Yet as she made her way back to her chamber, tipsy and warm, she couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through her veins. Baldwin might be fighting whatever was growing between them, but tonight had proven one thing beyond a doubt. He was not as indifferent as he pretended to be.
The question was, what would he do about it?
CHAPTER 14
Baldwin spread the woolen blanket beneath a towering oak that overlooked the lake. The afternoon sun dappled the ground through leaves that rustled in the cool breeze, casting shifting patterns across the fabric. He stepped back to survey his work, adjusting the corner that refused to lie flat against the uneven ground.
“Is this suitable?” he asked Father Gregory, who approached with a wicker basket hanging from one arm.
The older man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Most suitable, my lord. Though I daresay Mistress Beth would sit upon bare earth if it meant hearing more of your tales of battle.”
Baldwin’s mouth twitched. “I doubt that. She seems more interested in questioning our methods than hearing of them.”
“Questioning is the mark of a curious mind,” Father Gregory replied, lowering himself onto the blanket with a soft grunt. “And she has curiosity in abundance.”
As if summoned by their words, Beth appeared at the crest of the hill, walking alongside Eleanor. Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her. The simple blue gown she wore complemented the rich chestnut of her hair, which had been plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. A few waywardstrands had escaped, framing her face and dancing in the breeze. There were times he couldn’t breathe upon seeing her. The woman had no idea how beautiful she was, how she made it difficult for him to think when she looked at him or questioned him.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on calling it ‘science’ rather than natural philosophy,” Eleanor was saying as they approached. “Father Gregory says they are one and the same.”
“In your time, yes,” Beth replied, then caught herself with a grimace. “I mean, here, they’re considered the same. Where I come from, they’ve... diverged.”
Baldwin extended his hand to help Beth onto the blanket, noting how she hesitated before placing her fingers in his. Her hand was small but surprisingly strong, with calluses that spoke of work rather than leisure. Not the hand of a noblewoman, yet it fit perfectly within his own.
“My lord,” she acknowledged, green eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. A flush crept up her neck, and Baldwin found himself wondering if she was remembering their near-encounter in the library three days past, when he’d reached for the same manuscript and found his hand atop hers instead.
“Beth,” he replied, his voice rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. “I trust you’re recovered from yesterday’s riding lesson?”
Her laugh was bright and unguarded. “If by ‘recovered’ you mean ‘able to walk without wincing,’ then no. Not quite.”
Eleanor giggled as she settled beside Father Gregory. “You should have seen her face when Baldwin suggested we ride to the village! I thought she might faint dead away.”
“I’ve never been good with large animals,” Beth admitted, carefully arranging her skirts as she sat. “Especially ones that can sense fear.”
“All creatures can sense fear,” Baldwin said, taking his place opposite her. “The trick is to master it before they do.”
Father Gregory unpacked the basket, revealing fresh bread still warm from the ovens, a round of cheese, cured meats, and a few early apples. “And how does one master fear, my lord? Through prayer or practice?”
“Both, I should think,” Baldwin replied, breaking off a piece of bread and offering it to her. Their fingers brushed, and he felt that same curious spark that seemed to ignite whenever they touched. “Though, in Beth’s case, perhaps more practice than prayer.”
She accepted the bread with a wry smile. “Are you implying I’m impious, Lord Baldwin?”
“Merely... unconventional in your devotions.”
Father Gregory uncorked a flask of honey-sweet mead and poured generous portions into wooden cups. “The Lord welcomes all forms of worship, so long as they come from a true heart.”
“Then Beth shall be welcomed indeed,” Eleanor declared, raising her cup. “For though she may not know our prayers, her heart is truer than most.”
Baldwin watched as Beth’s expression softened, touched by Eleanor’s words. He raised his own cup. “To true hearts, then.”
“To true hearts,” they echoed, and drank.
The mead was stronger than Baldwin had expected, warming his blood almost immediately. He noted with amusement that Beth’s cheeks had already taken on a rosy hue after just a few sips.
“This is delicious,” she said, examining her cup with the same intensity she brought to her experiments. “The fermentation process must be fascinating. Do you add spices during or after?”
Father Gregory launched into an explanation of the abbey’s mead-making process, while Eleanor teased Beth about herendless questions. Leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, Baldwin was content to observe, noting how Beth’s hands moved animatedly as she spoke, how her eyes lit up when Father Gregory mentioned the different properties of various honeys.
As the afternoon wore on and the mead flowed freely, their conversation meandered like the lazy clouds overhead. Baldwin found himself more relaxed than he’d been in months, perhaps years. The constant vigilance required of a lord seemed less burdensome in the warm sunshine, with good company and the melodic sound of Beth’s laughter.
