She considered him, listening for any double entendre, but he seemed to mean exactly what he’d said, so she nodded, allowing him to lead her along in the darkness. He was a big broad shouldered man, and tall, but his steps were barely audible. She shot little glances at him, wondering what he wanted from her and whether she would be able to talk her way out of it. Ahead a torch blazed in front of an impressive tent and a couple of guards straightened up, watching her approach with narrowed eyes.
“Bring food,” their lord told them. He brushed aside the canvas flap of the tent door and strode through, tugging her after him.
Juliet took a moment to inspect her surroundings. There were furs piled on a mattress on the floor, to make a bed, and a colourful rug with armfuls of cushions for sitting upon. A table looked to be covered in rolled parchments as well as a silver goblet and a wine jug. A scuffed wooden trunk that had seen much travel had been flung open and she spied a richly embroidered tunic and breeches tossed carelessly into it.
Here was a man, she thought, who was used to living on the march. A soldier. But all the same he demanded certain standards; he refused to live rough.
She turned to him to say something amusing about his cushions, and instead found herself struck dumb.
His face was handsome, or had been, but a savage blow with a sharp weapon had cut through the muscles on the left side. The wound had healed into an ugly scar and his expression seemed twisted, frozen. Until she met his eyes. They were bright and alive, and full of mockery at her reaction. It was as if he had expected nothing else, and she was irritated with herself that she could not have surprised him.
“Are you King Stephen’s man, or do you fight for Matilda and her son Henry?” she asked blithely, sitting down on a cushion.
He snorted a laugh. “Does it matter to you?”
“Not really. They both rampage over the country without caring who they hurt.”
He poured wine into the goblet and held it out to her where she sat. Cautiously she reached for it, making sure to smile sweetly into his eyes. The wine looked pleasant and a sip told her it was sweet, not the thin sour stuff she was used to. Great lords in their castles did not waste their best wine on the entertainment. She took another sip, watching him as he removed his sword, laying the belt and scabbard over the trunk.
“You are an acrobat?” he questioned, turning to observe her.
“Among other things. I am one of a band of travelling minstrels,” she explained. “I was, that is. My troupe was . . . well, lately I have been travelling alone.”
“To your sister’s?” he remembered.
She nodded, took another sip. The wine was good but she must not drink any more, without any food in her belly it was swiftly going to her head and she needed all her wits about her with this man.
The tent door opened and one of the guards carried in food on a platter, cold meats with bread and more wine. Juliet’s mouth watered and she had to physically stop herself jumping up and cramming the meat into her mouth. After a moment of silence, that husky voice she was beginning to know, said, “Will you eat, Juliet?”
She opened her eyes. She had shut them to block out the sight of the food. He was watching her with a faint twist of his mouth, a smile on the good side and a grimace on the other. She thanked him gravely and took some of the meat and tore off some of the coarse bread, trying not to bolt it down like a hungry animal.
“More wine?” He was holding out the jug, and she realised with surprise that she had emptied the goblet. He filled it and went to sit at the table, not eating himself, just watching her.
It occurred to her that he wasn’t behaving as she’d expected. True, he wasn’t a common soldier; she could already tell he was a man of some education, breeding and refinement. But in Juliet’s experience that meant little when that man was alone with a young and not unattractive woman in a tent. He hadn’t pounced on her or forced her down onto the bed; he hadn’t made suggestive remarks or offered her coins for her body. He’d been kind and gentlemanly and his behaviour was having a disturbing effect upon her, and even more disturbingly she kept remembering where his hand had held her breast and the firm brush of his thumb over her nipple.
She’d had lovers, the latest being one of the other travelling minstrels, but that was nearly a year ago and since then she’d been chaste. Henry had been a little rough and too eager, attacking her body like a juicy slab of beef, but all the same she missed the closeness, the feel of a body pressed skin to skin with hers. It had made her feel alive, and suddenly she wanted to feel that again. She wanted to touch and taste a man’s skin.