He mimicked her actions, running his tongue along the underside of her upper lip. “You taste like me.”
She rubbed her nose against his. “I’ve a belly full of you too.” She followed her kiss with another on his bruised forehead. “We’ve been down here too long. They’ll be thinking all kinds of improper thoughts up there in the kitchen if I don’t get back with these spirits.”
Ballard managed to tuck himself into his breeches and lace them closed without stringing too many knots. Standing up and not having his knees buckle presented more of a challenge. He’d like nothing more than to crawl into bed, spoon around Louvaen, and fall into a heavy sleep. “Oh aye,” he said and hauled her up against him. He liked that she was nearly as tall as he was. Every curve notched perfectly into every angle. She looped her arms over his shoulders, wiggling when he cupped her buttocks. “Very improper, especially if you show up withthatlook on your face,” he teased. The corner of her mouth tempted him. He touched his tongue there and smiled against her cheek when she sighed her pleasure.
Louvaen pulled away just enough for him to catch her smug expression. “And what look is that? The cat who’s stolen the cream?”
“Nothing so tame. More like the wolf after a successful kill.”
She threaded his hair through her fingers. “You may be called many things, Ballard. ‘Prey’ will never be one of them.” She gestured to his shirt, a crumpled heap forgotten under the bench. “One of us will have some explaining to do if you went down to the buttery wearing all your clothes and came back up wearing only half.”
“A benefit of beingdominus—I don’t have to explain a damn thing I do.” Ballard reluctantly let her go to retrieve the shirt and slipped it over his head. “And I’d wager you’ve told more than a few people to mind their own affairs.”
She swiped at the bits of wandering goose down that had managed to embed themselves into the weave of his shirt. “Many people and often.” Her smirk revealed she relished each opportunity.
They shared a cup of wine and several kisses before he handed her one crock and lifted the other. He held her hand as they took the stairs, pausing before the door to plant a kiss in her palm. She returned the gesture by kissing his knuckles before easing her fingers out of his grasp.
The kitchen stood deserted except for Magda who sat in a chair sewing by the hearth, a basket of mending at her feet. Whatever thoughts she had regarding Ballard’s time in the buttery with Louvaen, she kept them to herself. She pointed to the clean table where the plucked geese had rested earlier. “Leave the wine there, and put the ale by the fire.”
They did as she instructed. Louvaen’s gaze swept the kitchen before she peered around the screen, listening. “Where’s Cinnia?”
The cook’s mouth quirked as she stitched a tear in a linen shift. “In the stables with Gavin. He wanted to show her your horse’s hoof is healing nicely.”
Louvaen’s nostrils flared. “Is that so?”
Ballard growled. He didn’t think anything could ruin her brief good mood faster than a possible threat to her sister’s precious chastity. The seductress was gone; the shrew reigned in her place. She strode past him, snapped up one of Magda’s skinning knives from the table closest to her, and made for the door to the bailey.
Ballard snatched the knife out of her hand as she passed. “I think not.”
She didn’t waste time fighting him for the weapon, only laid a glare on him hot enough to singe his eyebrows and stalked out in a flurry of skirts.
“You realize there are at least two pitchforks and three shovels out there?” Magda set aside her sewing to claim a spot by the window.
Ballard poured himself a cup of ale from the crock he’d brought up from the buttery. “As long as Gavin doesn’t turn his back, he’ll be fine.” He took a swallow of the brew. “Lad better quit dawdling and marry the girl, or I’ll kill him before Louvaen does. This is getting bloody tiresome; guarding an uncracked pitcher like it’s the crown jewels.”
Magda chortled. “Best entertainment we’ve had in years, I’m thinking. Those two slinking off for privacy, and your lover flying after them like a hobby on the hunt.”
Ballard shook his head. “Come get me if Gavin returns full of holes.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
He entered his chamber, pleased to note someone had built up the fire in the hearth. He appraised his bed with a critical eye. A sumptuous monstrosity generously draped in heavy cloth woven of embossed silk, it took up one corner of the room. He had been its solitary occupant for many years. If his luck held, he’d have a chance to share its generous space tonight.
The chest at the end of the bed contained his clothes, along with a few keepsakes from a life that seemed a distant memory now: the regalia he wore during his investiture as a knight, the spurs bestowed upon him by his sponsor and finally, a gift bequeathed by a proud, foreign queen now long-dead. This last, wrapped in bronze velvet, he removed from the bottom of the chest and carried to the hearth for a better look in the firelight. Modrnicht’s rituals included giving tribute to the women of the household as well as the goddesses worshipped. He’d already spoken with Ambrose about creating a gift he could give both sisters to share, but he had something special in mind for Louvaen, something he intended to offer in private.
Were she like Cinnia or any of the women he’d known in his long life, Ballard would lavish her with jewelry or several ells of silk. But Mistress Duenda was singular, and he couldn’t think of anything more appropriate than to pass the queen’s gift on to her. He unwrapped the velvet, revealing a dagger and wooden sheath inlaid with enamel and precious stones. The weapon itself was the work of a master, its design different from the straight, double-edged knives he usually carried but just as lethal. A tempered, single-edge blade with a gentle recurve, full tang and a thick spine cross-sectioned into a T for strength, the dagger could cut or thrust through a chain mail hauberk, no matter how well woven or riveted. His fingers curved around a pommel of milky green jade fashioned into a hawk’s head. It sat easy in his palm—light, balanced, deadly.
Some might say he’d become clodpated—as beguiled as any callow boy sniffing after the skirts of his first woman. They’d be wrong in most of that accusation. He was no longer a boy, and Louvaen was not his first woman. Even before the advent of the curse, he’d never been moved by a woman, never loved one—certainly not his wife whose lip curled in disgust every time he drew near and never the noblewomen or prostitutes who populated the king’s court and shared their favors. Louvaen though...she consumed his thoughts.
Do you love her?
He stared blindly at the dagger while the question resonated in his head. His mind rejected the idea. He admired her, had been captivated by her fierce character and resolute demeanor the moment Cinnia introduced them, and she complimented him on the blackened eyes she’d given him. She’d break a weak-spirited man or tempt him to murder her at the first opportunity.
Ballard didn’t consider himself a weak man: a cold one sometimes—wearied and twisted by Isabeau’s bane—but unbroken. Louvaen brought him to life, snapped him from a twilight of interminable waiting interrupted only by the curse’s tortures when the flux ran at high tide. He hadn’t known it was possible to embrace lightning until he’d held her, and the experience had left him exhilarated.
Do you love her?
“Does it matter?” he said aloud. Isabeau had cursed him as thoroughly as she’d cursed Gavin. He had no future and nothing to offer Louvaen. Even if Gavin broke the curse by marrying Cinnia, Ballard was too physically warped to live outside Ketach Tor. Louvaen and Cinnia accepted his appearance; he didn’t fool himself that others would do so as easily, if at all. They’d view him as a monster—hunt him down like a beast. His accumulated wealth insured his son and his son’s future bride a life of comfort wherever they chose to abide. They weren’t confined to Ketach Tor as he was or as any wife or leman would be if she bound herself to him. This fortress was his home, his sanctuary, and his prison. He shuddered at the idea of caging Louvaen here with him, even if she were willing.
