Last week we announced that Kathryn Le Veque’s Spectre of the Sword is our Romance of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the Romance category: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Romance excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded Spectre of the Sword, you’re in for a real treat:

Spectre of the Sword

by Kathryn Le Veque

4.6 stars – 69 Reviews

Kindle Price: $3.99

Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

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  And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:

Hanwell was a town inundated by the driving rain.  The streets were flooded and so were some of the houses.  As Rhys and Elizabeau entered the outskirts of the berg, some of the residents were bailing water out of their homes.  Doors were open and buckets were flying.  Rhys steered his charger clear of more flying water as they made their way down Argyle Street toward the northwestern edge of town.

The Blond Gazelle wasn’t hard to find. It was a brightly lit place with several drunken patrons lingering by the open door, soaked to the skin but not caring. They were having a marvelous time.  Rhys pulled the charger to a halt when he came to within several yards of the place, watching the activity for a moment before proceeding.  He wanted to make sure there were no obvious signs of John’s assassins.

Quietly, he directed his charger behind the inn and lowered Elizabeau into a huge puddle of horse piss and rain.  She sloshed her way out of it miserably as Rhys dismounted behind her and collected his weapons and saddlebags.  A sleepy lad emerged from the small stable, rubbing his eyes and taking hold of the charger.  Rhys gave the boy a few coins to care for the charger.  Collecting the lady by the elbow, he took her around front and into the warm, loud establishment.

It was crowded inside.  Rhys scanned the room for foe and ally alike before directing the lady towards the smoking fire.   Elizabeau was so cold that her lips were blue and it took Rhys a few moments to realize that she was nearly frozen. Before this moment, he’d been so consumed with scouting threats that he hadn’t noticed.  He suddenly felt somewhat guilty that he had not paid closer attention to his charge as he watched the blue lips quiver and the teeth chatter.

There was a man, probably a merchant, in a fur-lined cloak seated near the fire and enjoying a large meal.  With the lady in hand, Rhys went to the man and ripped the cloak from his shoulders, pulling him to the floor in the process.  The man coughed and bellowed, looking up to see a knight of enormous proportions hovering over him.  Before the man could utter a word of protest, Rhys grabbed him by the neck and tossed him half-way across the room.

“The lady requires your seat,” he said as the man skidded across the floor.

Elizabeau watched with surprise as the wealthy merchant tumbled into a heap.  But she did not have time to comment as Rhys literally picked her up and set her down in the chair the merchant had occupied.  She was suddenly very close to the fire and any thoughts of the merchant died in her throat as the searing warmth enveloped her.

“You’re freezing,” Rhys said as he pulled the wet oilcloth off of her and replaced it with the merchant’s dry, fur-lined cloak.  “Sit here and warm yourself. I shall return.”

He was gone, off across the crowded room and heading for the barkeep.  Chilled, hungry, Elizabeau turned back to the fire and held her hands over it, feeling the heat like a thousand pin-pricks against her flesh.  It was delightful.  She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth on her face, thawing her. She’d not felt such comfort in days.  Not since men from Hubert de Burgh’s ranks came to her mother’s home in South London and forcibly escorted her from its walls.

She opened her eyes, her mood growing somber as she thought of the turn her life had taken over the past two days.  Until then, she had been blessed with a relatively privileged existence. Being the niece of the king, though illegitimate, had brought her that honor.  In truth, she had seen her father only five times in her life and her Uncle John only twice.  The royal family, for the most part, had left her alone as the bastard of Geoffrey.  But that life of obscurity was apparently no longer.

Gloomy thoughts rolled through her head as she stared into the fire with deep green orbs.  There was sensuality to her eyes and unearthly beauty to her face, something no Plantagenet possessed.  She was an exquisite example of female beauty from her mother’s side, the bloodlines of the fair-skinned Norsemen running strong in her veins.  She didn’t know if she was equipped for this life that was about to be thrust upon her. She’d never prepared for it.  She wasn’t sure her sense of duty was that strong.

