A Knight's Vow Part 20

"Teach me a few songs," he commanded, forgetting that he was a supplicant, a gypsy wanderer, not a

marquis used to having commands immediately obeyed.

The startled look in her eyes told him he had made a mistake. He continued awkwardly, "I also need a few more lessons in..."

"Humility," she finished.

He couldn't stop the small smile he knew was forming. "Humility," he confirmed.

"A smile helps, too," she suggested.

"I've been told I am not very accomplished at that either," he admitted wryly.

"It is really not that hard."

"Is it not, mistress?"

"Can you not think of something fine? Like a sunrise? Or a pool like this one? Or a sunset?"

Her face had lit as if that very sun was s.h.i.+ning on it. He had never seen anyone who took such joy in

simple things. To him, those images held different meanings. A sunrise meant a new battle, sunset the

coming of night and danger, and water had to be crossed usually at the most inopportune time.

But he did look up and consider her words. The rising sun sprinkled the water and trees with drops of brilliance, and he felt it against his face, warming him.

Or was it the woman who warmed him?

Was she a woman? In the boy's clothing, she'd looked no more than twelve or thirteen. But when her

cap had fallen yesterday and her hair floated around her face like a halo, she'd looked very much a woman.

He told himself not to think such things. She must be in service. He was enough of a lord to know that

men of his rank did not marry servants. King Henry would not be pleased, and Henry's favor meant a great deal to him. It meant keeping his holdings. And, quite possibly, his head.

"You are looking at me, my lord, not the fine things to inspire you."

"You do not think you can inspire someone?" he asked.

Her face turned a rose color. "Oh, no, my lord. I know I am plain."

He wanted to reach over and touch her face, to see whether it was truly as smooth as it looked. He wanted to pluck off the ridiculous cap and let the hair flow again. He wanted to tempt a smile from her face and see whether she was really as pretty as he thought she might be.

He could do none of those things. He had always honored women, as his mother had taught him. He'd tried to be fair and honest even with the women he paid for favors. And he knew from the stirring in his loins that if he touched her now he might well not be able to stop.

Duncan knew nothing about her, not whether she had a man of her own. He could not imagine that she did not. Her voice alone would be a siren's song. And yet she obviously did not believe herself attractive.

He shook such thoughts from his mind. He knew how unwise it would be to love-and marry-a commoner. The king would most certainly disapprove. Henry Tudor had himself, in fact, wanted to find a wife for Duncan, wanted to engineer an alliance with a Yorkist family. For Duncan to take a servant as wife would be a direct insult to the crown. He had pledged to marry for love, but he knew with all the knowledge of his thirty-two years that it had to be a woman of the n.o.bility.

Why was he even thinking such thoughts? A chance encounter. A few lessons. Then he would be on his way.

Why then had she haunted his sleep last night and made him eager for the dawn?

His gaze met hers, and the throbbing inside him grew stronger. A catch in his heart stunned him.

Those eyes were so clear, so full of lively intelligence. So probing.

He tried again to dismiss all these observations. "Where should we start?"

"Mayhap with a smile," she said with a small one of her own. It lit her face, just as he expected. It also lit

something inside him.

"You must learn to give it freely," she added, watching him carefully. "No one wants to listen to a dour minstrel."

"They do not?"

"Nay. They want to feel happy. Now try," she commanded.

She looked so serious, so dedicated to the task at hand. He knew when the side of his mouth started

moving in an upward direction. Now, how long had it been since that had happened? Not since so many battles and deaths had hardened his heart, encasing it like a band of steel.

"That is better," she judged, "but mayhap a little wider."

Mischief sparkled in her eyes, and his heart took a sudden leap.

She took in hand her own lute, which had been strung around her back. "Follow me," she said.

She started to play a wistful sounding tune, and he took up his own instrument and tried to follow her fingers. Despite the quality of the lute, the sound his fingers made did not have the light, magical sound of hers.

"Gently," she said. "Just barely touch the strings. Do not attack them."

In minutes, his fingers moved as lightly as hers. She stopped and listened to him, tilting her head in a way

he found altogether too beguiling. Her mouth stretched into a quizzical smile. "Where did you learn to play?"

"A comrade. A Welshman."

"Did he ever smile?"

"All the time."

"Could you not have learned that from him."

"I did not think I was so... inept."

She threw back her head and laughed. No mockery. Just gentle amus.e.m.e.nt. An amus.e.m.e.nt she invited

him to share with her. "I cannot believe you feel... inept often."He frowned. Unfortunately he had been inept too many times. He had been arrogant and sure he was right. He had endangered his guardsmen more times than he wanted to remember. He'd had to learn caution.

Her face bent over the lute. "This is a song by Bernard de Ventadour, a protege of Eleanor of Aquitaine,"

she said.

The words flowed over him. "When I hear in the wood the song of birds which brings sweetness to my heart..."

A month ago he would have laughed at such sentimentality. Now he heard the birds in his heart as well as

in the trees. Both seemed to be singing along with her. The morning was brighter than any he had ever

seen, the sky bluer and the sun warmer. Every one of his senses was heightened.

He hummed along with her, and she turned to him. "You sing the words."

He had not objected to singing songs of war. He hesitated, though, at singing songs about birds and love and flowers. It was not manly.

But she had an expectant look on her face.

Rhys had said he had a pleasant enough voice. But then Rhys was a friend, and his critics along this particular journey had been many and insulting. He'd wanted to take his sword to some of them. After all, they had been talking so loudly and drinking so much, how could they know whether he was an adequate musician or not?

He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

"I will go if you do not try," she said.

He had a memory for words and music. Her threat was enough to prompt him to start the song. If he made a fool of himself, it would be no more than he had done in the last three halls. G.o.d help him if any remembered that lone musician. He had thought only of the moment, not the future. He cringed at the thought of confronting one of his erstwhile employers at court.

He strummed the strings of the lute, and his voice drifted across the river. He did not look at her. He did not want to see the same scorn he had seen on other faces. In truth, he was about ready to take his poor excuse of a horse and head back home.

He looked at her. No disgust in her eyes. No disappointment. Instead, her eyes regarded him with a certain wonder.

No one had ever looked like that at him before. Certainly no woman. No fear. No awe. No greed.He suddenly wished he was the man he was pretending to be. A man free of responsibilities, of duties...He stopped suddenly. He reached out and touched her face. His fingers caressed her skin. It was as soft as it looked. Soft and ever so seductive.

Her eyes widened, the gold flecks more evident in the gray-green depths. He traced a path along her

cheekbone. Then, unable to help himself, he leaned toward her and his lips met hers in a whisper-light kiss.

Her lips responded for the slightest measure of time, then he felt a s.h.i.+ver run through her. Before he could

move, she was on her feet, backing away.