Snow in July (9 page)

She was there. So was Ulfric. The mere sight of them standing together was enough to make Alain’s blood pound. He darted behind a massive bush and parted the leafy canes to improve his view.

“I cannot, Ulfric.” Frowning, she turned her back on the warrior, arms folded. “But I do appreciate your offer.”

Offer? Of marriage? Alain glared at Ulfric. Hadn’t Thane Waldron made the situation plain enough to him? If not, then Alain—no,
Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre
would.

“It shall always stand, Kendra.” Ulfric turned her to face him and cupped her chin. She didn’t resist. Ulfric closed his eyes as if savoring the touch of her skin. “Remember that.”

Ulfric lowered his hand, and Kendra nodded once. Alain relaxed fists he hadn’t realized he had clenched. Ulfric bowed and took his leave, angling toward the stables, never once glancing in Alain’s direction.

Too bad.

Eyes closed, he took several slow breaths. Woo the lady, he reminded himself; don’t lock horns with the competition. He suspected that she would not be won with courtly manners, a disarming smile, and flattering words, although until he could learn more about her, those paltry tools would have to suffice.

The breeze freshened, bearing the scent of roses. Alain opened his eyes. In the strengthening light, he noticed the closest blossoms were red. Dewdrops glistened upon the bloom he selected, like tears on her cheek.

Kendra had moved to a bench toward the back of the garden and was sitting hunched over, forearms resting on her thighs, her hair a golden curtain obscuring her face, her hands stretched before her as though cradling something. Whether she was weeping or praying, the distance made it impossible to ascertain. He approached her slowly, as if she were a skittish mare, concealing the rose behind his back.

When he had come within a few paces, she raised her head, straightened, and slipped a silver pendant into the neck of her gown. Her eyes were dry, but their secrets had returned.

He bowed. “My humblest apologies for disturbing you, my lady.”

“Not at all.” The brief smile illuminating her face encouraged him to draw closer. Clasping her hands, she averted her gaze. “It is I who should apologize to you, Squire—” She looked at him, brow furrowed, and spread her hands. “Please forgive me. Sir Ruaud mentioned your name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

Forgive her? Her innocent, winsome expression made it easy to forgive everything she’d done…or ever would do. He grinned. “Alain Bellefleur. My friends call me Alain.” He shortened the vowels and stressed the second syllable in the Norman manner, “Ah-
len
.”

“Alain.” She repeated it several times as though sampling a new delicacy, making him yearn to sample her delicate lips. “A fine name.” She captured his gaze with hers and sighed. “I apologize for my rudeness, Squire Alain. The outburst was an accident. Sir Robert’s brooch reminded me of…something. I meant no offense to him.” Her eyes darkened with the intensity of some emotion he couldn’t fathom. “Or to you.”

More secrets. So be it. As a scout he was accustomed to ferreting out secrets. “None taken, my lady. And to prove it”—he withdrew the rose from behind his back—“here is my gift to you.”

She stared at the rose so long he feared she wasn’t going to accept it. Finally, she did. Their fingers briefly touched. Blushing, she smiled shyly, inhaling the blossom’s scent. “Thank you, Squire Alain. It’s perfect.”

Before he could respond, the chapel’s bell tolled prime. Just as well. It delivered him from the temptation of resorting to insipid flattery. This woman didn’t need his words; she needed action. He offered his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting my lady Kendra to church?”

She stood, sorrow again invading her gaze. “You are very kind, but—” Her chin began to quiver. She turned to retrieve something from the granite bench. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot.”

Her head bowed, she slipped past him and hastened toward the church. He was too startled to follow her. In her fist, beside the blossom he had given her, she clutched a white rose.

A gift from Ulfric, or had she picked it herself? If so, why?

More to the point, why had she rejected his harmless offer of escort as though he’d suggested something improper?

And why, he hurled at the brightening heavens, gritting his teeth and knotting his fists, did it hurt so damned much?

