‘Pity?’ Was that anger in his voice? ‘Is that what you think?’
What she thought was to push him so far away that he could not recognise her weakness. ‘What I think,’ she began, ‘is that you thought to steal a kiss, or more, from a vulnerable maiden.’
That would explain it. She should have realised there could be no other reason. He must have thought her easy prey for his lust.
‘You are wrong.’
She wanted to be. Oh, she wanted to be.
‘Why else would you have lured me here? You knew I could not keep up with the chase. You knew we would fall behind and be alone.’ All things she had known before she even mounted.
‘Have you met so much unkindness in your life?’
Startled at first. Then, ashamed. She shook her head. ‘No. My lady has been all that is kind when I cannot do...what others can.’
‘I cannot dance well enough to take the floor before the King. It makes me no lesser man.’
Her eyes widened at his words. Could any man, any person, look at her and not see her as a lesser being?
Yet she saw in his eyes things she had never seen in another man’s. Desire, yes, that was remarkable enough. Coupled with anger and a touch of...admiration. Not the pity or disgust she so frequently encountered.
More often though, once they knew who and what she was, they tried not to see her at all. They simply let their eyes slide over her without stopping, as if she were a stone or a tree. Lonely sometimes, yes. But being invisible could be a benefit, as well.
‘I am sorry,’ she began, ‘to attack you when you were only being...kind.’ What other word to use?
Something in his gaze shifted. A decision reached. ‘Your first notion was the right one. It did not happen. Now, we will sit and speak of unimportant things until you are rested enough to return.’
She did not want to speak with him at all, but she must do as her lady asked and stay close to him, even at the risk of—
No. She straightened her back. There was no risk. She had lived her whole life without a man. That would not change because a passing warrior stole a kiss.
* * *
Nicholas settled himself at the other end of the log and sat in silence, relieved when she did not speak, as he struggled to put ground and sky back in their accustomed places.
Fool that he was, he had kissed her. And when he did, the world turned upside down, exposing the weakness he thought safely buried. The same weakness that had blinded his father to the truth about the woman he married.
Yet she thought he wanted only to dally with her and then cast her aside. He should have let her think so. Would that he were so unmoved.
This woman had a way of flinging him from kindness to anger to desire and back before he could understand what had happened. But, it was clear, she wanted an entanglement no more than he did.
Why?
At the other end of the log, she sat, back straight, studying the shaded shelter as if she might be forced to describe it later. Deprived of her accustomed needle, she tapped her restless fingers together without looking at them. He wondered whether she even knew she did so.
What was she thinking now?
He was a man of action, yet he had learned that understanding another man’s reasons and impulses was the key to gaining his co-operation. The man who sold wine strictly for money could be persuaded to sell for the right price. The man who was more concerned about his castle’s protection might be persuaded to trade in exchange for his loyalty.
He had learned to read such men.
But women? Well, they were not such a mystery. At least, the few he had known were not.
‘You have not been around many women.’
Could the woman see his thoughts? ‘A fighting man has little time for women.’ And that was the way he liked it. Deceivers, all. Willing to say, or do, anything to bejape a man into marriage. Except, it seemed, for this one.
‘And I not around many men.’
As close to an apology as this woman would ever come, he guessed.
‘We will start again,’ he said. ‘Not as man or woman, perhaps.’ She wanted that no more than he, he was relieved to realise.
‘Men do not usually see a woman when they look at me.’
There was no sorrow in her statement and, again, anger stirred on her behalf. ‘Do you not want what other women want?’
‘Marriage?’ She glanced down at her lap and then back at him, her raised brow and half smile as full as much of pain as pleasure. ‘I had judged you a wiser man.’
‘Wise enough.’ Except when it comes to you. Marriage, he guessed, would elude her and his question had only reminded her of that fact.
But of course she wanted it. All women did.
He knew not how to treat this woman or what to say. Her answer to a simple question made him as awkward and unsteady with his words as she was on her feet. Yet she was a woman. No reason to believe her any different from the rest. He should have been wary. Instead, he had been lulled.
* * *
Anne glanced at Nicholas, who was shaking his head as if he were trying to understand one of the Cornish speakers. Once again, it seemed, she had made him uneasy. It had not been deliberate, but better he be curious about her than about Lady Joan.
Better she turn the questions back at him than let him question her.
‘Besides,’ she began, ‘for every woman who wants to wed, there must be a man. Few men choose as you have.’
She let the statement dangle, hoping he would offer more of his reasons. Had a woman wronged him? Did he mourn a lost wife? Perhaps he had taken a vow.
‘Few men have seen women’s full deceit as I have.’
Words harsh as a blow. She must have gasped.
She parted her lips to argue. I am not like that. I am not like those others you have known.
But, of course, she was. And to protest would only make the lie grow fat.
He rose and held out his hand. ‘If you are rested, we can return.’
She took his hand, needing his help to rise, but let go as quickly as she could, dreading the moment when he would have to help her on to the horse’s back.
It was always an awkward thing, mounting. Difficult as it was, she preferred to do it by herself so that no one would see her. First, she would have to lead the gentle horse up to a tree stump or a rock. Then she would step on it and position herself carefully so that she could reach the stirrup with her left foot. Finally, she would pull herself up, the right foot dragging behind her, and use her remaining strength to swing her right leg over the palfrey’s croup without hitting the horse.
It was all so difficult and unsightly that, were it not for the joy of riding, she would not do it at all. But once she was mounted, she could move, almost as freely as others did. For that, she would bear the pain.
But for him to see her...
The horse, well trained, ambled over to the log on her signal. If she asked, politely, would Nicholas look away and spare her the embarrassment?
She took a breath to ask him, but before she could speak he lifted her up, close enough to the saddle that she could find her seat, then it was easy to pull her right leg into position and settle in the saddle.
All done so quickly that she had no time to worry about how she looked. And so smoothly