They both laughed heartily at the image of the staid, sober Malcolm of Warwick bellowing a bawdy tune in the training yard. Though with his change in mood, ’twas possible even the inconceivable could happen.

“Mayhap I shall find the man a lute,” jested Nevril.

Gambert chortled. “Methinks we’ll soon be on our way back to Warwick. Another cause for celebration, for I am sore weary of sleeping on a pallet in a hot chamber of farting, snoring men. At the least at Warwick, I have only to share with you and a half dozen others.”

“And we have our own pallets,” allowed Nevril.

“With the number of missives my lord has been sending as of late—to Mal Verne, Rittenbridge and Salisbury and, most importantly, Delbring—I suspect we shall make a detour there for a wedding. ’Tis apparent he has at last settled on a bride, and soon we shall have a new lady at Warwick. And my lord shall remain in his good humor whence he has a woman in his bed every night.”

“Aye,” Nevril said, but he sounded much less enthusiastic. He couldn’t help but glance at the stable where the irritating Bruin continued to have the temerity to exist.

Tabatha the maid had hardly given Nevril anymore than a nod and a glance since he brought her to Lord Malcolm two days ago—the ungrateful wench. But since he would soon be bound for Warwick, Nevril concluded, ’twas just as well. For some unknown reason—likely stemming from his bad choice of rabbit stew jests and skill with the bow—she continued to show only loathing toward him.

Still…when he left the training yard, Nevril slowed his pace as he passed the stable. It would make for an even finer day if he found reason to pique the hard-hearted maid once more. For when she glowered and her eyes flashed, he found it more entertaining than the thought of Warwick playing the lute.

As luck would have it, this dallying brought his very desire to pass, for as he walked toward the keep, he spied Tabatha walking toward him. In the light, her bright golden hair gleamed as if drawing the sunbeams toward it. To his surprise, when she saw him, instead of changing direction or even turning her face to a glower, she increased her speed…coming straight to him.

“Sir Nevril,” she said. “Good morrow.”

He blinked. That was nearly the most civil thing she’d ever said to him. “Mistress Tabatha. Are you in search of another critter in need of your tending?”

She looked at him oddly, but replied, “Nay. I have a missive for your master.” She handed him a piece of parchment, folded until it fit neatly into the palm of her hand.

“I will see that he receives it. And how fares Sir Rabbit?” Nevril asked, loathe to allow her to be on her way.

“He is freely roaming the meadows again, for all I know,” she replied. “I released him back to the wild only four days past, for he was hopping about the chamber.” She glanced at the message he held. “Do you know where Lord Malcolm might be? The missive should be delivered at once.”

“Walk with me, if you will, so you may see for yourself that I deliver it posthaste,” he suggested. “Warwick is at the training yard.”

She made a moue of distaste, but nodded. “Very well.”

Nevril was so surprised at her easy acquiescence that he nearly didn’t know how to respond, but he recovered quickly. “This way.”

The walk back to the training yard was much too brief in his estimation, and all the while, Nevril struggled with something on which to converse that had naught to do with rabbit stew…but his mind was curiously blank. Tabatha had nothing to say either except for a mundane comment about the weather.

“Lord Malcolm,” Nevril called when he saw his master, still in the yard. He hadn’t yet sheathed his sword or donned his sherte or tunic, and was still in conversation with Ludingdon. His master turned at the hail and when Nevril held up the parchment, he walked over to meet him at the gate. “’Tis a message for you. Delivered by Mistress Tabatha.”

Malcolm nearly snatched it from his hand, then, walking away, unfolded the parchment. He began to read it, then came to a dead stop in the middle of the mucky, empty training yard. He hissed audibly, staring at the paper. He read it again. “There is no longer a need?”

For a moment he didn’t move. Then all at once, a change came over him—like a fast-moving cloud covering the sun. His expression darkened, his body tightened visibly. His face thunderous, he tucked the missive into the collar of his tunic.

Warwick looked over and saw Nevril standing there. “Why are you there? Where is your sword? Who gave you leave to remove your hauberk? To me! At once! There is much work to be done on your skill with a broad-blade, you lazy dog!”

“I spoke with Judith today,” Maris said as her husband came into their chamber shortly before the evening meal.

She rose to put the fed and sleeping Rogan in his crib, feeling the weight of Dirick’s interest on her backside as she bent over. Smiling to herself, she took her time arranging the blankets over the chubby babe. It had, after all, been nearly a se’ennight since they’d had a moment of privacy.

