Free Secrets at Court by Blythe Gifford Page B

it. ‘What colour do you call them?’ A light and careless question. One that might be asked by a woman who could dance.
    He blinked, as if her question surprised him. ‘I cannot see my own eyes. Nor do I gaze at myself in a glass. Why do you want to know?’
    Because I want to know everything about you.
    For her lady’s sake alone, of course. But she could not say so. Better he think that she played at seduction, lightly, no more serious than the games ladies played with men after dinner in the Hall. Nothing that suggested there was any connection between this and his kiss...
    ‘Your mother, then. What colour did she call them?’
    Pain. Anger. Something more. And then, his gaze took hers again. ‘What colour would you call yours?’
    ‘Mine?’ She glanced at the looking glass as often as most, she supposed, but never deeply. ‘I don’t study my own eyes.’
    ‘Well, neither do I.’ The set of his lips told her he would say no more.
    She reached for her stick, an excuse to look away. To think. The others had already gathered on the blanket to share bread and cheese, but suddenly, the yards between here and there seemed impossibly long.
    She took two steps, three. Then her legs, shaking from a morning’s tight grip on the horse, refused to carry her further and she sank onto the remains of a broken stone wall.
    ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring something to you.’
    Relieved, she allowed him to fetch and carry for her. He returned with bread, cheese and ale. To Anne’s surprise, he sat beside her as she ate.
    ‘So you’ve been with Lady Joan fifteen years,’ he began.
    ‘How did you know that?’
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘Because this morning, you said you had not been away from her in so long.’
    How could she have been so foolish? She munched on her bite of bread longer than necessary, wondering how to turn the question away. On the blanket, Eustace and Agatha sat side by side, heads close together.
    ‘So,’ she said, briskly, brushing the crumbs off her fingers, ‘since neither of us can name the colour of our own eyes, you will tell me what colour mine are and I’ll tell you what colour yours are.’
    A diversion to keep him from asking questions about the past. She leaned toward him and stared into his eyes, opening hers wide, as if to give him a good look, then made her lashes flutter like bird’s wings.
    He tried to look stern, but chuckled instead. ‘I am surprised to hear you sound so light-hearted.’
    She had his attention. Now, she must keep it. ‘Oh, come now, Sir Knight. Have you never gazed deeply into a woman’s eyes?’ A question only meant to distract him. Not asked because she cared to know.
    He tamed the smile and gazed into her eyes, but with a serious, thoughtful expression that threatened no repeat of kisses. ‘Your eyes are grey. And...green, too.’
    Grey. Green. No poesy there.
    ‘And yours, now. Let me see.’ His eyes were hidden, somehow. Shadowed by a brow and eyelids that looked as if he were perpetually assessing you, so that you could not see him. ‘Yours are the blue-grey of a cloud, hiding the light of the moon.’
    He shook his head. ‘I have not seen you so... volage before.’
    She felt volage . As light and giddy as Agatha’s laughter, floating on the summer breeze, and she wasn’t sure whether she was acting so because she was away from the life she knew or because she was trying to distract him or because with him she felt...different. ‘Too much fresh air, perhaps. Or perhaps it is...’
    You .
    She bit her lip against the word.
    Meanwhile, there he was. Assessing her with a tilted head, a slight furrow between the strong, straight brows and pursed lips.
    She looked away. She lacked any skill with men. She should not have tried to be what she was not. ‘You look as if you are assessing a horse to see if it is worthy of being ridden by a King’s man.’ And then she felt her cheeks heat. Ridden. As a man might ride a maid... ‘I did not