“Oh! Err…yes, I…thank you…”
Had she still been that young girl in her father’s house, she absolutely should not have let a strange man wipe a cloth over her bodice. But she was a grown woman, dammit, and there was nothing remotely erotic about scrubbing out a stain. Even if it meant that he was bent over her, and that she could feel his breath across the tops of her breasts. Or that he had his other hand on her waist, as if they were dancing, to hold the fabric in position.
“It’s fortunate that this wine is so weak,” he said, darting a quick smile up at her. “If they were serving the good stuff, it would be another matter.”
“If they were serving the good stuff, I would be much less put out by the stain,” she said. “At least I could drown my sorrows that way.”
He laughed. “Fortunately, my lady, we’ve caught it before it set.” He stepped back, dropping his hands, and Wren felt a pang of disappointment.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I have other gowns, of course, but I suspect that the laundresses
in this place are overwhelmed.” Was he handsome? She had never been a good judge of such things.
Being surrounded by a great many large, muscular men who treated you as a younger sister meant that you developed a somewhat skewed view of masculine beauty. She thought he might be, though.
Certainly he was attractive, which was something altogether different.
“Dreadfully so,” he agreed. What is he agreeing to? Oh, right, laundry. Something like that. His dark eyes held hers, and there was a slight smile on his lips.
“I…ah…” She could feel herself flushing. I am a grown woman, dammit. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Wren. Of Sedgemoor.” She thrust out a hand, realized it was the one holding the fan, and switched them awkwardly.
He took her hand in his. His fingers were warm and ungloved. She could feel calluses at the fingertips, but not at the base, where a sword’s would be. A musician, perhaps? She wasn’t sure.
She had expected him to bow over her hand, as men were supposed to do, but instead he brought it to his lips. The actual kiss was so fleeting that she barely felt it, but he rubbed his thumb across her palm in an unexpected caress before he released it. “Lady Wren,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I very much hope that I will see you again…soon.”
“Yes,” said Wren faintly. “I…err…I’d like that…”
He bowed to her then, and smiled as if she was the only woman in the entire room, before he turned to go. Wren watched him leave, then turned herself. The nearby trio of girls led by the one in sea-green were throwing hard-eyed looks in her direction. None of them were giggling now.
“I think,” said Wren, almost to herself, “that I will go and change my gown.” And she went out the door, feeling a great deal lighter than she had in days.
TWENTY-ONE
MARGUERITE WAS SUPPOSED to be doing paperwork, but she had encountered a definite source of distraction. Namely her bodyguard.
She hadn’t minded when Shane was sharpening weaponry or examining his armor or whatever he had been doing by the fire for the last few days. Honestly, she found the small, lethal noises of the whetstone rather soothing after the initial startlement, and there was a certain pleasure in doing your work while someone nearby was doing theirs. The silence had been almost companionable, and when she broke it, frequently, to mutter to herself about names and invitations and who was allied with who, he didn’t keep interrupting her to ask what she was saying.
No, the problem was that apparently Shane had finished doing all those small lethal things for the time being, and was reading a book. Which, again, would not have been a problem, except that he had taken out a small pair of spectacles and balanced them on the end of his nose.
It was adorable.
He turned a page, the firelight highlighting the curve of his neck and shoulder and winking off the small lenses as he turned his head. Worse, she was pretty sure that she knew the book he was reading, and it had been good. She’d enjoyed it. She had to stifle the urge to ask if he’d gotten to the one bit yet.
Really, there ought to be laws against this sort of thing.
She could have handled him being pretty. Marguerite had met a great many pretty men, and most of them weren’t worth the trouble. And she could have handled him being brave and trustworthy and responsible, because there were plenty of people like that in the world too, and you just learned to grit your teeth and deal with it.
She could even—probably—have handled companionable silence. She’d come close with Grace, although she rather suspected that she’d driven the other woman up the wall with all her muttering, and…well, all right, Grace was her dearest friend in all the world, but that was fine. There was no reason Marguerite couldn’t also have a companionable silence with a man. She was allowed to be friends with men. Even pretty men. Even pretty, brave, trustworthy, responsible men with good taste in books.
Adorable was a step too far, though. She could not be expected to work under such conditions.
A lifetime or so ago, Grace had asked her if she was attracted to a paladin named Stephen.
Marguerite remembered replying, enumerating his virtues, and laughing, “What would I do with a man like that?”
The answer, as far as Shane was concerned, was apparently “very, very bad things.”
Ironically, it was Stephen who had convinced her that paladins were worth bothering with.
Merchant operatives rarely crossed paths with holy warriors. She had spent most of her life believing that the brightest thing about most paladins was the polish on their armor. Then she and Grace had been thrown together with one, investigating a poisoning that turned out to be someone else’s political maneuvering. And she’d realized, to her mild chagrin, that Stephen was not stupid, except perhaps when it came to talking to women. He was straightforward and trustworthy and uncomplicated, which people often mistook for simplicity, but he still understood how people worked.
Her bodyguards were cut from the same cloth, she suspected. Perhaps all the Saint of Steel’s people were. Wren was young and na?ve and wore her heart on her sleeve, but having a whole legion of lethal older brothers would probably do that to you, even if you had been married before. Shane…
well, the Bishop had certainly been right. He was a much keener observer than she would ever have guessed. In another life, he might have made a fine spy. Except that like many trustworthy people, he was too trusting, and honor had never been something Marguerite worried about much.