Free Simon's Lady by Julie Tetel Andresen

balance of a finely wrought dagger. “Would you kill me with poison or a knife, I wonder,” he said for her ears only, “or would it be with your bare hands?”
    These words of male challenge tasted strangely appetizing on his lips when said to a woman. Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned her hand over and put his lips to the white skin of her knuckles. Beresford’s gesture, seemingly more affectionate and respectful than it was graceful, brought hushed “oohs” and “aahs” of approval from the hall.
    He released her hand and asked, “Shall I live, my lady?”
    “For now,” she whispered back.
    Next he reached for the horn of wine that sat between them and drank from it. When he handed it to her, he turned the cup so that the part of the rim that had touched his lips was toward her. She was left with no choice but to put her own lips where his had been and to drink from the cup. He felt the satisfaction of having maneuvered an opponent into a defensive position on the field and was momentarily pleased.
    Scattered applause broke out. Along with shouts of congratulations and encouragement came friendly abuse, which he deflected with return comments of a similarly ribald nature. When the moment had passed, he looked down at Gwyneth and saw her lashes lowered and her cheeks tinged with pink. He could not determine whether she was angry, embarrassed, chastened, vexed or merely warm from the wine. When she did not counter him challenge for challenge, it seemed to him that she had gone into a retreat that he did not know how to flush, and his confidence in the turn in conversation ebbed. He felt himself floundering again, as he had moments before when she had spoken to him about his children and he had not known what to say to her, beyond the obvious and uninteresting.
    The evening had begun badly and was getting worse. Before supper, he had been drawn aside by Adela and given instructions that had puzzled him as much as they had angered him. She had told him that he was not to indicate again to Gwyneth that he did not desire the match, and he was annoyed when she rejected his denial that he had said anything of the kind. To his further irritation, Adela had suggested topics suitable for discussion during the meal, having to do with such inscrutable activities as needlework and household management. However, he had never known Adela herself, or Queen Mathilda before her, to speak of needlework, and so he decided that she had made an incomprehensible attempt at humor.
    Thus, even before the meal, he had already been puzzled, angered and irritated. The moment he had sat down next to Gwyneth and really looked at her, he had been struck dumb and had not had the faintest idea what she said to him, thereby aggravating his puzzlement, anger and irritation. To these unsociable emotions was added an increasing clumsiness as he tried to keep in mind Senlis’s earlier recommendation of “Subtlety!” He had realized, once the meal was underway, that he did not have any idea about what Senlis meant. And thinking of Senlis, particularly of him strolling so companionably with Gwyneth before the meal, Beresford was gripped by a violence he could not deny, but was not yet fully prepared to understand.
    He was at a loss for a few moments after the applause and congratulations and friendly abuse ended. He looked out over the hall, feeling strange and unpleasant emotions crawl around inside him, until by chance his eyes fastened on the three weird women who had formed themselves into a circle in a far corner.
    He turned to the beautiful, confusing creature next to him. “So I am safe from your wrath for now,” he said, and asked idly, “but am I safe from the evil spells of the three crones?”
    Gwyneth looked up at him in surprise, and then followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes,” she said slowly, “for I think that you are more protected than threatened by the Norns.”
    He frowned. “The Norns?”
    “That is