may have the free use of my instrument so long as we remain at Rosecliffe.”
“Why, thank you.” She took it carefully into her slender hands. “You must allow me to repay your generosity.”
He gave her a short bow. “Your pleasure is payment enough,” he murmured as he took his leave of her. But soon enough she would repay him, and very well, he told himself as he quit the hall. Three weeks to make Rosecliffe his own.
And the daughter of Rosecliffe? a sharp voice in his head prodded.
He heard the soft notes of the gittern and heard her humming
once more. Mayhap he would make her his, as well. To take the innocence of his enemy’s daughter would be to strike a mortal blow to FitzHugh’s black heart.
And he’d been waiting to do that for twenty years.
FIVE
ISOLDE WOKE UP SMILING AND KNEW AT ONCE WHY.
Work on the chapel was complete and today she would finish the crucifix. The workmen would move on to the great hall, washing the walls, and painting them in the simple pattern of knots she had designed. By week’s end the seamstresses would complete the new hangings for above the mantel and flanking the entry doors. Her labors were beginning to bear fruit.
More important than all of those, however, was one simple fact: Reevius had agreed to teach her to play the gittern.
She lay still in the deep feather bed, flat on her back, staring up at the heavy damask bed curtains she’d embroidered herself. Purple and a deep forest-green, the bedhangings were her favorite colors. Yet though she stared, she did not really see them. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She tried to understand what had happened to her last night. A group of minstrels had played for their supper, a group not so different from scores of other such groups who’d come to Rosecliffe.
Yet to her they had been completely different.
A giant. A dwarf. A trained dog.
Then she groaned and closed her eyes, chagrined by her own dishonesty. It was neither Linus nor Gandy who made these minstrels different to her, nor the little dog Cidu. The truth was, it was Reevius. He was the reason she was smiling, even though she could not fathom why. But fathom it or not, she could hardly deny the truth. Not to herself anyway.
A simple minstrel of unknown origin, possessing nothing but a gittern, broad shoulders, and an enthralling voice, had captured her imagination. Skinny Mortimer Halyard had not done it. Nor had any of the several knights and lords’ sons who had made their way to Rosecliffe over the past several years at her father’s behest. But this man whose face she’d not yet fully seen, and who had not even behaved in a particularly friendly manner—he was the one who put this smile on her face and this eagerness in her heart.
She sighed and rolled onto her stomach, feeling twitchy all over. It was ludicrous, of course. An itinerant musician was hardly the sort of man that should appeal to a lord’s daughter, like her. But he did appeal to her. And when he had sat down next to her and guided her hands …
A delicious quiver snaked down her spine and deep into her belly. No other man had ever made her feel that way before.
Then again very few men, save her relatives, had ever touched her hand for so prolonged a contact, and in so familiar a fashion.
She rolled onto her back again, and opened her eyes, staring blindly above her. Was that it? Was the confined life she led at Rosecliffe the reason she’d become so affected by this aloof, bearded minstrel?
She flung back the marten coverlet, dismayed by her own perversity. In truth, this was her father’s fault. If not for his obstinance, she would be in London by now meeting the many important personages gathering there from throughout the kingdom. Had he not been so rigid about Mortimer, she might already have met several eligible young men, men as tall and broad shouldered and bold of eye as any traveling minstrel. Indeed, she might already have found one perfectly suited to her desires.
She
“Why, thank you.” She took it carefully into her slender hands. “You must allow me to repay your generosity.”
He gave her a short bow. “Your pleasure is payment enough,” he murmured as he took his leave of her. But soon enough she would repay him, and very well, he told himself as he quit the hall. Three weeks to make Rosecliffe his own.
And the daughter of Rosecliffe? a sharp voice in his head prodded.
He heard the soft notes of the gittern and heard her humming
once more. Mayhap he would make her his, as well. To take the innocence of his enemy’s daughter would be to strike a mortal blow to FitzHugh’s black heart.
And he’d been waiting to do that for twenty years.
FIVE
ISOLDE WOKE UP SMILING AND KNEW AT ONCE WHY.
Work on the chapel was complete and today she would finish the crucifix. The workmen would move on to the great hall, washing the walls, and painting them in the simple pattern of knots she had designed. By week’s end the seamstresses would complete the new hangings for above the mantel and flanking the entry doors. Her labors were beginning to bear fruit.
More important than all of those, however, was one simple fact: Reevius had agreed to teach her to play the gittern.
She lay still in the deep feather bed, flat on her back, staring up at the heavy damask bed curtains she’d embroidered herself. Purple and a deep forest-green, the bedhangings were her favorite colors. Yet though she stared, she did not really see them. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She tried to understand what had happened to her last night. A group of minstrels had played for their supper, a group not so different from scores of other such groups who’d come to Rosecliffe.
Yet to her they had been completely different.
A giant. A dwarf. A trained dog.
Then she groaned and closed her eyes, chagrined by her own dishonesty. It was neither Linus nor Gandy who made these minstrels different to her, nor the little dog Cidu. The truth was, it was Reevius. He was the reason she was smiling, even though she could not fathom why. But fathom it or not, she could hardly deny the truth. Not to herself anyway.
A simple minstrel of unknown origin, possessing nothing but a gittern, broad shoulders, and an enthralling voice, had captured her imagination. Skinny Mortimer Halyard had not done it. Nor had any of the several knights and lords’ sons who had made their way to Rosecliffe over the past several years at her father’s behest. But this man whose face she’d not yet fully seen, and who had not even behaved in a particularly friendly manner—he was the one who put this smile on her face and this eagerness in her heart.
She sighed and rolled onto her stomach, feeling twitchy all over. It was ludicrous, of course. An itinerant musician was hardly the sort of man that should appeal to a lord’s daughter, like her. But he did appeal to her. And when he had sat down next to her and guided her hands …
A delicious quiver snaked down her spine and deep into her belly. No other man had ever made her feel that way before.
Then again very few men, save her relatives, had ever touched her hand for so prolonged a contact, and in so familiar a fashion.
She rolled onto her back again, and opened her eyes, staring blindly above her. Was that it? Was the confined life she led at Rosecliffe the reason she’d become so affected by this aloof, bearded minstrel?
She flung back the marten coverlet, dismayed by her own perversity. In truth, this was her father’s fault. If not for his obstinance, she would be in London by now meeting the many important personages gathering there from throughout the kingdom. Had he not been so rigid about Mortimer, she might already have met several eligible young men, men as tall and broad shouldered and bold of eye as any traveling minstrel. Indeed, she might already have found one perfectly suited to her desires.
She
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