Enduringly Yours Page 7

  “One of my knights told me.” She smiled. “Sir Mark asked if it would offend me if he kissed you.”

  “And you said?”

  She shrugged. “Let the best man win.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Relax, daughter. We both know it will be John.”

  Another woman might have enjoyed all of this attention. A woman with secrets did not.

  “It will be John,” she said, more for herself than her mother. “He always wins at these events.”

  “Or it could be Peter, and then you will have to kiss him. In front of everyone.” Her mother pressed her needle into fabric.

  Zipporah groaned. “I would rather kiss Sir Mark. That would be much safer.”

  Chapter Seven

  Pain radiated down Peter’s arm and he blinked stars out of his vision. He tightened his jaw as John urged his shoulder joint back into place with a sickening slide-pop. As the pain began to ease, he unclamped his jaw.

  “Sorry about that,” John said from where he was sitting, on a stool next to Peter in one of the tents. He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “I get carried away sometimes.”

  “As I am well aware.”

  “I had meant to let you win,” John said.

  “Not winning I can tolerate. But I would have preferred it if you’d not dislocated my shoulder.”

  “It is not my fault your shoulder dislocates with such ease.”

  Peter narrowed his gaze.

  John lifted his hands in surrender. “It will not happen again.”

  “Can I come in?” Zipporah called from outside. That tent was for the use of Ravenmore knights, and at the moment, Peter was the only one injured, so he and John were alone.

  John looked at Peter anyway. “Can she?”

  “Aye.” Peter tested his arm, lifting it over his head. It was sore, but he would live.

  “You may enter, my lady,” John said. “There is only a little blood.” He smirked at Peter.

  Zipporah pushed the flap aside and stepped through, her eyes wide.

  “He is jesting,” Peter said.

  She shot a glare in John’s direction.

  “I should leave the two of you alone.” John stood.

  “Nay, don’t!” Zipporah tucked hair behind her ears. “I mean, you do not have to leave.”

  Peter nodded to his brother and he sat. Then frowning he stood again. “My lady,” he said, gesturing to the stool next to Peter.

  She tucked her burgundy kyrtle around her legs and sat. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, my brother forgets how easily my shoulder dislocates.”

  “Again?” She looked at John. “Is this the second time you have done that to him?”

  “Third,” Peter corrected.

  “Fourth, actually.” John rubbed the back of his neck.

  Zipporah turned to Peter, her braid sliding along her shoulder. Despite their argument earlier, he still wanted to take hold of that braid and tug her face in close to his.

  “I swear he only has to charge at you and it pops out for him,” she said.

  John laughed, and then tried to hide it with a cough.

  “This is why my mother does not like these events,” she said.

  “We have already endured far worse than we ever could at the hands of the Mêlée.” Peter gingerly worked his shoulder.

  “Aye . . . I suppose you have.”

  “But it is in your honor, my lady.” John smiled.

  “Was I asked if I wanted it?”

  “I think that was beside the point.”

  “I thought as much. Well, I am not kissing Gilburn. I would sooner kiss Sir Mark.”

  John glanced at Peter. “Aye,” Peter said. “I would rather it were you anyway.”

  “I will not let you down, my lady.” John ducked his head.

  “He smells like a pigsty.” Peter waved his hand.

  “All men do after sweating in their armor. A lady learns to hold her breath.”

  Peter stood, his chainmail clinking. “Don’t count me out yet though.” He wasn’t positive his sword arm was up to the task, but he felt guilty about having told the men she planned to kiss the winner in the first place. “I outrank Gilburn. If I win the duel, I will still be ahead. Assuming I can trounce my brother.”

  John nodded. “That will be hard indeed.”

  “I rather not kiss you either.” Zipporah came to her feet, facing Peter.

  “But John here is safe?”

  “Much safer than you.”

  The things he could tell her about John would change her mind about his level of safeness. But for her, he truly was safe. John wouldn’t dare enjoy her kiss too much, because he would never plow Peter’s soil.

