A Whisper Of Rosemary

“Leave me be!” She wrenched out of his grip. She could have fled, running down the hall away from him…but she did not. Nay, and Maris would never understand why she did such a foolish thing and stay.



“Leave you be?” he said. His voice had changed and he was looking at her with such intensity that Maris suddenly felt weak. And flushed. And…expectant. “Do you not think I’ve tried that simple solution?”



When he stepped toward her again, she found that she still couldn’t move. Her heart was in her throat, pounding sharply and rapidly while her breathing turned shallow.



“I’ve been waiting quite some time to exact my vengeance for the dirty trick you played on me at Breakston,” he said, holding her gaze with his, the scuff of his boot brushing her hem. “And since an apology does not seem to be forthcoming, I may have to demand a different sort of boon, my lady.” His lips softened as he searched her eyes with his own. “Aye. I believe you owe me a boon.”



“Dirick—”



“’Tis sweet to hear my name on your lips, Maris.”



Then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her to him. As their bodies collided gently, his arms went around her and Maris closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, he was devouring her mouth, tasting it as if he’d been without food for a fortnight. And as she slackened in his arms, and began to kiss him back, she felt the low rumble of a moan from deep in his chest as his arms tightened.



His rough, calloused hands tenderly smoothed over the sensitive line of her jaw, brushing their knuckles against her ear, trailing a fingertip down the sleek line of her neck and leaving a shiver in its wake. They plucked at the veil that covered her thick braids, freeing them from their confines and loosing them from the intricate plaits that held them prisoner.



Maris sighed against his mouth, against the warmth and sleekness of his kiss, the insistent delving and dancing of their tongues. He smelled of wine and smoke from the fire, of horses and leather, of wool and a tinge of sweat, of…maleness. She could not help herself, but reached to touch the thick, dark hair that had come loose from its leather thong and found that it was heavy and soft. With light fingertips, she tucked the lock behind his ear and allowed her hand to fall along his warm neck, where a pulse pounded strongly, and rested her palm on the plateau of his chest. The stone wall was cold against her back, and the heat from his body burning against her breasts, hips, and thighs. A sharp pleasant twinge surprised her when one large hand slid up to cup one of her breasts, closing over its firmness, to thumb over her thrusting nipple, to gently massage its heaviness.



“’Sblood,” he breathed into her ear, his words warm and rough. “How easily you make me lose my anger, lovely witch. And try as I may, as far as I travel, I cannot seem to banish you from my mind.” He pulled away enough to look down into her eyes.



His gaze was hot and dark, and Maris’s insides fluttered, bursting into a sharp pang of pleasure and desire. “Dirick,” she managed to whisper before he pushed her against the wall again, his mouth covering hers.



This time it was she who pulled away, for the depth and strength of her response to this man frightened her. Maris stood motionless as her breathing began to slow, as the world around her began to come back into focus.



“You say you came to save me,” her voice was husky, “yet I do not know that the danger has passed even now.” She turned, bending to pick up the veil lying crushed on the floor, stunned by the desire she’d felt…and afraid of what it meant. Even if it were more than mere passion, they could never act on it.



Thus Maris forced her voice into steadiness, hardness. “It was not so great a boon you asked, Sir Dirick Derkland. Oh, aye, I have learned your true name by now. Nay, it was no great boon you’ve taken, for I have been groped by no less than two other men…both of whom, verily, had more claim to do so than yourself.”



He stepped back as if slapped. “I am well aware that I have no claim to you…nor—” He paused, then continued, “Do not misunderstand, nor do I wish to claim you.” Dirick stepped aside, his movements rigid and his face dark. “I’ll not bother you with my presence any longer than to see you safely to your chamber.” He bent to pick up the dagger lying harmlessly in the pool of light.



When he straightened, the fierce look in his eyes was enough to make her back away. All at once, those grey eyes glittered with an anger and hatred that she had never seen before. “What is it?” she breathed, her hand going to her throat as his hand shot out to grab her arm.



“Where did you get this?” His face filled her vision, fingers tight over her skin. “Tell me, where did you get this dagger?”



“I—’twas Papa’s,” she stammered, drawing as far away as his grasp would allow. “Release me.”



“How did he come by it?” Dirick ignored her demand, staring at the silver handled dagger as if he’d seen a ghost.



Maris tried to jerk away, but her puny strength was naught against his ferocity, and this time, he was not playing. “I do not know! What is it to you?” she replied, becoming truly afraid. “You are bruising me, Dirick.”