There was food at her elbow, a cooling knuckle of beef left by the merchant.  She was hungry and took a bite.  A second bite quickly followed and then a third.  She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until the moment the meat touched her lips.   When Rhys returned with a tray loaded with food, she was already well into the knuckle.

He tried to remove the food to replace it with the hot meal but she refused, holding fast to the beef she was enjoying.  He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat the hot tray next to the cooling one.

“This meat is fresh, my lady,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

She shook her head, wiping at the juice on her chin. “This is fine.”

Rhys didn’t say anything; he just watched her stuff her mouth, thinking yet again he had been very negligent of her state as they had traveled.  He set a cup of ale beside her right hand and then took a long, healthy drink from the second cup he had procured for himself.  Smacking his lips, he took a moment to remove his helm and set it at his feet. The crossbow went next to it.   Then he peeled his mail hauberk off his damp head and went to work on his own knuckle of beef.

Elizabeau looked up from her meal to see a man she didn’t recognize sitting across from her. She’d not yet seen du Bois with out his helm or mail hood and, for a moment, she stopped chewing as she stared at him; he had black hair, short and stiff with moisture. But that wasn’t all; she could see his entire face, now unobstructed by the helm, and it was a striking vision. He had black eyebrows, arched over his brilliant blue eyes, a square jaw with a huge dimple in his chin.  Dark stubble covered his cheeks and she watched the movements of his features as he chewed heartily on the beef.  Her eyes raked over him, seeing the man in a different light, wondering why her heart pounded so strangely at the sight of him.  Confused over her reaction, she went back to her meat and hoped it would pass.

Rhys was done with his beef before she was, tossing the bone to the floor and watching the dogs fight over it.  He glanced over at Elizabeau to see how she was faring and noticed she was only picking at her bread.  She didn’t seem as hungry as she had earlier and his concern returned.

“Is something amiss, my lady?” he asked. “Is the bread not to your liking?”

She looked at him as if startled by his question.  Quickly, she shook her head and lowered her gaze.

“It is fine,” she said.

Rhys looked at her as if he did not believe her.  She seemed depressed and remote, not at all like the woman he had taken from Hyde House earlier in the evening.  That woman had been full of confidence, spit and fire. He swallowed the bite in his mouth, trying to ascertain her disposition.

“Are you feeling poorly?” he probed politely. “It is well after mid-night. We might be able to spare a few hours for you to sleep.”

Her head snapped up, the deep green eyes fixing on him. He could see the wheels of thought turning. “You are a duke’s son,” she said after a moment. “Why do you serve de Lohr as a common knight?”

He lifted a dark eyebrow at her. “I am not sure what you mean, my lady.”

“I mean that you are born to privilege. If your father is the Duke of Navarre, then he must be related to Philippe Auguste.”

Rhys’ gaze lingered on her. “He is the king’s cousin. His mother and the king’s father were cousins.”

“Then Phillip is your cousin.”

“Aye.”

She stared at him.  Then she put the bread down. “Yet you serve an English earl? This makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Why not? Well… well, just look at you. You’re a big knight with big weapons. You should be in France serving your father or ruling over your own lands.”

He sat back in his chair; for some reason, he was enjoying her confusion.  A smile played on his smooth lips.

“Yet I am not.  Who I serve, and why I serve, should be of no concern to you, my lady. You have greater problems of your own to think about.”

Elizabeau looked at him, realizing he was keeping a definitive wall up.  He did not want her to know anything about him; that much was clear. He had been nothing but professional and calculating since she had met him.  He was her escort and nothing more. Not that it mattered to her, but the man could at least show some measure of friendliness and answer her question.  She was puzzled why the son of a duke should serve a mere English earl.

She returned her gaze to her bread, hunting for a knife and possibly some butter. If he did not want to speak of himself, so be it.

Rhys watched her as she busied herself with more food.  He wasn’t hungry any longer, more interested in studying the lady at the moment. He’d not allowed himself to give her any regard other than professional treatment up until this moment; there hadn’t been the time or the focus.  He had been trying to keep her alive. But now, at least for the time being, the situation was calm.  The ale was relaxing his body as well as his tongue.

