A Time for Love

  Rhys pursed his lips. “You both have more arrogance than is good for you, but I’ll not complain. I will complain, however, about your short stays in the lists, Nick. I daresay you and I are the only sport for Robin, yet you will find yourself unable to stand against him if you do not train harder.”

  Nicholas waved a dismissive hand as he started back to the hall. “I’ve been tending Anne, Father. ’Tis a much more important task than tending Robin, believe me.”

  Robin stiffened and would have gone after his brother immediately had his father’s heavy hand on his shoulder not kept him in place.

  “He’s baiting you, Rob,” Rhys said quietly.

  “I could not care less what he does with Anne,” Robin said, trying mightily to sound more uninterested than he was. “Let him wed her if he wills it.” He looked behind him for his squire. “See to my gear, Jason. I will be within.”

  “As you will, my lord.”

  Robin turned and walked with his sire across the lists. Rhys refrained from speech until they had reached the steps leading up to the great hall. Then he paused. Robin steeled himself. He knew something of great import was about to be distilled on his pitiful ears. His father was wearing that look. It wasn’t often that he wore it, but Robin had learned to pay heed when he did. Robin could only hope it was something he could bear to hear.

  “Anne is a very special woman, Robin,” Rhys said slowly, “and she will require a sure hand and a loyal heart to win her trust.”

  Robin felt as if he should say something, but there was naught to say. His father had it aright. If Anne needed anything, ’twas a loyal heart.

  “Nicholas coddles her overmuch and I daresay she doesn’t care for it.”

  “I’ve told him that,” Robin muttered.

  “That isn’t the way to win her,” Rhys continued.

  Robin waited, but apparently no more wisdom was forthcoming without some prompting on his part. Somehow, though, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the remainder. He turned his face away and scowled as he looked out over the courtyard. It was filled with ghosts, shadows of him and Anne when they were growing to maturity, teasing and playing together. Robin could still remember how she had seemed to worship him and how it had empowered yet humbled him at the same time. Ah, the fervent vows he had made as a callow youth, vows to become a man she would be proud of, a man worthy of her goodness.

  And then she had been trampled and he had been humiliated. She had withdrawn and he had let anger and bitterness fill his soul. Had he been a fool? Was it truly possible to undo the past and have her?

  Robin took a deep breath and let it out carefully. He put his shoulders back. Best have the question over with and the answer received before he lost what courage he had remaining him.

  “And how would a man win her?” he asked carefully.

  Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “Why would you care?”

  Robin watched, open-mouthed, as his father entered the hall, leaving him standing outside on the step. He doubted he would have been more surprised if his father had clouted him on the nose.

  But there was some truth in what Rhys had said. What did he care?

  The problem was, he did.

  The hall door opened and Robin fully expected his father to come back out and finish what he’d started. Unfortunately, the soul who stepped outside was none other than Geoffrey of Fenwyck. Robin tried a weak smile.

  “My lord.”

  Geoffrey looked at him with intense dislike. “Oh. ’Tis you.”

  Robin made Geoffrey a bow. Surely a bow couldn’t go wrong.

  But when he straightened, it was to see Geoffrey give him a look he might have given a plump and steaming pile of dung he’d narrowly avoided plunging his foot into. Fenwyck then grunted and brushed past Robin without further comment.

  Apparently the girl was not to be won through her sire.

  Then Robin clapped his hand to his head, hard enough to make himself flinch, though likely not hard enough to rid himself of his unwise thoughts. He was beginning to wonder what would be worse for him—winning Anne or not. If this was the state he was to be left in by the deed, perhaps he was better off without her.

  He entered the hall to find Nicholas and Anne sitting close to the fire. Nicholas was hovering over her as if she’d been a plate of sweets he intended to devour as quickly as possible whilst allowing no other a taste.

  Robin was momentarily tempted to move his brother by force, but thought better of it. Then again, there was no sense in leaving Nicholas free to accustom himself to Anne’s nearness.

