“We all are, my love.” She reached for Cinnia’s hand again, and this time the girl returned the clasp.
Cinnia squeezed her fingers. “Gavin will marry me,” she proclaimed with the unshakeable fervency of a newly indoctrinated anchorite.
Louvaen heaved a weary sigh. “I want to believe; truly I do, but your faith in him is greater than mine. If he doesn’t offer for you, you have to walk out of Ketach Tor intact. Until I hear him plight you his troth, I’ll continue to act the lymer and remain the hypocrite.”
She and Cinnia stared at each other until Cinnia collapsed back on the bench with a huff, all her indignation drained away, leaving only puzzlement. “Why de Sauveterre?”
Louvaen paused. Her list of the obvious was a league long; the more subtle, short and hard to express. Ballard de Sauveterre was unlike the jocular Thomas Duenda in almost every way. Somber, weary, often taciturn, he exuded a latent power that filled whichever room he occupied. She knew little of his history, only that he was a widower and served as a Marcher lord. She’d not been surprised to learn he’d once ruled a kingdom within a kingdom. Even if he hadn’t revealed the last fact to her, she would have imagined the roles of leader and warrior for him. Louvaen respected these traits but wasn’t drawn to them. The quiet man who saved her family from ruin, laughed at her sharp-tongued quips, loved his son and protected his household: such a man drew her like iron to a lodestone. She told Cinnia none of this.
Why de Sauveterre?
She shrugged. “Why not?”
Cinnia blinked, obviously startled by the question. “Well, he’s...”
“A good man with a stalwart heart.” Louvaen grinned as Cinnia’s blinking turned to owl-eyed fascination.
“And you think him handsome? Even with his scars and claws?” Cinnia’s rounded eyes and downturned mouth spoke volumes.
“I do. Very much so.”
Louvaen continued to smile at the thought of Cinnia’s mortification if she revealed just how attracted she was to Ballard. He’d teased her and called her lusty, and he was right. She lusted after him with a ferocity that had her practically leaping on him the moment they were alone, hands sliding into every open space of his clothes while she plundered his mouth. He met her enthusiasm with equal passion, and there were many times they didn’t reach his bed or even remove all their clothing before he had her up against a wall or stretched out on the rug by the fire, deep inside her as she moaned his name.
“Do you love him?”
Cinnia’s question cooled the heat of her thoughts and turned them melancholy. She refused to ponder the possibility, though the idea had lurked in the back of her mind for several days now demanding she recognize its presence. “Your question has no bearing.” she said. “I can’t stay. Papa needs me. Leaving Ketach Tor in the spring is your question to answer.”
This interlude that had unexpectedly grown out of desperate circumstances was only temporary. She belonged at home in Monteblanco, her father’s caretaker and mistress of his household. She had no intention of remarrying. That she’d ever married at all surprised everyone, including her. She had loved Thomas, loved being his wife. He’d taken a piece of her with him when he died, and she couldn’t imagine binding herself to any man after him. Until now. Recent memories teased her—sitting with Ballard in the solar during winter nights, reading to him or playing Draughts, teasing him and being teased in return, waking before dawn wrapped in his arms with his slow breaths warm on her neck, his body curled around hers.
She gave Cinnia a severe look. “You sly minx. You made this about me after all, didn’t you?”
Cinnia’s unrepentant smile reflected in her brown eyes. “Only a little.” An anxious frown replaced the smile, and she bent to kiss Louvaen’s knuckles. “You’ll be careful, Lou? You’re so busy watching after me, I don’t want you to forget about you. If de Sauveterre hurts you, maybe I’ll be the one to shoot someone,” she declared with a scowl and flourish of her hand.
Louvaen hugged her and gave her a peck on her forehead. “My love, I didn’t bring enough powder and shot to take down all three men, but there are crossbows and swords handy. I’m sure you’d make do.”
The two parted company, Cinnia leaving Louvaen to the thoroughly detested task of churning while she helped Clarimond dip candles.
Ballard found her later in Cinnia’s bower alone, carding from a basket of raw wool. Louvaen bade him enter at his polite knock. He stood in the doorway and leaned indolently against the frame. She stroked the teasel brushes against each other, drawing the wool into longer fibers. “What brings a handsome lord to visit a lowly spinner this cold morning?” she said.
Ballard made a show of looking over his shoulder and peering down the hall before turning back to her. “I wouldn’t know. There are no handsome lords or lowly spinners here—just me seeking the favor of a beautiful woman who happens to spin.”
“You’ve a silver tongue, Lord de Sauveterre.”
“That isn’t how you described it last night, Mistress Duenda.”
She heel-toed the two teasels too short, matting the fibers. “Ballard!” she admonished him.
He lifted his hands in a nonchalant gesture. “What? From what I hear, your virginal sister is aware you share my bed. What secrets do you have to keep now?”
Louvaen dropped the teasels into the basket and rose to join him at the doorway. “News travels fast.”
“We’re one castle and eight people. News doesn’t have far to go or many ears to reach.” He straightened from the doorframe. “I have to ride the land boundaries. Come with me. The sun is out and the sky clear.”
She recalled the list of tasks she intended to do for the day and promptly tossed them aside. Magda wouldn’t mind, and Cinnia would welcome a reprieve from her guardianship. Best of all, she’d have Ballard to herself all day instead of a few stolen dark hours. She stopped short of accepting his invitation, disappointment dampening her excitement. “I can’t. Plowfoot is frightened of you. I’d have to fight him the entire way to keep him from galloping back to the stables.”
Except for Magnus, animals feared Ballard. Plowfoot had almost kicked his stall door down once, trying to put distance between him and the master of Ketach Tor as Ballard and Gavin mucked out the stables. Gavin had to trot the horse out to the bailey and tie him to a post until they’d finished cleaning.
Ballard offered an easy solution. “You’ll ride pillion on Magnus. He can carry us both at full gallop without breathing hard.”
