dead—their souls had gone prayerless into eternity. Yes, guilt weighed heavily, rendering her incapable of coherent thought.
“Are you praying, milady?”
Startled, she shook her head. “Nay, I do not.”
“No?” He reached out; his hand curved around hers where she held the beads, lifting her fisted penance. “These are prayer beads, are they not?”
“Yes, of course they are.”
“For what do you pray, milady? Deliverance? Temperance? Patience?”
The back of his hand brushed over the bare skin above the edge of her bliaut. He held her hand still, engulfing it in brown, corded tendons and capable determination.
“I pray for tolerance, my lord.”
“Ah. Tolerance. A noble prayer. Not”— he drew a finger along the curve of her cheek— “unsurprising in a woman of your character.”
She strove for insouciance to hide the reaction his caress provoked: “It would intrigue me to hear what would surprise you, sir.”
A step back; his hand fell away, and she could breathe again.
“It would not take long in the telling. There is little that surprises me now.” He paused. Swooped in with deceiving simplicity: “Save the folly of outlaws.”
There it was: Accusation. Arrest. Execution.
The inevitability made her desperate. She felt shaky. In a faint voice, she said, “Time wanes, my lord.”
“So it does. Time flies—swift as an arrow.” He closed the gap between them, palming the dangling end of her prayer beads. His voice was a soft, ruthless reminder. “Four men were killed on the Edwinstowe Road yesterday. Outlaws, all.”
“Do you wish me to pray for their souls, my lord? Or did you purchase prayers at Saint Mary’s for them.”
Too close, too close … I cannot breathe with his hand against me.
“Outlaw souls do not concern me.” His eyes burned into her, an intensity that compelled her to look at him though she tried to resist. A muscle leaped in his jaw; his voice was taut. “I have more tangible concerns. Three men escaped my custody yesterday. I want them.”
I want them.
A simple,
I want them.
He expected compliance. He expected her to deliver them.
“Perhaps they will surrender, my lord,” she said when she could trust her voice not to crack.
“I rather think they will.” A tug on the beads to bring her closer, escalating heartbeat like thunder in her ears, and—“You may convince them of it.”
He waited. Expectant again, certain he would hear her agreement.
She was outraged.
The lassitude that had gripped her vanished. Renewed by fury, she saw from the sudden thinning of his eyes that he knew it, too.
“Release me, my lord sheriff.” Her voice lashed him, and to her surprise, his hand opened to free the beads.
“Be ware a hasty tongue,” he said then, calmly, the only sign of displeasure his narrowed eyes.
“My tongue is rarely hasty. Sharp at times, perhaps, but some find the truth unpalatable. So it is now—I will not convinceanyone to surrender to you, nor to any Norman, for I would never be able to wash the blood from my hands.”
“And have you tried washing them today, milady?” Soft reminder, brutal in its way, and she steeled herself.
“Say plainly what you mean. Do you have proof of guilt? Have you come to arrest me?”
Strangely placid, she waited for his affirmation. It did not come. He stared at her, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.
At last he said, “No, I think not.”
7
Tré watched emotions flicker across her face. It would avail him little if he arrested her. He had hoped she would be more … amenable. She was not. The disquiet and dread that first attended her had vanished, replaced by stubborn anger. Determined rebellion.
It was faintly surprising to discover a facet of his character he had never suspected: He admired a female with courage enough to defy him. Not foolish defiance that would gain nothing, but calm, intelligent disregard for consequence that defined great strength of character. It
“Are you praying, milady?”
Startled, she shook her head. “Nay, I do not.”
“No?” He reached out; his hand curved around hers where she held the beads, lifting her fisted penance. “These are prayer beads, are they not?”
“Yes, of course they are.”
“For what do you pray, milady? Deliverance? Temperance? Patience?”
The back of his hand brushed over the bare skin above the edge of her bliaut. He held her hand still, engulfing it in brown, corded tendons and capable determination.
“I pray for tolerance, my lord.”
“Ah. Tolerance. A noble prayer. Not”— he drew a finger along the curve of her cheek— “unsurprising in a woman of your character.”
She strove for insouciance to hide the reaction his caress provoked: “It would intrigue me to hear what would surprise you, sir.”
A step back; his hand fell away, and she could breathe again.
“It would not take long in the telling. There is little that surprises me now.” He paused. Swooped in with deceiving simplicity: “Save the folly of outlaws.”
There it was: Accusation. Arrest. Execution.
The inevitability made her desperate. She felt shaky. In a faint voice, she said, “Time wanes, my lord.”
“So it does. Time flies—swift as an arrow.” He closed the gap between them, palming the dangling end of her prayer beads. His voice was a soft, ruthless reminder. “Four men were killed on the Edwinstowe Road yesterday. Outlaws, all.”
“Do you wish me to pray for their souls, my lord? Or did you purchase prayers at Saint Mary’s for them.”
Too close, too close … I cannot breathe with his hand against me.
“Outlaw souls do not concern me.” His eyes burned into her, an intensity that compelled her to look at him though she tried to resist. A muscle leaped in his jaw; his voice was taut. “I have more tangible concerns. Three men escaped my custody yesterday. I want them.”
I want them.
A simple,
I want them.
He expected compliance. He expected her to deliver them.
“Perhaps they will surrender, my lord,” she said when she could trust her voice not to crack.
“I rather think they will.” A tug on the beads to bring her closer, escalating heartbeat like thunder in her ears, and—“You may convince them of it.”
He waited. Expectant again, certain he would hear her agreement.
She was outraged.
The lassitude that had gripped her vanished. Renewed by fury, she saw from the sudden thinning of his eyes that he knew it, too.
“Release me, my lord sheriff.” Her voice lashed him, and to her surprise, his hand opened to free the beads.
“Be ware a hasty tongue,” he said then, calmly, the only sign of displeasure his narrowed eyes.
“My tongue is rarely hasty. Sharp at times, perhaps, but some find the truth unpalatable. So it is now—I will not convinceanyone to surrender to you, nor to any Norman, for I would never be able to wash the blood from my hands.”
“And have you tried washing them today, milady?” Soft reminder, brutal in its way, and she steeled herself.
“Say plainly what you mean. Do you have proof of guilt? Have you come to arrest me?”
Strangely placid, she waited for his affirmation. It did not come. He stared at her, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.
At last he said, “No, I think not.”
7
Tré watched emotions flicker across her face. It would avail him little if he arrested her. He had hoped she would be more … amenable. She was not. The disquiet and dread that first attended her had vanished, replaced by stubborn anger. Determined rebellion.
It was faintly surprising to discover a facet of his character he had never suspected: He admired a female with courage enough to defy him. Not foolish defiance that would gain nothing, but calm, intelligent disregard for consequence that defined great strength of character. It
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