  “Nick, a word!” he called as neutrally as if he had nothing more important to discuss than what might stand to arrive upon the supper table within the hour.

  “I’m busy,” his brother returned, not looking away from Anne.

  Robin decided then that perhaps familial murder wasn’t such a poor idea. He gritted his teeth as he crossed the room, trying to keep his fingers loose and not clenched into a purposeful fist. He stopped directly beside his brother.

  “Your horse, I believe, has thrown a shoe,” Robin said. “You should see to it.”

  Nicholas only looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I believe Father has a blacksmith for that kind of thing. Why don’t you take the beast yourself ? As you can see, I am much occupied at the moment.”

  “I believe this is something that requires your personal overseeing. You wouldn’t want to have your horse lamed by your inattentions, would you?”

  “I’m sure my horse will keep for a few more moments.”

  Robin looked at his brother and hoped the lad could see his own death in Robin’s eyes. Nicholas merely smiled serenely. Robin knew his brother was enjoying himself immensely and that irritated him further.

  “You should go,” Robin growled. “Now.”

  “Can’t,” Nicholas said cheerfully. “Have things to do here.”

  Robin seethed silently. Well, short of taking the oaf by the ear and hauling him out of the hall bodily, there was nothing more he could do to distract Nicholas from his purpose.

  And then Robin espied the empty stool next to Anne.

  Robin planted himself upon it with all the alacrity of a pig leaping upon fresh slops. He looked at his brother archly, daring him to issue a challenge—any sort of challenge which would allow Robin the opportunity to justifiably beat him senseless.

  “You’ve mud in your hair,” Nicholas remarked. “And something else that smells rather foul. Perhaps you should go have a wash?”

  Robin was halfway to his feet, his fists at the ready, when the import of his brother’s words struck him.

  Did he smell foul?

  Unchivalrous and unrefined as he might have been, even he knew that a man did not leave a favorable impression on a maid if he reeked of manure. Robin found himself crouched uncomfortably between standing and sitting and could do nothing but surreptitiously sniff, on the off chance that Nicholas had things aright.

  He smelled dung, but that could have been on his boots. It was acceptable on one’s boots, of that he was certain.

  And then, just as he was trying to decide whether he should continue on to a stand or gracefully return to a sit, he felt the lightest of touches on his arm.

  “’Tis but a bit of mud, Nicky.”

  It was the voice of an angel and Robin felt the import of it wash over him like a soothing wave. He hardly dared look at her, lest he see laughter lurking in her eyes, but he found himself powerless to stop. Her face was turned away from him so he couldn’t divine her expression, but her hand was still upon his arm. Before he could truly unravel the mystery of her touch and what it might mean, she had removed her hand and clasped them both in her lap again.

  That was enough for him.

  Robin sat.

  And he glared up at his brother.

  “’Tis but a bit of mud, idiot,” he said with a growl.

  “It doesn’t smell of mud,” Nicholas said, sniffing enthusiastically. “’Tis definitely dung.
Anne, have a care lest the stench leave you faint.”

  Robin suddenly found himself staring into pale green eyes and he could do nothing but blink stupidly in return. Then she smiled a bit and the sight almost felled him where he sat.

  “Montgomery and John boasted of their victory,” she said. “It was kind of you to give it to them, even if it left you the one lolling in the dirt.”

  “Dung,” Nicholas repeated. “Dung. Possibly something even more foul. Is that possible, do you think, Anne? Something fouler than dung? Whatever it is, Robin seems to have rolled himself liberally in it.”

  Anne turned her head to look at a small commotion near the hall door. Robin looked at Nicholas and glared.

  “Death,” he mouthed.

  Nicholas’s returning look was full of meaning Robin couldn’t mistake.

  His brother intended to woo Anne. And he wanted Robin out of his way.

  Before Robin could rise and throttle him, Nicholas had taken his leave of Anne and crossed the floor to greet Fenwyck as he entered the hall.

