Tori Phillips - Lady Of The Knight

“Count it!” Gareth practically frothed at the mouth.

In silence, Andrew stacked the angels into neat piles. He had the most uncontrollable urge to stroke the lass’s bare ankle to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. As if she could read his mind, she inched a step backward, as far as the diameter of the rough barrelhead allowed.

Gareth’s eyes glowed like burning coals when Andrew’s money ran out at thirty. “My bid was thirty-eight! She is mine!” He reached for her.

Andrew restrained himself from grabbing the man around his scrawny neck. “You are too hasty, my lord.” He produced Guy’s pouch. With a self-satisfied smile, he untied the leather strings and drew out three coins. “Tis wise never to keep all of one’s fortune in a single place. Three sovereigns.”

Gareth fumed with unsavory growls. Andrew noticed that the ragged hem of the girl’s skirt trembled, though not a whisper of wind stirred through the enormous English camp. Compassion softened his lust. He congratulated himself for saving the waif from Gareth’s brutal clutches.

He slapped the final coin on the golden pile. “Are we square now, Purveyor of Wenches?”

The bawdmaster slobbered his assent. “Take her, my lord. Pleasure yerself as long as ye like.”

Andrew cocked an eyebrow at his three companions. “Mark his very words, my young friends. The master says I may have the lady as long as I like. Trust me, knave, I intend to take my time.”

“Take all the time ye need,” the bawdmaster gibbered. His red-rimmed eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the gold.

Gareth ground his teeth. A thick blue vein throbbed at his temple. “Enjoy the strumpet while you can, Ford, but I will have her yet. You have made me look a fool, and I will be avenged. I swear it on my sword!”

Andrew regarded the enraged man through half-closed eyelids. “You grow tedious, my Lord Hogsworthy. I fear we must discontinue your company. Adieu! Creep back to your kennel.” Then he turned his back on the seething man and held out his hand to his prize. He flashed her a warm smile of encouragement.

“Come, fair lady. Tis time we quit these rude surroundings.”

Rosie jumped at the sound of his voice. Never had she beheld anyone so garishly dressed as the man who had just paid a king’s fortune for the dubious privilege of taking something that she no longer had.

Her new master was clothed completely in scarlet and gold from the great wealth of nodding yellow plumes on his crimson hat to the toes of his bright red leather shoes. His thigh-length scarlet doublet was trimmed with yards of golden lace. His shirt of ivory silk peeked through the slashing of his full padded sleeves. Panes of gold decorated his red trunk hose and bright yellow stockings encased his muscular legs. The magnificence of his colors put everyone else into dark shade.

Rosie presumed that the gentleman must be a cousin of the king. She wondered why he had chosen her, when he obviously could have had his pick of finer quality ladies.

Then she looked into his face. His mouth, with fine full lips, drew apart in a smile that lit up his clean-shaven countenance. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his hazel eyes. His nut-brown hair, shot with streaks of silver, waved over the collar of his short red cape. Rosie’s heart skipped a beat. Even though he was past his prime, the gentleman was still very handsome by any woman’s reckoning.

Quince rapped her toes. “Quit gawking, girl, and attend to yer business with this lord. ‘E don’t want to wait until doomsday to swive ye.”

The nobleman ignored Quince. He continued to smile at Rosie. “Come, sweetheart, take my hand. I will not let you fall.”

His eyes surveyed her in a kindly manner and not with the raw lust Rosie had expected. Summoning all her courage, she placed her hand in his. His gloved fingers closed around hers and he gave her a little squeeze. When she looked into his eyes again, she saw only warmth and approval. A little trill of excitement fluttered in her heart. The doeskin of his gloves caressed her work-roughened palm with butter softness.

Quince shoved her. “Take a strap to the wench, if she don’t move fast enough to yer liking,” the bawdmaster advised.

Rosie nearly fell on top of the richly clad nobleman. Her new patron tightened his grip to steady her. “Do not be afraid, my dear.”

She took a deep breath. “Haint afeared of ye, sir. Methinks ye have paid too much money to do an injury to your goods.”

His thick brown eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Well-spoken, mistress. I shall keep your opinion under advisement.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she heard the friendly tone in his voice. She cautioned herself not to take heart from it. All men were deceivers. Holding her skirt with her free hand, she jumped lightly to the hard-packed ground. Giddy from hunger, she wobbled. She hoped that the gentleman would spare her a goodly supper after he had finished his business with her. She touched the hidden vial of blood to assure herself of its safety, then folded her arms over her bare breasts.

The noble drew closer to her. He smelled of spice and wealth, like someone from God’s side of paradise.

“Pull up your shift, sweetheart. There is no need to display your charms to this unworthy assembly,” he murmured. His low voice rolled over her like warm honey.

Nodding her gratitude, she gathered the thin muslin around her shoulders. Then her patron looped her arm through his and led her out of the ring of torchlight. The sea of leering men parted before them.

One of the crowd guffawed. “You have bought yourself a pretty posy, Ford! Phew! She reeks like a polecat.”

Rosie’s temper flared in response. She gritted her teeth.

“Lout!” the fine lord muttered. He patted her hand.

