A Knight Most Wicked

The prospect so enticed her that she wandered away from the keep. She found some hawthorn, and some spices, but not many medicinal herbs due to the late season. She used her gown to carry the things she picked.

It was a waxing of the moon, so that meant good, constructive herbs could be collected. Arabella had no cause to gather any other kind. She was interested in herbs for their medicinal value, but knew there were others who used them to wreak harm. Zaharia had met such people before and assured her they could be very dangerous.

The thought of such darkness made Arabella grow cold, and she waved a small branch of hawthorn in a circle around herself. A tree of good fortune, its twigs could be used to ward off bad spirits.

“Witchcraft is punishable by death in this country, chovihani.”

Arabella was so startled she dropped her gown full of herbs to run.

“Not this time, Arabella.”

A warm hand yanked her back and she found herself held fast in the strong arms of Tristan Carlisle.

Chapter Five

“Chovihani?” she asked, more incensed now than afraid.

It was a Gypsy word for witch and Arabella did not appreciate the description, or the implication that she had committed some crime. She struggled to pull away, but his hold did not waver.

“I did not mean to startle you. I wondered where you had disappeared.” His voice caressed her ear and she felt her knees weaken just a little as he spoke. And there was that flip in her belly she knew only happened when he was near. She stopped struggling and he released her.

“What do you mean by calling me witch?”

“Imagine yourself as I have seen you.” Tristan turned from her to look up into the star-filled sky. “I believe I am in the Bohemian woodlands alone until I hear an awful, gut-wrenching cry, like an animal in pain. Venturing through the forest, I find a beautiful wailing woman in a ring of ancient oaks.”

Arabella felt her cheeks heat.

“But she does not look like any woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He stepped closer to her. Arabella could not move. “She is barefoot, with a veil of wild hair enveloping half of her body and covered with twigs and leaves. She is like a wood nymph or…an enchantress.”

Arabella shook her head in mute denial. “Never, I—”

“Then, when I find her again, she is transformed into a princess of a woman I barely recognize except for the green eyes, but every now and then I get a glimpse of the wild woman out in the moonlight, gathering herbs to make strange potions and waving sticks around her head in some sort of ancient ritual.”

“I am no chovihani. If some people choose to believe medicine is an art of witchcraft, that only shows their lack of knowledge. But I think you know better.” Or, she hoped he did. She spied intelligence in those gray eyes of his, even when he called forth unexpected feelings from deep inside her. “Call me drabarni, herb woman, mayhap. That name would be more fitting.”

“You are a healer?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“I try to be. There will forever be some things that are impossible to heal. But I try to find cures and relieve ailments, and in some instances I have been granted the grace to really heal. But even when I can’t heal, I can usually help.”

She took pride in her skill 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.