Page 10

Ah, the honey and saddle incident. It had taken place nigh two summers past, and he had sworn to keep it quiet, though by now half the castle likely knew thanks to a young stablehand.

’Twas all because Lady Eleanor had overheard a braggart knight boast that no woman could ride a destrier with proper skill, that it took a “man’s thigh and man’s will.

” That perhaps he, Sir Gregory of Wessex, might see her properly instructed.

The arrogant knave had added with a wink that noblewomen were fit for nothing more than side-saddle and sewing.

Eleanor, naturally, plotted revenge.

With the help of two scheming maidservants, a pot from the larder, and his prized Andalusian gelding, she lured the knight to the stables under the guise of seeking instruction.

While Sir Gregory waited, buffing his boots and preening over the saddle, his dearest sister slathered the leather seat with warmed honey.

Not just a dab either, but near the entirety of the pot, thick and golden, trickling into every crevice.

Moments later, Sir Gregory vaulted up like a peacock on parade, unaware of what awaited.

By the time he’d realized what clung to his hose and worse, how terribly difficult it was to dismount without great… unseemly stretching, half the stablehands were doubled over with laughter. Rumor claimed he’d marched up to the keep with bees trailing behind him like some cursed saint.

Baldwin had bellowed when he’d learned what happened, not because he disapproved (though he pretended to), but because the gelding’s saddle had to be re-stitched, and the hide never quite lost its sheen.

“I do not care if the man called you a milk-toothed chit,” he’d growled. “You’ve ruined a masterwork saddle and turned my stables into a bawdy stage.”

Eleanor had only smirked and said serenely, “Then perhaps next time he’ll remember his manners.”

Since that day, mention of honey and saddles could send Eleanor radiantly red and Baldwin muttering into his wine. Roland, of course, never let the chance go to waste.

Despite himself, Baldwin’s lips twitched. “If she proves difficult, yes.”

As Roland departed, Baldwin cast one last glance at the practice yard. Beth now sat alone on a bench, her face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed. Something in his chest tightened at the sight, at the vulnerability of it, the simple pleasure she took in the warmth.

He turned away abruptly. He had a castle to run, a sister to corral, and a messenger to attend to. He had no time for... whatever this feeling was.

And yet, as he strode toward the great hall, his mind was already turning to the manuscripts he’d set aside in his chambers. Books he thought she might appreciate, that might help her understand this world she claimed was not her own.

A peace offering, perhaps. Or a test. He wasn’t entirely sure which.

Beth had just managed to drag herself back to her chamber when she nearly collided with Baldwin in the narrow stone corridor.

He seemed to materialize out of the shadows, tall and imposing in a deep blue tunic that brought out the silver in his eyes.

A heavy belt circled his waist, from which hung a dagger with an ornate hilt.

“Oh!” she gasped, stepping back quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

His gaze swept over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the sweat-dampened chemise, the loose hair that had escaped its braid during practice. Heat crept up her neck that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

“I see my sister has been instructing you,” he said, his voice neutral.

Beth lifted her chin. “She has. Problem?”

One dark eyebrow arched slightly. “You favor enthusiasm over form.”

“And you favor brooding over conversation,” Beth shot back, then immediately wished she could retract the words.

Antagonizing the lord of the castle, the man who controlled whether she ate, slept under a roof, or was thrown to whatever passed for authorities in medieval England, was probably not the wisest move.

To her surprise, something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. “You speak your mind freely for one in such a precarious position.”

“It’s a character flaw,” she admitted. “Along with my complete lack of swordsmanship.”

“That, at least, can be improved with practice.”

“Are you offering to teach me?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Baldwin stilled, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Beth thought she’d gone too far. Then he said, “Perhaps. Though I would be a harsher instructor than Eleanor.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I survived the American public education system. I can handle harsh instruction.”

“Again, you speak in riddles.” But there was no edge to his words, only a kind of weary curiosity.

An awkward silence fell between them as she became acutely aware of how she must look and smell after an hour of flailing around with a wooden sword. She reached for the water flask at her belt, suddenly parched.

Baldwin moved at the same moment, his hand brushing hers as he reached to help. The contact was brief, electric. Both froze.

His hand was warm, calloused. A warrior’s hand, but with an unexpected gentleness in the touch. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Baldwin stepped back as if burned, his expression closing like a shutter over a window.

“Be cautious,” he said, his voice low. “The castle has eyes, and tongues wag freely.”

Before Beth could ask what he meant, he was gone, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he strode away. She stared after him, heart pounding in a rhythm that had nothing to do with her earlier exertion.

“What just happened?” she whispered to the empty corridor.

That evening, Beth returned to her chamber after a simple supper in the great hall to find a stack of books on her bed. Not modern books with glossy covers and clean type, but manuscripts. Some bound in leather, others mere collections of parchment tied with cord.

She approached them cautiously, as if they might vanish if she moved too quickly.

The topmost volume was open to a diagram of the night sky, constellations marked in faded ink.

Beneath it lay a treatise on herbs and their medicinal properties, and below that, what appeared to be an anatomical study, though the drawings bore little resemblance to the human body as she knew it.

Beth sat on the edge of the bed, reverently touching the pages. They smelled of dust, ink, and something else, something old and precious. Knowledge, preserved against time and ignorance.

“These aren’t even in any logical order,” she murmured, gently adjusting the top volume.

“If I had a Dewey Decimal system, or even just a simple stoichiometric label, ugh, I’m going to have to invent library science, aren’t I?”

She knew, without being told, who had left them. The same man who had looked at her with those storm-gray eyes, who had touched her hand and then withdrawn as if afraid of what might happen if he lingered.

A knock at the door startled her. “Enter,” she called, hastily gathering the books into a neater pile.

Eleanor swept in, dressed in a gown of pale blue linen, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She stopped short when she saw the manuscripts.

“He gave you his books?” Her voice held a note of astonishment.

Whew, it was hot in here. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I guess so. They were here when I came in.”

Eleanor approached, picking up the astronomical text with careful fingers. “This was our father’s,” she said softly. “Baldwin has never lent it to anyone. Not even me.”

Something warm unfurled in her chest. “Maybe he thinks I’m a witch who needs to be educated in proper medieval science.”

Eleanor’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Or maybe he thinks you’re worth the risk.”

“The risk of what?”

“Caring.” Eleanor set the book down gently. “My brother has built walls around himself since our parents died. He lets so few people get close.”

Beth looked down at the books, suddenly understanding the weight of the gift. Not just paper and ink, but trust. A tentative bridge between them.

“I’ll be careful with them,” she promised.

Eleanor’s smile widened. “See that you are. With the books, and with his heart.”

She turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Oh, and prepare yourself. There’s to be a great feast tomorrow night.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Eleanor’s eyes danced with excitement and a touch of mischief. “The king will arrive in a fortnight.”

The door closed behind her, leaving Beth alone with the books and a growing sense of panic. The king. As in, the actual medieval king of England. The whole War of the Roses. The rumored witch queen. As in, a historical figure, she knew just enough about to get herself in trouble.

“Great,” she whispered, clutching the nearest manuscript like a lifeline. “I am so screwed.”