Lord of Deception, стр. 13
Fleetingly, Kit looked for a place of concealment, then decided it would be safer to brazen it out than be caught hiding in his mistress’ bedchamber. Picking up the Venetian vase, he carried it to the door and stepped out just as Sir Thomas Kirlham walked past, pulling off his archery gloves.
Even though he bowed low and kept his eyes down, Kit felt the man’s animosity.
“What is your purpose here, fellow?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, I was just a-changing the flowers for my lady. She do like them fresh, and I know which ones to choose. I hope I’ve done no wrong, sir.”
Praying this sounded servile enough, Kit backed away, still bowing, until the frowning Kirlham was out of sight. Then, feeling all the while as if he were being watched, he emptied and cleaned the vase in the scullery, before fetching fresh blooms for it. But he didn’t take it back himself—he besought Lettice to return it to Mistress Aspinall’s chamber.
Kirlham’s was the next room that needed to be searched, so the less he came under that man’s nose, the better.
Chapter Twelve
Alys had only been going outside when necessary, too ashamed to meet the gardener face-to-face after her accusation. Admittedly, he acted above his station, which nettled her. But she’d believed him when he’d denied her claims and some part of her knew this simple, handsome fellow was more to be trusted than her cousin Kate.
Having fretted about indoors all week, Alys was delighted when another hawking party was announced, and she had no reason not to join it. As ever, she ended up at the rear of the group while the others trotted ahead, laughing and talking. No one seemed much interested in Alys Barchard, a quiet, hard-working, intelligent nobody. Richard Avery had paid her some attention at the outset, but a scowl from Sir Thomas sent him galloping forward to make great show of paying court to Kate.
Alys settled down to meander through the trees on her slow but docile nag, enjoying the sound of the breeze soughing through the branches and the dappled sunlight on her face. Soon, she was left well behind, but Kate never looked back to see where she was. She always had more important things on her mind than the welfare of her poor relation.
Alys’ merlin flapped its wings restlessly, eager for some sport.
“Soon, little one. When we have caught up with the rest. Mayhap we should wait until all the pigeons have settled in their wake, and fetch a fine fat bird all to ourselves, eh?”
Gradually, the peace of the dozing summer woodland settled over her, and she wandered on in a dream. So when some small, grey creature bolted across her path, she wasn’t prepared for her mount to shy and buck in surprise. She dislodged the merlin, which flapped frantically upside down where it dangled from her wrist, suspended by its jesses. As she struggled to bring the horse under control with one hand, and right the bird with the other, it tangled its feet in the front part of her hair, scraping her forehead with its talons.
“Ouch! No, stop that!”
The bird shrieked and flapped at her face, its claws slashing into her cheek as it struggled to free itself. Fearing the horse was about to bolt, she filled her lungs to scream but, suddenly, she was no longer alone. A deep male voice was murmuring to her mare, Pennyroyal, quieting it until she felt the horse’s muscles relax. The merlin’s jesses were plucked from her hand and, after a few sharp pulls on her hair, she was free of it.
Her rescuer lifted her from her horse’s flank and steadied her in his arms. She didn’t need to see the strong browned hands, the long dark hair, to know it was Kit. The lightning thrill of his touch told her immediately. Heart thudding, she wiped her hand over her face. It came away bloody. Kit’s arm was bleeding, too, where the frightened merlin must have clawed at him. She swayed.
“No fainting now, my lady. Come, give me your gauntlet.” Sliding the glove on, he persuaded the irate merlin onto his fist, where it allowed him to stroke its tiny feathers. Then he seized her horse’s bridle and turned it back the way she had come.
She could do naught but follow him, miserably wiping the blood from her brow when it threatened to drip into her eyes. How great was the damage? Would she be scarred for life, and further ruin her hopes of escape through marriage?
When they were within earshot of the gardens, Kit bellowed for assistance, bringing one of their grooms running. “Take this bird back to the mews, then return to stable the horse. I must see to Mistress Barchard’s injuries.”
The boy gingerly accepted the hawk and its gauntlet onto his hand and hurried off. Kit led Alys, not towards the house, but to one of the gardeners’ huts. She was too sore and miserable to protest as he led her inside—he’d taken control of the situation so adeptly, she felt she had to trust him.
Her skirts brushed against shelves laden with tools and plant pots. There was a pile of bedding in one corner, and a low three-legged stool where Kit bade her sit while he went to fetch a jug of clean water. On his return, she dipped her handkerchief in the water, thankful it was of plain linen, unadorned.
Kit prised it gently from her grasp. “I’ll do it. I can see what I’m doing. Once you’re dry, I’ve a good comfrey and honey salve—gardeners are always cutting themselves.”
She noticed the bloodstains on his arm where the