  “Safe?” John echoed from behind them, sounding hurt.

  “This isn’t about you, John,” Zipporah said over her shoulder. She looked at Peter and sighed, her eyes apologetic. “About what I said earlier, under the pavilion, I don’t know what got into me.”

  “You are most forgiven. I was no better though.”

  “I am safe,” John said again, this time with reflection.

  Peter shook his head. If John wanted to give his moral fiber more thought, that was fine, but he really needed to do it somewhere else.

  Peter shifted closer. Her breath hitched in response. “I should not have lost my temper in front of you.”

  “I drove you to it,” she whispered, lifting her face.

  “Do you really think you’re my whore?”

  “The punishment usually fits the crime.” She glanced at John. He was standing as far away from them as he could, polishing a spot off his sword with the hem of his surcoat.

  “Crime?” Peter asked. “What crime?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I will fix this, with or without your father.”

  “Who says it can be fixed? I cannot marry Gilburn, but the thought of my father’s lands falling out of his line grieves me. He worked so hard for this. And it is my fault.”

  “How is it your fault?”

  “Well I . . . let you . . .” She fell silent.

  “I will find a way.”

  “It would take a miracle.”

  “Then maybe we will have to arrange for one.”

  “My mother is hounding me. She says I should put you out of your misery.” Zipporah blanched as if she hadn’t meant to voice her thoughts out loud.

  “Just how much does she know? She does not . . .” Peter had to stop and start again. “Tell me she does not know about us.”

  Zipporah remained suspiciously silent.

  “What about your father?”

  Her eyes widened. “If he did, we would be married by now.”

  Peter let that digest. He backed away from her.

  Her mother knew?

  Her mother knew.

  “Your mother knows,” he rasped.

  “I should not have told you.”

  “I think I might be sick.” Peter sat, his chainmail feeling too heavy. “And she keeps inviting me over. Why does she keep inviting me?”

  “Sir Gilburn is coming,” John warned them.

  Zipporah stiffened. He hated seeing her like that.

  “Gilburn has impeccable timing,” Peter said, lifting his sword with a wince and buckling his scabbard into place.

  Gilburn entered the tent, bowing to her in greeting. “My page told me I might find you here.”

  “Aye, I thought I saw John get hurt. But as it turns out, it was actually Peter. In their armor and crests they look the same. I came to check on him.”

  Gilburn turned to John, who nodded, his expression grave.

  “Surely you can tell their horses apart, my lady.”

  “Ah, well the sun was in my eyes, and I was awake late last night worrying about my father.”

  “I knew it was distressing you.” He perused her like a man who wanted to possess what he seeing, and as soon as possible.

  Zipporah turned aw
ay.

  “Come, my lady.” He offered his arm. “While I respect your concern for your friend, I would prefer you stay away from his brother.”

  She took his arm, glancing over her shoulder at Peter as they exited. He nodded, hoping it reassured her. She had handled herself as well.

  As soon as they left, Peter flexed his sword hand. “I am going to kill him.”

  “I am forfeiting,” John said.

  “What?”

  “I am the only one standing between you and Gilburn, and you need this more than I do.” He clamped a hand on Peter’s good shoulder. “I will go sit with her. I think she needs that far more than she does my kiss. You focus on Gilburn.” John retrieved his helmet, tucking it under his arm.

  “John?”

  He turned.

  “You didn’t . . . you weren’t . . .” Peter pointed to his ears.

  John plugged them with his fingers. “I heard nothing.”

  “Thank you.” Peter picked up his helm, blinking into the sun as they exited the tent. John went one way, and Peter the other.

  * * *

  “Is this seat taken, my lady?” John asked.

  “Of course not,” Lady Havendell said. “Here, sit here.” She moved aside so that John could sit by Zipporah.

  “Peter?” she asked.