“Save a bit for me!” shouted another.

A third stroked at her as she passed him. “I will look for you in the morning, wench, when you walk with bowed legs!”

She shivered at their lewd catcalls and thanked her lucky stars that she had been purchased by the lord at her side.

“Do not tremble so,” he whispered. “I promise I will not eat you.”

Rosie tossed her matted hair out of her eyes with a bold show of courage. “Told ye afore, haint afeared. Only—cold.” She didn’t dare to look at him lest he read the lie in her eyes.

“Ah!” His gaudy plumes danced as he nodded. “You are correct. Tis a sudden night wind. Allow me to remedy your discomfort.”

He halted, removed his short cape with a swirl, then settled it around her shoulders. Rosie drew the collar close to her face and stroked her cheek against the wondrous material.

“Tis soft like a downy chick!”

He chuckled. “Tis made of velvet. Does it please you, my dear? Are you warm enough now?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. Like toast on a fork.” She snuggled deeper into its folds. His intoxicating scent clung to the material. “Tis sinful. Methinks the devil himself must wear velvet.”

Someone sniggered behind her. “The wench has found you out already, Andrew. You are truly the very devil of us all!”

Rosie glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken. Three extremely tall young men loomed in the shadows. One of them winked at her. The naked hunger in his eyes unnerved her. She detected the odor of strong wine on his breath. She pulled the cape closer around her neck.

“Hold tight to your purse strings, my lord,” she whispered to her hew master. “Three great rogues are afollowing us.”

Her escort chuckled again. “Ignore the rascals. They love to hear themselves talk.”

The three followers chortled at this remark.

Rosie tugged at the nobleman’s arm. “We should flee, my lord.”

He squeezed her hand. “I am humbly grateful for your concern, sweetheart, but tis of no consequence. I fear they are friends of mine.” He led her into a broad avenue. “This way.”

Rosie glanced around her with growing alarm. Tents, banners and campfires stretched down both sides of the thoroughfare and disappeared into the depths of the night. She had no idea that the English encampment was so large. She wondered how she would find Quince’s tent in the morning—not that she was in any hurry to return to him.

“Where are we going, my lord?” she asked as they passed a cluster of more sumptuous pavilions.

The nobleman gave her another one of his heart-melting smiles. His white teeth flashed in the firelight. “To my humble abode.”

The three behind them broke into a chorus of riotous laughter. “Wait until you see it, little one,” one of them teased her.

Rosie didn’t like the way he had said that. She tugged on the gentleman’s sleeve again. “Are…are we going to do it there?”

His eyes twinkled. “That remains to be seen,” he replied.

The three youths erupted into more boisterous braying.

Rosie’s misgivings increased tenfold. “Are they…” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder again. “I mean, are we all going to do it—together?” No wonder the gentleman had paid so much gold for her! She could trick one with her vial of blood, but not four at the same time. Her knees grew weak at the thought.

The most outspoken of the three drew closer. “In good sooth, fair damsel, you are not ours to savor. But—”he flashed her a wicked grin “—if old Andrew tires too quickly, I will teach you to dance a merry tune.”

Rosie’s protector growled in the back of his throat. “Mind your manners, Jackanapes. There is a lady present.”

Rosie clutched the cape tighter. “Where?” she asked, peering into the darkness. She had never before met a real lady.

The three rogues nearly fell over themselves with laughter.

The gentleman shook his head at them. “Pigs,” he remarked to Rosie.

Very soon, they stopped in front of a large double tent. By the light of a bonfire at the entrance, Rosie saw that the canvas walls were painted salmon pink and embellished with gilded ivy. Her patron lifted one of the flaps, revealing a cozy interior, lighted by a wealth of candles in glass lanterns. She gasped with awe at the extravagance, then uttered a little squeal of surprise when the gentleman swept her up into his arms.

He cradled her against his chest as if she were made of the most delicate glass. The warmth and strength of his arms soothed her, though she did not understand why. Her body tingled from the contact. Her fingers ached to stroke his smooth cheek, but she did not dare to take such a liberty. She was nothing but his chattel, she reminded herself.

The gentleman glanced at the trio. “If you plan to come in, boys, doff your muddy boots out here,” he instructed them.

Rosie stared at him. “My lord?” His request seemed very odd.

To her further amazement, the three did exactly what he had commanded them.

“Tis old Andrew’s conceit, lass,” the tallest one explained, as he dropped his boots in a heap by the entrance. “He bought those new rugs before we left London and he is determined to keep them clean.”

Her protector nodded. “Just so. Turkish, my dear. Imported on the humped-back camels all the way from the Ottoman Empire.”

Rosie had no idea what Ottomans or camels were, but she could tell just from looking at the rugs, that they were the finest things she had ever seen. “If ye want to keep them new, my lord, methinks ye should roll them up, for they will surely grow filthy when it rains here.”

The tallest laughed. “She has hit the bull’s-eye, Andrew.”

“Ah!” The nobleman nodded as if deep in thought. “A point well-taken, mistress. However, be easy in your mind. I have a layer of waxed canvas beneath them.” He smiled again at her. “But I am most grateful for your consideration, sweetheart.”