The Yielding by Tamara Leigh

Author:Tamara Leigh [Leigh, Tamara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Medieval
Published: 2014-01-02T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

He ached. There was no other word for it. Each time he saw her, he knew a discomfort unlike any he had known. It was not the gown, though it clasped her figure as tunic and braies could not do. It was not her flaxen hair, though it tempted his hands. It was not even the health returned to her face that made her nearly the angel he had first looked upon.

What, then? Her blue eyes that rarely met his? Her determined chin beneath blushing lips? Those same lips that knew no bow save when she looked upon Clarice?

Michael drummed on the journal, the figures of which refused to be summed with his attention so divided. Why did the mere thought of her make him ache? Why could he not be truthful—at least with himself? Why could he not sum these accursed numbers?

He slammed his gaze to the entries set down this day and focused on the date Canute had written. For this, more than anything, he ached—the passing of days that portended the arrival of the sheriff three days hence.

He sat back in his chair. The days had passed too quickly, as would the remaining three. Then Beatrix would leave Soaring and never return.

It matters not. As it is a trial she wishes, a trial she shall have.

Which returned Sir Piers to mind. A sick horse! Though Michael had himself seen the beast would not rise from its stall, he did not believe it. And yet the knight had made no move toward Beatrix other than that warning shake of his head.

Was he awaiting orders? Wulfrith’s orders? Lavonne’s? It could be either, though the latter worried him the most. If Aldous Lavonne feared absolution as Michael had once feared it, he would seek a way to ensure this Wulfrith did not go unpunished. And what of Christian? Would he allow his father his revenge as he had done in the past by silently condoning the raids on Wulfrith lands?

Michael stood. Where was Beatrix? The garden again? Squire Percival reported that two and three times a day she sought his escort to that place where Michael grew medicinal herbs—among them comfrey and tansy that he had used to speed the healing of his leg. Or had she gone to the chapel? It was also told that she spent even more time among the dust and desertion of that place that few visited since the passing of Soaring’s priest.

Eschewing his staff that his strengthening leg needed less and less, Michael decided to try the garden and strode to the corridor that granted passage. At the far end, the door stood ajar just enough to let in a ribbon of sunlight—and whatever insects happened by.

He scowled as a fly swept past on its way to the kitchen, its merry drone seeming to mock him. However, the scene that awaited him when he pulled the door wide and crossed the threshold was more grievous than the prospect of sharing a meal with filthy insects.

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