Lord of My Heart by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

cloak, a heavy woolen cloth with a hole cut for the head. They were bare-legged with leather sandals on their feet.
    They carried large packs so as to appear to be petty merchants. If their path crossed that of a Norman patrol, it was as well to have reason to be on the road, and reason to be carrying a better quality of clothing than what they wore.
    Aimery had to assume his disguise—dirty his skin and grease his hair again—and so the sun was well up by the time they left the camp. He soon pulled off his cloak and bound it on top of his pack, muttering a profanity.
    “You’re like a hungry boar this morning,” said Gyrth.
    “I could be clean and on my way home to Rolleston,” Aimery complained, “instead of on a hot, dusty two-day walk to Banbury.”
    Gyrth grinned. “Or back beneath a certain wench’s skirts. Kept me awake last night you did with all that tossing and turning.”
    Aimery laughed off the idea, but it was true. His ill temper was because of the unfinished business between him and a certain dusky maiden. If he’d had his pleasure with her, he’d doubtless not give her another thought. Well, they’d soon be off Baddersley land, and the memory would fade with distance.
    They traveled alert for every hazard, for these were poor times to be abroad in England. Because of this, as they walked along a ridge path, Aimery quickly spotted a flash of white down near the stream. He halted, grinning. There she was again, and well away from yesterday’s meeting place. He found her prudence appealing. He’d have thought less of her if he’d found her haunting the same spot.
    “What’s up?” Gyrth asked, hand on knife.
    “A hind down by the stream.” Aimery slid off his pack.
    “We’ve no time for hunting . . .” Then Gyrth found what Aimery had seen. “Especially not that kind.”
    “I have a mind to meet with her face to face.”
    Gyrth took a grip on Aimery’s sleeve. “Give her a good look at you, boy, and she’ll remember you another time.”
    “I doubt it. We see what we expect to see. Anyway, we’re not likely to meet another time.” Aimery pulled free, but he took care that the dirty bandage he wore covered the tattoo on his right wrist. That was always the thing most likely to betray him.
    Aimery slipped down the scrubby hillside toward the stream. He’d been well-trained in woodcraft, and he was within feet of the girl without her being aware of him.
    She was nimble and graceful as she hopped across stones in the shallow stream, studying the water. She had both kirtle and shift tucked into her belt, and he relished the sight of her long, shapely legs. Her hair was bound today in a thick plait which swung heavily across her back. He imagined unraveling it and losing himself in the chestnut cloud.
    He deliberately stepped on a twig.
    She jerked around, wide-eyed, a scream hesitating on her lips.
    “Good day, Lady,” Aimery said.
    Gyrth was right. He was mad. Was he just going to throw her down and rape her? They couldn’t even communicate unless he revealed his knowledge of French. She was as lovely from the front as he’d imagined, though, with a smooth oval face, clear dark brows over beautiful eyes, and soft, sweetly curved lips.
    “Good day,” she said with a horrendous accent.
    “You speak English,” he said approvingly.
    It was the same voice, thought Madeleine, with a thrill. And yet she was disappointed. She’d imagined her faery prince to be a little more glamorous than this. She’d spent many sleepless hours picturing him as a noble, daring warrior. Her mind had drifted ever closer to the entrancing notion that he might be a potential suitor. After all, it was rumored that Judith and Agatha were to be used to buy the allegiance of noble Englishmen.
    But now here he was before her, a peasant in rags.
    They were staring at each other like simpletons.
    “I speak very little English,” she said haltingly.
    He stepped closer. “Lucky then that I speak a little more