“You could stay home. Research. Raise babies. Do noblewoman things.” He sounds so earnest, and not unkind, but I am not interested in “noblewoman things” or raising babies.
Or him.
I tried to find the spark that others reputedly found in his bed. Repeatedly. In different positions. No matter what we tried, bedding Girard was disappointing. The novels I had read alone in my room spoke of tremors, of stars exploding, of knowing such joy that a woman feels like she might die. My experience with Girard, however, was a sticky, messy event that left my body sore—and created a false reason for Girard to be possessive.
Talking about his hopes, ones I don’t share, isn’t why I have stopped here. So I redirect the conversation: “The traveler ...”
“Hugh,” he supplies.
“Tell me about him.” I watch Girard shift from a hopeful spurned lover to the person I thought he was before my folly.
“Good man, weak constitution. A few pints and he was vulgar. Another pint and he had to be told not to make overtures to Agnes.” Girard grins at me.
I can’t help but laugh. Agnes is a statue in the square that is purported to be a saint or maybe a warrior. Weather and time have turned her into a blob that the village has named Agnes.
“I’m not convinced Agnes is even a statue of aperson.”
“Hugh was convinced. Fondled poor Agnes last visit before proposing.” Girard sobers slightly. “He made untoward remarks toward James’ wife, too. That one landed him a blackened eye.”
“He was nearly beheaded in the wood,” I say. I choose not to mention that I think the same creature may have attacked me.
“James isn’t that sort of man,” Girard quickly objects. “Polly was the one that socked him, too.”
I nod. “James is not strong enough to have beheaded Hugh, and Polly isn’t either. Honestly, the only person in the village that might be strong enough is you, and you ...” I shake my head. “You’re not that sort either.”
“You think it was one ofthem.”
“I do,” I confirm.
“Any green blood?”
“No.” I don’t mention the faery blood at my attack. We aren’t discussingthat. I weigh my thoughts with my fears and doubts, and I hate that I echo my father’s hopes in the next statement. “One victim isn’t a pattern. Maybe Hugh will be the only one. Still, I’d feel better if the villagers were on alert. And if any other expected traveler fails to show up ...”
“I’ll send one of the lads up to the manor.” Girard catches my cloak in his hand, and I struggle not to wince at the jarring feeling in my injured arm. “Gabrielle?”
“Yes?”
“Gossip from the city finds its way here, too, you realize?” He stares at me as if I am about to be scandalized by his next words, and then he says, “Ashmore is a lot like Hugh. She may not fondle old Agnes there”—he nods toward the square where the statue stands—“but she’s bedded half the eligible women and more than a few widows, too.”
I smile. “Lucky women.”
Girard’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same. I’ve been in your arms and in hers, Girard. I know exactly what sort of sport you both enjoy.” I wonder briefly whether the beast is targeting those who are active in their pursuits of intimacy. If that’s the case, both Isabeau and Girard are targets, too.
One body is not a pattern,logic reminds me.
“Please be careful,” Girard says. “With the beast and with Ashmore. Even if you and I are ended, I want you to be well and safe.”
I let out a heave of a sigh. “And that, Girard, is why all the women lift their skirts for you. You’re not a bad man.”
He chuckles, gestures at his arms, and pats his flat stomach. “I suspect there are other reasons, too.”
“Stay out of the wood, please?” I blurt out. “If the creatureislooking for men like Hugh ...”
“I don’t fondle Agnes.” Girard scowls. “Or married women.”
“But every other interested one? You do. Youhave. And I doubt that you stopped even as you spoke to me of marriage.”