“I am not in succession for the duke’s title,” he said quietly, watching her look up from buttering her bread. “My mother was a lady in waiting for the duchess.”

She stopped buttering. “You’re a bastard?”

“Like you.”

Elizabeau began to understand his position somewhat. “Is that why you do not carry the duke’s name?”

He nodded. “De Foix is for the family of Navarre.  I carry my grandmother’s surname on my father’s side.”

“Why do you not carry your mother’s name?”

He toyed with the cup in his hand, the brilliant blue eyes with their guard down for the first time since they’d met.  He and the lady had common ground, something they both understood clearly being illegitimate offspring.  He felt no humiliation in telling her.

“Because my father would not hear of it,” he said quietly. “Yet he did not want me to bear his name, either. So I am named after his mother’s side of the family.”

Elizabeau watched him play with the cup, finally pouring himself more ale. “But I bear my mother’s name,” she said.

“That was not possible in my case,” he replied. “Although my mother is of minor Welsh nobility, my father would not permit me to carry a Welsh name.  It simply was not an option.”

Her lovely arched eyebrows lifted. “I should have seen it in you. You carry the darkness of the Welsh.”

He smiled wryly, the first such gesture she had ever seen from him.  He had massive dimples carving through each cheek.  “And you carry the fairness of the Norsemen.”

She blinked. “How would you know that?”

“I have served de Lohr for many years. There is not much I do not know about you or the rest of the Plantagenets.”

Elizabeau met his brilliant blue eyes a moment longer before returning to her buttered bread. She felt strangely akin to him, knowing they had a common lineage.  Somehow, in their brief conversation, she did not feel quite so overwhelmed or unbalanced by her situation. She was with a knight who understood her background because his was the same. It was difficult to explain why she felt more relaxed now, but she did.

Rhys watched her lowered head, the way the firelight played off her golden red hair. She seemed curious and intelligent.  He wondered what kind of queen she would make.  Given their choice of monarchs at the moment, anything would be better than what they had. But he would never voice his opinion.  He was a knight and knights did as they were told.

He drained his cup for the third time and decided that he’d had enough ale for the night.  His face felt warm, a sure indication that he had imbibed enough.  Any more would find him growing drunk.  As he turned to look for the serving wench to order something more that would not dull his senses, the door to the inn suddenly slammed back on its hinges and the merchant he had thrown from the table bolted inside.  He was followed by four soldiers, the thunder from the storm punctuating their arrival.

It was as if a door from Hell had opened wide and the noise and clashing associated with such a place poured through. The merchant’s gaze fell on Rhys and he jabbed a finger at him, pointing out the target to his men.  The implication was obvious.

The room began to scatter with panic. Rhys stood up and moved away from the table; he did not want any fighting in proximity of the lady. The four soldiers advanced on him, spreading out in a pattern of attack.  Rhys noted the movement, understanding in that tactical move that they were experienced. They would not be caught in a bunch, instead, choosing to stalk their victim and maximize their advantage.

But Rhys was ready for them.  He was calm, collected, as he unsheathed both of the swords still strapped to his back. He swung them with deadly precision, in concert, displaying not only his skill but his control.   The metal sang through the warm, stale air with a chilling hum.  As his senses reached out, tracking the movements of the men closest to him, Elizabeau was suddenly in his line of sight.

“My lord,” she was addressing the insulted merchant loudly. “Please call off your men.  There is no need for fighting.”

Some of Rhys’ calm faltered; she was too close should any fighting start and he did not want her in the line of fire.

“My lady,” he hissed at her. “You will remove yourself at once.”

She held out a quelling hand to him, banking on the fact that the men threatening him would not lash out at a defenseless lady.  She continued to move towards the merchant, passing in front of Rhys as she did so.  A soft, white hand came to rest on his right wrist, gentle pressure requesting that he lower his weapons.  Though her flesh was cold, it felt like a branding iron against his skin; Rhys almost forgot all else but her tender hand against him. It was difficult to stay focused.