When Maris finally turned, she found him sitting on a stool, unwinding his crossgarters. Still watching her. A thick curl of dark hair fell over his forehead and there was a hot gleam in his eyes. She knew what that portended. His boots were in a heap next to the hearth and, tsking, she picked them up so no one tripped on them and landed in the fire.

“Warwick told me of their intent to wed,” Dirick said. “Then moments after he told me of this, he received a message from Lady Judith, telling him there was no longer a reason.”

Now she made a sound of satisfaction. “Excellent. I did not think she would do it so quickly, but I hoped in the end she would. I gave her every opportunity to talk herself out of it, and she did not. I am very pleased.”

“What have you been plotting?” her husband asked, kicking off his hose and leaving that in a pile as well. He was still looking at her with that gleam. “’Tis glad I am to be back to Clarendon, for sleeping on the ground and in a shared men’s chamber did not suit me.”

“I found Canterbury quite comfortable,” Maris told him with a teasing look. “And I don’t plot.” She snatched up hose and crossgarters as he gave a bark of laughter at her pronouncement. “Mayhap you could find another place to put these in the stead of the floor?”

“Is that not what you have a maid for?”

“Oh, aye. I’d forgotten. I shall call her now, then,” Maris said with great innocence as she slipped away from his greedy grasp. “Sally can pick up your clothing, sweep, and tend to the fire.” She started toward the door.

Dirick laughed ruefully, knowing he’d been trapped, and moved to block her way. “Oh, no you don’t, my love. We have some time before the meal, and I do not wish to be disturbed.” He leered at her and began to undo the lacings on her gown. They were already loose because she’d just finished feeding Rogan. “I rather like this style of dress,” he said, opening the front of her bliaut. “’Tis ready access.”

“As I was saying,” Maris continued, giving him a saucy smile as he slid his hands through the widening opening, “I do not plot. I was merely…measuring Judith.”

“Measuring?” He hefted her breasts as if doing so to her.

She rolled her eyes at the poor jest. “Judith may have goaded Warwick into offering to wed her, but ’tis clearly because she loves him, not because she wishes to…quit…the king….” Her words trailed off into a sigh as Dirick found her sensitive nipples with his thumbs.

“Indeed.” His voice had gone very deep and low. “Warwick was not pleased with the reversal,” he said, his mouth moist and hot against her throat. “He was nearly beside himself, though he tried to hide it.”

“So he cares for her? That is why he agreed?”

“Oh, aye. Warwick is besotted—and ’tis not for only her lands. He is adept at hiding it, but as a man who is besotted himself…I can see the truth.”

“Very good,” Maris sighed.

He smiled against her lips. “I know.”

She smiled back and arched a little as he shifted to take a nipple into his mouth. “That is not what I meant.”

“Is that so?” His words were muffled, but she felt the heat of them against her sensitive skin.

“Oh…aye….” she murmured, choosing the double meaning apurpose. But then she refocused her mind and shifted away a little. “And now how will they finalize this match if she has declined him? We must help them.”

“Nay. I do not know why one should meddle in such a thing,” Dirick said. He pulled away, his eyes warm but irritated and his mouth full and sensual. “Busy-body.”

“But if we did not have the grace of the king—and the meddling of the queen—we would not be here together at this moment,” she reminded him. Then bit his shoulder to let him know she was not wholly distracted from the real matter at hand.

He groaned softly, combing his hands up into her heavy hair. “That is not like to happen for them,” he said with a half-laugh, half-groan as she reached to cup his stones.

“Aye, ’tis the truth,” Maris said, fondling him gently. “And that is why mayhap a bit of plotting on their behalf would be a good turn.”

“I do not know why we are talking about them when there are other things at hand.” As if to emphasize his words, he gathered up her breasts and gave them a little jiggle. And then he bent to give them all of his attention.

Maris lost her trail of thought for a moment, and the next thing she knew, the bed was behind her and Dirick was hiking up her skirt. She looked up at him and saw the fierce, desirous expression on his face as he slid his hands up along her thighs, easing them open. A pang of lust shot through her, adding to the heat that rolled through her body at his familiar, comforting touch…and that was why.

This. Love.

“We are talking about them…because….” she murmured, helping her husband into position. They both sighed as he fit into place and slid deep. His fingers curved over her hips and pulled her close as she wrapped her legs around his firm arse.