  “He is fine. I forfeited is all.”

  “Whatever for? You are my only chance at not having to kiss Sir Gilburn.” She leaned around John to look at her mother. “Go order Sir Mark to win.”

  “This is between Peter and Gilburn,” John said.

  “But he is injured.”

  “He will be fine. Trust me.”

  She pressed her hand to her stomach. “I think I might be sick. How badly is Peter hurt, really?”

  “Do not fear, my lady. He is angry enough to make up for his injury.” John rubbed his hands together, smiling. “This will be good.”

  “I do not want to kiss Peter either.”

  “Just kiss him. Lord knows he needs it.”

  “Aye,” her mother seconded.

  Zipporah glared at the both of them.

  John leaned back in his chair, metal scraping against wood. “You want to see Peter best Gilburn just as badly as the rest of us, admit it.”

  Her mother looked up from her needlework. “How much more is left?”

  “Gilburn is just finishing his duel with Sir Mark. Next it will be Peter against Sir Gilburn.”

  She set aside her frame and needle. “I should like to see Gilburn trounced.”

  “Peter is injured,” Zipporah reminded her.

  “He has been smote,” John said. “But he is also smitten.” He winked at Zipporah.

  “So is Gilburn.”

  “This will be interesting,” her mother said.

  “I hope Peter’s arm holds out.” Zipporah held her breath as Peter entered the field. “He is so much bigger than Peter.”

  “But dumber.”

  She rolled her eyes at John and he shrugged.

  Sir Gilburn looked up at her before donning his helmet. She smiled so it would look good. His chest puffed, reminding her of the way her father looked at her mother. With pride.

  The poor man was obviously delusional.

  They began, and Zipporah watched the way Peter fought. Aye, he was smaller, but he was also as hard as stone beneath his armor, with no excess on his frame. Peter moved like a man who understood his body, and precisely what it was capable of.

  Her face warmed. “He is even better than I remembered,” she said.

  “His time in the Holy Land transformed him.” John nodded. “What was once a trained swordsman is now an experienced one.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Too bad your father was not able to join us,” Lady Havendell said. “I do believe he would be impressed.”

  “So do I.” Zipporah wondered how much pain Peter might be in. He didn’t show it at all.

  Gilburn turned quickly to avoid Peter’s blade, lost his footing, and stumbled backward.

  “He is off balance,” John said. “His greater size does nothing to aid him.”

  Peter drove Gilburn to his knees with two solid blows, knocking his sword out of his hand.

  It was over already.

  John bellowed congratulations that made her ears ring. Zipporah kept her emotions in-check, despite the way her face stung from heat and excitement. She could almost taste Peter.

  Gilburn came heavily to his feet, his shoulders bowed. He walked forward to acknowledge her and her mother. Zipporah smoothed her hands over her skirt, wondering what she should say.

  “Well done, Sir Gilburn.” Her mother saved her the discomfort. “I daresay the ground is not level on that part of the field.”

  He grunted, his gaze shifting through them. His pride was wounded. Gilburn bowed, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  The other knights shouted for her to kiss Peter. This too, was a matter of pride. A lady’s pride. She had little choice but to offer Peter his reward, lest she appear arrogant before the men. Chivalry was not only about the lady. It was also about the knight.

  She looked at her mother.

  “Go on, sweetling,” she said.

  Zipporah rose from her seat and stepped down off the stadium. The knights lined up to present themselves to her. She smiled at them the way she’d been trained to, giving each damp, overheated man an expression of approval.

  They shoved Peter out of line and prodded him toward her.

  * * *

  A hard shove made Peter’s shoulder scream in protest. The men laughed as they herded him toward Zipporah. She stood very still, her skin flushed, probably with embarrassment. Peter felt like such a fool. He never should have done this to her.

  He took her by one draping sleeve. “You do not have to.”

  Her eyes were very blue in the open sunlight. “You have your pride, and I have mine.” She sounded out of breath. “You did well. Your skill has improved.”