“Please, my lord,” she was still in front of Rhys, still with a hand on his wrist.  But her focus was on the merchant. “My… husband had but one thought, and that was to place me next to a warm fire. You see, we’ve been traveling all night and I am very wet, as you can see. Unfortunately, you happened to be in the way. He did not mean to insult to you; he only meant to help me.  Will you please call your men off now?”

She sounded very calm, very rational, and very wise. Rhys looked at her; she did not seem like the same lady he had met only a few hours ago, the spitfire who complained at every turn.  She was serene and relaxed as she attempted to diffuse the situation. But the merchant was still rightly upset.

“He should not have thrown me from my meal,” he said petulantly. “There were other tables.”

“But yours was the closest.” Elizabeau’s grip tightened on Rhys’ wrist and she gently, firmly, forced him to lower his weapons. “You are correct, my lord; he should not have thrown you from your table. It was a mistake, but he was only acting in my best interest. He was not attempting to deliberately insult you.  Please call off your men and I shall happily pay for your meal and for your men’s meal. Will you not accept my offer?”

The merchant looked uncertain, then dubious. He looked to his men, who were now looking at him for further instructions.  They could fight or not; it was all the same to them. They were paid to do what they were told.  But the fact remained that the merchant had been insulted. He jabbed a fat finger at Rhys.

“Your husband should show more manners,” he said to Elizabeau.

Elizabeau nodded patiently. “Indeed he should.” She turned to Rhys, smiling sweetly, which caught him completely off-guard. “Lower your weapons, darling, and apologize to this man. Yours was an impetuous, rude act.”

He stared at her for a moment. But in a flash, both swords were sheathed. Elizabeau continued to smile at him, wrapping her small, cold hands around his right arm.

“Apologize, Rhys,” she repeated softly.

He almost didn’t know what to say. He was so off-balance by her sweet voice and lovely smile that the words simply wouldn’t come. But when she nodded her head at him encouragingly, he cleared his throat softly and focused on the merchant.

“My apologies, my lord,” he said in a low, deep voice. “My only thoughts at the moment were of my… my wife. She was cold and I would do whatever necessary to warm her.”

The merchant gave in without another word. He waved a hand at his men, who backed away and sheathed their weapons without protest.

“If she’s that cold, then go put her in a warm tub and a warm bed,” he was already walking past them, heading for his former table. “In fact, make love to her all night. That will warm her blood quick enough.”

He laughed at his bawdy suggestion, resuming his seat at the table as the room gradually returned to normal. Those who fled were slowly returning to their seats, righting chairs and tables as they went.  Rhys and Elizabeau stood in the middle of the room, watching the activity slowly resume.  When Rhys finally looked at Elizabeau, she was staring up at him intently.  He gave her a wry twist of the lips.

“Well, my lady, it seems that you managed to negotiate my way out of a battle,” he said quietly. “But next time, you will not jeopardize yourself like that. You could have been gravely injured, or worse.”

“And so I was not,” she shot back softly. “If I can negotiate you out of a battle, I will gladly do so. We’ve come this far. I would hate to see something happen to you after you have fought so hard to preserve my life.”

He cocked an eyebrow, watching two of the soldiers who had been intent on attacking him quit the inn. The other two remained, just inside the door.  His gaze returned to her. “Husband, am I?” he muttered. “What possessed you to make a foolish claim like that?”

Her brow furrowed. “Because we are traveling alone together, you and I. What else would you have preferred I said? That you were my lover? My brother? Husband came to mind the quickest, so husband is what I said. It makes the most sense.”

He was forced to agree.  He turned back towards their table, now crowded with the merchant, taking her hand in his own in the process. He hissed when his big palm closed over her fingers.

“Christ,” he breathed. “Your fingers are like ice. Come over here by the fire before you freeze to death.”

Elizabeau allowed him to lead her back over to their table by the fire, where the merchant was now eating heartily of their dinner. Rhys propped her right up against the flames, taking the chair opposite the merchant and eyeing the man as he noisily slurped his food.  The merchant glanced up, seeing the two of them.  He gestured at Elizabeau.

“The fire will do her no good,” he said, mouth full. “You must get her into dry clothes. She’s soaking.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder at her, noting that the merchant was correct.  He was coming to think he was the most unobservant man on the face of the planet; other than her lovely face and her sweet voice, he’d noticed little more about her.  He felt like an idiot.

