The Mistress Of Normandy by Susan Wiggs Page B

uncertain.”
    She nodded, as if aware that what they had was tenuous. “I’ll come when I can in the late afternoon,” she said solemnly, “at the hour of the woodcock’s flight.”
    Wishing the world would fall away and leave them to themselves, Rand hauled her against him and crushed his mouth down on hers.
    But by the time he reached Eu, he knew he’d not go to the place of St. Cuthbert’s cross again. The selfish joy of being with Lianna was not worth the pain she’d suffer when she learned his purpose.
    He rode out to sit alone on the cliffs where the breakers leaped up in an endless assault on the rocks. He longed to yank his dreams out of his heart and cast them into the sea, to turn himself back into the hollow shell he’d been before he’d met Lianna. She made him too human, too sensitive, and those qualities would serve him ill when the time came to take Bois-Long and his new wife.
    He went back to the village, walked into the taproom, and found Jack Cade, who had agreed to act as his herald. Cheeks ruddy from too much hard Breton cider, Jack raised a wooden mug. “My lord of Longwood.”
    Rand nodded curtly. “Tomorrow.”
    * * *
    Lianna lay wrapped in the cloud coverlet of a dream. She’d been dreaming of Lazare, her haughty husband. In the dream he’d stood in the shadows beside her bed, a dark, unwanted presence. But then he’d stepped closer. Darkness gave way to golden sunlight, and the figure by her bed was not Lazare at all, but Rand, his face alight with that heart-catching smile, his arms open, inviting her.
    She moved toward him, reaching, getting close enough to catch the scent of sunshine and sea winds that clung to him, to feel the warmth emanating from him....
    He faded on a shimmer of light, and she felt herself being pulled out of the dream and thrust into the cold gray drizzle of dawn.
    Wondering what had awakened her, she stared bleakly at the long, narrow window. A shout sounded. She jumped up, wrapping herself in a sheet as she hurried to the window. The sentry at the barbican was gesturing at the causeway spanning the river.
    Spying a lone rider, Lianna suddenly felt the cold of the stone flags beneath her bare feet. The sensation crept up her legs and crawled over her scalp. The traveler wore a white tunic emblazoned with a gold device. The leopard rampant.
    Her throat constricted; she swallowed twice before finding her voice. “Bonne! Come quickly.” Moments dragged by before the maid appeared. Frowning at the wisps of straw in Bonne’s hair, Lianna guessed the maid had been dallying with Roland. Bonne’s sleepy, satisfied smile confirmed the suspicion.
    “Honestly, Bonne,” Lianna snapped. “You’re supposed to sleep on your pallet in my wardrobe. Surely it doesn’t take the entire night to...to...” A hot flush rose in her cheeks, and, irritated, she looked away.
    Bonne’s smile widened. “Not the whole night, my lady, but afterward...” She indulged in a long, luxurious stretch. “It is so agreeable lying in a man’s arms, you know.”
    Lianna didn’t know, and that fact annoyed her all the more. “In the future, you’re to be here by cockcrow.”
    “Yes, my lady,” the maid said, knitting her fingers together in front of her. “What is your pleasure?”
    Lianna motioned toward the window. The rider was in the bailey now, his horse being led to the stables. Bonne looked out, then drew back, fully awake now. “By St. Wilgefort’s beard,” she breathed, “it’s the English baron.”
    “Not the baron, but surely his messenger.”
    “Gervais was up playing at draughts until the wee hours, but I’ll send for him. With your husband gone to Paris, it’s Gervais’s place to receive the message.”
    “Don’t you dare awaken him,” said Lianna. “I shall dispense with Longwood’s man myself.”
    Bonne reached for a comb.
    “Never mind my hair,” Lianna said. “Just cover it with a hennin and veil. I’m anxious to meet this English