“Hush! Hush, sweetling!” he whispered softly in her ear. “Forgive me for all. Don’t cry.” He gently stroked her ragged hair, still silky despite its rough treatment. “There was a stable boy below, watching us. I acted as any master would have done to his apprentice,” he explained. “A man’s world is a rough one. Shush, fair one. We are safe. We have this fine, warm place for the night, and a supper, as well—if we sing prettily enough for it.”
“We are to sleep here? In a barn?” Elizabeth’s reserves of courage melted away. She was tired, sore, hungry and frightened in these strange, coarse surroundings.
“‘Tis no Esmond Manor, I warrant you, but then again, there are far worse places we could be in. So be of good cheer!”
“You hurt me!” she whispered fiercely.
Tarleton winced at her accusation. “Not by choice. Please, sweetling, understand I do what I must for your own safety.”
“Does that include laming me?” she snapped. The splinter felt as if it were on fire.
“Laming you? Nay, ‘tis only a sweet stroll down a dry road on a sunny day. How is it that you are now lame?” he gently teased her.
“I have a splinter in my foot from the ladder.”
Tarleton laid her down on the straw. “Which foot?” he asked, concern etched his voice.
“The right one, just under the largest toe. Ouch! That’s it! Oh, please, don’t touch it again!” She gritted her teeth as Tarleton ignored her protests.
“‘Tis not a deep one, only large. I can pull it easily.”
“Oh, no!” she moaned.
He held out the pack strap to her. “Bite on this, but don’t cry out. We can’t have that stable boy poking his head up here,” he commanded sternly as he produced the wineskin.
Wincing from the pain, Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before putting the dirty cloth into her mouth. It tasted of earth and sweat; Elizabeth nearly gagged on it. Tarleton touched her cheek tenderly, brushing away a traitorous tear with his thumb. Then he smiled encouragingly at her, his gaze as soft as a caress. Something in his manner soothed her. Nodding, she bit down hard as Tarleton poured some wine on the wounded area. More tears burned in her eyes as he probed for the splinter. She gripped handfuls of the hay as the stabbing pain increased under his probing.
The jagged splinter was lodged deeper than he thought. Glancing at Elizabeth, Tarleton noted how white she looked, her eyes squeezed shut. His heart tightened.
“What manner of company are you keeping of late, sweet Robin?” he joked, trying to take her mind off the pain. “For I see that your sole has become very black.”
His quip was rewarded by her fleeting smile.
“‘Tis gone!” he announced triumphantly. Bright red drops of blood welled up in the spot where the splinter had been. Placing his lips over the injury, he sucked at the tiny wound.
A soft gasp escaped Elizabeth. Tarleton’s lips were surprisingly gentle. As they caressed the burning skin of her foot, she felt a lurch of excitement within her. Her breath caught in her throat; her heartbeat hammered in her ears. His nearness was overwhelming.
“Oh!” she moaned again, softly this time, her pain forgotten.
Recognizing the sound for what it meant, Tarleton quickly released her foot. “I trust you are better now,” he remarked in a tight, hoarse voice.
She was as intoxicating as new wine in autumn. He tried to shake off her heady effect. If Elizabeth had been any other maid moaning so passionately at his touch, Tarleton would have cheerfully pressed his advantage immediately. As it was, his loins throbbed hotly and grew tight. Elizabeth was a lady, he reminded himself—and the Queen’s own goddaughter! He would be moonstruck to even consider the idea of a romp in the hay.
“Tarleton, I—” she began.
“What you need are shoes,” he muttered gruffly. “Stay here, and rest.” Leaping up, he built a low wall of straw in front of her. “Behold my lady’s chamber,” he whispered.
Not moving from where she lay, Elizabeth watched him through her thick lashes. His presence made her senses spin. For a long moment, she felt as if she were floating. As her heartbeat slowed, soft waves of fatigue enveloped her. The straw beneath her was fresh harvested and smelled sweetly of sun-filled summer days and flowering meadows. Basking in the warmth of Tarleton’s low voice and the memory of the caress of his lips, Elizabeth drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Tarleton smiled ruefully down at her; she looked like a kitten curled in the sun. She was so tiny, barely as tall as his shoulder. “How high is my love?/Just as high as my heart,” sang the old refrain in his head.
“I will return soon,” he whispered, watching her delicate eyelashes fan against her pale cheek. Oh, my lady, what have I done to you? And what have I done to myself?
Turning quickly, he left her.
Elizabeth dreamed she was being shaken, as if a large dog held her in its mouth, whipping her back and forth like a rag doll. Dully opening her eyes, she was greeted by Tarleton’s elfish grin. The corners of his brown eyes turned upward in the ghostly light of the new risen moon. In his hand, he held a pair of shoes. They were cracked, well-worn at the heels, and smelled strongly of their former owner.
Instantly Elizabeth was wide-awake. “Where did you get them?” she breathed excitedly.
“The tap boy. He’s a lad about your size, and he was willing to part with them for a small financial consideration.” Sitting back on his heels, Tarleton looked extremely pleased with himself. “I am sorry there was no time to get them embroidered with gold thread, but will they do? Are you well pleased?”
“Oh, aye! Very!” She dimpled with satisfaction.
“And to add to the merriment of the occasion…” Tarleton delved into his pack. “I have a fine pair of knitted stockings.”
“Stockings! Why didn’t you tell me before? Why do you make me walk barefoot all day?” Elizabeth’s injured voice rose with each word.
“Hush!” he reminded her. “Without shoes you would have walked the stockings into shreds. Now you have both.”
“Aye, they are wonderful!” She ran her fingers across them lovingly as if they were a pair of soft satin slippers.
“Your pardon, but didn’t I hear you say thank you just now? I must have wax in mine own ears. I swore you mumbled something like that.” Tarleton made a great show of banging the side of his head as if to clear it.
Elizabeth giggled, even though she realized she was being chided by one who was her social inferior. What did that matter now that she had shoes and stockings?
“Thank you, Tarleton. You do remind me of my manners. I must have left them back by the river.” She laughed again happily. Unrolling the stockings, she began to pull them on.
“Hold! Those are my clean stockings. Wash your feet first.”
“Wash? Where?”
“Here.” Tarleton pointed to a nearby wooden bucket brimming with fresh water. “Give me your foot,” he commanded in an odd but gentle voice. Obediently Elizabeth placed one in his hand. Tenderly dipping it into the water, he gently kneaded her bruises and blisters.
Sighing with pleasure, Elizabeth lay back in the straw. A small smile stole across her lips. The water dripped deliciously between her toes. The jester’s knowing fingers massaged the soft pads on the balls of her feet, then stroked her ankle. Were it possible for Elizabeth to purr