  “Perfect,” Robin muttered. He turned to Anne, intent on asking her if she cared to escape the hall before they had to watch what would surely be one of the more nauseating events in history—namely Nicholas flattering Anne’s father—but Anne was already pushing herself to her feet.

  “Best see to supper,” she said.

  And then she was gone.

  Robin was tempted to offer her his aid, but that would have removed him from earshot of Nicholas and Geoffrey and he had no intentions of missing out on any of that conversation—should he be able to stomach it. There was no sense in not knowing exactly what his brother was about.

  It would give him something to say when he eulogized the fool.

  For there was not a means conceived in either Heaven or Hell by which Nicholas de Piaget would woo and win the lady Anne. Robin wondered why he had begun the morn with such confusion clouding his brain. Anne was his. She had always been his. And if Nicholas thought differently, it was past time Robin disabused him of that notion. Then he would turn his own thoughts to how Anne might be won.

  Then he caught a whiff of himself. Perhaps Nicholas had it aright. Well, there was no sense in giving either Fenwyck or his daughter a reason to think poorly of him.

  Robin left the hall at a run, planning on a quick wash, then a return for eavesdropping.

  11

  Anne stood near the hearth and watched several things that currently unfolded before her.

  There were the preparations for supper, of course. That was nothing unusual. Anne had made a visit to the kitchen, assured herself that everything was proceeding as Gwen would want it, then returned and watched the hall be laid for supper. That was an appealing enough sight, for she was hungry, but it was not what held her attention.

  Her father was currently holding court with Nicholas. Anne couldn’t help but feel a bit grateful for that, for it saved her the bother of having to dodge her sire’s meaningful glances. Indeed, since he’d begun to speak with Nicholas an hour ago, he seemed to have forgotten that he had meaningful glances to send her way.

  And then Robin entered the hall. His hair was dripping wet, as was the majority of his tunic. Anne suspected that perhaps his brother’s words had spurred him to action after all. She watched as he walked up to his brother and her father. Nicholas elbowed him aside and stood before him, apparently blocking Robin’s access to her father. Robin merely made himself a place on Nicholas’s other side.

  Her father pushed him out of the circle that time.

  Anne continued to watch their little dance with astonishment. By the saints, what were they about?

  “It looks, sister, as if you might be here longer than you think,” Amanda said.

  Anne looked at her foster sister, who had suddenly appeared at her side. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re trying to woo your sire,” Amanda said wisely. “I’ve seen it dozens of times. Doesn’t look as if Robin’s having much success.”

  “My father doesn’t like him, I don’t think.”

  Amanda snorted. “It pains me to tell you this, Anne, but I can understand completely. Robin’s impossible. Intolerable. I can’t imagine what you see in him.”

  The sigh escaped her before she could stop it. And once it was out, there was no sense in not following it up with the words.

  “He’s beautiful,” she said.

  Amanda grunted in a most unladylike manner. “I’ll give you that, but his manners more than make up for that.”

  “He can be very sweet,” Anne protested.

  Amanda turned and looked at her with an open mouth. “Sweet?” she echoed.

  “Occasionally,” Anne clarified.

  “I don’t think your father agrees.”

  Anne looked at the dance in progress to find Nicholas and her sire making every effort to keep Robin outside their conversings.

  “Mayhap Nicky offers for you,” Amanda said quietly.

  Anne shook her head. “He only does it because he thinks, for what reason I cannot fathom, that the doing of it will irritate Robin.”

  “Men,” Amanda said grimly. “Why can they not confine their games to the battlefield?”

  “The thrill of conquest,” Anne said. “Why else?”

  “Ugh,” Amanda said. “Here they come. I will slap them both if I stay.”

  And Anne’s last hope of a pleasant dinner walked away. She looked to find both Robin and Nicholas coming her way, fierce frowns adorning both their faces.

