“I find it very unusual,” he told her, trying not to be obvious as he sniffed again.

The tiny dimple on the left corner of her chin appeared. “Ah, Sir Dirick, ’tis quite the diplomat you are,” she brushed the errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I know ’tis unfashionable, as my mama tells me. I shouldn’t smell of utilitarian herbs, and I should be embarrassed ere ’tis noticed.”

“Nay,” he told with a warm smile, “’tis but uncommon—as you are, my lady. After all,” he said, trying to ignore the heaviness singing through his veins, “it has never happened before that a lady has me digging in the snows for shiny green leaves!”

Maris looked up at him so quickly that she almost lost her balance. “Marry, Sir Dirick, I did not think…oh, what you must think that I have involved you in the tasks of an old midwife!” The tinge of pink from the cold flared into a darker, rosy flush over her face. Obviously flustered, she began to struggle to her feet, but her cloak had become wrapped around her foot and she lost her balance, tilting backward into the damp snow.

“Nay, my lady, ’twas a jest!” Dirick grasped her hand to help her regain her balance. “And a poor one at that.” He smiled as he faced Maris, squatting in the ankle deep snow as he steadied her by holding both of her hands.

Their faces were near each other, as near as they’d ever been, and his breath misted in the chilling air. “Lady Maris,” he said quietly, then was caught by her gaze. Her lips parted slightly and he felt the slight shift in her breathing. “It’s been a pleasure to be in your company all the day, throughout the time at the cooper’s as much as assisting you in this simple task. ’Tis only as a compliment that I call you uncommon…and you are uncommonly beautiful as well.” Those last words came as a surprise to him, and he found himself caught in a very warm, trusting, golden gaze.

Dirick swallowed heavily, knowing that he was going to kiss her and fearing that her reaction might be a heavy hand across his cheek. Pushing that aside, he tugged gently on her hands and she came forward—easily—and he met her lips halfway.

They were sweet lips…so sweet….

His mouth was tentative at first, but when she didn’t pull back, he pressed more firmly against her lips. They were chilled from the winter air, but melted warmly, softly against him. One of his hands freed her fingers and slid to cover the back of her head, digging into her braid. He fingered the thick rope of hair, touching its fat smoothness, his rough skin snagging it as he slid his hand down its length. A charge of desire swept through him with such force that he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, surprised, wanting more. The scent of lemon verbena and rosemary caught in his nostrils, mingling with the crispness of the cold air, dancing through his being with the nearness and the taste of Maris.

She was responsive, warm, taking him into her mouth and kissing him back with a passion he hadn’t expected. He felt a tiny shiver race through her body and knew it was not the cold. Nevertheless, he slipped his mantle over her shoulders, pulling her closer and into his arms. She was small and delicate and he sighed, sliding his hands down her waist and over her hips.

At last—though it seemed like hours, it was a mere few seconds—Dirick regained his senses and pulled away quite suddenly. His breath was coming in faster, whiter puffs now and he forced himself to set her away from him. He was heavy and hard with arousal, and when she looked up at him with glazed hazel eyes and swollen pink lips, he nearly reached for her again.

Instead, he pulled away from the temptation, resting his hand against the smooth bark of a birch tree as if to keep it from doing any further damage. “My lady,” he said, trying to speak coherently when all he wanted to do was pull her to him again, “that was unforgivable. I hope you will find it in your heart to allow my escort back to the keep. I’ll return you to your father’s care and you need not be bothered by my presence again.”

“Nay, Sir Dirick,” she said, struggling to her feet with a dazed look on her face. “Have no worries that I’ll bring tales to my papa,” she said, brushing two fingers lightly over her full mouth. “I allowed you leave to kiss me only to have some questions of my own answered.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, ignoring the throbbing between his legs and trying to act as cool as she. “And did you have your questions answered?” he replied.

“Aye,” she breathed, still touching her mouth unconsciously, “aye, that I did.”

CHAPTER SIX

At dinner that evening, Maris avoided looking at Sir Dirick.

He sat on the far side of Merle, sharing a trencher with Lady Allegra. The two men, seated next to each other, were engrossed in conversation regarding the latest news that had come in from Westminster—the king’s call to arms for his battle to subdue Geoffrey of Anjou.

