still gone on to win the match. But no. He has never even been unhorsed.”
Wardieu watched her unblinkingly, his only reaction a visible tautening of his lean flanks as Nicolaa’s fingers traced lazily across his thighs and came to rest at his groin.
“The yeoman’s reluctance to say more required one of my better efforts. He was quite exhausting, actually,” she sighed. “But at least it could be said he died knowing no greater bliss.”
De Gournay waited, indifferent to the bold exhibit of impatience another area of his body was displaying, and only mildly attentive to the reverent manipulations of her fingers.
“I assume he did say more?”
Nicolaa smiled. She leaned forward and supplemented the actions of her fingers, delaying any further discussion until she tasted an end to his indifference and felt his hands curl around the nape of her neck.
“Apparently”—she released his flesh with a slow, sliding caress—” La Seyne’s opponents seldom have an opportunity to place a strike, let alone land it with any effect … because he attacks from the wrong side of the list.”
De Gournay needed two measured breaths to refocus his attention. “What do you mean … the wrong side?”
“It seems he suffers a rare affliction for a fighting man: he favours the left hand.”
De Gournay stared, unmoving, and Nicolaa took advantage of his shock to stand and undulate past him, passing so close to the door, her woman’s scent assailed Servanne where she stood hidden. Already sorely strained, her heart began to beat in her ears like a drum; it caused her blood to pump through her veins in a heated rush, raising a fever everywhere but in the palms of her hands. They were cold and clammy, adding the coppery smell of salt and fear to Servanne’s panic
De Gournay roused himself enough to accept the goblet of wine Nicolaa handed him. There was a brittle new light in his eyes as they followed her back to the chair, and a deeply etched frown darkening the width of his brow.
Nicolaa sipped her wine and draped a leg carelessly over the arm of the chair.
“Odd,” she mused, “how there should be two left-handed men of some considerable fighting prowess, turning up in Lincoln at precisely the same time.”
“Christ!”
“Was He left-handed also? I did not know.”
De Gournay whirled around, hurling his goblet against the far wall with such force, some of the splashed contents flew back and spattered Nicolaa.
“Christ Almighty! I should have known! I should have guessed!”
Nicolaa gave her leg an agitated swing. “How could you have known, my love? How could you have guessed? Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer … your long lost, dead brother? How could anyone have guessed?”
“I should have guessed!” De Gournay roared. “All these years, living and prospering in Brittany. How very clever of him. The hood, the appointment to the queen’s guard … how hellishly bloody clever of him!”
“More than simply clever, my darling,” Nicolaa pointed out. “He not only waited to use Prince John as a ruse to get inside Bloodmoor, but he managed to distract your attention through the use of your innocent young bride. I would call it brilliant.”
De Gournay’s hands curled into such tight fists, the knuckles turned white and bloodless.
“I will kill him. By God, I will kill him right now, with my bare hands, and then we shall see how brilliant a corpse he makes!”
He strode toward the doorway, and was almost there, a foot away from Servanne, his back washed in a glow of candlelight, when Nicolaa’s voice stopped him.
“Kill him now and what do you gain?” she demanded sharply. “A moment’s satisfaction and little else. He has lost his advantage, Etienne. The surprise is no longer his, but weighs heavily in your favour. Wait. Wait and meet him on the morrow as planned.”
“I want his blood,” De Gournay snarled, halted at the threshold to the wardrobe. “I want to tear his heart from his chest and squeeze the life out of it before his very eyes.”
Nicolaa’s lips parted around a dry breath and she stood up from the chair. Her eyes glistened with arousal, her finely chiseled nostrils flared as if she could already detect the pungent sweetness of blood. “You will have his heart, my love, and any other part of his body you relish as a trophy, but what harm in waiting a few hours, when you can have so much more?”
“More?” he rasped, his eyes narrowing.
“Kill him now and you bring the eyes of the kingdom frowning down