gaze remained on the widow’s face.
“Get your hands off Milady Genvieve. Else I will sheath this dirk in your neck.” Marie’s cheerful voice had become a defensive growl. Despite his grip on her wrist, the blade never wavered.
Haven dropped his hand from the widow so quickly that she stumbled backward. Yet he stared at her, still. The wounded beauty of the widow was a greater lure than the unsheathed metal behind him.
Curtained by that stunning hair, the widow bent and retrieved her robe. She raised wary eyes to him, then scrambled toward the bedding, the robe shielding her body.
“Now, Sir Haven, please leave me to tend to milady.”
“Put away your dagger, Nurse. You need it not.”
“Aye. Ye’re right at that, sir.”
He heard the knife slide home in its sheath. What was wrong with him? He had not heard the nurse enter the tent and barely noticed when she drew her blade. He had even let that blade remain drawn at his exposed back, rather than tear his gaze from the widow. Never before had his reaction to a woman’s body made him stupid. So this could not be simple lust—but it had to be. No other explanation was possible.
What was it about the widow that dulled his brain and made him lose all good sense? Was she a witch? Was that how she led Roger astray? Did she now work her wiles on him? He shifted sideways, pulling the nurse into his line of vision, but he kept his focus on the widow. “You will explain.’
She gave him gaze for gaze. ‘I have already told you of the stoning. Besides, you have no authority to demand explanations.”
“I have the king’s authority over your person and all you own. That alone gives me the right. And stones do not cause thinness such as yours.”
He could see defiance build in her narrowed eyes and tightened jaw.
If the widow wanted a battle, so be it. He set his hands on his hips and leaned forward in challenge.
A figure in brown wool filled his vision. “Go break your fast, sir. Milady will fight with you soon enough,” Marie interrupted with all the bluster of a sergeant-at-arms.
Haven allowed the nurse to place her hands on his shoulders and turned him about. She gave his back a shove, propelling him out of the tent.
Behind him he heard the nurse mutter, “Good, milady. If you must butt heads with a mailed knight, do it after you are dressed.”
His lips formed a smile. Laughter grew in his chest and then cut off abruptly when he saw young Thomas barreling toward him.
“What…?”
The boy ignored the question. He stopped half a stride short of impact with Haven. A rapid series of blows to his knees and lower thighs followed, accompanied by several kicks to his shins.
“Do not hurt Mama. Je vais te tuer! ”
Haven ignored the threat of death at five-year-old hands and looked down at his assailant. He grabbed the boy, pinning his flailing arms to his sides, then raised the child to eye level.
“Would you kill your king’s loyal servant, boy?”
“ Vraiment que tu et bete. ”
“Perhaps, but Edward Plantagenet does not share your opinion. Thus stupidity alone is not cause for murder of one of his knights.”
The child’s lip trembled, and Haven saw fear widen the boy’s eyes.
“ Ne t’approche pas de ma mere, ou je te tue ,” the boy muttered.
“So you will kill me if I come near your mother?” Haven admired the boy’s courage, a trait shared by both the child’s parents, as well as a tendency to take on more than he could handle. At least the widow had not made a coward of her son. But like his mother, the boy lacked discretion. “Will you now? And what makes you think you’ve need to kill me?”
The boy glared silent hatred at Haven.
“Answer me, young sir.” He stood the boy back on the ground. Haven loosened his hold and squatted to maintain eye contact. Still the boy had to look upward.
“The bad men, they hurt Mama when we went to live outside. I heard her scream at them. I wanted to kill them, Mama said I should