AS THE chapel’s reassuring walls closed about her, Kendra felt the thundering of her heart subside. Even if the squire did choose to follow her into this house of God, she would be safe under the watchful eyes of those who had loved and protected her for as long as she could remember.

But no place on earth could offer her sanctuary from the raging confusion of her thoughts.

Needles of pain prompted her to look down. One by one, she unfolded the fingers clenching the roses’ stems. Blood dotted her palm, blood the same hue as the rose Squire Alain had given her. Recollection of his captivating smile warmed her cheeks.

No doubt he believed she had rejected him again. She tried to make herself believe it too.

Sighing, she approached Del’s sarcophagus. When she picked up the older flowers, their blossoms burst apart, releasing their perfume and scattering red and white petals across the tomb’s lid and onto the floor with a soft rustling. Too emotionally drained to do otherwise, she left the mingled petals where they lay.

With the priest’s prayers but an echo in the back of her mind, she gazed at the white rose she had chosen this morning. Guilt had dictated the color: for failing to save Del’s life, for blaming her mother for her failure and her father for her marital predicament, for her ineffectual prayers, for her reaction to the brooch’s de Bellencombre device, and for how her reaction had affected the man who had presented the gift to her.

She twined the stems together, feeling a fresh surge of guilt for—nay. The squire was a Norman. She could not permit herself to become attracted to him.

The more she tried to shove him from her mind, the more persistently he invaded it.

Perhaps Ulfric had been correct in suggesting that she accompany him back to Thornhill to enjoy a respite from the pressures of awaiting her Norman bridegroom. As Ulfric had noted, it would be a fitting turnabout for Sir Robert to be obliged to wait for her.

The suggestion had appealed to her for that very reason, but instinct had warned her against acting upon it. To sort through her emotional turmoil, she needed to spend time away from all the men in her life: her father, her cousin, her bridegroom…

She kissed both blooms and laid them on Del’s effigy.

Above all, she needed to distance herself from the two men exerting the most influence upon her, Del and Squire Alain.

Kendra practiced the routine of worship while pondering her goal. She couldn’t stay away too long or folks would start to worry, especially her father. Perhaps even—nay! She must forget the squire, but a short excursion would have to suffice. But to where? For what purpose? Disappearing for too long a period without adequate reason would raise questions she had no wish to address.

Stymied, she returned her attention to Father Æthelward, who was preaching on charity. Charity…alms, of course, presented the perfect solution. The outlying farms would benefit from the receipt of medicines, and the people always appreciated a visit from their thane’s daughter. She owned a full array of treatments for wounds and burns, sprains and breaks, fevers and chills, disorders of the stomach and bowels, and many other ailments. Anything she didn’t possess she could procure from the Edgarburh apothecary, and if she ran short, she’d make arrangements to return with more.

For the first time in almost a year, her smile felt deep and genuine. A few days spent solving others’ problems promised the best way to make her forget her own.

She could scarcely wait to get started.

Her sole regret, she grumbled to herself much later, while stopped for a meal in the shade of a birch copse after leaving the third farm, was her decision to bring Rowena. The woman’s assistance had proven valuable for brewing tisanes and binding wounds, but Kendra wished she had selected a companion less prone to babble about every man within a fortnight’s ride of Edgarburh.

Concentrating on her light meal of dried beef, bread, and ale, given by a grateful mother who claimed her son had been cured of a fever by the touch of Kendra’s hand, helped her ignore Rowena’s prattle. The mother’s claims had disturbed Kendra more profoundly than she had first realized. For if she had healed the boy, either by touch or by the herbs’ natural powers, then why couldn’t she have healed her own mother or brother?

Not to mention the fact that the Church discouraged such claims with the threat of excommunication—or worse, which explained why Edwina had never spoken to Kendra of her gift.