Though he sat away from her, and she couldn’t see him unless she leaned around her father, Maris was as aware of Dirick’s presence as if he’d brushed against her. His hands, serving Allegra and himself, moved in and out of her view, and she found herself watching them, noticing their tanness, the short, clean fingernails, the molding of muscle and tendon and sprinkling of dark hair, the way the sleeve of his tunic fell back to expose a narrow, tanned wrist.

She heard him laugh—a low, masculine, husky laugh that heightened her awareness of him. His conversation carried over the noise of the meal, collecting in her consciousness, as close to her as if he whispered in her ear. The cadence of his voice, rising and falling as he alternately admired and charmed Allegra, and debated and argued with Merle, was soothing and exciting and haunting.

A simple kiss…a simple kiss had made her as aware of him as she’d become aware of herself.

Even now, her fingers trembled when she remembered the heat, the shock of pleasure that took her by surprise and made her body come alive. Warm, demanding lips and the hard strength of his body were enough to steal her breathing and pool desire into the center of her being.

Even now, she felt the stirring of desire, the flutter of arousal in her middle.

The memory of his lips still burned on her mouth as she sipped from her wine. She wanted to taste him again. She wanted to know if the kiss they had shared could be duplicated, if it would be the same charge of energy should it happen again.

Casting a covert look in his direction, she saw him leaning flirtatiously toward her mother, a smirk curling his mouth, and realized suddenly, with a cold shock, that he was most likely well accustomed to kissing maidens in the wood. That knowledge settled in her middle like a large chunk of bread and she turned away to sip from her goblet.

It was her own doing, she reprimanded herself, for she had wanted to kiss him, and had known he wanted to kiss her when he helped to pull her to her feet. She’d welcomed the chance to see if kissing was any better now that she was older than when her father’s squire Raymond of Vermille had stolen a kiss from her years ago.

It was.

“Daughter, are you ill?” her father asked suddenly, turning his attention to her, and startling her from her own thoughts. “You are no louder than a mouse this night.”

“Nay, Papa,” she gave him a soft smile. “’Twas a long and wretched day, for I could not save the cooper’s wife.”

His face sobered. “Ah, aye, Father Abraham’s servant sent word to me.”

Maris pushed back the sadness that threatened to bring tears back to her eyes and replied, “There was naught I could do.”

He smoothed a comforting hand over her arm. “I know you did all you could, dearling.”

“They had a leech in!” she said, her grief replaced by anger. “It was the cause of it, and still the villagers won’t listen.

He shook his head. “Maris, I know Venny taught you well, and he knows many things, but there are others—leeches—that know medicine as well. They are not always bad.”

“I have yet to meet one that has not worsened the situation,” she told him defiantly.

Her father tsked, for they had had this conversation many times. Obviously knowing that neither of them would win the argument, he said, “I am sorry that she died. I will send three chickens to the cooper on the morrow, and visit on Justice Day. Is the smith’s daughter still wet nursing the babes?”

“Aye. She will do a fine job, and mayhap the cooper and she will marry. She is of an age, and lost her own husband to the fever several moons ago.” She flickered a glance at Dirick, who was mooning over her mother’s slim hand, then looked back at her father. “I’ve brewed some fresh tea from the bearberry bush for you this night.” She patted his arm lightly. “I know you’re in need of it, for Mama told me this morn in Mass. The leaves are fresh and the tea is strong. I’ll have Verna bring it to your chamber when you retire.”

“Thank you, dearling. Though I despise the taste of it, I cannot complain about the good your bearberry tea does for my pains. Have Verna bring it to me anon, and I vow I’ll drink it.”

“Very well, Papa. I shall hold you to that vow,” Maris said as she stood. “I must see to Maisie’s daughter, for she’s not feeling well, and then I will brew your tea,” she explained, carefully avoiding any more than a brief glance at Dirick. “Good night, Sir Dirick, good night, Mama.” She bent over to kiss her father on his cheek, then she turned to walk from the hall.

Dirick watched her go. He’d spent the entire meal alternately cursing and congratulating himself for seizing the opportunity to taste those lovely lips. He was not an impulsive man when it came to women. He took his time, wooing and flattering, teasing and titillating a woman until she was like a ripe peach falling into his hand. There were plenty of willing women, ladies and whores alike, that made themselves available and giving him no cause to take chase. That was the way he preferred it.

Nevertheless, not only had he enjoyed his day at Maris’s side, but he knew he would kiss her again—betrothed or nay.

She had just disappeared into the kitchen and the hall was beginning to quiet down when the messenger made his appearance.