The Mistress of Normandy. Susan Wiggs

smelled of the sea and the sun. She felt as if she’d come home, with his arms tight around her, his chest solid against her cheek. “Where have you been?”

      “Nowhere. I am nowhere without you.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up. His lips began a slow descent onto hers.

      Trembling, she clung to him, relished every tingling sensation that shivered over her as their lips melded into a long, slow kiss. Her hands ranged up his sinewy torso, feeling the sweat-dampened skin beneath his mail shirt. She twined her fingers through his golden hair and pulled him closer, her lips parting, inviting the velvety sweep of his tongue. He filled her with masculine sweetness, wrapped her with steel-tempered hardness, and kindled the fuse of her passion.

      Seared by yearning, she pressed closer. He dragged his lips from hers. His eyes glinted jewel-bright with an inner torment that tore at her heart and filled her mind with questions. “Why did you stay away for so long?” she asked.

      He touched her cheek, her brow. “Because it is wrong for us to meet like this, in secret. I can offer you nothing.”

      “How can you say that? How can you belittle the friendship you’ve given me?” He started to pull away. She grasped his hands, leaned up on tiptoe, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she stepped back and let her hair fall forward to hide the fire he’d ignited in her cheeks. Peering uncertainly from between her locks, she wondered if her bold behavior appalled him. He’d certainly been disapproving enough of her interest in gunnery. Doubtless she violated every image this knight-errant had of feminine ideals.

      He parted her hair with his fingers. With relief, she saw only affection in his smile.

      “Would that I could give you more than friendship,” he whispered.

      Hope billowed in her chest. “I’ve come here almost every day,” she admitted.

      Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to the pulse at her wrist. “Testing your guns?” He sounded both teasing and annoyed.

      She shook her head. “Looking for you. And I asked where you’ve been.” He didn’t speak. Raising one eyebrow, she ventured, “Doubtless on knightly business of utmost secrecy.” She fixed him with a probing stare. “But I’ve guessed your secret.”

      He fell still, seemed not even to breathe. “Lianna—”

      “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling softly. “I’ll not put it about that you’ve chased the Englishman from Eu.”

      He blinked. “Chased the—”

      “Aye, we heard that the god-don has sailed away.” Excitement danced in her eyes. “Did you fight him? Did you slay the man who came to conquer Château Bois-Long?”

      “No blood was spilled.”

      “Did he run back to England like the coward he is?” She touched his sleeve. “You wear no colors, my Gascon. Are you for the Armagnacs or the Burgundians?”

      “I could ask you the same of your mistress. She is of the blood of Burgundy, yet she houses a supporter of Armagnac.”

      Her eyes widened. “How do you know about Gaucourt?”

      “His presence at Bois-Long is no secret.”

      She regarded him with mock severity. “Perhaps you’re a spy for Burgundy...or the English.”

      He grinned. “Suppose I were?”

      “Then I would steal your dagger and use it on you.” She took his hand and laid it alongside her cheek. “Talk to me. I want to know you.”

      “There is much I would share with you...if I could.”

      “Have you a family?”

      His expression softened. “If you could term a band of motley men a family.”

      “Your men?” She turned to scan the area.

      “My comrades. But you won’t find them here.”

      “Tell me about them, Rand.”

      “They are men like any other. They have mothers, sweethearts...except for the priest, of course.”

      She smiled. “Somehow it seems fitting that you would keep constant company with a priest.”

      Laughing, he said, “You’d not think so if you knew this priest. He’s more likely to be found ranging the fields on a hunt than in a chapel hearing confessions. He often says mass in muddy boots and falconer’s cuffs.”

      “What of your other friends?”

      A guarded look made him seem suddenly distant, unapproachable. “I think it is better for us both to keep silent about certain matters.”

      Wanting to draw him back to her, she leaned up and kissed him lightly. It wasn’t fair to question him, not when she was full of her own secrets. She couldn’t tell him now that she was the Demoiselle de Bois-Long, and married, with the wrath of the Duke of Burgundy and the King of England down upon her. This glade was their private garden, a place to forget they were each part of someone else’s plan.

      “Times are uncertain. I’ll badger you no more,” she said.

      Cloaked in wildflowers, the fields beckoned. As they walked, Rand stooped to pick hepaticas, fire-pink gaywings, early yellow violets, and bluets barely furled from their buds. Lianna loved to hear him talk. His rich, musical voice revealed ideas as fine and fanciful as the flowers he gathered. With enchanting whimsy he told her improbable tales of gallantry, unconquerable villains, damsels in distress.

      Stopping on a little rise in the middle of the field, he offered her the flowers. She shook her head. “What would you have me do with them?”

      “Smell them, for God’s sake. Let them pleasure you.”

      She laughed. “Pleasure me? What a silly notion?” She plucked a single stalk of mayapple from his bouquet. “Now this is useful in making a decoction for the grippe.”

      He tucked it behind her ear. “To you, everything needs must have a practical use. Why is that?”

      “I know of no other way to look at things.” Taking a violet, she stared intently at the blossom, then at the waving profusion of flowers all around her. “In sooth they all seem alike to me.”

      He cupped her chin in one hand and rubbed the silken petals over her lips. “Then let me show you.”

      Sitting down, he spread his hands and scattered the blossoms. The scent soon brought a flurry of butterflies.

      She stepped back, her breath snared in her throat. He was so beautiful, so true of heart. She yearned for a measure of his charming insouciance, the self-assuredness that made him capable of exalting even a lowly mayapple. But, tainted by intrigue and secrecy, she knew she could never share his clear-eyed wonder. Stiffly she sat down beside him. A butterfly flitted between them.

      “My sad girl,” he said softly. “Why do you look so sad?”

      “I wish I could be like you, Rand. So...whimsical.”

      “Whimsical! Dear maid, you unman me.”

      “But it’s true. You’re so full of unexpected delights....” She let her voice trail off and frowned. “I am clumsy with words. I know not how to say what I feel.”

      “Try, Lianna.”

      “I have an emptiness deep inside me, a darkness. In studying weaponry I learned high-flown ideas of science, the timing of fuses, the use of priming irons, but no one ever taught me how to—” She swallowed hard. “You have said I am beautiful, but I cannot believe it because I don’t feel it in my heart. I’ve never thought the attribute of any value.”

      She heard the rasp of his quick-drawn breath, saw the unsteadiness of his hand as he picked up the flowers in his lap. He plaited the blossoms into a circlet, put it on her head, let chains of lavender hepatica