“I fear that most of her clothing is wet,” he said, pouring himself another cup of ale in spite of his early vow not to do so. “The fire is the best I can do for her right now.”

The merchant was slopping and burping as he ate. “I have something for her to wear,” he said. “I’ll send one of my men outside to my wagon. It will cost you, though.”

Rhys looked at Elizabeau again; she was looking at the merchant. “How much?” she asked.

The man noisily drank his ale. “Depends,” he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am returning from a trip to Paris. I have all manner of pre-made surcoats and shifts to sell in Gloucester and the Marches.  My goods are the latest rage of fashion, you know.  I have some your size if you wish to see them.”

“I do,” Elizabeau agreed readily.  “What is your name, my lord? I fear we should become acquainted on more pleasant circumstances.”

“Robinson Marchant,” the man replied without missing a beat, gnawing on his beef.

Elizabeau waited for Rhys to introduce them, but he made no move to do so and she tapped him on the back so he got the hint.  Rhys was very careful, and very reluctant, with any information he might give.  But he had to say something.

“Rhys de Foix,” he said softly, glancing over his shoulder at the lady behind him. “And my lady wife, Elizabeau.”

Robinson’s gaze moved between them. “She’s a lovely woman,” he said to Rhys. “Such beauty is very rare. And she seems intelligent as well. Is her disposition as lovely?”

Rhys lifted an eyebrow. When he didn’t answer right away, Elizabeau pinched him on the exposed hand that held the ale cup. It smarted and Rhys winced.

“Of course,” he said dryly. “Can you not tell? She is an angel.”

Robinson snorted. Then he laughed out loud.  “I like her,” he announced, slurping his ale again. “She has spirit.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

Robinson was grinning, watching Elizabeau’s lovely profile in the firelight. “And she is very protective of you, I can tell. A truly loyal woman is hard to find.”

Elizabeau looked strangely at Robinson before quickly looking away. She had no idea what to say to that statement, wondering if she had indeed come across as the fiercely loyal wife.  All she had meant to do was diffuse the approaching battle.  Anything else that was conveyed was incidental.

“Where are you two traveling to?” Robinson asked as he crunched into a turnip.

Unaware of Elizabeau’s reaction to the merchant’s faithful wife statement, Rhys replied to the question. “To the Marches.”

Robinson wiped at his chin. “As I said, I am traveling that direction. I should like it if you two would travel with me. I am bored with only my stupid men to keep me company. They are horrific conversation. But with the two of you, we could keep each other entertained on a tedious journey.”

Before Rhys could reply, Robinson turned to his two remaining men standing by the inn door and bellowed at them to bring in two of the trunks for the lady’s review.  Rhys watched the men disappear into the howling night, suddenly realizing he was sitting on the fur cloak he had ripped from Robinson’s shoulders.  He stood up, picked up the cloak, and held it out to the man.

“I believe this is yours,” he said.

Robinson waved him off, still eating. “Your wife needs it more. In fact, if I were you, I’d take my advice.  Order her a hot bath and get her into a warm bed. And then we shall leave at daybreak for the Marches.”

Rhys looked at Elizabeau, standing damp by the fire and trying desperately to warm her frozen hands. He wasn’t sure they had time for a hot bath and a warm bed; he wasn’t sure when de Lohr would be upon them.  But it was evident that she needed something to bring her some comfort. He’d been insensitive to her long enough.

He snapped to the nearest serving wench and the girl went running for the barkeep, who hurried over to Rhys across the crowded room.  The man didn’t have a room to spare, but he offered up his daughter’s simple chamber in the rear yard attached to the stable.  Rhys didn’t argue with him for a better room; he simply paid the man and watched the flurry of activity as he set about bellowing for the big copper tub.  When the wheels were in motion, one of the serving women came to escort Elizabeau to her waiting room.

“Go with your wife,” Robinson told Rhys. “When my men bring the garments in, I’ll shall come and find you. We’ll find her something warm and dry to wear.”

