Page 14 of A Knight in Tarnished Armor

She returned his direct look for the longest time— time that seemed to have stopped—until she finally averted her golden eyes and stared at their joined hands.

Since the moment he had first seen her singing in the woods, he knew his life was nothing. nothing because she had not been part of it. And now, as he watched the top of her bent head, he wondered if he should give in to the urge that was consuming him. He wanted nothing more than to lie as one with this woman in the sweet grass. To lie in her for all his tomorrows.

But something stopped him. Some emotion that tasted of a morality he hadn't known he had. Morality and something that had the sour flavor of a sudden lack of confidence—a weakness foreign to him. He had always known he could win any battle, so he had won. Whether his confidence had come from a foolish and youthful idea that he was invincible, or actually from bravery he knew not. What he did know was that his confidence had left him when it came to Linnet. He felt awkward and out of place with her, afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing, afraid to touch her lest she recoil.

Perhaps it was because he had never had to court a woman. And he did not know how to go about it. The women he'd known needed nothing but a look that promised long nights of hot passion or a morning's reward of silver coins.

He'd known Eastern women who were schooled in the art of bedding, women whose skill and purpose was to satisfy a man, and who had taught him that his strongest satisfaction lay in firing a woman's passion to as hot a flame as his own.

There were the women who waited on the fringes of a battle, ready for men whose blood still ran wild, women who liked it rough and savage. And there were the skilled women of the court, who wanted to bed a new baron, the king's friend, or the man whose reputation made him some kind of sexual prize.

But he'd never known a woman like Linnet. A woman with a heart so big she cared for a herd of cats, ducks, and rabbits. A woman whose gentleness tamed a forest and a fierce knight's wild heart.

So for the first time in his life he played coward and stood quickly, startling her.

"William?"

The sound of his Christian name on her lips almost broke his resolve. He wanted to hear her say his name again. He wanted to hear her say his name in passion.

She frowned up at him.

The look he gave her was hard and emotionless, the opposite of how he felt inside. But his stony manner covered his weakness for her, a weakness that frightened him because it came upon him so strongly. He turned away.

"What is wrong?" She sounded hurt.

He had been so concerned that he would do the wrong thing. And now he'd done so. He had hurt her. He took a deep breath. "We've tarried here long enough. Half the day is gone!" he barked over a shoulder and strode toward the horses. Away. Safely away from a battle he had no idea how to win.

5

“One for you, Wenceslas, and one for you, Ximenes." Linnet turned and put the last of the salted fish into the cage with Yves and Zeno, then secured the latch. They had ridden with few words between them until William had finally grunted something about resting here.

A moment later he crossed the small clearing and stood behind her. "Come," he ordered. "Feed yourself." He gestured to some bread and cheese that lay upon a huge flat rock a short distance away.

She quietly followed, wondering what she had done to anger him. He hadn't looked at her again with anything remotely close to kindness. He just stared into the woods around them, like he was doing now. She followed his gaze, but saw nothing of interest. She looked at their meager meal, then said, "I need to fetch something." She hurried over to one of the pack animals and untied a heavy sack. It plopped to the ground. She grabbed the ties and began to drag it through the dirt.

An instant later William was beside her. He hauled the sack easily over his broad shoulder and strode back toward the rock, muttering.

She followed, rushing to keep up with his long strides. "Did you say something?"

He stopped and gave her a wry look, then shook his head. He dropped the sack on the ground and sat down on the rock where he drank from a wineskin.

She knelt and untied the sack. "I brought a few things."

He snorted.

"Food from the larder." She bent and looked inside, then sat up, pulling things out. "I have pears and grapes and apples . . ." For the next five minutes she unloaded the sack. ". . . Capon with herbs, honeyed figs, and"—she held up a small crock—"pickled eel!" She frowned down at the crock. "Who eats pickled eel?"

William wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the pile of food she had brought.

"What would you like?"

Now he looked at her.

"A honeyed fig?" She held up the fruit.

He did not look pleased. He was staring at her with the oddest look. Finally he shook his head and looked away.

She stared at him, her throat suddenly tight when she realized she could not do anything to please this man. She had never had anyone treat her so coolly. Her grandfather adored her, and she could always make him laugh. Her sisters' husbands treated her like a younger sister. But William de Ros had a wall around him that she couldn't penetrate. And it hurt her to think he might dislike her. She stared at the food for a long time before she finally whispered, "I'm sorry."