  “Kiss her already!” Sir Mark yelled.

  Peter ducked his head. “I really thought it would be John here right now, not me.” He shifted closer, her scent of juniper and warmth and woman surrounding him. The heat radiating off her skin clouded his judgment. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth as her lips parted. The other knights, the people in the stands, faded from his senses. Peter tipped her face into his. She was trembling, and her pulse was beating against the soft skin of her neck.

  Zipporah kissed him first.

  Peter meant to back away but he couldn’t. Her hands came to his face, holding him to her. He pulled her flush into him, his hunger defying self-control.

  Someone stop me . . .

  There are people watching, you idiot! Let go of her.

  Zipporah came to her senses before he did. She pulled back. Men were shouting and whistling at them.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. Her eyes searched his for . . . something.

  “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”

  “I have to go.” She took her skirts in hand and ran off. He didn’t know where Gilburn was and feared for her safety. Peter didn’t dare follow her himself. They had already revealed too much with their kiss, to follow her would put the final nail in their communal coffin. He looked for John. His brother nodded and jogged off after her.

  Chapter Eight

  Zipporah sank to her knees in the garden, the scent of freshly broken mint and parsley surrounding her. She covered her face with her hands like a child who hoped no one could see her.

  “I won’t ask any questions,” she heard John say from behind her. “But if you need a shoulder, or a guard to protect you from Gilburn, then I am here.”

  She lowered her hands and struggled to her feet. Her hem caught under her shoe and she had to shake herself free. Zipporah blinked away tears until John came into focus.

  He set his jaw seriously and opened his arms to her.

  Zipporah stepped into his chest. “But you do not like tears.�
� She tucked her fists under her chin and sniffed into his shoulder.

  “For a sister, I shall endure.” Hard chainmail bit into her as he patted her back until she thought she might bruise from it. She waved him off and stepped away.

  “Tell Peter I am sorry.” The edge of her embroidered handkerchief was sticking out of her sleeve and she tugged it free.

  “For running off?”

  “Nay, for . . . for . . .” Zipporah wiped her eyes. “Sir Gilburn will kill him.”

  He snorted. “Not likely.”

  “Then he will kill me.”

  “Peter will not let him. And neither will I.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate smack. Wincing, she waved him off.

  Her mother came down the path. “Thank you, Lord John, but I shall take care of her now.”

  “I cannot leave,” he said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, slung low on his hips. “I have to guard her.”

  “I shall lock myself in my chamber,” Zipporah said. “And I will never come out again.”

  “I do not know about the second part, but the first sounds just fine, for now.” Her mother turned to John. “You may see us within, if you believe you must.”

  “He must, Mother. Look at the set of his jaw.”

  John’s eyes narrowed.

  She let her mother lead her inside, John tailing them. There was no sign of Gilburn. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her kiss Peter like a woman who was ripe for the taking. He would hear about it though, secondhand, and the rumors would no doubt outgrow the truth. They usually did.

  “I will be out here,” John said when they reached her door.

  Her mother smiled. Zipporah recognized her diplomatic face. “Do you really believe this is necessary?”

  John crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Very well then.” Lady Havendell ushered Zipporah inside and closed the door. “I should bring you some food.”

  “I do not want to eat.” Zipporah sat down on the edge of her bed. She fingered her wolf-pelt covering. “Bring John some food. He must be starving by now.”

  Lady Havendell looked suddenly careworn.

  “I will be fine, Mother. Go on.”

  “I will not be long.”

  Her mother left, and Zipporah cradled her face in her hands. Her righteous thoughts of self-control were proving useless. That did not change the circumstances. She could not run off and marry Peter just because she lacked restraint. That may be one reason to wed, but it wasn’t the best one. She hadn’t even told him about Katrina yet, and she had no idea how to approach him. If only she’d set her pride aside three years ago.