My Lady Imposter by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter

glory.
    “You do well enough,” he said. “But remember, Kathryn, these are but small fish. Sir Piers is the one we must net.”
    “But surely he would welcome a grandchild?” she retorted.
    He frowned, “Mayhap. But will his men-at-arms?”
    She worried over this a moment, but politics were still confusing to her, and she soon dismissed it for the gaiety of the dance.
    It was late when Wenna drew her aside to straighten her veil. When they returned, the music had ceased. Men were clustered about the huge fireplace, and Wenna went forward with a frown, her shoes gliding over the floor.
    Ralf turned at her inquiry, and the man beside him drew aside also. There were more men, strangers, by the hearth. Men in heavy cloaks, still flushed from the hard, cold ride to Pristine, men with steaming breath. A squire was kneeling, his uniform blue and gold, removing the spurs from the boots of the man in the fireside chair. A man Kathryn knew.
    Fair, tousled hair and keen blue eyes in a tanned, handsome face. He turned as she stopped, and seeing her frowned. His eyes skimmed over her in the time it might take to set arrow to bow and release it. And then, rising, he pushed the squire aside and strode towards her.
    “My Lady de Brusac!”
    His hand was cold, despite the roaring fire, and his lips were hard against her palm. She stared down at the thick, fair hair made untidy from the ride, at the broad shoulders and straight line of back, and wondered why her heart had suddenly begun to beat so hard. Wenna, over his shoulder, was frowning at her. She must speak. She must be cool and proud. She must play the princess now, more than ever. She hated him. She must remember just how much she hated him.
    “Sir Richard,” she said, disdainful though polite. “Are you tired after your journey?”
    He straightened, but retained her hand, and his eyes mocked her while his mouth laughed. She wished he would not stare so long; he made her as nervous as a bird, caged in a room full of cats.
    “I have ridden from London in two days, my lady. Other than that, I am not tired.”
    She turned away, and spied the young man who had first danced with her. He came to her like a hound to his master’s hand. The minstrel was singing again; she reached out her fingers to the boy as if to commence to dance.
    And as suddenly, Richard had taken them back and was smiling coolly down into her eyes. “I beg you will dance with me, Kathryn,” he said, gently chiding. “We have so much to talk of.”
    She longed to refuse him, to jerk away from him and scream like a hoyden. But she dared not. They were watching, and Tier life depended upon control. He saw her thoughts, however, and his fingers tightened:
    “So the lady doesn’t go so deep? Beneath it, you’re still a peasant.”
    “You must not so say,” she breathed, glancing around. But the few persons interested in observing them were not close enough to hear. He laughed softly.
    “And you’ve learned caution! Fear, as well, I think. You do right, Kathryn, to feel both. But they will think little of my importuning you— they are used to such things at Court.”
    She stared at his feet, not quite knowing how to answer, as they began to dance. Coming together, drawing apart, as the music progressed. Wenna swished past, and laughed, flirting, into Richard’s face. But Kathryn ignored her, her lip stuck out sulkily.
    “Do you know what that pretty pout of yours makes me long to do?”
    She looked up, startled. His eyes were sparkling, but whether with mockery or anger she was not sure. “Sir Richard?”
    “Ah, and it is ‘Sir’ Richard now. I prefer the other, but I would not have you struck for my preference. You did not ask me how my father did. No matter,” at her quick glance. “He is dead, and if I am not mourning for him I am at least a little sorry we did not get on as we might. Still, we made a sort of peace with each other, before the end. It is over.”
    They had reached the further