shiny, dark green leaves and pale pink buds of a familiar herb.

Maris stopped, crouching in the cluster of the ground covering plant, and stilled her hands. Bearberry, the leaves of which she and Sir Dirick had gathered one chill winter afternoon. The scene, with all of its vibrant color, had imprinted itself upon her memory: she’d been clutching those thick, padded leaves, and he’d tossed the bright red berries over the snow before drawing her to his mouth for the warmth of a first kiss.

A pang of heat hummed through her as she remembered the sweetness and fire of that meeting of mouths…and how on later occasions the demands of his lips had coaxed a more compelling response, her limbs becoming liquid and her heart thudding heavily in her breast. Drawing a shaky breath, Maris plucked a few leaves, running her calloused finger over their smoothness.

Try as she might, as furious as she might be with him, Sir Dirick’s face and presence had not been far from her mind since…aye, since the eve he’d nearly trampled her with his prized destrier. She lowered her rump to the ground, sitting surrounded by tall grasses and shaded by the oak trees. Her fingers were busy, tearing the leaves into halves and pulling the petals from the flower buds, even as her thoughts rambled through the range of emotions he evoked in her: anger at his complicity with Bon de Savrille…warmth and passion from his kisses…laughter and smiles from their bantering in the stables…and, increasingly, an unsettling fear for the depth of her emotions, from her inability to forget Dirick for more than a short time.

Was it possible? Could she love him?

Maris closed her eyes tightly, trying to block away the unwelcome thought. Even if she did—God in heaven!—love him, even if it were true, there was naught she could do about it. Her life and lands belonged to King Henry to do with as he would. He’d never bestow the well landed heiress of Langumont upon a mere knight—no matter how much Dirick amused him.

Something obstructed the glare of the sun, and her eyes sprang open. A figure, a man, sat on a horse just in front of her, casting his shadow over her. Blinded by the blazing sun, at first she did not recognize him—but then he spoke.

“Lady Maris,” his voice was familiar, purring—and unwelcome. “May I assist you to your feet?”

Bon de Savrille!

Strangling a cry of surprise, Maris started to her feet, caught herself in her skirts, and tumbled back into the tall grasses. Lord Bon loomed over her, but she still could not see his features for the glare of the sun behind him. A large, blunt fingered hand reached down from the saddle and clasped her arm, pulling her easily to stand.

“Where did you come from?” she spoke at last, looking surreptitiously about for Sir Raymond.

“Do you not fear,” Bon said as his mount danced aside, blocking the sun so that she could see him. “Your men-at-arms are near—I did not come from the road, but through the forest whence I saw you start across the meadow. ”

“What do you here in London?” Maris was not able to comprehend his sudden appearance.

“My lady, you are never far from my thoughts…an’ in turn, I did not wish to be far from your person. ”

“What do you want?”

“Only you, my lady. ”

“Bon, I—”

A far off shout reached their ears, and both turned to see Sir Raymond and his companions galloping across the field toward them.

“Ah, your saviors come. ” Before she could react, Bon took one of her hands and, inclining his head, brought her fingers swiftly to his lips. “I’ll have you, my lady, if ’tis the last action I make on this earth. I find I cannot live without you. Though you nearly murdered me with your poisons, you are the water this thirsty man must sip, the meat this starving man must partake…and, make no mistake, you will be mine—lands or no. ”

And with that, just as her escort came thundering up, Bon wheeled his mount and cantered off into the forest.

“My lady, are you hurt? Shall we go after him?” Raymond reined in next to her.

“Nay, I am well,” Maris replied, still stunned at Bon’s sudden appearance and disappearance.

“Did you know that man?”

She nodded. “Aye, that was none other than Bon de Savrille of Breakston. ”

“What?” Raymond would have started after him had Maris not raised her hand to halt him.

“Nay, Raymond, do you not trouble yourself. He did not harm me, or even threaten me—except with his desire to have my person. ” She giggled, as much with relief as mirth. “I do believe Lord Bon is quite harmless, as he could easily have swept me up and away with him. And, in truth, I prefer him to wed over Lord Victor. ” Her smile faded at the ugly memory of his advances two nights earlier.

“Will Lord Victor press his suit with the king?” Sir Raymond asked, alighting from his steed. He stood close to Maris, protectively, and they stepped away from the other three men.

She drew in a deep breath. “Pray God he does not, else I’d as lief be a traitor or a murderess before I’ll share his bed!”

Tags: Colleen Gleason Medieval Herb Garden Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net