Free The Penwyth Curse by Catherine Coulter Page A

more than you admire mine.”
    She couldn’t help herself. She looked down at the toes of her dusty old slippers sticking out from beneath her equally old gown. “My feet? You cannot even see my feet. Are you trying to drive me mad with jests?”
    Without a word, he came down on his haunches and lifted her gown until he could see the narrow cords that bound the slippers to her feet. He untied the knot, eased one slipper off her foot. “Ah,” he said, and raised her bare foot to set it on his thigh. “Would you just look at that foot? I thank the saints it is reasonably clean.”
    She wanted to snatch her foot away, but she didn’t do anything, just watched him look at her foot. Then he was running the pad of his thumb over each of her toes. Her toes quivered and curled. Then his hand cupped around her foot, stroking the arch. He said, “I was wondering if your feet would be too big. What a blessing that they are not.” He looked up at her and smiled. “What do you think about the curse?”
    Her breath whooshed out of her. Still, she left her foot where it was. She felt his hard thigh beneath her sole, the soft wool of his trousers, and the warmth of his big handnow closing about her ankle to steady her. This was all very odd. His fingers were now molding themselves around her heel. She said, “My feet aren’t too big. My grandmother has always told me my feet were just like hers and therefore perfect.” He was making her foot feel warm. It was absurd. She said not another word until he replaced her slipper and tied the cord together again. Slowly, he rose.
    She looked at the wine stains on his dusty gray tunic and said, “You will sleep in the steward’s chamber. I will send a servant to fetch your tunic. It must be washed. I do not want it to be ruined, at least by my hand. I know no more about the curse than you do. It is odd to see so many young men.”
    A black eyebrow went up.
    â€œYou and your men. You are all young.”
    â€œDumas, my master-at-arms, is nearly forty, a grand old age.”
    â€œYou call nearly forty a grand old age? Our master-at-arms, Crispin, has reached his sixty-eighth year. As for you, you have yet to reach your twenty-fifth year, despite all that experience I see in your eyes.”
    â€œTo gain sixty-eight years and still talk and walk and make sense and lift one’s arm—that’s an amazing thing.”
    â€œAye, it is. I don’t want you to die.”
    Bishop thought that sentiment boded well. “Why not?”
    It was as if she’d just realized what she’d said. She closed down like a clam.
    â€œIs it because you admire my excellent parts so much?”
    â€œThat could be a small measure of it,” she said, and looked down at the foot he’d stroked.
    He grinned. “I have been here for nearly four hours. I am still breathing.” He pressed his palm to his stained tunic. “My heart still beats.” He took her hand and flattened her palm against his chest.
    â€œAye, it beats. Very strongly. I believe it is beating faster than it was just a moment ago. Why is that?”
    He quickly moved her hand. “My heart beats just as itshould,” he said. “I think I may be safe, particularly since my death would mean yours and your grandfather’s as well. The writers of the curse couldn’t have intended that.”
    â€œNo, they couldn’t.”
    â€œI will discover the truth, Merryn. I must. You know I cannot leave. If I did, my task unfinished, the king would knock my head into a stone wall.”
    She smiled at that, and showed him a deep dimple on her left cheek. It was the first glowing smile she’d given him. “You fear the king more than ancient curses?”
    â€œOh, aye, I do. Do you believe the curse was fashioned especially for you, that some Druids hundreds of years ago said, ‘This is for Merryn de Gay and none