With an oath, as if he’d just realized his strength, he released her arm. Maris backed away, rubbing the spot he’d gripped, staring at him in horror. What had befallen him?



“Where did you get this dagger?” he asked again, controlled but still intent upon the small weapon.



“I’ve told you—’twas my papa’s. I found it in a trunk when I packed to come to court,” Maris explained. Still wary of his sudden temper, she sidled along the wall.



“Do not fear, I’ll not harm you again,” he told her wearily. Then he looked at her with that intensity again. “If I replace it for you, may I keep this?”



She shook her head. “Nay, please do not ask that of me. It’s one of few things I have left from Papa.” She knew that he would keep it if he liked, so when he handed it back to her, she breathed a sigh of relief.



“I did not ever express my sorrow at your father’s death,” Dirick said, his face grave. “He was a good man. He reminded me of my own father.”



Maris nodded, sudden tears choking her throat. She’d become adept at stopping the tears of grief, now, more than three moons since Papa’s death…but the pain had not lessened. “I miss him terribly,” she admitted.



“As I do my father.”



“I did not know you’ve lost your father as well,” she said. It struck her at that moment that she knew nothing of his family or of whence he came. Only that the king seemed to place great trust in him.



“A knife such as this,” Dirick said, “the workmanship of which I’ve never seen before or since, was found at the scene of a murder…and that murder scene was identical to the one at which my father was found.” Dirick’s eyes held a sober pain. “At the king’s command, I’m searching for the man who has now killed seven people, leaving behind three scenes of the most senseless slaughter in England.”



“I’ve heard naught of such killings,” she told him.



He nodded. “And I trow you’ll hear little else. Do you not speak of this to anyone until the man is found…I do not wish him to know that I am on his trail. Come,” he was suddenly abrupt, “I will take you to your chamber.”



Ignoring Victor’s cloak, which still lay in its ignoble heap on the cold floor, Maris turned, sweeping her skirts, and without further conversation, allowed him to return her to her chamber.



CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN



“Lady Maris, her majesty requests that you attend her.” A page stood in the doorway of the ladies’ solar, giving a slight bow. “She asks that you bring your bag of herbal medicines, for she is in need of your skills.”



Maris sprang to her feet, at once nervous that she would be asked to personally attend the queen, and grateful that she would have something to do other than embroidering in a room filled with chattering women. Judith had been smart enough to beg off from sewing tasks today in favor of taking her gyrfalcon for a brief hunt, leaving Maris with the idea that mayhap she would acquire herself a hunting falcon.



“Please tell her majesty that I will be at her service anon,” she told the page.



He gave another bow and remained at the door. “I will take you to her, lady.”



With a quick smile to the other women, who looked on with interest, Maris dropped her embroidery in a heap on a stool next to her chair, hoping to not see it again before the day was over. “I shall meet you at supper,” she told Madelyne, who was busily stitching a surcoat for Lord Gavin. Without waiting for a reply, she swept from the room and directed the page to her chamber.



Within, she unlocked one of the trunks she’d brought from Langumont, retrieving a well worn leather sack with dried herbs packed in wrappings of linen, wool, or leather. Digging deeper, she pulled a wooden box, tied shut with a silken tie, from the bottom of the trunk. The box held a mortar and pestle, tinctures and oils, knives and spoons and small wooden bowls for mixing. Though it was likely that the queen already had such tools available to her, Maris felt more comfortable with her own equipment and was determined to be prepared for any request Eleanor should make.



The trip to the queen’s presence was not long, but it was complicated, and Maris soon lost her way. Not for the first time did she wonder that a young boy could find his way with such ease. At last, they reached a large oaken door with heavy metal slats bracing it, and ornate carvings on the wood framing the doorway.



The page knocked on the heavy oak, then, although Maris heard nothing from within, bowed yet again, and gestured for her to enter.



She opened the door and stepped in.



Eleanor sat in a large, well cushioned chair lodged in a far corner. A small table next to her held a pitcher, two goblets, and a silver platter loaded with cheese and bread. The fireplace, near enough the chair to cast shadows from its flames but far enough that there was no danger of skirts catching afire, contained a crackling blaze. Another chair, positioned to face that which the queen used, was not so well cushioned; though the pillow on its seat was generous enough. A thick, heavy tapestry covered the floor, Maris noted in surprise, having never seen such a luxury before, and more tapestries hung from the walls and over the arrow slits in the stone.