  Anne couldn’t help but wonder why Nicholas of Artane seemed determined to fair stitch himself into her clothes. She couldn’t believe he was interested in her. And she couldn’t imagine that her father would give her to him. He was the second son and Fenwyck would never settle for that.

  Besides, Nicholas would be fortunate indeed to last the evening, what with the glares Robin had been casting his way. Perhaps the battle would be conceded before it was fought. Not that it would have done him any good to fight it anyway, Robin had her heart in his keeping, whether he knew it or not, and whether he wanted it or not. She watched him walk toward her and wondered how it was she could watch him from a distance and understand him so well, yet when she drew to within ten paces of him, her logic fled. When he glared down at her with flashing eyes, her temper immediately rose to the surface and found voice. Or she retreated and wept. She’d done that often enough in the past. Her feigned cheerfulness served her only until she reached the safety of her chamber.

  She jumped slightly as she realized Nicholas was standing in front of her, looking down at her with a smile.

  “Green becomes you,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “But so do all the other colors you wear. Anne, you are nothing short of stunning.”

  “Nick, stop slobbering on her.” Robin pushed his brother aside and took her hand. “Come and sit, Anne. I want to look at your wrist.”

  Anne pulled her hand away so sharply, she fell against Nicholas. She pushed away from him just as quickly.

  “My wrist is fine. By the saints, stop hounding me. The both of you.”

  Nicholas pushed Robin out of the way and offered his arm. “Will my lady permit me to escort her to the table?”

  “Nay, I will—”

  Anne turned and walked away before she clacked their heads together. Perhaps they were amused by their game, but she was beginning to find it intolerable.

  She took her seat and immediately found herself flanked by the eldest Artane lads. Robin couldn’t have pulled his chair any closer; neither could Nicholas. Anne surrendered for the evening since there was indeed little hope of escape, unless she hiked up her skirts and climbed over the table. She sat back and sincerely hoped Robin and his brother would not begin a war with her as the main battlefield.

  A servant leaned over and poured wine into the large cup she shared with Nicholas. The girl’s elbow caught Anne sharply on the shoulder and Anne turned and looked up at the girl with faint annoyance.

>   But her annoyance changed to surprise when she saw the glare the maid was giving her.

  She blinked. By that time, the girl’s expression had become one of a long-suffering sort of sullenness that Anne had become well acquainted with at her father’s hall. It was an unusual thing to see here. At Artane the servants were treated well; Fenwyck could not boast the same fairness.

  The girl pulled away and retreated behind the table. Anne turned back to her meal and shrugged off her bewilderment. She’d been imagining things. Perhaps the girl had thought Anne at fault for being in her way.

  And then she heard a sound that set the hairs on the back of her neck to standing:

  The unmistakable jangle of a bracelet.

  Anne looked behind her in surprise, but the girl was gone. She looked around at the table and wondered if she nigh on to driving herself daft. Tankards were clanking as they were thrust together, spoons rattled, daggers clanked as they met with spoons. Then Anne looked down the table to see Isabelle holding her arm aloft. A bracelet gleamed in the firelight.

  Anne blew out her breath in relief. Her relief was magnified by the fact that she hadn’t been fool enough to tell anyone of her fears. The saints only knew what sort of rumors that would start—about her state of mind this time.

  Nicholas tasted the wine, then turned the cup and held it for Anne. She looked down at the golden goblet, knowing that if she put her lips in the most convenient place, it would be the same place Nicholas’s lips had been. It was a lover’s custom. Anne lifted her eyes and looked into Nicholas’s gentle expression.

  “Drink, my love.”

  Anne began to do just that when her movement was stopped abruptly by a brawny arm in her way. Robin snatched the cup away and poured the contents into the pitcher a page standing behind him was carrying.

  “Drink it all yourself, lad,” Robin growled.

  “Thank you, my lord!”

  Anne opened her mouth to retort when she caught sight of his thunderous expression, which was directed over her head at his brother. She shut her mouth and leaned back against her chair.

  “If you two are going to do battle,” she said with a sigh, “please do it outside.”