Then there was the fact he had never heard even a smidgeon of scandal about her fair name. He had thought her virtuous but very likely vacuous with it. Her favored suitors permitted to squire her to events usually had one foot in the grave or else were pompous bores like Colfax whose favorite topic of conversation was himself. Either that, or wet dishrags like Emworth who wanted to simply sit and gaze at her in silent worship. He supposed he had assumed that, at the end of the day, she had very little to say for herself. It appeared that was not the case.
Which was probably why seeing the way she had flirted with that guard had shocked the holy hells out of him! Could it be that Lenora Montmayne was not the blameless bore he had always imagined her? He stole another sideways look at her. She was leaning back against the table, her elbows resting on its surface as she lifted her face to the late September sun. She had a smile on her lips, that he could swear he had never seen her wear before. It was not the usual vacant simper at all. Her eyes were closed to the sun. Her eyelids looked pink and mottled, he wondered if they were sore.
“Who did you award the tourney crown to?” she asked suddenly, surprising him as her eyes were still shut.
“What?”
“You said you won the joust,” she reminded him. “So, I wondered which lady you bestowed the crown on.”
He cast his mind back. “Lady Helen Cecil,” he said abruptly, naming the King’s current paramour.
“Oh, of course you did.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, feeling unaccountably annoyed.
She opened her eyes, looking mildly surprised. “Just that it was the obvious choice.”
“Now you’re out of the running, you mean?” he said sharply.
She nodded. “Yes,” she agreed without rancor and he felt a prickle of something he could not quite identify. “I did not mean anything particularly by it. Just that most knights give very little thought to who they bestow the honor.” She smiled at him. “They just plump for the prettiest girl present.”
Which means you will never receive the crown again, he thought, but for some reason did not voice. He was not usually so reticent.
“I expect Lady Helen will receive all the tributes now,” she continued.
“It doesn’t hurt her cause that she’s the King’s current whore,” he found himself adding gruffly. “Doubtless some mean to curry favor with the King by flattering her.”
Lenora arched a brow at him. “I doubt that was why you picked her,” she said mildly.
“Well, no,” he conceded grudgingly.
“Then let us just say that she is extremely beautiful.”
“I don’t think she is beautiful,” he admitted unexpectedly. He felt Lenora turn her surprised gaze on him. “I just think she’s comely. I always preferred comeliness to beauty.”
“I see,” she said. Then after a moment, she asked curiously, “Did you…?” Then hesitated.
“What?”
“Did you think I was beautiful? Before.” She made a gesture twirling her fingers before her face. “This befell me, I mean.”
“Yes,” he said promptly. “Beautiful and dull as ditchwater.”
Instead of protesting or flouncing off, Lenora merely nodded thoughtfully. Silence fell over them a moment, Lenora lost in her thoughts and Garman staring hard at her profile.
“You’re not what I thought you were,” he said after a moment.
“No?”
“Not at all,” he said heavily.
“You mean, because I’m neither beautiful, nor boring?” she asked lightly.
Which was what he meant, but he found himself flushing all the same. He cleared his throat. “You could put it like that.” But only if you wanted bluntness to the point of pain, he thought. Was that what she wanted? She certainly wasn’t flinching away from any hard truths.
Her servant chose that moment to interrupt. “They’re bringing the food over,” she said, shifting down the bench to sit closer to her mistress. Garman felt her eyes on him and looking up saw Berta regarding him with frank animosity. Devoted to her mistress, he thought wryly and probably served her for years. Still, she did not look the type of lady’s attendant he would expect for the likes of a court beauty, and neither did she look like a bygone relic of the nursery. If anything, she looked the sort of sour old crone one saw hanging around the gallows, hawking cheap cures or picking pockets. Remembering how readily Lenora had identified her as her mother, almost had him choking on his dry biscuit.
“I think we should find a priest as soon as we are able,” Lenora told him once she had drained her cup of ale and plunked it down on the tabletop. “We must be married before nightfall. Do you suppose there will be a church anywhere in the vicinity?”
Garman glanced around at the small hamlet they currently found themselves in. A cluster of cottages and a duck-pond was all his eye could see. “I highly doubt it,” he said, taking stock of surroundings.
“No matter, we’ll find somewhere on the road, I’m sure,” Lenora said optimistically, helping herself to an oatcake.
“You think so? On these back roads?” Berta interrupted sharply.
It struck Garman that Berta did not trust him one whit. “We’ll find somewhere,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Before nightfall?”
Perhaps the old woman had been used to think herself defender of her mistress‘s virtue, Garman thought, but it seemed a little redundant now. After all, he was hardly likely to be overtaken with lust. “Either today or tomorrow.” He shrugged.
“Tomorrow won’t do,” Berta insisted. “My lady has her reputation to consider!”
“Berta,” Lenora murmured mildly, and laid a hand on the agitated woman’s arm. “All will be well; you must not fret.” Garman watched their exchange with raised brows. Lenora turned back to him. “I feel sure we will happen upon somewhere.” She crossed her fingers in a superstitious gesture Garman recognized meant ‘if the fates will it’. He rolled his eyes. Superstitious too, that was all he needed.
Seeing a weak-chinned youth trailing out with a tray of ale, Lenora turned impulsively to hail him with her most friendly smile. Garman stared as she cajoled him into bringing her out some fish—any fish she assured him winningly. His Adam’s apple bobbing, the youth disappeared stammering he would see what they had in the kitchen.
Garman stared. As far as he could recall, Lenora Montmayne had never been remotely flirtatious in her manner heretofore. His own impression of her demeanor was that it had been bland in the extreme and somewhat remote. Even her most ardent admirers were known to lament her cool lack of familiarity. Where the hells had all this coaxing and coquetry coming from? he wondered in frowning bewilderment. And why the fuck was it annoying him so much? He gritted his teeth as she exclaimed over the plate of whitebait the fellow presented, as though for all the world he had given her a plate of roasted swan.
“As the price of the fish will be added to my bill,” he said coldly. “I fail to see why you have to gush over him so much.” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he wished he could recall them. Both Berta and Lenora appeared surprised by them, but he fancied Berta’s gaze held a malicious gleam of satisfaction.