Rhys wasn’t about to let Elizabeau out of his sight, but accompanying her to her bath was an entirely different situation. Still, they’d backed themselves into a mistruth of stories and he had no choice but to go with her. A husband would have, after all.  He only hoped de Lohr would understand.

Without a word, he rose and followed Elizabeau and the serving wench back through the kitchen and out into the yard.  The rain and wind were howling as they crossed the muddy yard and entered a small room adjoining the stable.  It wasn’t particularly comfortable or clean, but it was warm and dry.   Rhys stood aside, pulling Elizabeau with him, as a burly old man brought in the massive copper tub.

It wasn’t so much a tub as it was a giant cooking pot used for baths and sometimes to feed the livestock.  The young serving girl even mentioned they used it to boil down bones.  The wench fled back into the stormy night and the burly old man reappeared with buckets of steaming water.  The girl returned, too, carrying a linen sheet, some manner of soap and a scrub brush. She had also been thoughtful enough to bring Rhys more wine, which he took from her and moved to the corner of the room near the door.  He poured himself a cup as he sat down, watching the burly old man with the long hair full the copper pot to the rim.

The old man finally gathered his buckets and shut the door to the room quietly behind him.   The serving wench moved to help Elizabeau from her wet clothes, confused by her mistress’s extreme reluctance.  Elizabeau wasn’t about to budge until Rhys turned his back, which he did by discreetly adjusting his chair and facing the window.

Rhys drank his wine as Elizabeau quickly stripped her wet clothing from her body and plunged into the pot.  It was deliciously hot and she sighed with contentment as her flesh began to warm. But just as relaxation set in, the wench picked up the soap and the brush and went to work. Within minutes, Elizabeau was positive the woman meant to strip the skin from her bones and she found herself gripping the side of the pot for support.  From the top of her golden red hair to the bottom of her small feet, the wench did an admirable job of scrubbing her silly.

When the woman’s job was done and Elizabeau was struggling against the heat of the pot and the near-beating she had just received, the wench looked about for something to dress the lady in but shortly realized that the couple had no baggage.  There was nothing to clothe the woman in but the damp dress recently stripped off of her.  Slightly confused but resourceful, the wench asked for the lady’s patience and fled the room.

The room was abruptly quiet with the wench gone and the activity quelled. Elizabeau sat in the warm pot, watching the back of Rhys’ dark head and listening to the storm outside. Realizing they were very much alone, and she was naked in a tub to boot, made her vastly uneasy. Not that she didn’t trust the man, but she was rather vulnerable.

“Feeling better, my lady?” Rhys’ baritone voice broke the silence.

Elizabeau started at the sound of it. “Aye,” she replied quickly, nervously. “But I will feel better still when I have my clothes back on.”

Still facing the window, Rhys grinned and held up a hand. “I swear that I shall not turn from this window until you are appropriately dressed. But it would have looked rather odd had I not accompanied you to your bath, as your husband, though I do apologize for the uncomfortable situation.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “Why should you apologize? Is this not your duty? To hound my every move until I can be safely delivered to my betrothed?”

Rhys’ grin faded as he thought of the perils that surely lay ahead; tonight had only been a foretaste. “Indeed,” he replied quietly, draining his cup. He’d had far too much wine but picked up the pitcher again. “Would you like some wine, my lady?”

“I am not sure how you can hand it to me without turning away from the window.”

“True enough.

Elizabeau watched him as he set the pitcher down, and the cup, and settled back in his chair, gazing at the storm outside. She was seeing him through slightly different eyes, more so as the hours passed, coming to know a man with whom she had a great deal in common.  He was respectful, intelligent, and wildly handsome.  Her gaze moved over his impossibly wide shoulders and to the enormous arms still covered with mail and armor.  Her thoughts lingered heavily on the man with the royal sire and Welsh mother.

“Rhys?” she leaned forward in the pot, her chin resting on the edge.

“My lady?”

“Are you married?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, her fingers toying with the edge of the pot. “No particular reason other than… other than I was just wondering what it was like, that’s all.”

“How do you mean?”

