The Maiden's Hand

He lifted his shirt to put it back on. “Why do you suppose the leader of the brigands was so adamant about not harming you?”

Lark ducked her head. After seeing the coin Kit had found, she had a very good idea indeed why the cutthroat had uttered the cryptic message. It was no coincidence that they had been waylaid en route to Blackrose Priory. The brigands were hirelings sent to stop them from reaching their objective.

They could have killed Oliver, she thought with a nauseating wave of guilt. “I am so sorry,” she said softly.

“Don’t be.” Oliver poked his head through the neck opening of his shirt, then winced as he tried to put his arm into the sleeve. Lark set aside the basin and hurried to help him.

“Here, don’t twist around so,” she said. “You’ll pull at the wound.” She held out one sleeve and took his hand to guide it.

Something strange happened. When their hands touched, there was an instant of deep connection, when she suddenly lost track of where she ended and he began, when she could feel her mind touching his, when such a profound sense of caring welled up in her that she could have wept.

She caught her breath and looked up into his face.

He had felt it, too; she could tell because she saw her own stunned expression reflected on his face.

They were strangers, and yet they were not. Some part of her understood that even though they had only just met, she knew him. Knew the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his throat rippled as he swallowed, the way his thumb felt pressing into her palm.

“Oliver?” Her voice sounded thin and bewildered.

“Hush.” His fingers brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek. “Let not words get in the way.”

“In the way of what?”

“Of this.”

He moved his knees apart so that she leaned snug against him, and then he kissed her.

The very idea that he would actually do such a thing so stunned her that she stood there, as rigid and unresponsive as a hearth broom.

Until the heat started. It was a slow, searing burn that seeped through her body, warming the cold, empty places inside her.

She gave herself up to sensation, not thinking, only wanting. The hand still clinging to his within the sleeve tightened, and she felt the answering pressure of his fingers. Her free hand crept up his bare chest. He was smooth and hard there, and the hair was slightly coarse. He was warm, so warm, she wanted to melt against him. She hooked her arm around the back of his neck. His fine, silvery hair felt as downy as it looked.

His lips were soft yet firm, and gentle, not grinding and demanding. They brushed slowly back and forth over her mouth, softening and moistening her lips until they parted. Then he did a most unsettling thing—he ran his tongue across her lower lip.

The shock first numbed her, then awakened her from the torpid, kiss-induced dream.

“Stop!” she shouted, and jumped back. And suddenly they were all entangled by shirtsleeves. The thin, white fabric tore as she tried frantically to disentangle her arm.

On fire with mortification, she backed away, staring at him as if he held a mirror to her own wickedness. He could never know what a sin it was for her to covet him.

He looked as pleased as a fox in a dovecote. “Don’t play the Puritan, sweetheart. I could have given you much more than a mere kiss.”

A mere kiss. She clung to those words. People kissed when they said hello or goodbye. When they gathered for holidays or met each other after prayer services.

But not the way Oliver de Lacey had just kissed her.

Not as she had just kissed him back.

“That was an evil thing to do,” she said, then braced herself, half fearing a bolt of lightning would strike her dead on the instant.

He chuckled. “Pity you favor Reformed principles, Lark. If not, you could wear a crown of thorns or a hair shirt.”

“You’re a wicked man,” she said.

“And you are an excessively good woman. Don’t you ever get bored with being so virtuous?”

If only he knew. She was not virtuous at all.

She could stay no longer, not with him still sitting half-naked and tousled, eyeing her as if she were one of his lightskirt doxies. Without another word, she turned and fled.

It was the first time a woman had left him voluntarily. Oliver stared at the empty space. Lark had glared at him as if he had raped her.

“It was merely a kiss,” he repeated to himself as he gingerly donned his doublet. “A kiss. ’Tis not like I swived the saintly wench.”

Wincing from the hot pain in his side, he slid down from the table and found a small cask of wine. He filled a clay mug and took a deep, cleansing swallow. “I’ve kissed half the women in England,” he declared to the empty room, to the rows of pots hanging from the rafters, and to the iron tongs hanging over the hearth. “Or if I have not, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Yet he could not deny that holding Lark in his arms had caused a peculiar and unwelcome sentiment to rise within him. Sentiments that a man like him had no business feeling: tenderness and devotion and the utter certainty that he could be happy with this woman and this woman alone.

He was no stranger to wanting a woman, to having one. But the idea of being with anyone other than plain, shy little Lark was suddenly repugnant to him.

Holding her in his arms had given him a notion that had never before occurred to him. He wanted to live forever.

Forever.

And that, he knew as he took a glum sip of the cheap wine, was impossible.

In his finer moments, he was philosophical about his own mortality. His disability had been a part of him. He accepted it. Sometimes he managed to convince himself that he was healed.

But then he’d get that horrible tightening in his chest, that insatiable hunger for air, that dark glimpse of eternity, and he remembered he was marked for an early death.

In some ways the knowledge had made him a better man—more daring, more bold.

Then he had kissed the prim, thin-lipped, disapproving Mistress Lark—the most unlikely of women—and suddenly he was desperate not to die.

He had entranced her with his kisses, had felt the desire emanating from her small, clutching hands. There was no surprise in that. He might be deficient in some skills, but kissing was not one of them. Aye, he could manipulate her body, could bring her to a state of near rapture if he chose to do so, but could he win her heart?

“Aye, that I could,” he decided, draining his mug and slamming it down on the sideboard. Her aversion to his embrace at the last did not trouble him. He simply needed more time to convince her of his wonderfulness. “I could indeed. I could make her love me.”

A painful dilemma, that. For if ever he won her heart, he was doomed to break it.

“You never finished explaining to me what you meant about the brigands,” Oliver said the next day.

The three of them headed north, wary now in the winter sunshine, watchful for signs of more highwaymen. In the distance, pink-tinged clouds melted down onto the gentle Chiltern Hills, and forested mounds rolled out endlessly on either side of the road. Dry, frozen grass clung to the sloping sides of the hills, and sleepy hamlets huddled in thatched clusters along the river.

Lark held her neck stiff and her chin high. Kit trotted up beside her. Saddle leather creaked as he leaned toward her. “Did you know them, Mistress Lark?”

She could talk to Kit. She did not look into his eyes and feel as though she were drowning.