Kendra had refused to leave the farmhouse before exacting a vow from the boy’s mother to keep her opinions about Kendra’s miraculous healing powers to herself.

“And that gorgeous Norman squire…” Spewing crumbs, Rowena uttered a noise halfway between a sigh and a moan. She brushed her mouth with the back of her hand and grinned at Kendra. “What do you think of him, my lady?”

Kendra looked away, seeking the men her father had sent with her. The fyrd veteran, Cæwlin, had taken the much younger Oswy to the far side of the hillock to spar with their swords, leaving no hope of a diversion from that quarter.

She stared crossly at their horses as they cropped grass a few paces away. Because she was trying not to think of the squire, her nerves felt bowstring taut. She leveled her glare at Rowena. “I am duty-bound to wed another. What am I supposed to think of him?”

A wounded look rippled across Rowena’s features. “Your pardon, my lady. I meant no harm, truly.” Glancing down, Rowena chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes widened, and the chewing stilled. “My lady, do you think—” She slid a shy, apologetic look toward Kendra. “Could there be a chance he might notice me?”

According to the servants’ gossip, which Kendra tried to ignore but wasn’t always successful, Rowena’s long auburn hair and pleasantly shaped figure attracted the gaze of every man she met, providing Kendra wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. Studying the woman now, she could well believe the rumors.

However, she suspected that Squire Alain was not just “any man.” His poise, manners, and language skills bespoke service to kings, not the boorish knight whom he had followed to Edgarburh.

Who was this man?

Mayhap the squire had done something to displease King William, who had ordered him into Sir Ruaud’s service as punishment. She suppressed a snort and downed a mouthful of ale. As entertaining as that idea might be, it didn’t fit what she’d observed of the Normans’ easy camaraderie. Nor did it make sense that he owed Sir Ruaud a debt. They behaved more like friends than master and servant. Kinsmen, then?

A thought jarred her. She hid her reactions behind another swig of ale.

Squire Alain probably was already involved with another woman; if not married, then surely betrothed. Kendra wasn’t prepared for the rush of jealousy, and the ale soured in her mouth. She swallowed hard. But if he had another woman, why was he making such blatant attempts to flirt with Kendra?

Was he a rogue who used his charm and physical appeal to conquer women?

An even more disturbing idea struck her like a slap in the face. Had Sir Robert sent Squire Alain to test her steadfastness?

She resolved to be doubly mindful of her words and deeds around him.

’Twas a precaution she had no wish to take.

Kendra engrossed herself in removing a pebble from her shoe, wishing Squire Alain could be as easily dislodged from her mind. Realizing Rowena was silent for the first time all day, she glanced at the woman, whose eager expression reminded her that she owed the maidservant an answer.

Would the squire notice Rowena and be attracted to her? Kendra suspected not, but she replied, “I hope so.”

After replacing her shoe, she finished her ale and sent Rowena to fill the skin with water from the nearby stream. Humming, the maidservant glided off, hips swaying as though she were practicing her wiles for her next meeting with the Norman squire. With a smile and brief shake of her head, Kendra reached for her saddle pack to assess its contents. She still possessed a reasonable supply of dried elder, comfrey, chamomile, linden, willow bark, and lady’s mantle, though the ground valerian root was almost gone. Salves also had been in high demand, especially those for fighting wound fevers. She gazed sunward. Time aplenty to visit at least two more farms on this, the eve of the longest day of the year, before finding a place to retire for the night.

The vibrating ground alerted her to the presence of riders. The copse crowned a hillock yielding a fair view of the stream and surrounding pastures, and she located the riders. They were headed straight for her position. Cæwlin and Oswy stopped sparring, weapons still drawn, to watch the horsemen approach. Kendra squinted into the distance but couldn’t recognize them. There seemed to be five or six. Men from the fyrd, she presumed. Or mayhap her father was showing Sir Ruaud the estate, although why they were approaching from the west, when Edgarburh lay miles to the east, puzzled her.