She shrugged again, moving away from the edge of the pot and flicking away at the soapy bubbles that lingered on the surface of the water. “I mean just that. What is it like? How do you behave with someone you are married to? Are you and your wife friendly to each other or do you simply tolerate one another? If you make a decision, does she support you? Or do you simply make a decision with no care to what she might think?”

Rhys turned his head slightly; he was no longer looking out of the window but staring at the door; Elizabeau could see his perfect profile.  “You are assuming that I am married, my lady,” he said quietly.

“I was not assuming anything; I guess my question was simply a general query.  I am thinking aloud, I suppose.”

He was silent a moment, still gazing at the darkened door.  “It is different for everyone, I would think,” he said quietly. “I was married, once. My wife and I had known each other for a short time and were already acquainted upon our marriage. I was not home enough to truly be a part of any decision making process; she ran the household as she saw fit.”

Elizabeau’s big eyes were upon him. “I do not understand. You were married once?”

He nodded his head faintly. “She died a few years ago giving birth to my son.”

Elizabeau closed her eyes briefly, with sorrow. “I am sorry, Rhys. I did not mean to pry. Please accept my sympathies.”

He shook his head as if snapping himself out of that particular train of thought.  Rising swiftly, he moved to the hearth where the linen sheet lay warming before the fire.  He held it up to her.

“Get out,” he commanded softly. “You’ll catch chill if you’re in there any longer.”

Elizabeau gazed up at him, realizing their line of conversation had taken him back to the cold, walled-up knight she had known for the bulk of their association. She further realized she was very sorry; he had proven something of a good conversationalist and she was disappointed that her line of questioning had shut him off again.

“Rhys,” she said softly, sincerely. “I am very sorry if I upset you with my question about your wife. I did not mean to stir up sorrowful memories.”

“You did not, my lady,” he said, though his tone was cold. He shook the sheet slightly. “Come along, now. Get out of the tub and dry yourself.”

It was apparent he had no intention of either delving into anything more about his wife or accepting her apology.  With a heavy sigh, Elizabeau reached out and pulled the sheet from his hand.

“Turn around,” she instructed him. “You promised not to look and I see that you have already partially broken that promise.”

She had meant it in jest, one last hope that he would loosen to her humor. But he turned away without a word and went back to the window.  Elizabeau watched his stiff back a moment before climbing from the tub and wrapping herself tightly in the sheet.   There was a small stool next to the hearth; she pulled it away from the wall and sat directly in front of the fire to warm up and dry out.

She wasn’t surprised when he quit the room without a word and disappeared into the stormy night.

***

Elizabeau wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep on the small, lumpy bed.  The fire in the hearth had died somewhat and the room was chilly when she heard the door open again. Startled, she rolled over to see Rhys locking the door behind him.  She also noticed that he had an armful of material.

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up with the linen sheet still wrapped tightly around her body.  It was dark in the room and difficult to see just what, exactly, he had.

“What have you got there?” she demanded sleepily. “Where did you go?”

He moved to the bed with some kind of garment in his hands.  He held it up to her, nearly striking her in the face with it.

“I went to see our fat friend,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind that I selected your garments.  You were in no condition to select them yourself, being that you only had a sheet to wear, so I selected them for you.  I hope you are pleased.”

“Good lord,” she muttered, eyeing him in the weak light.  But she dutifully fingered the garment he was offering to her, inspecting it as she tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it was a lovely wine-colored damask with exquisite craftsmanship.

She took the garment from him and padded over to the hearth where the light was better.  It was a finely made surcoat of a ruby-rich fabric, lined in soft pink wool, with a square neckline and long, draping sleeves.  The sleeves from the elbow down were made from the same colored brocade, giving the garment a delightfully detailed look.  It was, in fact, very beautiful.  Curiosity made her wander over to the chair where he had draped the other garments and she inspected her way through surcoats of cloud-soft yellow lamb’s wool, light blue Perse fabric that was similar to very soft linen, and pale green broadcloth.  Upon further notice, she came across a soft leather girdle, two delicate shifts, a pair of soft woolen hose, a pair of doeskin gloves, a bleached wool cloak and a pair of bright red silk pantalets.

