LITMIR.BIZ

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stroking the smooth, tanned flesh within her reach. ’Twas a feast for her senses; she felt nigh drunk on the feel of him, the fresh scent of his wet body, the warmth radiating out from him to envelop her like a cloak. ’Twas as though they were linked together by invisible bonds. She glanced up and met his eyes—a mistake, for they smoldered with a heat fit to match that of his skin. She dared not hold his gaze, for fear she’d lose her will completely if she did.

      Closing her eyes, she shook her head to clear her muzzy thoughts, the movement tugging sharply at her hair where it was caught between their bodies. When she drew away from him to free herself, a feeling of loss rushed over her. The sensation, though painful, brought her to her senses; she wriggled loose and dropped into the water with a splash.

      ’Twas so cold! The water closed over her head for but a moment before Padrig hauled her up and out of it, but ’twas enough to clear her wits. A tide of heat rose to her face as her actions replayed themselves in her mind.

      What had she been about, to tease and taunt him as she had?

      Alys found her footing, rose and swiped her wet hair out of her eyes. Backing toward shore, she risked a glance at Padrig, then whirled away from him in shock.

      He’d come after her, leaving the protective cover of the water. He stood before her in all his naked glory—and by the Virgin, he was a glorious sight. Fully aroused, his wet body gleamed in the early morning light.

      Somehow she forced her reluctant feet into motion, away from him, toward the camp.

      Unlike her journey to the pool, this time she noted nothing of her surroundings. Instead all she could see in her mind’s eye was Padrig, her only thought a question pulsing repeatedly through her brain.

      How in God’s name could she become a nun now?

      Padrig watched Alys stumble away from him and along the path with mixed feelings. ’Twas for the best that she’d left, no doubt—but by the rood, how he wished she’d stayed!

      He grinned. The Lady Alys he’d observed at l’Eau Clair—though he’d not seen her much, ’twas true—had led him to believe her to be vague, distracted, scarcely aware of her surroundings. She’d surprised him this morn, her actions and her words both, for she’d been quick-witted, clever and enticing.

      He had noticed her very soon after his return to l’Eau Clair several weeks ago. She was a comely lass, petite but curvaceous, her dark chestnut hair and light amber eyes a striking contrast to her alabaster skin. Something made her stand out among the young ladies in Lady Gillian’s household, though he could not say what made that so, for more than a few of them were beautiful.

      Still, when he’d tried to speak with her on several occasions, she’d scurried away with scarce a word to him—she’d barely even looked his way.

      When he’d asked about Lady Alys, he’d been told by Hugh, one of the other knights in Lord Rannulf’s train, that she was nigh a lack-wit, scatterbrained to the point where Lady Gillian despaired of teaching her much of anything. She appeared cautious of men, so that none had managed to lure her into the slightest indiscretion—though not for want of trying, Hugh had added with a wry laugh. It had soon become apparent, though, that Lady Alys seemed lost in a world of her own, unaware of most everything and everyone around her.

      Not worth the bother.

      A day ago, he might have agreed—reluctantly, ’twas true, for he’d continued to be drawn to her.

      Yet now… Now he could only wonder which woman was the real Lady Alys.

      He bit back a laugh. He had no doubt which he’d rather she be!

      Though in truth, it should matter naught to him whether she were a woman, a horse, a missive to be conveyed. So far as he was concerned, delivering her safely to her father’s care should be a responsibility he must fulfill.

      Nothing more.

      Yet he’d never before felt anything stronger than a sense of duty toward anyone he’d been obligated to escort, to protect.

      Nor should he now, he reminded himself sternly, no matter how sweet, how enticing the provocation.

      Padrig waded to the side of the pool where he’d left his clothes and sword, relishing the sensation of the breeze on his damp skin. His body had finally begun to cool, now that Lady Alys was no longer there to tempt him, though the desire she’d stirred still simmered low in his belly and thrummed through his blood like the hot, dark embers buried deep within the heart of a banked fire.

      He’d do well to ignore that craving until it disappeared, rather than let his continued exposure to the lady rouse it to fever pitch again. A man in his position couldn’t afford to give in to his passions whenever he encountered a pretty maid.

      He’d never had trouble keeping himself in check before, a fortunate thing, as all too often the women who caught his attention were as far beyond his reach as the moon.

      The same could be said for Lady Alys. She was far enough above his station that any attention from him could be considered bold arrogance on his part, at the very least.

      And if his suspicion about the reason her father wanted her back was true, he’d be an idiot, indeed, to allow himself the slightest interest.

      He wasn’t about to become a fool now. He tucked his shirt loosely into his braes, picked up his sword and dagger and headed for the path Lady Alys had taken through the trees. He’d yet to meet a woman who was worth more than a moment’s thought anyway.

      Why, then, had he already spent so much time thinking about her?

      The camp was astir by the time he returned, some of his men busy loading and saddling the tethered horses, others gathered near the ashes of the previous night’s fire to break their fast.

      Of Lady Alys he saw no sign, though her maid lingered by a thicket on the far side of the clearing, her expression troubled, her hands waving about in agitation as she spoke to someone within the bushes.

      Her mistress, no doubt.

      He wondered what reason Alys had given for her state of soggy dishevelment. He glanced at his men. Had anyone realized that he and Lady Alys had been away from the camp at the same time, and that though they’d returned separately, they were both wet?

      His own damp state was less apparent than hers had been, but it scarce took much imagination to consider…

      His face grew hot, as it had not since his youth. Thankfully no one could guess what they’d been doing, nor would they realize his lapse in judgment as he’d taunted Lady Alys with his words….

      With his nakedness.

      Jesu, but he must have been mad, to have treated a noble lady thus!

      Nor would anyone ever imagine—for he could scarce believe it himself—that Lady Alys had also done her innocent best to tease him.

      He shook his head and forced away the nagging sense of guilt that plagued him. They’d done nothing amiss. ’Twas the knowledge he’d behaved badly plaguing him, nothing more.

      Nay, no one would expect such behavior of Lady Alys—and he’d shown naught but the slightest, most general interest in her. They were more apt to believe she’d fallen into the pond on her own—for ’twas precisely what they’d expect of her, after all—and that he’d had to rescue her.

      Padrig crossed to his baggage and drew out a dry shirt, turning away from the men nearby as his face grew hotter still, in anger this time. What must it be like, to have everyone assume the worst of you? To be treated as though you were nigh brainless?

      His stomach knotted—not from hunger, but because he recalled all too clearly what it was like to be the focus of attention, to be watched, weighed and found wanting.

      To be the cause of jeering and mockery.

      For the most part it had been silent attention in his case, but he’d been aware of it all the same. His fear mounting as he waited for

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