rolling off her in waves. So, Cecily Fulford kept a temper hidden beneath all that golden beauty, did she? Interesting.
Matty hurtled round the corner, running to keep up. The girl took one look at Richard, aiming the bow at the roof-ridge, and squealed.
Richard grinned and lowered the bow. ‘My apologies, Mistress Matty.’
‘My father never permitted weapons of any sort to be drawn near the Hall unless it was an emergency,’ Cecily said stiffly, a pleat in her brow. ‘He said accidents happen without our help.’
Adam made a non-committal noise. He couldn’t argue with that. She was slightly out of breath, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eye on her face, not the enticing shape of her breasts. That blue dress…it revealed so much more of her than her old habit.
Cecily looked directly at him, blue eyes cold as the sky above them. ‘The practice field is at the back of the stables, Sir Adam. We walked directly into your line of fire.’
Sir Adam. Had he done anything in particular to incur her wrath? he wondered. Or was she was only now showing the natural anger that she must feel against the Duke’s regime? ‘It’s overrun with sheep,’ Adam said, more defensively than he intended. ‘But in any case you weren’t in our firing line, because we weren’t going to fire. The arrows are not fletched and the bows are impossible to sight.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘I had hoped to find something worth saving in here.’
Huffing out a breath, she stepped past and poked her head into the armoury. Leaning on the doorjamb, bow in hand, Adam watched her look at the piles of his men’s arms arranged on the left, and the meagre selection left behind by Thane Edgar on the right. He had dealt gently with her thus far, on account of the grief she must be feeling. He knew that she had had some time to come to terms with the loss of her father and her brother, but the grief she must feel for her mother was fresh, the wound very recent, and he had been trying to respect that. She had such a fragile, delicate appearance. But at this moment, with a muscle jumping in her jaw and her fists clenched, she looked as though she could take on the world and emerge victorious. She was magnificent in her anger. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. Hit him, most likely.
‘My father,’ the magnificent girl said, slowly and with great clarity, as though she were a queen talking to peasant, and a simpleton at that, ‘will have taken the best weapons with him to support our King Harold.’
Yes, she would definitely hit him.
Behind him in the yard, Richard was talking to Matty in French, his voice light and teasing. Matty muttered something about not understanding him, and then her voice faded as she moved off—probably back to the Hall or to the stables, where her brothers were meant to be mucking out the horses.
Chest still heaving, Cecily picked up a Saxon arrow-head, testing the point with her forefinger. ‘I expect Father armed as many of the home guard as he could,’ she said, still in that insultingly slow voice, edged with anger.
‘Aye.’ Adam shifted. He ought to get her out of here. An armoury was no fit place for a bride on her wedding day, and he did not want her dwelling on her father and fighting—not today. ‘Did you wish to speak to me, my lady?’
‘Yes, about Lufu.’
He tapped the bow against his side. ‘The girl Le Blanc put in the stocks?’
She stiffened. ‘Your sergeant put her there?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought you—’
‘I did try to reason with the girl, but since you were lounging abed and could not interpret for me there was little understanding between us.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘I left it to Le Blanc to decide on the actual punishment.’
‘So you blame me because your man put her in the stocks?’
‘Not at all. I merely state what happened.’
She searched his eyes for a moment, and Adam wondered what she saw there. A liar? A hated invader? But there was no telling, and after a moment she looked down and began fiddling with the arrowhead, turning it over in her fingers. The anger, he sensed, was leaving her. She sighed. ‘So you did not order her put there?’
‘No, but I should say that I do not question Le Blanc’s decision.’ Stepping towards her, Adam put his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘You want me to release her?’ he asked softly.
‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘Lufu is repentant. She wants to make amends.’ Moving out from under his hand and past him to the doorway, she checked the position of the sun. ‘It’s almost noon. If you let her out now, she can help Brian with the supper.’
Cecily Fulford looked delightful in her sister’s gown—so delightful that she almost stole his tongue. A Saxon girl—no, the Saxon girl, the one he was about to marry. That scattering of freckles across her nose was begging to be kissed. That wayward blonde curl was asking to be tugged. If he leaned forward and…But some of that anger still lingered in her eyes, and it checked him. He fought the impulse to take her hand—for this was neither the time nor the place, not with Richard grinning at him like an ass, not with the miller’s boys so close in the stables, the men in the yard…
‘…and they can use the baconflitch to add flavour. If, that is, you like smoked bacon, sir?’ Cecily finished, looking expectantly up at him.
‘Baconflitch? What? What did you say?’
‘I found a side of bacon. Lufu wants to use it for our wedding supper, if you agree.’
He could resist no longer. What harm? They were about to be married. As he took her hand he had the pleasure of watching her cheeks bloom with colour.
Richard snorted. Turning his shoulder on his fellow knight, Adam crowded Cecily back into the armoury and out of sight of prying eyes. She was still clutching the arrowhead. Gently, he removed it and placed it on the workbench. He set down the bow. ‘I thought there was no meat, cured or otherwise?’ He rubbed his thumb over her fingers.
‘Oh. No.’ For a moment she would not look his way, but Adam was so intent on watching her lips that he scarcely noticed. Then she smiled as prettily as he could wish. ‘So I thought, sir. But this morning it…it came to light.’
‘Came to light? Where?’
‘It had…been put into safekeeping.’
The light dawned. Lufu. So that was what they had been talking about by the stocks. And Cecily—with her blue eyes no longer cold, but full of pleading—she did not want Lufu punished further. Hell, neither did he. A resentful Saxon would not advance his cause here. ‘You may order her release,’ he said, keeping hold of her hand. ‘As long as you’re confident she won’t poison my men.’
‘She won’t do that.’ Her brow cleared. ‘Lufu used to be a good cook. I don’t expect that’s changed. If my people learn they can trust you, they will serve you well.’
My people. Here she was, pretty and charming when she wanted to be, and yet always there was this shadow between them, this division. My people. Not your people, even though England’s new ruler had given them into his charge. Would it always be so? My people. Cecily Fulford was about to become Cecily Wymark, but would she ever say our people and mean it?
They stood staring at each other by the armoury door, and even as she made to pull away Adam was hunting out an excuse to keep her with him. He had a thousand things to do before their wedding at three o’clock, but he would happily put them off simply for the sake of her company.
‘About Edmund…’ he opened at random, and then wished he had not, for her face closed. He was instantly on the alert, though he took pains not to appear unduly concerned.
‘Edmund? Why, he’s just one of my father’s housecarls—the most fortunate, since he is alive.’
Adam let her pull free. ‘I mistrust the man. I pray you will