The pantalets were at the bottom of the pile and she held them up to Rhys, almost accusingly.

“Why on earth did you buy these?” she demanded, peering at him from around the garment. “They’re… they’re….”

“The latest from Paris,” Rhys told her helpfully. “The merchant says that he cannot keep them in stock. All finely dressed women demand them.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him before returning her dubious eyes to the pantalets.  She fingered them; they were very soft.  She imagined they would feel nice against her skin.  With a shrug, she laid them back with the other garments and turned to him.

“I cannot pay you for these at the moment,” she said with some embarrassment. “I am afraid that my coinage is in London. We left so quickly that…”

He waved her off. “De Burgh supplied me with more than enough to cover expenses. You needn’t worry.”

He seemed to be in a better humor than he had when he had left the room earlier.  It was a curious mood, as if he had blown off his depression in the past hour and then returned to her without a grudge. Not wanting to upset him again, she took a deep breath and forced a smile.

“Then I would thank you for being so thoughtful,” she said. “You have been a chivalrous and kind escort and I thank you very much for your foresight in all matters. And I am very sorry that I called you simple back at Hyde House; it is clear that you are not a simple man at all.”

He almost looked embarrassed; he chewed his lip briefly, displaying the deep dimples that carved through his cheeks like canyons.  The brilliant blue eyes never left her.  After a moment, he turned back to the chair where the pile of clothes lay and dug into the very bottom of the chair.  There was a small bag there that she had missed; he picked it up and tossed it to her.

“More items from the merchant that I thought you might need,” he said quietly. “Soap, a comb, some hair things,” he made funny jabbing gestures at his head,” and some manner of cosmetics.  I do not know what they are; the merchant told me that women in Paris use them so I told him just to include them.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him before pulling open the bag and digging inside; there was indeed sweet-smelling soap, a tortoise shell comb, several decorative hair pins, two glass phials of perfumed oil, an ointment for softening the skin and a tiny alabaster pot of red ointment for the lips.  Very feminine, foolish things, but she was deeply grateful. And deeply touched.  With a twinkle in her eye, she sought his gaze.

“I cannot possibly thank you enough,” she said sincerely. “It was very thoughtful and very sweet of you to procure all of this for me.”

He dipped his head. “A genuine pleasure, my lady. Now I shall wait outside while you dress.” He pointed at her. “You’re still running about in that sheet.”

She grinned, shrugging her shoulders in agreement.  “Rhys,” she said hesitantly. “I am truly sorry if I upset you with talk of your wife earlier. Please believe me when I say that I did not mean to.  You have been very kind to me and I would do nothing to intentionally upset you.”

His gaze lingered on her. “I know, my lady.”

“Then you are not upset with me?”

“It is of no matter, my lady.”

“But it is to me,” she insisted. “Your feelings matter very much and I am truly sorry.”

He almost dismissed her again; they could both see it coming. But after a moment, he simply shook his head. “It is kind of you to be concerned for my feelings. But I truly have none in the matter. And you did not upset me.”

She wasn’t quite sure it was the truth but she let it go.  Rhys’ attention lingered on her a moment longer before he quit the room, moving out into the night that now seemed to be clearing.   Even after the door softly shut, she stood there, her thoughts lingering on the massive bear of a man who had been both very cold and very kind to her.  The paradox was baffling.  But those thoughts vanished in favor of thoughts of her new garments, and within little time she was clad in a new shift, the red pantalets, the woolen hose and the soft yellow lamb’s wool surcoat that hugged every curve of her delicious torso.

She pinned her considerable mane into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and wrapped herself up in the new bleached woolen cloak, a magnificent garment that was lined with gray rabbit. She also pulled on the gloves.  Wrapped in her new clothes, she felt so warm, so cozy, that the heat invited sleep and before she realized it, she was back on the bed.  Her intention had been to doze until Rhys came back for her, but she quickly fell into a deep sleep as the sun began to rise.   For the first time in a day, she was at peace.

The next sensation that infiltrated her sleep-hazed mind was that of a hand being clamped over her mouth.

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