Kissed by Shadows by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online Page A

lyre player, whose black head was bent over his instrument, his eyes riveted to his plucking fingers. If he was aware of Stuart's intent regard he gave no indication, but it was always thus when Gabriel was playing, lost in his music.
    Stuart abruptly cast aside the remnants of the tart he'd been eating as revulsion again rose bitter as bile in his throat. He got to his feet, upending the contents of his goblet on the grass, heedless of the splatters on the tapestry.
    What choice did he have? The alternative was unthinkable.
    “What ails you, Stuart?” His friend looked up at him in alarm.
    “Nothing. I have just remembered I promised to meet with my wife at this hour.”
    “Ah, the spirited Lady Pippa,” the other said with a somewhat lascivious grin. “There's many a man would enjoy being in your shoes, my friend.”
In your bed
was left unspoken but the implication was clear.
    Stuart forced a flicker of the gratified smile that he knew was expected, then left with a murmur of farewell.
    Gabriel, the lyre player, raised his eyes momentarily from his instrument as Lord Nielson departed.
             
    Pippa sat at the open window of her bedchamber,
her tambour frame idle in her lap. Afternoon was giving way to evening but the sun was still warm on her back and her unquiet mind was lulled by the continuous, indolent buzzing of a bee. Her body was filled with languor, as if she'd been drugged, her eyelids drooped.
    The door opened, jerking her awake. She blinked in surprise, as much at the idea that she'd been about to take an unprecedented nap as at her husband's unexpected appearance.
    “I thought you were still at the tourney,” she said.
    “I saw you leave,” he returned. “Unable to stomach your husband's defeat, I imagine?” His voice was bitter. He began to unfasten the heavy clips of his padded doublet.
    “Why did you have to humiliate yourself so?” Pippa demanded. “I understand it was politic to lose, but in such fashion?”
    She knew Stuart was upset and angry but she had again the sense that he was holding her to blame for something. Still dismayed at their quarrel of the morning, hurt and troubled at its cause, she was in no mood to offer soft words of consolation. That she was also disturbed, thrown off course, by her encounter with Lionel Ashton, Pippa chose to ignore.
    “What could you possibly know about it?” Stuart demanded, throwing his doublet to the floor. He flexed his shoulders, working the tired muscles. Losing a joust was every bit as tiring as winning one, and the sour aftermath of defeat made normal aches and pains even worse.
    Pippa leaned her head against the high back of her chair.
Why was she so tired!
She made an effort to keep her voice reasonable. “I don't see why you would attack me, Stuart. What have I done? It seems to me after last night that I have the right to be angry, not you.” Despite her best efforts the note of recrimination was loud and clear.
    His face flushed. “You are my wife, madam, 'tis your duty to give yourself to me whenever I wish it.”
    Pippa rose to her feet, her tambour frame falling to the floor. She was flushed herself now, her hazel eyes burning. “And when have I ever refused you?” she demanded. “I object merely to being taken, used like some household chattel. God's bones, why wouldn't you wake me!”
    He put his hands to his face and his fingers trembled violently. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “I asked your forgiveness this morning, Pippa. Can you not be more generous? I explained that I was overdrunk. I didn't think about what I was doing.”
    Pippa turned her back on him, clasping her hands tightly as she fought down her anger and resentment. “It was not the first time, Stuart. Something is wrong between us. I would know what it is. Have I done something to offend you? I cannot put it right if I don't know what it is.”
    Stuart stared at her averted back.
Sweet Jesus!
She talked of offending