and had worked all her life to be as knowledgeable as her grandmother in the healing arts. She saw no reason to hide her talents.
“You possess a great talent,” Tristan said, his voice hinting at genuine admiration. “From years of battlefield experience, I can appreciate a good healer. It is painful to watch a man die whose time has not yet come. England has great need of you.”
“Perhaps she needs me, but will she want me?” Arabella peered up at the partial moon as a chill crept over her skin.
“What do you mean?”
“Will England welcome me, or will her people make the same mistake that you did and shun me because of my calling?”
“Others have made such an error?”
“Indeed sir, you are one of the few who have even bothered to admit their mistake. Most people feel more comfortable with their superstitions, even when the truth of my gift stares them in the face. Were I somewhat less skilled, people would not accuse me of witchcraft. It is because I am exceptionally good at my art that I make people uncomfortable.”
Tristan frowned. “After witnessing your abilities, I would think most people would be grateful.”
She shrugged, powerless to understand human nature.
“I really must return to the keep.”
“Wait.” His fingertips reached out to curl lightly over hers. “Let me show you how to dance.”
Tristan had not planned to ask her as much. He scarcely knew what had made him chase her through the keep. In part, he had wanted to elude Rosalyn de Clair’s company, since his head warned him away from her obvious advances. But he supposed Arabella intrigued him more than she should. He’d wanted to maintain a boundary between his knights and the Bohemian noblewomen, but she called to him on a gut level, no matter what his reason had to say.
Now he found himself playing courtier to her when what he really wanted was far less chaste.
“I should not stay.” Her eyes told him a far different story, however. And her feet—remaining firmly planted on the dark earth of a rocky hillside—were even more telling.
He would not take advantage of her. But he could linger with her.
“We will stay but a moment. Would it not be useful for you to learn the steps of our dances out here, where there are no witnesses but the trees? The great halls of the English king’s keeps might be less forgiving.”
She bit her lip and his mouth watered. He knew he played unfairly with her. And yet it was she who had left the safety of the countess’s hall. She who had put herself in this most vulnerable position.
“Do I have to wear my slippers?”
Tristan laughed, drawn to her untamed spirit. They would be well matched in so many ways that he ached at the thought.
“Nay. You do not need your slippers.” He drew her a step closer, trailing his thumb over the back of her hand to savor the delicate skin. “Allow me.”
Sweeping Arabella off her feet and into his arms, he strode to edge of the clearing. She started to protest until she seemed to realize his intent. Gently, he sat her down on a large, flat rock and knelt to remove her shoes.
“I do not blame you for wanting to be rid of these shoes your princess has all of you wearing.” Forcing himself to keep his touch gentle, he skimmed his hands over one ankle in the space between her hem and her shoe. It was only a thumbnail’s width of her that he stroked, but the knowledge of how easily he could take more was enough to make the touch sweetly passionate.
“I—” Arabella’s breath caught in her throat as he trailed a finger down the arch of her foot. “The curled toes are a bit awkward for me.”
Tristan removed her other shoe quickly before he scared her out of the clearing. He would carry this only so far—at least for tonight.
“The ground is smooth here.” He offered his arm and guided her a few steps away toward a patch of open ground. “Do not stray from me, lest you step on a root or fallen branch.”
Not that he would release her long enough for her to go that far.
He explained the pattern of the dance—the step together, step kick alternating—and then moved her briefly around the clearing to demonstrate. When they were ready to begin, Arabella faltered for a moment.
“What?”
“What if I miss a step?” She peered down at their feet, his heavy and booted, hers small and bare. “You will surely break my foot.”
“You will be safe as my partner.” Tristan squeezed her hand, reminded anew of her innocence despite her earthy appeal.
“Shall I sing the minstrels’ tune to guide us?” Her green eyes were dimmed under the dark sky, the stars reflected in her gaze.
“You have such a gift for song?” He could not even recall the music, let alone repeat it, yet a tune hummed from between her lips, light and sweet.
Gently, he steered her forward to begin their steps, the song wrapping them in the moment. She followed him easily, although her focus remained directed at her feet for the first few passes as they wove their way around the clearing. When at last she looked up at him, a smile lit her face.
The knowledge of her joy damn near robbed him of his breath. Her happiness made him regret his duty to inform his sovereign of the rumors about her. Indeed, in that moment, he found them difficult to believe himself.
Moments passed before he realized her song had faded along with their steps. They stood frozen in the moonlight, their breathing evenly matched.
“Thank you.” Her simple gratitude humbled him at a time when his thoughts already strayed to a future date when she would resent him for revealing her past. Her family.
By all that was holy, he already resented his position himself.
“It was my pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, recovering his wits. “Shall I deliver you back to the keep?”
“Only if you promise to safeguard our encounter as a secret. I would not have my princess think that I am as wayward a lady as you once believed.” Arabella’s scent drifted on the cool breeze, her gown and her hair bearing a hint of spring flowers despite the lateness of the year.
“If I protect your secret, you must agree to keep mine.” He would be damned for taking advantage of her. He knew it, and yet he could not stop himself.
“I know nothing of you to remain quiet about.” She shivered from the chill in the air, or perhaps from her body’s awareness of his.
He hadn’t missed her response to his nearness as they danced, as her gown was a tighter fitting affair than the costumes customary for English noblewomen. Heat suffused his limbs, calling him to advance upon her and show her exactly why her cheeks burned and her soft breasts tightened whenever he touched her.
“You must never tell anyone about this….”
Lowering his mouth to hers, he brushed a kiss across her lips. She made a small sound in the back of her throat—whether it was a squeak of surprise or protest, he did not know. But he did not lock her against his body and she could easily back away.
She did not. Her cry faded into a sigh of pleasure before she relaxed against him. She parted her lips and only then did he pull her into him, wrapping one arm around her waist and lifting her off the ground to stand atop his boots. He gathered the dark masses of hair flowing down in his other hand and gently tilted her head back. Arabella followed the subtle demand, arching her back to offer him a better taste. The effect of her breasts flattened against his chest stole his last intelligent thought and steeled every inch of his flesh.
He ran his tongue along her lower lip before allowing himself the sweet reward of her mouth. He let go of her hair and stroked the length of the silken tresses, feeling the curve of